Stand Up and Cheer

by Loretta Re

  I can hear my heart thumping and I’m cheering inside. Dad’s standing up to Mr O’Reilly now.

  ‘You’ve broken into the cricket, Arnold! The national program! The regional stations are never to override the Melbourne shows. You know that perfectly well.’

  ‘This is an emergency,’ says Dad.

  ‘And what about our listeners? They’re the people who pay your wages. How will they like having the cricket interrupted?’

  ‘The Uiver has to land safely. It’s in mortal danger, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘I don’t give a flying fig about the Uiver!’ Mr O’Reilly splutters. ‘The race organisers can worry about that. Rules are rules, and you know it! You can’t come barging in here in the dead of night as if you own the place. Who do you think you are?’

  Dad stands up and draws himself to his full height. ‘I’m the Voice of the ABC,’ he replies, ‘and I’m the only one who can rally the troops to rescue the Uiver.’

  A nerve in Mr O’Reilly’s temple twitches. He’s gone purple-red and his eyes sear Dad’s. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, and your boys are not supposed to be here,’ he says in a low voice. ‘You’d better get home right away, if you value your job. That’s an order.’

  For a moment there is silence and I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

  Dad keeps staring at Mr O’Reilly and his eyes don’t waver. ‘My job now is to be right here, doing my utmost to save the Uiver. I won’t be leaving my post, and my boys will be right here with me. I’m taking a stand, and I can’t do otherwise.’

  There’s a long silence. For a moment I think Mr O’Reilly might hit Dad, but he takes a step backward.

  ‘You’ll regret this, Newton,’ he says through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t say you weren’t warned.’

  And then, to my complete amazement, Mr O’Reilly turns around and strides out of the studio.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Before anyone can say a word, Dad’s radio connec-tion lights up. Arnie’s already set it up again, and a message is coming through from one of the station’s reporters. He’s at the racetrack.

  ‘So how’s the weather at the track? A bit better? Excellent.’

  Dad pauses, listening.

  ‘… This is gold,’ Dad says to him, into the headphones. ‘She can talk us through it. As the drama happens. I can give our listeners an eyewitness account. I have a couple of willing hands. They’re here with me now, ready to spring into action.’

  He turns to us, his face creased with thought. I can see his mind is racing, running over with a hundred ideas at once, all in the right order.

  ‘There’s a lady, Mrs Drake, who lives near the racecourse. She can see the Uiver circling above the racetrack. The pilots have seen the cars all heading out to the racetrack. They’re going to try to land.

  ‘Mrs Drake will describe what’s happening, tell it to someone here in the studio. That message will be passed to me. I’ll tell the ABC manager in Melbourne. Then he’ll tell the radio announcer at 3AR, the national show. And he will let the whole of Australia know. Everyone will know what’s happening at our racetrack.

  ‘I need one of you to take the message from Mrs Drake. On the phone. Who’s up for it?’

  Arnie gives me a bocker.

  ‘Get Shorty to do it,’ he says. ‘He’s good at words and stuff. I’ll look after the equipment.’

  ‘But Dad, Mr O’Reilly …’ I start.

  Dad waves away my words. A little frown creases his forehead.

  ‘No time for argy-bargy, Jack,’ he says. ‘This is an emergency. I need you.’

  Dad’s right. It’s a real emergency and he needs me. I have to do everything I can to help the Uiver.

  Chapter

  THIRTY-NINE

  I think of the Uiver’s mortal peril and I know better than to argue now. I slide into the seat at the switchboard. My hands are shaking a bit. Shaking from excitement, shaking from fear.

  If I listen hard, I can make out Mrs Drake’s voice, can hear her over the crackle of the phone and the rain pelting on the roof. ‘I’ll tell you what’s happening,’ she says. And I feel a tiny wave of relief. At least Mrs Drake is not one to hold a grudge.

  ‘He’s circling overhead,’ says Mrs Drake.

  ‘The Uiver is circling over the racecourse,’ I say to Dad.

  ‘The Dutch plane, the Uiver, is circling slowly over the racecourse, trying to find a landing place,’ Dad says on the phone to the ABC manager.

  The manager passes on the message, then the national announcer says: ‘The Dutch DC-2, the Uiver, is trying to find its bearings. The plane is now circling over the Albury racecourse in a desperate bid to find a safe place to land.’

  The words that came from Mrs Drake, from me, from Dad are being added to and shaped. Made to sound as if it’s all happening in front of us.

  ‘The track will be a makeshift runway,’ Dad says. ‘Dozens of cars around the edge of the course are shining their headlights. There’s a blazing crescent of light. Will the pilot be able to pick out the landing place?’

  Dad makes a little movement to Arnie, telling him to turn down the national broadcast so it won’t interfere with what we’re doing.

  Mrs Drake says, ‘He’s trying again.’

  ‘No luck yet,’ I tell Dad.

  ‘The plane has to make a second attempt.’ Dad says into the microphone. ‘It’s gaining altitude again. The pilot’s being very careful. One wrong move could spell the end of everything. The plane’s circling slowly.’

  ‘Look! The pilot’s dropped a light,’ Mrs Drake gasps.

  ‘Captain Parmentier has dropped a light from the plane,’ I say to Dad. And I’m glad, and proud too, that I know the famous aviator’s name. I can add to the story, to the drama that’s unfolding.

  ‘And another light,’ I relay to Dad. ‘It’s opening a parachute.’

  Dad understands what’s going on, he knows about planes landing in the darkness from his time as a pilot.

  ‘Captain Parmentier has dropped two flares from the plane. And my goodness, as each flare starts to fall, a parachute is pulled out of the flare case. The canopy is opening and the parachute floats like thistledown. There’s a flash … and now a burning flare is hanging off the parachute.

  ‘It’s falling slowly, spreading a clear light all around. The crew will get a good look at the ground. And they’ll see the upturned faces in the crowd.’

  ‘He’s coming around again, he’s head ing straight for the tree. Oh my gosh,’ says Mrs Drake.

  ‘Is he all right?’ I ask. I’m starting to sweat in terror. ‘Has the Uiver crashed?’

  ‘No, I hope he’ll be all right, he has to make it through a narrow gap,’ says Mrs Drake, her voice shaky.

  ‘The Uiver hasn’t crashed,’ I tell Dad, my heart hammering.

  ‘It’s a dangerous descent,’ Dad announ ces. His voice is steady. ‘There’s a spine of hills to the north and trees to the south. He needs to find a way through the trees.’

  ‘There are fires on the ground,’ I relay to Dad.

  Dad is throwing his heart and soul into it. I can tell nothing he says will need to be changed. Or need to be added to before it’s broadcast.

  ‘On the ground people have lit petrol fires. It’s possible to see the racecourse sign clearly: Albury.’

  ‘The Uiver’s got to have another try,’ I relay to Dad.

  ‘The Captain is unable to land. It’s too dangerous because of the trees,’ Dad says. ‘Our hearts are in our mouths. They’ve come all this way. Halfway around the world. I don’t have to remind my listeners of the tragedy that befell the Fairey Fox in Italy. Our hearts and minds are with this brave crew on their perilous descent.’

  There’s silence on the line. It feels like forever. I wait, fear thumping in my ears. Then I hear Mrs Drake again.

  ‘The Uiver’s flown through the trees,’ I relay, ‘but he’s still not attempting to land. He’s flying in a big circle
. He can’t land. Now he’s flying back up again.’

  ‘There’s no runway for the plane to land,’ Dad tells his listeners. ‘Captain Parmentier has never flown into this racetrack before. He’ll have to judge his landing perfectly, calling on all his skill. He will make another, final attempt.’

  ‘The plane is sort of gliding through the trees now,’ I say, just making out Mrs Drake’s faint voice.

  ‘Captain Parmentier has turned the motors off now,’ Dad says. ‘He’s desper ate to get his crew and their passengers safely to the ground. We can only pray he’ll succeed.

  ‘He’s taken the flaps up, making a wide turn. As low as possible, the Uiver floats through the trees, helped by the searchlights on the plane.’

  ‘He’s done it!’ I cry. ‘He’s on the ground.’ I feel relief, but Dad knows better.

  ‘Aaah. This is the most dangerous part of the descent. The Uiver’s flown a whisker above the fences. It’s skidding along the ground. Now it’s taxiing for a long, long time along the track. And comes to rest beside the petrol fires. The wheels have sunk deep into the mud. Yes! At last! The Uiver is safe!’

  ‘Everyone’s cheering and singing,’ I relay.

  ‘And listen to all the Albury people cheering. They’ve left their cars with the headlights blazing and now they’re all singing, ‘For they are jolly good fellows.’ I wish you could all hear the celebra tions. My word, what a truly wonderful landing!’

  Dad stops and gives us a big thumbs-up. Arnie and I are jumping up in excitement. The Uiver has been saved! Listening to Mrs Drake through the crackle of the phone was really hard, but that only made it more exciting. Even though it’s after one o’clock in the morning and I’ve never been up so late, I feel wide awake.

  Dad stamps tobacco into his pipe with his thumb. Then he flashes a jubilant smile. ‘We’ve done it,’ he says, ‘and you boys have been wonderful.’

  Dad knows he’s done a great job too. Making his listeners see the perfect landing in their minds. And making up a wonderful story he hasn’t even seen.

  Chapter

  FOURTY

  When I’m woken before dawn I think it’s the clear carolling of the magpies, but it’s the phone ringing.

  Out in the kitchen, Dad and Mum look so pleased that we helped the Uiver land. The plane’s safe now and it’s here in Albury.

  ‘That was the mayor on the phone,’ says Mum, ‘thanking you all for the grand job you did last night. People in the Netherlands were all so worried they were out in the streets waiting for news about their missing plane. They were excited to hear your broadcast, and thrilled that the Flying Dutchman is safe.’

  We’re still at the table eating our toast when the doorbell rings. It’s Mr O’Reilly. For a moment I think he’s here to celebrate too. Maybe he’s going to tell us it was a great broadcast last night. And be glad we saved the Uiver.

  But he swaggers into the kitchen like he owns the place.

  ‘Morning, Louise,’ he says to Mum. Then he bends over the table and helps himself to a piece of toast. He smears Mum’s apricot jam on it slowly. He doesn’t look friendly. He wants us to remember he’s the boss.

  ‘You know why I’m here,’ he says, biting off a big chunk of toast.

  ‘Boys, go outside. We’ve got some things to discuss,’ Dad tells us.

  Arnie’s happy to go. He makes a beeline to the nature strip where the car’s been left. He’s going to fiddle under the bonnet, check everything’s in working order.

  I head out the back. Slowly. This is serious. I’ve never known Mr O’Reilly to come to our home. And before breakfast. That’s really strange.

  I wait on the back verandah, watch an orb spider spinning its web. See it dangle by a thin, shiny thread. I can hear muffled voices. Men’s voices. It sounds like an argument. After what seems like a long time, I hear movement in the house. Footsteps thump along the corridor. Mr O’Reilly is leaving.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask when we go back inside. But Mum and Dad have put up a little wall.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Mum says. ‘The three of you did the right thing last night, and whatever will be, will be. I’m so proud of you.’

  Dad nods. ‘Hear, hear’ he says firmly. ‘We’re taking you boys to the racecourse. Not every day a lad gets to see a DC-2 in town.’

  ‘The Uiver! We’ll get to see the Uiver close up,’ says Arnie, excited.

  ‘Certainly will. Might even see it take off for the last leg of the race,’ Dad says brightly. Too brightly.

  I look at Mum. She’s standing still and she isn’t breathing.

  ‘What about school?’ Arnie asks. ‘What about work?’

  ‘No need for work today,’ Dad says. And then I know for sure. As clearly as if he’s told me what’s happened. Know exactly what that visit from Mr O’Reilly was about.

  We pile into the car and I can hardly think at all. My head is spinning and my teeth are clenched. I’m trying to make sense of this new world. Mum can’t be thinking straight either. She’s grabbed her shopping bag.

  As Minerva leads us along the busy street, past the post office, Arnie has a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Your photo, Dad. It’s not on the studio wall! What’s going on?’

  I look at the post office wall, and there’s a gap where Dad should be. It’s shocking. Like a mouth missing its teeth.

  ‘That rat O’Reilly’s taken it down!’ I say in horror. ‘He’s sacked you.’

  I gulp, trying to choke back a sob. Dad has lost his job, just like Mr O’Reilly warned me.

  ‘You … you won’t run away, Mum, will you?’ I beg. ‘I can do odd jobs till Dad gets a new job. And I can fix the sleep-out wall.’

  Mum turns back over the seat and looks at me.

  ‘You must know I’d never leave. Why would you think that?’

  ‘Brendan’s mum ran away when his dad lost his job. And you weren’t home yesterday, like you usually are …’

  ‘I was at the CWA, I was a bit late. That’s all.’

  ‘And your money jar was empty.’

  A strange silence hangs in the car. Dad and Arnie are taking in this unexpected news.

  ‘Yes,’ Mum admits. She gives a twisty little smile. One that says I’ve caught her out, fair and square. ‘You’re quite the detective, Jack. I was buying this. Though it seems like a terrible extravagance now.’

  And with that she produces a solid black cube from her shopping bag. It’s the box brownie camera she’s always wanted.

  ‘You’ve wanted that for ages, love,’ Dad says. ‘We might be glad of it.’ His voice is light and I can tell he’s trying to cheer her up. ‘You’ll get some great photos at the racetrack today. And I’ll talk to the bosses in Melbourne. They’ll find some work for me, somewhere.’

  Chapter

  FOURTY-ONE

  The gutters are swirling with storm water. And long, sleek puddles mirror the clouds. Dad takes a detour past the botanical gardens. Today the flowerbeds are only little islands in a lake.

  We join in with all the cars and bi cycles streaming out of town to the racecourse. Everyone’s heading to our make shift aero drome, famous around Australia now, soon to be famous around the world.

  It’s as exciting and bustling as show day. People toot and wave and stop to pick up walkers. Even Mr Lucas is pedalling the ambulance in the same direction. Then I see a passenger in the back. It’s Ricky! Mr Lucas is giving him a lift to see the Uiver. He gives a cheery wave, his freckled face creased with smiles.

  I wave back, but I feel torn. Excited the Uiver is in town. But worried for Dad and the family. How is it possible to feel glad and sad at the same time?

  We’ll be on the susso now. Maybe Dad will have to take out a miner’s licence. And we’ll have to live in a ragged tent in Happy Valley. Mum will roast rabbits over an open fire. And it’s my fault. Mr O’Reilly warned me after he caught me in the studio that he’d sack Dad but I couldn’t get Dad to listen.

  When we get out
at the racecourse, I lag behind the others. Up in the lofty gum tree that Brendan climbed, a kookaburra laughs after the rain.

  I see Brendan in shorts and bare feet stamping through the puddles in the drive. Is this what will happen to Arnie and me now? Will we end up playing on a gum leaf hoping for coins from busy men who have a job?

  ‘G’day,’ he says. ‘I heared your Dad on the radio telling us about the Uiver. I was at my nan’s. That was the best story.’

  ‘G’day, Brendan,’ I nod. ‘I was at the studio too,’ I say. ‘It was pretty exciting.’

  ‘Look,’ says Dad, when we catch up to the others. He points to the huge DC-2 and he’s truly awestruck. ‘Look at that plane. Did you ever see such a monster in your life? Those lucky ducks. Able to fly in a plane like that.’

  And in that moment my worries lift a little and my heart feels lighter. For there, under the trees in the vast muddy tracks, sits the Uiver!

  I hold my breath, gazing at the huge silver-grey plane. It’s more like a whale than a stork. I can’t believe it. My plane! The biggest plane in the race! And the Flying Dutchman is here in our town, thousands of miles away from his home in the Netherlands. But there are so many people milling around, no matter how hard I try, I can’t see Captain Parmentier.

  ***

  The Uiver! What a wonderful sight. Except that its nose is low and its wheels are caked with mud, like Mum’s beaters coated with chocolate. It’s flown halfway around the world only to end up bogged in sludge, near the end of the race.

  Under pink dawn clouds, as light as fairy floss, half of Albury is here. They’ve come in their work clothes; their dust coats; even the butcher in his stripy apron. Men are rolling up their sleeves and joking and nattering and shaking their heads.

  ‘Helluva job getting this crate to fly,’ one man says.

  ‘Look,’ says Dad, ‘we need everyone to help get the Uiver out of the mud, help to get it on its way.’

  Men start jiggling hessian bags and planks under the plane to help the wheels get a grip. Now I see a glimpse of Captain Parmentier in the cockpit wearing his goggles. He revs the engines. I can hardly believe the great man is here, in Albury! The engines growl and splutter, but the plane stays put.