the second chapter of my first novel Dragonslore !
2) WINGS
„ Get a move on, will you Michael ? Your train will be leaving in less than an hour !", came a voice. „
Yes Father, I'll be down in a jiffy !", called the young man, who stood before his mirror, dressed proudly in the blue uniform of his Royal Majesties Air Force.
He looked around this room for one last time. A bright and cheerful place, festooned with all manner of curious things which he had collected during his younger years. There, on a wooden shelf, in proud procession, was his collection of knights on horseback, which he had painstakingly painted by hand, when he had been just a boy. Beside them, his books, a never ending source of adventure, which he had read during the long winter’s nights, while being wrapped up safe and warm in his bed.
The walls carried many photos, showing Michael generally in past sporting events. His favourite being the one, showing Eaton’s first XI, that he had captained to victory over all, back in the hot and mad summer of `36. This gilt framed black and white photo, reminding him more of his first love Sarah. A pretty young thing who had showed him one sunny afternoon, her great and real pleasure for the crack of willow on red leather.
But looking once more to his bedroom mirror, the silent witness of his past, to all these memories, he said now his goodbyes. For a boy, he was no more, as he was now indeed a man, like countless others, forced to leave the safety of his life and home, to fight or even die, for King and Country.
All had happened so fast, having originally planned on starting his University Doctorate in Law at Cambridge, the outbreak of war in Europe had forced him to think otherwise. He had since enrolled to be a fighter pilot, a natural choice for Michael, as his father had himself been an officer and an accomplished flyer in the R.F.C during the Great War. He had recently returned from his period of training, where he proved to be a brilliant pilot with lightning reactions. He had been quickly smitten with the heady sensation of flying and thrilled to the thought of taking the controls of his own magnificent Spitfire fighter plane.
He took one last glimpse from his bedroom window, looking down upon the quaint, treelined streets of Chelsea. He listened affectionately to the distant clink clanking of bottles, that heralded the arrival of fresh milk on the steps of these immaculate, white icing town houses, on this fair morning of May.
Turning now from the window, he took the huge sack laying on his bed. With a deep breath he turned to the door which he opened, stepping from this room, for the last time. There he was immedeately confronted by his father, who had been waiting patiently, all of this time, just outside his room. His father promptly looked him up and down, inspecting, as always, every detail of his son`s appearance.
„ Your shoes need a good going over, my boy, an officer should always be an example to his men, remember it well." „ Yes Father, Michael replied politely, looking down to his shoes, which did quite rightly need a bit of spit and polish.. So typical of his father to see so quickly, this minor detail to which he himself had been blind.
They made their way down the stairs to the hall, where their smartly dressed chauffeur, stood to attention, waiting their arrival. „ Right, Roberts, King`s Cross Station, and smartish, if you please !" The chauffeur nodded, taking the sack from Michael and turning from them, skipped off down the steps, to the silver Bentley, which sparkled brightly in the morning sunshine.
As father and son stepped out, side by side, to make their way to the car, two pretty young females walked by, arm in arm. They giggled to one another on seeing Michael, turning their heads to look at him as they passed by. Michael, being embarrassed by their candid looks in the presence of his father, pretended simply, that he had not noticed their attention. But his father was not blind to his son’s ways, giving Michael a stern look, before stepping into the back of the car. Michael trying not to laugh, followed obediently behind, seating himself besides his father, on the red leather seat. The driver closing the Bentley's doors smartly behind them, stepped quickly into the driver’s seat.
The Bentley, soon purring its way along gloriously maple lined Chelsea streets, to the station and the train waiting, one that would take Michael, North and to war. Father and son sat in silence a moment, both looking dreamily from the car’s windows, lost to their respective thoughts.
Michael's father coughed to clear his throat saying, „ Listen here, my boy, I realise you may think..." he paused for a moment, before continuing, „ Well, you know, been a little hard on you, sometimes in the past, but with your mother not being here and all..." It was true, Michael’s mother had died during the Spanish Flu epidemic, which had followed the war in 1918, when he had been just a boy. His father continued, „ Well, with her untimely death, I concluded, maybe too rapidly, that the only thing I could conceivably do for you as a father, was to give you the methods and ways by which you may become a true gentleman. But whatever the cost, I hope you do understand my reasoning." Michael felt forced to interrupt, as he was not at all used to, hearing his father talk so plainly. „ But of course I do, Father, I appreciate all that you have done for me, really !Don’t trouble yourself so, I prefer, that we try and enjoy to the most, this wonderful sunny morning together, what do you say ?" His father smiled agreeing, „ Yes, you`re quite right, my boy, it`s just that there’s so much more, of which I had hoped to tell you. Of life and its truths and needs, but now, we have sadly just this short trip to the station and then I realise, that you will be finally on your own." he paused again, before saying, „ Well, just promise me to look after yourself and the young lads that will, no doubt, be following you ! Do you hear me ? "
Michael’s father’s eyes turned back to the bustle of the London Streets, that passed them by. But he could hear the troubled breathing of this man, he had always known as his father, but now something was different, never as before. „ My God, the old boy's crying," thought Michael, saddened to see his father's loss for words. Michael could only offer politely, the man his own perfectly white cotton handkerchief, to wipe away his tears. His father quickly taking it, with a small but somewhat forced smile.
It dawned on Michael suddenly, that this business of war would bring to an end, this care free world, to which he had till now been accustomed.
The two men spent the remainder of the journey in silence, being happy to look at these streets of London and people they would never meet or know but, with which they both shared so much.
The brightly polished silver Bentley rolled on towards Trafalgar Square, where His Lordship Nelson, as always, stood tall and proud, with his four great lions of bronze at his feet, their eyes fiercely facing to the North, South, East and West. Michael remembered, how his father had once told him, when he was a boy, that these steely eyed beast`s purpose was, to stand guard, watch and protect this land, from all would be invaders. The sad irony of this being, their fearless regard had proven worthless against the bombs which had fallen on Whitehall itself and beneath their very noses.
Finally, their car arrived, coming to a slow halt before King`s Cross Station. Its bright paint work, contrasting sharply with this strange Gothic façade, blackened by decades of soot, from the cole fires of industry and homes. Its main entrance being festooned with all manners of uniformed men, that said their last good-byes to loved ones and family, before taking their trains to their own respective destinations and fate.
On seeing this, Michael thought sadly, on how many of these fine young men would never return. The chauffeur took Michael's bag from the trunk of the car but his father, on seeing this, insisted to the driver, he preferred to carry it himself. That he was simply to wait for his return. So father and son, side by side, made their way, slowly but surely, through the general mayhem, which was now the station. They crossed at one point two men in full stride, sporting the RAF uniform. They, on seeing Michael, offered him their respective salutes, to which he returned his own. His father whispered to him quietly, „ An officer must earn the respect of his men, remember that, my boy!"
On arriving upon the platform, they stood silently, held by the powerful vision, which was the train that awaited them. White steam in copious amounts, bellowed and hissed noisily from this iron bellied beast, that would take Michael away soon.
Michael turned to face his father saying, „ Well, I suppose, this is it, Father, please don't worry too much about me, you hear ? I'll be just fine you'll see." His father looked at him, seemingly assured by this statement. „ Righty Ho, Michael ! I'm sure you`re right, my boy, just write, as soon as you can, telling me of your news !", then giving a quick look round, he added under baited breath, „ Promise also, that you`ll give those damned Bosch, a right royal beating down, there, you know, where it hurts most." Michael laughed aloud, having never recalled having heard his father talk with such profanity, simply happy, to hear his father laugh, before his leaving. „ You can count on me for that, Father, you needn’t worry on this score," replied Michael.
There came the shrill call of the stationmaster’s whistle, signalling the imminent departure of his train. So taking now the heavy sack from his father, Michael said, „ Well, it looks like this is it ! It`s all up, up and away from now on. Take care of yourself, too when I’m away, you hear !" „ Right you are, Michael, goodbye and good luck to you, my son !" With this they shook hands warmly and Michael saw tears return to his father`s eyes. How he loved this kind Gentleman which was his father .
He turned then to climb aboard the train, clunking the solid carriage door behind him. From the carriage window, Michael stood looking down to his father, who seemed suddenly strangely lost, finding himself suddenly alone on the platform, surrounded by the madness of this milling crowd.
Then with an awkward lurching movement, the train`s wheels slipped and strained their way forward, pulling the carriages and its passengers out from the station. Michael could do little more than wave to the man that stood so pale and alone on the platform before him. The train slowly, but surely gained momentum. Soon the kind face of his father, all but melted into the crowd and was gone. Michael was finally alone, on a train that carried him with determined haste, North and to war.