to check them out? The answer came moments later when a troupe of maids arrived to unpack their cases, which he had a good idea might well cause a major
distraction.
“Pops?” he asked as his father, who spoke no Italian, began trying to tell the maids where things were to go.
“Yes? What?”
“Can I go for a walk?”
“Sure, sure...” His father glanced over his shoulder, then returned to the job in hand. “No, not in there...”
At which point Trey made a hasty exit and set off to see what, if anything, there might be for him to do.
It was while he was wandering across a big terrace that he spotted something that looked worth investigating. A large group of people (as he got closer he saw that there seemed to be a lot of
women among them) was surrounding three men in uniform, and hanging on their every word. As they were speaking Italian, Trey had no idea why this was. Nevertheless he circled the group, as this was
by far the most interesting thing that was occurring, but it wasn’t until he’d got a bit closer, and got a better look at the three men, that he realized they were flyers.
One of the men made some comment and gestured rather grandly behind him, over the parapet and in the direction of the sea, and everyone clapped and cheered. Trey went over to have a look at what
the man had been pointing to and found himself staring at the most beautiful sight in the world – if you liked planes, that is – because, floating in the pale blue, mirror-flat water,
moored to a pier, was a bright red racing seaplane. And if Trey knew his planes (which he liked to think he did, having his own scrapbook of photos and stories clipped from newspapers and
magazines) he was sure that what he couldn’t drag his eyes away from was nothing less than a Macchi M.52 – just about the cat’s pyjamas when it came to aeroplanes!
“Oh boy...” he whispered. “What a beauty!”
“You like the planes?”
Trey spun round to find one of the flyers standing next to him. “ Like them?” he sputtered. “I love them – I was lucky enough to see Mr. Charles
Lindbergh’s ticker-tape parade in New York, you know!”
“I think you are quite a lucky boy, then,” the man smiled. “Did you meet him?”
“Me? No sir, I was thirty-three floors up in a skyscraper.”
“Well right here, not even three metres away, is Major Mario de Bernardi, the man who won the Schneider Trophy race in your country last year – and I believe is going to win
it once again this year. Would you like to meet him?”
“Who, me? Yes, sir! ”
As Trey lay in bed, stomach full to bursting after a blow-out of a meal (he had actually lost count of the number of courses he’d eaten), his head was reeling from the
sights and sounds of what had turned out to be possibly the very best day of his life. Not only had he met a record-breaking flyer – one of the fastest men on Earth – he’d
actually been allowed to sit in his plane! The very same streamlined machine that would be taking part in the Schneider Trophy speed contest, which he’d discovered was happening right here
in Venice in a few weeks’ time! Boy, would he love to be there!
But, Trey thought as he began to nod off, there was a fat chance of that ever happening. When your father was one of the MacIntyres of MacIntyre, MacIntyre & Moscowitz (“One of
the busiest engineering concerns in the whole of the continental US, son...right up there near the top of the heap!”), business always came first and always, if at all possible, ran to a
tight schedule. Which was why this sudden change of plan to take a trip on the Orient Express had made him wonder...what on earth could his father be up to? The schedule and plan had been strangely
abandoned.
5 THE DAY TRIP
T he next day things really did not go according to plan. At least not to the plan that Trey had worked out in his head (but failed to
discuss with his father), which was a long list of all the terrific ways he
distraction.
“Pops?” he asked as his father, who spoke no Italian, began trying to tell the maids where things were to go.
“Yes? What?”
“Can I go for a walk?”
“Sure, sure...” His father glanced over his shoulder, then returned to the job in hand. “No, not in there...”
At which point Trey made a hasty exit and set off to see what, if anything, there might be for him to do.
It was while he was wandering across a big terrace that he spotted something that looked worth investigating. A large group of people (as he got closer he saw that there seemed to be a lot of
women among them) was surrounding three men in uniform, and hanging on their every word. As they were speaking Italian, Trey had no idea why this was. Nevertheless he circled the group, as this was
by far the most interesting thing that was occurring, but it wasn’t until he’d got a bit closer, and got a better look at the three men, that he realized they were flyers.
One of the men made some comment and gestured rather grandly behind him, over the parapet and in the direction of the sea, and everyone clapped and cheered. Trey went over to have a look at what
the man had been pointing to and found himself staring at the most beautiful sight in the world – if you liked planes, that is – because, floating in the pale blue, mirror-flat water,
moored to a pier, was a bright red racing seaplane. And if Trey knew his planes (which he liked to think he did, having his own scrapbook of photos and stories clipped from newspapers and
magazines) he was sure that what he couldn’t drag his eyes away from was nothing less than a Macchi M.52 – just about the cat’s pyjamas when it came to aeroplanes!
“Oh boy...” he whispered. “What a beauty!”
“You like the planes?”
Trey spun round to find one of the flyers standing next to him. “ Like them?” he sputtered. “I love them – I was lucky enough to see Mr. Charles
Lindbergh’s ticker-tape parade in New York, you know!”
“I think you are quite a lucky boy, then,” the man smiled. “Did you meet him?”
“Me? No sir, I was thirty-three floors up in a skyscraper.”
“Well right here, not even three metres away, is Major Mario de Bernardi, the man who won the Schneider Trophy race in your country last year – and I believe is going to win
it once again this year. Would you like to meet him?”
“Who, me? Yes, sir! ”
As Trey lay in bed, stomach full to bursting after a blow-out of a meal (he had actually lost count of the number of courses he’d eaten), his head was reeling from the
sights and sounds of what had turned out to be possibly the very best day of his life. Not only had he met a record-breaking flyer – one of the fastest men on Earth – he’d
actually been allowed to sit in his plane! The very same streamlined machine that would be taking part in the Schneider Trophy speed contest, which he’d discovered was happening right here
in Venice in a few weeks’ time! Boy, would he love to be there!
But, Trey thought as he began to nod off, there was a fat chance of that ever happening. When your father was one of the MacIntyres of MacIntyre, MacIntyre & Moscowitz (“One of
the busiest engineering concerns in the whole of the continental US, son...right up there near the top of the heap!”), business always came first and always, if at all possible, ran to a
tight schedule. Which was why this sudden change of plan to take a trip on the Orient Express had made him wonder...what on earth could his father be up to? The schedule and plan had been strangely
abandoned.
5 THE DAY TRIP
T he next day things really did not go according to plan. At least not to the plan that Trey had worked out in his head (but failed to
discuss with his father), which was a long list of all the terrific ways he