Harry Bingham - Glory Boys

Abe gestured at the cement block wall at the rear of the hangar. He knew enough about construction to be able to fix something up. It wasn’t something he’d thought about before, but now that Pen had put him in mind of the idea, he liked it.

‘You just carry mail?’

‘Passengers too. If I can find any. Also cargo.’

‘You get many passengers?’

‘No.’

‘Cargo?’

‘I don’t advertise much. I guess I ought to do a little more.’

He wasn’t being candid. He had only ever placed one advertisement for business. Next door to the hangar, Abe had tacked on a tiny wooden lean-to which he had designated his office. The office held one chair, one table and – pinned to the door in sun and rain – a notice saying ‘Passengers and cargo carried. All enquiries welcome’. Nobody had ever come to the office. Nobody had ever seen the advertisement.

‘What d’you call yourself?’

‘Huh?’

‘The business. It’s got a name, right?’

For a half-second, Abe struggled to remember what he’d written on the notice. Then he got it. ‘Florida International Air Travel. Fancy, huh?’

‘You’ve got an office in town or …?’ Pen trailed off. She was getting the picture. ‘People need to apply here, right? I’ve got friends down here. They’re always running up the coast, or down to Key West and the islands. I’ll have a word. Maybe I can send some clients your way.’

Her glance slid out of the empty hangar to the dusty grass. Aside from her own beautiful machine, there was only Poll: clumsy, old-fashioned, graceless. Abe could see Pen wondering how Abe thought he could recruit passengers without advertising and with only Poll to fly them.

Something in Abe hardened. He changed subject.

‘That your plane?’

Pen’s eyes were still focused out of the hangar door. At Abe’s words she swept her gaze across to her own machine, her eyes softened, then she brought her gaze in, her pupils dilating as she took in Abe’s face. She took a moment to answer and Abe ended up looking longer into her eyes than he’d expected. It was a curious sensation. The eyes were like his eyes: too blue, too clear, the face around too tanned to hold them. Only it wasn’t that. There was something in the way Pen looked at him. It wasn’t the way a woman looked at a man. Her look was direct, frank, open, unembarrassed. There was nothing flirtatious, but nothing modest either. She wasn’t sexless, but she didn’t have to bring her sex into the look that passed between them.

She dropped her eyes.

‘Yes. Lovely, isn’t she?’

Abe nodded. He’d done some test flying for Curtiss once, only got out once things had proceeded a little too far with a girl that lived nearby. But he said nothing about that, just, ‘Beautiful. Nobody makes ’em better.’

‘I’m lucky.’

Abe looked at the plane again. It was a hellishly serious machine, fiercely fast, a machine which demanded speed, strength and decision from its pilot.

‘You fly her for fun, or…?’

‘For fun, yes, I guess. I race her.’

‘Pylon racing? Competitively?’

‘I race her anywhere I can. The Arberry Cup once. The Burlington Medal. The Conway.’

There was a tiny flicker around her eyes when she named the last race. The flicker jogged a memory for Abe. He didn’t follow aviation gossip much, but he’d raced a little right after the war and had kept an interest in the major events. Her name, Hamilton, rang a bell…

‘The Conway? Hold on, you didn’t just fly in that.’

The flicker transferred from eyes to mouth, where it broke out into a smile. ‘Last year. Bertie Acosta had to drop out with engine trouble. I was able to take advantage.’

Abe smiled and shook his head. ‘No, Pen, a win’s a win. Nothing to do with another guy’s engine. Any case, the Conway’s the only one to win, right?’

She returned his smile. The Conway Cup had been inaugurated in September 1920. The first name engraved on the silverware was ‘Captain A. Rockwell.’

They laughed together. Their eyes touched and didn’t move away. The moment didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough for them both to feel something. Something shared, something mutual.

Abe held Pen’s gaze a moment longer, then felt suddenly uncomfortable. He stood up abruptly and went to make coffee, suddenly angry at his spartan accommodation. Almost deliberately, he made the coffee too strong, too gritty. He made it so nobody could possibly like it, probably not even drink it. Pen attempted more conversation, but Abe had closed up. Some women would have needed to talk into the vacuum, but not Pen. Quietness didn’t bother her, nor the coffee. She seemed relaxed. But time was running by. She would need to find accommodation in town. Abe offered the name of a couple of hotels that weren’t too dear. Pen took the information like she didn’t need it, but was too polite to say so.

‘I’ll send a truck,’ she said.

‘Huh?’

‘A truck. For the plane.’

Abe was puzzled. ‘Why?’

‘You said there was a problem with distributing something. The blocks? I thought…’

Abe was annoyed again, but tried not to show it. ‘Pen, the blocks need cleaning, nothing else. It’ll take twenty minutes at the outside.’

‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘I guess I ought to know that.’

‘I can show you how if you want.’

She hesitated. ‘I…’

‘Yes?’

‘Captain, I can fly ’em, I can’t fix ’em. I’m not about to try.’

Abe’s annoyance fluctuated uncertainly. On the one hand, her attitude was something he hated. On the other hand, there was something amazingly uncomplicated about her. And she could fly. She could certainly fly.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’ve been wanting the City to move that damn telegraph wire for some time. I’ll call ’em. Tell ’em they almost got themselves a fatal accident. If they don’t move the wire, then I will. I’ll fly your plane back for you. Just let me know where to bring her.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that. If you tell me when the wire’s gone, I can come by and –’

‘Pen, I hope you’re not going to stop me flying her.’

‘You want to?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

She grinned. When she wasn’t smiling, her face was withdrawn, quiet, thoughtful. It was the sort of face you could easily overlook, glance at and not properly notice. But when she smiled, she changed. Everything in her face became open and welcoming. When she smiled, her face called out to you like a bonfire of straw on an autumn day. She put a hand inside a shirt pocket and pulled out a simple white calling card. It bore her name and an address in South Carolina.

‘Thanks,’ she said, and walked away.

Willard waved goodbye and watched his guests go volubly down the hall. They’d enjoyed martinis with Willard, now were going on to the Algonquin for dinner and would be off to a jazz club in Greenwich Village before eventually rolling into bed.

Not Willard.

The pressure of work never let up. Willard spent his day chasing shipments, checking freight manifests, sending confirmations, arranging fund transfers. He needed the evenings to catch up with the days. Every time he felt he was getting on top of things, Annie would hit him with a stack of new files, crammed with deadlines and vicious complications.

But it wasn’t only that. Willard’s friends were big-drinking, free-spending. They had no idea of Willard’s impending poverty. Willard still had a little money, but it was running out fast and he had already borrowed two thousand bucks from Lucinda, his eldest sister. An evening spent working alone was a cheap one at least.

But that was small consolation. Because, so far, twelve weeks in, all his hard work had been for nothing. The loan wasn’t getting smaller. How could it? On Willard’s first day, Powell had said, ‘If you are ever to pay it off, it will be through your ability to earn exceptional returns on assets entrusted to you by the firm.’ But the company never entrusted him with money. Not a dollar. Powell hardly seemed to remember he still existed. Willard felt locked in a cell whose key had long since been thrown away.