by Ken Follett
She would know only too soon.
The coast was now about a quarter of a mile away. She could see that the shoreline was rocky and the surf was heavy. The beach looked awfully uneven, she saw with a sinking heart: it was littered with jagged boulders. There was a low cliff rising to a stretch of moorland with a few grazing sheep. She studied the moorland. It looked smooth. There were no hedges and few trees. Perhaps the plane could land there. She did not know whether to hope for that or try to prepare herself for death.
The yellow plane struggled bravely on, still losing height. The salty smell of the sea reached Nancy’s nose. It would surely be better to come down on the water, she thought fearfully, than to try to land on that beach. Those sharp stones would tear the flimsy little plane to pieces—and her, too.
She hoped she would die quickly.
When the shore was a hundred yards away, she realized the plane was not going to hit the beach: it was still too high. Lovesey was obviously aiming at the clifftop pasture. But would he get there? They now seemed almost on a level with the clifftop, and they were still losing height. They were going to smash into the cliff. She wanted to close her eyes, but she did not dare. Instead she stared hypnotically at the cliff rushing at her.
The engine howled like a sick animal. The wind blew sea spray into Nancy’s face. The sheep on the cliff were scattering in all directions as the plane zoomed at them. Nancy gripped the rim of the cockpit so hard her hands hurt. She seemed to be flying straight at the very lip of the cliff. It came at her in a rush. We’re going to hit it, she thought; this is the end. Then a gust of wind lifted the plane a fraction, and she thought they were clear. But it dropped again. The cliff edge was going to knock the little yellow wheels off their struts, she thought. Then, with the cliff a split second away, she closed her eyes and screamed.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then there was a bump, and Nancy was thrown forward hard against her seat belt. For an instant she thought she was going to die. Then she felt the plane rise again. She stopped screaming and opened her eyes.
They were in the air still, just two or three feet above the clifftop grass. The plane bumped down again, and this time it stayed down. Nancy was shaken mercilessly as it shuddered over the uneven ground. She saw that they were headed for a patch of bramble, and realized they could yet crash; then Lovesey did something and the plane turned, avoiding the hazard. The shaking eased; they were slowing down. Nancy could hardly believe she was still alive. The plane came unsteadily to a halt.
Relief shook her like a fit. She could not stop trembling. For a moment she let herself shudder. Then she felt hysteria coming on, and got a grip on herself. “It’s over,” she said aloud. “It’s over, it’s over. I’m all right.”
In front of her, Lovesey got up and climbed out of his seat with a toolbox in his hand. Without looking at her, he jumped down and walked around to the front of the aircraft, where he opened the hood and peered in at the engine.
He might have asked me if I’m all right, Nancy thought.
In an odd way, Lovesey’s rudeness calmed her. She looked around. The sheep had returned to their grazing as if nothing had happened. Now that the engine was silent, she could hear the waves exploding on the beach. The sun was shining, but she could feel a cold, damp wind on her cheek.
She sat still for a moment. When she was sure her legs would hold her, she stood up and clambered out of the aircraft. She stood on Irish soil for the first time in her life, and felt moved almost to tears. This is where we came from, she thought, all those years ago. Oppressed by the British, persecuted by the Protestants, starved by potato blight, we crowded onto wooden ships and sailed away from our homeland to a new world.
And a very Irish way this is to come back, she thought with a grin. I almost died landing here.
That was enough sentiment. She was alive, so could she still catch the Clipper? She looked at her wristwatch. It was two fifteen. The Clipper had just taken off from Southampton. She could get to Foynes in time, if this plane could be made to fly, and if she could summon up the nerve to get back into it.
She walked around to the front of the plane. Lovesey was using a big spanner to loosen a nut. Nancy said: “Can you fix it?”
He did not look up. “Don’t know.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Don’t know.”
Clearly he had reverted to his taciturn mood. Exasperated, Nancy said: “I thought you were supposed to be an engineer.”
That stung him. He looked at her and said: “I studied mathematics and physics. My specialty is wind resistance of complex curves. I’m not a bloody motor mechanic!”
“Then maybe we should fetch a motor mechanic.”
“You won’t find one in bloody Ireland. This country is still in the stone age.”
“Only because the people have been trodden down by the brutal British for so many centuries!”
He withdrew his head from the engine and stood upright. “How the hell did we get onto politics?”
“You haven’t even asked me if I’m all right.”
“I can see you’re all right.”
“You nearly killed me!”
“I saved your life.”
The man was impossible.
She looked around the horizon. About a quarter of a mile away was a line of hedge or wall that might border a road, and a little farther she could see several low thatched roofs in a cluster. Maybe she could get a car and drive to Foynes. “Where are we?” she said. “And don’t tell me you don’t know!”
He grinned. It was the second or third time he had surprised her by not being as bad-tempered as he seemed. “I think we’re a few miles outside Dublin.”
She decided she was not going to stand here and watch him fiddle with the engine. “I’m going to get help.”
He looked at her feet. “You won’t get far in those shoes.”
I’ll show him something, she thought angrily. She lifted her skirt and quickly unfastened her stockings. He stared at her, shocked, and blushed crimson. She rolled her stockings down and took them off along with her shoes. She enjoyed discomposing him. Tucking her shoes into the pockets of her coat, she said: “I shan’t be long,” and walked off in her bare feet.
When her back was turned and she was a few yards away, she permitted herself a broad grin. He had been completely nonplussed. It served him right for being so goddamn condescending.
The pleasure of having bested him soon wore off. Her feet rapidly became wet, cold and filthy dirty. The cottages were farther away than she had thought. She did not even know what she was going to do when she got there. She guessed she would try to get a ride into Dublin. Lovesey was probably right about the scarcity of motor mechanics in Ireland.
It took her twenty minutes to reach the cottages.
Behind the first house she found a small woman in clogs digging in a vegetable garden. Nancy called out: “Hello.”
The woman looked up and gave a cry of fright.
Nancy said: “There’s something wrong with my airplane.”
The woman stared at her as if she had come from outer space.
Nancy realized that she must be a somewhat unusual sight, in a cashmere coat and bare feet. Indeed, a creature from outer space would be hardly less surprising, to a peasant woman digging her garden, than a woman in an airplane. The woman reached out a tentative hand and touched Nancy’s coat. Nancy was embarrassed: the woman was treating her like a goddess.
“I’m Irish,” Nancy said, in an effort to make herself seem more human.
The woman smiled and shook her head, as if to say: You can’t fool me.
“I need a ride to Dublin,” Nancy said.
That made sense to the woman, and she spoke at last. “Oh, yes, you do!” she said. Clearly she felt that apparitions such as Nancy belonged in the big city.
Nancy was relieved to hear her use English: she had been afraid the woman might speak only Gaelic. “How far is it?”
That was no good. In two hours the Clipper was due to take off from Foynes, on the other side of the country. “Does anyone around here have an automobile?”
“No.”
“Damn.”
“But the smith has a motorcycle.” She pronounced it “motorsickle.”
“That’ll do!” In Dublin she might get a car to take her to Foynes. She was not sure how far Foynes was, or how long it would take to get there, but she felt she had to try. “Where’s the smith?”
“I’ll take you.” The woman stuck her spade in the ground.
Nancy followed her around the house. The road was just a mud track, Nancy saw with a sinking heart: a motorcycle could not go much faster than a pony on such a surface.
Another snag occurred to her as they walked through the hamlet. A motorcycle would take only one passenger. She had been planning to go back to the downed plane and pick Lovesey up, if she could get a car. But only one of them could be taken on a bike—unless the owner would sell it, in which case Lovesey could drive and Nancy could ride. Then, she thought excitedly, they could drive all the way to Foynes.
They walked to the last house and approached a lean-to workshop at the side—and Nancy’s high hopes were dashed instantly; for the motorcycle was in pieces all over the earth floor, and the blacksmith was working on it. “Oh, hell,” Nancy said.
The woman spoke to the smith in Gaelic. He looked at Nancy with a trace of amusement. He was very young, with the Irish black hair and blue eyes, and he had a bushy mustache. He nodded understanding, then said to Nancy: “Where’s your airplane?”
“About half a mile away.”
“Maybe I should take a look.”
“Do you know anything about planes?” she asked skeptically.
He shrugged. “Engines are engines.”
She realized that if he could take a motorcycle to pieces he might be able to fix an airplane engine.
The smith went on: “However, it sounds to me as if I might be too late.”
Nancy frowned. Then she heard what he had noticed: the sound of an airplane. Could it be the Tiger Moth? She ran outside and looked up into the sky. Sure enough, the little yellow plane was flying low over the hamlet.
Lovesey had fixed it—and he had taken off without waiting for her!
She gazed up unbelievingly. How could he do this to her? He even had her overnight case!
The plane swooped low over the hamlet, as if to mock her. She shook her fist at it. Lovesey waved to her and then climbed away.
She watched the plane recede. The smith and the peasant woman were standing beside her. “He’s leaving without you,” the smith said.
“He’s a heartless fiend.”
“Is it your husband?”
“Certainly not!”
“Just as well, I suppose.”
Nancy felt sick. Two men had betrayed her today. Was there something wrong with her? she wondered.
She thought she might as well give up. She could not catch the Clipper now. Peter would sell the company to Nat Ridgeway, and that would the end of it.
The plane banked and turned. Lovesey was setting course for Foynes, she presumed. He would catch up with his runaway wife. Nancy hoped she would refuse to go back to him.
Unexpectedly, the plane kept on turning. When it was pointing toward the hamlet it straightened up. What was he doing now?
It came in along the line of the mud road, losing height. Why was he coming back? As the plane approached, Nancy began to wonder whether he was going to land. Was the engine faltering again?
The little plane touched down on the mud road and bounced along toward the three people outside the blacksmith’s house.
Nancy almost fainted with relief. He had come back for her!
The plane shuddered to a halt in front of her. Mervyn shouted something she could not make out.
“What?” she yelled.
Impatiently, he beckoned to her. She ran up to the plane. He leaned toward her and shouted: “What are you waiting for? Get in!”
She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to three. They could still make it to Foynes in time. Her spirits bounded with optimism again. I’m not finished yet! she thought.
The young blacksmith came up with a twinkle in his eye and shouted: “Let me help you up.” He made a step with his linked hands. She put her muddy bare foot on it and he boosted her up. She scrambled into her seat.
The plane pulled away immediately.
A few seconds later they were in the air.
CHAPTER NINE
Mervyn Lovesey’s wife was very happy.
Diana had been frightened when the Clipper took off, but now she felt nothing but elation.
She had not flown before. Mervyn had never invited her to go up in his little plane, even though she had spent days painting it a lovely bright yellow for him. She discovered that, once you got over the nervousness, it was a terrific thrill to be this high in the air, in something like a first-class hotel with wings, looking down on England’s pastures and comfields, roads and railways, houses and churches and factories. She felt free. She was free. She had left Mervyn and run away with Mark.
Last night, at the South-Western Hotel in Southampton, they had registered as Mr. and Mrs. Alder and had spent their first whole night together. They had made love, then gone to sleep, then woken up in the morning and made love again. It seemed such a luxury, after three months of short afternoons and snatched kisses.
Flying the Clipper was like living in a movie. The decor was opulent, the people were elegant, the two stewards were quietly efficient, everything happened on cue as if it were scripted, and there were famous faces everywhere. There was Baron Gabon, the wealthy Zionist, always in intense discussion with his haggard companion. The Marquis of Oxenford, the famous Fascist, was on board with his beautiful wife. Princess Lavinia Bazarov, one of the pillars of Paris society, was in Diana’s compartment, in the window seat of Diana’s divan.
Opposite the princess, in the other window seat on this side, was the movie star Lulu Bell. Diana had seen her in lots of films: My Cousin Jake, Torment, The Secret Life, Helen of Troy and many others had come to the Paramount Cinema in Oxford Street, Manchester. But the biggest surprise was that Mark knew her. As they were settling into their seats, a strident American voice had called out: “Mark! Mark Alder! Is that really you?” and Diana had turned around to see a small blond woman like a canary swooping on him.
It turned out they had worked together on a radio show in Chicago years ago, before Lulu was a big star. Mark had introduced Diana, and Lulu had been very sweet, saying how beautiful Diana was and how lucky Mark had been to find her. But naturally she was more interested in Mark, and the two of them had been chatting ever since takeoff, reminiscing about the old days when they were young and short of money and lived in flophouses and stayed up all night drinking bootleg liquor.
Diana had not realized that Lulu was so short. In her films she seemed taller. Also younger. And in real life you could see that her hair was not naturally blond, as Diana’s was, but dyed. However, she did have the chirpy, pushy personality she displayed in most of the movies. She was the center of attention even now. Although she was talking to Mark, everyone was looking at her: Princess Lavinia in the corner, Diana opposite Mark, and the two men on the other side of the aisle.
She was telling a story about a radio broadcast during which one of the actors had left, thinking his part was over, when in fact he had one line to speak right at the end. “So I said my line, which was: Who ate the Easter cake? And everybody looked around—but George had disappeared! And there was a long silence.” She paused for dramatic effect. Diana smiled. What on earth did people do when things went wrong during radio shows? She listened to the radio a lot but she could not remember anything like this happening. Lulu resumed. “So I said my line again: Who ate the Easter cake? Then I
went like this.” She lowered her chin and spoke in an astonishingly convincing gruff male voice. “I think it must have been the cat.”
Everyone laughed.
“And that was the end of the show,” she finished.
Diana remembered a broadcast during which an announcer had been so shocked at something that he said, “Jesus H. Christ!” in astonishment. “I heard an announcer swear once,” she said. She was about to tell the story, but Mark said: “Oh, that happens all the time,” and turned back to Lulu, saying: “Remember when Max Gifford said Babe Ruth had clean balls, and then couldn’t stop laughing?”
Both Mark and Lulu giggled helplessly over that, and Diana smiled, but she was beginning to feel left out. She reflected that she was rather spoiled: for three months, while Mark had been alone in a strange town, she had had his undivided attention. Obviously that could not go on forever. She would have to get used to sharing him with other people from now on. However, she did not have to play the part of audience. She turned to Princess Lavinia, sitting on her right, and said: “Do you listen to the wireless, Princess?”
The old Russian woman looked down her thin beaked nose and said: “I find it slightly vulgar.”
Diana had met sniffy old ladies before, and they did not intimidate her. “How surprising,” she said. “Only last night we tuned in to some Beethoven quintets.”
“German music is so mechanical,” the princess replied.
There would be no pleasing her, Diana decided. She had once belonged to the most idle and privileged class the world had ever seen, and she wanted everyone to know it, so she pretended that everything she was offered was not as good as what she had once been used to. She was going to be a bore.
The steward assigned to the rear half of the aircraft arrived to take orders for cocktails. His name was Davy. He was a small, neat, charming young man with fair hair, and he walked the carpeted aisle with a bouncy step. Diana asked for a dry martini. She did not know what it was, but she remembered from the movies that it was a chic drink in America.