The Final Flight by James Blatch (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

up as he approached the house and saw Georgina in the kitchen looking at him. He gave a little wave and pushed open the front door.

She was at the sink, apron on, finishing the washing up.

“Let me help you,” he said, and he picked up a drying up cloth.

“Thanks. You know what I thought watching you waddle back home?”

“How handsome I look?”

“Yes, obviously, but also how porky you look. You need to lose some weight, mister.” She poked him in his side.

“I know, but it’s so tedious exercising and, god forbid, dieting.”

Georgina stopped washing up. “What happened today?”

Millie smiled. “I can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“Nope.”

Millie shrugged and spoke as casually as he could.

“We had a little moment in the air.”

“Oh, god.” Georgina pulled off her yellow rubber gloves. “Tell me.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Everyone’s OK. It was just a moment. Briefly scary, but we got out of it and that’s all that matters. Actually, Rob was flying and did a sterling job.”

“Rob was flying? Is that why he isn’t here tonight.”

“I think so. Letting off some steam in the mess.”

“Fair enough. Did you say anything to Mary?”

“No. That’s up to Rob. Everyone’s different.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Millie thought for a moment. “Not really. Sorry.”

She reached forward and put her hands on his cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re safe, Squadron Leader Milford.”

They kissed and he welled up, the near-death experience catching up with him.

He’d seen it in others: a delayed reaction.

Georgina didn’t seem to notice. She released him and walked over to their wall calendar, pinned to a cork board over the table.

“I nearly counted the days today. It’s something like one hundred and twenty. She lifted the pages until October showed.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Her finger rested on October 19th. “This is the day, isn’t it? October 19th. Your last day in the RAF.”

“Ah. Yes.”

She let the pages of the calendar fall back down.

“One hundred and twenty days, Millie, that’s it. All I ask is that you remain in one piece. OK?”

He laughed. “I promise. Believe me, I’m looking forward to it as much as you are.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, of course. I’m going to take up sailing, remember? I’m sure the RAF pension can stretch to the Lee-on-Solent place we saw. Just.”

She tilted her head, appraising him. “Good. It’ll be fine, Millie. We’ll still see all our friends, wherever they get posted.”

Millie finished the drying up. Georgina disappeared and reappeared with a tumbler of whisky.

He sat down at the kitchen table and lifted it to his nose.

“Ah, the Lagavulin.”

“Well, I think you need a treat. And it’s the posh tumbler, the wedding set. Last one standing.”

“The last one? We started with eight.”

She smiled. “All things must pass, Millie. Anyway, the attrition rate for glasses in married quarter is pretty high. We’ve had some pretty wild nights over the years. I think we must have lost three of them in Hong Kong playing that silly game with the cricket ball.”

Millie laughed at the memory. “Test Match Sofa was a brilliant game. I was quite the slip catcher when positioned correctly near the piano.”

“I’m sure you were, I’m sure you were.”

She kissed him on the head and whispered, “I’m glad you’re home, Squadron Leader Milford.”

He squeezed her hand and smiled up at her.

“Don’t worry, our retirement is safe. I’ll be getting under your feet every day before you know it.”

“Good.” She smiled back and headed upstairs, turning off the hall light.

The kitchen light was dim; the midsummer sun had finally set. Orange sodium light from the street lamps filled the window. Millie turned the tumbler over in his hand and let the light glint off it. A beautiful piece of crystal. Such a shame they’d lost the others. But maybe it was a price worth paying for the fun they’d had.

He made a mental note to ensure this tumbler survived into retirement. Something to drink from and remember the glory days.

He drained the glass, suddenly remembering his morning appointment. Nobody came away from a Mark Kilton encounter without bruises.

A drunken test pilot played the piano, badly. Rob laughed, still huddled in among the senior pilots.

Kilton watched from the bar, as the pianist beckoned the men around Rob to join in with the song. Most of them sprung up, but Rob remained in his seat, enjoying the show.

The TFU boss picked up his drink and made his way over, choosing the vacant space next to his young prodigy.

“I’ve been thinking about this nonsense in the Vulcan. I don’t think we can let a single uncorroborated incident derail an internationally important project.”

He studied Rob, who nodded slowly.

“Its strategic importance cannot be underestimated, you understand that don’t you, May?”

The music grew raucous as the men sang a bad version of Cliff Richard’s ‘Livin’ Doll’.

Rob nodded again, staying silent.

Kilton had to raise his voice above the singing.

“Don’t you think there was a chance you could have overridden the autopilot with the stick?” Rob furrowed his brow, but Kilton continued. “It won’t disengage if you touch the stick. The computer will fight you for a bit until you let go.”

“I didn’t grab the stick until we cancelled,” he finally said.

“Maybe not grabbed it, but it’s a tight space, and you may have gently leaned on it or subconsciously pushed it forward while monitoring the flight. You wouldn’t have been the first to do that, May.”

Rob pondered.

“I mean,” Kilton continued, “it would be enormously helpful to me personally to hear that there might be some other explanation. And it’s possible. Isn’t it, May? You might have accidentally nudged it. That’s all it would take at that speed and height to cause a scare.”

Rob bowed his head.

“You’re not in trouble, May. This is what testing is all about. Now we know how she’ll react.” He paused and spoke slowly. “It’s important you agree that you may have nudged it.”

Rob’s head came back up and he turned to look at the boss. Kilton gave a small nod of encouragement.

“I suppose it’s always possible.”

2

Wednesday 8th June

Millie’s