Robbie took the hand. “I’m Robbie Carter. Hrdina? That’s not British, is it?”
“My parents are from Czechoslovakia, but I was born in England.”
“How come?”
“My mother and father escaped from Czechoslovakia when the Germans came before the war and managed to get to England.”
Robbie’s eyes widened. “Wow, that must have been something.”
“I think it must have been hard, but they don’t talk about it much.”
“So what does your dad do?”
“He’s an auto worker. He worked at the Skoda car plant in his hometown, and after the war he got a job at Ford here. So we emigrated. What about you?”
“My mom was working for Canadair in Montreal when she was offered a job at A. V. Roe here. You know, Avro Aircraft? She’s an aeronautical engineer.” Robbie said the last two words with obvious pride.
“What does an ar...aeronautical engineer do?”
“They help design new planes, so they do all kinds of things. My mom’s specialty is wings. You know, the structure, shape, that sort of thing.”
“Oh...” Billy said, awed but also mystified. “She must be real smart. What about your father?”
Robbie’s enthusiasm was suddenly deflated. “I don’t have a dad.”
“Was he killed in the war?”
Robbie was tempted to take the easy way out being offered, but his mother had never allowed him to lie, particularly about his father. So he swallowed hard. “I don’t think so. I never knew him, so I don’t know.”
Billy studied Robbie, then shrugged. “Have you got a bike? If you do, we can go for a ride.”
Robbie knew right then he’d found a friend. “Not yet, but my mom promised to buy me one soon.”
“Well, tell you what. Come down to my house and meet my mother. She’ll give us some lemonade.”
Two
The remainder of that summer of 1955 passed all too rapidly. Soon it was September and Robbie was on his way to grade eight and his new school, but not without some unease, even though he knew by now that his best friend, Billy Hrdina, would be there.
His mother had already talked with the principal and Robbie’s new teacher. To Robbie’s relief, she was happy to drop him off at the school entrance with a hug and a last-minute instruction. “Don’t forget to go straight home after school. Mrs. Brady will be there and will get you something to eat.”
Mrs. Brady had become Emily’s housekeeper just before Robbie had come to Toronto. Already she had proven herself a gem. Mrs. Brady was a portly, white-haired Irishwoman in her late fifties, with a blunt way of speaking that did nothing to hide her kind nature.
After dropping her son off at school, Emily hummed along with Frank Sinatra as he sang “I’ve Got the World on a String” on the car radio. Emily was on her way to the Avro plant in Malton, a village just northwest of Toronto and the site of the city’s main airport. As she barrelled down the road, she couldn’t help smiling. With Robbie back and things going so well with the CF-105 jet fighter project, she felt her life was now better than it had ever been.
When she arrived at her destination, she parked her car and headed straight for A. V. Roe president Crawford Gordon’s office where a meeting he had called was due to begin. The rest of the gang—Jim Floyd, vice president of engineering; Bob Lindley, chief engineer; Jim Chamberlin, chief aerodynamicist and technical designer; Guest Hake, project designer; Jack Fowler, an avionics whiz; and Bob Jenson, a jet-engine expert—was already there, plus a dark-haired, wiry man Emily hadn’t seen before.
Jim Floyd, a dapper, slim fellow, prematurely greying, introduced the newcomer. “Emily, this is Joe Wilkie, who’s just joined us from De Havilland in England. Joe’s a wing man, like you, so you’ll be working together.”
Joe stood and shook hands with Emily. She had a twinkle in her green eyes, which he liked a lot. “How do you do?”
Emily smiled, said hello, and sat. She was still appraising her new co-worker when Gordon, a large, balding, fleshy man brandishing a cigar, came storming into the office, looking like a thundercloud, something not unusual for him. “These politicians are at it again. They’re going to give me a heart attack!”
“I think your cigars are more likely to do that, Crawford,” Jack Fowler, a short blond stocky man with a moustache, said. “Anyway, what’s up?”
“They’ve cut the contract back to thirty-seven planes and the budget to $170 million.”
Fowler frowned. “But they only gave it to us in March with a $260 million budget.”
“Yeah, well, since when could anyone trust a politician? They’ve got this bee in their bonnet that the new guided missiles might make fighters obsolete.”
“That’s crazy. No one can have a complete defence system with missiles alone. It won’t work.”
Gordon scowled. “Sure, we know that, Jack, but so what? In the meantime we have to sell this plane abroad if we want more money. Let’s get the Yanks and the Brits interested for a start, especially the Brits, because they just cancelled their thin-wing project.”
“The only problem with that is the British government is beginning to think the same way.” Everyone swung around, and Joe laughed with some embarrassment. “Sorry. I know I’m the new boy here, but I thought I should say something.”
“That’s okay, Joe,” Gordon said, “but we’ve still got to try. The politicians, as usual, will bend with the wind but will eventually realize how stupid their thinking is. In the meantime we still have a go-ahead on the plane and a $170 million budget, so let’s get on with it and keep the feelers out with the Yanks and Brits. By the way, some of the execs and I are going out for drinks tonight at my club, and you’re all invited.”
A few of the people in the office tried to suppress grins. Most knew that Crawford Gordon loved a good time. In fact, he was legendary. None of the engineers and designers took him up on his offer, though.
As they left Gordon’s office, Joe fell into step alongside Emily. “Have we really got some problems, or is he always like that?”
Emily smiled. “He’s always like that, but he’s right about the politicians in Ottawa. I don’t envy Crawford’s job.”
“What do you think of this idea of going straight into production without building a prototype? That’s quite a gamble.”
“Everything about this plane’s risky, but Crawford’s right. We need to get the plane flying quickly, then they’ll shut up.”
Joe nodded slowly, as if weighing her words.
“By the way, where are you staying, Joe—oops, I hope you don’t mind me calling you Joe. We’re a bit informal here.”
He grinned. “I noticed. Of course, it’s all right. Actually, the company found me some great digs with a widowed lady. I’ve got a nice room and evening meals laid on.”
“Must be a bit lonely so far from home.”
“A little, but I am finding my way around and there are the other lads from England to talk to.”
“Well, if you’re interested, Joe, some of us meet once a month on Fridays at my house and talk shop, kick around ideas, and all that. I’m sure the