Flight of the Tiger Moth (18 page)

Jack felt a strange moment of pride in his old enemy. Who would have guessed Jimmy and his family had all that talent? If Trevor and Basil hadn’t dreamt up this fête, no one in the village would ever have known. As Jimmy passed Jack on his way back to his seat, Jack leaned out into the ­aisle.

“Great job, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stopped and turned to acknowledge Jack. He grinned. “All in a day’s work, Jackie.” Then he sauntered ­on.

It was the happiest Jack had ever seen Jimmy ­Boyle.

Everyone had wondered whether Cathy would still sing her solo. Trevor had been her accompanist and a good friend to both her and Basil. “I can do it,” she’d said, “if Mrs. Waters will play for me.” She stood, tall and willowy, her hair braided. Wearing her “Dorothy” dress, she cupped her hands as if holding a bunch of flowers in front of her and sang in a clear, strong voice, tears streaming down her ­face.

The song was familiar to everyone who’d seen Judy Garland in
The Wizard of Oz
, one of the first Technicolor movies ever made. Jack had only been nine when it came out. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” seemed like just the right song for Cathy to sing for Trevor. It talked about blue skies and dreams coming true and bluebirds flying over the rainbow and how she, the singer, could fly ­too.

There was something about music. It had real staying power. Jack had grown up listening to his mother playing everything from pop tunes to Bach. A melody played well lifted the spirit of a person the same way a ­well-­tuned airplane lifted a pilot. And after the sound died away the melody played on inside your head. For a moment Jack allowed himself to soar with Cathy’s voice and forget the war, the grief and the worry of being Jack ­Waters.

As Ivy played the last chords, there was a moment’s silence. Cathy curtseyed. Jack stood and applauded. Around him chairs scraped on the floor as others stood and joined with him. Some villagers sobbed, some had tears on their cheeks and some just clapped. Were they clapping for Cathy or Trevor, or both? The applause filled the room and overflowed into the empty streets ­beyond.

Did the notes of Cathy’s song float out the windows, join with the din of crickets and frogs and become part of the deep Saskatchewan night? Jack knew he would always remember this night, this concert and this ­song.

How Jack wished Trevor could be here. Who knew, maybe he was. Maybe summer and life had not died in that farmer’s field. For Jack, it might be the end of summer holidays, but there was still a lot to do. Get this bunch of raf pilots sent off, especially Basil, hope for news of Sandy, get ready for grade twelve, figure out what to do with ­Buddy.

Everyone laughed at Basil’s song, “The Pilots of the Prairies,” which gave new words to a famous song from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Basil’s voice was clear and loud as he talked about how a talent for singing and an attention to detail were the keys to doing well in the air force. For a moment he seemed to bring the glamour of the London stage to the small prairie village, and when he reached the final chorus, “Keep your feet on the ground, stay out of the blue/ And you’ll all make Marshals of the King’s Air Crew” – he brought the house ­down.

After the concert Buddy got in the back of the truck and wouldn’t budge. His fur was still singed around his muzzle and the tips of his ears from the crash last weekend. He whined mournfully. Jack shook his ­head.

>>>

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Jack got home
after driving Dexter and some of the other flyers back to the flying school. The dog was still in the back of the truck. He had refused to get out at the ­h-­hut even though Dexter had tried to coax him with a ­bone.

Jack’s mom and dad were sitting in the backyard on the canvas deck chairs. Ivy was dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. In the light cast by the lamp above the back door, Bill was working on a small table, rolling dimes from the cash register into papers for the ­bank.

“Is something wrong?” Jack asked, panic hitting his stomach and making it tighter than a drumhead. “Is there news about Sandy?”

“No, Jack, it’s not that,” said Ivy. “It’s…”

“Jackie.” His dad cleared his throat. “Your mother and I couldn’t sleep…”

Jack sensed rather than heard Buddy come up beside him. The dog must have jumped out of the truck. Buddy sat quietly beside ­him.

“Maybe it’s hearing Flo is going to be all right or…” His mother started a sentence and stopped. “I keep thinking about Trevor. He was such a fine boy. I’ve been wondering about how his family feels, his mom and brothers especially…”

“It’s been too much lately,” Dad said. “But we’ll manage, Ivy. Can I make you some tea?”

“I’m all right, Bill,” Mom said. “The fête was a lot of work and Trevor would have loved it. He was a good musician.” She shuddered even though the evening air was balmy and the night sky glorious. “He sure loved that dog you found.”

“He did love Buddy,” said ­Jack.

The dog heard his name. He left Jack’s side and padded over to where Ivy Waters was sitting, one hand holding the wooden armrest while the other one clasped the hankie in her lap. The dog sat politely, then calmly rested his muzzle on her lap, his big brown eyes gazing wistfully at Ivy’s sorrowing face. Jack didn’t dare move. It was as if the dog sensed Ivy’s pain and maybe some of his own, missing the cheerful presence of Trevor ­Knight.

There was a moment or two of silence. His mother gazed down at the dog. She didn’t ­move.

“Speaking of Buddy,” Dad said, “Mom and I were discussing what would become of him once Basil and Dexter left. He won’t know the new students. He’s gotten attached to the boys who are leaving.”

Jack hadn’t breathed deeply since Buddy had gone to his mother. She was studying the dog as if seeing him for the first time. “He seems friendly. He’s calmed down a lot, ” his mother ­said.

Jack dared to glance over at his dad, his good old persistent dad. He hadn’t forgotten about Jack and his ­dog.

“I’ve been training him in my spare time at work. But I won’t be at the maintenance shop anymore.”

“That’s what I told Ivy.” His dad placed the ­rolled-­up coins in a ­shoebox.

“Trevor would want the dog to have a real home,” said Mom. “He loved dogs.”

“So do I, Mom, so do I!”

Ivy patted the dog’s head, then stood up, gently brushing Buddy aside. She wiped her hands on her damp ­hankie.

“Trevor’s gone,” she said. “Buddy belongs with you now. You better build him a doghouse, though. He can come in when it’s really cold in the winter.”

Jack didn’t know what to say. He stared at his mother. Her eyes were red from crying, the fancy hankie wadded in her ­hand.

“Buddy has a doghouse at the base,” said Jack. “Cheese built it for him. I’ll fetch it.”

“Trevor is buried in the cemetery close to your Uncle Jack. It seems fitting that the dog come to us.” His mother was talking but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring into ­space.

“Two talented young men who were both casualties of war, one who crashed with his dreams intact, and one who lost his dreams in the sky over Europe. We will mourn them both.”

“Mom, are you sure about Buddy?” Jack ­asked.

“No, Jackie. Frankly I’m not. I’m not sure about anything. But that isn’t what’s important right now.” His mother folded the damp, crumpled hankie neatly and put it on the small table beside the shoebox filled with rolled coins. She spoke slowly and with great ­effort.

“I thought I could keep you safe, keep life simple, Jackie, keep you young and innocent. I didn’t want you to feel grief like I’ve felt.”

“Then the war started,” his dad ­said.

“The flying school was built,” added his mother. “Flo and Sandy left.”

“Cairn changed.” Dad cleared his ­throat.

“The flyers came,” said Jack. “Trevor came.”

“He was going to be the best man at Cathy and Basil’s wedding,” Mom ­said.

His dad chuckled. “I don’t know what changed us most –
the arrival of the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, Flo leaving home and being hurt or Sandy going missing in action. But the Waters family will never be the same.”

“Enough of this.” Jack’s mom smoothed the wrinkles on her navy dress. “Where are you going to put that dog for the night?”

“I’ll tie him out here in the yard. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll bring the doghouse home.”

Dad carried the chairs into the back shed and took the shoebox and Mom’s hankie into the house. He grinned at Jack before he disappeared into the ­house.

“Thanks, Dad.” Jack figured his dad had put in a good word for Buddy before Jack had gotten home. He was pretty clever for an old ­guy.

“Get some sleep, Jack,” his mother said. “We’ve got another performance tomorrow and Basil’s graduation is Monday. And don’t forget school starts on Tuesday.”

“The Grade Twelves don’t have to show up until Wednesday.”

“Did you know Trevor was only seventeen, Jack?”

“I figured it out. He was talking about his older brother Tom who was eighteen and I asked him if they were twins. He got all embarrassed and I realized he’d used his brother’s birth certificate to sign up. He doctored the Thomas to look like Trevor instead.”

“I’m glad you’re only sixteen. Thank goodness your dad was too young for the Great War and too old for the Second World War.” His mother headed toward the ­door.

“Don’t stay out long. Just settle Buddy and get to bed.”

“I’m pretty keyed up after tonight’s performance. I’m going for a walk.” Then Jack added. “Thanks for letting me keep Buddy, Mom. You won’t regret it.”

“Don’t stay out too long. Have you a sweater on? It’s chilly.”

Jack smiled to himself.
Some
things never ­changed.

Chapter ­25

On Tuesday, Wes and Jack stood out on the prairie,
beside their bikes, watching the planes in the distance landing and taking off. They were taking advantage of their last free weekday to take a long ride. They had lunches in their carriers – and thanks to Ivy’s coaxing – sweaters in case the weather ­changed.

Watching planes was more fun than watching geese or ducks in the spring and fall, the way they had when they were ­small.

The war had changed the skies over Cairn. In fact, it had probably changed the skies everywhere. Jack had a feeling that airplanes were here to stay and he’d be watching them for years to come. He might even be flying one of his own ­someday.

When Jack and Wes weren’t watching, they were listening to the buzz of aircraft, louder than a swarm of bees. By now they could differentiate one model from another and Jack could tell what shape the engine was in. Each had a language all its ­own.

A Tiger Moth was flying overhead when suddenly the engine stuttered, misfired and the small plane descended slowly with obviously reduced power, moving west in the direction of ­Mortlach.

“Oh, no! Not another one,” shouted ­Wes.

“Looks like he’s trying to land.” Jack listened for a crash but none came. “It’s just a forced landing, Wes, not a crash! Let’s see if we can help!”

No one could have saved Trevor. But Jack had to make sure this pilot was all right. It was a lousy landing, not a crash. Jack knew how to deal with the small problems. Working with Harold and Angus had taught him ­that.

The boys headed in the direction of the downed ­plane.

The Boyles’ old pickup came toward them, raising dust clouds and scattering pea gravel. “Some idiot’s pranged in a farmer’s field back there,” old man Boyle yelled as he passed ­them.

“Was he all right?” Jack hollered, but Boyle was too far ­away.

Wes pedalled steadily, beads of sweat streaming down his red face – or were they tears? He stood high like a jockey on a thoroughbred racehorse. “God, not another one!”

Wes didn’t swear. Jack knew that. He was praying out loud as he pedalled furiously down the Mortlach ­road.

Jack kept pace with him. “It’s going to be fine, Wes. He’s probably sitting there trying to figure out how to get back to the airfield.” He hoped he was right. A pilot could get hurt going down on a rough field. He hoped old man Boyle would call the ­aerodrome.

As they came over a slight rise in the road, miles from any houses, they spotted the plane. She was sitting in a pasture, her left wings tipped down and the tire on the left side stuck in a gaping hole. She was 3828, Basil’s favourite ­plane.

Jack dropped his bike and sprinted across the ditch and a small creek, and scooted under the fence where Wes held up the wire for him. The two of them raced to the Moth and Wes, being taller, leaned over the wing to check the ­cockpit.

It was smattered with blood and feathers, a real mess. It took the two of them to pull the Perspex back because it was damaged. “Is that blood?” asked ­Wes.

“It looks like duck or goose, what with all those feathers clinging to the windscreen. Who is it anyway?”

“It’s Basil. He’s out cold.”

“See if you can wake him up, Wes.”

Jack moved to the front of the plane and stared at the cowling on the engine and the propeller while Wes bent over the crumpled form of ­Basil.

“I wish he’d wake up.” Wes touched Basil’s shoulder, reached in and undid the helmet and loosened his flying jacket and scarf at the neck. “His skin is warm.”