The cottage, mostly of brick, had been painted with red paint at one time and this grinned through the white stucco in some places, adding a patina. An old stable and barn served as a garage and workshop. Some parts of the house were clad with white clapboard. The roof was thatched. It'd become their dream house. They named it 'Pickwick Cottage'. Millie liked the sound of it.
The glass studio was Millie's domain, for her art, photography and piano. In that room, she kept an old Steinway grand—not much to look at, but it sounded beautiful. She kept it in tune herself. As well as being a fine artist, Millie was an accomplished pianist. She'd had lessons in Holland as a girl, and although they said she was 'exceptionally gifted', she refused to pursue a career in music. She never felt comfortable playing in front of people. Hinchliffe always thought her talent wasted, which was true. Millie only had to hear a piece of music once, and she could play it back note for note. Similarly, if she saw something or someone once, she could draw them, or paint them. With the piano, as with her art, Millie released her emotions through her expressive, beautifully shaped hands, stroking and caressing the keys with tenderness, or sometimes pounding them. The melody ebbed and flowed, becoming a rushing torrent of a tidal river at one moment, and then a cascading waterfall another, or the calmer waters of an estuary, running smooth and deep.
Hinchliffe sped through the Surrey lanes into Kent, crossing a farm to their small hamlet of Toys Hill. This location was handy for Croydon Aerodrome and they could still live in splendid isolation. The village boasted a tiny post office and combined general store, a pub—the Coach & Horses—a beautiful 16th century Gothic church—St. Saviour's—and one of the brand-new red phone boxes, which were sprouting up all over the country. Presently, after climbing the hills overlooking the Weald, he spied the cottage over the fields in the distance, located across the lane from Barney the Blacksmith's shop. The cottage sat cozily between green walnut trees and hedges. Beside it, he noticed sheets billowing on the washing line. Millie had been busy. He had an idea.
He knew Millie would be in the garden on such a fine, sunny afternoon. She called it her 'little piece of heaven on earth'. In addition to other things, she was an avid gardener. The cottage was set in a typical English garden, an explosion of color from spring through autumn—a haven for birds of every kind. Their favorite place was the secret garden, enclosed by high, ancient red brick walls and tall boxwood hedges. A heavy, arched door closed off the entry, which could be bolted from the inside. They liked to sit on the park bench in that peaceful setting and read, or meditate under the walnut tree, while taking in the fragrances of blooms around them. Hinchliffe had slung a hammock between the wall and a small oak tree in which Millie liked to snooze, or lie naked in the summer sun.
Hinchliffe was trying to give up cigarettes and would sometimes sit in the garden puffing his Sherlock Holmes calabash pipe, listening to birds and buzzing insects and the gurgling brook nearby. Things were going well in their lives. With Millie's backing, he was making a good living, flying full time, and once in while transporting some VIP or other on a long-distance journey. Such VIPs included Ramsay MacDonald, the previous prime minister, Lord Thomson of Cardington, the past minister of state for air, and Alfred Lowenstein, one of the richest men in Europe—not exactly a friend, but Hinchliffe was probably the closest thing to a friend Lowenstein actually had. Hinchliffe and Millie were a good couple, deliriously happy, supporting each other’s needs. But all that was about to change.
Hinchliffe turned slowly into the long, gravel driveway, passing the white picket fence he'd started building months ago. He needed to get on and finish that one of these days. He cut the engine and coasted toward the washing lines. All was silent, except for tweeting birds and the faint pounding of Barney’s hammer at his forge across the lane. He could see Millie, her back to him, standing at her easel under the wooden pergola. She was working on an oil painting of the brook and rustic outbuildings. Two magpies dominated the scene. She was carefully brushing in reeds at the water’s edge with a fine sable brush.
A large sunhat obscured her beautiful face and long, shiny locks. A paint-spattered beige smock covered her ample bosom, slender waist and slim hips, from her neck to her ankles. Joan, was playing with a frog she'd snatched from the brook, watched by Butch, a black Labrador who loved to splash around in that water. In all her twenty-eight years, Millie had never been so happy. He’d be home soon. Good. She listened for the Bentley’s growl.
Hinchliffe stealthily slipped out of the car and up to the washing. He unpegged one of the sheets, threw it over his head and crept toward Millie and Joan, waving his arms and making spooky noises. “Oooooooh! Ooooooooh! Oooooooooooh!”
Suddenly, Butch spotted the ghost and went on the defense, rushing at Hinchliffe, barking ferociously. Joan was frightened at first, until she recognized the flying boots at the ends of the legs, under the sheet. Millie turned from her painting, her big, blue eyes wide, mildly surprised for a moment. She shook her head as she put down her brushes and pallet. Joan ran to her daddy, arms spread-eagled like an aeroplane. Hinchliffe swept her high into the air, making plane noises, while she giggled. But the dog persisted.
“That's enough, Butch! It's only daddy, silly,” Millie scolded. She gave Hinchliffe a big kiss. They came together in big unified hug and Butch, finally calm, stood on his hind legs, paws on Hinchliffe's hip.
“Come on, Captain Hinchliffe, I'll make you a cup of tea,” Millie said brightly, plucking her painting from its easel.
Hinchliffe glanced at it. “Lovely picture! You just love them magpies, don't you!”
“As long as there's more than one,” Millie answered.
Hinchliffe patted her behind as they trooped into the kitchen. Jars of freshly bottled jam stood on the table. They were followed in by Whiskey the tabby-cat, who jumped up, purring and mewing like mad at Hinchliffe. Millie opened the fireplace oven and took out one of her fresh baked loaves and a batch of scones. Hinchliffe breathed in deeply.
“You've been busy, I see. This place smells like heaven,” he exclaimed, seizing the cat and nuzzling her.
“You've come to the right place,” Millie said. She put the kettle on and got the cups out. “Perhaps you’d drop a loaf and a couple of jars of jam over to Barney later, Hinch.”
“Anything for you and ol’ Barney,” Hinchliffe said, grabbing Millie. He danced her and the cat around the kitchen, bursting into song, “Just Millie and me, and Joanie makes three, I'm happy in my green heaven—it's a cozy place, with a fireplace and a studio...” He continued with his adaption of the song, now popular on the radio. Joan was delighted to be included.
“You're a good dancer—but the singing—not so much. You'd better keep your job with Imperial Airways,” Millie said with a laugh. Hinchliffe frowned. She'd struck a nerve.
With a tray of tea and scones, they moved to Millie's studio, the largest room in the house. Its French windows along the entire back wall overlooked the garden. Millie set the tray down on her work table. Paintings and photographs adorned the walls—one or two done by Hinchliffe (he wasn't a bad artist himself). Propped up on a display shelf were two almost identical portraits of Alfred Lowenstein, wearing a business suit and a shiny top hat. In the second version, he was rather bland—meek even. In the first, his face displayed cunning and ruthlessness.
“I see you like old Lowenstein so much you painted him twice,” Hinchliffe said.
“No, I don't like the man much, but I like the painting—the first one, that is. I'll keep it to show. I'll send him the second one,” Millie replied.
“Poor old Lowenstein—he’s all right! Somehow, I don't think he'd like the first one, though.”
“Probably not.”
“Good luck getting paid,” Hinchliffe said with a smile.
Lowenstein had asked Millie many times to paint his portrait and, in the end, she did so reluctantly. She hadn't liked the way the man's eyes wandered all over her body. But she did it for Hinchliffe's s
ake. Lowenstein had the reputation of being a bully and of his business practices not always on the up and up. But he'd treated her husband all right, so far. He had a bad aura about him—much of it dark, unlike her husband's which she found to be a thing of beauty.
Sun streamed through the roof skylights onto another painting—an unfinished one—on its own easel. They sat beside it and had their tea and scones smothered with jam and cream. Joan worked on a crayon drawing on the oak floor boards. Millie took fresh flowers she'd cut from the garden and laid them on the table. She began arranging them in a vase.
“I suppose, since your little 'Fokking expedition', we're permanently banned from France now, are we Hinch?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hinchliffe cracked up. He was studying the unfinished painting. It was of a man standing by his plane—obviously Hinchliffe. “When are you going to finish this? Well, I just wouldn't plan your holidays there, if I were you, sweet pea.”
Millie stopped to peer at the unfinished work. “Oh, I don't know, I'm thinking about it—probably when you finish my fence!”
Hinchliffe chuckled and gave her one of his 'touché' looks.
“And I suppose Scotland Yard will be knocking on our door any time soon, will they?” Millie added.
Hinchliffe loved what she'd done with this room. Much of the wall space was taken up with pictures and professional quality photographs of the children, Hinchliffe, local scenes, flowers. In the far corner, next to her darkroom, a plate camera stood on a tripod. A smaller camera lay on the piano. On another easel was an enlarged photo of Hinchliffe in his wartime army lieutenant's uniform. Hinchliffe admired himself.
“You know, I hadn't realized I was so good looking.”
“You ought to—you know you're my favorite subject. … Oh, we had a letter from Kate Sinclair this morning. She said Gordon has lost his job and they don't have a roof over their heads—at least they won't in week or so.”
“Tell them they can stay here as long as they like—we've got plenty of room—providing you don't mind.”
“Oh, I don't mind. But let's hope you've still got a job by the end of the week!”
Hinchliffe coughed. He peered at the picture again. “When did you say you'd finish this?”
“I'll get around to it sometime, maybe. I need some materials.”
“This isn't bad. You must finish it. We'll get you some more materials at the end of the month. The aerodrome manager was rude about the plane. That's all. Don't worry, it'll blow over.”
“You and your precious Fokker!”
Hinchliffe grinned. It tickled him when she said that in her sexy Dutch accent. “Hey, you watch your language, Emilie Hinchliffe!”
After dinner, they went to bed early. Joan was in the next room. After a passionate hour, they lay together, sharing a cigarette. Hinchliffe's eyes scanned the walls, which were also adorned with photos: Hinchliffe and Millie standing together in their courting days, two years between them, an inflated inner tube around their necks, Hinchliffe standing beside his Sopwith Camel in a leather flying coat, collar up, his flying goggles pushed up over his flying cap—the indomitable ace. On the side of the plane were the marks of his six kills and the plane's name: Allo Lil Bird.
At times like this, they liked to chat, sometimes for hours. They talked about many subjects. They spoke about God and religion. Millie had attended Catholic church as a girl, but over time her faith had fallen by the wayside. It had been the same with Hinchliffe who’d attended the Church of England as a boy. Both of them were not 'religious', although they believed in 'something'—a superior being. After his brush with death and miraculous escape during the war, Hinchliffe was more than a little open-minded about these things. Millie though, had premonitions, usually small things that happened. She supposed everyone did. Hinchliffe teased her about it sometimes, wiggling his nose and calling her 'my beautiful white witch'.
Hinchliffe kissed her cheek and grimaced. “Millie, I love you and the children more than anything, but you know, if I can't fly, I'll go nuts.”
“Why, what's up?”
“They're dreaming up new regulations for one-eyed pilots.”
“Nervous passengers?”
“Yup, I've gotta find something else.”
It was on this night that Millie had the first of a recurring dream she was to have over the next couple of years. After a long kiss goodnight, they blew out the lamp and fell into a deep sleep. A little after 3:00 a.m., Millie awoke from a dream. She sensed the presence of a man standing over her. He was more of a dark shape than anything—a shape without a face. She didn't feel threatened or frightened. Quite the reverse. Strangely, she was comforted by it. She drifted back to sleep with a feeling of calmness and well-being.
4
A DRINK AT THE ROYAL AERO CLUB
Monday, June 13, 1927.
Ever since his talk with Millie about his flying future, Hinchliffe had nurtured ideas about making an Atlantic bid. In 1927, two men had vied to be the first Americans across the pond from west to east. One was Charles Lindbergh, a successful pilot, the other, Charles Levine, a business entrepreneur. Lindbergh wound up beating Levine to the punch, whereby his name would be forever enshrined in the record books. Shortly after Lindbergh's solo achievement, Charles Levine flew as a passenger from New York to Berlin. Once there, Levine negotiated with Hinchliffe to fly him back to New York, and thereby claim the east to west record—a much tougher proposition. However, when all seemed settled, Levine decided he wanted to bring a woman along for the ride—American socialite, Mabel Boll. Hinchliffe would have none of that, and backed out immediately. Hinchliffe was stuck and needed to find another sponsor—quickly. Millie had gone along with the plan originally, but was relieved when the Levine deal fell through.
He pondered asking Lowenstein to finance the project, but thought better of it—if Lowenstein was interested, he would've initiated it. Besides, Hinchliffe sometimes wondered if Lowenstein was as rich as he appeared and if his business was fully solvent. His lifestyle, aeroplanes, limousines and splendid properties in England and Belgium led everyone to believe he was fabulously wealthy. Hinchliffe wondered if maybe old Lowenstein had built himself a house of cards.
Hinchliffe discussed his looming employment problem with his good friend Sir Sefton Brancker, the Director of Civil Aviation. After telling Brancker about the debacle with Charles Levine, Brancker suggested that they get together for a drink to talk about Hinchliffe's options. On a sunny afternoon in June of '27, Hinchliffe parked the Bentley on Piccadilly. He waited for passing cars and horse-drawn carts and, after stepping around sweet-smelling piles of horse droppings, crossed the road to the Royal Aero Club.
The one-eyed pilot was well-known in aviation circles, especially in the Royal Air Force and the Royal Naval Air Service. He'd flown a number of VIP's to far-flung places including many from this club. Hinchliffe was a member of the Aero Club, being a well-respected war pilot and holder of the Distinguished Flying Cross. The gentlemen's bar was located on the second floor. Its ambiance bore out its name with highly polished wooden floors, brass foot rails and bar uprights, portraits of great airmen adorning the walls and stuffy old men ensconced in deep, studded leather armchairs, hidden behind The Times or the Daily Telegraph.
One such patron was Alfred Lowenstein, whom Hinchliffe spotted as he entered the bar. Lowenstein had his head in a newspaper, which he lowered slightly on hearing Hinchliffe's footsteps. The only sign of recognition Lowenstein offered was a bored grunt and a grimace from his haggard, red face. Hinchliffe gave him a nod accompanied by an amused grin. He was used to Lowenstein’s rudeness. He was a strange man.
At the bar, Hinchliffe was greeted by Brancker in his usual boisterous manner, after he’d got down from his perch on a high bar stool. At times, Brancker's initial appearance was deceiving. He appeared slightly unkempt and ill-bred in his rough tweeds. He made everyone feel special. And men like Hinchliffe were very special to him. Brancker's own record was impr
essive, being the youngest brigadier general holding important positions with the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Air Force when he directed wartime flying operations.
“My dear Hinchliffe, so lovely to see you,” he said. “What'll it be, old man?” His voice was rich and deep, and he spoke the most beautiful King's English.
“Just a pale ale, thanks,” Hinchliffe said, hoisting himself onto a bar stool.
“How's that lovely wife of yours?”
“Millie's very well, Branks, thank you—in all her bloom—with our second one on the way.”
“Congratulations! How far along is she?”
“Three months,” Hinchliffe answered.
Hinchliffe knew Brancker wore a toupee. He found it endearing and tried his best not to focus on it. The barman took a bottle of light ale from the shelf and poured it into a tall glass for Hinchliffe.
“I was hoping she'd paint my portrait—would she still be able?”
“Oh, absolutely. Please come. She'd be delighted to see you.”
“I certainly shall. Seen anything of our good friends Irwin and Johnny lately?”
“Well, I haven't seen Johnny since we did our last India trip, and Bird—not for a while.”
Captain Carmichael Irwin’s nickname, the future captain of Cardington R101, was 'Blackbird' or 'Bird'.
“You really ought to go up and see them, you know. They'd put down the red carpet for you.”
Hinchliffe took a swig of beer. He was thirsty. It tasted good.
“So, you're serious about breaking some world records?” Brancker continued.
“The £10,000 Daily Mail prize would set us up for life,” Hinchliffe said.
“What happened to Levine? I thought you were all set to go roaring off.”
“That all fell apart. I need to do something immediately.”
Brancker gave a sideways nod toward Lowenstein over in the corner. “What about him over there?” he whispered.
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe Page 2