‘Over this place where it says, “cliff”?’
‘Could be.’
I glanced down at the paper in my hand. It was several hundred yards to the homestead. ‘She got him to the house?’
He nodded. ‘She couldn’t carry him, of course. But she must be a pretty good kind of a girl. She had the child out there at the runway in her arms ready to pop it into the machine, so that the pilot wouldn’t have to leave his seat. She put the child down and pulled Pascoe out of the wreckage. She says he’s got a big dent in his head where the skull’s caved in, a broken thigh, and possibly other injuries.’
‘Christ!’ I said softly. I could imagine the scene – just one woman in the rain and the wind, with all that on her plate. ‘What did she do then?’
‘She did all right,’ he said. ‘She left him lying on the ground and ran back with the child to the house. Then she ran back again with a couple of hot water bags and blankets. She knows about shock, apparently. Then she ran back to the house again and got on the blower to Hobart. She’s got the standard medicine chest and they told her what to give him – morphia or something. She gave him that and then she went and got their tractor and a sled, and put him on the sled, and got him to the house and into bed.’
It was just about as bad as it could be. ‘He’s unconscious?’
‘Semi-conscious. He asked for a cigarette and smoked it while she was getting the sled.’
‘What’s the form about the weather?’
‘They’re hoping for a few hours clear tomorrow. Then it’s likely to close down again.’
A sudden gust of wind whistled about the Tower. ‘Do you know what they’re planning to do?’
‘I haven’t heard,’ he said. ‘If it clears they’ll almost certainly send out a machine from Hobart. They’ll probably take a doctor.’
‘Is there anyone at Buxton now? I mean, if it doesn’t clear? Any other pilot who could fly an Auster down from there?’
He shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard. They may be sending somebody up there tonight. So far as I know, Pascoe was the only experienced pilot there.’
I stood in thought for a moment while responsibility descended squarely on my shoulders. Johnnie Pascoe had taught me to fly, and whoever they had at Hobart in the absence of Rhys-Davids it was quite unlikely that he’d have one half of my experience. I couldn’t let this rest. I’d have to go over and do what I could to help.
I turned to the controller. ‘Mind if I use your telephone?’
I got on an outside line from the Control Tower and rang Peter Fosdick at his house, our operations manager. He was in bed, but I got him out of that. I told him what the form was, and asked if he could spare me for a day or two to go over on this thing. He grumbled a good bit, but he’d got plenty of time to rearrange the crews because I wasn’t flying till the afternoon. He couldn’t very well refuse, and besides, he knew Johnnie Pascoe, too.
The controller had heard all of that, of course, because I was speaking from his desk. I replaced the telephone. ‘I’m going over on Flight 117, the freighter,’ I told him. ‘There’ll be a change in the flight plan. I’m going to ask them to go in to Launceston and drop me off before they go on to Hobart. I’ll go straight to Buxton and see what the form is. I believe that’s the best place to be. When you’re speaking to Hobart, would you tell them that’s what I’m doing, and I’m on my way? I’ll be talking to them on the land line first thing in the morning.’
I folded the data sheet about that rotten little airstrip and put it in my pocket, and went down to the car. I looked in at the office and told the clerk about the freighter stop at Launceston. I grabbed one of the Tasmanian maps and went out to my car again, and drove off home. I live in the suburbs at Essendon not very far from the aerodrome, in a fair-sized single-storey house on the corner of two streets. I left the car out in the road instead of driving into the garage, and went into the house.
Sheila had gone to bed; she came out in her dressing gown to meet me in the hall. ‘You’re late, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Did you have a bad trip?’
‘Not too bad,’ I told her. ‘But there’s been a bit of drama in Tasmania. Johnnie Pascoe’s bought it.’
‘I heard it on the news. I’m sorry. Why did you leave the car outside?’
‘I’m going over there,’ I said. ‘See if there’s anything that I can do. There’s a freighter in about an hour’s time. I want my leather coat and helmet.’
She stared at me, astonished. ‘Your leather coat? I haven’t seen that for years.’
‘We haven’t given it away?’
She wrinkled her brows. ‘I don’t think so.’ She stood in thought. ‘I remember wrapping it up in newspaper so that it wouldn’t make other things dirty … I put mothballs in with it … I think it might be in the trunk under Diana’s bed, underneath my stole.’
‘Would the helmet be with it?’
‘It might be. Peter had that last, two years ago, when he went to that fancy dress party at school.’ Diana woke up when we pulled the trunk out from under her bed, and sat up sleepily, ‘Wha’s the matter?’
‘It’s all right, darling,’ Sheila told her. ‘Go to sleep again. We just want Daddy’s coat. He’s going flying.’
At eight years old one is easily satisfied. ‘Is that all?’ she said. She lay down and turned on her side; I pulled the bedclothes over her and tucked them round her shoulders for the night was chilly, and she went to sleep immediately. The coat was there in newspaper and we found the helmet in the chest of drawers in Peter’s room. Sheila said softly, ‘He puts it on sometimes, in front of the looking glass.’
We closed the door quietly behind us. ‘You’d better have something, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Dripping toast and cocoa?’
It was a good idea, because I should be up all night. She went into the kitchen and I went into the bedroom and stuffed a little haversack full of pullovers and warm clothes. There wasn’t room for pyjamas but I could do without those in favour of long woolly underwear. Whatever things were like at Buxton, I was going to be damn cold at some time or another. I could see that sticking out a mile.
Sheila was busy in the kitchen. I put the haversack down in the hall beside my coat and wandered out into the workshop. Peter and I were planning a surprise, for Diana, because we were going to build her a doll’s house, a big one with six rooms, for Christmas. I had got the plywood and the lengths of small, sawn timber, and we had laid out the baseboard. I stood looking at the drawing, pondering this thing. I had another project on hand for Peter for Christmas, a flying model aeroplane with a small diesel motor, but that I was building in a corner of the workshop at the aerodrome to make it a surprise.
I stood pondering the doll’s house in the workshop, savouring my home. Sheila came to me in a few minutes. ‘Don’t stand mooning there,’ she said. ‘The toast’s ready.’
‘What colour shall we have the drawing room?’ I asked.
‘Pink,’ she said. ‘Pale pink walls. She likes pink. Now come and eat your toast.’
I left the workshop and went through to the kitchen and ate the little meal she had prepared for me. Presently I glanced at my watch, and it was time to go.
She said a little anxiously, ‘Don’t go and buy it yourself, Ronnie.’
‘I won’t do that,’ I promised her. ‘There’s trouble enough over there already.’
I put my old leather coat on in the hall, and kissed her; she came to the door with me. ‘Will you be able to ring me?’ she asked.
I thought for a moment. ‘After dark,’ I said. ‘I’ll ring you after dark tomorrow night and let you know the form.’
I drove back to the airport and locked the car up in the park. In the office the flight crew were getting ready to take off the freighter. We exchanged a few words about Johnnie Pascoe and went out to the machine; we took off on time and settled down to a long flight against the head wind. I sat on the floor with my back against the freight, dozing a little; it was very cold and draughty and nois
y in the unfurnished shell. I was glad of my leather coat. It was nearly half past three in the morning when they put her down at Launceston and taxied in.
We had radioed the airport control to ask them to get a car to meet us, to drive me sixty miles to Buxton. It was waiting for us with a very sleepy driver, and I got in beside him and we started off. It was a quarter past five when we got near the little town, and the driver asked me where I wanted to go.
‘Better take me to the hotel,’ I said. I remembered it from my forced landing, years before. ‘What’s its name?’
‘The Post Office Hotel,’ he said. ‘They won’t be open yet. They don’t get out of bed till about nine.’
We drove into the deserted street, black and silent and wet. ‘Well, take me there, anyway,’ I said.
He stopped in front of the hotel. I got out and knocked on the door for a few minutes, with no result. Then I went exploring round the back with my small torch and found that the kitchen door was unlocked. I went back to the street and paid off the taxi, returned to the hotel kitchen, and switched on the light.
It was a pretty dirty sort of place, and smelt a bit. It was warm, though, with the residue of heat from the stove. I was hungry again and there was nothing much to do for an hour, so I started ferreting around and found the larder, smelling a good deal worse than the kitchen. There was an electric cooker there, so I made myself a cup of tea and boiled a couple of eggs and cut some bread and butter.
It was still dark outside at half past six, and there was still no movement from upstairs in the hotel. The controller at Essendon had said that the woman at the Lewis River would be speaking on the morning schedule at seven o’clock; before then I must get to a radio and find out what was happening. I wrote a note for the hotel on a page torn from my diary and left it on the table with a ten bob note to soothe any ruffled feelings there might be, and went out to the yard, and so to the street. I could see the length of it now in the faint light, but the wind was still high and there was a little rain with it.
It didn’t take me long to find the police station. There was a light on in the front office, and when I opened the door a young constable got up from a desk. Behind him on a table was the black metal case of a transceiver. I had come to the right place.
He said, ‘Guid morning,’ in a strong Scots accent. ‘And what can I do for you?’ He could not have been in the country very long.
‘My name is Clarke,’ I said. ‘Have you heard anything about me?’ He shook his head. ‘Well, I’m a captain with Australian Continental Airways.’ I went on to tell him briefly why I’d come to Buxton. ‘They told me at Essendon that Mrs Hoskins would be speaking on the morning schedule at seven o’clock. Mind if I listen in?’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘There’ll be others coming to hear that. Mr Monkhouse, the ground engineer, for one, and Sergeant Farrell from the house. Nae doubt they’ll be making a great effort to get him out of it today.’
I nodded. ‘Have you heard a weather forecast this morning?’
‘Only what came through on the six o’clock news.’
‘What was that?’
‘Stormy, with low cloud and rain.’
I offered him a cigarette and we stood smoking for a time, not saying very much. Presently a very old Ford Anglia drew up in the street outside; the constable glanced out of the window. ‘Here’s Mr Monkhouse.’
He was an oldish man, shaved and presentable, dressed in a roll-neck sweater under a soiled sports coat. He had once had red hair, now turned mostly to grey. He had a merry face and, I guessed, some affinity for beer that might have prevented him from rising higher in his life than ground engineer at a small Tasmanian aero club. His face struck a faint chord of memory in my mind; I introduced myself, and then I said, ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
‘Burma,’ he said. ‘Cox’s Bazaar and Akyab. I was with the Army, servicing L.5.S of 82 Div. You were in 607, Spitfires.’
‘You’ve got a memory,’ I remarked.
‘Cor,’ he said, ‘I remember you before that. I was a G.E. with the Yorkshire Club at Sherburn-in-Elmet back in 1930. You came over for a Pageant one time, in a Bluebird. You learned to fly at Leacaster.’
I smiled. ‘That’s right. Captain Pascoe taught me to fly. He was at Leacaster instructing.’
‘So he was.’
I glanced at him. ‘You’re English?’
‘Not me – I’m Aussie. But I been all over. Went to England after the First War and never come back till 1946, except one time. I’m from West Australia.’
‘You’ve been in aviation a long time.’
He nodded. ‘Pretty near as long as Captain Pascoe, and that’s saying something.’ He glanced at me. ‘You come to fly him out?’
‘We’ll see what the form is,’ I replied. ‘The Hobart club may have got something laid on by this time. What have you got here?’
‘There’s an Auster and a Tiger,’ he said. ‘Tiger’s got a super canister in the front cockpit.’
‘Take you long to get it out?’
‘Three or four hours. But the Auster would be better. Got a blind-flying panel. Stick a stretcher down in the rear fuselage of that, too.’
‘It’ll take a stretcher?’
He nodded. ‘Captain Pascoe had it modded, special. Both of them. We got a special stretcher, narrow each end like a coffin lid. Take out the front passenger seat and it fits just nice.’ He paused a moment in thought. ‘He had it with him yesterday, so I suppose it’s bust. Knock you up another one in half a day, do for the time being.’
‘Is the Auster okay?’
‘Filled her up and did the daily last night,’ he said. ‘Case anybody wanted her.’
The sergeant came in from a door that led into the house, buttoning his jacket. He went to the transceiver and turned it on to warm up, and we stood silent, listening. Presently it came to life, and Hobart came upon the air. The sergeant adjusted the tuning a little.
The announcer said, ‘This is 7HT. 7HT calling all regular stations. Good morning, everybody. This morning I’m taking 7KZ first, and after that we’ll take the regular schedule. 7KZ, if you are listening, will you come in, Mrs Hoskins.’
There was a momentary pause, and then, ‘This is 7KZ,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘How are you today, Mr Fletcher?’ And then, ‘Over.’
‘I’m fine. How are your two patients? Over.’
‘Well, Betty’s better, Mr Fletcher. There’s no doubt of that. Her stomach doesn’t feel so rigid, and she drank a little milk. Captain Pascoe, he seems just about the same. I gave the second injection at midnight, like the doctor said.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘Well, it’s hard to say, you know. I don’t think he can say anything. I don’t think he’s feeling much pain, though. Sometimes his eyes are open, and then it’s as if he’s looking at things in the room, you know. It’s hard to say. Over to you.’
‘I’ll put you through to the doctor in a minute, Mrs Hoskins. Before I do that, tell me about the weather. What’s it like with you this morning?’
‘Just the same, Mr Fletcher. There don’t seem any difference to what it was yesterday.’
‘There should be a fine spell this morning, according to the Met. It ought to be clearing soon from the west, away over the sea. Is there any sign of that?’
‘Well, to tell the truth I haven’t looked, Mr Fletcher, only just out of the window. If you’ll hold on a minute I’ll go out and see.’
‘I’ll wait, Mrs Hoskins. Take your time; there’s no hurry.’
We waited silent, staring at the set. If it was true there was a break coming, I would try and make it in the Auster. That was, if Hobart had nothing better to suggest. I said as much to Monkhouse in a low tone, and he nodded.
In a few minutes she came on again. ‘Mr Fletcher? This is Mrs Hoskins here. It’s quite right what you said. It’s showing a little line away over on the horizon, like as if it was clearing behind the rain.’
‘Good-oh.
They forecast a fine morning and it looks as though you’re going to have it. I’m going to switch you through now to the doctor; he’s waiting on the line. Before I go off, though, we shall want to speak to you again before the machine takes off, to get the latest weather from you. Can you be listening again at half past eight?’
‘I’ll be listening at half past eight. After I’ve spoken to the doctor, can I speak to Don? Over to you.’
‘He’s here with me, Mrs Hoskins. I’ll put you through to the hospital now, and Don will speak after that.’
I lit another cigarette and we stood listening to the consultations. The doctor took the child first, and from the tenor of the conversation there seemed to be no doubt that she was better. The pain and the inflammation were less than they had been, and the temperature was now below a hundred. So far as Pascoe was concerned, there did not seem to be much change. The doctor was principally concerned about infection of the head wound, and he gave her very elaborate directions about dressing it, making her write them down as he dictated slowly.
In the end he said, ‘Well, that’s all for now, Mrs Hoskins. I’ll be speaking to you again from the airport at half past eight, before the machine takes off. It’s just possible I might be coming out with the machine. But anyway, I’ll speak to you again then. Now back to the control.’
We listened while the woman talked to her husband, but there was nothing much in that. He was weatherbound, as all the fishing boats were in Recherche or Southport at the entrance to the D’Entrecasteaux Channel; the report from the Maatsuyker lighthouse on the south coast showed the weather to be quite impossible for small craft. Don Hoskins was still in Hobart tied up at the quay, judging it better to remain available rather than to be lying anchored somewhere out of touch.