Paper Planes Read online

  Grandpa thinks about it. He actually flew in the Second World War. ‘Perhaps we can fashion some kind of small engine and fit it to the airframe?’

  ‘We’re not allowed to do that, Grandpa.’

  Grandpa whispers, ‘We could make it very small so no one would know.’

  And Dylan whispers back, ‘I believe they call that cheating. And why are you whispering?’

  Grandpa whispers again, ‘I don’t know, ’cause it’s just as loud as my normal voice.’

  They share a grin. Dylan really does enjoy the old fossil’s sense of humour. ‘I need to come up with a way to get my engine-less plane twenty-five metres.’

  ‘I only ever flew powered aircraft so I don’t know a great deal about gliders. Guess there’s only one thing for it.’ Grandpa musses Dylan’s hair. ‘You’ll have to put your thinking cap on.’

  Dylan grimaces. ‘That’s what my teacher said.’

  ‘Sounds like a smart person.’

  They stop outside a room and Grandpa knocks on the door lightly. ‘This is me then.’

  Another elderly lady answers the door with a wide smile. ‘Hello, there.’

  Dylan watches. ‘So you’re going to help her out as well?’

  Grandpa nods.

  ‘You’re so generous with your time.’

  ‘It’s a burden but somebody has to do it.’

  ‘Don’t wear yourself out, Grandpa.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ He turns to Dylan. ‘Anyway, thanks for dropping by, kiddo.’ Then Grandpa steps through the doorway and is gone.

  Dylan watches proudly. He loves how Grandpa is always thinking about other people.

  At home that night Dylan sits at the rickety old desk in his room. It’s not a big room, but for some reason has a very high ceiling. He opens the brand-new exercise book Mr Hickenlooper gave him and writes ‘How To Make A Paper Plane’ on the first page. This is where he’s going to note down everything he learns about making paper planes. It will be his handbook, his manual his . . . bible, except not in a religious way.

  He spends the next half an hour folding pieces of paper into various planes, trying different shapes and styles as he goes, then noting down what he learns. The thing he does realise is that the more planes he folds, the better he gets at it. He’s heard Mr Hickenlooper say it lots of times in class but now he actually understands what he meant: practice does make perfect.

  Through the open window he notices Jack sitting on the wooden verandah and staring into the clear evening sky. Dylan studies his father, knows that he’s thinking about his mum, knows that’s why he’s feeling sad, why he’s been feeling sad for so long. Dylan wishes there was a way to make him feel better, or at least distract him from feeling sad, even if it’s only for a little while. He hopes that doing this paper plane thing together might be the way.

  Dylan pops his head out the window. ‘You gonna hit the sack, Dad? It’s pretty late.’

  Jack looks over at him but his eyes seem distant. ‘Not yet, but I won’t be long.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Jack makes an effort to smile. ‘’Night, little fella.’

  Dylan wants to say more, wants to say he misses his mum too, wishes she was here, but he knows that just mentioning it would make his dad feel worse, like the other day, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. So instead he says, ‘’Night, Dad.’

  Sound asleep in his bed, Dylan dreams of his mother, like he does so often. She spins him around and around, the sun glistening off her hair, her face smiling down at him–

  ‘Wake up!’ A hand shakes Dylan. ‘Wake up!’

  I’ve had an idea.

  Suddenly awake, Dylan’s eyes spring open and focus on Jack. ‘What?! Is there an emergency?!’

  ‘No, no, no. Well, maybe you could call it an idea emergency.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a real thing, Dad.’

  ‘Either way I’ve had one so I need to show you something. Come on.’

  Confused, Dylan rolls out of bed and follows Jack out of the room.

  In the kitchen Dylan pours himself a glass of milk as Jack digs through a cardboard box. There are dozens of old videotapes inside, all labelled. AFL Grand Finals, Rugby League State of Origin games, Soccer World Cup qualifiers, Bathurst 1000 races and lots of cricket matches, tests and one-day games. Pretty much every great Aussie sporting event imaginable is in the box.

  Dylan takes them in as he sips the milk. ‘You know I can transfer those to DVD or a flash drive if you want.’

  Jack grins as he continues to search. ‘Wanna drag me into the twenty-first century, huh?’

  ‘Or the twentieth.’

  ‘Yes! Here it is!’ Jack holds up a tape victoriously.

  Dylan smiles and sits on the lounge. It’s the most animated and lively he’s seen his dad for a while and he’s happy about that.

  Jack slides the tape into the old VHS player and hits play. The machine whirrs and clunks and shudders to life. It must be at least twenty years old.

  The television screen flickers then the 1983 America’s Cup Final plays, starring the elegant white yacht Australia II. After a tacking duel with another yacht called Liberty, Australia II crosses the finish line to win the sailing race. People cheer and the commentator is ecstatic, ‘Australia II picked up an amazing one minute and eighteen seconds and with that slid into the lead with one leg to sail.’

  Jack watches it proudly. ‘It’s the greatest moment in our sporting history. It was the first time we won the America’s Cup.’

  Dylan takes it in. ‘Great. Fantastic.’ He wants to be as enthusiastic as his dad but he has no idea where this is heading.

  Jack points at the television. ‘Look – look at this, mate.’

  Dylan watches the image on the TV as it cuts to a shot of a yacht lifted out of the water to reveal its unique keel. The commentator’s voice can be heard again, ‘Australia II’s speed is attributed to this extraordinary piece of engineering.’ The television shows a close-up shot of the boat’s blue and white keel.

  ‘There.’ Jack points at it then turns to Dylan. ‘You see it had a winged keel, which they kept secret. A keel is the long bit under the boat that pokes deep into the water and keeps it from tipping over. Ben Lexcen, the bloke who designed Australia II, understood how boats travel through water better than anyone else.’ Dylan watches his dad get lost in the story. ‘Keels used to be like this.’ Jack puts his hands together so it looks like he’s praying. ‘But Lexcen made his like this.’ Jack splits his hands apart into a V-shape. It made the Australia II faster than all the other boats.’

  Jack picks up a paper plane from the table and fires it across the room to Dylan who catches it. ‘So what’s your winged keel? What’s the thing that makes your plane special?’

  The boy thinks about it then shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then you better find it.’

  Dylan is dismayed. ‘That’s what everyone says. Mr Hickenlooper, Grandpa and now you.’

  ‘Okay, well, I can give you some advice.’

  Dylan leans forwards expectantly. ‘Yeah?’

  Jack takes a moment then lays it on him, ‘Study everything that flies.’

  Dylan continues to lean forwards expectantly, then realises there’s nothing more to come. ‘That’s it? That’s the advice?’

  Jack nods. ‘That’s the advice.’

  ‘Could it be any more vague?’

  ‘Think of it as an adventure.’

  Dylan grabs onto the idea. ‘It’d be cool if we could do it together.’

  Jack looks away, starts to pack the videos back into the box. ‘Mate, you’ll be fine.’

  Dylan looks at him and realises it’s not going to happen. It’s not something his dad can give him now.

  ‘It’s late, mate. You should probably hit the sack.’

  ‘Okay.’ Dylan gets up and moves to his bedroom, disappointed but also a little inspired.

  Jack watches him go. ‘You know, amongst all of Grandpa’s stuff
in the shed there are some old toys. Maybe some of them can fly.’

  Dylan nods. ‘I’ll check it out.’

  ‘Hey, remember . . .’

  Dylan looks back at Jack, who makes the winged keel V-shape with his hands.

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Dylan pulls the heavy door open and stands at the entrance of the shed, takes in its contents through the dust that floats in rays of sunlight. The giant space makes him feel very small. He steps inside anyway.

  It is filled with all kinds of stuff, from old refrigerators to even older car engines and everything in between. Dusty books and broken televisions, CDs and vinyl records and even a couple of ancient computers. Years of a life packed away and all but forgotten. Dylan rummages through it.

  Covered in dust and cobwebs, he finds a pair of old men’s shoes. He studies them, then throws them on the large pile of shoes he found earlier. Then something glints on the other side of the shed and catches his eye. He moves to it, clears away yet more old shoes and finds a big old trunk with shiny brass buckles. He flicks open the locks and raises the lid expectantly.

  ‘Oh, come on!’ He pulls out more old shoes, then his face lights up. ‘Oh, baby. The mother lode.’ Underneath the shoes are heaps of old flying toys.

  Dylan lays out all the toys in his front garden. There’s a wooden glider, a remote-controlled plane, a World War II-era petrol-engine biplane, a water-launched jet, a Meccano helicopter and a large rocket. It’s an extraordinary collection. Dylan studies them and searches for his winged keel.

  One by one he launches the first four aircraft into the sky. It’s like the history of flight as told through old toys. Dylan looks at all the toys strewn across the grass. He glances at his notebook but doesn’t think he’s learnt anything interesting enough to write down yet so he turns to the large red rocket and picks it up. It’s almost as tall as he is. He studies it for a moment then attempts to set it up for a launch. Unfortunately he’s not sure how to do it because there are no instructions.

  A voice echoes behind him. ‘Having fun playing with your little toys?’

  Who is that?

  Dylan turns to find out.

  Kevin.

  Oh, great.

  His classmate leisurely strolls across the grass towards him.

  What does he want?

  ‘I’m not playing, Einstein. It’s research.’

  Kevin takes in the large red rocket in Dylan’s hand. ‘That’s research?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say that?’

  They stare at each other, then Dylan breaks the silence. ‘So are we gonna have a problem or can I get back to work?’

  ‘Chill out, man. You got a lot of attitude for someone so short.’

  ‘Mate, I’m like a foot taller than you.’

  Kevin seems genuinely surprised to realise that’s true, then nods at the rocket in Dylan’s hand. ‘My dad used to have one of those. I know how to launch it.’

  That’s unexpected. Dylan thought he was going to have to fight Kevin but now he sees an opportunity. He looks at the rocket he has no idea how to launch, then at this guy who can be a bit of a bully, then back at the rocket again.

  Can I trust him or not?

  A moment passes – then Dylan holds the rocket out to Kevin. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Dylan decides to trust him. He hopes it works because he doesn’t have the foggiest idea how to launch the rocket and certainly doesn’t want to fight the guy. Kevin might be a lot shorter than Dylan but he has a bit of a weight advantage.

  Kevin hesitates then steps forwards and takes the rocket in hand. He expertly sets it up for launch, his little sausage fingers showing surprising dexterity. He positions the rocket on the ground but the fragile tail wing snaps off. ‘Oops. Sorry. It’s really old, eh?’

  Dylan’s not that concerned. ‘That’s all right. Let’s give it a whirl anyway.’

  Kevin nods and makes sure the rocket is stable. ‘Okay, we better stand back.’

  They quickly move about ten metres away and Dylan hands the remote trigger to Kevin. Surprised, Kevin takes it with a pleased nod and presses the button.

  Boom. The rocket blasts off and hisses skywards. The boys watch it go, amazed.

  Dylan is extremely impressed. ‘That is sooo coool.’

  Kevin agrees. ‘Awesome.’

  The rocket leaves a spectacular white vapour trail as it shoots towards the heavens.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  Kevin watches it and shakes his head. ‘I . . . don’t . . . know.’

  The rocket’s engine coughs and splutters and flames out. The rocket stops climbing and hangs in the air for what seems like forever, then flips over and tumbles to the ground. The boys watch, disappointed.

  Boom. The engine relights – and the rocket thunders directly towards them.

  Fast.

  Dylan studies it. ‘Is it coming back?’

  Kevin nods. ‘Ummm, I think it might be.’

  The rocket hisses straight at them.

  Dylan backs away from it. ‘We should move.’

  And Kevin agrees. ‘I think you’re right.’

  They turn and run. The trouble is Kevin isn’t the world’s fastest boy and Dylan doesn’t want to leave him behind. He glances back at the rocket, shocked by how close it is. ‘Break left! Break left!’ They both change course – and the rocket follows!

  Kevin is clearly not happy about that. ‘Oh, come on!’

  And neither is Dylan. ‘Make for the house!’

  They jink right and sprint towards Dylan’s house –and the rocket changes direction again!

  Dylan glances at Kevin and sees he’s so scared that he’s almost crying. ‘It’s hunting us!’

  Dylan agrees. ‘I’m starting to think this wasn’t such a great idea!’

  The rocket is right behind them and closes fast.

  Dylan shouts over its hissing engine, ‘Dive!’

  They crash to the grass as the rocket thunders overhead with only centimetres to spare. It flies on, passes through the open door of Dylan’s house, hisses over his father who sleeps on the lounge, then heads outside through the back door, just misses the apple tree, then quickly gains altitude.

  Kevin looks up, relieved. ‘It doesn’t get much closer than that.’

  Thwump. The rocket slams into the ground right behind the boys, its nose poked deep into the earth – then one of the other tail fins drops off.

  Kevin taks a moment to gather himself, then turns to Dylan. ‘Sorry about, you know, making fun of your lame phone and throwing the paper at you – and calling your phone lame just then.’

  Dylan nods an acceptance. ‘It’s okay. Just don’t be a bully. I can’t stand bullies.’ He thinks about it. ‘Bullies and getting needles.’

  Dylan studies Kevin. Sure, he’s a bit of a loudmouth and can be a shocking show-off and he had been a bully at times, but he apologised so that was nice.

  Dylan’s mother used to say everyone deserves a second chance, so he extends a hand to Kevin. ‘Mates?’

  Kevin grins, then shakes it. ‘Mates.’ He stops and seems to ponder the word. ‘I’ve never had one of those before.’

  In his notebook Dylan draws a picture of an out-of-control rocket following two running kids, one tall and one not, then circles the rocket’s broken tail fin and writes his first note:

  Dylan enters the living room, looking for his dad. Jack’s not on the lounge watching television, and Dylan can’t help but think it’s a good sign. He finds him in the laundry hanging up wet clothes. Dylan launches a paper plane across the room and hits him on the back. Jack turns to him with a smile. Another good sign.

  ‘Just a heads-up, Dad. We gotta get going pretty early to make it to the state comp tomorrow morning. We need to be outta here by seven-thirty.’ Dylan makes a going gesture with his thumb as he says it.

  Jack nods and continues hanging up the wet clothes. ‘I’m there.’

  Dylan looks at him, not at all convinced he will actually wake
up in time. ‘Yeah?’

  Jack sees that he’s unsure and nods decisively. ‘Mate, I’m there.’

  ‘Okay then.’ Dylan nods and walks back to his room. He really really wants to believe him. Really.

  It’s 7.30 in the morning.

  Jack lies on the lounge. He’s sound asleep. Again the television has been left on all night.

  Dylan is dressed and ready to go. He shakes his father. ‘Come on, Dad! Wake up! COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! We have to go! Really!’

  Jack mumbles something but doesn’t budge. Dylan keeps at it but it doesn’t work. Jack is not getting up.

  Dylan looks at his watch. It’s 7.31. He needs to leave now otherwise he will be late. He devised a backup plan in case this happened, and that is to take the bus to the competition, which is being held in a town about an hour away. Unfortunately the bus he has to catch is a three-kilometre bike ride away–

  ‘Oh no!’ He realises he doesn’t have any money for the bus fare.

  He sees Jack’s wallet in the back pocket of his trackpants. He takes a moment then makes a decision. He reaches into the pocket – just as his father rolls over. ‘Hey! What the?’ Now Dylan’s hand is trapped under Jack. He tries to pull free but it won’t budge. ‘Seriously?!’ He checks his watch and shakes his head. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me.’

  His father moves and Dylan manages to slide his hand free, which now holds the wallet. He opens it and sees a solitary ten-dollar note. He needs to take the note so he can pay for the bus, but he knows that’s stealing. And he doesn’t feel good about it. At all. He hesitates then realises that if he waits any longer, he’ll miss the bus anyway. He slips the tenner out, puts the wallet back then runs out of the house. He wants to get away from the scene of the crime as quickly as possible.

  Dylan pedals his bike across the beige countryside as fast as he can. He has no time to waste today. He’s just lucky the dead tree is on the way to the bus stop. He sees it, then looks up and searches for Clive in the sky high above. Where is that bird?

  There!