— Ten years, Brown said, as if speaking out the window, down the lawn, towards the sea.
Emily drained her teacup and adjusted her body in the soft of the couch. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Shadows came into the room, slowly dissolved. She liked the play of light at Brown’s feet. She wanted to bring him back, brush all the tickertape off his shoulders, return to the moment of raw experience, above the water, to chant the moment alive once more.
— You’re a pacifist, she said.
— Of the sort that every man is I suppose. I have done little that is special, and so much that is luck.
— I admire that.
— It doesn’t take a lot really.
— You took the war out of the plane.
Brown glanced at her, looked towards the garden. He ran his hands along his wooden cane, and then tapped it off the side of the table. He looked as if he was weighing up the extent of what he might say.
— Why don’t you fly anymore?
He gave a half-smile.
— We get older, he said.
She allowed a silence, worked the flesh of her hands into the well of her dress.
— We compromise.
The sound of distant laughter from outside broke abruptly, lingered a moment, then faded.
— I suppose I’m still aloft most of the time.
He fell then into the recollection: the sheer release of being in the air. He told her of his nights in the prison camp, the return home, the thrill of the Vimy, the way the old bomber handled, the vibration of it through his body, the snow stinging his cheeks, the narrow lines of sight, the desire to see Kathleen, the way the plane had landed, the catch in the bog grass, the surprise to still be alive, the crowds in Ireland, the return home, standing on the Aero Club balcony in London, the knighthood, the prize, the day he shook Alcock’s hand for the last time. He had written a fair amount, he said, and he still made appearances, but his life was largely quiescent, he was happy at home with Kathleen and Buster. He didn’t ask too much, he already had enough.
She saw an ease come over him. She had thought him, at first, sad — earlier, when he stood in the doorway, shielded by his son — but now she detected a vibrancy in him, a return to his original self. It gladdened her. He had a slow smile that started in his eyes and pulled at his lips, until his face was drawn tighter, more intimate.
The tea had grown cold, but they poured the last of it into their cups. The shadows lay long in the room. He absently touched his jacket pocket again.
— One thing, said Brown. If I may.
He meshed his fingers together as if in some small prayer, and glanced at her. He reached out for a biscuit, dunked it in his tea. He held the biscuit a moment until it tumbled and fell. He fished out the soggy wafer with a spoon. For several moments he did not speak.
— If you’ll forgive me.
— Yes?
— It wasn’t a tragedy.
— Excuse me?
— Jackie, he said. Jackie was in his plane, you see. Exactly where he wanted to be. He would not have thought it tragic at all.
Brown pulled the spoon away from his mouth, but still held the curve of it at his chin. She wished she had brought Lottie so she could photograph him in this pose.
— Up there. Something else takes charge of your freedom. Do you understand what I mean?
She heard him inhale.
— Maybe a child, he said. Perhaps that equals it. Perhaps that is the only thing.
He was gazing out over her shoulder. She turned to see the young boy, Buster, in the garden. He was framed by the edge of the window and looked as if he was talking to someone. She turned farther around and, through the window, saw Ambrose. A cap tilted jauntily on his head. He was picking up the tennis net from the ground. He shook it out as if there were raindrops on it, then he pulled it taut. It fell to the ground once more. The two were laughing, man and boy, though they could only faintly be heard.
Lottie stood at the edge of the tennis court, the camera dangling down by her side. She reached for the other part of the net and tautened it, bent down to pick a tennis racquet off the ground.
— Your daughter, said Brown. Her name escapes me.
— Lottie.
— Ah, yes.
— If you can give her a few moments for a photograph later, we’d be very grateful.
— And who is the young man?
— Our driver. He works at the RAF in London. He drove all night to pick us up in Southampton. Then brought us here.
— We will have to invite him to lunch then.
The china rattled in Brown’s fingers as he put the cup and saucer back down on the table.
— Is he a pilot?
— He wanted to be. He works in communications. Why?
— One goes up in a plane knowing, sometimes, that not all of you is going to come down.
The saucer dropped noisily on the glass table, and he put his hand into his pocket. Even through the cloth, his fingers were trembling. He stood and made his way through the room.
— You will forgive me? said Brown, and he went towards the door. He paused a moment, his back still turned. I have something I must attend to.
HE CAME DOWNSTAIRS fifteen minutes later. His tie was firm against his throat once more, and his cheeks were flushed. He came straight towards Lottie and shook her hand.
— Pleasure to see you, young lady.
— And you, sir. If you don’t mind? There’s good light.
— Ah, yes.
Lottie jiggled the camera from her shoulder. She guided Brown out to the verandah, asked him to sit on the low stone wall, in front of the rosebushes, overlooking the sea. He placed his walking stick along the top of the wall, squinted a little at the camera, took out a handkerchief, wetted it, shone the top of his shoe.
The sky behind him was a spectacle of raincloud, gray shot through with blue. A white rosebush drooped over his shoulder.
— So, Mr. Brown. A question.
— Ah, a quiz.
— Do you remember the color of the carpet in the Cochrane Hotel?
— The carpet? he said.
— On the stairs.
Brown shaded his eyes against the light. For a moment the gesture reminded Emily of that she had seen back in Newfoundland a decade ago.
— Red, he ventured.
— And in the dining room?
— Is that correct, red?
Lottie changed her angle, caught more of the shadow on the side of his face, moved fluidly along the wall.
— And the name of the road you drove along? To get to Lester’s Field?
— I see. A photographer’s trick. The Harbour Road, if I’m not mistaken. Do they still have those fishing boats?
— People still talk about you there, Mr. Brown.
— Teddy.
— They talk of you fondly.
Emily watched her daughter load another roll of film. The exposed roll went into the pocket of her dress. Over the years she had become sharp and skillfuclass="underline" she could reload in seconds.
— I have a shot of you shaving, she said. Do you recall the basin at the end of the field?
— We heated it with a bunsen burner.
— You were leaning forward into the basin.
— Just in case we were to fly in the evening.
As she spoke she dragged a chair across the verandah. Without asking, she guided Brown into the chair. He moved without complaint. The cloudshapes behind him shifted.
— You made our sandwiches, he said. That morning.
He smiled broadly. She changed her lens, hunkered down close to the ground, shot wide.