Stand Up and Cheer

by Loretta Re

  TWCC

  Published in Australia in 2014 by The Wild Colonial Company

  The Wild Colonial Company

  74 Palace Street

  Petersham

  NSW 2049

  Australia

  Cover Designer: ChristaBellaDesigns

  Cover Image: Gilles Messier

  Permissions:

  Front cover illustration of Grosvenor House leading the Uiver in the Great Centenary Air Race: Gilles Messier

  Subtitle: courtesy of AlburyCity

  Text copyright © Loretta Re 2014

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Author: Re, Loretta

  Title: Stand Up and Cheer: a fierce storm, a lost plane, a flicker of hope / Loretta Re

  Subject: Juvenile fiction/airplane racing

  ISBN: 9781925280210 (eBook.)

  A823.3

  Digital edition distributed by

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  Conversion by Winking Billy

  In loving memory of my parents who delighted in living in Albury

  PROLOGUE

  I always longed for praise from my father. He seemed so courageous and so different from me. He was a strong man, long and lean. I was so small my brother Arnie called me Shorty. I loved words – reading and writing them. Dad was a man of few words – except at work.

  My dad had been a British pilot, flying aeroplanes in the Great War. I’d never seen a plane, but I loved everything about them. Speed, the magic of take-off. The idea of hurtling into the blue sky, leaving the hard earth below.

  I’d never thought of myself as being brave. In that spring of 1934, I learned there are all sorts of courage and that there comes a time when everyone must show courage in his own way.

  Chapter

  ONE

  Albury 1934

  Dad’s voice guides me to safety.

  ‘Over here, Jack,’ he calls.

  I’ve plunged deep in the water. My first dive from the water’s edge, and it’s scary. I’m not game to dive from high up the gum tree like my brother Arnie and the other kids. I tread water, gasping for air, lungs ready to burst. My feet are paddling fast like the Cumberoona river steamer.

  But it’s not easy against the current. The Murray River rushes through Albury, right beside Noreuil Park, and the current is strong.

  I toss my head, splutter and spit out a mouthful of water. I can taste the river; it’s like the yabbies and the cod that we catch from the riverbank.

  Finally, I can stand on tiptoe, arms outstretched above the water’s rim. Mud squelches between my toes. With arms spread, I feel like an aeroplane about to land. At last, I can see where I am and I see Dad wave. Now I’ve found my bearings.

  ***

  I feel on a high once I’m safe on the ground again. In Dean Street I break away from Dad and Arnie, spread my arms again like a plane and begin my run-up. ‘Nyyaaa,’ I drone loudly. ‘I’m Biggles, the ace pilot, on a dangerous mission.’

  ‘Ha,’ Arnie scoffs. He bumps me with his shoulder. ‘You’d run a mile from danger, Shorty. You’re even frightened of heights, you scaredy-cat.’

  ‘Settle down,’ Dad says. ‘Look, check out the movie posters outside the picture theatre.’

  Most of them are mushy, with men kissing girls in lipstick. The best one has a man in a white uniform, wearing an officer’s peaked cap. He looks like an air force captain. Maybe it’s a film about aeroplanes. How good would that be?

  ‘What do you think it’s about, Arnie?’ Dad always talks to Arnie.

  ‘Coming …’ Arnie reads slowly, ‘attention?’

  ‘Good try. Give it another go,’ Dad says.

  ‘Coming attraction,’ I read out quickly. ‘ Stand Up and Cheer, starring Shirley Temple.’

  And now it’s my turn to elbow Arnie in the ribs.

  Even though I’m smaller and weaker than my older brother, I’m a better reader. Mum says I’m the best reader she’s ever taught. She says I’m good at reading lots of things. Good at reading clouds and knowing when they’ll lift, even good at reading faces, and knowing what they feel.

  Then I spot a bright blue poster pasted on the cinema wall. It’s something that has nothing to do with the picture theatre.

  Reach for the sky!

  The Australian Air League.

  First ever Albury meeting. Calling all boys

  over eight.

  Fun and adventure in the Air League.

  ‘What is it, Dad?’ I ask, bouncing on my toes.

  Dad takes a long look at the small print at the bottom. ‘Like the Scouts, I’d say, only about aeroplanes. And pilots.’

  I gasp with excitement. ‘Wow, I’m ten! Can I join up, Dad?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Dad says. ‘It does look like fun.’

  And I grin because I know what that means. You can sign up, but not today.

  We saunter along Dean Street, past a row of shops as empty as shells. Past a caravan where a man in a white apron hands out mugs to men in old coats. Steam curls from the mugs as the men stand around, sipping noisily.

  Dad peers up at the clock in the post office tower.

  ‘We’ve time to drop in to work,’ he says. ‘I have to pick up some news clips.’

  Outside the post office we see a skinny boy with scabby knees. He doesn’t wear any shoes. I’ve seen him there before, always around the same time, always blowing into a gum leaf, whistling a tune. Today it sounds as though it’s Happy Days are Here Again. He spreads his grubby toes wide as he picks out the notes.

  The boy’s cap lies upside down by his feet. There are coins in the ragged little pouch: pennies and a threepence.

  Dad stops and throws a silver coin to the skinny kid.

  ‘Here’s a bob,’ my dad says. ‘Take it home to your mum.’

  The boy takes the gum leaf from his lips. ‘Ain’t got a mum,’ he says. His face twists a bit, he’s trying not to cry.

  ‘Then give it to your dad.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, mister.’

  After we’re a little further away, Dad says, ‘I reckon his dad’s out of work.’

  ‘Do you know him, Dad?’ my brother asks. He swivels his head to take a better look at the skinny kid.

  Dad sighs and his voice is quiet. ‘No, Arnie. But I know there are lots like him. Those men we saw at the soup kitchen, for example.’

  I don’t say anything. I’m glad when I blow on a gum leaf it’s for fun, not money.

  I can hear the boy whistle once more. Happy Days are Here Again.

  Only, this time it’s different. This time it sounds as though he really means it.

  Chapter

  TWO

  ‘You can both come into the post office,’ Dad suggests. His voice bubbles now, it’s cheerful. ‘We won’t be long.’

  Dad works for the ABC in a studio above the post office. It’s an old-fashioned building that you can’t miss with its arches and brown edges. It reminds me of one of Mum’s square cream cakes with chocolate piping.

  Dad loves everything about his work and so do I – starting with the big poster on the side door that faces the street. It’s much bigger than life size. It makes him look like a giant. Crouched over the microphone with his straight brown hair smoothly pulled back, he looks lean and eager, ready for a scoop to bring to his listeners.

  Arnold Newton – the Voice of the ABC, is written
below the picture. The letters are tall and straight – like Dad.

  Everyone in town knows Dad, and Dad knows things nobody else does. He’s clued up on all sorts of things, like the results of the football. And he calls the cricket. He lets us know when Bradman is batting; when Australia is winning.

  He knows the news one breath before the rest of the town. And before he tells us the day’s news there’s always a trumpet roll, so everyone’s ready for his announcements.

  There’s another thing about Dad’s work that I love. It’s the upstairs studio where he does his broadcasts. I love the padded chairs and the big microphones that look like a bunch of banksias and the dazzling line-up of switches and lights and buttons to press – the control panel.

  I’ll bet a cockpit would be like my dad’s studio. Only even better.

  ‘You can ring Mum and tell her we’re on our way,’ Dad suggests.

  BBRRRRRING. I wind the handle on the telephone to let the lady at the Albury exchange know I want to make a call. There’s a loud ringing noise to alert her.

  ‘I’d like Arnold Newton’s home, please,’ I ask.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ I say to the voice at the other end.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ answer lots of voices at once. It’s a party line. Anyone in town with a phone can pick up and answer.

  ‘I want my mum,’ I tell them. ‘Louise Newton.’ There are a couple of clicks. Some ladies have hung up.

  ‘I’m here, Jack, darling.’ Mum sounds surprised it’s me.

  ‘We’ll be home soon,’ I tell her.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll put on the chops.’

  Dad’s busy at his desk. He thinks hard as he fiddles with the equipment. When I hang up he speaks into one of the microphones. ‘Testing, testing, one, two, three,’ he says.

  But there’s no power. For once his voice doesn’t fill the room, let alone the town.

  ‘Now flick that switch,’ he says. He gives a quick nod towards the panel.

  I reach to do it but Arnie’s way too quick for me. He cuts me off with a shoulder bump, like a footballer. He turns on the switch and suddenly Dad’s voice can be heard full blast. ‘TESTING, TESTING.’ It comes with a huge pop of the microphone, and it’s so loud it rattles the windows briefly.

  ‘Turn it down,’ Dad hisses.

  PING!

  As he speaks one of the phone lines lights up.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I cry. I dive towards it, determined to beat Arnie to it. Maybe it’s Mum. Maybe she wants us to buy milk on the way home.

  ‘No, leave it,’ Dad barks.

  But it’s too late. I’ve already picked up the earphones and speak into the mouthpiece. ‘Arnold Newton’s,’ I say in my most careful voice. Just like I do at home when I answer the phone. But I’m not at home and now I have a shock.

  ‘Why on earth’s a child on the line?’ The voice is angry, and I jump in fright. ‘What the heck is going on here?’

  It’s Dad’s boss, Mr O’Reilly. He’s in the station, ringing from his office. And before I can answer, he slams down the phone and we can hear his heavy footsteps as he barges down the corridor.

  He’s a big bloke with big muscles and a belly like a hot air balloon. And his voice is like a bear’s growl. He’s growling now as he bursts through the doorway.

  ‘Good grief, you’ve got two of them here!’ he snarls at Dad. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? The studio is no place for tomfoolery. And you shouldn’t tell the children to answer the phone like that, as if you own the place.’

  It wasn’t Dad’s fault!

  ‘But Mr O’Reilly …’ I start to explain.

  ‘Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,’ he says with a look that would crack a walnut.

  So I keep my mouth shut. Give Dad a chance to explain. To tell Mr O’Reilly that it wasn’t Dad’s idea for me to take the call.

  But Dad doesn’t explain. He doesn’t say a word! He sort of sags and he looks like a kid who’s waiting outside the headmaster’s office, ready to be dressed down. He looks like a kid who knows he’s been caught, fair and square.

  ‘These boys should not be in here. Don’t let me see them here again!’

  ‘We’ll go now,’ Dad assures him. ‘I only dropped in for a moment to pick up some notes. Come on lads, quickly.’

  The three of us troop off, and I feel all hot and creepy. I can feel Mr O’Reilly’s glare and it’s just like an angry headmaster’s. And I can still feel his glare at the back of our heads as we all file out like sheep.

  Chapter

  THREE

  A few days later, a letter arrives with a surprise. One that changes our lives.

  The postie’s stuffed so many letters in our front box that Arnie and I both swoop on it, battling to get to them first. We both want the stamps to add to our stamp collections. There are four letters, three with the familiar Centenary of Melbourne stamp. They all show an Aborigine holding a spear. He’s standing near the Yarra River and he’s looking at the streets and spires and squares of Melbourne. The stamps are different colours, depending on their value.

  ‘Bags the red stamp,’ Arnie says. He snatches it from my hand.

  ‘Who cares?’ I crow. ‘I’ve got the blue stamp and that’s worth more.’

  He looks a bit crestfallen. He hasn’t noticed that.

  Then we spot the red and blue strips on the edge of another, tissue-thin letter. Airmail! Who’d send us an airmail letter?

  ‘Hey, look Mum – there’s a letter from London and it’s addressed to you,’ Arnie cries.

  ‘To me? I’m not expecting mail all the way from the UK.’ Mum lays her wooden spoon across the bowl and wipes her hands on her apron. Even Dad looks up from his newspaper, showing a rustle of interest.

  ‘Wow, the postmark’s only two weeks old. That’s pretty speedy,’ Arnie says. ‘How can it get here in a fortnight, Dad? That must be a record.’

  ‘Seaplanes. Fixed-wing seaplanes fly the route.’ Dad knows heaps about planes. ‘Marvellous things, those craft,’ he adds. ‘They can land on water. No need for a landing strip even. Too right, they can go from Southampton to Sydney in a fortnight.’

  I know almost as much about planes as Dad. For instance, I know that the record from England to Australia is a whisker over eight days and that it was Captain Scott who set the record in a DH.60 Moth. I’ve got his picture on the wall in our sleep-out, along with Kingsford Smith’s, Australia’s greatest aviator. But Scotty flew at breakneck speed, he wasn’t delivering mail.

  Mum tears open the letter, her dark eyes wide with curiosity. ‘It’s about Uncle Joe, it’s something official,’ she says in a surprised voice. She smooths out the flimsy paper. ‘Remember we heard that he died? What could this be about?’

  ‘What does it say?’ Dad puts aside the paper and goes over to her. He takes the letter before she has time to read it.

  ‘Goodness, love, it seems you’re his only living relative. They’ve had to track you down because his money comes to you.’

  ‘Who’d believe it?’ Mum exclaims. ‘I never met him. I’m surprised he’d have anything to leave. My mum always said he spent all his money on his one true love – the racetrack.’

  ‘Perhaps he had a last big win before he had time to blow it,’ Dad says with a little laugh. Only a small one. He always tells us to be respectful of the dead.

  ‘What does it say? What does it say?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s left your mother two hundred pounds,’ Dad says.

  ‘Two hundred pounds? Fair dinkum?’ gasps Arnie.

  ‘What’ll we do with two hundred pounds?’ I ask. ‘That could buy almost anything. Could buy a plane.’

  Dad gives Mum a sly look. ‘No, but it could buy a car, maybe.’

  ‘Yes! A car! Can we get a car, Dad?’ Arnie and I yell together.

  ‘Sounds like the boys are keen,’ Dad says with a nod. ‘A car would be wonderful.’

  ‘A car?’ Mum questions, and she doesn’t seem as excited about that idea as we ar
e. ‘Shouldn’t I have some say in this? Why would we need a car? We’ll talk about this … Later,’ she adds meaningfully to Dad.

  So that’s the last we boys hear about it until we’re in the sleep-out. I’m kneeling by the wall, pinning down the edge of a Smithy poster. The walls are very thin and I can hear Mum and Dad on the other side as they talk in their bedroom.

  ‘We really don’t need a car,’ Mum says.

  ‘It could be useful for work,’ Dad offers, though even I know that’s a bit lame.

  ‘Work?’ Mum asks. ‘But you work just around the corner. Who do we know who even owns a car?’

  ‘There’s a few in town,’ Dad says. ‘Maybe a few dozen. One day, everyone will own a car. They’re the future.’

  ‘My goodness, next you’ll say we’ll land on the moon,’ Mum says. ‘What’s wrong with your pushbike? Times are tough, Arnold, we need to save money, build up a nest egg. This is nearly six months of your wages, and you want to spend it all in one go.’

  ‘But I have a steady job. I’m the Voice of the ABC and I’ll be going away more often to report the big stories,’ Dad says.

  ‘Not if O’Reilly has any say,’ Mum replies softly.

  Mr O’Reilly again! I look over at Arnie to see what he makes of Mum’s words. But he’s over at the table, eyes fixed on his swap cards. He has masses of pictures of cars, especially Ford Model Ts. He’s not listening.

  ‘Anyway,’ Dad’s tone becomes stronger, ‘I won’t have O’Reilly decide things for me. He might run the radio station, but he won’t run my life. A car would be grand,’ he goes on. ‘The boys can polish it on Saturdays. They’d love that.’

  And Dad knows other ways Mum can enjoy a new car too. ‘We can go for Sunday drives to Beechworth and Glenrowan. Ned Kelly country. The boys could see where the bushrangers all hid out.’

  ‘A car would have some advantages, I suppose,’ Mum says. ‘It would be easier than the bus trip there.’

  Dad starts again with another burst of enthusiasm. He’s had a new idea to finally win Mum over. ‘And I could teach you how to drive.’

  Mum’s quiet for a second. Maybe she likes that idea. ‘Would you really?’ she asks. ‘You’re not just saying that to get me to agree?’