Flight of the Tiger Moth (9 page)

“What was the name of his good leg?” asked Jack. It was an old joke. One he and his dad used every once in a while. “I’m going over to Wes’s to tell him about the big Labour Day concert. Is there anything you need before I go?”

“Find out when Catherine Anne is coming home. I need her in the choir, especially now that we’ve got big plans.” His mother sounded downright ­happy.

“You need Cathy to keep those young flyboys happy,” laughed Bill. “Who’s going to warn the poor girl she’s being used as bait?”

“Bill!”

Jack hurried out before anything more could be ­said.

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The McLeods were sitting in the side yard.
Lemonade, tea and cookies sat on the wooden table. Wes was reading Shakespeare’s
Macbeth
to bone up for the exam. He’d ace it anyway. English was his best ­subject.

His mother and father were chatting. Jack ­interrupted.

“I’ve got news. Some good and some bad. Dad fell and hurt his back – and Trevor and Basil are going to sing in the choir and help us put on a concert for Labour Day.”

“Is Bill all right?” asked Dr. McLeod. “Should I go over to your house?”

“It’s his bones that need fixing, not his soul, Ian.” The minister’s wife laughed. “You just want to go talk to Bill, admit it.”

Jack grabbed a couple of cookies, threw himself into a folding chair, and described the afternoon’s adventures. Then he remembered Ivy’s request. “Mom wants to know when Cathy’s coming home. She needs another strong alto.”

“Oho, do I sense a little conspiracy?” asked Mrs. McLeod. “Just how old are Trevor and Basil?”

“Well, they’ve got to be over eighteen to be in the raf,” said ­Jack.

“Cathy’s been so busy at Normal School learning how to be a teacher that I don’t think she’s had time for a boyfriend,” said ­Wes.

“She’ll have plenty of time for that nonsense when she’s older,” said Dr. McLeod. “She’s taking the summer off and then she’s been hired to teach elementary school right here in Cairn.”

“When’s she coming home?” asked ­Jack.

“She’ll be on the train tonight.” Mrs. McLeod gathered up the tea things and carried them ­inside.

“I’ll pop over and see how Bill is,” said Dr. ­McLeod.

“We’ll go for a walk and check out the poison ivy crop,” said ­Wes.

“Don’t you go sneaking any baseball mitts with you,” his father said. “Think what the church elders would say.”

As the boys strolled down the street Jack said, “If it weren’t for the church elders, I bet he’d let you play games on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Dad doesn’t think God is as fussy as old farmers. Neither do I. Jesus wasn’t much for following the rules and regulations of his day.”

“I guess you’re right,” Jack said. “I let Trevor and Basil take Buddy to the base.”

“As a mascot? That sounds like a good idea.”

“I didn’t have a chance to talk it over with you. Do you think I did the right thing?”

“Tell me more about Trevor and Basil.”

“They are great!” Jack said. “As I said they’re going to join the choir and they want to write a musical revue for Labour Day weekend.”

“Then chances are Buddy’s in good hands, Jackie.”

The boys strolled through town, hands in their pockets, kicking pebbles ahead of them. Jimmy Boyle, home from Moose Jaw, drove past them in his dad’s ­beat-­up pickup truck. He shook his fist at Jack, raced his motor and sped out of ­town.

“What a jerk!”

“Dad says the Boyles step dance. Who would have guessed?”

Wes shook his head. “I, for one, can’t see them doing it. Jimmy doesn’t look like a dancer. More like a boxer. What’s he mad at you for?”

“His dad probably got after him,” replied Jack. “I think he’s mad because I rescued Buddy and because I got a ‘cushy’ job at the airfield.”

“You work hard, Jack.”

“Jimmy doesn’t know that.”

The two friends walked to the tiny park at the end of the block. Jack flopped down on an old ­swing.

“Trevor looks awfully young to be a pilot.” Wes hung upside down from the frame of a baby swing that was long gone, then somersaulted to the ­ground.

“Dad said a lot of the English boys lie about their age to get in the air force. Maybe Trevor did. He doesn’t need to shave yet. I could tell looking at him.”

Wes laughed. “If he did, he’s not the only one around here that hasn’t told the whole truth. You’ve got a few secrets of your own.”

“If you ever tell, I’ll –”

“I know. It’s a secret I have to take to the grave with me. How Jack Waters learned to fly.”

“Don’t push me, Wes.”

“I cross my heart and hope to die. Okay?”

“Wes,” his mother called from the McLeods’ front porch. “Time to go. Dad is taking us to the Ambassador Café in Moose Jaw before we fetch Cathy.”

Wes hurried away, leaving Jack swinging lazily. He thought about Basil and Trevor. They were starting training and had no idea that he was ahead of them in flying skills. He jumped off the swing and headed out of the sleepy village, instead of home to check on his dad. Sometimes his secret clamoured to get out like a drowning gopher out of a ­hole.

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Jack wandered out the gravel road
that led to the Hobbs’ farm with its wonderful swimming hole. Melvin and Arnie had dammed the creek, decades ago, before they went to the Great War. He couldn’t walk that far today. He just wanted to put some distance between himself and his life in ­Cairn.

In the last few years so many people had passed through his life, like the trains rolling across the prairies or the ducks and geese that spent summers on the sloughs and ponds around Thunder Creek. Everyone was bound for somewhere else – off to the war in Europe or the Far East, or moving to Calgary, Edmonton, Regina or Saskatoon, where they would work in munitions factories or manufacturing ­plants.

Now these two young guys had walked into his life and stirred things up. He wanted to join in and get involved but he worried about investing too much in people who were just going to up and leave in a couple of ­months.

Jack shaded his eyes from the setting sun and scanned the sky. A flock of geese flying in formation headed west to the wetlands near Thunder Creek. He whistled a crazy song his mom had taught him to play: “Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.”

His mother hadn’t played funny songs since Sandy went missing. She’d had days when she hardly talked because she was so sad. Every couple of weeks she’d pack a box of tinned goods and treats to send to Flo. The last time she had put in a bag of liquorice allsorts, Flo’s favourites. “It’s the only sweet things she’s likely to get,” she’d ­said.

She’d taped the box carefully, trying to guarantee its safe delivery to somewhere in England. “All we can do is hope she doesn’t get sent to a field hospital near the front lines. That’s really dangerous.”

Jack figured if Flo had the chance to go to the front, she would. She couldn’t tell them straight out. The censors wouldn’t let her. Besides if she told, Mom would worry all the ­more.

Mom once said that if Jack had been through the First World War, the Depression, the dirty thirties with the dust and drought, and now Hitler, he’d know why she was a ­worrywart.

After Flo left for England, Ivy had confided in Jack, “You’re all I’ve got left, Jackie. Whatever you do, don’t get hurt.”

He’d promised not to. But if someone needed help, what would he ­do?

Chapter ­13

After winning the ­five-­hundred-­yard race
at the field day on Monday, Jack was feeling pretty chipper. Wes had won the broad jump. On Tuesday, Jack and Wes wrote their last exams. Jack knew he’d aced Science and Math. He was a winner whether anyone knew it or ­not.

In the afternoon Wes’s sister Cathy came to the high school to talk about careers. She sounded a little nervous and flustered, probably because her little brother Wes was sitting there, grinning like a gawky crane with red hair and ­freckles.

Wes figured Cathy was really there because the principal wanted her to meet the other teachers and get a feel for the way the school worked, since she would be teaching Grades One to Four in ­September.

Jack was so amazed at how pretty Cathy looked in her pastel blue skirt and white blouse, her blondish hair cut in a short bob, her blue eyes dancing, that he couldn’t hear much of what she was saying. He’d always thought of Cathy as Wes’s skinny older sister. When had she turned into a beautiful young woman, he wondered? Too bad she was nearly ­nineteen.

Girls. Jack smiled. Maybe he was the one who had ­changed.

After school, Wes, Jack and Cathy strolled down the street to the Chinese restaurant for milkshakes. “Is the principal always so formal?” Cathy asked. “He didn’t seem so serious when he interviewed me at Easter.”

“When he’s in front of the whole school, Mr. Mackintosh tries to sound severe,” said Wes. “But during the World Series playoffs he hauls his ­short-­wave radio into class so we can keep up with the score.”

“That’s right!” Jack had a hard time speaking around the knot in his throat. He felt as if his feet and hands had lead weights in them. He’d never felt this way around Cathy before, not even last Christmas when she was home for the holidays. “He made jokes when he was handing me the prize for winning the race against Mortlach’s finest.” Jack blushed. There, at least Cathy would know he had some skills. He wished he could tell her he could ­fly.

“Jack’s our best runner, for sure.” Wes gazed at Jack. “Not as modest as I thought, though.”

A couple of grade twelve students in the front booth waved to Cathy. “We heard you guys are planning a big musical night,” said Tommy Thompson, the pharmacist’s son. “Too bad we’ll miss it.”

“No loss, though,” said Earl, a skinny guy with bushy black eyebrows that met in the middle. “We’re not very talented.”

“Why are you going to miss it?” Cathy ­asked.

“We’re going to join the Royal Canadian Air Force,” said Tommy.
“We’re off to the manning depot in Regina to sign up.”

“Will you be training at the Moose Jaw base?” Jack ­asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Tommy said. “Probably.”

“Maybe you’ll be able to make the fête, then,” Cathie ­said.

“I hear you have two hotshot raf flyers helping.” Earl drained his chocolate soda with a noisy ­slurp.

“They haven’t flown anything yet,” Wes said. “They just got here. But they can sure sing.”

“Unlike us,” said Earl. “Say, did you hear Jimmy Boyle and Repete tried to sign up? They lied about their age.”

“Nobody believed them.” Tommy laughed. “My cousin in Moose Jaw told me. He saw them on the street. They worked in construction for a few days but got fired for being late. So they’re back in the village, swearing and fighting as usual.”

“Dad heard that Jimmy’s driving for his dad,” Jack said. “I don’t know what Repete’s doing.”

“Jimmy’s mad at Jack for rescuing one of his puppies,” said ­Wes.

“Watch out for him,” said Tommy. “He holds grudges a long time. Shot holes in my dad’s sign because he wouldn’t sell him cigarettes. No proof, though. The Mounties couldn’t do anything.”

The two grads paid Mr. Wong and headed out the ­door.

“I have to meet these raf fellows.” Cathy blushed. “Everyone’s been telling me about them. I hope they aren’t snobs.”

“You’ll meet them tonight at choir practice,” said Jack. “See for yourself.”

The three kids carried their milkshakes to a booth by the window, next to the Hobbs twins. Howie Wong, the restaurant owner, hummed as he polished the tables. “Coming In on a Wing and a Prayer” was his favourite tune this ­week.

“Mr. Wong should sing in the chorus at the fête,” suggested ­Wes.

“I’ll tell Basil and Trevor.” Jack sipped his chocolate shake and gazed at Cathy McLeod from under his lowered eyelids. Suddenly a voice from the neighbouring booth spoke what Jack was only thinking. “You’ve turned into quite the young lady, Catherine Anne McLeod.” Melvin Hobbs swooped his old fedora off his head and bowed. Arnie touched the brim of his worn straw ­hat.

“Thanks, Mr. Hobbs.” Cathy smiled at ­them.

“Glad to see you aren’t heading off to war, my dear,” said ­Arnie.

Cathy sighed. “I wish there was another way of making tyrants go away.”

“We get more proficient at killing each other with each passing decade,” Arnie sighed. “I heard the Nazis are working on a new rocket.”

“We’re learning to kill people hundreds of miles away,” said ­Mel.

“Whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not kill’?” Cathy said. “Educated people should figure out alternatives to fighting.”

There was a sudden silence in the restaurant. Most Canadians were behind the war effort one hundred percent. It took a pretty determined person to voice a contrary view. Jack admired Cathy’s spunk. She was a pretty strong character. He didn’t agree with her, though. Jack didn’t know what else they could do now but ­fight.

Cathy handed Wes a quarter for her milkshake and ­stood.

“Good luck with your new job!” Melvin lifted his hot coffee as if it was a toast and took a sip. “This stuff gets worse by the week, Howie.”