The Flyer (38 page)

CHAPTER 37

There was still an hour before dawn. Outside it was dark, but in the hangar the two SE5s stood beneath electric lights. The damage they had sustained two days earlier had been repaired by cannibalising parts from some of the other machines. Sergeant Chambers looked on as William inspected the plane he would be flying.

‘Was there any damage to the engine?’ William asked.

‘It was a write-off, sir. We had to get a new one sent to us.’

‘We’d better start her up anyway.’

He climbed up to the cockpit while Chambers took hold of the prop. The engine fired at the first try. William let it run for a few minutes until he was satisfied and then he switched off and climbed down.

‘Have the guns been sighted?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. The Vickers is loaded with incendiaries.’

‘Good.’ William looked at his watch and wondered where Hemming was.

‘Is there any news about the CO, sir,’ Chambers asked.

‘No, I’m afraid not. He was alive when he left here, but that’s all I know.’

‘I hope he’s alright, sir.’

‘Yes. So do I.’

William wondered what the men had heard. The official line was that it was an accident, but he doubted that anyone believed it. He glanced at the time again and was about to send somebody for Hemming, when Henry arrived.

‘What are you doing here?’ William asked. ‘You were supposed to go to St Omer with the others.’

‘I changed places with Hemming. He wasn’t feeling well.’

‘He looked alright last night, what’s wrong with him?’

‘I don’t know. What does it matter anyway?’

‘I don’t suppose it does,’ William said, though he didn’t believe Hemming was really ill. He wondered what he should do. He didn’t like the idea of taking Henry with him after what happened to Christopher, but if he ordered him to stay behind, Henry would be bound to take it as a personal affront. Despite everything, they still had to manage to get along somehow. William knew there was a good chance he’d be asked to take Christopher’s place, and the last thing he needed was Henry carrying a chip on his shoulder.

‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you,’ he said, taking Henry aside so they wouldn’t be overheard. ‘I wanted to ask you what was in the note you took from Christopher’s desk?’

‘What note?’ Henry stared at him insolently.

‘I saw it,’ William said. ‘We both know it was there, but if you want to pretend there wasn’t one, I won’t argue. The point is, I hope you understand that what Christopher did had nothing to do with what you imagine you saw at the hotel.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. What happened was an accident. He was cleaning his gun.’

‘He’d had enough, Henry,’ William persisted. ‘It could happen to any of us.’

Henry regarded him with a flat, cold look. ‘Shouldn’t we go before it gets light?’

It was pointless trying to talk to him, William thought. He thought again about ordering Henry to stay behind. After what happened to Christopher nobody would question his decision and there would be no question of a slight against Henry, but he doubted Henry would see it that way.

‘If you’re worried about the mission, I can go by myself,’ Henry said loudly.

Some of the men overheard and glanced their way, and William wondered if in some way Henry was trying to compensate for Christopher’s actions. It was getting late, and the sooner they set off, the less likelihood there was of running into a patrolling jasta. He knew if he denied Henry the chance to go he would take it as a public humiliation, and admitted he had no choice.

‘Alright,’ he said.

The planes were pushed outside onto the grass. The sky was beginning to lighten, black fading to grey. The guns had been silent for most of the night, but they would start up again soon when the attack was renewed. At least if they could destroy the German balloon they might save the lives of a few men.

‘We’ll do the same as last time,’ William said as he and Henry walked out onto the field. ‘I’ll attack first while you cover me. If I don’t set fire to it, we’ll change places.’

Henry looked at him, anger flashing in his eyes. He was about to protest, but evidently changed his mind. ‘Whatever you say. After all, I expect they’ll make you CO now, won’t they,’ he said nastily.

William was again tempted to send him back. It was too late though. It was almost light already. He reached his own machine and climbed up, and then, as he settled into his seat nodded to Chambers to prime the engine.

‘Good luck, sir, see you for breakfast.’

‘Thanks,’ William said, and flipped on the switch. ‘Contact.’

The engine fired, shattering the dawn.

*****

The recent un-seasonal heavy rain had passed and the day dawned with the promise of fine weather. The night sky faded to blue, and as the sun scorched the horizon, the verdant land unfolded far beneath the wings of William’s plane. Away from the lines, dusty roads and lanes dissected fields and meadows, skirting thick woods of beech and oak and farms whose ochre roofs were visible from miles around. In the middle of it all was a ruined swathe of mud, where two armies faced each other and no building or tree was left standing.

The balloon rose with the dawn into the still air, a bloated sausage tethered to the ground a thousand feet below. The course William set took them across the lines to the south, so that they approached the ridge from the east with the sun behind them to hide them from the observer. At fifteen thousand feet, William searched the sky for enemy planes, and seeing nothing he signalled to Henry and began to dive. The engine note climbed and the wind sang in the wires. At ten thousand feet he saw Henry level out to cover him, and then he was on his own, hurtling ever closer to his target. He cocked the guns and fixed the ring on the balloon, and watched it grow bigger with every second.

His heart was racing, blood pumping through his veins in a rushing tide. He thought of Oundle, a schoolroom dusty with chalk, shafts of sunlight slanting through the tall windows, and the sonorous tones of a master reciting Ovid. He used to look out of the window to a glimpse of green fields beyond the town, where the path followed the banks of the river to Fotheringhay. Then his thoughts fled to Scaldwell, where three oaks stood on the green and the church stood on a low hill where he’d taken Elizabeth that day to show her his parents’ grave, so that she would know where he came from.

On the ground, the gun crews began to shoot at him and the sky filled with unfurling clouds of smoke. He looked up to check where Henry was, and it didn’t surprise him that he was nowhere to be seen. It was too late to do anything about it. If he was quick he would see to the balloon quickly enough and then he would zoom up and head back to the lines before the jastas had a chance to come after him. What excuse would Henry give when he got back, William wondered? Some fault or other with his engine no doubt, though nothing would be found.

The balloon was almost in range. William gripped the trigger and waited.

EPILOGUE

JULY 1920
 

From the air the Northamptonshire countryside is a rural idyll of gently undulating fields and woods. Beneath a blazing sun hay is loaded onto carts and wheat is being harvested. The workers pause at midday to rest in the shade and eat their dinner. Children run off to play hide-and-seek, or to splash in the streams where they try to catch fish.

Pitsford House stands proudly isolated within a sea of green, approached by a long driveway flanked by leafy trees. A motor car travels along the drive and stops outside the house, and a figure gets out from behind the wheel and climbs the steps to the entrance.

When she takes off her hat, Elizabeth reveals that she wears her hair short. She goes inside without ringing the bell. As she crosses the hallway her heels click on the floor. She passes Morton, who is going in the opposite direction, and she smiles warmly as they greet one another.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.’

Hello, Morton. Is he outside?’

‘I believe he’s on the terrace, Miss.’

‘Thanks.’

At the doors leading to the terrace, Elizabeth pauses. Christopher is standing with one hand in the pocket of his jacket. He’s wearing a pale suit with an open-neck shirt. In profile he looks just as he did before the war and Elizabeth feels a momentary sense of sadness. Some instinct alerts him to her presence and he turns to her and smiles. The right side of his face is scarred and slightly twisted. He is partially paralysed. His right hand is useless and he has a limp when he walks, but at least he is alive. It is, in fact, a miracle that he is alive.

‘Hello, Liz,’ he says. ‘Would you like a drink before lunch?’

‘Yes, please. Can I have a small gin?’

She doesn’t offer to get it herself. He wants to do things even if it takes him a little longer than somebody else. He jokes about his disability, but she knows that it eats away at him. It is a permanent reminder of what he did. It’s worse whenever he thinks of Henry, who was killed in October, two months after William disappeared.

They sit outside on the terrace for a little while. Christopher tells her that he’s thinking of going into business.

‘Land is all very well, and of course I wouldn’t ever want to sell, but the fact is, I need another income if I’m going to keep this place up. I think things will only get worse with all these new taxes they’re talking about.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Funnily enough, I’m thinking about something to do with aviation. It’s the future, Liz.’

She is surprised under the circumstances. For a moment neither of them speak, reminded of William.

‘Are you still going to France?’ he asks eventually.

‘Yes. I’m leaving next week.’

‘Liz…’

‘What?’

‘It’s just that I hate the idea of you living like this,’ Christopher says tentatively. ‘Always hoping that someday he’ll turn up.’

She smiles. He cares about her, she knows that. He thinks she is allowing her life to drift by. She opens her bag and takes out an envelope, a letter addressed to her. ‘This came ten days ago.’

He looks at the envelope. There is no return address but the postmark is Canada.

‘Look inside,’ she tells him.

He takes out the single sheet of paper and reads what has been written on it.

Dear Elizabeth,
 

I will be at the churchyard in Thierry on the eighth.
 

Christopher looks at her with a puzzled frown. ‘It isn’t signed.’

‘No.’

‘Is that all there was?’

‘Yes.’

He reads the lines again as if it might offer some other clue as to who sent it, as Elizabeth has done a hundred times. ‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’ he asks.

‘No. But I never saw his handwriting.’

He stares at her. ‘Liz, this could be from anyone. If it was him, surely he would have said more.’

But she has thought about it a lot. He wouldn’t know anything about her. She might be married. She might even be dead. If not from the war, then from the influenza epidemic.

Christopher sees that she will not be dissuaded. ‘And what if it isn’t him?’

‘Then nothing will have changed,’ she says.

*****

On the morning of the eighth, Elizabeth leaves the hotel early. It is the same one where Christopher stayed after he left the hospital. The previous evening she had dined alone in the dining room. Every time the door opened she looked up, her heart beating wildly, but she was always disappointed.

A taxi takes her to Thierry. She sits silent and tense, her bag containing the letter on her knee. Now that she is here, she can’t believe that he will come. She thinks it is a mistake. She imagines she will spend the entire day waiting fruitlessly in the hot sun. She doesn’t know what to tell the taxi driver, but decides she will tell him to come back for her at six o clock. If he hasn’t come by then, she will accept that he isn’t going to.

The village is just as she remembers it. She looks eagerly at the church and the surrounding graveyard. When the taxi stops she pays the driver and hurries to the gate. Her heart is racing and she cannot control the hope that suddenly consumes her. At the gate she looks toward the tree at the back where his grave is, and of course there is nobody there. The graveyard is empty, as deep down she knew it would be.

When she opens the gate the hinge creaks. She walks slowly along the path, and when she is level with the church she stops. She sees there is somebody leaning against the tree in the early shade, which is why she didn’t see him before. He sees her and turns to face her and steps out onto the path. For a few moments they look at one another, twenty yards apart. He smiles, and though she would like to smile she cries instead, though she does not know why, because she has never been more happy.

He begins to walk towards her. She manages a single step before she breaks into a run.

*****

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Stuart Harrison grew up in England, but now lives in the Bay of Islands, New Zealand. He is the author of five previously published novels, including The Snow Falcon which was translated into twelve languages and became an international bestseller when it was released in 1999. A new version of The Snow Falcon, completely rewritten and revised from the original, has been released, in conjunction with The Flyer, as both a print book and ebook.  

The Flyer, which took two years to write, is certain to appeal to everyone who enjoyed The Snow Falcon. More information about Stuart and his work can be found at www. stuartharrison.com where the author can also be contacted. 

BOOKS

Published by Harper Collins in the UK: 

The Snow Falcon, 1999 

StillWater, 2001 

Better Than This, 2002 

Lost Summer, 2003 

Aphrodites Smile, 2004 

Published in 2012 available from online retailers:  

The Flyer 

The Snow Falcon (Revised) 

More coming in 2013 writing as both Stuart Harrison and Stuart C Harrison. See my website for details.