The Last Link

Chapter 3-1

3

On the south-western edges of Christchurch lay Wigram Aerodrome like a patchwork square on a faded old quilt. The early-morning breeze was already whipping dust through the short stalky grass and threatened to blow harder still as the sun rose to resume its merciless beat.

The hangars squatted on the open field, holding a collection of precious war fighter planes; seven Avro 504Ks, four DH9s, two DH4s and two Bristol Fighters. Shortly, their pilots would arrive to take them to the skies again for two glorious weeks. The men responsible for the restoration of this archaic fleet cherished them like lovers, even though the machines were now so very tired. The once brightly painted emblems had faded but, to the men arriving this morning, the machines still held an aura of beauty. It was to maintain these aviators’ expertise, and indeed the safety of each member of the public, that the planes had been donated in the first place. When they rattled through their manoeuvres high above the sprawling Christchurch metropolis, the rest of New Zealand was assured the country’s state of defence was fighting fit and ready for action at a moment’s notice.

Reality produced a slightly different truth. The men adored the planes only because they hardly ever had an opportunity to fly anywhere else all year. Someone desperately needed to do something to get the public enthusiastic about aviation. After all, the way the Air Force men saw it, flying was going to be the way of the future. It would connect countries faster and draw in Earth’s enormous expanse on which the colony registered as only a tiny smear. If only a few other men, particularly those at the seat of parliament, would recognise the potential and donate some precious public funds to the aerodrome, the flyers knew they could accomplish so much more.

In the quiet sanctity of a hangar, Captain Findlay dawdled among the machinery. Dust danced in sunlight streaming in through the upper windows. He stroked his moustache and smoothed his uniform, not that it bloody mattered whether he did his bit to create some order of professionalism among the Territorial Air Force officers by wearing it. The rest of the men broke with formality as soon as they arrived – a mishmash of civvies and crumpled kit. His peaceful reverie broke with the sound of men spilling out of their cars, shouting and laughing, haphazardly unloading suitcases out of the boots of taxis and waving off their charges. He emerged into the sunlight and stood quietly as the men swarmed around him, some offering a salute, others giving a slap of camaraderie on the shoulder.

‘Bloody hell, can’t say you’re looking any better than the last time I saw you.’

It was hardly the sort of comment a man of his position should expect from one of his subordinates, but he received the greeting warmly anyway. He understood the excitement coursing through each of them. The men were desperate for the exhilarating thrill only flying could provide, and eternally frustrated that this opportunity only came around once a year and for only a meagre few days at that.

Recently appointed captain, George Hood was no different, yet his thoughts lingered over his farewell with Cissie.

‘Behave yourself down there, George,’ she had muttered.

‘Don’t you worry about me, darling. Be here when I get home.’ He’d leaned forward to hug her one last time, pinching her bottom. Cissie had self-consciously spun around, obviously hoping no one else on the platform had seen the embarrassing display of affection.

George would have liked her to have squeezed out a few tears for him, at least, but she’d seemed impatient to see him get on the train. There was none of the usual, ‘What happens if your plane claps out altogether this year?’ or, ‘You’ve already lost one leg. Please bring the rest of you back in one piece.’ He’d figured it out on the long train ride over the tedious Rimutaka incline, through hills smothered in thorny yellow gorse. The letter. She wanted to find that stupid letter. Well, he’d made no attempt to conceal it. Not really, anyway. He was glad she’d have two weeks to sort her muddled feelings out before he returned. Was it too hopeful to think she might have entirely forgotten about the letter’s contents by then? Was it his fault they still bumped into Doris from time to time? She was Ada’s bosom friend; it was bound to happen. He always ignored the woman’s meaningful looks so Cissie and Doris would both know he only had eyes for his wife. And if he happened to find himself in a room with Doris when Cissie was elsewhere, well, a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone. They had been close friends once, more than that. And she was still a nice piece of work. He wished his mother didn’t so obviously love Doris as much as she did. Cissie could be awkward but he knew her feelings got hurt just like everyone else’s. And his mother carrying on didn’t help the matter at all.

After a tumultuous sailing across the Cook Strait, George couldn’t care less what Cissie thought, or Doris, or his mother, he was so green around the gills. Give him a plane over a ship any day.

He’d arrived in Christchurch at last. He walked across the airfield with his customary limping gait, snapping his heels together in front of Captain Findlay. He saluted and grinned. ‘It’s a pleasure to be here, Captain.’

Findlay cordially extended his hand. ‘Welcome, George. I hope the past year has been kind to you.’

George grabbed Findlay’s hand and heartily shook it.

‘Always is, Captain.’ A crooked queue was forming behind him. ‘I’d better leave you to it.’ George spied John ‘Scotty’ Moncrieff lounging against the side of the hanger and waved at him. ‘Scotty. How the hell have you been?’ He shook the man’s extended hand then reached out and quickly ruffled his wavy, dark hair.

‘Ah, be gone with you,’ Scotty growled. The narrow, clipped phonetics of the colony continued to elude him 15 years after his arrival in New Zealand.

‘How have they been treating you at the ABC?’ asked George.

Scotty folded his arms and leaned back on the wall again. ‘The garage is going well. More cars on the roads mean more breakdowns, which translates into more work. You wouldn’t believe what some silly buggers will try and do with their cars. We’ve got ourselves a pretty good reputation now. What are you driving these days?’

‘Still got the Hudson – she’s good enough. I’ve been doing some work as a taxi service on the side, to make a bit of extra dough.’

‘Aye, good on you, George. Ever the wee entrepreneur.’

‘Speaking of good ideas, have you still been having crazy dreams about flying the Tasman?’ George asked.

‘Funny you should mention that. I’ve been giving it a great deal of thought lately. I’m keeping a pretty keen eye on what they’re up to in America right now. There’s a race on to see who’s going to be first across the Atlantic.’

A wry grin spread across George’s face. ‘Yes, I think we’ve all heard. You be sure to keep me posted if you start making any serious plans for crossing the Tasman. I’m looking for a new challenge myself. There’d be some good career possibilities for starters if that last link could be closed up. Imagine if we could get a commercial route taking passengers to Australia and back set up? A real money-spinner that would be.’

Scotty pressed his lips together and his shoulders dropped. ‘That’s precisely what I’ve been thinking about and I’m sorry, George, but I have to tell you, Buckley’s first in line. He made me promise if anything comes of it, he’s got first dibs on being co-pilot. Besides, surely the Meteorological Department provides enough thrills sending you up 12,000 feet to read barometric pressure for them?’

George scuffed his boot through the dirt, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘So you heard about that, then?’

‘Yes, I think we’ve all heard,’ Scotty said, and smirked.

‘All right, all right. Listen, I meant what I said, John. Buckley’s all smoke and no fire. I doubt very much he’d follow you through to the bitter end. He’s too far under his wife’s thumb.’ George paused and gingerly checked over his shoulder. ‘But you didn’t hear that from me, of course.’

Scotty shook his head. ‘Of course not. I’ll let you know what happens.’

‘Good. You’d better. I want to be in on it.’ It struck George suddenly that he meant every word. Cissie would come around to the idea if it ever happened. Despite her complaints, she usually did.