The Flyer

by Stuart Harrison

  The chief difference among them, William mused as he looked on from the field, was the type and position of the engine. There were still two schools of thought regarding this. One believed the ‘pusher’ type, with an engine behind the pilot, was better than having it at the front with a propeller designed to pull the machine through the air. As he watched the planes circling, William decided it was difficult to decide which of the two designs was superior, because there were other factors to consider. Christopher’s was a pusher designed by de Havilland, and was clearly faster than one of only two monoplanes that had their engines in front. But how much of that was due to it being a biplane and how much to the engine itself? And then there was the engine itself to consider. Nearly every plane was fitted with a French engine, except for two with British Greens, but even then no two were alike. Christopher’s was powered by a seventy horsepower Rhone, but there were Gnome’s and Hispanos of varying sizes, and some were radials while others were in-line types, and though most were water cooled there was at least one air cooled Renault.

  Despite all these variations, William felt it was the engine that made the most difference to speed in the end, though it was the overall design that affected manoeuvrability. He was already thinking about the plane he would build to enter the army’s competition.

  *****

  When the green flare was fired to signal the start of the race, Elizabeth was sitting next to her mother in the stands. She watched through her glasses as Christopher crossed the line at about the same time as three or four of the other planes. For a few seconds their wings seemed so close that involuntarily she held her breath.

  ‘Goodness!’ Elizabeth’s mother placed her hand against her chest in alarm. ‘I really don’t know if I can watch. It looks terribly dangerous.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think it’s any worse than hurtling around a race track in a motor-car at eighty miles an hour,’ Elizabeth said, though her heart was also thudding.

  ‘Really, Elizabeth, sometimes I think you’d like everyone to think you have no feelings at all where Christopher is concerned,’ her mother said archly. ‘Poor Eleanor, imagine how she must feel.’

  Lady Horsham was watching the race from the back of the Rolls Royce. She looked tense, and was gripping her husband’s arm very tightly.

  ‘I imagine she will be quite glad when Christopher decides to get married and settle down. Is he still seeing Catherine Mountford? He seemed very keen on her.’

  ‘I really have no idea,’ Elizabeth said, at which her mother frowned.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t be quite so blasé.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, mother.’

  ‘Oh really! I don’t understand why you insist on pretending that you don’t have feelings for one another, when it’s quite clear that you do.’

  ‘I don’t deny that Christopher and I have feelings for one another,’ Elizabeth said. ‘They’re simply not the sort of feelings you would like us to have.’

  Her mother gave her a sceptical look. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry, but it’s true. Besides, I hardly think Christopher is considering marrying anybody. Catherine Mountford is hardly the first girl he’s been interested in.’

  ‘That may be so, but he certainly can’t remain single for ever.’

  ‘Perhaps you should be telling him that, rather than me.’

  Her mother regarded her speculatively. ‘Tell me truthfully, Elizabeth. Do you love Christopher?’

  ‘Of course I love him. We’ve known each other practically all our lives. But I’m not in love with him.’

  Mrs Gordon made an exasperated gesture. ‘You speak of love and being in love as if there is a vast difference between the two. The truth is that if two people care for one another and they are otherwise suited, then they ought to consider themselves extremely fortunate. Many married couples get along quite happily with less.’

  Elizabeth wondered if she detected a faint note of regret in her mother’s voice.

  ‘I happen to know that Eleanor would be very pleased if you and Christopher were to marry,’ her mother continued. ‘Your father’s cousin is married to a Horsham you know.’

  ‘I am a person, mother, not some sort of breed mare. When I marry, if I ever do, it will be because I’m in love with somebody, and it won’t matter a jot what his background is, or who his family are.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Love is something that grows from mutual respect between two people of the same sort. It is not some romantic ideal.’

  Elizabeth gave up, determined not to be drawn into yet another argument on this subject. She raised her glasses as the planes approached the start line for the second time. ‘Look, here they come again. Goodness, Christopher and Nigel are in front by the look of it.’

  *****

  Christopher’s machine shuddered. The sound of splintering wood could be heard over the noise of the engine, and all at once the controls became leaden and the plane unresponsive. To his horror, Christopher realised that as he and Wentworth had rounded the last mark their wing tips had touched and one of his spars had broken, allowing a wire to become entangled between the two planes. He signalled desperately to Wentworth, who quickly saw the problem, and fortunately didn’t do anything rash to try and separate them. For a few moments both planes flew on in a straight line on a level trajectory away from the race course.

  As he looked at the fields two hundred and fifty feet below, Christopher began to appreciate the trouble they were in. If they weren’t careful they would rip their wings to pieces, and both planes would plunge to the ground with virtually no chance of either he or Wentworth surviving. Sweat broke out all over his body and his heartbeat leapt. He forced himself to think clearly. He knew the only chance they had was to somehow time their descent and try to land together. The chief problem with his plan was that, since they could only communicate by gesture, it was going to be almost impossible to match their speed and rate of descent. As if he needed proof of that, the control stick was suddenly wrenched from his hand as Wentworth’s plane altered course by a few degrees. Christopher’s entire machine shook violently, and once again he heard the sound of splintering wood. Desperately, he signalled to Wentworth, gesturing frantically towards the ground. Wentworth, his face visibly pale, nodded his understanding.

  With a motion of his hand Christopher indicated that he was going to slow his engine. He reached for the throttle and eased it off just a little so that Wentworth would understand, and when Wentworth followed suit Christopher gestured again and eased his stick forward a few degrees. Once again Wentworth matched him, and though the planes were shaking and straining against one another, Christopher began to think that perhaps they might actually manage it and live to tell the tale. They were already down to a hundred feet, and ahead of them was a large open field. Then without warning, there was an ominous crack and a sudden, shocking gash appeared like a wound in one of the main struts between the port wings of his plane, and Christopher knew his plan wasn’t going to work. For a doomed instant he and Wentworth looked at one another helplessly, before suddenly the strut broke and both machines plummeted towards the ground.

  *****

  As soon as the planes rounded the mark William saw them touch, and when they didn’t separate again he guessed it was because they couldn’t. He began to run, following the course they were taking, and when the two planes began to lose height he understood what they were trying to do, though only moments later it was clear that they were going to crash.

  He reached the field where they went down well ahead of the officials and spectators, who eventually began to follow him, and scrambling through a thicket of blackberry he saw the wrecks were lying a hundred and fifty yards apart. Christopher’s was the closer of the two and had come to rest with the nose in the air, both wings broken off and the fuselage snapped in two. When William reached it, Christopher was slumped in his seat with his face covered in blood. The smell of petrol was very str
ong, and as William wrestled with the harness buckle he was afraid that at any moment a leak might ignite. As soon as the harness was undone he grabbed Christopher by his shoulders and unceremoniously pulled him free. When he hit the ground Christopher groaned and his eyes flickered open, glazed with pain and incomprehension, but William continued to drag him away from the wreckage.

  When they were far enough away, William collapsed, gasping for breath. He turned towards Wentworth’s plane and saw that the propeller was lazily turning from its own momentum, and since the magneto was connected directly to the shaft he knew it would still be sparking. Stumbling to his feet he began to run as fast as he could.

  When William was only a little more than a hundred yards away, Wentworth saw that help was coming. He struggled for a few moments, but he was trapped in his seat by the wreckage. Behind him, a thin plume of smoke rose into the air. For several seconds Wentworth was unaware of the danger he was in, but even from fifty yards away William heard the soft whooshing sound of leaking petrol catching fire. Wentworth twisted in his seat and when he saw the flames behind him his expression contorted in terror, and he began to redouble his efforts to free himself. When that failed he tried to beat at the rapidly spreading flames with his hands.

  Though William ran as fast as he could, the fire took hold with shocking speed. A veil of smoke spread quickly, and in the space of no more than a second or two it darkened and thickened into a rolling cloud with a greedy furnace of orange and red at its heart. Moments later the petrol tank exploded, spilling a liquid sheet of flame directly over Wentworth’s head and setting the entire wreckage ablaze. Doped canvas, ash and willow burned like tinder, and in the middle of it all Wentworth’s clothes ignited. He screamed, his head a halo of fire as he writhed and twisted in agony. His terrible shrieks caused people running from the aerodrome to stop in their tracks, appalled at the sound.

  By the time William reached the wreckage, Wentworth was still alive, but though William tried to reach him, he was driven back by the intense heat. He staggered and prepared to try again, the air filled with the roar of the flames and Wentworth’s screams, but again the heat defeated him, causing his clothes to smoulder and his eyebrows and hair to crackle and smoke. He collapsed on the ground, choking on the thick smoke. Mercifully, Wentworth’s screaming stopped.

  After that there was nothing William could do. The fire quickly burned out, leaving the flimsy material of the aeroplane’s construction reduced to ash. Only the engine and a few wires and Wentworth’s contorted, smoking corpse remained. As more people arrived, the stench of roasted flesh caused many of them to turn away, some of them retching into the grass. Only then did William realise that Christopher had followed him and was standing a little way off, clutching an injured arm. His expression was dulled with pain and the shock of witnessing Wentworth’s death. He met William’s eye, and then looked back at his own machine. It too, had caught fire and was reduced to ash, and had it not been for William, Christopher would have burned with it as poor Wentworth had.

  CHAPTER 14

  Five days after he had been killed, Wentworth was buried in the churchyard of St John’s in Boughton, close to the house where he grew up. The church was full for the service, and afterwards Christopher was one of the bearers who carried the coffin outside. The crowd followed silently and gathered around the grave. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, William couldn’t help but think of Wentworth’s terrible death. Opposite him, Christopher stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed. When he looked up his eyes were haunted, his face unnaturally pale.

  When the service was over, Elizabeth and William walked to the gate to wait for Christopher. Cloud scudded overhead, the leaves stirred by a fresh breeze.

  ‘I’m worried about Christopher,’ Elizabeth commented. ‘He looks terrible.’

  ‘He told me he hasn’t been sleeping,’ William said. ‘He has dreams… nightmares I suppose.’

  ‘Poor Christopher, it must be awful for him. He and Nigel were at school together, you know. But what about you? You were closer than anybody. He was alive when you tried to help him.’

  ‘I try not to think about it.’ For an instant William remembered the screams, the thrashing agonised figure in the flames.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have reminded you,’ Elizabeth said, placing her hand on his arm.

  ‘It’s alright.’

  When Christopher joined them they drove to a pub nearby and ordered three large whiskies. There was a garden outside. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of a birch to dance on the grass in flickering patterns of silver. Christopher lit a cigarette and emptied half his glass in a single swallow.

  ‘I’m sorry about the prize money, by the way,’ he said to William.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It’s good of you to say so, but I expect it would have been useful to you. Will you still sell the garage?’

  ‘Yes. Actually, I’ve already signed the papers.’

  ‘Are you still planning to build this plane you were talking about?’

  ‘I think so, yes. Do you remember that chap at Brooklands who told us about the army trials?’

  ‘Yes. What was his firm called? British Colonial wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. Anyway, I’ve been in touch with him, and he was kind enough to send me some information. Apparently the army want a machine that can carry a pilot and an observer, with a wireless set to transmit information about enemy movements back to the ground. A sort of airborne cavalry unit.’

  ‘Do you think you can do it?’ Christopher asked.

  ‘I don’t see why not. I’ve already made some drawings of the sort of thing I’ve got in mind. I just have to speak to the landlord at the pub about continuing to rent the barn.’

  ‘But where will you live?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘I can set aside somewhere to sleep in the barn. I’m used to making do.’

  Christopher thought for a moment. ‘I must say, I’ve complete confidence that if anybody can manage it, you can William, but surely building a new plane from scratch is going to be an expensive business. I hope you don’t mind me asking you this, but can you afford it?’

  ‘To be honest with you, I’m not sure,’ William admitted. ‘Unfortunately the most expensive part of a plane is the engine, and I need that first. Everything else depends on it, and I want the very latest thing. I’ve already written to Rhone and the other French manufacturers.’

  ‘I’d be happy to lend you what you need,’ Christopher offered.

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather not.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. Look, how would you feel about taking on a partner in this venture of yours?’

  ‘Do you mean you’d be interested?’

  ‘Absolutely. As a matter of fact, you ought to come and live at Pitsford. We can build your plane there. It’s not as though we haven’t the room.’

  William hesitated, torn between taking Christopher up on his offer, and the feeling that by doing so he would be giving up a degree of the thing he valued most, which was his independence. However, he made up his mind that the benefits outweighed the disadvantages. ‘Alright, if you’re serious, I agree,’ he said. ‘So long as it’s understood that we would be equal partners. I insist on paying my full share of everything.’

  ‘Then that’s settled. How soon do you want to get started?’

  ‘The sooner the better. The trials are only three months away.’

  ‘In that case you might as well pack your things and come over tomorrow. I’ll send some men over to clear out the barn.’

  As they shook hands, William reflected that these things were much easier to arrange if you happened to have an army of estate workers at your disposal.

  ‘I think we ought to have another drink to celebrate,’ Christopher said, and went off to the bar leaving William and Elizabeth alone.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ William asked, thinking that she was very s
ubdued.

  ‘I expect it’s the funeral. Don’t take any notice of me.’

  ‘I imagine it must seem very callous to you, making plans like this. I hadn’t thought of it until now.’

  ‘No, it isn’t that. I was just thinking that life continues no matter what, doesn’t it? A week ago Nigel was alive, and now he doesn’t exist except in our memories.’ She faltered, struggling to express herself. ‘I don’t know what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘It’s alright, I think I know what you mean.’

  She made an effort to smile. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ll be living at Pitsford. It means we’ll continue to see each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ William agreed. He had thought of that too.

  *****

  It was the first week of July and the days were still and hot. The villages throughout the county lay quietly sleeping in the heat. On the farms, the wheat was ripening, painting the slopes of Brampton valley with pale gold.

  A stone wall along the edge of a lane marked the boundary of the Horsham family estate. Driving from Sywell, there was a point on the hill before the road dipped into the valley, where Pitsford House could be glimpsed surrounded by oak-studded parkland. It was an imposing, Victorian, country mansion with chimneys bristling from the rooftops. Beyond a pair of iron gates, a drive flanked by chestnut trees meandered for three quarters of a mile through the park. When the house came properly into view it was even bigger than William imagined, and he began to appreciate that he was entering a very different world from the one he was used to.

  When he arrived, a formal, slightly intimidating butler showed him into a drawing room while somebody was sent to find Christopher. The room was vast, with a high ceiling and two fireplaces. Windows at one end overlooked a terrace leading to neatly kept lawn and gardens. The house was quiet, but there was a sense of hidden machinery that kept it all working smoothly; a small army of servants.