Chapter 42
Chapter 42
B ack in the air, Morag looked with some concern at her fuel. They had been flying against the wind, not with it, and it had been a battle all the way. They had a little time before they absolutely had no choice but to turn back, but not long. And there was nowhere else to land on the way home; Inchborn’s beach was covered in snow; the other islands even further away with exactly the same problems they had here; no runways cleared and no people or time to clear them. This was their only chance. To land and take off again and get back to the mainland... well. It was getting very tight.
Morag flew high, happy to be away from the mountain, and wondering if she would be able to see a break in the weather ahead but still the snow fell, sideways, upward, every way, and the wind blew. She could remember snow in May—she could remember snow in June—but she couldn’t remember it being quite as sustained a threat as this. And for the Met Office to get it so wrong... She tried to cut them some slack; forecasting was a complicated business. But a single degree of error had made the difference between a few people getting a soaking and a full-blown emergency. The Met Office was based in Exeter. Sometimes Morag felt this explained a lot. They wouldn’t have expected their children to go out today even in heavy rain. Softy Southerners.
Regardless, this didn’t help the problem. She circled once more. Gertie had picked up her needles again; Morag could just make out the click-click over the roar of the weather and the engine, and felt proud of her flatmate, and her calmness. Nalitha had been right from the start.
A FLASH OF pain went through Skellan like an electric shock. He swore mightily, the wind knocked out of him completely. His entire body trembled as he tried to get back on his feet when he realized he had gone over on his ankle. The pain was tremendous—biting and sharp—and he swore furiously. He saw the faintest gray outline of the little plane circle high above him once more and Skellan steeled himself. There was only one way to go, and it was down.
Skellan hobbled, cursing and shouting out loud on the pain of his shattered ankle, hopping and dragging it over the sheer rock and pebbles. If he couldn’t get down in time to sort out the lights, the plane would leave, and having seen the condition of some of the children... he couldn’t let that happen. Hypothermia could kill in hours, particularly kids, who had a different surface area to adults. It was deadly, and it happened in the Scottish mountains. But not on his watch.
The last hundred meters or so were pure, teeth-gritting agony. Thank God, though, he thought when he saw it. The blacktop was relatively new, the surface exposed to the wind, which had stopped the snow from settling deeply. He wouldn’t have to sweep it. He couldn’t have anyway.
Up the stairs of the little hut, to switch on the lights, Skellan hobbled on his hands and knees, step by grinding, agonizing step; tears in his eyes, until finally he made it to the lever, and pulled it, collapsing in a heap below the level of the window. He didn’t even have the energy to watch the plane’s approach.
L IKE A MAGICAL alien road, the pathway opened up under them, light after light after light; green on the north side, indicating their safe way to approach, followed by white leading into the short distance.
Morag hadn’t realized till she saw them that she’d been holding her breath. Ranald nodded as she took another turn up, explaining her steps to ATC Glasgow. There were no other planes in the vicinity today, apart from a couple of heavyweight transatlantic airbuses out of Edinburgh and Glasgow who didn’t care what they flew in, and the whole of ATC was listening in, and, she could sense, wishing her well. Although, as usual, they betrayed not a single note of emotion in their voices.
“Cleared to land TO Dolly 2 permission to land.”
“Roger,” said Morag.