stood and watched him from a safe distance. We saw the heat-shimmer rising from the engine, the petrol oozing dark from the tank in the fuselage behind his head.
And he went on smiling at us, waving to us.
“Like he’s on his holidays,” whispered Albert.
I just wanted to run away. The idea of seeing him smiling one minute, then frizzling up like a moth in a candle-flame the next …
Then I had my brainwave. I took out my tobacco tin and waved the whole cigarette at him. Greatly daring, edging towards him, at a distance of thirty yards, I lit up the half-fag and blew a luxurious smoke-ring in the still evening air.
It worked. He bellowed, “For God’s sake, kids,” and began to heave himself out of the cockpit with a big grimace.
The first time it didn’t work. The second time he managed to remember to undo his parachute and safety-harness.
Then he was weaving slowly across the grass towards us, like the town drunk. Snatched the fag off me, cupped his hands round mine, which were shaking so much I could hardly strike a match, took a big drag, and fell flat on his back, and lay there laughing up at us and blowing much better smoke rings than mine, and groaning what a headache he had.
“We’re still too close,” screamed Albert, looking at the plane. “Get up, Mister.”
The pilot just lay there and laughed.
“Grab his feet,” said Albert. We dragged him away by main force, ’til his boots came off in our hands. But fortunately there was no blood inside, just some rather smelly socks and …
“He’s wearing silk stockings,” said Albert, incredulously. “Women’s silk stockings.”
“Lot of them do,” I said. “Keeps them warm. Keep pulling.”
So we dragged him, still laughing and shouting, “Lay off, kids.” And so we got him to a safe distance, and put his boots back on, him giggling and saying that we tickled.
“’Nother fag, kid?” he said.
I said, with low cunning, “Haven’t got any more. But me dad’s got plenty. I’ll take you to him, if you’ll get up and walk.”
We got him up and walking in the end. But to keep him pointing in the right direction … He would wander off to one side to admire a dandelion. Or a pile of dog-dirt.
“S’funny. Dog-dirt’s a beautiful brown. But nobody likes it.”
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