All the manifestations of beauty surrounding him here – including the achievements of Derek, Flo, Reeve and their ilk – would be destroyed if a Nazi invasion were to succeed. His plane is the one manifestation of beauty that can deflect that catastrophe and so shield all the others.
The thought makes him smile. Reeve is a naughty vicar for having planted that grandiose seed in his mind, ready to be fertilised by the morphia. As Mitchell reins in his errant thoughts, he feels his habitual fatigue returning.
He sees his wife and son walking towards him. Gordon is holding his Box Brownie in his hand.
‘We thought we’d better come and see how you were doing, Reg darling,’ Flo says. ‘You’ve been out here for nearly an hour. And Gordon wants to take a photo.’
‘I’ve been enjoying myself, Flo, but I’m ready for bed again now. If you help me out of this chair I can pose with you for the photo before we go inside.’
In fact both Flo and Gordon have to help him up. Gordon removes the chair and takes the photo of his parents standing side by side in their beloved garden. As he tries to pose properly, Mitchell is conscious of how skeletal he now looks. He needs the support of both his companions to make the slow journey back into the house.
Tuesday 8 June 1937. Mitchell drifts up to consciousness as he lies in his bed, propped up by two pillows. He has no idea how long he’s been asleep, or perhaps comatose. Maybe days on end.
He struggles to move his head and look around him. Flo and Gordon are sprawled asleep in the armchairs on either side of his bed, though the broad daylight outside illuminates the room. Their pallid faces, half-open mouths and splayed limbs witness to utter exhaustion. Why are they here in his room? How long have they been here? They must be mounting a death vigil. They’re determined he won’t die alone.
Yes, that’s it. When Reeve was last here, he told Mitchell it was all right for him to release his grip on life now. He’s done all he needs to do. He’s done his best for his family and his people. They’ll survive his passing and live well. Reeve was telling him that his time had come.
He wants to release his wife and son from their vigil. From the whole burden he’s been laying on them. They will have to endure the mourning process, but they don’t have to endure this. And he wants the pain wracking his body to end.
The bottle of morphia is sitting within reach on the bedside table, the measuring spoon balancing on its cap. He struggles to raise his upper body just a little more. He reaches over, places the spoon on the table surface, and brings the bottle to rest on his chest. It takes all his strength to unscrew the cap, which he retains in his left hand. He raises the open bottle to the light with his right hand. It’s nearly full.
He looks back at his sleeping family, raises the bottle a couple of inches higher in a farewell toast, brings it to his lips, and drains almost the entire contents in a series of gulps. He leaves a little liquid in it to cover his tracks. Just enough strength remains to him to screw the cap back and replace the bottle on the bedside table. He balances the spoon on the cap again. His last iota of strength now spent, he slumps back against his pillows.
He stares up at the patterned ceiling until it begins to dissolve. His bed, too, dissolves, reshaping itself into a spacious cockpit. Harness straps enfold him, holding him in his seat. Through the windscreen in front of him a long, sleek silver-blue nose points towards an open airfield, and beyond it, to a far horizon.
The starter motor whines and the big propeller blades start to swing round. As a mighty engine coughs into life, flames leap from the rows of exhaust stubs that line both sides of the nose. A moment later comes the exultant, mellifluous roar of unimaginable horsepower.
The throttle opens of its own accord. The craft surges across turf so smooth that it makes the ride silken. The body is weightless as well as painless, so the wild acceleration doesn’t crush it against the seat. A little shiver through the airframe seals a farewell kiss with the ground. The nose tilts up. A soft thump announces the folding away of the wheels. The plane soars upwards at exhilarating speed.
A flock of huge black birds appears in front of it, on a collision course. The propeller threshes through the flock. Splashes of red and black from the blood and feathers blotch the windscreen. But the slipstream soon licks it crystal-clean again.
The plane is climbing, climbing, through a gap in high clouds into a clear blue sky. It frolics in the slight cross-currents, relishing the freedom of flight. The atmosphere is so rarefied now that the engine’s roar fades away. Yet breathing at this altitude is so easy. In fact, it’s no longer necessary.
The aeroplane, too, melts away, leaving just the deepening blue of the sky.
Thanks
I want to thank the many people who’ve contributed inspiration, expertise, advice, information and forbearance to bring this novel to fruition. Here I’ll name the most immediate ones. My writers’ group (Michael Dudley, Catherine Hickie, Tom Ilbury, Elaine Kelly, Lorraine Rose and Maurice Whelan) pummelled earlier drafts of chapters as I presented them, one by one. As a veteran aviator, Ben Triefus guided me through some of the intricacies of aeroplanes and the art of flying them. Noëlle Janaczewska led me into some English horticultural esoterica. Michael Dudley fleshed out my meagre knowledge of medical practice and theology. Ramsey Margolis and Hilary Denholm gave the manuscript its final pummelling as line editors and proof-readers. My partner, Lena, exercised loving forbearance as I indulged my obsession with Reginald Mitchell and his deathless creation.
The School of International Studies and Education at the University of Technology Sydney kindly accommodated and resourced me as an associate while I was working on this novel. I also had the benefit of a long and highly informative visit to the Temora Aviation Museum in regional NSW, home to two Spitfires which regularly take to the air.
Love, Death, Chariot of Fire Page 26