Philip Caveney - The Tarantula Stone

It was the firm, powerful grip of someone’s hand on his shoulder.

Mike Stone pushed his foot firmly down on the accelerator, urging the old jeep up to its top speed. The engine growled a noisy mechanical protest, the wheels leaped and bucked over the uneven surface of the road. However, such measures were entirely necessary. Mike was late; he was usually late for something; and there was still a considerable distance to the airport. He sat hunched behind the wheel, his grey eyes fixed on the way ahead. Despite the heat, he wore the scuffed leather flying jacket that was the uniform of his profession. Occasionally, he turned to glance slyly at the woman in the passenger seat, but she was still ignoring him. She leaned back, her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, her long naturally curly red hair trailing in the wind. In the white cotton blouse and tight navy blue skirt her slim but curvacious body looked particularly inviting. Mike wondered wryly if he’d be able to last out the long trip to Belém without going crazy for her. Her name was Helen Brody; she was Mike’s stewardess and had been for nearly a year now. The two shared several things: a similar sense of humour, a tough, tenacious ability to survive; and on the regular overnight stops in Recife and Belém, a single hotel room and a double bed. It would have been a perfect arrangement but for one major problem: the wife and two children that Mike supported in his home on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro. That was the main reason why Helen had not spoken a word since he had picked her up an hour earlier. Mike appreciated her troubles but didn’t feel inclined to do anything about them.

Like most airmen, Mike had found himself at the end of the war with few prospects. His role in the affair had not been a martial one though he had seen plenty of action in the South Pacific. He had flown ‘Gooney Birds’, the rugged, ubiquitous and ever dependable DC3 airliners, hauling troops and equipment to wherever there was a suitable runway hacked out of the jungle. The surrender of the Japanese in ’forty-five had left him somewhat out on a limb. What was there for a man whose only ability was to fly a battered old crate around the airways of the world? The answer should have been obvious, but oddly enough, he had never even considered the idea until Willy Borden had suggested it. Willy was a ground crewman, a little fellow with big ideas and a tidy sum of money put away for safe-keeping. What Willy had in mind was a charter airline; oh, nothing fancy, mind you, just a single plane to begin with, perhaps a couple more in time if things went well. It would be a way of utilizing the particular talents that the war had given them and, as Willy was so quick to point out, one thing that there was bound to be a lot of at a time like this was surplus equipment. So, they had pooled their resources, purchased a Gooney and sought out a stretch of the earth’s surface where there were guaranteed transport problems. Mike’s wife, Mae, was loyal enough to go wherever work might be found and willing to take two young toddlers with her. Things had gone surprisingly smoothly and the only item missing was a capable stewardess.

Helen had answered the advertisement.

From the moment he saw her, Mike had wanted her and she had felt pretty much the same way about him. Helen was the daughter of some stuff-shirted diplomat at the American embassy in Rio. She had grown tired of attending boring functions and opted for making her own way in the world. As she’d told Mike at the interview, she’d never done this kind of work before, but she figured she could turn her hand to just about anything. Helen had got the job and, shortly afterwards, had got Mike. The affair was by now a fixture and, typically, everybody knew about it but Mae.

A horsedrawn wagon appeared in the road ahead of the jeep, a rickety vehicle loaded with cans of latex. A lone driver dozed at the reins while his skinny horse plodded placidly to some unknown destination. Mike did not slow the jeep for an instant but accelerated around the rear of the wagon, cutting perilously close to the side of it. Startled, the horse reared up with an indignant snort and a couple of cans of raw rubber went hurtling back into the road. A stream of livid Portuguese curses were flung in the jeep’s wake but Mike just grinned, rejoicing in the petty annoyance he had stirred up.

Helen glanced at him contemptuously. ‘Big shot,’ she sneered.

Mike glanced at her in mock surprise. ‘Say, you do speak!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was beginning to think it would be like this all the way to Belém.’

She scowled at him. ‘Grow up,’ she advised.

‘All right, all right, I get the message. I’m not the world’s most popular man today, am I? You want to talk about it?’

She shrugged. ‘What’s the use? It never gets us anywhere. I mean, I talk to you and talk to you, but sometimes I wonder if you ever hear a damned word. It’s obvious you didn’t tell Mae.’

‘Hell no I didn’t! It isn’t that damned easy, believe me! I … wanted to tell her but …’

‘The trouble with you is you want everything, Mike. You want me on a string so you can have your fun when it pleases you. And you want Mae and the kids to be there waiting for you when you fly home, to make you feel like a big man back from the war. But what about what I want, Mike? I’ve been patient for a long time now … surely you could have brought yourself to –’

‘Aww, it’s easy for you to say!’ retorted Mike. ‘You’re unattached, you don’t know how difficult it is. You can’t just slap somebody in the face like that, not after all the years we’ve had. Mae’s been a good wife to me.’

‘I could be a better one,’ replied Helen calmly. ‘You said yourself that you no longer make out with her.’

‘Sure, but there’s more to a marriage than that. You don’t know the half of it, that’s your trouble. How old are you, twenty-three, twenty-four? Mae’s given up a lot for me. Heck, she’s trailed halfway round the world hanging on to my shirt-tails; she’s had my kids; she …’ His voice trailed away into a long sigh. He glanced at Helen reassuringly. ‘I will tell her, honey, but I need time, that’s all.’

‘There is no time,’ she told him. ‘This is the last flight, Mike.’

He chuckled, shook his head. ‘You said that last time,’ he observed.

‘This time I mean it, believe me, Mike. I’ve waited for you nearly a year now and that’s as long as I’m prepared to wait for anyone. Besides, I … I’ve had another offer of work. A better offer as it happens.’

He glared at her. ‘From who?’ he demanded.

‘Felix Walsh over at WBA.’

‘Walsh?’ Mike sneered. ‘Yeah, I might have known. Jumped-up little creep, throwing his old man’s money around. Give me three months and Stone’s airlines will be pushing Walsh’s off the airlanes. That jerk probably just wants to get you into the sack.’

Helen smiled wryly. ‘Sure he does. But then that’s his privilege. He isn’t married.’

‘Goddammit, Helen!’ Mike smacked his fist down heavily on the dashboard of the jeep. ‘What money is Walsh offering you? I’ll match anything that he can put up.’

‘You jughead. It’s nothing to do with money, surely you can see that?’

‘Well listen, honey, you’ve got to give me a little more time, that’s all …’

Mike slowed the jeep as he approached the entrance to the airport. The guards recognized him, pushed back the high wire-mesh gate and waved him through. He glanced at his watch in silent irritation and then accelerated through the gate and out onto the airfield. ‘We’ll talk about this in Belém,’ he said quietly.