The Amazing Spencer Gray

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  ‘Dad!’ he whispered hard.

  Nothing.

  He couldn’t bring himself to try again.

  In the strange gloom, he began feeling around for a better idea of where he was in the plane and how he could get out. Spencer’s hands moved across the ceiling and found the cockpit’s hinged door. It was no longer shut snugly, protecting them from wind and cold. It was bent open; mangled. His hand pushed into damp soil. He pushed further. Plants and sticks dug into his arm. The door felt as though it could be pushed out completely, so Spencer bum-shuffled closer to it, to get more purchase. He put both hands against it and shoved. Scrubby bushes blocked its path. He could feel there was space beyond the plants if he could just force the door against them. He brought his feet up, resting back on his flat hands, and pushed forcefully. The door crunched through the plants, opening wide. Cool air and dirt—and light!—rushed across Spencer’s face. It was still the afternoon, not night! Spencer suddenly understood: the Drifter’s windscreen was flat against the ground and buried in bush. Adrenalin kicked in and he forced his body into the opening, squeezing painfully through thorny scrub as he left the Drifter’s tiny, dark cockpit.

  19

  Spencer stood weakly and let the afternoon light liven his face. Clouds crowded around him. The sky was charcoal. He looked around, looked vaguely at the wreckage of the Drifter, the dirty smear of their landing across the ground: the snapped trees and trampled bush. He thought, also, of the Millennium Falcon landing on a new planet, and how that might look, and feel, and, though Spencer tried to push the insane (shameful!) Lego images from his mind, they were oddly comforting.

  He lurched back into the here and now. Spencer, focus! There was only one thing for him to do: help Dad.

  He picked his way around the nose of the plane, staring at the smooth white belly of it now exposed to the sky. It was like seeing a loved pet dead on the side of the road. When he reached the pilot’s side he could see by the way the door dug down deep into the earth that he’d have to go back into the Drifter the way he’d got out.

  Spencer walked back around and crouched low. He peered in. What was the point of going in when he couldn’t see a thing in there?

  ‘Dad,’ he said flatly.

  The silence was more than he could bear.

  ‘Dad!’ he cried, and looked around him for help that just wasn’t there.

  Spencer spent the next hour or so ripping the broken bushes and mashed trees away from the cockpit glass. He used his boots—lucky he’d chosen them over his Crocs this morning—to kick away what he could. Slowly, a few shards of grey light probed into the cabin. He didn’t look in there much, wasn’t sure what he might see. In between scrub-clearing he thought about what else he could do, what he could use in the Drifter to help them. He knew there was a radio in the cockpit—Dad had talked to Reg on the two-way during the tow-up, and had tried to contact him again just before the crash. Spencer took a shaky breath. Once he’d got to Dad, he’d see what he could do with the two-way. That was a plan, as Pippa would say.

  Pips.

  Mum.

  Spencer’s knees met the dirt. What was this? How could this be happening?

  He was much too scared to cry. Spencer pushed himself up off the ground and walked robotically around to the side of the Drifter with the open door. He knelt in the freshly moved dirt. He was ready.

  20

  It was still dim in there, but Spencer could see well enough. He could see Dad’s seat had been wrenched right out of the floor; that Dad had been flung from it; that he was on his back at the far edge of the upside down cockpit ceiling. Straight away he could see three things: the rise and fall of Dad’s chest with each breath; his right leg pushing out at a totally wrong angle; and blood, thick and sticky, coming from somewhere under Dad’s head. He knew enough, thanks to being the son of Doctor Gray, that there might be a lot more going on that he couldn’t see. He knew not to move him, in case he’d hurt his back.

  Spencer went close to his face, shoving things out of his way as he went. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me, Dad?’

  No response.

  ‘Dad,’ he said more loudly, shaking his arm gently. His skin was cool.

  Again, nothing.

  This time Spencer spoke loudly and directly into his ear, and rumbled a hand to and fro across his chest. ‘Dad! Dad, wake up.’ A stronger shake. ‘You’ve got to wake up, Dad,’ Spencer said clearly, right at his face. ‘You need to wake up.’

  This time, there was movement across Dad’s face. His eyelids shifted and fluttered.

  ‘Dad!’ Spencer said urgently. ‘I’m here. Can you open your eyes?’

  They opened, for a nanosecond. Then they rolled back into his head like a bad party trick.

  ‘Dad, keep your eyes open! I’m right with you, Dad. But I need you to stay awake.’

  His eyes flicked open again, this time with more focus. Spencer rubbed his hand across his chest, to warm him up and get some blood moving around—but mainly in an effort to keep him awake.

  ‘Mmmggh,’ Dad grunted.

  Spencer thought it sounded like he was in pain, so he moved his hand to his Dad’s arm, and ran it up and down from his wrist right up to his shoulder. He was really quite cold. His jacket. Spencer looked around. Everything had been flung about; there was stuff everywhere. It took his eyes a while to settle in the gloom and begin to make sense of the mess. He grabbed Dad’s fleece and yanked it toward him, copping a zip in the eye. While it watered, he bundled the jacket over Dad’s chest, and spread the softness about him.

  Dad’s eyes had closed again.

  ‘Dad, Dad,’ Spencer said quietly but urgently. ‘You’ve got to do your best to stay awake.’

  ‘Mmmmphaff.’

  ‘I can tell you’re ... in pain. You’re gunna need to tell me what’s hurting and what I can do to help you, okay? You’re the doctor, Dad! You need to tell me what to do, okay?’

  ‘Neefff.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kneef.’

  Spencer looked closely at his dad’s mouth. ‘Did you say “knee”?’

  It was a breath more than a word: ‘Yesh.’

  He looked down at the hideous angle Dad’s lower leg was making. ‘It ... yeah, it looks broken to me, Dad. It looks really ... weird. It’s definitely broken, actually.’

  ‘Slice.’

  ‘What’s that? Slice?’

  ‘Eysh.’

  ‘Ice?’

  ‘Mmph.’

  ‘Ice! I can’t believe you, Dad. Is that the first thing you have to say— ice?!’

  Dad managed a dry-lipped half smile.

  Can you stop being so calm?! Spencer wanted to scream, looking around in a panic. We don’t have any stupid ICE, Spencer thought sickly. But ... ‘The food bag! The esky bag Mum packed for us, she might have chucked a couple of those frozen cooler things in it. Let me check, Dad. Hang on a sec.’

  Spencer clambered over and rummaged frantically behind the seats, using his hands for eyes, breaking out in a sweat as he did so. It was close in the cockpit. He finally felt the familiar canvassy fabric of the cooler bag, and tugged the zip along its rectangular path around the lid. Spencer’s hand thrust in and landed on a wet cold brick.

  She did! ‘You’re a bloody legend, Mum,’ he muttered.

  ‘Humph.’

  ‘Two ice bricks, Dad, Mum packed two!’ Spencer moved back so he was at Dad’s feet. ‘Now, shall I put them ... on top of your knee, or either side of it?’ He felt a little nauseated just looking at the munted angle of it.

  Dad lifted one of his hands then, weakly reaching out. His eyes were still closed. Spencer’s hand met his dad’s. They sat there for a moment.

  ‘Ice now,’ he breathed painfully.

  Spencer made his best guess and put the cold blue blocks either side of his knee, and held them lightly in place.

  Dad winced, then nodded.

  Then he fell unconscious again.

  Spencer had no idea what wa
s he was going to do. Dad had broken his leg, that was for sure, and maybe it was really badly broken—in several places—but you didn’t lose consciousness from broken bones, did you? It would be painful, yes, but you’d be able to keep your eyes open, Spencer knew that.

  Reluctantly, his eyes flicked to the dark bloody blob to the side of Dad’s head. Probably just a little cut, he thought. There’s not much blood.

  He was so out of his depth.

  Spencer sat uncomfortably in the dark of the messed up cockpit and looked around. It was cramped and scary in the broken up Drifter, with his broken up dad needing help, but outside he’d be completely on his own—on the edge of a mountain, next to the wreckage of the Drifter.

  21

  At Indie’s, Pippa chose a table outside. Mum inspected the café’s reading shelf: fashion and home magazines, tourist brochures and newspapers. The paper she chose filled their entire table when she opened it up.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘That’s not going to work for us, is it, Pips? No room for our gingerbread girls.’ She back-folded the paper in half, and then in half again, so that she had a small piece to read in front of her.

  ‘That’s origami, Mum!’

  ‘Without the beauty and grace, my dear.’

  ‘Hot chocolate?’ said the waitress.

  ‘That’s for Pippa,’ Mum said, looking up. ‘Oh, Hannah, hello! I didn’t know you worked here.’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Gray,’ Hannah smiled. ‘Just on Saturday mornings. Hi there, Pippa. I’ll put this here for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, good for you. Are you saving for something special?’

  ‘Just clothes that don’t come from Target Country,’ she said, blushing.

  ‘Aah, I see.’

  ‘Did you order a drink too, Mrs Gray?’

  ‘Yes, a latte with an extra shot—and there should be a couple of gingerbread girls coming.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go and sort those out for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Hannah.’

  22

  Dad’s watch showed 12.30. What was it Dad had said to Mum in the kitchen about times? Was it that they’d be back at Skippers Cove airstrip by about 2.30? And then back home around dinnertime—yes, that was right, Dad had said they’d pick up some pizzas from Milano’s on the way home. So Reg wasn’t going to think anything was wrong until at least 3, and probably not until more like 4.

  Reg would have to send out an emergency flight or something like that to find them. The rescue helicopter, maybe. But by the time that got organised, there wouldn’t be much light left in the day. And Spencer was pretty sure that rescue crews needed light to find missing people. The prospect of being found quickly wasn’t looking good, whichever way Spencer thought about it. Spending a night out here would be horrible, no two ways about it.

  Spencer’s head began to race crazily, as though thinking about timing had given it a major kick up the bum. He tried to slow the thoughts but they flooded in:

  Dad’s mobile phone. Coverage? Up here? Doubt it.

  Two-way radio. Don’t know how to use it. Must try.

  Mum’s food. Eat. But not too much. Save some ... just in case.

  Keep warm. Stay dry.

  Could Dad ... die?

  First-aid kit. Find it. Use it.

  Walk down, get help (leave Dad?!). Might be faster than waiting. Aim for road, get to the road and flag someone down, just GET HELP!

  Or better to stay? Like you stay with your car if you break down in the desert? But this isn’t the desert, Spence. It’s down south in the mountains. You’re not going to die of heatstroke or thirst out here, man. What does Bear Grylls say when you’re lost in the forest? Suck leaves. Eat crickets. Cook spiders. Aaaaargh!!!!!

  Spencer pushed himself out of the Drifter’s wrecked door like he was bailing from his skateboard on a trick gone badly wrong. He grabbed his knees and threw up breakfast into the razed bushes.

  He stayed bundled over for a couple of minutes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. More than once, he spat the sharp taste from his mouth. After a moment, he coughed his throat clean, and wiped away the sweat that had broken out under his eyes.

  Spencer really was here, and this really was happening. He had to make some decisions.

  23

  As Hannah walked towards the kitchen in search of gingerbread people, Pippa said, ‘How do we know her again, Mum?’

  ‘She’s Sylvie’s daughter—you know, the receptionist at Dad’s surgery?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. She’s cool. When can I get a job? It looks like fun.’

  ‘In a few years, love. Hannah’s in high school, don’t forget. She’s older than Spencer.’

  ‘Will Spencer get a job soon?’

  Mum put her paper down. ‘Well, I don’t know ... that’ll be up to him, I suppose, when he’s old enough. I think when you’re about fourteen or fifteen you kids might think about getting a part-time job, maybe delivering the local newspaper_____’

  ‘Boring!’

  ‘Or working in the fish and chips shop. Or at Milano’s.’

  Pippa’s eyes widened as Mum brainstormed.

  ‘Milano’s, that would be awesome!’

  Mum nodded.

  ‘Maybe we’d get free pizzas!’

  ‘You’d have to cook a lot of pizzas too.’

  ‘That’s okay, that’d be fun, I love cooking!’

  ‘Well, that’s something to think about, then, in—let’s see—about seven years’ time.’

  ‘That’s a plan, Mum.’

  ‘Okay, love, that’s a plan. Now can I read some of this paper?’

  ‘Your coffee, Mrs Gray? And two gingerbread me _____ girls.’

  ‘Aah, thank you, Hannah. You’ve got Pippa all excited now about getting a job when she’s older.’

  Hannah smiled. ‘It is nice having my own money to spend. Dad makes me save some of it though.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  ‘For when I want to buy a car.’

  ‘Aah, yes.’

  ‘Let me know if you’d like anything else,’ she said, heading back to the kitchen, her black apron tied neatly around her waist.

  But Mum was miles away—another five years away, in fact, when Spencer would be able to drive, and Pippa would be seriously thinking about a part-time job. Mum imagined Spencer driving his own car. Driving to parties at night, a gaggle of friends squeezed in the back and girls squealing ... No, she decided. That wasn’t going to happen as long as she could help it. She would drive those kids wherever they needed to go till she got so old she couldn’t get out of bed, rather than run the risk of them ... getting into trouble.

  24

  Spencer picked up the two-way radio handset, all too aware he didn’t know how to use it. It was plugged into a receiver that looked a bit like a car stereo, with buttons, dials and screens on it. He had no idea how to use that, either. A needle sat flat at the far left of a dial, and the two screens were blank. It wasn’t backlit like it had been when they were flying, when Dad had radioed Reg.

  He pressed the button on the side of the handpiece and put his mouth close to it. There was no crackle or hiss of life, not even the fuzz they’d heard from it when they were still in the sky.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me?’

  He wasn’t sure if he was meant to hold the button in or let go of it when he was talking. He tried again, the other way.

  ‘Mayday. Mayday!’ He’d seen that on Police Rescue. It was worth a try, he reckoned.

  There was no reply. He didn’t know if the radio was broken from the crash or if there was just no reception up here—though that didn’t make sense; surely the whole idea of having a radio in a plane is so you can get in touch with people back at the airport, no matter where you were?

  Somehow, Spencer knew it wasn’t going to work.

  He rummaged among the murky mess of stuff strewn in the ceiling space till he found Dad’s phone. It was on, and the screen was backlit. His heart lu
rched with hope. Maybe, maybe!

  He pressed the address book button, and scrolled through the names. Airstrip, Karl & Kate, Hospital switch, Milano’s, Reg, School, Surgery, Suzie. He stopped. Mum. He pressed the button and her mobile number came onto the screen. He pressed CALL, then VOICE CALL.

  His heart punched his chest like a fist.

  There was a long silence while the phone tried to connect to her, tried so hard to link them.

  Please, please...

  Spencer heard three too-loud beeps, then silence. He looked at the screen. The mobile’s battery was fine: there was the little battery symbol showing it was almost fully charged. On the left, where the signal strength was usually indicated, he saw it: blankness. Not even one column.

  ‘No!’ he shouted, and the fear in his voice scared him. He looked again at the screen. Surely there was something, some reception, some phone tower nearby? Spencer’s thumb went into a frenzy, pressing through the list of names in the address book again. Reg. Reg! He could help. He’s the man! Maybe Reg was closer to them, nearer by, and the phone could reach him.

  Spencer pressed CALL again, and held the phone hard against his ear.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ Crouching, he rocked, as if movement might help the phone signals collide in the air. ‘Trying to connect, trying to connect,’ he murmured.

  But the silence was long and cold. He heard a noise outside and turned around. It was raining. The sky was the colour of a gun.

  25

  Since no one else was departing from Skippers Cove airstrip that day, and he wasn’t expecting any arrivals, Reg pulled across the enormous steel doors that closed the hangar to the elements. He noted that the wind had picked up somewhat, could see the sock pulling hard to the south-east, its mouth gaping wide to the north like a plankton-feeding whale shark. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the conditions.