Wild Orchids: Chapter Ten
Have you read the previous chapter yet?
After the usual scant breakfast, they tidied their little patch and stashed their meagre belongings into the supermarket trolley. They stored this out of sight behind the bluestone retaining wall, finally covering it with the old, reclaimed tarp and dried branches.
‘I’m off then. See ya t’night Arch.’ George headed down the overgrown track, towing his shopper, looking up to glance at the canoeists, noisily slapping their early morning way up stream.
The morning was cloudy, with a distinct damp chill in the air. They were acutely aware of the weather, which dictated their lives and daily activities. George drew in a deep breath. The misty sea air was invigorating. He remembered that salt spray freshness from the seaside holidays he enjoyed when he was a boy.
Strolling along, his mind pondered on what he should do for the rest of the day. His options were limited. He decided to take his time and walk the couple of kilometres to the lake, set in a rustic bush reserve. He scrunched along the gravel path to his usual seat by the water’s edge. Ducks glided among the reeds nearby; an earnest conversation came from a family of magpies in the tree canopy. He stretched his legs. His attention was claimed by the antics of a family of ducks as they squabbled; the little ones flapped about and paraded single file, tottered to the water’s edge, flopped in the water with little splashes of delight and glided gracefully away for adventure or food.
The peacefulness of this place filled him with a deep sense of contentment for in such places he could forget the unpleasant past and live in the moment; the day-to-day life shared with Archie. He was determined to survive and in due time, make restitution to his brother the solemn promise he had made to himself to repay the debt he owed. He closed his eyes, breathed a deep sigh and let his mind wander free.
A high-pitched whine crept into his fuzzy thoughts. Was it a dream? The buzz became louder, faded, then became louder still. Then, like an angry mosquito, it crashed into that scene of tranquillity.
George opened his eyes. A flinty fragment of light flashed across his vision, a shape soared upward in the sky, the shrill sound changed pitch. He watched, intrigued, as the sleek shape rolled gracefully through space, arched its back and screamed towards the lake’s brown surface.
Wide eyed, he stared, fascinated by this wonderfully efficient machine, wings dipping, soaring, then diving to skim the water; its movements controlled by the fingers of a young man standing nearby and holding in both hands, a little black box.
George’s mind went to a time long ago when he had shared with his father, a passion for building model aeroplanes. He had started building simple kit models his father bought for him and in time he was building and flying sophisticated radio-controlled models, even some he designed himself.
With a pang of sadness, he remembered that same father - moody, unpredictable, with irrational, angry outbursts of rage.
He looked up to the sound of the tiny motor revving its shrill efficiency in the hands of its operator, a tall dark haired young man dressed in old army fatigues. George couldn’t take his eyes away from the slick display.
Without warning, another shape, of similar size, appeared from above and dived to attack. It immediately reminded him of a World War Two dogfight between a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt. George watched in astonishment as the winged attacker, an eagle, swooped and dived at the plane. Defending his plane, the operator sent it into a steep climb, its motor screamed, it banked steeply and dived to attack the eagle.
Recognising that a sensible truce was necessary to avoid possible death, injury, or destruction to either combatant, the operator abandoned the challenge, banked the aircraft sharply and landed it safety on the path not far from George’s ringside seat.
The young operator gathered his equipment, picked up the beautiful model and walked towards George. With heart racing at the excitement of it all, George gave a little hand clap and said,
‘Thanks for the entertainment. It’s made my day.’
‘Glad you appreciated it. I’m pleased with how well it flies, the young man said with a wide grin on his broad face.
‘I’m surprised at the size of your model’s wingspan; surely wider than one’s outstretched arms.’
‘It’s a metre and a half from tip to tip. This is my biggest model so far.’
‘I’m betting you made it yourself?’ George challenged.
‘Yes. Been building them since I was a kid. Started with a little glider kit and just took off from there, pardon the pun.’
‘Way back when,’ George chipped in, ‘I was into flying models too. Started with help from my father. Once I heard those little motors buzzing into life and felt the subtle ebb and flow of flight vibrating down the control line direct to my hand, I was hooked. But then, in time, other things happened….’ George left the sentence hanging.
‘What a great way to explain it,’ the young man responded, surprise in his voice at such eloquence coming from a man obviously living rough.
‘Judging by the wingspan of your model, that eagle had to be one very large bird,’ George exclaimed.
‘Yes, big enough to have caused serious damage to my precious aeroplane, I’m sure. Now it’s safe for another day. Thankfully, so is the eagle,’ he added with a wide smile.
‘Have you ever encountered such a challenge like that before?’ George asked.
‘No, never. It certainly took me by surprise. I was flat out trying to avoid the attack, but that eagle had other ideas. At first, I thought I’d have a bit of a game, but then I realised how foolish that was.’
‘I’m so glad the dogfight ended in a nil-all draw,’ George said. The young man nodded.
‘So am I.’
‘This is a favourite spot of mine, I haven’t seen you here before. I’d love to watch again sometime.’
I’m usually here on a Friday afternoon, ‘I hope to see you again,’ he said.
‘Ok, good, I’ll be here same time next Friday,’ George said, gave him a thumbs up and watched him walk away.
George closed his eyes and folded his arms against the chill of the southerly breeze. His thoughts returned to the thrill he had flying his model planes but did not want to dwell on how he endured growing up without his father’s love.
