Flight of the Tiger Moth

by Mary Woodbury

  “Basil, you can’t just walk off with the fellow’s dog,” said the driver. “Much as I miss my own.” He turned to Jack, “My fox terrier, Max, was killed in the Blitz in ’41. Didn’t like going to the shelter in the back garden. Stayed in the hall closet under the coats.” Jack realized the house must have been ­bombed.

  Jack found himself liking the driver. The others seemed a bit snooty, full of their own importance. He’d noticed that some British flyers acted like everyone in Canada was a hick, or a “colonial,” as one pilot had called him. He hoped this batch wouldn’t be like ­that.

  The driver shook Jack’s hand. “I’m Trevor Knight, of London, England, and these nincompoops are Basil, Dexter and Cheese, otherwise known as Charles.” Dexter was pudgy and awkward with a big nose and big feet. Cheese had skin blemishes dotting his face and forehead like small craters on the moon. He had big teeth and a bigger mouth than anyone Jack knew in town. When he grinned it looked like the corners of his mouth ran up to his ­ears.

  Jack listened as the four lacs chatted about home and families and flying planes. Jack warmed to them all finally. Maybe the boys weren’t snobs as much as unsure of the ways of Canadian boys. Buddy, meanwhile, had been passed around like a coveted prize and enjoyed the ­attention.

  “Is there any way we could convince you, Jackie boy, to lend us your dog, Mr. Buddy, for the duration of our stay here in this unbelievably empty desert?” asked Basil. He was lanky like Wes McLeod, but really fair, with a small blond moustache, what Ivy Waters would call a cookie ­duster.

  Jack studied the four young flyers. His mind flashed to Sandy, lost somewhere in France. He hoped someone in a French village was helping ­him.

  These guys were a long way from home. Jack remembered studying geography when he was in elementary school, colouring maps and making fancy tags that named the crops, creatures and outstanding features. All of Great Britain had been very green, lush and rainy. Not like Cairn at all. No wonder they were so shocked, probably homesick too. His mind did a fast trip down a dark street – some of them would die in this war, or maybe even in an accident right here in southern ­Saskatchewan.

  Trevor was holding Buddy and crooning to ­him.

  What was Jack going to ­do?

  “I’ll think about it,” was all he could ­say.

  Chapter­ 9

  Wes was sitting on his front stoop eating a brown sugar sandwich when Jack pulled into the lane by the manse. Dr. McLeod was trimming rose bushes beside the stucco ­bungalow.

  “What have you got there?” hollered ­Wes.

  Jack leaned his bike against a barrel of brilliant red geraniums, grabbed Buddy and joined Wes on the steps. “Look what I found!”

  McLeod’s tortoiseshell Persian, named Gracie Fields after a famous English singer, arched her back, spat and leapt from the wooden rocker on the porch, darting toward the ­street.

  “Gracie Fields doesn’t approve of dogs.” Wesley reached over and patted the wiggly pup. “Where’d you find him?”

  Wes’s mother stood behind the screen door in her apron. “I want to hear too,” she said. “Wait a minute and I’ll bring lemonade.”

  She turned and disappeared down the hall. The smell of fresh lemon squares wafted in the air. Wes’s mom was younger than Jack’s. She took a real interest in whatever the boys were ­doing.

  “What’s young Waters brought over?” Dr. McLeod came around the side of the house, wiping his bony hands on a shabby old cardigan. He bent down and scratched Buddy on the chest. “Looks like the Boyles’ litter.”

  “I found this pup on my way to work this morning. I want to keep him. Mom doesn’t.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Jackie,” sighed Dr. McLeod, as his wife appeared with the lemonade. Soon the McLeods were seated on the porch sipping lemonade and listening to Jack’s ­story.

  “I know why she said no,” Mary McLeod said. “Ivy’s not a dog person and she’s just had a terrible shock.”

  “That’s what Dad says,” Jack ­agreed.

  “I worry about Jimmy and Pete, I do.” Dr. McLeod shook his head sadly. “No one sets them much of an example, especially since Mrs. Boyle died of cancer.”

  “There’s a violent streak in old Jerry Boyle,” said his wife. “I expect he beats his kids.”

  “And then there’s the drink,” Dr. McLeod said. “He and Pete Nelson like to tie one on most weekends from what I hear.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” asked Wes. He had Buddy on his lap and was feeding him crumbs from his ­square.

  “I don’t think there’s much we can do about the Nelsons or the Boyles. Old Mrs. Nelson comes to church when her arthritis isn’t too bad. The Boyles go to the bootlegger instead. But I worry about the guns. You say the mother dog had been shot?”

  Jack nodded. “Mrs. Nelson said something about Boyle’s old bitch being lame. They probably killed the pups because it was too much trouble to look after them.”

  “Well, Jackie, my lad, what are you going to do with that beautiful wee dog?” asked Dr. McLeod. He turned and studied his wife Mary’s face. “I don’t suppose…”

  “Gracie Fields would never allow a dog around the place.” Mrs. McLeod threw a catnip mouse in the direction of the old ­cat.

  “My wife is a cat person,” sighed Dr. McLeod ­wistfully.

  “I’m hoping Dad can talk Mom around.”

  “Probably not with Sandy missing,” said Dr. McLeod. “You know, if I was a younger man, I’d go as a chaplain.”

  “I’m glad you’re too old!” Mary McLeod started clearing the table, loading the plates and glasses onto the tray with a little more vigour than necessary. “Some men have to stay home and hold the fort.”

  Dr. McLeod kissed the top of his wife’s head and escaped to the garden. “I’d best attend to my roses, lads. Good luck finding a home for the wee dog, Jackie.”

  “Thanks.” Jack smiled at Wes. Every time Dr. McLeod got into trouble with his wife he spoke with a thicker Scottish ­accent.

  “Aye,” Wes winked at Jack. He knew his father better than Jack ­did.

  “Tell your mom I’m bringing her an apple pie,” said Mary ­McLeod.

  “Let’s go to your dad’s store,” suggested Wes. “Maybe your mom’s changed her mind.”

  >>>

  Jack’s mother was polishing the counters. The store smelt of Old Dutch cleanser and Hawes furniture polish. Jack’s dad sat on the porch reading the newspaper. Bill Waters loved the puzzles and the comic strip characters – Mutt and Jeff, Li’l Abner and Dagwood. He and the Hobbs twins often sat on the porch of the store and read things out to each other – first the news, then the comics, finally the ­sports.

  Everyone in town liked Jack’s dad, Bill, even if he wasn’t the best businessman in the world. He’d rather visit and talk than stock a wide variety of groceries. Sometimes he’d forget to reorder until Ivy reminded him. That’s why more people went to Cairn General Store for their main supplies. Jack’s mom worried all the time about making ends meet, paying the wholesaler, collecting from the people who bought on credit. The way Bill ran the store – or didn’t run it – as Ivy said, was a bone of contention between his ­parents.

  Jack glanced between his mom and dad. The tension in the air was as thick as a winter blanket. It looked as if his mother was going to clean and reorganize the whole place. She turned from her work. He could see she was making a real effort not to ­cry.

  “Did you work hard, Jack?”

  He ­nodded.

  She continued moving tins of peas and carrots and dusting shelves. “I left you a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper in the icebox at home and there’s cold milk to drink. Don’t forget to wash your hands thoroughly after handling that dog.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Waters,” said Wes. “Mom’s bringing over a pie for your supper. She and Dad are looking forward to your weekly bridge game Monday night.”

  “Yes, thank you, Wesley.”

  Jack and Wes walked out into the
porch where Buddy had fallen asleep. “I really wanted to keep him,” Jack said to Wes. “I feel responsible for him.”

  “Buddy can sleep in the storeroom for the night,” his dad called after him. He followed the boys onto the porch. “Maybe someone at church will want a dog. He’d make a good farm dog.”

  “I don’t want him being a farm dog. I’d never see him.” Jack paced up and down the porch. “Are you sure…?”

  “No sense pushing, Jack,” said his father. “Your mother’s really worried about Flo. Hearing about Sandy was bad enough, but if something happened to Flo…”

  “Flo’s okay.” Jack had to defend his sister even if she was miles ­away.

  “Flo’s already too feisty for your mother. Running off after her boyfriend to the other side of the world. Working where there are bombs and air raids. Risking life and limb.”

  Jack nodded. He remembered all too clearly how upset Ivy had been when Flo said she was ­leaving.

  He had vowed then and there to try to be good, or what his mother thought was good. He hated all that tension in the air. It made him feel ­dizzy.

  The two boys sat on the porch. Buddy woke suddenly, shook himself and tumbled toward Jack. He licked Jack’s fingers and bounced around. The two boys took the dog for a walk down the street to the train station past the other general store and the Chinese restaurant, where the Hobbs Boys waved through the front ­window.

  A freight train chugged down the track heading toward Swift Current and on to Calgary and points west. The whistle on the steam locomotive blew loudly. Buddy yanked the leash out of Jack’s hand and took off down the street as if the devil were chasing him. The boys lit out after him just as the Boyles’ Transport truck turned onto the main street. The pup swerved left, the truck swerved right. Buddy rolled under the box, filled with junk lumber and lead pipe. The truck horn jammed and old Boyle leapt down from the ­cab.

  Jack threw himself down on the gravel road and searched under the truck. Wes ran around the other side of the ­pickup.

  “I told Jimmy to get rid of the bitch and those pups. I’m sick and tired of dogs.” Boyle swore a blue streak. “Wait till I get my hands on that kid. Needs a belt or two. So do you.”

  The burly, ­red-­faced man stormed over to where Jack was stretched on the ground. “Aren’t you Jackie Waters?” He bent down, his thick body smelling of old sweat and beer, his eyes bleary and his grimy fist clenched. Jack rolled ­away.

  “Here’s Buddy,” called Wes. “He rolled right under the truck and out the other side.”

  Jack leapt to his feet and took off with Wes and Buddy, leaving Old Boyle shouting at the air. Three women had come out of the restaurant and stood watching, their arms folded across their chests. The Hobbs Boys stepped onto the pavement and headed in Boyle’s ­direction.

  “Hang on a moment, Jerry,” said Melvin as he strode toward old ­Boyle.

  “Leave the kid alone.” Arnie Hobbs spoke with more authority than Jack had ever heard from any one of the Hobbses. “We don’t want any trouble here in Cairn.”

  Old Boyle shook slightly as he stood up and dusted off his trousers. He could see everyone on the main street glaring at ­him.

  “How about you and Arnie and I have a cup of coffee,” Mel ­said.

  “We’ll leave Jimmy’s dad in good hands,” said Wes. “At least Buddy’s all right.”

  “I’m taking him back to the store and tying him up. He’s had enough brushes with death for a whole lifetime.” Jack hugged the pup to his ­chest.

  “You could have been killed, you dumb little mutt,” Jack ­said.

  Wes patted Buddy’s head. “How’re you going to handle this, Jack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  All Jack knew for sure was that the dog was a gift. Maybe a gift he couldn’t keep, but still, a ­gift.

  Chapter ­10

  Sunday morning the congregation stood as Ivy played the introduction to the hymn on the wheezy organ. The choir wore their black gowns, the women sporting shiny white collars and the men with their white shirts and dark neckties showing. Jack stood with the tenors and Wes towered in the middle of the bass ­bari-tones.

  There was a commotion at the back of the church. Jack looked up to see Trevor, Basil and their buddies Cheese and Dexter tiptoe in and slip into the back ­pew.

  Most of the congregation turned to glare at the latecomers and then smiled a welcome. It was always a treat having the “boys from away” as the young flyers were called. And it was a long walk into the village, easy enough for them to misjudge the ­time.

  The singing began with great gusto. Ivy liked a strong attack on the first line, but even she was taken aback by the powerful voices coming from the back ­pew.

  Trevor and Basil sang lustily and by the second verse they’d moved to harmony. By the close of the hymn the whole congregation and the choir looked ready to applaud. None of the other flyers had ever been great singers, in fact none of them could carry a tune in a ­basket.

  Dr. McLeod gave the opening prayer and announced the next hymn. Jack found it and looked up. Trevor was grinning at him and waving his hand out in the aisle. Jack tried not to ­laugh.

  The sopranos were whispering among themselves. “Can we talk them into joining the choir, do you think?”

  “Maybe if we had a couple of young girls.”

  Ivy frowned and the sopranos stopped ­talking.

  During the sermon Jack’s mind wandered. He’d left Buddy in the back room of the store with a wall of packing cases keeping him out of the store proper. Jack’s mother hadn’t let him sleep in the store with the dog for fear of hoboes or ­burglars.

  When Jack had gotten up he’d raced to release the poor pup, who was so glad to see him he piddled. It warmed Jack’s heart to have anyone that glad to see him even though it dampened the floor and he had to mop ­up.

  He’d taken Buddy for a walk and a romp on the baseball diamond. He’d tried talking to his mother at breakfast about keeping the dog, but she was too distracted. “I’m sorry, Jack, I can’t deal with this now. The church pays me an honorarium for playing the organ. They deserve good service.”

  She had moved on to her usual Sunday instructions. “Polish your shoes. Slick your hair down. Make sure your dad remembers his tie.” Then she’d left for ­church.

  Maybe, after all, he should let Trevor and the other boys take Buddy. In a few months he might figure out a way to keep him ­himself.

  “Let us pray,” Dr. McLeod interrupted Jack’s reverie. The long prayer covered the king, the queen, the princesses, the prime minister, the armed forces, the sick, the injured, the dying. Jack sighed and thought of ­Sandy.

  Arnie Hobbs nudged him. “Pay attention, Jackie, we’re singing the last hymn.”

  >>>

  After the last chord, Jack ran down the back stairs, dumped his robe on a hanger and raced up the basement steps to greet Trevor and Basil. His mother was already holding Trevor’s elbow as Basil looked ­on.

  “Guess who’s joining the choir,” she said happily. “And Basil and Trevor are coming for dinner. The other boys, Dexter and, if I got it right, Cheese, are joining the McLeods.”

  “I need my tea,” said Basil. “I missed it, walking to church.”

  “Where’s Buddy?” asked ­Trevor.

  “In the back room of the store,” said Bill. “Come along, and we’ll let the dog out into the summer air.”

  “Have you decided yet?” asked ­Trevor.

  “What?” asked ­Jack.

  He knew what Trevor wanted but he needed to take his time. Buddy’s whole future depended on this ­decision.

  “I’ll keep working on your mom, Jackie, but for now anyway these fellows seem to want Buddy.” Bill led the way to the back of the store and opened the door. The smell of disinfectant soap, candies and pickles wafted out as Buddy tumbled down the steps like a rubber ball with dancing legs and wagging tail. Jack and Trevor knelt to stop his ­escape.

  Watching Trevor
tussle with Buddy, Jack felt his resolve turn to melted butter. The smile on Trevor’s face as he played with Buddy, the croon in his voice, made up his ­mind.

  “I couldn’t find a home for the dog. You can take him.” Then Jack added. “But I have to have visiting privileges.”

  “That’s wizard,” said Trevor. He picked Buddy up and carried him a few steps before the wiggling mass leapt out of his arms and led them a merry chase. A flock of sparrows lifted off from the caraganas as they came down the street to the ­house.

  The rich smells of baked ham and scalloped potatoes reached Jack and the student pilots as they turned into the back lane. The boys arranged a rope and a stake in the ground. Bill filled a bowl with fresh water from the ­cistern.

  Ivy stood behind the screen door. “Make sure he’s tied up securely. I don’t want him getting into the raspberry bushes.”

  Everyone trooped into the house, wiping the dust from their feet on the sisal mat. The table was set for Sunday dinner with the Blue Willow china plates and cups. Besides the ham and potatoes that had been cooking while church was going on, there was tomato juice, green relish, bread and butter pickles, sliced white bread and butter and creamed corn. Dad asked grace and everyone passed their plates. Jack snuck a small heel of the ham into his pocket for the pup whining pitifully in the ­backyard.

  “So tell me where you received your musical training, boys,” asked Mom. “Do you play instruments as well as sing?”

  Chapter ­11

  It turned out that Basil had gone to a choir school and sung in a fancy cathedral boy’s choir. When he spoke, it was like listening to the bbc announcer on the radio news from ­England.

  Trevor had come from a large musical family in a crowded London neighbourhood. He had an uncle who danced and sang in musical revues. Trevor had actually met George Formby, the famous comic singer, and Gracie Fields, the glamorous British performer, when he’d visited his uncle backstage at the Pantages ­Theatre.