Stand Up and Cheer

by Loretta Re

  Then we set up another special map. One that shows the stops where the planes must land on their way to Mel bourne, from the Air Base at Mildenhall near London: Baghdad, Allahabad and Singapore.

  ‘I’ll never remember those foreign place names,’ Arnie whinges.

  ‘We’ll make up a song,’ Mum suggests. She starts to recite in a playful way:

  You’ve let the cat out of the bag, Dad.

  All I say is aha that’s too bad, lad.

  If you sing a poor song

  And the cat sings along …

  ‘We’ll hear you from Albury to Baghdad! ’ I finish and we both laugh at our own silliness.

  ‘The three stops in Australia are easy to remember,’ Arnie says, with his hands over his ears.

  First stop, steamy Darwin, where crocodiles live, way up north, beyond the Tropic of Capricorn. Then Charleville in hot dry Queensland and, last of all, the finish line: Melbourne.

  We have more stops than any other country. When I gaze at the map I can see why. Australia is huge! Especially compared with some of the teeny countries, such as England and the Netherlands.

  ‘Wish the planes were coming here,’ I say, aching all over.

  ‘Well, they’re not,’ Dad replies crisply. He’s come over to the table to examine the map. ‘For one thing, we don’t have an aerodrome. Though heaven knows, a town of ten thousand people needs to think about getting one.

  ‘And it’s miles and miles out of their way,’ he goes on. He sweeps a long finger south, from Charleville to Melbourne. ‘The route is nowhere near Albury.’

  I know the whole route off by heart now; I’ve read all about it. Captain Latimer has told me heaps, too. He’s talked all about the hazards. The pilots will face so many dangers. We’ve marked some of them on the map.

  There’ll be harsh winds blowing over the Apennines, the mountain chain in Italy. We draw wavy lines over the long leg of Italy, to remind us of the threat.

  And the going will be tough in other places. Like the vast, hot Syrian Desert where sandstorms will blow, blinding the pilots’ vision. I think of the giant kite birds hovering there, batting their wings, maybe even butting against the aircraft. The pilots will have to keep their crafts steady to make sure they don’t tilt or roll over or nose-dive into the sands during the dark, empty night.

  The pilots will all dread flying over the Timor Sea, to the north of Australia. It’s the last of the seven seas the pilots must navigate. And the scariest. We draw big, lurking sharks there with teeth like saws.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘You can fly the Fairey Fox and I’ll be Captain Parmentier,’ I tell Ricky.

  We’ve given up doing odd jobs. We’ll never have enough Cherry Ripe wrappers to get to Flemington now, thanks to Mrs Drake – and that rat, O’Reilly.

  So we’re making our billy carts into racing planes. We slice through thin branches to make wings; raising a flurry of sawdust. Then we hammer the wings onto the carts.

  I give a loud, satisfying thump to the final nail. Whack!

  Ricky starts painting the words Fairey Fox in red dribbly paint on one side of his plane .

  Uiver is much shorter. I can print it in giant lettering. Anyone can see it a mile off.

  Soon we’re racing along the footpath, whooping and yelling. The wind stings our faces and we blink away the dust in our eyes. But then we come to a picket fence at the end of the street – a dead end.

  ‘We need a longer run-up. Let’s fly them down the Kiewa Street hill,’ Ricky suggests.

  ‘Are you kidding? That’s so steep! We’re going like blazes already.’

  ‘We can do it,’ he tells me. ‘The race’ll be a ripper.’

  So we haul the carts up the huge hill, ready for the Great Centenary Air Race. Only it’s a two-plane great race.

  Once we reach the top of the hill and climb into our planes, I look downwards into the long drop. The slope seems to go on forever. And my heart falls as steeply as the hill itself.

  ‘Ready, set …’ Ricky cries in a thrilled voice.

  But when he shouts ‘Go’ I stay there, stone still. Panicking. I want to be daring but my hands clench the steering rope while Ricky hurtles off down the hill at a terrifying pace, yelping with delight.

  He goes on whooping and yelping, further and further. I watch in terror yet still wishing I could do the same. He’s rolling ahead faster and faster, at a thunderous pace. And his squeals are now mixed with fear.

  I watch, horrified, from above as he soars out of the billy cart. There’s a bloodcurdling howl; a tangle of arms and legs. He goes on rolling down the hill while the cart splinters apart. Crack! A sickening noise. Is it the cart? Or – it might be Ricky!

  ‘Ahhoo,’ he groans, as I sprint down the hill after him. At the same time, Auntie Muriel comes haring out of her house nearby. Must be her day off from the shop. She’s heard all the ruckus and rushes over to help.

  I kneel next to Ricky. His forehead is bleeding and he’s gone a chalky white beneath the patchy tan of his freckles.

  ‘Where does it hurt?’ Auntie Muriel asks. She pulls back a stray wisp of her hair as she bends over Ricky.

  He’s lying still, groaning. ‘My leg, my foot, I dunno … everywhere,’ he whimpers. He starts fanning his face with his hand, as though he’s terribly hot.

  ‘Don’t move, it’s important to stay still,’ she orders him. ‘Jack, be a good boy and get Ted Lucas. He’s just started up an ambulance service. It’s at –’

  ‘I know where it is,’ I say, jumping up. I heard Dad announce it on radio. All the grown-ups have been talking about it.

  So I dash down Kiewa Street towards the new ambulance centre. It’s a few blocks away. I’m already puffing as I run across the first street corner and try to keep up my top speed. By the time I get to Dean Street and see the brand new building, I’m slowing down. My lungs are aching and I have a stitch in my side. I skirt a car, forcing myself to rev up for the last few yards.

  Mr Lucas is busy pumping up the tyres of his pushbike. When he sees me racing towards him he leaps up and hitches a small covered cart with a cross on it to the bike. And it’s only when he swings one leg over the bike that I understand. This is the town’s ambulance.

  I’d burst out laughing, only I’m too worried about Ricky.

  ‘Climb aboard,’ Mr Lucas says. He’s like a horse pawing to be away. ‘Show me where we’re going.’ He pedals with all his strength, ringing the bell as shoppers all pull back in fright and jump out of the way.

  By the time we bump our way back to Ricky and Auntie Muriel, Ricky’s sitting up, looking dazed.

  Mr Lucas checks Ricky’s forehead and sizes up his legs, touching him carefully. Ricky winces, but doesn’t speak. He’s being really brave.

  ‘No bones broken,’ the ambulance driver says. ‘You’ve been very lucky. You could have been killed taking a risk like that.’

  ‘Couldn’t steer once I’d got up speed,’ Ricky admits.

  ‘You’ve got cuts and a couple of nasty sprains. I’ll need to ice those ankles and you’ll be crook for a few days,’ Mr Lucas says. ‘But now I’m going to take you boys home.’

  ‘What about my billy cart?’ I ask.

  ‘Get it tomorrow,’ Auntie Muriel says. ‘It’ll still be there in the morning.’

  The three of us carefully help Ricky onto a stretcher and gently lift him onto the ambulance, trying to avoid all his sore spots.

  The Dean Street shoppers all gawp and wave. Mr Lucas pedals more slowly now so that Ricky’s bones won’t rattle.

  One lady coming out of Mate’s puts down her shopping bag and claps. I grin and give her a thumbs-up, starting to enjoy myself now that Ricky’s going to be all right.

  So we have to call off our own Centen ary Air Race. But at least we become the very first in town to use the brand new Albury ambulance.

  ***

  ‘Show me all your injuries,’ I urge Ricky.

  He’s sitting up in
bed and he looks like he’s been through Mum’s wringer on washing day. Biggles Flies Again is resting open and face down on the bedclothes.

  Gingerly, he tosses off the blankets and his book falls on the floor with a thump. I can see both his ankles are swathed in white bandages. He unbuttons his pyjama top and slowly twists around to show me his back. He has big brown and blue bruises and red marks that cover his body like countries on a strange atlas.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, awestruck. ‘They’re impres sive. You’re really in the wars. I won’t complain again about losing my wrappers.’

  He moves a little and then pulls his battered face in pain. ‘It’s tough not being able to go out and play,’ he admits. ‘Can’t wait for the race to start.’

  Chapter

  TWENTY-SIX

  Hooray! At long last! October the twentieth! The great race will start near London today. Dozens of aircraft have already dropped out. For some it’s too hard to be ready in time. Others have problems with their engines. We scratch out their names on the Centenary Air Race chart, working out which planes will fly.

  We paste pictures of the planes on the map, matching the planes with the countries they come from.

  ‘There are twenty of them left,’ Arnie counts. ‘Even some Australians.’

  ‘The Australian pilots are doing it for fun,’ Dad says, shaking his head. ‘They know they can’t win.’

  Australia, Britain, the United States. Arnie and I look up Denmark and the Netherlands in the atlas so we know exactly where these countries are; these faraway places, so cold and mysterious. Even tiny New Zealand still has pilots in the race, in their light Fairey Fox plane.

  We gather around the radio, listening to the report of the take-off. Over the crackle of static, we hear a distant English voice:

  ‘Here at Mildenhall, the planes are due for lift-off at set times, forty-five seconds apart. They’re taxiing down the runway. And now, in the early dawn light, waved off by His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, we can see Black Magic take to the air with the magnificent Amy Johnson in the cockpit. What a marvell ous sight!’

  ‘My plane’s winning,’ Mum crows, and we all start to laugh, knowing there are days and days to go. ‘C’arn the mighty black Comet,’ she cries.

  Next, Grosvenor House lifts off, and we hear a far-off roar.

  ‘C’arn the mighty red Comet,’ Arnie cries.

  And then it’s my turn, the giant Uiver. With its huge, heavy cargo of Centenary Air Race mail and its dead lucky passengers.

  ‘C’arn the Flying Dutchman,’ I cheer.

  ‘The race caller can’t take sides,’ Dad says, picking up the Border Morning Mail. ‘I have to be fair to them all.’

  Mum goes and gets busy in the kitchen. She’s cooking a special air race dinner. She stirs a puff of flour into the gravy.

  ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ she announces. ‘In honour of the mother country.’

  She passes Dad’s plate laden with big chunks of meat and steaming roast vegies through the kitchen hatch. My mouth waters; the baked dinner smells yummy. A great change from rabbit stew. I take it to Dad at the head of the table.

  He bends over his plate and breathes in. ‘Reminds me of home,’ he says, and I know he means England.

  Then I take Arnie’s. Then mine. Mum carries her own around from the kitchen.

  We turn up the wireless so we can hear what’s happening while we eat. Soon there are twenty planes in the air. Flying helter-skelter in a race to leave behind all sight of land, to soar above the English Channel – the first of the seven seas.

  ‘They’re heading for Europe!’ I cry.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Who’s for a special pudding?’ Mum asks when we’ve finished eating the roast. ‘Aeroplane jelly!’

  ‘I … I … I like aeroplane jelly,’ I sing as I raise the wobbly red sweet on my spoon. I skim it through the air like a plane, laughing.

  ‘Big baby,’ Arnie says, and gives me a dig in the ribs.

  For the next two days we sit around the radio, gripped by the reports. We hear an awful newsflash that a Dutch DC-2 has crashed and will have to leave the race.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I wail, ‘the Uiver’s gone.’ Distress washes over me. Is Captain Parmentier hurt?

  But the Uiver hasn’t crashed! It’s another Dutch plane. I feel sorry for the pilots onboard and I’m glad they aren’t hurt. But deep down, I’m a little bit relieved, too. It’s not the Uiver. The Uiver is still flying. Continuing on with its two missions: delivering the mail to Batavia and Melbourne, and racing to be the first to Australia.

  Then, tragic news about the Fairey Fox. We hear about the hard wind in Italy over the Alps and the rain coming down in sheets as the little plane tries to land. Sixty yards from the earth the fragile plane is swept sideways and crashes. Both the pilots are lost.

  The announcer’s voice is as sad as a cello: ‘Gilman and Baines, New Zealanders, are given a guard of honour by Italian airmen. The two brave pilots are carried to their graves in Rome nearly twelve thousand miles from home. Mr Gilman’s fiancée places her engagement ring on the coffin, and kneels beside it, grief-stricken.’

  We are all quiet when we hear this. Sad for the pilots. I even feel awful for Ricky. He’ll be devastated.

  Then, more bad news. ‘ Black Magic is gone, withdrawn from the race,’ Mum mourns.

  Her Comet is stuck in Allahabad, in India. The untested butterfly-engine proves too frail to continue. The Flying Sweethearts are dropping out.

  Mum’s sad, sorry for Amy Johnson that she won’t make it all the way to Australia. I’m sorry for Mum, too.

  ‘You can be a passenger on my plane,’ I tell her. Mum smiles and runs her fingers along my cheek.

  Then she picks up her money jar and rattles it. Her hand swoops under its weight. ‘I can be one of the rich bankers,’ she laughs.

  ‘Or Thea Rasche, the lady pilot who does wild stunts,’ I suggest.

  Soon we have good news about the Uiver. The Royal Dutch plane has broken the record to Batavia for the fastest flight ever. It’s taken them less than three days to fly from England. Thousands and thousands of people are waiting to greet the plane. We hear how they all wave their hats and their flags, cheering the plane’s arrival. They crowd around the passengers when they climb out.

  Everyone on the flight talks into a microphone and their words are heard at the same time in Holland. The magic of radio, they say. They’re followed by thousands of well-wishers as they climb aboard again. Then the Uiver sets off for Lombok. They should have an easy land ing there under the light of a full moon.

  ***

  In no time at all, the Australian leg of the race begins. We spend the evening listening to Dad’s broadcast. He’s away now, calling the race once it reaches our shores. The planes must stop at the Darwin aerodrome. Dad describes how the tiny tropical airstrip’s ready with new orange lights. We hold our breath, waiting to find out the first plane to touch down on Australian soil.

  ‘Grosvenor House!’ Arnie yells when it arrives. ‘They’ve smashed the record!’ And his voice can surely be heard next door, down the street, maybe right around the corner in Dean Street, the centre of town. He pumps his fist. ‘I’m going to win.’

  Dad’s radio voice tells us that Captain Scott, the pilot of Grosvenor House, is having a hard flight. An engine fails over the Timor Sea before the plane limps into Darwin.

  ‘He’s lying down, doubled up under the plane, suffering from cramp, I think. The pilot looks truly exhausted,’ Dad announces. ‘He’s had to fly the last stretch with his leg pressed down hard on the gearstick, pushing down to make sure the plane stays aloft.’

  But they’ve made it to Australian soil. Arnie is so thrilled he forgets to thump me. And I’m excited too because the Uiver is beating the Americans. And now, with Black Magic gone, the Uiver is in second place. Now, the race is really on!

  Chapter

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The
house is strangely empty when I come home from an Air League meeting. There’s a hollow feeling that Mum usually fills. Maybe she’s lying down. I peep into the main bedroom, but it’s empty. The big double bed with the blue quilt Mum made is smooth and unruffled.

  Surprised, I hunt in every room. Even our sleep-out. It still has the smudged crack in the wall. We haven’t fixed it yet.

  I go back into the parlour to check. Mum’s definitely not there. But when I scan the room a second time I get a shock. The mantelpiece! Where is Mum’s jar of coins? It’s missing. She’s taken it with her, wherever she is. Where could she have gone? Mate’s doesn’t have a sale on this time of year.

  Worried now, I go back into the kitchen. Everything looks the same as usual. The polished lino, the black kettle on the edge of the wood-fire stove. And then I see it. A note on the kitchen table, under the sugar bowl. A note from Mum. I seize it. ‘Jack darling, I’m at a CWA meeting and Arnie’s at cricket training. Can you be a love and drop Dad’s raincoat in to him at the studio? It looks like a storm’s on the way. Be home soon, I won’t be long.’

  The Country Women’s Association! I laugh at my own fears. But this is still a surprise, I don’t quite understand. Why is Dad back at the studio in Dean Street? He’s been in Darwin, describing Grosvenor House, telling us about the Uiver. The race is moving onto Charleville now. Why isn’t Dad in Charleville, calling the next stage, telling us all who’s winning?

  I race down to the studio, where everything seems like it usually does. Up on the first floor, Dad’s there, though I didn’t really believe he would be. Yet there he is, at his desk, his earphones on, looking busy, too busy for me.

  He makes a quick scrabbling movement with his hand, letting me know to come in, to be quiet.

  I tiptoe over to the window. It’s always unlocked, and I like to open it, to poke my head out and watch the cars and bicycles crawling by, see them from the funny angle above. Leaning out into the grey cloudy day I can see the shoppers in Dean Street below.