‘Good. I’ll see you later when the plane has stopped climbing. The pilot is usually free for a while then.’
By the time Mitch had told Claire and Aimée about Canada; what the weather would be like when they arrived, how beautiful the Fall is, and how it snows for several months in the winter, the stewardess had returned.
‘Captain Duval, the pilot, is free now, Aimée.’ Wide-eyed, Aimée looked from her father to her mother. Both nodded and she scrambled out of her seat.
The stewardess brought Aimée back in time for the evening meal. She chatted on about the dials and buttons, how she had sat in the co-pilot’s seat and driven the aeroplane. She was so excited with the experience, she told the stewardess who came to take their evening meal order. She stood and listened patiently, although she must have heard the story hundreds of times before, Claire thought.
When Aimée had finished chattering, Mitch ordered Canadian bacon with asparagus and sliced tomatoes, French fries and a bread roll, followed by pancakes and maple syrup.
‘The same for me, please,’ Aimée said.
‘I don’t think you’d like the bacon, honey. It isn’t like the bacon we have at home in England. Why don’t you have junior roast chicken and fries?’ Aimée said okay - so long as she could have tomato sauce on her fries.
‘Ketchup,’ Mitch explained. ‘Honey?’ He passed the menu to Claire.
‘I’d like roast beef,’ she said, ‘and apple pie and custard for dessert.’
‘All the trimmings with the beef, Madam?’
Claire glanced down the menu and read: Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, carrots, peas and gravy. ‘Yes, please,’ she said, ‘and a glass of red wine.’
‘Make that two wines, and…’ Mitch looked at Aimée. ‘Cola for you, sweetheart?’
Aimée nodded. ‘And chocolate,’ she said, ‘for pudding.’
‘I think an apple would be better after your dinner,’ Claire said. Aimée stuck out her bottom lip.
‘I know,’ the stewardess said, ‘we have some juicy red grapes.’ Aimée said yes to the grapes and, happy with the compromise, sat back in her seat and looked out of the window.
‘Grapes?’ Claire laughed. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a grape.’
‘Nor me.’
‘The luxury of flying, a poster in the departure lounge called this airline.’
‘And it sure is. There’s no rationing on this flight.’
‘Is food still rationed in Canada like it is in England?’ Claire asked.
‘No. In the summer of forty-seven, the government took dairy products off the ration list. Canada’s a big country with a good climate for farming. We grow oats, wheat, barley, every kind of vegetable, and we breed cattle. Now we don’t send as much food overseas we’re living better.’
While they ate their meal, stewardesses walked up and down the aisle topping up passengers’ glasses with wine and soft drinks. When they had finished eating they brought round newspapers. Mitch chose the Montréal Gazette. Claire a Canadian magazine called, Chatelaine, and Aimée couldn’t make up her mind between Girls Magazine and a copy of Calling All Girls, an American magazine that had been left behind on an earlier flight. She chose Calling All Girls because it had a picture of seventeen-year-old movie star Elizabeth Taylor on the cover, saying it was more grown up. She put it on the seat next to her with her drawing pad and crayons, leaned back and yawned.
‘Are you tired, honey?’ Mitch asked. Aimée shook her head.
‘Are we nearly there, Daddy?’
‘No, we have a way to go yet. Hey? Why don’t you lie down for a while and close your eyes? Have a nap and when you wake up we’ll be almost there. What do you say?’ Aimée nodded, kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs underneath her. Mitch got to his feet, opened the overhead locker and took out a pillow and a blanket. Sitting down again, he plumped up the pillow and laid it across his knees. Aimée stretched out with her head on her father’s lap and her feet beneath the window.
Claire lowered her magazine and watched the two people she loved most in the world making themselves comfortable. When Aimée stopped wriggling, Mitch tucked the blanket around her and picked up his Gazette.
Claire continued to read her magazine until Mitch put down his newspaper. She reached up and put out the overhead light. When she had settled, Mitch took hold of her hand and they spoke quietly while their daughter slept.
‘Are you looking forward to your new job at St. Hubert?’ Claire asked.
‘Yes. There aren’t any rookie pilots to train now, it’s all pretty much intelligence work.’ A sad smile crossed her husband’s face.
‘What is it?’
‘I was thinking about when I was training rookies before the war. It seems like a lifetime ago. It is a lifetime ago,’ he sighed. ‘I wish I’d been in Canada when Avro designed the XC-100 - jet fighter in forty-six. I saw the plans when I was back last year. Boy, the XC-100 Canuk is some aircraft. Commander Landry told me she is ready to fly. You never know, I may get lucky and get to go up in her.’ Claire hoped not. Too many test pilots had been killed during the war. St. Hubert’s was Defence Command Headquarters, half airport half base, with the hub of RCAF intelligence based there.
A frown crept across Mitch’s face, the lines on the bridge of his nose deepening. ‘I wonder what the treatment at the Louis Bertrand Hospital will be like? I shall have to juggle work and hospital visits. Thank God I’m only a day patient.’
‘We’ll know more when you’ve had your initial assessment.’
‘Do you think I’m mad, Claire?’
‘Of course not, darling.’ Shell shock had affected thousands of servicemen who saw or experienced terrible things in the war. She squeezed his hand. ‘You’re one of the lucky ones. You’re going to have treatment to deal
