Flight of the Tiger Moth (8 page)

Ivy frowned. She carried a pile of plates into the kitchen and left them for Dad to wash. Dad always did the Sunday dinner ­dishes.

Jack could see that this discussion bothered her. He glanced up at his dad. His dad ­nodded.

“Why don’t we adjourn to the parlour? Have a little music.” Dad shooed everyone into the living ­room.

Mom opened the piano and hesitated. “Who wants to play? Jackie plays, but he never practices and I just finished playing at church.”

Trevor sat on the piano stool, lifted his feet off the floor, and twirled around once. He played a few chords. “Nice tone.” He ran his surprisingly long fingers over the keys in a lively popular ­song.

“I keep it tuned,” said Ivy. “I can’t stand any song going ­off-­key.” As Trevor played, Ivy’s worried face relaxed. She looked younger than she had for ages. She loved music so much and here were musicians in her own living room in ­Cairn.

“I know what you mean,” said Trevor. “My uncle let me use his piano when he was on the road. He kept his in tune himself.”

“This was my first husband Jack’s piano,” Ivy said, sorting through a pile of music that had been undisturbed on a shelf near the piano. “He wouldn’t play after he came home from the Great War. He said there was nothing to sing about. The piano gathered dust for months. I got it tuned after he died and played it myself.”

A hundred questions crowded into Jack’s head. Just how long was his uncle home before he died? Had he died of war wounds or the 1918 influenza epidemic? Where was Jack’s dad while this was going ­on?

All he knew for sure was that Uncle Jack Waters died after the First World War. Florence, Jack’s ­half-­sister, never saw her dad. If Uncle Jack had died of influenza, wouldn’t he have been told about it? Flo seemed to know. Jack remembered Flo’s promise to tell him more. She couldn’t do it ­now.

Trevor and Basil were singing “You are my Sunshine.” Trevor’s voice was a ­bell-­like tenor, the notes pure and crisp as fresh snow. Jack’s mind and body were pulled into the music and he let the niggling questions about what had happened years ago fade. He felt something akin to flying as the notes blended and filled the room with ­melody.

His mother handed out some Gilbert and Sullivan and Cole Porter sheet music. The small house filled with the sound of really good ­voices.

“Wes would love this.” Jack couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “He’s a bass too, Basil.”

“Why don’t you go get him?” asked ­Basil.

“He doesn’t do much on Sundays, being a pk and all.” Jack ­chuckled.

“What’s a pk?” asked Trevor. “Some kind of weird reli
gion?”

“Hardly,” laughed Ivy ­Waters.

“A pk is a preacher’s kid,” Jack ­said.

Trevor shook his head. “So much to learn and so little time.”

“Maybe we should form a quartet,” suggested Basil. “It would keep our minds off the war. We’ve already got a band formed at the base. I’ve got a few musical ideas I’d like to try out and Trevor is a fine musician. Maybe we could write and perform together. How’s that for an idea?” Basil certainly liked to ­talk.

Trevor, playing a medley of old ballads and Scottish tunes, smiled but didn’t answer. He had a light touch – his playing seemingly ­effortless.

“I’ve got a brilliant idea!” Basil bounced up out of his chair. “Why don’t we put on a musical evening – a musical revue?”

“Great idea.” Trevor struck a series of chords. “There’s lots of talent on the base. We’ve got students, ground crew and instructors to choose from.”

“There’s quite a bit of talent in the village too,” chimed in Ivy. “The Hobbs family are all singers.”

“There’s the fiddlers in Mortlach,” said Jack. “And Dad likes telling jokes.”

“I heard that.” Dad stuck his head in from the kitchen. “Someone told me the Boyles step dance.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Jack, trying to imagine the ­red-­faced elder Boyle doing anything that ­pleasant.

“When I first came to town we used to have lots of musical evenings,” Ivy said with a sigh. “Jack organized them. That’s how we met, Jack and I. I came to town with the Chautauqua. I was a Chautauqua girl.”

“What’s that?” asked Basil. “Sounds like some woolly beast.”

“It was a summer event with music, lectures and all kinds of entertainment,” said Jack’s mom. “It travelled from place to place, all across the Midwest in both Canada and the United States. There were local participants and touring artists.”

“And what did a Chautauqua girl do?” asked ­Basil.

Ivy’s face seemed to lose years as she spoke. “I sang solos and I also accompanied other singers on the piano.”

“Do they still have them?” asked ­Trevor.

Ivy shook her head. “For some reason they died out. Anyway, when Jack died I lost track of it. I had my baby, Florence, to take care of.”

“Well,” said Basil. “I think it’s time good old Cairn had another celebration.”

Jack watched his mother sitting in her armchair, not quite sure what her response should be to the handsome, talented pair of flyers in her usually quiet ­parlour.

“When’s your next holiday?” asked Basil. “Could we pull together a fête?”

Jack looked puzzled. “What’s a fête?”

“A fête is like a community party,” Mom said, and added, “Dominion Day’s coming, but that’s too soon, we’ll need several weeks of practice.”

“That’s right,” said Basil. “Ground school and flying lessons will keep us pretty busy the next couple of months. We won’t have a lot of free time.”

“Too bad my older brother isn’t here. He plays a great cornet,” Trevor ­added.

“Is he in the forces?” asked ­Jack.

“No, Terry’s at home. He’s…” Trevor bit his ­lip.

“What about Labour Day? That’s the first weekend in September,” Ivy said, cutting Trevor ­off.

The young airman bowed his head and picked a couple of crumbs off his uniform. Jack wondered if he was missing his family. Jack couldn’t imagine being thousands of miles away from his. It was bad enough having his sister gone all the time, not even coming home from Moose Jaw on weekends like she used ­to.

“What do you think, Jack?” Basil asked. “That’s just before we graduate – if we don’t wash out.”

“We head back to school the Tuesday following Labour Day. We’d have lots of time till then.”

“Labour Day, then,” said ­Trevor.

“Smashing!” said Basil. “That gives us plenty of time to put out a call for acts, line up the program and rehearse.”

Crash! Clatter! Clump! Noises and cries of pain came from the ­kitchen.

Jack ran. His father lay sprawled on the floor, a splintered stool beside him and the Blue Willow meat platter resting on his heaving ­chest.

“Are you all right?” Ivy ­cried.

“It only hurts when I laugh,” smiled Bill through his teeth. “I saved the platter. On the other hand, my back doesn’t feel so great.”

Ivy rushed to the telephone, lifted the crank. “Should I call the doctor?”

“If you do, everyone on the line will know I’m out of commission.”

“How?” asked ­Trevor.

“It’s a party line. There’s fourteen people could listen in. Besides, the operator has a mouth as big as the Grand Canyon.” Bill tried to ­grin.

Jack bent and rescued the platter, hoping his father wasn’t too badly hurt. He’d made a joke of it, but then he always did that. Jack and Trevor and Basil helped Bill up and half carried, half steered him into the living room where he collapsed on the ­couch.

Bill complained and moaned all the ­way.

“I’ll cycle over to the doctor’s house,” said ­Jack.

“I’ll be all right,” his father protested ­weakly.

“I’d rather have him check you out,” said ­Ivy.

“We’ll get Buddy and head back to the base,” said Trevor. “Thanks for a wonderful meal, Mrs. Waters. I haven’t had a joint for tea since I don’t know how long. Not with all the rationing back home.”

“We have rationing,” said Jack. “But I guess it’s nothing compared to yours.”

“The Cairn Cosmopolitan Music Society has just had its founding meeting,” Basil said. “I can hear those voices soaring already. Thanks for tea.”

Jack shook his head. Since when was a ham a joint, and Sunday dinner a tea? He liked Trevor a lot, but Basil was too much. He was a ­one-­man band, his enthusiasm as boundless as Buddy’s.

Jack walked with them into the backyard, the two flyers bouncing with energy, talking about how to look after Buddy, how to get practice time for their music. Buddy leaped and yipped as Jack untied the rope, then hurled his little body at the flyers as soon as he was ­released.

Jack bent down and tousled Buddy’s thick black fur behind his ears. “You be a good dog, you hear me? Don’t chase cars or planes and don’t bite.” He buried his face in the dog’s furry ruff, smelling that clean puppy smell and a trace of dust and sweat. He handed the dog to ­Basil.

“Are you coming out to work tomorrow after school?” asked ­Trevor.

“We’re in the first ­h-­hut.” Basil grasped Buddy’s leash and Trevor picked up the bag with the dish, an old towel for company and some food in a paper ­sack.

“Cheese is going to build Buddy a wee house,” Basil continued, “and Dexter will walk him. Life is looking up, one might even say soaring. We’ll have a swell time staging this fête. The sky is not the limit for any of us. Right, Jackie?”

Jack nodded. He grabbed his bike and walked partway down the main street with the two young flyers before he had to turn off. As he pedalled up the hill toward the doctor’s house, he turned and watched the group leave. Buddy trotted along on his leash between Basil and Trevor, out past the train station toward the air ­base.

A sudden gust of chilly wind chased tumbleweeds down the gravel street beside the ­house.

Buddy looked so small, struggling to keep up with the long legs and the steady walk of the two young men. Jack was tempted to run after them and take the dog back. He had saved Buddy. Why couldn’t he keep ­him?

Life wasn’t as simple as he’d always thought it was. Before the flying school, before the flyers, before ­Buddy.

Chapter ­12

Jack needed time to think about the day’s events,
the energy that had been let loose like a miniature volcano in the church and in his house. He’d never seen his mother so ­excited.

He took a deep breath and shook himself like a damp dog. Then he rode over to the doctor’s house. The doctor was out in the country delivering a baby but his wife said she’d tell him about Jack’s dad’s accident. “Sounds like something Bill would do.” She ­smiled.

A village was like a big family. The good, the bad, the strange and the ­run-­of-­the-­mill – they all lived in Cairn. Until the aerodrome came, it had been Jack’s whole, private world. Now it seemed his village had shrunk to a dot on a prairie that stretched for thousands of miles, all the way to a hospital in England and, he hoped, somewhere safe in the French ­countryside.

The streets of Cairn lay quiet in the Sunday afternoon sun. Pine siskins serenaded from the elms. Most of the adult males of the town were snoozing on old couches in kitchens, or, if they were lucky, on a porch swing or hammock. Mothers and older sisters tidied dishes and gossiped. C
hildren played quietly in yards. All the stores were closed and shuttered. Even the Chinese restaurant closed on Sundays until ­suppertime.

Jack hoped Buddy would be all right. There was only a week more of school and then Jack would be working five days a week at the air base, able to see Buddy every day. This next week would be pretty easy. There were a couple of exams left and the field day with the kids from ­Mortlach.

Jack pulled up behind his house and parked his bike. He went in, letting the screen door bang behind him. He’d have to fix that. His dad was always trying to get around to it. Jack could hear his voice coming from the ­parlour.

“Maybe that’s the doctor.”

“What are we going to do if you’re laid up, Bill?” His mother’s voice sounded ­anxious.

“We’ll have to wait and see what Doctor Kowalski says. Right now it just hurts like heck and my left leg feels numb.”

“The doctor’s out on call.” Jack poured himself a glass of cold water from the pitcher in the icebox and joined his parents. “He’ll come when he gets back. How are you?”

“Oh, I’ll live.”

“If you had fixed that stool when I asked you to…” Jack’s mom knitted furiously on a khaki scarf for a soldier. “And we had such a great afternoon too.”

“Do you need anything, Dad?” Jack was itching to wander over to Wes’s house and tell him about Trevor and Basil’s plans. “Something to read?”

“I’m too sore. It’s a sorry Sunday when I can’t read the
Reader’s Digest
and get my supply of jokes for the week. Who wants stale jokes? That’s worse than stale bread.”

“This is serious, Bill,” Ivy chided. “Why do you have to make everything into a joke?”

“I thought you married me because I made you laugh.”

Bill Waters winked at Jack. He tried to shift on the pillows and grimaced. “Did you hear the one about the man with the wooden leg named Charlie?”