A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (14 page)

‘Get that bloody thing out of my way!’

Rhyllann hunkered low, dampening down nerves, waiting his chance. “Don’t lose it, don’t lose it.” He muttered. Then adrenaline kicked in making him feel invincible. If they could pull this off, they could do anything.

Wren was putting on the show of a lifetime. The reins seemed to shorten, tucking the pony’s nose into its chest. Wren clamped his heels against the pony’s flanks. Flawlessly he performed a number of dressage movements culminating in a series of half rears. All the while shrieking at the top of his voice, dangling first one way then the other from the saddle. No sign of the grounds’ crew; probably engrossed in their newspapers as they filled their bellies. Rhyllann hauled himself forward with his arms until he was parallel with the plane. Keeping his head down he squirmed across the last twenty yards of open ground, halting against the plane’s left wheel prop. He heard the pilot talking in a voice identical to Rhyllann’s squadron leader to air control, located behind the hangers, almost in the next field. Wren screamed again while manoeuvring the pony still closer, Rhyllann could actually feel the ground reverberating to hoof beats.

Muttering. ‘What is that child playing at?’ the pilot turned the engine off and jumped out, still clutching his briefcase. From his worm’s eye view Rhyllann caught a glimpse of expensive looking narrow shoes, and although he was now at least five yards away, wafts of gorgeous scented aftershave still lingered in the air. The pony quietened, emboldening the man to stride up to it. In his new role as rescuer, the man’s attitude softened.

‘Now don’t be silly, keep calm, don’t panic, just jump down.’ He spoke with the authority of one used to having his every whim obeyed, raising a hand to the pony’s bridle. For a moment the scene could have been a trendy photo shoot for an upmarket clothing chain. Then the pony shied away with a snort, splattering the beautiful dove grey suit with snot.

‘Help me – I can’t – I can’t! One of your planes startled him – he bolted – oh please help me!’ Wren wailed. All the time the pony danced and skittered, tantalisingly just out of arm’s reach. Within seconds Wren managed to coax the man into the middle of the field, and still led him by inches then feet further and further away from his aircraft. The next five minutes were crucial. Any moment now control might send someone onto the field to take a look see, or a passer-by stop to lend a hand.

Rolling under the plane, Rhyllann hauled himself in, without bothering about pre-flight checks he restarted the engine, and began pivoting onto the runway. The flat northern tones of his instructor resonating in his mind, “Steady now lad, check the wind sock … find your heading reference .”

The city-gent would-be pilot spun round.

‘My plane!’

Rhyllann jumped down from the cabin holding his hands up in surrender.

Wren encouraged the pony to rear again.

‘Eeek – Mummy help me!!!!’

And in the split second it took for the man to switch from reluctant hero to duped idiot an iron clad hoof rammed down on the wafer thin leather shoe. Rhyllann winced as the man screamed, hopped twice then toppled to the ground. Now Wren was galloping towards him, leaning alongside the pony’s neck, fumbling under the saddle. Rhyllann stepped to one side as the pony skidded to a halt snorting heavily, streaming foam towards him. Wren tumbled from its back, tugging the saddle free as he landed. Ignoring Rhyllann’s efforts to bundle him into the plane, he grabbed at the noseband, loosened a couple of buckles and pulled the reins and bridle over the pony’s neck and head, turning it as he did so.

The pony’s nostrils flared as it swung round to gallop off across the field bucking and spinning and calling out in triumph, rushing back to the wretched pilot who had only just regained his feet, and aiming a playful kick at his thigh.

Rhyllann threw his cousin into the plane’s cockpit then jumped up beside him. He opened the throttle, at the same time searching the skies for any descending planes. He clamped the headphones on, they were light and well fitting, immediately cutting out most of the engines’ noise, noting with surprised delight the top of the range GPS.

Clicking the mike open, Rhyllann confirmed take off in a clipped Home County accent, then snapped the mike closed. Pilots tended to keep transmissions to the bare minimum. He’d already persuaded himself that even if anything was scrambled to intercept them, they’d be given the chance to land before being shot out the skies. Too late now for any second thoughts, he’d crossed the Rubicon. Opening the throttle to full, he checked the RPM: Good – already over 2550, and increased the speed to 55 knots. The joy that flooded through him cancelled out any nerves. He felt rather than heard engine noise escalate, thundering now and nothing could stop him. Wren, still settling himself into the passenger seat, found another set of headphones and fumbled them on. Now Rhyllann could hear him hiccupping with laughter through the intercom:

‘That pony should be in the circus! My god was he enjoying himself – did you see the look on his face? He was having …My god Rhyllann – You did it! We’re flying!!!’

Rhyllann grinned. ‘You noticed!’ He rolled the wings level, watching the slip ball return to the middle, confirming his little plane was flying in balance.

Below them fields, buildings and roads swirled away, forming a green patchwork intersected with grey and blue ribbons of roads, canals and rivers. Wisps of clouds drifted beneath them, sky soared above them, merging seamlessly in the far distance with the land racing below them. Checking the compass Rhyllann headed West for the horizon. Wren’s teeth chattered with excitement.

‘This is better then a cross country chase!’

‘Better than snogging Becky Roberts!’

‘Yeah right. Like you’d know.’ Adding. ‘I hope that little horse’ll be ok.’

Setting the radio to scan local frequencies, Rhyllann kept his own worries about jet fighter pilots and dog fights to himself. Wren couldn’t keep from grinning. Watching as Wren rooted around in the side pocket of his seat, Rhyllann felt amused and pleased with his cousin. When he produced an aeronautical map, scale ruler and protractor Rhyllann laughed at him.

‘You love to complicate things don’t you?’ He tapped at the GPS. ‘Stop worrying.’

But Wren couldn’t resist a new map or updating Rhyllann on the landmarks they passed; it kept him occupied. Rhyllann settled into cruise mode, keeping clear of other small aerodromes, and avoiding RAF bases like the plague. But air traffic was light, and they caught hardly any chatter on the airwaves.

Wren prodded him, wanting to know why Rhyllann occasionally rolled the plane from side to side.

‘Because we can see for miles and miles, but not what’s directly below us. It’s kinda like checking in your mirrors when you’re driving.’ He explained. ‘Here – d’you wanna try?’

Wren looked uncertain. ‘Another time. Let’s not push our luck. Anyhow we should be past Dartmoor soon.’ Adding ‘Yes! Look – The Tamar! – we’ve done it! We’re over Cornwall!’ He whooped.

Rhyllann felt he’d been flying forever, this was second nature. Not even second. He was in his element, effortlessly predicting every little flurry of wind, thermals and down drafts. Glancing at the instruments Rhyllann estimated they’d covered almost 350 miles in two and a half hours, and still had a quarter tank of fuel left. He patted himself on the back, not bad going at all. They’d caught snatches of conversation from other pilots, but none referring to the daring Denman raid. Rhyllann wondered who you would report a stolen plane to. MOD? Civil Aviation? Bit of a bummer really he thought.

“I say officer, my flying machine has been stolen!” Cue laughter. The poor guy would never live it down.

He’d gloated too soon. Up till then the radio had been issuing monotonous requests and permissions for take offs and landings, background noise and Rhyllann had stopped really listening. When the message came, it was like getting an electrical shock from something as innocuous as a kettle or light switch.

‘RAF Longmoor, seeking a light aircraft, Apache mark BP nwp. Say again. Bravo, Papa, November, Whisky, Papa. Thought to be heading west sou’ west.’

Wren stared in horror. ‘Oh no – what are we going to do?’ He wailed.

‘Easy. Find a field.’

‘A field! You’ve never flown solo before – you’ve never landed – we’re going to crash – you promised parachutes!’ Wren started hyperventilating as he realised there was nothing but a thin metal shell and miles and miles of thin air between him and the ground.

‘Stop it! We took off in a field didn’t we? – We’ll find a nice large field to put down in. I only need a run of fifty feet or so. You didn’t really think we were going to land at an airfield did you?’

Wren stared resolutely ahead; still hiccupping.

’Come on brawd, I need you now! You’ve been great – but I need you to sort out a field. Believe me – this is the easy bit! This little plane’s so light, soon as the wheels touch down, it’ll just roll forward – it’s designed for this. All I’ll have to do is slam the brakes on!’

It wasn’t really a lie. Sooner or later every aircraft had to land. Newton’s Law. But Rhyllann kept that little gem to himself. That massive field there, just outside the moors would do he decided. He dropped ten knots, found an aiming point and began descent, hoping the change of altitude wouldn’t affect wind speed too much. For a moment he felt terribly isolated, without backup, and only himself to rely on. Then practice and training kicked in, dropping to 200 feet, he began the short final, he heard Jack Turner’s voice. “OK now then Lad, maintain the airbrake setting, increase the angle of attack and pitch that nose up. And I promise you every time you take off or land, you will hear my voice!” Now they were only 20 feet from the ground, and he began final roundout.

The small herd of cattle straggling the field trotted away as the plane swooped down. Rhyllann reminded himself to keep breathing as trees magically grew to tower above them and the ground rose up to meet them. The plane dropped gracefully, aligned perfectly, the wheels skimming the grass now just before stall, engines in overdrive, bumping along then taxi-ing smoothly forward to come to a controlled halt.

Rhyllann continued shutting down instruments ignoring the joyful voice inside his head urging him to take flight again. He’d done it! His first solo! Text book landing! And the only witness seemed totally unfazed.

‘We need to go in that direction.’ Wren pointed up the field, past the solitary oak. ‘– up there and through that hedge – we should find ourselves on the moors. Dunno which side we’re on though.’

‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me? Thank me?’

‘Congratulations. Thank you. Erm … we’ve got company – that guy don’t seem too happy about something.’ Indicating the figure hurtling towards them, growing stockier and angrier looking by the moment as he decreased the distance between them.

‘Probably the farmer. Upset about you stampeding his cattle.’ Wren mused. Ignoring the muffled yelps of pain, Rhyllann dragged him from the aircraft and forced his cramped legs into a staggering run towards the hedge.

‘We’ll never make it!’ He panted. With their cumbersome three legged gait, they’d only managed a hundred yards, the hedge seemed a thousand yards away – uphill. Rhyllann supported his cousin on one side, the damn bag banging against his hip. And he was expected to run? Trying to look over his shoulder and hurry at the same time he stumbled. Wren crashed into him sending them both sprawling to the ground.

‘He’s stopped. He’s given up!’ Wren crowed. Rhyllann squinted. The guy held a hand to his face.

‘No. No he hasn’t! He’s talking to someone. He’s calling the police!’ They struggled to their feet again.

‘Annie!’

‘Shut up. Walk as quickly as you can. We might make it.’ They would never make it. As they passed the oak tree an ominous growl filled the air. Before Rhyllann could think “two-stroke-engine” a scrambler bike roared into view, scattering the cattle into a mad stampede.

The pillion rider brandished a rifle their way letting off a warning shot.

Rhyllann froze as the noise reverberated through the air almost drowning the low pitched insane mooing of cows.