Читать книгу Girl with Wings - Jennifer Bradley - Страница 7

Chapter One

Jessica

Narromine 1929

It was the sudden silence. The background burr of the engine, as the plane climbed, had stopped without warning, leaving a kind of after sound in the air, a dark hum. Jessica climbed off her bicycle and looked across at the airstrip, then upwards until she found the plane.

She squinted, hand across her eyes to keep the glare from blinding her. She recognised it as Mr Grahame’s Gipsy Moth, with his wife’s name painted on the body and stripes across the wings. She had seen it on the ground and thought it was the most beautiful thing ever. One day, she told herself, she was going to fly in it. She would soar above the clouds and look down on the fields and rivers, on the town of Narromine and the houses, on her own home. She had admired the care with which Mr Grahame polished it and cleaned the engine, changing plugs, wiping off oil, checking the wings and the struts, keeping it as bright as new.

Jessica Mackay always set out early for school, so she would have time to watch the planes taking off or landing from the airstrip. She liked to identify them and their pilots and then guess where they were going or coming from. Sometimes she saw a new plane, or a new model, and she would quickly write down what she could remember before she got to school where everything was driven from her mind by the need to learn history or a poem.

Today, however, she simply had to stop. She was used to the way engine beats sounded during takeoff, loud and often closer together as the pilot built up the speed to rise up into the sky. Today, she had been expecting this sound, so the hush scared her, kept her staring up at the Moth, urging the engine to catch, the pilot to get it revving. If he didn’t, the plane would fall out of the sky, spin into a crash landing, or more likely, simply fall to bits. It took a good pilot to cope with engine failure.

The plane had already reached the wispy clouds and she had to crane her neck to follow it. It hovered against the blue, still, neither rising nor falling. But for the silence, Jessica would have been entranced. All she felt, however, was fear. Her hands clenched as she imagined herself in the pilot’s seat. If it were her, what would she do? She thought through the various controls, and her fingers itched to take charge. First she would check everything and not panic, then she would fiddle with … there her imagination failed her. She knew a little bit about aeroplane controls and engines, but not enough. She had no idea what many of the bits were called or what they did. Her dad knew more, but so far, he’d only taught her about the aeroplanes themselves, not their insides.

If she were to become a pilot, then she would have to learn all that. If … ! The idea tumbled into her thoughts, without her realising where it came from. But it was a thought she knew had been living in the back of her mind for a long time. It was a thought she felt comfortable with, an idea that was just right. Jessica gulped and then giggled. She’d think about that when the Moth was all right. Now it needed all her attention to get down safely. That thought made her giggle even more. She was only watching, for goodness sake — there was no way she could help — but standing there, holding her breath and hoping seemed necessary to her. She knew it was silly, but she also knew how she would feel if the plane crashed after she had turned her back. So she stood, hands tight, sometimes forgetting to breathe as she concentrated on the flimsy machine above her.

The silence continued. It seemed to last for years. The biplane’s left wing dipped and then the Moth began to glide downwards. Slowly, very slowly, it slid beneath the clouds. Still in silence. Jessica imagined the panic of the pilot as he checked everything and then began to move dials, switch switches, and fiddlewith the joystick, feet pushing at the rudder. The plane sank lower. Jessica was sure it would crash and only skill — or a miracle — would keep it from becoming a wreck. Or worse. For a moment, the picture of a fireball flashed through her mind and she shook her head firmly. That would not help. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving red crescents as they cut the skin, but she did not notice. All her attention was on the sky, watching the plane and willing its engine to catch, to make the hiccough and then the roar that meant it was healthy and climbing.

It continued to drift downwards, then sideways in a slither. Soon she would be able to see the pilot and by that time the plane would have no chance of lifting. Its only chance then would be a controlled slide onto the ground. This would wreck wings probably and make a mess of the body, but they would mend. If the pilot couldn’t control the slide there would be nothing to fix. She held her breath, heart racing with fear.

Then she heard a tiny cough. It was so soft she was not sure if she had imagined it. She strained her ears. After another century, a second cough. This time she was certain. It was not imagination. The engine was beginning to catch. But then nothing happened. Only silence. Jessica’s hands hurt and she tasted blood on her lip. But she remained, watching. Whatever happened she had to see the end of this.