The Rainbow and the Rose (10 page)

‘Are you a friend of his?’ she asked.

‘Not a close one,’ I said. ‘He taught me to fly, and I’ve known him off and on since then.’

‘Well, I’ve known him better, and much longer,’ she retorted. ‘He’s an out and out rotter. I don’t want to see anybody taking any risks, real risks, that is, over a man like that. You or anybody else.’

‘I thought you said that you had come to help him – from Adelaide.’

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I’m his daughter. If there’s anything needs doing – nursing home or surgeon’s fees or paying him an allowance till he’s fit to earn his living again – I’ve got a sort of duty to him, I suppose. Dennis feels like I do about that – we’ll have to see him right. That’s why I came over. Apart from that, I don’t want to have anything to do with him.’

‘Well, you may as well go back to Adelaide right away,’ I said curtly. ‘He seems to have plenty of money for anything he needs, and he’s got friends who’ll look after him.’

She was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘You don’t like me much, do you?’

‘Lady,’ I replied, ‘I don’t like you because I’ve been up all night and I’ve done quite a bit of flying and you’re keeping me out of my bed. I’ll be in a better frame of mind to talk to you tomorrow, if there’s anything to talk about.’

She got to her feet; she was on the move, anyway. ‘If you don’t want to listen to what I’ve got to say – well, that’s the end of it,’ she said.

‘I don’t, if it’s just grumbles about Johnnie Pascoe’s character,’ I replied. ‘That’s not material at the moment. The thing we’ve got to do is get a surgeon to him.’

‘If it’s worth it.’ She paused, and then she said, ‘I had lunch in the hotel with Dr Parkinson and Mr Barnes, who flew him up from Hobart. Dr Turnbull came in afterwards and he was telling them about the two flights that you’ve made today down to the Lewis River.’

‘What about them?’

‘When Dr Turnbull told them what you’d done, they were horrified at the risks that you’d been taking. Dr Parkinson says he doesn’t want to fly with you.’

I was very angry. ‘I never heard such nonsense. At a time like this things have to be stretched a bit.’

She picked up her bag. ‘I don’t know anything about flying,’ she said. ‘I only know what they were saying in the hotel – people who do know about it. They think you’re crazy. I think that, too, because Johnnie Pascoe simply isn’t worth it. That’s what I came to say, and now I’ll leave you to your bed.’

She moved towards the door, but I stood motionless. I didn’t like her spite against her father, but there might have been a twisted element of kindness in her visit, kindness to me and to my family. I stood in thought for a moment, and my eye fell upon the portrait photograph on the wall behind her. ‘Was your mother’s name Judy?’ I enquired.

She looked at me curiously. ‘Judy Lester,’ she said. ‘That was her stage name. You must remember her.’

Vague memories of childhood flitted across my mind. ‘I think she was a bit before my time,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard the name.’

‘Our real name was Lichter,’ she said, ‘but she didn’t use that on the stage. Why did you ask?’

‘Only because there are three photos of her in this room,’ I told her curtly. ‘That’s a funny thing, if he’s the sort of man you say.’

She was startled. ‘Where?’

‘On the wall behind you.’

She turned and looked at the many photographs, and then her eyes fastened on the portrait. She moved close and squinted at it a little; she seemed to be short-sighted and afraid of the disfigurement of spectacles. ‘That’s my mother,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a copy of that photograph somewhere.’

I did not speak. I stood there thinking what a fool I was to have interested her in the pictures. She would probably stay half an hour longer.

She looked at the picture of the girl posed in a golfer’s swing, and said, ‘That’s her, again. Of course, she was much younger, then.’ And then her eye wandered to the
one of Johnnie and Judy in front of the rotary engine of the biplane fighter, the laughing one. She looked at it for a moment or two, and then indicated the laughing boy in the R.F.C. jacket with the drooping wings and the two medal ribbons. She turned to me and asked, ‘Is that him?’

‘Of course it is,’ I said. ‘That’s Johnnie Pascoe. Don’t you know him?’

‘I was only two when he deserted us,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember him.’

‘Didn’t you ever meet him – when you grew up?’

She shook her head. ‘We lived in Gardena, Los Angeles – that’s where I was brought up. Ma went there for the movies, and then when her contract ended she kept a rooming house. That was after she divorced my stepfather.’ She paused, and then she indicated the photograph. ‘
He
lived in England in between the wars.’

‘You’ve never met him at all?’

‘I flew by AusCan once from Vancouver to Sydney,’ she said. ‘Coming back from England, about three years ago. He was the pilot from Honolulu to Nandi in Fiji. They change crews there, or something.’

‘Did you make yourself known to him?’ I asked.

She laughed shortly. ‘I wouldn’t demean myself. Dennis thought I ought to say something, but I said, better not. All I’d have had to say would have been that he deserted my mother, her and me, and we’d got on very well without him.’ She paused. ‘But it was interesting, seeing him. I saw him once upon a newsreel, too. Opening the airline, from some place to another.’

I made another effort to unstick her so that I could go to bed. ‘Well, there it is,’ I said. ‘He’s kept those photos forty years.’

Her lips curled a little. ‘Evidence of a conquest.’ She glanced around the room. ‘He’s got quite a few others to keep her company. Evidence of other conquests, I suppose.’

She was looking over to the photograph of Brenda Marshall, standing by the Moth in her white overall with her smile and her short, curly hair. I disliked this woman very much, her attitude, her cynicism, her whole way of looking at things. I didn’t like any part of her, and she was keeping me out of bed. ‘He’s over sixty years old,’ I said. ‘If he likes to keep photographs of women who’ve been kind to him all through his life, that’s nothing to do with us. We’ve no right to be in this house anyway, but I’ve got to use it because I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ll have to ask you to go away now, and leave me to it.’

She asked, ‘Can I use your telephone to call a taxi?’

I glanced out of the window; momentarily the rain had stopped, but the clouds were still scudding low before a high wind. ‘It’s not raining now,’ I said. ‘You can walk it into town in ten minutes.’

She flushed angrily. ‘All right, I’ll go and leave you to sleep. When you wake up you’d better think of going back to the mainland. I don’t suppose any of the doctors here will want to fly with you.’

I showed her out, and she marched up the road picking her way between the puddles, an arrogant, slightly absurd middle-aged woman in a blue suit and high-heeled, black patent leather shoes, most unsuitable for country walking. I went back into the sitting room and poured myself another whisky from Johnnie Pascoe’s bottle with a hand that shook with irritable anger. I sat down in his chair before the fire and lit a cigarette, to cool off for a few minutes before I went to bed. I knew I wouldn’t sleep if I went to bed as angry as I was just then.

That was a bad, spiteful woman, and I mustn’t let her get under my skin. Be objective, recognise her for what she was, and then the barbs would cease to rankle. To tell a pilot of my age and experience that his flying was unsafe, that doctors didn’t want to fly with him – that was a shrewd one, the stab
of a woman in the habit of hurting. The worst of it was that it was very nearly true. I had stretched things to the limit of safety that morning, and perhaps a little bit beyond. Surely one had a right to do that when a man’s life depended on it? Surely one had a right to call up all one’s capital of skill? If I was prepared to take a chance myself, surely I had a right to make the doctor take it with me? He hadn’t seemed to mind about it at the time.

I took another drink and blew out a long cloud of smoke. In spite of my efforts I had achieved nothing, nothing at all. All I had done had been to lose the doctor’s suitcase with all his instruments in it. God only knew when he would get that back. To take my mind off my own troubles I got up and moved around the room. I set his barometer, and then I went on looking at the pictures. There were other photographs of Johnnie Pascoe in the First World War that I had not examined. There was an informal group of about a dozen pilots standing in a meadow in summer weather, probably on the edge of an aerodrome because a quaint, old-fashioned Nissen hut with a boarded end showed in the background. All the men were very young, and all of them were in Army uniforms. Three of them wore the R.F.C. tunic, double-breasted. One seemed to be an American, for he wore a single-breasted khaki tunic buttoned close up round the neck and the wings upon his chest were the unswept wings of the American Army. The rest of them wore normal British Army tunics with wings, and these wore khaki collars and ties; three of them wore Sam Browne belts, and one was wearing riding breeches and puttees. Scrawled on the bottom of the photograph were the words, ST. OMER 1918, in white ink that had faded to yellow.

I looked at it closely, and decided that Johnnie Pascoe was standing on the right, one of the pilots in an R.F.C. tunic. He had something round his neck that flopped down in a light streak on one shoulder, and I puzzled over this aspect
of his uniform for a few moments. It looked for all the world like a silk stocking.

There was a very good photograph of a rotary-engined biplane fighter, taken broadside-on and in flight. It had the R.F.C. roundels and a design of black and white chequers on the engine cowling and the front fuselage. It was a very small machine, to judge by the size of the pilot’s head, with a single pair of struts between the wings. I guessed it to be a Sopwith Camel, but I was by no means sure, because I never saw one. It had two machine guns mounted on the top cowling. The pilot’s head was turned towards the camera and it might have been Johnnie Pascoe, though it was difficult to say. The aeroplane was doped a khaki colour, very clean and smart. It looked like a brand-new aeroplane, taken by some official photographer.

So many photographs of the First War, all framed and hung close in a group upon one wall! There were too many for me to take them all in. All dated from before my earliest flying days, but they brought back for me the memories of that first enthusiasm that has lasted from my boyhood. They brought back memories of slow-revving engines blipping on the switch, of clouds of castor oil sweeping in blue clouds, of the slipstream over the grass, of taut doped fabric drumming beneath one’s fingers, of the smell of acetone in the hangar. They brought back memories of the rush of air over one’s head beyond the leather of the flying helmet, of the freshness on one’s face as one put up the goggles before going in to land, of carefully judged gliding turns on the approach, of the final sideslip in over the hedge, of soft landings upon grass. So many joys that lay behind me, half forgotten, a part of my youth.

They had been part of Johnnie Pascoe’s youth, too, even more than mine. He must have learned to fly, I thought, in 1916 or thereabouts, fourteen years before I did. If I still sensed the drama, the adventure of it all – how much more
must he! Probably that enormous pusher two-seater with the engine behind the: pilots was what he had learned to fly in – would that have been a Farman? A Rumpety? That thing with the long skid in front of the undercarriage – well, I knew that one. That was an Avro 504K. I had been up for a joyride in an Avro when I was a boy of twelve, the first flight that I had ever made. When Johnnie Pascoe learned to fly it was probably still a front-line operational type, with a top speed of about seventy miles an hour.

When he had learned to fly, flying had been the greatest adventure the world had to offer, an adventure that led almost certainly to death. In the First World War the casualties in training pilots had been staggering, because the aeroplanes were cheap and easily made, the pilots were needed in a hurry, and nobody understood much about flying training. When they were sent to France they were sent as soldiers, and the duty of a soldier was to fight and go on fighting. In that war there was no relief for a pilot after a fixed number of missions. A pilot went on flying two or even three missions on every fine day till he was killed, or else so seriously wounded as to need a spell in hospital. That had been the pattern of Johnnie Pascoe’s youth – the greatest and most stimulating adventure in the world leading to death willingly accepted. That had been the mental pattern of his life when that laughing photograph with Judy had been taken, in front of the rotary-engined fighter. Everything that he had done in his first youth must be related to that pattern. I could just get an inkling of it, perhaps, because I had entered the same world myself fourteen years later. Marian Forbes would never have a clue, not if she lived to be a hundred.

She was a bitter, spiteful woman, but she was so because it was beyond her capacity to understand. Whatever had happened between Johnnie Pascoe and his Judy had happened very soon after the First War. It must have meant enormous
readjustments in his mind when the war ended. When the promise of death, willingly accepted, was withdrawn – what had there been to take its place? Johnnie Pascoe had gone on flying, anyway; I had never heard that he had done anything else.

I was growing sleepy now, and ready for bed. Marian Forbes had ceased to worry me, for she was something different, like an Eskimo. I threw the butt of my cigarette in the fire. There were a couple of thick logs smouldering together but there was no flame; the fire was safe and it would probably last till morning. There were still a couple of mouthfuls of whisky left in my glass; I stood there finishing them, looking at the photos in that corner.
That
, the single-seater with the top wing of the biplane sprouting from the fuselage at the pilot’s seat – that must have been a Sopwith Dolphin.
That
, with the backward stagger, might have been a D.H.5. How he had loved those days of early youth, to keep so many photographs!