A Pair of Silver Wings Page 2

  Edward got up and switched off the radio. No wonder he was having bad dreams. Everywhere he turned, there was the war. ‘I wish everyone would just stop going on about it,’ he muttered. It was a long time ago.

  The morning seemed to pass slowly. Edward had felt irritated and restless. He’d walked into the town to buy a few provisions, only to see Union Jack bunting being put up along the high street. Back at his house, he tried to read the newspaper, then his book, but his mind kept wandering, thinking and remembering. One cause for cheer, though: at least it was a nice day, warm and sunny, with only a slight breeze. He left the house early and walked up to the first eleven pitch nearly an hour before play was due to start.

  A few of the players were already there and had changed into their whites, so Edward paused by the pavilion steps to watch them practise, then, when the cricket master arrived and called them in, Edward ambled off again, heading over to one of the benches in front of a row of horse chestnuts bordering the far side of the ground. The trees were dense with fresh, dark green leaves and sprinkled with white and pink blossom. Beneath, heavy shadows from the boughs danced softly in the breeze. Edward eased himself down onto the bench, the sun high above him, and adjusted the brim of his panama.

  Few of the boys, or the staff for that matter, stopped to talk to Mr Enderby, and he rarely made any attempt to speak to them. He considered it was no longer his place, and in any case, he was aware that he had not been especially popular with the boys during his time at the school. They had respected him, he’d felt, as a teacher, but he had never gained their affection. He’d been too remote, too strict. ‘Icy’ had been his nickname – not the worst, but hardly a term of endearment.

  His relationship with his fellow members of staff had been much the same. Over the years, some had been friends – even good friends – but towards the end he had become conscious that amongst the younger members of staff he was considered something of a relic. He’d once overheard a new teacher talking about him to another in the staff kitchen. ‘Old Icy’s a bit of a dinosaur, isn’t he?’ the new man had said.

  ‘He terrifies me,’ admitted the other, ‘so no wonder the kids are scared of him.’ This had hurt Edward more than he had been prepared to admit. Discipline was, he believed, important, and no pupil had ever disrupted one of his classes. But he had not meant to intimidate his colleagues. Following that incident, he had made a concerted effort to try and appear more friendly, but had struggled to think of anything to say to them; he could talk forever about Plantagenets or the French Wars of Religion, but when faced by two teachers in their twenties, his mind went blank beyond mild pleasantries about the state of the rugby fifteen. He’d always been a bit shy, though, even as a boy. Even as a young man.

  It was halfway through the opposition’s innings that Edward spotted Neil Watkins ambling slowly towards him. A mild wave of irritation swept over him, because he knew Neil would stop and talk. He had always liked Neil well enough – they’d been colleagues for a dozen years; Neil was due to retire himself in a couple of years’ time – but Edward wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He felt tired and wanted to be left alone.

  ‘Hello, Edward,’ said Neil as he approached the bench. ‘A promising start to the season.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘I like the look of the bowling this year.’

  Neil sat down beside him and talked about the team’s prospects, then suddenly said, ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The teaching. The school. I mean, you’re still living in the town.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I’d rather be standing up in class every day.’

  ‘No, I suppose not –’

  ‘I miss the cricket on days like this. May always used to be my favourite month in the school year.’

  ‘My last summer term,’ said Neil.

  Edward smiled at him – you’ll be all right. They were silent for a moment, then Neil said, ‘How long did you have the first eleven? You were still in charge when I first came here.’

  ‘Nineteen years.’

  Neil nodded thoughtfully, then said, ‘Don’t think much of this new chap.’

  ‘Elkins?’

  ‘Yes. He’s not what you’d call “liked” in the staff room. Too full of himself by half.’

  ‘He’s young.’

  ‘Maybe, but he has his favourites. I can’t stand that. One should always try and be fair. Of course, there are always some boys one likes more than others, but . . .’ He let the sentence trail off. Edward said nothing. A minute or so passed, the batsman played and missed, and then Neil said, ‘How’s Simon, by the way?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Busy doing his thing in London.’

  Neil nodded. ‘Accountant?’

  ‘Lawyer.’

  ‘Of course – yes. Made it through the recession all right?’

  ‘Yes. Seems to be doing fine.’

  ‘Oh good – yes, my brother-in-law’s managed to keep his job, too. Lots of his colleagues were given the boot, though. You going to come along this weekend, by the way?’

  Edward turned and looked at him.

  ‘For VE Day?’ added Neil.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Edward. He began turning his signet ring, then said, ‘Who’s this bowling now?’ It was, he knew, a boy called Chilcott. He’d watched him several times the year before.

  ‘Oh, er, Chilcott. He’s only fifteen. Personally, I think he’s been brought into the firsts far too soon, but that’s Dave Elkins for you. Anyway, it sounds like it might be quite fun. There’s going to be a street party in the high street, you know.’ Edward nodded. ‘The CCF band are doing their parade through the town. Hope they sound better than they did last Remembrance Day – bloody awful, weren’t they?’

  Edward stared ahead at the cricket. ‘Lovely shot,’ he muttered, and began clapping gently.

  By the time he arrived back at home later that evening, the headache that had begun earlier was still throbbing dully. He felt exhausted, but the prospect of sleep gave him a sinking feeling he could not shake. This time next week, he thought, it’ll be old news. The world would have moved on again. Perhaps then his life would get back to normal. Sitting down in his armchair in the living room, he paused a moment. His house, he reflected, looked as ordered as ever, unaffected by the turmoil running through the mind of its owner. Tidy and still – a new house that suffered neither draughts nor noise. Cynthia had always kept a tidy house, and since she’d died, Edward had made sure it remained that way, hoovering and dusting regularly. The cream carpet had barely a stain. The cushions on the sofa were plumped up and fresh, although, in truth, they were rarely used now. Cynthia had always sat on the right-hand side of the sofa, Edward in his armchair. With no Cynthia, the sofa had become an ornament, purely a feature of the room. He looked at his wife’s engagement photograph on the side table by his chair. She had been a striking young woman, tall and poised; he’d been lucky to marry her. It had been her mother who had insisted on the photographs being taken – at a small studio in Ripon. He could remember it perfectly. He’d been reluctant, but Cynthia had said, ‘Please, darling, do it for me,’ and now he was glad he had – not for the pictures of himself, but for this one of Cynthia, the one he had looked at almost every day since 1948 when his future mother-in-law had given it to him.

  Her fine black-and-white features eyed him now, as placidly as they had ever done. What would she say to him? Probably very little; she had never tried to penetrate the deep recesses of his mind, always accepting that whatever had happened to Edward had occurred before she had met him. ‘I’m marrying you for what you are now,’ she’d once said after they became engaged. If she’d wanted to know more, she had never asked, and Edward had never told her; nothing but the barest outline. He was no different from millions of others. They’d all suffered. She had, however, always been there for him, her companionship and her kindness a comfort. He missed her.

  The silence in the house enveloped him completel
y, so that when the telephone next to him on the side table rang, the sudden shrillness made him jolt in his seat.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, after fumbling a moment with the receiver.

  ‘Dad, it’s Simon.’

  ‘Simon. Just talking about you earlier. How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Good, thanks.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Yes, Neil Watkins was asking after you.’

  ‘Watty? He still there, then?’

  ‘Yes. This is his last term.’

  ‘Good Lord. So you’re not the only one wedded to the place, then.’ He chuckled, then said, ‘So what have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh – this and that. You know. Watched the first eleven today.’ He heard Simon sigh.

  ‘Who won?’

  ‘We won. Or rather, I should say they won – Myddleton, that is. Got some good players this year.’ He cleared his throat then said, ‘And how’s Katie? And Nicky and Lucy?’

  ‘Yes, they’re all fine, thanks. We’re all on, um, pretty good form, I think.’

  ‘And work all right?’

  ‘Fine. Busy. It always is . . . But – listen, Dad, I want to ask you something.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, actually, it’s Nick, really. He’s asked me to ask you. And – well, I want to ask you as well.’

  ‘Ask me what?’

  Simon paused, then said, ‘We wondered whether we could persuade you to come up this weekend? There’s a big do going on at Hyde Park – for VE Day. Nick’s studying it at school at the moment and was really hoping you might celebrate the anniversary with us.’ Edward said nothing, so Simon continued. ‘There’s lots going on: stalls and shows, and a fly-past in the afternoon. There’s going to be a Spitfire, Dad. And there’s – I’ve got it here – there’s a tent for veterans. The ‘Veterans’ Link’, it says.’ He began reading, ‘“The Veterans’ Link has been set up to help former servicemen who fought in the Second World War reunite with their wartime comrades.” You might meet some of your old friends from the squadron. Dad?’

  ‘I don’t know, Simon,’ said Edward.

  ‘Please, Dad. It would really mean a great deal.’

  It was Edward’s turn to sigh. ‘It was a long time ago. I’m not sure I . . .’

  ‘Fine. Well don’t, then. I clearly shouldn’t have asked.’

  Edward winced as he heard the anger and frustration in Simon’s voice. ‘Simon, look, thank you. Really. And please thank Nick – I mean it. Just let me think about it, will you? I – I – well, this is stirring up things, you see, things . . . well, anyway.’ He cleared his throat again, then said, ‘I’ll ring you in the morning, I promise.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be in, so speak to Katie. But Dad, you know, maybe it’s about time you did confront all this stuff. Maybe it would do you good. Think about that.’

  ‘I’ll ring tomorrow.’

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Having replaced the receiver, Edward got up and went into the kitchen to prepare his supper. He had barely cooked a meal in all the years he had been married to Cynthia, and had still not become used to feeding himself. It seemed so pointless to go to all the bother of dirtying pans and grills just for one. His solution was to eat as simply as possible, and food that made a minimum amount of mess and clutter. Earlier, he had bought a piece of cod, and now he placed the fillet on a tray in the oven, and put on a few potatoes to boil. He rested his hands on the faux-marble counter. He wished things might have been different with Simon. They had barely spoken since Christmas. And when they did, it was always the same: a stilted conversation, or rising irritation on the part of his son. ‘You’re too hard on him,’ Cynthia used to say, but what had Edward been supposed to do? He couldn’t have shown favouritism to his son – not in front of the other boys. And what was the alternative? Simon at the state school in Wincanton, while he taught at Myddleton College? While he was a housemaster and they were living in the school itself? He wished they had been able to afford to send him to one of the other schools nearby, but it had not been possible. But rather than thanking him for a good education and leg-up in life, Simon had shown him nothing but resentment. It had been ever thus, ever since Simon had gone to Myddleton, and the grudge had continued after school, and was, it seemed, as strong as ever, even now that his son was in his forties. He loved Simon, of course he did, but sometimes he felt as though he were talking to a stranger. Sometimes it seemed impossible to think that Simon was his own flesh and blood. Edward sighed. His headache had not gone away.

  However tired he may have felt, sleep eluded him. Lying in bed, the same thoughts ran round and round his mind. For so long he had kept a tight rein on his life, but now, suddenly, it was as though forces beyond his control had swept down upon him, destroying his peace of mind: at night, the ghosts of his past; during the day, the newspapers and radio; and now Simon and Nick – they had come together, pushing him into a corner from which he seemed unable to escape. He turned over, but couldn’t settle, then turned again, staring straight up at the dark ceiling. Whatever peace he had established in his life had been built on somewhat flimsy foundations; but he did not know how he could shore them up once more.

  Edward groaned out loud, and then the first chinks in his resolve began seeping into his mind. Perhaps, he wondered, if he went to London, he might then be left alone.

  London – May, 1995

  The first eleven often started their Saturday matches at eleven o’clock, and so it was this first Saturday in May. Moreover, it was another home fixture, which had given Edward a chance to watch a couple of hours of cricket before setting off on the long drive to London. He had never used to mind driving, but in recent years he had found the motorways so busy it had become a more arduous exercise. Still, it meant he could arrive and leave when he wanted; trains to Brampton Cary were infrequent, and he wanted to be able to make a quick escape back home should the need arise.

  He turned into Simon and Katie’s street off the Fulham Road just after five that afternoon. After parking and taking out his case, he walked through the gate and for a moment paused in front of the heavy wooden door with its stained glass panels, then lifted his finger and rang the bell. ‘He’s here!’ came Katie’s muffled voice from within, and then the thunder of running footsteps down the hallway. It was his grandson, Nick, who opened the door. Smiles and welcomes: overexcited hopping from Nick, a bashful grin from the nine-year-old Lucy; a peck on the cheek and a hug from Katie; a pause then a hand on the shoulder from Simon, and Edward was directed into the living room, with its toys and clutter and half drunk cups of coffee.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said Katie, as Edward hovered by one of the sofas. She stretched behind him and moved a newspaper and one of Nick’s sweatshirts out of the way. Nick immediately launched into a long list of the events that were taking place: what was happening in Hyde Park, what was happening in the Mall. He reeled off a list of exhibitions and then told his grandfather about the fly-past that would take place on Monday. This, he had clearly decided, was the highlight, not just for himself but for his grandfather too. Why did I come? thought Edward.

  ‘Nick’s very excited,’ said Simon unnecessarily, and ruffled his son’s hair. ‘He’s been on a school trip to the Imperial War Museum, haven’t you?’

  Nick nodded. ‘It was brilliant, Grandpa.’

  ‘And you saw the Spitfire, didn’t you?’ said Simon.

  Nick nodded again, a big-toothed grin across his face. ‘No-one could believe it when I told them you’d flown one!’ he said.

  Both Nick and Lucy soon disappeared. Only later, when they were all sat down for supper in the kitchen, did Edward’s interrogation really begin. ‘Grandpa, what was the first plane you flew?’ asked Nick, as Katie began serving the food.

  Edward looked at Simon, but immediately realised he would get no help from his son. Inhaling deeply, he said, ‘A Tiger Moth.’ Nick looked blank.

  ‘It was a biplane,’ he explained. ‘Open cockpit
, too. A marvellous thing to fly. There wasn’t much air traffic back then. You simply took off and whizzed around the sky. It was as though a completely different world had opened up. The sense of freedom was exhilarating.’

  ‘What next?’

  Edward thought for a moment. ‘A Harvard. A two-seater, but single-engine. Built as a trainer. And I flew a Miles Magister as well.’

  ‘So when did you get to fly a Spitfire?’

  ‘That came later, when I joined my squadron. I went operational on a Hurricane.’

  ‘A Hurricane? Really?’ Nick said. ‘I didn’t realise you’d flown one of those as well.’

  ‘I flew all sorts of planes. Even jets after the war.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Simon. ‘I had no idea.’

  Edward shrugged. ‘New planes were being developed all the time.’

  And so it continued, with Simon, Katie and Lucy listening as Edward tackled his quizzing as deftly as he could. He’d never been asked so much about flying, not by Simon, not by anyone. But then, when Simon had been a young boy, it wasn’t something anyone had done. The shadow of five-and-a-half long years had hung too heavily over the entire country. But there was no collective stonewalling now, however. As a child, Simon might have known better than to try asking his father about his war experiences, but Nick had no such inhibitions. ‘Oh, you don’t want to know about all that,’ Edward had said. But with absolute ingenuousness, Nick had replied, ‘Yes, I do.’