Flying through Clouds

Chapter 1

Fireworks

The house is quiet – too quiet. I close the front door carefully, trying not to make any noise. It’s not so much that I’m late, as I shouldn’t have gone out in the first place. I zigzag down the dark hall dodging the floorboards that creak. At the foot of the stairs, I toss up whether to go straight to bed or get something to eat. My hunger pains decide for me.

The light is on in the kitchen and my little brother, Kit, is hunched over the table, still dressed in his school uniform. But there was no school today. It has been a big day for all of us. Kit is playing with the food on his plate. A bad sign. He never plays with food; he devours it. He knows I’m there but he doesn’t look up. Another bad sign.

Mum is at the sink, staring out the window. It’s after ten o’clock and pitch black outside. She’s still wearing the smart blue suit she’d put on that morning. And smoking a cigarette. I’ve never seen Mum smoke before. Dad would have a fit if he knew. He calls it a disgusting habit. Having smoked a few cigarettes myself, I’d have to agree with him. Mum draws on the cigarette like her life depends on it and blows the smoke out the open window. This is going to be worse than I thought.

She spins around in the smoky haze. ‘Where have you been?’ she snaps.

I’m feeling cocky after my high-flying adventure and throw caution to the wind. ‘At the opening of the Harbour Bridge, same as you.’ I regret it as soon as I say it.

‘Don’t speak to me like that! You were supposed to stay here and help your father. The punters must’ve come – the back door was wide open.’

Why was I the only one expected to stay home? Mum and Noni had official invitations, thanks to one of their wealthy dressmaking clients; Kit was playing the trombone in his school’s band. If Dad wanted to take bets from punters rather than go to the opening of one of the wonders of the world, that’s his business.

Mum flicks the ash from the cigarette into the chipped enamel sink, waiting to hear what I’ve got to say for myself. I’ve always found the best lies are based on half-truths.

‘When I saw the police pull up, I told the punters to go away. Then when I saw them put Dad in the back of the van, I got scared. I didn’t want to stay here and risk being caught too.’ Dad’s arrest was the lucky break I needed and I ran with it.

‘You’ll have to explain it to your father. He’s upstairs getting changed.’

‘He’s home?’ I was sure Dad would still be in gaol. He was arrested once before for operating an illegal betting shop and was locked up for days.

Mum lowers her voice. ‘They kept him at the station for hours but didn’t have enough to charge him. He’s like a wounded bull – hasn’t stopped ranting and raving since he got home. Noni went to bed in a huff because I wouldn’t stay for the fireworks. It’s been one of those nights.’ Mum’s eyes are red, like she’s been crying. Being married to my father would bring anyone to tears.

Dad runs a betting shop from home but only on Saturdays. That’s when the thoroughbreds are racing. During the week he’s a debt collector. He hates his job but it pays the bills. It’s the Depression and you have to do what you can to put food on the table and make ends meet. Plus keep a couple of bob aside for the little luxuries in life like going to the pictures, buying an ice-cream or riding a tram. Not everyone can afford to go to the races but they can afford to have a bet with one of the local bookmakers. Surprisingly, Dad is one of the most popular bookies in Glebe.

As Dad thumps down the stairs, Mum stubs out the cigarette in a small glass ashtray that I’ve never seen before. She hides it in the back of the cupboard then opens the kitchen window right up. She slips the packet of cigarettes into the pocket of her apron.

‘Your dinner’s on the table, love,’ she says, smiling right on cue.

Dad has me in his sights. ‘How did we go with the punters today, Joe? Did we make any money?’

I suspect he already knows the answer to his question so there’s no point lying. But it never hurts to put a positive spin on things. A couple of possibilities buzz around in my head. Only one seems promising.

‘We didn’t lose any money,’ I say confidently. It’s all in the delivery.

Dad pushes me against the wall, his long fingers around my neck. I can hardly breathe, let alone talk. He has that wild look in his eyes that he gets sometimes. I make an awful choking sound until he loosens his grip.

My heart is pounding, my body sweating, but I’m not backing down. I’ve done that too many times before and it gets me nowhere.

‘What did you want me to do? Stay home and take bets from the punters and risk the cops showing up again?’

‘You should’ve come back earlier.’

‘And miss the fireworks?’ I want to say, but think better of it.

Dad sits down and picks up his cutlery like nothing happened. I’m wary, half-expecting him to fly into another rage. But I’m not that frightened boy anymore, flinching with every strike of his leather belt across the back of my legs.

Dad eats his dinner quietly. Seems almost calm. I straighten my collar and sit down opposite him and next to Kit, who is not making eye contact with anyone in case he becomes a target.

‘You must be starving,’ Mum says, piling up a plate with dried-out rabbit stew, mashed potato and shrivelled peas.

I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and eat quickly, demolishing almost everything. Carving out a plane in the remaining mound of cold mashed potato, I replay every unforgettable moment of that day in my head:

Weaving through the crowd with my best friend, Pete – scrambling up huge granite blocks onto a steel walkway – climbing up ladder after ladder through a maze of steel beams and girders – running up the arch and grabbing the flagpole – taking in the amazing view over the city and harbour – the roar of engines and Southern Cross flying over the top of us – Smithy (Charles Kingsford Smith) waving to us from the cockpit – the crowd cheering – gunshots echoing across the water – brass bands blasting and banging out their marching tunes – fireworks exploding in the night sky – the best day of my life.

My pulse is racing; blood is pumping through my veins like I’m running for my life. I can’t hold it in any longer. ‘I want to be an aviator!’ I announce.

Mum holds the teapot midair and Dad stops eating. You’d think I’d just told them I was flying to the moon.

Dad roars laughing. ‘You want to fly aeroplanes?’

‘Just like Smithy.’

‘You don’t know anything about flying.’

‘I’ll learn.’

‘Can I be your navigator?’ Kit asks.

Mum goes white as a sheet. Her two brothers were pilots in the war. They were shot down and killed by the Red Baron.

‘Planes are a lot safer now, Mum,’ I say, trying to reassure her.

Dad glares at me. ‘I’m not working my guts out to build up this business for nothing.’

I don’t want to make Dad angrier than he already is but I can’t hide the truth any longer. ‘I don’t want to be a bookmaker!’

Dad bangs his fist on the table. ‘You’ll do what I tell you to do!’

I back off for a while, trying to think of something that might change their minds.

‘Smithy started off as an electrical apprentice. Maybe I will too.’

Dad glares at me. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

Tears roll down Mum’s cheeks. ‘I couldn’t bear to lose you boys too.’

Dad throws his plate in the sink. ‘Forget about flying, Joe. You won’t be going near any planes while you’re living in this house.’

We’ll see.

Chapter 2

The Plan

I’m flying in a three-engine Fokker at two thousand feet with Kit – my co-pilot and navigator. We fly over mountains and rivers, farms and forests, until all we can see are a few gum trees, dry scrub and a mob of grey kangaroos. Kit points to something on the map he is holding but it keeps flapping in the wind. It blows away, hovering like a bird before floating up into the sky. Clouds are building; a storm is brewing. The fuel gauge is almost on empty. There is a clearing up ahead – it’s Uncle George’s chook farm. We circle the farm, gliding down lower and lower. As the plane comes in low for a bumpy landing, I wake up.

It’s the same dream every night. Sometimes Smithy is flying, sometimes I am, and occasionally Pete or Kit is navigating. But I can’t just keep dreaming about flying, I have to do something about it. My parents are my biggest problem, but they’re not the only one.

Dad’s right. What do I know about flying? I know that Southern Cross is a three-engine Fokker with two hundred horsepower engines, a cruising speed of ninety-five to one hundred miles per hour, a wingspan of seventy-two feet, a steel skeleton, fabric skin and timber wings. I read about it in the newspaper and I’ve never forgotten. But that’s all I know.

Four years ago at Mascot aerodrome, I stood shoulder to shoulder in the freezing cold with Dad, Kit and more than three hundred thousand other people. We cheered as Smithy and his co-pilot, Charles Ulm, landed Southern Cross after their record-breaking flight across the Pacific Ocean. I was only ten years old at the time and had never seen a plane up close or that many people in one place before. Maybe the seed was planted then or maybe the year before with the balsawood glider I got for Christmas from Uncle George. I loved launching that glider over the roof of our house. It fell off the roof one too many times and is in pieces at the bottom of my wardrobe.

Another problem is money. I have no idea how much flying lessons cost. But I’m sure I’ll need more than three pounds, two shillings and sixpence – my life savings. I have so many questions and no-one to ask. It’s not like Dad flies planes for a living and I’m following in his footsteps. The odds are stacked against me and no amount of dreaming is going to make it happen. I need a plan.

Grabbing a pencil and a scrap of paper from my satchel, I start writing:

1. Go to aerodrome.

2. Find out about flying lessons.

3. Learn about planes and flying (preferably at no cost).

4. Save up money for flying lessons.

5. Learn to fly.

I fold up my plan and put it in my pocket. There’s no point banging my head against a brick wall, trying to convince my parents to let me fly. It’s time for action.

It’s also Sunday morning. Like all good Catholic families (except for Dad of course, he’s Church of England), we go to Mass at our local parish church. Mum always sits in the front row with Noni, hanging off every word, even the Latin ones. I prefer to sit up the back so I can make a quick exit.

I was an altar boy for two years before Kit took over from me. Who would’ve thought he’d be allergic to incense and only last a week? Some things just aren’t meant to be.

On my way to church I call in to Pete’s place, but instead of going to Mass, Pete and I catch a tram to the aerodrome. Pete isn’t Catholic but he likes going to church with me to get away from his little sisters. He looks after them most days because they’re too young to go to school, and his mum works long hours as a cleaner at a private hotel. With his stepfather in Long Bay gaol for possessing stolen goods, Pete is the man of the house. He has missed a lot of school and isn’t that interested when he shows up.

According to my granddad’s old gold watch that Dad gave me for my thirteenth birthday, it’s a quarter past nine when Pete and I arrive at the aerodrome. Father Dennis would be up to the Epistle. Plenty of time.

There are three big sheds next to the airfield as well as an office building with a red closed sign on the door. Pete and I peer through the window at the empty desk and unopened letters strewn over the floor. I rest my head against the glass, feeling like a loser.

‘What ya gonna do?’ Pete asks.

A man wearing blue overalls waves to us from in front of one of the sheds. ‘Can I help you lads?’

‘I want to learn to fly but don’t know how to go about it,’ I call out.

‘You’ve come to the right place but at the wrong time. The flying school closed a few weeks ago.’

My flying career is over before it even gets started.

‘But there should be another one starting soon. If you leave your name and address, I’ll pass them on to the new instructor. Come into the hangar while I find a pencil and paper. I’m Bert, by the way.’

As we shake hands, oily black grease rubs off on me. It smells so good. I give Pete the thumbs up as we follow Bert into the hangar. Bert has a terrible limp and one of his wrists is bandaged.

He slaps the body of a small plane. ‘This is Little Beauty, my pride and joy, a DH.60 Gypsy Moth. Crashed her a couple of months back. Still needs a bit of work. I’m lucky to be alive. Can’t wait to fly her again.’

I run my fingers along the timber body and firm fabric wings, stopping to inspect the engine, even though I don’t know what I’m looking for. The blade of the propeller is carved out of timber and silky smooth to touch. It’s