Back to Busyness

I could not sleep that night with ideas, the grand strategy, the minutiae, all running riot in my head as they jostled for prominence. I tried to read myself to sleep with Ebenezer Prout, but my mind quickly tied itself into knots; the workhouse library had prepared me little for the intensely specialised nature of this subject. I would get nowhere without some manuscript paper for exercises, which Mr Whybrow no doubt kept in his house. Still, this was better than sitting up with some trite novelette about housemaids’ love affairs. And that, I would not expect Mr Whybrow to allow in the house!

Yes, the house. Although the fog’s presence had been purest chance, I got the impression that Mr Whybrow did not want anyone to know where Uncle Arthur’s house was. That organ, in the wrong hands, could raze a city. And that made me all the more determined to learn the keyboard. Uncle Arthur’s organ was the ultimate instrument to master, and I was going to master it. Or should that be “mistress?”

I’d have found it difficult to focus, anyway. Llyr had cast its spell over me; I needed to go back there. And I was going to. I felt a smile stretch across my face as I heard again the shush of the waves, the crackle of the flames, the soft clashing of the treetops overlooking the Sound; I began to drift  -

The next day I was awoken late by a hammering coming from the direction of Miss Folger’s shop, I presumed she was uncrating another of those fabulous instruments. As it was Sunday, my day was my own so I got straight onto sketching out all those ideas that had kept me awake, dealing with any arithmetic as it came to me. I remembered the rough proportions of Mr Whybrow’s airship and how it behaved in the air; everything else was deduction. What it MUST have. With the double spur of Llyr’s magic and Uncle Arthur’s organ, my pencil flew over the paper as fast as I could think.

Yes, I could do this!

A knock came at the door, which I answered in my nightie. It was Mr Whybrow, looking cheery as though he himself had just accomplished something.

“I’m sorry, sir; it’s Sunday so I took the liberty of indulging – “

He held up a placatory hand. “It’s all right, this is nothing to do with the shop. I promised you something to practice on.”

He stood out of the way to reveal what looked like a thickly-topped walnut table on the pavement beside him. My memory of Miss Folger’s shop told me what it was.  “Why, sir, it’s a clavichord!”

He flipped open the lid with a proud flourish. “Indeed. Bach himself loved this instrument; it’s also popular with organists. They stack them one on top of the other to practice in their own rooms. Oh, and you’ll need these.”  He handed me two slim books by – he interpreted my frown correctly.  “It’s pronounced ‘Tscherny,’ he’s one of the best teachers you’ll find.”

Mr Whybrow carried the instrument inside and essayed a quick broken chord to make sure it had survived its journey. I was quite enchanted by its tone – curiously solid, like a piano, but diffident and with the veriest hint of harpsichord twang.

“Pull up a chair, Miss Bluebird,”  he instructed. As I took my place at the keyboard, tingling with excitement, he stood over me and gave me some quick instruction in posture. Elbows out – don’t drop your wrists – I was sure that a workhouse teacher would have terrified me into obedience with a rap on the hand with a ruler at the least infraction, but Mr Whybrow might as well have been taking me through a technical manual.

“The whole posture is intended to keep your fingers parallel to the keys wherever they are on the keyboard, and allow you maximum control over them,”  he told me. “Let your posture slip and your control will suffer. Other than that, the only advice I’ll give you is to take everything as quietly as possible, and as slowly as necessary to produce an even tone. Let speed come by itself. And once you start making silly mistakes, get on with something else. Your concentration’s like a muscle; it needs to develop in its own time. Forcing it’s a bad mistake.”

I was sure he knew what I would be doing when I was not practicing; he must have seen my sketches on the bed. But he did not allude to them by so much as a glance.

“While I’m here, there is something else I want to show you,”  he said. “If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me down the road? It’s all right, nobody’s around to see your nightie.”

I began to wonder what I could have done wrong now, as I followed him across the street. He stopped at the small park between his shop and that of Miss Folger, and I discovered the source of the hammering I’d heard. He had put up a sign whose elegant inscription stopped my breath.

“Bluebird Park.”

“I think it’s a nice name,”  said Mr Whybrow, ignoring my stupefaction. “It’s a small enough thanks for ridding us of the flasher, but now you know that you’re not only one of us, you’re respected among us.”

I had to swallow a large lump down my throat. In fact, I had to clench and force it down. I hoped a slight change of subject might help. “Won’t there be any official trouble at all, sir?”

“Not a bit of it. But you are the talk of the town,”  he warned me. “Gossip here spreads faster than the flux in the East End. Don’t worry,”  he added with a mischievous grin. “I’ve dissuaded the overcurious from coming to examine The Shopgirl. One can use gossip channels to one’s advantage, after all. A few words in the right ears - ”

His words flowed over me, barely noticed as one pang of guilt after another stabbed at me. He had named a park after me. In London, one had to have been very prominent to receive such an honour, but Mr Whybrow’s expression suggested that his sole concern was whether the sign was straight. It’s just his way,  I reminded myself.

I finally found my voice. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”  I didn’t add, “in return.”  I didn’t think he’d have appreciated that.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Mr Whybrow gave the matter a moment’s thought. “Well, the airship is out of petrol. It’ll be blocking the sun from half SouthEnd until I can move it. If you wouldn’t mind looking after that? You’ll find some petrol in the yard. Big red drum, you can’t miss it.”

I found a hand pump in the cellar. I dressed before lugging the thing up to the roof and dropping the hose down to the yard. He had not pointed out that some effort is needed in pumping anything up to such a height, and that the airship’s tank held twenty gallons. I began to suspect that this was one of his subtle punishments for having blown his balloon to shreds.

It seemed forever before the tank’s sight glass was brimming full, and I was able to release the vacuum which let the residual liquid in the hose slosh all the way back into the drum from which I had so laboriously raised it.

The rest of the day, however, would be my own. And I had noticed an old easel in the cellar. The dust alone told me that it had not been used in years. Well, it was my easel now! I felt like a real engineer as I began turning my sketches into something I might be able to work from.

It was as well that I’d made the best use of my free time. The next day, I found a note on the counter from Mr Whybrow, requiring my presence in the workshop. In white with tiara hair. As you wish, sir.

I duly reported to find him examining a new tiara, turning it over against the light. It sparkled with diamonds, their rising and falling curves reminded me of the waves crashing against the shore at Llyr. But it was the large central stone that held his attention; it resembled an emerald but was darker, more opaque.

“Try this on, Miss Bluebird,”  he told me, briskly. “Bet you’ve never seen one of those stones before.”

I was glad he hadn’t asked me what it was. I’ve no doubt that whatever answer I gave would have made me look stupid. Trying to sound more intelligent than I felt, I turned it over as he had. “It reminds me of an emerald, sir, although it clearly isn’t one.”

“Nope.”  He shook his head. “Close the curtain over the doorway and look at it again.”

It was a strange suggestion; one would expect to need more light to examine a stone, not less. But I did as I was bidden and with most of the light shut out, I found that the would-be emerald had become –

“It’s red now!”

Even in the poor light, I could see Mr Whybrow’s nod. “It isn’t your imagination, it really has changed colour. It’s an Alexandrite. A Russian emerald prospector stumbled across it in 1831 near Yekaterinburg; thought he’d found an emerald. Then he looked at it by lamplight and discovered precisely what you just have. Our Mrs Galicia-Constantine asked me to introduce them a while ago; they sell pretty well. The ladies love the gimmick aspect, and in terms of quantity, the stuff’s rarer than diamond. It just so happens that when it is found, it’s more likely to be in large specimens such as the one you’re wearing. I have to confess that I’m rather fond of it myself. Now, if you wouldn’t mind taking your position on the stand?”

 [Editor’s note: Some have assumed that Mr Whybrow actually invented Alexandrite, as a fictitious stone. This is untrue. He hadn’t, and it’s quite real. VB]

That was it. Romance over, back to the grind. He flicked back the curtains to blast me with sunlight, and even as I took my position before the camera, the Alexandrite reverted to a deep lush green. I was used to the sort of pose which Mr Whybrow would want, so his Alexandrite was immortalised on glass plate in a couple of minutes.

And then it was back to the shop. “And would you mind keeping the tiara on while you’re down there?”  he called after me. “Won’t do any harm to spark some interest before I get it out on sale.”

Well, it wasn’t one of his heavier wares, and I felt like I was introducing a new discovery to the world when I stood in the shop, proudly displaying the colour-changing stone, so I’d have been happy to wear it all day.  But if I was hoping it would generate a flurry of interest, I was to be disappointed.

Mr Whybrow had been true to his word in dissuading the curious but despite his efforts, we did receive an unusual increase in visitors. Pity more of them hadn’t bought anything, but then as you might have gathered, they were here purely to inspect The Shopgirl like a new arrival at the zoo. I could tell they’d been warned off as they all, with scant exceptions, tried to be discreet rather than blatant, and all without exception failed miserably. They kept me on the stand modelling one thing after another, while insinuating questions about the griefer, about whom they were clearly more interested than in anything I might have been showing them. As for the Alexandrite, I might as well have been wearing an old sock on my head.

 “No, Miss, we don’t supply facelights.” We have enough lighthouses already, thank you.

“No, Miss, we don’t include added bling, we prefer to offer a more discreet natural sparkle. Might I suggest you try the Mainland?”  I believe Messrs Lucas have opened a headlamp factory there.

“No, Miss, we don’t offer discounts except where stated. Perhaps Miss would care to negotiate with Mr Whybrow directly? No? As Miss wishes.”  I didn’t think you would.  And I don’t care how long you say you’ve known Mr Whybrow. I doubt if you’ve ever even met him.

That Mr Whybrow had asked them to be easy with me on the matter of the griefer also showed in their style of questioning. Trying to appear oblique, when their interest shone in their eyes like an overactive facelight.

“Thank you, Miss, but shopgirls aren’t permitted to socialise with the master’s contacts.”  As if I’d dare!

And more predictably, “I’m sorry, Miss, I’m afraid Mr Whybrow’s schedule doesn’t permit him to attend dances.” At least he’d made his wishes quite clear on that one! And I didn’t care how many titles she held.

But when they left, I could tell from their gleeful scurrying that they were going to report on me to their own little circles of friends, and come sunset, I would be known far and wide as the griefer-killing shopgirl of SouthEnd, and many would be placing themselves an extra rung up the ladder of social prominence purely for having met me.

I’d have been happier if one of them had mentioned the Alexandrite, which had apparently gone unnoticed by all. I’d been tempted to point it out myself, but Mr Whybrow did not approve of cold-selling what the customer had not asked for; that was something he left to barrow boys.

There were also some who came for other purposes. Mr Whybrow had warned me about those, too.  I’m glad that Miss Creeggan didn’t get to see him; she’d have fainted clean away.

Ooh, what I wouldn’t have given to unleash the cattleprod on that one! But Mr Whybrow would not have approved; that item had featured rather too prominently, of late. He did, however, permit me to use more traditional means of dealing with “those”  customers.

Plus, of course, there was Postie. I discovered his interest to be the most acute of all, and went deeper than mere local curiosity. He handed over the afternoon post with his usual needless announcement, but I noticed a rose in his buttonhole which was not only out of official uniform, but was completely out of character, too. I did not dare remark on it, but there was no need. He had prepared his script well.

“I gavver you’ve become somefink of a local ‘eroine ‘ereabouts, Miss. Over that griefer.”

My smile stretched perhaps a little too tightly. I’ll kill the next person to mention that. “I only did what was necessary, sir.”

“Modest too. Gawd, ain’tcha sumfink else? Yer master’s obviously prahd o’yer; I saw ‘e’d named ‘is park after yer.”

“Just his little way of expressing his appreciation, sir.”

“Yerr, well, we all got our own ways o’ doin’ that, ain’t we. But to my mind, a gennelman wot really  wants to show ‘is appreciation, does it wiv flahrs.”

It was exactly what I’d been afraid of. He’d been angling for a cue. Wiggling the stem free, he presented me with the flahr from his buttonhole.

“Just a little gestcher of me own, darlin’. Picked it meself, I did.”

Inwardly I cringed at his familiarity. And I knew exactly where the rose had come from. The park.

“Uh – thank you,”  I muttered, trying to avoid the prickles as I gingerly received his tribute. “I’d better go and put it in water.”

“Awright, gel, got me own rahnds ter take care of. But I ‘opes you’ll let me present ya wiv a few uvver tokens of me regard, like.”

I wanted to run out screaming. “Uh – thank you, sir – I think we’ve a vase out the back somewhere, don’t let me hold you up.”

I scuttled out to the yard and waited until I heard the shop door swing shut before daring to return. Oh, dear God. And by not turning him down out of hand, I’d encouraged him to come back. I wish I’d been quicker off the mark with a simple, “Thank you, but I really don’t think this is appropriate”  type of response. But I’d panicked and thereby made things worse for myself. Oh, well. It was bound to happen.

It also happened that a customer really did come in to buy something; after the influx of the curious, she came as a complete surprise.  And she knew what she was doing!  Our Tanzanite made a perfect complement to her gown; she picked it out before I could even recommend it, and she bought the whole parure. So that’s an extra pickled onion with my fish and chips tonight, if you please, Mr Whybrow.

All this time, Llyr’s rending double pull on me continued unabated, like an angel at my shoulder ever reminding me of an unfulfilled demand. It wasn’t just the eternal beauty of the place; it was rather the meaning it had come to hold for me. Mr Whybrow and I had always kept our master/staff relationship quite clearly marked, but Llyr been the key to show him as a friend, too. One with whom I could discuss anything, without fear. I knew I had to go back there and renew my acquaintanceship with its benign mystery, even if I went there alone. But the only way to get there would be by airship. I had to have my own airship. I resisted the temptation to rush my drawings; I checked and rechecked them, calculated and recalculated, and not until everything was satisfactory did I set about turning them into reality.

Luckily, the deluge of interest in Shopgirl soon petered out and I was given more time to myself. In idle moments when Mr Whybrow was out on call, and in the evenings, long after I presumed he was in bed, I worked on my airship gondola in the cellar, stripped to my underwear to preserve my clothes.

I found the exertion a relief after some of the more trying customers of the day. Therapeutic, in fact.

If my drawing and designing had been an absorbing occupation, then the building – forming my dream with my hands – was doubly so. It was so easy to lose track of time working in the cellar, and I had to be careful to reserve time for my musical studies.

I looked forward to my bath at the end of the day, with Messrs Czerny and Prout a welcome anodyne before bedtime.

I lay awake, still haunted by the prospect of further overtures from the postman, but I did not dwell on him for long. He was not a bad man as such, I just did not like being taken for granted, particularly in such a gauche manner. And I’d found too many exciting new hopes to be fulfilled in Mr Whybrow’s establishment for any suitor to stand a chance of attracting me. Of more interest, even on a platonic level, was the strange jeweller himself with his penchant for the insane. Everything I had, I owed to him; he was making me more of a woman than I’d imagined possible.

But what did he stand to get out of it for himself? It was puzzling; if he had any “romantic” intentions toward me, he’d had every opportunity to show them. Irritatingly, it wasn’t the sort of thing I could ask him directly. Even if I had the nerve to, he’d have prevaricated, or just clammed up completely and killed any future chances of a straight answer by receding even further. I know that he had already answered me in some detail, and his reasons had made sense. I was more than happy with my situation as its own reward, and would seek none other from him. But they were not sufficient, on their own. He had almost been bribing me to stay, when I’d have done that anyway.

I harked back to the recent visitors to the shop, and it was obvious how badly he needed a shopgirl. But something was still missing. What did  he hope to gain from investing so much of his time and effort in me when he could have focussed purely on teaching me the business?

I must have fallen asleep turning the matter over. At least, I must have been dreaming. If I were not, then I really did open my eyes to find Uncle Arthur standing at the end of the bed, smiling crookedly yet without malice. He spoke with a friendly drawl, clearly but without moving his mouth, his words dinning directly in my mind.

“As you have admitted to yourself, some things are worth doing for their own sake. The satisfaction in doing them is its own reward. There are those who’d agree with you, Miss Bluebird. Those who lock themselves away, furiously creating, gladly eschewing what most would call human relationships, provided that they can – just occasionally - do the right thing in the outside world. If you would honour him at all, then accept what he offers and make it grow. His pride in your accomplishment will be all the fulfilment he wants.”

I sat up with a sharp electrified jerk. My skin felt cold and damp. The room was, of course, quite empty; quite still.

But it was not the visitation that had shocked me, it was that Uncle Arthur had been right. An image came into my head of Mr Whybrow standing over me, as I would come to stand over my airship, and preening himself as I would come to do, telling himself, I did this.

As my breathing returned to something approaching normality, sleep descended with a balmy blessing. Of course, you silly girl, didn’t Mr Whybrow tell you that Uncle Arthur was to be trusted?  

And Uncle Arthur was right. I’d been given a couple of dreams I hadn’t even known that I had been harbouring, and thanks to Mr Whybrow, I was making them happen.

Sonata for Airship Part 2

Development (Continued)

Attacca ma allargando

My throat felt dry and cold, I must have been letting my mouth dangle open as we drew nearer. As the house loomed larger, I began to appreciate the scale of what must have been inside it. Through the windows, I saw only bright brass reflecting the sun. It appeared that Mr Whybrow had rescued a fairground attraction that had been too expensive to run, and discovered that he did not have the space to store it without some fundamental structural alterations. That was just one of the strands running through my mind, anyway; there were many others, but all had as their underpinning, “Complete and utter lunacy.”

The house had a protruding patio which let Mr Whybrow dock comfortably, and was wide enough to reassure those subject to vertigo, although I tried not to look down as I disembarked. I was grateful when he held the door open for me and I stepped inside; I was able to forget how high above the ground we were. That was helped by what I found when I crossed the threshold.

I had not been brought to to a house. I was standing in a calculated brass jungle. The whole house was a mass of pipes and valves, with an organ console in one corner as – well, its control centre, I suppose. But there was not a stick of furniture in sight.  What I could not miss seeing, however, was a large warning sign beside him, with others on the console, warning that if this was indeed the musical instrument which it porported to be, then it went way beyond any found in a cathedral. Not that this any of this worried Mr Whybrow, who stood proudly extending a showman’s arm about him. Had his other interests also included being a circus ringmaster?

“You live – here?”  I breathed, looking around. No, not so much as a three-legged stool. It was like being inside a musical boiler room.

Mr Whybrow laughed. “Good Lord, no. This was Uncle Arthur’s house.”

Of course. He had not been trying to throw my bearings with that fog – indeed, what would be the point of trying, when I already knew his house to be in SouthEnd? But my stomach had still not got used to the transition between floating and terra firma, and terra firma which was floating. Mr Whybrow was quick to spot my sudden nauseous complexion.

“Duck around the end of the organ,”  he told me, briskly.

It seemed an odd sort of instruction, but there was no time to query him. I scurried over the parqueting and wrenched the door open. There, confronting me, was a toilet which for some reason either Mr Whybrow or Uncle Arthur had connected to the steam pipes, complete with pressure guage ticking happily at 340 pounds to the square inch. Behind it, buried in a forest of organ pipes, was a boiler angrily bubbling away, and a turbine spinning industriously. Still, I suppose it kept one’s botty warm; I had noticed the altimeter as I climbed out of the airship, we were at eight thousand feet. At least he thought of some home comforts.

I attended to my needs and gave my stomach free rein. Then, drawing in great gasps of thin air, I stood and leaned cautiously on the wall to steady myself, looking with swimming eyes for a chain to pull. But instead of the wall, my hand found a lever which went down, almost costing me my footing. Instantly, an angry hiss of steam filled the bowl while nearly stopping my heart. So that was how it worked.

Mr Whybrow called in, “While you’re in there, can you check the water level in the boiler? There’s a sight glass right in front of you, it should be between one- and two-thirds full.”

Was he pretending that he didn’t know what I’d just done? I squinted through the residual fog of steam and found a glass tube. “It’s two-thirds full, sir,”  I weakly called back, and exited the chamber, glad of the fresher atmosphere outside.

“Don’t want to blow the place up,”  Mr Whybrow commented. “You should have brought the peppermints, you daft ha’p’orth. It’s the decompression, that’s all; the air’s thinner up here. I should have warned you. Now, if you’ve recovered sufficiently?”

I’d seen the chapel organ, of course – well, until my top C brought the roof down on it, and I knew there had to be bigger ones. But this one – I’d better just let Mr Whybrow explain it all.

“As you can see, this is no ordinary organ. It doesn’t have the variety of the Albert Hall one, but in terms of compass - you know how doubling the length of a pipe drops a note by an octave?”

I didn’t, but was pleased to have learned something new.

“The biggest organ pipes are usually 16 feet long, that’s bottom C on a piano. Really big ones go down to 32 feet, and a handful of organs in the world have 64-foot stops. As you can see, Uncle Arthur went to a lot of trouble to transcend any organbuilder in history.”

He indicated three stops standing alone and I squinted at them.

"128 foot – Hyposuboctocontrabourdon, 256 foot – Visceral Dissolution, 512 foot – Tectonic Subduction." 

I wasn’t sure what that last one meant but reckoned it had to be pretty dire if misused. The man was barking mad. I knew him well enough to know that anything he put a “DANGER” sign on had to be lethal, and here he was, proud of it!

While I was taking in the unusual stops, Mr Whybrow scuttled about pulling levers and finally turning a big wheel with a grunt and a heave. “They need their own safety valves, Miss Bluebird. It wouldn’t do to trigger these by accident. They’re every bit as big as they claim to be. The two biggest would have taken up too much room if he’d put in a complete rank, so Uncle Arthur just built the fundamental – that’s the lowest in each rank - and added mechanical fingers. As you can see from the 256-foot pipe over there.”  He indicated a brass coil that stood in the corner, and led outside the house. “He reasoned that nobody in their right mind would want to play two of those notes at the same time, anyway.”

I reasoned that nobody in their right mind would want to play any of them under any circumstances. I’d learned through my own example what a high note could do to the chapel roof, but low ones?

“Come and have a look at the big one. It has its own secondary turbine, as you can see; the reservoir can’t provide enough air to drive it on its own.”

But that was only the start of it. He led me upstairs, where I had to squeeze past a pile of U-bends, and then up to the attic where the pipe continued and finally led outside.

He had not been exaggerating about the 512-foot pipe. I had to keep reminding myself constantly that the tangle that occupied the upper floors like a huge brass bowel was one single pipe. What it could do, God alone knew, but I had a feeling that I was going to find out.

He rested a hand on the pipe and placed his ear to it, as though listening for something. Moisture or an air lock, I presumed. Or mice. Or nesting elephants. Finally, Mr Whybrow gave the huge pipe an affectionate pat. “Now, you’re probably wondering what all this sounds like?”

“Dreading”  would have been a more accurate way of putting it, but I nodded just the same.

Mr Whybrow led me back to the console where he seated himself on the bench and threw a master valve, admitting steam to the reservoir with a battleship-grade hiss.

Then he went wild. The whole house filled with an armada of birdcalls, underpinned by a strident joyful clashing. My mouth split in a rapture of enchantment as these in turn were joined by exhuberantly-leaping pedal octaves.

I was transported! This wasn’t music, it was a whole new dimension that my workhouse concerts had merely alluded to. Naturally, the workhouse organ could never have done half the things boasted by Uncle Arthur’s machine, but nevertheless I felt a cloying sadness that Messrs Greenham had installed all those stops and hundreds of pipes, just for an uninterested amateur churchman to thud out lacklustre four-part block chords.

My soul soared with the music; I was part of it. Although I’d never heard the piece before, I could sense when he was building up to the final climax, at which point Mr Whybrow allowed a glimmer of triumph to show in his face.

But he had one more surprise for me. He held onto the last chord, letting it resound for a second, before reaching up firstly for the 128-foot stop with the endless name, and then piling on one lower octave after another with the 256-foot, and finally the “Tectonic Subduction”  at which point a great hammer beat on an unseen barrel once per metronomic second. At first I gave a reflexive cringe, but the note was in perfect pitch with all the others and melted into me, transcending any human happiness that I could have imagined.  He left heaven’s gates open, pouring out a relentless sunbeam, savouring each vibration as though waiting to see if the organ would run out of steam before he ran out of patience. I for my part forgot that I was a human being of clumsy meaty stuff, but had become a part of something as magnificent as the universe itself.

Finally, he snatched back all his limbs with a single electrocuted snap, leaving a deaf silence hanging, I could not hold back my gaze of admiration at what he could do, although I refrained from hurling another hug at him. That would have been irreverent. And I was right to restrain myself; he looked sheepish to the point of embarrassment as he swung himself off the organ bench.

“It’s called "Toccata,"  by a French fellow called Widor. Actually, it’s not as tough as it sounds, if you see the repeating pattern and otherwise keep your head. Now do you see why Uncle Arthur didn’t dare build this anywhere near the ground?”

I thought back to my one and only experience with Mozart’s “Exultate Jubilate” and the subsequent awkwardness with the workhouse insurers, and sympathised with Uncle Arthur. This wasn’t a musical instrument. It was a doomsday weapon.

Carefully, reverently, Mr Whybrow shut off the safety valves to the big pipes, and then the main master. A quiet satisfaction went with his movements, I guessed that he was glad to have had the chance to show Uncle Arthur’s work off to somebody. But it had left him feeling awkward. He cleared his throat.

“Now then, I was going to show you a piano.”

“Yes, sir, but I don’t see one here.”

“No, Miss. When we get back. But first, you’ve a thing or two to learn about airships.”

Recapitulation

This was playing dirty. I’d only agreed to go up with him, not to learn how to drive the beastly things. But then, difficult as it was to admit as much, I had changed my mind about airships, and after what he’d just shown me, I don’t think I could have gainsaid Mr Whybrow anything.

The driver’s seat – sorry, pilot – coddled me as cosy as a birdie in a nest as he stood over me and told me about the controls. If someone’s swinging your prop for you, never turn the current on until they call “Contact” lest the engine start with someone’s hands in the way of the propeller. All right. Got that. As for the rest of the controls, how absurdly simple it all seemed, when explained. Up, down, left, right – and the throttle stayed where you put it. No trying to keep your foot steady against bumps in the road.

“Keep your movements firm but gentle,”  he instructed me. “Always centralise the controls once you’re facing the way you want to go, and only turn at a slow speed, or you’ll slew all over the sky. And once we’re back down just above rooftop level, stay at that height. Don’t try to go too high either now or at any time in the future.”

“But surely it’s safer if you’re not constantly hopping over things?”  I queried.

Mr Whybrow shook his head. “You need to know what you’re above at all times. Some landowners are worried about the effect airships have on local gravity; they have devices that repel vehicles.”

“That reminds me, sir. I meant to ask – if we’re flying that low, what about privacy?”

He prefaced his reply with a scornful snort. “Anyone who knows anything about airships will know that your attention will be too intent on what you’re doing to be spying on anyone. If you flew around the same house several times, perhaps, then maybe they’d have something to worry about. But otherwise, just try to stay above roads or railways when you’re on the mainland part of Caledon.”

He clambered in behind me and I felt the airship buck slightly as he settled back with a finality that suggested he was getting comfy in expectation of a normal, healthy flight. “Keep the engine at a low tickover – say, three hundred revs until we’re just above the rooftops and use the rudder to keep the compass needle between nine and ten o’clock until I say otherwise.”

It was a prudent move on the part of my flying instructor, to make my first lesson one in the art of going straight down. It let me get used to the feel of the instruments without risking anything by strong manoevre. The clouds swallowed us up, although the instruments remained faithfully where I wanted them –

“Why, if you had a map, you could fly this thing without even looking outside it!”  I realised.

“It’s called ‘instrument flying’ and it’s a skill worth mastering,”  replied my instructor from the back. I heard him chuckle as my shoulders flinched; I’d forgotten that he was back there.

We broke through the underside of the clouds and I peered over the side. The buildings looked vaguely familiar, but I was not at all sure where we were. Mr Whybrow leaned forwards. “The wind’s blown us over Victoria City. It’s just a natural drift, it’s to be expected. See the railway lines? Keep us going down, but bring the nose gently round to point south. When you’re a hundred feet or so above the highest point, bring the revs up to five hundred and make ready to turn west. Got all that? And stay over the road.”

He made me repeat it all back but he seemed satisfied that I was ready to make my first serious manoevres. It could have been worse; he was not blaming me for the drift, and better still, we had not drifted out over miles of open sea. I’d like to have seen him get his bearings with nothing to look at but water.

It was easy enough to comply with his directions, although I found myself constantly looking over the side. As I’ve already mentioned, the airship had an altimeter (which he insisted was an “alt-IMM-itter”) but I wasn’t sure how accurate it was.

I had nothing to worry about. He didn’t even bother leaning forwards as he called, “All right – bring her up to five hundred revs. You’ll find she handles better with a bit of air flowing over the fins.”

Cautiously, I advanced the throttle lever, keeping an eye on the rev counter. This one, at least, responded instantly to my instructions and a slight hiss of slipstream reached around the windscreen to ruffle my hair. I felt a new tautness in the control cables, ready to follow my least movement of hand or foot. The airship pulled like a willing horse, filling me with confidence. I was queen of the sky as I wallowed in the wonders of airship pilotage for the first time! There were more controls to think about, yes, but I didn’t have to worry about avoiding traffic or minor obstacles, and my vision was unrestricted. Any manoevres could be planned well in advance, all I had to do was admire the view. And that was one pleasure of which I doubted I would ever tire.

Keeping one eye on the road, I swung the nose around with not quite the fluid grace that Mr Whybrow had shown, but something close to it. I was a little late in centralising the control column, but nothing a tick of the rudder wouldn’t cure. At any rate, if Mr Whybrow had been unhappy with my manoevring, he’d have let me know.

“Keep a firm grip on the column when we cross districts,”  he called. “Local air currents can make her jump about a bit.”

I bore that in mind. I was about to ask him when the first crossing would be, but the airship answered that first by bucking about and trying to seize control. But Shopgirl won through, and the phenomenon soon passed. The road through Moors was ruler-straight and only tiny flicks of rudder were needed to keep us in line. Seen from above, Moors lost any bleakness as it flaunted its rolling contours, and I saw the cemetery for what it was. A well-tended garden of rest.

“Hey, see Postie down there?”  Mr Whybrow leaned over to point out a solitary figure trudging northwards across our path. “Wonder why he isn’t on his bike?”

“I’ve no idea, sir,”  I replied, grateful that I had two handfuls of airship to keep me occupied.

He reminded me to go up another fifty feet to allow for the higher elevation of Downs, and this time I was able to look over that gorge with a definite gloat of triumph. It held no more foreboding; I was its mistress. And I was buoyed up by another fulfilment which I knew was coming. I knew that there was nowhere in Southend that he’d let me land the airship, he had only executed his manoevre at Miss Folger’s store as a result of long experience. That could only mean he’d be telling me to fly to his house! I was going to see it at last!

But I was to be disappointed yet again. Mr Whybrow told me to fly out to the western edge of SouthEnd and return shopwards in a big loop – oh, knickers! He had his own landing pad on the shop roof. It looked impossibly tiny from a distance, and he’d been landing on it for years whereas this would be my first time.

“When you make the final turn, keep your heading due east and keep the nose lined up with the centreline,” he told me as though it was as easy as falling off a log.

Then a great shadow fell over us like a cloak and an engine battered my eardrums. It was a public airship going about its scheduled route. Releasing a hand from the stick to point upwards, I called back, “Who has right of way?”

“He does,”  replied Mr Whybrow.

“Which way will he be going?”

“Westwards to the tower, then south turning west at Miss Folger’s emporium.”

“But that’s the same way we’ll be going!”

Mr Whybrow remained unruffled. “It’s all right, we’ll be heading out to sea. He’ll descend and wait for a minute before taking off. You have that long to get clear of him.”

There was clearly more to this flying malarkey than I’d thought. I found myself keeping one eye on my own airship, another on the controls and dials, and another on the public airship as it settled at its dock like a huge bumble bee collecting pollen.

“Give it a little more throttle and you’ll be well ahead of him,”  Mr Whybrow advised.

I was overenthusiastic to reduce the danger of collision, and my “little” turned out to be a sharp jerk. The airship gave a lurch forwards as the engine bellowed in my ear. But I was only heartened by our progress as we sailed smoothly past the airship tower. Mr Whybrow was shouting something, but it was lost in the engine’s racket – oh, yes. I had to turn south.

I leaned the stick over and gave a dab of rudder, as I’d been taught, but had forgotten to throttle back first. The gondola gave a nauseating wrench and slewed sideways, the propeller biting and champing for grip on the air. Oops. I quickly yanked the throttle back.

“Sorry, sir!”

No reply came. He was probably maintaining a diplomatic silence so as not to undermine my confidence, while privately calling me all the silly buggers under the sun. I gave a blip of throttle to straighten the nose out, and we settled on our new course southwards. As for the docked airship, it remained sitting patiently, waiting for the signal to depart. Yes, I was well ahead of it. Congratulations, me!

I had a good idea of how our own airship behaved while turning, and it seemed no difficult feat to bring us round to line up with Mr Whybrow’s rooftop landing pad. But I was being premature. This time I’d have to line us up very precisely, or I’d miss and have to go around again. I found myself giving frequent small blips of throttle to keep the nose straight, and it did not  help that someone had put a gigantic ferris wheel right in my path. It was only slightly offcentre to my line of flight; it seemed that I’d have to scrape it as I passed. Although –

“Mr Whybrow? Should I try to go up and over the ferris wheel?”

No answer came.

“Mr Whybrow?”

He had been too quiet. I looked around to find not Mr Whybrow, but an empty passenger seat. Death’s sickening hand froze me, mortified me, and gave a vicious squeeze at my stomach. Oh, my God! He must have fallen out on that turn.

I had killed him.

It was as much as I could do to maintain control over the airship as that great cold cloak spread over my nerves, numbing them. A foolish fairy of an idea suggested just ending it all and crashing full-throttle into the ferris wheel, but that would be cowardly. I’d simply have to get used to facing the world as the shopgirl who’d killed her master.

The airship seemed to have its own ideas on the matter; it remained obstinately lined up with Mr Whybrow’s platform as the ferris wheel’s jungle of girders, nuts and bolts breezed past – of course, I’d not realised that the great protruding gasbag was several yards above me. It was passing over the wheel with plenty of room to spare.

The nose flickered a little as we passed Miss Folger’s shop, I gave a flick of throttle to encourage our line to stay straight –

And the engine gave a thick bronchial cough. I’d tweaked the mixture by mistake. Silly great lumbering oaf! 

Hastily correcting, the engine gave a final hack of disapproval and settled back to its regular throb. The platform was nearing, and was almost dead centred with the gondola. I was just preparing to shut off the throttle, hoping that I hadn’t left it too late and our momentum would carry us into the chimney stack, when the engine gave a final vicious exhaust blast and died completely.

But I hadn’t done anything!

We began to descend immediately, and met the platform with a confident kiss. I could not believe my luck at having pulled off a flawless landing first time, even if it had been due to the engine’s having picked the perfect time to throw a tantrum.

My hand functioned by itself as it shut off the master switch. Yes, I was now an accomplished airship pilot. But I’d killed my instructor, my employer, my mentor, my –

“Did you check the fuel guage before you switched off?”  came from behind me.

A heavy footfall landed in the gondola. I wrenched almost in half as I turned to find Mr Whybrow irritably straightening out his coat.

“We ran out of petrol. It’s my own silly fault, I should have topped up before we left.”

“But – how did you – “

He answered my thousand unvoiced questions with a wry smile. “That fast turn you made threw me. Fortunately, we’ve plenty of cable hereabouts; I’ve spent the past half mile hanging onto the underside of the gasbag.”

It was as much as I could do not to collapse in tears over the instrument panel. At the same time, I wanted to beat him to a pulp. How dare he be so blasé about it!

But that was his way. He did not like to talk about these things. He clambered over the side, the incident forgotten, and offered his hand to help me out. “That wasn’t a bad landing, Miss. How are you now?”

Still stunned, I wrenched myself back to reality in the way I knew best. By yelling at him. “Since you ask, I nearly died myself back there! I thought I’d killed you! You might have told me you’d fallen out – “

The ridiculousness of what I’d said struck me, and I subsided. He stood, patiently waiting for me to find my next utterance, in the hope that it was slightly more logical. “You might want to consider fitting a safety belt of some sort,”  I concluded, lamely.

“That had occurred to me,” he admitted. “After I’d fallen out.”

An awkward silence hung in the air. I mumbled something about not knowing how to thank him for all he’d shown me that day.

“It’s only the tools of the trade, Miss,” he returned, neutrally. Then, more softly, “As far as I can see, you’re cured of airsickness. All you have to do is pilot the thing yourself; you simply made a bad passenger. Airships don’t toss about like a boat; like stage fright, it’s all in the mind.”

He tapped the side of his head, as though I did not know where that “mind”  item was located. My own mind, now that it had got over its shock, was hatching a little plan of its own that was growing inside me like a virus. It would take time and industry, but it could be achieved.

For the present, Mr Whybrow had ideas of his own. “There remains the matter of the piano I promised to show you.”  Inwardly, I bounced and squeaked with excitement. I was going to see his house at last!

But no. He led me down to the street and across to Miss Folger’s emporium. I bit off a disappointed sigh and as we crossed the park I asked him, trying to sound casual, “Sir; what are airship gasbags made of?”

“Silk, Miss, like a balloon. Not cheap, but it’s the only stuff that’s gas-tight and light enough.”

My heart almost stopped. Had he read my mind? No, just my expression. Whatever faculties I’d developed in life, playing poker was not one of them. I felt a little less certain about my master-plan, now that he almost certainly knew about it and more certainly, would let me get on with it.

Inside the store, he seated himself at what I’d thought was a grand piano with two keyboards. “This, Miss Bluebird, is a harpsichord. The strings are plucked, rather than struck with hammers, and one might regard it as the head of the plucked family. Those others over there – “  He waved an arm at the smaller instruments arranged along the wall.  “Work in just the same manner, they’re just a different shape. Not everyone can get one of these things in their drawing room. The one with the strange curve is a spinet, the other’s a virginal.”

A what?

Clearly nothing as smutty as the name implied. Without another word, he bashed out a low note and held it, while his other hand bristled around the keyboard in a tempest of swirling arpeggii  that rushed about the shop like an equinoctial gale  (I later discovered that he’d been playing the first movement of Handel’s Suite in D minor). When he released the keys after the final cadence, the instrument emitted a curious flurry of mechanical ‘clonks’  from inside.

“As rich as Orpheus’ lyre,”  he smiled affectionately at the instrument. “And Miss Folgers’ jacks never stick. But it was the piano you really wanted to hear.”

Rising from the harpsichord as casually as closing a book, he ambled across to Miss Folger’s splendid upright. “I tried this one a long time ago; not unlike one of the better Steinways,” he commented, apparently to himself. He sat poised at the keyboard for a moment, focussing his concentration, and apparently without his moving a muscle, the piano broke out into a song of yearning, of smiling at a beauty that was fading. Not as spectacular as the organ, but it pierced me just as acutely. Its central tempest, when it came, dazzled me not for his mastery of the instrument, but through the vividness of the imagery running through my mind. Thunderflashes, swirling dark clouds, curtains of rain sweeping through -

When the final chord plodded up the stairs from one end of the keyboard to the other, he waited until the last vibration had drifted out of the window before getting up as though nothing had happened. “And they say there are no female composers,”  he chuckled. “Tell that to Mam’s’elle Chaminade. And yes, Miss Bluebird, Uncle Arthur taught me. As you may have gathered, he taught me a lot,”  he added darkly as he led me back to the shop.

A little lump formed in my tummy as I followed. I got the impression that he did not get the opportunity to play to others very often, and here he was, looking as though he was trying to forget that he had just done so.

However, I was saddened chiefly for my own sake. Yes, I’d just learned how to fly an airship, something any workhouse girl would give their eye teeth for. But it was something anyone could learn, as I’d just discovered. I’d always loved music; what really wrenched at me was the knowledge that I could never reproduce the fabulous spectra with which he’d he’d mesmerised me.

In the shop, he waved me to follow him into the back office. “You can wipe that hungry puppy look from your face. If I can learn, so can you.”

I gaped stupidly back. “Me? Learn to play like that?”

Mr Whybrow grunted. “I had to start sometime. Can you actually read music?”

“I learned the basics in the schoolroom. But – the piano is something ladies learn!”

Mr Whybrow’s eyes fixed me unforgivingly. “You’re more a lady than many who claim that title. And they learn as a social accomplishment. You on the other hand, love music. Don’t bother denying it, you looked like a starving man staring into a butcher’s window. Singing’s out, as we know, but you’d give your eye teeth to play the piano.”

I nodded, dumbly. I suppose it was written all over me.

“I’ll have to find you something to practice on. In the meantime, you won’t get far without understanding how music works. Here; have some bedtime reading.”

He handed me two volumes from his desk drawer. “Harmony, its Theory and Practice,”  and “Counterpoint – strict and free,”  both by Ebenezer Prout.

[These are both real works which the typist remembers in use in the 1980’s, and which are still respected now. VB]

“My bookseller’s keeping an eye out for me, Mr Prout’s working on a two-volume treatise on the orchestra. I’d start with the harmony one first; anything you get stuck on, let me know.”

I suppose I was still not used to people investing time and patience. Guilt rose up inside me like a big grey cloud; I had one last try to wriggle out of any obligation on either of our parts. “But sir, where would I practice? There’s no room in my house for a piano, and I can hardly use the chapel organ – for a start, there’s nobody to pump it.”

Mr Whybrow slit his eyes and cackled mischievously. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got just the thing.”

With that, he was gone, leaving me with two well-thumbed books and a host of memories that the workhouse would never believe.

Coda

What was really difficult to accept was, that he expected me to be able to learn all this stuff.

I gulped at the faith he had in me. No. Some of his ideas might appear crazy at first, but he had never expected me to master anything truly impossible. His whole outlook on life was “What I can do, you can emulate.” I looked back to what I had already achieved since leaving the workhouse. Yes, Mister Prout, I can master you too. It needs but application and patience. 

In the meantime, I had also learned how Mr Whybrow kept himself company in the evenings. Hadn’t I, Mr Prout?

But I would not be spending all my evenings wrestling with music theory and fingerwork. I also had ideas of my own. Boy, was I going to be busy! Look out, world. Here I come!

Sonata for Airship...........

.......with piano accompaniment.

Exposition


Mr Whybrow added a sprint to his pace, and turned back to me.  “Wait in the park, it’ll be easier.”

“Yes, sir – “  Too late. He had already vanished.

Restoring my dress took little time, although it did occur to me that in London, someone would have stolen the lot while I was risking life and limb. I was grateful for a few moments to myself, to let the events settle. The little park was a charming place to wait; its ambience lifted all the aftershocks of the day from my mind, leaving me free to wonder what Mr Whybrow had in mind this time. I did not think he meant to bring out the Golden Grisset again; he wouldn’t have told me to wait in the park.

He seemed to have been gone an awfully long time. I wondered if whatever he was going to show me had gone wrong. Either way, I would find out.

Miss Folger’s emporium, situated right adjacent to the park, caught my eye.

I’d never had a proper look inside, so I thought I’d remedy that while I waited. What I first noticed was the musical instruments which were amongst her specialities. I assumed that’s what they were, since they had keyboards – yes, there was an upright piano, like the one in the workhouse chapel but infinitely smarter. But these others – the carving and marquetry were without peer, but I was struck by how flimsy they looked, and how small the keyboards were. Why weren’t they the same size as any other piano?

Tentatively, I rested a finger on the key of one of these exquisitely-ornamented small pianos. This one was a strange, irregular shape with a sweeping curve on one side of the casing. An experimental press of the key made a sort of twangy sound – like a pub piano, but more refined.

I wanted to examine these intriguing instruments more closely, but then a distant throbbing beat at my ears from high up. I was getting used to the airships by now, but this one was different. Higher up, and closer by. I ran out into the street and looked up. A vast cigar shape was descending, and I gave a little laugh. He had already told me that he had one, and even had I not been expecting something of the sort, the colour alone would have told me whose it was.

The gasbag shut off the sun, leaving me in the shadow as he settled a few feet above the ground; the motor diminished to a slow clacking that reminded me of a steam launch clearing its throat. Mr Whybrow’s proud beam led me to expect him to ask me what I thought of his machine, but instead, he asked, “What were you up to in there?”

“Looking at all the strange pianos, sir,”  I replied.

He gave a humourous grunt. “You obviously weren’t in there long enough to look at the labels. Most of those aren’t pianos. Show you when we get back.”

A new excitement thrummed through my veins. Was I finally going to see his house? Gleefully, I clapped my hands together. “Really, sir? Please do, I love music. We used to have concerts at the workhouse.”

Mr Whybrow gave me a curious squint. “Yes, you did mention that. Very well, then. I’ll do what I can to indulge you.”  He fumbled inside the gondola and heaved a rope netting over the side.  “Now, can you climb in? Try to keep your skirts down, the cooling system’s right behind you.”

The rope rungs engaged reassuringly with my heels, although Mr Whybrow’s drainpipe had offered the reassurance of having been bolted solidly to the wall, and I was glad when my hands could grip the side of the gondola. Over his shoulder, I saw many controls whose purposes puzzled me. I must have been expecting it to resemble the driver’s seat of the Golden Grisset and I could hardly have been more wrong.

He waited for me to settle. “Ready?”

I rearranged my skirts more comfortably about my knees and ankles. “I think so, sir. Should I tie myself in?”

“With what? You’re an airship passenger, not a human cannonball. Just settle back and relax.”

The motor behind me, which resembled that of the Golden Grisset but shorter, rose joyfully in pitch. The roar echoed from Miss Folger’s frontage to clap painfully at my ears. I grimaced and closed my eyes. Then the racket abated somewhat and I became aware of a subtle pressure on my – well, fundament. Opening my eyes, I saw that we were already above the rooftops. My stomach gave a reflexive lurch of protest at its unnatural situation, but settled to an irritable grumbling. The airship was as solid up here as it was on the ground, but then had I expected it to become any less substantial? The whole experience was mind-joltingly surreal, like being in a lift that wasn’t attached to anything.

Mr Whybrow appeared quite used to it all as, now that we were clear of any ground obstructions, he swung the whole kit and kaboodle ponderously around on its central axis. Over the rooftop, I saw the upper masts of Old Stumpy and decided that my present situation was infinitely preferable to that of the sailors of yore, clinging to ropes and masts and things two hundred feet above the deck in all weathers. I remarked also that his falling balloon cable appeared to have dislodged a few roof tiles, but decided to mention that later.

Of my nerves, I can only say that they’d settled into the background, waiting for something to go wrong. I’d like to say that the anticipation had been worse than the reality, like a trip to the dentist (All right, Mr Shang. Most of the time), but it’s more likely that I was still too hyper-alert after my escapade with the flasher, for a mere airship to be any bother. I suppose I owed the flasher my thanks; without him, Mr Whybrow would have had to have tethered his airship to a lamp post so that he could chase me over SouthEnd, while I freaked out like Margaret Pole on the scaffold.

In retrospect, how silly I’d been. I felt as though I should be perfectly safe cocooned in his gondola, and the radiator behind me kept off the worst of the chill. It was the sheer undeniable unnaturalness of my situation that kept my stomach churning like a kettle lingering on the point of coming to the boil.

I remarked that he appeared to be following the same route when we’d been out in bike and car; northwards, through Downs. The gorge in Downs held no vertiginous terror this time, and why should it? At our present altitiude, one bit of land would be much the same as any other if we were to descend in that much of a hurry.

We crossed from Downs to Tamrannoch, and we must have hit a thermal or air pocket or something, as the airship gave a momentary jolt which Mr Whybrow wrestled under control quite casually, without a hint of irritation. But it was enough to tip my already overstressed stomach over the edge.

I did not care if Mr Whybrow noticed the sudden movement in the back, I was more concerned about letting go inside his luxuriously-padded airship gondola. I leaned over the side and up it all came. And it carried straight back into the propeller, which gave a quick thrumming noise as it sprayed my lunch all over Tamrannoch.

Once I was empty, the exhaustion took my mind off my stomach as I slumped back in the seat. I began to feel better already; my foot brushed against a bag of peppermints that had been left in the back either by a previous passenger, or by Mr Whybrow in case anyone else should be similarly stricken. The peppermint killed the yucky taste in my mouth, and the sugar helped restore my vitality and let me take in the world as Mr Whybrow had intended me to.

Yes, my misadventure with the flasher no longer preyed on my nerves; it was a mere bad dream which I could look back on without breaking into a sweat. As for Mr Whybrow, he wasn’t taking me anywhere discreet to hide my punishment from the neighbours; he was giving me what I’d asked for, and was prepared to trust anything I told him. Those reassurances combined with the balmy aura of the radiator and gentle rolling in the air currents to make me believe that I was being carried in the hands of God. It was a whole new world up here, where the clouds were both the landscape and inhabitants, idly drifting about their business, utterly disinterested in the world beneath them.

Ahead of us, Caledon on Sea peeked out from behind the forest I remembered seeing. But this time, Mr Whybrow turned smoothly westwards, following the forest. I noticed that he appeared to be following the roads; whether that was for my education or something he did as a matter of practice, I did not know, but he was right. The roads were certainly easier to understand when seen from above.

The engine shut down to its idle clacking; we drifted to a stop to hover in midair above the lush boughs. Mr Whybrow turned back to me. “How are you, Miss?”

I could not help smiling back. “Fine, thank you, sir.”  I noticed that he did not appear to be wondering if I was still afraid; he could see that I was not. But some further reply seemed to be called for. “We’re higher than the seagulls.”

Mr Whybrow laughed. “There aren’t many fish for them up here. And any that you do see, you won’t need an umbrella to protect you from.”  He jerked a thumb at the gasbag that followed us like a faithful cloud.

I returned his laugh. “Sir, may I ask you something? You told me that airships are good for learning the roads here, but we seem to be following them. Is that to teach me, or is there a reason why you can’t just fly in a straight line?”

“That’s a good question, Miss. Once we’re off the main part of Caledon, a pilot has more flexibility, but when there are houses about, it’s not advisable to fly over private land if there’s a public thoroughfare to follow.”

Thus he answered a question with another mystery. Not advisable?  But before I could ask, he had returned to his controls and with a gentle push in my back, we were under way again.

I was amazed at how full the skies were; I was used to looking up only to see if it was going to rain. But it appeared that half Caledon had places in the sky. Mr Whybrow himself lived high up, it should have occurred to me that others would do likewise. I wasn’t sure that I could live in the sky; flying through it was a strong enough violation of natural law, but living there – no. The privacy of my own home on the ground was seclusion enough; I had to have the footfall of others passing by. Even as I reaffirmed my resolution to save the air for necessary travel only, that hospital airship breezed across our bows on its own errand of mercy. Yes. The sky did have its uses.

It was easy to forget that I was supposed to be learning, not just admiring the view; Mr Whybrow’s call carried easily over his shoulder. “We’re over Caledon itself now, this district was the first to be settled. Over there to the north is Port Caledon.” I followed his pointing arm and saw the docks and warehouses. Of course; Caledon had many creators, was it not only natural that they would export?

Caledon itself came to an end with some lovely gardens. Beyond the coastline, on the western horizon, some large islands began to appear. Mr Whybrow nudged us slightly northwards, over the sea towards an island dominated by spiky peaks wearing a conifer forest like a spiky green wig. Below us, the waves played their own merry dance, with sleek shiny creatures intertwining their own counterpoints.

He appeared to be heading for a bay at the foot of the mountains, with what looked like an old ruin to one side. But it was rather a huge statue that caught my attention; as we drew nearer I was able to discern individual features, including the huge cynical grin of a predator savouring its prey’s terror in the moment before it pounced. A history lesson from the workhouse school seized on my mind, to fill it with foreboding.

Mr Whybrow seemed completely unaffected by the great demigod looming over us as he landed at the edge of the clearing. I had a feeling that yet again, I was about to make a fool of myself, but the glare of the towering figure insisted that I was not. He was, beyond any doubt, there for the purpose of evil. As was confirmed by the ruin, which had resolved into a circle of standing stones as old as time itself, with a fire burning at its centre. Oh, my God – that was why I’d been brought here! As its next victim!

Mr Whybrow shut down the engine, leaving us alone with the cries of the seabirds and the crashing of the waves. He turned to me. “One problem with airships is that they need a lot of space to land – why, Miss Bluebird! Whatever is the matter?”

As if he did not know. Angry at being treated so naively, I jutted a condemnatory finger at the leering giant. “That is! This is a place where men come to die.”

“What?”

All right, Mr Whybrow’s confusion appeared quite genuine, which told me that I was  about to make a fool of myself. But I had good reason for doing so. My face alone, angry with betrayal, warned him that he would die in my place if he tried to lay a finger on me.  “Don’t assume that because I come from an institution, that I’m completely uneducated, sir! We were told about the druids and their wicker men.”

Dawn broke on Mr Whybrow’s features. He bit off a laugh, knowing that that on its own would precipitate his early death. “That? That’s nothing to do with human sacrifice, for the love of God! That’s just a huge robot – the owner of this island likes robots. Mechanical men,”  he explained. “Some people here like them, the way some Londoners admire trains. My dear girl, I can assure you that I’m at least as familiar with Druids as you are, and if there are any in Caledon, then I’ve yet to meet them.”

Inwardly I collapsed, feeling extremely foolish. What I had taken for wood was in fact rust. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, sir – “

Mr Whybrow shook his head, allowing himself an understanding chuckle. “I can see how you came to make such a mistake, but you’re in no danger at all here. And we don’t guarantee crops by burning each other alive. Come on. Let me give you a hand down.”

He tossed the rope netting over the side and, somewhat shakily, I accepted his helping hand. The huge mechanical man seemed to be laughing at me as I disembarked. Remembering his manners, Mr Whybrow turned away as I adjusted my skirts, looking to the standing stones. A large fire burned in the centre of the arena, the licking flames endowing life on the stones which had stood immobile for years beyond count. “Don’t ask me what keeps the fire going, I presume they discovered a source of natural gas,” he told me. “People like to dance here, free from ballroom formality. The dress code is known for being – ah, relaxed.”

I had a good idea what he meant by “relaxed,” although I was too used to Caledon to be shocked. What a strange people these were – formality and dress-perfection, but for this one place where they cast aside all restraints. I doubted that the established church would approve of their social outlet, but then, I doubted that any here cared what the established church thought. Besides, I don’t care what Mr Whybrow said, there was no getting away from the image of sacrificial rituals which this place hinted at with the subtlety of fairground posters.

“It’s also a good place to get away from the world if you want to talk,” he added, pointedly. “You’ve probably had enough of heights for one day, but let’s take in the air further up. I think you’ll enjoy the view.”

He could see that I was still not happy about being near the stone circle and led me up the gentlest part of a rugged slope. From time to time, as we clambered over the steepest parts, he offered his hand to help me up, which surprised me a little.

Finally, the ground levelled out to a rocky plateau shaded by great conifers. Mr Whybrow had been right about the view; although the stone circle and the grinning robot man were still there, I could feel that I had risen above them. He led me a few yards further until they were lost to sight completely. I found myself overlooking the sea from a high promontory; staring straight back at me, a mountain rose from the sea, modestly disclosing a cavernous inlet. Crowning all was a lighthouse which was vaguely familiar.

“Caledon Sound,”  Mr Whybrow explained.  “And there beyond it, is Kittiwick, where we took the Dreadnought.”

Why – so it is, of course.   “How different things appear, when seen from a different angle,”  I commented.

Chuckle from Mr Whybrow. “You could say that about many things.”  Seating himself on the comfiest-looking rock, he indicated the ground for me to do likewise.  “Including what happened to my balloon,”  he added with a grin. “All I know is that I’d just entered SouthEnd when it blew up. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

For once, I saw a use for the female bustle. Properly arranged, it made a passable cushion on the rocks while Mr Whybrow had nothing to sit on but his own muscle. I did as he bade me, and tried to miss out nothing. Except for the dread I’d felt when I realised that lesser minds could have made an erroneous identification of the flasher. I was happy to own up to my mistake, but not my self-condemnation. That was for me alone to deal with.

Mr Whybrow heard me out patiently, nodding with approval when I mentioned my keeping the cattleprod handy just in case, and raising a respectful eyebrow when I told him how I’d first used it. But when I described my pursuit of the flasher, his face took on a horrified pallor.

“I hadn’t realised you were half way up the cable at the time,” he blurted, his usual formal composure quite forgotten. “I only saw the flasher go down because he lit up the sky like a meteorite.”

At this point I felt I deserved a falsely-modest grin of my own. “Thank you for your concern, sir, but I only did what was necessary.”

Mr Whybrow shook his head as though encouraging all the facts to fall into place. “So I see. A griefer holds Caledon’s ladyhood in terror, and my shopgirl stamps him out like an insect.”  Then he transfixed me with serious eyes, making me feel like one such insect impaled on a card. “And you thought that I was the griefer?”

I explained how I, myself, had only let any doubts play on me for a moment but that if I knew him better than that, many others would not. “If your police are anything like the Metropolitan force, they’ll have gone for a quiet man who keeps women at arm’s length, for the sake of a speedy arrest.”

“And had to release me again, to their considerable embarrassment, as soon as the incidents subsequently continued,” he pointed out. “But your point remains valid. Mud sticks. I owe you, Miss Bluebird.”

His eye softened. I was no longer ashamed at having doubted him, as he quite understood my reasons for doing so. But the depth of his gratitude shone in his eyes, and not being used to the experience, I had to divert my gaze to the Caledon Sound lighthouse.

Mr Whybrow saw my abashment and quietly lifted it from me. “As to who he really was, that’s something I doubt we’ll ever learn. What’s left of him won’t fill an envelope.”  He studied the ground gravely, knowing that there was one thing which he had not yet acknowledged. When he finally dislodged the words, I sensed that he’d have given his eye teeth for a cigar. “Miss Bluebird – I’d have expected a shopgirl with even the stoutest of hearts to have fought back, but not to go after him up a balloon cable like Spring Heeled Jack. That was without doubt, the bravest thing I’ve seen.”

With hindsight, it was also phenomenally stupid. But I could see that Mr Whybrow did not think so. If he was amazed, it was only with admiration.

“I’m sorry it cost you your balloon, sir,”  I said, to kill a fresh wave of bashfulness before it could arise.

“Don’t let it worry you. The insurers won’t cover it, but my overseas contacts can get me some more silk, and once it’s all stitched together, it’ll only take three days to gas up. A small price to pay. I can see it now -”  He looked dreamily up to the birds wheeling overhead. “We’ll find a charred ‘Censored’ sign floating in the harbour, and nobody’ll want to be seen to remove it. The local kids will point it out – ‘Mummy, what does that mean?’  And Mummy will reply, ‘It’s what happens to bad boys who don’t do as they’re told.’”

At that, I had to laugh. My peals rang out across the Firth to echo faintly from the cliffs of Sound. “Yes, sir. Shopgirl will come after them - ”

“ – wielding her mighty cattleprod.”

“And next time I might remember to hold it the right way round.”  I had to speak around a great giggle knotting my throat. “And that reminds me, sir; while you were out, I took the liberty of dealing with the seagull problem. Once and for all.”

Mr Whybrow stared at me as he might a peculiar species of bug. “You don’t mean – “

“The cattleprod. Yes, sir.”

“Oh, dear Lord! How I wish I could have seen that.”

His laughter racketed across the Firth and startled the birds nearer to hand on Llyr. I joined in, more for release than through any other reason. What a pair of lunatics we must have looked, had anyone been around to see us.

Finally, out of breath, Mr Whybrow shook his head, chuckling at the ground. “Dear, oh bloody dear! Miss Bluebird – if you really like music, let me show you something which few have ever seen. I think you’ve earned some confidence.”

I felt like we were a pair of schoolkids out on a lark as we scrambled back to his airship. He helped me in before swinging the propeller, and this time I had no misgivings as we rose into the air. Not at first, anyway.

Development

I was, however, sorry to be leaving Llyr. In the short time that I’d spent there, I’d seen beyond my silly preconceptions and come to love the place for its solitude and what Mr Whybrow would have called, it’s “let’s say fair” ambience. And I had to admit that I looked forward to returning to a place where one could leave behind not only one’s problems, but a substantial part of one’s clothing as well.

But enough of that. A new excitement was teeming through my veins. He was finally going to show me his house!

He gave the engine only sufficient power to make a little headway, but otherwise we just kept going up until we were smothered in damp clingy clouds. I was glad of the radiator behind me to keep out the worst of the moisture. I suspected that he did not want me to get a bearing from the ground; it hurt a little that he trusted me so little that he did not want to risk my finding his house on his own, but then, I had learned to respect his privacy and his reasons for enforcing it.

Finally we broke out into a clear sunlit sky. The ground was blanketed entirely by cloud, and I had no compass, nor any way of knowing how high up we were, since the only altimeter was occluded by Mr Whybrow’s bulk.

It occurred to me that I could use the sun as a compass and get at least some idea of our heading, but for that to be remotely accurate, I’d also need to know the time of day. As for Mr Whybrow, he seemed to know exactly where we were going. His head made only that routine cycle of little movements as he checked his instruments in strict order.

In the distance, a speck appeared. It grew larger until I could make out a very regular square shape. This in turn resolved into what I suspected was a manor house, with immense brass pipes sticking out of the roof. A couple of them had bell ends, like trumpets.

Yes, it looked utterly crazy. But from what I knew of Mr Whybrow, it was precisely what I should have expected.

Segue