hurtled towards him, she watched with relief as Ned disentangled himself from the wires, broken laths and strips of sailcloth that had come adrift from the wooden frame. Eventually, breathless, she was within hailing distance. Ned slid down from what remained of the lower starboard wing, onto his feet.
‘Ned, are you all right?’ she gasped again.
He watched her as she approached and grinned, his brown eyes alive with exhilaration. ‘I did it, Clover – I did it. I flew – I actually flew.’
She ran the last few steps towards him and flung her arms around his neck with pride at his brilliant achievement. ‘I know,’ she shrieked, as happy as he was. ‘I saw you.’ Then, self-consciously, she let go of him, for fear he should presume too much. ‘Are you hurt?’ she earnestly asked.
‘No, Clover,’ Ned said, pulling his gloves off. ‘I’m as good as new. I think I know what went wrong. As soon as the thing started to lift it climbed gently for about thirty or forty yards then came down again nose first. It stalled, that’s all. I should’ve fixed in some ballast. Ah well – next time, eh?’ Ned stood with his hands on his hips looking thoughtfully at the tangled wreck before him and shook his head.
‘How did it feel, Ned, gliding above the ground?’
‘I – I can’t describe it, Clover…Smooth…Incredibly smooth. Like being on a magic carpet, if you can imagine that.’
‘You’re going to try again, then?’
‘’Course I am. If Wilbur and Orville Wright can do it, so can I. And now I’ve got this far…’
Clover looked at him with admiration in her wide eyes. Although he was not her sweetheart he was…well, he was dear to her. Oh, he wasn’t handsome, nor was he particularly elegant. She didn’t fancy him in that way, yet in a sisterly sort of way she liked him. He was ordinary with reddish hair and gawky looking in his tallness, but he was so clever and such a gentle soul. And so determined. Like other lads that had left school at twelve because their parents could not afford to send them to the Dudley Grammar School, Ned Brisco could have developed into one of the finest engineers of his time. Of that, Clover was certain. As a moulder at the Coneygree Foundry where she also worked, he was wasted and frustrated. Exercising his mind with the seemingly insuperable problems of flight was his only outlet.
Clover looked back up the hill towards Amos and waved. He was carefully leading the pony and cart down the steep, grassy hill, followed by the posse of assorted youngsters. Earlier, the cart had hauled the flying machine, still in sections, up Oakham Road and past the hangman’s tree to the top of Rough Hill.
‘What are you going to do with what’s left of your flying machine, Ned?’ Clover asked.
Ned inspected it cursorily. ‘Oh, there’ll be some bits I can salvage. Perhaps by Whitsun we can try again. I’ll have built another machine by then. A better one.’
So, Ned started to disassemble his damaged machine. He had unfastened the rigging that secured both pairs of wings to the flimsy frame that was the fuselage by the time Amos heaved to with the borrowed horse and cart. With Clover’s help, Ned stacked the separate assemblies onto the inadequate transport as best he could, considering the wings’ deformed leading edges and the nose that prevented it all sitting squarely. When it was all in place and tied securely, Ned invited Clover to sit alongside him on the cart while Amos led the horse.
‘We can get onto the New Rowley Road if we follow that path down,’ Ned claimed, pointing. ‘If we go that way it’ll save trying to lug this lot back up Rough Hill.’
Amos waved his acknowledgement and the horse blew his lips as if in thanks.
‘It’s back to the drawing board, Clover,’ Ned said stoically. He turned and smiled at her, the warm smile of a good friend.
‘It’s a good job you’ve got the patience, Ned,’ she replied, signalling her approval. ‘But what do you hope to do with all this if you’re successful?’
‘I’d patent my design,’ he answered at once. ‘I’d start my own factory building flying machines. I reckon there’s a big future in them if you can get them to stay up a decent time and make them controllable. ’Course, I’d need a decent engine and that would cost money. But just think of the possibilities, Clover. Just imagine the possibilities if only I could build flying machines big enough and strong enough to carry freight or passengers.’
‘Well don’t ask me to fly in one,’ Clover said. ‘I’d be scared stiff. But at least this is a start. At least you got the thing off the ground, even if you did crash. I’d like to help you, if I could. I’d like to help you build the next one.’
He turned to her again and she saw the admiration he had for her in his eyes. She was certain he wanted to be her sweetheart, but was thankful he’d never asked. He was her pal and they talked like pals. She enjoyed their friendship. If she became his sweetheart it wouldn’t be the same. She would have to kiss him and somehow, she just didn’t fancy kissing him. Whenever she thought he was about to broach the subject of them courting, she astutely introduced some topic to distract him – like now.
‘My mother’s getting married again, Ned.’
‘Never!’ He regarded her again, but disconcertedly. ‘Who’s she getting wed to?’
‘A man called Jake Tandy.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘I hardly know him,’ she answered wistfully. ‘It’s funny, when I was a child, most of the kids in my class at school had a father and I didn’t. I always felt a bit jealous, a bit out of it because my father had died when I was so young. I only ever had my mother and Zillah to go back home to and all the time I wondered what it must be like to have a father. My friends at school all used to speak of their fathers with such reverence, yet all I had of mine were a few vague memories. Well, I suppose being faced with the prospect of a new father – one I don’t really know – makes me a bit apprehensive. He’s a widower, by the way.’
‘A widower? Does he have any kids then?’
‘Just a daughter, she’s seventeen.’
‘What’s she like?’ Ned asked. ‘Is she pretty?’
Clover shrugged. ‘How should I know? I’ve never seen her.’
They were trundling past the Warren’s Hall pond, which was brimful of frogspawn. To their left sat grim pit banks, the same roan colour as the horse, where any grass feared to prosper. The headgear of pit shafts, some derelict now, stood like gallows in the ravaged landscape, their unturning wheels the halos of their victims.
‘She can’t be as pretty as you, Clover,’ Ned said kindly. ‘I bet you any money.’
Clover shrugged again, but smiled at the compliment.
‘When are they getting married, Clover?’
She sighed. ‘Tomorrow…From tomorrow it’ll be a whole different way of life. A new stepfather, a new stepsister…’
‘You sound as if you’re not relishing the prospect.’
‘It’s just that…I don’t know what the future holds, Ned.’
