Fagan,’ he advised quietly.
Ira turned to him. ‘Why?’
Kowalski smiled. ‘I guess it won’t take you long to find out.’
Fagan was pushing his way back to them through the crowd now, with the woman Ira had seen earlier. He stopped in front of them, mischievous-looking as a rebellious schoolboy.
He gestured at Ira. ‘Himself,’ he said to the woman, then, turning to Ira, he gave a shrill laugh that sounded slightly mad, and made the introductions.
‘Your other pilot,’ he said. ‘Ellie Putnam--er--that is--Ellie Fagan. Me wife.’
6
Ellie Fagan was a lean blonde American, with a thin hard body that had a tigerish tautness about it, as if the slightest noise would make her jump. She stared arrogantly at Ira, her short cropped hair like a golden helmet, her expression full of sharp resentment.
She was older than Fagan and her attitude towards him seemed a mixture of aggressive hostility and acute unease, as though she were expecting him all the time to break out and smash something. It was a feeling that was not lost on Ira, because Fagan’s size alone seemed dangerous and his unrestrained bull-in-a-china-shop enthusiasm made Ira want to flinch.
‘The planes were Ellie’s,’ he was saying with a noisy gaiety that seemed wildly out of place. ‘I took ‘em over when Ches Putnam--er--went out of business. Inherited ‘em, you might say, with Ellie.’
Ellie’s face seemed to twist scornfully, so that Ira half-expected her to produce some cutting retort that would reduce Fagan to a midget, but she refrained, though it seemed to require an effort, and contented herself with warily studying Ira.
‘You were expecting maybe Richthofen?’ she asked.
Ira smiled and shook his head and she went on in the same flat Middle-West accent. ‘Not a dame, anyway.’
‘No,’ Ira agreed. ‘Not a dame.’ Though he’d certainly not been surprised. Quite a few women had been bitten by the flying bug since the war and he could even remember seeing Louie de Havilland sewing the fabric of her husband’s frail machines at Farnborough long before 1914.
‘I met Ches Putnam while he was instructing on Spads for the Army Air Force,’ Ellie went on briskly. ‘We got around a bit after he quit, and ended up in South Africa.’
Her manner was brittle and her speech staccato, and Ira questioned her cautiously, aware that it wouldn’t take much to bring her violently, angrily, alive.
‘What about flying?’ he asked.
‘I’m comfortable in an airplane,’ she said. ‘I’ve been handling ‘em since I was sixteen. My old man was barnstorming in the States till he broke his neck crashing a June Bug. We’re unlucky. Some fliers are. My brother killed himself in a Nieuport in France. The first sound I remember was a Curtiss tuning up.’
‘What sort of experience . . . ?’ Ira began and her face came alive at once.
‘What you can do, I can do,’ she said quickly. ‘Maybe better.’
There was a pause before Ira spoke again. ‘Look,’ he said slowly, his voice mild, ‘I don’t give a damn if you’re male, female or neuter. I’ve come out here to train pilots, and a good instructor’s more use to me than an aerobatics expert.’ Her expression altered subtly as she stared back at him, and some of the tautness went out of her manner. ‘I can instruct,’ she said. ‘My husband gave me all the dope.’
Ira glanced at Fagan, but she shook her head. ‘Ches Putnam,’ she said. ‘We used to give lessons in Durban. I’ve taught plenty people to fly.’
Ira was about to ask what had happened to her first husband, the American, but she jumped in quickly, as though she wished to save him embarrassment. ‘Ches was killed two years ago,’ she said. ‘In South Africa. We ran a display but it didn’t amount to much. We had some bad luck. There were four of us. Ches and me and two South Africans. But a couple of kids were killed when an engine failed and it cost us a lot. Then one of the South
Ira turned to him. ‘Why?’
Kowalski smiled. ‘I guess it won’t take you long to find out.’
Fagan was pushing his way back to them through the crowd now, with the woman Ira had seen earlier. He stopped in front of them, mischievous-looking as a rebellious schoolboy.
He gestured at Ira. ‘Himself,’ he said to the woman, then, turning to Ira, he gave a shrill laugh that sounded slightly mad, and made the introductions.
‘Your other pilot,’ he said. ‘Ellie Putnam--er--that is--Ellie Fagan. Me wife.’
6
Ellie Fagan was a lean blonde American, with a thin hard body that had a tigerish tautness about it, as if the slightest noise would make her jump. She stared arrogantly at Ira, her short cropped hair like a golden helmet, her expression full of sharp resentment.
She was older than Fagan and her attitude towards him seemed a mixture of aggressive hostility and acute unease, as though she were expecting him all the time to break out and smash something. It was a feeling that was not lost on Ira, because Fagan’s size alone seemed dangerous and his unrestrained bull-in-a-china-shop enthusiasm made Ira want to flinch.
‘The planes were Ellie’s,’ he was saying with a noisy gaiety that seemed wildly out of place. ‘I took ‘em over when Ches Putnam--er--went out of business. Inherited ‘em, you might say, with Ellie.’
Ellie’s face seemed to twist scornfully, so that Ira half-expected her to produce some cutting retort that would reduce Fagan to a midget, but she refrained, though it seemed to require an effort, and contented herself with warily studying Ira.
‘You were expecting maybe Richthofen?’ she asked.
Ira smiled and shook his head and she went on in the same flat Middle-West accent. ‘Not a dame, anyway.’
‘No,’ Ira agreed. ‘Not a dame.’ Though he’d certainly not been surprised. Quite a few women had been bitten by the flying bug since the war and he could even remember seeing Louie de Havilland sewing the fabric of her husband’s frail machines at Farnborough long before 1914.
‘I met Ches Putnam while he was instructing on Spads for the Army Air Force,’ Ellie went on briskly. ‘We got around a bit after he quit, and ended up in South Africa.’
Her manner was brittle and her speech staccato, and Ira questioned her cautiously, aware that it wouldn’t take much to bring her violently, angrily, alive.
‘What about flying?’ he asked.
‘I’m comfortable in an airplane,’ she said. ‘I’ve been handling ‘em since I was sixteen. My old man was barnstorming in the States till he broke his neck crashing a June Bug. We’re unlucky. Some fliers are. My brother killed himself in a Nieuport in France. The first sound I remember was a Curtiss tuning up.’
‘What sort of experience . . . ?’ Ira began and her face came alive at once.
‘What you can do, I can do,’ she said quickly. ‘Maybe better.’
There was a pause before Ira spoke again. ‘Look,’ he said slowly, his voice mild, ‘I don’t give a damn if you’re male, female or neuter. I’ve come out here to train pilots, and a good instructor’s more use to me than an aerobatics expert.’ Her expression altered subtly as she stared back at him, and some of the tautness went out of her manner. ‘I can instruct,’ she said. ‘My husband gave me all the dope.’
Ira glanced at Fagan, but she shook her head. ‘Ches Putnam,’ she said. ‘We used to give lessons in Durban. I’ve taught plenty people to fly.’
Ira was about to ask what had happened to her first husband, the American, but she jumped in quickly, as though she wished to save him embarrassment. ‘Ches was killed two years ago,’ she said. ‘In South Africa. We ran a display but it didn’t amount to much. We had some bad luck. There were four of us. Ches and me and two South Africans. But a couple of kids were killed when an engine failed and it cost us a lot. Then one of the South
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