‘We’ve been today to order it, Mr Tandy. I’m sure it’ll be very suitable.’
‘It’s costing enough,’ Mary Ann commented typically. ‘But the wench has got nothing else.’
‘I bought one for our Ramona,’ Jake said. ‘Cost me a fortune, it did. But what’s money? Why worry about it?’
‘It’s only them as ain’t got money what worry about it,’ Mary Ann remarked. ‘And you know how we’ve been fixed, Jacob.’
‘And all that’s coming to an end, Mary Ann,’ Jake declared with a grin. ‘All that’s coming to an end.’
Good Friday in 1907, as well as being a holiday, was a perfect day for flying. A light south-westerly breeze was panting warmly as it ran up the side of Rough Hill, where Ned Brisco sat apprehensively in a weird contraption he had built, hoping it would fly. His older brother, Amos, sat crouched beneath the fragile wings on its port side waiting for Ned’s signal.
Ned gazed into the distance. Distance was his challenge. From these heights he overlooked the Clent Hills to the south, lush and green in their spring finery. In the far distance he could discern Worcestershire’s Malvern Hills, colourless on the hazy south-western horizon. Towards the north-west, beyond the furnaces of Ironbridge and Coalbrookdale, the Wrekin lay like a stone pushing up through Shropshire’s greenery. Ned imagined himself flying effortlessly in his machine over the vast expanse of gently undulating terrain that lay between himself and these yet unvisited outposts. Once beautiful countryside, it was now pockmarked by scores of pit-heads and slag heaps and quarries, and by chimney-stacks that spewed endless palls of filthy smoke into the hazy, white sky that was struggling to turn blue in the spring sunshine. As well as these effigies to the industry and enterprise of man, the inevitable stone structures loomed that were erected to the greater glory of God. The spire of Top Church in the middle distance to the north-west pierced the atmosphere like a tintack, while St John’s and its square grey tower occupied a ledge on Kates Hill to the north. Beyond St John’s stood Dudley Castle, hoary, crumbling, derelict, yet defiantly majestic.
The girl with him looked striking, despite being plainly dressed in a home-made blouse and skirt. Her eyes were intelligent, as blue as summer cornflowers. Her skin was fair yet her lush hair was as dark and shiny as the coal they mined thereabouts. When she smiled her face lit up and you couldn’t help but smile with her, for she seemed then to throw off the shackles of reserve and shyness that normally confined her. Clover Beckitt was Ned’s soul mate.
As well as Clover and his brother Amos, both of whom gave Ned much needed encouragement, a smattering of ragged children had attached themselves to the band and their cart. They looked on in incredulous silence and wonder, hoping they would witness the miracle of man and machine in flight.
‘All right, Amos,’ Ned called. ‘Let her go.’
Amos quickly pulled a chunk of wood from under one of the thin, spoked bicycle wheels on which the contraption stood. The ensemble began to roll downhill over the stubbly grass that cloaked that side of Rough Hill between two disused quarries, gathering speed quickly. Ned held his breath as his stomach seemed to rise into his mouth.
‘Be careful, Ned!’ Clover called, hearing the creak of struts and wire and stretched canvas. ‘Don’t crash into the pepper-box.’
‘Let’s hope he gets that bloody far,’ Amos said dubiously, seeing that the Dudley Tunnel’s air shaft of which Clover spoke was directly in Ned’s path, but unreachable. ‘If he ended up in Warren’s Hall pond, even that would be summat to crow about.’
Clover chuckled at the mental image Amos’s words conjured, then remained silent for seconds that seemed like ages while they watched Ned’s progress. The contraption had reached about thirty miles an hour and was almost at the place where the steep hill was levelling out when Clover whooped with excitement.
‘Look, Amos, look! He’s flying! He’s flying!’ She turned round to catch Amos’s reaction, a delighted grin on her lovely face. Behind them, the group of ragamuffins cheered boisterously.
‘By Christ, he is and all…He’s airborne, Clover…Whoops!…Oh, Jesus Christ…Well, he was airborne.’
She saw the contraption stall and hit the ground. At once she hitched up her long cotton skirt and ran for all she was worth down the hill in her buttoned-up boots, her dark hair flowing like a mane behind her.
‘Ned!’ she called. ‘Are you all right? Are you all right?’
As she 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