‘One might get a job as a pilot and work one’s way in,’ said Morris.
‘It might be done that way, I suppose. I can give you the names of one or two books if you’re really thinking of it.’
He wrote down three names on a visiting card and handed it to Morris. ‘If you know something about what’s in those,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a chance. And I don’t really see why a mathematician like you shouldn’t be able to pick it up, though it’s not a job I’d care about myself.’
The two machines came in in company after flying round the Solent. Stenning came in to land first; then when he was out of the way, Riley put down just outside the hangars. Again Rawdon gave his approving little grunt.
Morris got up. ‘Come over and have a look at the machines,’ he said. ‘Riley would like to meet you again. You’ll stay and have some tea with us, won’t you? We live in one of those huts.’
They walked over the grass to the machines. The party of visitors were packed into their car and rolled away with dignity.
‘Got a job after tea,’ said Riley. ‘One of us is to go and chuck stunts outside an old lady’s bedroom window at the Towers. Twenty minutes or so - loops and rolls.’
‘I’ll go if you like,’ said Morris. ‘I’ve not done anything today yet. Riley, this is Captain Rawdon.’ But he was not there when he turned, for Captain Rawdon was away examining the detail of a strut-fitting on one of the machines, full of insatiable curiosity. Riley went up to him.
‘This an Air Ministry modification?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Riley. ‘Pleased to meet you again, sir.’
After a scratch tea they strolled back to the hangar. Rawdon, it appeared, was yachting about the Solent and had put into Ryde with his host, who held that Sunday afternoon should be spent at anchor. Rawdon had come on shore for a walk and had gravitated almost unconsciously to the aerodrome.
‘Better take my machine,’ said Stenning. They busied themselves for a little time with ballast; Morris climbed in.
‘One moment,’ said Riley. ‘The old lady’s room is on the south side. They’re hanging a bath-towel out of the window so that you’ll know which it is. She particularly wants to see a loop.’
‘I remember,’ said Stenning, ‘when I used to tell pupils that it wasn’t safe to get an Avro into a spin, because she wouldn’t come out of it. Of course, I’d never tried.… ’
Rawdon chuckled gravely.
‘The dear dead days,’ said Morris. Stenning swung the propeller and he moved out on to the aerodrome, faced into the wind, and went away in a climbing turn, just as Riley had done before.
‘He’s a good man, that,’ said Riley to Rawdon. ‘Picked up this business remarkably well.’
‘I know,’ said Rawdon. ‘But he’s had a good bit of experience, hasn’t he?’
There was something in his tone that caused Riley to glance keenly at him. ‘Mostly on Rats and Robins,’ he said. ‘Then he crashed and became a ferry pilot, and after that he went to the Handley Pages. One way and another he’s flown pretty well everything.’ He paused a little, and then added, ‘He’ll be a useful man on the design side if ever he gets a chance.’
‘That’s what he’s been telling me,’ said Rawdon dryly. Can we see his show from here?’
‘We ought to be able to see something of him from the other side of the hangars,’ said Riley. ‘He’s only about two miles away.’
Morris found the window easily and fancied he could see the dim outline of an old lady in a chair inside. The house faced on to a wide, park-like stretch of pasture land, unencumbered by trees of any size; not at all a bad place for his show. He flew round for a little, displaying the machine on vertical turns close to the house, showing first the belly of the machine and then the back. Then he climbed a little, dived with full engine on, pulled her up and over in the loop, switched off and pulled her out on to a level keel again. He did one or two more loops, then one or two Immelman turns outside the window, called after the great German fighter who invented the manœuvre. Then, with a glance at his watch, he climbed in a great spiral till he had gained sufficient height for his spin. He switched off, pulled her up to stalling, kicked on full rudder, and in a moment was spinning nose-first to the ground. Clearheaded and cool he counted the revolutions, allowed her to do four turns, then put her into a straight dive, pulled out gently on to an even keel, and flew past the window again. He raised his hand in salute as he passed, then flew back to the aerodrome and made a slow landing just outside the hangar door.
Rawdon watched him to the ground and departed.
Morris paid the final attentions to his machine, closed the sliding doors of the hangar, and walked slowly back to the hut. He was vaguely depressed; the arrival of the designer on the scene had crystallised in his mind a train of ideas which had worried him before. He went into the hut, washed his hands, and then strolled out of the gates and down the lane.
It led to the sea, that lane running past the hangars. It ran down between cool green hedges, muddy and fragrant. Morris wandered down it, whistling very softly beneath his breath. He was not altogether happy in his prospects. It seemed to him extremely probable that the business would not survive the winter.
During the past weeks he had rather let things slide, but now he must consider the subject seriously.
He was not at all sanguine about the prospects of the air lines. If they failed, there would be still less demand for pilots. The statistics published in the papers showed that the machines on the Paris lines were running with an average load of only about one third of their capacity - that could not be a paying proposition. They were running in competition with subsidised French lines, and the subsidy question had just come up in Parliament, when it had been announced that ‘Civil aviation must fly by itself’. That might be the sound policy for the ultimate development of the industry, but it would mean precious few jobs for pilots next year.
What if he were to chuck piloting and make for the design side of the business? That was undoubtedly the sound thing to do, if he could get a job, which seemed very unlikely.… Anyway, it was a good thing to have met Rawdon, and he would see about getting those books. He did not believe that there was very much in aircraft engineering that could not be picked up by a mathematician reading in his spare time.
He came out on to the shore and walked along the beach.
He would have a look at those books; there was a certain amount of spare time in the evenings. He smiled a little to himself; ‘the Virtuous Apprentice’. It was the only course open to him at the moment to better things than this.
He walked backwards and forwards along a little beach in a cove between the rocks, immersed in dreams.
He had thought that pain was an evanescent emotion. But it was not that - it worked out differently. Pain did not vanish, but turned to hardness - a great hardness and regret. One did not forget these things … he had thought that perhaps one might. Perhaps one did, really, only he hadn’t been long enough at the game. He had only had three months, or three and a half. That was not very long to decide the permanence of a grand emotion. Still, he should know his own mind if ever he was going to. He was twenty-five years old.
He left the beach and walked slowly back to the aerodrome by the same road through the cool evening.
At the gate of the aerodrome he met Stenning and Riley.
‘Your luck’s in,’ said Stenning. ‘The old lady sent a ruddy great basket of peaches by the chauffeur, for the dashing bird-man.’
Morris laughed. ‘I’d better write a note this evening. We’ll have them at supper.’
A week later the books arrived.
The arrival of what Riley termed the ‘light literature’ precipitated a discussion on the policy of the firm. This had been brewing for some weeks, only nobody had cared to be the first to put into words what he really thought about the future of the joy-riding business. But when Morris one evening blandly produced the Theory of Structures and proceeded to study i
t, Stenning, after a flippant comment or two, abandoned his magazine.
‘Look at that chap,’ he said. ‘Riley, he’s going to leave us.’
Riley looked up. ‘Strikes me he’s the only one of us that’s got any sense,’ he said.
Things had not gone well the previous week. Already the weather was showing signs of breaking and numbers were falling off, though there was still a crowd at the week-ends. But in the middle of the week, business was undoubtedly very slack; much of the time was spent sitting in a field wondering if anyone else was going to turn up or whether they had better go home for the day. All these things were the sure signs of the approach of winter, and the winter this year would be an even less lucrative period than last.
Morris laid down his book. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘what is going to happen? Are you going to carry on this winter, or are you going to sack me, or are you quitting? I’d rather like to know; one wants some time to poke about for something else.’
‘I should poke, if I were you,’ said Stenning.
There was a short silence.
‘I’ve been thinking about this,’ said Riley. ‘It seems to me we’ve got to make up our minds to something drastic this winter. If we stay on here, we’ll lose money steadily till next Easter; we shan’t earn our keep.’
‘That’s right,’ said Stenning.
‘We can go to Croydon,’ continued Riley, ‘and start an air-taxi business there, with joy-riding thrown in - or we can go and do that somewhere in the Midlands.’
‘Very good scheme,’ said Morris dryly, ‘only there’s somebody doing it already in each case - and losing money on it.’
‘I know,’ said Riley. ‘Or we can quit.’
There was a lengthy silence in the hut. Stenning produced a pipe and lit it, borrowing a match from Riley. Morris sat silent, staring at the stove. This was no business of his; he was a paid employee. It was he, however, who first broke the silence.
‘How much of your capital have you got back?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got a little over half mine,’ said Stenning.
‘Yes,’ said Riley. ‘If we could realise the machines we shouldn’t have done at all badly out of it - in fact we’d have made money. I don’t know that we can.’
‘I’m damn sure we can’t,’ muttered Stenning. ‘Nobody wants Avros in the autumn.’
‘What’ll you do if you chuck it up?’ asked Morris.
‘I should go and see if there’s anything doing at Brooklands,’ said Riley. ‘I was known there before the war. One could look out for test-pilot work, too. You’re going for that stuff, are you?’ He indicated the Theory of Structures.
‘If I can,’ said Morris. ‘Rawdon put it into my head.’
‘He’ll take you on if you touch him the right way,’ said Riley. ‘You’ve got a chance there if you can work it.’
‘I wish I had a head for books,’ said Stenning. ‘He’ll be making a fortune while we’re driven to the streets.’
‘Well, what’s it to be?’ said Riley. ‘Carry on or quit? If it’s carry on, we’ll have to put back some of the money we’ve taken out of it, this winter. It’ll need subsidies.’
There was another little silence. Then Stenning took the pipe from his mouth.
‘I say, quit while the quitting’s good,’ he said.
Morris sat staring at the stove. Two more little fortunes - very little ones, merely gratuities - had gone into aviation and been lost. That was the way of money that went into this business; nobody ever saw it again. Of course, this would have happened anyway; this business was just a sideshow at the seaside, like a troupe of nigger minstrels, and the visitors were getting tired of it. It was time for the booth to close down. There was no more money in the business.
But perhaps there was more in it than that. That summer they had carried safely and well many thousands of people; nearly ten thousand, Morris thought. Say twenty thousand since the business started. Most of them had been impressed with the safety of aircraft; some of them one day might become passengers of the air lines of the future, enthusiasts for the new transport, supporters of a strong Air Force. Perhaps, after all, these little fortunes had not been wasted. Perhaps they had been given to the country for propaganda, so that England might one day be once more an island by virtue of a healthy Air Force.
‘Of course,’ said Riley, ‘there’s no point in quitting till we stop making money. We may go on for another month or more yet. But if we know what’s going to happen, we can each look out for other jobs.’
‘We’ll be in good company, anyway,’ said Morris. ‘Other people will be quitting this winter - it’s not done yet.’
‘No, by God, it’s not,’ said Stenning. ‘Some of these air lines must be feeling the draught over the subsidy business.’
‘Well,’ said Riley, ‘it’s to be quit, is it?’
‘I think so,’ said Stenning. ‘We’ve not done so badly out of it, considering that it’s aviation.’ There was no bitterness in his tone.
Riley drew a little stump of pencil from his pocket and took a sheet of paper. ‘I’m going to write to my old firm at Brooklands,’ he said.
Stenning grinned. ‘Tell them you’re an ex-officer - that’s the thing nowadays.’
‘Shut up,’ said Riley. He bent over the paper in the throes of composition, his fair brows knitted in a frown.
‘God bless my soul,’ said Morris, ‘he might be writing to a wench.’
The other looked up. ‘This is different,’ said Riley, ‘this is personal. I always have to think a lot over this kind of letter. I usually carry a rough copy about with me two or three days before sending it. That’s why I’m doing it now.’
‘I was never so sensitive about my literary style as that,’ said Morris. ‘Mine goes just anyhow.’
‘I like to get it just right,’ said Riley. ‘If I can bear to read it two days afterwards, I know it’ll give a reasonably good effect.’
Morris laughed; this was a side of Riley that he had not seen before.
‘All very well for you to laugh,’ said Stenning, ‘you college people. You’ve got friends to drop you into a fat little job - secretary at the Air Ministry, or something. It’s different for us.’
‘Have I hell!’ said Morris.
He turned to Stenning. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Stay in aviation … look for another pilot’s job.’ He glanced at Morris. ‘My father keeps a big drapery business in Huddersfield - retail. I could go into that,’ he said simply. Then he smiled. ‘But I don’t see it happening.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ said Riley. ‘You know one or two people at Croydon, don’t you?’
‘There’ll be jobs on the air lines in the spring,’ said Stenning hopefully. ‘At the worst, I could live on my fat till then.’
‘Wish I could.’
‘You’d better go and look up your pal Rawdon,’ said Stenning. ‘Struck me that you were well away there.’
Morris wondered if there were anything in it. He was very much averse to going to sponge on Rawdon for a job, immediately after taking his advice as he had done. Still, what else was there? It seemed to be the only course open to him at all. Otherwise he must take something temporarily, like Stenning’s drapery standby, to tide him over the winter till more pilots were needed. But that was admitting himself a pilot and nothing else.
‘How much capital have you got?’ asked Riley suddenly.
‘Eh?’ said Morris, awaking from his reverie.
‘How long can you keep yourself for?’
Morris made a little calculation. ‘About four months, comfortably.’
‘The best thing you can do,’ said Riley, ‘is to go to Rawdon, tell him what’s happened, and offer to work in his offices unpaid for a couple of months for experience. Lots of firms take on juniors like that. After that, he’ll either give you a job himself, or else a thumping good testimonial which may get you into some other firm. In any case, you’ll be in touch with aviation and o
n the spot if anyone wants a pilot. If you can get Rawdon to use you as a pilot, of course, he’ll give you flying money. You might even be able to earn your keep that way, by casual work like that.’
‘They’d never take me on,’ said Morris. ‘I’d be more nuisance than I’m worth.’
‘You can have a shot anyway,’ said Riley. ‘And I don’t see why they shouldn’t take you on like that, though whether you’d be worth a screw at the end of two months I don’t know. You can push a slide rule, can’t you?’
Morris nodded.
‘There’s nothing in performance work,’ said Riley. ‘I can’t do it myself, but it’s only a matter of worrying out long columns of figures and plotting the results in curves and things. I should think they’d be glad to have you as a sort of calculating machine.’
‘I dare say it might work,’ said Stenning. ‘The more unpaid staff they can get to do the dirty work, the more research they can do with their regular staff.’
Morris got up from his chair. ‘I think it’s worth trying,’ he said. ‘I’ll write him a line.’
‘You’ll never get an answer to a letter,’ said Riley bluntly. ‘The best aircraft firms don’t answer letters. Think it over for a day or two, and then go and see him yourself.’
‘But will he see me - can one just barge in like that?’
‘Of course he’ll see you.’
So three days afterwards, Morris found himself in a tramcar being borne out to the neighbourhood of Southall from Shepherd’s Bush. The more he thought of it, the more unlikely the scheme appeared; proportionately as he approached the place his spirits fell.
The conductor turned him out at a barren corner in country of a sort; a paper-littered country, dotted about with ugly little houses and embellished with great decaying hoardings of peeling and tattered advertisements of unguents for skin diseases. Morris walked on up the lane.
As he got away from the main road, things became a trifle better, and he emerged into clean, though dull, country. After a walk of about half a mile he came upon the aerodrome, surrounded by the wooden buildings and huts that constituted the whole of the establishment. Only one or two motor-cars outside the largest office building, the droning of a buzz-saw, and the stocking floating from a flagstaff on a roof proclaimed that it was inhabited. It was an unkempt, rather desolate little works.