The Last Link - Joanna Beresford

The Last Link by Joanna Beresford

Book excerpt

Royal Flying Corps

Wantage Hall,

Reading,

England

Dear Olive,

I just have a few minutes left to catch the mail so will not be able to write a very long letter. I intended writing last night, only my friend Harry and I went on the river and it was so nice we stayed there until 11 o’clock. By Jove, it is just lovely on the river. There are hundreds of boats going up and down. Some have punts. Others have scull boats and canoes. You should see the couples under the bank taking cover under a few twigs of a willow tree. It would open one’s eyes.

I had an exam on Saturday, on theory of flight bombing and rigging. You will think, little does George know about rigging an aeroplane or theory of flight. Some of the angles we have to learn I had never heard before, such as dihedral angle, lift drift ratio, longitudinal struts and one hundred other things. I never thought my brain would hold half, but I answered 23 out of 24 questions so that is not so bad for two weeks. So you will know the girls do not take up much of my time now. Aeroplanes are more into my line. These are some of the instruments we have to know; compass, revolution indicator, inclinometer, gradometer, pump, pressure gauge, thermometer and watch. All these things are on the dashboard in front of you and above this you have a machine gun and bomb dropper. You see, there is plenty to learn before you can be a pilot. We had to describe a lot of these in our exam and state how they looked.

I have not had a letter for five weeks. The mail must have been sunk. Do you ever see old Doris these days? My word, I would like to see her again. What a time we will have when we do meet.

From George.

George grimaced and folded the letter he’d written back in 1917. He hid it away beneath the mess of papers protruding from his desk’s bottom drawer. His elder sister Olive had saved the note for him, as she had all the letters he’d sent her during his time in England, but she’d gleefully singled this particular one out to give back to him in front of Cissie last week. Goodness knows why.

Cissie had pursed her lips and continued sweeping the kitchen floor. He could tell what she was thinking; George and Olive never had much use for her when they were together – brother and sister, thick as thieves. She was his wife. He knew she would be wondering whether that counted for anything at all. Still, Cissie hadn’t demanded to see the letter and so he hadn’t shown it to her. That comment about Doris at the bottom would have riled her good and proper and he preferred to let things lie.

‘George, what are you up to in there? I need to you come and help me shampoo the dog. He’s flicking water all over the room and I’m just about soaked through,’ Cissie cried.

He kicked the drawer shut and limped out to see the damage. Cissie was pretty wet, all right. The lace of her chemise pressed against her transparent cotton shirt. Charlie, their spaniel, leapt out of the sudsy tub with excitement when he saw George, shaking more water over her.

‘Down boy,’ George commanded. To no avail; Charlie was out of the door and rolling on the grass, legs kicking haphazardly in the air.

George reached out to his wife and helped her up, his hand grazing her breast as he pulled her into him.

She slapped his hand away. ‘I can’t believe you’re thinking of that when I’m standing here practically freezing to death.’

‘Aw, come here Cis. Forget about the dog. You can scrub my back instead.’

‘No! I will not forget about the dog. Stop it. You are going to get Charlie and give him that bath. He stinks!’ She stalked off down the passage.

‘Aren’t you going to help?’ he called after her ruefully.

‘No, I most certainly am not. I’m going to change before I catch my death of cold.’

‘Ah, that’s my girl.’ George looked at the dog and sighed. ‘Come on, Charlie, be a good boy. Come and have your bath.’

Charlie sat at a safe distance, his tongue lolling over his gums. George thought the dog looked like he was fair laughing at his master. And why not? They both knew George couldn’t run fast enough to catch him. Not with half a leg missing, a wooden prosthesis strapped on in its place.

Cissie probably wouldn’t speak to him for a week for leaving right now but really, he had better things to do than grapple with a wet mutt. He needed to speak to Pa. Why the heck hadn’t his old man been at the Rifle Club that morning? It was out of character. He’d better check in, just in case.

***

Frank Hood was sitting in his favourite porch chair. The late afternoon sun infused his aching joints as he carefully stretched forward to stroke his pet magpie. The ebony-and-ivory-coloured feathers felt somehow dry and oily.

‘Hello?’ the bird chirruped, as it cocked its inky bill, all the better for casting a beady eye over the octogenarian.

Frank wiped his hand down his face and let out a watery cough. ‘Trick, this awful flu is really giving me a beating.’

The pet bird hopped on to Frank’s wrist and picked its way from side to side along his shirt sleeve before coming to rest on his shoulder. From this vantage point, the magpie was easily able to pull white strands out of the old man’s thick beard and mutton chop sideburns.

As Frank massaged a twinging nerve in his left shoulder, his stout little wife, Jane, stepped neatly out of the back door carrying a glass of cool apple juice. She had a cushion tucked under her left arm and drew it out to bat the bird away. She handed him the glass, tugged him to her and stuffed the cushion behind his neck.

‘Here you go, dear, squeezed from our own apples,’ she announced, triumphantly holding the glass aloft and watching fruit sediment swirl softly to the bottom.

Frank winced as Trick reclaimed his shoulder with a ruffling of feathers and groping claws, and sipped gratefully from the glass.

She patted the top of her husband’s head and hurried back toward the house.

‘Call me if you need anything else, dear,’ she said. Jane knew well enough to leave her husband alone when he was feeling so sorry for himself. Though, for goodness sake, the man was only suffering from a summer cold.

‘Pa, what are you doing? Are you asleep?’

Frank’s eyes snapped open. Reluctantly, he craned his neck to look up. George was shaking him, concern etched in his face.

‘Course not. I don’t have time to snooze,’ Frank said, grumbling.

‘Righty-ho, just checking you’re all right. I missed you at the shoot today. The competition was tight. Old McKay just scraped in at the top of the table, averaging forty-six at the three-hundred-yard mark. I reckon he might be trying to give me a run for the championship title, eh, Pa?’

Frank set his glass on the ground. ‘He well might, George, but never you mind about me, I don’t have to go to every one of those competitions. It does me good to have a break from time to time.’

‘Are you sick or something?’

‘Touch of the flu. Don’t get too close. I wouldn’t want to pass it on to you lot.’

George grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want to get any closer with that magpie sitting on your shoulder, anyhow. Mind it doesn’t crap down your back.’

‘Hasn’t yet.’

‘That has to be a minor miracle. The stupid thing dive-bombs everyone else, in case you haven’t noticed. Look, I’ve come round to remind you that I’m off to Wigram tomorrow for the flight refresher. Would you keep an eye on Cissie for me?’

Frank nodded. ‘Not a problem, George. We’ll make sure she’s taken care of.’

‘Thanks, Pa. But don’t tell her I asked. She’s independent, as you know – wouldn’t like to think anyone was making a fuss. You’ll keep me happy, though.’

Frank blinked and stretched his arms above his head. ‘You take care, George. No crazy stunts in those old aeroplanes, y’hear?’