Night Over Water (24 page)

Sometimes she still missed her father. He had been such a
clever
man. When there was a problem, whether it was a major business crisis such as the Depression or a little family matter like one of the boys doing poorly at school, Pa would come up with a positive, hopeful way of dealing with it. He had been very good with mechanical things, and the people who manufactured the big machines used in shoemaking would often consult him before finalizing a design. Nancy understood the production process perfectly well, but her expertise was in predicting what styles the market wanted, and since she took over the factory Black’s had made more profits from women’s shoes than from men’s. She never felt overshadowed by her father, the way Peter did; she just missed him.

Suddenly the thought that she would die seemed ridiculous and unreal. It would be like the curtain coming down before the play ended, when the leading actor was in the middle of a speech: that was simply not how things happened. For a while she felt irrationally cheerful, confident that she would live.

The plane continued to lose height, as the coast of Ireland came rapidly nearer. Soon she could see emerald fields and brown bogs. This is where the Black family originated, she thought with a little thrill.

Immediately in front of her, Mervyn Lovesey’s head and shoulders began to move, as if he was struggling with the controls; and Nancy’s mood switched again, and she started to pray. She had been raised Catholic, but she had not gone to Mass since Sean was killed; in fact the last time she had been inside a church had been for his funeral. She did not really know whether she was a believer or not, but now she prayed hard, figuring that she had nothing to lose, anyway. She said the Our Father; then she asked God to save her so that she could be around at least until Hugh got married and settled down; and so that she might see her grandchildren; and because she wanted to turn the business around and continue to employ all those men and women and make good shoes for ordinary people; and because she wanted a little happiness for herself. Her life, she felt suddenly, had been all work for too long.

She could see the white tops of the waves now. The blur of the approaching coastline resolved into surf, beach, cliff and green field. She wondered, with a shiver of fear, whether she would be able to swim to shore if the plane came down in the water. She thought of herself as a strong swimmer, but stroking happily up and down a pool was very different from surviving in the turbulent sea. The water would be bonechillingly cold. What was the word used when people died of cold? Exposure. Mrs. Lenehan’s plane came down in the Irish Sea and she died of exposure, The Boston Globe would say. She shivered inside her cashmere coat.

If the plane crashed she probably would not live to feel the temperature of the water. She wondered how fast it was traveling. It cruised at about ninety miles per hour, Lovesey had told her; but it was losing speed now. Say it was down to fifty. Sean had crashed at fifty and he had died. No, there was no point in speculating how far she could swim.

The shore came nearer. Perhaps her prayers had been answered, she thought; perhaps the plane would make landfall after all. There had been no further deterioration in the engine sound: it went on at the same high, ragged roar, with an angry tone, like the vengeful buzzing of a wounded wasp. Now she began to worry about where they would land if they did make it. Could a plane come down on a sandy beach? What about a pebble beach? A plane could land in a field, if it were not too rough; but what about a peat bog?

She would know only too soon.

The coast was now about a quarter of a mile away. She could see that the shoreline was rocky and the surf was heavy. The beach looked awfully uneven, she saw with a sinking heart: it was littered with jagged boulders. There was a low cliff rising to a stretch of moorland with a few grazing sheep. She studied the moorland. It looked smooth. There were no hedges and few trees. Perhaps the plane could land there. She did not know whether to hope for that or try to prepare herself for death.

The yellow plane struggled bravely on, still losing height. The salty smell of the sea reached Nancy’s nose. It would surely be better to come down on the water, she thought fearfully, than to try to land on that beach. Those sharp stones would tear the flimsy little plane to pieces—and her, too.

She hoped she would die quickly.

When the shore was a hundred yards away, she realized the plane was not going to hit the beach: it was still too high. Lovesey was obviously aiming at the clifftop pasture. But would he get there? They now seemed almost on a level with the clifftop, and they were still losing height. They were going to smash into the cliff. She wanted to close her eyes, but she did not dare. Instead she stared hypnotically at the cliff rushing at her.

The engine howled like a sick animal. The wind blew sea spray into Nancy’s face. The sheep on the cliff were scattering in all directions as the plane zoomed at them. Nancy gripped the rim of the cockpit so hard her hands hurt. She seemed to be flying straight at the very lip of the cliff. It came at her in a rush. We’re going to hit it, she thought; this is the end. Then a gust of wind lifted the plane a fraction, and she thought they were clear. But it dropped again. The cliff edge was going to knock the little yellow wheels off their struts, she thought. Then, with the cliff a split second away, she closed her eyes and screamed.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then there was a bump, and Nancy was thrown forward hard against her seat belt. For an instant she thought she was going to die. Then she felt the plane rise again. She stopped screaming and opened her eyes.

They were in the air still, just two or three feet above the clifftop grass. The plane bumped down again, and this time it stayed down. Nancy was shaken mercilessly as it shuddered over the uneven ground. She saw that they were headed for a patch of bramble, and realized they could yet crash; then Lovesey did something and the plane turned, avoiding the hazard. The shaking eased; they were slowing down. Nancy could hardly believe she was still alive. The plane came unsteadily to a halt.

Relief shook her like a fit. She could not stop trembling. For a moment she let herself shudder. Then she felt hysteria coming on, and got a grip on herself. “It’s over,” she said aloud. “It’s over, it’s over. I’m all right.”

In front of her, Lovesey got up and climbed out of his seat with a toolbox in his hand. Without looking at her, he jumped down and walked around to the front of the aircraft, where he opened the hood and peered in at the engine.

He might have asked me if I’m all right, Nancy thought.

In an odd way, Lovesey’s rudeness calmed her. She looked around. The sheep had returned to their grazing as if nothing had happened. Now that the engine was silent, she could hear the waves exploding on the beach. The sun was shining, but she could feel a cold, damp wind on her cheek.

She sat still for a moment. When she was sure her legs would hold her, she stood up and clambered out of the aircraft. She stood on Irish soil for the first time in her life, and felt moved almost to tears. This is where we came from, she thought, all those years ago. Oppressed by the British, persecuted by the Protestants, starved by potato blight, we crowded onto wooden ships and sailed away from our homeland to a new world.

And a very Irish way this is to come back, she thought with a grin. I almost died landing here.

That was enough sentiment. She was alive, so could she still catch the Clipper? She looked at her wristwatch. It was two fifteen. The Clipper had just taken off from Southampton. She could get to Foynes in time, if this plane could be made to fly, and if she could summon up the nerve to get back into it.

She walked around to the front of the plane. Lovesey was using a big spanner to loosen a nut. Nancy said: “Can you fix it?”

He did not look up. “Don’t know.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Don’t know.”

Clearly he had reverted to his taciturn mood. Exasperated, Nancy said: “I thought you were supposed to be an engineer.”

That stung him. He looked at her and said: “I studied mathematics and physics. My specialty is wind resistance of complex curves. I’m not a bloody motor mechanic!”

“Then maybe we should fetch a motor mechanic.”

“You won’t find one in bloody Ireland. This country is still in the stone age.”

“Only because the people have been trodden down by the brutal British for so many centuries!”

He withdrew his head from the engine and stood upright. “How the hell did we get onto politics?”

“You haven’t even asked me if I’m all right.”

“I can see you’re all right.”

“You nearly killed me!”

“I saved your life.”

The man was impossible.

She looked around the horizon. About a quarter of a mile away was a line of hedge or wall that might border a road, and a little farther she could see several low thatched roofs in a cluster. Maybe she could get a car and drive to Foynes. “Where are we?” she said. “And don’t tell me you don’t know!”

He grinned. It was the second or third time he had surprised her by not being as bad-tempered as he seemed. “I think we’re a few miles outside Dublin.”

She decided she was not going to stand here and watch him fiddle with the engine. “I’m going to get help.”

He looked at her feet. “You won’t get far in those shoes.”

I’ll show him something, she thought angrily. She lifted her skirt and quickly unfastened her stockings. He stared at her, shocked, and blushed crimson. She rolled her stockings down and took them off along with her shoes. She enjoyed discomposing him. Tucking her shoes into the pockets of her coat, she said: “I shan’t be long,” and walked off in her bare feet.

When her back was turned and she was a few yards away, she permitted herself a broad grin. He had been completely nonplussed. It served him right for being so goddamn condescending.

The pleasure of having bested him soon wore off. Her feet rapidly became wet, cold and filthy dirty. The cottages were farther away than she had thought. She did not even know what she was going to do when she got there. She guessed she would try to get a ride into Dublin. Lovesey was probably right about the scarcity of motor mechanics in Ireland.

It took her twenty minutes to reach the cottages.

Behind the first house she found a small woman in clogs digging in a vegetable garden. Nancy called out: “Hello.”

The woman looked up and gave a cry of fright.

Nancy said: “There’s something wrong with my airplane.”

The woman stared at her as if she had come from outer space.

Nancy realized that she must be a somewhat unusual sight, in a cashmere coat and bare feet. Indeed, a creature from outer space would be hardly less surprising, to a peasant woman digging her garden, than a woman in an airplane. The woman reached out a tentative hand and touched Nancy’s coat. Nancy was embarrassed: the woman was treating her like a goddess.

“I’m Irish,” Nancy said, in an effort to make herself seem more human.

The woman smiled and shook her head, as if to say: You can’t fool me.

“I need a ride to Dublin,” Nancy said.

That made sense to the woman, and she spoke at last. “Oh, yes, you do!” she said. Clearly she felt that apparitions such as Nancy belonged in the big city.

Nancy was relieved to hear her use English: she had been afraid the woman might speak only Gaelic. “How far is it?”

“You could get there in an hour and a half, if you had a decent pony,” the woman said in a musical lilt.

That was no good. In two hours the Clipper was due to take off from Foynes, on the other side of the country. “Does anyone around here have an automobile?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

“But the smith has a motorcycle.” She pronounced it “motorsickle.”

“That’ll do!” In Dublin she might get a car to take her to Foynes. She was not sure how far Foynes was, or how long it would take to get there, but she felt she had to try. “Where’s the smith?”

“I’ll take you.” The woman stuck her spade in the ground.

Nancy followed her around the house. The road was just a mud track, Nancy saw with a sinking heart: a motorcycle could not go much faster than a pony on such a surface.

Another snag occurred to her as they walked through the hamlet. A motorcycle would take only one passenger. She had been planning to go back to the downed plane and pick Lovesey up, if she could get a car. But only one of them could be taken on a bike—unless the owner would sell it, in which case Lovesey could drive and Nancy could ride. Then, she thought excitedly, they could drive all the way to Foynes.

They walked to the last house and approached a lean-to workshop at the side—and Nancy’s high hopes were dashed instantly; for the motorcycle was in pieces all over the earth floor, and the blacksmith was working on it. “Oh, hell,” Nancy said.

The woman spoke to the smith in Gaelic. He looked at Nancy with a trace of amusement. He was very young, with the Irish black hair and blue eyes, and he had a bushy mustache. He nodded understanding, then said to Nancy: “Where’s your airplane?”

“About half a mile away.”

“Maybe I should take a look.”

“Do you know anything about planes?” she asked skeptically.

He shrugged. “Engines are engines.”

She realized that if he could take a motorcycle to pieces he might be able to fix an airplane engine.

The smith went on: “However, it sounds to me as if I might be too late.”

Nancy frowned. Then she heard what he had noticed: the sound of an airplane. Could it be the Tiger Moth? She ran outside and looked up into the sky. Sure enough, the little yellow plane was flying low over the hamlet.

Lovesey had fixed it—and he had taken off without waiting for her!

She gazed up unbelievingly. How could he do this to her? He even had her overnight case!