The Last Link

By Joanna Beresford

It is 1927 and great advances are being made in aviation around the globe. George Hood knows his talent for flying is languishing in his small hometown of Masterton.  When Air Force Territorial, John ‘Scotty’ Moncrieff, announces his intention to buy a plane and be the first to fly over the Tasman, George is determined to be his co-pilot. The two men refuse to let anything stand in their way.

George’s wife Cissie is equally intent on not losing her second husband to a mission that can at best be described as foolhardy, and at worst suicidal. Her insecurities ignite with the unavoidable presence of George’s first love, Doris, who is kind, gentle and strikingly beautiful; everything Cissie feels she is not.

Soon, George's stubbornness and a knack for attracting admiration from many quarters threatens their tumultuous relationship, as he and his head pilot prepare for their dangerous journey. Success will bring fame and prestige to the Dominion; failure is not an option.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022

Book preview

1

Royal Flying Corps

Wantage Hall,

Reading,

England

---

Dear Olive,

I just have a few minutes left to catch the mail so will not be able to write a very long letter. I intended writing last night, only my friend Harry and I went on the river and it was so nice we stayed there until 11 o’clock. By Jove, it is just lovely on the river. There are hundreds of boats going up and down. Some have punts. Others have scull boats and canoes. You should see the couples under the bank taking cover under a few twigs of a willow tree. It would open one’s eyes.

I had an exam on Saturday, on theory of flight bombing and rigging. You will think, little does George know about rigging an aeroplane or theory of flight. Some of the angles we have to learn I had never heard before, such as dihedral angle, lift drift ratio, longitudinal struts and one hundred other things. I never thought my brain would hold half, but I answered 23 out of 24 questions so that is not so bad for two weeks. So you will know the girls do not take up much of my time now. Aeroplanes are more into my line. These are some of the instruments we have to know; compass, revolution indicator, inclinometer, gradometer, pump, pressure gauge, thermometer and watch. All these things are on the dashboard in front of you and above this you have a machine gun and bomb dropper. You see, there is plenty to learn before you can be a pilot. We had to describe a lot of these in our exam and state how they looked.

I have not had a letter for five weeks. The mail must have been sunk. Do you ever see old Doris these days? My word, I would like to see her again. What a time we will have when we do meet.

From George.

---

George grimaced and folded the letter he’d written back in 1917. He hid it away beneath the mess of papers protruding from his desk’s bottom drawer. His elder sister Olive had saved the note for him, as she had all the letters he’d sent her during his time in England, but she’d gleefully singled this particular one out to give back to him in front of Cissie last week. Goodness knows why.

Cissie had pursed her lips and continued sweeping the kitchen floor. He could tell what she was thinking; George and Olive never had much use for her when they were together – brother and sister, thick as thieves. She was his wife. He knew she would be wondering whether that counted for anything at all. Still, Cissie hadn’t demanded to see the letter and so he hadn’t shown it to her. That comment about Doris at the bottom would have riled her good and proper and he preferred to let things lie.

‘George, what are you up to in there? I need to you come and help me shampoo the dog. He’s flicking water all over the room and I’m just about soaked through,’ Cissie cried.

He kicked the drawer shut and limped out to see the damage. Cissie was pretty wet, all right. The lace of her chemise pressed against her transparent cotton shirt. Charlie, their spaniel, leapt out of the sudsy tub with excitement when he saw George, shaking more water over her.

‘Down boy,’ George commanded. To no avail; Charlie was out of the door and rolling on the grass, legs kicking haphazardly in the air.

George reached out to his wife and helped her up, his hand grazing her breast as he pulled her into him.

She slapped his hand away. ‘I can’t believe you’re thinking of that when I’m standing here practically freezing to death.’

‘Aw, come here Cis. Forget about the dog. You can scrub my back instead.’

‘No! I will not forget about the dog. Stop it. You are going to get Charlie and give him that bath. He stinks!’ She stalked off down the passage.

‘Aren’t you going to help?’ he called after her ruefully.

‘No, I most certainly am not. I’m going to change before I catch my death of cold.’

‘Ah, that’s my girl.’ George looked at the dog and sighed. ‘Come on, Charlie, be a good boy. Come and have your bath.’

Charlie sat at a safe distance, his tongue lolling over his gums. George thought the dog looked like he was fair laughing at his master. And why not? They both knew George couldn’t run fast enough to catch him. Not with half a leg missing, a wooden prosthesis strapped on in its place.

Cissie probably wouldn’t speak to him for a week for leaving right now but really, he had better things to do than grapple with a wet mutt. He needed to speak to Pa. Why the heck hadn’t his old man been at the Rifle Club that morning? It was out of character. He’d better check in, just in case.

Frank Hood was sitting in his favourite porch chair. The late afternoon sun infused his aching joints as he carefully stretched forward to stroke his pet magpie. The ebony-and-ivory-coloured feathers felt somehow dry and oily.

‘Hello?’ the bird chirruped, as it cocked its inky bill, all the better for casting a beady eye over the octogenarian.

Frank wiped his hand down his face and let out a watery cough. ‘Trick, this awful flu is really giving me a beating.’

The pet bird hopped on to Frank’s wrist and picked its way from side to side along his shirt sleeve before coming to rest on his shoulder. From this vantage point, the magpie was easily able to pull white strands out of the old man’s thick beard and mutton chop sideburns.

As Frank massaged a twinging nerve in his left shoulder, his stout little wife, Jane, stepped neatly out of the back door carrying a glass of cool apple juice. She had a cushion tucked under her left arm and drew it out to bat the bird away. She handed him the glass, tugged him to her and stuffed the cushion behind his neck.

‘Here you go, dear, squeezed from our own apples,’ she announced, triumphantly holding the glass aloft and watching fruit sediment swirl softly to the bottom.

Frank winced as Trick reclaimed his shoulder with a ruffling of feathers and groping claws, and sipped gratefully from the glass.

She patted the top of her husband’s head and hurried back toward the house.

‘Call me if you need anything else, dear,’ she said. Jane knew well enough to leave her husband alone when he was feeling so sorry for himself. Though, for goodness sake, the man was only suffering from a summer cold.

---

‘Pa, what are you doing? Are you asleep?’

Frank’s eyes snapped open. Reluctantly, he craned his neck to look up. George was shaking him, concern etched in his face.

‘Course not. I don’t have time to snooze,’ Frank said, grumbling.

‘Righty-ho, just checking you’re all right. I missed you at the shoot today. The competition was tight. Old McKay just scraped in at the top of the table, averaging forty-six at the three-hundred-yard mark. I reckon he might be trying to give me a run for the championship title, eh, Pa?’

Frank set his glass on the ground. ‘He well might, George, but never you mind about me, I don’t have to go to every one of those competitions. It does me good to have a break from time to time.’

‘Are you sick or something?’

‘Touch of the flu. Don’t get too close. I wouldn’t want to pass it on to you lot.’

George grinned. ‘I wouldn’t want to get any closer with that magpie sitting on your shoulder, anyhow. Mind it doesn’t crap down your back.’

‘Hasn’t yet.’

‘That has to be a minor miracle. The stupid thing dive-bombs everyone else, in case you haven’t noticed. Look, I’ve come round to remind you that I’m off to Wigram tomorrow for the flight refresher. Would you keep an eye on Cissie for me?’

Frank nodded. ‘Not a problem, George. We’ll make sure she’s taken care of.’

‘Thanks, Pa. But don’t tell her I asked. She’s independent, as you know – wouldn’t like to think anyone was making a fuss. You’ll keep me happy, though.’

Frank blinked and stretched his arms above his head. ‘You take care, George. No crazy stunts in those old aeroplanes, y’hear?’

‘Pa, you know me. I’ll be careful.’ George heaved himself up off the porch step. ‘See you in a couple of weeks.’

Frank urgently rummaged around in his pocket as he felt a huge sneeze building. He found the cotton handkerchief in the nick of time to empty a huge glob of phlegm into it. He held it out and contemplated the mess. ‘Ah, much better,’ he said, looking up, but George was already gone. He bunched up the cotton square and shoved it into his pocket. It was too hard to find anyone to give a sick man an ounce of sympathy.

2

Cissie flew back through the streets after seeing George off at the railway station. She brushed several bystanders out of the way, ignoring their indignant glares. Fumbling with the key in the back-door lock, she skipped down the hall and paused for a second on the threshold of George’s office to catch her breath. Ordinarily, Cissie wouldn’t venture in, but George wasn’t there and she had to find that letter. Taking in the confusing mess, she worried the task might take some time. Then again, she had plenty of that. Two whole weeks, in fact, while her husband gallivanted around the Canterbury Plains in shoddy old rust buckets he was deluded enough to call planes. Cissie couldn’t help being sarcastic. George’s fascination with flying could be infuriating when she wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

She started at the desk, lifting pages of documents that were lying all over the surface; bills, statements, scrappy pieces of paper with notes he had written to himself to remember all manner of things. Nothing there. She opened the top drawer. Just a letter opener and half a stale biscuit. Really, did her husband have to be so careless? She turned her attention to the second and then bottom drawer.

Finally, what she’d been looking for. Olive had been so smug and conspiratorial as she’d placed that letter on the table before George, with never so much as a backwards glance toward Cissie.

‘Remember this?’ Olive had thrown her head back and shrieked. ‘Ha, those were the days. Never thought you would grow up, Georgie. Now look at you in your tie and jacket, with a respectable job. No more adventures for you. The same old routine, just like the rest of us,’ she said, and had cast a look at Cissie then. Cissie didn’t know whether to feel insulted or included in the conspiracy.

George had read the letter and chuckled before tucking it in his shirt pocket.

Well, she wasn’t going to give Olive the satisfaction of having to ask to see what the joke was about. Neither would she lower herself to begging George for it, either. She could wait a week or so, until he was safely away in the South Island. The time had come.

She settled into the chair behind the desk and smoothed out the letter in front of her. Reading through it, she began to wonder what all the fuss was about. It’s only George rambling on about his jolly planes again. Was she missing the joke entirely?

… ever see old Doris these days? My word, I would like to see her again. What a time we will have when we do meet.

‘Oh…’ Cissie stiffened. Doris. Why did Olive want to wave that old flame under her nose? Ada never dared and she had every reason to. Doris was her best friend after all. Cissie pondered how two sisters could be so different. Olive, all showy and full of pretentions, and Ada, so soft and kind. Cissie didn’t mind the latter. Still, Ada was divorced and all. Not like that girl had any right to be mean to anyone, in her position. Cissie suddenly wanted to cry. Why did she have to curse Ada, possibly the only one to ever take an interest in her out of the whole Hood bunch? If George had been an abusive drunkard, Cissie hoped she would act as courageously as Ada had. As if he would dare. She would try to be kinder in the future towards her younger sister-in-law. Olive, on the other hand… well, she could go to… no, that was too harsh. She could mind her own business. Now that would make a nice change. Cissie paused.

Now, that would explain why Olive had been subdued when she’d left their house. The bait hadn’t been taken, at least not in front of her. She’d walked home disappointed.

Cissie smugly tucked the letter back into the drawer where she’d found it.

3

On the south-western edges of Christchurch lay Wigram Aerodrome like a patchwork square on a faded old quilt. The early-morning breeze was already whipping dust through the short stalky grass and threatened to blow harder still as the sun rose to resume its merciless beat.

The hangars squatted on the open field, holding a collection of precious war fighter planes; seven Avro 504Ks, four DH9s, two DH4s and two Bristol Fighters. Shortly, their pilots would arrive to take them to the skies again for two glorious weeks. The men responsible for the restoration of this archaic fleet cherished them like lovers, even though the machines were now so very tired. The once brightly painted emblems had faded but, to the men arriving this morning, the machines still held an aura of beauty. It was to maintain these aviators’ expertise, and indeed the safety of each member of the public, that the planes had been donated in the first place. When they rattled through their manoeuvres high above the sprawling Christchurch metropolis, the rest of New Zealand was assured the country’s state of defence was fighting fit and ready for action at a moment’s notice.

Reality produced a slightly different truth. The men adored the planes only because they hardly ever had an opportunity to fly anywhere else all year. Someone desperately needed to do something to get the public enthusiastic about aviation. After all, the way the Air Force men saw it, flying was going to be the way of the future. It would connect countries faster and draw in Earth’s enormous expanse on which the colony registered as only a tiny smear. If only a few other men, particularly those at the seat of parliament, would recognise the potential and donate some precious public funds to the aerodrome, the flyers knew they could accomplish so much more.

In the quiet sanctity of a hangar, Captain Findlay dawdled among the machinery. Dust danced in sunlight streaming in through the upper windows. He stroked his moustache and smoothed his uniform, not that it bloody mattered whether he did his bit to create some order of professionalism among the Territorial Air Force officers by wearing it. The rest of the men broke with formality as soon as they arrived – a mishmash of civvies and crumpled kit. His peaceful reverie broke with the sound of men spilling out of their cars, shouting and laughing, haphazardly unloading suitcases out of the boots of taxis and waving off their charges. He emerged into the sunlight and stood quietly as the men swarmed around him, some offering a salute, others giving a slap of camaraderie on the shoulder.

‘Bloody hell, can’t say you’re looking any better than the last time I saw you.’

It was hardly the sort of comment a man of his position should expect from one of his subordinates, but he received the greeting warmly anyway. He understood the excitement coursing through each of them. The men were desperate for the exhilarating thrill only flying could provide, and eternally frustrated that this opportunity only came around once a year and for only a meagre few days at that.

Recently appointed captain, George Hood was no different, yet his thoughts lingered over his farewell with Cissie.

‘Behave yourself down there, George,’ she had muttered.

‘Don’t you worry about me, darling. Be here when I get home.’ He’d leaned forward to hug her one last time, pinching her bottom. Cissie had self-consciously spun around, obviously hoping no one else on the platform had seen the embarrassing display of affection.

George would have liked her to have squeezed out a few tears for him, at least, but she’d seemed impatient to see him get on the train. There was none of the usual, ‘What happens if your plane claps out altogether this year?’ or, ‘You’ve already lost one leg. Please bring the rest of you back in one piece.’ He’d figured it out on the long train ride over the tedious Rimutaka incline, through hills smothered in thorny yellow gorse. The letter. She wanted to find that stupid letter. Well, he’d made no attempt to conceal it. Not really, anyway. He was glad she’d have two weeks to sort her muddled feelings out before he returned. Was it too hopeful to think she might have entirely forgotten about the letter’s contents by then? Was it his fault they still bumped into Doris from time to time? She was Ada’s bosom friend; it was bound to happen. He always ignored the woman’s meaningful looks so Cissie and Doris would both know he only had eyes for his wife. And if he happened to find himself in a room with Doris when Cissie was elsewhere, well, a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone. They had been close friends once, more than that. And she was still a nice piece of work. He wished his mother didn’t so obviously love Doris as much as she did. Cissie could be awkward but he knew her feelings got hurt just like everyone else’s. And his mother carrying on didn’t help the matter at all.

After a tumultuous sailing across the Cook Strait, George couldn’t care less what Cissie thought, or Doris, or his mother, he was so green around the gills. Give him a plane over a ship any day.

---

He’d arrived in Christchurch at last. He walked across the airfield with