Long Flight Home

by Lainie Anderson

  Shirley was quiet for a moment. ‘My sister had a feller over in France. Johnnie. We all loved ’im. Three years she carried a torch, and he went and got killed at Cambrai just before it all ended.’

  She laughed and said, ‘Silly sod,’ but her eyes were welling up. ‘We’re not sure our Norma will find herself anyone to marry now.’

  I handed her my handkerchief. ‘Thanks, Wal,’ she said, wiping her nose and dabbing her eyes. ‘Norma said later that all the nights of waitin’ and worryin’, never knowing if Johnnie was alive, were almost as bad as hearing he’d died.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe your Helena just didn’t have any more nights left in ’er.’

  She leaned across me to take back the cigarette, smelling of perfume and face powder and malt from the beer.

  I thought about Helena on Bondi Beach, sitting close, my hand on her back. The promises we’d made that day. That night. Mum would be ashamed of me. I hadn’t been kind.

  ‘Cheer up, Sonny Jim,’ Shirley said, gently knocking my shoulder. ‘Do you think it would ’elp if you kissed me?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The water was turning dark in the late afternoon. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you a deal, Wal. I’ll let you kiss me, if you take me up for a flight before you leave.’

  ‘I’ll try!’ I laughed, brushing her leg as I took the cigarette. ‘But I’m not a pilot. I’m a mechanic.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, stiffening ever so slightly. ‘Oh, I thought … Joan said …’

  ‘Did she say I was a pilot? That’s funny.’

  ‘Yeah, funny,’ she said. But I noticed her pull away.

  I took a long drag of the cigarette then flicked it away, hoping she hadn’t seen the engine oil stained into my hands. I stood up, looked for a stick and threw it in the river, watching for ages as it disappeared downstream. Helena had been so proud of me when I joined the Flying Corps, back when I was just a driver. I picked up another stick and hurled it as far as it would go.

  I shot a look at Shirley. She was looking at her hands, scratching the red skin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Shirley,’ I said.

  She smiled and sighed. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m the sorry one. I’m just tired of being me.’

  I sat back down beside her, took a swig of the beer that was too flat now. Shirley reached out and touched my cheek, and for a second I thought she might kiss me after all. ‘Go ’ome, sweet Wal,’ she said. ‘Go ’ome and get your girl.’

  Chapter 14

  I got crook not long after that day by the river. Woke up all snotty and sneezy and straight away Miss Dickson banished me to bed with an extra blanket and a gargling solution of salt and potash. Tasted like salty soap and it made me gag, but I figured anything that awful had to be good for me. I protested that I was okay, but Miss Dickson was being protective of her girls. The Spanish flu outbreak was over, but it had killed more than 200,000 Brits since the end of the war. Everyone seemed to know someone who’d died. Laura Borton had told me at Cheveney how she’d heard of four women playing bridge one night, and in the morning three of them were dead.

  As I walked back to my room from the hostel dining hall, feeling lousy and sorry for myself, I muttered a song I’d heard often since arriving from India.

  I had a little bird,

  It’s name was Enza.

  I opened the window,

  And in-flu-enza.

  It was one of those kids’ rhymes that sticks in your head, and I was still humming it to myself two days later when I was back at work with Benny. One of the Vimy radiators hadn’t been running too flash, so we were replacing it with a spare that’d been taken out of Jack Alcock’s Vimy before the aircraft was put on show at the Science Museum in London.

  We had the radiator set up on a bench beside the Vimy and were running final tests when Ross walked up and said, ‘Men, I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.’

  Beside him was a lieutenant in a RAF uniform. He was almost exactly the same height and frame as Ross with the same thin face, but with distinctly dark features instead of Ross’s green eyes and sandy hair.

  ‘Lieutenant Keith Smith, meet Sergeants Jim Bennett and Wally Shiers. Lads, Keith’s my brother. He’s going to navigate our way home.’

  Benny was pleased as punch; started pumping Keith’s arm like it was a petrol bowser. ‘Pleasure to meet you, finally,’ he said. ‘Call me Benny. This here’s Wal.’

  I stood there wiping my hands with a rag, hoping Benny’s enthusiasm hid my own disappointment. ‘Nice to meet you Keith,’ I said. ‘Excuse me for not shaking your hand. Had a nasty cold.’

  Keith fixed his black eyes on me. Didn’t say a word.

  ‘We’re being extra cautious,’ Ross interjected, ‘in case the Spanish Lady’s taken a liking to him.’

  Keith was still looking at me. Felt like he was staring at my insides and didn’t like what he saw. ‘You sure you’re well enough for this flight?’

  It sounded more like an accusation than a question, and I was so taken aback I coughed.

  ‘Wal’s good as gold,’ said Benny, whacking my back. ‘Dr Bennett’s prescribed more whisky.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Keith. Then he turned and surveyed the girls working on the Vimy. ‘I hope these women know what they’re doing, Ross?’ he said loudly. Rudely. ‘How many stitches per inch on the linen?’

  I glanced at Miss Dickson, working nearby. Her neck was flushed. I could hear the dope suddenly getting slapped on a little harder, a little more quickly.

  ‘The women know exactly what they’re doing, Keith,’ Ross said. ‘But I wouldn’t have a clue. Let me introduce you to the wonderful Miss Dickson before you cause a walkout.’

  As he strolled off to do the introductions, Ross called over his shoulder to me and Benny. ‘You’ll get used to him fellas,’ he said. ‘He’s the blunt one.’

  Keith didn’t bat an eye. You could tell he’d been hearing it all his life.

  Later on, me and Benny were outside having a smoke with Joan.

  ‘It’s not right,’ I said, tapping angrily at my cigarette to drop its ash. ‘Should be Pard.’

  ‘Bit difficult when Pard’s already back in Western Australia, Wal,’ said Benny.

  ‘Who’s Pard?’ asked Joan.

  Pard was Ernest Mustard, Ross’s observer with No. 1 Squadron and the handiest man I’d ever met. We used to joke that you could give Pard three inches of copper wire, a couple of terminals and a pocket knife, and he’d knock up a wireless set. He was the best observer over the Eastern Front, too. The brass hats couldn’t wait to get their hands on his recco reports or photographs—they’d send someone sprinting whenever he landed. Anyone who’d witnessed the Smith-Mustard combination knew it couldn’t be bettered.

  Even by Smith-Smith.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Wal,’ said Benny. ‘But Pard didn’t want to come to London and that’s that. Besides, Ross wouldn’t have asked Keith if he wasn’t up to the job.’

  I took a drag of my cigarette as we huddled together under an alcove, out of the misty rain. My head was throbbing. ‘We don’t know anything about Keith.’

  ‘I know that he and Ross are close. So be careful what you say,’ said Benny.

  ‘Did he even fight?’ I asked.

  ‘He tried to enlist a couple of times in Australia but was knocked back on medical grounds. Varicose veins, I think. He had an operation and then paid his own way to England to sign up with the Royal Flying Corps. Instructing, for the most part.’

  ‘So he didn’t see active service?’

  Benny rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus Wal, give the bloke a go. Our war was hardly hand-to-hand combat with the Hun.’

  I rubbed my temples, feeling guilty now. ‘Maybe I just got off on the wrong foot.’ I’d read that at one stage during the war, young pilots arriving at the Front were only expected to last two weeks. The death rate for instructors was even worse.

  ‘This’ll cheer you up, Wal,’ said Benny, stubbing out his ciga
rette underfoot. ‘Keith sailed from Australia to Britain on the RMS Medina and she was torpedoed by a German U-boat off the coast of Devon. Sank like a stone and rumour has it a whole heap of Indian treasures went down with her. Passengers escaped into lifeboats with nothing but the clothes on their backs.’

  ‘And that’s good news because …?’

  ‘Well, Ross reckons Keith’s got nine lives,’ Benny said, turning to pull the door open for Joan. ‘So I figure we’ll all survive the flight to Australia so long as he’s in the plane.’

  On the walk back through the huge shed to the Vimy, we passed a disused office where Ross had temporarily set up Race HQ. Large maps were strewn across a desk and drawing table. I could hear Ross and Keith talking inside, so I paused for the slightest moment. ‘You know, Ross,’ said Keith, ‘I worked with some damned fine Australian air mechanics up in Yorkshire …’

  At the sound of our footsteps, Keith turned sharply and locked his black eyes on me, before taking a step forward and closing the door without speaking.

  My heart was galloping. I looked at Benny and he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I said when we were back by the radiator. Way above us, rain began to tap against the glass ceiling.

  ‘Mate,’ Benny said. ‘It’s nothing. Let’s just get on with this.’

  ‘But surely Ross wouldn’t …’

  ‘Wal!’

  Wasn’t even half an hour later when Ross walked over and said he and Keith were leaving to catch the 4 pm train to London and wouldn’t be back until the following evening.

  ‘Anything we can help you with, Ross?’ asked Benny, rubbing his brow with the back of his hand.

  ‘Just dull stuff, Benny. Keith wants to introduce me to a couple of blokes.’

  Benny nodded, frowning. ‘Any word on Poulet?’

  ‘Nothing, which makes me think he hasn’t landed near any RAF bases yet, or we’d have received a wire.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Jack Alcock’s radiator is ticking over nicely, Ross.’ At the back of the shed, Keith was in deep conversation with Rex Pierson. ‘The old bus is starting to take shape.’

  ‘Excellent lads!’ Ross was already turning away. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  We watched as he returned to Keith and slapped him on the back as they stood chatting and laughing with Rex Pierson. The rain was pelting down now. It was almost as dark as night in the shed.

  I started coughing and Benny said, ‘Aw Jesus, Wal, you gotta stop coughing over everyone.’

  Ross and Keith disappeared out a side door. I coughed again. ‘Just go!’ Benny said angrily, throwing a hand in the air. A few women looked up. ‘Go back to bed, Wal. And drink that bloody whisky I got you.’

  I trudged back to my room in the drizzling rain; my little song making me miserable.

  I had a little bird,

  It’s name was Enza.

  I opened the window,

  And in-flu-enza.

  I woke the next morning in my Vickers hostel room, feeling better than I had in days.

  ‘Good to see you, old mate,’ Benny said, jumping up from the breakfast table when he saw me enter the dining room. There were dark rings under his eyes. ‘Sit down and I’ll get you some gruel and a cuppa.’

  Neither of us mentioned Ross or Keith. Back in the shed, we helped the blokes finish assembling the new fuel tanks inside the fuselage, and then kept ourselves busy weighing the spare parts we’d need for the engines. Jack Alcock’s Vimy had weighed seven tons fully loaded, but Ross wanted to get our machine down to six and a half tons. One of the workers remarked that our Vimy was nothing but a flying fuel container, on account of the petrol tanks stretching down the fuselage. ‘Mark my words,’ he said, ‘if you blokes crash land, we’ll hear it from here.’

  Late in the afternoon Miss Dickson tapped Benny on the shoulder and said Ross had asked to see us both in his office.

  That shed had never felt bigger. With every step my legs felt heavier.

  I heard laughter as we got closer to the office. Benny was just ahead of me and when he reached the open door he said, ‘What the heck?’

  Ross was standing in the middle of the office dressed head to toe in new khaki flying overalls, a leather cap and fur-lined goggles. Keith was wearing a leather flying cap, too.

  ‘Look at these, lads!’ said Ross, his eyes staring out from his goggles. ‘Sidcot flying suits! Keith worked up in Yorkshire with some blokes who know Sid Cotton. Yours are there on the desk.’

  Sidney Cotton was an Australian bloke who flew with the Royal Naval Air Service during the war, before the British naval and army flying services were merged into the Royal Air Force. He invented an airtight cotton suit to fit over his uniform and keep himself warm in the freezing skies over Europe, with layers of fur and silk stitched in under heavy cotton. It was Hun sport to take out a British pilot and capture his Sidcot suit. The Red Baron had the design copied.

  ‘Strewth, my own lucky leather flying cap,’ said Benny, running his fingers over the leather. ‘I’ve been wanting one of these since Point Cook.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Keith,’ I said. The fur collar was softer than a camel calf I’d patted at the base of the pyramids.

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Keith said without a hint of humour. ‘Ross sealed the deal. He’s the one with the charm.’

  Ross peeled off his overalls. ‘I’m buying us all dinner at the Hand & Spear and you two can fill Keith in on the Vimy. He doesn’t trust a word I say about anything mechanical.’

  It was still raining outside and the pub smelled of damp wool and steak-and-kidney pie and crackling pine on the open fire. There were low ceilings with thick beams and you could see where people had reached up and run their hands across the smooth, shiny wood over the years—perhaps centuries. We found a table out of the way and Ross went to buy the pints. Benny and I were just settling into our chairs, watching a plump, smiley waitress delivering steaming plates of pie and mash to other tables, when Keith pulled out a notebook and pen. He drilled us on what changes we’d made to the Vimy, what spares we were taking and what we were planning to do if this or that went wrong. Each time we spoke there was a pause while he finished noting the answer. We’d sit there, in awkward silence, looking across at Ross talking to locals with our beers sat beside him on the bar.

  ‘Whose idea was it to strip the plane right back?’ Keith said, putting down his pen. ‘It’s cost my brother a lot of time.’

  Benny hesitated. ‘Um. It was both of us—we thought …’

  ‘It was mine,’ I said, holding Keith’s gaze.

  He leaned back in his seat and looked around the room. ‘Well, it was the right decision,’ he said. ‘Quite a nice pub, isn’t it?’

  Benny stretched his arms and exhaled loudly. Felt like we’d been through a school examination.

  Ross finally returned, and I took a long sip of beer.

  ‘Gee, Keith, you’ve got even more like Dad,’ said Ross, nodding at the open notebook. ‘His station records were more thorough than the Holy Bible.’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ Keith said. ‘Wool clip. Sheep numbers per paddock. Total income. Expenses, capital and running. Miles of fencing. Miles of water pipe laid.’

  ‘Wonder how old Perseverance is faring,’ said Ross. He looked across to me and Benny. ‘Dad’s favourite dam—took him ten years to build.’ He sipped his beer, deep in thought. ‘Remember that flying fox we rigged up in the gum out the back of the shearing shed? Can’t believe Colin didn’t kill himself on it.’ He let out a funny noise, sort of half laugh, half sob, and reached across to briefly squeeze Keith’s shoulder. ‘Be good to get home, eh?’

  Keith closed his notebook and ran a hand over the black leather cover. ‘Yes, it will,’ he said. Then he turned back to Benny. ‘Tell me more about the fuel system—I gather it’s gravity-fed from the upper wing?’

  In fairness, he understood the workings of an engine far better than Ross. It was clear he was going to be an asset to me
and Benny, another practical mind to work through any problems.

  ‘Which one of you is oldest?’ asked Benny.

  ‘Keith is,’ said Ross. ‘By two years.’

  I tried not to look surprised.

  ‘Ah,’ said Benny.

  ‘Keith’s got classic Celtic features,’ said Ross. ‘Makes him look younger.’

  ‘Ross has the gift of the gab,’ said Keith. ‘Makes him sound older.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Benny. ‘I reckon you’ve both said that before.’

  ‘Once or twice,’ said Keith.

  The waitress arrived with our dinner: huge plates of crusty pie, creamy mash and green veg. For the first time in days I was starving.

  ‘Hey, Keith,’ Ross said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘Been meaning to tell you, Wal’s girl back home worked on the conscription campaign.’

  Keith looked skeptical. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Both,’ I said, reluctantly lowering my cutlery. ‘She was on the conscription committee in Narrandera in 1916 and 1917. New South Wales voted “No” both times, unfortunately. I couldn’t believe that.’

  ‘It was worse in South Australia,’ said Ross. ‘We had the highest “No” vote of any state. Lousy lot.’

  ‘Your girl must be a courageous woman,’ said Keith. ‘The two votes were highly acrimonious back home. Communities turned on themselves. Rallies were often violent. I trust she was never injured?’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ I said. My cheeks were burning. She never told me she’d been caught up in any violence, and I never asked. I pictured the darkened streets of Narrandera at night, Helena walking home alone from an angry meeting in East Street with no one there to protect her. She must have been scared sometimes. I forked some hot pie into my mouth. It scorched my throat as I swallowed it down.

  ‘Keith helped with the campaign here in England,’ said Ross to Benny.

  ‘Only the second vote in ’17,’ said Keith.

  Ross rapped the table with the handle of his knife. ‘Which should never have been needed. All those slackers who refused to do their duty. Humiliating! The Kaiser must have been …’