Flight of the Tiger Moth (15 page)

“He was killed instantly, Doc said. Jack’s buried beside Grandma and Grandpa. Everyone in town has their own theory about what happened that night, but they’ve learned to keep it to themselves. We all have.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We should have told you sooner. But I was raised in a family that didn’t talk about personal things. I don’t know anything about the Waters family before my dad. Sometimes I think I tell stories to make up for the stories I never heard and the one story I can’t talk about. Does that sound stupid?”

Jack touched his dad’s arm. “No.”

“Good. I’d hate to think you thought your old man was stupid. Can you believe it, my dad and the teacher wanted me to go to university? I went for one year just to please them and flunked out. I don’t think it was lack of brains. I just couldn’t imagine sitting still, reading books all day, writing papers, studying for exams for four years.”

Jack chuckled. That was where he and his dad differed. He could hardly wait for the challenge. He’d design a safer plane – safer and faster – one with a ­self-­starting propeller and no way for it to land on top of another ­kite.

“Ivy was alone with that wee baby. I came home and saw the lay of the land. It wasn’t hard to fall in love with the most talented musician in the district. I was tired of sowing my wild oats anyway.”

Jack discovered he had a lump in his throat the size of a golf ball. He didn’t say ­anything.

“Losing a brother is really hard, Jack. I’m glad you’ll never have to go through that.”

“Sandy was like an older brother,” whispered Jack. “But I didn’t know him my whole life.”

The man and boy walked down the dark street together. Bill locked up the store but left the truck parked as it was. Crickets sang. An owl hooted. A bunch of coyotes howled in the distance. The smell of dew, fresh cut grass and watered flowers drifted toward them. They let themselves in the house and went to ­bed.

>>>

In his room Jack found his latest model airplane
smashed on the floor. He’d left the window open and there’d been a stiff breeze earlier. He picked it up and put it on his desk in the corner. He’d have to repair it ­tomorrow.

The good news was, it was easily ­fixed.

Jack lay for a long time going over the whole day, the whole of his family history. Trust Dad to give him the straight goods. For an older guy he was pretty sharp. Why did knowing the facts make Jack feel better? He said a little prayer under his breath for Flo and Sandy and his mother and went to ­sleep.

He dreamt of flying high in a ­brand-­new ­single-­wing airplane all the way to England to save his ­sister.

>>>

The next day at the flying school
the usual gang said goodbye to Cheese. Cathy hugged him. Jack and Wes shook his hand. Dexter, Trevor and Basil were in class. Cheese tried his best to grin and be a good sport. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “Tallyho and all that.” But the poor guy’s face crumpled worse than the wing of Jack’s model after it had fallen. None of them knew how to ­help.

Cheese marched off toward the ­h-­hut with his head held high and his shoulders ­square.

Chapter 21

August ­1943

The first few weeks of August flew by.
Farmers ran tractors, workhorses pulled carts of hay and teenagers loaded forage onto wagons. The raf boys flew solo and took exams in meteorology, airframe – everything you ought to know about the body of each plane – and the theory of flight.

The Cairn Cosmopolitan Music Society auditioned and selected the programme of musical, dance, comedy and recitation acts for the upcoming fête. Rehearsals were in full swing. Trevor and Basil listened to all the performers, made suggestions and sang with Wes and Jack as the star quartet. Jack was really proud of their close harmonies on songs like “We’ll Meet Again,” which always made him think of Flo and ­Sandy.

The men’s chorus, with Mel and Arnie Hobbs and Howie Wong as well as a bunch of staff from the flying school, worked with Basil as their director and Trevor as accompanist. The choir had rehearsed a medley of catchy tunes. Cathy and Wes were playing a real duet, not “Chopsticks”.

An undercurrent of excitement flowed through the village and on the airfield like a sweet spring of clear water. The British flyers tried the swimming hole a couple of times but they weren’t as good in the water as they were in the air or on the ­stage.

Basil was to be the master of ceremonies, assisted by Dr. McLeod when Basil was performing. Trevor and Ivy were splitting the job of accompanying singers. Cathy was singing a duet with Rose, the oldest of the Hobbs girls from the ­farm.

One of the Link training staff had memorized a couple of comic monologues by a British actor called Stanley Holloway. Dexter would perform magic tricks. Incredibly, even the Boyles were getting into the spirit. They’d amazed everyone at the audition with their lively step dancing, accompanied by a fiddler from Mortlach. Even Jimmy had come and he’d actually seemed to enjoy ­it.

Jack’s dad was going to whistle a trio of songs from the Great War. He had a special double whistle – two notes at once – a family tradition that Jack hadn’t mastered. Bill had
also written and would perform a comic monologue, mostly
jokes from the
Reader’s ­Digest
.

>>>

He tried them out on Ivy and Jack
one night while Trevor and Basil were rehearsing with some of the other performers. Buddy had been allowed in the Waters’ backyard for a visit. The family was sitting outside in their ­beat-­up deck ­chairs.

“Ivy and I had words but unfortunately I never got to use mine… My feet were so cold in January that I was walking by memory… Did you hear about the raf pilot who got lost flying around Saskatchewan? When he ran out of fuel he landed at the next air base. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I kept looking for the town of Cairn, but I must have been going in circles. I just kept crossing the town of Ogilvie. It said so on the green grain elevators
.
’ ‘Oh, you silly blighter, Ogilvie is the name of the grain company
.’
”

“I wish I could put Buddy on stage,” said Jack. “He’s so good at tricks he could be in a circus.” He pulled a couple of burrs out of the dog’s tail. “He can do more tricks than Dexter.”

“I don’t think Buddy wants to leave home yet,” his dad chuckled. “He’s not ready to go on the road like Ivy did.”

Mom blushed. “I can’t believe I did all that.” Then she sat back in her chair, sipped her second cup of tea and told Jack stories about what it had been like to travel with ­Chautauqua.

“We used to come barrelling into town an hour before the evening show, setting up flats on stage, pressing costumes, putting on greasepaint. Going onstage not knowing what kind of audience you were going to get. Usually the piano was out of tune. That drove me mad. One time a fire and brimstone preacher called me a shameless hussy. The local crowd told him to sit down and be quiet or leave. It was a great way to spend the summer.”

Jack couldn’t believe such a thing as Chautauqua had ever existed in Saskatchewan or that his careful, controlled mother had been part of ­it.

What had gotten into his mother? Here they were in the middle of the war, her daughter and future ­son-­in-­law were in trouble, and Mom was telling ­stories.

“You should write that down, Ivy,” said Jack’s ­dad.

“It’s better hearing it ­first-­hand,” said Jack. He wished Flo and Sandy could hear ­too.

“I’ll go pick up our dinner,” suggested ­Dad.

“I’ll go.” Jack took the money that was sitting on the outdoor table and sprinted down the ­street.

Jack ran into Jimmy and Repete at Wong’s. They were all picking up takeout chow mein and chicken balls. Jack broke the ­silence.

“That was some fight in Moose Jaw, eh?”

“Yeah.” Jimmy shuffled his feet. “Good thing we all took off.”

“Did any of your friends get arrested?”

“Nope.” Repete shook his head. “None of our friends.”

“My brother Frank is leaving for Calgary tomorrow,” said ­Jimmy.

“There’s lots of work there,” said ­Repete.

“Repete and I are going after the concert,” said Jimmy. “I’m tired of driving my dad’s truck. He’s too bossy.”

Grouchy and a mean drunk is more like it, thought Jack. He didn’t blame Jimmy for wanting to get ­away.

“Yeah, we’re waiting until after the concert,” echoed Repete. “My grandma needs help with stuff. She’s in charge of decorating the hall.” Repete had his hands in his worn trouser pockets. His eyes were on Jimmy all the time, taking his cues from his best ­buddy.

“You like those stupid Brit flyers, Jackie?” Jimmy fumbled with the cigarette packet in his shirt pocket. “Seem pretty ­stuck-­up to me.”

“They’re all right. So I see you’re dancing at the hall.”

“Yeah, our whole family. It’s an Irish thing. We haven’t done it together for years.”

“Sounds good. Me, I’ve got two left feet.”

“That so?” Jimmy grinned. “You’re not Irish, I guess.”

“No.”

“I guess you can’t help it if you’re a brain and have no useful skills.”

Jack had to bite his tongue to stop himself from pointing to his assistant mechanic job at the air base, let alone the fact that he could fly a plane. He could feel his face flush, his fists clench. But it wasn’t worth the trouble. Jimmy was just testing him. He let it ­go.

“Guess not,” he ­said.

“Your order is ready, Jackie,” said Howie. He was humming a song that the men’s chorus was practicing under his breath as he handed over the brown bag, took the money and gave Jack ­change.

“See you at practice, Jimmy. You too, Mr. Wong.”

The restaurant owner ­smiled.

“Yeah, see you.” Jimmy went through the door and headed left to Pasqua ­Street.

Jack walked down the street and up the hill to his house. He was glad the Boyle siege was over. Jimmy was still a jerk and Jack knew enough to keep a lid on his expectations of a prolonged truce. The Boyles were like weather, ­unpredictable.

Jack and his parents dug into the Chinese food and talked about the upcoming concert. Everyone in the village was humming tunes, dancing jigs or preparing monologues. Even Buddy seemed to get into the swing of things. His tail was in permanent wag as he followed Trevor, Basil or Jack ­around.

>>>

The next Saturday, Jack dressed carefully.
He had the day off, the sky was blue and he had a mission and a destination. He crossed his fingers as he came down the hall to the ­kitchen.

“I’m going to take Sandy’s car for a little spin, Dad. Then I’ll bring it back and give it a good wash and wax before I put it away again.”

“Sure wish we’d hear some news from overseas.” Dad sipped tea and nibbled on a homemade cinnamon bun with raspberry preserves. Jack grabbed a bun too and gulped down a glass of milk. His mom was in a baking frenzy these days. Maybe it helped keep the worries at ­bay.

“I’ll be home for lunch,” said Jack ­casually.

“That’s some spin you’re going on then.” His dad peered over the top of the newspaper. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he ­quipped.

Jack just smiled as he collected the keys to Sandy’s Ford. “Where’s Mom?”

“Sleeping in. She tossed and turned most of the night, worrying about Flo, got up and made the cinnamon buns and finally fell asleep. We’re on our own, Jackie. Take it easy, whatever you do.”

“I will.” Jack chewed his lip. “See you later.” He grabbed his heavier jacket from a hook by the back door as he left. This early in the morning it could get pretty cold ­flying.

His heart pounded as he backed the Ford out of the garage. He closed the doors and headed out of town onto the gravel side road. It should take him twenty minutes or so to get to the secondary landing strip at Bushell Park. With any kind of luck Trevor should arrive around the same time, flying a Tiger ­Moth.

As he pulled up at the airfield, he watched a lone Tiger Moth circle low overhead, then line up above the runway to land. Trevor brought the plane in with hardly a bounce or a bump. Jack strolled out to meet ­him.

The small plane taxied to a stop. “Hop on up here.” Trevor said, grinning. He was wearing his sporty white scarf and his full flying suit, helmet and gear. “Did you bundle up? It will be cold up there.”

Jack nodded and clambered into the student cockpit. “Let’s go.”

Seconds later the Moth taxied down the isolated field and took off into a clear, ­china-­blue sky. This is the life, thought Jack, looking down at the fields and farms as they sailed over them. The little plane wobbled and dipped but some day small planes would be much safer if Jack had his way. They spent the next hour doing loops and spins and taking turns flying the perky little ­plane.

“You’re pretty good for an amateur,” Trevor shouted after he had given Jack the controls the first ­time.

“Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

“Too bad you’ll never see me flying a fighter plane.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you – flying a fighter.”

“It would be wizard,” Trevor ­said.