by David Beaty
It was signed simply, Jane.
Chapter Eleven
‘Selling your house?’ The estate agent sounded doubtful. ‘Now? In winter? Hang on for a while.’
After Jane’s letter, there was nothing to stay there for. Elmtrees was inconvenient, and difficult to heat. Must have been hell for Harriet to keep clean, he thought. And he had little in common with his neighbours.
‘That’s what they told me about selling the horse!’ he complained. ‘How long shall I hang on?’
‘Market’ll pick up soon,’ said the estate agent without conviction. ‘Bound to.’
So he hung on, rattling round alone in the house. He managed to get another Bermuda shuttle, which was a help. Then he did two New York trips. But in the middle of March, the company cut down on Services and he wasn’t scheduled out again for a month.
He dug the garden and tended the camellias. He sprayed the fruit trees and finished off pruning the roses. The Truscotts and the Osbornes and the Tilsleys invited him over several times for dinner, but he made excuses. He knew he would feel the odd man out, the one with the gaping hole in his side, and he needed to be a little more healed before he faced his comfortably married contemporaries alone.
At the same time, he was desperate for a familiar face. Twice he walked over to Thresher’s Field. Neither time was there any sign of Belinda. Only Fandango, lifting his moony face from a net of fresh hay in his stall, regarding him curiously.
Then on the first Saturday in April, he received a note from Jane. The writing looked more scrawled and wobbly than usual.
Dear Father, I hope you will forgive your prodigal daughter for making you a grandfather. My daughter was born yesterday. I say MY daughter for Mick and I have split up. Fatherhood takes men strangely, but then you know about that. I expect you’re disappointed it isn’t a son. But I’m not. I shall call her Harriet.
She signed it Jane.
The letter almost made him weep. He sat for a long time holding it in his hand. The letter seemed both to cry out to him and to reject him. He found himself racked by conflicting emotions of pride and love and anger. Twice he lifted the telephone receiver to phone her, but he couldn’t trust himself to speak. So instead, he wrote a short careful unemotional note of congratulation and enclosed a cheque for thirty pounds to buy the baby something.
Then, on the excuse to himself of posting the letter, he got out the car and drove down to the village and parked at the Wheatsheaf. The Truscotts, he knew, were away, staying with Madge’s unmarried sister in the Lake District, but there was always a chance there’d be someone there he knew.
There was no one. A log fire burned in the Elizabethan open grate and the place was filled with smoke. A few locals with faintly familiar faces were there – no one else.
He propped up the bar, slowly drinking bitter. Now and again, the landlord exchanged a word with him. He asked for the bar snacks menu, was hovering unenthusiastically between curry and smoked mackerel when he heard ‘ Good afternoon, Captain Harker,’ softly spoken, and turning his head, looked into the blue eyes of Belinda.
‘Oh, hello,’ The words came out abrupt, off-putting. More warmly, he added, ‘Glad to see you, Belinda.’
‘Glad to see you too.’ She smiled. ‘ I’d have had to get in touch with you anyway. About Fandango. You see, my friend’s on leave. And I’m off on Service next Saturday.’
‘Which one?’
‘New York. With Captain Rampling. So you see, I won’t be —’
‘It was awfully good of you to look after him for so long. I’m not out for a couple of weeks, so I’ll be able to do it.’
‘Oh, there’s no need. I can organise someone else to take over while I’m away.’ She looked at him hesitantly. ‘ If you want me to that is?’
‘Belinda, you needn’t have —’
‘No trouble. My flatmate.’ She indicated a plump, docile-looking girl with plain brown hair just getting up from a table at the other end of the bar. ‘‘That’s Polly over there. Works in catering.’
‘Well, the least I can do is to buy you both a drink.’
She shook her head. ‘We’re just off to watch the jumping at Hickstead. Thanks all the same.’
‘Well, thank you.’ He called to her friend, ‘And thank you, Polly!’
‘Be seeing you.’
Just before she disappeared, Belinda turned her head and raised her hand. That picture of her disappearing behind the inn door stayed with him like a companion for the rest of the week.
Friday evening was stormy. As usual he went to bed early. He read for an hour. Then he turned off the bedside light. Lying on his back, he listened to the house creaking and wheezing like a sailing ship in a full gale.
Now I am quite alone, he thought. This house and I are all that’s left of twenty-five years of family living, full of echoes of birthdays, laughter, tears, misunderstandings, makings-up, the cries of the babies, my arrivals and departures on Service, the children going to school, parties and celebrations, the sound of Harriet going out to work at the hospital, going to see the doctor and finally the tapping of her stick.
He heard the church clock strike three. Shortly after that he must have slipped into sleep because he started dreaming. That same dream again – landing an Astrojet in a pocket-handkerchief field and being very pleased and being congratulated by the passengers. And then being told to fly it out again, starting the engines and careering towards the hedge only yards away, and literally trying to heave it up with his bare hands by the stick.
The scream of the engines was ringing in his ears as he woke up. Outside it was light again. The wind had dropped, but it was still raining.
As he got out of bed, he remembered Harriet’s warning, ‘Never Friday’s dream on a Saturday told.’ Not that there was any danger of that coming true because there was nobody to tell. Then there came into his mind Harriet’s own private nightmare: ‘You needing me and I’m not there to help you.’ Looking out at the sodden garden, he thought, I can’t bear this loneliness any longer. I’ve got to get away.
He brought out his uniform and packed his bag. He found Rampling’s number from Directory Inquiries and dialled it.
Rampling’s wife answered. She sounded wary. Probably thought it was Operations dragging him out early.
‘Who shall I say?’
‘Paul Harker.’
There was the sound of the phone being put down and footsteps. Then, ‘Hello, Paul.’
‘Sorry to ring so early, John. I just wondered if I could take your Service today?’
‘Swap, you mean? Sure! I feel like a round of golf tomorrow.’
‘Thanks a lot. You see, there’s a chap I have to see in New York.’
‘When’s your Service?’
‘Not till the seventeenth.’
‘Fine.’
He put down the phone. He picked up his bag and briefcase. Then with a feeling of immense relief, he escaped from Elmtrees and drove flat out to Heathrow Airport to see Belinda.
‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of Captain Harker and his crew, may I welcome you aboard this Atlanta Airways Astrojet to New York. We shall be flying at thirty-five thousand feet and our flight time will be eight hours and five minutes.
It was Belinda’s voice. He rather expected she would come up front to do the all-passengers-aboard-and-strapped-in-and-reardoor-shut-sir bit, but it was the Chief Cabin Services Officer who reported. Neither did she turn up with his dinner. One of the other stewardesses brought it.
There was a cold front lying along their track. High cumulonimbus build-ups, and he kept the seat-belt sign on even though they were above cloud.
Twenty-five years ago, he would have been struggling through the middle of that cloud in a Stratocruiser, being bumped and pitched and rolled, with St Elmo’s fire turning the propellers into huge sparklers and the passengers being as sick as dogs.
‘Nice weather,’ said the First Officer.
‘Up here,’ he said
.
The minutes of the afternoon went by with the minutes of longitude. They passed 35 West, 40 West, 45 West. The cloud seemed to be diminishing ahead.
They had just reported at 50 West when suddenly Harker felt a slight tremor of vibration. Seconds later they were almost upside down.
‘Christ!’
Harker slammed out the autopilot. Above the clatter of the coffee cups crashing down from the throttle pedestal, he heard the First Officer shouting, ‘ Wing! Port wing!’
He seemed to be sliding down to the left into nowhere. The port wing had sunk into total darkness. But above his head loomed the vertical starboard wing, tipped with its acid green navigation light. He heard crockery smashing in the first class galley, the creaking of rivets, the swinging and banging of the flung-open flight deck door.
‘Wing!’ Harker yelled to the First Officer. ‘Get that bloody wing up!’ With all their strength, both pilots strained at the ailerons, as the engine coughed and the wings shook.
All at once, the wing slid level again. Just as suddenly as it had tilted sideways, now the aircraft began flying forward again quietly and sedately as though nothing had happened.
The First Officer wiped the sweat from his forehead. The Engineer said, ‘What the —’
Harker snapped, ‘Engines OK?’
‘Engines fine.’
‘Check everything you can. Hope the passengers were all right. I’ll just tell them what happened.’ He picked up the microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen … just in case you’re wondering what that was, it’s called clear air turbulence, a shear of opposing winds at hurricane speeds which occasionally make a totally unexpected appearance at altitude. I hope you all had your seat belts on. I’m afraid in the circumstances, we’ll have to keep you strapped in for the rest of the trip.’
He switched off the microphone. Seconds later, Belinda appeared.
‘One of the passengers wasn’t strapped in, Captain. I think he’s hurt pretty badly.’
Harker picked up his microphone, and asked if there was a doctor on board. Then without waiting for an answer he unstrapped himself and followed her to the rear end of the cabin. They had taken the joins out of three of the seats to make a bed, and a middle-aged man was lying flat under a blanket, his face very pale and his eyes closed. There was blood all over his forehead, which was being wiped away by a tall man in shirtsleeves, helped by the Cabin Services Officer.
‘This is Dr Frewin, Captain.’
‘How is he, doctor?’
‘Difficult to say without an X-ray. He’s concussed. Badly cut as you can see.’
‘Anything more we can do?’
‘Oxygen bottle if you’ve got one.’
The Cabin Services Officer produced one, turned it on and put the mask over the man’s face.
‘He’s lying comfortably,’ the doctor said. ‘Don’t want to move him.’
‘Will he stay unconscious?’
‘Probably.’
‘You help the doctor and then sit with him, Miss Chafford. I’ll ask for an ambulance to meet us at Kennedy.’
As he went back up front, Harker asked the Cabin Services Officer what had happened.
‘He’d just come back from going to the toilet. The film was on. He was just fiddling with his straps when … bang.’
‘Where did he hit his head?’
‘Ceiling, sir. Thrown out of his seat. Flung right up. Not our fault, sir.’
‘No one’s blaming you. These things happen.’
‘Just bad luck.’
‘But lucky we’ve got a doctor on board.’
‘Will he live, sir?’
‘You’ll have to ask the doctor.’
‘When’s our ETA Kennedy, sir?’
‘Two hours. I’ll get clearance for a straight in.’
The Cabin Services Officer paused.
‘Will you have to fill in an accident report, sir?’
That accident report was the first Harker had ever filled in. Not a passenger nor a crew member had had a hair of their heads harmed flying with him during his thirty-one year career. Not an aeroplane that he flew had ever been scratched.
The man was still unconscious when they landed at Kennedy. He seemed to be breathing with difficulty, and his face was very white. The doctor refused to be drawn on any assessment of his condition.
The incident had upset Harker, particularly coming so soon after Harriet’s death. He had got away from the horrors of Elmtrees only to find that the sky, which he had considered his escape, was no longer a refuge.
He hated filling the report in. It was as though somehow he’d blotted his copybook, spoiled his clean record. He didn’t like the fact that the aircraft had to be taken into the hangar for a thorough check in case of damage, necessitating the cancellation of the eastbound Service it was supposed to operate.
‘Wasn’t your fault,’ the Station Manager assured him. ‘Can’t see how you can be blamed, Captain Harker.’ Then he added less confidently, ‘But he’ll probably sue. Or if he’s not around, his relatives. Always do. Always hope for damages. Bound to be in the papers. Not good publicity for us.’
Harker said slowly, ‘Let me know where they take him.’
‘Will do, Captain.’
The bus took him to the Plaza. In room 5116, he paced up and down, waiting for the promised call. Clear air turbulence, he thought. A good name for something treacherous, dark, feline, sudden claws coming out of a purring sky. He couldn’t see how he could have done anything but what he did. But certainly some people would say otherwise.
Eventually the phone rang. ‘Mr Atkins has been taken to the Manhattan Central. That’s all I know, Captain.’
He rang the hospital immediately. All they would tell him was that Mr Atkins had been admitted. If he wanted to know any more, he’d better come round.
He hurried out into the rain. The hospital was only three blocks down from the Plaza. Mr Atkins was in casualty they told him. Just down the corridor.
When he went into the ward, the first person he saw was Belinda. She was sitting on a chair beside a white covered hospital bed in which lay a man with a heavily bandaged head propped up on pillows. She raised her hand and smiled.
‘Mr Atkins is much, much better.’ She bent over the bed. ‘This is Captain Harker, Mr Atkins.’ The paleness had disappeared from the patient’s face. Mr Atkins was an American with a red face and very blue eyes. He clasped Harker’s hand.
‘Glad to know you, Captain.’ He turned to Belinda. ‘This little lady and I have been having a good chat. Minnesota, that’s where I live. Gotta ranch down there. Horses. Lotta horses.’ He beamed at the girl and patted her hand. ‘This little lady’s goin’ to come and stay and ride ’em!’
‘Mr Atkins has had his X-rays and there’s nothing broken.’
The American shook his head apologetically.
‘Gotta head like a block of wood.’
‘So you’re feeling all right again?’
‘Fine! Just hungry. And rarin’ to go home.’ Mr Atkins paused. ‘Only sorry, Captain, I was such a nuisance. Sure I saw the seat belt sign was on, but I reckoned I could just risk it.’ He smiled and patted his bandage. ‘ Taught me a lesson.’
Paul and Belinda stayed by the bedside listening to Mr Atkins’ stories of his ranch. Then a nurse came round with his supper and made it clear that the ward would soon be being settled down for the night.
They said their goodbyes. Mr Atkins held onto Belinda’s hand rather longer than he held onto Paul’s.
‘See you two fly me over next time I go to London,’ he called out to them as they left the ward.
When they came out of the hospital together into the street, Belinda slipped her hand through his arm.
‘Paul, I do believe you were worried!’ He smiled rather sheepishly down at her.
‘How did you guess?’
‘Oh,’ she gave a small deprecating shrug of her shoulders. ‘I just did. It was something in your face.’ His
smile broadened. Relief gave an added buoyancy to his mood.
‘I didn’t know you studied my face.’
‘Oh, but I do!’ She squeezed his arm. ‘ It’s such a nice face.’
He threw back his head and laughed. It seemed a long time since he’d done that. The last time was with Belinda, in fact. He felt the healing process almost palpably beginning to take place.
‘But even though I studied your face,’ Belinda went on, ‘I couldn’t think why you were worried. Not really. It was all his own fault. Everyone in the cabin knows that, including Mr Atkins. And everyone said how marvellous you’d been.’
‘Dear Belinda,’ he said, and patted her hand.
‘I’m only telling you what you know is true.’
Suddenly he felt immensely cheered. Suddenly he glimpsed that life need not be so lonely. Suddenly claws that came out of a clear sky weren’t nearly so dangerous.
‘D’you know something else?’ he said. ‘I’m hungry. How about dinner?’
They had drinks at the bar, followed by dinner at a secluded table. The conversation was on Atlanta shop until they were drinking their coffee. Then Paul suddenly ordered two large brandies.
He clinked glasses and said very soberly, ‘Belinda, I’m a grandfather.’
For some reason, she flushed, perhaps because she guessed what was coming before he did.
‘Congratulations.’ She raised her glass then put it to her lips, eyeing him very intently and meaningly over the rim. ‘You must be the youngest grandfather ever!’
‘I doubt it.’
‘And the handsomest.’
‘Beauty,’ Paul said, draining his glass, ‘is in the eye of the beholder.’
Belinda laughed. ‘Then you must be careful to pick the right beholder!’ She looked across at him, her eyes wide and he would have sworn – adoring, her lips prettily parted.
For his own benefit as much as hers, he said sharply, ‘I’m years older than you.’
She laughed. After a moment, she asked, ‘Did you swap with Captain Rampling to tell me that again?’
He shook his head.
‘Did you swap because I was on this trip?’
‘You know perfectly well I did.’