fly with me

“Hurry up, Algy!”

He hurries – outside, into the dawn, with the clouds primrose yellow on the horizon and the close-cropped grass of the landing field soaking his shoes with dew.

“We’re not going to miss the breeze, you know,” he grumbles, passing the suitcase into Biggles’ outstretched hand, and clambering up into his place.

“The way you pack, we could have been here long enough to miss the daylight,” says Biggles, with one of his little sideways smiles. “Where do you want to go? Cornwall? Snowdonia? The Highlands?”

From where Algy’s sitting, it’s impossible to see anything of his cousin beyond the sharp shape of his profile against the bright sky.

Algy smiles. “Wherever you like.”