Flight of the Tiger Moth

by Mary Woodbury

  He drove the singers out to the airport canteen, and they sang silly songs all the way. It was difficult, carrying on after the crash. But most people hadn’t known Trevor the way Jack ­had.

  The whole gang – Basil, Dexter, Wes, Cathy and Jack – had taken the British “stiff upper lip” to new heights. When Jack was alone, however, grief swept over him like a snowstorm in ­February.

  He hadn’t been able to sleep all week. He kept talking to Trevor, trying to bring him back in his mind. Each morning he woke lonelier than the day before, more clear that his good mate had gone forever. “You’re better living in the moment, Jackie,” Trevor had said. It was not an easy thing to ­learn.

  After they’d let the group off at the canteen, Jack and Wes headed back to ­town.

  “How’s it really going, Jack?” Wes studied Jack’s face. “You miss Trevor lots.”

  Jack gulped. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to talk about the ­accident.

  “This isn’t easy,” said Wes. “I guess friends dying never is.”

  “It’s not fair. Some old lady at church told me it was God’s will. I don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t think life is fair. And I don’t think Trevor’s death was God’s will.” Wes chewed his ­lip.

  “You don’t?”

  “No. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this summer,” said Wes. “You know, about what I want to do, what my dad wants me to do, what life is really about, what God is like. You’ve been busy working, hanging out with Basil, Trevor and the gang in your spare time, making models and stewing about technical stuff.”

  “We’ve been on different wavelengths, you might say,” Jack mused. “What’s this got to do with Trevor’s death?”

  “I’m getting to that.” Wes wiped the dust off the dashboard with his left ­hand.

  “I think this war will teach us a lot of lessons, lessons about the human condition.” Rain streamed down the window. A lightning bolt lit up the sky in the ­east.

  Jack turned the windshield wipers on. “So?”

  “So I don’t think we understand God anymore, not like we used to think we did. God is not in charge of the war, of who dies, or who doesn’t, or who wins. I think we’ve got a lot to explain to God. We need to take responsibility for our own actions. Trevor died. It was an accident. It wasn’t God’s fault. We need to celebrate his life and the gifts he offered.”

  “He told me he lived in the moment.” Jack could feel his throat tighten. “He said he didn’t mind dying if he’d be flying. But I thought it would be in the war.”

  “I think we honour that, Jackie. We remember all the good times we had together and we get on with our lives.” Wes turned and looked closely at ­Jack.

  Jack sighed. “It’s hard to figure out how to do that.”

  “I’ve been thinking I’d like to study for the ministry. My dad has always hoped I’d follow in his footsteps. That’s not why I’m doing it, though. I want to figure out what God really looks like, what Jesus really said, and how in heck we human beings can learn to live together on this earth without killing each other.”

  “I thought you were going to be a writer?”

  “Maybe I could write about it.” Wes grinned. “After I’ve got something worth writing about.”

  Jack didn’t say anything for a moment. As he pulled into the village and slowed to a stop in front of McLeod’s house, he said. “I’ll fix the technical problems and you fix the spiritual ones. Hey, Wes, it sounds like a great plan.”

  “I was afraid you’d think I was an idiot, some kind of religious freak.”

  “Just don’t start preaching at me.”

  “No, sir!”

  >>>

  On Friday morning, as Jack was checking the tires on 3828, Harold hollered from the office door. He was holding the phone in his hand and motioned Jack to ­hurry.

  Jack sprinted across the hangar to the ­glassed-­in area, politely called the office, but really a hodgepodge of an old desk, a typewriter, a couple of rickety chairs and an assortment of unfiled documents, logbooks, mechanical drawings and dingy coffee and tea ­cups.

  “It’s your mother, Jack.” Harold stood in the doorway holding the receiver out to ­him.

  Jack’s heart beat fast and a wave of fear threatened to overpower him. He took the ­receiver.

  “I don’t care who hears this, Jack. We’ve had a letter from Flo. She’s better. She’s somewhere in England on leave. It’s taken a few weeks but she’s really on the mend. She’s got lots of stories, she says, to tell you and Dad.”

  “That’s great, Mom.” Jack had a sudden image of Flo smiling at him from across the ­room.

  “I thought you’d want to know. Here’s your dad.”

  “Jack, I thought you’d like to know she had to be flown to the hospital she’s been recovering in.”

  “You think she was in a field hospital when she got hit?”

  “Sounds like it to me, sport. She’s one spunky gal, our Flo.”

  “See you later, Dad.”

  “Don’t work too hard.”

  Jack said goodbye and handed the phone back to ­Harold.

  “What’s up?” Harold ­asked.

  Jack flopped down on one of the rickety chairs. “My sister’s all right. She’s safe. She’s getting better.” He wanted to race the length of the hangar and back and scream at the top of his lungs. But he didn’t. He just told the rest of the guys the ­news.

  By now the whole of Cairn would know, if anyone on the party line had been listening to their family ­conversation.

  Just then, a bunch of flyers arrived wanting to go up and the ground crew scurried to get the planes ready to ­fly.

  Harold sent him ­home.

  He grabbed his bike and cycled back to ­Cairn.

  His mom and dad were drinking tea and chatting. They stopped and welcomed him with open arms. The Waters family was not a huggy family but this was a special ­occasion.

  “Jack, we’ve been talking,” his dad said. “Ever since we heard the news about Flo.”

  We’ve been thinking about our future,” his mother said. “We’ve been thinking about moving, moving to wherever you go to university, especially if your dad can find a job.”

  “What about the store?” Jack ­asked.

  “Running the store is out of the question,” his mother said. “Your dad’s sciatica is a chronic condition.”

  “Unless you want to stay in Cairn…” Dad ­said.

  “Running the family store has never been in my plans.”

  “This village doesn’t need two general stores,” his mother said. “I’d like to try and get a job teaching piano, and playing organ in a city church.” Playing with Basil and Trevor must have given Jack’s mother renewed confidence in her ­ability.

  “I really want to go back on the road,” Bill had said. “See a new territory.”

  Jack wondered if that was such a great idea. Wouldn’t that be as hard on his back as running a store? But then again, his dad liked being on the ­road.

  Jack got dizzy thinking of the changes that lay ­ahead.

  Chapter ­24

  Everyone in town came to the performance on Saturday night, but the audience was subdued. People whispered instead of their normal chatter. Yesterday there had been a short formal funeral service for Trevor at the flying school but most of the village hadn’t been there. This was the first chance for Trevor’s friends in Cairn to ­gather.

  Dr. McLeod dedicated the concert to Trevor’s ­memory.

  “Trevor was a wonderful young chap with more talent in his little finger than most of us have in our whole being. Just knowing him for the few months he was here was a treat. I can’t believe he’s gone. None of us can.”

  Jack blinked to keep tears from falling. He looked over at his mother, sitting at the piano. Her back was ramrod straight, her hands ready in her lap to play “God Save the King” and “O Canada.” She really must have been a Chautauqua girl. The show would
go on and she’d play even though Trevor, one of her favourite student pilots ever, was ­gone.

  At least she didn’t have to worry about Flo ­now.

  “I’ll always think of Trevor soaring,” continued Dr. McLeod. “Whether it was in song or in a plane, he reached for the highest and the best. He set us quite a standard. We’ll miss him. Besides that, he was a gentle lad who made lots of friends both in the village and on the base.”

  Jack grinned behind his hand. How little Dr. McLeod understood Trevor’s other side. Jack remembered the not-so-gentle way Trevor had reacted when he was attacked on the street in Moose ­Jaw.

  Jack figured they survived the performance on sheer nerve. It went pretty smoothly except for the usual ­screw-­ups. Dexter’s cards fell on the floor, the Boyles’ fiddler knocked over her music stand, and Jack couldn’t sing worth a bean. But Arnie carried the tenors in ­style.

  The Boyles amazed the whole village and maybe even themselves. Jerry Boyle and his oldest daughter and Jimmy stood together at the front of the stage with the younger Boyles in the back row. Obviously the older ones were the better dancers. The fiddle player from Mortlach played a series of jigs and reels and the Boyles, wearing first tap shoes and then changing to black fitted dance shoes, strutted their stuff. The old man was huffing and puffing by the end, but the audience clapped so hard the Boyles performed an encore. Jimmy grinned at the audience as the Boyles finished their final twirl. They bowed and danced ­off.

  Jack felt a strange moment of pride in his old enemy. Who would have guessed Jimmy and his family had all that talent? If Trevor and Basil hadn’t dreamt up this fête, no one in the village would ever have known. As Jimmy passed Jack on his way back to his seat, Jack leaned out into the ­aisle.

  “Great job, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy stopped and turned to acknowledge Jack. He grinned. “All in a day’s work, Jackie.” Then he sauntered ­on.

  It was the happiest Jack had ever seen Jimmy ­Boyle.

  Everyone had wondered whether Cathy would still sing her solo. Trevor had been her accompanist and a good friend to both her and Basil. “I can do it,” she’d said, “if Mrs. Waters will play for me.” She stood, tall and willowy, her hair braided. Wearing her “Dorothy” dress, she cupped her hands as if holding a bunch of flowers in front of her and sang in a clear, strong voice, tears streaming down her ­face.

  The song was familiar to everyone who’d seen Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz, one of the first Technicolor movies ever made. Jack had only been nine when it came out. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” seemed like just the right song for Cathy to sing for Trevor. It talked about blue skies and dreams coming true and bluebirds flying over the rainbow and how she, the singer, could fly ­too.

  There was something about music. It had real staying power. Jack had grown up listening to his mother playing everything from pop tunes to Bach. A melody played well lifted the spirit of a person the same way a ­well-­tuned airplane lifted a pilot. And after the sound died away the melody played on inside your head. For a moment Jack allowed himself to soar with Cathy’s voice and forget the war, the grief and the worry of being Jack ­Waters.

  As Ivy played the last chords, there was a moment’s silence. Cathy curtseyed. Jack stood and applauded. Around him chairs scraped on the floor as others stood and joined with him. Some villagers sobbed, some had tears on their cheeks and some just clapped. Were they clapping for Cathy or Trevor, or both? The applause filled the room and overflowed into the empty streets ­beyond.

  Did the notes of Cathy’s song float out the windows, join with the din of crickets and frogs and become part of the deep Saskatchewan night? Jack knew he would always remember this night, this concert and this ­song.

  How Jack wished Trevor could be here. Who knew, maybe he was. Maybe summer and life had not died in that farmer’s field. For Jack, it might be the end of summer holidays, but there was still a lot to do. Get this bunch of raf pilots sent off, especially Basil, hope for news of Sandy, get ready for grade twelve, figure out what to do with ­Buddy.

  Everyone laughed at Basil’s song, “The Pilots of the Prairies,” which gave new words to a famous song from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Basil’s voice was clear and loud as he talked about how a talent for singing and an attention to detail were the keys to doing well in the air force. For a moment he seemed to bring the glamour of the London stage to the small prairie village, and when he reached the final chorus, “Keep your feet on the ground, stay out of the blue/ And you’ll all make Marshals of the King’s Air Crew” – he brought the house ­down.

  After the concert Buddy got in the back of the truck and wouldn’t budge. His fur was still singed around his muzzle and the tips of his ears from the crash last weekend. He whined mournfully. Jack shook his ­head.

  >>>

  It was nearly eleven o’clock when Jack got home after driving Dexter and some of the other flyers back to the flying school. The dog was still in the back of the truck. He had refused to get out at the ­h-­hut even though Dexter had tried to coax him with a ­bone.

  Jack’s mom and dad were sitting in the backyard on the canvas deck chairs. Ivy was dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. In the light cast by the lamp above the back door, Bill was working on a small table, rolling dimes from the cash register into papers for the ­bank.

  “Is something wrong?” Jack asked, panic hitting his stomach and making it tighter than a drumhead. “Is there news about Sandy?”

  “No, Jack, it’s not that,” said Ivy. “It’s…”

  “Jackie.” His dad cleared his throat. “Your mother and I couldn’t sleep…”

  Jack sensed rather than heard Buddy come up beside him. The dog must have jumped out of the truck. Buddy sat quietly beside ­him.

  “Maybe it’s hearing Flo is going to be all right or…” His mother started a sentence and stopped. “I keep thinking about Trevor. He was such a fine boy. I’ve been wondering about how his family feels, his mom and brothers especially…”

  “It’s been too much lately,” Dad said. “But we’ll manage, Ivy. Can I make you some tea?”

  “I’m all right, Bill,” Mom said. “The fête was a lot of work and Trevor would have loved it. He was a good musician.” She shuddered even though the evening air was balmy and the night sky glorious. “He sure loved that dog you found.”

  “He did love Buddy,” said ­Jack.

  The dog heard his name. He left Jack’s side and padded over to where Ivy Waters was sitting, one hand holding the wooden armrest while the other one clasped the hankie in her lap. The dog sat politely, then calmly rested his muzzle on her lap, his big brown eyes gazing wistfully at Ivy’s sorrowing face. Jack didn’t dare move. It was as if the dog sensed Ivy’s pain and maybe some of his own, missing the cheerful presence of Trevor ­Knight.

  There was a moment or two of silence. His mother gazed down at the dog. She didn’t ­move.

  “Speaking of Buddy,” Dad said, “Mom and I were discussing what would become of him once Basil and Dexter left. He won’t know the new students. He’s gotten attached to the boys who are leaving.”

  Jack hadn’t breathed deeply since Buddy had gone to his mother. She was studying the dog as if seeing him for the first time. “He seems friendly. He’s calmed down a lot, ” his mother ­said.

  Jack dared to glance over at his dad, his good old persistent dad. He hadn’t forgotten about Jack and his ­dog.

  “I’ve been training him in my spare time at work. But I won’t be at the maintenance shop anymore.”

  “That’s what I told Ivy.” His dad placed the ­rolled-­up coins in a ­shoebox.

  “Trevor would want the dog to have a real home,” said Mom. “He loved dogs.”

  “So do I, Mom, so do I!”

  Ivy patted the dog’s head, then stood up, gently brushing Buddy aside. She wiped her hands on her damp ­hankie.

  “Trevor’s gone,” she said. “Buddy belongs with you now. You better build him a doghouse,
though. He can come in when it’s really cold in the winter.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. He stared at his mother. Her eyes were red from crying, the fancy hankie wadded in her ­hand.

  “Buddy has a doghouse at the base,” said Jack. “Cheese built it for him. I’ll fetch it.”

  “Trevor is buried in the cemetery close to your Uncle Jack. It seems fitting that the dog come to us.” His mother was talking but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring into ­space.

  “Two talented young men who were both casualties of war, one who crashed with his dreams intact, and one who lost his dreams in the sky over Europe. We will mourn them both.”

  “Mom, are you sure about Buddy?” Jack ­asked.

  “No, Jackie. Frankly I’m not. I’m not sure about anything. But that isn’t what’s important right now.” His mother folded the damp, crumpled hankie neatly and put it on the small table beside the shoebox filled with rolled coins. She spoke slowly and with great ­effort.

  “I thought I could keep you safe, keep life simple, Jackie, keep you young and innocent. I didn’t want you to feel grief like I’ve felt.”

  “Then the war started,” his dad ­said.

  “The flying school was built,” added his mother. “Flo and Sandy left.”

  “Cairn changed.” Dad cleared his ­throat.

  “The flyers came,” said Jack. “Trevor came.”

  “He was going to be the best man at Cathy and Basil’s wedding,” Mom ­said.

  His dad chuckled. “I don’t know what changed us most – the arrival of the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, Flo leaving home and being hurt or Sandy going missing in action. But the Waters family will never be the same.”

  “Enough of this.” Jack’s mom smoothed the wrinkles on her navy dress. “Where are you going to put that dog for the night?”

  “I’ll tie him out here in the yard. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll bring the doghouse home.”

  Dad carried the chairs into the back shed and took the shoebox and Mom’s hankie into the house. He grinned at Jack before he disappeared into the ­house.