Flight of the Tiger Moth (17 page)

He was my brother, thought Jack, and now he’s ­gone.

Chapter ­23

Basil ran around at the Thursday night dress rehearsal
with his clipboard and lists, and the crowd of performers and stagehands followed his directions. Jack was the gopher – ­go-­fer this and ­go-­fer that. People moved either like molasses in January or like a flock of wild ducks, depending on their ­moods.

The whole hall rang with song, dance, shouted directions and people being alternately hushed and encouraged to sing up, speak up, or hurry up and get on stage quickly and off quietly. The smell of weak coffee and strong tea permeated the room. Repete Nelson, without even waiting for a sign from Jimmy, helped by climbing ladders and stringing streamers and ­balloons.

Buddy sat under Basil’s chair guarding his uniform jacket and supplies, keeping a sharp lookout for his remaining family. Now, except for Jack, Basil seemed to be Buddy’s favourite. Buddy would be sad when Basil and Dexter ­left.

Jack sang along with Basil in his Gilbert and Sullivan parody. He hummed through the station band’s medley of tunes. Then his turn came, first with the church choir, then the quartet with Wes and Basil, and Cathy replacing Trevor. He struggled with tears singing the tenor line – I’ll remember you always. Cathy sang Trevor’s part in “Always” beside him, her voice true as a tuning fork. Finally the men’s chorus took their turn. Arnie Hobbs and Howie Wong stood in the front row of the group belting out the tunes. He was glad the old guys were having ­fun.

For the finale, the whole cast lined up on stage, more than ­twenty-­five of them, leaving only a handful of spectators. Afterwards, Basil addressed ­them.

“At ease, everyone,” said Basil. “It went well. Just a few pointers.” He proceeded to outline where each act needed work. Jack admired the young flyer’s finesse in handling such a wide variety of talent and effort. Especially now that he was doing it without Trevor. He probably
would
make a good lawyer. His dad would be ­proud.

Basil did just about everything well. Cathy beamed at her fiancé.

“I want to tell you how much I appreciate all the work you’ve put into this production. Trevor would have been pleased.”

There was a hush in the room. Jack had to look away, his eyes clouding with tears again. He was finding out ­first-­hand what grief felt ­like.

“I must admit, “Basil went on, “that when I first arrived in Cairn I thought I had come to the end of the world. But your hospitality and team spirit, and your talent and hard work as we have prepared this show, have made me change my mind about ‘colonials.’” A few people ­smiled.

“If I didn’t have a brilliant future in my dad’s law firm or on the British stage,” here everyone laughed and clapped at his attempt at humour, “I’d contemplate staying in Canada. Of course, I am planning on sending for a grand souvenir, a beautiful Canadian woman, who will join me after the war.” More ­laughter.

“Thank you all for your able assistance. Now I suggest you go home, have a good sleep and take the day off tomorrow. We’ve got a show to put on.”

Suddenly Jack found himself on his feet. “How about a ­hip-­hip-­hurray for Basil, for putting us through our paces.”

Basil blushed. “If it hadn’t been for Trevor Knight, none of this would have happened,” he said. “Our performances this weekend will honour his memory.”

The hall resounded with thirty or so voices shouting together. They sang hurrah for Trevor and then for Basil. Everyone clapped and began gathering up their ­stuff.

“What do you think, Jack?” Basil asked as he closed the church door. “Would Trevor be pleased?”

“It’ll be wizard.” That was the word Trevor would’ve used, Jack ­thought.

“See you Saturday, lads and lassies! Break a leg,” Basil called to the groups of performers as they strolled away. He and Cathy were headed over to her house. They had to make plans. It didn’t look as if the raf were going to let Basil get married before he left for ­England.

Wes and Jack piled into the old truck. Dexter and some of the other singers from the aerodrome climbed in the box at the back. Dexter and Basil had gone back to Moose Jaw a couple of weeks ago for the jalopy but it had disappeared. Now everyone relied on Jack to drive them in his dad’s truck. He was reluctant to use Sandy’s car. He didn’t want anything to happen to ­it.

He drove the singers out to the airport canteen, and they sang silly songs all the way. It was difficult, carrying on after the crash. But most people hadn’t known Trevor the way Jack ­had.

The whole gang – Basil, Dexter, Wes, Cathy and Jack – had taken the British “stiff upper lip” to new heights. When Jack was alone, however, grief swept over him like a snowstorm in ­February.

He hadn’t been able to sleep all week. He kept talking to Trevor, trying to bring him back in his mind. Each morning he woke lonelier than the day before, more clear that his good mate had gone forever. “You’re better living in the moment, Jackie,” Trevor had said. It was not an easy thing to ­learn.

After they’d let the group off at the canteen, Jack and Wes headed back to ­town.

“How’s it really going, Jack?” Wes studied Jack’s face. “You miss Trevor lots.”

Jack gulped. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to talk about the ­accident.

“This isn’t easy,” said Wes. “I guess friends dying never is.”

“It’s not fair. Some old lady at church told me it was God’s will. I don’t believe that.”

“I don’t think life is fair. And I don’t think Trevor’s death was God’s will.” Wes chewed his ­lip.

“You don’t?”

“No. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this summer,” said Wes. “You know, about what I want to do, what my dad wants me to do, what life is really about, what God is like. You’ve been busy working, hanging out with Basil, Trevor and the gang in your spare time, making models and stewing about technical stuff.”

“We’ve been on different wavelengths, you might say,” Jack mused. “What’s this got to do with Trevor’s death?”

“I’m getting to that.” Wes wiped the dust off the dashboard with his left ­hand.

“I think this war will teach us a lot of lessons, lessons about the human condition.” Rain streamed down the window. A lightning bolt lit up the sky in the ­east.

Jack turned the windshield wipers on. “So?”

“So I don’t think we understand God anymore, not like we used to think we did. God is not in charge of the war, of who dies, or who doesn’t, or who wins. I think we’ve got a lot to explain to God. We need to take responsibility for our own actions. Trevor died. It was an accident. It wasn’t God’s fault. We need to celebrate his life and the gifts he offered.”

“He told me he lived in the moment.” Jack could feel his throat tighten. “He said he didn’t mind dying if he’d be flying. But I thought it would be in the war.”

“I think we honour that, Jackie. We remember all the good times we had together and we get on with our lives.” Wes turned and looked closely at ­Jack.

Jack sighed. “It’s hard to figure out how to do that.”

“I’ve been thinking I’d like to study for the ministry. My dad has always hoped I’d follow in his footsteps. That’s not why I’m doing it, though. I want to figure out what God really looks like, what Jesus really said, and how in heck we human beings can learn to live together on this earth without killing each other.”

“I thought you were going to be a writer?”

“Maybe I could write about it.” Wes grinned. “After I’ve got something worth writing about.”

Jack didn’t say anything for a moment. As he pulled into the village and slowed to a stop in front of McLeod’s house, he said. “I’ll fix the technical problems and you fix the spiritual ones. Hey, Wes, it sounds like a great plan.”

“I was afraid you’d think I was an idiot, some kind of religious freak.”

“Just don’t start preaching at me.”

“No, sir!”

>>>

O
n Friday morning, as Jack was checking the tires
on 3828, Harold hollered from the office door. He was holding the phone in his hand and motioned Jack to ­hurry.
Jack sprinted across the hangar to the ­glassed-­in area, politely called the office, but really a hodgepodge of an old desk, a typewriter, a couple of rickety chairs and an assortment of unfiled documents, logbooks, mechanical drawings and dingy coffee and tea ­cups.

“It’s your mother, Jack.” Harold stood in the doorway holding the receiver out to ­him.

Jack’s heart beat fast and a wave of fear threatened to overpower him. He took the ­receiver.

“I don’t care who hears this, Jack. We’ve had a letter from Flo. She’s better. She’s somewhere in England on leave. It’s taken a few weeks but she’s really on the mend. She’s got lots of stories, she says, to tell you and Dad.”

“That’s great, Mom.” Jack had a sudden image of Flo smiling at him from across the ­room.

“I thought you’d want to know. Here’s your dad.”

“Jack, I thought you’d like to know she had to be flown to the hospital she’s been recovering in.”

“You think she was in a field hospital when she got hit?”

“Sounds like it to me, sport. She’s one spunky gal, our Flo.”

“See you later, Dad.”

“Don’t work too hard.”

Jack said goodbye and handed the phone back to ­Harold.

“What’s up?” Harold ­asked.

Jack flopped down on one of the rickety chairs. “My sister’s all right. She’s safe. She’s getting better.” He wanted to race the length of the hangar and back and scream at the top of his lungs. But he didn’t. He just told the rest of the guys the ­news.

By now the whole of Cairn would know, if anyone on the party line had been listening to their family ­conversation.

Just then, a bunch of flyers arrived wanting to go up and the ground crew scurried to get the planes ready to ­fly.

Harold sent him ­home.

He grabbed his bike and cycled back to ­Cairn.

His mom and dad were drinking tea and chatting. They stopped and welcomed him with open arms. The Waters family was not a huggy family but this was a special ­occasion.

“Jack, we’ve been talking,” his dad said. “Ever since we heard the news about Flo.”

We’ve been thinking about our future,” his mother said. “We’ve been thinking about moving, moving to wherever you go to university, especially if your dad can find a job.”

“What about the store?” Jack ­asked.

“Running the store is out of the question,” his mother said. “Your dad’s sciatica is a chronic condition.”

“Unless you want to stay in Cairn…” Dad ­said.

“Running the family store has never been in my plans.”

“This village doesn’t need two general stores,” his mother said. “I’d like to try and get a job teaching piano, and playing organ in a city church.” Playing with Basil and Trevor must have given Jack’s mother renewed confidence in her ­ability.

“I really want to go back on the road,” Bill had said. “See a new territory.”

Jack wondered if that was such a great idea. Wouldn’t that be as hard on his back as running a store? But then again, his dad liked being on the ­road.

Jack got dizzy thinking of the changes that lay ­ahead.

Chapter ­24

Everyone in town came to the performance
on Saturday night, but the audience was subdued. People whispered instead of their normal chatter. Yesterday there had been a short formal funeral service for Trevor at the flying school but most of the village hadn’t been there. This was the first chance for Trevor’s friends in Cairn to ­gather.

Dr. McLeod dedicated the concert to Trevor’s ­memory.

“Trevor was a wonderful young chap with more talent in his little finger than most of us have in our whole being. Just knowing him for the few months he was here was a treat. I can’t believe he’s gone. None of us can.”

Jack blinked to keep tears from falling. He looked over at his mother, sitting at the piano. Her back was ramrod straight, her hands ready in her lap to play “God Save the King” and “O Canada.” She really must have been a Chautauqua girl. The show would go on and she’d play even though Trevor, one of her favourite student pilots ever, was ­gone.

At least she didn’t have to worry about Flo ­now.

“I’ll always think of Trevor soaring,” continued Dr. McLeod. “Whether it was in song or in a plane, he reached for the highest and the best. He set us quite a standard. We’ll miss him. Besides that, he was a gentle lad who made lots of friends both in the village and on the base.”

Jack grinned behind his hand. How little Dr. McLeod understood Trevor’s other side. Jack remembered the not-so-gentle way Trevor had reacted when he was attacked on the street in Moose ­Jaw.

Jack figured they survived the performance on sheer nerve. It went pretty smoothly except for the usual ­screw-­ups. Dexter’s cards fell on the floor, the Boyles’ fiddler knocked over her music stand, and Jack couldn’t sing worth a bean. But Arnie carried the tenors in ­style.

The Boyles amazed the whole village and maybe even themselves. Jerry Boyle and his oldest daughter and Jimmy stood together at the front of the stage with the younger Boyles in the back row. Obviously the older ones were the better dancers. The fiddle player from Mortlach played a series of jigs and reels and the Boyles, wearing first tap shoes and then changing to black fitted dance shoes, strutted their stuff. The old man was huffing and puffing by the end, but the audience clapped so hard the Boyles performed an encore. Jimmy grinned at the audience as the Boyles finished their final twirl. They bowed and danced ­off.