Boy With Wings

Berta Ruck

Description

British author Berta Ruck offers up an imaginative take on the ancient myth of Icarus. Set in the months before World War I broke out, The Boy With Wings follows the course of an improbable romance that blossoms just as the world begins to fall apart.

Sujets

• Romance

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776586394
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE BOY WITH WINGS
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BERTA RUCK
 
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The Boy With Wings First published in 1915 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-639-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-640-0 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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PART I - MAY, JUNE, JULY, 1914 Chapter I - Aerial Light Horse Chapter II - The Bosom-Chums Chapter III - The Eyes of Icarus Chapter IV - The Song of All the Ages Chapter V - The Workaday World Chapter VI - The Invitation Chapter VII - A Bachelor's Tea-Party Chapter VIII - Laughing Odds Chapter IX - A Day in the Country Chapter X - Leslie, on "the Roots of the Rose" Chapter XI - The Heels of Mercury Chapter XII - The Kiss Withheld Chapter XIII - The Flying Dream Chapter XIV - An Awakening Chapter XV - Leslie on "Too Much Love" Chapter XVI - The Aeroplane Lady Chapter XVII - Leslie on "Marriage" Chapter XVIII - The Obvious Thing Chapter XIX - The Sealed Box PART II - JULY, AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, 1914 Chapter I - The Aviation Dinner Chapter II - The "Whisper of War" Chapter III - The Last Sunday of Peace Chapter IV - That Week-End Chapter V - The Die is Cast Chapter VI - Her Guardian's Consent Chapter VII - Haste to the Wedding! Chapter VIII - The Girl He Left Behind Him Chapter IX - This Side of "the Front" Chapter X - Leslie, on "the Motley of Mars" Chapter XI - A Love Letter—And a Rose PART III - SEPTEMBER, NINETEEN-FOURTEEN Chapter I - A War-Time Honeymoon Chapter II - The Soul of Undine Chapter III - A Last Favour Chapter IV - The Departure for France Chapter V - The Nuptial Flight Chapter VI - The Winged Victory Postscript Endnotes
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DEDICATED, WITH AFFECTION TO THAT BRAINLESS ARMY TYPE. MY YOUNGEST BROTHER
"The men of my own stock Bitter-bad they may be, But at least they hear the things I hear. They see the things I see."
KIPLING.
PART I - MAY, JUNE, JULY, 1914
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Chapter I - Aerial Light Horse
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Hendon!
An exquisite May afternoon, still and sunny. Above, a canopy ofunflecked sapphire-blue. Below, the broad khaki-green expanse of theflying-ground, whence the tall, red-white-and-blue pylons pointed giantfingers to the sky.
Against the iron railings of the ground the border of chairs wasthronged with spectators; women and girls in summery frocks, men inlight overcoats with field-glasses slung by a strap about them. Themovement of this crowd was that of a breeze in a drift of colouredpetals; the talk and laughter rose and fell as people looked about atthe great sheds with their huge lettered names, at the big stand, at theparked-up motors behind the seats; at the men in uniform carrying theirbrass instruments slowly across to the bandstand on the left.
At intervals everybody said to everybody else: "Isn't this just aperfect afternoon for the flying?"
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Presently, there passed the turnstile entrance at the back of the parkedmotor-cars a group of three young girls, chattering together.
One was in pink; one was in cornflower-blue. The girl who walkedbetween them wore all white, with a sunshine-yellow jersey-coat flungover her arm. Crammed well down upon her head she wore a shady whitehat, bristling with a flight of white wings; it seemed to overshadow thewhole of her small compact, but supple little person, which was finishedoff by a pair of tiny, white-canvas-shod feet. She was the youngest aswell as the smallest of the trio standing at the turnstile. (Observeher, if you please; then leave or follow her, for she is the Girl ofthis story.)
"This is my show!" she declared. Her softly-modulated voice had a traceof Welsh accent as she added, "I'm paying for this, indeed!"
"No, you aren't, then, Gwenna Williams!" protested the girl in pink(whose accent was Higher Cockney). "We were all to pay for ourselves!"
"Yes; but wasn't it me that made you come into the half-crown placesbecause I was so keen to see a flying-machine close ?... I'll pay thedifference then, if you must make a fuss. We'll settle up at theoffice on Monday," said the girl who had been addressed as GwennaWilliams.
With a girlish, self-conscious little gesture she took half a sovereignout of her wash-leather glove and handed it to the tall, be-medalleddcommissionaire.
"Come on, now, girls," she said. "This is going to be lovely!" And sheled the way forward to that line of seats, where there were just threegreen chairs vacant together.
Laughing, chattering, gay with the ease of Youth in its own company,the three, squeezed rather close together by the press, sat down;Gwenna, the Welsh girl, in the middle. The broad brim of her hat brushedagainst the roses of the pink-clad girl's cheaper hat as Gwenna leanedforward.
"Sorry, Butcher," she said. She moved.
This time one of the white wings caught a pin in the hat of the plumpblonde in blue, who exclaimed resignedly and in an accent that wasneither of Wales nor of England, "Now komm I also into this hat-businessof Candlestick-maker. It is a bit of oll right!"
" So sorry, Baker," apologised the girl in white again, putting up herhands to disengage the hat. "I'll take it off, like a matinée. Yes, Iwill, indeed. We shall all see better." She removed the hat from a smallhead that was very prettily overgrown with brown, thick, cropped curls.The bright eyes with which she blinked at first in the strong sunlightwere of the colour of the flying-ground before them: earth-brown andturf-green mixed.
"I will hold your hat, since it is for me that you take him off," saidthe girl whom they called Baker.
Her real name was Becker; Ottilie Becker. She worked at the Germancorrespondence of that London office where the other two girls, GwennaWilliams and Mabel Butcher, were typists. It was one of the many smalljokes of the place to allude to themselves as the Butcher, the Baker,and the Candlestick-maker.
All three were excellent friends....
The other two scarcely realised that Gwenna, the Celt, was differentfrom themselves; more absent-minded, yet more alive. A passer-by mighthave summed her up as "a pretty, commonplace little thing;" a girl likemillions of others. But under the ready-made muslin blouse of thatseason's style there was ripening, all unsuspected, the dormant bud ofPassion. This is no flower of the commonplace. And her eyes were full ofdreams, innocent dreams. Some of them had come true already. For hadn'tshe broken away from home to follow them? Hadn't she left the valleywhere nothing ever went on except the eternal Welsh rain that blurredthe skylines of the mountains opposite, and that drooped in curtains ofsilver-grey gauze over the slate roofs of the quarry-village, set inthat brook-threaded wedge between wooded hillsides? Hadn't she escapedfrom that cage of a chapel house sitting-room with its kitchen-range andits many bookshelves and its steel print of John Bunyan and itsmaddening old grandfather-clock that always said half-pastt two andits everlasting smell of singeing hearthrug, and never a window open?Yes! she'd given her uncle-guardian no peace until he'd washed his handsover Gwenna's coming up to London. So here she was in London now, makingfresh discoveries every day, and enjoying that mixture of drudgery andfrivolling that makes up the life of the London bachelor-girl. She wasstill "fancy-free," as people say of a girl who loves and lives infancies, and she was still at the age for bosom-friendships. Onesincerely adored girl-chum had her confidence. This was a young woman atthe Residential Club, where Gwenna lived; not one of these from theoffice.
But the office trio could take an occasional Saturday jaunt together asenjoyingly as if they never met during the week.
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"Postcards, picture postcards!" chanted a shrill treble voice above thebuzz of the talking, waiting crowds.
Before the seats a small boy passed with a tray of photographs. Theseshowed views of the hangars and of the ground; portraits of theaviators.
"Postcards!" He paused before that cluster of blue and white and pinkfrocks. "Any picture postcards?"
"Yes! Wait a minute. Let's choose some," said Miss Butcher. And threeheads bent together over the display of glazed cards. "Tell you what,Baker; we'll send one off to your soldier-brother in Germany. Shall we?All sign it, like we did that one to your mother, from the Zoo."
"Ah, yes. A bier-karte !" said the German girl, with her good-naturedgiggle. "Here, I choose this one. View of Hendon. We write ' Es lassengrüssen unbekannter Weise '—'there send greeting to Karl, theUnknown.'"
"Oh, but hadn't we better send him this awfully nice-looking airman,just as a sort of example of what a young man really can do in the wayof appearance, what?" suggested Miss Butcher, picking out another card."Peach, isn't he? Look! He's standing up in the thingamagig just likean archangel in his car; or do I mean Apollo?—Gwenna'd know.... Whichare you going to choose, Gwenna?"
Gwenna had picked out three cards. A view of the ground, a picture of abiplane in mid-air, and a portrait of one of the other airmen.
He had been taken in his machine against the blank background of sky.The big, boyish hands gripped the wheel, the cap, goggles in front, peakbehind, was pushed back from the careless, clean-shaven lad's face, withits cheeks creased with deep dimples of a smile.
"This one," said Gwenna Williams. And there was no whisper of Fate ather heart as she announced lightly, "This is my love." (She did notguess, as you do, that here was the portrait of the Boy of this story.)
The other girls leaned across her to look as she added: