Page 135 of A Town Like Clarence

She cleared her throat. ‘The real problem—and it’s taken me all these weeks to figure it out—is that I had an anxiety attack. Not from the plane’s bad landing, but because of a childhood incident. I had my arm broken when I was a child in difficult circumstances, and when Ullrich grabbed me—not that it was anywhere near as bad—it unlocked a lot of stuff in my head I’d never dealt with. Somehow or other my anxiety and my confidence as a pilot got all tangled up together. I’ve been doubting my abilities.’

Mike leaned back on his chair. ‘I see. What about Ullrich? You want to take his actions further?’

‘God, no. He hopefully has learned his lesson, and besides, he wasn’t to know that I’d had some trauma in the past.’

Her boss looked at his watch, then clearly came to some sort of decision. ‘Right, then; time to get you back on a plane. Meet me on the ramp at noon.’

Noon came around way too quickly.

The King Air B200 twin prop turbo-jet fixed-wing aircraft gleamed in the sun and Kirsty skittered her gaze away from it, but too late—Mike had seen her and given her the get-here-now wave.

She forced her feet to walk, step by determined step, across to where he stood in the shade of the plane.

‘Right then! Connor’s in the cockpit so let’s get onboard, shall we?’

‘I’m not … I haven’t …’ She sputtered her way to silence.

Mike turned to her. ‘This is happening, Kirsty. We’re flying out to Annie Station and dropping off supplies, then while I have a cup of tea and chat about the mouse plague, you and Connor are going to do a bit of take-off and landing work. Then,’ he said, putting up a hand and silencing her when she would have interrupted, ‘I’m going to give you the privilege of flying me home, and if we all survive, you’ll be getting the world’s best reference. You’re an excellent pilot, Kirsty. Let’s get wheels up so you remember that.’

This was the push she needed, so she ignored the sick feeling and opted to swag it out instead. ‘Who the hell is Connor?’

Mike herded her towards the narrow stairs. ‘Grumpy bugger. He’s an ex-RAAF flight trainer with language so blue your ears will bleed if you stuff something up. You’ll love him.’

Okay then. Her palms were sweating, but she took a step forward. It felt like walking through mud. ‘Shake a leg, will you, Mike? We don’t want to keep the grumpy bugger waiting.’

Kirsty drove her ute home later that day feeling as though the cares of the world had lifted from her shoulders.

Which they kind of had, the moment she’d brought the B200 down in a textbook landing not once, but twice, under the blistering eye of Captain Connor.

She could fly again, which was wonderful, but even better than that … she knew what to do if her symptoms came back. Breathe.

Just breathe.

And face whatever problem it was that had caused them, head-on.

She found her mum nose-deep in laundry when she got home.

‘Hey, I can do that,’ she said. ‘Besides, I have something to celebrate. Why don’t we crack a bottle of wine and order some takeout?’

‘Wine, yes, but let me get this load on,’ her mum said, pulling a ball of socks into its two constituent parts and flinging them into the open maw of the washing machine. ‘What are we celebrating?’

She took a breath. ‘Well, I was about to say we were celebrating me, because I’ve decided to stop believing some dumb curse is in charge of my decisions, Mum. But perhaps it’s time I told you how proud I am of you. These tea cosies really seem to have helped.’

‘I’ve been thinking I might look for another housekeeping job on a property. I’d enjoy the work, and it would keep me away from pubs and clubs.’

‘That sounds like a great idea, Mum.’

Her mother grabbed a khaki jacket from the pile of dirty laundry and hauled an old tissue and a crumpled wad of green paper from the other. ‘Is this important?’ she said, smoothing it out on the laundry counter. ‘Give it a squiz, love.’

‘Nope, just— Oh!’ This was the flyer Patty had stuffed into her hands the day she drove into Clarence.

The day everything changed.

‘The Annual Clarence River Bush Poetry Muster,’ she read aloud.

‘Best newbie in the performance bush poetry prize wins a free tyre inspection from Clarence Mechanics,’ her mother read over her shoulder. ‘What a shame we’re so far away. Look, it says here there’s craft stalls.’

She let out a breath. ‘You know, Mum, I’ve sort of half promised to attend. That, um, farmer I was working for—you know, the one who I’m having to persuade to let me have Bill’s plane—is running it this year. Maybe you should come with me. A road trip … but this time we’re going to face our problems, not run away from them.’

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