WINGED YOUTH

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 285, 1 December 1934, Page 10 (Supplement)

WINGED YOUTH

By CAPT. FRANK. H. SHAW.

Author of "The Haven of Desire." etc.

CHAPTER XIX. Fortune's Wheel Turns Again. Grant Cradclock wondered whether to write or not when he opened liis morning paper and saw: "Amazing exploit by airman. Famous Pilot Establishes New Era in Wreck-rcScue Work." He was proud. "I say, wife, look!" he said. And Gwen Craddock's eyes filled with tears. Her Peter. "How gorgeous!" she said, and kissed Grant. "You'll tell him how proud we are, dear, won't you? I feel as if we ought to go to this place at once and 6liow him." That, Grant Craddock thought, would be rather overdoing it. If he had obsyed the immediate pridel'ul impulse and sat down there and then to write to his son, the breach must have healed itself automatically —Peter would have responded in kind, because, underneath liis young raw pride was a warm pool of generosity. But Grant Craddock postponed that letter; and found it harder to attempt on account of such postponement. It was a pity that when he did write ho forgot to apologise for his own mistaken conduct and the restrictions he had imposed on Peter and Betty; bocause Peter was looking moro for that admission than for praise. Far better if Grant had ordered the car and, with his wife, raced to Sealforth! He did not do it. The hospital had something to do with liis omission— at least, he could blame the hospital. A vital operation cropped up; one of those by whicli he had won his fame; it had to be attended to, and after performance, watched critically for day after day, in case the patient had a relapse. As it was, Mrs. Craddock wrote, and appreciated lier son's splendour rather touchingly. Hers was a letter that at another time must have caused Peter to feel something of a worm; but the post that brought it to the furnished house, brought also a letter from the O.P.R. Company, askiug Peter to visit their London office at the earliest opportunity to discuss a proposition which might interest him, and the O.P.R. Company Nvas —well, itself; the pre-eminent concern in all to do with civil aviation.

"Mother's as sound as a bell," said Peter. "Of course, she's had to stand by tlio governor —till death do us part, sort of thing—but I bet she always had a better idea of us than he had. What about asking her to com© and stay for a bit."

"What—here?" asked Betty, who had her own pride. The furnished house was shabby and tiny and shoddy—and it looked none the better as a result of their tenancy. "Let's wait a bit, Pete, until things swing right for us and we can get into a decent house." "Oh, mother wouldn't notice," Peter protested cheerfully. "Wouldn't she?" said Betty, who never thought she had done anything extraordinary by urging Peter to go when her every instinct bade him stay securely on the cliff-top that day. She was unaware of heroism; but she was painfully apprehensive of maternal criticism, even if only implied. And that jealousy of hers took fright, too. If the world were welcoming Peter with open arms, so would his parents; and thus put her pretty nose out of joint. So that with one thing and another — the opportunity was missed. It was the sort of thing that does happen in days when telephones have superseded the pen as a means of expression. Peter was a little afraid lest he might crow over his father if he didn't take care; and he knew Grant Craddock well enough to be aware of the hcinousness of such an event. He simply wrote a slangy letter to his mother, making light of his feat, saying he was glad she was pleased and hoping she was pretty fit, and this, to a woman who wanted a dramatic reconciliation, was painfully inadequate. She blamed Betty naturally enough. Unable to blame himself, Grant Craddock felt the old bitterness congeal around his better instincts. There was a surgeon questioning some of his recent diagnoses, and that gave him much thought. The truth of it all was, he knew he had been wrong, and he hated to admit the fact even to himself. Ho found a hundred excuses to advance to his wife by way of showing himself in a better light; and she having to live with him, listened and sympathised, which flattered his vanity and caused him to imagine that Peter was still a headstrong ingrate. Not that Peter and Betty worried about the continued breach. It was as if new life were electrically pumped into their ardent young veins. For this slapdash effort liad done the trick, so far as Peter was concerned.

It had revived public interest in his former achievement; it was proved that the spirit which had animated his-world-flight was a real and potent asset to the country. Some people had decried the futility of such flights; but here was ample justification—the man whtf had conquered the degrees of longitude had conquered an element that still claimed victory over man's defences. , Apart altogether from a public subscription fund, designed to secure a testimonial to Peter's gallantry, it was felt that a .less tangible reward in the way of an honour was due. His flight had not been so rewarded; but here, said the scribes, was opportunity to redress that omission. Whilst these things were being discussed, Peter went to see the O.P.R. people, taking, such is the irony of fame, a cheap-day ticket from Scalforth to London. He spent a formidable hour with magnates, and returned in a state of elation. The way lie looked at it, he told Betty enthusiastically, was that it was a further justification of his claim to stand on his own flat feet. Old fogeys might vapour as they would; but here was proof—a contract with the O.P.R. at a quite comfortable stipend. "These people are experimenting with all-weather 'planes, since they recognise that to 'be effective, air-travel must be independent of weather conditions," he raved to Betty, himself curled on the arm of her chair, her head hugged painfully close to his chest, "Well, they want me to join up in an advisory capacity—experimental, if you see what I mean. Until we strike on the AI perfect bus, that is, and when we've invented one, I'll hop off on some stunt with it and show whether they've rung the bell." "If you're going to be so responsible they ought to pay you decently," said Betty.

"They're going to —fifteen hundred a year. And pickings; I'm not to be debarred from other stunts, if I feel that way! Betsy, do you begin to realise that I'ni cured?" That was the wonderment of it all. No more scare whilst up or going up; no more down-the-lift squeamishness when about to land. Peter had proved it all to his own satisfaction by taking out the K.Q. next day —the gale then being even fiercer —and keeping her up for a solid two hours, without suffering so much as a qualm. Nay, during all that hop he'd felt level with Olympian gods, unconquerable. Youth might have its temporary and disconcerting setbacks, but it was resilient; it could come back. Betty cooed and dimpled approval, and they planned excitedly. "Where can we live, then ?" asked Betty. "Well, that's a bit of a snag—the only snag—Bet. These people have their works in a sort of secret place, away near Apploside." "Where's that?" "Somewhere up north in the moors. A pretty god-forsaken spot between you and me; but —" he brightened—"there's quite a decent town 15 miles or so away, and there'll be a car, of course. They've got houses near the works —we get one rent free if we feel that way. It's a healthy place. They stressed that when I said it was out of the way, and it might do Mickey a power of good, as a change from here. Michael, too —since he's started being a bit off his feed." "Oh, Michael's all right," said Betty hastily, if a little defensively. "He's growing fast, that's what makes him seem not so strong." If Peter once got the notion that their child was not fit it might affect him, worry him; too, it might reflect on her as. his mother, since Peter was a ridiculous mass of radiant health. "Where'll the kiddies go to school?" "They can bo weekly. boarders at St. Conotts—we can afford that easily enough now. And, I say, being a sort of tin-hat up there, I can have a 'plane out whenever I feel like it. You and I can bet some rather decent flying." It was a glowing prospect; certainly not to be ignored. They went into committee. There was not an obstacle raised by Betty, the housewife, that Peter did not tumble down with derision.

Hard on the heels of this increasing fatness came striking news. Honour was to come to Peter for his work in advancing British flying. "My hat!" he burst out to Betty. "How'd you like to be Lady Craddock?" "Is this a leg-pull?" she asked. "Well, it's worth pulling at that," grinned Peter, and pulled it. When they sobered: "It's a fact—they're going to give me a K.8.E." "Honestly, Peter?" "Sure as death! I say, Betsy, won't this just about put the governor's eye out? He's wanted a title of his own for donkeys' years; and for me to beat him—wow! Well, it shows I was right." Happy Exile. And yet, oddly enough, in this realisation of victory was some lack a feeling almost of disappointment. His father would feel a bit sick. Yet wasn't it rather a shame? His father had given a quarter of a century's honest labour to humanity, always sacrificing himself to answer any call, and had really won nothing in worldly reward; whereas he, Peter, for doing one or two hectic stunts, was being belauded to the zenith. Anyhow, there it was. Time now to settle that outstanding dispute. He could get in touch with his father and gloat over him—if any satisfaction were to lie got from gloating. But when he started to write to Grant Craddock he found it impossible to express himself. To gloat would be rather beastly, for, after all, his father thought he knew best. And but for the way the luck had run, if Betty hadn't proved the girl file was, the old man must have been right. Peter tore up his efforts one by one in a state of increasing despair. T'.te letter wouldn't come right. Best to let it slide for a while—nothing was to be gained by too much hurry. In any case, he had to prove his quality in this new job before really letting himself crow. So lie put off and put off. Then there was the visit to Buckingham Palace, which thrilled him but left him feeling a little bewildered. One way and another these weeks were a whirl of excitements. But the O.P.R. people, having secured him, wanted to use him, since they were hot 011 a programme of advancement; it was necessary to make a hasty departure from Scalforth—the Mayor and corporation gave them a sumptuous send-off, with a present of plate and a cheque —and start to settle down at Appleside; and as the station bus from St. Connotts, stacked high with their gear, halted at the end of an indifferent road with heather and bracken hemming it on either side, Betty gasped and said:

"Crumbs, Peter, what a place!" "It is a bit juicy, yes," Peter admitted, thinking more of the big. rambling works whose ugliness marred the real loveliness of that lonely countryside. "All sorts of flying history'll be made in that spot, old bird." Betty smothered her consternation, because she saw from the glow on Peter's face that lie was dreaming dreams. "It is a bit backwoodish, isn't it?" he laughed. "We ought to have rifles and tilings and log cabins—but that looks like an honest-to-goodness house." The works manager received them with the respect due to fame and titles. He hoped the cottage available would serve. Things in many ways were a bit primitive; but there was a canteen at the works where necessities might be bought; and as for household assistance, there were one or two mechanics' wives who were not above going out to oblige. "We'll manage," said Betty capably. The works manager eyed her somewhat dubiously, for Betty's outfit had not been designed for the more lonely moors, and she looked incongruous in a still smart town costume. He directed the bus to the cottage Peter had noticed; a structure of concrete slabs that lacked all beauty; but inside it was dry, if none too clean, and the furniture contained was appropriate. Betty tucked up her sleeves and capably began to be busy. The works manager said he didn't like to see her ladyship sweeping floors, and seemed concerned about it.

"I'm only getting rid of the looso dirt now. I'll scrub them properly in a bit," laughed Betty. And the manager, losing his half-awe, brisked up. "I'll nip over and tell my wife to come," he offered. "She was a bit scared to intrude—but I'll tell her she needn't worry!" "Well, life comes all ways, doesn't it, darling?" Betty said to Peter, who came back from dreams to decide that it was "a bit thick" for Lady Craddock to be playing charwoman. "We seem to have a lot to learn before we know how to live," said Peter. "I bet you anything you like we're going to be happier here than ever we've been," ventured Betty. When the manager returned with his wife, who, finding Betty to be a simple person with no "swank," at once threw her considerable weight into the breach. Peter asked to visit the works: and once there he forgot all shortcomings in delight at progress made. "There are some letters for you, Sir Peter," the manager informed him. "How about just Craddock," replied Peter. "That funny title they've given me is only an accident. And I've come to work you know, not loaf." "Ah, that's better," said the manager, and began initiating him into sacred mysteries with the friendliness of one expert talking to another. "I fancy we'll get on well enough," complimented the manager, Mr. Greene, after a while. "We felt a bit scared when we heard you were coming — thought you might throw your weight about and so on." "Lord, I've got no weight to throw; I know next to nothing alongside you people here," Peter disclaimed. He opened his letters when opportunity offered. \ One was from an important film-mak-ing company, offering him an ing contract if ho would play the hero in a new flying film which they contemplated making. Another was from his mother. There was nothing from his father, and he felt an unwarranted dash of sadness. It was a pity the governor hadn't written—but then —well, perhaps he himself had been a bit of a washout. Cocky, and all that, eh? A bit on top of himself. If Betty hadn't been the wonder-girl she'd proved to be it might have been an awful flop, the whole business; and his father wasn't to know just what qualities Betty had. "I'd like to show you our laboratory, Craddock," said Mr. Greene and Peter forgot to be sad in interest. He went back to the cottage in a state of elation. He flung the film firm's letter down before Betty much as a treasure-seeker might have flung down the jewelled cup rewarding his hunt. "Money there in plenty, if it's money we want," he announced. "I daresay, if we asked, they'd let you play the heroine; and you'd make a hit! Well?" "It gets you nowhere along the road you're wanting to go, does it ?" reasoned Betty. "Your talk of construction and doing veal things, I mean. Anyone can be a film star, but you can be something better, Peter." She had a duster round her lovely hair, and there were disfiguring smudges on her face; but she turned into his arms and snuggled close. "You can't tell how that letter sort of—calls, Pete. But up here you're going to be happy. I can feel that in all my bones. You're doing a man's job, not a gigolo's. And shouldn't I be a dud if I tried to take you away from where your real work lies?" (To be Continued Daily.)