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Barry’s Flash II
Burscough, England March 1985
Leaping out, I ran to the back of Barry’s, creamy white, Daihatsu van.
There she was, rested upon her silver aluminium, two wheel, trailer. It was hard to believe, hidden beneath a red weather proof cover, was an aircraft.
Sticking out, front and back on the van’s roof, a ladder supported a thirteen foot long, horizontal, bag, which again, was red and made from the same waterproof fabric as the cover. The words, FLASH11, italicized in black were printed on it, starting about a foot from the rear end, on a sewn in strip of yellow. Dangling from it was a long tether of bright red, limp in the cold still air.
I was warm enough though. Barry told me to come wrapped up and wearing Wellies. It was good advice. The grass was very wet and muddy in parts. A cold mist hung around the tops of the trees. Like spectral monsters, grey and crooked branches, reaching out and disappearing into the white, watery, colloids.
My first thoughts were fears that I wouldn’t be able to fly again. The last time I had travelled out with Barry, some months earlier, he had a Flash 1. The main difference was the petrol can was on top of the engine which was inverted. His new Flash 2 looked much better.
The front passenger van door clunked open again and a rather thin man climbed out. He hadn’t spoken to me, on the way over and I drifted in and out of the two oldies conversation without interest. If I was being honest, I wished he hadn’t come. I wanted to fly and I didn’t want to be waiting around for someone else. The man had short, brown hair, a thick tartan jacket, blue jeans, and black Wellies. He looked like he was doing alright though.
For a minute or two, I sensed him looking over the whole thing, as I had done, and the man was probably feeling apprehensive about putting his life into Barry’s hands, and this little thing, made from metal tubes, fibre glass, and cloth.
I heard Barry slam the door shut on the other side, and immediately, he set to work untying thin black rope from around the ladder with what looked like a ship’s black mast on it.
“Here, give us a hand, won’t yer,” he said looking at the man. The man moved instantly to the back end of the long roll. “You lift that end, and I’ll lift this,” he said grabbing it firmly, in both hands, above head height. The man reached up, doing the same. “Okay, after three. One, two, three,” and they both lifted it up, and off the top of the van, resting it on the floor at the side of the trailer.
The man gave a little groan and I sensed there must be quite a lot of weight in it.
Barry smiled at him, a sort of, ha, ha, I might be old, but I’m stronger than you, then he began working on the trailer, untying and freeing the wheels, unbuckling the red fabric cover then throwing it off. He scrunched it up in his arms and threw it onto the front seat in the van.
After closing the door again, Barry stared proudly at the little, fibre glass pod, which looked like, a giant red, bullet shape, with a piece of black fabric trailing off to the back. A thick metal tube ran over the top of it and beyond the front of the pod.
Where am I going to sit? There were no visible seats, and the thing didn’t look like I had imagined it would, at all. The two blade wooden propeller, even faced up toward the sky, like a helicopter. I toyed with ideas about how this was going to work, but couldn’t figure it out.
