Flight of the Tiger Moth Read Free Page B

with dainty white lace doilies on the arms. The sofa back also wore crocheted covers to keep stains off the upholstery. Only the family knew about the worn fabric beneath the ­frills.
    Jack felt better right away, seeing them there. Dr. Ian McLeod was balding, with ­greyish-­blond hair and ears that turned red when he preached. He still had a Scottish accent even though he’d immigrated as a young ­man.
    Wes was like his parents, tall and gangly, but where Dr. McLeod had light hair, Wes and his mom had red hair and blue eyes that made them stand out in any ­group.
    Mary hurried to bring them all cups of tea. Jack sipped his slowly. They talked about how wonderful young people like Sandy and Flo were. How brave and daring. Then they moved on to talking about the war in Europe and what they had heard or read or seen on the movie ­newsreels.
    Jack glanced over at Wes. He was clearly not happy sitting ­there.
    Ivy looked up at the two boys, her eyes filled with pain. Jack tried to find something to say that might ­help.
    “I was thinking,” he said. “Sandy might have gone down some place in France. He can land any plane, remember. And we know there are Resistance fighters in France.”
    “That’s true,” his dad said, “and Sandy speaks good French.”
    “The Resistance could be helping Sandy escape. Or if he’s wounded, they could be keeping him safe while he heals.”
    “That’s possible,” Ivy said, brightening a little. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
    “Yes,” Mary said. “That’s a good thought, Jack.”
    “And we know what a resourceful fellow Sandy is,” Dr. McLeod ­added.
    Jack’s dad smiled at him. Jack didn’t always say the right thing, but this time he’d surprised himself. And helped his mother breathe a little ­easier.
    Jack nodded at Wes and they walked quietly down the hall to Jack’s ­room.
    “I’ll show you my new model,” Jack ­said.
    “Great,” Wes said. “You don’t have to tell me what it is.”
    Jack smiled. “Nope. It’s definitely a Moth.”
    Inside Jack’s room, the walls were covered with photographs of airplanes and diagrams of flying machines designed by Leonardo da Vinci. And Jack’s own drawings of aircraft wings, propellers and engines, all in painstaking detail. A tissue ­paper-­and-­matchstick model of a bomber hung from the light fixture in the middle of Jack’s room. It swung in the ­breeze.
    “Sorry to hear the news.” Wes picked up an old Superman comic and put it down. “I hate what war does to people. It’s not just soldiers who hurt. It’s all of us.”
    “I know.” Trust his best friend and favourite philosopher to try to say something deep. Good old Wes. “All we can do is hope. Want to help with the model?”
    The model parts were scattered on a small table. Without a lot of talk, Wes handed pieces to Jack as needed or helped hold two pieces together so Jack could glue them. As they worked, the plane began to take shape. Jack felt as if the clean lines of the aircraft comforted him as he sanded the lightweight balsa ­wood.
    Sandy and Jack had flown a ­full-­size version of this plane. It was a good plane and Sandy was a good flyer. The best. Jack imagined Sandy in a ­twin-­engine bomber or a sleek fighter plane. He could handle them ­all.
    Finally they were done and Jack hung the fragile model on a thread by the open ­window.
    “The top half of your room looks like the sky over Cairn, Jack.”
    “Thanks. But these planes will never crash. They’re protected by the threads that fix them to the ceiling.”
    His models were safe, but how did you protect the people you loved? There were no threads strong enough. Are we all as fragile as these flimsy toys? Jack ­wondered.

Chapter ­4

    The next morning Jack slipped on khaki shorts, ­t-­shirt and runners and tiptoed down the hallway past his parents’ room. He grabbed an apple and a thick slab of bread which he slathered with butter and peanut butter, and snuck out