The sound a constant backdrop. His off-steps. The clip of one foot then the soft thud of the other, a counter beat down the main hall, the tiled floors providing the percussion that announced his arrival. Clip, thud, clip, thud. It was the steady off-kilter beat that he’d known since he was a child. The sound always elevated when others were around. Alone, he did not hear it. As if it were akin to the sound of his own breath, a nightingale by his window, the rustle of the leaves, nothing to hold his attention.
He once thought it made him special. He had imagined himself as one chosen for this gift of an improper foot. Shy, considered backward because he did not speak until he was five, he was glad that it was his misshapen foot that people were drawn to. He was barely a person, just someone who wore this affliction, so he’d learned to observe with downcast eyes, to be looked at but not seen, to be considered an idiot because of his physical deformity. It was a beautiful hiding place.
Even his mother would come to him with a swift pat or a whispered kiss on the forehead before fussing with his orthopaedic shoe, realigning its position as she asked him about his lessons. It was his father who introduced him to shame: Frank, ever observant, noticed how he marched ahead when they went out. The message—unworthy—was clear. The looming figure of his father leading the way, never a hand reached back, never even a look to be sure he was keeping up. A recollection carved into his bank of childhood memories.
And now, clip, thud, clip, thud, resurrecting that memory, a hot blush coloured his cheeks as he felt Peter at his side while they walked down the corridor. It was the curse of hard surfaces—tile, wood, stone—that revealed his secret. His limp long mended, he could thank his father for that. The shame an impetus to hours spent walking up and down the corridor, a mirror at each end so he could adjust his body movements to compensate for his foot. If his father had noticed the improvement, it would have made the effort all the more rewarding.
This shame like a disease that made it impossible for him to relax in Peter’s presence.
He’d misjudged things, thrown by Peter’s sudden arrival at the door, prompting a rushed and flustered invitation for a drink on the terrace that had them walking through the house, the steady off-time rhythm like a metronome. He could barely utter a word.
Fumbling at the drinks tray, the stopper of the scotch carafe slipped from his damp fingers, rattling as it wobbled across the tray. What was Peter doing here?
“Scotch?” he mumbled, turning to Peter, who stood closer than he was expecting.
“I’m dying for one.”
Frank plunged the scoop into the ice that Annie had quickly brought in and dropped the cubes into his glass, then Peter’s. Golden scotch. Everything would be fine now. Frank sipped too quickly, listening to Peter talk of the news from the airfield, a new flying schedule introduced, and an influx of pilots eager to train. But really it was an ancient scar on Peter’s face that was holding his attention, shaped like an arrow across the underside of his chin. How had he been so marked? Frank wondered. What childhood prank or adult foolishness had left him branded? Peter’s cheek was now brushed pink from the alcohol, the flat vowels of his speech seemed exaggerated, the hand perched on his shoulder holding Frank in his place. What was Peter telling him?
A new service. Flying letters, parcels around the country. A communications network set up for war because trust in Hitler’s commitment to peace was waning.
“You’d be perfect for it,” Peter was saying, and Frank topped up their scotch and walked away because this was too much to take in. He couldn’t figure out if Peter was mocking him. A flying postman? Is that what he was suggesting? Peter would sign on with the RAF while Frank flew around delivering mail.
“The Air Transport Auxiliary,” Peter continued. “There was a man at the airfield talking about it today. If war comes and telephone lines, mail service, all communications break down, they will need pilots to fly from one end of the country to the next delivering messages, parcels, supplies, even delivering airplanes to the RAF.”
Delivering airplanes to people like him, that’s what Peter was trying to say. This was the best that could be expected from men like Frank. His afflicted foot that he’d once thought made him special was now so carefully concealed. Who was he kidding? Everyone knew the RAF wasn’t an option for him. This would be as good as it gets. How could he ever feel an equal to Peter?
As if reading his mind Peter turned to Frank, tilting his glass at him. “I wish I had your knack for engineering. You’d be an asset for the ATA, I’d say. It won’t be enough to just fly planes if war comes. I can fly an airplane, but what if I were to go down again? I’ve already crashed once. What if you hadn’t come along? What if I’d gone down in enemy territory? What skills do I have that would save me?”
The scotch was affecting him, his voice louder with each sentence.
“I suppose we’ll all need to be bigger than ourselves.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it. It’s not enough to be who we are. We have to be better than we are. But how can we know what that means? How can we be sure that we’ll be up to it if we are not tested in times of war?”
An ice cube settled in Peter’s glass, and he swirled his scotch.
“Are you making a case for war, Peter, as a way of self-improvement? Or perhaps self-fulfillment?”
That laugh, an eruption that changed the mood of the room. It took Frank a moment to adjust, to be sure that the laughter wasn’t directed at him. Later, once he knew Peter better, he would recognize this as a nervous gesture.
“I’m talking about being tested.” Peter was strolling the room, as if taking it in for the first time.
Did Frank need to be tested?
It seemed the wrong reason to be part of the war, but Frank knew that he would join the ATA, knew that he wasn’t looking to be tested so much as to be part of something outside his life in this house.
“I know you are. We will all be tested in our own way.”