by Loretta Re
And he scampers barefooted up the tree. So quick! He’d make a monkey green with envy.
‘Found them,’ he calls, triumphantly. I can’t see him even though I crane my neck. He’s only a thin voice behind the mottled leaves.
Then I see him climbing down carefully. A glimpse of his grubby toes, and soon his back pocket, with the red and silver papers sticking out.
My precious Cherry Ripe wrappers! This is the best sight ever. Maybe I can get to the race, after all.
‘Good work,’ I slap him on the back, suddenly feeling how bony he is. ‘You’re a hero.’ And I am really grateful. I could never be bold enough to climb that tree. He might seem like a runt, but he’s got guts, for sure. And he’s done what nobody else could. He’s got back my wrappers.
Brendan is beaming. As though he’s lived his life in the darkness and now he’s in the honey light of dawn. And I remember what Dad told me – that sometimes the best way to help somebody is to get him to help you.
He removes the wrappers from his pocket carefully, looking pretty proud. My heart skips with excitement. I pounce on my treasured papers starting to sort and count them. The dream of getting to the race is in my hands.
‘Oi,’ comes an angry shout. It’s from halfway around the racetrack, beyond the white railing.
I screen my eyes against the lowlying sun. It’s Mrs Drake, the caretaker’s wife, still in her pink dressing-gown. She looks just like a bedspread on legs. But she’s not worried about that now. She’s only got eyes for Brendan and me.
And right now she’s coming at us with a face like a smacked bottom. It’s a longish walk, and we have time to run. But somehow, we’re both rooted to the ground, like the stark gum tree.
‘I’ve told you boys to stop hanging around here,’ she calls out. She draws near, all puff and fury. ‘Little larrikins. Running around town, pinch-ing things.’
She peers into the greenery above, as if a new thought has struck her. ‘You’ve built a hide-out up there!’ she exclaims.
‘But Mrs Drake,’ I start trying to explain.
It’s no use. She’s standing over me, and now she sticks her angry face near mine and gives me a hard look.
‘You’re one of Arnold Newton’s boys,’ she says. ‘I’d expect better of you.’
And before I can splutter another word, she’s grabbed my treasured hoard.
RIP, SCRUNCH, SPLIT!
‘Stop!’ I cry. But it’s too late. With a mean smile she’s tearing up my wrappers. Every single one!
Bits of paper flutter to the ground, a flurry of silver and red confetti. I stand very still. Willing myself not to cry.
Because with them sinks my very last chance to see the end of the Great Centenary Air Race.
Chapter
TWENTY
Mum starts a new game. She calls it The Race Across the World in the Parlour. Almost everyone in Albury will follow the race, she tells us, probably most folk in Australia, even most people in the world. But nobody else will have a Race Across the World in the Parlour.
Or perhaps one person will. ‘We’ll be like King George,’ Mum says. ‘He’s mad about the race. He wants to meet all the aviators, everyone who’ll be flying, before they leave England. He’s going to have maps of the race set up in his country house, his castle at Sandringham.
‘We’ll do the same. We’ll make model planes and we’ll track every move. We’ll follow every take-off and every descent.’
‘It’s not the same as seeing it,’ I moan. ‘I wish we could meet the aviators.’
Mum smiles. ‘I think only the King and the Prince of Wales will do that,’ she says, ruffling my hair.
But I know that’s not true. Some lucky kids who’ve eaten themselves sick on chocolates will be able to meet them too.
By now all our eyes and all our thoughts are on the great air race. And the Centenary. Because they’re so much in our minds, they pop up everywhere, even when we’re not looking. There are Centenary stamps on the letters the postie brings. We steam them off over the bubbling copper while Mum squeezes the wet clothes in the wringer. When we hear there’ll be a special air race stamp we have a contest, trying to guess what will be on the stamp.
Mum says, ‘Maybe it will be a picture of an aviator, one of the pilots.’ She puts the clothes in the laundry basket.
‘Smithy,’ Arnie and I cry out together. Our hero, Sir Charles Kingsford Smith. We’re sure that he can win, he knows the way, the currents in the air and the tricks of the southern light.
But Americans say their aviators will win, Dad tells us when he gets home from work. Roscoe Turner, the daring Yankee pilot, says he can fly from London to Australia in two days. ‘He’s bragging,’ Dad says. He rolls his eyes. ‘He’s crazy. Sometimes he flies with a lion cub! For a stunt. Those Yankees!
‘Smithy knows that it can’t be done in two days. If Smithy can fly the race in three and a half days, he reckons the record will be his.
‘He can win,’ Dad promises. ‘He’s a champion.’
But the trip is long and hard, he says, hard as any route that’s ever been flown, longer than any race in the history of the world.
‘And Smithy’s older now,’ Dad tells us, picking up the Border Morning Mail. ‘He’s getting tired. He won’t have many more long flights in him.’
‘How about each of us chooses a plane, and then we’ll pilot it?’ Arnie asks.
‘I bags Black Magic,’ Mum says, ‘I want to fly Black Magic in the race.’
And she explains why she bags the little black Comet. Amy Johnson will pilot it. The great avi-atrix, the first woman ever to fly solo from England to Australia. She’ll fly in the race with her new husband, Jim Mollison. They’re famous. Everyone calls them the Flying Sweethearts.
‘We can each be the pilot of a plane,’ Mum says, ‘and we’ll have a race among ourselves.’
‘Aww, I want to see the real race,’ I say. How can this kids’ game compare with going to Flemington? Seeing the planes soar through the sky.
Dad lowers the newspaper. Raises one eyebrow in warning. So I don’t say anything more. I join in with Mum, but my heart’s only half in it.
I start to tussle with Arnie like we always do. We both want to be our hero. ‘I want to pilot Smithy’s plane,’ says Arnie. ‘I’ll be Sir Charles Kingsford Smith.’
‘No, I want to be Smithy,’ I say.
So we put a milk bottle on the floor and Mum gives it a big spin. It’s a blur of speed, like the arms of a windmill, until it starts to slow down. Arnie thumps the floor, bangs it with his fist to keep the bottle spinning.
‘Aw, that’s cheating,’ I say.
‘Play fair,’ Dad says. ‘Don’t bend the rules.’
But the bottle slows down and stops at me.
‘Yes!’ I say triumphantly. ‘I’m Smithy.’
‘Well, I’ll take the British favourite,’ says Arnie. ‘That’s as good as having an Australian plane. And Grosvenor House has Captain Scott and Campbell Black. Scott holds the record time to Australia.’
But a few days later we hear news about Smithy that leaves me in the dumps.
‘Have you heard?’ Dad asks at the breakfast table. He takes a long sip of tea. ‘Smithy’s not going to fly after all!’
‘Why not, Dad? You said he’d win for sure,’ I say. I push my toast and vegemite away. Suddenly, I’m not hungry.
‘The cowlings – that’s the covers on the engine – they’ve cracked. Too risky now to chase a new record. The planes have to be perfect before they leave. It’s going to be hard enough, I reckon, even if the planes are in tiptop condition.’
My heart leaks despair. I must look as shattered as I feel. ‘How about being the pilot of a DC-2?’ Mum asks, patting me on the shoulder. ‘Captain Dirk Parmentier. The Royal Dutch plane. It’s the biggest of them all.’
I haven’t heard of it before, and I feel crushed. I’m not sure I want to captain a Dutch plane.
Chapter
TWENTY-ONE
<
br /> ‘Attention, squad, all salute!’
We all stand as tall as we can. Eyes fixed on the starry Australian flag. Mr Latimer is here, only he’s called Captain Latimer at this meeting. He stands at the front in his blue officer’s uniform and gives us a sharp salute.
We all return a crisp salute together. There are about twenty of us kids in blue shirts and black cadet hats in crepe paper that remind me of tug boats. Our mums have been busy making our uniforms.
‘Welcome to the first ever meeting of the local Australian Air League,’ Captain Latimer says. ‘And what a wonderful year it is for Australian aviation.’
He grins slyly. ‘Anyone know why?’
‘The air race! The London to Melbourne air race,’ everyone yells together.
He puts his hands to his ears in mock horror. ‘What was that?’ he calls out over the hubbub. ‘I can’t hear you.’
And now his grin is like a watermelon slice.
‘The air race! The Great Centenary Air Race!’
‘Too right. The most exciting and dangerous race ever! Who’s saving Cherry Ripe wrappers to go to the race?’
All our hands shoot up. Even though I’ve only got one new wrapper, I put my hand up. Captain Latimer raises his hand, standing on tiptoes and everyone laughs. He’s big and gangly but he’s like one of us.
‘It will be wonderful,’ he says. ‘The race is really two races in one. There’s the speed prize for the first to cross the line. And another first prize in the handicap section. That prize takes into account the weight the plane carries, like in a horse race. Who knows how many planes are going to race?’
‘England and Australia?’ one cadet guesses.
‘Yes, and lots more.’
‘About sixty planes have entered,’ I offer. I read it in the newspaper, even though Arnie mocks me for looking up the race in The Argus.
‘Ah! Another race fanatic, like me,’ says Captain Latimer. ‘It’s like a roll call of Olympians,’ he says. He rubs his hands together. ‘Though many probably won’t start. It costs so much and it’s so far to go.’
‘My dad will see it,’ I say, lifting my chin in the air, ‘and everyone will listen to his broadcasts.’
‘Who here will be listening to the race on the radio?’
‘Me! Me!’ Everyone’s hands go up again.
‘Everyone in Australia will listen to the race,’ says Captain Latimer. ‘It will be huge.’
‘I’m going to talk about all the different planes that will be in the race. The best English one is like a butterfly: the Comet. The Brits will be flying Comets.’
He holds up a picture of a light flimsy plane. It looks like a toy. Made from wood and fabric, he says, and very frail. ‘It’s tied together with shoelaces,’ he jokes.
‘Grosvenor House is a red Comet. Captain Scott and Campbell Black will fly it. Amy Johnson will fly another Comet, Black Magic, with her sweetheart. The Comets have been designed especially for the race but they’ve been built in such a hurry, they haven’t been fully tested.
‘The American planes are different. Much sturdier. A Douglas 247D. Roscoe Turner will pilot this one.’
He indicates a plane with a big, tough tail. It looks very modern.
But then he shows us one that makes me gasp in wonder. My heart races with excitement, just looking at it.
Chapter
TWENTY-TWO
Above his head Captain Latimer holds a picture of a wonderful silver-grey plane. And the plane’s huge, with wings like the paddles of a giant canoe.
‘A brand new DC-2, also built in America,’ he says. ‘It’s far and away the giant of the fleet. A monster like this will be king of the air.’
It’s breathtaking. Gigantic. How on earth can a plane so enormous stay in the air?
‘Wow! I’ve drawn a DC-2 in our race at home,’ I say. ‘Only,’ I hesitate, ‘it’s got a funny name. I don’t know how to say it.’
‘Ah, the Uiver. The biggest plane of all,’ Captain Latimer says. ‘The Dutch pilots will get the Uiver brand new from America. How good is that?’ he says, sighing and folding his arms as if he can’t believe my luck. ‘They’ll have radio onboard to stay in touch with Holland. Oover. That’s how the Dutch say it.’
‘Oover! Oover!’ The squadron all chants.
‘And some people here say Ivor.’
‘Ivor! Ivor!’ We all yell.
‘What’s it mean?’ Ricky asks.
‘It means stork. Dutch people love their storks. They’re huge white birds. Miles bigger than cocka-toos and they nest on the roofs of the houses there. Dutch folk say the bird brings them good luck when it flies in looking for a safe place to land.’
‘I wish Australia had a DC-2. Or the Brits,’ I say. ‘The Dutch don’t have much to do with Australia.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ he says. ‘The Dutch have lots to do with Australia. They really did put Australia on the map.’
He has the same spark in his eye that Mum gets. He’s forgotten to tell us about all the other planes now. He’s about to teach me something new.
‘To the early Dutch explorers, this was a strange, far-off land. In the 1600s they knew our continent as New Holland. Look,’ he says, ‘I’ll show you.’
Captain Latimer reaches for his folio, takes out a copy of an old map and unfolds it carefully.
‘I’ll put it up. Someone give me a hand with the drawing pins,’ he says.
It’s not like school. Everyone rushes forward crying out to help. Not just the teacher’s pet.
I get there first and pin it. And it’s a very peculiar map of Australia.
Western Australia and Arnhem Land near Darwin are there, all right. But then the Dutch map trails off into a vast empty space, with only a scrap of Tasmania.
It shows nothing of Albury or the Murray. Nothing even of Melbourne or the east coast. It’s as if we’ve fallen off the world! There’s only blank space.
‘The Dutch set up a colony called the Dutch East Indies.’ He points to a splattering of islands north of Australia. ‘They’d sail to the capital, Batavia, to trade gold and spices. Often their ships ran into wild weather in the Indian Ocean. Many were shipwrecked off the coast of Western Australia. The Dutch ships that went to find them charted our coastline.’
Captain Latimer nods in my direction. ‘Your Captain Parmentier now flies the air route to Batavia all the time for KLM, like a modern day trader. Only now he’s carrying the mail to the Dutch East Indies on the night flight. He’ll be delivering the mail there during the race, too. And special Centenary mail to Melbourne.’
‘Can he fly fast?’ I ask.
‘He goes like the clappers,’ he answers. ‘He’s known as the Flying Dutchman. Captain Parmentier holds the world record for night flying. And his team runs like clockwork. He’ll be bringing three passengers too. They’ve bought the first-ever passenger tickets to Australia.’
‘Ooooh, I wish I could be a passenger,’ I say.
‘You’d need to be rich,’ he grins. ‘The two men who are coming own banks. And the third’s a lady pilot, Thea Rasche. She’s a daredevil. She once flew a plane under a bridge in New York and landed, splash! right in the Hudson River.
‘Captain Parmentier knows the race route to Batavia like the back of his hand. Much better than all the other pilots. But when he lands in Darwin, the Flying Dutchman will be like the old explorers. Air maps aren’t very good, because they’re so new. He’ll be facing an alien land.’
And that decides it for me. I’ll tell Mum I’ll fly the Uiver. I’ll be Captain Parmentier, the Flying Dutchman. As swift and sharp as a nighthawk.
Chapter
TWENTY-THREE
‘Let’s have another go on the radio,’ I suggest. Ricky is over here after our Air League meeting. He’s staying on later than usual because his dad’s taken his mum to the pictures for her birthday.
‘I don’t reckon it will work,’ Ricky shrugs. ‘It didn’t last time.’
‘It’s worth ano
ther shot. Dad says radios work better at night.’
I’m not prepared to give up yet. I’ve been learning morse every minute I can get. The M–N encyclopedia is lying next to the radio. It always flops open at that page now.
There’s a buzz of static when I turn the radio on. Same as last time. I start to tap out little beeps of sound.
But I’m not receiving any signals.
SSSS kkkkkkk
‘I knew it,’ Ricky groans.
Anyone there? I tap out in morse.
And then a noise drifts through the static. I jump up in glee.
‘Listen,’ I say to Ricky. ‘I can hear little bips.’
I bend over the radio, hardly daring to breathe in case it stops me hearing.
VK2.
I can only just decipher it. I transmit another message. Where are you, VK2?
There’s more static. Then we can catch some broken letters in reply.
Ew S … uth W …
‘New South Wales,’ I guess.
So are we. Where in New South Wales? I tap out.
The signal’s getting stronger. Much clearer now.
• –A, • – • • L, – • • • B, • • – U, • – • R, – •
– –Y.
‘Albury! How about that!’ Ricky whistles in amazement. ‘Of all the places in the world.’
I tap my response .
So are we. What’s your name? I tap with the key .
Hugh Latimer. What’s yours?
‘It’s Captain Latimer,’ I cry in delight. And we both burst out laughing. We’ve made our radio work. And we’re talking to another radio fan. One who lives in the next street. ‘No wonder the signal is so clear,’ I say.
And I feel my heart leap in my chest. The radio is working. It’s not a dud. I’ll be able to ask Captain Latimer anything I need to know.
Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
With Arnie and Ricky, I set up the special Centenary Air Race chart, the official chart that marks the distance of the race. Captain Latimer gave it to me, and it shows all the countries the aviators will fly over, nations that are marked in blocks of yellow, tan and pink.
