It’s dark by the time Doody finishes mowing the playing-field, and she’s still shovelling wet grass on to the compost heap at the back of the school when it starts to rain. She is not obliged to cut the grass, it’s not in her contract, but the council parks department is unreliable, so she does it in exchange for fruit and vegetables out of Doris Hollyhead’s garden. The sharp, damp smell rises aggressively from the compost heap, making her sneeze, and her hands ache with the cold. So much for summer.
The phone is ringing as she enters the house. She picks it up, smearing the receiver with grass stains. ‘All right, all right,’ she says. ‘It’s done now, Philip. Wait until it’s light tomorrow and you’ll see the lines are straighter than usual. One of my better attempts, I think—despite the appalling weather conditions.’
‘Imogen?’
‘Oh, Jonathan.’ She feels self-righteous, and wants some appreciation. ‘I’ve just cut the grass.’
He doesn’t reply immediately, and she understands the delay. It takes him time to adjust to the practical events in life that don’t involve money. ‘Well done,’ he says.
‘Don’t be so patronising.’
‘All I said was, very good.’
‘No, you didn’t. You said, “Well done.” ’
‘So, what’s the difference?’
There probably isn’t a difference. They sound equally patronising when Jonathan says them. ‘What’s on tonight, Jonathan?’
‘On? What do you mean?’
She’s not fooled. She can hear television voices in the background, cutting off abruptly when he zaps them with the remote control. ‘Are they demonstrating spinach and dandelion salad? Pasta with walnut sauce? Ciabatta bread? Who’s coming to cook with you tonight?’
‘Imogen, what do you want?’
‘You phoned me, remember?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He’d forgotten, and a bubble of pleasure leaps up inside her. She loves to witness Jonathan’s weaknesses. It almost makes her feel warm and protective towards him.
‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘I expect you’d like to know about the roof.’
There’s a silence. ‘Oh,’ he says, just as she’s thinking about replacing the receiver. ‘Yes, the roof. The offer’s still open, you know. I could lend you some money for a bit if you’re desperate.’
There. His original generosity has already devalued itself. Doody congratulates herself on having read the situation correctly. Too many ex-wives to cater for. ‘Veronica and Gill will be relieved.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s OK. The roof’s taken care of. Thanks all the same.’
‘Oh. Good.’ She can see him lying there on the settee, his eyes on the walnut sauce, his mouth watering, wandering down the aisles of Sainsbury’s in his mind, looking for dandelion leaves, sun-dried tomatoes, or tomatoes on the vine, whichever sounds more expensive to him.
‘I’ve got dandelion leaves in my garden. Hundreds of them if you want to come and pick them.’
He doesn’t reply.
‘You know Oliver d’Arby? Do you reckon he had other things to leave? That he left them to someone else?’
‘I think you were the only beneficiary…’ He pauses for three seconds. She counts them. Got you, she thought. ‘How would I know?’
‘You opened my letter, didn’t you? It came to you first.’
‘It was addressed to you, not me.’
‘That didn’t stop you opening it, though, did it?’
‘Imogen!’ His voice goes up a perfect fifth. He’s stopped thinking about sun-dried tomatoes. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting—’
‘No, Jonathan, of course not. But did you know there were tenants in the cottage after he disappeared? What happened to their rent?’
‘Really? That’s interesting. Do you want me to find out?’ She knows that he will think only men could do important things like write to solicitors.
‘Yes, please, Jonathan. Could I leave that to you? I’d be really grateful.’
‘Of course. I’ll let you know what happens.’
He doesn’t ask for the name of the solicitor. Exactly as she suspected. Further proof of his guilt. ‘Sackville, Sackville and Waterman. Nice man.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The solicitors. You’ll need to know who they are.’
‘Good point.’
‘Must go now. Haven’t eaten all day.’ Not true. But she doesn’t want to give him the impression that she’s anxious about money. If he isn’t offering, she isn’t asking.
‘I’ll speak to you later.’ He’s already turned the sound up again on the television. He’ll enjoy writing to the solicitor.
‘ ’Bye, then.’
There’s a pause. ‘Maybe the solicitors have used the money on legal expenses.’
He would think of that. She puts the phone down. It’s the right time for Mr Hollyhead to phone and thank her. He and Doris the Lion Tamer should have just finished watching Peak Practice.
The phone rings almost immediately. She picks it up. ‘Philip! I thought you’d never ring.’
‘Imogen, it’s Jonathan. I know why I phoned.’
‘Yes?’
‘Can you phone Mother some time? She’s complaining that you never speak to her.’
‘Fine,’ she says, and cuts him off. Why was it always her fault? Why shouldn’t her mother contact her directly, instead of through Jonathan?
She dreams that Harry comes back. He flies over the cottage and lands on the road outside. She runs out of the front door, down the path and flings open the gate. ‘Harry!’ she cries.
He is climbing out of the aeroplane, unzipping his leather jacket, grinning like he did when she first knew him. ‘Imogen!’ he calls and opens his arms for her. ‘Know any good jokes?’
She hesitates, struggling to think.
Why did the chicken—
There was an Irishman, an Englishman, a Welshman—
What do you get if you cross a kangaroo with—
A noise behind her makes her turn round and Straker is there, his eyes blue and intense. He is holding two tiles from the roof, offering them to her, almost smiling.
As she wakes, she turns back to Harry and he is fading, thinning out. She can look straight through him to the other side of the road.
‘No,’ she cries.
Once she is properly awake she gets out of bed and goes straight to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee, which she drinks before it cools down. It burns the roof of her mouth.
Occasionally, in a tiny corner of her mind, she unearths an unwelcome desire, a painful longing that Harry will turn up one day. She’ll answer the door and there he’ll be. ‘Hi, Imogen,’ he’ll say. ‘Shall we have another go?’ And she knows —although her logical mind resists the thought—that she’ll say yes. That she’ll leap straight into his arms and rediscover happiness.
Most of the time, she locks up that part of her mind with a large, expensive padlock. She hates to dream about him. Why would she want him back? He taught her all about disloyalty and abandonment. Because of him, she has had to learn about the comfort of anger, how to be self-sufficient, how to survive. What more could he possibly offer her?
When Doody returns to the cottage, she sees immediately that Straker has visited. The roof looks different. She walks round, examining it, unable to work out which are the new tiles and which the old. They’re all equally weathered, but there are no visible holes. A shaft of victory pierces her. The cottage is safe: it can dry out and it’s hers.
She goes indoors and upstairs, resolving to clear a bedroom and make it habitable so that she won’t have to sleep on cushions every time she comes. She’s brought a screwdriver and an old knife, with the intention of opening a window before she does anything else. She scrapes away at the painted catches, pushing and shoving until it suddenly, happily, swings open, and she is left hanging over the windowsill, breathless with pleasure.
With the fresh air, a change enters the room. As if the dust and stagnation of the last few years have given up, stopped resisting and allowed the present to reassert itself. The room no longer belongs to someone else. The air is chilly and damp after early-morning rain, but she doesn’t mind and stands looking out. The lighthouse is visible from here.
Will he come back?
She has brought dusters and brooms. Cleaning is an art that she has only slowly come to appreciate.
When Imogen was first married, and Harry was away working, she would clean one room of their tiny flat every day. Sometimes he would be on call for eight days in succession, and when he came home, each room had been cleaned twice. She didn’t know how often it should be done, how other people organised these things. Nobody had ever told her. Her mother stopped cleaning after Celia died, and she couldn’t remember what it had been like before, when her father was still alive. Maybe her mother didn’t clean then either. Imogen has a vague memory of a cleaning lady called Miss O’Malley, who kept going outside to smoke. The smell drifted round the garden and reached Imogen in the yew tree. She remembers the cigarettes more than she remembers Miss O’Malley.
She didn’t think about cleaning as she grew up, until she became conscious of sticky surfaces on the kitchen work tops, and the fact that she had to do some washing-up if she wanted a clean plate. She was preparing her own meals then—baked beans on toast, egg on toast, pilchards on toast. She didn’t know when her mother ate, or Jonathan, because they were seldom in the house at the same time as her. Or if they were, they were in the lounge in front of the television, silently absorbing Starsky and Hutch or Monty Python. They never laughed. That was the puzzling thing about them. They sat in silence, Mother on the sofa and Jonathan on the rocking-chair, staring at the screen as if it were their source of nourishment. As if it would solve all their problems.
Sometimes if Imogen came in late, she hoped her mother might say, ‘What time do you call this?’ But she never did. Imogen tried later and later. Midnight, one o’clock, two o’clock. Her mother would be bound to notice. But if she’d finished watching television, she went to bed. There was no hall light to welcome Imogen back. No voice from her mother’s room. Nothing to indicate that she ever noticed if Imogen was there or not. In the end, Imogen gave up and came home earlier. She got too tired of hanging around after parties when everyone else had gone home, or too cold sitting on a wall round the corner waiting for midnight.
Harry’s mother taught her about cleaning. Imogen and Harry came in one day while she was washing down the skirting-boards, and Imogen was amazed. She’d never noticed that there were such things as skirting-boards.
‘Hello,’ she said, as Imogen stood watching her.
‘Hello.’
They didn’t have much to say to each other—Harry’s mother was always polite, but distant. She didn’t like Imogen. She thought she was thick. She was wearing an apron, a scarf to tie back her hair and yellow rubber gloves. She scrubbed the skirting-boards with a wet cloth, which she kept rinsing in a plastic bowl of water. Imogen thought she looked like a real mother. For a brief moment she wanted to go and give her a hug. The moment passed.
‘Don’t slip on the kitchen floor,’ she said, turning away from them. ‘It’s wet.’
‘Why’s it wet?’ Imogen whispered to Harry.
He thought this was hilarious. ‘Because she’s cleaned it,’ he whispered dramatically.
The kitchen was full of home baking. Containers of peanut cookies, lemon cake, ginger cake, mince pies, brownies, flapjacks. Harry had three brothers, so they must have needed an endless supply. Imogen had never before tasted such wonderful food, and would have spent hours in the kitchen, sampling new things, if Harry had not been so anxious to get out again before his mother came in and started to challenge her to an intellectual conversation. This was normal procedure. She wanted to show Harry that Imogen was too stupid for him.
‘Do you think Margaret Thatcher will do anything about this European Community? Sort the money out properly? Terrible business, the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. What do you think?’
Imogen couldn’t think anything. She would stand on one leg and look past her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
Harry’s parents did try. They invited her to Sunday lunch, and tried to find out what she was interested in, but she didn’t know what she was interested in except their son. She concentrated on the food, and let the boys talk. They spent a lot of time arguing about nothing. Imogen always had second helpings. They knew when she was ready for more, and after a few weeks, they didn’t bother to ask. They simply passed her plate over and loaded it up again.
‘Why don’t you talk to them?’ Harry asked one day.
‘I don’t know.’ She had nothing to say. There was plenty to say to Harry—about films, music, documentaries they’d seen on the telly—but nothing to his family. She knew they were only pretending to be friendly, and didn’t see why she should contribute to the fiction.
But when they were married, and he came home for his breaks, she had to be sure that everything was the same, so that he wouldn’t feel he was missing anything. The cake tins were full, the skirting-boards were clean, there was no dust under the bed.
‘What do you do all day?’ he said to her once.
‘Oh, clean,’ she said. ‘And cook.’
He brought her books home then, because he thought she needed to be educated. Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë. Imogen wanted to please him, show him that she was capable of fitting into his life, so she read them and thought about them, but didn’t know what he wanted her to say about them. She felt too exhausted to think original thoughts.
‘You’ve changed,’ Harry said to her one day, when he came home pale and tired.
‘What have I changed?’ she asked, in a panic.
‘We used to laugh all the time. You were so funny.’
Imogen didn’t know she used to be funny. She didn’t know how to do it again, because she didn’t know how she’d done it originally. She cleaned harder. She looked for more interesting things to cook. She searched her memory for jokes, but nothing seemed funny. She tried so hard.
She is drawn back to Oliver d’Arby’s bureau. There’s something so comforting about it, the way the front comes down so solidly to make a desk, the smell of ink. It reminds her of her father, although she can’t remember the context. He must have had a fountain pen that he used when he sat in his study and they thought he was working, filling in all those forms, writing out the cheques that should have been paying their bills. He must have spent hours composing letters to people who were owed money, while he siphoned off more and more for his gambling. A small, gentle man, who used a fountain pen in a world of biros and quick bets, where television screens flashed up the results. Whatever had made him go into the betting shops in the first place? How had he discovered the thrill of it all?
Doody starts to sort Oliver d’Arby’s bills into an order, the electricity bills, the telephone, the rates. Will she have to pay council tax? She pushes the thought away and goes on reading and sorting. She likes his writing. The little notes on the side of scraps of paper. ‘Ring plumber’ ‘Doctor, Wed 2.40’ ‘Prune roses’ ‘Bank’.
And then she comes across a collection of keys in a small cardboard box at the back. She sorts through them with interest, although there’s no way of knowing what they are all for. She has her own collection at home, most of which lost their purpose years ago. Keys to missing padlocks, keys to doors that have had the locks changed, keys to clocks and cupboards that no longer exist. She never throws them away.
Locking and unlocking doors is the only thing Doody likes about her job. She enjoys being in charge, feeling the keys in her hand as she walks through the empty school, checking all the exits after the cleaners have left. It gives her a sense of authority and importance, and helps her stand up to Philip Hollyhead when he’s in danger of becoming a dictator. He needs her to give him a sense of perspective.
Sorting through Oliver d’Arby’s collection, she finds a large key with a luggage label attached, and a number on it that she recognises. Immediately, all her interest in the cleaning evaporates. She jumps up, looks out of the window and runs downstairs, hoping that Straker will appear miraculously. She’s desperate to show someone, and he’ll have to do.
Of course, there’s no sign of him. Why doesn’t he come when he’s needed? He turns up often enough when she’s not expecting him. His sense of timing is not impressive.
She makes herself sit down at the kitchen table and takes out her latest Mandles chapter. Cleaning isn’t distracting enough. She can’t waste all day waiting for the invisible man.
Mandles and his right-hand man, Ginger, have entered a deserted lighthouse, and are looking out at the surrounding countryside. They can see a barn, with tyre tracks leading to the entrance.
‘I’ll warrant there’s a vehicle in that barn,’ conjectured Mandles.
The image of Mandles is changing in her mind. He’s no longer that young man with clear hazel eyes, waving a gloved leather hand as he takes off in his Camel. He’s become older, and he has a scar on his cheek. She tries to erase the scar, rubbing at it irritably, but it refuses to go. All his youthful exuberance seems to drain away through it, and he’s not flying a fragile biplane any more, but a modern, reliable monoplane.
She jumps up and goes to the living-room window, itching with impatience. Why isn’t he here now? If he’s got time to do roofs, he can hardly be pursuing a busy, stressful life in an office somewhere. Why doesn’t he realise that he’s needed now?
She climbs the stairs again and starts cleaning, watching out for him every few minutes. When his long, gangly body finally appears and hesitates at the gate, she makes herself walk downstairs without hurrying.
He shouts, ‘Mrs Doody!’ and she opens the door straight away, not wanting to appear too excited. She intends to thank him politely for the roof.
‘Look,’ she says, holding up the key. ‘Look what I’ve found.’
This time they walk up the road together. Straker walks with less urgency than before, and when a car approaches, politely eases her in to the side of the road.
‘Why did you call me Mrs Doody?’ she asks.
‘That’s what you told the headmaster to call you.’
For a second, she thinks he’s been talking to Philip without her knowledge, then remembers the call on her mobile. ‘That’s just him,’ she says. ‘He’s irritating, so he’s got to be more careful. You call me Doody.’
‘OK,’ he says.
She wants to walk faster, but he won’t. He keeps the slow, steady speed that he set when they started walking, apparently not flexible enough to alter it according to circumstances. She would like to push him or drag him, but doesn’t want the physical contact, so she makes herself stay calm.
‘I’ve been stealing my own tiles,’ she says.
She climbs over the gate in front of him. After all, she probably owns it. Outside the barn, she gives him the key. He inserts it, lets it fall out, tries again, drops it, jiggles it up and down, but can’t turn it. ‘Let me have a go,’ she says, pushing him out of the way. She puts the key in again, but can feel that it hasn’t gone far enough. She moves it backwards and forwards a few times until it’s looser, then tries to turn it. Nothing happens.
‘I should have brought some oil,’ she says.
He takes the key from her and presses it firmly into the lock.
‘Careful,’ she says. ‘You’ll break it.’
He shakes his head and ignores her, pushing again. Nothing happens. Then there is a sound of creaking metal and the key turns.
They stand there and look at each other, and Doody finds she is holding her breath. Straker removes the padlock, lifts the catch and pulls at one of the doors. It’s unwilling, partly because there are so many fierce weeds in front, but he forces it. They peer into the darkness, unable to see anything, so he opens the other door.
They walk in together and look at the object in front of them, which fills the barn, taller than them, long and wide enough to fill the entire space. She hears an intake of breath from Straker.
It’s an aeroplane, an old-fashioned one, with double wings and a propeller. It stands on the floor of the barn in an attitude of ancient pride, its nose pointing up to the sky, the red underside of the wings looming over them. It’s large but fragile, a giant butterfly dropped subversively into a world of helicopters and stealth bombers.
They stand in silence for some time, and Doody discovers that she’s holding her breath. She makes herself breathe in and out, but it’s an effort, and she’s shaking with excitement.
‘It’s a Camel,’ she says at last.
‘No, an aeroplane,’ he says, his voice deep and stilted.
‘A Camel is an aeroplane. First World War.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But I think you’re mistaken.’
She wants it to be a Camel. She wants it so much that she thinks she can change whatever it is by willpower.
She looks up at Straker. He is staring at the plane with shock in his eyes, as if he has been confronted with some terrible revelation. ‘Pull yourself together,’ she says, irritated by the drama of his expression. ‘It’s not going to attack us.’
She walks round the aeroplane slowly, pausing to examine the propeller, the wires, the tailplane, although it’s too dark to see much at the back of the barn. She smooths her hand across the surface of a wing and feels the fabric stretched taut under her fingers.
‘Don’t do that,’ says Straker, sharply, and she withdraws her hand with embarrassment. The paint is flaking, revealing the threadbare fabric underneath. ‘You could easily go through it,’ he says.
He’s right, but she still gently strokes the surface again, conscious that she’s feeling a real aeroplane wing, one that was made nearly a century ago.
There’s a canvas hood over the cockpit and she reaches up to unhook it. ‘Come on. Don’t just stand there. Give me a hand.’ He comes round to the other side and helps her remove the cover, then carries it to the side of the barn.
At this point, she realises that it can’t be a Camel after all, because there are two cockpits—one in front of the other. She stands still and contemplates this, waiting for the disappointment to hit her, but somehow it doesn’t matter as much as she would have expected. This is a real biplane. It could still be First World War—a Bristol Fighter perhaps, or an Avro. They could fly this. Well, someone could fly it. Straker, maybe—he’s touching and looking in a knowledgeable way. There is a reluctance in everything he does, but at the same time casualness and familiarity.
He climbs on to the left wing and into the back cockpit, standing briefly on the seat before sliding himself down into a sitting position. Doody watches him fiddling with switches, easing the joystick into different positions, examining the instruments.
‘You know how to fly, don’t you?’ she says.
At first he doesn’t reply. He’s absorbed in feeling everything.
‘You’re a pilot.’
He looks up with a horrified expression, and starts to climb out. ‘No,’ he says furiously. ‘No.’
He walks away, leaving her standing there, as if she doesn’t exist. ‘Stop!’ she shouts. ‘Stop!’ She expects him to react to her authority.
But it’s as if she hasn’t spoken. He just keeps on walking.
She runs after him. ‘Straker, stop! What’s the matter?’
She tries to grab his arm, and he pushes her away. But she can be angry too. She feels it ignite inside her and now she’s powerful, grabbing his arm again and hanging on. She refuses to let go, and concentrates all her strength into keeping her feet firmly on the ground. He keeps on walking, dragging her along behind him, her feet skidding through the grass and thistles.
‘Ow!’ she shrieks.
He stops.
She still doesn’t let go. ‘What do you think you’re doing, going off like that? You can’t just leave me here.’
He says nothing.
She takes a few deep breaths and forces herself to speak calmly. ‘Come on. We’ve got this far. Why can’t we stay and find out more about it?’
His expression becomes less frightening, his eyes less wild, and he relaxes. She can’t see much else in his face because the beard gets in the way. He stops resisting her and she no longer has to pull to keep him in place.
‘I know about biplanes,’ she says. ‘I’ve done a lot of research. You know Biggles? He flew Camels. I’ve got all the books.’
She hasn’t intended to mention Biggles, aware that it’s an invitation to ridicule, but he doesn’t look contemptuous, just uninterested. Unlike Jonathan, who makes no effort to conceal his sneer whenever he comes across her collection. ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Let’s have a good look at it.’
They walk back to the aeroplane.
Doody stands patiently while he examines everything, not rushing him. They walk all round it again and back to the front, and still he says nothing.
‘What do you think?’ she says.
‘About what?’
‘The aeroplane, of course. Is it any good?’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea.’
Typical. He spends all this time pretending to be an expert, when he hasn’t really got a clue. Doody forces herself not to break the following silence. If he can stop himself speaking, so can she.
‘The fabric on the wings is rotting,’ he says at last.
‘Couldn’t it just be repaired?’
‘I shouldn’t have thought so. There’s not much sign of rust on the wires, though. It must be unusually dry in here.’
‘Can I get in?’
‘If you want to,’ he says, without moving.
‘So how do I do it?’
He walks round the side, and points to the edge of the wing. ‘Put your foot there,’ he says, ‘and pull yourself up.’ She’s just about to do so when he grabs her arm and tries to help her up.
‘Get off,’ she says, and pushes him away.
He steps back hurriedly, and she regrets her sudden reaction.
She climbs on the seat, like he did, and then sits down. There isn’t much space. She looks at the dashboard and tries to make sense of the instruments, which are more complicated than she expected.
She likes sitting there. It gives her a sense that she can be part of a history that is only just round the corner. It feels like when she writes about Mandles, as if she’s present in that time, but not significant, not active in it, an observer only. She knows all the expressions, the words, the movements. Push the joystick back hard and the nose goes up, push it forward and you drop. She is a child again, looking out of her yew tree, watching Biggles come in to land. She can see him bumping along the grass, climbing out and wiping his greasy goggles.
‘Altimeter.’
She jumps. Straker has been so quiet that she forgot he was there. But he’s leaning over the side, pointing at the various instruments, his hands trembling slightly. ‘Airspeed indicator, joystick, artificial horizon…’
She nearly tells him she knows, but realises at the last moment that he would like to tell her. ‘Can we fly it?’ she asks.
He steps away. ‘No,’ he says shortly.
‘But it must be possible.’
‘No.’
She doesn’t like the dead, defeatist way in which he says this. ‘Why not? Oliver d’Arby must have flown it once.’
Straker shakes his head several times. ‘It must have been a very long time ago. You can see that from the condition.’
He knows about planes, however much he pretends he’s not interested. Why is he so negative? ‘Couldn’t we just try to start it up? See if it works?’
‘It won’t.’
‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s try it.’ She is fizzing with excitement. A chance to enter her fantasy world, to become unreal like Biggles and to stop being herself. ‘Please.’
He doesn’t look as if he is going to co-operate. He is standing stiffly, a blank expression on his face, as if he is trying to hide something. A tic has appeared at the side of his left eye, above the scar, but he doesn’t give any indication that he has noticed it.
‘We could push it out. It can’t be heavy.’ She has pictures in her head of mechanics pushing the Camels out of hangars, ready for Biggles and Algy and Ginger.
‘It can’t go anywhere. The field is too overgrown.’
‘Well, that’s all right. We can’t fly it anyway.’ She climbs down. ‘Come on, let’s push it outside.’
She realises almost immediately that it won’t work. The rubber has perished on the two wheels at the front, so that their rims are resting directly on the floor, and there isn’t a wheel at all at the back.
‘I recognise those wheels,’ says Doody in surprise. ‘There’s another set in the cottage, in the wardrobe. They look in better condition than these.’
‘They must be spares.’
‘Shall we try and start it anyway?’ she says.
‘It won’t work.’
‘Why not? It might.’
‘There won’t be any fuel, oil, water. It’s like a car engine. Everything would have dried up after all this time.’
He’s right, of course. ‘Couldn’t we just swing the propeller, get a feel for the way it would work? You never know. It might just turn the engine over, if nothing else.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You know all about it, then?’
‘That’s because of Biggles,’ she says.
‘Who?’ he says, as if this is the first time she has mentioned Biggles. The man is unbelievable.
‘They’re children’s books,’ she says. ‘There are hundreds of them—I’ve read them all.’
He looks puzzled.
‘Didn’t you ever read when you were younger?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. My family weren’t keen on reading.’ He thinks for a few seconds in silence. ‘Except Agatha Christie.’
‘Similar period,’ she says.
She bends down and looks under the wheels. There are yellow wooden triangles placed in front of each one, with rope attached.
‘Chocks,’ she says, pleased with her specialist knowledge.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I don’t think they’ll be necessary.’
She climbs on to the wing and eases herself into the cockpit again. Placing her feet against the rudder-pedals, she leans over the side of the fuselage so that she can see Straker. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Try the propeller.’
He reaches up to one of the arms of the propeller and pulls it down sharply. It moves a quarter of a turn, with an uncomfortable clonk, and then jams. ‘It’s not going to work.’
‘No thanks to you,’ she says, frustrated by her inability to bring the aeroplane to life in any way.
They cover up the cockpits again and lock the barn, walking back down the road without a word. There’s a glow of excitement inside Doody, despite Straker’s lack of enthusiasm. It’s spinning around, churning up all kinds of emotions, soaring up into an unrealistically blue sky.