Green Dream

by Robert Gollagher

  The psychiatrist smiled back. “What’s made you so sympathetic to the plight of we doctors, all of a sudden?”

  “Oh, just something I read,” said Michael, cryptically.

  The psychiatrist reminded herself, silently, that one should never become involved with a patient. He was a handsome devil, though, she had to admit. She replied to him with a laugh. “I see. Maybe I should get all of my patients to read that, then.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “What are you going to do now, Michael?”

  “I’m going to stay at Ruth’s a bit longer, and then I’ll open up the old house again. And, um, if it’s okay with you, Kathy, I’d like to start flying again. Nothing major – I’d just like to get back up in the air, go back to the Aero Club, make a start.”

  “Hmmm. That’s good, Michael.”

  “Will you give me a certificate?” There was worry in Michael’s eyes. It was the same old worry that every pilot had, that some stupid doctor would ground them with a bad medical examination. And Michael wanted to fly again. He wanted it badly.

  The psychiatrist noticed his expression.

  “Well?” said Michael, impatiently but politely.

  “I think we can do that for you.”

  “Ah, good on you Kathy! Good on you.” Michael seemed as excited as a young child whose mother had just agreed to an ice cream.

  “I’ll pronounce you of sound mental health, ready to fly, providing you don’t fly any commercial missions for at least two months, and providing you return to see me once a week for the next few weeks with regular progress reports on your flying. Okay?”

  “Okay! No worries.”

  “Well then, Mr Andrews, I suggest you get out of here and don’t return until you’ve got some flying to report.”

  “Right you are, doc.”

  When Michael showed up at the local airport, the following day, it caused quite a stir at the Aero Club. No one quite knew what to say to him. A few of his fellow Club pilots happened to be there, that hot Thursday morning, and they duly said hello and how surprised they were to see him, but none of them dared ask how he was feeling. They treated him with courtesy but distance, not wanting to say anything which might hurt his feelings. Rumour had it that he had gone a little crazy since the accident, and it had been the subject of a lot of gossip since his disappearance. No one even knew where he had been those last three months, since he had gotten out of hospital. The air-charter company he had been working for at the time of the accident had steadfastly refused to give any information concerning Michael’s whereabouts, other than to say they were confident he would be returning to his work later in the year, following an extended vacation.

  So when Michael strode boldly, with his slight limp, through a hanger which housed a Cessna 172 on which two mechanics were doing an engine check, the mechanics couldn’t help a little harmless gossip.

  The older of the two, a tall, bald man in grubby overalls, looked up from the engine. “Hey, mate. Look at that, will ya?”

  “Look at what?”

  The bald mechanic frowned at his young offsider, who was little more – in his eyes – than a baby-faced apprentice. “Christ, don’t you know anything, mate? That’s Andrews. Michael Andrews, the charter pilot.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s the guy that crashed the Club 172. Total write-off. Killed his wife and two other passengers. Remember?”

  “Oh yeah, last August, right?”

  “Yup. Got caught in a thunderstorm, the poor bastard.”

  “Wasn’t his fault, then?”

  “Nah, mate. Poor bugger was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wasn’t his fault. He had a radio failure, couldn’t get vectored out of the storm.”

  “What happened?”

  “He had to try to put it down, out at Johnsons Farm. You know the little strip?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Michael stood at the far end of the hanger, inspecting a Piper Cherokee and reliving old memories. He was lost in his thoughts.

  “Well, he didn’t make it. Freak windshear hit him at the last moment. Smashed that plane into little pieces. He’s lucky to be alive. His wife and the others didn’t make it. There was a big fireball. It was pretty bloody horrible, old Reg Johnson says.”

  “Shit, eh?” said the kid.

  “You can say that again. He went crazy, after that. Disappeared. Nobody knows where he’s been.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Think about it, mate. You lose your wife, and your two best mates, in a crash. And you’re in the pilot’s seat. Wouldn’t you go crazy? He wouldn’t even let any of his friends see him, in the hospital. He sent ’em all away. God knows what he’s been up to since then.”

  “Shhhh! He’s coming over. He’s coming this way.”

  “Shit.”

  A moment later, Michael was standing next to them by the open engine cowling of the Cessna 172. The aircraft was painted red and white, and it was in a very pretty state, just serviced.

  “G’day,” said the bald mechanic.

  “G’day,” his apprentice repeated.

  “G’day, guys,” said Michael, cheerfully. “Fine day for flying. Have you seen that sky? Not a cloud up there. Just a few thermals, I’ll bet. Almost wish I was going gliding, instead. But she’ll do.”

  “Sorry?” said the kid.

  “I’ve spoken to Mary, in the office. I’ve just hired this 172 for the morning. That is, if you’ve finished work on her.” Michael had decided, while driving to the airport that morning, that he was going to be as cheerful as possible. He didn’t want nosy people inquiring if he was really ready to fly.

  “We’ve finished, all right,” said the bald mechanic, as he closed the engine cowling and wiped it with a grimy rag.

  “Great,” said Michael. “I’m just going to lodge a flight plan and I’ll be back in an hour to take her up. That okay?”

  “Okay with me,” said the bald mechanic.

  “No worries,” said the kid.

  “So, uh, where you planning to fly to?” said the bald mechanic, overcome with curiosity.

  “Oh, I’m gonna take the scenic route, the tourist flight. Haven’t been up there for a while. Thought I’d take a look at the city.”

  “Right,” said the bald mechanic.

  “Mmmm,” the kid hummed.

  “I’ll catch you guys later,” said Michael, as he walked away.

  “You think he’s ready to fly?” said the kid, once Michael was gone. “He still looks a bit crazy to me.”

  “I hope so, mate. I hope so.”

  “At least he’s not taking anyone else up.”

  “Yeah. Well, come on, mate. No rest for the wicked. Let’s go.”

  The two mechanics picked up their toolboxes and went to over to check the Piper Cherokee. They were still working on it when Michael returned, an hour later, to take out the Cessna.

  When Michael was on the runway, in the familiar cockpit of the Cessna 172, which was like so many others he had flown before, and once he had obtained permission from the tower to take off, he paused for a few seconds. His hand trembled over the throttle. He tried to suppress it, but his hand still shook. If he could do this, could fly this same type of aircraft he had flown on the night of the accident, he could go on with his life.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, told himself to put everything else out of his mind, and pushed the throttle wide open. The engine roared, Michael opened his eyes, and the plane began to roll down the long, hot runway. The sky was breathtakingly clear. It was endless and blue. He could see heat waves over the runway, blurring the view in the distance like a desert mirage. It was thirty-six degrees Celsius, a sizzling, dry February day, and Michael was sweating in the cockpit. He told himself that his sweat was due only to the heat. It was not true.

  And then, at once, the Cessna left the ground. Everything receded and became small as the little plane slowly climbed to altitude. Michael kept his thoughts riveted on what he was
doing. He did not allow himself to think of how Marie used to sit beside him on so many flights. He did not allow himself to think of how many times Ian and Diane had occupied the back seats. He just flew the aircraft. He just flew.

  Michael did a long circuit around the airport, for there was no other traffic in the air at that moment. He looked down at the roofs of suburban houses, at their colourful tiles, red and beige and blue, in the relentless sun. He looked at the trees nestled between the houses, and at the criss-cross pattern of the streets with their tiny toy cars driving from place to place. From three thousand feet, it looked almost unreal, like a child’s model, toy cars and toy houses. It was a pretty city on a glorious day.

  Michael turned west, and flew out to the coast. When he reached the southern beaches, he turned north and slowly flew along, high above the narrow, white strip of beach, with the calm, warm Indian Ocean to the west, and the city suburbs immediately to the east. The beaches were crowded with people trying to escape the heat. Michael thought about the thousands of lives being lived out, right there beneath him. He thought about the good times, and the heartbreaking times, that all those people would be going through, all the dreams realised and all the hopes dashed, all the new lives just beginning and all the old ones coming to their endings. He turned back inland and flew towards Kings Park, flying east above the long grass fairway that led to the spiral tower, and then onward to the east, leaving Kings Park behind and flying over the Narrows Bridge and the deep blue palette of the Swan River. The skyscrapers roasted in the sun, to the north, and the catamaran sailing boats played off the riverbank, to the south. Then he turned south and flew back to the airport, flying over Canning Bridge. He looked down carefully and saw the red tiles of the roof of Ruth’s home, the place where he had lived those last three months, the place which had saved his life. It felt good to be flying again. It felt so good to him.

  When Michael had entered the landing pattern at the airport and had guided the Cessna expertly down the final leg to the runway and made a flawless landing, he allowed himself a smile. The aircraft decelerated rapidly, rolling down the runway. He knew Marie would have wanted him to fly again. And he had done it. He had flown.

  When he had finished taxying back to the hanger, and switched off the engine, he closed his eyes and sighed. He patted the instrument panel, as if he were thanking the faithful old aircraft. He had made it.

  After that, Michael flew every day. And each day, he flew a little farther and a little longer. He started out on country tours. He regained his confidence. And, after two weeks, he knew that he was okay, that he was still a good pilot, that he still had the edge.

  Ruth was suspicious by now, despite his cover stories about visiting friends, that Michael had been flying. Her suspicions were confirmed on the first Tuesday night in March, as they ate dinner together.

  “I’ve been flying,” said Michael, nonchalantly.

  “Hmmm. I thought you must have been. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, I’ve just been taking a Cessna out. Nothing fancy. But I’m thinking of ringing the charter company, you know. Maybe it’s time to get my old job back.”

  “Really? That’s great!”

  “Yeah. As soon as two months are up. The shrink said I couldn’t fly commercial for two months. But after that, I’m back in business. It’s just as well, Ruth. I’m not much of a painter.” Michael smiled.

  “Hmmm. I don’t know about that. I like your paintings.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think anyone would buy ’em.”

  “You have a point there.”

  “It’s time I started working again.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mike. I think so, too.”

  “But, anyway, remember you telling me about your husband flying in a Tiger Moth? Well, I’ve spoken to a friend of mine. He’s going to let me borrow his Tiggie for a day.”

  “Oh?” Ruth seemed nervous.

  “Yeah. Look, Ruth, you’ve been so good to me. I owe everything to you. And I want to do something for you. I want to take you flying. I know you’ve never flown in a light aircraft before. I want to be the one to show you what it’s like. It’s wonderful, Ruth. I know you’ll love it. Will you come?”

  “Me? In one of those little planes? Oh, no, Michael. No!”

  “Ruth, come on. You have to try it, once.”

  “No, Mike. I’m terrified of them. Really.”

  “Are you saying you’re chicken?”

  “Yes! It’s very sweet of you, Mike, but really ...”

  Michael seemed offended. “But I tried dancing! You said I was chicken but I tried dancing, anyway. Remember Christmas?”

  Ruth said nothing to this. She felt a little cornered.

  “Are you going to tell me you’re too chicken to fly? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to come up with me, Michael Andrews, in a Tiger Moth, Ruth, a Tiger Moth. You’ll get to see what Fred was going on about, all those years ago. Come on, you know you want to.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ruth, can’t you see? You helped me to get well again. Without you, I would never have done it. I’m well again, Ruth. Let me take you flying, as my little gift to you, in the Tiger Moth.”

  “Well ...”

  “Go on! Come on, Ruth!”

  “Well, all right then.”

  “Good on you Ruth. You’ll love it.”

  “What do I need?”

  “Just some warm clothes, and one of these.” Michael reached under his jacket and pulled out a blue silk flying scarf. He handed it over the kitchen table to Ruth.

  “Where on earth did you get one of these old things?”

  “I have my ways,” said Michael, proudly.

  Ruth tried it on. “Well, I guess I have to fly, now that I look the part.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, Ruth. I’ve got the Tiger booked.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Oh, my. All right then, Michael. If you say so.”

  Michael looked at her, with genuine love in his eyes. “I do.”

  The next day, Michael drove Ruth to the airport. It was a sweltering afternoon. Even the coming of March had not yet dulled the ferocity of the summer. When Michael led Ruth through the hanger at the Aero Club to the Tiger Moth parked out the front, and when he took a few minutes to show her the lightweight, leather flying jacket she would wear, the goggles, and the leather cap with earphones and intercom microphone attached, the two mechanics, who were seated at the far end of the hanger having a late lunch, began to gossip once more.

  “Who’s the old broad?” said the blonde-haired kid.

  The bald mechanic chewed on his sandwich before replying. “Dunno. She looks old enough to be his mother.”

  “Maybe she is.”

  “Nah. I heard he’s got no family, except a brother in Sydney.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So it can’t be his mum.”

  “That’s weird, I reckon.”

  The bald mechanic took a swig of his iced coffee. “What?”

  “Hanging around with an old biddy like her.”

  The bald mechanic shrugged his shoulders.

  “Anyway, is he gonna take her flying?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Shit. He’s only been flying a coupla weeks. Now he wants to take up passengers. You reckon it’s safe?”

  The bald mechanic considered this for a moment, as he contemplated his sandwich. “The shrink says he’s not crazy any more. Mary told me she saw his medical report. He’s clear to fly. Just can’t do any commercial stuff for a while.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  The kid seemed impressed. “Huh.”

  “Look at her trying on that jacket, will ya?”

  Across the hanger, Ruth was laughing, partly from nervousness and partly at the outfit Michael had made her put on.

  “You know, Ruth, I reckon you look just like Amelia Earhart.”

  “Do I r
eally have to wear these goggles? I feel ridiculous.”

  “Of course you do! We’re taking a trip back through time. Back to when Fred went up. This Tiger Moth is half a century old. Try to get into the spirit of the thing, Ruth.”

  Ruth laughed again. “All right, Mike. I’ll wear the goggles.”

  “Anyway, you’ll need ’em. If you look out of the cockpit your eyes will water from the wind, otherwise.”

  “What about this?” Ruth pointed at the leather skullcap she had wriggled, uncomfortably, into. It wasn’t made for someone with long hair like hers. “I’d rather do without it.”

  “That’s your intercom. You can hear me through the headphones and speak into the microphone. It’s going to be pretty noisy up there, Ruth, with the open cockpit. The modern intercom will help. Just be thankful I’m not making you use the Gosport tube.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll wear it.” It seemed better to her than trying to yell into the old-fashioned communication tube which stuck out from above each cockpit’s instrument panel. It looked like something from an old ship’s engine room.

  “Great. Well, let’s get going. But there’s one last thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t forget your scarf.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” Ruth picked the blue silk scarf up from the yellow lower wing of the Tiger Moth, where she had rested it, and put it on.

  “Okay, then. Climb up into the front cockpit. Watch where you step. The wings of this old bird are covered in fabric.”

  “Right,” said Ruth, nervously, as she climbed up.

  “That’s it. Now, strap yourself in.”

  “Like this?”

  “Yep. That’s good. Okay, we’re ready to go. I’ll just get some help to start the engine, and we’ll get going.”

  “Okay,” said Ruth, in a squeaky voice, but Michael had already left to ask the bald mechanic to come and turn the prop.

  Ruth wondered how she had let him talk her into this. She looked at the ancient plane she was sitting in. It was painted bright yellow, and made of wood, wire and fabric. She could see the propeller several feet in front of her, over the polished metal cowling. The wings of the old biplane were braced by wires which criss-crossed from the lower wing to the upper wing, and near the wingtips there were double struts to hold the wings apart. It all looked awfully flimsy to Ruth. Fred had never managed to get her to try flying, fifty years before, and she wondered what on earth had possessed her to let Michael talk her into it now. She wished she were sitting in the seat of a jumbo jet instead. But it was too late to back out now.