“Smith! I say, come and have a look.”
Reluctantly Temple returned to the aeroplane, now being fussed over by mechanics. Wheech-Browning stood by the side of a very young, blond-haired pilot who looked, to Temple’s eyes, to be about twelve years old.
“Do you know flying officer Drewes? He’s going to fly me over to Salaita. See what Jerry’s up to. Good idea, yes?”
Temple thought. “Say, could you fly over to Smithville? It’s not far. You could—”
“Sorry, old boy,” Wheech-Browning smiled. “Fuel problems. That’s right, Drewes, isn’t it? But I’ll tell you what, I’ll have a squint through the old binocs. See if the place is still standing.” Wheech-Browning tapped the stretched canvas side of the aeroplane. “Amazing machines. Wonderful sensation when you’re up in the sky. Feel like a god. You should try it, Smith.”
“You’ve been up before?” Temple asked.
“Who me? No, No. First time for everything, eh Drewes? No, I read about it in some magazine. Drewes here was going up on a flight so I asked if he’d take—”
There was a farting sound as a mechanic swung the wooden propeller and the engine caught. The aeroplane began to shake and shudder.
“All aboard the Skylark,” piped Drewes in a high voice.
Wheech-Browning pushed his goggled face up to Temple’s. “See Mulberry?” he bellowed above the noise. Temple nodded. “Jolly good,” Wheech-Browning shouted. “He seemed in a bit of a wax about this customs duty business.” It never ceased to astonish Temple how Wheech-Browning failed to see that the customs-duty business might jeopardize their ‘friendship’.
Wheech-Browning gave him a thumbs up sign, pulled his cap down and clambered with difficulty into the small observer’s cockpit behind the pilot. Drewes revved up the engine, throwing up a towering plume of dust behind the aeroplane. Two mechanics at either wing tip pushed and heaved the plane into position for take off.
Temple suppressed his irritation at the news of Mulberry’s ‘wax’ and moved to a sheltered position at the side of a hangar where he could get a good view without being blinded by dust. He saw Drewes look at the limp windsock, then he saw Wheech-Browning stand up in his seat, lick his forefinger and attempt to hold it above the propeller’s back draught. Some decision must have been reached because the biplane then moved very slowly over the uneven ground to the other end of the runway. Wheech-Browning leapt out of his seat, grabbed a wing and dug his heels into the ground to allow Drewes some purchase to pivot the plane round so it was facing the way it had come.
Wheech-Browning resumed his seat in the cockpit and the tinny note of the engine grew angrier as it was accelerated. Then the plane began to run forward, imperceptibly picking up speed, dust billowing behind it, the tail skid kicking up stones and gravel. As it passed the hangars, Temple saw Wheech-Browning give a cheery wave. Suddenly the tail lifted, and with a bump or two the little plane was in the air, three feet, six feet, twenty feet. It climbed with agonizing slowness.
“Too hot,” somebody said in the watching group. “It’s too hot today. They’ll never get up.”
As if in response to his words the plane began to descend, even though the engine seemed to be straining harder. Ten feet, eight feet, two feet. There was a cloud of dust as the trolley undercarriage hit the ground.
“Told you,” the knowledgeable voice said. “They’ll have to wait till the evening.” Nobody seemed concerned.
“Oh my Christ,” someone gasped. “The gully!”
The aeroplane sped merrily along the ground, the tail cheekily lifted until it seemed suddenly to stand on its nose and plunge beneath the level of the earth. There was a crumpling sound, as of a flimsy chair giving way. For an instant the tail plane pointed vertically in the air, then it slowly keeled over.
Temple and the others sprinted over towards the site of the crash, coughing and choking as they ran through the clouds of dust that hung in the air. Because of his girth Temple was soon outpaced by the others. By the time he arrived Drewes’ broken body had already been lifted from the splintered and torn remains of the aircraft, and he had been lain on the floor of the gully. Wheech-Browning, Temple assumed, must be trapped in the mangled wreckage. It served the stupid bastard right! Temple swore. The damned fool. But then he saw a plimsolled foot stamp its way through the canvas side of the fuselage. Willing hands soon tore a larger gap and Wheech-Browning slithered and eeled his long frame out onto the ground. His cap was missing but he still wore his goggles, one lens starred crazily where the glaze had been shattered. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face from a cut.
“Good God,” he said. “That was hairy. Forgot about the damned gully. Thought we’d made it.”
“Are you all right?” Temple asked.
Wheech-Browning gave an experimental wriggle, as if a cold penny had been dropped down his back. “No bones broken,” he said. “Bit wobbly though. Drewes kept shouting something about it being too hot. How is he, anyway?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh.” Wheech-Browning took off his goggles and rubbed his eyes. “Oh dear. I am sorry. Great shame.” He looked directly at Temple. “What is it about us, Smith?” he said, with a kind of mystified sadness. “Every time you and I get near a machine it seems some poor so-and-so dies.”
Temple looked at him in blank amazement. He was too astonished to reply.
13: 10 December 1915, The King’s Arms, Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire
Charis watched Felix swing himself to the side of the bed. The pale expanse of his pyjama jacket glowed in the dark room. She felt the bed vibrate as he shivered. She reached out and pressed the palm of her left hand against his back.
“You’re awake,” he said. “Sorry.” He leant back and kissed her on the cheek. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” She heard him fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table.
“It’s early,” he said. “Just gone six.” He stood up and put on his dressing gown. He smiled at her. “It’s hardly worth going back to sleep, is it? We have to be at the station in a couple of hours. I’ll just be a minute.” He left the room.
Charis got out of bed and walked over to the window. A pale silvery light shone on the boring winter fields in the distance. Tasteless colours, she thought. Dark brown and green. Like the chocolate sauce and pistachio ice-cream she and Gabriel had one afternoon in Trouville. She noted, with mixed feelings, that the thought of Gabriel made her feel as guilty as ever. She wasn’t any more accustomed to betrayal. Was that good or bad? She tried a hard, grim smile but it felt affected and wrong for her, like too much red lip-salve. She rubbed her arms through her night dress, beginning to sense the chill in the hotel room. She crouched before the ashy fire and poked at the remains of the charred logs with the fire tongs. No embers left.