Flying finish / Бурный финиш. Книга для чтения на английском языке

‘That’s enough,’ I interrupted mildly. The young man looked thoroughly unimpressed anyway, as he didn’t understand what he was being told. ‘I suppose the point is that once you start, you go on,’ I said. ‘One thing leads to another.’

‘I had my first lesson today,’ he said eagerly, and gave me a rev by rev account of it[62] for the next fifteen minutes. I ate two thick ham sandwiches while he got it off his chest[63], and finished the whisky. You couldn’t really blame him, I thought, listening with half an ear: if you liked it, your first flight took you by the throat and you were hooked good and proper[64]. It had happened to him. It had happened to me, one idle day when I passed the gates of the airfield and then turned back and went in, mildly interested in going up for a spin in a baby aircraft just to see what it was like.

I’d been to visit a dying great-aunt, and was depressed.

Certainly Mr…? ‘Grey,’ I said. Certainly Mr Grey could go up with an instructor, the air people said: and the instructor, who hadn’t been told I only wanted a sight-seeing flip, began as a matter of course to teach me to fly. I stayed all day and spent a week’s salary in fees; and the next Sunday I went back. Most of my Sundays and most of my money had gone the same way since.

The red-head was brought to a full stop by a burly tweed-suited man who said ‘Excuse me,’ pleasantly but very firmly, and planted himself between us.

‘Harry, I’ve been waiting for you to come back.’

‘Have a drink?’

‘Yes, all right, in a minute.’

His name was Tom Wells. He owned and ran a small charter firm which was based on the airfield, and on Sundays, if they weren’t out on jobs, he allowed the flying club to hire his planes. It was one of his that I had flown to Islay.

‘Have I done something wrong?’ I asked.

‘Wrong? Why should you, for God’s sake? No, I’m in a spot[65] and I thought you might be able to help me out’.

‘If I can, of course.’

‘I’ve overbooked next week-end and I’m going to be a pilot short[66]. Will you do a flight for me next Sunday?’

‘Yes,’ I said: I’d done it before, several times.

He laughed. ‘You never waste words, Harry boy. Well, thanks. When can I ring you to give you a briefing?’

I hesitated. ‘I’d better ring you, as usual.’

‘Saturday morning, then.’

‘Right.’

We had a drink together, he talking discontentedly about the growing shortage of pilots and how it was now too expensive for a young man to take it up on his own account, it cost at least three thousand pounds to train a multi-engine pilot, and only the air lines could afford it. They trained their own men and kept them, naturally. When the generation who had learned flying in the R.A.F.[67] during the war got too old, the smaller charter firms were going to find themselves in very sticky straits[68].

‘You now,’ he said, and it was obviously what he’d been working round to all along[69]. ‘You’re an oddity. You’ve got a commercial licence and all the rest, and you hardly use it. Why not? Why don’t you give up that boring old desk job and come and work for me?’

I looked at him for a long, long moment. It was almost too tempting, but apart from everything else, it would mean giving up steeplechasing, and I wasn’t prepared to do that. I shook my head slowly, and said not for a few years yet.

Driving home I enjoyed the irony of the situation. Tom Wells didn’t know what my desk job was, only that I worked in an office. I hadn’t got around to telling him that I no longer did, and I wasn’t going to. He didn’t know where I came from or anything about my life away from the airfield. No one there did, and I liked it that way[70]. I was just Harry who turned up on Sundays and flew if he had any money and worked on the engines in the hangars if he hadn’t.

Tom Wells had offered me a job on my own account, not, like Yardman, because of my father, and that pleased me very much. It was rare for me to be sure of the motive behind things which were offered to me. But if I took the job my anonymity on the airfield would vanish pretty soon, and all the old problems would crowd in, and Tom Wells might very well retract, and I would be left with nowhere to escape to on one day a week to be myself.

My family did not know I was a pilot. I hadn’t told them I had been flying that first day because by the time I got home my great-aunt had died and I was ashamed of having enjoyed myself while she did it. I hadn’t told them afterwards because I was afraid that they would make a fuss and stop me[71]. Soon after that I realised what a release it was to lead two lives and I deliberately kept them separate. It was quite easy, as I had always been untalkative: I just didn’t answer when asked where I went on Sundays, and I kept my books and charts, slide rules and computers, securely locked up in my bedroom. And that was that.

Chapter Three