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Twenty minutes later, Kirsty found the edition she wanted—the full front-page article—dated 13 March 1974.
OLD BILL IS REUNITED WITH HIS LOST LOVE
Former RAAF pilot and WWII veteran William (Bill) Bluett hopes to fly over the Anzac Day Parade next month in tribute to his fallen mate. His plane, an Australian-made CA-5 Wirraway, was used in the forward defence of New Guinea against the invasion of the Japanese in January, 1942.
Coming under enemy fire in an uneven battle, the plane crashed into a coconut plantation, killing Sergeant Freddy Tomlinson and leaving Pilot Officer Bill Bluett injured. He was evacuated from nearby Tol Plantation by seaplane three days later, but he never forgot the plane.
Bill returned to New Guinea in the fifties and shipped the wreckage to Australia. He has spent the decade since restoring the aircraft with parts he has sourced from around the country.
‘Crating the wreck and badgering the RAAF and the administration in New Guinea to let me ship it down south was the easy part,’ Mr Bluett said. ‘Talking my wife into letting me keep it in the old cowshed and using the bottom paddock as a runway … that took a bit of fancy footwork.’
Mrs Doreen Bluett is the inspiration for the ‘pin-up girl’ painted on the plane’s fuselage. However, being immortalised in paint was ‘notenough’ for her to consider joining her husband in his maiden flight once he finished his restoration.
‘I’ll be waiting for my Bill back at the farmhouse,’ said Mrs Bluett. ‘There’ll be a sticky date pudding going in my oven, to encourage him to make a safe landing.’
Mr Bluett intends on flying the plane at air shows around Australia as a hobby … when he isn’t milking cows on the family farm, that is.
Wow. Just … wow.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before remembering to hit the printer icon. Behind her, a machine whirred to life, the back and forth of the printhead retelling Bill Bluett’s story to a blank sheet of paper.
Two days ago—or was it three?—her knowledge of her father’s family had been just as blank, but now?
Holy shit. Now she had someone, a great-grandfather, who was awar hero.
‘Carol,’ she said, her voice a little thready. ‘I printed the article.’ She walked to the printer, grabbed the still-warm sheet and passed it to the historian. Carol’s hushed exclamation was all she could have hoped for.
‘It is special, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I’m not just biased because it belonged to my great-grandfather?’
‘Oh no, love. Reading this is the biggest thrill I’ve had in years. And to think it’s been hiding all this time, under our very noses. Where is this shed?’
‘Shannon Gully Road. A farmer by the name of Joe Miles owns the land now.’
Carol’s cane dropped to the ground with a clatter. ‘The Miles boy?’
Well. Kirsty wouldn’t have described him as a boy, exactly.
‘Hmm.’ Carol was inspecting her over the pink rim of her glasses. ‘Those Miles boys are all dead ringers of their dad Robbo, of course, and handsome as they come, butthatone …’ The octogenarian broke off to fan herself with a flyer for Dairy Parade memorabilia from the 1950s. ‘He’s the one with the bedroom eyes, am I right?’
Kirsty chuckled. ‘So, so right, Carol. Our introduction was a little awkward, however, on account of how I’d jimmied his shed door open and was trespassing.’
‘Really? Gosh, how romantic.’
‘That wasn’t actually the vibe I was getting, Carol. I said the plane was mine, and he made some comments about how it might be valuable. How everything on the farm belongs to him. To be frank, I don’t have much of a budget if he were to insist on selling it.’
‘Selling a national treasure? That’s absurd. No, no, the boy must be made to see sense; the plane must be donated. We don’t have room here for an exhibit that size, more’s the pity. The Australian War Memorial would, of course, but it’s such a long way away. I wonder …’
Carol broke off. ‘You know, pet, I’m much better at thinking with a biscuit in my hand. Scratch us up an iced vovo, will you? In the tin on the counter there. You just wait until we start putting a history together about your great-grandfather and his plane. We’ll find a home for it, and Joey will do his civic duty and not get in the way if he knows what’s good for him.’
‘A history?’
‘Well, of course. That’s what museums do, pet. We don’t just whack something on a shelf and let the tourists guess what it is. We fill it with purpose, we give it the names of people who have interacted with it. We make it live again through story. Bill’s story in the war and his rebuild project afterwards … and now your story! Thelost relative and mystery bequest! It’s romantic. You know, we play this smart, Kirsty, we could get the national magazines involved.’
‘That’s quite an undertaking.’
Carol was clutching her hands to the bosom of her neatly ironed blouse. ‘A book deal, maybe.’
Kirsty felt her eyebrows hit her hairline. ‘Umm, Carol. Maybe I don’t need to be mentioned—’
