New Guinea Moon (2 page)

The man scurries away.

‘What did you give him money for?' Julie says. ‘If he is a porter, he didn't earn it, and if he's a thief, he doesn't deserve it.'

‘If he's a porter, you've besmirched his reputation, and he should get some compensation. If he's a thief, as you pointed out, he's not a very good one. You've got to feel sorry for him, really.'

Julie opens her mouth, then closes it again. ‘Well,' she says grumpily. ‘Thanks. I guess.' She fishes in her shoulder bag for her purse.

‘Hey, what are you doing?'

‘Paying you back.'

‘Forget about it.'

‘But it's not fair; I can't let you —'

‘I haven't got time,' says the young man. ‘I've got a plane to catch —' he glances at his watch, ‘— ten minutes ago. I'd better run.'

‘Oh, no!' cries Julie, stricken. ‘That's my fault!' She throws the strap of the overnight bag over her shoulder, snatches up her own case and seizes a small suitcase from the young man's hand. ‘I'll help with your luggage. Where are we going?'

‘This way, but —'

Julie doesn't wait to hear his protests. She just runs, and the young man jogs easily beside her. He isn't sweating; he looks cool and slightly amused. Side by side they run through the terminal and onward to the domestic terminal.

‘Where —?'

‘This way — Talair.'

The young man draws up in front of the Talair check-in desk. Julie dumps the bags at her feet and pants for breath while he asks the afro-haired girl behind the counter, ‘Flight to Mt Hagen?'

The girl shakes her head. ‘You're too late, sir.' She waves her arm at the big glass door. ‘It's just taking off now.'

Julie can see a black-and-white plane trundling down the runway. The young man slaps his hand flat onto the counter and swears beneath his breath.

‘It's all right,' says Julie. She touches his arm. ‘I don't know your name —'

‘Simon,' says the young man wearily. ‘Simon Murphy.'

‘I'm Julie McGinty. And I think I can help. Did you say you were going to Mt Hagen?'

‘I
was
,' says Simon.

‘But that's perfect. You can come with me. I'll get you a seat on my flight. It's my father's airline,' she says grandly. ‘Come on. I'll fix everything.'

Simon casts her a wary look. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Of course. It's my fault you missed your plane — well, sort of. It's the least I can do.'

‘I mean, are you sure you can fix it?'

‘Oh,' says Julie. ‘Well, I can try.'

The waiting area for Highland Air Charters is not far away. It consists of a row of plastic chairs and a sign — a logo of a blue bird inside a white circle, with the company name curved in blue letters beneath. A young white man in a pilot's shirt, with epaulettes and wings, is sitting in one of the chairs, his legs outstretched. His golden head is tipped back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he whistles tunelessly between his teeth.

As Julie and Simon hurry towards him, he slowly reverts to the vertical. ‘Hello,' he says amiably. ‘Don't tell me. You're my passenger. You must be Juliet.'

He smiles suddenly, and his strong, tanned hand shoots out to grip hers. He has a tally-ho, Royal Air Force moustache, exactly the kind of moustache you'd expect a pilot to have.

‘It's just Julie,' she stammers. ‘Not Juliet.'

His blue eyes crinkle when he smiles. ‘But you are Tony McGinty's daughter? I am flying you to Hagen?'

‘Yes
. . .
'

He gives a small ironic bow. ‘I'm your captain for today, Andy Spargo.'

Reluctantly Julie lets go of his hand. He is extremely handsome. ‘This is Simon. I know this is a bit cheeky, but — is there any room on the plane for one extra?' She glances around at the empty waiting room. ‘There don't seem to be any other passengers.'

‘No,' agrees Andy. ‘This is kind of a special run. We have got cargo, though.' He gives Simon an appraising look.

‘Simon's missed his flight, and it was my fault. He was helping me sort out — a misunderstanding. I promised I'd ask
. . .
' Her voice trails away. Suddenly it seems a ridiculous favour to ask, of a complete stranger; absurd, to try to trade on Tony working for HAC. A slow blush begins to creep up Julie's neck.

‘Oh, I think we can squeeze him in,' says Andy cheerfully. ‘How much do you weigh, mate? Seventy kilos? Seventy-five?'

‘About eleven stone,' says Simon. ‘Plus luggage.'

Andy lifts one of Simon's bags and then the other, with a calculating expression. ‘Should be right,' he says. ‘You wouldn't have more than twenty kilos there, I reckon.' He claps his hands together. ‘Chop chop! Better jump in the
balus
, or we'll miss the gap.'

He takes a suitcase in each hand and swings through the glass doors and out onto the tarmac. Julie follows, with Simon behind her. Though it has been far from cool in the terminal, the heat outside breaks over her in an oven-blast and her knees wobble.

‘Thank you,' says Simon quietly behind her.

‘Well, thank you,' says Julie. ‘I suppose.'

And for the first time, they smile at each other.

2

‘You don't live in Hagen, do you?' Simon says, as they hurry across the baking tarmac after Andy.

‘Just visiting,' says Julie. ‘For the holidays. How did you know?'

Simon shrugs. ‘I know most of the expats in Hagen. There aren't that many of them.' Seeing Julie's blank expression, he adds, ‘Expats. Expatriates. Aussies. Americans.'

‘You sound like an Aussie yourself.'

‘My dad's Australian. Or used to be. I went to boarding school in Brisbane.'

‘And you live in Mt Hagen?'

‘My father owns a coffee plantation just outside town.'

‘A plantation! Like in
Gone With the Wind
?'

‘Not exactly,' says Simon dryly. ‘No slaves.'

Julie feels her face grow hot. His dad was Australian, but what about his mother?

Andy halts beside a blue-and-white striped plane. Compared with the plane Julie had flown in to Port Moresby, this one is so tiny it might have been a toy. Her dismay must show in her face, because Andy laughs and says, ‘Don't fret, Juliet. This is a tough little crate. Beechcraft Barons, the best balus ever made for the Highlands. They can be twitchy little buggers, but you're in good hands with me. Nothing to worry about. Ever flown in a light plane before?'

‘Never.'

Andy shakes his head. ‘And to think you're Tony McGinty's daughter.' He climbs inside and begins rummaging about, rearranging the cargo. He pokes his tousled head out, grinning cheerfully. ‘Heaps of room. Chuck up the bags, will you?'

‘Everyone flies up here,' says Simon. ‘We have to, because the roads are so bad, and the mountains are so rough.'

‘You want to sit up front, with me?' says Andy. ‘You can be my co-pilot.'

Julie is annoyed that they are both speaking to her as if she were a frightened child. ‘I'll be fine in the back,' she says shortly.

Andy and Simon exchange a flicker of a glance, and she knows that this is what her mother calls
being difficult
. She doesn't care. She ignores Andy's proffered hand and climbs into the back of the plane.

She hears Andy say to Simon, ‘We'd better get a move on. We're running a bit behind schedule.' He scans the horizon. Indigo clouds are massing above the mountains. ‘Should be right,' he murmurs uneasily, then ducks away to the other side of the aircraft, apparently performing some kind of last-minute inspection.

Julie fumbles with her seatbelt. ‘There's nothing wrong, is there?'

Simon, settling himself in across the narrow aisle, glances out of the window. ‘I don't think so.' He looks back at Julie.

‘You do this a lot?'

‘Hundreds of times.'

The whole plane shakes as Andy steps onto the wing and into the cockpit. It feels as flimsy and crushable as a soft drink can. Julie's hands are sweating. She shoves them under her thighs to stop them trembling, and hopes Simon hasn't noticed. They haven't even taken off yet, and already she feels sick with dread.

Andy slams the door shut with a heavy metallic
thunk
. ‘All belted up back there?' he calls, and without waiting for a reply, he lowers a pair of big padded headphones over his ears.

The engines roar into life, the propellers whip into an instant blur. A crackle of static issues from Andy's headphones, a stream of indistinct words that must be instructions from the control tower. Andy answers, his words drowned by the din of the engines, and the little plane begins to trundle down the runway. Julie's heart is banging in her chest.

Faster and faster, the Baron races along the bitumen. The whine of the engines intensifies, the plane shudders, and then Julie feels a lifting sensation in the pit of her stomach. They are airborne.

Andy swings the plane around, tilting it so they can see the whole of the airport spread below, and the small, hot, dusty city of Port Moresby, trapped between the ranges and the turquoise sea. Then he straightens out and heads for the mountains.

This feels completely different from flying in a large aeroplane. That is like being sealed inside a steel canister, there is hardly any sensation of movement. But now Julie can feel the buffet of the wind, the roller-coaster of the air currents. For the first time she understands that the air is a separate element, like water — not just an empty space, not an absence, but a real force. They are gliding through the sky and the sky is holding them up; they are suspended in the air the way a fish is suspended in the ocean. She could reach out of the window and trail her fingers through the clouds. They are pillars of frozen sea-froth, towering on either side of the little droning Baron.

Julie stares down, hypnotised by the swiftly moving landscape below the meringue-heaps of the clouds. Flying over Australia, she'd been bored by the endless flat monotony of the continent. But New Guinea's mountains are violent, jagged, crumpled, chaotic. Unbroken jungle drapes across the ridges like lush fur. The clouds drift silently past, ink-stained with blue and grey and silver.

The white noise of the engines fills Julie's head. Suddenly she realises that she's not scared any more. She can't tear her eyes from the enchanted map that moves beneath them. Sometimes the tiny fleck of the plane's shadow flickers below, leaping the side of a mountain slope or diving into the darkness of a steep valley, like the shadow of a tiny fish swimming between the sun and the sand.

This is Tony's job. No wonder he'd come here, for the chance to do this every day —

Only an hour to go before she meets him.

And then, without warning, they plunge into whiteout. The Baron bucks and judders in the heart of a cloud; rain drives against the windows in a roaring curtain. Andy shouts something over his shoulder. Simon's lips move, but it's impossible to hear what he's saying.

Julie clutches her hands together.
Nothing to worry about; nothing to worry about
. The plane shakes as if in a giant's fist. It will stop soon. This can't go on. The plane will shake itself to pieces. Julie's stomach jolts into her throat, then plunges to the base of her spine.
Oh, God, don't let me be sick
. The terror of vomiting grips her harder than the fear of dying.

It can't go on, but it does go on. It seems like hours before the Baron at last slides out of the clouds. The sudden descent makes Julie's stomach drop. Simon touches her shoulder, points through the window. ‘That's Mt Hagen!' he calls.

Julie twists her neck to stare down. ‘Is that it?' she yells. ‘It's tiny!'

Simon shrugs. ‘Ten thousand people,' he shouts. ‘More or less.'

Julie stares down at the little buildings, the winding roads, laid out like a miniature village, with plasticine trees and model cars. And now the airport is below them, the grey slashes of the runways, arrow-straight across the chaos of green vegetation, and Andy is bringing them down, each drop in altitude echoed by a sickening plunge in Julie's gut. The tops of the trees rise toward them until they are level with the windows. There is a rough bump, then another, a skidding of brakes, and a long slow jolting ride along the tarmac to the far end of the airstrip, where they slew to a halt outside a low white brick building with a large shed — a hangar? A cargo shed? A warehouse? — attached to it.

Andy twists around to give her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about the landing,' he calls over the dying whine of the engines. ‘Just wanted to put her down before the rain sets in.'

Heavy raindrops are splattering the windshield.

‘That's okay,' says Julie. ‘Some people think it's fun, being scared out of your skin. They'd pay a lot of money for a thrill like that.' Her numb fingers fumble to unbuckle the seatbelt. Her insides are seesawing between terror and elation. Now the danger is over, adrenalin is racing through her veins and she feels drunk with the high of survival.

Andy stares out of the window. ‘Uh-oh. Here's trouble.'

A short man is marching across the tarmac. He has a red face and a thatch of thick hair that must once have been fair but is now mostly faded grey. Even sealed inside the plane, even with the rain drumming harder and harder against the roof, Julie can hear him bellowing.

‘What the fucking hell do you think you're doing, leaving it this late? What kind of a fucking idiot are you, Spargo?'

Julie says, ‘Is that — that's not Tony, is it?'

Andy gives a shout of laughter. ‘Nah, that's not Tony. That's the boss — Mr Crabtree to you. Well, here goes.' He grimaces ruefully at Julie, and clambers out into the rain. ‘G'day, Curry!' he yells cheerfully. ‘Got here as quick as I could. Julie was running a bit late —'