Andrew Wareham: The Balloonatics: A Tale of the Great War

It was reasonable and he suspected he might have regained much of his independence by then.

“I must imagine that you would like a deposit?”

The salesman could think of little he would like better.

Peter wrote a cheque for one hundred pounds, in process turned the showroom’s account temporarily from red to black, much to the bank manager’s pleasure.

“A cab, Captain Naseby?”

“Not just now, thank you. I shall walk into town – it’s only a couple of hundred yards and the exercise will do me good. It will be pleasant to be out alone, as well.”

The salesman was not sure he approved, was in no position to argue.

Two hundred yards, a bit less than a furlong, was no great distance. It took Peter ten minutes, much to his annoyance. Reaching the town centre, he ventured into a teashop to take a seat and recover from the strain. He then discovered that every mama and daughter he had ever met in town was out shopping and so delighted to greet him again. Most displayed a degree of tact and a little, at least, of common sense. A few were simply very jolly. All were even more determined to display their daughters – he was now the catch of the town. He resorted to the underhand.

“Just come into town to look in the jewellers, you know, ma’am. A little gift for my fiancée, an apology for upsetting her so.”

They fumbled and stumbled in saying that no young lady should be upset that her man had again shown himself the hero. One or two of the daughters showed genuinely disappointed, having found the young captain a romantic figure.

He glanced in the jeweller’s window, the idea seeming right now that it had occurred to him. His eye was caught by a display of second-hand pieces, old Victorian or earlier keepsakes that had not caught the heir’s fancy and had been turned into cash on grandmother’s death. There was a bracelet in pale gold with heavy stones, garnets, he thought. They were cut to catch the light and he thought they would stand out against Josephine’s pale colouring.

The jeweller recognised him and was flattered to have attracted his trade. He went through the familiar process of hauling out the local newspaper and showing Peter his photograph, VC at his breast.

“Was you to sign it, Captain Naseby, I should be most proud. Delighted! In a frame, on the wall. My most esteemed client, sir.”

Peter signed and then discussed the bracelet.

“American gold, sir, the bracelet made in New York, from the markings, soon after the Civil War. I think it most attractive but not at all in the current taste. It has been in my window these three years, in fact, and consequently is available at a substantial discount.”

They agreed on eighty pounds, Peter wondering just how much of a bargain he had made. It mattered very little, he supposed. If he was to earn as much as six thousands a year in his new occupation, then it was nothing at all.

Could he take the lead in building something as massive and modern as an oil refinery? He knew nothing about construction. He had known nothing about balloons and had learned in less than a week. He could find out all he needed in his new place in life. It could not be too complex – he did not have to learn the skills, he must provide the leadership and that was simple enough.

He walked a few more yards, stopped by the estate agent’s window, wondering where he would be living when he had taken the job. Close to the site or in London, working out of the City – he did not know. Should he rent a house or buy? Again, he was unsure.

“Ha! Peterkins! What are you doing out on your own? Shouldn’t you have a minder with you?”

“Hello, Charlie! What brings you into the hometown at this time of day? Should you not be minding the shop?”

“Closed on a Monday, dear boy. Thought I should visit the family – got to do that in the morning while the Old Man’s sober enough to recognise me!”

He snorted with laughter. Geoffrey, he thought, might have been outraged at such disrespect for the paterfamilias, a peer of the realm, as well.

“Enjoying my freedom, arranging to purchase a motor car and buying a little gift in the jewellers while I am here. A bracelet that caught my eye.”

“For your young lady in Shoreham?”

“Now my fiancée, Charlie.”

“Bloody good thing too! You are too much of a man to stay a bachelor. I am glad you don’t think that a foot blown off makes you a half-man or nonsense like that!”

“You know, that never occurred to me, Charlie.”

She grinned, showed almost uncomfortable.

“Good! If it had, I was intending to take you back to my flat and show you how wrong you were.”

“Almost a pity that I did not show self-pitying, Charlie.”

“Almost! You stay faithful to your young lady, Peter. Far better for a man of your stamp. Can’t have you feeling guilty – more’s the pity!”

He laughed, the first real outburst of mirth since he had woken in hospital.

“I start work on Wednesday. The bank is taking the lead in the building of a modern oil refinery and I am to be the, what would you call it? The gangmaster?”

“You will do well, Peter. Knighthood for services to industry inside ten years, peerage in twenty. A millionaire before you retire as a great man.”

“What of you, Charlie?”

“Oh, I shall smile at your wedding and design the bride’s gown – well, Adele will, in fact, but I shall be seen as the couturier. A few years and it will be a place in the States, of a certainty. I shall then become very American – six husbands and a divorce every second year! Don’t fear for me, my Peter!”

“I might even envy you the wild life instead, Charlie.”

“No. You have had your mad days and have come out the other side. I doubt I shall achieve your happy ending – but it will be fun getting somewhere near. Toodle-oo, old pip! I have things to do, and so do you!”

Copyright © 2020 Andrew Wareham

KINDLE Edition

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