“Sail above the bluebonnets! Sweetie’s son-in-law has a friend who owns a hot-air balloon and has offered to give us a bird’s-eye view of the incredible wildflowers along Highway 130. Who’s in?”
Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Pru floated high up in the air, out of reach, far out of reach of anyone. It was a dream she’d had occasionally all her life—and she dreaded its recurrence. Each time, she would drift along and see the ground below her shift and roll. Her parents and friends would stretch their arms up as if to save her. This time, instead of being carried along on some invisible magic carpet, she lay stationary on her back, looking up at a dark sky with a few meager stars. Not a country sky—so not at Greenoak in Hampshire. And she was awake—she could tell because her head hurt. She rolled onto her right side and felt cold metal on her cheek. Now ahead of her—beyond two metal bars close to her face—arose a black hole with a massive ghostly white blob behind it.
A jerk and a shudder, and she shot up another few inches—whatever floor she rested on tilted, and she slid toward an edge beyond which was nothing. Awake, but still in a nightmare somewhere high up in the sky. Her left hand went to grab one of the metal bars, but when she did a searing pain shot up her forearm and she cried out.
“Ah, so, awake, are you?”
Looking down was forbidden—it only made things worse—but Pru forced herself to do it. Forde stood far below her, safe and stable on the ground. Forde, Rosette, Twyla—these images fought through the cloud of vagueness in her brain until she remembered it all, knew where she was, and realized her predicament. She had taken an unsolicited ride up in the Aussies’ crane, and now her life dangled precariously in the air.
Her right hand, trapped under her body but with a mind of its own, began to wiggle itself free and move an inch at a time until it took hold of one of the upright metal bars that surrounded the crane’s bucket. I’m in a cage, she told herself. Surely I am safe in a cage?
The crane shuddered again, causing her to break out in a cold sweat as the world rocked and rolled. The nausea swept through her, causing her stomach to roil. She tilted her head over the edge just in time.
“Ahh!” Forde yelled as she showered him with vomit.
Pru panted and coughed. Her head hurt, her hand throbbed, but at least her stomach grew quiet. She heard a hammering of metal upon metal and the crane vibrated violently and lurched again, throwing her against the side of the cage. She would slip through the bars, she would slip through and fall to her death. She whimpered, wishing it would just be over.
“There now, you’re both sorted,” Forde said. Pru expected he was smugly brushing his hands off. “You won’t be going anywhere. I can have a good look for that flash drive now—and it had better be where you say it is. And that’ll be the end of it. And you.”
Is that what he said? Pru thought. She couldn’t hear properly because now a roaring had started up in her ears, as if she were in a wind tunnel, and it drowned out Forde and those other voices. She lay gazing at the sky, wishing for quiet.
Other voices? The roaring subsided and her wits returned—Pru could hear several voices shouting, including Forde’s. She dared a glimpse and saw blue lights flashing and people, lots of them, swarming on the ground below, closing in on Forde. He ran, and a short figure leapt at and tackled him, and they both crashed onto the spilled pile of stones in the ARGS garden. A clear thought came to her—DS Chalk. Yes, rugby for sure.
When the ground began to spin below her, she shifted her gaze to look straight ahead. Another voice caught her ear and embraced her heart in hope—she heard Christopher call her name. Did he know she was there—could he see her hand gripping the metal bar? In her immobile state she could do little to call attention to herself—she certainly couldn’t outshout what sounded like the entire London police force. She took a few deep breaths, gathering her strength, and waited for a pause in the commotion.
“Pru?” Christopher called again, desperately.
With all the energy and the last iota of courage she had, she looked down at him, her right cheek still firmly resting on the metal floor of the bucket.
“Hello.” A tiny voice, but all she had. But it grew louder instantly when the crane shuddered and she cried out.
“Hold up,” Christopher called, and the shudder ceased. He was magic, she thought idly. Would they have to send the fire brigade up to rescue her, like a cat out on the limb of a tree? She almost laughed at that, and felt a tiny flicker of warmth ignite inside her.
“He’s buggered the gearbox,” another voice said, and a general discussion began, most of which was lost to her. She stared up at the sky and counted stars—seven of them, she thought.
“Pru,” Christopher said.
“Yes?” She wiggled a finger.
“Are you hurt?”
“No—well, yes. My left hand.” And my head. And my back feels as if it’s been used as a punching bag.
“We can get a ladder and one of us will run up and help her climb down,” a voice said. Chalk.
“No,” Christopher replied. “No ladder.” Certainly not. “Pru, I’m right here, I’m only going to step away.”
To ring the fire brigade, no doubt. Pru considered her options. If they brought a net or one of those bouncy tarps, or whatever it was they used, would she be able to jump out of the bucket and fall through the air to safety?
No, she would not. She thought they’d probably need to build a floor out from the bucket where she lay, and also an enclosed staircase so she could walk down in proper fashion. They’d better hop to it.
A minute later, Christopher said, “There’s another crane on the grounds and they are bringing it over. Pru, I’ll come up in it and get you.”
“Thank you,” she replied. It would still mean movement on her part, and she wasn’t sure she could do it, but another, more pressing issue than her fear of heights had occurred to her. “Christopher?”
“Yes?”
“Did you find Rosette?”
“Is she here?”
She gave him the sketchy highlights—really only a few words and a couple of phrases—and heard a discussion ensue. She didn’t catch what was said, and didn’t care to. It was enough to think about Rosette lying in shock or unconscious in the dark with a crushed foot, and how Pru’s own situation was nothing in comparison, and so the least she could do would be to dig up a bit of courage herself.
Pru held on to that attitude, counting stars, while she waited for the second crane to arrive. After an eternity, Christopher appeared, rising up as a vision next to her. He strapped the two buckets together, climbed into hers, and helped her up, guiding her legs as she climbed into his crane. She kept her head buried in his chest and her left forearm propped on his shoulder; her stomach tied itself into a knot as they descended. Christopher held tight.
“French has found Rosette,” he reported. “She’d almost made it to the London gate, except for one last hill. She’s conscious, but just barely. She mumbled something about only resting for a moment.” Good—one bit of relief, knowing Rosette had held it together. “The ambulance is on its way to her. We can leave now,” he said, “go to emergency about your wrist.” She murmured into his jacket, just to let him know she was listening.
When they alit, she climbed out with Christopher’s aid and stepped into a changed landscape. Night had turned to day—security lights, police lights, headlights from the panda cars, and a van painted with the same yellow and blue squares. They had parked on the roadway, just as lorries parked to deliver plants for the gardens. Pru’s vision had stabilized along with her equilibrium, but that could not be counted a blessing as the first thing that came into clear view was the demolition site formerly known as the ARGS garden.