Chapter 1
There’s a footpath that runs through a field, the site of an old airfield in Kent. A man and his son are walking with their dog across the field towards the church. Overhead they hear the sound of a plane above them and they look up.
“Is that a Spitfire?”
“Yes, aren’t they amazing. They come over from Biggin Hill.”
“But not a real one?”
“Yes, I think it is. They collect old bits of Spitfire plane that they can get hold of and use them to repair and rebuild the original ones.”
“But that makes it,” the boy, Tom, pauses, “80 years old. Did Granddad fight in the war?”
Martin smiles and looks down at his son. “No, not even Granddad is old enough. His father fought in the war, but he didn’t fly planes, he was in the army.”
“I wish I could fly one.”
They stand and watch the Spitfire for a few seconds, but around them on both sides of the path the corn is summer-high and Tom quickly loses sight of the plane.
The airfield has been split into two fields, and they pass a dividing fence on the left. The second field is grass, with sheep in the distance. Ahead are two old second world war bunkers; semi-submerged concrete structures with a short flight of steps down to a room at the bottom. There is one in the field on the left, and one by the path in front of them, overgrown and difficult to see until you are right next to it.
Martin calls ahead to the dog who is sniffing around the bunker at the side of the path. An apple tree has grown next to it and the dog is looking for early windfalls. Tom senses something behind him and he stops and looks back towards the cornfield. He can see a man standing by the fence, his back to them, looking towards the corn. He is about 50 metres away. The corn is high behind him, and the edges of the man are indistinct, as if he is behind a gauze screen. He is wearing a military uniform with a leather pilot’s jacket, but it is muddy and has black marks on it. Tom can’t see the man’s face. The man isn’t moving, just standing there. There isn’t a path there, the corn grows right up to the fence and there’s nowhere to stand. He must have pushed his way through the corn.
“Dad look.”
Martin turns round and looks towards the man. The man is looking into the field. He half turns towards them, but Tom can’t see his face. In profile Tom can see that the man is tall and slim, young, but slightly stooped as if in pain. He has one hand on his thigh for support. It is cold, and Tom shivers. He wants to see the man closer, wants to climb the fence and walk across, but at the same time his legs don’t want to move. He feels excitement, and is scared.
“Who is he?” says Tom. Speaking, he feels suddenly relaxed again.
“I don’t know, I don’t think I have seen him before. He looks like a pilot.”
“He doesn’t look real.”
The figure turns away from them. He is on the far side of the fence from them, right in with the corn; and as they watch he vanishes into the corn, as if absorbed into it, and is gone.
“Where’s he gone?” says Tom. Again he wants to be closer, to run across. He needs to find out who the man is, why he is here. Why in pain?
“I don’t know,” says Martin. “Very odd. He is probably looking for his dog.”
“No, but he is looking for something, or waiting for something, I can feel it. And he is hurting. We need to help him.”
“He’s gone, and I’m sure he’s fine. Come on, lets get home.”
The dog sniffs at his hand, looking for a treat. Tom turns, and they continue along the path. At the end they turn and walk past the church and the pub. There’s a cluster of houses before you reach the new village hall, and as they pass them an old lady is coming towards them. It is summer, but she is wearing a coat, and she walks slowly but without a stick. The dog bounds up to her and she pats him on the nose.
“Hello Nelson. Down. That’s better. Hello Martin, Tom.”
“Hello Dorothy,” says Tom. “We saw a Spitfire.”
She looks up, but it has long gone. “Yes, there’s often a Spitfire over here.”
“And a pilot.”
“A pilot? Where?”
“In the cornfield. At least we think it was a pilot; but he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes. He was standing there, and then he wasn’t. I didn’t see him move, he just wasn’t there. He must have gone into the corn. He was in pain, I could feel it. He was hurting all over. And hurting inside.” Tears are suddenly in the boy’s eyes as he feels the pilot’s suffering. He turns to his dad and touches his arm; too old to hold out his hand but needing contact.
Dorothy shakes her head and then smiles. “It’s OK, no need to worry. It’s probably the local ghost,” and she walks on. Tom calls after her, but she just waves.
“What does she mean Dad, the ghost?”
“I think she is just having you on. Come on, it’s nearly tea time.”