At the Firefly Gate (8 page)

FOURTEEN

HENRY THE NAVIGATOR

Henry had another telling-off from Mum and Dad — but not too serious, as he could tell they thought it quite funny that he’d smuggled himself into school. Mrs Tregarth had phoned the education authority, and for the last two days of term Henry was added to the class list as a visitor. To Class 6M, though, he was Henry the Stowaway, Henry the Illegal Immigrant. Oddly, it made him quite popular.

‘Here’s the boy who loves school so much he couldn’t bear to stay away!’ Miss Murphy greeted him. ‘Simon, are you sure there’s no one else you’d like to invite to join the fun?’

The lessons today were hardly lessons — there was a team quiz, with prizes, and then a coach trip to the swimming-pool (Mrs Tregarth had told Henry to bring swimming things) and, lastly, making a huge collage on a whole side of the hall. Henry was looking forward to tomorrow, when everyone was bringing food for a party, and there was going to be a special visit from a theatre company.

The weather, though, didn’t match his cheerful mood at all. The sky turned so dark and heavy that Miss Murphy had to put the hall lights on. By home-time, as Henry waved goodbye to Simon and Elissa and walked across to Pat’s, the bruised, purplish-grey clouds seemed to be smothering the village, and the first rain-drops — fat and warm — were spitting at the dry, dusty ground. Henry had the uneasy sense of something bad waiting to happen. A low, thundery growl rumbled in the distance.

Grace, holding her school bag over her head, ran up the path behind him while he waited for Pat to answer the door. She pushed past Henry and dumped her bag, with only a grudging ‘Hi’ to her mother. Henry hadn’t seen her yesterday, as she’d gone to Tracy’s after school. Since Tuesday he’d been looking forward to trying out the flight simulation game; he hoped she hadn’t forgotten.

Pat put a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture — not that anyone was making any noise — and told them that Dottie was lying down in her room. ‘She’s not feeling too good. Must be this muggy weather. If it’s going to rain, that’ll clear the air, I hope. Might make her feel better.’

‘Aunt Dottie’s always ill,’ Grace grumbled.

Henry gave her a hard look, which she didn’t even notice. So much for being upset about Dottie, he thought. She was Two-faced Grace, all right.

‘I suppose you’re going to say don’t use the computer?’ Grace whinged, pausing on the bottom stair.

‘No, you can, as long as you keep the sound right down,’ Pat said.

Grace ran on up; Henry dithered, not sure what to do, with Dottie in bed and no one in the garden.

‘Why don’t you go up too, Henry?’ Pat suggested. ‘Grace can show you the game John’s borrowed for her.’

‘All right.’ Henry knew Grace didn’t want him, but he’d put up with that to get a look at the flight programme.

The door to the back room — Dottie’s room — was closed. Grace was clumping about in the room above. In Henry’s house this was the attic, reached only by a trap-door, but here it had been converted into an extra bedroom with its own narrow flight of stairs. Reaching the top landing, Henry saw that the extra storey was all one room, with walls that sloped with the angle of the roof. Slanting windows, on the garden side, let in light. The room contained Grace’s bed, some bookshelves, a curtained-off hanging space and the desk with the computer on it. There was a Tornado poster on one of the sloping walls. Grace was sitting on the only chair.

‘What’re you doing up here?’ She gave him a disparaging glance before turning back to the screen.

‘Come to see the flight simulation. You said —’

‘Yeah, right. You can get better ones than this now, but it’s still good practice for me. Like being a real trainee pilot. You can watch if you like.’

On to the screen came a row of dials, below a view of a runway seen head on. It was all amazingly detailed and realistic. From the computer’s speakers came the sound of an idling engine, reminding Henry of his Lancaster dream. The sound merged with the thunder that was grumbling in the distance like a lion about to stir itself. Butterflies quivered in Henry’s stomach as if he really were going to fly. He had only flown twice in his life, to Ireland and back, and he remembered how anxious he’d been. It would be different if he under
stood.
How could such an enormous metal machine, full of people and luggage, get into the air and stay there?

‘I’m going to take off,’ Grace said. ‘You use the mouse, like this, see.’ She demonstrated various movements. ‘Watch this.’

RELEASE PARKING BRAKES appeared on the screen above the dials. Grace clicked the mouse and Henry watched as the dotted line along the centre of the runway began to move towards him, faster and faster, as the engine noise increased. He heard the plane lift off. Now he was looking down at the criss-cross runways of the airfield, which tilted and fell out of view as the plane banked. He was flying out, over the sea. He could see the coastline dipping and rising as Grace made the plane swerve, using the mouse and keys.

‘Can I have a go?’ he asked, torn between nervousness and an itch to sit in the pilot’s seat.

‘Wait till I’ve finished,’ Grace said impatiently.

Then, above the engine noise, they heard Pat’s voice from the landing below, whisper-shouting because of Dottie. ‘Grace! Gracie? Come down here a minute!’

Grace tutted, then passed the mouse over to Henry. ‘OK, you can take over. But only till I come back.’

She went down the twisty stairs, out of sight.

Henry could only think about the buzzing sensation in his ears and the fluttering in his stomach. He hoped he wasn’t going to heave. With an effort, he made himself swallow, and the buzzing cleared a little. It was always like this — fighting himself, trying to get the better of his own fear. The plane was flying level now, into the darkness, but he knew from his instrument panel that the water was eight thousand feet below, and the English coast two miles ahead. To the others, he was Henry the Navigator, always calm, always working away at his calculations and his compass bearings; but perhaps they all shared the same sick terror that was only just kept under control.

That stupid song came into his mind, the one they sang in the mess:
They scraped him off the runway like a dollop of strawberry jam . . .
He hated that song; it made him feel sick to think about it, but when the others sang it he joined in anyway and pretended to laugh — as if he didn’t care, as if crashes were something to joke about.

All day, he’d had a bad feeling about tonight, with Rusty out of action, in sick bay with flu. The crew had always flown together, the seven of them, mates, for each of their twelve flights. This was number thirteen and, instead of Rusty, they had Ian Davy, a new flight engineer straight from training. At least they still had Skipper, a safe pair of hands if ever there was one.

You should never let yourself think you’d made it, not till you were safely on the runway, not even then . . .

When the impact came — jarring all sense out of him — his first coherent thought in the confusion was that he’d been expecting it. A fighter? Another bomber? There was no way of knowing. All he knew was that the aircraft had dropped abruptly and was yawing to the left, that he’d been thrown right out of his seat and there was a cold wind tearing through the fuselage.
This is it, this is it,
he thought, covering his ears, waiting for the implosion into the sea that would surely be the last thing he ever knew. Then, slowly, he registered that the plane was still flying, though God alone knew on what course. Somehow he was unhurt, but while he staggered to his feet he was being grabbed and pulled forward.

‘You’ll have to take over!’ It was Jackson, the wireless operator: shouting, frantic. ‘You’ll have to take over! Skipper’s right out of it and the new lad’s hurt bad. The back’s shot to pieces. It’s you or no one.’

Henry had done some flying during his training, but had never flown a Lanc before, let alone a seriously damaged one in darkness over the North Sea. Oddly, though, he felt less afraid now — with the plane almost falling to bits around him — than he had earlier, wrapped up in superstitious fears. The Lanc was still flying, somehow, and if anyone was going to get it down — and save the others on board, however many of them were still alive — it would have to be him.

Jackson dragged the unconscious Skipper out of his seat and Henry groped himself into position. He gripped the control wheel and stared at the row of dials, at the flickering needles. All sense had been knocked out of them too: airspeed zero? That was nonsense for a start. But the Flight Engineer — the new young chap, Rusty’s stand-in — was slumped lifeless against the wing-spar. It was bitterly cold in the cockpit. Henry felt blasted by icy air; the heating system had packed up altogether.

‘If you can just nurse the old kite back to the coast,’ Jackson said, ‘we might make it.’

‘You’d better bail out,’ Henry told him. ‘You and anyone else who can.’ It was a horrible prospect — the jump into the dark, the cold sea — but the chance of survival would be greater than staying in a plane that might burn up, disintegrate or crash-land.

Jackson, peering at the dials beside him, shook his head. ‘We’re staying put. All of us.’

Henry adjusted his feet on the rudder pedals and opened the throttles a little. The plane creaked and groaned in protest. Squinting, he could see nothing below, nothing at all. It was like flying into a black well, even if logic told him that every second was a second nearer home and safety. They might stay up here for ever, hanging on, coaxing the wounded aircraft — but then he looked at the fuel gauge and realised that of course they couldn’t. They’d have to come down, somewhere. And if they didn’t strike the coast soon, it would be in the sea.

They scraped him off the runway . . .
Well, that was one thing he needn’t worry about. There wasn’t going to be any runway, just the sea. The North Sea, all of it . . .

‘Getting a bit lighter now,’ Jackson said.

Straining his eyes, Henry saw a line of foam and dark shore beyond.

‘We can make it. We can.’ Jackson was only whispering, not daring to say it out loud. But all Henry could think was:
Unlucky thirteen. Unlucky thirteen. We’re not down yet.

He was aiming for the black rim of coast. As soon as they’d crossed it, he’d look for a level field, somewhere he could bring the plane down. It would be a messy landing but with luck they wouldn’t actually crash. They’d have to hitch a lift back to Risingheath when it was properly daylight. He’d promised Dottie . . .

If only he could see somewhere clear of trees . . .

He was letting the aircraft lose height, its failing engines giving up the struggle. His ears went fuzzy as the plane dropped steadily; all the time his eyes were searching the gloom. He saw the whiteness of surf as they crossed the coast at a sharp angle. The darkness was retreating slowly, washed with palest pink as dawn approached. Henry was staring, staring, till he thought his eyeballs would burst with the strain.

Then he saw it: straight ahead, directly in the flight path. A small town, clustered round a church tower. Roads spreading out like a map. Not a light showing, the blackout in perfect order. Henry thought of people asleep in bed, unaware of the Lancaster bomber that was about to crash-land in their midst.

Unless he did something.

Jackson saw it at the same time. ‘Get the nose up!’

‘I’m trying —’

He hauled at the throttles with all his strength, hoping to infuse life into the dying plane. Jackson staggered and fell back against the navigation desk. Henry saw the horizon tilt at a crazy angle. His weight thrown to one side, he had to struggle to keep his seat, bracing himself into it. Someone was shouting at him, but the plane was going into a banking dive he could do nothing to control. They were veering over the scrubland and the beaches, nose down, aiming straight at the sea. Henry heaved at the throttles, knowing the plane couldn’t respond. Hopeless even to think of making a landing now; too late to bail out.

His hands moved uselessly at the controls. The sea tilted up to slam itself at the plane. He knew he couldn’t survive the crash; none of them would.

This is it, then . . . my turn . . .

Unlucky thirteen . . .

He thought of Rusty Dobbs, safe in bed in sick bay. The seconds stretched out while he waited. He thought of Dottie, her hair streaming as she ran to meet him, her special smile that was just for him . . .

Then all his senses exploded in a starburst of dark.

The image on the screen splintered into fragments. Henry heard the impact, heard the fuselage splitting and smashing, saw bits of broken plane bob up on the computer screen. For a moment there was silence, then the picture reformed itself into the starting position, the row of dials, the runway stretching ahead, and the command RELEASE PARKING BRAKES. The sound was of an idling engine, ready to start all over again. Henry looked down at his hands on the keyboard, then round at Grace’s bed and the poster on the wall. It was raining hard outside, battering the sloping window.

‘Strawberry! Pip!’ Grace’s feet were thudding up the stairs. ‘Didn’t you hear me yelling? I’ve called you at least six times. Mum says we’ve got to unplug the computer and come down cos the thunderstorm’s coming nearer.’

Henry glanced dizzily at the window and saw it lit up by a double flash of sheet lightning. Impatient, Grace leaned over to grab the mouse and clicked it several times. The flight simulation screen disappeared and she switched off the computer, then unplugged it from the wall socket. ‘Come on. What’s the matter? You’re not frightened of a bit of lightning, are you?’

‘No.’ Henry got slowly to his feet. He followed Grace down, wondering whether anyone would believe him — whether he believed it himself — if he said that the computer had just shown him what had happened to Henry the Navigator, more than sixty years ago.

FIFTEEN

NEVER

Henry’s dreams, that night, were of black skies and black seas, wounded planes and computer screens.

As soon as he woke up, he realised that he must tell Dottie. He had to tell her everything, about all the strange things he’d been hearing and seeing and dreaming. He had to tell her that Simon’s great-grandfather, Rusty Dobbs, had been Henry’s best friend; that he’d flown with him on twelve missions and had been lucky not to die with him. Most of all, he had to tell her what he knew about Henry the Navigator — that Henry had died bravely.

Dottie needed to know that. There were people alive today, and their children and grandchildren, who didn’t know that they owed their lives to Henry, for ditching the Lancaster in the sea. For losing his own life.

‘No message. Nothing,’ Dottie had said, when she’d told him about Henry.

But Henry the Navigator
had
left a message, Henry was sure. Bits of it were scattered everywhere, waiting to be pieced together and made into sense. And, Henry felt sure, it was for Dottie, not for him; he was just the messenger.

Today was the end of term, he remembered: a special day at school, his last day ever in Year Six. All the same, he wanted to see Dottie first, or at the very least leave a message that he had something important to tell her later. He was ready early, before Dad had picked up his keys and gone out to the car. ‘See you later, Dad,’ he called, and went along to Pat’s.

Something was different. Henry could tell as soon as Pat opened the door. A quietness hung over the house. The postman came up the path behind him, whistling cheerfully, but he too seemed to realise that something was wrong. He handed over a postcard and two letters and went away in silence.

Pat’s eyes were rimmed with red and she held a crumpled tissue in one hand. She looked at him vaguely, then said, ‘Oh, Henry. We’ve all had a bit of a shock. I’m afraid poor Dottie passed away in her sleep last night.’

Passed away
— that meant — something inside Henry gave a sickening leap.
‘No!’
he wanted to shout, but his voice couldn’t get past the choking lump in his throat. He stared at Pat to make sure he hadn’t mistaken her. She blinked rapidly and made a gulping sound. It was so alarming seeing an adult almost crying that Henry turned away and blundered into the open gate.

‘What’s up?’

Dad, about to get into his car, stowed his briefcase inside and came over, and Pat had to explain again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Dad said, in a quiet, serious voice, putting an arm round Henry’s shoulders.

‘We’ve been half expecting it, but all the same —’Pat said. ‘Come on in for a minute, won’t you?’

They followed her inside without speaking. There was a strange stillness, as if the house knew that something had come to an end.
Passed away,
Henry thought. He knew it was adult-speak for dead, but it sounded different — as if she’d gone on somewhere else, moved on. Henry couldn’t imagine Dottie dead. He couldn’t take in what it meant.

‘What can I do to help?’ Dad asked.

‘It’s all right,’ Pat said. ‘There’s a lot to do, but I can’t think about it yet. Stay while I make coffee, if you’ve got a few minutes.’

Dad nodded. Pat went into the kitchen to fill the kettle; Dad made a quick call on his mobile to say he’d be a bit late for work. Then he said to Henry, ‘Poor old Dottie. You’ll miss her, won’t you?’

Henry couldn’t speak. What had happened was so big and so strange that it seemed wrong to chat normally. He wondered if Dottie was lying up there in her bed and he had the idea that if he went up and spoke to her she’d suddenly sit up and have a good idea for a Scrabble word. Then he saw the Scrabble box on a corner table, with its lid on, and Dottie’s green knitting rolled up on top of it. It seemed final — the odds and ends of Dottie’s life, tidied up. He tried to swallow and couldn’t.

Pat came back with mugs of coffee and squash for Henry. ‘I called the doctor late last night. I was a bit worried about her, she seemed unconscious rather than asleep, and he arranged for her to be taken straight into hospital. But she passed away without regaining consciousness. John’s there now, getting the forms and things.’

‘Do you mean,’ Henry kept his voice low and respectful, ‘do you mean that after I was here yesterday, when it thundered, she was never awake again?’

‘I don’t think she was. But then —’ Pat made an effort to sound more cheerful — ‘I don’t think she can have known. She just slipped away. It’s what she would have wanted — not lingering for months in hospital. She’d have hated that. Grace is out in the garden,’ she added. ‘Why don’t you go outside with your drink? It’s a bit gloomy for you in here.’

Henry didn’t want to see Grace, but he thought that perhaps Pat wanted him out of the way, so he picked up his glass and went. All he could think was that he’d missed the chance to tell Dottie about Henry’s heroic death. She would never know. Never. Never.

Never
was too big a word to fit inside his head. Never started now and went on for always.

It was damp and fresh outside after last night’s storm, the grass still damp. Grace was kicking a ball about in a half-hearted way, her face tight and scowling. Without even looking at Henry, she said, ‘You know about Aunt Dottie?’

‘Yes.’ He didn’t want to talk about it, not to Grace. She’d probably think it was exciting or say horrible things about dead people and funerals. Then she did look at him, and he saw that she had been crying. Really crying: her eyes were red and her nose swollen, and she looked as if she had a streaming cold. Henry thought that perhaps he ought to cry too, but he couldn’t. He felt shocked, numb, hollow inside, but not tearful. He was still trying to take in the fact that he’d seen Dottie only the day before yesterday, when she’d talked about coming to the fête, and now she wouldn’t be able to go there or anywhere else. Ever.

But she promised, he thought.

There was a gap where Dottie’s garden chair should have been. Henry stared at the empty space and saw Grace looking at it too. The whole place felt different without Dottie.

‘You know that knitting she was always doing?’ Grace said. ‘That green thing? It was for me. She was knitting me a jumper. I didn’t want it, but now I do. I want her to finish it.’ She glared at him. ‘I told Mum — I told her —’ Her voice wobbled. ‘I told her I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.’ A big tear spilled down her face, then another. She wiped them away, then kicked the football hard into the flower bed, where it snapped a big yellow daisy off its stalk.

‘She’s great, Aunt Dottie,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t think I’m daft, wanting to be a pilot. She told me, if I want it bad enough, then I’m bound to do it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Henry said. ‘She told me, too.’

What about me?
he was thinking. She’d said that to Grace and was knitting her a jumper, but what had she left for him?
Perhaps she only liked me because I reminded her of the other Henry,
he thought, and then:
How mean, to think that way about someone who’s only just died.

Grace picked the football out of the flower bed and wiped bits of damp grass and earth off it. ‘I’m going over to see Amber. It’s horrible here. Mum says I don’t have to go to school. Are you going?’

‘Don’t know,’ Henry said; it had suddenly become a day quite unlike any other.

Grace sniffed and wiped her hand across her nose. ‘If you want, in the summer holidays, I’ll teach you to ride properly. With a saddle and everything. Not like last time.’

Henry knew it was the closest she would ever get to saying sorry.

‘If you like,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

It was the closest he could get, too.