shouted. ‘The guys are first-class.’
We banked hard, still climbing, and looking out I could see the boat again, much smaller. Suddenly it dawned on me what he was talking about. This was the boat Harald had chartered to look for the remains of the Cessna. This was where Adam had gone down.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the ocean. The swell was running west to east and the higher we got, the more distinct became the pattern of the waves, marching up the Channel. Thanks to the sunshine, it was an infinitely friendlier scene than I’d imagined, but it was the oddest feeling, gazing down from my seat in the gods, wondering for the umpteenth time just how Adam had speared in. He would have died in seconds, I told myself. It would have been the gentlest exit.
‘ Remind me about the strip at Sandown.’ It was Harald again.
‘ Two three,’ I said at once. ‘With this wind.’
‘ Fine. You’re looking for stage one flap at one seventy. Finals at one fifty. Over the fence at one forty. Just fly her on. Don’t worry about the round-out.’
He was asking me to land the Yak once we got to the Isle of Wight. I was still looking down at the waves.
‘ No thanks,’ I said numbly. ‘You do it.’
We landed at Sandown at noon. I retrieved my holdall from the luggage bay behind the rear cockpit, half-expecting Harald to take off again. He was heading north, up to a small private field near Manchester. He said he had a business contact there, a BMW dealer who was interested in buying a couple of Yaks for himself and his wife. I was on the point of thanking him for the lift when he unbuckled his harness and clambered down from the cockpit.
‘ Wouldn’t mind taking a look at Ellie B,’ he said. ‘Is my baby at home?’
Ellie B was Harald’s pet name for the Mustang. He’d started calling the aircraft after me during the last year, much to my husband’s amusement. Adam’s preferred name, which he’d never got round to painting on the nose, was Hot Pursuit.
We kept the Mustang in our hangar on the south side of the airfield. Harald and I walked over together, not saying much. I couldn’t make up my mind about his little detour in mid-Channel. In one sense it was pretty close to the bone. In another, given the money he was spending trying to help me, I knew I should simply be grateful.
The hangar doors were open and I could see our engineer, Dave Jeffries, standing on a pair of steps, working on the big Merlin engine. Dave had been with us for the best part of four years. Adam had found him at the RAF’s Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, up at Coningsby, where he’d been on the point of leaving his fitter’s job, and had tempted him south with a year’s contract to work for Old Glory. After the beautiful job he’d done rebuilding the Harvard, Adam had retained him to work the same magic on the Mustang, and he’d been with us ever since. Yet another reason, in my book, for not getting over-involved with Steve Liddell.
Harald stood beside the Mustang, gazing up. He numbered three Mustangs in his warbird collection back in Florida, but he’d always had a soft spot for ours. The moment he’d first laid eyes on it - the rebuild fifty per cent complete - he’d told Adam that Dave’s work had been outstanding. He’d said it matched anything he’d seen in the States and he’d lost no time trying to buy it for himself. Adam, of course, had said no, but when we finally agreed on Harald taking a forty-five per cent stake, the price he paid was extremely generous. For that, I was certain, we owed a huge vote of thanks to Dave.
‘ How is she?’
Harald was looking up at Dave. The two men had always got on well. The same directness. The same disinterest in small talk.
‘ She’s fine.’ Dave gestured at the big four-bladed propeller. ‘I split the hub and replaced the spider seals the other day. Good as new now.’
‘ How many hours on the old set?’
‘ Ninety odd.’
Dave reached for the lead light,
We banked hard, still climbing, and looking out I could see the boat again, much smaller. Suddenly it dawned on me what he was talking about. This was the boat Harald had chartered to look for the remains of the Cessna. This was where Adam had gone down.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the ocean. The swell was running west to east and the higher we got, the more distinct became the pattern of the waves, marching up the Channel. Thanks to the sunshine, it was an infinitely friendlier scene than I’d imagined, but it was the oddest feeling, gazing down from my seat in the gods, wondering for the umpteenth time just how Adam had speared in. He would have died in seconds, I told myself. It would have been the gentlest exit.
‘ Remind me about the strip at Sandown.’ It was Harald again.
‘ Two three,’ I said at once. ‘With this wind.’
‘ Fine. You’re looking for stage one flap at one seventy. Finals at one fifty. Over the fence at one forty. Just fly her on. Don’t worry about the round-out.’
He was asking me to land the Yak once we got to the Isle of Wight. I was still looking down at the waves.
‘ No thanks,’ I said numbly. ‘You do it.’
We landed at Sandown at noon. I retrieved my holdall from the luggage bay behind the rear cockpit, half-expecting Harald to take off again. He was heading north, up to a small private field near Manchester. He said he had a business contact there, a BMW dealer who was interested in buying a couple of Yaks for himself and his wife. I was on the point of thanking him for the lift when he unbuckled his harness and clambered down from the cockpit.
‘ Wouldn’t mind taking a look at Ellie B,’ he said. ‘Is my baby at home?’
Ellie B was Harald’s pet name for the Mustang. He’d started calling the aircraft after me during the last year, much to my husband’s amusement. Adam’s preferred name, which he’d never got round to painting on the nose, was Hot Pursuit.
We kept the Mustang in our hangar on the south side of the airfield. Harald and I walked over together, not saying much. I couldn’t make up my mind about his little detour in mid-Channel. In one sense it was pretty close to the bone. In another, given the money he was spending trying to help me, I knew I should simply be grateful.
The hangar doors were open and I could see our engineer, Dave Jeffries, standing on a pair of steps, working on the big Merlin engine. Dave had been with us for the best part of four years. Adam had found him at the RAF’s Battle of Britain Memorial Flight, up at Coningsby, where he’d been on the point of leaving his fitter’s job, and had tempted him south with a year’s contract to work for Old Glory. After the beautiful job he’d done rebuilding the Harvard, Adam had retained him to work the same magic on the Mustang, and he’d been with us ever since. Yet another reason, in my book, for not getting over-involved with Steve Liddell.
Harald stood beside the Mustang, gazing up. He numbered three Mustangs in his warbird collection back in Florida, but he’d always had a soft spot for ours. The moment he’d first laid eyes on it - the rebuild fifty per cent complete - he’d told Adam that Dave’s work had been outstanding. He’d said it matched anything he’d seen in the States and he’d lost no time trying to buy it for himself. Adam, of course, had said no, but when we finally agreed on Harald taking a forty-five per cent stake, the price he paid was extremely generous. For that, I was certain, we owed a huge vote of thanks to Dave.
‘ How is she?’
Harald was looking up at Dave. The two men had always got on well. The same directness. The same disinterest in small talk.
‘ She’s fine.’ Dave gestured at the big four-bladed propeller. ‘I split the hub and replaced the spider seals the other day. Good as new now.’
‘ How many hours on the old set?’
‘ Ninety odd.’
Dave reached for the lead light,
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