Stand Up and Cheer

by Loretta Re

  I wait for a moment.

  I wait forever.

  And there’s nothing in between.

  ***

  Arnie comes in and I jump with a start. It’s eight o’clock, our bedtime, and I must have dozed off in the chair. I can hear the steady drumming of rain on the roof, and a little growl of thunder. I don’t feel so scared now he’s here.

  He gives me a heavy bocker on the arm, a big meaty punch.

  ‘Hey, wake up, Shorty,’ he chortles, ‘it’s time for bed.’ Then he bursts out laughing. But for once I don’t mind. At least I have company again.

  ‘I reckon it was the Uiver I heard,’ I tell him. ‘But I lost contact, and they’re still out there in this stinker of a storm.’

  Arnie yawns. ‘Dad says it can’t be the Uiver. The race course is miles away.’

  He pulls the green bed quilt up to his chin. So it’s up to me to hop out of bed and turn off the light. Soon the rhythm of his breathing slows as he drifts off to sleep.

  But I lie awake staring into the thundering darkness. My tummy’s churning and my mind is turning somersaults. Will the Uiver crash? What will become of Captain Parmentier and everyone onboard? Could they all come to a brutal end like the aviators on the Fairey Fox?

  Chapter

  THIRTY-FOUR

  In the dark kernel of our sleep-out we’re woken up by a sound, a low drone. I’ve never heard this whirring drone before. It’s not the rain that’s still pounding on the roof, or the growling rumble of thunder.

  ‘Can you hear it?’ Arnie asks. ‘What do you think it is?’

  There’s a crack of yellow light under the door. Mum and Dad must still be up, listening to the cricket. Maybe it’s not as late as it seems.

  Arnie and I scramble into the parlour. But it turns out it is late, the middle of the night.

  Mum and Dad are at the window in their dressing-gowns and woolly slippers, snug against the cold. And they have Dad’s big binoculars. The bulky black glasses he takes to the races.

  Mum and Dad take turns looking up at the sky, past the odd flash of lightning. The cricket’s on in the background, but they’re not paying attention. Together they’re scanning the heavens, trying to work out where the droning sound is coming from.

  ‘Look boys,’ says Dad, and he sounds excited. ‘It’s a DC-2. It’s the Uiver.’

  He hands the binoculars to Arnie first and I can’t wait for my turn, because the Uiver is my plane, and Captain Parmentier is my pilot.

  ‘The Uiver,’ Arnie says. ‘Captain Parmen tier is on the last leg to Melbourne. Why is he here, Dad? You said he wouldn’t come near here. You said he’d be miles away.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dad says slowly. ‘Perhaps he’s flown east to avoid the worst of the storm.’

  Arnie hands me the binoculars and I look up, training them skywards. At first I see only clouds. But there’s a lightning flash and with my eyes scrinched I can make out the lines of a plane, see it in the circular frame of the glasses. Does Captain Parmentier know where he’s going?

  ‘Now back to bed,’ says Dad. ‘The excitement’s over for one night.’

  But I’ve a feeling Dad’s wrong about that. The excitement isn’t over. It’s not over by a long way.

  About half an hour later, we’re wakened by a noise again, the same low drone. And this time we recognise the sound. We both scamper down the passage to the front door. Mum and Dad are there, taking turns to peer through the binoculars. But this time it’s different, this time they both look worried. And this time when we see the plane overhead, wheeling around, the Uiver looks alone.

  ‘This is terrible,’ Dad says, his face torn with anguish. ‘The Uiver has lost its way.’

  ‘Ring the mayor, Dad,’ I beg. ‘He runs this town. He’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Who would’ve thought the Uiver could track so far off course?’ Dad wonders aloud. ‘And with all their modern equipment!

  ‘We’ll have to rescue them. I’m going to ring the mayor,’ he adds, as if this is a new idea that has struck him.

  He picks up the phone, rings the jangling bell to alert the exchange.

  ‘Get me Harold Ward,’ he says to the operator. ‘I need to speak to him right away.’

  I can hear the mayor’s voice, and others, on the party line.

  Anyone can listen in and join in with the plans. Because Dad does have a plan, and he needs other people in town to help him.

  ‘The Uiver’s lost,’ he tells Mr Ward. ‘We need to let them know they’re above Albury.’ He raises his voice so it’s loud, loud enough to be heard above the storm. ‘We can flash a message in morse code. Signal from the car’s headlights. That should help them find their bearings.’

  Morse code from the car! We’ll be like spies, sending out little pips of light. We’ll spell a message so Captain Parmentier can find his bearings.

  ‘I’ll take the car to the studio,’ Dad says, ‘and make an announcement over the radio.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Dad asks into the phone.

  I can hear another voice, not the mayor’s, and Dad is nodding in agreement.

  ‘Harold, get one of your staff to come to the studio and take my car up to Monument Hill. You can flash a message to the Uiver.’

  One light in this wild storm might not be seen. What if we flashed lots of lights? I remember how the town lights all flashed on in a blaze as we watched from Monument Hill.

  ‘Dad,’ I say, ‘what if you use all the lights in town to blink a message? That should work. Surely the Uiver will see it, even in this storm.’

  ‘And another thing,’ Dad says, as if he’s just had a bright idea. ‘We could use the entire electricity grid in town to send a message.’

  I can hear the chirrup of voices on the line. Then Dad speaks again. ‘I’ll go into the studio and make an announcement. Rally the troops here, have people in Albury on stand-by. We need to get every car in town out to the racecourse to guide an emergency landing.’

  Dad hangs up the phone and quickly turns to Mum.

  ‘I’d better go straightaway,’ he says. He flashes her a look of triumph. ‘I’ve always said the car would come in handy some day.’

  Mum gasps in horror. ‘You can’t go into the studio. You’d be breaking into the national broadcast. The test match is being broadcast from the Melbourne studios. You’re not allowed to break into any of the national programs. You know that. There’d be hell to pay.’

  ‘This is an emergency,’ Dad says, rapid-fire.

  ‘And who’ll be listening to the radio at this time of night?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Everyone. Everyone tunes into the ABC in a time of crisis,’ Dad insists. His eyes narrow. ‘I’ve got no choice. I’ll have to interrupt the Melbourne program.’

  ‘The station heads will be furious,’ says Mum, and I can tell she’s really worried. ‘You know what they’re like. Their programs are sacred, you can’t mess with them.’

  Arnie and I are listening, waiting to see what will happen. Usually Mum agrees with Dad on big things, even if they don’t agree on little ones. Especially in front of us. Now here they are, with the storm crashing outside, with the Uiver in peril, and they don’t agree on what to do.

  Dad’s frowning, and he looks impatient. He’s itching to go, not willing to listen to any more arguments.

  ‘I’ll come with you, Dad,’ Arnie says, ‘help you with the equipment.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say.

  But Dad’s not listening to my pleas.

  ‘No, you stay here.’ Dad glances at me. ‘You’re still grounded, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  Mum flashes me a sideways look with her dark eyes. A look that says this is no time to argue. A look that says, ‘You’d better scamper off to bed.’

  So I trudge off, my heart in my slippers. It’s not fair. Just because Arnie’s older, he gets to do the good stuff. I did receive the Uiver’s signals over the radio. I know I did.

  And it’s my idea to flash a message in morse
from the town’s lights. But I’m missing out on everything – missing the race, and now I’m missing the rescue mission in the dark of night.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I press my nose against the bedroom window. By the light of the street lamps I can see two shadowy figures sprinting in the rain, squelching through the muddy puddles. One car door slams. Bang! Another one, and they’re on their way.

  And my heart is beating, pounding wildly. I want to be part of the action. I’m the one who heard the Uiver’s messages. Why should Arnie be there and not me? Dad will need me there because I understand morse code.

  My mind made up, I pull on my raincoat, race to squeeze into my wellies. It’s like plunging into hollow logs and rushing so fast only slows me down. I’ve put them on the wrong feet and have to start all over again.

  I can’t tiptoe down the passage, Mum might hear and come out to see if everything’s all right. She’d see me in my raincoat.

  I grab my torch, and then carefully, very carefully, I open the bedroom window, crawl out to the darkened porch and tiptoe down the steps. Into the bucketing rain. I can make my way up Olive Street slopping through puddles, picking out my way by the hazy light of the street lamps.

  Then, as I turn into Dean Street, I get a shock. The streetlights go out, and there’s a terrible darkness. I freeze in terror. The storm! It’s made the electricity fail, the lights have all gone. There’s nothing but inky blackness and rain.

  I seize my torch but the light is feeble, it only lights up a few steps ahead of me. How will I see my way to the radio station? How will I know I’m going in the right direction?

  Then the lights all surge on again – a sudden burst of electricity in the darkness. The houses can be seen for an instant, lighting up as if they’re haunted, but then the lights die again. Now I’m cloaked in the dark, the endless darkness and the lashing rain. I try to stay calm but I’m terrified, scared of the sound and fury around me. Before I decide what to do, which way to turn, the lights flash on and off again, very quickly.

  Short flash … darkness … Long flash. And it’s only then I realise.

  It’s then I understand. It’s an A.

  Then another short flash. Darkness. A long one. Darkness. Two short flashes.

  • – • • L!

  Morse code! The lights are blinking their message trying to rescue the Uiver. I count the flashes, trying to work them out. The short ones for dits, the long ones for dahs.

  • – A

  • – • • L

  – • • • B

  • • – U

  • – • R

  – • – – Y

  Chapter

  THIRTY-SIX

  ALBURY.

  All the lights in town are flashing, flashing on and off as one, reaching out to Captain Parmentier and the Uiver, calling out through the darkness and the storm to guide him to safety.

  And they give me some light too. Some on-again, off-again light to guide me as I slosh down Dean Street. I can see the lit-up dial of the post office clock. The two hands are almost joined. It’s just after midnight.

  I’m at the door of the studio now but when I try it, it doesn’t budge. Dad and Arnie are already inside; they’ve locked the door behind them. In the upstairs window I can see the light in Dad’s studio and movement inside, like shadow puppets.

  For a moment I stand shivering in the rain, feeling defeated. I thump a light pole in anger. How can I get inside and help in the rescue?

  There’s another flash of lightning. Thunder trails behind like a younger twin and I jump with fright. The rain is still pelting down, a cold trickle of water running off my hood and down my face. I have to find the courage to get inside. Even if Dad’s angry, he can’t be much scarier than this terrible storm.

  Then I remember the unlocked window upstairs. Can I try to enter the studio that way?

  Shivering now with cold, I scan the post office wall. There’s a drainpipe running down it, a couple of feet from the win dow ledge. I’d have to climb it. My heart thumps as I look up at it. Then I remember how Brendan climbed the huge gum tree. That was even higher. If he could climb the tree to find my wrappers, I have to be brave enough to climb the drainpipe.

  Gingerly, I shake the pipe to test it. It’s a bit rusty, and a spurt of water gushes out and flows into the gutter, but I can’t worry about that now. As long as it can hold me while I’m climbing up, I can get to the window and wriggle in there.

  I drag off my wellies. Quickly, I scrape a little hole in the mud under a bush and hide them there.

  I shinny up the drainpipe, but halfway up I snag my trouser leg on the pipe.

  I’m stuck. My heart pounds. I can hear the thuds, even feel them in my fingertips.

  I glance around in terror, I can’t fall now. I have to cling on with my knees and one hand while I try to free myself with the other. The movement makes the drainpipe shudder, and I grab it with both hands as the rain blows into my face and drips down my nose. For a moment I squeeze my eyes shut in fear, and I think about going down again.

  But there’s no point. I’m still stuck. It’s as hard to get down as it is to keep climbing.

  I take a deep breath and try to stay calm while I tug at my trousers. R … i … p! There’s a tearing sound, and my trouser comes away from the drainpipe. Mum won’t be happy, but at least I’m free.

  I keep dragging myself upwards. Now I’m level with the windowsill, but it’s still a big step across to the ledge. I can’t look down. I think of Captain Parmentier flying high above me. He must be feeling the same fear I am in the exact same storm and at the exact same time. We have to rescue the Flying Dutchman. I hang onto the slippery window frame with one hand and step out towards it, still in the pounding rain.

  Somehow, I manage to clamber onto the ledge. Inside I can see Dad sitting at his microphone. Arnie’s beside him, working on the control panel.

  I pull on the window and it opens with a little squeal. Then I climb into the studio, half-jumping, half-falling.

  Dad and Arnie spin around, eyes wide with shock. I must seem a sight, wet and bedraggled. And shivering with fear and cold.

  ‘Good heavens, Jack! What on earth are you doing here?’ Dad exclaims. He looks too astounded even to be angry.

  ‘Come in, lad, take off your mac. Quickly.’

  I let it drop in a little puddle beside me.

  ‘Dad,’ I burst out, ‘I heard the Uiver’s signals over the ham radio. I know I did. Maybe we can contact them by wireless. I can help you send morse signals.’

  ‘You’ve braved this awful storm to come and lend a hand?’ Dad says in admiration. ‘Even though I told you to stay home? That took a lot of guts.’

  I grab the wireless key and try to send the radio call sign over the radio. But there’s no response.

  ‘They’re not picking up any signals,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve already tried. Their radio man must be using a different frequency. We can’t make contact and we haven’t much time.’ He picks up his head phones and starts to adjust them. ‘I’ve got no choice. I’ll have to break into the Melbourne program,’ he says. ‘It’s the only way to rally everyone in town.’

  It’s then I remember Mr O’Reilly’s threat – that Dad’s on notice and could get the sack.

  ‘The town has already signalled to Captain Parmentier in morse code,’ I say. ‘Every light in town is flashing on and off. He’ll know where he is now. He must know this is Albury.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ Dad says, ‘but the town needs to be on alert too. We need to rescue the plane, and we need to be ready in case the worst happens. Everyone onboard the Uiver is in danger.’

  ‘But Dad, first there’s something I have to tell …’ But Dad puts up one hand, like a police-man stopping traffic.

  ‘We haven’t time for this, Jack,’ he says urgently.

  ‘But …’ I start, and then I trail off, thinking of how scary it must be on the Uiver in the middle of this storm.
>
  ‘I have to go to air, and we don’t have much time,’ he says. ‘That’s enough.’

  And I remember the Fairey Fox, and know what he says is true. We have to do everything we can to rescue the Uiver.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Dad turns to the sound panel and cuts off the Melbourne program. The cricket talk dies, stops with a little whimper.

  He switches on the microphones, leans forward.

  ‘We interrupt this program with an urgent announcement,’ he declares. ‘One of the planes in the Great Centenary Air Race is in danger. The storm conditions over eastern Australia tonight have sent the Dutch plane, the Uiver, off course. The daring plane has lost its way. It’s pilot, Captain Dirk Parmentier, has also lost radio contact with race organisers. The plane is now low on fuel and the Uiver is in danger. Many of you will have heard it zigzagging over Albury, trying to find its bearings.

  ‘Albury is a long way from the expected path of the race. We have no aerodrome, we have nobody involved in the race. But fate is calling on us to step up and save the Uiver.

  ‘I call on everyone in town, everyone who owns a car, to leave the shelter of your homes. To drive out with headlights blazing, and make your way to the Albury racetrack. There, we will form a blazing crescent and light a runway for the plane. We must have a makeshift runway ready if the Uiver is to find shelter in this storm.’

  He talks for a while and then the station door swings open suddenly and in barges Mr O’Reilly. His face is burning with fury. He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him.

  Mr O’Reilly pushes me aside with a sweep of his arm. I grab Dad’s desk so I don’t fall. Mr O’Reilly leans straight over to where Arnie is sitting at the control panel and pulls the plug. Now it’s Dad’s voice on the radio that seems to die with a whimper.

  Mr O’Reilly’s eyes are bulging, almost like they’re coming out of their sockets. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing?’ he demands.

  Dad swings around in his seat and looks up at him. ‘No, what do YOU think you are doing?’ he asks, and his voice is as cold as the storm outside.