The Aerodrome: A Love Story by Rex Warner Read Free Book Online Page B

doubt that a serious quarrel would have ensued. The Squire's sister was, until the recapture of the bull, so upset that there was talk of going home immediately. The Rector proposed a scheme by which a letter signed by the most important of local residents should be dispatched to the Air Ministry; and his wife, a perplexed and harassed look upon her face, suggested a good talk and some rest in a tent near by where coffee and tea were being served. Thither we went through the bustling or dawdling crowd, and when my friends were settled at their table I excused myself, saying that I wished to see the jumping and would meet them either in the ring or in this very place in two hours' time. They did not attempt to delay me, and I fancied that in their desire to discuss the conduct of the Flight-Lieutenant they might in any case have been embarrassed by my company. So I hurried off to the stall of our local seller of chicken food; for I knew that at the back of his stall there was a bar where I would find some of the men from our village, as I had still some time to wait before I was to meet the landlord's daughter. Air Crosby, the seller of poultry food, winked at me as I approached him. "Hear your young friend's been stirring things up again," he said. He looked at me with a doubtful and cunning expression in his small black eyes, and I felt a sudden flow of affection for the little man with his long drooping moustache, thin hands, and bowler hat tilted to the back of his head. I had no wish then to see the Flight-Lieutenant again, and thought with distaste of the aerodrome, its easy and inconsiderate manners. "Mac here?" I said. "Oh, yes," Mr Crosby replied. "They're all inside. Can't you hear them singing? They're rare lads from your place. For the beer that is. So long as it does them good." I listened and heard a confused droning sound from behind the stall. "Go right through," said Mr Crosby, and following his invitation I went past him, lifted up a canvas curtain and entered the small and crowded bar. At the very entrance I stumbled against Fred who had, apparently, fallen to the ground. Mac was bending over him and as I came in looked up to me with his flushed face. "God set fire!" he said. "Look what's blown in! Thought you'd given up the beer after last night!" "When I can't hold a dart straight," I said, "then sometimes you can give me a game." Mac bellowed with laughter at this, and Fred, struggling to his feet, said: "Hare and dog; hare and dog!" People began to say "Sh!" and, looking across to the other side of the tent, we saw an old man with white hair, a retired grocer, who had risen from one of the benches and was swaying from side to side as he supported himself with his stick. His face was, through long drinking, as red as the wattles of a turkey-cock, and the extreme gravity and fixedness of his expression contrasted strangely with the swaying motion of his swollen body as he stood. When there was something like silence he removed his hat and, holding it in front of him, attempted a slow and dignified bow; but in so doing he had shifted from the centre of his gravity and fell to his knees. There was some laughter at this, but the old man, while two of his friends picked him up, preserved on his face the same expression of unbroken gravity that he had held throughout. A man whom I did not know whispered to me: "Harry used to be good when he was young." The old grocer took a step forward and struck his stick upon the ground. An immensely strong and clear voice issued from his massive red jowl. "Mother!" he shouted, and extending his hands, one of which still held the walking stick, he peered inquiringly and challengingly round the tent. "Mother! Mother! Where is your baby boy?" There was a long pause while the grocer, though still swaying slightly on his heels, held with set jaw his appealing posture. One man in the audience sniggered, but the others turned roughly to him while the grocer fixed him with his eye.