A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (13 page)

Wren had been wrong. Taffy’s Folly stood on Bodmin Moor, in Cornwall. Not quite the moon, but almost Land’s End. Thank God for Google, Rhyllann thought. A little part of his mind noted the latitude and longitude as he murmured to himself.

“Taffy’s Folly. This impressive monolith is supposedly haunted by the spirit of a lady in exile. According to legend, she watches from this vantage point, longing for her husband to realise that the whispers against her honour are without truth, and ride to her rescue. Some speculate the lady in question is Gwenivere, awaiting King Arthur.”

Wren dug him in the ribs. ‘Joan. Waiting for Llwellynn! Finished?’ Without waiting for a reply, he googled travel information.

‘Grief – Look at the train fares – We’ve only got eighty quid left. We’ll have to go by coach.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ Rhyllann glanced around the library, his gaze skirting the group of pensioners noisily playing cards. The flat screen telly caught his attention. 24 hour news played silently. Rhyllann watched idly, then froze as an image of gran’s swollen face filled the screen.

‘Jesus – Wren!’

‘If only we had a credit card – 10 per cent off for on line bookings.’

Rhyllann thumped him. ‘Look!’

Wren’s head jerked up – in time to catch his own face being replaced by Rhyllann looking angelic for once in the annual school photo. He read outloud from the subtitles.

‘Police have taken the unusual step of issuing photographs of two school children they are anxious to trace. Oh my god. Annie.’

Earlier, buoyed up by his success, Wren had taken charge again. Using nail scissors he hacked at Rhyllann’s hair, ignoring the protests. Water and dust combined to make their hair spike up in a nod to fashion. Wren’s had turned a reddish blond, Rhyllann’s a dull brown. Wren insisted on cutting through the plaster cast on his foot, and dumping the crutch saying that air cushioned trainers would be just as supportive. Some second hand clothes from Oxfam added to their altered appearance. Taking a tube train to the end of the line, they found themselves in the genteel suburb of Ruislip. Now Wren crumpled. This wasn’t fair. Rhyllann yanked him from the computer station.

‘C’mon. Quick.’

They were on the run again.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Call Crombie. Let’s turn ourselves in.’ Wren had started limping again.

A vision of Crombie’s crocodile smile prompted Rhyllann to snort.

'No way. You sit here. I’ll get us something to eat. You’ll come up with a plan. I know you can do it.’ he spoke positively. Adding ‘You’ve done the hard part!’

They were at a crematorium on the outskirts of town. Rhyllann left Wren in the park like cemetery to jog back to a garage they’d passed earlier. His neck felt naked and exposed; in somebody else’s discarded clothes he felt less Rhyllannish. He’d shed a skin. It felt strange, a little frightening, but exhilarating too.

The garage perched at the top of a steep hill. Rhyllann stocked up with sandwiches, snacks and drinks. On impulse, he pulled a map of the British Isles from a bargain bin, thinking it might come in handy. At least it was down hill from here. He paused to admire the view. The town lay behind him; in front, fields and woodlands. He let go a whoop as he recognised the landscape. Shouldering his bag, he sprinted back down the hill to Wren.

‘Sorry Annie – I’ve been wracking my brains – but I just can’t come up with anything. Apart from walking.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘We might get there for the autumn equinox!’

Rhyllann handed over a sandwich, peeling another from its pouch for himself, dancing from foot to foot.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got it. I am a genius.’

Flopping on the grass next to Wren, he explained his plan between mouthfuls.

Wren stared at him. ‘You think we can just walk into Denman aerodrome, and steal a plane? Are you mad? Did you keep your brains in your hair?’

Rhyllann grinned: Just the reaction he’d expected. Not everyone could share his vision.

‘Yep. It’s a banging idea! I am a genius!’ And set to work convincing Wren that gaining his blue wings on a cadets’ gliding course qualified him to pilot a plane into Cornwall.

‘At least if we crash, we’ll only be killing ourselves.’ He finished.

‘But you flew gliders.’ Wren protested.

‘Powered gliders. Hardly any difference.’

‘But you’ve never gone solo.’ A sore point with Rhyllann.

‘I won’t be solo. I’ll have you.’

Wren fell silent. Probably thinking that they’d be caught before they even took off.

The silence grew. ‘Say something!’ Rhyllann urged.

Wren raised troubled eyes to him. ‘Will we have parachutes?’ He asked tentatively. Laughing outloud Rhyllann threw his arms round him, then jumped up to cartwheel around the crem.

*

They risked a bus ride into Denman village. Rhyllann had never been there before; the cadets’ mini-bus had taken a different route to the aerodrome, a mainly private affair just outside the affluent village. Two or three, sometimes four small planes circled above them. They walked in the general direction of the planes’ take offs and landings.

Wren’s misgivings faded in the bright sunshine. He walked with only the slightest limp through country lanes, pointing out kestrels, damselflies and rabbits until Rhyllann told him to shut up. Not that he didn’t appreciate nature; it just seemed a bit girly to go into raptures over a butterfly.

Three ponies hung their heads over a gate, Wren stopped to chat and stroke them. Yet another girly thing Wren enjoyed. Every weekend he traipsed out to Epping common to muck out stables just for the chance to bounce around on some old nag’s back. Gran and Rhyllann were united in their disapproval of this activity.

‘You should get danger money brawd.’ Rhyllann advised one weekend, watching his cousin schooling yet another bolshy overfed under-worked pony. But Wren just smiled and carried on travelling out to Epping.

Rhyllann’s stomach fluttered as Denman Aerodrome came into view. Wren ducked as a plane droned over them, dropping out the skies to skim the perimeter hedge. They watched it landing gracefully, then lurch along the runway.

‘Oh my god. It’s much bigger than I expected.’ Wren sounded awestruck. Rhyllann grinned – nothing prepared you for the first time. The noise, the controlled power, the nonchalant way the planes swung into the air to leave the ground behind. And the amazing part was, it was like this every time. He kept waiting for the excitement to fade, but it never did. Every atom of his being tingled at the closeness of the gravity defying machines. They watched as another plane taxied round the main field, which could have held forty rugby pitches easily. As it trundled along it seemed impossible it would ever leave the ground. Turning into the long tarmac stretch, with an increase of engine noise it picked up speed. The air billowed under the fixed wings, the front strained upwards, the aircraft seemed to judder; then bounce, and suddenly it was airborne. Wren’s head tilted right back as the plane curled a semi circle, then soared away. Turning a shining face to Rhyllann he said

‘And you think you can do that?’

Rhyllann nodded. ‘I know I can!’

Finding a vantage point, they spent the afternoon watching planes take off and land. Rhyllann pointed out the windsock, hanger, and behind that the control tower. As a raw recruit to the air cadets he had won the yearly cup awarded to the “Most Zealous Cadet”, much to his embarrassment and his friends’ amusement. He was the youngest sergeant in the history of his squadron. Over the past two years he’d attended every camp, and flown in just about every single and twin prop light aeroplane imaginable. He named each plane as it passed overhead, adding its specification. Soon Wren recognised them too.

I should have brought him here before, Rhyllann thought. Or made him join the air cadets anyway. Wren’s enthusiasm matched his own, he asked endless questions, thrilled for some reason to discover that speed was measured in knots. Rhyllann knew this subject inside out, and answered patiently, enjoying his new role as teacher. Studying the map, they plotted their route into Cornwall, Wren making a list of landmarks they should pass over on their journey. With Rhyllann’s input he calculated the time scale, and devised a respectable itinerary.

Eventually the sun began to set, shimmering reds and golds lingered on the horizon, promising another perfect day tomorrow. Helicopter blades whipped over head as the air ambulance landed. The flurry of activity slowed. Car headlights gleamed as staff headed home for the night.

‘What now – do we break in?’

Rhyllann stretched; feeling joints in his arm popping. ‘Starving aren’t you? No. I can’t fly at night. We’ll need those landmarks. Cornwall’s what – 300 miles South West? If I’m only a few degrees off course god knows where we’ll end up. We’ll break in just before sunrise, we need to wheel out one of those babies, fuel up – then upwards and onwards!’

‘We can’t do anything till tomorrow? Where are we going to sleep?’ Wren massaged his lower calf, just above his damaged foot as he spoke.

Rhyllann shrugged. ‘Here.’

‘Oh no. I’m not sleeping out in the open. At least let’s get back to those stables we passed. There’s bound to be a barn or shed.’

So they trudged back towards Denman village. Curious ponies rushed over to surround them as they vaulted into the field, following them up to the stable yard.

‘Why aren’t the horses in the stables?’ Rhyllann asked, scrunching his shoulder against a whiskery muzzle nuzzling his neck.

‘Ponies. Not horses. It’s a warm enough night. Ponies are pretty hardy – if they were going to a show or something tomorrow they’d bring them in – but otherwise they’re better off outside. In fact …’

Rhyllann told him to can the lecture. He wasn’t that interested.

******

At least they didn’t have any problems waking up. Straw wasn’t nearly as comfortable to sleep on as it looked.

But they weren’t early enough.

‘Hell! We should have taken turns staying awake.’ Rhyllann said, glaring at the activity on the other side of the hedge. They were pulling planes from the hanger. Three and sometimes four men to each aircraft.

‘I don’t think we could have managed anyway.’

Rhyllann didn’t answer. His glorious plan dashed before it even got off the ground. He counted six aircraft lined up all ready for their pilots to take to the air. Probably commuter planes for high flying yuppies. If only he could somehow get over there – clamber aboard one of them. That one there would do nicely, he thought eyeing the useful looking Apache two seater.

They needed a diversion of some kind.

‘What we need is a diversion of some kind.’ Wren said.

Rhyllann looked at him in surprise. ‘Brawd – I was just thinking the same thing.’ They were laying on their stomachs again, under a hedge, sharing the last bottle of squash. Swigging back a mouthful of orange juice Rhyllann continued to survey Wren waiting for the next suggestion.

‘If that diversion could happen as one of those planes is primed ready for take off, after permission’s been given from control.’ He prompted.

Wren began wriggling backwards out of the hedge. ‘Come with me. I’ve got an idea.’

Rhyllann followed, hoping it didn’t involve him pretending to be a woman again.

They were back at their vantage point. Only this time they had company. Wren held the reins of the liveliest pony in the field. It had taken twenty minutes to catch the nimble piebald. By the time they returned, only two planes still waited for take off. Rhyllann held his breath as one of them began taxiing to the top of the field, halting almost opposite them as it began its ungainly turn away from them onto the tarmac runway which ran the length of the field.

‘Here brawd – when it's in position here – start your show.’

Wren nodded. ‘Don’t wait for me. When the plane’s at that corner you set off.’

Rhyllann gave him a leg up, the pony dancing on the spot as Wren swung his leg over its back. Once Wren placed his toes in the stirrups, the animal seemed to quieten. Rhyllann put it down to an overactive imagination, but the pony seemed to be waiting for further instructions, as though thinking to itself “well this is different and might even be fun.” Turning the pony on a pinhead, Wren trotted off along the verge. Head up, his back ramrod straight, hands and heels down, almost merging with the pony.

Draping his bag across his back Rhyllann wriggled through the hedge into the field. The early morning rush hour over, the grounds’ people had sloped off for breakfast. Even so he felt exposed and worried he could have set off an unseen alarm. His ears strained, listening for an angry shout or worse still a siren. Instead, hearing an engine catch Rhyllann raised his head – yes. The plane he’d earmarked began its run up. In position! In position! he told himself. Don’t wait for Wren. They had one chance and one chance only. He needed to be at the start of the tarmac yet still undercover. Keeping close to the hedge, he waddled forward in a swift duck walk, dropping to the ground as the plane passed him, too soon. Hell! He’d never get there in time, any moment now he'd be spotted, and this was the stupidest plan in the world and he wanted to go home. The next moment all hell broke loose. Wren came galloping into the take off zone screaming and clutching at the pony’s black and white mane for dear life. Making a bee line for the tarmac strip its hooves clattered and slid as it whirled frantically, tossing its head and neighing loudly.

Wren screamed above the engine noise for someone to help him. In front of Rhyllann, the aircraft slowed then halted at the corner of the runway. A head appeared – a hand waved.