When Phyllis Pearsall was around eight years old, an incident occurred in her family that nearly ended in tragedy. What a lucky escape, you might think, but it could, instead, be seen as a vicious warning – from God, from fate, from whatever power you believe in. Yet only their mother would prophesise beyond the event. Coming from an Irish/Italian family, Bella’s strict Catholic observation was topped up by a healthy respect for superstitions that had been drummed into her since a child.
‘Look, children, there’s a piebald horse. Make a wish.’ Or, ‘Don’t put those new shoes on the table – it will bring bad luck.’
Sandor had been expanding his geographical business by devising and drawing up maps for pioneer aviators based at Hendon, North London. The accuracy of their flight paths so far had been limited, due to distorted readings given by the compass because of the magnetic pull on their planes’ engines; this meant they could only navigate via landmarks. To advance their flying, Sandor devised extra-large-scale plans of England, after countless hours spent in the cockpit of a bi-plane, taking aerial photographs.
Such was his success at improving the quality of maps that he became internationally known in aviation circles and was even commissioned to draw up a route map for Jules Védrines, the French competitor in the 1911 Daily Mail Thousand-Mile Air Race Round England and Scotland, which was reportedly watched by over two million people across the country.
‘Bring your family to meet us. Let your little girl and boy sit in the cockpit.’ The pilots warmed to the man who was devoting the majority of his spare time to improving their flying conditions. ‘Would you like to learn to fly, Sandor?’ they asked him every time he strapped himself into the cockpit and crossed himself.
‘Not if I was asked by the King himself,’ he would chuckle.
Then, as a treat one Saturday morning, Sandor took the pilots up on their kind offer and drove the children and Bella to the Hendon aerodrome. Skinny landing strips were fringed with little planes. A few groaned and dipped and soared in the sky above. The wind was light.
Phyllis and Tony were then introduced to one Mr Gates, a widower, who according to Sandor spent hours in the clouds searching for his late wife.
‘Come and feel her lovely smooth body,’ said Mr Gates, encouraging the giddy children to pat the red metal shell. Shrieks. Tony crawled underneath the body of the plane and sprawled on his back.
‘Look at me under here,’ he crowed.
Phyllis tapped the propeller.
‘Up we go, little ones,’ Mr Gates said, lending an arm as they clambered up into the cockpit.
Flash.
‘Smile for the birdies,’ said Bella, her camera poised.
They smiled.
Flash, flash.
‘Let me take them for a spin, Sandor,’ said Mr Gates.
‘Yes! Yes!’ came the shrill replies of Bella, Phyllis and Tony.
‘I forbid it.’
‘Oh, please!’ begged Bella and the children.
‘No.’
Forlorn, their heads bowed, the children slunk down from the cockpit and sought the enfolding arms of their mother. She kissed their heads before turning her attention to the pilot.
‘Smile, Mr Gates,’ said Bella. ‘One for the family album, my dear.’
They all stood back to watch the sprightly Mr Gates leap into the cockpit, the propeller now fuzzing and whirring. The wheel-chocks were removed and the plane staggered into the soft clouds.
Another flash.
Not from Bella’s camera.
Silence as black smoke and red flames engulfed the giant fly and then a sickening drone as it flipped, twisted, and was pulled hard towards the earth before crunching into the field below with a cracking explosion.
Unless you are a parent it is hard to comprehend the emotions that must have overwhelmed the couple. Not only had they witnessed the horrific incineration of a dear man, but also the fragility and insignificance in the universe of their own family.
‘Sandor, you saved their lives,’ sobbed Bella. ‘Thank you and bless you. Promise me you’ll never fly. And children – promise me that you won’t either.’