Effanbee
The Fly
OK, I've finally plucked up enough courage to post this story. I started writing it way back in March, after the Vertigo tour was cancelled (it helped me and Slopsy (daughter) feel less miserable) and finished it in August.
This little tale is written with the deepest respect and affection for all the members of U2. In no way is it meant to offend anyone, there are some naughty swears here and there but otherwise safe to read by anyone. The characters are figments of my imagination - I can only dream of these guys, having never met them. I hope you enjoy dreaming along with me.
Learning to Fly
Part One
The hanger, echoing with every dropped spanner, a radio playing in the background, the music dimly recognised as a U2 song, Beautiful Day. Very apt, a beautiful day for flying above God’s Own Country, cumulus stacked on the northern horizon marking the Coromandel and the dreamless Pacific beyond.
I’m underneath the tiny Pitts Special biplane which is mine only in part, doing some routine checking and cleaning up. A pair of boots appear by my head. Stan, the mechanic, squats down and says something I don’t catch first time.
‘Huh?’ I squirm out from beneath the Pitts. ‘Sorry, say again?’
‘Phone call,’ grunts the laconic Stan. ‘Better take it, some bigshot wanting to fly.’
‘OK.’ I groan, another bunch of corporate suits wanting an adrenaline rush and puking on takeoff. Wiping my hands on an oily rag, I wander to the phone.
How often does a moment arrive, one side of which is your life as its always been, the other your life derailed?
When I put the phone down, I knew nothing more than some celebrity types wanted to fly some aerobatics in the Pitts, as soon as possible of course. Well, sod it, I thought. Matthew can take them up. He likes celebs, being in the film industry. I’m no good at divas, I’ll probably swear at them and get slapped with a lawsuit.
But Matthew was going on location the next day and the other member of the syndicate that owned the Pitts was in Fiji. This one had landed squarely in my lap.
So three days later I’m back at the hanger, waiting for the Important Ones. another fabulous Godzone day, bless the weather anyway, I thought.
A big, red, corporate car purred up to the hanger. Four guys and a woman piled out and stood a bit uncertainly, looking into the dusty depths. I took a couple of deep breaths. ‘OK folks, it’s showtime,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s put you out of your misery.’ I walked out of the shadows and into the dazzling sun.
I greeted them with my best professional smile. ‘Welcome to Fairfields. I’m Roo Anders and I will be your pilot for the day.’ Handshakes all round. I ran through the paperwork with the woman, then turned to the four men. ‘Come and meet your airplane.’
As we walked over to where the Pitts was standing, gleaming on the tarmac, I got a look at them all, assessing how nervous they might be and who was likely to decorate the cockpit.
The tallest one looked as if he didn’t quite know how he got here, but was going along with it anyway. The fit-looking blond was grimacing a bit - could be nerves, could be ‘I don’t want to fucking do this,’ could be ‘Who is this madwoman and is she going to kill us all?’
The guy with the bright green eyes and the hat, he looked up for anything - and that’s when I recognised who they were. ‘Oh, God’, I thought. ‘It’s U2, the band, the religious guys. Oh God, must remember not to say ‘Oh God’ …’
My brain was on the point of going into a tailspin, thinking of all that precious, famous flesh in my care. At times like that, I have an ‘inner pilot’ who almost always takes control and save me from utter humiliation. I was able to look at the fourth guy, the one with aviator glasses a bit like mine. And he was looking right back, with a quirky grin that told me he knew exactly what had just stormed through my head. I grinned back and gave a little shrug, OK, you saw through me.
At the Pitts I did the pre-flight briefing and procedures with them, relaxing now that I was back in control. Finally I most solemnly handed them each a sick-bag. ‘Use them at will, guys. Who’s up first?’ There was a bit of discussion and it was decided that the youngest, Larry, was to go first.
Larry stepped agilely into the cockpit, exactly how he should, using the marked area of the fragile lower wing. I checked his five-point harness, a pleasure with this well-put-together guy.
We taxied sedately out to the runway and I explained to Larry what we were going to do, showing him the controls and checking we could hear each other through the headsets. Stopping briefly at the beginning of the runway, I glanced over at Larry. ‘All set?’
‘Let’s do it,’ he said.
When the Pitts fires up on takeoff everyone in sight and earshot stops to watch. The big radial engine pulls us fast, fast, faster and we leave the earth behind and power up in a steep climb. As always, I leave all the mundane worries and woes down below.
‘Fuuuuck me …’ in the headset.
‘But we hardly know each other,’ I thought sarcastically. ‘And you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
I fire a reassuring smile at Larry. He’s a bit pale, but there’s a big smile on his face as we wind up towards 5000 feet and 250 mph. We need to get over open country before we start the aerobatics, so we set course and fly straight and level for a while. Larry is loving it, looking down on the hills and tiny farms below, the motorway like a grey ribbon with miniature cars fettered to it. Not like us, free of the earth.
Larry looked relaxed and happy, so I climbed the Pitts into a big loop. A bit of an ‘urk’ from Larry as he experienced negative gravity.
‘Don’t shut your eyes, look up through the canopy,’ I suggested.
We did it again, sans urk. OK, this guy would not be losing his breakfast. So we rolled. And looped. Stall turn, climb and spin. A bit of inverted for the fun of seeing everything upside down. The Pits growled and roared its pleasure in doing exactly what it was built to do.
Coming back in to land, the others looking anxiously until the earth and gravity laid claim to us again. Larry jumped out, eyes shining, his whole being enlivened. ‘If you guys cop out I’m going up again!’
‘Any time,’ I laughed.
Next up was Edge, lean and composed, quieter than Larry but with supercharged energy under the composure, I guessed. Edge was interested in how the airplane worked, the controls and what to do if the wings dropped off.
‘Pray,’ I said, only half-joking. Edge smiled a slow smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes, then I flattened him into his seat with the takeoff and climb.
The Pitts has dual controls, and I had no problem with Edge having a go at flying straight and level. He handled the sensitive Pitts with a delicate touch, taking in the information I fed him through he headset, intent on doing a good job. I took back control and we did the exciting bits, a few gasps from Edge as the g-forces made us in turn anvils and feathers. I felt compelled by this rather intense and serious man to be particularly precise and accurate in every manoeuvre.
Back on the ground, Edge stayed in the cockpit for a moment, taking in the experience and hopefully filing it under F for fantastic.
‘You should be a pilot, you should fly,’ I thought. He already had the thousand-yard stare.
Larry had clearly spun some merry tales to his two mates, who were both looking slightly apprehensive. I waited calmly to see who would step up next. Adam came forward, still looking a bit amazed by the whole affair.
‘This was Bono’s idea,’ he said as I checked his harness. ‘Mad bugger.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Adam,’ I said to him quietly. ‘It’s supposed to be fun, not an ordeal.’
Adam gave me a lopsided grin. ‘Nah, I’ve got a bet on with Bono that he’ll puke and I won’t,’ he said.
Adam didn’t puke. Once over the shock at the speed and noise of the tiny airplane, he jumped feet first into the experience, so to speak. On the way back he took the controls for a while, finding it harder to keep a straight horizon than he thought.
Bono was waiting impatiently to see if he had won the bet.
‘You looked a bit wobbly there on the way back,’ he observed, hoping that Adam would confess he had been spewing. Adam just looked Bono in the eye and handed him the sick-bag – empty.
‘Adam flew the plane back,’ I said nonchalantly.
Bono muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Holy crap!’ Then he turned his disarming grin to me and we stepped up to the Pitts.
Tightening his harness, I became aware that there was a lot of man in the cockpit beside me. I felt a tremor of nerves as we taxied to the runway and I hoped Bono would not pick it up in my voice. I paused a moment before takeoff, waiting for the inner pilot to say ‘I have control’. Then away, up fast and hard for the last flight of the day. Bono was rendered silent for a few minuted after takeoff, then looked down at the traffic, so small and meaningless below.
‘Look at those poor buggers, stuck in their cars, when we have the whole sky,’ he said quietly. In that moment I loved him for saying what I often thought.
‘I’ll have a bit of fun with this one,’ I thought, and snapped the Pitts into a series of fast rolls, into a loop, climb, climb and stall, fall tail-first with the exhaust filling the cockpit, slam nose down, spin, recover and up, up again, through a barrel-roll and climb, and loop … Bono was laughing and cursing – and going a bit green, so I levelled out and let him get his breath back.
‘Oh, SHIT, oh FUCK! Awesome, bloody hell …’ Poor man had lost all his eloquence for a while there. I smiled to myself, I just love seeing someone enjoying aerobatics for the first time. We turned for home, and Bono wanted to have a go at flying, so I gave him control. Bono flew well, quickly adjusting to the coordination of stick and rudder.
‘How do you fly a loop?’ he asked with a wicked grin.
‘Not difficult,’ I told him. ‘Do this, and you see lots of blue, and when you start seeing lots of green do this.’
Bono flew a pretty fair loop. ‘That’s good,’ I said, and he surprised me by looking quite shy all of a sudden. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘OK, fly us home,’ I smiled at him.
On the way back we were joined by three majestic airplanes, Harvards, flanking us on the right. ‘I feel privileged to be in the same sky as these guys,’ I said to Bono. We dipped our wings at the mighty warbirds as the Pitts outpaced them and we prepared for landing.
We taxied over to the hanger, I turned off the engine and we sat quietly for a moment. Bono took off his glasses and looked at me. Perhaps it was then my whole, controlled world started to unravel a bit, who could not meet those eyes and not be moved to tear a world apart?
Another me went through the routines, another me helped Bono from the cockpit, the real me felt the ground unsteady beneath my feet.
We stood by the Pitts and Bono touched my arm, started to say something. Then stopped, went dead white dead quickly. Unceremoniously, I took a quick step back, but not quick enough to avoid having my boots splattered with famous rock-star secondhand breakfast. There’s nothing like being puked on for bringing a woman back to solid ground. Bono was bent double, I rubbed his back and held his hair out of the way until it was over.
‘Headline: Rock Star Pukes on Pilot,’ he gasped weakly. ‘See photos, page 2.’
Indeed, in the photos the guys took afterwards, around the Pitts, in the cockpit, there is a handsome but unusually pale Bono.
Bono had regained his composure by the time the others had walked over to the hanger. Adam was gleeful, he had won his bet, but I felt compelled to stand up for Bono. I had given him the full aerobatic works, after all. Also, I told them, to the envy of everyone else, Bono had flown a very good loop.
So, I thought, as the group laughed and bantered with each other, so that’s my brush with the fame, my contact with the rich and famous. And it wasn’t half bad, these are good people, they liked the Pitts, liked flying. I was ready to do a fade back into the hanger, but photos had to be taken and they wanted me in some. I hate being photographed. I always look angry, pissed or both. But these were mainly good, some great ones of the guys and one of me and Bono taken when we weren’t looking. We’re in sunlight, in front of the shady hanger, he’s looking down at me and we’re laughing. That’s how I like to remember us, in sunlight, after the joyful experience of sharing the sky
******
In a movie, of course, the handsome rock star would have taken me out to dinner, danced with me, loved me, left me. Or turned out to be gay. Or a woman. Or both. In real life there is only me in vomit-splattered flying boots, with hair sticking every which-way, putting my handsome airplane to bed. Exhausted from the day’s flying, from being on good behaviour with famous people. Home, to tend to horses and cats and maybe scramble some food together. For one, of course. Thank God we have showers at the hanger, a change of clothes and I’m almost human again.
I shoulder my flying bag and trudge over to the Pitts for a final check. All squared away. Except … on the windshield, something white.
It’s a note, written in a strange green ink. ‘Loved sharing the sky today. Would like to share wine and food – soon. Tonight?’ And a telephone number. And his distinctive signature.
Oh, my. I thought, standing with my hand on the wing of the Pitts for comfort. Oh, hell. What the fuck do you do with this? Get a grip, that’s what. It’s just a polite note, a thank you, he probably doesn’t expect you to even call. Like hell. I make a point of doing the unexpected. After all, I’m more than old enough to take care of myself. (And it would be nice, a quiet and not-so-tough voice whispered in my head, to eat in company. In HIS company …)
‘Jesus,’ I blasphemed and marched to the phone. Dialled the number. Came within an ace of putting the phone down. Then his voice, ‘Yeah, ’lo?’
‘It’s me, I got your note.’ (Oh, good start, moron!)
‘Ah, Roo, good, want to eat?’ (What? Want to eat??)
‘Um, yes, I’m bloody starving.’ (Great, now you swore.) ‘When, where? I need to sort my animals out first.’ (Nothing like mundane hassles for killing the conversation.)
‘How about I come pick you up about 7.30?’
‘’K, fine, see you then.’ (Oh, you prat! You put the phone down and he doesn’t know where you live!)
But, of course, he did.
******
My home is humble. Really humble, in the full of messy airplane parts and saddles and cat-hair type of way. Not the sort of place Mr Hewson is accustomed to, I thought glumly, as I swept wreckage into cupboards, drawers, under the sofa. And what the hell am I supposed to wear? A flying suit? And make-up – do I still have any? Can I remember how to apply it? And why am I stressing anyway? I don’t need some bloke to define who I am (right on sister, who are you kidding? This is not SOME BLOKE, this is BONO!).
I’m suddenly tired. So tired. This morning my life was easy and neatly laid out – fly plane, ride horses, sleep, eat by happy on my own. Now it’s upside down with this complication, and nothing is clear beyond tonight, nothing.
I sit out on my front deck, watching the sun go down, waiting for any one of several possible futures to arrive. Get over it, toughen up, I tell myself. You’re just going to break bread with him. He’s just another guy under all the fame.
I see a dust cloud winding down the track to my house, here he comes. And here he is, getting out of the car, walking towards me, smiling an easy smile. I am struck dumb, can’t think of a thing to say. Thankfully he has words for us both, great house, he says, its so quiet out here. On the way through to the sitting room, Beep the grey cat does a suicide run between Bono’s feet. He recovers well, puts a hand out for balance, brings it down on an oily engine part. Stands looking at the black streaks on his hand a bit helplessly. I stand, horrified, raise my eyes to his face. A beat of time, then we are both helpless with laughter.
‘That’s for puking on me,’ I tell him as I find the hand-cleaner. He looks great, black jeans, white shirt and black leather waistcoat. And of course the shades.
I find Bono’s driving marginally less erratic than his flying. I haven’t a clue where we’re going, and after a time it’s clear he doesn’t either. Does he have a map? He does. I find our destination on the map, peer around in the dark outside to find a landmark.
‘OK, go on up this road, there should be a left turn, soon. Take that and then right …’
‘You have control,’ he grins, giving me the pilot’s phrase.
We arrive at a large, ranch-style house, set in a valley shielded with bush. Light spills out of the windows and open door, there is the sound of voices and laughter and music.
‘Party?’ I don’t do parties, my heart is going double-time.
‘Just a bunch of noisy Irishmen. Come on, they don’t usually bite.’
Not overly comforting, that.
The kitchen was huge, with an enormous wooden table loaded with food and wine. There seemed to be a great many people sitting round it, everyone talking at once. As we enter the room they all turn in our direction, calling welcomes to me.
‘What kept you?’ asked Larry. ‘Don’t tell me Bono lost his way again.’
‘Not so much lost my way as explored an alternative route,’ was Bono’s explanation.
We found some space at the table and everyone began talking and eating in a happy sort of chaos. Edge was in deep discussion about sound mixing with an earnest-looking young guy, who turned out to be a local guitarist. Adam was talking on the phone to his partner about changes they were making to their Dublin home. No-one seemed to think it strange to open their house to local nobodies they hardly knew.
Bono turned his attention to me, having won his argument with Larry about navigation skills.
‘D’you think I’d be better off navigating an airplane rather than a car?’ he asked me.
‘Well, it can’t be much worse,’ I said, ‘though it’s easier to stop a car and get out when you run out of gas.’
‘Not too much room for error, then?’
‘Oh, a fair bit, in a powered aircraft. If you want a real challenge, try flying a glider.’
The blue eyes flashed an interest at that. ‘Might that be possible?’ he asked.
Now, what have you started here? My dissenting inner voice was sending warning signals in all directions, but my traitorous vocal chords were already charging ahead.
‘Very possible. I could fix something up for next week, if you’re around?’
Bono leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. ‘We’ll be around for a month or so, getting some down-time y’know, before the next tour starts.’
Now, why should that make my heart jump a little?
‘Would that be just you wanting to fly, or are you going to rope these other poor devils in too?’
Of course, Bono then had to get everyone’s attention and propose they should all put their lives on the line again. Adam, however, flatly refused, saying there was no way he would go up in an aircraft without an engine. Edge was intrigued, immediately interested in lift and drag, winch launches and tow-launches and what to do if the wings dropped off. I did my best to explain the theory of gliding to him, and to try to convey the feeling of flying a glider.
‘When we flew in the Pitts, it was all noise and thrill and speed. In a glider, there is only the sound of air moving over the wings, there’s not a lot between you and the sky. You’re virtually lying down, it’s mostly very peaceful, no bang and clatter. A glider pilot needs to be able to read the air, the wind, the clouds and landscape, which all affect lift.’
‘Read the air? I’d like to learn that,’ that Edge, looking thoughtful.
It seemed I was destined to fly with at least two of the Famous Ones again. Larry decided he preferred the rattle and hum of the Pitts, but would probably come and watch.
With the food and wine much depleted, people drifted away from the kitchen to the wide front deck and comfortable sitting room. I felt I needed some air and headed for the deck with its chairs facing the dark valley.
Siobahn, the tall Irish beauty who seemed to be a general keeper of the castle, brought out some wine.
‘I hope Bono isn’t bulldozing you into this,’ this said with a smile.
‘Well, it’s a bit like catching a big wave out on the West Coast,’ I laughed. ‘It happens suddenly and carries you along and where you end up no-one knows. It’s a bit hard getting past the fame and seeing them as real people.’
‘When I started working with them I felt that too,’ she said. ‘I was nervous and a little star-struck, but it didn’t take long to see the real people. They’re good people, too, most of the time.’
I took a mouthful of the good, dry wine. ‘I’m wondering, why did Bono invite me here tonight?’ I said. ‘I’m just an ordinary nobody, nothing special to be interested in.’
Siobahn laughed quietly. ‘Bono couldn’t stop talking about the flying when they got back. It’s something he doesn’t want to let go, I think, which means he will pursue it with astonishing tenacity. They all had a lot of fun and you were an important part of it.’
I must have still looked a bit worried, as Siobahn gently said, ‘You’re safe with Bono, you know. Trust him.’
At this point we were joined by Bono and Edge, the young guitarist, Duncan, and his girlfriend, Emma.
Bono plunked down beside me on the long seat. ‘Will you look at all these stars?’ he said. ‘How come you have so many more on this side of the world?’
‘Ah, astronomy is not my strong point,’ I said. ‘I grew up in England, and I’m still getting used to seeing the water go down the plughole the wrong way.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Bono gave me a sideways look.
‘No, that’s right,’ said Edge, and proceeded to tell us exactly why this should be.
‘Lord, is there anything the man doesn’t know?’ said Bono.
Edge blushed. ‘Did I carry on a bit there again?’ he grinned, self-effacingly. We all assured him he had not, except for Bono who chimed in with an emphatic ‘Yes’.
Duncan rather shyly pointed out some constellations and planets to us.
‘I can never see how they manage to make winged horses and centaurs and stuff – it’s like join-the-dots for surrealists,’ I said. So we started making up our own constellations.
‘And this one here’s the Flying Pig,’ said Bono, pointing out some arbitrary stars. It got sillier and sillier as the level in the wine bottles went down. The Dead Possum, Series-5 BMW and the Great Celestial Carrot joined the Seven Sisters and Cassiopeia and the Southern Cross.
Gathering clouds put an end to our game and I had vague thoughts about how I was going to get home after all this high-living. The night was fading towards dawn.
Siobahn the mind reader offered to drive and I was glad of the offer, thinking I’d never get home if Bono was driving. Edge said he’d come along for the ride, he liked to drive in the night. Bono would come too, the man didn’t seem at all tired, so with many farewells and see-you-soons we piled into the car and took possession of the night.
It was warm in the car, which purred quietly along the empty roads. I began to feel the effects of too much wine and excitement. Watching the clouds scudding over the setting moon was hypnotic, and staying awake was beyond me.
I was skimming across the face of a great, red planet, in a glider made of stars. The only sound a sub-audial hum, the song of the heavens, perhaps. Beside me sat a figure composed of white light, too bright to look at without burning out your eyes. The glider made a wide, lazy turn and I realised that I was not flying it, my hands found no controls. A worm of panic, then a voice which came from everywhere, ‘I have control. Trust me.’ The blazing figure reached out, if it touched me I would burn. I drew myself away from the blinding light … and fell right through the side of the star-glider into the black and silver infinity … and, sobbing, stretched out my hands, save me, save me, I was wrong …
… and woke, startled, hearing ‘Wake up, Roo. We’re here.’ My head on Bono’s shoulder, my arms around him in a death-grip. A realisation of where I was and every nerve primed to jump away, but the dream-memory froze me in uncertainty. And then fully awake and able to extricate myself with a little dignity. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, nearly dying of embarrassment.
‘It’s OK,’ Bono said, amused, as if there was nothing odd about the situation. I supposed he was used to women falling asleep on him.
But for me, once, more, the ground was unsteady beneath my feet.
This little tale is written with the deepest respect and affection for all the members of U2. In no way is it meant to offend anyone, there are some naughty swears here and there but otherwise safe to read by anyone. The characters are figments of my imagination - I can only dream of these guys, having never met them. I hope you enjoy dreaming along with me.
Learning to Fly
Part One
The hanger, echoing with every dropped spanner, a radio playing in the background, the music dimly recognised as a U2 song, Beautiful Day. Very apt, a beautiful day for flying above God’s Own Country, cumulus stacked on the northern horizon marking the Coromandel and the dreamless Pacific beyond.
I’m underneath the tiny Pitts Special biplane which is mine only in part, doing some routine checking and cleaning up. A pair of boots appear by my head. Stan, the mechanic, squats down and says something I don’t catch first time.
‘Huh?’ I squirm out from beneath the Pitts. ‘Sorry, say again?’
‘Phone call,’ grunts the laconic Stan. ‘Better take it, some bigshot wanting to fly.’
‘OK.’ I groan, another bunch of corporate suits wanting an adrenaline rush and puking on takeoff. Wiping my hands on an oily rag, I wander to the phone.
How often does a moment arrive, one side of which is your life as its always been, the other your life derailed?
When I put the phone down, I knew nothing more than some celebrity types wanted to fly some aerobatics in the Pitts, as soon as possible of course. Well, sod it, I thought. Matthew can take them up. He likes celebs, being in the film industry. I’m no good at divas, I’ll probably swear at them and get slapped with a lawsuit.
But Matthew was going on location the next day and the other member of the syndicate that owned the Pitts was in Fiji. This one had landed squarely in my lap.
So three days later I’m back at the hanger, waiting for the Important Ones. another fabulous Godzone day, bless the weather anyway, I thought.
A big, red, corporate car purred up to the hanger. Four guys and a woman piled out and stood a bit uncertainly, looking into the dusty depths. I took a couple of deep breaths. ‘OK folks, it’s showtime,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s put you out of your misery.’ I walked out of the shadows and into the dazzling sun.
I greeted them with my best professional smile. ‘Welcome to Fairfields. I’m Roo Anders and I will be your pilot for the day.’ Handshakes all round. I ran through the paperwork with the woman, then turned to the four men. ‘Come and meet your airplane.’
As we walked over to where the Pitts was standing, gleaming on the tarmac, I got a look at them all, assessing how nervous they might be and who was likely to decorate the cockpit.
The tallest one looked as if he didn’t quite know how he got here, but was going along with it anyway. The fit-looking blond was grimacing a bit - could be nerves, could be ‘I don’t want to fucking do this,’ could be ‘Who is this madwoman and is she going to kill us all?’
The guy with the bright green eyes and the hat, he looked up for anything - and that’s when I recognised who they were. ‘Oh, God’, I thought. ‘It’s U2, the band, the religious guys. Oh God, must remember not to say ‘Oh God’ …’
My brain was on the point of going into a tailspin, thinking of all that precious, famous flesh in my care. At times like that, I have an ‘inner pilot’ who almost always takes control and save me from utter humiliation. I was able to look at the fourth guy, the one with aviator glasses a bit like mine. And he was looking right back, with a quirky grin that told me he knew exactly what had just stormed through my head. I grinned back and gave a little shrug, OK, you saw through me.
At the Pitts I did the pre-flight briefing and procedures with them, relaxing now that I was back in control. Finally I most solemnly handed them each a sick-bag. ‘Use them at will, guys. Who’s up first?’ There was a bit of discussion and it was decided that the youngest, Larry, was to go first.
Larry stepped agilely into the cockpit, exactly how he should, using the marked area of the fragile lower wing. I checked his five-point harness, a pleasure with this well-put-together guy.
We taxied sedately out to the runway and I explained to Larry what we were going to do, showing him the controls and checking we could hear each other through the headsets. Stopping briefly at the beginning of the runway, I glanced over at Larry. ‘All set?’
‘Let’s do it,’ he said.
When the Pitts fires up on takeoff everyone in sight and earshot stops to watch. The big radial engine pulls us fast, fast, faster and we leave the earth behind and power up in a steep climb. As always, I leave all the mundane worries and woes down below.
‘Fuuuuck me …’ in the headset.
‘But we hardly know each other,’ I thought sarcastically. ‘And you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
I fire a reassuring smile at Larry. He’s a bit pale, but there’s a big smile on his face as we wind up towards 5000 feet and 250 mph. We need to get over open country before we start the aerobatics, so we set course and fly straight and level for a while. Larry is loving it, looking down on the hills and tiny farms below, the motorway like a grey ribbon with miniature cars fettered to it. Not like us, free of the earth.
Larry looked relaxed and happy, so I climbed the Pitts into a big loop. A bit of an ‘urk’ from Larry as he experienced negative gravity.
‘Don’t shut your eyes, look up through the canopy,’ I suggested.
We did it again, sans urk. OK, this guy would not be losing his breakfast. So we rolled. And looped. Stall turn, climb and spin. A bit of inverted for the fun of seeing everything upside down. The Pits growled and roared its pleasure in doing exactly what it was built to do.
Coming back in to land, the others looking anxiously until the earth and gravity laid claim to us again. Larry jumped out, eyes shining, his whole being enlivened. ‘If you guys cop out I’m going up again!’
‘Any time,’ I laughed.
Next up was Edge, lean and composed, quieter than Larry but with supercharged energy under the composure, I guessed. Edge was interested in how the airplane worked, the controls and what to do if the wings dropped off.
‘Pray,’ I said, only half-joking. Edge smiled a slow smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes, then I flattened him into his seat with the takeoff and climb.
The Pitts has dual controls, and I had no problem with Edge having a go at flying straight and level. He handled the sensitive Pitts with a delicate touch, taking in the information I fed him through he headset, intent on doing a good job. I took back control and we did the exciting bits, a few gasps from Edge as the g-forces made us in turn anvils and feathers. I felt compelled by this rather intense and serious man to be particularly precise and accurate in every manoeuvre.
Back on the ground, Edge stayed in the cockpit for a moment, taking in the experience and hopefully filing it under F for fantastic.
‘You should be a pilot, you should fly,’ I thought. He already had the thousand-yard stare.
Larry had clearly spun some merry tales to his two mates, who were both looking slightly apprehensive. I waited calmly to see who would step up next. Adam came forward, still looking a bit amazed by the whole affair.
‘This was Bono’s idea,’ he said as I checked his harness. ‘Mad bugger.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Adam,’ I said to him quietly. ‘It’s supposed to be fun, not an ordeal.’
Adam gave me a lopsided grin. ‘Nah, I’ve got a bet on with Bono that he’ll puke and I won’t,’ he said.
Adam didn’t puke. Once over the shock at the speed and noise of the tiny airplane, he jumped feet first into the experience, so to speak. On the way back he took the controls for a while, finding it harder to keep a straight horizon than he thought.
Bono was waiting impatiently to see if he had won the bet.
‘You looked a bit wobbly there on the way back,’ he observed, hoping that Adam would confess he had been spewing. Adam just looked Bono in the eye and handed him the sick-bag – empty.
‘Adam flew the plane back,’ I said nonchalantly.
Bono muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Holy crap!’ Then he turned his disarming grin to me and we stepped up to the Pitts.
Tightening his harness, I became aware that there was a lot of man in the cockpit beside me. I felt a tremor of nerves as we taxied to the runway and I hoped Bono would not pick it up in my voice. I paused a moment before takeoff, waiting for the inner pilot to say ‘I have control’. Then away, up fast and hard for the last flight of the day. Bono was rendered silent for a few minuted after takeoff, then looked down at the traffic, so small and meaningless below.
‘Look at those poor buggers, stuck in their cars, when we have the whole sky,’ he said quietly. In that moment I loved him for saying what I often thought.
‘I’ll have a bit of fun with this one,’ I thought, and snapped the Pitts into a series of fast rolls, into a loop, climb, climb and stall, fall tail-first with the exhaust filling the cockpit, slam nose down, spin, recover and up, up again, through a barrel-roll and climb, and loop … Bono was laughing and cursing – and going a bit green, so I levelled out and let him get his breath back.
‘Oh, SHIT, oh FUCK! Awesome, bloody hell …’ Poor man had lost all his eloquence for a while there. I smiled to myself, I just love seeing someone enjoying aerobatics for the first time. We turned for home, and Bono wanted to have a go at flying, so I gave him control. Bono flew well, quickly adjusting to the coordination of stick and rudder.
‘How do you fly a loop?’ he asked with a wicked grin.
‘Not difficult,’ I told him. ‘Do this, and you see lots of blue, and when you start seeing lots of green do this.’
Bono flew a pretty fair loop. ‘That’s good,’ I said, and he surprised me by looking quite shy all of a sudden. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘OK, fly us home,’ I smiled at him.
On the way back we were joined by three majestic airplanes, Harvards, flanking us on the right. ‘I feel privileged to be in the same sky as these guys,’ I said to Bono. We dipped our wings at the mighty warbirds as the Pitts outpaced them and we prepared for landing.
We taxied over to the hanger, I turned off the engine and we sat quietly for a moment. Bono took off his glasses and looked at me. Perhaps it was then my whole, controlled world started to unravel a bit, who could not meet those eyes and not be moved to tear a world apart?
Another me went through the routines, another me helped Bono from the cockpit, the real me felt the ground unsteady beneath my feet.
We stood by the Pitts and Bono touched my arm, started to say something. Then stopped, went dead white dead quickly. Unceremoniously, I took a quick step back, but not quick enough to avoid having my boots splattered with famous rock-star secondhand breakfast. There’s nothing like being puked on for bringing a woman back to solid ground. Bono was bent double, I rubbed his back and held his hair out of the way until it was over.
‘Headline: Rock Star Pukes on Pilot,’ he gasped weakly. ‘See photos, page 2.’
Indeed, in the photos the guys took afterwards, around the Pitts, in the cockpit, there is a handsome but unusually pale Bono.
Bono had regained his composure by the time the others had walked over to the hanger. Adam was gleeful, he had won his bet, but I felt compelled to stand up for Bono. I had given him the full aerobatic works, after all. Also, I told them, to the envy of everyone else, Bono had flown a very good loop.
So, I thought, as the group laughed and bantered with each other, so that’s my brush with the fame, my contact with the rich and famous. And it wasn’t half bad, these are good people, they liked the Pitts, liked flying. I was ready to do a fade back into the hanger, but photos had to be taken and they wanted me in some. I hate being photographed. I always look angry, pissed or both. But these were mainly good, some great ones of the guys and one of me and Bono taken when we weren’t looking. We’re in sunlight, in front of the shady hanger, he’s looking down at me and we’re laughing. That’s how I like to remember us, in sunlight, after the joyful experience of sharing the sky
******
In a movie, of course, the handsome rock star would have taken me out to dinner, danced with me, loved me, left me. Or turned out to be gay. Or a woman. Or both. In real life there is only me in vomit-splattered flying boots, with hair sticking every which-way, putting my handsome airplane to bed. Exhausted from the day’s flying, from being on good behaviour with famous people. Home, to tend to horses and cats and maybe scramble some food together. For one, of course. Thank God we have showers at the hanger, a change of clothes and I’m almost human again.
I shoulder my flying bag and trudge over to the Pitts for a final check. All squared away. Except … on the windshield, something white.
It’s a note, written in a strange green ink. ‘Loved sharing the sky today. Would like to share wine and food – soon. Tonight?’ And a telephone number. And his distinctive signature.
Oh, my. I thought, standing with my hand on the wing of the Pitts for comfort. Oh, hell. What the fuck do you do with this? Get a grip, that’s what. It’s just a polite note, a thank you, he probably doesn’t expect you to even call. Like hell. I make a point of doing the unexpected. After all, I’m more than old enough to take care of myself. (And it would be nice, a quiet and not-so-tough voice whispered in my head, to eat in company. In HIS company …)
‘Jesus,’ I blasphemed and marched to the phone. Dialled the number. Came within an ace of putting the phone down. Then his voice, ‘Yeah, ’lo?’
‘It’s me, I got your note.’ (Oh, good start, moron!)
‘Ah, Roo, good, want to eat?’ (What? Want to eat??)
‘Um, yes, I’m bloody starving.’ (Great, now you swore.) ‘When, where? I need to sort my animals out first.’ (Nothing like mundane hassles for killing the conversation.)
‘How about I come pick you up about 7.30?’
‘’K, fine, see you then.’ (Oh, you prat! You put the phone down and he doesn’t know where you live!)
But, of course, he did.
******
My home is humble. Really humble, in the full of messy airplane parts and saddles and cat-hair type of way. Not the sort of place Mr Hewson is accustomed to, I thought glumly, as I swept wreckage into cupboards, drawers, under the sofa. And what the hell am I supposed to wear? A flying suit? And make-up – do I still have any? Can I remember how to apply it? And why am I stressing anyway? I don’t need some bloke to define who I am (right on sister, who are you kidding? This is not SOME BLOKE, this is BONO!).
I’m suddenly tired. So tired. This morning my life was easy and neatly laid out – fly plane, ride horses, sleep, eat by happy on my own. Now it’s upside down with this complication, and nothing is clear beyond tonight, nothing.
I sit out on my front deck, watching the sun go down, waiting for any one of several possible futures to arrive. Get over it, toughen up, I tell myself. You’re just going to break bread with him. He’s just another guy under all the fame.
I see a dust cloud winding down the track to my house, here he comes. And here he is, getting out of the car, walking towards me, smiling an easy smile. I am struck dumb, can’t think of a thing to say. Thankfully he has words for us both, great house, he says, its so quiet out here. On the way through to the sitting room, Beep the grey cat does a suicide run between Bono’s feet. He recovers well, puts a hand out for balance, brings it down on an oily engine part. Stands looking at the black streaks on his hand a bit helplessly. I stand, horrified, raise my eyes to his face. A beat of time, then we are both helpless with laughter.
‘That’s for puking on me,’ I tell him as I find the hand-cleaner. He looks great, black jeans, white shirt and black leather waistcoat. And of course the shades.
I find Bono’s driving marginally less erratic than his flying. I haven’t a clue where we’re going, and after a time it’s clear he doesn’t either. Does he have a map? He does. I find our destination on the map, peer around in the dark outside to find a landmark.
‘OK, go on up this road, there should be a left turn, soon. Take that and then right …’
‘You have control,’ he grins, giving me the pilot’s phrase.
We arrive at a large, ranch-style house, set in a valley shielded with bush. Light spills out of the windows and open door, there is the sound of voices and laughter and music.
‘Party?’ I don’t do parties, my heart is going double-time.
‘Just a bunch of noisy Irishmen. Come on, they don’t usually bite.’
Not overly comforting, that.
The kitchen was huge, with an enormous wooden table loaded with food and wine. There seemed to be a great many people sitting round it, everyone talking at once. As we enter the room they all turn in our direction, calling welcomes to me.
‘What kept you?’ asked Larry. ‘Don’t tell me Bono lost his way again.’
‘Not so much lost my way as explored an alternative route,’ was Bono’s explanation.
We found some space at the table and everyone began talking and eating in a happy sort of chaos. Edge was in deep discussion about sound mixing with an earnest-looking young guy, who turned out to be a local guitarist. Adam was talking on the phone to his partner about changes they were making to their Dublin home. No-one seemed to think it strange to open their house to local nobodies they hardly knew.
Bono turned his attention to me, having won his argument with Larry about navigation skills.
‘D’you think I’d be better off navigating an airplane rather than a car?’ he asked me.
‘Well, it can’t be much worse,’ I said, ‘though it’s easier to stop a car and get out when you run out of gas.’
‘Not too much room for error, then?’
‘Oh, a fair bit, in a powered aircraft. If you want a real challenge, try flying a glider.’
The blue eyes flashed an interest at that. ‘Might that be possible?’ he asked.
Now, what have you started here? My dissenting inner voice was sending warning signals in all directions, but my traitorous vocal chords were already charging ahead.
‘Very possible. I could fix something up for next week, if you’re around?’
Bono leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. ‘We’ll be around for a month or so, getting some down-time y’know, before the next tour starts.’
Now, why should that make my heart jump a little?
‘Would that be just you wanting to fly, or are you going to rope these other poor devils in too?’
Of course, Bono then had to get everyone’s attention and propose they should all put their lives on the line again. Adam, however, flatly refused, saying there was no way he would go up in an aircraft without an engine. Edge was intrigued, immediately interested in lift and drag, winch launches and tow-launches and what to do if the wings dropped off. I did my best to explain the theory of gliding to him, and to try to convey the feeling of flying a glider.
‘When we flew in the Pitts, it was all noise and thrill and speed. In a glider, there is only the sound of air moving over the wings, there’s not a lot between you and the sky. You’re virtually lying down, it’s mostly very peaceful, no bang and clatter. A glider pilot needs to be able to read the air, the wind, the clouds and landscape, which all affect lift.’
‘Read the air? I’d like to learn that,’ that Edge, looking thoughtful.
It seemed I was destined to fly with at least two of the Famous Ones again. Larry decided he preferred the rattle and hum of the Pitts, but would probably come and watch.
With the food and wine much depleted, people drifted away from the kitchen to the wide front deck and comfortable sitting room. I felt I needed some air and headed for the deck with its chairs facing the dark valley.
Siobahn, the tall Irish beauty who seemed to be a general keeper of the castle, brought out some wine.
‘I hope Bono isn’t bulldozing you into this,’ this said with a smile.
‘Well, it’s a bit like catching a big wave out on the West Coast,’ I laughed. ‘It happens suddenly and carries you along and where you end up no-one knows. It’s a bit hard getting past the fame and seeing them as real people.’
‘When I started working with them I felt that too,’ she said. ‘I was nervous and a little star-struck, but it didn’t take long to see the real people. They’re good people, too, most of the time.’
I took a mouthful of the good, dry wine. ‘I’m wondering, why did Bono invite me here tonight?’ I said. ‘I’m just an ordinary nobody, nothing special to be interested in.’
Siobahn laughed quietly. ‘Bono couldn’t stop talking about the flying when they got back. It’s something he doesn’t want to let go, I think, which means he will pursue it with astonishing tenacity. They all had a lot of fun and you were an important part of it.’
I must have still looked a bit worried, as Siobahn gently said, ‘You’re safe with Bono, you know. Trust him.’
At this point we were joined by Bono and Edge, the young guitarist, Duncan, and his girlfriend, Emma.
Bono plunked down beside me on the long seat. ‘Will you look at all these stars?’ he said. ‘How come you have so many more on this side of the world?’
‘Ah, astronomy is not my strong point,’ I said. ‘I grew up in England, and I’m still getting used to seeing the water go down the plughole the wrong way.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Bono gave me a sideways look.
‘No, that’s right,’ said Edge, and proceeded to tell us exactly why this should be.
‘Lord, is there anything the man doesn’t know?’ said Bono.
Edge blushed. ‘Did I carry on a bit there again?’ he grinned, self-effacingly. We all assured him he had not, except for Bono who chimed in with an emphatic ‘Yes’.
Duncan rather shyly pointed out some constellations and planets to us.
‘I can never see how they manage to make winged horses and centaurs and stuff – it’s like join-the-dots for surrealists,’ I said. So we started making up our own constellations.
‘And this one here’s the Flying Pig,’ said Bono, pointing out some arbitrary stars. It got sillier and sillier as the level in the wine bottles went down. The Dead Possum, Series-5 BMW and the Great Celestial Carrot joined the Seven Sisters and Cassiopeia and the Southern Cross.
Gathering clouds put an end to our game and I had vague thoughts about how I was going to get home after all this high-living. The night was fading towards dawn.
Siobahn the mind reader offered to drive and I was glad of the offer, thinking I’d never get home if Bono was driving. Edge said he’d come along for the ride, he liked to drive in the night. Bono would come too, the man didn’t seem at all tired, so with many farewells and see-you-soons we piled into the car and took possession of the night.
It was warm in the car, which purred quietly along the empty roads. I began to feel the effects of too much wine and excitement. Watching the clouds scudding over the setting moon was hypnotic, and staying awake was beyond me.
I was skimming across the face of a great, red planet, in a glider made of stars. The only sound a sub-audial hum, the song of the heavens, perhaps. Beside me sat a figure composed of white light, too bright to look at without burning out your eyes. The glider made a wide, lazy turn and I realised that I was not flying it, my hands found no controls. A worm of panic, then a voice which came from everywhere, ‘I have control. Trust me.’ The blazing figure reached out, if it touched me I would burn. I drew myself away from the blinding light … and fell right through the side of the star-glider into the black and silver infinity … and, sobbing, stretched out my hands, save me, save me, I was wrong …
… and woke, startled, hearing ‘Wake up, Roo. We’re here.’ My head on Bono’s shoulder, my arms around him in a death-grip. A realisation of where I was and every nerve primed to jump away, but the dream-memory froze me in uncertainty. And then fully awake and able to extricate myself with a little dignity. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, nearly dying of embarrassment.
‘It’s OK,’ Bono said, amused, as if there was nothing odd about the situation. I supposed he was used to women falling asleep on him.
But for me, once, more, the ground was unsteady beneath my feet.
Bono flying an airoplane, now there's a dangerous thought 
I was SO nervous about posting!
More soon? 
