Night Over Water

Nancy retrieved her small overnight case from the stack of luggage. In it she had her essential toiletries, makeup and a change of underwear. She opened a suitcase and found a clean blouse for tomorrow morning, in plain navy blue silk, and a nightdress and bathrobe. Over her arm she carried a light gray cashmere coat, which she had intended to wear on deck if the wind was cold. She decided to keep it with her now: she might need it to keep warm in the plane.

She closed up her bags.

“Your bill, Mrs. Lenehan.”

She scribbled a check and handed it over with a tip.

“Very kind of you, Mrs. Lenehan. The taxi is waiting.”

She hurried outside and climbed into a cramped little British car. The porter put her overnight case on the seat beside her and gave instructions to the driver. Nancy added: “And go as fast as you can!”

The car went infuriatingly slowly through the city center. She tapped the toe of her gray suede shoe impatiently. The delay was caused by men painting white lines down the middle of the road, on the curbs and around roadside trees. She wondered irritably what their purpose was; then she figured out the lines were to help motorists in the blackout.

The taxi picked up speed as it wound through the suburbs and headed into the country. Here she saw no preparations for war. The Germans would not bomb fields, unless by accident. She kept looking at her watch. It was already twelve thirty. If she found an airplane, and a pilot, and persuaded him to take her, and negotiated a fee, all without delay, she might take off by one o’clock. Two hours’ flight, the porter had said. She would land at three. Then, of course, she would have to find her way from the airfield to Foynes. But that should not be too great a distance. She might well arrive with time to spare. Would there be a car to take her to the dockside? She tried to calm herself. There was no point in worrying that far ahead.

It occurred to her that the Clipper might be full: all the ships were.

She put the thought out of her mind.

She was about to ask her driver how much farther they had to go when, to her grateful relief, he abruptly turned off the road and steered through an open gate into a field. As the car bumped over the grass Nancy saw ahead of her a small hangar. All around it, small brightly colored planes were tethered to the green turf, like a collection of butterflies on a velvet cloth. There was no shortage of aircraft, she noted with satisfaction. But she needed a pilot too, and there seemed to be no one about.

The driver took her up to the big door of the hangar.

“Wait for me, please,” she said as she jumped out. She did not want to get stranded.

She hurried into the hangar. There were three planes inside but no people. She went out into the sunshine again. Surely the place could not be unattended, she thought anxiously. There had to be someone around; otherwise the door would be locked. She walked around the hangar to the back, and there at last she saw three men standing by a plane.

The aircraft itself was ravishing. It was painted canary yellow all over, with little yellow wheels that made Nancy think of toy cars. It was a biplane, its upper and lower wings joined by wires and struts, and it had a single engine in the nose. It sat there with its propeller in the air and its tail on the ground like a puppy begging to be taken for a walk.

It was being fueled. A man in oily blue overalls and a cloth cap was standing on a stepladder pouring petrol from a can into a bulge on the wing over the front seat. On the ground was a tall, good-looking man of about Nancy’s age wearing a flying helmet and a leather jacket. He was deep in conversation with a man in a tweed suit.

Nancy coughed and said: “Excuse me.”

The two men glanced at her but the tall man continued speaking and they both looked away.

That was not a good start.

Nancy said: “I’m sorry to bother you. I want to charter a plane.”

The tall man interrupted his conversation to say: “Can’t help you.”

“It’s an emergency,” Nancy said.

“I’m not a bloody taxi driver,” the man said, and turned away again.

Nancy was angered sufficiently to say: “Why do you have to be so rude?”

That got his attention. He turned an interested, quizzical look at her, and she noticed that he had arched black eyebrows. “I didn’t intend to be rude,” he said mildly. “But my plane isn’t for hire, nor am I.”

Desperately, she said: “Please don’t be offended, but if it’s a matter of money, I’ll pay a high price—”

He was offended: his expression froze and he turned away.

Nancy observed that there was a chalk-striped dark gray suit under the leather jacket, and the man’s black Oxford shoes were the genuine article, not inexpensive imitations such as Nancy made. He was obviously a wealthy businessman who flew his own plane for pleasure.

“Is there anybody else, then?” she said.

The mechanic looked up from the fuel tank and shook his head. “Nobody about today,” he said.

The tall man said to his companion: “I’m not in business to lose money. You tell Seward that what he’s getting paid is the rate for the job.”

“The trouble is, he has got a point, you know,” said the one in the tweed suit.

“I know that. Say we’ll negotiate a higher rate for the next job.”

“That may not satisfy him.”

“In that case he can get his cards and bugger off.”

Nancy wanted to scream with frustration. Here was a perfectly good plane and a pilot, and nothing she said would make them take her where she needed to go. Close to tears, she said: “I just have to get to Foynes!”

The tall man turned around again. “Did you say Foynes?”

“Yes—”

“Why?”

At least she had succeeded in engaging him in conversation. “I’m trying to catch up with the Pan American Clipper.”

“That’s funny,” he said. “So am I.”

Her hopes lifted again. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You’re going to Foynes?”

“Aye.” He looked grim. “I’m chasing my wife.”

It was an odd thing to say, she noticed, even though she was so wrought up: a man who would confess to that was either very weak or very self-assured. She looked at his plane. There appeared to be two cockpits, one behind the other. “Are there two seats in your plane?” she asked with trepidation.

He looked her up and down. “Aye,” he said. “Two seats.”

“Please take me with you.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Why not?”

She wanted to faint with relief. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “I’m so grateful.”

“Don’t mention it.” He stuck out a big hand. “Mervyn Lovesey. How do you do?”

She shook hands. “Nancy Lenehan,” she replied. “Am I pleased to meet you.”

Eddie eventually realized he needed to talk to someone.

It would have to be someone he could trust absolutely; someone who would keep the whole thing secret.

The only person he discussed this kind of thing with was Carol-Ann, She was his confidante. He would not even have discussed it with Pop when Pop was alive: he never liked to show weakness to his father. Was there anyone he could trust?

He considered Captain Baker. Marvin Baker was just the kind of pilot that passengers liked: good-looking, square-jawed, confident and assertive. Eddie respected him and liked him, too. But Baker’s loyalty was to the plane and the safety of the passengers, and he was a stickler for the rules. He would insist on going straight to the police with this story. He was no use.

Anyone else?

Yes. There was Steve Appleby.

Steve was a Lumberjack’s son from Oregon, a tall boy with muscles as hard as wood, a Catholic