by Loretta Re
Dad’s bent over his microphone, a little frown on his face, as if he’s thinking hard, as if he’s doing two things at once.
‘The Uiver’s on the tarmac, and Captain Parmentier is refuelling,’ he says. ‘It’s a very smooth turnaround, the whole thing is like clockwork. Everyone here is amazed at how quickly he’s doing it. And the crowd’s so excited.’
I draw back from the window. My mind’s racing, trying to work out what’s going on. How can Dad talk about the race when he’s not really seeing it? When he isn’t really there? It doesn’t make sense.
‘What’s happening now?’ Dad asks, talking into his headphones.
I can hear a voice, a faint voice at the other end. ‘People are pressing forward as the plane gets ready to go, ready for take-off.’
‘Describe the crowd,’ Dad says.
‘Very excited, waving flags,’ chirrups the voice from far off.
Dad turns back to the microphone, stroking his chin. He’s thinking about what he’s going to say, how he’ll describe it.
‘They’re all waving flags. It’s a blaze of colour, a wonderful scene. Truly one of the most stirring sights ever seen on our shores. I wish all my listeners could see it too, as the Uiver lifts off into the skies … This is Arnold Newton signing off from Charleville until the next plane flies in.’
And now I understand what’s really happening. And it’s a dreadful thing. My dad, my dad of all people, is telling whopping lies.
Chapter
TWENTY-NINE
And before I can think, my heart is pounding and I’m all pumped up, ready for a fight.
‘These are lies, all lies, you can’t even see the plane,’ I cry. The words pop out of my mouth, come without me even meaning to speak.
Dad wheels around in his seat, turns to me looking grey and chalky. And then I realise that the mikes are still on, that my words can be heard over the radio. And with that terrible thought, I turn back from the window, bolt towards the door, and run out of the studio.
The door bangs behind me, louder than I expect. I look over my shoulder as I run along the corridor, clatter over the tiled floor, half expecting Dad to be chasing after me. I’m so busy running, so busy twisting my neck around, I don’t see who’s coming. Don’t see him until I run slap-bang into a bulky man in a dark suit.
And to my horror, it’s Mr O’Reilly. He’s red in the face, bright with anger. I can almost taste his fury as he puts his hand on my shoulder, clamps it tight to stop me running.
‘That went to air, you little idiot! Everything you said could be heard over the wireless.’ His voice rasps like a chainsaw. ‘I’ve told your dad before not to have you boys here. The studio’s no place for kids. Well, he’s on notice now,’ he glowers. ‘If he doesn’t want his job, there are plenty of others who do. How’d you like your dad to be out of work?’
I gulp and choke, but no words come. With my face burning, I wriggle away from his grasp, clatter on down the stairs and out into grey light of Dean Street.
It’s starting to drizzle. Soon fat drops of rain are spotting the footpath. I speed around the corner and sprint straight for home.
I dash into the kitchen, panting heavily, gasping for breath. Mum’s already home. She’s coating lamingtons. I can smell the flaky coconut but for once I’m not interested, not even when Mum holds out a beater plastered with dark chocolate.
‘Would you like to lick–’ she begins.
‘Not now,’ I say, and run straight into our sleep-out, banging the door behind me.
I clench and unclench my fists, my head spinning. I barely hear the drum-roll of thunder. Half of me feels mad at Dad, the other half feels mad at Mr O’Reilly. And maybe I’m a bit mad at myself, too.
It seems like a long time passes, and the hail-stones are hammering hard on the roof now, but it can’t be very long before I hear a car pull up in the rain. The Minerva. Dad’s home.
I can hear a murmur of voices in the kitchen, but they’re speaking quietly, too quietly for me to hear above the storm.
Then I hear the kitchen door open, hear the squeaky crunch of Dad’s steps on the floorboards. He’s in the corridor. I know I’m in for it now.
Chapter
THIRTY
Dad comes in and sits on Arnie’s bed. He’s taller than Arnie, and when he sits opposite me, our knees are almost touching.
‘You didn’t think I was in Darwin, did you?’ he asks. He sounds surprised, not angry. And I breathe a little easier. I can tell he doesn’t know everything, hasn’t seen Mr O’Reilly yet. ‘I’ve been here.’
‘But I haven’t seen you in two days,’ I mutter. ‘You could’ve been anywhere.’
Dad gives his little half-smile, the one he has when he’s being stern, but he has a little private joke. ‘I’ve been working back late because of the race. Getting home after you’re in bed. Leaving early. You know I do that sometimes. Think about it, Jack. I wouldn’t up and go to Darwin without saying goodbye to you and Arnie.’
I squirm a little, feeling a bit foolish.
‘No,’ Dad continues, ‘I’ve been here, bringing you all the news, all that’s been happening in the race.’
‘But you haven’t,’ I splutter, ‘you’ve been making it up.’
‘No, not exactly,’ says Dad. His voice is easy, it’s meant to calm me, but it isn’t working. I still feel angry.
‘It’s on relay. There’s an eyewitness at the Darwin aerodrome watching the planes. He sees what’s happening and passes it on to me. And then I tell our listeners. I make it colourful and make it sound as though I’m there too.
‘We do exactly the same with the cricket. When the test matches are on in England, we can’t go there. We can’t just pack up like gypsies and go to England. We call the match from here, in Australia, in our studio. And we have sound effects to make it sound real. Look,’ he continues, ‘I’ll show you.’
He goes to the card table near the window, the one we use as a homework desk. He picks up a pencil, holds it upside down. Then he puts on his announcer’s voice.
‘It’s a glor … ious English summer’s day here at Headingley as Bradman takes guard. The crowd is watchful, silent.’ Dad gives one sharp tap to the wooden table, taps it with the pencil. Tip! And then it’s the sound of summer, the sound of ball on willow.
‘Ooh, it’s a beautiful cover drive, and yes, it’s running away for four. And he’s done it! Bradman has made the most mag-nif-icent triple century you will ever see.
‘D’you see now how it’s done?’
‘So the cricket isn’t real either,’ I gasp in astonishment.
‘It’s real,’ Dad assures me, ‘but it’s not being seen at firsthand by the announcer. Not happening right in front of me.’
‘It’s a trick,’ I cry. ‘You’re playing a trick on your listeners!’
‘I suppose you could call it a trick of the trade,’ Dad nods, with a smile. ‘It’s part of the magic of radio. We paint a picture that our listeners can see in their own mind. Make them feel part of it, as though they’ve seen Bradman get a triple century. Sometimes it’s all right to bend the rules a little.’
‘But that’s lying,’ I say, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. ‘You’re nothing but a liar!’
Chapter
THIRTY-ONE
Dad looks stunned, and I can feel the anger bubbling up in him, like lava.
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘What did you say? What are you calling me?’
His voice is a growl, but even so, I don’t stop. It seems like I’ve been taken over by a stronger part of me. A part of myself I didn’t know was there.
‘I thought you’d see the race. But Pat O’Reilly was right! You don’t get to see it at all.’
‘Now, just a minute –’
‘You’re a cheat! You let all your listeners think you are there, seeing the race. All your listeners!’
I’m choking now, half with rage and half as though I might even cry.
‘That’s enough, Jack, you’ve gone too far now. I won’t have you talk to me like that. You can stay here for the rest of the evening and there’s no radio tonight.’
No radio!
‘But Dad, the race is on, I won’t get to hear the race,’ I gulp in horror.
But Dad’s like stone, he won’t listen. He walks out of the sleep-out, closing the door firmly behind him. He leaves me facing the horrible truth. I’m there by myself and I’m going to miss the final stages of the biggest race ever.
Alone in the sleep-out, I start to read Biggles of the Camel Squadron, trying to keep my mind off the race. I try to ignore the sound and fury of the storm outside, too; the low growls of thunder and the whiplash of bluish lightning I can see through the window.
I can hear Mum and Dad and Arnie in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the hum of their talk. But they don’t seem to chatter as much as usual. And maybe there’s something else missing. Laughter. Maybe they’re missing me too.
At teatime I hear the jingle of a tea tray and Mum outside the door. She comes in with a steaming bowl of tomato soup.
‘What were you thinking?’ she asks. Her frown is bewilderment, not anger. ‘Speaking to your dad like that. You know he won’t stand for backchat. Now be a good boy and it will be forgotten tomorrow.’
‘But the race will be all over tomorrow,’ I say mournfully.
‘I’m sorry, but not much can be done about that now.’ She gives me a quick hug.
‘And I …’ I pause. I don’t want to say I’m scared of the storm, fearful of the rumbling thunder and I don’t want Mum to think I’m a big baby. ‘It’s a stinker of a night,’ I say.
‘I know,’ she says sympathetically, ‘but you’re safe in here.’
There’s a deafening clap of thunder, and the window rattles.
And as if she guesses how I really feel, she sits down on the bed and puts her arm around me. ‘We all have to face our fears, Jack, and when we do, they don’t seem so scary next time. I’ll bet Captain Parmentier gets scared sometimes. Just think, he’s been flying over the Timor Sea. Imagine what it’s like to fly over the ocean with all those sharks below! But he kept right on flying in the race.’
I nod, looking at the runny raindrops on the window pane. Knowing what she says is true.
And when she goes back to the parlour, the radio is turned up, louder than usual. Mum must have increased the sound to give me a chance to listen in.
I slip out of the sleep-out and hide in the shadows behind the parlour door. Strain to hear what’s happening. Every time there’s a footstep or the floor creaks inside I hold my breath, hoping Dad doesn’t come out and see me lurking there.
After a while, the voice on the radio from Melbourne becomes excited. I can hear cheering amid the big announce ment. ‘ Grosvenor House is crossing the finishing line, a bright red fleck in the sky,’ the announcer says, sounding thrilled. ‘And look at the crowd. Everyone’s throwing their hats in the air. Some are waving their hankies.’
First past the post. Grosvenor House is victorious in the speed race. So Arnie has won and I have lost – and I’m not even in the parlour to hear it properly. I feel so bad, it hurts my stomach.
Mac Robertson addresses the aviators and the crowd. ‘A remarkable triumph for aviation,’ he says. ‘This is the first of the praise you have so nobly merited from the whole of the civilised world.’
Then Captain Scott, the winner, is interviewed. ‘I can’t believe I’m really in Australia,’ he says. ‘But the newspapers and the radio tell me I am. And we all know the press never lies.’
Huh! That’s all he knows, I think. Radio men do make up stories.
I slink away back to the sleep-out and lie on the bed with Biggles and try to forget about the race. But Biggles never had to miss the most important race in the whole world. What would he do if this happened to him?
And then a sudden flash lights up in my mind. The radio that Mr Ward gave me! Captain Latimer told me ham radio operators will be following the race. They might be swapping information. Explaining what’s going on. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll get onto the ham radio, and find out everything I can about the race.
Chapter
THIRTY-TWO
The lights glow when I switch on the radio. But all I hear are noisy bursts of static. I range over the band, trying to make sure the radio is tuned into the right frequency although I don’t get any signal. Maybe the stormy weather will stop me making contact with anyone.
Ss kkkkk sss kkkkkk Only the rough burr of more static.
Then I start hearing little beeps of sound. Messages. All in morse.
I bend over the radio, trying to decipher them. After a while I can make out some of the beeps. Little dits and dahs, making words.
SOS.
Blood starts thumping in my ears.
It’s a distress call! I’ve strayed onto another radio frequency.
Call … Melbourne Can … read us?
Melbourne, Mel … rne. Are you there, Melbourne?
Who’s calling Melbourne? And why isn’t Melbourne responding?
Ssss … kkkkk … Wiwiwi Another rasp of static, and a high-pitched whistle from the wireless.
And then I get such a shock that I’m quaking with amazement.
This is … Uiver. We need urg … t help. Ssss kkk Can anyone read us?
Wings and propell … are iced. Mayday, mayday, m … day.
I grab the key and try to respond, but there’s only a nerve-grating burst of static.
I need to tell Dad. He’ll know what to do.
Heart thudding, I rush out to the parl our. There’s a clap of thunder as I burst in and poke my head around the door.
Dad looks up, surprised. I can still feel a wave of his leftover anger as he gets up from the armchair.
‘Jack, I told you to stay in your room.’
‘Dad, I’m getting mayday signals. It’s the Uiver. They’re in distress.’
Dad shakes his head, irritated. ‘You’re not,’ he snaps. ‘The Uiver’s nowhere near here.’ He shrugs off my worry so quickly I wonder if I’ve been mis-taken. ‘Now do as you’re told,’ he continues angrily. ‘We’re miles away from the race route. You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
Mum puts her head on one side, think ing. ‘Better go and check,’ she suggests gently. ‘Jack wouldn’t just make this up. It’s too serious.’
‘He’s frightened of the storm and wants company,’ Dad says, settling back in his chair. But then he pauses. Looks at Mum again to see if she agrees. I can see he’s starting to change his mind a tiny bit. Mum shakes her head.
‘Oh, all right,’ he says grudgingly. He eases himself out of the armchair. ‘I suppose I should see what’s going on. But if you’re just grandstanding,’ he points a finger at me, ‘you’re in serious trouble.’
I scramble back to the sleep-out, with Dad hurrying close behind.
I pick up the key and try to send a volley of signals. Short bursts, long ones, but they’re not getting through.
Sss … kkk
Nothing but static.
‘Honest, Dad, I was getting signals, I swear.’
‘There’s nothing there now,’ Dad says. His voice is as irritable as the static. ‘I don’t know what you heard, but let me tell you, it wasn’t the Uiver. That plane is nowhere near this region.’
‘But, Dad, I heard them. I know I did.’
But Dad won’t budge. He presses on, ignoring my protests.
‘And they’d be using a different wireless frequency, anyway. It’s some idiots playing a practical joke. Causing trouble. Now, I’ve had enough of you today. Stay in your room, and don’t let me hear from you anymore.’
Chapter
THIRTY-THREE
Alone again, I can’t resist having another go on the radio. It was the Uiver. I’m sure of it. I’m scared for Captain Parmentier and those onboard. Flying in strange skies with thunder and lightning all around.
I think of
what Captain Latimer said. Captain Parmentier’s maps are bad. He’s facing a strange and scary land, just like the old explorers.
There’s another burst of static and I jump.
Beeps of sound drift in and out that are impossible to decipher.
Then the beeps become clearer. I begin to be able to work them out.
If we … too high, the plane will choke with ice and … unable to fly. Too low and … smash into … mountains.
… have to go back.
Plane keeps descending, faster and …
The bips drift away again. I hold my breath, panicky. Has the Uiver come all this way to fall out of the sky? To plunge to a terrible death, like the crew on the Fairey Fox?
Then, a sudden clear burst of morse. Ice starting to thaw with descent. Ice danger passing.
I start to breathe a little easier.
We still do not know our position.
We could be … ssss kkkk Melbourne, can you hear us?’
I can hear how frantic they are. This is ugly. Ugly and dangerous.
Our maps are foreign.
The radio goes quiet for a moment. Then:
Strange Australian words. Condobolin, Coota-mundra. We could be anywhere.
More static. After a long gap I hear another message .
Big river below. Fuel low.
The river! I know where they must be. I imagine them flying over the river with fuel running out, and remember how I was drenched deep in its swirling waters. Their plane can’t be left to dive into the cold, rushing river.
‘The Murray,’ I signal them. ‘You are over the Murray River. Fly east for Albury.’
There’s another ear-splitting whistle and I lose contact. I don’t even know if my message can get through.
I try again. In case they can get my message, even if I can’t get theirs.
Then more ear-cracking whistles. I can’t tell if they can hear me.
With shaky hands I try again, and then again. But there’s no answer. I can’t be getting through.
