The End of An Era

Chapter 1

Shocks for Ginger

The twin-engined aircraft gleamed in the sunlight. A smart monoplane, equipped with the latest technology, it stood in front of the hangar ready to take to the skies. At the edge of the hard standing, as close as they dared approach, two small boys whispered to each other as they argued about what type it was.

Inside the cabin of the aircraft, a Cormorant which the Air Commodore had put at their disposal, Algy and Ginger were stowing the last of the provisions. They went about their tasks quickly and methodically, waiting for Biggles to join them. Smyth, their mechanic, accompanied Biggles as he did the last of the external pre-flight checks before departure.

Algy glanced at his watch, whistling softly between his teeth as he and Ginger made sure everything was secure. At last, all the stores were safely packed away and there was nothing to keep them from their mission. Ginger, for one, hated the last minutes before take off. His restless spirit longed to be on the move and inaction irked him.

Biggles had just rounded the wing, about to join Smyth and climb into the cabin prior to take off, when a Post Office telegram boy puffed up to the machine on his bicycle.

"Mr Hepplethwitt?" he enquired of Biggles.

"That's Hebblethwaite," corrected Biggles automatically, accustomed to Ginger's surname being mangled. "He's in the cabin." He indicated the open door of the aircraft.

The telegram boy dismounted and would have leaned his bicycle against the fuselage but for Smyth's furious shout. The bicycle clattered to the ground.

Alerted by the commotion, Ginger appeared at the doorway. "What's going on?" he wanted to know. "What's all the noise about?"

"There's a telegram for you," Biggles informed him briskly.

Ginger looked puzzled. "Who on earth would be sending me a telegram?" he mused.

"Well if you open it instead of standing there, you'll find out," Biggles pointed out with asperity. "Hurry up! The Air Commodore said this job was urgent."

Ginger stepped down from the aircraft and took the buff envelope, tearing it open. As he read the message his face drained of colour and his hands shook.

"Are you alright?" Biggles asked him, unnecessarily. It was obvious that the news had given Ginger a severe shock. "What is it?"

"Me Da'," replied Ginger huskily, unconsciously falling back into his childhood idiom.

Biggles frowned. "What on earth does he want? He hasn't bothered to contact you for years. Why has he suddenly decided to send you a telegram?"

Ginger shook his head. "It isn't from him," he explained, regaining his normal speech. "It's from Mrs Lamb."

Biggles could have shaken Ginger, but he repressed the urge. Whatever was in the telegram had clearly affected the lad deeply. Instead of wasting time questioning the young man, he held out his hand. "May I read it?"

Wordlessly, Ginger passed over the slip of paper.

Biggles glanced at the message. He had barely got beyond "Regret to inform you …" when he realised why Ginger had reacted as he had.

"Any reply?" broke in the telegram boy with a hint of impatience in his tone, accustomed to the effects of his delivery. In his experience, telegrams seldom brought good news.

"Not at the moment," Biggles told him.

With a shrug, the youth picked up his bicycle, swung his leg over the crossbar and rode off, wobbling erratically.

"The funeral's on Friday," murmured Ginger, finding his voice at last.

"I'll get in touch with the Air Commodore," began Biggles but Ginger shook his head.

"You and Algy carry on. I'll stay here and deal with it."

Biggles looked at him compassionately as he handed back the telegram. "Are you sure you'll be alright? I don't like the idea of leaving you to deal with this alone. One of us ought to be with you."

"You said yourself a moment ago, the Air Commodore insisted this job was urgent. There's no time to waste. I'll make my own way to Linz once this is all over, if you haven't wrapped it up by then."

"Take the Bentley to drive up," offered Biggles, groping in his pocket and holding out the keys.

"Thanks," muttered Ginger, taking the keys from the man who had been more of a father to him than his own flesh and blood. In a daze he stowed them in his jacket.

Algy poked his head out of the cabin door and addressed Biggles. "What's keeping you?" he asked. "Haven't you got those checks done yet? Is there some sort of problem?"

Ginger turned and answered quietly, "No, no problem. You're cleared for take off."

Algy disappeared back into the cabin.

Ginger took a deep breath. "Explain when you're airborne," he muttered and strode off towards the airport buildings before Biggles could say any more.

With a quick glance at Smyth, Biggles gestured towards the door. "Get in," he ordered laconically. "We're running late." He took a last look at Ginger's retreating back as the young man made his way across to the airport buildings then slammed the door.

Ginger heard the Cormorant take off but did not turn to watch. His heart was heavy. He longed to be with his comrades, but he had one last, filial duty to perform.

Biggles had left his car in the garage so Ginger took a taxi back to Mount Street, his mind in turmoil. Images of the past crowded in as he was driven back to Biggles' flat. He thought back to his childhood in the small mining village where he had been brought up. He and his father had not got on well and Ginger still bore the scars on his back where he had not been quick enough to evade a drunken beating. He had soon learned, he thought bitterly.

Ginger's cheeks burned as he remembered the bitter shame he had experienced when his father had confronted Biggles in their threadbare parlour when the airman had gone north to put his guardianship of the lad on a regular footing. Firstly Mr Hebblethwaite had demanded compensation for the loss of his son, although he hadn't quite put it like that. It had seemed that the loss of Ginger's potential earnings as a miner and his contributions to the household budget had been of greater importance than the boy's physical absence in London. As if that weren't enough, Ginger had been excruciatingly embarrassed by the interpretation that his father had put on Biggles' request for guardianship. Ginger had wished the ground would open up and swallow him when his father impugned Biggles' motives for wishing Ginger to come and live in Mount Street with him. To his credit, Mr Hebblethwaite had been wise enough to withdraw the slur on seeing the look in Biggles' eyes. Grudgingly he had grunted that "mebbe it weren't that". Ginger cringed inwardly, the memory still raw, even after the intervening years and all their adventures together.

Ginger could picture his father now, as he had been when he had last seen him, a sour and embittered man. Hebblethwaite senior's parting words still rang in his ears; "Too good fer us, are yer? Gooin' off wi' yer la-di-da marrers and yer fancy ideas! If yer go and break yer neck, it'll be yer own fault! Divven't come back here!" he had shouted angrily before he disappeared into the two up, two down and slammed the door behind him.

Ginger had accompanied Biggles south once more after that meeting feeling a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that he could now live the life that he wanted with friends who valued him for what he was, not what he was supposed to be, but sadness that he couldn't reach his only living relative and make him understand or accept the way he felt.

Now, reflected Ginger, he was again experiencing relief and sadness. Relief that it was finally over and sadness for what might have been had his father been more amenable. Guilt tinged his thoughts, too. He ought not to feel relief that his father was dead, he thought, although the two had been estranged since Ginger had left home at 15. He had always tried to be a dutiful son, but it had been hard in the face of his father's implacable opposition to his chosen lifestyle. At first Ginger had written dutifully, until the gaps between his letters and postcards had grown longer and longer before finally dwindling to nothing. Ginger grieved as much for the lost opportunities as the breaking of his last surviving family ties.

Ginger surfaced from his reverie as the taxi driver repeated more loudly, "'Ere you are, mate! Mount Street!"

He alighted and fumbled in his pocket for the fare. "Keep the change," he murmured, pushing a note into the cabby's outstretched hand.

"Fanks, Gov!" the driver blurted gratefully, looking at Ginger with surprise. Ginger smiled wryly, remembering his exchange with the taxi driver after he had first met Biggles and his reckless offer of an extra ten shillings. "My money's as good as anybody's" he had boasted then. Well, it had been Biggles' money really, he mused, as he went into the building and climbed to the flat he had shared with his mentor since that epic encounter.

He let himself in. Mrs Symes came out of the kitchen, surprised at his unexpected return. Briefly Ginger explained the reason and accepted the housekeeper's condolences. She bustled off back to the kitchen to make him a cup of tea and some sandwiches while he went to his room and took down the leather suitcase with his initials which Algy had given him when he went to hospital to have his tonsils removed.

It was the work of a moment to pack his small kit and change into a dark suit with a black tie. As he adjusted the knot, checking his reflection in the mirror, Ginger could not help contrasting his present image with the ragamuffin he had been when he had met Biggles for the first time. He thought of Algy's insistence on his buying new clothes in Newcastle and smiled faintly. Patting his pockets to make sure that he had transferred everything he needed, he took his suitcase into the sitting room and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Mrs Symes brought in tea and cakes on a tray, clucking over him like a mother hen. Ginger smiled his gratitude, not feeling much like eating. The thought of the long journey north alone depressed him as much as the coming obsequies. He had insisted that Biggles left, but the plain truth was that he was missing his presence dreadfully.

Ginger did his best to do justice to Mrs Symes' culinary efforts and accepted her packed lunch gratefully. It was a long journey up to Northumberland and he knew that he would be ravenous before he reached his destination.

With a heavy heart he left the flat and walked to the garage where Biggles kept his motor car. His mind on other things, he negotiated the busy streets automatically until he was finally able to swing Biggles' Bentley onto the Great North Road and put his foot down.