Walking on Air Page 10

  Before she could put any of the horrors into words, Isla shimmied out from her hiding place behind the dual bulk of Fred ’n’ Dick. She looked as if she’d been crying. So, now she looked carefully, did Zia. Billie exhaled. God, had someone broken into her shed and nicked all Zi-Zi’s costumes overnight? Was she going to be faced with an insurance claim of gargantuan proportions?

  ‘Is someone going to tell me what’s happened? It’s not the plane, is it? Sullivanair haven’t bottled out? Don’t tell me we’re all here for nothing.’

  ‘I know it sounds rude, but we’re not actually here for your plane at all,’ Isla said apologetically, sniffing into a musk-scented tissue. ‘Although of course now we’re here we’ll help out if you need us. And no, as far as I know, they’re still on their way from the docks. We really only came in because Sylvia phoned us. . .’

  Billie now felt the earlier euphoria slipping almost beyond reach. ‘What the hell has happened?’

  ‘Bollocks has happened,’ Zia said morosely, chewing the ends of his Zapata moustache. ‘Bloody bollocks, right?’

  Sylvia’s face was pale beneath the tan. She tutted at Zia. ‘Not very nice language to use in front of your wife, but possibly apposite. Before you get too thrilled about making your fortune from housing this aeroplane, you want to read your post, Billie, dear.’

  Post? Billie blinked stupidly. ‘What post?’

  ‘Today’s post.’ Sylvia jangled her bangles in the direction of the units. ‘You know I like to come in of a Saturday morning to get away from Douglas polishing the cat, and load up the rotunda ready for Monday? Well, I arrived at about the same time as the postman, gave him a cup of coffee as usual. Didn’t take any notice of the letters until he’d gone . . . We’ve all had one.’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘Notice of sale.’ Zia slouched into his poncho. ‘Capitalist bastards.’

  Billie rocked slightly. Sale? Who was selling what?

  ‘Maynard and Pollock have had an offer to buy all the units.’ Isla shook her head. ‘The original owner was some mad old bird who lived in Maderia. She died recently, and her family don’t want the hassle of the warehouses – so they’ve sold them. We’ll have a new landlord – who’ll probably push the rents sky-high – always supposing we’re even allowed to stay here . . .’

  Mike and the Guspers boys were looking collectively suicidal.

  ‘They won’t let us stay,’ Mike sighed. ‘You can bet your sweet life on that. They’ll be wanting to add this on to the airfield, you mark my words. It’ll be the airfield buying us out – using the sheds for hangars or something.’

  ‘No it won’t,’ Zia snorted. ‘Not the airfield. It’ll be Tesco or someone, right? Or a big multinational wanting to make this into a shoppers’ paradise. Paradise – bollocks.’

  Billie groaned. This couldn’t happen. Not now. Not when things were just starting to take shape. Not when Sullivanair’s money was going to make her warehouse viable. Not when something she really wanted to do was just taking off . . .

  Leaving the others still speculating, and fumbling with cold fingers and fear, she unlocked her door and scooped up the depressing pile of buff envelopes. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly the bills started to come in. She riffled through them until she found the white envelope with the Maynard and Pollock logo.

  The letter was, as Isla had said, pretty ambiguous. It didn’t say that the units were definitely going to be sold off; it wasn’t a notice to quit or anything. It merely said that an interested party had approached Maynard and Pollock with a view to buying up the leases – on both the land and the buildings. It also said that the units’ incumbents had statutory rights, and that in all probability it would only mean – supposing the sale should go ahead – that they would be paying their ground rent to a different landlord. There may, of course, be new criteria. It added that Simon Maynard would inform them all of any further developments.

  Lot of fuss about nothing then, Billie reckoned, switching on lights, gazing round the shed, and wondering for the hundredth time if Estelle Rainbow had jack-booted accurately and whether the plane would fit. Probably someone just wanting to make a fast buck on pocketing the rents. It surely couldn’t be anything else, could it? Not redevelopment, or anything? Not slap bang up against the airfield? There simply wasn’t room. For God’s sake, who in their right mind would want to try to turn their dingy row of breeze blocks into the new Lakeside?

  No, it would all be OK. She was sure of it. And anyway there were far more pressing things to worry about. Like the jumbo jet arriving in kit form at any moment now.

  ‘Billie!’ Zia poked his head round the door. ‘I think it’s here, right!’

  Fizzing with excitement, Billie tugged the sliding double doors open and then stood with the rest of the Whiteacres contingent – Maynard and Pollock’s letter forgotten – and watched open-mouthed as the very flash chromium-plated American container lorry purred to a halt.

  Estelle Rainbow, looking very fetching in second-skin jeans and boots and a denim jacket, slithered sinuously from the cab. Tossing the long white-blonde hair away from her face, she shimmied across to Billie, obviously aware that Zia, Fred ’n’ Dick, Mike and the heterosexual side of Guspers were gazing at her with ill-concealed lust.

  Billie groaned. Estelle instantly made her feel titchy and boyish and scruffy – again. But she smiled. ‘You’re right on time. Good journey?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ Estelle yawned. She could even do that sexily. ‘I only joined them for the last bit. Mr Sullivan has been waiting at Southampton docks all night. He’s absolutely shattered and certainly doesn’t want any further delays. Now – are you ready?’

  ‘Of course.’ Billie wasn’t sure why she disliked Estelle. It probably had something to do with her having a perfect body and face and hair and all that, and being intelligent and efficient to boot. ‘Fred ’n’ Dick have said we can borrow their fork-lift and –’

  ‘We’ll need more than a fork-lift,’ Estelle said, looking dismissively at the clustered Whiteacres contingent. ‘And a lot more muscle power than this lot seem able to muster. Have you assembled the winch?’

  ‘Winch? No one had mentioned a winch, had they?

  ‘We don’t need a winch, my dear.’ A milk chocolate- covered voice melted across the tension. ‘The container lorry is extremely well-equipped with all the gear we need for unloading. And I’m sure all those good people outside will make themselves extremely useful. Oh, and good morning. You must be Miss Pascoe.’

  Billie smiled gratefully into a pair of rather wicked grey eyes, and found herself shaking hands with the middle-aged man whose nails were far better manicured than her own.

  ‘Billie, please. And it’s wonderful to meet you at last.’

  Mr Sullivan was exactly how she’d pictured him. No wonder Estelle purred when she mentioned his name. Obviously well heeled and educated, he was immaculately groomed, and showed no signs of having been up all night. Billie had long since forgiven him for being involved in aviation – what did it matter that she disliked anything that took off? Mr Sullivan and his kit-plane had saved her bacon. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother and Miranda about the debonair tycoon.

  ‘Come along.’ Estelle obviously thought that the handshaking had lasted quite long enough. ‘There’s tons to do!’ Billie exchanged grins with Mr Sullivan and hurried outside.

  Boxes, and crates, and massive things like huge wooden toast-racks containing flimsy fabric-covered structures, had already been disgorged, and the Whiteacres crew were buzzing happily amongst them.

  ‘Probably just what we need, dear,’ Sylvia said, ‘to take our minds off the other business. I shall just spit if Douglas is proved right and my little venture goes belly up.’

  Billie patted her well-padded arm. ‘I think everyone’s worrying unnecessarily. I honestly don’t think it’ll make a jot of difference whoever buys the units. We’ll be OK – I’m sure we will.’ She surveyed the industry hiving aro
und the outside of her shed. ‘And this doesn’t look anything like I’d expected . . .’

  It didn’t, actually, look like a plane at all. Billie had imagined huge engines and a massive fuselage, and wings and seats for five hundred. This crisscross mass of delicate wooden frames and small unpleasantly beige metal bits all peppered with rivet holes looked like the end-of-day clearing up in the handicraft class at school.

  ‘Most of the plane is still in the lorry,’ Sylvia said, having spotted the erudite Mr Sullivan and looking slightly more perky. ‘I heard them saying that it was lucky they’d been able to ship it over with its engine attached. I actually went and had a little peek. It’s rather daring.’

  ‘What? The plane? God, Sylv – they’re all the same, aren’t they? Sort of silver and tubular, except this one’s fawn at the moment, of course. And I suppose all these material and twig bits are vital somewhere along the way. At least this one will be a proper airliner – not like that archaic thing that Sullivanair les over here every day with its pre-war propellers and –’

  ‘This one’s got a propeller,’ Sylvia interrupted. ‘Just the one.’

  ‘It can’t have! This is a Boeing. I know. I’ve seen the paperwork.’

  ‘So it might be, Billie, dear. But it must be Boeing’s equivalent of the Model T Ford. I think you ought to take a look.’

  Noticing that Estelle was scrambling very dexterously amongst the giant toast-rack things, Billie picked her way through the crates, and peered in at the winch end of the container.

  Jesus! Billie blinked. The inside of the wagon looked He a war zone. A First World War zone at that. The body of the Boeing was cradled like a beached whale, its single pock-marked propeller, as Sylvia had said, standing proud in front of an elderly engine-casing that had all the technical finesse of an oversized electric fan.

  It’s an old plane!’ She gazed up at the urbane Mr Sullivan, who was busily undoing the supporting straps,

  ‘A museum piece!’

  ‘Yes, it is. Fifty years old at least.’ He patted the domed nose lovingly. ‘But fortunately this one won’t be consigned to spending the rest of her days in a static display. By the summer, this old girl will be back in the skies where she belongs.’

  Billie shook her head in some dismay. Up in the skies – some hope! More like nose diving straight into the tarmac. The thing probably wasn’t even airworthy. Still, what did it matter? It may not be glamorous, but it certainly solved the problem of whether she could squeeze a 747 into the warehouse; and what Sullivanair did with it after it had left her shed was really of no interest, was it?

  Everyone was still frantically busy, hefting and heaving, and, determined not to be outdone by Estelle, Billie pulled up the sleeves of her fleece and dived into the fray.

  ‘Billie! Not all haphazard – pul-ease! Grab that one there, right?’ Zia ordered, his poncho discarded, his hair tied back in a businesslike fashion. ‘The Sullivanair guys have got it all under control. They know what they want where. Everything is to be stored numerically in your unit, before we can pull the body out of the wagon, right?

  Billie raised her eyebrows but grabbed the box Zia had pushed towards her. She hated bossy men. And whose show was this anyway? Zia had grizzled for ages when she’d first told him about the plane, complaining that his precious outfits could become tainted. It had taken all her powers of fabrication to convince him otherwise, and now here he was playing foreman and loving every damn minute of it.

  Fred ’n’ Dick were trundling backwards and forwards rather redundantly with their fork-lift and several of Gusper seemed to have sloped off into Billie’s warehouse to inspect the bits. Isla, taking advantage of Zia’s involved managerial role, was flirting with the lorry driver.

  Billie lodged the box under her chin, still glaring at Zia.

  ‘Anywhere particular you want this to go? In my shed?’

  ‘Ask the boss.’ Zia inclined his tendrilly head towards the back of the container lorry. ‘He’s directing operations.’

  Mr Sullivan waved a Barboured arm and beamed down at Billie from the back of the lorry. ‘What is it? Ah – electricals . . . Oh, absolutely anywhere will be fine. As long as it’s not on the floor until we get everything in.’

  Billie staggered into her unit and immediately shivered. It was still colder inside than out. And gloomy despite the lighting. Estelle was stacking boxes onto the shelves, helped n the slavering film crew who were making sure that they we in numerical order, and someone in the shadows was heaving at one of the giant toast-racks.

  ‘Sodding thing! Why the hell no one thought to put in sodding castors is beyond me! And I thought Vinny was going to be here to help with this! No doubt he’s too busy humping some bimbo to remember he’s supposed to be humping the Boeing!’ There was a pause in the active, followed by a nasty jagging sound. ‘Shit! What’s that?’

  ‘This, I think . . .’ Billie picked up a splintered piece of wood. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Probably vital. It’s always the important bits that snap off. Let’s have a look . . .’

  The voice emerged from the shadows along with its owner. Billie’s first thought was that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed him before. Her second, hot on its heels, was that he looked very, very disgruntled and dishevelled. Like he hadn’t slept for days.

  ‘Thanks . . .’ He took the piece of wood and nodded, ‘bit of wing structure. Have to glue it back on. What else have you got there?’

  ‘Electricals.’ Billie glanced down at the box she had tucked under one arm, then handed it to Estelle. ‘Or so Mr Sullivan said.’

  ‘Did I?’ The man swept floppy dark hair away from his eyes and peered at her. ‘Christ, I must be more knackered than I thought.’

  Billie shook her head and grinned. ‘No, you didn’t. Mr Sullivan did. You know, Sullivanair’s owner – the rather gorgeous elegant man out in the lorry . . .’

  Estelle was giggling. The dark-haired man looked like he wanted to join in. ‘I think you’re a bit confused. Or maybe it’s me . . . Perhaps I’ve forgotten who I am. Do you know who you are?’

  ‘She’s Billie Pascoe,’ Estelle said, stretching up to put Billie’s box on the shelf and managing to expose an expanse of perfectly flat golden midriff. ‘She owns the warehouse.’

  ‘Really?’ The dark-haired man squinted at her. ‘You look like you should still be at school. Estelle gave me the impression that you belonged to the bib-and-brace and hobnailed boot brigade – er . . .’ he glanced at Billie’s dungarees and Timberlands, ‘that is . . .’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Billie narrowed her eyes. ‘I get the picture. I just think it’s a pity that Mr Sullivan can’t employ people with his own class and brain power.’

  ‘So do I,’ the dark-haired man sighed. ‘I’ve said it a million times. It’s something I’ve always planned to do. And before we compound this rather confusing situation into something that is irretrievable, can I introduce myself. I’m Jonah Sullivan. The gorgeously elegant man in the lorry – who will no doubt be delighted to hear of your high opinion – is my friend Barnaby.’

  Bugger, bugger, bugger . . . Billie glared murderously at Estelle, who had climbed the stepladder and was now innocently stacking boxes with her perfect rear view towards them. A million thoughts skittered their way through Billie’s embarrassment. Jonah, in his faded Levis and grubby rugby shirt, looked nothing at all like an aeroplane magnate. He was possibly the most understatedly sexy man she’d ever clapped eyes on – which, naturally, explained bloody Estelle’s hormonally charged purr when she’d mentioned his name. No doubt Estelle and Jonah were joined at the hip – and all points south . . . And if Jonah owned Sullivanair, than that meant he was a pilot, for God’s sake! She’d always imagined pilots to be very posh and have slicked-back hair and be about the same age as her dad – exactly like Barnaby, in fact.

  ‘Sorry if we’ve misled you.’ Jonah was still grinning. Anyway, it’s really nice to meet you at last. And I apologise for
being so rude . . .’

  ‘Me too.’ Billie flicked idly at one of the cartons, itching to peep inside, and trying to look disinterested. ‘And I’m looking forward to having you around and watching the plane take shape and –’

  ‘Goodness!’ Estelle stepped snakily down from her perch and shook out her hair. ‘Jonah won’t have time to be here during the day. He’ll be far too busy flying. He’ll probably only be here when you’ve finished work and gone home. That’s why we established if we could have keys cut as part of the criteria. I doubt if you’ll be seeing anything of Jonah at all.’

  Whereas, Billie thought, fighting the sudden irrational urge to remove Estelle’s eyes from their sockets, you’ll no doubt be seeing absolutely every damn beautiful inch of him – and more.

  She smiled sweetly. ‘Really? Oh, then that’s just ideal. Because much as I’m delighted to be making money by offering you storage for your dilapidated monstrosity, I actually dislike aircraft intensely. And the little contact that I’ve had with avionics nerds has merely reinforced my opinion that people connected with planes are a bunch of sad anoraks. So, the less we all see of each other the better, as far as I’m concerned.’

  Chapter Ten

  Faith Pascoe was bored. No, it was more than that. Boredom could always be dealt with by making a cake, or reading to one of her grandchildren, or reading out across the moors with the dogs. This feeling of discontent not only niggled at the edges of her sleep, but also insisted on invading her busiest moments. She rarely experienced dissatisfaction with her life, and when she did it was only over short-term things like bank statements that *ere too red, or one of the tractors being out of action, or the hens not laying; but this time the feeling had clung on for weeks. Ever since Ben and Maria’s wedding party. Ever since Billie’s last visit home.

  She hung the dish cloth on the Aga, managing not to disturb the dogs, cats, or the fine array of steaming muddy boots, and stared out of the kitchen window. The morning rain veiled the yard in mist, making it impossible to see moors or the barns or even Jon and Alex’s cottages. Everything was shrouded in a wet, dank, curtain. It had tan a relentlessly dour start to the autumn, but the weather never usually affected her moods.