The Big Frog Theory - 9
The weekly serialisation of my Magic Realism novel.
SEVENTEEN
He was eventually roused by Samuel’s cheery ‘Good Morning!’ and the aroma from the cup of tea which simultaneously landed on the cupboard by his bedside. It seemed one of those unfair awakenings: being disturbed before one was well and truly ready. He had managed to get some sleep, though for how much of the night it was impossible to say. All Neville knew was roughly the time he went to bed, and that it was now a little after seven.
Having checked his watch, he replaced it on the cupboard by the tea.
‘Isn’t this a little early, Samuel?’
His words felt blurred as he spoke them, crawling tiredly from him, as if they too were exhausted by a lack of sleep.
‘Early, Sir? I don’t think so. I suspect we may need to make an early start today.’
It was a comment which Neville failed to register. Unwittingly, he found himself returning to the root cause of his disturbed night, his trying to understand recent events; but he could only come up with things that seemed dream-like in themselves: “Mirelle” turning into a seagull; ‘Bob’, the talking fish.
‘Don’t let your tea get cold, Sir.’
Neville watched Samuel disappear round the edge of the curtain, and reflected on how his Mother had, for countless years, contrived to use those same words at least once a day. And if you substituted ‘dinner’ for ‘tea’, then he had heard it more often than that. Just now, however, it seemed a reasonable command to take seriously. It forced him to sit up a little — to ‘shake himself’, as Bob might have offered — and think about the day ahead.
The first few sips of tea (which was actually very hot) somehow placed a frame around the night, parcelling it up, and allowing Neville to file it away. It was something that was over, there was nothing residual left; it was time to move on. As he half-lay there, he contemplated the inside of the bus — a mobile home which, by the day, was becoming more like a home and less like anything mobile!
Neville drained the tea and climbed out of bed. Pulling on his dressing gown, he made his way through the curtains and towards the smell of bacon that was, under Samuel’s command, frying on the galley stove.
‘How are we this morning, Sir?’ Samuel said, as Neville reached him.
‘Fine, Samuel. A little tired, but fine.’
‘I have taken the liberty of running your bath.’
‘Thanks.’
Neville deposited the tea cup on the small sink unit and went through into the bathroom. The filled bath awaited him, but this time there was no duck floating on its surface. Neville looked for it briefly, but it was not in evidence. As he slid into the water, he wondered if it might have been pleasant to have spoken to it again — but then again, perhaps its absence suggested it had served its purpose.
As it was, Neville emerged a few minutes later after an undisturbed and relaxing bath. Samuel was still at the stove, though now tending sausages. The bacon had disappeared, though its smell lingered.
‘Everything all right, Sir?’
‘Fine, Samuel; thank you.’
‘I’ve put your clothes out on the bed.’
Neville nodded and walked through to his small compartment.
As Samuel had said, Neville’s attire for the day awaited him: slacks, a polo shirt and light cardigan. He pulled back the curtain at the window and looked out. It seemed a little too grim outside for such light clothes, but then presumably Samuel knew what he was doing — or, indeed, what they both would be doing.
At the foot of the bed, Neville noticed the suit trousers he had worn the night before lying there, awaiting return to the small wardrobe. He was surprised to find them, partly because he thought he could recall some form of discussion from the previous evening about putting them away, and partly because, given Samuel’s faultless efficiency, it seemed something of an anathema to find them still out.
He thought about calling to Samuel, but decided it would be simplest to just put the trousers away himself. As he lifted them from the bed, a small rectangle of white paper fell from one of the pockets and down to his feet. Neville, with the trousers resting over one arm, bent to pick it up. In the moments between bending and standing upright again — just about to open the folded paper — he tried to imagine what it might be: a receipt for the meal? Had the fat man given him something? He could recall nothing.
The paper, which was of reasonable quality vellum, was folded accurately into halves and opened easily. Neville could tell by the pristine state of the paper, that it had been folded once — firmly and with conviction — and no more; there had been no unfolding to reconsider its content. It was headed with the crest of the restaurant, and its contents were formed in a free-flowing hand. About half-way down, Neville read:
I hope you enjoyed the Duck and the Monkfish - they were really very good, weren’t they?! I wonder if your evening turned out anything like mine; something of a “sting in the tail”...?
I am going on a cruise — but perhaps you know that already! S.S.Pilgrim; leaving Southampton tomorrow.
Perhaps we might meet again one day...
M.
The note could only have had one author. Neville, rather than digest its content, was intrigued as to how it could have found its way into his pocket. The woman — “M” — must have written it on her way out; on that basis, did Gustav slip it into Neville’s trousers at some stage? Or perhaps it had been the fat man? Neville could not reconcile himself to the latter option; at least Gustav would have had the chance — and the “agility” — to perform the required operation.
He turned his thoughts to the content after a moment. They threw an interesting light on the discussions he had had with Samuel the previous evening. “M” was obviously “in the same boat” as he, and their shared experience — even down to Bob (surely “sting in the tail” was a reference?!) — was patently real enough. He raised the note a little higher, as if doing so would confirm its authenticity, and prepared to call Samuel.
In the instant between raising his hand and engaging his vocal chords, Neville’s reaction to the note shifted from the intellectual to the emotional. Questions savaged him from all sides: why was this woman, “M”, telling him where she was going? What did she mean by “perhaps we might meet again”? Was she really part of his plot — that pink dress! — or had they somehow become entangled?
‘Samuel!’
The curtain drew back and Samuel, holding a tray containing Neville’s cooked breakfast, stood before him.
‘Sir?’
‘Southampton, Samuel. We’re taking that cruise of mine.’
‘Very good, Sir. Would you like me to keep your breakfast hot for you while you dress, or will you eat it now?’
‘I’ll be dressed in a minute; you can leave it with me.’
Samuel put the plate by the side of the bed.
‘Shall I get us underway, Sir — if you’ll pardon the nautical turn of phrase.’
‘Please.’
‘Can I enquire the name of the ship?’
‘The S.S.Pilgrim; why?’
‘Just so I know where to go when we get to the docks, Sir. That’s all.’
‘Presumably you know where she’s sailing, Samuel?’
‘I believe it’s the Mediterranean, Sir.’
Neville looked at the clothes laid out for him on the bed.
‘And presumably you also knew we were bound to be going there?’
Samuel smiled.
‘I’ll get us moving, Sir; I don’t think we’ve too much time to spare.’
EIGHTEEN
When Neville made his way to his customary seat a few minutes later, the bus was already in motion. He put the plate containing his bacon, sausages and eggs down on the adjacent table and looked along the road. They were in the country, presumably south of Birmingham, though as he knew it was difficult to tell exactly where the bus might be at any one time. Samuel acknowledged his arrival with the merest glance, then returned his attention to the road ahead. Neville fell to his breakfast.
He believed he had managed to instil a degree of urgency into their prospective journey; indeed, he assumed this was confirmed by Samuel’s apparent willingness to get the bus underway immediately. Despite this however, their progress was limited to the mandatory twenty seven miles per hour, and as they meandered through the countryside Neville felt inclined to ask Samuel if he couldn’t possibly manage to go a little faster.
History — thus far, at any rate — suggested Samuel’s judgement in terms of timing was impeccable, and Neville had no real cause to doubt they would arrive in Southampton in plenty of time to board the boat. He speared the remains of his last sausage and raised the fork to his mouth.
‘I take it you have made reservations for the voyage, Sir?’
‘Reservations? I thought you took care of that sort of thing. There don’t seem to have been any problems in the past.’
The sausage segment became suspended three inches from Neville’s mouth.
‘When I can. But you seem to have taken this decision rather suddenly.’
‘You’re telling me you didn’t know where we were going?’
‘Of course not, Sir. How could I?’
‘But the clothes you laid out seemed so suitable. And your attitude. You weren’t at all surprised.’
Samuel glanced round. In the brief pause, Neville pulled the sausage from the fork with his teeth.
‘I like to think that I am prepared for anything, Sir.’ Samuel took a breath, allowing for any potential contradiction. ‘The clothes? You had talked about a cruise. Perhaps I made a lucky guess.’
‘Perhaps.’ Neville was doubtful. ‘Does that mean the cruise is off?’
‘Oh, not at all, Sir. If we can make a quick stop, perhaps I might be able to phone ahead.’
This seemed a strange departure from the ritual as Neville had experienced it thus far. Samuel seemed perfectly genuine, yet something about the situation ran contrary to the general pattern of the adventure. Neville — whose desire to make the boat had been steadily growing since the idea first struck him — was powerless to do anything except concur.
Five minutes later the bus was stationery, and Neville was watching through his window as Samuel rang Southampton docks from a roadside telephone kiosk. There was little spectacle in this, Samuel remaining motionless and non-expressive for the duration of the call apart from a slight inclination of the head at one point, and a more definite nod immediately before he put the phone down.
‘All booked, Sir.’ Samuel announced on his return. ‘The S.S.Pilgrim sails on this afternoon’s tide, which doesn’t leave us too much time — but I’m sure we’ll make it.’
The last remark was offered with one of his knowing winks which meant that, when they set off at their snail’s pace again, questioning their progress was the last thing on Neville’s mind.
Slowly they rolled through the countryside; the roads were quiet and, apart from the occasional flock of sheep or herd of cattle, the scenery was relatively bland too. Samuel had retrieved an atlas of the world from somewhere, and presented it to Neville with the suggestion that he might like to study the islands of the Mediterranean in order to familiarise himself with them prior to their arrival.
‘”Our” arrival?’ Neville had echoed.
‘Yes, Sir. I think it might be wise if I were on hand, don’t you?’ Neville recalled Paris and reflected on how valuable Samuel’s ultimate intervention had been.
As he took in details of Malta, Corsica and Sardinia, he felt the bus gradually descending downhill. It seemed a hill without a bottom, and without any adverse gradient to counter it. He could hear Samuel in his driver’s seat reciting poetry —
I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by,
and as he spoke it seemed the bus was — quite literally — going down to the sea as there, in the distance, the Solent shimmered in the early afternoon sun. There were no tall ships — at least not as John Masefield would have known them — but Neville could make out one or two large vessels and the jibs of the tall cranes working them.
The bus turned a corner and Neville lost sight of the docks. He wondered which of the two ships he had seen was the S.S.Pilgrim — or if neither, then where on the docks she might be. Samuel would probably know, but Neville was ill disposed to disturb him as he feared they had come as close to “racing against the clock” as they were ever likely to.
When they reached Southampton it seemed as if humanity had descended on the town. The roads were full of cars, and the pavements packed with people.
‘Must be some kind of event, Sir,’ Samuel said after they had been stationary in a traffic queue for a few minutes.
‘Is there any way out of this, Samuel? How much time do we have?’
‘I’ve been following the signs for the docks, Sir. We’ll get there as soon as we can.’
Neville spotted a policeman walking their way; he was chatting with other pedestrians, apparently unconcerned by the congestion. Neville — who was by now on his feet and leaning against Samuel’s seat — pointed him out. Samuel lowered his window.
‘Excuse me, Officer. We’re trying to get to the docks, and I’m afraid we’re in rather a hurry.’
‘Hurry, eh?’ The Policeman laughed. ‘Well you won’t get there through the middle of the town; there’s a big “do” on, see? It’s where all these people are going.’
Neville, although intrigued to know what kind of “do” would bring people out in such numbers, had his mind firmly set on making the docks in the shortest possible time.
‘Can we go some other way? Not through the centre of the town?’
‘Well, Sir; let me see.’ And the Policeman paused long enough to effect a professional frown before replying. ‘You might try going west, and then back in from that side. I think it should be less busy that way.’
‘Thank you, Officer. Now, which way’s that?’
‘Why, over there.’
And as the Policeman pointed, a gap appeared in the traffic to the right, just where another road branched off. Samuel swung the bus out of the main stream.
‘Try a couple of miles or three,’ the Policeman shouted after them, ‘then head back in!’
As they headed west, cutting across the threads of traffic and people all aiming for the town centre, their progress — though still not rapid — improved. After two miles, Samuel began to look out for signs that indicated “Docks” and, on finding the first one, took the designated route. The Policeman had been correct in his judgement, and, though they were now in a position where Neville would have been glad of twenty seven miles per hour, at least they were making forward progress.
When the “Docks” signs eventually drew them out of the throng and away downhill once again — and back to twenty seven miles an hour — it had been nearly an hour since they had lost sight of the Solent, the ships and the cranes. Samuel had been silent for virtually all of that time, and even now — with open road again ahead of them — remained quiet. Neville, having returned to his seat, felt a degree of tension in the air undoubtedly caused by Samuel’s unspoken concern that they might actually be late.
The first entrance they came to proclaimed Dock Gate Twelve. Neville looked at Samuel.
‘Which one do we want, Samuel?’
‘Three, Sir.’
The gates seemed impossibly far apart, and although they were no longer hampered by traffic, it was taking an age to get from one gate to the next. When they reached Four, Neville thought he could see a gentle plume of smoke rising from beyond the wharf-side sheds ahead, and wondered if that might be the Pilgrim making ready to get under way.
On finally pulling through Dock Gate Three and driving down to the pontoon, they discovered the smoke was indeed coming from the S.S.Pilgrim — however, the ship was not making ready, she was actually sailing away. Perhaps by as little as ten minutes, they had missed the boat. Samuel shut down the bus engine, and the two of them sat in silence watching the S.S.Pilgrim grow ever smaller, churning a white wake with seagulls dancing in the foam. The cawing of the gulls carried back to them, mockingly almost.
‘I’m sorry, Sir.’ Samuel broke the silence, though without taking his eyes off the ship. ‘I don’t know how this happened. I don’t think I have ever been late before.’
Neville wondered about the Eiffel Tower, but admonishment never occurred to him.
‘You couldn’t have known about the traffic or the crowds, Samuel. Otherwise we would have made it.’
Samuel choose not to reply. Again they both stared after the boat. The dockside was deserted apart from them.
‘I guess that’s it then,’ was all Neville could offer, as he struggled with the disappointment of not making the boat, of not taking the cruise, and — most importantly — of not renewing his acquaintance with “M”.
Samuel rose from his seat.
‘Excuse me, Sir; I won’t be a minute.’ And with that he was off the bus and out of sight.
For some reason, Neville had a brief image of Captain Oates at the South Pole — “I may be some time” — and wondered, not without some concern, why Samuel had left the bus.
The minute Samuel promised to be away extended to thirteen, but when he returned — boarding the bus as suddenly as he had left it — the smile on his face immediately suggested that all was not lost.
‘We are in luck, Sir!’ he said as he started the bus.
‘Samuel?’
‘The S.S.Pilgrim is making a special stop in the Channel Islands before she heads for Gibraltar. There is an airport just north of the town and I have arranged a plane for us. We can overtake the ship and board her in Guernsey.’
Neville could say nothing. He sat back in his seat as the bus moved away from Gate Three and out into the city again. Might his hopes not be dashed after all? And what should expect to find once he stepped on board the ship?
The bus began the steady incline away from the docks, occasionally offering a view of the sea and the speck the S.S.Pilgrim had now become. Samuel had taken to whistling, evidently relieved that all was not yet lost, and Neville — to take his mind off their renewed chase — had picked up the atlas again and was contemplating the rather complex geography of the Caucasus Mountains.
They left the city behind and, for a few miles, travelled once again through open country. The aerodrome — signified by its tower, radar and windsock — came upon them suddenly: one minute they weren’t there, the next they were. Samuel steered the bus through the main gate, past the car park, and out onto the fringe of the runway. As they descended the bus, Neville looked for the plane that would speed them to the Channel Islands and his longed-for rendezvous. Expecting a small jet or some such, the only plane he could see was an old World War One bi-plane.
From a building which housed hangars and administration as well as the control tower, a figure emerged and began walking towards them. As the man drew closer, Neville, recognising the portent of his leather helmet, handlebar moustache, white scarf and jodhpurs, put two and two together. He looked back at the old bi-plane. Could that get them to Guernsey in time?
The pilot and Samuel were in conversation when Neville turned to them again. The pilot smiled and walked towards him, offering his hand.
‘”Binky” Bingham’s the name!’ he boomed in a B-movie accent. ‘Hear you chaps want a quick recce over the water, what?’
Neville smiled as he took Binky’s hand, then winced politely under the pressure of the cast-iron grip.
‘Have you over there in a jiffy!’ Binky continued, ‘No Huns about today, what?’ And with that, he marched off to the plane.
Neville looked at Samuel. He refrained from articulating the questions — and fears — which were bouncing around in his head. Samuel’s silent nod of understanding and meek smile of acknowledgement were sufficient. They followed Binky to the plane, where, after the appropriate degree of “Boy’s Own” bonhomie, they were installed in the two passenger seats. Ahead of them, Binky planted himself firmly in the pilot’s seat and, pulling his goggles down, bawled “Chocks away!” to no-one in particular.
The bi-plane’s archaic engine spluttered into life and with a cavalier wave from their pilot, they began to bump roughly across the apron to the end of the runway. As they paused for the engine to work up the appropriate enthusiasm, Neville noticed another hanger near the tower outside of which numerous modern aircraft sat idle. He tapped Samuel (who was sitting in front of him) on the shoulder, ready to suggest they abort Binky for something a little more modern, when the bi-plane suddenly lurched forwards.
Rather than smoothly, they accelerated along the runway in pulses. Binky appeared to have several goes at yanking the joystick to lift the plane into the air, but each of these met with failure. Indeed, they came within a few yards of the end of the runway — and Neville contemplating the failure of his quest in some “total” sense — when the plane’s wheels hit a large bump (almost, he would reflect later, like a Sleeping Policeman) which threw the craft from the tarmac and up into the air.
For a few seconds, the plane seemed suspended, uncertain as if it would manage the rest itself; but then, roaring like a wounded lion, the single engine pulled them upwards and towards the heavens.
NINETEEN
After the initial scare, the flight began to feel a little more like a conventional excursion. They ascended to something in the order of a thousand feet, at which point the engine seemed to give up its quest for more height and insisted on levelling off. As far as Neville could tell, Binky had managed nothing as yet to suggest he had any control over their fate. He wanted to talk to Samuel about arrangements for their immediate future, but was forced to abort any such plans when his first and only attempt was completely thwarted by the noise of the engine. Powerless to do anything but sit there and wait, he decided to make the most of the flight.
The plane banked over Southampton Water — though whether this was due to Binky it was impossible to say — and began to follow the Hampshire coastline west. Neville felt reassured that, for the first time since he had met Samuel, they were travelling between two distant points and were using a means which allowed him to verify the nature of their progress. Although they were not flying particularly high, Neville soon began to feel cold as the wind rushed about him. Binky, at one stage, turned and gave them a “gung ho!” kind of wave, apparently oblivious to the conditions his passengers were facing. Samuel had, very soon after take-off, rummaged around in the cockpit he was sitting in and managed to retrieve a leather flying jacket and hat, both similar to Binky’s. Within minutes, from the rear view he had of them Neville found it impossible to tell the two apart.
With Samuel proving the benefit of initiative, minutes later — and a fair distance along the coast — Neville decided it could be worth his while to see if there was additional clothing secreted somewhere for him. A few seconds searching around where he sat rewarded him with a rather tatty white scarf which, despite its somewhat careworn appearance, was soon adorning his neck. He tried to tie it in a manner appropriate for an aviator, but suspected all he managed was a clumsy kind of knot. In any event, it was a little warmer, though still insufficient for his present needs. As he looked about, craning his neck to examine every reachable space, he discovered a small lever on the side of his seat which, when depressed, allowed him to rotate a complete 180 degrees. In doing so, he was rewarded by two things: first was the welcome sight of a sheepskin jacket in a recess by his feet; second was the realisation that the plane boasted a primitive anti-aircraft gun mounted on the fuselage and pointing to the rear. He pulled on the coat, wondering as he did so, how he had managed to miss the gun; presumably this had been due to excitement — or fear.
Warmer now, Neville rotated in his seat again, then looked out in a more contented frame of mind. They had progressed along the Devon coast and, banking left, ahead of them lay the western half of the English Channel. It was a bright, clear day, and Neville thought he could make out their destination. If that were the case, then surely at some stage they might also fly over the S.S.Pilgrim. He turned to the east, scanning the surface of the water, attempting to discern the cruise ship from the various other craft plying their respective trades. Tankers were easy to spot because of their bulk; yachts easy to miss because of their lack of it. The S.S.Pilgrim should, from what he could remember, reveal herself as something between the two.
He had just caught sight of a ship that met his expectations — right sort of size and steaming in the right direction — when his view changed instantly and he found himself looking at nothing but water. Worse than that, it was water that seemed to be getting closer, and rather quickly. They were in something of a steep dive. Ahead, Binky’s scarf flew stiffly behind him as they accelerated downwards. Neville was about to tap Samuel on the shoulder when a sudden manoeuvre from the pilot resulted in them being thrown back in their seats; all he could see now was the blue of the sky.
If the engine had roared on take-off, its complaint now was less feline and more like that of a dinosaur. Up and up it pulled them — certainly higher than before — until it they began to lose momentum. At the last minute, just as they seemed about to stop dead still, the plane banked and began to swoop away to the right.
Neville — who by this time had not only lost all sense of direction, but was beginning to wonder if he might not lose his breakfast too — doubted such an extreme exhibition was part of the normal in-flight entertainment; though with Binky at the controls, anything might be possible. Indeed, he was beginning to search for other reasons for their present course when a second roar greeted his semi-deafened ears; another bi-plane appeared suddenly ahead of them, crossing their path.
Although they were not travelling particularly fast, the two planes seemed to cross in a split second, and Neville had to rotate in his chair to follow the progress of the newcomer. His tracking of this second red plane revealed the presence of a third; the latter now bearing down on them from behind and slightly above. He could not be exactly certain what first confirmed it — perhaps it was the fact that these new planes were bright red; perhaps it was their markings; or perhaps it was the flashes from their forward-mounted machine guns — but Neville knew they were in trouble.
He felt Binky begin to steer the plane into a dive again, and as they began to drop, Samuel tapped him on the shoulder.
‘What!’ Neville shouted, convinced Samuel could not hear him.
‘The gun!’
Samuel must have made a superhuman effort to get himself heard above the din, but hear him he did. He turned back to the gun and took its butt in his hands. It was heavy and cumbersome, and at first Neville could do little but wave it round.
As they dived, the second red plane buzzed above them. Neville could see the first turning their way, preparing to attack again. No way was this a simple drama. Remembering to aim away from the rudder, Neville tried to fire off a couple of trial shots. He pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
‘Safety catch!’ came Samuel’s voice again.
Glancing along the gun, Neville found a small lever that appeared might do the trick. He flicked it and tried again. The gun kicked into life, the recoil far stronger than he expected (despite its mounting), and he simply sprayed the rounds in a broad arc. This would be more difficult than he had anticipated.
As the first of the intruders swooped towards them, Neville took careful aim and fired. After a short burst, the gun ended up pointing at least twenty degrees away from the target, Neville just able to make out the fading traces of his initial attempt falling tamely away. The red plane opened fire. Neville could not see the traces of the bullets as they came towards him and, although he had nothing to back this up, he sensed their adversary’s shooting was a little better than his own.
The planes crossed again as Binky slipped into a slight dive, then pulled up and away to the right. Considering its age, the bi-plane was performing remarkably well, and Neville was beginning to re-evaluate his opinion of Binky as an “Ace”. Samuel was once again silent, watching helplessly as the drama unfolded either side of him. Neville hoped that a little instruction might come his way, but there was nothing further.
In the distance — it seemed miles away — the two red planes came briefly together then began another attack. They were faster than Binky’s old crate and, it appeared, could out-manoeuvre them too. Neville flexed his hands and prepared to pick up the cudgels again. He had learnt much from his first attempt and had decided that it would undoubtedly be best not to aim directly at his target but away from it, allowing the gun’s natural travel to strafe the plane’s path.
From either side the red planes began their swoop. Closing in, it appeared that they would cross on completion of their attack, peel away, and come in for another run. Neville licked his lips. Fire spat from the oncoming bandits before Neville opened up — “don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!” He aimed well to the right of the plane attacking from that side and pulled hard on the trigger. The gun swung violently around, spraying a wide array of bullets which, in its enthusiasm, peppered their own tail before coming to a glorious end by hitting the plane on their left-hand side — the one Neville had not been aiming at.
There was a slight puff of black smoke, a cough, and then the stricken plane began to fall out of the sky like a wounded bird. Neville’s exhilaration was immediate and intense; he had just about enough time to imagine Samuel reciting some war poem or other, when he realised that they too were beginning to lose height. He looked about; he could see no sign of smoke. Turning to face the front of the plane once again, he failed to see the cause of their present predicament immediately — though the fact that they were in trouble was evidenced by the increasing rapidity with which they were losing height and the slight spin they also seemed to be adopting.
Past Samuel’s shoulder, Neville noticed Binky slumped forwards. He thumped Samuel on the shoulder, and pointed ahead. He could see nothing of Samuel’s face, nor hear any reply that might have been forthcoming; but what he did see was Samuel raise the thumb of his left hand. Was this reassurance or understanding? Or did he have a parachute?
As his mind raced to find some kind of solution, he felt the spin steady then stop. Then he felt the plane’s descent ease. He craned his neck in an attempt to see round Samuel’s body. His bus driver was now proving that he was something of a pilot too — or was it all the same thing? A second set of controls adorned the portion of the cockpit where Samuel sat and, for a while at least, things were back under control.
Samuel’s other hand jerked out over the side of the plane and upwards. There, above them, the second red devil was beginning another run. Neville swung back into his firing position and prepared himself. There was a flash, then another. He heard a strange “whing” then saw — in slow motion almost — a small hole appear in the body of the plane just by his left leg. Driven on by anger, Neville pulled the gun round and opened fire. This time it remained steady and his aim unswerving.
A puff — the tell-tale smoke — and then the beginnings of a spin. The enemy pilot leapt from his cockpit to abandon the dying craft. Again Neville’s burst of joy was short-lived as the red plane began to hurtle towards them. He spun round and thumped Samuel on the back of the head. Samuel looked round and Neville closed his eyes.
The asthmatic cough of the attacker’s dying engine was the next thing of which Neville was aware, then the rush of the red plane as they themselves fell from the sky in the opposite direction. He opened his eyes to see the second plane spinning harmlessly away like a broken toy. The two parachutes of the defeated pilots looked like flowers above a sea-green flower bed; and there, just where he would have expected it to be, the outline of the S.S.Pilgrim — no doubt oblivious of the drama being played out in the skies above it — making its way towards Guernsey.
Samuel levelled the plane and banked to head in the same direction. After a few minutes flying, the island presented itself as a welcome haven. It seemed ridiculously small, and the runway — when Neville eventually made it out — an impossibility. They circled twice before there was suddenly silence.
From ahead, Samuel shouted one word — “Fuel!” — and, almost on command, they began to lose height.
As the ground gained on them — Neville now able to make out individual houses and fields, the old fortifications and the new hotels — he closed his eyes once again. It was not lack of faith that prompted such an action, but cowardice. It seemed an age for nothing to happen. And then there was a bump. And then another. And then, in the silence, the sound of squeaking wheels on less than smooth tarmac. Neville opened his eyes; they were down.
Their arrival was greeted by a small crowd of airport staff who, to their credit, behaved as if having a slightly wounded bi-plane landing on their runway without fuel was an everyday occurrence. Once they had come to a complete halt, Neville sat motionless and silent. Samuel, flicking a lever on his own seat, turned to face him.
‘Sir? Are you all right?’
Neville looked into Samuel’s concerned face.
‘Thank you, Samuel.’
At the front of the plane, a moan escaped from Binky.
‘I didn’t know you could fly.’
‘I learned in the war, Sir.’
Again a moan from Binky.
‘I didn’t know you could shoot, Sir.’
Neville laughed.
‘I can’t!’
‘Tally Bloody Ho!’
Binky was now standing on his seat, waving his arms and sending his scarf into spasms. Unsteadily he turned to face his two charges.
‘Bloody good show! Bloody good...’
But the rest of his words were interrupted by him losing balance and falling out of the plane completely. Three airport hands prepared to scrape him from the runway.
‘Is he OK?’
‘Probably just a scratch, Sir. Couldn’t stand all the excitement.’
Neville caught Samuel’s smile.
‘He wasn’t the only one!’