Enduring Passions

by David Wiltshire

  ‘Told you. He’s suddenly stronger, seems to know his own mind.’

  His father grunted, took the pipe from his mouth. ‘’Bout bloody time he grew up.’

  His mother jabbed him in the ribs. ‘Less of the swearing.’

  His father grunted, then lapsed into a paroxysm of coughing. When he’d finished, he spat into a large, discoloured jug and said, ‘There’s a woman, bet your bottom dollar and that always means trouble.’

  She shook her head. ‘You always look on the black side.’

  But she did agree with his assessment. She wondered what the girl was like. Would she be good to her boy and a friend to his mother? The ‘girl’ was just sitting up in bed, sipping the tea the maid had brought, and thinking about her day – another one without him. There had been no word from any of the auditions she’d attended. The mid-week hunt was out at twelve. Restless with pent up energy and frustration, she’d ordered Jenny ready for eleven.

  She looked out of the window. There were raindrops trickling down the panes and the skies beyond were the colour of Welsh slate.

  She would have a bath, get on her breeches, ride to hounds, then bathe again before dinner. That way another day would be over with.

  Tom was striding down the platform at Birmingham New Street, hand firmly on the collar of a gentleman who had been running a playing-card scam. He glanced anxiously at his watch.

  The smiling prisoner, with the clipped military moustache, exuded charm and confidence. Looking up at him from under the rim of his brown trilby, he said, ‘If you’re in a hurry we could do this some other day.’

  Tom gave him a good-natured shake. ‘Quiet, you.’

  All the same, he didn’t dislike the rogue. Anyone daft enough to play cards with a stranger on a train deserved all he got.

  The man had to be taken to the nearest police station and charged – all time consuming. He wanted to be back in Cheltenham, off duty, and at Staverton airport with at least two hours of flying time left. He glanced up at the sky. The clouds were leaden. Maybe there would be no lesson today even if he did make it.

  Sergeant Whelan, dressed in full uniform with medals because of a court appearance as a witness, was writing in his meticulous hand with a scratchy pen when Tom walked in.

  ‘Ah, there ye are.’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  The pen was placed down carefully, the thick eyebrows meeting like two furry caterpillars. ‘If you’re expecting fulsome praise, forget it….’

  Tom was dismissive. ‘I’m not, Sergeant. Just tell me I can go …’

  The bluntness made Whelan’s eye bulge. What in the mother of God had come over Roxham? From being a rather shy fellow, though handy when it came to the rough stuff, he’d turned overnight into a forceful somewhat insubordinate character. He’d seen a few of them on the Western Front. They were always over the top first. Not many of them had made it back, at least, not in one piece.

  ‘Is it this flying business again?’

  ‘It is, with the Civil Guard.’

  Whelan sighed. ‘Very well, ye’d best be on yer way – I can see you won’t be any more use to me today.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  The undisguised relief in Tom Roxham’s voice irritated him. ‘You be in here tomorrow, Constable, at seven thirty sharp – ye hear?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  Tom didn’t wait for Whelan to change his mind, he was out of there and on his bike in a flash.

  The Master had blown the Tally-Ho and they were now in full pursuit, over forty horses and riders at the gallop, jumping the Cotswold dry-stone walls and hedges, climbing the steep hills and splashing through the valley streams.

  Another fence came up, the horses in front of her taking off, back legs kicking out, clods of Gloucestershire earth flying up into the air.

  The white breeches of a man in pink came out of the saddle, then back with a thump.

  She lined up with the fence, feeling the body of her mount tensing. With a surge of power that never failed to thrill her, they took off like a rocket. For a second she seemed to be flying, free of gravity, high in the air, not a care in the world. The moment passed, and with a bone jarring crash she came back to earth. Jenny stumbled, checked, and found her feet again. The chase continued.

  Behind her Jeremy had watched her petite figure rise out of the saddle, such a small slim shape to be in control of such a huge horse.

  But that was Fay. She was in charge – always was. Well, he was the man to tame her, and it would have to be soon. The world was beginning to lose its way. Heaven knew where they would all be this time next year.

  He lined up for the fence, knew it was wrong even before they left the ground.

  The sky changed places with the earth several times, before he hit the ground flat on his back. The air came out of his mouth and his backside like a tornado. For several seconds nothing happened, he thought he was paralysed, couldn’t breathe or move. Then nature took over and his lungs started to work. He rolled over, got to his knees. By the time he staggered to his feet she was only a speck in the distance. The sound of thundering hoofs on the other side of the fence sent him running to get out of the way, whistling for his horse that was grazing in the long grass at the edge of the ditch.

  When he’d got the reins, he put his foot in the stirrup, his steed, ears flicking nervously, turned to try and prevent him. Once up he dug his heels in and resumed the hunt.

  The tumble had done something. As he watched her riding into the distance around the edge of a wood he realized there was a message there. If he didn’t do it now she’d get away, so he’d propose to her this weekend. Speak to her father first, of course. Time to get the whole thing tidied up. With a flick of the whip and another dig of the heel he urged the horse into a gallop.

  Unaware of the resolution being made half a mile or so behind her, Fay, now out in a large field found her thoughts returning to Tom. She looked up at the sky. The solid cover of earlier had given way to broken clouds and heavy showers, one of which was just coming in. She remembered Tom had said that Wednesday was when he sometimes managed a lesson. As the rain lashed down she wondered if he’d get airborne at all – whether he’d found the time or not.

  Tom walked out to the Tiger Moth with Trubshaw.

  ‘Well lad, it’s a bit gusty today. I’d better get her off the ground.’

  The take-off was indeed wild. The machine continuing to wobble and lift and drop violently as they climbed away from the grass strip in the gusting wind.

  At five thousand feet, Trubshaw’s voice crackled in Tom’s ears as he handed over control.

  They went hrough the same series of exercises, turns and rolls, until Trubshaw said enough was enough, and that the weather was getting rougher.

  They got safely back down again on terra firma, albeit with a bone jarring thump. Near the hangar a couple of mechanics ran out and held on to the wobbling wings as the gale started to lift them alarmingly.

  Back in the office, Trubshaw put their helmets on the table and slumped into his office chair.

  ‘You were different today and it wasn’t the weather. You seemed to be more aggressive, too rough on the controls.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tom was dejected, though he had been aware of not managing so well.

  Trubshaw continued, ‘You were more relaxed before with a lighter touch on the stick. Now you are starting to grip the joy-stick and jerk it roughly.’

  Tom’s glumness was patent, his shoulders slumped. Trubshaw tried to get to the bottom of it.

  ‘It’s almost as though you are a different man. Tom, are you worried about anything?’

  ‘No, no, well, not flying.’

  Trubshaw nodded. ‘All right, not for me to ask further. My advice is to get whatever it is off your chest. We all have bad days, of course.’

  He stood up. ‘See you on Saturday then Tom. Nine o’clock sharp?’

  He walked to the window. ‘Forecasters say all this will have blown through by t
hen. We should be able to get a couple of decent hours in at least. By Sunday you will be nearly up to seven hours dual, possibly nine if the weather holds.’

  He didn’t go any further – holding back on any mention of a solo for two reasons: the first was that today had been a setback and if he continued like that he certainly wouldn’t be ready for another week at least. The second was that whatever it was Tom had on his mind just now, the situation wouldn’t be improved by the extra pressure of knowing that that milestone was imminent. Ignorance was bliss. Trainee pilots sometimes started getting bouts of depression and frustration just before the event if they knew it was near. Better by far to judge the moment, unstrap, get out, and send them off without preamble. Bit of a shock, but the lesser of the two evils.

  As Tom cycled home, standing up on the pedals, with the effort required to make progress against the wind, he knew what was at the bottom of today’s woes.

  Fay. And what had happened.

  All week he’d worried about telling his parents. God love them, they hadn’t two pennies to rub together really and lived with his grandmother in a house that was not owned by her. The whole family relied on his meagre income to provide little extras, more coal than perhaps they would have used to keep warm if he wasn’t there and luxuries like a wireless with wet batteries charged up at the shop without thinking twice about it and a ticket to the football for his father on Saturday, or to watch Gloucestershire play cricket at the Cheltenham Festival.

  As it was, the money for the flying lessons weighed heavily on his conscience.

  His mother met him in the scullery and helped him off with his waterproof cape, shaking it out by the door and propping it in a corner.

  ‘How did it go, son?’

  ‘Not good today, Mum.’

  ‘I’m surprised you went up in this weather. I’ve been worrying all day, hoped you’d been cancelled.’

  He changed the subject. ‘What’s for dinner tonight, I’m famished.’

  ‘Your favourite dear, Irish stew with bread and butter pudding to follow.’

  He gave her a big noisy kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Just the job on a day like today and I don’t mean the weather.’

  He began to untie his shoes.

  His mother looked anxious.

  ‘Is anything the matter, dear?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got something to tell you and Dad.’

  Immediately, he wished he’d waited – the look of anxiety on her face meant that he couldn’t put it off now.

  ‘What is it dear – are you all right? Have you been to the doctor, is that it?’

  ‘No, no, Mum, I’m perfectly fit – nothing like that. Nothing for you to worry about at all, really – it’s happy news.’

  His mother looked at him oddly, then said, ‘Tom, it’s a girl, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We knew it.’ She was triumphant.

  His father appeared in the doorway, taking the pipe he wasn’t supposed to smoke out of his mouth. ‘She’s pregnant – that it?’

  Resignedly, Tom drew in a deep breath. ‘No, Dad, nothing like that, we’re engaged to be married – not straight away of course,’ he added hurriedly, ‘probably in a couple of years’ time.’

  His mother wiped her hands on her dutch apron and held up her arms to hug him. ‘Oh, Tom, that’s wonderful.’

  They wrapped their arms about each other as his mother seemed to be both crying and laughing at the same time.

  When they broke apart it was to find his father looking less than happy. ‘Who is she?’

  Tom swallowed. ‘Her name’s Fay – Fay Rossiter and she lives in Cirencester.’

  His mother blinked in surprise. ‘Cirencester? How in the world did you meet her?’

  He lied. ‘On duty, Mum, just bumped into each other.’

  Snorting, his father said, ‘So you were with her in London eh, I hope there was no hanky panky.’

  ‘Dad!’

  But he knew he’d gone crimson with the memory of his hand on her …

  His mother and father exchanged glances.

  His father sniffed. ‘That’s why now, is it? How long have you been keeping quiet about her?’

  Again he lied. ‘Oh several weeks. And I’m telling you now because I proposed and was accepted this weekend. It’s taken me a couple of days to pluck up the courage to tell you, because I knew it was going to be an awful shock and I’m so sorry about that …’ his voice tailed off.

  It was his mother who broke the silence.

  ‘Why haven’t you brought her home, Tom, it’s customary and it would have been nice?’

  Tom hung his head. ‘I know. I’m sorry, but it all happened so quickly. I didn’t know I was going to propose – it just happened.’

  His mother started to smile.

  ‘When are we going to meet her? Is she nice, luv?’

  ‘She’s wonderful, Mum; you’ll adore her, I promise.’

  His father suppressed a tickle in his throat.

  ‘Has all this flying nonsense just been a cover? Have you really been meeting her all along?’

  ‘No, Dad, I love flying. She was the one who introduced me to it.’

  With a grunt his father just managed to say sarcastically, ‘You love everything all of a sudden,’ then his coughing started. It was a bad one. Anxiously, his mother moved to his side.

  ‘You all right, Dad?’

  The episodes had been getting worse lately.

  Nodding between the spasms his father staggered to the wide flat sink, resting with both hands gripping the side as he finally coughed up bloody phlegm and spat it into the white porcelain. He turned on a tap, used his hand to wash it away then took a sip from the column of water. He knew he was dying, just as surely as if it had been a bullet on the Somme. It was only a matter of time, but at least he’d had twenty years, unlike those who had stopped a lump of lead. He turned to face them again, tried a smile of reassurance.

  ‘Now, where were we? Fay, is it? That’s a nice name. What does she do, Tom?’

  ‘She’s a pianist – accompanies singers.’

  ‘Oh.’ His mother looked bewildered. ‘Is that a proper job?’

  ‘More to the point,’ added his father. ‘Does it pay well?’

  Tom grinned. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘And her parents. Have you met them, are they nice?’ enquired his mother.

  ‘No, not yet. Soon.’

  His father, feeling conscious of his own unemployed state asked, ‘What’s her father do?’

  There was no way Tom could tackle that just now – her father being a junior minister, and a Tory one to boot, let alone being in the Lords.

  Even he found it extraordinary, but he was no longer overawed. He just didn’t care anymore. But his parents would be uncomfortable – his father downright unbearable.

  ‘Oh, quite well-to-do. Something in London.’

  Scowling, his father said, ‘Was he in the war?’

  ‘I believe so; I think he was wounded.’

  That seemed to satisfy his old man who turned to his mother and said, ‘What’s for supper?’

  But his mother wasn’t listening.

  ‘This calls for a celebration. There’s that bottle of sweet wine in the cupboard, left over from Christmas, let’s have a toast – to Tom and Fay.’

  His father grumbled a bit, he was hungry, but he eventually went and got the bottle, mother providing the tumblers.

  As she poured the wine she asked, ‘What are you doing for a ring, Tom?’

  He picked up his glass. ‘We’re doing without one for now, Mum. We can’t afford it.’

  She winced. ‘Oh, that’s terrible, the poor girl.’

  Frowning, Tom said, ‘Oh no, Fay doesn’t mind.’

  His mother wasn’t having it. ‘All girls want a ring to show they’re spoken for. She’s just being nice, I like that.’

  Her face suddenly lit up. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘What?’
/>
  ‘Your grandmother has some rings in her jewellery box. Came down the family – one’s her mother’s. When she hears the news she might want to give you a present….’

  He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, where is Gran?’

  ‘At a whist drive. No, I’m sure she’ll be offended if you don’t have one. And where else at the moment are you going to get the money? You leave it to me.’

  ‘Mum – please!’

  ‘Leave the lad alone.’ His father had already downed his wine in one and was opening a bottle of Watney’s London Pride.

  ‘Where you going to live, son? This place is not big enough for another married couple, and then there’s nippers to consider.’

  Tom hadn’t thought beyond his love and need and fascination with Fay. His father had just uttered things that had not even been on his horizon. Momentarily it brought him up with a start.

  He shook his head. ‘Dad, that’s years away. We’ll find somewhere.’

  His mother held up her glass. ‘Let’s have a toast to you both.’

  His father stopped pouring and raised his glass. ‘To our lad, and his wife to be….’ He hesitated, so Tom prompted, ‘Fay.’

  ‘Fay – long life and happiness.’

  They clinked their glasses.

  It came in the post on Thursday.

  There were two envelopes for her. The first was stiffer, with ‘photographs, do not bend’ along the back and front. Fortunately her father had already left for London, so only her mother saw it.

  ‘What’s that, Fay?’

  Her daughter pretended to turn it over and see a trade sign on the back.

  ‘Oh, it’s returned photographs from Horse and Rider. I sent them the ones with me on Jenny; they didn’t use them, said they would be returned under separate cover.’ She pretended to discard it without interest. Fortunately there was the other one with which to distract her mother.

  ‘Oh, look at this, it’s from the agent to Sir Trevor Keynes.’

  She borrowed her mother’s opener, slitting the top of the letter neatly open before pulling out the single sheet of paper, reading it swiftly.