The Aerodrome: A Love Story (4 page)

the sound of shots from the shooting alleys, the shouts of men and the lowing of cattle. We parked the car and walked slowly to the turnstiles that had been installed at the entrance to the meadow. Around it was already collected a crowd of farmers and labourers with some county gentry. Fred was there, together with some other of my friends from our village. Some of them winked at me and pointed over their shoulders towards the beer tent, indicating that they would see me there later on; for they did not care to join me now that I was in the company of gentlefolk. The Rector paid our entrance money, after some protests by the Squire's sister, and we began to walk over the marshy ground on a path constructed of planks. At each side of us was an impressive display of agricultural and horticultural implements. Some of the best known firms in the county had sent specimens of their latest mechanical devices, and around each huge toothed engine was gathered a small crowd of men estimating the merits of the new invention. A number of women were queued up outside a tent in which a butter-making competition was shortly to be held. Others surrounded a cow which was being milked mechanically. And between the larger tents were small booths, where rabbits, ferrets, and ducks were being sold; also some local products such as ash walking-sticks, rustic seats, wicker-work, and dog leashes of plaited reeds. At the top of the meadow towards which this main avenue led were the ring and stands for the riding and jumping competitions which were now due to begin; and near here, too, were the long tents covered in with hessian canvas where bulls, sheep, and goats awaited the judges. At the suggestion of the Squire's sister, we approached one of these tents, for she was anxious to see her brother's prize bull, Slazenger, which was being shown once again this year. We went in single file through the canvas curtain and along the narrow passage-way past the stalls where the great animals were tethered. There was a hot smell of straw, dung, and animal flesh, and we patted the moist flanks of the recumbent beasts as we went along the tent. The Squire's sister knew the names and the owners of many of the animals which were on show, and she was, I remember, pointing out to me a particularly fine creature, beige-coloured, lying on his massive side and breathing heavily into the straw, when we heard an exclamation from in front of us, and turning in the direction from which the sound came, saw the Flight-Lieutenant coming towards us with outstretched hand. He was dressed in uniform and was smiling broadly as he approached us. On his handsome face was no sign of embarrassment, indeed this feeling was confined to our own party, who had perhaps secretly determined to take no notice of him, should they meet him again. But in the confined space in which we found ourselves it was impossible to pretend not to see a person who was blocking the whole passageway and who was also, it seemed, resolved to speak first. And any overt discourtesy might well have led to an altercation. So the ladies smiled in a distant manner, and the Rector, though he showed no pleasure at the sight of the young man, nevertheless appeared willing to listen to what he had to say. The Flight-Lieutenant greeted us breezily. "I was hoping I'd run up against you folks," he said, "because I'm afraid I rather broke up the party last night." He paused and looked inquiringly from face to face. "Oh yes, I did," he continued, although no one had shown any disposition to contradict him. "It was rather a bad show, in a way." The Rector cleared his throat as though he were about to speak, but before he could begin the Flight-Lieutenant stepped forward, forcing the Squire's sister almost against the nose of the bull which she had previously been inspecting, and gripped him by the arm. "To tell the truth, Padre," he said, "I was a bit tight." The Rector did not appear much mollified, so he continued: "Oh come on, sir, you know what that's like, I bet. You were young once I dare say." He smiled confidently while the Squire's sister remarked: "Excuse me, but you are pushing me against the bull." "Oh am I?" said the Flight-Lieutenant. "Not really? Oh, I say!" And he stepped back, surveying us quizzically as though he had just acted in some particularly generous manner towards us all. "Well, now that that's settled..." he began, but the Rector interrupted him by saying: "Some day I should like to have a word with you." "Yes," said the Squire's sister firmly, as though the same idea had occurred to her independently as a good one; and the Flight-Lieutenant replied: "Of course. Any time. I should be delighted. But now you must come and see this walloping great bull." He seized the hand of the Rector's wife and dragged her after him along the tent, while the Rector and the Squire's sister followed as though perforce, and I came behind them. We halted at the end of the tent where the Flight-Lieutenant stood gazing at Slazenger, the Squire's prize bull, who was standing up with his back to us, tossing his huge head from side to side, for he seemed restive and was tethered by a greater length of rope than most of the other animals in the tent. I remember how the muscles rippled over his black shoulders and flowed along his neck when he turned to us his dignified and stupid head surmounted by wide extended horns. He rolled his eyes and shook the ring and rope at the end of his nose. "Good boy, Slazenger! Quiet boy! Good!" said the Squire's sister. "It wouldn't be a bad idea," said the Flight-Lieutenant, "to let that fellow loose." The Squire's sister laughed nervously, and the Rector coughed. His wife, as though the remark had been an idle one, said meditatively: "Yes, I do so love seeing him when he is really at liberty." I attempted to move forward from behind the others, so as to be in a position to restrain the Flight-Lieutenant from any hasty action which he might contemplate; but I was too late for, almost before the Rector's wife had finished speaking, the expression on his face had changed. He smiled broadly and bowed to her. "I act under instructions," he said, and at once sprang on to the bull's back. Slazenger stood quite still for a moment, and then it seemed that the whole of his body was quivering. He flung his head round towards the Flight-Lieutenant's knees and bellowed. The sound seemed one of pain. Meanwhile the Flight-Lieutenant had taken a knife from his pocket and was hacking away the canvas wall of the tent. Then he leant down, in great danger, I thought, from the bull's horns, and cut the rope by which the animal was fastened. He stood up on Slazenger's back and jumped over his head through the canvas wall into the open. Here he struck an attitude which was no doubt intended to resemble the pose of a Spanish matador; then, for the bull had lowered his head and was pawing the ground, turned and began to run away. The huge animal, breathing heavily, lumbered after him through the hole in the wall and seemed to have left an unreasonable gap in front of our eyes, as though he had been done away by magic. We heard shouts and screams from outside, and hurried through the tent to a scene of the utmost confusion. Men, women, and children were falling over each other in their eagerness to be out of danger. The sheep on show in an adjoining tent suddenly lifted up their voices together in a sharp and humming mist of sound like a chorus of monstrous gnats. Two men, who had mounted their horses in readiness for the jumping competition, now found it impossible to control their mounts, who began to gallop madly down the main avenue of the show, where one of the horses slipped on the planks and threw his rider into the tent where the mechanical milking was in process. We could see nothing of either Slazenger or the Flight-Lieutenant, and so stood for some moments silent in the shouting and excited crowd.

CHAPTER IV

The Accident

NOT THAT THE incident was of any great importance. Neither the Flight-Lieutenant nor Slazenger, the bull, were injured. The rider who was hurled against the mechanically milked cow, a few children, a bookmaker, and an old woman sustained cuts and bruises, none of them of a serious character. The Flight-Lieutenant's action was only one of many actions performed by him or other members of the aerodrome staff in direct contravention of the rules that governed the life of villagers. Some indignation was expressed, but it was well known that the offender would not be brought to trial in any magistrate's court, and, since the bull was soon recaptured and no great damage done, before very long people began to laugh rather than grumble at what had happened. But the incident for my story is not without significance. It shows that on this particular day the Flight-Lieutenant's habit of mind was perhaps even more than usually irresponsible, so that to the reader the far more serious event which followed may seem not natural nor inevitable, but not wholly unexpected. Also to my mind this cavalier treatment of a prize bull by a member of our powerful Air Force appears, in the light of what followed, almost as a text or symbol. Certainly the effect of the incident on our party was most unfortunate, and had we met the Flight-Lieutenant again after his escapade there is no doubt that a serious quarrel would have ensued. The Squire's sister was, until the recapture of the bull, so upset that there was talk of going home immediately. The Rector proposed a scheme by which a letter signed by the most important of local residents should be dispatched to the Air Ministry; and his wife, a perplexed and harassed look upon her face, suggested a good talk and some rest in a tent near by where coffee and tea were being served. Thither we went through the bustling or dawdling crowd, and when my friends were settled at their table I excused myself, saying that I wished to see the jumping and would meet them either in the ring or in this very place in two hours' time. They did not attempt to delay me, and I fancied that in their desire to discuss the conduct of the Flight-Lieutenant they might in any case have been embarrassed by my company. So I hurried off to the stall of our local seller of chicken food; for I knew that at the back of his stall there was a bar where I would find some of the men from our village, as I had still some time to wait before I was to meet the landlord's daughter. Air Crosby, the seller of poultry food, winked at me as I approached him. "Hear your young friend's been stirring things up again," he said. He looked at me with a doubtful and cunning expression in his small black eyes, and I felt a sudden flow of affection for the little man with his long drooping moustache, thin hands, and bowler hat tilted to the back of his head. I had no wish then to see the Flight-Lieutenant again, and thought with distaste of the aerodrome, its easy and inconsiderate manners. "Mac here?" I said. "Oh, yes," Mr Crosby replied. "They're all inside. Can't you hear them singing? They're rare lads from your place. For the beer that is. So long as it does them good." I listened and heard a confused droning sound from behind the stall. "Go right through," said Mr Crosby, and following his invitation I went past him, lifted up a canvas curtain and entered the small and crowded bar. At the very entrance I stumbled against Fred who had, apparently, fallen to the ground. Mac was bending over him and as I came in looked up to me with his flushed face. "God set fire!" he said. "Look what's blown in! Thought you'd given up the beer after last night!" "When I can't hold a dart straight," I said, "then sometimes you can give me a game." Mac bellowed with laughter at this, and Fred, struggling to his feet, said: "Hare and dog; hare and dog!" People began to say "Sh!" and, looking across to the other side of the tent, we saw an old man with white hair, a retired grocer, who had risen from one of the benches and was swaying from side to side as he supported himself with his stick. His face was, through long drinking, as red as the wattles of a turkey-cock, and the extreme gravity and fixedness of his expression contrasted strangely with the swaying motion of his swollen body as he stood. When there was something like silence he removed his hat and, holding it in front of him, attempted a slow and dignified bow; but in so doing he had shifted from the centre of his gravity and fell to his knees. There was some laughter at this, but the old man, while two of his friends picked him up, preserved on his face the same expression of unbroken gravity that he had held throughout. A man whom I did not know whispered to me: "Harry used to be good when he was young." The old grocer took a step forward and struck his stick upon the ground. An immensely strong and clear voice issued from his massive red jowl. "Mother!" he shouted, and extending his hands, one of which still held the walking stick, he peered inquiringly and challengingly round the tent. "Mother! Mother! Where is your baby boy?" There was a long pause while the grocer, though still swaying slightly on his heels, held with set jaw his appealing posture. One man in the audience sniggered, but the others turned roughly to him while the grocer fixed him with his eye. Finally he dropped the walking-stick, and after a gesture of dismissal to a man who had offered to pick it up for him, he clasped his hands beneath his chin and, turning up his eyes so that only the bloodshot whites of them were visible, continued in a low and crooning voice: "Mother, you held me on your knee. Mother, you worked for me. Mother, you taught me to toddle. Mother, you fed me at your dear old breast." His voice died away to a whisper and in the ensuing silence I looked round the tent at the dim, grave faces of the listeners. In some eyes there were tears already; others gazed abstractedly at or past the pipes or cigarettes which had been taken from their lips. But the eyes brightened as the grocer began to speak again, this time in a cracked but ringing voice signifying repentance and desperation. "Where am I now, mother of mine? Where is the dandy suit I bought with the savings from the work of your old hands? Where are the cabs and horses that I would have? Where is the book you gave me? Where is the little locket? Where is my honour? Where? Oh mother, I see you in your poor little cottage, poking the fire, thinking, ah, thinking of your wandering son. I thank God you cannot see him. Among the burning globes, in the din and degradation, mother, of a gin hell he is to be beheld. A gaol-bird, mother, a broken reed: and the woman at his side is not his wedded wife." The grocer's voice dropped for a moment; then flinging out his arms, he began to roar out the concluding passage of his recitation, although sobs at times interrupted his delivery. "A monster of vice, mother, but with the soft heart of a little boy, he thinks of the cradle that night after night you rocked. Yes, he has lost his honour and his savings. Yes, he is soaked in alcohol's pernicious fumes. He has scoffed at religion. He brags and fights. But in spite of it all there is one clean spot in him, one corner of that rotten heart which the Devil cannot enter. Is it love, mother? Is it love? Love for the old place, for the days that are lost? That is what it is, I think. Don't you?" With these words the grocer fell to the ground and I saw the tears pouring down his thick red face. Some of his friends assisted him to his feet; there was general applause, and several of the audience bought him half-pints of beer which were laid in a row along the bench where he was sitting. The old man drank two or three of the half-pints rapidly and then, pleased with the success of his performance, volunteered a comic song. But by this time no one was in a mood for listening and, though the grocer sang a few notes, shuffling his feet heavily upon the ground, while one or two of his immediate friends said: "Listen to the old chap. This is a good one," nearly all the men in the bar had turned their backs and become interested in other occupations. In one corner of the tent a crowd of people was congregated around a man whom I had seen before, a ratcatcher who, I knew, always carried about with him in a small bag an old rat whose fangs had been drawn and with which he would, if a sufficient number of pints were offered, engage in fight. He would kneel down on the ground, his hands clasped behind his back, with the rat in front of him, and would slowly, while gnashing his teeth, force the animal into a corner. Then, after a great show of ferocity, he would seize the rat in his jaws, worry it like a dog, and finally rise to his feet, bow to the audience and replace the rat in the bag which, as a rule, he carried in his hand. This time, however, he was giving a different performance. Evidently he had been out rat-catching that day and, when I first noticed him, he had just taken a young live rat from his pocket and was holding it out, gripped in his fist, in front of him. He was a large red-faced man, with a pink and white skin, very smooth, so that one wondered whether he ever shaved. "Half a pint, is it?" he was saying, and looked round him confidently as an auctioneer might look. "Half a pint it is," said one of the onlookers, and the rat-catcher immediately put his hand to his mouth, wrinkled back his lips, and with his long white teeth bit off the rat's head. A chorus of laughter and chuckling greeted this exploit, which the rat-catcher repeated twice more and then passed up his glass tankard to be filled. But at the wooden counter behind which the drinks were served a quarrel seemed upon the point of breaking out. Two men were standing close together, their faces thrust forward, staring into each other's eyes. One was George Birkett, our chief bellringer. His big face was flushed with drink, but not a muscle upon it quivered as he stared before him. His jaw was thrust out, his eyes narrowed, and by his side I could see his fist clenched. Scarcely moving his lips, he pronounced the words "Say that again, you bastard," and people in the immediate vicinity stopped talking to look in an interested but somewhat embarrassed manner towards the scene of the dispute. The man facing George was a small man whom I had not seen before. Someone whispered that he was attached to the ground staff at the aerodrome. He was black-haired, pale-faced, and some dark stubble was clinging to his chin, although the sides of his face were cleanly shaved. He, too, had thrust his head forward, and was staring contemptuously at George, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. "All right," he said slowly, "I will say it again." I saw the muscles on George's arm tighten, but the little man, as he was speaking his last words, had dashed his glass tankard against the top of the counter; then, holding the broken mug by the bottom he had thrust the jagged glass into George's face. At once he ducked down and ran for the door which he reached before anyone had thought of stopping him. George wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. His face was running with blood, and he plunged forward with something in his demeanour that reminded me of Slazenger, the prize bull, at the moment when the Flight-Lieutenant had jumped upon his back. Mac, who was standing near me, shouted: "Stop him!" and flung his arms round George's waist. I and one or two others joined in, but it was a difficult matter to keep George under restraint and finally to persuade him to sit down again and let his face be washed. "We'll get that little swine," we all said. "Have a drink, George?" But it was some time before anything like quiet had been restored to the bar and, before this happened, Mr Crosby had entered from his shop and had threatened to call in the police. Mac talked more than anybody and seemed, in the course of this incident, to have won for himself a position of authority and general confidence when, just as he was opening his mouth to express some new view on the affair, he was, whether as a result of his exertions or of the quantity of beer which he had drunk, suddenly sick. A space was cleared round him, and two people held him by the shoulders. Then he was escorted to one of the benches at the side of the tent, where he sat down next to the retired grocer, holding his head in his hands. Mr Crosby's boy cleared up the mess. I played a couple of games of darts and then, for it was time for me to meet the landlord's daughter, I left the tent and wandered through the increasing crowd towards the horticultural exhibition. I saw Bess when I was still a hundred yards from the big marquee, but did not hurry towards her, or only hurried for a few paces, and then would loiter. Though I knew that what I saw was she5 still I hesitated and looked more closely, for to my eyes she seemed to throw off a kind of radiance, blurring the image; every time I saw her she appeared different, so that I could never convince myself that I was sure of recognizing her. There was something piercing and fragile in any picture that my mind's eye might form of her, for to me she was another world, as remote or more so than the aerodrome itself, though I had already kissed her on several occasions and fancied that she was by no means indifferent to me. So I lingered and looked at the figure that was waiting for me as though it were some bright ghost. Not that there was anything fragile or ghostly in Bess's appearance. She was a well-made girl, slim certainly, but not weak. She would laugh and joke with the men in the bar, showing no embarrassment at what might be said, except for that embarrassment which is conventionally affected. Yet, at other times, and particularly when we were alone, she would adopt a different manner. Her head would be drooping, her eyes slide away from mine, or, when our eyes met, there would be a mistiness in her gaze, a withdrawal into some other world that attracted me, but attracted me to something other than herself. So that seeing her afterwards in the company of others she would appear to me for a moment as a stranger, and then in a moment or two it would be that other vision of her that would be strange to me. With uncertainty, then, as to what I should see when I saw her, I now loitered and from some distance admired the light green dress she was wearing and her yellow hair swinging about her neck. She saw me and waved her hand. The gesture was both timid and inviting. Her face appeared flat to me, delicate as I knew her features to be, so that it was something tall and swaying that I saw, green growing out of the ground, then white, and then gold flowing into the air. I felt my heart beating quickly and a contraction of the muscles in my stomach. I smiled like a dog smiles and said: "I hope I'm not late." She ran