Chapter 16: Grafton - III

“It’s a Beechcraft Baron G58. They introduced it in 2005 and this must have been one of the first. They were priced at around a million. Chump change for a drug lord. Not much when you’re in prison. It’s got Garmin G1000 glass avionics.”

“You sound like a saleswoman.”

“Sorry. Anyway, as it’s only 160 kilos between the airports. She cruises at about 200 knots. On a Sunday it’ll be well under an hour. I told Olwen that you were coming and she should make sure there was enough room for three of us in the car.”

It was about nine on Sunday morning. We were on the way to Clarence Valley Regional, a new field that had no commercial flights yet. It was just east of the Pacific Highway and south of Old Lilypond Road.

“Sit on my right,” Willy said. “I’ll describe the landscape. After we take off and gain some altitude, I’ll circle around and we’ll track the Clarence. Then I’ll head south-west to Armidale.” At that point we pulled up in a parking lot by a large low building. “Here we are!” We got out and walked about 200 metres to a grassy area where several planes were parked.

Evans and I climbed in, Willy walked around the plane. “She still does an external check every time. They must have drilled it into her in flight school.”

Willy got in and began the count-down list. “I’m a fuss-budget,” she said. “Everyone strapped in?” We rolled forward a bit and Willy spun the plane so we were facing the apron. “Baron G58 to tower. Are we clear to take off? Over.”

“All clear, Willy. Tower out.”

“Baron out.”

We bumped a bit onto the runway, speeded up and lifted off. “I’m taking her up to five, then to seven. There’s no point in going higher. Gordy, if you look down you’ll see Grafton. As I said we’ll follow the Clarence a bit.”

It looked a lot like Google Earth, but clearer. I saw the river snaking toward the mountains. Even this early, there were many small boats on the water. Fishermen (and women). We banked left (is it left? Or is it port?) and straightened out.

“On our way,” Willy said. “‘Bout thirty minutes.”

The terrain got rougher. “That’s Nymboida. In a minute we’ll be over the Guy Fawkes National Park, and crossing the river. There might not be much water in it, but it’s part of the Clarence’s catchment. Then we’ll pass just south of Ward’s Mistake.”

“Ward’s Mistake?”

“Oh, yes. It was originally the name of a squatting run. The story involves two squatters, William Nowland and Richard Ward, who moved their stock into the area around 1839-40. Both Nowland and Ward had squatted the same land but Nowland registered his squat before Ward. The run as a consequence became known as Ward’s Mistake. The town’s got a few hundred people in it, as there’s now a copper mine.”

“What’s that stream?”

“Must be the Styx. It flows into the Chandler and then the Macleay. We’re out of the Clarence Catchment, now. Only about 40 klicks to go ... Baron G58 to Armidale tower. Baron G58 to Armidale tower. Just crossed the Styx. Over.”

“Armidale tower to Baron G58. Runway clear. Visibility good. Light south-east cross wind at five knots. Over.”

“Ack, Armidale tower. You’re in sight; down soon. Baron G58, over.” We landed with no bounce whatsoever, Willy really handled the Baron.

“Baron G58 to tower. Where would you like us? It’ll be under six hours. Over.”

“Tower to Baron. Do you need fuel? Over”

“Baron to tower. No. We just hopped down from Grafton. Over.”

“Tower to Baron. There’s a Piper twin near the Hertz sign. Park there, but leave him room to spin, if he needs to. Over.

“Roger, tower. I see the Hertz sign. Out.”

We parked, go out. Willy chocked the wheels and actually locked the cockpit doors. By the time we’d stretched a bit, a voice called: “You did make good time.”

She looked like any other 20-year-old: shirt and trousers (not over-tight tee and fitted jeans!).

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Gordy. The last time I saw you, you were around ten. I can see you’re older.”

“Let me hug my decrepit parents.” She hugged each of them. “I’m Olwen, though flowers don’t sprout in my footprints.”

I laughed. “That’s OK. It must be 30 years since I read The Mabinogion.”

“Hey, he’s really good. No one here ever caught my name.”

“Watch out for him,” Evans said. “He’s a problem solver. It’s over 25 years since we met.”

“I know. I know. The Monkey Mia story. And ticks and smugglers and mom getting shot down.”

“Where’s the car?” Willy interjected.

“Public Parking behind the terminal. You guys want lunch?”

“Well, it’ll be 11:30 by the time we get into town. Where’d you like to go, Gordy?”

“Well, when I was here a week ago, I had lunch at Studio 52 and two dinners at Delicious Noodle, so I’m not familiar with the full range. Olwen, is there a place you wanted to go to, but it’s too dear ... and it’s open for brunch on Sunday?”

“Not very demanding, are you?” She paused for a moment. “The Wicklow Hotel. It’s on Marsh Street, near Delicious Noodle.”

“OK. It’s on me. Let’s go, driver.”

I got a laugh. The ladies were in front with Evans behind Olwen and me behind Willy. There was hardly any traffic and we were parked at the Wicklow in under 15 minutes, and sitting at a table for four under five minutes later.

We ordered and then Evans started in: “OK, dear. You wanted a family conference. We’re here. I think Gordy’s known us long enough to be allowed in. What’s the topic?”

Olwen took a deep breath. “You know that I’m hoping to go into politics, right?” He nodded. “Well, my thoughts run in two paths. But they’re not divergent. They’re consecutive. The first part will come about in four months.” She paused. “In some ways, I don’t know enough. And it isn’t classwork. The LA [Legislative Assembly] meets the 14, 15 and 16 of February. I’d like to audit it. First trimester here begins on Monday the 20th. So I could fly back from Sydney and only have missed orientation. Which I found worthless last time.” Olwen stopped as food arrived and was distributed. “Comments?”

“So far,” Evans said, “I’ve no problems. I’m sure there’s at least one obstacle, though. I’ll reserve both questions and comments till later.”

“Mum?”

“Later, dear.”

“Well, there are three things to consider. Most important, I need to find someone in government to get me in for all four days. Second, I need I need wonga for transportation. And third, I need a place to stay, and/or expense money.”

“I can think of more, dear,” said Willy. “Clothing. You can’t go as you are now. Nor as a goth chick.”

“MO-therr!”

“Let’s put that aside,” said Evans. “Actually, you’ve presented this quite well. First, funding. What’s the airfare?”

“It varies. But it runs between $250 and $350.”

“Each way?”

“Yes.”

“And the 14th is a Tuesday? So, you’d be going from Monday to Saturday? So, five nights. And meals. And incidentals. $1200 to $1500, I’d guess.”

“Yes.” Olwen sounded quite tentative.”

“Willy?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How much more for shopping?”

“$300 to $500.”

“Very well. If we can get obstacle one out of the way. You’ll get $2000 as a Christmas present.”

I could see Olwen relax. “Thank you very much. You’ve made it all too easy.”

I put in my oar. “I think I can make it yet easier.”

“What?”

“Well, I know a few government officials. I knew O’Farrell quite well, and Baird a lot less. But I know Troy Grant, who’s Minister for the Arts, and I’m certain that Patrick knows Leslie Williams, the Minister for Aboriginal Affairs. She represents Port Macquarie. I’ll call Patrick later. For all I know, he can get you in.”

“Patrick? I remember him when I was in school. He seemed so old.”

“I’d guess he’s five or six years older than you. He was well under a year old at your parents’ wedding.”

“What does he do now?”

“He graduated in Law from Sydney, passed the Bar, and works for the Ministry for Aboriginal Affairs. He’s married and his wife, Rachel, is doing a Ph.D. In Art History.”