In the Celtic Airways 707 Captain Kenny resumed his seat on the lefthand side of the cockpit. It was time to get a radar fix. Below them, the United States Coastguard cutter permanently steamed in a fixed position ready to supply navigational assistance and weather information to overflying aircraft. And when necessary provide search and rescue facilities for both ships and aircraft.
He called the ship.
‘I have a fix,’ came back the answer. ‘Are you ready to copy?’ The routine transmission began.
Captain Kenny sat relaxed at the controls and tuned in to the high-frequency radio, idly monitoring the chatter between air traffic controllers and pilots. Behind him the navigator was telling the co-pilot he was going to Killarney for Easter.
Suddenly he stiffened to attention, ‘Something’s up,’ he muttered and listened attentively for a few moments. Then he said soberly, ‘Sounds like a Boeing has gone down somewhere.’ He glanced across at Ned who was taking a spell in the co-pilot’s seat. ‘Not one of ours, thank God! A Pakistani jet by the sound of it.’
Ned adjusted his own earphones. ‘Who’s out in Karachi this weather?’ he wondered.
Pete Kenny vaguely recalled a conversation with a fellow pilot in New York, but couldn’t remember whom.
‘Jim Shannon did a stint recently,’ offered the navigator. ‘He came back last month.’
‘Poor devils,’ Pete said in heartfelt accents.
Everyone in the cockpit sat very still. A slight gloom descended on them all. ‘Give us a few bars, Ned,’ ordered the Captain.
Ned reached obediently for his tin whistle and after a moment the sweet mournful notes of ‘The Cualainn’ filled the cockpit.
‘Have a heart, Ned,’ Pete exploded.
‘Sorry Skipper.’ Sheepishly Ned raised the whistle to his lips again and the jaunty notes of ‘Slattery’s Mounted Foot’ tripped gaily forth.
All on the flight deck visibly relaxed but they shared the same sobering thought; it was a requiem nonetheless.
Kay felt a sick twisting in her gut when she saw the headlines, ‘Colombo Air Crash. Irish Pilot Killed.’ She fumbled the paper off the pile on the counter and peered at the print underneath. ‘A Pakistani airplane en route from Karachi crashed in a rainstorm and came down in the Ceylonese jungle killing all 187 people on board. The wreckage of the aircraft is burning and chances of tracing any survivors are remote.’
The words danced queerly before Kay’s eyes and she had a sensation of unreality as though the voices all round her were actually echoing inside her head.
Coming in from Chicago she had been aware of certain murmurings amongst the crew. She had been too tired to pay much heed but had been conscious of a strange unease. When she went to bed she fell into a heavy sleep immediately but was awake an hour later, sweating and trembling. She had lain in a semi-conscious state, longing to get back to sleep and yet not able to. At last she had got up and dressed herself and gone round to the corner shop to get something for her tea. It was then that she glimpsed the shocking headline in the evening paper.
It was the first edition, so no names were given but Kay knew as certainly as if it were printed in capital letters, that the pilot was Graham. Staring at the paper she felt her knees shake and her stomach churn. A great void stretched.
Graham dead! Gone! No more!
With a choked, despairing cry she stumbled from the shop.
When Maura Kane heard of the air crash she was in her plush, new, sound-proof office in the Virgo Airways wing of Heathrow Airport, putting the finishing touches to her stewardess training programme.
Since coming back from Australia everything had moved so fast for Maura it was like a dream. When she had rung Virgo, they had been impressed by her credentials and arranged a meeting straight away. Only a day back in London, she had done the interview and was signed up at once.
She had finished up with Celtic Airways, telephoning Oliver McGrattan to tell him that her resignation was in the post and he could take her unpaid leave in lieu of notice. He had been satisfactorily speechless and only managed an outraged squawk before she put down the phone. Worth six weeks pay any day, Maura considered.
Reading details of the Colombo air crash she wondered who the Irish pilot had been. She felt saddened and regretful. Whoever he was she had almost certainly flown with him.
Everyone connected with an airline feels a shiver of dread on hearing of an air crash but probably no one can empathise quite so deeply as other aircrew. They are familiar with the planes and the life and no matter whether they belong in the cabin or on the flight deck, they share an affinity with the stricken aircraft and her crew. At one time or another they have been in similar near-miss situations themselves and cannot help thinking, there but for the grace of God...
Maura was no different. She found herself dwelling almost morbidly on the details. This was partly because there was an Irish pilot involved. She had no idea who was out in Karachi at the present moment but he was obviously a senior pilot if he had been in command of the jet. Eddie would know, she thought.
A couple of times a week, Captain Drummond dropped by on turnaround for a chat and it was ridiculous how much Maura found herself looking forward to these informal meetings. She was lonely for Celtic Airways and he was her only contact these days. The last time he had made one of his impromptu visits she had seen the way her secretary eyed him and realised with a little glow, just how attractive Jackie found the mature pilot.
‘You didn’t think I was going to let you vanish out of my life just like that,’ he chided smiling when he appeared in her doorway one day. The sight of the Celtic Airways uniform had sent Maura’s pulse racing, bringing memories of Simon rushing painfully back. As if sensing this, he had stood for a moment pulling gently on his moustache, gazing quizzically down at her.
‘Just thought I’d break the ice before asking you out to dinner some night,’ he gave a boyish grin. ‘It’s great to see you, Maura. Celtic Airways isn’t the same since you left.’
Maura vowed to get all the details from Eddie when next he appeared in her office. She had not long to wait.
At five o’clock her secretary showed Captain Drummond in and vanished discreetly to the outer office. Maura learned to her regret who the Irish pilot was. She had flown with Graham Pender in the past and had always liked and admired him.
Judy Mathews listened to the evening news on the car radio as she sped away from the airport in her Jaguar. The names of the pilots were given. At first she could not believe what she was hearing. She raised the volume and listened intently to the details.
But there was no mistake. It was Graham.
As the tragedy of it sank in she felt a painful constriction in her chest and her eyes blurred with tears. His death released painful memories she had thought long buried and forgotten.
She dashed them away and wondered how Sile was bearing up. And his sons. Over the years Judy had often seen them with him at the airport, and now she ached for their loss.
In Mellwood College the first post that day had brought joy to Nicky Pender. He was thrilled when he got his father’s letter telling him he was coming home two months ahead of time. It was wonderful and unexpected.
Nicky did not question how this miracle had come about. It was enough to know that in another two weeks his beloved father would be back again. All day he sat at his desk longing for school to be over. Whenever he moved his arm, the thin airmail letter in his blazer pocket gave a satisfying crackle. Nicky moved his arm often, for the sheer pleasure of knowing the letter was there.
After last class he stayed on in the classroom to write his reply. He took out the notepad his mother had given him when he returned to school after Christmas and carefully filled his fountain pen with ink. He hoped no one would barge in on him for he was not meant to be there. The words had been forming in his head all day and he quickly wrote them down.
‘Great you are coming home for Easter... can’t wait... longing to see you, Dad,’ he poured out his heart.
Outside the window, boys ran shouting past. A bell sounded.
Quickly, he signed, ‘Lots of love, Nicky,’ and put the sheets of paper in an envelope. He had just written ‘Captain Graham Pender’ in big letters on the outside when the door to the classroom opened.
Nicky looked up in guilty alarm and saw to his dismay that the headmaster, Father Coyle, was standing in the doorway.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he blurted, getting to his feet. ‘I just wanted to write a letter. I didn’t mean...’ His voice tailed off in embarrassment and he lowered his flushed face.
‘That’s all right, Nicholas.’ The priest’s voice was kindly. He beckoned him forward. Hesitantly, Nicholas obeyed. To his surprise, he felt a gentle arm about his shoulder. ‘Come along, my boy, there is someone to see you.’
In this manner they went out to the corridor. Down the well of the staircase Nicholas saw his mother standing with his brother in the hall. What’s she doing here, he wondered in pleased surprise. She never visited during the week.
Then as Nicholas drew nearer and saw Jeremy’s face, an icy dread gripped him. His tough, devil-may-care, older brother was crying, the tears pouring unchecked down his face.