Postman Pat

Captain Patrick Clifton had thirty thousand hours on the Pilatus Porter and his wife had just run off with the milkman. ‘Clear prop!’ yelled First Officer Jessica Coon to anyone listening. Captain Pat checked both magnetos and fired the Lycoming.

‘Morning Edinburgh Tower,’ chirruped Jess. ‘Golf Lima Oscar Oscar Papa requests taxi instructions for VFR flight to Lindisfarne.’

‘Morning Golf Oscar Papa, replied ATC. Clear taxi to holding point Alpha for Runway 27. QFE 996. You with the old man today?’

‘Affirm, sir. Not his usual cheery self, mind. Cleared Alpha for 27. QFE 996.’

Pat taxied to the hold as Jess did the pre-take offs. ‘Golf Oscar Papa ready for departure,’ she purred.

‘Golf Oscar Papa is clear take off. QNH 1003. Wind 280°, fifteen gusting thirty.’

‘Clear take off,’ confirmed Jess. QNH 1003. Wind copied.’

‘I’ll do the take off and landing,’ said Pat.’ Give you time to get the paperwork out the way.’

Lindisfarne’s airstrip was an asphalt causeway linking island to mainland. The Pilatus had a two-hour tidal window before the strip disappeared under the water for eight hours. ‘Should be an easy landing,’ drawled Pat as he climbed away. ‘Wind’s straight on the nose.’

Jess flicked the switch to retract the landing gear, ran through the after-take off routine, and settled down for the fifty minute flight. ‘She’s all yours,’ said Pat. ‘ I’ll go and check the mail sacks.’

‘But I’ve already done…’ said Jess. But Pat had already taken off his headphones and disappeared into the hold.

It was all a bit quiet in the back. None of the usual crashing about as Pat rearranged the mail sacks.

‘Everything ok?’ Jess asked as he scrambled back into the cockpit.

‘Have you forgotten how to fly this thing?’ he slurred. ‘She’s all over the place. Can’t you remember how to fly in a straight line?’

Jess fiddled with the auto pilot and bit her lip. She gave him her sweetest smile. ‘Everything properly stowed back there?’

Pat lurched into his seat and burped noisily. ‘Yep.’

‘Been speaking to Lindisfarne,’ Jess remarked mildly. ‘Wind’s backed to 180°. Twenty knots, gusting thirty-five. Quite a crosswind. Shall I look up an alternate?’

‘That’ll be Newcastle,’ he replied. ‘We’ll decide ten minutes out.’

‘Lindisfarne Radio. Hi Peter. Golf Oscar Papa inbound with your post and a few extra goodies. Request your current weather.’

‘Morning Greendale Rocket,’ he replied. ‘We’ve got the wind backing at 190°. Twenty knots, now gusting forty-five.’

‘Wind copied. Request landing instructions. Golf Oscar Papa.’

‘Straight-in approach for 26. Report final. Occasional waves lapping runway.’

‘Copied.’

‘We’ll go in,’ he smiled at Jess. ‘The Pilatus can handle this.’

‘But…’

‘But nothing,’ he boomed. ‘Just do your job. Remember who’s the captain round here.’

Jess carried out pre-landing checks and let down the undercarriage.

‘Lindisfarne Radio. Golf Oscar Papa on finals for 26. Request current wind.’

‘You’re clear to land,’ said Peter. Wind veering steady at 210°. Twenty knots occasionally gusting fifty. QFE 975.’

            ‘Clear land, Golf Oscar Papa,’ and under his breath, he said, ‘and this one’s for Brigid.’

            ‘Why Brigid?’ asked Jess.

            He grunted. ‘She’s gone and buggered off.’

Mrs. Coggins the postmistress idly watched from the shop doorway, her arms folded over her ample bosom, stray wisps of white hair escaping from her bun. She wasn’t concerned about the bad weather – Pat had been flying the Greendale Rocket longer than she could remember.

He lined up on the extended runway, crabbing the Pilatus at an angle – one wing down – to counteract the crosswind. Twenty feet above the ground he kicked her straight with the rudder, cut the power, and flared. As the front wheels touched, a violent gust caught the downwind wing and it’s tip slashed the water. She lurched, pitched forward, and flipped on her back.

Mrs. Coggins dialled quickly. ‘What service do you require, Mrs. Coggins?’ asked the operator.

‘All of them,’ she babbled. ‘The Rocket’s crashed.’

            Nothing moved in the Pilatus as it began to sink. As the cockpit disappeared beneath the waves, a bottle bobbed up and down, then sank. It said: Isle of Bura. Single Malt Whisky. And it was empty.

*

Changing Skin

             She was gazing idly through the kitchen window overlooking the back yard when the idea came to her: she would do it when the last leaf blew off the gingko tree. She loved her husband, but wanted to know – just once – what it felt like. She knew she had to do it soon, before she got too old and no other man would want her. She told herself she was probably being stupid and it would no doubt be a disappointment, but she would do it anyway.

November arrived and the storms came. She glanced up from the morning’s washing up and watched the wind making whirlpools in the yard. Red and orange leaves from the Japanese maples curled through the air like wet broken feathers, and the flat yellow gingko leaves stuck to the wet slabs like imprints of fossils. A single anaemic leaf held tight to its branch, then, almost as if she had willed it, was plucked away by a sharp gust. The gingko was bare.

It was easy. She told her husband she was going to the city to do the Christmas shopping. He had no reason to doubt her. She made a casserole to last the weekend, finished the ironing, and took a bus to the station.

As she tucked her weekend bag neatly under the seat, she smiled. Her husband would have been surprised and not a little confused by its contents. No trace of the Boden wardrobe and sensible loafers; but instead a clingy red dress and black waisted leather jacket she had bought from Karen Millen and hidden at the back of the wardrobe. The high-heeled boots were black and expensive; she had been surprised how easy it had been to walk in them when she had tried them on in the shop.

She studied her reflection in the carriage window unable to concentrate on the thriller she had intended to read, and looked for signs of remorse for what she was about to do; she found none. She hardly recognised herself – it was as if she had put on another skin. She shivered with excitement and pressed her cheek against the carriage window. The clouds scudded low over the fields, turned into grey mist and disappeared into the purple anonymity of the night. On the return journey, she knew, everything would be different.

             A cab took her to a small hotel near the cathedral. Her room, a blank minimalist box with no history written upon it, was unlike any space she had ever slept in. She showered but did not change her clothes, and went down for supper. She scanned the room: a couple of old men read newspapers in the bar, a middle-aged couple ate silently in a corner. She ate quickly and went to bed. She did not dream.

In the morning she went shopping. She bought presents she knew would surprise her family. A pink party dress for the girl – it was the child’s favourite colour; a shaving set for the boy – he would be needing it soon. For her husband she bought an expensive Philippe Patek watch with a large white face and roman numerals engraved in black. She had no appetite for lunch. Before going back to the hotel she bought black underwear and the darkest red lipstick she could find. She walked back through the cathedral gardens, then turning down the lane towards her hotel was attracted by music coming from a pub. The sign above the door said the Chaste Arms.

Back in her room she flung her old clothes carelessly on the floor and changed into her new clothes. She carefully applied her lipstick. I have not lost my figure she thought, admiring herself in the full-length mirror.

The pub sign squeaking in the cold wind showed a metal chastity belt and an improbably large key. She paused briefly, stifled a laugh and pushed open the door. The bar was low ceilinged and timber framed. It was dark and smoky and smelled of beer. Chastity belts hung from the walls and rafters. She thought how ironic it was she had chosen this place. A man sat with his back to her at the bar. He was much too thin for her taste, and untidy black curls spilled over the collar of his brown leather jacket. As she sat down beside him she noticed a snake tattoo on his left wrist.

He turned casually towards her. ‘Haven’t seen you here before.’

‘You haven’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m just travelling through.’ She looked at his empty glass. ‘What can I get you?’