Paper Planes Read online

  ‘Sorry, Clive. No time to hang out today!’ He skids to a halt and tosses a rasher of bacon. It loops through the air – and lands perfectly on the branch. ‘See ya later, mate!’ He pushes off and pedals hard.

  Twenty minutes later, Dylan slides to a stop as the bus pulls up. He just made it in time. He quickly loads his bike inside, with the help of the driver, then takes a seat.

  As the bus drives he stares out the window at the beige countryside and tries to get his head into the zone for the competition. He thinks about the kind of plane he will fold and how his throw needs to be both smooth and powerful, then his mind wanders to what it will be like when he gets to the venue and he wonders how many other kids will be competing.

  ‘Woah.’

  There must be, literally, a hundred kids there. Astonished, Dylan looks out the window as the bus pulls up beside the old railway yard where the competition is being held. He’s surprised he’s already here. He must have been daydreaming big-time because the bus trip whipped by.

  Dylan steps out of the bus, parks his bike and joins a long queue of kids waiting to register. There are so many he still can’t quite believe it. He suddenly feels nervous. This will be a lot more difficult than he imagined.

  In front of him is a slightly older boy who is quite a bit taller. He is accompanied by his well-dressed father, whom Dylan thinks he recognises. He’s pretty sure the man is a famous golfer or something. Either way Dylan can’t help but overhear their conversation.

  Jason takes in the venue like a prince surveying the land he will one day rule then turns to his father. ‘Did you know that when Muhammad Ali was my age he’d already started boxing? He caught someone stealing his bike and wanted to learn how to beat him up.’

  Patrick looks at his son. ‘Well I don’t know how throwing paper planes is going to stop anyone stealing your bike, mate.’

  For someone so successful, Jason is constantly surprised that his father doesn’t seem to understand the most basic stuff. ‘You’re missing the point, Patrick–’

  ‘Would you stop calling me that? I’m your father.’

  ‘The point is he had to start somewhere. And my road to becoming a champion starts here. Today. This is my Ali moment.’

  ‘You realise he ended up with Parkinson’s disease, unable to walk or talk, right? I don’t think the Muhammad Ali story is making the point you want it to. And being a champion shouldn’t be the goal.’

  Jason is not convinced. ‘So what are you saying? It doesn’t matter if I win or lose?’

  Patrick looks at his son. ‘What I’m saying is it’s how you play the game that counts.’

  Jason shakes his head. ‘The only people who say that are the ones who’ve already lost. Winners celebrate winning.’

  ‘Except when they can’t talk. That makes the victory speech a bit difficult.’

  Jason rolls his eyes at yet another lame comment from his father then steps up to the registration desk and speaks to the lady sitting behind it. ‘I’m Jason Jones.’

  Dylan takes in Jason and Patrick’s banter then turns and looks at the long queue behind him. Every kid is accompanied by a parent. Every single one. He draws in a breath and wishes he wasn’t on his own, then remembers that feeling sorry for himself isn’t going to make his plane fly twenty-five metres so he better toughen up, get his game face on and decide what he’s going to fold today.

  Once registered, he’s ushered to the far end of the railway yard where the kids are divided into groups then handed a fresh piece of A4 paper and told to fold their planes. Dylan and Jason are in the third group.

  Dylan folds the paper into a very basic, classic design. Once it’s completed he turns and takes a quick squiz at Jason’s plane. It has several origami-like folds, the paper becoming a tough-looking fighter jet with stubby wings.

  The first group of ten kids is positioned at the start line. The starter drops the flag and the group sends their planes into the air – then into the ground. None even come close to the twenty-five-metre qualifying signpost. Another signpost much further in the distance is marked 69.13 metres. It’s the world record.

  Dylan feels a light breeze blow across the railway yard. He watches the next group launch their planes. They all steer off course to the right. He looks at his plane and improvises, folding the end up so it now has a tail fin, just like the one that broke off the red rocket. Hopefully it will keep his plane on course. He turns and watches Jason take out a red marker and draw two eyes on his plane. It makes it look scary.

  Now it’s the third group’s turn. Dylan steps up to the starting line, Jason beside him. Dylan feels nervous anticipation. It’s really quite intense, like he has a thousand butterflies in his stomach, but then the starter raises the flag so he pushes it from his mind and concentrates on doing the best job he can.

  The starter drops the flag and the kids launch their planes.

  Most immediately tumble to the ground. A couple collide. But Dylan’s and Jason’s planes slice through the air like laser-guided missiles.

  Swoosh. Side by side, both planes pass fifteen metres and shoot towards the qualifying mark. They’re the only ones still in it.

  Dylan holds his breath, wills his plane onwards. ‘Please-baby-please-baby-please.’

  The twenty-five-metre mark approaches.

  Jason’s plane flies strongly – but Dylan’s plane is right with it. Then they both lose altitude and drop fast – and hit the ground centimetres before the thirty-metre mark. Jason’s plane is ahead of Dylan’s. Just.

  Dylan’s qualified for the national championships! And so has Jason. Dylan is quietly chuffed but Jason pumps his fist like he’s won Olympic gold.

  He turns and takes in Dylan with competitive curiosity, then approaches him with an outstretched hand. ‘I’m Jason. What’s your name?’

  ‘Dylan.’

  They shake. Jason’s grip is powerful, but Dylan squeezes back equally hard. It’s a momentary battle of wills until they release.

  Jason sizes him up for a moment, then walks on. ‘Okay, gotta bounce. See ya.’

  Dylan watches him go and can’t help but think he just met his main competition.

  On the other side of the railway Patrick finds Jason. ‘That was great, mate.’

  But Jason is never really satisfied and always wants more. ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  They walk on as a young kid approaches Patrick. He’s clearly embarrassed. ‘Excuse me, Mr Jones. My dad is too shy to ask for a photo with you so he told me I had to do it.’ The embarrassed kid gestures to his nervous dad who hangs back.

  Patrick grins. ‘That’s fine, mate. Happy to oblige. What’s your name?’

  ‘Bernie.’

  ‘Well, Bernie, give your camera to Jase and he’ll take it.’ The kid passes his phone to Jason, and Patrick gestures to Bernie’s nervous dad. ‘Come on, Daddio!’

  Bernie’s nervous dad doesn’t need to be asked twice. Delighted, he springs forwards and huddles with his son and Patrick for the shot. He turns from being Nervous Dad to Overexcited Dad in a flash. ‘That putt you sunk to win the British Open, I thought . . . it . . . I mean – it was just . . .’ He trails off, so overwhelmed to be in Patrick’s presence he loses the power of speech.

  ‘It sure was.’ Patrick shoots him a smile and puts a friendly arm around him.

  Snap. Jason takes the photo, passes the phone back to Bernie then grins at his father. ‘See? Winners celebrate winning, even twenty years later.’

  Patrick shakes his head. ‘You’re missing the point, mate.’

  Jason studies his father, totally unconvinced. ‘Am I, Patrick? Am I?’

  It’s early afternoon as Dylan rides across the beige field. He pedals past the dead tree and is happy to see Clive has found and eaten the rasher of bacon he left on the branch this morning. He loves that the bird is so reliable. He’s always there and always hungry.

  Dylan cycles on and wonders what it will be like when he gets home and sees his dad. He doesn’t have to
wait long. Five minutes later he parks his bike near the front door and walks into the house.

  The television is on, showing an AFL game, but Jack sits at the kitchen table and is obviously furious.

  Dylan ignores him and walks straight past.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  Dylan stops by the door to his bedroom and turns to his father. ‘The paper plane competition.’

  ‘The what?’

  Dylan is stunned. ‘Are you kidding me? The paper plane competition. It was today. We talked about it last night. I tried to wake you but you were dead to the world so I had to catch the bus.’

  Jack only now remembers. Dylan points at the television. ‘Maybe you would’ve remembered if I’d recorded it on one of those old videos you’re always watching.’

  Dylan can see Jack feels bad about forgetting, but not bad enough to apologise. Instead he changes tack. ‘You took money from my wallet.’

  ‘Yeah, to buy a bus ticket. How else was I going to get there?’

  ‘You’re grounded.’ Jack stands and takes a dirty dish over to the sink.

  ‘I did it ’cause you wouldn’t wake up!’

  ‘For two weeks.’ Jack washes the dish, doesn’t look at Dylan.

  Dylan takes a deep breath and glares at Jack, furious at the injustice of the punishment. His father still doesn’t meet his eyes, just stares out the window in front of the sink. So Dylan pulls a letter from his pocket. ‘I made it through to the finals, if you’re interested.’ He slaps it down on to the kitchen table. ‘They’re next week in Sydney.’ He turns and strides into his room – then slams the door so hard the whole house shakes.

  At school Dylan tries not to think about being grounded. What annoys him the most, apart from the injustice of it, is that he’s going to miss the opportunity of competing at the national championships. Of course his father could change his mind, but there’s no guarantee that’ll happen. Jack can be pretty stubborn. The only thing Dylan can think to do is to keep learning about, and practise making, paper planes so next year he’ll be even better at it than this year. So that’s what he does. Whenever he has a spare moment he doodles a new design in his notebook.

  As he leaves school at the end of the day he’s happy but surprised to discover his grandfather waiting under the tree in the playground. ‘Grandpa!’

  ‘Kiddo!’ He’s dressed in a blue military uniform with a row of medals on it and wears a pair of really cool aviator sunglasses.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Grandpa takes Dylan by the arm. ‘Been thinking about this plane of yours. There’s a lot to show you.’

  Dylan looks around to see if there’s anyone with him. ‘How did you get out of the nursing home?’

  ‘Get out? I’m not a prisoner of war, boy.’

  ‘Actually I’m pretty sure you need written permission to leave.’

  Grandpa waves it off. ‘That’s just red tape.’ He leads his grandson away from the school.

  Dylan stops dead when he sees the ancient ambulance parked on the road nearby. ‘Hey!’ Dylan looks at his grandad, stunned. ‘Grandpa, did you “borrow” that ambulance?’

  Grandpa looks at him and whispers, ‘I prefer “stole”. Now do you want to drive or should I?’

  The ambulance races along the beige road and kicks up a rooster tail of dust.

  Grandpa drives. ‘This is the way to travel, hey, kiddo?’

  Dylan holds on for dear life but has a grin from ear to ear. He’s enjoying himself, in spite of the fact the police could already have put out an all points bulletin on this stolen vehicle.

  ‘Let’s have a bit of excitement!’ Grandpa leans forwards and presses two buttons. The siren blares and the lights on top of the ambulance start to flash. He laughs. ‘We should do this more often.’

  Dylan nods. He just loves hanging out with Grandpa, even though he thinks they should probably kill the siren because it may alert the police to their whereabouts.

  The ambulance pulls up at a big old aircraft hanger beside the town’s airport. On the side is painted a sign. AIR MUSEUM – OPEN WEEKENDS

  Grandpa steps out of the ambulance, looks around and moves stealthily to the back of the hanger. ‘Come on!’

  Dylan follows, confused. They reach the rear door and Grandpa draws a screwdriver from his pocket and goes to work on the latch.

  Dylan takes in what he’s doing. ‘Grandpa, how many laws have you broken today?’

  ‘Three.’ Click. He unlocks the latch. ‘Four.’ Grandpa grins and pushes the door open. ‘Come on.’

  Dylan reluctantly follows his grandfather inside – and takes in the most incredible collection of planes, all lit by shafts of daylight that steal in through the windows above. He’s never seen anything like it. Parked on the ground and hanging from the roof are jet fighters, early propeller planes, a Vietnam War-era helicopter, and in pride of place, a two-man World War II fighter. He’s giddy with excitement. They are, quite simply, the coolest things he has ever seen.

  Grandpa spies the two-man fighter and his face lights up. ‘I was hoping it was still here.’ He steps onto the rear of its wing and climbs towards the cockpit. ‘Come on, son.’ He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out an old leather flying cap and tosses it to Dylan. ‘Put this on.’

  Dylan studies the cap and immediately knows he’ll look ridiculous with it on his head. ‘I’m too old for this, Pa.’

  ‘Quite the contrary – I’m too old for this. Now put it on.’

  ‘But when they come and arrest us I don’t want to look like an idiot.’

  ‘Just put it on and get up here.’

  Dylan sighs. Whatever makes the old bloke happy. He pulls on the cap, climbs onto the wing then scrambles into the cockpit and takes the seat behind Grandpa.

  ‘Buckle up, kiddo. This is going to be one hell of a flight.’

  Dylan does as he’s told as the old man works the controls and describes what’s happening, ‘Here we go. The engine ignites. We’re racing down a small runway on a remote island in the Pacific – and we lift off!’

  Grandpa pulls back on the control stick and the fighter plane ascends. He looks down through the window. ‘See that! The allied battleships are in port.’

  Dylan smiles, warms to the game and lets his imagination run free. He looks down too – but instead of seeing the floor of the hanger he sees a small island with battleships docked in port.

  ‘The clouds, keep the canopy open and feel the clouds!’

  Dylan looks up but instead of seeing a ceiling there’s a layer of clouds. The plane surges towards it – then bursts through the other side.

  ‘First lesson is how to use the flaps on the wings. Look out the canopy.’

  Dylan watches Grandpa move the control stick and ease the flaps back so that the plane tilts up at a steeper and steeper angle until it’s almost vertical – then more than vertical! The plane pulls a loop!

  Dylan is delighted. ‘Yeeeee-ha!’

  ‘Twelve o’clock. Enemy fighters!’ The plane banks away with two enemy fighters in pursuit. They fire bullets. Bam bam bam.

  ‘Hold on!’ Grandpa banks hard, tips the plane into a spiralling dive and descends fast.

  Dylan glances over his shoulder, sees the enemy fighters curl back towards them. ‘They’re on us, Grandpa!’

  The plane slams into the clouds, concealed for a moment, then punches through into blue sky. Enemy fighters swoop in from above, guns blazing.

  Bam bam bam thud thud thud. Bullets strafe the fuselage in a dozen places.

  ‘We’re hit!’ Flames spew out the back of the plane. Grandpa slumps on the controls. ‘That’s it – I’m done for . . .’

  The plane noses downwards and begins a steep descent towards the ocean below.

  There’s only one thing to do. Dylan seizes the control stick in front of him and pulls back on it exactly the way Grandpa did. ‘Come on!’ He pulls and pulls on the stick.

  The flaps move down and shape the air. The plane
’s nose eases up – and it levels out just before it hits the ocean. Dylan is thrilled. ‘I saved us, Grandpa! I saved us!’

  Grandpa looks back at his grandson and gives him the thumbs up. ‘You did, kiddo. You did! Well done!’

  To their right the museum’s front door creaks open and two large police officers step inside. They don’t look happy.

  They stare at the plane as an embarrassed Dylan pulls off his leather flying cap. The older of the two cops exhales then turns and looks at Grandpa. ‘Hello, George.’ He doesn’t seem at all surprised to see the old bloke.

  The Police Landcruiser pulls up outside Dylan’s house.

  ‘I think you need a tail fin.’ In the back seat Dylan folds the end of a paper plane back in on itself and makes a fin. ‘Try this.’ He passes it to the young police officer who steps out of the Landcruiser and launches the plane. It soars into the garden. The officer grins and runs after it. ‘Fantastic tip.’

  Dylan turns to Grandpa in the front passenger seat. ‘Thanks for today. It was great fun being arrested with you.’

  ‘Cautioned, not arrested, cautioned.’

  ‘You really do rock for someone so old. The flying was excellent.’

  Grandpa nods. ‘I’ve always found it’s so much better with a copilot.’ They share a grin, then Dylan opens the door, grabs his bike and pulls it out after him. Grandpa watches him go. ‘See you on the flip side, kiddo.’

  ‘Not if I see you first.’

  The Landcruiser pulls away as Dylan rolls his bike towards the house. He parks it and sees his dad pacing around the overgrown backyard. He’s in a world of his own. After the fun and excitement of the afternoon with Grandpa, seeing his dad like this brings Dylan back to earth with a thump.

  Lying in bed, Dylan opens his notebook and writes down his latest discovery.

  Later that night he dreams of playing in the back garden with his mum and dad. The sprinkler is on and they are all getting wet, but then that’s the point because it’s a boiling hot summer’s day. His dad splashes him and his mum as she swings him around under the apple tree–