Flight of the Tiger Moth Read Free Page A

says you’re a natural,” Flo whispered. “Keep flying, kiddo.”
    As the train started to roll, Flo jumped ­on.
    The last they saw of her, she was waving from an open window in the last car. Jack heaved a sigh and headed ­home.

Chapter 3
    June ­1943

    J ack was mowing the grass after school when his mother came hurrying up the street from the post office carrying a ­familiar-­looking tan airmail letter. It could only be from ­Flo.
    His sister had written a lot since she’d left; but sometimes the letters came in bunches. This was just a single envelope. Ivy carried the unopened letter like it was one of her precious china ­plates.
    Some people might have opened the letter right in the middle of the main street. Not Ivy ­Waters.
    She sighed as she sat down on the striped canvas folding chair in the shade of the caragana hedge. She wore a freshly ironed, flowered cotton dress and no jewellery. She opened the letter carefully. Ivy did everything carefully, thought ­Jack.
    He pushed the mower into the garage and hurried over to her, anxious to hear from the “front.” With his sister nursing in a big hospital on some rich person’s estate and Sandy flying night missions somewhere, Jack paid attention to all the war news that could get through the censor. His dad read all the papers and reported daily as ­well.
    Ivy sat with the letter crumpled on her lap, her face paler than ever. She looked up as Jack came ­over.
    “Sandy’s missing in action.”
    Jack stopped ­mid-­stride. “When? How? Why didn’t we get notified?”
    “We’re not the next of kin.”
    “He can’t be missing. He’s a great flyer.” He’s going to marry my sister, he added to himself. He taught me to fly. He left his car for me to keep an eye ­on.
    “Go and tell your dad.”
    Jack sprinted along the road and down to the main street. Sandy couldn’t die. Jack needed him. He loved his mom and dad, but they were old and stodgy. Sandy had been a real blast of fresh ­air.
    The first Sunday Sandy drove Flo home and stayed for dinner, he’d regaled them with stories of learning to fly when he was only sixteen, in Red Deer, and how he’d signed up with the Air Force as soon as he could, only to end up being a flight instructor for the rcaf in Moose ­Jaw.
    Jack’s dad, Bill, sat on the front porch of their store with the Hobbs boys – as everyone called twins Melvin and Arnie Hobbs – veterans of the First World War. Both men were shorter and fatter than Jack’s dad, their round faces red from the sun and wind. Retired farmers, they spent their days at the store, the post office or down the street at the Chinese ­restaurant.
    The three men glanced up as Jack came barrelling down the street. His dad, tucking his white shirt into his dark blue trousers, hurried down the steps. “Has something happened to Flo?”
    “Flo’s safe, Dad.”
    “Thank God.”
    “It’s Sandy. He’s missing in action.”
    The Hobbs twins blinked and their cheerful faces ­crumpled.
    “Damn war!” Arnie rubbed his bearded chin. Mel shook his head in ­sorrow.
    Dad flipped the sign in the front window from “Open” to “Closed.” “How’s your mother?”
    Jack looked back over his shoulder. “Really upset.”
    “I was afraid this would happen. Flying’s a dangerous business.”
    “But Sandy was an instructor.”
    “In a war anyone can be killed.” Dad ­sighed.
    “Uncle Jack came back safely.”
    “But he wasn’t the same man afterwards,” his dad replied. “Not the big brother I remembered.”
    Jack nodded. Flo’s dad had only lived for a year after the war. He was buried beside Grandpa and Grandma Waters in the Cairn ­cemetery.
    When they got home, they found Dr. McLeod, the United Church minister, and his wife Mary in the parlour with Ivy. They sat on either side of her on the sofa, Dr. McLeod’s arm gently touching Ivy’s. Their son Wes, Jack’s best friend, looked a bit uncomfortable sitting on the maroon upholstered chair