Blackbirds

by Garry Ryan

  BLACKBIRDS

  A NOVEL

  Blackbirds

  GARRY

  RYAN

  COPYRIGHT © GARRY RYAN 2012

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. In the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying of the material, a licence must be obtained from Access Copyright before proceeding.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Ryan, Garry, 1953–

  Blackbirds / Garry Ryan.

  ISBN 978-1-927063-21-7

  I. Title.

  PS8635.Y354B53 2012 C813’.6 C2012-902346-9

  Editor for the Board: Jenna Butler

  Cover and interior design: Natalie Olsen, Kisscut Design

  Cover photography: (jet) micjan/Photocase

  Author photo: Ben Ryan

  NeWest Press acknowledges the financial support of the Alberta Multimedia Development Fund and the Edmonton Arts Council for our publishing program. We further acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $24.3 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.

  #201, 8540–109 Street

  Edmonton, Alberta T6G 1E6

  780.432.9427

  www.newestpress.com

  No bison were harmed in the making of this book.

  printed and bound in Canada 1 2 3 4 5 13 12

  for

  Sharon

  The red-winged blackbird

  of the Canadian

  prairie is

  unremarkable in

  size and the female is

  unremarkable in colour.

  Little larger

  than a sparrow, the more skilled flyers

  of this species

  will drive away intruders many

  times their own size.

  In fact,

  blackbirds have been

  known to perch between the

  wings of an airborne hawk or crow,

  and peck on the

  head of the predator

  until it

  withdraws.

  [ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Women of the Air Transport Auxiliary flew Spitfires later in World War II than is depicted in this novel. Also, Tempsford, or Gibraltar Farm, became operational later than depicted. ]

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  SOURCES

  CHAPTER 1

  [ MAY 1940 ]

  “I already know who he is, and where he is.” Sharon Lacey watched the soldiers march past. They were like one entity, with arms and legs moving in unison. She heard the uniform applause of their heels as they struck the pavement. She saw their faces, the blank stares of defeat. Their helmets glistening with a layer of mist. It’s as if the whole world is wearing khaki, she thought.

  “Do you plan to do anything about it?” Linda Townsend crossed her legs and took a drag on her cigarette. Her red hair was cut scandalously short, and she wore a white flying suit with the front zipped down to reveal a white blouse and blue tie. She looked at Sharon, who sat next to her on the rock wall at the eastern edge of the airfield. The tarmac road running past the wall led to an army camp about five miles down the road.

  “You think they’re the boys from Dunkirk?” Sharon put her hands between the rock and a backside that was complaining about the rough edges of several stones.

  “Their kit looks new,” Linda said. “Their boots are new. Supposedly, they left the beaches with little more than the clothes on their backs. It’s being called a victory. Our army plucked off the beach and saved from certain defeat by the Nazis. By the looks on their faces, they don’t feel like victors.” Linda looked over her shoulder. The fog was sifting away from the grass of the airfield. She could make out a low, red building with white window frames. “It’s lifting.” She carefully tapped the hot end of her cigarette against a stone, touched it with her fingertips, and put the remainder in the pocket of her flight suit. “Come on. If we get through today, we’ll be off to White Waltham. It’s a little airfield next to London where the ATA is beginning its operations.”

  “ATA? How come you British never speak English? It’s all ATA, RAF, BBC, WC,” Sharon said.

  “Air Transport Auxiliary. We get to fly all the kites the big boys get to play with. The difference is, we’re not supposed to have Jerry shooting at us.”

  I’ll never get used to this place, Sharon thought. Nobody speaks English. Jerry means German. RAF means Royal Air Force. Git means asshole. It’s like learning a new language.

  An engine sputtered and caught.

  Sharon swung around, using her arms to push herself away from the wall. She landed softly in the long grass. It swished against her flying boots as she walked. She looked down. The toes were already coated with dew. She zipped up her leather RAF Irvin sheepskin jacket as she walked against the wind. She watched the wings of a Tiger Moth shiver as its engine ticked over. The newly camouflaged green and grey biplane looked about as awkward on the ground as it did in the air. She turned to her friend. “Any news of Michael’s whereabouts?” Why are you so interested in her brother?

  Linda shook her head as she zipped up her flight suit. “Not a word. My mother is beginning to fear he’s been captured by the Germans.”

  Sharon nodded. We can’t speak about the other possibility. The possibility that he won’t be coming back.

  “Look at that.” Linda pointed at the orange windsock whose tail began to flap as it turned into the wind with its open, fishlike mouth. “We’ll get some flying in after all.” Sharon picked up the pace. “Do you think Bloggs will let us do the cross-country today?” Sharon looked at a patch of blue sky to the east.

  “Why not ask him?” Linda cocked her head to the left.

  “You’d better do the asking,” Sharon said.

  “Maybe you’re right. He found out you’re a better pilot than he is.” Linda turned to her friend. “A much better pilot than any of us. I’m afraid you’ve bruised Waverly Bloggs’s fragile male ego.”

  “He’s right over there.” Sharon pointed.

  Bloggs smoked a cigarette and leaned against the wall of the hangar.

  Sharon said, “It looks like he’s got his wind up.”

  Linda laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like you were born here.”

  “My mother was always using expressions like that. I guess she never really left England.” Sharon watched Bloggs as he dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his flying boot.

  As they neared the hangar, the engine of the Tiger Moth sputtered and stopped.

  Bloggs turned their way. He wore his freshly-pressed uniform jacket and pants. The final touch was slicked-back hair an
d a pencil-thin moustache. “About bloody time you two showed up!”

  Linda reached inside the breast of her flight suit.

  Bloggs watched her intently.

  “We’ve got our flight plan ready for you, sir,” Linda said. “Course plotted, winds estimated, and time computed, sir. All as you requested.” She handed the plan to Bloggs.

  Bloggs stared at Linda and then Sharon, searching for evidence of sarcasm.

  Sharon raised her right hand to salute but was stopped by a glare from Linda.

  “We’re ready to go as long as the weather is accommodating. We were hoping you would have the weather report, sir.” Sharon looked in the direction of the windsock.

  “Met report, you mean?” Bloggs looked at the flight plan. “Headed for Ilkley. It’s a longer than normal trip into ungodly West Yorkshire. Well then, get going, and don’t get bloody lost along the way or you’ll both be washed out!” He turned his back on the pair and walked into the hangar.

  “We’re off.” Linda smiled at her friend.

  Sharon leaned close. “Can’t wait for some of that real home-cooked food from your mom’s kitchen,” she said.

  “And a chance for you to walk over and introduce yourself to your grandmother.” Linda headed toward the Tiger Moth.

  “We’ll see.” Sharon followed with a knot growing in her stomach.

  The knot grew tighter as they approached Ilkley. As agreed, Sharon had flown the first leg of the flight to the refueling at Digby, in the central part of England. Now Linda took the scenic route flying overtop of a castle Sharon’s mother had often talked about. It looked much like every other castle Sharon had seen from the air on the way north. She was struck instead by the wealth of green. The fields that looked so tiny from the air. They were not as big as what she was used to back at home. In England, rock walls, rather than barbed wire, often fenced the fields. As Linda throttled back and lost altitude, Sharon realized the black-and-white photographs in her mother’s album did not do justice to the spring colours spread out below them.

  Linda added power to the Gipsy Major engine to clear a stand of trees at this end of a field. They settled onto the grass, bounced once, and rumbled over the uneven ground until they reached the end of the pasture. Linda opened the throttle and swung the tail around.

  Linda shut the engine down. Sharon saw a grey-haired woman in a long-sleeved shirt and tweed trousers standing by a rock wall. She opened the gate and stepped into the fresh silence.

  “Stupid British engineering,” Sharon said as she tried to extricate herself from the cockpit without snagging her parachute, Irvin jacket, coveralls or flying boots.

  Linda was smiling and placing the wooden wheel chocks on either side of the tires.

  “I’ll get the wings.” Sharon pulled out two lengths of rope and a pair of pegs to tie the wings down in case the wind picked up.

  “You Canadians and your rope,” Linda said.

  “Gets windy where I come from.” Sharon undid her jacket and set it on the wing. The sun felt warm on her neck. She took off the flying helmet and combed her brown hair with her fingers.

  “You picked a beautiful day for it,” Linda’s mother said.

  Sharon stood and turned to face a woman with more grey than red in her hair. She was a stockier version of her daughter.

  “Mom, this is Sharon. Sharon, this is Honeysuckle,” Linda said.

  “Remarkable,” Honeysuckle said.

  “Pardon?” Sharon felt the heat of attention from both women.

  “The likeness is remarkable. It’s like Leslie is back and no time has passed.” Honeysuckle wiped at her eyes and turned. “Come on, lunch is almost ready.”

  Linda ran to catch up with her mother and put an arm around her shoulder. Honeysuckle hugged her daughter around the waist. “What’s happened?” Linda asked.

  Honeysuckle stopped. “No news on Michael’s whereabouts.”

  “Oh,” Linda said.

  Sharon felt as if there were a hundred different places she should be other than here.

  “He must have been taken prisoner.” Linda let the sentence hang in the air like the promise of a storm.

  Sharon followed along behind while looking over her shoulder for a possible escape route.

  Honeysuckle glanced back. “Come along. We’ve got some catching up to do. There are stories to tell and stories to hear. Your mother and I were friends when we were young, that is until the old bastard put an end it.”

  “The old bastard?” Sharon asked.

  “Your grandfather.”

  Sharon trailed them to the rear of a rambling two-storey farmhouse made of grey stone. The stone was stained darker where it had been weathered by water running off the roof. Vines grew up the south side. She got the feeling that the house had been grand at one time. That feeling was reinforced by the back garden. Colours she had never seen before ran rampant around the closely-trimmed grass where a table and four wrought-iron chairs sat on a flat expanse of stone with grass and moss growing in between the slates.

  A woman with short grey hair, blue eyes, a grey wool skirt, and a sweater carried out a tray with a coffee pot and four cups. “You’re here,” she said, in a voice Sharon thought she’d heard before. Her stomach clenched and she shivered. My grandmother! Cornelia!

  “Sharon, this is Cornelia.” Linda rubbed her hands together when she saw the fresh eggs, bacon and toast on the table. “Mother, how did you manage this? Haven’t you heard there’s rationing?”

  Cornelia held out her hand. It felt strong in Sharon’s when she shook it. She pulled her hand away, while Cornelia seemed reluctant to release it.

  The coffee, Sharon decided, was awful, but it had been so long since her last cup that she drank it anyway. She studied the garden while she felt Cornelia’s eyes studying her.

  “They’ve taken down all of the road signs. Apparently, it’s to confuse the Germans,” Cornelia said.

  Sharon looked at the black-winged birds darting in and out of the trees. One swooped up, then down onto the tail of another.

  Honeysuckle rested her cup on the arm of her chair. “Apparently, the invasion is imminent. The only thing stopping Hitler is the fact that he needs more boats to cross the Channel.”

  “Things are desperate. Everyone’s got high hopes that Mr. Churchill can pull a rabbit out of his hat.” Linda picked up a piece of bacon, put it in her mouth and closed her eyes. “Mother, where did you find bacon?”

  “So desperate that women are going to be allowed to fly aircraft for the Royal Air Force.” Sharon shook her head when she realized she’d added a thick layer of sarcasm to her tone of voice.

  “It’s the way of the world, dear.” Cornelia patted Sharon’s hand. “Men are always asking women to get them out of the messes they get themselves into. If Churchill hadn’t sent the RAF into France in that lost cause, we wouldn’t be so desperately short of pilots. Now he turns to you and Linda to get the job done.”

  “How do you know that?” Sharon decided that Cornelia was definitely becoming a nuisance. That damned woman seems to want to touch me every chance she gets.

  “I told her,” Honeysuckle said.

  Linda smiled. “Father works for MI5.”

  Sharon frowned.

  “He’s in intelligence, dear.” Cornelia patted Sharon’s arm.

  Sharon pulled away from the woman. “Keep your mitts off!”

  Linda laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Sharon asked.

  Honeysuckle looked directly at Sharon. “She has a right.”

  “No. No, she doesn’t.” Sharon glared at Cornelia.

  “She’s family,” Linda said.

  Sharon looked out of the corner of her eye at Cornelia.

  “I’m your grandmother.”

  “I know that, but I’ve just met you!” Sharon heard the sound of birds calling one another. I’m staring at my hands. She looked over at her grandmother’s hands, searching for some similarity, some clue that they were related
. The skin on the woman’s hands was spotted with brown. There was a hint of dirt under the nails, something Sharon hadn’t expected.

  Cornelia took hold of Sharon’s ponytail. “Your hair is the same auburn as Leslie’s. It’s the same silky hair, and you’ve got a cleft in your chin just like hers. I can see that you have her strength, too. You will need that, believe me.”

  “How long have you known I was in England?” Sharon asked.

  “Almost since you got off the ship in Liverpool,” Cornelia said. “Your blue eyes must be from your father.”

  “How do you think you got the new Irvin jacket and the sheepskin flying boots?” Honeysuckle nodded in Cornelia’s direction. “She insisted on buying them and having Linda deliver them. She wanted you to be warm.”

  “Why did you never come and visit us in Canada?” Sharon asked.

  Cornelia looked over the garden to a spot on the edge of the property only she could see. “Every year I asked him to let me go, and every year he refused.”

  “Him?”

  “Your grandfather,” Cornelia said.

  “Why did you need his permission?”

  “The bastard liked to keep us all under his thumb,” Honeysuckle said. “In his mind, he was still the lord and we his servants.”

  “And how come you always call him ‘the bastard’?” Sharon took in her surroundings, searching out an escape route.

  Linda touched her friend’s hand. “Because he disowned his daughter and you. Because he wouldn’t allow his wife to visit you and your mother in Canada. Because he died drunk and miserable, just the way he lived.”

  “I can see you want to leave.” Cornelia put her hand on the back of her granddaughter’s chair. “I’m asking you to stay a little longer. Have some breakfast before you fly away. I’d like to get to know you a bit.”

  “You have no right to ask anything of me! I found the letters after my mother died. The letters she wrote to you! The letters returned unopened! She was dying, and you wouldn’t even answer her letters!” Sharon felt herself finding a focus for the rage over the loss of her mother. “You know, the last few days before she died, she kept asking for you. She was delirious most of the time, but she hadn’t forgotten you!”