V for Victory - COMET

Chapter 1 - Barnford

With a slow, leisurely step, perfectly matching his reluctance to depart the glorious sights laid out in front of him, Alexander Dixon walked past the row of parked airplanes. Every now and then he paused, inspecting a particular machine that caught his interest. The planes shone brilliantly in the sunshine. Many were done up in the current fashion for bold primary colours, contrasting vividly against the lush green grass upon which they sat. Like art, thought Alex. That's what they are; pure art.

Some of the airplanes Alex paused to study were the playthings of the fabulously rich, but most, gathered together in pairs or threes, sported identical liveries and belonged to one of the various flying clubs visiting Barnford that day. Jovial and excited voices rose from the crowd a little way behind where Alex stood, and from the distant end of the airfield, volume rising and falling with the breeze, a lively tune played by an enthusiastic swing band mingled with the babble. The day was just the right side of too hot, school had broken up for the summer and, as far as Alex was concerned, the holidays couldn't have got off to a better start.

Dotted among the many trusty de Havilland biplanes were more exotic machines that exuded a sense of power and speed, each one sporting clean lines, faired wheel spats and modified engines which could move them along at a terrific pace. They were air racing machines; built for the sole purpose of getting from point A to point B as fast as possible. To Alex, who aspired to be nothing more than the best pilot ever to take to the skies, these machines were like precious emeralds; rare, expensive and beautiful. Alex looked upon them and fervently wished that he could one day take machines like these into the skies himself, to experience the acceleration and speed and the sheer joy of being in control of something made for performance flight. He yearned for that day with an almost painful longing, but although Alex was already a fairly competent pilot – his father owned one of the brightly painted Gipsy Moths a little way behind him, and had been giving him flying lessons for the past year – that day was still some way off. Alex Dixon was only 15 years old.

With great reluctance, and with a small pang of guilt for not yet having achieved the errand he'd been sent on by his father some twenty minutes before, Alex turned and began making his way towards a row of marquees erected along one edge of the airfield. A banner above the largest marquee read 'Barnford Flying Club Air Regatta 1936', which Alex thought made the event seem like a Grand Occasion, but in fact the club a was relatively small one and the regatta was not actually part of the air race calendar. Indeed, little actual flying was being done, and certainly no racing.

Barnford Flying Club was, however, owned by an influential sponsor who was renowned for his hosting social gatherings. Therefore, each year the regatta attracted a number of wealthy and famous people to the small airfield a few miles outside Brighton, where tall stories and ribald banter were traded loudly between the gentry who frequented a gathering of this sort. Much of the talking the adults engaged in Alex found boring and inconsequential. Already he'd had to endure the Lady Margaret Reese giving a long and somewhat rambling discourse on the shocking behaviour of the King and his 'American hussy', something Lady Margaret's friends in the States had been gossiping about for months, apparently.

Tattle about kings and politics seemed to be on everyone's lips these days. By far the majority of those present at the regatta were society high-flyers; if not actual royalty, then not far removed through a connection with some not-too-distant cousin or other. Rich and well-to-do people. Toffs, in other words, with attitudes to match. Alex didn't associate himself with such people, although he found most of them pleasant enough in small doses. He was only there because his father's company, Dixon Aviation, did work for many of the people present, and for the last three years the whole family had come on the invitation of the club's secretary. His father was more at home discussing gudgeon pins or aerofoil sections than politics and so, like now, often spent his time there fiddling unnecessarily with his own airplane, nattering to the maintenance bods from the nearby hangars, while his mother and sister helped out with catering, similarly hiding. We're all of us out of our depth here, he thought, looking round at the expensive clothes and disdainful faces of many of those around him. This was the first time he had truly realised, and the new insight made him smile.