Night Over Water - Ken Follett [53]
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.”