The Restless Sea. Vanessa de Haan
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and partly because there are two neat holes in the fabric of the plane near his right elbow, where bullets have passed straight through. If she was made of metal, she’d have been blown apart. As it is, she is flying, but something doesn’t feel right.
‘You all right, Mole?’ Charlie shouts behind him.
‘Fine, boyo. You just get us home safely.’ Mole reads him the correct course, squinting in the orange glow of his tiny lamp. They will be there in sixteen minutes.
Charlie doesn’t want to let them know that the plane isn’t responding properly. But then, he doesn’t need to. Her juddering and balking do the job for him.
‘What is it?’ Mole asks. ‘Propeller? Fuel tank?’
‘I think it’s the port wing,’ says Charlie.
Mole peers into the dark. ‘Can’t bloody see,’ he says.
The problem is getting worse. The plane dips on her port side. They all lean to starboard, trying to right her, but it’s just a reaction, it won’t do anything.
‘Hang on,’ says Mole. Charlie feels him jiggering around with something. It’s his chart lamp. Mole tries to light the wing, leaning out of the cockpit as far as he can. ‘Pin’s been blown out. The wing is folding.’
It makes sense. The wing rattles and jangles ominously.
‘Shit,’ says Charlie.
‘No need for bad language, boyo,’ says Mole.
‘Will we make it?’
‘Depends if it folds.’
The way it’s shaking, Charlie thinks folding is pretty likely. The weight shifts again in the cockpit behind him. Mole starts to hum, but the noise isn’t coming through the Gosport tube: the notes are drifting out into the night.
‘What are you doing?’ Charlie asks.
‘Never you mind, boyo,’ says Mole.
Charlie can feel vibrations beneath his feet. He tries to look behind, but he can’t see anything. He hears Mole say something to the Kid, and the noise of a clip clicking on to something. He senses Mole stand up, the balance of the plane changing. The wing is juddering now.
‘Mole? What …’
‘You just fly, boyo.’ The voice is almost in his ear. Fingers appear next to him in the cockpit. The Welshman has clambered out on to the wing.
‘Get back in …’ But Charlie’s words are pulled into the slipstream. He can just see one of Mole’s arms wrapped around one of the metal struts.
‘You’re a fool,’ says Charlie, but he knows Mole can’t possibly hear him above the screaming of the wind and the rumble of the engine. He concentrates on keeping the plane balanced, checking the instruments, sensing the plane, as if it’s part of him. The extra weight on the wing is pushing it down, but still the plane is coping, and then suddenly it feels right again. Mole edges back into the cockpit, toppling in sideways with a thud. He gives a whoop of delight and bursts into song.
Charlie starts to laugh. He can hear the Kid laughing too. They are all laughing into the night air with a mad joy at being alive. The plane is still coughing and spluttering. Her engine must be damaged too. But he trusts her. She will get them back safely.
As they reach the ship, Charlie flashes the red light on his starboard wing twice, followed by the green light twice. The ship signals back, and the faint path of guiding lights comes on. He has done this landing a hundred times and it makes no difference in the dark. He looks for the batsman’s signal. The lights on the bats are dim but legible. The plane gulps and spits, and when they land he can hear and smell the petrol spewing out of her.
The propeller chokes to a standstill, and Tugger’s face materialises out of the gloom. ‘What have you done to her?’ he asks. ‘And the hell’s this?’ Tugger points at the running repair that Mole has done. Charlie walks around to inspect it, for once glad to be back on solid ground.
The Welshman has used his bootlace to tie the pin back in. It’s pretty heroic. He will dine out on it for months.
‘She’ll be all right,’ says Mole. ‘If anyone can fix her up, it’s you.’
Tugger suddenly steps back and salutes, and Captain Pearce appears behind Charlie. In the dim dawn light, his eyes are cold and hard, his lips thin and his eyebrows bristling. ‘Wrong bloody ship,’ he says. ‘What did you think you were doing?’
Mole and the Kid and Tugger stand there, eyes glazed, faces expressionless. Charlie’s cheeks burn. ‘I know that, sir,’ he says. ‘But once …’
‘And you’ve damaged the plane. Reckless. I’ve a good mind to send you home for reassessment. God help us, if you’re the best we’ve got …’
‘It was impossible to see out there, sir …’
‘Don’t you bloody answer back! You’re an idiot, and that’s it. I will have to report this.’ He turns and stomps back to the bridge.
Charlie swallows in the silence. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ says Mole. ‘He’s a bitter old fool who should be in a flowerbed.’
‘Preferably six feet under it,’ says Tugger. ‘And don’t worry about the plane. She’ll be fine.’
‘We did good, Charlie,’ says the Kid.
But the captain’s words wound Charlie deeply. He is not used to falling foul of those in charge. He feels diminished. Only one person doesn’t see his faults: Olivia. Her letters are a lifeline to cling to in turbulent water. He clings to them all the tighter.
Olivia sits on a bench at the station. The heat is already almost unbearable. Her pale green travelling outfit is crumpled and creased. She fans herself with her hat. The din of people and trains arriving and departing has died down. Trucks and cars, horses and carts, troops and families have been and gone, churning up the dust, making it twirl in the warm air before it settles back in a thin layer over everything. In a way she is glad that she is alone, no longer at the mercy of the wandering eyes and nudges of strangers, like the impertinent ratings on the train who had frightened her with their whispering and pointing. She wishes Charlie, the officer who rescued her at breakfast, had got off here too, but he changed for the train to Thurso, taking his raucous charges with him. She feels comforted as she remembers his protective arm ushering her to safety, the aura of confidence. And then she smiles once more at what turned out to be a wonderful coincidence. Charlie’s godmother her aunt? Funny how one chances across these connections, but perhaps not so unusual among her class.
Olivia reaches to fiddle with the bracelet at her wrist, a nervous habit, but then her heart sinks as she remembers that she has lost it, and tears prick at her eyes. She feels so vulnerable sitting here on this bench in the middle of nowhere, travelling on her own for the first time, no handsome officer to protect her now. The fact that she has lost the one treasure that she owns makes her feel all the more so. Perhaps she left it at Stoke Hall, but she is sure she can remember clicking the delicate clasp together and pulling her cuff down over it yesterday morning. Maybe it came loose during the panic when the faulty siren went off at the station. And then there was that boy with the wild eyes … but that’s unfair – the kind of thing her mother might say. He only helped her find her way to the Underground. No. She must have left it at home. The thought of home, and her bedroom, with its pretty bedspread and her favourite lamps with the hand-painted flowers twisting up their stands, and Jasper, her old teddy bear, on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, and Nanny, who always knows what to do, and all the other familiar things she loves, sends a hot, thin tear sliding down her cheek.
She