52 Waratah Avenue

by Lynne Wilding

  Not that she had much time to analyse what had occurred. Controlling the plane in adverse conditions — unruly wind gusts, air pockets that made the light plane drop twenty metres before she wrested control back — were taking her full attention. At first, to get away from the approaching storm, she headed due west, towards Dorrigo, then over the Dorrigo range she banked south. Less than ten minutes after take-off she noticed that the plane’s controls began to feel sluggish, the responses slow.

  Wearing an anxious frown, she noted the change in the sound of the engine. It was not performing with its standard, purring noisiness, but sounded rough and uneven. She checked the instrument panel. She knew fuel wasn’t a problem; she’d gassed up at the airport. Everything looked within normal bounds until she saw the oil pressure gauge. Her heart skipped a beat. The plane was losing oil pressure and the engine pressure was rapidly rising. How? Why? Her frown deepened. They hit another air pocket, and when she levelled the plane she decided to descend six hundred metres in the hope that the Piper Cub would be under the rough weather pattern. She tilted the wheel forward and the plane’s nose went down, and when the altimeter had dropped to the height she’d chosen she levelled off.

  The sluggishness of the motor didn’t improve and when she checked the oil pressure gauge again — she was doing that every thirty seconds or so — it had dropped dangerously low. Any less pressure and the engine could stall. Damn. It was too risky to continue. She couldn’t risk the time factor to return to Coffs, as they’d been in the air for over twenty minutes. She was going to have to look for the nearest landing site and put down immediately. Banking left, she turned the aircraft away from the ranges, which were heavily wooded, towards the coastline.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Lenny asked above the noise. Up till now he’d been dozing, unaware of the small drama taking place in the plane.

  ‘There’s something wrong with the engine. We’re going to have to make an emergency landing.’

  ‘Awww, shit!’

  Exactly. She silently agreed with Lenny. Almost fatalistically, she thought, it’s going to be tight. In the next instant the plane’s engine missed, started again, then missed. There was a guttural coughing sound, like a car backfiring, followed by a puff of thick smoke. Then silence as the engine cut out completely. Michaela turned the restart button. Nothing. She knew better than to touch the throttle. Suddenly the plane began to dip, nose forward and down. They began to lose height.

  Michaela knew that what she did now, that every second, was important. She remembered the emergency procedure Rod O’Malley had drilled into her until she’d known it off by heart. Turning the transponder to the widest frequency, she flicked the radio switch on.

  ‘May Day. May Day. This is Alpha Delta Oscar four five seven, destination Sydney.’

  There was a crackling noise in her headset. ‘Alpha Delta Oscar four five seven, this is Coffs Harbour Airport control tower. Where are you? What is your position?’

  ‘Heading due east, towards the coast. Latitude 30 degrees 37, longitude 152 degrees 45. Air speed slowing to sixty knots. Lost the engine. Repeat, lost the engine. Going to make an emergency landing …’ she shouted into the mike.

  Someone, please hear me, she prayed as the plane fell out of the sky.

  She thought she might be somewhere close to Nambucca Heads by now, but didn’t have the time to check her map. The area was dotted with farms and, with luck, she would find reasonable terrain to land.

  The plane dropped into low cloud and mist, and as Michaela peered out the windscreen she searched for a miracle — a piece of flat land on which to land the plane. Tall gums and thick scrub were everywhere, and it was getting darker too, almost dusk, which made visibility more difficult. Then she saw it. As a valley came into view, her heart leapt with relief. To the right of her was a narrow, grassy strip between thick woodlands.

  She turned to Lenny. ‘Get into the crash position. You too, Fern.’ Then she pulled out the wing flaps.

  Steering towards it, she gripped the wheel as hard as she could, trying to control the passage down in spite of the occasional gust of wind buffeting the engine-less plane. She didn’t have time to be afraid, to think about anything except landing the aircraft safely. Everything was happening so fast; her senses were on full alert, her skin tingling, her heartbeat accelerating further, in direct opposition to the plane as it began to slow and drop and, for several seconds, appear to glide on the air …

  Trees rushed up at her and so did the ground. They bumped down with a thudding, screeching noise as the wheels landed in thick grass. The struts holding one of the wheels snapped off and the plane, out of balance, dipped onto one wing, which scraped the soil as it executed a forced half-turn. The aircraft then raced in another direction, away from the near-level meadow towards trees and a cluster of moss-covered boulders. Michaela tried to steer clear of the rocks but she had only two wheels under her, and part of the fuselage — the tail too — was ploughing a groove in the soil. To slow the plane’s passage, she released the wings’ flaps and pulled back on the control column. One wing sheared off. Her manoeuvre didn’t work, the plane kept rushing towards the boulders …

  ‘Oh, shit, oh shit! We’ve had it!’ she heard Lenny yell seconds before the nose of the plane crashed into one of the larger boulders. Propelled forward in spite of her seat belt, Michaela hit the windscreen and, suddenly, her world went quiet … and very dark.

  Michaela unscrewed her eyes and blinked. She was alive! If she were a prayerful person, she would thank God. Instead, she slowly raised her head — and the first thing she saw was the plane’s instrument panel. After that she looked up and over the windscreen. The glass had blown out on impact and the plane’s fuselage lay on its side. The other wing had sheared off on impact. Christ, it was a miracle she’d lived through such a landing! She unbuckled her seat belt and tried to move, but she was positioned at a difficult angle. Then she remembered Lenny and Fern. She glanced to the left.

  Lenny was lying back in the seat, his eyes closed, and she could see a nasty bump on his forehead from which a rivulet of dark blood trickled. ‘Lenny,’ she whispered his name. He didn’t respond. She touched his cheek, patted it more forcefully, but still no response. He was out cold, but his breathing seemed okay. She couldn’t tell if he were hurt elsewhere.

  ‘Fern.’ She swivelled around in the seat to check on her niece and, for several moments, her body went numb with shock. The rear section of the plane, including the tail, had broken off, together with the back seats where Fern had been sitting. Dear God in heaven, where was her niece?

  Then, almost simultaneously, she became aware of something else. She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. Petrol! Fuel could be leaking from the tank onto the engine and it would only take one spark … Christ, she’d better get out of the plane … and locate Fern. She had seen enough disaster movies over the years to know what could happen if a spark ignited the fuel.

  Grumbling at the degree of difficulty and grunting from exertion, she finally managed to break the side window of the plane and, though it was a tight squeeze, she wriggled free. She walked away, for maybe five metres, then turned back to look at the Piper Cub. The small plane looked as if a giant hand had squashed it but, more importantly, where was Fern?

  She scrambled onto a couple of boulders for a better vantage point to search the meadow. There it was — the tail section lay about six metres from the rest of the plane. Finally she saw Fern, still strapped into her seat. Fern had been thrown clear when the rear of the plane disintegrated. She wasn’t moving!

  Vision slightly blurred from trauma, Michaela stumbled across to where her niece sat. Before she reached her she knew she was unconscious. Fern looked as if she were asleep, but blood trickling from her nose and her pale skin tone — when normally she was olive-toned — were of instant concern. As gently as possible, she got Fern out of the seat and managed to half carry, half pull her to where one of the plane’s wings rested, diagonally uprigh
t, against a boulder. It would make a reasonable make-do shelter for them.

  She placed Fern on the grass, checked her arms and legs, her ribs, and nothing seemed broken. Though not medically educated, she knew enough to realise that Fern could have internal injuries. Her skull could be fractured, too. That was a possibility because she appeared to be deeply unconscious and totally unresponsive to her touch and voice. She took off her lightweight zip-up jacket and placed it over Fern’s prone body, biting her lip with worry. Fern didn’t look good. She ran a hand distractedly through her long hair, trying to think what to do.

  Standing up, she stared at the wrecked Piper Cub. How had any of them managed to escape death? Fern might be badly hurt, she couldn’t tell, but she was alive. They were all alive. Then Michaela remembered the leaking petrol and that Lenny was still in the plane. She had to get him out.

  It was an enormous struggle to pull an inert body out through the windscreen, over part of the engine and onto the ground, even though he was a small, wiry man. In the confined space of the cockpit she had to pull and tug, seeming to move him no more than a few centimetres at a time. She dragged him several metres from the plane and laid him on the ground. What to do next? Was he badly hurt or only lightly concussed? She didn’t have a clue, but she’d worked up a sweat doing the rescue bit.

  She noted the hazy twilight descending on the narrow valley, making everything greyer and darker by the minute. Around them tall trees abounded and thick scrub everywhere surrounded the meadow like a protective wall. Michaela went back to the plane and retrieved as much as she could carry. A bottle of water, the fire extinguisher, their day bags, a small tarpaulin, the first aid kit — not that she knew how to do any first aid. She poured a little water over Lenny’s face. He moaned, muttered something suitably profane and his hand reached up to feel the bump on his head. Thank God, Michaela thought, he was coming round.

  Lenny’s eyes opened. He stared vacantly at Michaela for several moments, clearly disoriented; then he blinked and refocused.

  ‘You okay?’ Michaela asked.

  Lenny didn’t answer straight away. He sat up and winced, holding his forehead. ‘I … think … so.’ His answer was slow, thoughtful. Again his hand explored the bump on his forehead, felt the stickiness of congealing blood and saw it on his fingers. It was hard to concentrate. He felt woozy and a touch nauseated. Then he took in the crashed plane and his eyes widened in disbelief. A slow whistle left his lips. ‘Jesus Christ, how did we get out of that alive?’ He stared at Michaela and shook his head in wonderment. ‘Lady, you must be one hell of a pilot.’

  She smiled. ‘One hell of a lucky pilot, I think.’

  He remembered the kid. ‘Fern. Where’s Fern?’ His legs felt rubbery, but he managed to stand up without help.

  ‘Fern’s near the boulders, she’s unconscious. I think she’s seriously hurt,’ Michaela said. Concerned about the way he was swaying unsteadily, she grabbed his arm to steady him. ‘Sure you’re okay? You could have concussion.’

  ‘To hell with the concussion. I’m alive. We’re all alive!’ He was okay and, by and large, so was she. Talk about bloody miracles.

  She accepted that he was all right, if a shade unsteady, and became businesslike. ‘The plane’s leaking petrol,’ she advised with an accompanying grimace. Her gaze settled on the fire extinguisher. She picked the cylinder up. ‘Do you know how to work this, Lenny?’ She waited until he nodded affirmatively. ‘Can you spray the contents, all of it, over the engine? Do it now, please. I want to check on Fern again.’

  Fine rain began to drift down, dampening everything, but the storm she had tried to escape from earlier appeared to be concentrated over the mountains and well away from them. She checked her watch, noted the time. In less than half an hour it would be dark. They could expect no air-search planes to come and look for them till first light.

  As she knelt beside Fern, checked her forehead, studied her breathing, a possibility suddenly came to her. Maybe the radio was still functional. She wove her way over to the plane and climbed up on the fuselage. Unfortunately, one look at the battered instrument panel told her there was no hope that the radio might work. Damn. She was worried about Fern, really worried. Soon it would be dark, and they’d have to spend the night out here. Hands on her hips, she assessed the situation. She wasn’t concerned about being outdoors — she’d camped out before, albeit as a child. Lenny had come through relatively unscathed, she was okay too, apart from a few bruises, but Fern wasn’t. And, frustratingly, there was little she could do to help, except to make her comfortable.

  ‘You shouldn’t be up there,’ Lenny criticised when he saw her examining the inside of the plane.

  She ignored his criticism. ‘I wanted to see if the radio still worked. It doesn’t.’

  ‘You got a May Day call out, gave our position, didn’t you? They’ll know where to look, won’t they?’ Lenny asked, anxiety in his tone.

  ‘I hope so.’ Michaela didn’t say that the flight down had probably taken them off course from the last instrument reading she’d given. Why worry him unnecessarily? She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to think what to do. ‘We should try to get a fire going. Help me find some wood, small branches, some dry leaves.’

  His smile was cynical. ‘I like your optimism! We’ll be lucky to find anything dry with this drizzle.’

  ‘Come on, let’s try,’ she encouraged. ‘I want to get a fire going before dark. There’s a torch in the first aid kit, but we’ll have to use it sparingly.’ She looked about the meadow. ‘It’ll be pitch black here soon.’

  Five minutes later, her arms full of kindling, Michaela looked at Lenny. ‘I hope you’ve got your cigarette lighter.’

  He fished it out of his trouser pocket and showed her. ‘Sure have.’

  Leith sat alone in the living room of number fifty-two, a half-empty champagne flute in one hand while his other hand drummed rhythmically on the side of the armchair. He was waiting for Michaela and Fern to return home. It was dark now and through the window he could see lights illuminating the drive all the way to the house. Upstairs, Laura was dressing for her celebration dinner with Jeffrey, who was in the library watching the six o’clock news. Caroline had come home from her Tai Kwon Do exhibition and was taking a shower. He sipped the champagne and reflected … It had been an eventful day.

  Neil was on the run. Frank McRae had worked himself into a lather over the disgrace. Laura had triumphed, and Colin Coberg would, no doubt, be sending Ashworths a hefty account for the work his firm had done to uncover Neil’s fraud. He had almost got away with it, too, and if it hadn’t been for the auditors coming in he’d still be ensconced at Ashworths. He shook his head slightly, marvelling at how fate could and often did work in funny ways. Or was it peculiar ways, as with the tie-in between Neil and Lenny Kovacs? Nothing, unfortunately, could be proven unless Neil confessed — which he was sure wouldn’t happen. Still, it was … interesting

  What was keeping Michaela? Impatiently he glanced at his watch. She should be back by now. If she didn’t arrive in the next ten minutes, he would phone Bankstown Airport to find out if there was a delay due to weather conditions. Tonight they’d planned to announce their engagement to the family but, with Laura dining out and Joel not home, it would have to wait till another night. He didn’t mind. They had plenty of time … He smiled as he thought of the beautiful woman he was going to marry … The rest of their lives, together.

  The front doorbell rang and he saw Daphne walk through the hallway to answer it. A minute or two later, two police officers stood uncertainly at the entrance of the living room.

  ‘These officers want to speak to Laura or Caroline,’ Daphne informed Leith, her middle-aged features set in serious lines. She began to climb the stairs to the first floor.

  ‘Come in, officers,’ Leith said affably, as he rose to introduce himself.

  ‘Are you related to the Beaumonts, sir?’ the senior constable, who’d said his name was Brisc
oe, asked.

  ‘I’m the Beaumonts’ personal lawyer and our firm, Markham and Associates, also represents Ashworths, the Beaumonts’ business. Is something wrong?’ Fool! Such a naive question, Leith admonished himself. Of course something was wrong, that’s why the police were here. Maybe Neil had done something rash. Or was it Joel — had there been an accident?

  ‘We need to speak to Mrs Ashworth-Beaumont, sir, but under the circumstances perhaps it would be best if you stayed.’

  Laura, looking resplendent in an oyster-grey frock that complemented her platinum hair, came into the room. Caroline followed, hair slicked back because it was still wet from the shower, and dressed casually in a patterned skirt and white blouse.

  ‘What is it, officers?’ The moment she asked the question, Laura knew something bad had happened. She could sense it in their expressions or, more accurately, from their lack of expression.

  ‘You are Michaela Beaumont’s mother?’ Officer Briscoe asked formally. He looked at Caroline. ‘You are Fern Beamont’s mother, I presume?’

  Both women nodded.

  ‘Unfortunately, there’s no easy way to say this, ma’am. I have to inform you that there’s been an accident. Miss Beaumont’s plane has been reported missing …’

  Laura heard the officer give the details as if she were in a soundproofed room. Everything sounded muffled. Her daughter, her precious grandchild. Holy Mary Mother of God. Not them too. If … if … It was too much. She had borne Jack’s loss, and that had almost killed her. Michaela, Fern. No! She felt conscious thoughts slipping; she was falling …

  Leith was at her elbow to guide her onto the sofa.

  ‘Where, when?’ Caroline asked. She clasped her hands together to stop them trembling, amazed that she could sound calm when inside she was screaming — this can’t be happening.

  ‘A report’s come in from the Coffs Harbour police. Miss Beaumont made a May Day call at approximately 5.55 pm, and that was her last communication. She said the plane’s engine had cut out and she was preparing to make an emergency landing towards the coast. Locally based helicopters and planes weren’t able to respond, because it was too close to nightfall to get them into the air. The airport has the last position Ms Beaumont gave and, at first light, an air search will begin.’