to see Nick later. Sorry, maybe next time,â she said, patting Lucy on the head in a gesture she hoped the child would take as the nearest sheâd get to open affection, and not simplyfeel she was being put down.
âIâll have to go for a walk on the Common with Gran, then,â Lucy complained glumly. âShe
always
wants to walk on the Common. She says itâs good for the digestion. And she always goes really fast so that she can get back home in time to cook something for Uncle Graham.â
âWell itâs good for the dog. Genghis will love it, and then it wonât be your turn to walk him tomorrow will it?â Emily grinned at her, opened the door and ushered Lucy out ahead of her. She shut the door firmly, so Lucy would know she wasnât expected to make a return curiosity visit in her sisterâs absence. Together they went down the stairs, back to the kitchen.
âJoe shouldnât have left the dog for you to look after. Youâd think he could have taken it with him,â Monica was saying as she watched Nina attaching a stout lead to the collar of the ancient and supremely idle Afghan hound.
Emily laughed, âNo
way
. These dogs are just so uncool now, Dad wouldnât be seen dead with him.â
âCome on Emily, thatâs not true. He could hardly live in the flat with Joe. It wouldnât be fair.â Nina patted Genghisâs soft shaggy head. âNot fair on
whom
?â Emily asked as she gave Monica a goodbye hug.
Graham sat in his Fiesta in the Waddington Aviation Viewing Enclosure, notepad and book of
USA Military Aircraft Serials
in hand. A satisfying day. A rare day off from the demands of both home and hospital and no fewer than
three
Fâ117 Nighthawks had arrived, slinking over the horizon and down on to the runway just in front of him. Their weird black shapes reminded him of sinister origami. No wonder the media liked to call them Stealths. They even lookedfragile, but deceptive like the small plain spiders that have the deadliest venom. The Brits had nothing like the Fâ117, not military, though he was sentimentally both fond and proud of Concorde. And if they
had
got something that special, it definitely wouldnât be out and flying on a Sunday. Weekends and three weeks in August: any amateur aircraft enthusiast could tell a hostile nation that that was the time to invade.
Right now his stomach told him it was more than lunchtime so he waved briefly to the small band of equally committed hobbyists comparing their electronic scanners by the airfield fence and drove towards the village. As well as hungry he felt quite old. The others waiting in the WAVE with him were, at the most, only just out of their teens. Partly this was cheering: that youngsters hadnât all gone over to mugging and computer games in place of plane-spotting and bird-watching. But it reminded him uncomfortably that people generally, most people, expected to grow out of it. He hadnât. He didnât want to. His military aircraft log must be about the most comprehensive in the country, way back to 1971. If it had flown in, from whichever world air force, heâd been to see it, photographed it, written it down.
He looked at the carâs clock. Only 2.15. After the burger (which Mother mustnât know about because of BSE), if he drove fast, he could get home and get in a couple of hours of number-logging on the computer before his mother got home and started her âOh youâre not shutting yourself away again with
that
stuff are you?â nagging again. If he went out sheâd moan about being neglected. He couldnât win.
âSo tell me about Barbados. When are you going?â
Monica strode along across the breezy Commonbeside Lucy, trying not to gasp at the pace. The dog, too hopelessly unreliable to be let off its lead in an open space, hauled Lucy along in an attempt to get her to run with him.
âI might
not
be
âIâll have to go for a walk on the Common with Gran, then,â Lucy complained glumly. âShe
always
wants to walk on the Common. She says itâs good for the digestion. And she always goes really fast so that she can get back home in time to cook something for Uncle Graham.â
âWell itâs good for the dog. Genghis will love it, and then it wonât be your turn to walk him tomorrow will it?â Emily grinned at her, opened the door and ushered Lucy out ahead of her. She shut the door firmly, so Lucy would know she wasnât expected to make a return curiosity visit in her sisterâs absence. Together they went down the stairs, back to the kitchen.
âJoe shouldnât have left the dog for you to look after. Youâd think he could have taken it with him,â Monica was saying as she watched Nina attaching a stout lead to the collar of the ancient and supremely idle Afghan hound.
Emily laughed, âNo
way
. These dogs are just so uncool now, Dad wouldnât be seen dead with him.â
âCome on Emily, thatâs not true. He could hardly live in the flat with Joe. It wouldnât be fair.â Nina patted Genghisâs soft shaggy head. âNot fair on
whom
?â Emily asked as she gave Monica a goodbye hug.
Graham sat in his Fiesta in the Waddington Aviation Viewing Enclosure, notepad and book of
USA Military Aircraft Serials
in hand. A satisfying day. A rare day off from the demands of both home and hospital and no fewer than
three
Fâ117 Nighthawks had arrived, slinking over the horizon and down on to the runway just in front of him. Their weird black shapes reminded him of sinister origami. No wonder the media liked to call them Stealths. They even lookedfragile, but deceptive like the small plain spiders that have the deadliest venom. The Brits had nothing like the Fâ117, not military, though he was sentimentally both fond and proud of Concorde. And if they
had
got something that special, it definitely wouldnât be out and flying on a Sunday. Weekends and three weeks in August: any amateur aircraft enthusiast could tell a hostile nation that that was the time to invade.
Right now his stomach told him it was more than lunchtime so he waved briefly to the small band of equally committed hobbyists comparing their electronic scanners by the airfield fence and drove towards the village. As well as hungry he felt quite old. The others waiting in the WAVE with him were, at the most, only just out of their teens. Partly this was cheering: that youngsters hadnât all gone over to mugging and computer games in place of plane-spotting and bird-watching. But it reminded him uncomfortably that people generally, most people, expected to grow out of it. He hadnât. He didnât want to. His military aircraft log must be about the most comprehensive in the country, way back to 1971. If it had flown in, from whichever world air force, heâd been to see it, photographed it, written it down.
He looked at the carâs clock. Only 2.15. After the burger (which Mother mustnât know about because of BSE), if he drove fast, he could get home and get in a couple of hours of number-logging on the computer before his mother got home and started her âOh youâre not shutting yourself away again with
that
stuff are you?â nagging again. If he went out sheâd moan about being neglected. He couldnât win.
âSo tell me about Barbados. When are you going?â
Monica strode along across the breezy Commonbeside Lucy, trying not to gasp at the pace. The dog, too hopelessly unreliable to be let off its lead in an open space, hauled Lucy along in an attempt to get her to run with him.
âI might
not
be
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