to shave his upper lip.
They are giving three to one that you and the major take them both with no butcher's bill. Michael wiped the razor while he considered the odds.
The sergeant rigger who ran the betting had operated his own book at Ascot and Aintree before the war. He had decided that there was one chance in three that either Andrew or Michael, or both of them, would be dead by noon, no butcher's bill, no casualties.
Bit steep, don't you think, Biggs? Michael asked. I mean, both of them, damn it? I've put half a crack on you, sir, Biggs demurred.
Good on you, Biggs, put on a fiver for me. He pointed to the sovereign case that lay beside his watch, and Biggs pressed out five gold coins and pocketed them. Michael always bet on himself. It was a racing certainty: if he lost the bet, it wasn't going to hurt much, anyway.
Biggs warmed Michael's breeches over the chimney of the lamp and then held them while Michael dived out from under the blankets into them. He stuffed his nightshirt into the breeches while Biggs went on with the complicated procedure of dressing his man against the killing cold of flight in an open cockpit. There followed a silk vest over the nightshirt, two cable-stitched woollen fisherman's jerseys, then a leather gilet, and finally an army officer's greatcoat with the skirts cut off so that they would not tangle with the controls of the aircraft.
By this time Michael was so heavily padded that he could not bend to pull on his own footwear. Biggs knelt in front of him and snugged silk undersocks over his bare feet, then two pairs of woollen hunting socks, and finally eased on the tall boots of tanned kudu skin that Michael had had made inAfrica. Through their soft, pliable soles, Billy Michael had touch and feel on the rudder bars. When he stood up, his lean muscular body was dumpy and shapeless under the burden of clothing, and his arms stuck out like the wings of a penguin. Biggs held the flap of the tent open, and then lit his way along the duckboards through the orchard towards the mess.
As they passed the other darkened tents beneath the apple trees Michael heard little coughs and stirrings from each. They were all awake, listening to his footsteps pass, fearing for him, perhaps some of them cherishing their relief that it was not they who were going out against the balloons this dawn.
Michael paused for a moment as they left the orchard and looked up at the sky. The dark clouds were rolling back into the north and the stars were pricking through, but already paling out before the threat of dawn. These stars were still strange to Michael; though he could at last recognize their constellations, they were not like his beloved southern stars, the Great Cross, Achernar, Argus and the others, so he lowered his gaze and clumped after Biggs and the bobbing lantern.
The squadron mess was a ruined labourers chaurnire which they had commandeered and repainted, covering the tattered thatch with tarpaulin so that it was snug and warm.
Biggs stood aside at the doorway. I'll ave your fifteen quid winnings for you when you get back, sir, he murmured. He would never wish Michael good luck, for that was the worst of all possible luck.
There was a roaring log fire on the hearth and Major Lord Andrew Killigerran was seated before it, his booted feet crossed on the lip of the hearth, while a mess servant cleared the dirty plates.
Porridge, my boy, he removed the amber cigarette holder from between his even white teeth as he greeted Michael, with melted butter and golden syrup. Kippers poached in milk- Michael shuddered. I'll eat when we get back. His stomach, already knotted with tension, quailed at the rich smell of kippers. With the cooperation of an uncle on the general staff who arranged priority transport, Andrew kept the squadron supplied with the finest fare that his family estates in the highlands could provide, Scotch beef, grouse and salmon and venison in season, eggs and cheeses and jams, preserved fruits, and a rare and won erful single malt whisky with an unpronounceable name that came from the family-owned distillery.
Coffee for Captain Courtney, Andrew called to the mess corporal, and when it came he reached into the deep pocket of his fleece-lined flying jacket and brought out a silver flask with a big yellow cairngorm set in the stopper and poured a liberal dram into the steaming mug.
Michael held the first sip in his mouth, swirling it around, letting the fragrant spirit sting and prickle his tongue, then he swallowed and the heat hit his empty stomach and almost instantly he felt the charge of alcohol through his bloodstream.
He smiled at Andrew across the table. Magic, he whispered huskily, and blew on his fingertips.
Water of life, my boy. Michael loved this dapper little man as he had never loved another man, more than his own father, more even than his Uncle Sean who had previously been the pillar of his existence.
It had not been that way from the beginning. At first meeting, Michael had been suspicious of Andrew's extravagant, almost effeminate good looks, his long, curved eyelashes, soft, full lips, neat, small body, dainty hands and feet, and his lofty bearing.
One evening soon after his arrival on the squadron, Michael was teaching the other new chums how to play the game of Bok-Bok. Under his direction one team formed a human pyramid against a wall of the mess, while the other team attempted to collapse them by taking a full run and then hurling themselves on top of the structure. Andrew had waited for the game to end in noisy chaos and had then taken Michael aside and told him, We do understand that you hail from somewhere down there below the equator, and we do try to make allowances for you colonials. However- Their relationship had thenceforth been cool and distant, while they had watched each other shoot and fly.
As a boy, Andrew had learned to take the deflection of a red grouse, hurtling wind-driven only inches above the tops of the heather. Michael had learned the same skills on rocketing Ethiopian snipe and sand-grouse slanting on rapid wingbeat down the African sky. Both of them had been able to adapt their skills to the problem of firing a Vickers machine-gun from the unstable platform of a Sopwith Pup roaring through the three dimensions of space.
Then they watched each other fly. Flying was a gift.
Those who did not have it died during the first three weeks; those who did, lasted a little longer. After a month Michael was still alive, and Andrew spoke to him again for the first time since the evening of the game of BokBok in the mess.
Courtney, you will fly on my wing today, was all he said.
It was to have been a routine sweep down the line.
they were going to blood two new chums who had joined the squadron the day before, fresh from England with the grand total of fourteen flying hours as their combined experience, Andrew referred to them as Fokker fodder,
