At Loose Ends - A Short Story

Picking herself up from the floor of the dusty lunging ring, Sasha Drew stroked the ochre clay from her jodhpurs and cursed softly beneath her breath. The low flying crop duster antagonisingly rocked its wings at her and disappeared over low hills to the west of the station homestead. Retrieving her riding crop, she stormed off in the direction of the landing strip.

This was not the first time she had endured the menace of his low-level antics. A week ago he had surprised her sun baking on what she thought was a private stretch of the river. His boyish grin was clearly visible above the rim of the cockpit as she fumbled with her bikini top, diving for the cover of a nearby thicket in the process.

Miles Taylor was back in Queensland and at loose ends. He had spent two years in India on a United Nations contract and followed that up with a season of crop dusting in the highlands of Papua New Guinea. As always, his time in one place was short and his six month contract with the Bundaberg Sugar Cane Growers Association was fast drawing to an end. Lining up the unwieldy biplane on short final approach for landing on the sandy strip his thoughts drifted to his next tour of duty, the wheat fields of South Africa, Table Mountain and the white sands of Llandudno Beach.
Squinting into a lowering sun through billowing clouds of dust, he saw the woman standing on the runway just as the main wheels touched down. Thrusting the throttle to full power he banked hard right, lifting the wheels over her head, the right wing only inches from the surface of the runway.
“You irresponsible bloody idiot!” Sasha screamed as she strode forward to the greasy, dust laden crop sprayer, her jodhpurs covered in dust yet again. “That’s twice today you’ve nearly killed me!” she raged as the propeller windmilled to a clattering halt, the sudden silence broken only by the pinking of a cooling radial engine and the flute like carolling of distant Magpies. “Not half as idiotic as standi….” The slap stung his cheek before he could finish the sentence. “Don’t you dare….” he stammered as her second effort whipped across his other cheek. His skin felt much softer than what she expected it to feel.

Slumped in the cockpit, Miles was more stunned by her hand speed and the accuracy of her lashing than by the sting of her petite palm across his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I never saw you standing on the runway, the sun…. I” He was stopped again in mid sentence, this time by her eyes; he had never seen them so blue. Her teeth, contrasting pearl white against her dusty face flashed briefly behind a sculptured top lip as she spun on her heels, rubbed the sting from her hand and marched from the scene. He watched her leave from the safety of his charge, fascinated by the bounce of her hair; a shock of blonde that bobbed in time to puffs of dust kicked up from what he guessed were nothing more than size three riding boots. Scrutinizing her gait for a few seconds longer he chuckled disbelievingly, rubbed the angry welts on his cheeks and stepped from the aircraft to a cacophony of hoots, cackles and wails of the two resident laughing Kookaburras.

Their paths crossed repeatedly in the following weeks. They met awkwardly at the Farmers Union Ball, bumped into each other on Saturdays at the local market and again at the annual Bundaberg High School reunion. On each occasion they yearned to speak with each other. Sasha could feel his eyes follow her around the ballroom and giggled watching him fumble and fidget nervously with food at the market. An icebreaker was needed and Sasha had just the answer.

Miles noticed the black Holden Commodore parked in the shade of the hangars as he circled for landing. Taxiing the plane into the first hangar, he switched off the avionics and began his shutdown procedures. “Miles Taylor?” enquired a tall, suited figure as the engine shuddered to a halt. “That would be me” Miles beamed engagingly, still high on the rush of low level flight. “Graham Norton, C.A.S.A.” replied the gangly stranger tersely, pausing for effect. Ignoring Miles’ outstretched hand the bureaucrat slouched against the plane swathing his suit in a concoction of fuselage dust and grease. Miles had never had trouble with the Civil Aviation Safety Authority but the cocky slump and arrogance of the gawky figure suggested that his run of luck had run dry. “May I see some identification?” asked Miles in the Queens best English. “We’ve had confirmed reports of this aircraft engaging in low level flight and I’m here to impound said aircraft and revoke your licence” quipped the string bean, riding roughshod over the pilot’s perfectly reasonable question. “In case you haven’t noticed sir, this is an agricultural aircraft designed for, and actively employed in low level agricultural flight” Miles returned sarcastically, hot potato now firmly ensconced under tongue. Giving no warning, the bureaucrat reached into the cockpit, removed the ignition keys and dropped them smartly into the top pocket of his now agriculturally initiated blazer. “I’ll have these; you’re in enough strife as it is to be making smart-ass comments mate.”
Miles sat dumbfounded for a brief moment. In the coming weeks, the old bird would be stripped down and containerised in preparation for the African season. The presence of this man jeopardised that season and threatened lucrative contracts in Cape Town. Miles jumped from his seat grazing the length of his shin on the rim of the cockpit in the process. Fuelled by the pain now coursing through his leg, he swore and lunged forward gripping the man’s wrist in a vice like hold.
Miles saw the movement from the corner of his eye. The door of the Holden flew open and out of it rolled Sasha Drew. Seeing her fall to the ground, he rushed to her side. Dropping to his knees beside her he noticed tears streaming down her cheeks. Mystified, he watched her rolling and slapping her hands in the dust in hysterical delight. “You little…………...witch” Miles roared with laughter, realising how easily he’d been duped into their trap as he watched the “bureaucrat”, a local drama student and friend of Sasha’s giggling uncontrollably. “I thought…..” Miles spluttered and rubbed his now visibly swollen shin. Sasha shook her head, waving her hands in front of her face to stop him from talking and herself from suffering the embarrassment of laughter induced incontinence. “Please” she cried, rivulets of dusty tears coursing down her cheeks, “stop, my stomach.” She burst into another uncontrolled fit of laughter, contagiously setting Miles and the “bureaucrat” off yet again.
The two were inseparable in the fortnight before Miles’ departure for Africa. Miles becoming quite the horseman and Sasha far more receptive to the greeting roar of his winged ship over her cottage early each morning. In the twilight she would listen for his return, her heart racing in time to the approaching drone of the big radial engine.
“One more sortie and it’s off to Africa old girl.” Miles patted the cowls of his plane and searched for the Kookaburras as he went about his daily pre flight inspection. The birds had become a regular feature of his early morning departures, cackling softly from the hangar beams as he went about his preparations. Thrilled by Sasha’s decision to join him in Cape Town, he paid scant regard to a needle-thin line of oil running the length of the engine block. The missing Kookaburras were a significant change to the morning and it bothered him. Completing his takeoff checks, he taxied the aircraft to the threshold of the runway.
Sasha buried her head into his pillow and breathed as she distantly heard the engine cough to life. The scent of apple from his freshly washed hair lingered as she hugged the pillow tightly.
The wire was unmarked. Strung only weeks after Miles had inspected the field, he was oblivious to its presence. The nose of the plane bucked skyward as the tip of the tail struck the single strand sending the wings into an instant stall. Flying at just twenty feet above the field Miles stood no chance of recovering control. Hurtling nose high onto a nearby road the aircraft cartwheeled out of control and slammed into a low embankment.

Through the settling dust, the two Kookaburras landed softly on the mangled remains of the fuselage.