How different Caledon looked from the air! The snow lost much of its eyeball-aching glare, and made the whole community look like a glittery wedding cake that had had unlimited attention lavished on the detail.
The reader who has followed my history from the beginning will not be surprised to learn that I bore north until Tamrannoch, and then leaned into an easy turn west with Llyr just visible as a jagged bump on the horizon, although one might be forgiven for thinking that I was being ambitious for a first test flight. Well, I had to go somewhere! All right, yes, I admit it. I was impatient. I’ve yattered on so much about Llyr that the reader could also be forgiven for thinking, “For God’s sake, girl – drop the other boot!”
I’d forgotten how many Caledonians took advantage of the magical properties of the place to live in the sky. I was careful to keep a respectful distance; after all, those who lived so privately must have their reasons for doing so. But a seasoned Caledonian would have learned that there was little to fear from passing airships, unless the thing happened to buzz round and round one’s house. This was because, as I had already learned, even when flying at a leisurely straight-line cruise, one has so much attention split between instruments, airship, and the sky around lest it throw a sudden obstacle at one, that there is little time available for peeping in on the locals’ activities. Mind, this airship almost flew itself. It seemed to be telling me that if I took my hands and feet off the controls and left it to do what it wanted, it would just keep going in a straight line until it ran out of world.
It did occur to me that I had never seen Mr Whybrow’s house but from the inside; on the one inadvertent attempt I’d made to cross his threshold, he’d called me back before I could open the door. I could not help wondering what lay beyond that door. It could have been a whole new city, some fabulous castle, a cobbled yard full of stinky old dustbins, or perhaps even just a straight drop to a messy death on the ground. But I was resolved never to ask him. We had shared much, but he valued his privacy and I suspected that that was one transgression he would never forgive.
In the meantime, I still had to think of a name for my airship. Mr Whybrow was right. It deserved it! But I didn’t have his imagination for such things, and naming it Dreadnought seemed somewhat ironic.
Llyr loomed up, across the sea, like a mythical storybook kingdom which had, until now, been held almost out of reach. But my airship was the key to going there whenever I wanted. I felt no fear of the sea below me, or the creatures thrashing and flitting about in it; my dear airship held me safe above all the terrors that awaited the earthbound.
Caledon’s climate was so gentle that I hardly had to compensate at all for the wind as I eased back on the power and drifted in to land. There was the great mechanical man again, grinning at me, but more in welcome this time. How could I ever have thought that he portended anything evil? And there was what I’d really come for. The stone circle, as old as time itself, with the eternal flame billowing at its centre, not having diminished a jot since I was last there.
It was only a few weeks into the new year; the sea had frozen over, but I did not trust the thickness of the ice. The airship’s natural tendency was to float in air, but mine wasn’t. There was a clearing in the woods large enough to take the gasbag; gingerly I descended with a tick of rudder here and there, and even managed to avoid squishing a snowman as I settled into the snow.
I left the engine on a low tickover – I didn’t want to have to do my first solo cold-start in a place so far from home, and I hadn’t planned to stay long anyway, in case Mr Whybrow started to worry. For that reason I resisted the temptation to kick off my shoes, my stockings, my skirts, and really let rip. But I had to have a token swirl around the fire, just as a foretaste of the atmosphere that I could return to any time I felt like it.
My skirts flowed behind me like a banner as I pirouetted around the fire, smiling at the warm brush of the flames on my cheeks. A few sparks spat out me, warning me that there was a practical reason why folks tended to dance around the fire wearing as little as possible. If I strayed too close to it, my clothes would go up like a torch.
Then an idea came to me and I stopped dead. Where that idea came from, I stood for a moment trying to ascertain. Was it just a suggestion that had been lingering at the back of my mind, or had Llyr somehow put it in there? I knew not. I only knew, as a certainty – it was safe to sing here.
But did I dare put that to the test?
I ransacked my mind for something suitable – no London street ditties for Llyr; that would be sacrilege. Ah, yes – that last recital of Dame Nelly Melba at the workhouse had stuck in my mind like a photograph. I’d kept the programme, and looked up the words to her songs; one in particular had entranced me. DuParc’s L’invitation au voyage.
Clearing my throat for confidence, I began cautiously.
Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe a la douceur…….
No croaks, wobbles, hiccups – just what, to me, was unbelievable angelic nectar for the ears! Was that really my voice? With mounting confidence, I let rip that climactic high note at the end of the third line.
D’aller la-bas vivre ensemble!
I stopped and looked around me. No mountains crumbled, no trees cascaded down the slopes, even the birds wheeled around overhead as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Be it intuition, or just wishful thinking, but my hunch had been correct. Llyr was safe to sing in.
I clutched my hands together in sheer delight. All the wonderful things that had happened, that day, and on top if it – I could sing!
But wait. Something was not right. Looking back to the airship, patiently clacking and chuffing as it waited for me to return, I spotted a black shape stumbling away from it, a few yards off. A shape I had seen before. That widow, at Caledon on Sea.
I rushed down to my airship, with misgivings tugging at me. Like a fool, I’d come out without my revolver. I checked the cables, the rigging, the nuts and bolts, but all appeared to be in order. The engine was running smoothly, so she couldn’t have tampered with that.
I scanned around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I could have been imagining it, that dread figure could have been lurking at the back of my mind, waiting to trick my nerves, but I was sure of what I had seen.
Best not to keep Mr Whybrow waiting. Somewhat ungraciously, I hauled myself up and into the gondola.
Third movement
Ancora Allegro - subito agitato
I was buoyed up by the little taste Llyr had given me of the fulfilment that lay ahead, as I rose up into the sky with a merry snarl of engine. Yes, it had been a glorious day. I knew Mr Whybrow would not plunge me back into the mundane life of the shop, he’d be thrilled to see my airship successful and would be asking all manner of questions about it. I allowed myself a chuckle as I sailed across Tamrannoch for the turnoff south. How could this ever become mundane?
Sadly, Llyr’s magic had not extended to any inspiration for a name. I dimly recalled that there was something suitable, lurking in the furthermost recesses of my mind. It had something to do with music; one of Mr Whybrow’s explanations was the only element I could pin down, but I couldn’t remember what he had actually said. But I knew that it contained the answer I was looking for. Was it the Flying Caledonian? Flying Shopgirl? Say, from talking about Wagner’s Flying Dutchman? No, that wasn’t it. It was something older, more soloist-oriented.
But as I straightened out to head south, a slow rattle broke out somewhere behind me. My heart stopped. Something had gone wrong.
Getting a grip on myself, I tried to analyse the sound. It was something heavy, and repetitive with a low timbre – like steel on steel, in a hollow chamber. The engine was running normally, and the fuel tank couldn’t have broken loose of its mountings. That would make a much louder, deeper noise, and would surely be trapping the control cables. I wondered if I’d dented the propeller somehow, but even I knew that an out-of-balance propeller would have ripped the engine out instantly.
All right, I told myself. Focus on what you DO know. The airship is behaving fine. Just treat it gently, stay close to the ground, and get straight home.
The rattle decreased, only appearing at all when the gondola was nudged by those little eddies and air currents one inevitably gets. I remembered that the phenomenon had only started at all after that big turn in Tamrannoch. That certainly ruled out the propeller, at any rate.
The situation puzzled as much as disturbed me, as I eased over the railway bridge at Downs. How could something have suddenly “gone” without affecting the airship’s handling in any way?
[Flying Fugue? Apposite, but too contrived and repetitive. CONCENTRATE, woman! Your life’s hanging by a thread here!]
I’d already planned my landing run, and had discussed it with Mr Whybrow – at least, in as much detail as one can, when talking about an airship of unknown properties. It would involve a couple of sharp turns. As I crossed over into SouthEnd, I squinted into the distance. Yes, there was Mr Whybrow on the roof. He must have been up there all the time, smoking cigar after cigar as he waited for me.
Bearing in mind when the rattle had started, I eased into the first turn with great care, hoping that my caution on its own would warn Mr Whybrow that something was wrong. And yes, there it was. That slow rolling rumble – like a small cannonball in a dustbin, I thought.
It stopped when I straightened out again. Definitely something loose, but what? I’d kept the whole design simple, there was nothing that could roll around loose without having some effect on the handling. The mystery confirmed my suspicions by rattling again on my second turn, which would take me straight towards the shop. I could see Mr Whybrow leaning forwards, as though that would help him see better – that was good. He suspected that something was wrong, and was as mystified as I was since the airship was behaving as well to his eyes as it was to mine.
I adjusted my speed to be as slow as possible and still allow me to manoevre. The airship obeyed me perfectly as I heaved into that final turn to the landing platform, and the rattling noise appeared again. This time, I believe Mr Whybrow must have heard it, as he gave a little start before stepping back to the edge of the platform to give me room to land. Thank God he had ears like a weasel. If anybody could find the source of the incongruity, he could.
[Flying SouthEnder?No, definitely something musical – Go away, silly thought! SHUT UP AND FOCUS!]
As soon as I was roughly centred over the platform, with one eye kept on the chimney and balloon cable (“Remember, Miss – the chimney and balloon cable are not shock absorbers; hit them and you’ll burst your gasbag. Approach slowly.”) I slammed back the throttle and cut the magneto switch. The airship settled down comfortably with a minor “bomp” that didn’t even jar my spine. Before the propeller had windmilled to a stop, Mr Whybrow came running forwards, concern writ large on his face.
“Miss Bluebird? Are you all right?”
I accepted his help gladly as I heaved myself out of the gondola. “It’s developed a funny noise. It was all right until I turned south at Tamrannoch, then it started to make a sort of heavy rattle every time I turned.”
“I heard it. You’ve no idea what it might be?”
“No, sir. The airship’s been perfect throughout.”
He removed his hands from my waist where they had been sitting, unnoticed by us both. “The only thing I can think of is the engine bearers. This is why you always check them after a first flight; you never know what the vibration’s worked loose.”
He grasped the cylinders in his hands, swore loudly and flapped his singed hands about, and then settled for giving them a vengeful kick.
“Nothing wrong there at all. This machine is very soundly-built.”
“It sounded like it might be coming from inside, sir,” I offered. “But I can’t imagine what – I mean, there’s so little inside – “
Mr Whybrow had already plunged headfirst into the gondola, and returned holding up a steel cylinder with a smaller cylinder attached to its side. He held it up to the light.
“Christ! Geddown!”
In one fluid movement, he’d hurled the cylinder over the roof, looped an arm around me, and flung us both to the deck. My breath almost burst out of my ears as he held me tightly, shielding me with his body. His heartbeat drummed against me, his tobacco-breath curiously enchanting as it washed over me (so he had been working on the cigars while waiting), and with my whole body tensed, I pressed back into him, and -
Nothing happened.
A familiar clopping of hooves and trundling of wheels went past below us; Mr Gongfermer making his rounds with cart, shovel and the loyal Ploppy in attendance. Mr Whybrow raised himself, we gazed curiously into each others’ eyes, and –
FTOOM!
Reflexively, I burrowed into Mr Whybrow’s waistcoat as he clasped me in a death grip. From below, a dull explosion erupted, descanted by a cry of panic and a shrilling of a terrified horse. Great lumps of something soft and heavy splatted over half the district; Mr Whybrow spread his hand over the back of my head until the cascading had subsided with a diminuendo of muffled thuds.
Silence.
Mr Whybrow let me raise my head, to gaze into his eyes which showed concern more for me than anything else in the world.
“Are you all right?” he murmured.
At first I thought I’d been partly deafened, but he was only speaking quietly so as not to startle me. “Yes, thank you sir. And – thank you,” I added, feeling slightly foolish at my clumsiness. “That was a bomb?”
He was about to reply, but a yell came up from the street. Carefully, we both peered over. Mr Gongfermer clearly had a vague idea of what had happened, but not the direction from whence it had come. His rage carried right across SouthEnd as he glanced about to all points of the compass, searching for his mystery assailant while simultaneously trying to calm Ploppy.
“Who be the scaindrel a-playin’ jokes on an honest wurkin’ maan, ‘n’ disarrangin’ all moy lovely tords?”
I don’t know if it was the hilarity of the situation, or nervous aftershock, but I fell into Mr Whybrow’s arms, burying my helpless mirth in his chest. And from the way he shuddered, he was similarly disadvantaged. His murmur carried into my ear.
“Look on the bright side. Think of all the windows that didn’t get broken.”
“Well, this time he can shovel it up himself,” I smirked. Actually, I was glad that Mr Gongfermer had become an unintended victim. It had defused a situation that had become doubly awkward; without his influence, I’d have been raised on one elbow, gazing into Mr Whybrow’s eyes, stuck with indecision as to whether the occasion justified a kiss.
“How did that get there?” he asked. “I went over that airship from stem to stern before you took off.”
Mr Gongfermer’s cursing, and the scraping of his shovel as he replaced his lovely – ah, items, was a welcome distraction that gave me the courage to answer truthfully about my short stop at Llyr.
Mr Whybrow clambered to his feet and helped me up. “There was a length of twine in there as well; she must have tied it on with a granny knot. Everything’s all right now. Let’s head below.”
Coda – piu tranquillo
He took me down to his office and poured us both a glass of brandy before speaking. The delayed shock started to set in; I sloshed half the first mouthful around my face. If I’d known what I’d been sitting on up there -
“That was a time fuse,” Mr Whybrow explained. “You won’t have gone up high enough for the pressure to break it; it must have been a cheap action damaged by the engine’s vibration. The impact with Gongfermer’s cargo jolted the firing pin loose. If they’d used a barometric fuse you wouldn’t be here.”
“Barometric, sir?”
“They work on atmospheric pressure; pre-set to go off at the desired altitude. They’re being adopted by the army to bring down balloons.” He then looked at me sternly. “You realise that fuse could just as easily have failed and worked? Either way, you’d have been scattered all over Caledon.”
A cold flush rushed up my face. I thought for a moment that I was going to faint. I could do nothing to stop it. I felt the world start to sway, but before I could fall, I found myself buried in Mr Whybrow’s cravat again, held firmly but carefully against the security of his chest.
“They won’t try that again” he purred softly into my ear. “She must have thought you wouldn’t bother checking the airship again after we found they’d loosened the cables.”
Relaxing, I was able to think once more, but did not pull out of his embrace. It seemed like the one thing I could count on. “But how did they know where I was going?”
“You were followed,” he told me. “This is one problem with airships. They can see you from the ground, when you can’t see them. Even if someone isn’t trying to hide from you, you’re still blind immediately below. Now, get that inside you.”
He raised my glass to my lips; I swallowed before I was ready and coughed.
“Take your time and help yourself to cigars,” he told me, with a smile that did more to put me at ease than any amount of brandy could have. “I’ll go and re-torque your engine mountings.”
“Sir, wait – I presume you were all right during my absence?”
He hesitated, as if about to begin with, “Apart from worrying about you?” “I was, but those two are giving me ideas which I don’t like. They’re too determined for it to be mere revenge. They must have another motive.”
“Their smuggling, sir?”
“Aye. I’ve got a feeling that the stash we discovered was only a part of something bigger. Something that they’ve invested too much in, just to abandon. Oh, and next time, don’t go out without your revolver. Left it behind, didn’t you?”
I could only grin sheepishly. “That did occur to me while I was out, sir.”
Postludium – a piacere
I was left alone in the office, coming to terms in my own time with another narrow escape. All right, I couldn’t count on a sympathetic master’s clasp every time something went wrong. And under other circumstances, I’d have been reliving those embraces, were I not too shaken to do so. But the fact was, that I’d got away with it again, and was glad of that. Mr Gongfermer’s excoriations were only faint, through two walls, as I decided how to proceed.
I had to get out in the airship again, sooner rather than later. If you fall off a horse, you get back on, yes? And provided I was diligent, there would be no further bombs or unfortunate accidents. And there was the eminiently practical point that I would be far more useful now, as I’d be able to deliver to every part of Caledon, not just those accessible by road or rail.
I sighed, looking about for means of occupying myself for the rest of the day. It would have been nice to have returned, able to tell Mr Whybrow that my airship now had a name; that was so important. A name didn’t just give a machine character, it gave it A character. I’d be working with it as closely as any human assistant; it deserved a name. Oooh, it was driving me potty! Pink Prelude – nahh, that was meaningless! Unless I wanted to imply that I’d be crashing it shortly and building another. Waltzing Welkin – Bleurgh! That’s for the penny dreadfuls. No, it was definitely something musical! Arrgh!
In the corner of my eye, something moved. I spun round, simultaneously trying to analyse the threat and wonder if I could reach my revolver in time. But it was only Harry, clambering onto the top of Mr Whybrow’s desk. And if I wasn’t close to tears before, I was then. He was bearing a little daisy in his fangs. Diffidently, he lumbered across the desktop towards me one step at a time, as though anxious not to scare me.
Seeing that I was too afraid to approach him, he put the flower down and backed away. He dipped his head in a nod, and scuttled off. That damned lump in the throat choked me again as I called after him, “Thank you, Harry.”
He gave no sign to suggest that he’d even heard me, far less understood, but I was certain that he’d done both.
I bit my lip as I tucked Harry’s little gift in the ruffle of my blouse. Nobody had ever given me flowers before. Mr Whybrow, please take note.
Well, that was a day like absolutely no other. The airship was a part of The Establishment, although it still had no name. As the day’s climaxes were over, I fell into a sort of mental anticlimax with everything swirling around like one of those What-The-Butler-Saw machines cranked by a madman. Thus, the one problem remaining had full opportunity to ride me like a mental incubus. What on earth was I going to call the wretched contraption?
I was certain that the musical connection was correct. I knew it had its origin in something Mr Whybrow had been saying, recently. Pink Partita? Don’t be silly, Shopgirl! That sounds like a type of French underwear. Flying Fantasia? That was just corny! It was my conveyance, not bloody pantomime!
I was getting nowhere. However, it was late in the day; I was certain that Mr Whybrow couldn’t possibly expect me to get any work done now, and after all that grunting, straining and general heaving and gritting of teeth, I badly needed a bath. Naturally, I asked his permission to leave, via the Lamson.
“Sir – may I go home now? I need to freshen up before the seagulls drop dead.”
He was probably doing what I had in mind for myself. I had to wait a little for his reply. I believe my prediction to have been correct; the paper was wet about the edges.
“You didn’t go back to work, did you? Lock the safe and go home! Sleep well. P.S. congratulations. I’m very proud of you.”
His post script was, for him, extravagant. I smiled at the tatty sheet of paper and whispered, “Thank you, sir.”
I ran a tub that was generous, but not too hot. I was more in the mood to be invigorated than softened. I sat there dwelling on my quandary. Sky Symphony? Too pretentious. Definitely something musical, though.
Something else came to mind. A certain ancient Greek gentleman who had solved a long-standing problem of his own in his bathtub by discovering that a table-tennis ball floated in it, whereupon he had run into the street proclaiming his triumph, wearing – well, just his triumph. That’s the version I was taught anyway. Did they actually have table tennis in those days?
Oh Good Gawd. Stone the crows and knock me dahn wiv a fevver.
That was it.
Yes! Of course. Mr Whybrow had been explaining about certain musical forms, and it occurred to me that one in particular fit somewhat loosely the events of the day.
That sudden resolution shot a horse doctor’s bolt of adrenalin into my veins with a .577 calibre needle. The snow lay thick and it was almost midnight. But I didn’t care if all of Caledon was camped outside in a blizzard as I ran into the street yelling at the top of my voice.
“That’s it! The Silk Sonata!”
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