Stand Up and Cheer

by Loretta Re

  ‘I have a grand announcement to make,’ he declares. There’s a little ripple of shushing in the crowd as we all wait.

  ‘Fellow Australians, today I announce news of the most exciting event ever to come to our shores.’

  I tug at Dad’s dark coat sleeve. ‘What’ll it be, Dad?’ I ask, in a fever of excitement.

  ‘Just listen to him,’ Dad replies with a little smile. He looks at Mac eagerly. And I can tell Dad already knows. His face glows like sunshine. He’s as keen as I am to hear the big news. He hitches one of his trouser braces with his thumb, waits for Mac to speak.

  ‘Today I announce the biggest and most thrilling race ever! The Great Centenary Air Race,’ Mac declares in a loud voice. ‘A race from Britain to Melbourne. Over eleven thousand miles, an epic flight. For never in aerial history has there been a line-up of aviators like this and never in the history of the world has there been a contest of the like. The race is open to any aviator, man or woman, who has the pluck and daring to compete.’

  Everyone starts to cheer and clap and my heart is singing. Arnie’s grin is bigger than the Cheshire cat’s. And mine must look the same. I can’t believe we are in Melbourne on the very day this amazing announcement is made.

  ‘The planes that compete can be of any type, and any size,’ he declares, ‘and there will be 15,000 pounds in prize money.’

  There’s another gasp in the crowd. Such a lot of money!

  ‘Read all about my race on the Cherry Ripe wrappers,’ Mac urges.

  And with that he tosses Cherry Ripes out to his audience as more and more people rush to join the crowd. Trying to grab one of the chocolate bars spinning through the air, I tussle with Arnie, desperate to catch it. But Arnie is bigger than I am, older and stronger by two years. Always older, always stronger. Next year he’ll be in his teens. He elbows me out of the way, and now he grips the Cherry Ripe.

  ‘Mine,’ he brags.

  ‘For both of you,’ Dad says. ‘You can share.’ And now his voice is like a warning. ‘Read what’s on the wrapper.’

  I look over Arnie’s shoulder, see the long title and read it in one gulp.

  ‘The Great Centenary Air Race,’ I say.

  And I can read my family’s merry faces now: Mum’s and Dad’s and Arnie’s. I can see how they are all looking forward to a treat, like looking forward to the show coming to town and the farmers exhibit ing their cows. Or like the excitement of Albury Cup Day, at the racecourse, when the horses prance and run, their glossy coats shining in the sunlight.

  The biggest and most thrilling race in the world. Ever. Only, it won’t come to Albury. It will be aeroplanes streaking through the skies to Melbourne, to cele brate the centenary of the Queen City.

  A race all the way across the world from London to Australia. Famous aviators will come to our shores, pilots from all over the world.

  Dad gives Arnie a cheerful slap on the back.

  Mac Robertson bends over and delves into his bag again. Lobs another Cherry Ripe into the crowd. And then another and another. It’s raining Cherry Ripes. People in the crowd swoop on them like magpies.

  ‘Dad, can we go? Can we come down to Melbourne again for the end of the race?’ I ask.

  But Dad shakes his head, shakes it in a way that’s louder than speaking.

  ‘Dad has to work, we can’t possibly go,’ Mum says. ‘We can’t afford to come twice.’

  But I’m desperate for the chance to come back again. For the long, jolly trip. For the songs of the journey. And best of all, for the sight of those aeroplanes. Imagine seeing real-life planes, like magi cal birds, swooping down from the sky at the end of their journey.

  ‘Please, Dad,’ I beg. ‘That’d be grand. The best fun in the world.’

  This time Dad does speak. ‘Not a chance,’ he says. ‘We can’t up and leave town twice in one year. We’re not gypsies. I have to go to work and you boys have to go to school.’

  I sigh, but not so loud that Dad can hear. I’d give anything to see a real-life aeroplane.

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  But then, Mac Robertson has another surprise in store for us.

  ‘It will be dangerous,’ he says, still on the dais, ‘but what is life without risk? We must dare everything if we are to see further, travel further than everyone else. And this will be the longest race ever. It will start at Mildenhall near London. End at our own Flemington racetrack. The Great Centenary Air Race will begin on the 20th October and end … who knows when. That will be in the hands of the aviators and the lap of the gods.

  ‘Who among you would like to see the finish of the race?’ Mac asks.

  A forest of hands is raised in the crowd. Some men wave their hats in the air. I put up both my hands. Stretch on tiptoe so they might be seen.

  ‘If you look inside the Cherry Ripe wrappers,’ Mac whispers into the micro phone, ‘you’ll find a capital letter of the alphabet printed in red in each and every one of the Cherry Ripes.

  ‘Save these wrappers, and hunt out more. When you have enough of them to spell out the words Centenary Air Race you will win one of the grand prizes. Specially reserved seats for all the family. You and your family will be seated in the grandstand at the racecourse. And you will have the thrill of seeing the finish of the race.’

  Everyone starts to clap loudly, but Mac isn’t finished. He’s ready to toss more Cherry Ripes. He bends his arm back, hurling them as far as he possibly can. I wish I could throw as far as he can.

  ‘Not only that,’ Mac adds, ‘you will personally meet the aviators. So hunt out my Cherry Ripe wrappers. Save them, each and every one, and good luck.’

  ‘We have to be there,’ I cry over the sound of the cheers. ‘We have to meet the aviators! Dad, how can we hunt out more wrappers?’

  ‘That would be by buying them,’ Dad says dryly. He ducks his head a little to avoid a flying Cherry Ripe.

  ‘Can we buy some?’

  ‘We’ve already got one we can all share. Too many are not good for you,’ Mum says.

  ‘But we could get another one. One for you and Dad and one for me and Arnie.’

  She shakes her head, and her lips are set. To stop any more arguments she snaps the Cherry Ripe in half and then into quarters and offers each of us a piece.

  But I am determined. The thing I want most on earth is to see the great air race and to meet the aviators. I’ll find more wrappers somehow.

  The crowd is breaking up now, and we start to head back to the car. To my amazement some people have tossed their Cherry Ripe wrappers aside. So I lag behind and scoop up a couple of papers that are skipping along the street.

  There’s another one in the gutter. I bend down to whisk it away before anyone steps on it.

  But it’s too late. Without noticing me, a heavy man in wide flip-flapping trousers treads on it, scrapes it against the kerb. The letter’s scuffed and worthless. I stare at it and my heart slumps.

  A lady in a flowery blue dress taps me on the shoulder with a gloved hand. ‘Here you are, lad,’ she says with a smile. ‘I won’t be saving these. You can have them if you like.’

  She hands me two more glistening Cherry Ripe wrappers.

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ I beam. Best of all, one of them has a letter R. I’ve counted in my mind – I’ll need three of those.

  ‘Good luck,’ she calls after me.

  I’m already chasing another wrapper. Turn back to look over my shoulder, a little worried I might lose sight of Mum and Dad in the press of the crowd. But I can’t resist the rustle of paper as it skitters along the roadside.

  Melbourne is so much windier than Albury. Every time I draw near the wrapper it darts away, like a frisky pup let off its leash. At last I grab it.

  An A!

  Then another gust of wind blows a wrapper slap bang against my knee and I pocket that too. If I chase them all I’ll have every letter I need. I’ll be on my way to the air race.

  Chapter

  NINE

  We
pass through the same country. The towns all flash by again – Seymour, Violet Town, Benalla, Wangaratta – but this time the view is from the road. It’s as if we see the tidy side of houses now, the side that faces the world. We wave to ladies sunning themselves on their front verandahs and old men yarning outside the general stores.

  In the car we can go to extra places too. We visit Glenrowan and see the overgrown site of the inn where the Kelly gang made its last stand against the police. We can go anywhere we like now we’re not on the railway tracks. It’s like being a pilot when you have a car.

  Dad tells us all about the Minerva. That a Dutchman designed it. How fast it can go. How many miles to the gallon. Its horsepower.

  But I only listen with half an ear. I’m dreaming about the air race, wondering how fast the aviators will fly. When I stare out the car window at the wavy horizon, it’s as if I can already see a glorious plane soaring across the sky. If I could fly I’d have a different view of the country again. From high up in the air, the rippling paddocks would look like flags and the billabongs and dams would be the size of beans.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be fun to drive back for the air race, Dad?’ I ask.

  ‘It’d help break the car in,’ Arnie adds.

  ‘For the last time, we can’t go to the air race,’ Dad says. ‘I have to work.’

  Every now and then I take the Cherry Ripe wrappers from my pocket. Smooth out the crinkly papers. Count them. Rearrange the letters to make new words.

  Arnie leans over to my side.

  ‘Here, Shorty, give us a look at your wrappers,’ he says.

  ‘They’re mine,’ I tell him, holding them close to my chest.

  ‘I only want a squiz,’ he argues, trying to wrestle one out of my hand.

  ‘Leave me alone.’ I lean against the door and half-kick half-push him with my legs.

  ‘Mum, Jack’s kicking me,’ Arnie whines.

  Mum turns and looks over her shoulder, a little frown line between her eyes. ‘Fight your own battles,’ she says. ‘And stay away from each other.’

  I draw a pretend line with my finger. The line runs right down the middle of the seat.

  ‘This is my side,’ I tell my brother. ‘Don’t cross the line.’

  After I move my wrappers around some more, I say to Arnie, ‘I can spell out REAR.’

  ‘Big deal, idiot,’ he says. He gives me a bocker on the arm. Like a punch, but not as hard. ‘That word won’t get you to the race.’

  I don’t dare punch him back. Ages ago some people thought we were twins. But his hair’s darker now, and he’s grown a lot lately – he’s a head taller than me. He’s getting real muscles, too.

  I arrange some of my letters into a new word.

  C R E T I N

  ‘That’s you,’ I tell him.

  But Arnie doesn’t get that I’m calling him an idiot, too. He only knows he won’t beat me with words.

  He thumps my arm harder and I squeal. ‘Mum, Arnie’s punched me.’

  Mum doesn’t move. Her hat with its feather looks like a nesting bird. ‘Argh!’ she makes a sound that’s both a sigh and a groan. ‘Are you sure this car was a good idea, Arnold?’

  ***

  Dusk is falling by the time we reach Wodonga. The car purrs across the bridge over the Murray River and into New South Wales. We’ve arrived in Albury at last.

  ‘Boys, I’ll show you something grand,’ Dad says, glancing at his watch.

  He glides the car up Monument Hill, all the way to the lookout. We can see the town spread out before us. Dean Street runs right through it like a backbone.

  Slowly, one by one, lights switch on in the houses below. And then suddenly, a bright flash dazzles us. All the streetlights burst on in one golden blaze, forming neat, glowing lines.

  ‘They’re so pretty,’ Mum says, ‘though I still miss the fuzzy glow of the old gas lamps.’

  ‘Electricity’s the future,’ Dad says. ‘It was a good decision to go electric. Lights up the town at night.’

  I press forward over the front seat to get a better look.

  ‘And look boys, we have our own headlights in the car.’ He flicks a switch.

  A beam of light shines on the tussocks beyond the white railing.

  ‘Wow,’ Arnie and I say together.

  A startled rabbit hops away into the tall grass.

  ‘And watch this,’ Dad says with a chuckle, pleased that we’re so impressed. He flicks the switch again and the light goes off. Then he gives us another burst of yellow light.

  ‘ And … I can give morse signals,’ he tells us with relish.

  ‘What’s morse signals, Dad?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s a way of sending a message without words.’

  I’m dazzled by the idea. ‘How can you talk without words?’

  ‘Pilots do it sometimes. They tap out sounds over the radio. Or they can send out little pips of light. Watch.’

  He flashes the lights again – ‘Two dits, one dah. Quick, quick, slow,’ he says like a dancing teacher. ‘That’s a U,’ he adds.

  I can hardly believe it. A secret language without words. Without letters. A language that pilots all know. I want to learn more. ‘Will they use it in the Centenary Air Race, Dad?’

  ‘Course,’ he says. ‘At least, the big planes will. That’s how they’ll contact the aerodromes before landing. To check the weather. Check the layout of the landing strip. So they know it’s safe to land.’

  And it’s like the sky has opened up and shown me all the stars in the universe. I have to learn morse code. I have to know all about this special pilots’ language.

  Chapter

  TEN

  ‘I’m Charles Kingsford Smith, the greatest pilot in the world. Watch me win the Great Centenary Air Race,’ I brag to Ricky.

  I’m astride a picnic seat in Noreuil Park, arms outstretched. ‘ Nyaa …’ I drone. The sound of a plane taking off.

  Down below, on the brown-snake river, we see two teams of canoeists going head-to-head.

  ‘I’ll beat you,’ says Ricky. He bends forward, over his own seat. Turns his fingers and thumbs into air goggles.

  The team in red singlets draws ahead on the rippled water. Their paddles plop in and out of the river but we stay put.

  ‘This won’t work.’ I shake my head. ‘We can’t have a proper race on seats that don’t move.’

  ‘Not even a proper pretend race.’ Ricky agrees. He starts to flip through his swap cards. His store of aviator cards is growing daily.

  ‘I need another letter A,’ I tell him. ‘How many wrappers have you got?’

  Ricky saves Cherry Ripe wrappers too. All the kids do. The craze has swept Albury faster than the chickenpox that laid us low last winter.

  ‘Last count, you have ten wrappers and I have five,’ he replies.

  I take out my wad of swap cards. ‘I’ll swap you my picture of the Fairey Fox plane for your letter A,’ I offer.

  I’m keen to win him over. Like the car salesman with the satin voice. I know how much Ricky wants the Fairey Fox. The New Zealanders will fly one.

  But Ricky likes to drive a hard bargain. ‘A is so valuable,’ he says. He puffs out his cheeks and shakes his head. ‘I want that picture of the Yankee pilot Roscoe Turner as well.’

  ‘I’d want two letters for two cards,’ I say.

  ‘Then I’d have three letters left. I’ve only got five now. How will I get to the race if I swap all my wrappers?’

  It’s a fair question. ‘I dunno, but I’ve got more wrappers, and a better chance of getting there.’

  ‘We both need to get more Cherry Ripe wrappers,’ Ricky says, as he flicks through his cards. ‘Will your mum buy you more?’

  ‘Nah, she says we can’t blow all her budget on chocolates.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ says Ricky.

  So we start looking around for jobs to earn extra cash. We ask Mrs Carter, our Sunday school teacher, if we can mow her lawn. Her face is as wrinkled as a cracked old boot. She smile
s and gives us each a glass of homemade lemonade before we start. ‘Here’s a penny each,’ she says. She skewers her hat on her head. ‘I’m off to Mate’s to do the shopping. I know you boys will do a good job.’

  The house is set back from Olive Street and the front garden seems huge. I huff and puff over the grass while Ricky clips the prickly rose bushes with giant shears.

  Ricky wipes away the sweat on his forehead. ‘Mrs Carter’s getting a pretty good bargain,’ he says, his freckled face bright pink. ‘This is the biggest patch of grass I’ve ever seen.’

  But the perfect green lawn and the smell of freshly mown grass give me an idea. I know where there’s an even bigger patch. And I’ve heard from kids at school how to make easier money.

  Chapter

  ELEVEN

  A pair of kangaroos bounces over the greens at the golf club, brazen in the bright sunlight of the afternoon. A group of golfers in caps and knickerbockers shoo off the roos, waving their clubs. They want to get on with their game.

  Ricky and I plough through the rough, looking for lost balls. I catch sight of a speck of white in the thick undergrowth. I snap up the dimpled ball; then another.

  ‘Over here,’ Ricky calls. ‘There’s a few that’ve rolled into the gully.’

  Pretty soon we have nine balls. Another group of golfers stands around, chatting together in a little huddle.

  ‘That man must be the boss,’ I tell Ricky, nodding towards a silver-haired man.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asks.

  ‘Because he talks the most. Maybe he’ll have spare cash. We can sell them the golf balls.’

  ‘But the golf balls are already theirs. They won’t want to pay for them,’ Ricky argues.

  ‘Bet they do,’ I say. I know from the boys at school. ‘We’ve done all the hard work looking for them.’

  You can tell the old man’s important by the way the others all listen, the way they show respect. As we get nearer we can hear their chatter. One of the men says something about the old man being the mayor.

  I cradle the golf balls as we go over to the circle of golfers. ‘Good afternoon,’ I say politely, trying to keep my arms steady so none of the balls will drop. ‘Would you like to buy used golf balls?’