Twin Spirit
Page 17
The sound of teleportation swamped Bella Air, followed by a dazzling flash, and within an instant they all floated above Stanley’s tower.
Those on board exhaled in one momentous breath, apart from Stanley, who continued his blissful blackout.
“Well done!” cried Mohawk, holding Rose’s cheeks within his sweaty palms. “What a team we make. What a team!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A Freedom Farewell
“Stanley! You have a visitor,” said a soft, angelic voice.
“Who is it?” asked Stanley, stepping towards Bella Air on a peaceful day in the Italian sector of Tuscany, TU-939.
“A surprise,” said Isabella, on deck.
“But –”
She smiled at him.
Stanley gave her an inquisitive gaze. “Where?”
“Waiting for you down below.”
He climbed upon deck and moved down into the interior towards the living quarters, pondering his guest.
Sitting in the rocking chair, a man smoked a pipe. He parted it from his lips, blowing a puff of smoke, and said simply, “Son.”
“I didn’t know you –”
“Died? Yes, my time came.”
“How?” asked Stanley, moving closer, inspecting his father’s deeper winkles.
“Old age, son – finally let me go. I left behind my wife and two grown children. I’ve told them all about you. My… what an impression this would make,” he said, looking around. “You build her yourself?”
“Designed – I had a hand putting her together.”
“Truly magnificent. I’m proud of you, son. And so is your mother.”
“Mother?”
“I tracked her down, son. I thought you should meet her.”
“I’m not sure –”
“Come now, Stanley, your own flesh and blood.”
“Stanley!” shouted Isabella. “Your dinner is ready. I made your favourite.”
“Stanley…?” said Curly. “He’s waking, Mo.”
“Wakey, wakey,” said Mohawk, puffing on a fat cigar. “He’ll be all right, eh, Stanley?” He turned to Curly. “Go fetch a glass of water. Our heroic captain must have a quencher.”
“Sure thing.”
“What happened?” asked Stanley, staring at the familiar ceiling of his cabin.
“You took a jab of dreaming juice. You’re quite the conversationalist.”
He smiled and thought about his dream for a moment. “How are the twins?”
“Just fine. They’re worried about you, though. You mean a lot to them.”
“Where are we?”
“About two or three kilometres from your tower.”
“Huh, is that so? And where are we heading?”
“Somewhere – anywhere.” Mohawk couldn’t speak without grinning. “We got out. We got out,” he repeated. “I still find it hard to believe. Thank you, captain.”
Stanley smiled back, then frowned, straining his abdomen as he sat up. “I need to take the twins to their mother.”
“Of course, and we intend to be out of your way. Only, we need your guidance. You know these sectors like nobody else – so say the twins.”
“I see. And they’re right.” He moved his leg, only to grimace while clutching his thigh.
“Careful. It’ll be sore for a while.”
“Here you go,” said Curly, handing over a glass of water with a twinkle in her eye.
“Thanks. You look different; you changed your hair?”
Curly looked at the floor, smiling. “It’s nothing really, I just tied it up.” She smiled and laughed nervously. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, then departed the cabin.
Mohawk raised his eyebrows, smirking at Stanley.
“She’s not my type,” he said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Stanley then hobbled to his feet and buttoned up his jacket. “What kind of place are you looking for?”
“Now you’re talking,” said Mohawk. He wrapped his hand around his valiant hero’s shoulder as he walked, and Stanley limped, towards ravenous banter.
* * *
Voices raged amongst the bandits. The twins happily watched their friends’ joy over their new freedom.
“A toast to all lost souls,” said Spike. “May they rejoice in their third life, and may it be a merry one.” He lifted his glass of Stanley’s liquor.
“Amen!” cheered the bandits.
“Amen,” said Rose.
Mohawk entered the living quarters and announced, “Our captain has awoken.”
“Hey, it’s Limpy!” bellowed Braid.
“Stanley!” cried Rose, and stood, spilling Brunel off her lap as she dashed to embrace him.
“Careful now, watch the hip, watch the hip.”
"Pheeeew! Limpy’s back! Limpy’s Back!” welcomed Brunel.
“Glad you’re okay,” said Rose.
“That was one trip to remember… eh, Stanley?” said Lily.
“How can I possibly forget? Marshmallows will never be the same again.”
Curly gave Mohawk a glass of whisky. “Thanks, Curls,” he said. He held out the glass in front. “Of course, none of this would have happened had our voyagers not crashed on our doorstep.”
Stanley raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“Everybody,” said Mo, “three cheers for our saviours. Hip, hip!”
“Hurrah!”
“Hip, hip!”
“Hurrah!”
“Hip, hip!”
“Hurrah!”
Mohawk then turned to Stanley during the applause and spoke quietly. “As long as we have privacy and a good selection of food and drink. Maybe a remote village – sacred perhaps. Somewhere filled with wildlife and –” He looked deeply into Stanley’s eyes. “No controlling freaks, okay?” he said through gritted teeth.
He nodded. “I’ve got it covered, leave it to me. It’s en route, and we should arrive in a few hours,” he said, then limped away to enter the control chamber.
“Aye-aye, captain,” said Mohawk with a salute.
* * *
The twins and a selection of bandits sat in a cosy gathering in the living quarters. Archie arrived after topping up his drink to hear Spike’s tale by the record player.
“…and that’s how I saved her life – by my own flatulence, no less,” he said, explaining to the twins how he had saved his girlfriend by passing wind, which intrigued and repulsed the girls in equal measure.
“So because you farted on planes,” said Lily, “she wouldn’t travel with you. And because she wasn’t there that day, she didn’t –”
“That’s the way I look at it,” said Spike.
“What caused the plane to crash?” asked Rose.
“Struck by lightning, or something,” said Braid. “Though others call it Kiian’s finger – zap!” He darted his elongated digit through the air to laughter. “Brought down the entire band and crew. Earth was well and truly robbed of greatness.”
“You better believe it,” said Curly. “We would have hit the big time – right guys?”
“Aye!”
* * *
After over four and a half hours of flight, Bella Air entered Sector FT-450. The landscape was inspired by the Himalayas. The Yellow River wound through mountainous terrain that faded into the horizon.
The bandits beamed with awe as they looked over the vessel’s edge to see a Tibetan village. It was filled with ancient shrines and temples where monks prayed.
Bella Air gently touched down amid a new variety of trees, bushes and flora, all emitting an array of scents; none of the tropical variety, and without changing on a daily basis.
Mohawk examined his new home, breathing in the air and feeling the habitat between his toes. “Well… this is truly special, Stanley. We can’t thank you enough. Is there anything you’d like in return?”
Stanley sighed, scratching his chin, then shook his head. “Anyway, we’d have remained stranded had you not found us. You’ve done qu
ite enough.”
“Then, for now, farewell,” said Mohawk, holding out his claw.
Stanley shook his hand. “Good luck to you all,” he said, and saluted.
The bandits said their farewells. Curly in particular waved with vigour and blew a kiss, which Stanley caught, smiling, and then hastily climbed on deck.
“Rose… Lily… you two are quite something,” said Mohawk.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Lily.
“Yeah, you’re not so bad yourself,” said Rose. “Take care, Mo, all of you. It was great to meet you.” She gave Mohawk a peck on his furry cheek, then boarded Bella Air.
“Good luck finding your mother,” Mo said. “May your greatest wishes come true.” He then took in a deep breath while many sparkly eyes observed the twins on deck. “I’m going to write a song about this.”
“Really?” said Rose. “We’d be honoured. Take care everyone!”
As the bandits and the twins continued to wave, Stanley gave his final salute before Bella Air departed the ground.
“Next stop,” he said, “Sector BL-903. A mother awaits…”
Rose could only hope he was right, as their destination seemed to fluctuate, and so did the Governs’ reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Life, Death and Spirit of Violet Ashworth
Violet lay cosy in bed while her mother, seated by her side, read softy. “‘Little Red Riding Hood, hearing the big voice of the Wolf, was at first afraid; but –’”
“Bed, Ivy. Big day tomorrow,” said Violet’s father, passing the bedroom door.
“Coming!”
“Does Dad have his interview tomorrow?” asked Violet.
“Yes, an important interview.”
“Will we be moving?”
“If he’s offered the job, yes. We’ll live in a bigger house. And your bedroom will be big enough for ballet.”
Violet imagined a bedroom where she could perform a pirouette without a care of crashing into anything. She glanced at the book resting on her mother’s lap. “Can you finish the story?”
“Of course.” She coughed to clear her throat and continued to read. “‘And, saying these words, the wicked Wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood, and ate her all up.’”
“Ah!” gasped Violet. “That’s not a happy ending.”
“No, sweetheart. Not all stories have a happy ending. I’ll read a happier one next time. Now, c’mon, time to sleep.”
“Night,” said Violet, and was kissed by her mother. She then turned on her side, hoping to dream without wicked wolves.
* * *
Violet rejoiced at being outdoors and amongst the greenery of the Yorkshire Dales. The idea of moving away didn’t sit well with her; not that it mattered. They arrived at a new house in Hampshire, and Violet could perform more than a pirouette.
* * *
Thirteen years later: 18 June 1940.
“What General Weygand has called the Battle of France is over: the Battle of Britain is about to begin,” stated the prime minister of England, Winston Churchill.
Aged seventeen, Violet lay on her bed, hands clenched together, and listened intently to the radio:
“Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say: ‘This was their finest hour.’”
Violet heard a voice through her opened bedroom window. She turned off the radio and looked out into the early evening. A young man stood casually by the front garden fence. He wore a dark brown jacket along with scruffy looking navy jeans. His name was George; a charming eighteen-year-old carpenter she’d met a few weeks before the war was announced.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Just a minute.” Violet closed the window, smiling, then made her way downstairs. She made a final glance in the mirror, adjusting her flowery dress and brushing her blonde tresses.
Outside, George had disappeared, until a bicycle wheel rolled from behind a rose bush. Not just any old bicycle: it featured two handlebars, two seats, and two pairs of peddles. He patted the rear seat.
“We’re going on that?” she said in excitement.
“Hold on tight, sweet cheeks. We’re going for a ride you’ll never forget.”
* * *
Violet and George cycled along deserted streets and under a canal bridge into open fields. Their surroundings were peaceful, as if a war didn’t exist. But such pleasing thoughts were soon ravaged as they came upon the remains of a Spitfire in a ditch, left to rust. Violet closed her eyes, pretending she hadn’t seen the image of warfare.
Along the empty street they passed the grocery store where Violet’s mother used to shop, then almost collided with a telegram boy on his bicycle. Within minutes they crossed the cricket pitch, closed until further notice. They peddled beyond the church, under the railway bridge and coasted down the steep path towards the train station.
With the railway in sight, George said, “Pit stop!” then guided the bicycle into a park and stopped underneath a beech tree.
“Do you reckon we’ll be alright ’ere?” asked Violet.
George paused and scouted their surroundings. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. There’s a shelter behind the station – should we need it.”
“Right, that’s good to know.”
The sun sank beyond nearby housing until only a faint glimmer of light remained in the cloudless sky. Violet and George lay on the grass and chatted, sharing their war stories; conflicts that had stirred Violet’s concerns for over a year. Enough time to see, hear and experience events like never before.
Thirty-four minutes were soon chatted away. Darkness surrounded them now, though their eyes were much accustomed. Beyond the station, two great beams of light shone skyward, catching their attention.
Their voices quietened to a whisper, until a sound came from afar, an engine, causing George to rise and step from under the tree. He searched the sky, as frantic as the light beams. The siren of war loomed and cried out to alert the masses.
“We’d better go, quick!” said George.
Violet nodded and took hold of the bicycle.
“Leave it, we’re better on foot.”
The approaching sound grew louder and deeper. The sirens boomed of terror, though didn’t overpower the drone of the fighter plane.
George gripped Violet’s hand. Together they raced up a path and over the hill towards shelter. Their pace quickened into a full sprint; Violet had no choice since George held her hand so tight.
Then her worse fear was happening; an impact, so violent the vibrations could be felt in her chest as she slumped to the ground. Explosions lit nearby buildings. Flames flickered over chimney pots. The sound of the engine continued its menace, louder, nearer, directly overhead.
It all happened in a flash.
George embraced Violet with both arms as the horrifying whistles of war descended to destroy and extinguish. They held their breath together as they felt earth bombarding them.
“Let’s go!” shouted George, standing and pulled Violet to her feet. They scrambled up the bank towards refuge.
Inside the dimly lit shelter, George stared anxiously at Violet, who echoed his expression. Both were drenched in mud. “That was too close,” said George, holding her close, letting out a sigh of relief. She joined him and gripped his mud-soaked jacket, elated to be doing so.
* * *
The following day, Violet and George recited their tale to astonished friends. The event remained in Violet’s thoughts the whole day; just what kind of debris had almost hit them?
She met with George after their daily wartime duties, and headed back towards the field. Along the way, buildings displayed gaping holes, still smouldering from their charred insides. They witnessed a disfigured bicycle clinging to a lamppost; the kind a telegram boy would ride, alongside a dark stain on the pavement. Violet hoped her initial thoughts were untrue, as they walked amongst the devastation.
* * *
Britain endured worse. They called it The Blitz: a continuous attack of air strikes bombarded the streets, housing and people of Britain. Like a never-ending nightmare, Violet could only hope for the finale: something, anything, to lift the anxiety over the constant lingering threat of death.
The day for hope arrived on 8 May 1945. Named VE Day, those alive witnessed cheers and celebrations never seen before.
Violet and George walked through the streets of joy. Postures of elation joined blossoming smiles after every turn. “Good morning, sir!” cheered George, pleased to see an elderly man and his wife, hand in hand, dancing.
“Yes, young man – isn’t it!” The man’s arms waved with vigour, as if he had shed twenty years.
The centre of town only heightened the importance of the day the war ended, and freedom conquered uncertainty. Flags, banners and confetti flowed through the air to the sound of church bells. If only more days were this liberating, thought Violet.
VE Day wasn’t just a special day for Britain and the world, but a personal turning point for Violet. Amongst the celebrations, George revealed a ring, his late grandmother’s. He held it in front of her while he knelt. “Will you –”
“Yes!” she cried before he could ask.
* * *
During post-war Britain, many rebuilt their lives and surroundings. A make do and mend philosophy was cast over war-torn lives. The rubble was cleared, the deceased were buried, and a new era begun.
Within three months of proposing, Violet and George became husband and wife. Family and friends helped with the catering and venue. Violet’s dress was simple, and no fancy car or carriage brought her to the church. However, none of the materialistic tradition mattered: Violet was more than grateful that their town church remained standing.
George continued his craft as a carpenter, while Violet worked at the local post office and helped out at school as a part-time teacher, where her father was headmaster. They made do with their earnings. Times were fraught with difficulty. However, without the sounds of screaming and the tearing bombs falling from the sky, and without the uncertainty of not knowing whether life on Earth would seize to be, they were free.