Andrew Martin - The Blackpool Highflyer

'There's hardly a breath of breeze,' I said.

'That's good for the aeronauts,' said the wife. 'They don't sail in excessive wind.'

The jaunt was the wife's idea. She'd seen the poster in Horton Street and it had set her reading anything she could lay her hands on to do with aeronautics. It seemed to be one of the funny ways pregnancy had taken her.

'I can see that wind might cause trouble for the free balloons,' I said, 'but the dirigible pilots are able to steer, aren't they?'

'Somewhat,' said the wife.

She didn't want to talk; she wanted to reach the flying ground. In her hand were two Farthing Everlasting Strips.

We continued on. The wife wore her overcoat, but I'd made do with my work suit, which came into its own in freezing temperatures. It was the middle of October, and summer was already far beyond imagining.

'Just look at all that silk' said the wife, sounding rather jealous, as we walked through the gateway into the flying ground.

Two of the three so-named free balloons were already inflated and were being held down by teams of shouting men. They looked like upside-down onions, and were onion colour too: silvery brown. A third balloon was being inflated from tanks resting on a cart, and, as the gas went in, it was just like seeing a big-headed man slowly raising his head from his pillow.

The three motorcars that were to give chase waited in the corner of the field with their own shouting attendants, all heavily muffled up. A corps of cyclists would also be following along, and this lot were pedalling in circles in the field, trying to keep warm.

There were not as many spectators as I'd expected, so it was pretty easy to pick out old Reuben Booth. He wore an overcoat that seemed very black, like a night without stars, and then it came to me that this was his own overcoat and not the one he wore for work, so there was no gold on it. Next to him stood Arnold Dyson in his Crossley Porter cape, with the Irish terrier, Bob, alongside. All three stood close together but silent, looking on.

As I led the wife over towards the little group, I watched the dog. Every time a little more of the gas went into the balloon, Bob would inch forwards, eagerness increasing.

I nodded at Reuben. 'How do' I said.

'How do,' said Reuben.

The boy Dyson wore the same face as before: a sort of knot. Every so often, though, he would pat the dog, which he was holding by a string, and his features would relax for a moment as he did so. The lad was quite taken with the balloons, anyone could see that. Mr Ferry had written to us from the orphanage to say that the boy's interests lay in that direction.

A man in a long coat was in the centre of the field, shouting through a loud-hailer. He seemed to be pointing to one man in particular of all those holding on to the balloons, and this fellow, it was given out, was the Chief of Aeronautics.

I introduced the wife to the boy, and he just gave a grunt, as I'd warned her he would do. That was when the Farthing Everlasting Strips came out. When they were put into his hands, Dyson looked up at Reuben, who winked and said: 'Tha's a lucky beggar, en't tha?'

Then the first balloon went up.

In no time at all, the people riding in the basket were higher than the top of Blackpool Tower, and looking down on us and waving as best they could in their thick coats.

They're waving to show us they're not scared, I thought, even if they are. The next two went up in very short order, skimming over the fields in exactly the same direction, for of course it was the breeze – such as there was – that had taken charge. Their tailing ropes bashed the same hedge in the same place, sending up sprays of snow on both occasions.

There came another burst of shouting from the man with the loud-hailer, and the cars and bicycles went off, but how they hoped to give chase I could not say for, upon turning through the gate, they were immediately required to follow a lane that took them in the opposite direction to the balloons.

'I don't get it,' I said to Reuben.

'Rum,' said Reuben, looking after the motorcars.

'Now, where's the dirigible?' I asked, for that was the bill topper, the steerable balloon.

'Yonder,' said Reuben, tipping his head.

They were bringing it across the field towards us. It must have been in another field to start with, stowed away behind a hedge, out of sight.

'More silk,' I said to the wife, and I realised I'd interrupted a conversation of sorts between her and the boy.

The dirigible balloon, or airship, was half inflated, and so was half floating. There was a line of men underneath it, and I couldn't make out whether they were holding the thing up or holding it down. Directly beneath the balloon was a wooden frame, inside which sat the aeronaut, who looked like a hero already, the way he was being carried aloft. At one end of the frame was a propeller; at the other end was fixed a rudder (which was the important article). It was not a regular balloon shape. Instead, it was horizontal – a big cigar.

The loud-hailer man was now telling us all about the aeronaut, who by all accounts had been practically born in mid-air. Last winter, he had flown somewhere to somewhere in fog. His training, we were told, was a jolly good dinner; he smoked and drank in moderation, and the only thing he did to excess was fly. The engine in his craft, the loud-hailer man continued, was controlled by wires; this would be a short flight, but still the aeronaut would be quite lost to sight for most of it; he would be flying in a circle and returning within half an hour to this very field.

But I didn't want to know about the aeronaut. I wanted to know about my mate on what had become once more the relief link, Clive Carter.

'Reuben,' I said, 'you know those Scarborough runs we had this summer?'

'Aye,' he said.

'Clive disappeared both times with a bag.'

Reuben nodded.

'What was going off?'

As we looked on, the dirigible was placed on wooden supports while a team of men started pulling the gas cart nearer.

Reuben's mouth was opening behind that worn-out grey beard. He meant to speak, so I leant close, for the air was filled with the sound of the rushing gas and the shouting of the loud-hailer man.

Reuben's words came with shaky breaths and shaky clouds of steam. 'Eighteen seventy-five,' he said; 'that were when I had my start… Midland Railway.'

'As train guard?'

Reuben shook his head. 'Carpenter' he said; 'Settle to Carlisle stretch.'

'It's famous' I said. 'Gave the Midland its line to Glasgow. But they had hell-on building of it, by all accounts.'

'Ribblehead Viaduct…' said Reuben.

'That bugger was the highest of the lot' I said.

'That were me… day in, day out…' Reuben was shaking his head. 'Never was such a wild spot…'

'It was all navvies' I said. 'Very tough sorts.'

'Couldn't half sup, though' said Reuben, and he stood there in the freezing field smiling for a while.

'Would you take a drink back then, Reuben?' I said.

He shook his head. 'I were Chapel.' Then he smiled again. 'I were a great hand at… harmonium.'

I laughed at this, for I thought it might be the right thing to do.

As the attendants sent the gas from the tanks through long sleeves of silk into the dirigible, I watched as the craft changed by degrees from a 'B' cigar into an 'A'.

'The Ribblehead Viaduct,' I said; 'I've read a good deal about it. They built it up with wooden piers first of all.'

'That's it' said Reuben. 'Timber framing below, stone going in up top… Could never make out how it could stand without rocking.'

I nodded.

'March twenty-first, eighteen seventy-five…' Reuben was saying, as the attendants seemed to just lift the dirigible off its supports, and put it into the air.