Circles of Time (25 page)

“I think so. Yes.”

“The point now is—the blinkin' next problem is—gettin' these brutes rollin' off the line in quantity. I'll need the first three to put on the Atlas. When I fly that plane for buyers with these engines on her, I'll have more orders than I can fill. That means an extension of my credit line with Cox's Bank. And
that
means more engine workers on the payroll. I'll be able to have the first fifteen of your thirty crated for shipping by the end of August.”

“That would be perfect.”

“But if you could stay until May or early June—just to make bloody sure they're comin' off the line proper. Is that too much to ask of you, Ross?”

“I don't think so. I'll send a cablegram to my partner and explain the situation. We need these engines, Angus. Without them, we've got nothing.”

“That puts us in the same boat, lad. But we
do
have somethin'. And that's why we're going to dent a bottle of Old Highlander and make bloody damn fools of ourselves!”

H
E WORKED LONGER
hours in the engine plant than was necessary. The Blackworth foremen and assemblers had gotten the hang of the Argo-450's unique assembly problems and the engines were being completed, tested on the frame, and certified with gratifying efficiency. Every engine was then bolted onto the old BFC-3 scout-bomber and air-tested to make doubly sure there were no hidden flaws in the radial intake manifold and exhaust system that Ross had designed.

“We can stop air-testin' soon,” Sir Angus said one morning. “She's as near perfect as we'll ever get ‘er. You can be headin' back to San Diego in a week or two—that is, if you're satisfied.”

“I'm satisfied now,” Ross said. “But if anything starts to malfunction, I don't want it to be six thousand miles from here.”

He continued to put in long hours, partly because he wanted the engines to be perfect, and partly because he didn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't working. Lying in bed at night, listening to the April wind splatter rain against the windows, he thought of San Diego … the Coronado Hotel … the palms rustling, the surf hissing across the sand. He yearned for the sun, the long bay of bright blue water, the slender strands of beach curving south toward the brown hills of Mexico. He was, by Jesus,
bloody homesick!

They no longer worked on Saturday. It made a long two days for him. Nothing much to do on Saturday except take in a picture at the Abingdon cinema palace or drive into Guildford if there were a football match, and nothing at all to do on Sunday but stay home and read technical journals or sit at his drafting table and fool around with new designs.

It was on a Saturday afternoon, as he was walking along High Street toward the cinema, that he saw Alexandra again. She was walking slowly toward him, looking into the shop windows, a little boy beside her, tugging at her hand. She saw him and smiled.

“Well, hello—Mr. Ross.”

Being called
Mr.
Ross by her startled him for a moment. He wasn't quite sure how to address her.

“Lovely afternoon, isn't it?” she continued. “I was sure it would rain.”

“Yes—so was I.”

The little boy was looking up at him, silent and curious. “And what's your name?” Ross asked, bending down to him.

“Colin,” Alexandra said. “My son—Colin Mackendric.”

“I like the name Colin. I had a friend called Colin,” he said to the boy. “My best friend. We used to collect conkers, soak them in brine for a few days, drill holes in them, put them on strings, and have conker fights. Do you play with conkers?”

Colin stared at him.

“He's a bit young for that,” Alexandra said.

“Yes, he is—for fighting with them. But they're fun to collect. Just find a big horse-chestnut tree and peel the seed out of the pod.”

“He likes aeroplanes, don't you, Colin? Mr. Ross works at the place where the aeroplanes come from.” She looked at Ross and smiled. “There's a plane that buzzes Burgate Hill sometimes when we're picnicking there. Colin loves it.”

“So do I. We're testing our new engine in that plane. I'll tell the pilot to wave next time.”

“That would make Colin happy. He waves at the pilot.”

Colin had stopped tugging at her hand. He stood quietly beside her staring at Ross.

“Would you like to see the plane close up, Colin?” Ross asked him. “Perhaps your mama could bring you out to the aerodrome one day.”

“Now,” Colin said with an almost grim firmness.
“Now.”

“Now?” Ross laughed a little uncomfortably. “Knows what he wants, doesn't he!”

“Oh, yes,” Alexandra said. “Determination is his middle name.” She touched her son lightly on top of his head. “But not today, dear. Mr. Ross doesn't have the time.”

“Now,” Colin said. “Now …”

“We'll have tea at that shop you like, Colin. You can have an ice and a gooseberry tart—or a jam roll. Would you like a jam roll?”

“Aero-plane,” Colin muttered. “Want aero-plane.”

“I think he's made up his mind,” Ross said.

“I've never seen him quite this intractable before.”

“Look,” he said impulsively. “I'm not doing anything, Mrs. Mackendric. If you can spare an hour, we could drive out to Blackworth's in my car and give Colin a look at the plane.”

Alexandra frowned, then looked at Colin, who was tugging at her hand impatiently.

“Well … if you're sure it's no trouble for you.”

“None at all,” he said a little too quickly. “I'd enjoy it. It's just a short walk to my house, Rose Lane.”

“Very well,” she said. “We'll go.”

She sat beside him, Colin on her lap, and he did all the talking. Was almost afraid to stop—afraid that if he did stop, she would have nothing to say—afraid of silence. He talked about the engine and Sir Angus and about San Diego and the many things a person could do there on the weekends—the sailing … swimming in the ocean … the dances at the Coronado Hotel.

“You must be anxious to get back.”

“I am, Mrs. Mackendric. I miss it.”

“I wish you'd call me Alexandra. Your name's Jamie, isn't it?”

“James … Jim … Jamie. Jamie mostly. I used to spell my name J-a-
i
-m-i-e just to be different. Of course, it's pronounced the same. I don't know why I did it. Just an affectation, I suppose. People do things like that when they're young.”

“I know. When I was at school I began to sign my name with an ‘e' on the end instead of an ‘a'—and put an accent on it as well. The mistresses soon put a stop to
that
nonsense.”

“Yes, I'm sure they did. Well, I'm just plain Jamie now.”

“And plain Alexandra.”

“It's a lovely name.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I was never that fond of it. There seemed to be so many girls at school with that name. I felt that children should be allowed to choose their own names. I would have chosen something exotic—like Francesca … or Consuela.”

“I had an aunt named Florette, but everyone called her just plain Flo.”

She laughed. “Of course. If I'd called myself Francesca, it would have turned into
Franny!
”

His hands felt sweaty on the wheel. Her perfume was subtle but intoxicating. Glancing at her as he drove, he marveled at the delicacy of her profile, the astonishing color of her hair, her skin and eyes. Staring ahead at the road he thought of a song the navy fliers would sing at the hotel bar in Coronado—no liquor served there now that Prohibition was in effect, but the fliers getting very happy on the “tea” they drank from plain china pots. The fliers in their white uniforms singing:
Down in Pensacola there's a blue-eyed blonde, a blue-eyed blonde, a blue-eyed blonde, and if I crash tomorrow I won't give a darn if that blue-eyed blonde loves me....
Whoever wrote that song must have seen Alexandra Mackendric.

He parked the car near one of the Blackworth hangars. Across the field an RAF Bristol F.-
2
B fighter was being worked on and the stuttering howl of its engine could be heard plainly, causing Colin to jump up and down and clap his hands at the noise. Ross reached for him, afraid for a moment that he might decide to run off across the landing field toward it. There were three other Brisfits in the air, the pilots practicing takeoffs and landings. The squadron was Air Auxiliary, weekend fliers, and Saturday and Sunday were busy days. He lifted Colin up so that he could get a better view as one of the silver-painted planes came in over the low trees at the end of the runway and touched down. The boy screamed in a kind of ecstasy.

“Crazy about machines, isn't he?”

“He certainly seems to be,” Alexandra said. “I don't know how he inherited that trait. His father was hopeless. We had a Moon coupe in Canada that was always on the blink. Robbie's only proven method of fixing it was a good kick.”

“Sounds like a man after my own heart. Best thing you can do to some cars, just kick the hell out of them—if you'll excuse the language.”

“You should have heard Robin Mackendric!”

He carried Colin into hangar number four on his shoulder. There were men standing on the scaffolding erected around the three new engines on the Argus. Work on the transport plane was a seven-day-a-week business. One of the men glanced down and called out, “Mr. Ross, sir! Happy to see you.”

“What's the matter, George? Having some problems?”

“There's something a bit odd about the intake manifold bolts on number two engine.”

“Where's Sir Angus?”

“Went up to London, sir, with Mr. Haverman and Mr. Tess.”

“Want me to have a look at it?”

“If you wouldn't mind, sir.”

“All right.” He put Colin down and started to take off his coat. “Are you up there, Mick?”

A young man in white coveralls peeked around one of the engines.

“Yes, Mr. Ross, sir.”

“Hop down, will you?”

The man swung down from the scaffold and walked toward them, wiping his hands on a rag. “Mick, this is Mrs. Mackendric and her son, Colin. Would you mind showing them around? Young Colin here is potty about planes. Put him in the cockpit of the BFC, but watch the lad. He just might try and take her up for a spin!”

L
ATER, SHE TOUCHED
his arm as they walked back to the car, Colin walking between them in a kind of daze.

“He's never had such a wonderful afternoon. I wish you could have seen his face when that man—Mick—put him into the cockpit.”

“I can imagine,” Ross said. “I'm glad he enjoyed himself.”

She glanced at him. “You really
are
glad, aren't you?”

“Why wouldn't I be? I like seeing kids have a good time.”

“You look like you had a good time yourself. There's oil all over your shirt.”

He looked down and dabbed futilely at a smear of dark grease across the front of his shirt.

“Hazard of the trade. And it won't wash out, I'm afraid. My fault for not putting on coveralls.”

Colin reached up and touched the stain. “Bad Jamie. Got all dirty. Bad—
bad
Jamie.”

Ross picked him up and put him into the car. “I'll get spanked for that.”

The little boy put his hands on Ross's face. “No,” he said solemnly. “Colin won't let.”

N
OEL DROVE DOWN
from London and arrived late Saturday night, looking forward to a day's riding. But Sunday dawned in a torrent of rain and there was nothing much to do except play cards with Alexandra or shoot a few games of snooker with the earl. He'd purchased a stuffed animal from a large toy shop in Regent Street, but Colin seemed to disdain it. Seated on the floor in the nursery when he'd unwrapped it, the box and the wrappings occupied him more than the quite expensive bear.

“Thank Mr. Rothwell, Colin,” Alexandra had said tightly.

“Thank you,” he had repeated. Then he had done the most extraordinary thing. He had suddenly jumped up, thrust his arms out from his sides, and raced around the nursery making ugly slurping sounds—
Brrrrrrrrrr … brrrrrrrrrr … brrrrrrrrrr …

“What on earth … ?” Noel had said.

“He thinks he's an aeroplane.”

On one of Colin's frenzied passes around the nursery, he had kicked the bear into a far corner of the room and had kept on moving—
Brrrrrrrrrr … brrrrrrrrrr … brrrrrrrrrr …

The child's behavior had rankled Noel all day and he brought up the subject late that night as he sat beside Alexandra in the library.

“Young Colin seemed a bit out of hand today, Alexandra.”