The Flyer

by Stuart Harrison

  He knew then that he wouldn’t see her again. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ he said.

  She looked at him sharply, and without another word turned on her heel and walked away.

  CHAPTER 9

  1913

  At the sound of an approaching engine, William looked towards the trees across the road, his brow creased in a puzzled frown. There was something peculiar about the noise. The pitch rose and fell as if somebody had put on the accelerator and then let it off again.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ he said to Arthur Hawkins. Arthur was twenty four and had been working for William for six months. He looked up from the engine of the Vauxhall he was bent over, and when William went outside Arthur followed.

  The road was empty. The sound was coming from a field beyond the trees. The engine roared again, suddenly loud, but after only a second or two it faded away. Over the tops of the elms came a lumbering apparition.

  ‘Bloody ‘ell!’ Arthur said, gaping in astonishment.

  It was no more than fifty yards away. The machine had two pairs of wings connected by a maze of braces and wires and in the middle was a sort of seat where a man wearing a cap and a pair of goggles appeared to be desperately wrestling with the controls. An engine was positioned behind him, and was connected further back to a blurred disc that was rapidly slowing down so that it was possible to make out the two arms of a propeller. It was the first aeroplane that William had seen first-hand. He watched in fascination as the machine dipped towards them. The engine now seemed to be barely idling. A set of wheels underneath the thing clipped the uppermost branches of one of the trees, causing the plane to wobble dangerously as it passed directly overhead at a height of about eighty feet. It continued to glide towards earth, losing speed with every second, and then at a height of twenty or thirty feet, the nose dropped and the whole thing vanished from sight into the field behind the garage. They heard the crash, which sounded like kindling snapping, and then silence.

  William and Arthur ran behind the garage to help. When they climbed through a hedge they saw that the plane had crashed halfway across the field. One set of wings pointed to the sky, while the other set lay in splinters on the grass. A small herd of frightened cows huddled in a corner of the field underneath a chestnut tree.

  As William reached the wreck, the pilot staggered out and fell to his knees. There was blood on his face. His goggles were broken and his hat was gone, as was one of his shoes.

  ‘Are you alright?’ William asked. ‘Here, you’d better lie down, you look a bit shaky.’

  Wordlessly, the pilot did as he was told. He gazed up at the sky, his eyes unfocused and confused. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, but when William wiped it with his handkerchief the gash didn’t appear to be very deep.

  ‘Are you hurt anywhere else?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The pilot closed his eyes. He was breathing normally and didn’t appear to have broken any bones. After a little while the colour began to return to his face. He opened his eyes again and when he saw William he began to sit up. He looked at his wrecked aeroplane.

  ‘Did I crash?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. You were lucky to get out of it. Can you stand, do you think?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘We ought to get somebody to have a look at that cut. I can take you to the hospital.’

  The pilot gingerly felt his head. ‘I think I just got a bit of a knock. Did you see what happened by any chance?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘I was coming towards some trees when I started having trouble with the engine. Damn thing kept losing power for some reason.’ The pilot looked around, trying to get his bearings. ‘The next thing I knew you were telling me to lie down.’

  ‘Your wheels caught the top of those elms.’ William pointed. ‘You came over the top of the garage and then you just seemed to drop like a stone and we heard the crash.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now. I saw a sign and a petrol pump. Anyway, I’m jolly grateful to you. I’m sorry, I ought to introduce myself. My name is Christopher Horsham.’

  William shook the proffered hand. ‘William Reynolds.’ He gestured towards Arthur, who had gone to have a closer look at the wreckage. ‘And that’s Arthur Hawkins. He works for me.’

  William and Horsham were about the same age. William picked up a shoe that was lying in the grass. It was handmade from the finest quality leather. He recognized the maker’s name as one of the very best in the county.

  ‘I think this is yours.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  While Horsham sat down to put his shoes on, William went over to examine the plane. ‘Have you had trouble with your engine before?’

  ‘Yes, actually. I had a chap at Sywell have a look for me, but he couldn’t find anything wrong.’

  ‘Sywell?’

  ‘Yes, a few of us have got together to start a flying club there.’

  ‘It sounded as if it was starved of fuel,’ William said. He stepped in amongst the confusion of broken wood and canvas. The propeller was intact, though the shaft linking it to the engine had snapped. He found the fuel tank fixed to the upper wing with a gravity line leading to the carburettors, and when he undid the plug at the bottom he caught some of the petrol that ran out and rubbed it between his fingers.

  ‘It feels as if there’s water in here.’

  He stood up and looked at the broken wings and trailing wires, trying to work out how it had all gone together. What puzzled him was that, even after the engine stopped, the plane appeared to glide perfectly well for a minute. ‘Why do you think it suddenly came down?’ he asked.

  ‘Not enough speed I expect,’ Horsham said. ‘It’s one of the things they tell you to look out for when you’re learning. After a certain point the thing simply won’t fly.’

  ‘How do you land it normally then?’

  ‘You have to keep your speed up until the wheels touch the ground.’ He pointed to a shattered flat section of canvas and wood at the front of the machine. ‘That’s called the elevator. There’s another at the back. You control them with a pedal attached to a wire. It’s broken now of course, but it’s what makes the plane climb or descend.’

  ‘And what’s this?’ William wondered, looking at the large fin-like arrangement at the back.

  ‘It’s the rudder. You use it for turning, like on a boat.’

  Fascinated, William knelt down and moved the parts with his hands so that he could see it for himself. He wondered what it would feel like to fly above the earth, how things would look. He’d read about the Frenchman Bleriot reaching heights of as much as ten thousand feet. After a minute he remembered Horsham’s injury and got up again.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We ought to go and clean up that cut.’

  When they got back to the garage, William asked Arthur to carry on with the Vauxhall he was working on. He took Horsham to the room he’d partitioned off at the back of the building which he used as an office and his living quarters, and fetched some disinfectant to clean Horsham’s wound.

  ‘You’re going to have quite a bruise,’ William said. The skin was already turning a dark red colour and beginning to swell. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?’

  ‘Honestly, I feel alright. It’s a bit sore that’s all. I’m used to a few knocks and scrapes anyway.’

  ‘Have you crashed before?’

  ‘In my plane, you mean? Good lord, no. But I’ve had a few prangs in my cars when I’ve been racing.’

  William suddenly realised he’d heard of Christopher Horsham. ‘I thought your name was familiar. You won at Brooklands last year didn’t you?’

  ‘Actually I came second. Luke Ashbury managed to get me on the final straight.’ Horsham flashed a disarming smile, and with a careless gesture pushed his hair back from his forehead. All at once William was reminded of photographs he’d seen on the front page of the Northampton Gazette after Horsham had entered some race or other; the dashing and yet slightly diffi
dent son of the Earl of Pitsford.

  ‘I had my first time up in a plane at Brooklands, now you mention it,’ Horsham said. ‘Tommy Sopwith was giving joy-rides in his machine for a pound a go. I was hooked straight away, I must say. I’d never done anything so exhilarating. It even beats roaring around a track at eighty miles an hour, and that’s saying something.’

  ‘Have you given up motor racing now then?’

  ‘I don’t really know, to be honest. The thing is there’s going to be an air-race at Sywell in May. I was going to enter, but I doubt that I’ll be able to get another plane in time now.’

  Horsham took a cigarette case from his pocket and offered one to William. He looked around at the neatly made bed and William’s desk where William did his accounts. On the other side of the room was an area William used as a kitchen, where he managed to produce simple meals on a wood stove that also warmed the place during the winter months. Against the wall was a small bookcase, where alongside William’s treasured copy of the Odyssey, were Ovid’s Metamorphoses and some of Virgil’s works in Latin and a smattering of novels by English writers that he liked.

  ‘I say, do you mind if I ask you something?’ Horsham asked curiously. ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘Yes.’ William wondered what Horsham made of his home, and supposed it didn’t compare favourably to Pitsford House, glimpses of which could be seen from the Market Harborough road amid its vast, tree-studded parkland surrounds. ‘When I started the garage I couldn’t afford anywhere else. I suppose I’ve become used to it.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Nearly two years now.’

  ‘You seem to be doing well enough,’ Horsham commented.

  ‘It’s getting busier all the time. The first year was difficult, but there are more cars about now and people are beginning to know about me.’

  Horsham gave him a quizzical look. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you don’t actually strike me as the usual sort of chap you find running a place like this. Where did you learn about mechanics?’

  ‘I picked up a bit at school to start with. One of the masters started a motoring club. But I suppose I’m self-taught really. I don’t know half of what Arthur knows. He used to work for a garage on the other side of town before I persuaded him to come and work for me.’

  Horsham glanced through the open door where Arthur was busy with the innards of the Vauxhall. ‘Where did you go to school?’

  ‘I was at Oundle.’

  ‘I know a chap who was there. Lilly, his name is. Roger Lilly. Do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Look, can I give you a lift somewhere?’ William asked, eager to change the subject.

  ‘Of course, I expect you’re busy aren’t you. It’s very decent of you. My car’s at Sywell. If you could drop me off there I’d be very grateful.’

  ‘I’ll just tell Arthur where I’m going.’

  The aerodrome at Sywell was little more than a large open field, accessed through a gate in the lane. A small wooden building served as the clubhouse, and another much larger structure was where Horsham said people kept their aeroplanes. There were several cars parked on the grass, including a large, eight-cylinder Fiat that belonged to Horsham, and two more bi-planes stood on the field looking like gigantic dragonflies.

  ‘Look here,’ Horsham said when they arrived, ‘I’ve been thinking about my machine. I was wondering whether you’d be interested in helping me fix her up? The thing is, with somebody who knew what he was doing I think we could resurrect her in time for that race I mentioned. I’d be quite willing to pay you, naturally. What do you say?’

  ‘But I don’t know anything about aeroplanes,’ William said, taken aback by the proposal.

  ‘Perhaps not, but you’ve an eye for practical things, I could see that straight away, and with the little that I’ve managed to pick up I think we might manage quite well together.’

  William was tempted by the opportunity to learn about aeroplanes, but the garage was busy, and since that was his living it had to be his priority. He also had reservations about becoming involved with Christopher, who reminded him of his Oundle days, which he thought of with very mixed feelings. ‘Let me think about it,’ he said.

  ‘Yes of course. But, look I’ve an idea, why don’t you come here on Sunday? I’ll borrow Wentworth’s machine and take you up for a ride if you like. It might help you make your decision. There’d be absolutely no obligation. After all, it’s the least I can do after all the help you’ve given me.’

  William looked at the two ungainly looking planes nearby. If nothing else, he thought, he would find out what it was like to fly. ‘Alright, thanks.’

  He agreed that in the meantime he would salvage the wreckage and put it in the barn behind the pub, which he knew was unused, so long as Christopher would pay whatever rent the landlord asked for.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Christopher said as they shook hands. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday then. Wear something warm, it can get quite chilly once you’re in the air. And thanks again for everything.’

  *****

  Four years had gone by since William first arrived in Northampton. He was twenty two years old and he owned his own business, which was now doing well. He could have afforded to rent a cottage somewhere if he wanted, but instead he’d put the money he made back into the garage to buy equipment like the old Hallford lorry and a Wolsely motor car that he used to get about in. He had increased his business by selling the occasional second-hand car, but he had bigger plans which involved opening a second garage near the town centre, which was why he’d brought Arthur to look at the site.

  ‘What do you think?’ William asked as they stood outside the building, which had once housed an engineering firm. ‘It’s a busy road, so there’s plenty of passing trade.’

  Arthur regarded the building doubtfully. ‘I don’t know, Will. It seems very big to me. Won’t a place like this cost a lot? Where will you get the money from?’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the bank. They’re happy to give me a mortgage, and I’ve got enough saved to get the place started. We’ll only need part of the building to begin with, but I’ve got some ideas for the future.’

  He showed Arthur some sketches he’d drawn, showing the building as William imagined it could look one day. Most of the front wall would be replaced by glass windows and the interior converted to a showroom to house new motor-cars. ‘We’ll continue to do servicing and repairs of course, but that will all move around the back. There’s another entrance there. Here is where we’ll present our face to the world.’ In a moment of whimsy he’d even drawn a sign over the front of the building which read; W. Reynolds Ltd. Purveyors of Fine Motor Cars.

  ‘It looks grand,’ Arthur said, though William could see that he still had his doubts.

  Arthur was only two years older than William, but in some ways the difference in their ages seemed greater than that. Arthur was a down-to-earth, practical man who had been involved with the fringes of the trade unions and the Labour party. To Arthur, business and the means to finance it belonged to a world that was not only foreign to him, but was populated with the kind of people he regarded as the enemy of the ordinary man.

  ‘You don’t like it, do you?’ William said.

  ‘It’s not that. It just seems funny that’s all.’ Arthur compared the drawing to the reality before him, trying to imagine the transformation. ‘I s’pose I always thought you’d build up the place you’ve got now,’ he said.

  It was a question of vision, William thought. Arthur couldn’t imagine using the bank’s money to create something like this. But William wanted to change Arthur’s attitude. He recognised that Arthur could do more with his life than work as a mechanic if he wanted to. He was the kind of solid and capable person William needed.

  ‘I’ll keep the other place too,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to the landlord about buying the building already, and there’s land next door that I can get cheaply if I buy it now. It’l
l be a good investment. In the future, once the town grows a bit more, the Kettering Road garage can look like this too.’ He gestured to the drawing. ‘One day I’ll have a whole chain of them.’

  Arthur looked at the drawing again, trying to make William’s ideas seem real.

  ‘The thing is, Arthur, I need you to help me. If I go ahead with this it’s going to take up all my time. I’ll need you to run the other place. You’ll have to hire somebody to help you of course, and I’d pay you a manager’s salary. You could take shares in the business if you like and pay for them out of what you earn.’

  ‘A manager?’ Arthur said in astonishment. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ William laughed. ‘Come on, we’ll talk about it again later when you’ve had time to think.’

  On Saturday morning they had to return a Clement-Talbot to a customer in the town. William followed Arthur in the Wolseley to bring him back to the garage, but when they turned onto Gold Street they were confronted with a group of people carrying banners and placards marching along the middle of the road. William pulled over and they climbed out to watch. The crowd were mostly women. There were about a hundred of them, flanked by twenty policemen on either side to keep an eye on them, though the march seemed peaceful enough. Their placards demanded votes for women, and a banner carried in front bore the legend; Northampton Women’s Society for Political Union. They were chanting slogans, and some of them were calling out to spectators who either supported or denounced them.

  ‘Emily’s girls,’ Arthur commented, referring to Emily Pankhurst, the suffragette.

  A pair of well-dressed women nearby looked on disapprovingly. ‘Don’t these women realise they are doing more harm to our cause than they are good?’ one of them questioned loudly in a haughty tone.

  A group of men on a corner called out insults, which some of the suffragettes responded to in kind. One man wearing a top-hat came out of a shop, and seeing the women became outraged.

  ‘Go home!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Go and learn how to be decent mothers to your children and wives to your husbands! Women have no business in politics!’