Enduring Passions

by David Wiltshire

  ‘I see.’

  Tom sensed that the man was bemused that he could know the likes of the Rossiters socially, let alone be on familiar terms with them.

  Perhaps Hayes sensed his resentment because he clapped his hands.

  ‘Right, come on, let’s give you a first lesson. You’ll need a bit of kit. I’ve got together a few bits in the office.’

  Having equipped Tom with a helmet, goggles and a pair of gauntlets and dressed him in a thick lambswool jacket, Hayes led him to a yellow biplane.

  ‘This is a Tiger Moth.’

  Tom followed him around as he checked and explained various things, then, leaning over the cockpit together, Hayes showed him the controls and what they did.

  ‘This is the joystick – pull it back to climb, forward to dive, left and right to turn. You use it in conjunction with the rudder bar – there.’

  Tom didn’t realize he was going to be so thoroughly instructed. Paul Hayes was telling him about airflow over the wings and various surfaces. They stepped back down on to the concrete.

  ‘Right, let me show you how to put on a parachute.’

  ‘Parachute?’

  Paul Hayes grinned. ‘If you have to jump out, count three and pull that big ring.’

  It took five minutes to put it on then he stood feeling awkward, with a large pack hanging off his bottom.

  Hayes led him to his aeroplane.

  ‘Get in the back cockpit, I’ll strap you in.’ Clumsily, Tom clambered aboard and sat on the pack.

  Later, with the help of a couple of mechanics, Hayes pushed the machine outside into the bright morning sunshine, then climbed into the front, as the mechanics put the chocks on. The propeller was swung, and finally with a roar, the machine burst into quivering life.

  Over the speaking tube Hayes called out, ‘Off we go – at last.’

  It all came back then. His blood raced with anticipation as they bumped across the grass, turned into the wind, ran up the engine.

  When they began to move everything rattled and juddered as the wind blasted past his face. Suddenly all was smooth, and Tom knew that they were airborne. Through his goggles he watched the earth recede, and the sense of speed vanished as they climbed into clear blue sky. Spread out below them looking like a patchwork quilt were the fields of England.

  Hayes’s voice came down the tube. ‘Beautiful day.’

  Tom answered, ‘Yes, it is.’

  The head before him continually turned, looking left and right and up and down as he continued: ‘Put your hands gently on the controls and follow me as I put her through a few manoeuvres – then you can have a go.’

  To begin with Tom was too heavy with the stick and rudder and Hayes told him to relax. And then he began to get the feel of it, turning and climbing and descending with ever increasing confidence and precision.

  Before they finally returned to earth Hayes took back control and finished with a few rolls and a loop. They taxied back to the hangar. In the silence when the engine was turned off Tom Roxham sagged back against the seat feeling utterly exhausted. Hayes led the way to the back of the hangar to a portioned off area that served as an office.

  ‘Come in, have a seat. Like a drink?’

  Tom nodded, assuming it was tea, but Hayes bent down, opened a drawer in his roll-top desk and produced a bottle of whisky and two tumblers.

  He didn’t say a word as Hayes poured out the light straw coloured liquid and said, ‘Single malt. I love it after I’ve flown – helps me to put up with being down here again.’

  He handed a glass to Tom.

  ‘Cheers.’

  They clinked the tumblers. Tom look a sip, his first ever of malt whisky and found it agreeably smooth, though it warmed up as it went down.

  Hayes sat back, watching him. ‘Still want to be a pilot?’

  ‘Yes – very much.’

  Hayes nodded. ‘Good, because you’re a natural.’

  Tom blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  Hayes took another sip. ‘Just what I said. You’ve got it in you – a natural talent – good co-ordination.’

  Tom felt a thrill run through him, like an electric current. It was so unexpected. ‘Really?’

  Hayes nodded. ‘Really. Now how are you going to go about it – it’s not cheap?’

  Crestfallen, he took a gulp of his whisky. ‘I don’t know.’

  His voice tailed off. He was disappointed because he thought Hayes was going to take him on. The latter drummed his fingers on the desk as he contemplated the suddenly miserable fellow before him.

  ‘You’re welcome to come here once a week, by arrangement, and I’ll teach you the basics – no charge.’

  Tom’s heart leapt.

  ‘Gosh, that’s terrific. What can I say – I’m really grateful.’

  Smiling, Hayes nodded. ‘I can see.’

  Looking serious, he leant forward. ‘But you need more than that – deserve more. I’m only an amateur instructor – fine to start off with, but you’re good enough to need professional training, and regularly.’

  Tom’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s all very well, but I can’t afford it.’

  Quietly, Hayes asked, ‘Ever thought of applying to be a volunteer in the Royal Air Force Reserve?’

  Bewildered, Tom shook his head. ‘No, to be honest this all happened so suddenly. I’ve got a regular job.’

  Rubbing his jaw, Hayes picked up the bottle and poured two more small shots into the glasses.

  ‘Well, there is another way. With all this talk of war, they’ve expanded pilot training everywhere. There’s another scheme called “The Civil Air Guard”, they train people to fly at aero-clubs’ – he nodded out the window – ‘like the one across the other side at a cost of about half a crown an hour.’

  Tom was staggered and celebrated by downing his glass. ‘I’ll go over and apply – do you think they have places?’

  Smiling, Hayes nodded.

  ‘Oh yes, I can guarantee that, but there is a snag.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Shuffling amongst the papers on the desk, Hayes found what he was looking for.

  ‘You sign a document undertaking,’ he read, ‘“to accept service in any capacity or rank, in connection with aviation in this country in the event of an emergency arising from war, or threat of war”.’ He threw the paper aside.

  ‘They’re after a last ditch of reserve of pilots in case the balloon goes up.’

  Tom didn’t know what to say, except that whatever the implications, he was going to do it. ‘I’d better get over there.’

  They stood up and shook hands.

  Hayes said, ‘Meanwhile, come over any weekend if you want.’

  With his clips on, Tom waved and, straining at the pedals he started up the incline.

  When he’d gone Hayes returned to his desk and, lifting the phone nearer, picked up the receiver and dialled. When he got through, he spoke to the Secretary of the Flying Club.

  ‘Ted, I’ve just sent one Tom Roxham over to you – to enrol in the Air Guard scheme.’

  There was a pause as he listened and then said, ‘I understand, but you’re going to like this one – he won’t be chopped I can tell you. He’s good, very good. He’ll train up quickly.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fay could hardly concentrate on what was going on around her on Saturday. All morning she desperately wondered how he was getting on with his lesson and was envious to the point of hurting.

  Once, she imagined she’d heard an aero engine and had gone running out into the garden, startling one of the young gardeners, convinced it was him flying over.

  But there had been nothing in the sky. It must have been a motor bike or lorry on the main road a mile away.

  As she stood there all she had heard was the faint rustle of the breeze in some conifers. When she returned, her father was standing by a window. He’d been looking at her the entire time.

  ‘Fay, what were you doing out there?’

  She faltered.
‘I thought I heard an aeroplane.’

  Her father raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I know you have a new found passion for all things aviation, but really….’

  He pulled out his Hunter, flicked open the lid and looked at the time. ‘Coffee, I think? Will you join us, my dear, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  Fay wondered what was coming. ‘Of course, where are we taking it?’

  ‘It’s such a nice day, let’s have it served in the Orangery.’

  They were seated in the wicker chairs, when the maid came in carrying a wide tray and set it down on the glass topped table.

  While she poured out the coffee from a silver pot into bone china cups, Fay, flicked through the latest copy of Riders and Driving noticing that a new centre had opened near Burford.

  ‘Cream, miss?’

  Fay lowered the magazine. ‘Yes please.’

  A plate of biscuits was offered. She took one. Her mother was talking to her father about the situation in Europe and it was moments before she realized that he was saying something to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, my mind was far away.’

  He smiled. ‘As it has been for most of the week, Fay. You tell us it’s because you want to be a pilot but I don’t think that’s quite all – is it, my dear?’

  Stunned, Fay didn’t say anything, so her mother prompted. ‘Is there a young man, Fay, a pilot? Did you meet him at the party?’

  She was speechless and aware that her cheeks were colouring. Eventually, she stammered, ‘It’s not like that, Mummy. He’s only just starting. He’s a beginner.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  It came out before she had time to think. ‘Tom Roxham.’

  Shocked, but thrilled at the same time, her mother brought her back to earth and its dangers.

  ‘Roxham? Do we know the family, my dear?’

  ‘No.’ It came out too forcefully, so she repeated more softly, ‘No, Mummy.’

  But she persisted. ‘Where do they live?’

  Fay was going to say she wasn’t sure, which was the truth, but they wouldn’t believe she didn’t have some idea.

  ‘Beyond Marlborough, some village or other.’

  Her father frowned. ‘Is that where he went to school?’

  Relieved that she had inadvertently picked somewhere that killed two birds with one stone, she said, ‘I believe so. He certainly wasn’t a boarder at Cheltenham.’

  That was true at least. She was feeling pretty pleased with herself, when her mother grinned and asked slyly, ‘When are you going to see him again?’

  Fortunately they seemed to take her inability to answer as shyness. She finally mumbled, ‘I don’t know, nothing definite.’

  ‘He did ask to see you again, did he, Fay?’

  Strangely, it was her father who was being persistent.

  ‘No, not really. I expect we may bump into each other in the coming months. I seem to remember he was going to be at a couple of events.’

  Her mother sipped her coffee as elegantly as ever and asked sweetly, ‘Will he be there tonight?’

  She was already irritated that one of the reasons why she couldn’t see Tom that evening was because of the stupid ball.

  ‘Most definitely not.’

  ‘And what does Jeremy think about all this, or doesn’t he know?’

  So that was it. She faced her father.

  ‘Jeremy? What on earth has it got to do with him?’

  ‘I rather thought that you and he had an understanding.’

  ‘Daddy, I’ve told you before. Jeremy is just one of the crowd.’

  ‘Well, he certainly thinks he’s more than that and I must say—’

  ‘Please, I thought I’d made it plain that I think Jeremy is a nice, dependable boy but,’ she looked for help to her mother – ‘he doesn’t excite me.’

  Her father’s face darkened. ‘Stop being so juvenile, Fay. Life isn’t like those stories in ladies’ magazines you know. A woman should think of security and position. They’re more important than notions of idyllic love. It’s a cruel world out there, young lady.’

  Fay bristled. ‘Surely you and mummy were physically attracted?’

  Lord Rossiter was shocked. ‘That’s a little impertinent, Fay. You should apologize to your mother.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’

  Her mother was looking uncomfortable. ‘Well, of course, I fell madly in love with your father, Fay. I remember seeing him for the first time at my coming out ball. He was so handsome.’

  Lord Rossiter frowned. ‘Oh really, Eleanor …’

  Fay leapt in. ‘That’s it, Mummy – you knew, didn’t you, straight away?’

  Lady Rossiter smiled, realizing that her daughter had played a cunning hand.

  ‘Yes, I knew.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘But it took a while before he noticed me.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Eleanor – and you know it.’

  Eager to get away Fay stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’

  Lord Rossiter called after her, ‘Don’t forget what I said, young lady. Think of your future. Think with your head, not your heart.’

  When she’d gone he turned to his wife. ‘That girl is as strong willed as ever,’ he grunted, ‘even more so.’

  The girl with the ‘strong will’ started to get ready for the charity ball that evening. She sat in front of her dressing-table carefully applying lipstick before dusting her neck and shoulders with a powder puff and thinking of the slip she had made in letting out Tom’s name. It was worrying, because, knowing her parents, they might start making enquiries. Her thoughts turned to that night. Normally she liked the ball held in several heated marquees in aid of the NSPCC. It went on until the early hours, with more than one orchestra, several servings of supper, and various entertainments, conjurors, fire-eaters and the like.

  But she would have swapped it all for an evening with Tom. Still, in six days she would be up in London – alone with him.

  She stood up, dressed in lilac cami-knickers as Julie brought her the gown for the evening.

  In the middle of the week Tom had had his interview with the Civil Guard people and was generally surprised by how easy it all seemed to be. They asked him about his keenness on being a pilot and how long had he wanted to be one. Worried that, being a new found passion, it might count against him, he was delighted when they seemed to suggest that it was probably better that way.

  There were two of them, the owner of the flying school, whom he had seen last Saturday and made the appointment with, and a thin wiry man with a neat military style moustache. The latter had come down from London, a Squadron Leader Mayhew, though he was not in uniform. They sat in the flying school office, walls adorned with charts and silhouettes of aircraft, desk piled with papers and a flying helmet. On the floor in the corners were bits of engines.

  The owner of the flying club, a Mr Trubshaw, said, ‘Normally we would have given you a test flight before this stage, but Mr Hayes speaks highly of you and he’s a top notch man himself – so what better recommendation could we have?’

  Tom was pleased, but tried to contain his reaction.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Tell me, Tom, what do you think about the international situation?’

  It was the man from London, Squadron Leader Mayhew, who posed the question.

  ‘Well …’ Tom faltered. In truth he knew generally of the goings on with Herr Hitler, but he had been far too consumed by his job and rugby to really follow in detail.

  ‘I know there was a problem, but Mr Chamberlain has fixed that, hasn’t he?’

  The two men looked at each other and Tom’s heart sank. He was unprepared for this sort of thing. He thought he was just going to go up in the air again, hadn’t realized there was to be an interview, as if he were applying for a job.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Squadron Leader Mayhew pulled a sheaf of documents from his briefcase.

  ‘Mr Roxham. It is possible that another war might come along sometime. The object
of this course of flying instruction, you have applied for, is to make sure we have a reserve pool of aircrew in case of such an event.’

  Tom nodded, trying to look serious, as the man continued. ‘If we do decide to take you on board for what is an extremely subsided course of instruction you do realize we, the government that is, expect to get something back for it. It’s not just a cheap way of learning to fly for your own amusement.’

  Tom frowned. ‘Of course. Mr Hayes said something about that.’

  ‘Good. Because I have a contract here. It means that in the event of any type of emergency that the government declares, they can call you up for full-time duty in any capacity, at any rank, in any aviation service of their choice.’

  He lowered the paper. ‘Now, is that perfectly clear before you sign it?’

  Amazed, Tom’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you offering this to me?’

  The two men looked at each other again. Trubshaw actually smiled.

  ‘Yes, Tom, sign it and we’ll start your training immediately.’

  He took the proffered fountain pen from Squadron Leader Mayhew and wrote his signature where the latter indicated with his finger on the official looking document.

  ‘Well done, young man.’ Mayhew, with one hand on his shoulder, pumped his hand with the other, followed by Trubshaw.

  The Squadron Leader picked up his briefcase and made to go.

  ‘Got to get off. Need to be in Bristol by five o’clock. Two more possibles down there.’

  Trubshaw showed him to the door.

  Out in the hangar, Mayhew said softly to his colleague. ‘I wonder how many of these boys really think they are going to end up in the service of the country?’ He shook his head sadly.

  ‘See you next week, Ted.’

  When Trubshaw came back into his office it was to find Tom Roxham, flushed and excited, looking for all the world like a schoolboy who had just been picked to captain the first eleven.

  ‘Right then, Tom, let’s get you kitted up.’

  But for once, thanks to the tone of Mayhew’s voice, the flying school boss didn’t feel as enthusiastic as in the past.

  Fay was in a turquoise silk ball-gown that floated from her waist to the floor. She carried a matching clutch bag, with her grandmother’s small natural pearls in two strings around her neck. Her hair was swept up and held with a comb made of mother of pearl.