In Love and War

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‘Florence.’ The pilot turns in his seat and winks, as if the flight is a secret, or a first. Esmond repeats the word in his mind and releases a shiver. He is the only passenger — the biplane belongs to Grandi, the ambassador, and sits at a steep angle to the ground, forcing him into a tilt. Out of the window is the long body of Croydon Aerodrome and, in front of it, his family. Except for his sister Anna’s white organdie they are uniformed in black, as though for a funeral.

The plane pulses towards the main runway. Esmond presses a hand, and then his face, to the throbbing glass, and sees his father raise his good arm. For a moment he thinks it’s a wave, then his mother raises hers, a steely thrust up and forward, and he realises they are saluting and sinks back into his seat.

‘I apologise for the position in which you find yourself.’ The pilot leans over a tasselled shoulder, his smile Italian, his moustache so thin it might be inked on.

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