The Crate Escape, page 2
After we had made notes to remind John what he had to type we all went to a local stationery shop where I managed to purchase some pre-printed signs that read ‘This side up’ and ‘Fragile: Handle with Care’ so I could nail them to the crate later. The rest of the weekend was spent relaxing, well relaxing as much as possible, knowing that I was about to have a very un-relaxing time the following week.
Monday arrived, and I could not wait for Paul and John to join me at my bedsitter after they had finished their work for the day. We were all really delighted with John’s handiwork; all the documents looked professional; at least, they did to us, bearing in mind that we had never seen this type of documents before.
I decided that I was going to leave on Wednesday and spent the next day and a half with knots in my stomach. The knots were caused through nerves. I can honestly say I was scared stiff, and by having taken some laxatives in the belief that if I cleaned out my system, I wouldn’t need to go to the toilet in the crate!
My two friends stayed away from work for two days pretending to be sick and both stayed with me for most of that time. It felt like a wake with none of us really knowing quite what to say to each other. They were as nervous as I was!
On Tuesday, I had phoned Qantas and informed them about a crate that would be delivered to Melbourne Airport and they had assured me that if it was delivered to the Qantas Freight Shed before 12 o’clock midday on Wednesday, it would catch that day’s flight to London. I also contacted ‘Taxi Trucks’ and arranged for them to come to the gate entrance of the land behind my bedsitter to take the crate (and me) to the airport and to be there at quarter past ten in the morning.
Wednesday arrived! I packed my suitcase and tied it into the crate, then took the pillow off my bed and put it in to support my back. Only then I got in it and sat down just to make doubly sure that there was still room for me. As I sat down, I heard the familiar voice of my landlady shouting at John and Paul: “What are you two doing here?” I quickly stood up and saw her head poking through the hole in the fence—she was far too fat to get through it.
I shouted back to her, “We’re getting this crate ready to go to London, remember me telling you?” She made a huffing and puffing noise before pulling her head back into the garden of the house.
Just to make sure that she had gone, I got out of the box, walked to the hole and poked my head around the fence; she was nowhere to be seen; the coast was clear!
It was getting late, and so I gave my friends a final hug and sat down in the crate. They nailed the lid on tight whilst telling me I could still change my mind and continually asking if I was all right. Suddenly, they went quiet, and I knew the taxi truck had arrived. The driver asked them if it was very heavy, then tried to move it with his hands. He gave up and got a small forklift from the truck. It was a weird feeling as the crate began to move; John whispered, “Good luck!” and I was on my way!
Chapter Three
The taxi truck rumbled along the road leading to Melbourne Airport where we arrived about an hour later. Using a larger forklift, Qantas staff took the crate off and placed it on the tarmac. Although dark inside the box, I could see out through the small gaps between the planking that formed the crate. Stupidly, I began to wonder if the people milling around could see into it and see me inside, they obviously could not as they just proceeded to complete their work. I was left alone for about an hour before I heard a shout, “This one is for Sydney,” and I started to move again.
I sensed, rather than saw, that I was being placed inside an aircraft, and then everything went black. I could still hear people’s voices but couldn’t see anything, no light, just complete darkness. Gradually, the voices stopped, and silence prevailed. Another ten minutes passed before the deafening roar and slight vibration of the plane’s engines filling the air. I could feel movement, and we were bumping over the taxiways before the engine sounds grew to a high-pitched scream as we raced down the runway. A few more minutes and we were airborne. I felt scared and at the same time elated; my journey to London had begun.
Just over an hour later, we landed in Sydney and the crate was loaded onto an airport truck. We travelled a short distance before being picked up and dumped upside down on the ground. Suddenly, from being in a seated position I was “standing” on my head and neck! The idiots! The crate was marked ‘this side up’ and yet they had taken no notice of the signs I had placed on it at all. I was half inclined to get out of the crate, turn it up the right way then, before getting back in, telling Qantas staff exactly what I thought of them! I giggled at this idea before someone walking past forced me to shut up and keep quiet!
My neck began to get extremely painful, and a headache set in. I tried to turn myself around and into a sitting position but, with the lack of space and my safety rope holding me, it proved impossible. I was stuck in that position until someone turned the crate over and followed the direction of the stickers that I had put on it by turning it back into a position where I could be seated again.
As the minutes turned into hours, I kept telling myself that it wouldn’t be too much longer until they moved me into the aircraft that would take me to the UK when hopefully, whoever did the moving would be able to read and put the crate facing up in the direction that it was marked.
As the hours ticked by things were getting worse with my head feeling as if it would burst and my neck, taking all my body weight, feeling that it was about to snap. I began wondering that if they treated me like this, just how badly they were treating the other passengers?
Then it dawned on me that I was not even a passenger yet and looking at my watch I realised that they would not even be departing on time. By now, they should have been serving drinks and a meal, and yet I was still on the ground!
Night-time had descended and with it came a cold wind, which the slight gaps between the slats of the crate allowed to enter. Not only was my head and neck at breaking point but I was beginning to shiver with the cold. I swore that I’d never fly this airline again and that any future crate trips would only be booked with one of their competitors—that would teach them!
The night wore on, and it was only by my cracking jokes to myself that I kept going. However, it came to the stage when even the jokes didn’t make me laugh anymore or take the pain away. Another worrying point was that by now I should have been well on the way to the UK and yet, I was still sitting uncomfortably here in Sydney.
Twenty-four excruciating hours had passed before someone put me out of my misery. As suddenly as it had been turned upside down, the crate was turned the right way up again, loaded onto a forklift and taken on a joyride around the airport. During my tour, I could not resist trying to massage my neck as much as possible by moving my arm across my chest in an upward direction and using my hand to squeeze the left side and the back. It didn’t make much difference really, but it was better than nothing. Luckily, I was able to keep squeezing both my shoulders by using one arm at a time and holding each in the same position across my chest whilst using my hands to squeeze the muscles; it seemed to help ease the pain.
My mode of transport and I were lifted into what I could only imagine was the hold of a plane. The crate was placed (thankfully, the right way up) on the floor of the aircraft and then with more noises, other freight was loaded. As more and more crates were put on board, the light disappeared into the darkness and the sounds became muffled to the extent that they finally stopped altogether, and everything went deathly silent.
After about half an hour the aircraft started moving and then came to a stop. The roar of the engines sounded deafening and was followed by further movement of the ’plane accompanied by the rumble of wheels on the concrete. One more stop and the surge of the plane rushing forward followed by the feeling of lifting into the sky gave me cause to congratulate myself; my plan was working. Despite the pain, I was leaving Australia!
As the drone of the engines went on and on, breathing became harder, and I soon learnt to suck the air in using short sharp gulps. However, a much more worrying problem was beginning to show itself; I was developing big pains in my neck, back and especially in my knees. Sitting in an upright position I was unable to stretch my legs; they were permanently folded into my chest and my knees were getting bad cramps. I could, however, with a struggle, bend my legs even further into my chest and then place the flat of my feet against the bottom side of the crate. Pressing each foot against the wood caused even more knee pains, but it seemed to ease up considerably when I lowered my feet and stopped torturing myself. After a further five minutes, I would repeat the action until it eventually became impossible to move my legs.
Some hours later, I could feel the plane descending—although I had no idea where we were—I felt myself being landed and taxied. After we had stopped moving, I heard the doors to the hold opening, followed by voices in a language that I didn’t recognise. Obvious noises of freight being moved in and out followed before and with the plane still on the ground, I dozed off to sleep.
I was awakened by a frightening noise, the sound of dogs growling and barking! They would make a scuffling sound then growl before repeating the exercise. I was sure they knew that I was there. I could hear the handler talking to them and I could only thank God that those dogs could not speak, otherwise, my escape plan would have ended there and then!
It didn’t take long before we were airborne again, and I imagined that a steward or stewardess was going to have a hard time bringing me a drink and a meal; it would not be easy attending to passengers who were travelling in their own crate! Joking to myself did not seem to be working anymore either. I barely remembered the following landings or take-offs. My whole body was racked with indescribable pain and my head was about to burst open. I didn’t know if I was too hot or too cold as it seemed to me that my temperature was changing by the minute. I was beginning to fall in and out of reality, forgetting where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. Just becoming more and more confused and uncaring by the hour.
The plane was in trouble and could crash land; the only way to keep it airborne was to lighten the load. The captain asked for volunteers, anyone who would jump out and make the aircraft lighter. No one offered. The captain then told the crew to throw the entire luggage out of the plane. Struggling, they managed to get every bag out, but we were still going down. Only one thing left—the freight!
“Throw it all out,” ordered the captain. Following his orders, they came to my crate; they manhandled it to the door of the hold. I could see the sea thousands of feet below, and I shouted to warn them that I was in the box; they took no notice, so, I started to scream at them. I had to stop the crate being thrown out. If the fall did not kill me, I would drown; drowning in the large expanse of water below scared the life out of me. I screamed and screamed but still everyone ignored me either not knowing or not caring that I was in there, stuck in a box! Did I just dream it or was it happening? I had no idea and no way of finding out the truth from the fiction!
How did I get in this mess in the first place…?
Chapter Four
Cardiff, United Kingdom, 1962
Cardiff, in 1962, was a dismal place. Entertainment was virtually non-existent and even the pubs were closed on Sundays to allow the locals to attend church without being too inebriated! Entertainment consisted of watching television shows in glorious black and white with broadcasting closing around 10:30 at night as allowing mere natives to watch after that time might result in their oversleeping the following morning and causing their employers to lose money by their not attending work!
On Saturday night, teens could if they had enough money, treat themselves to the local cinema. We actually had three in the town centre, and the Top Rank had opened a dance hall which could be attended by all those over the age of eighteen who had, or could, scrounge enough money to pay the admission fees.
Most of the money that local teens managed to spend at the Top Rank was obtained from a wage which could at best be described as downright dismal, borrowed from mates or, if one was lucky, borrowed from some unsuspecting richer teen who didn’t need it as much as the mate who borrowed it. That was the alternative of taking them with you and resorting to a type of begging activity to try and get them to pay whilst still pleading that you didn’t have enough money to get into the place.
It seemed that most days were either spoilt by incessant rain, making you spend what little money you had on a raincoat to keep the nasty stuff away or on bright, glorious days with lots of sunshine when of course, you would be busy working to help pay for the raincoat that you so desperately needed the day before. All in all, it was a pretty drab sort of existence supported by the publicised fact that had you been born a few years earlier, you may have lost what little life you had, fighting for a king and queen who you’d never met and for a country that you were not particularly in love with either!
On the 4th of June 1963, I reached the right old age of eighteen and realised that my whole life was before me. The cinema every Saturday, the Top Rank once a month and a new raincoat every year! What else did one need to benefit from the joys of life? After carefully thinking over that question, I arrived at the conclusion that the answer was much more, the only problem being how to get it?
On my eighteenth birthday, I started work in a new job. I had applied for the position when I was seventeen and the company had agreed to employ me but not until I had turned eighteen due to the fact that I would need a licence to perform my duties, and this licence was only available to people after they had reached that ripe old age. I got the licence, and my salary increased from around four pounds per week to a hefty ten pounds with the opportunity to travel daily all around the Vale of Glamorgan.
I had finally achieved my ambition and aspired to the illustrious position of no less than bus conductor with the Western Welsh Omnibus Company!
My life had made a complete turnaround, and now, I was touring all around the country regularly visiting the towns of Penarth, Barry Island and sometimes even Bridgend in addition to most of the Rhondda Valley! I was taking people on holiday and to work, people who mostly were earning a lot less than me! If I had thought Cardiff was dull, I now had a different view on life. The Rhondda Valley made Cardiff look like a real city even on one of its rainiest of days; now I had something to compare the place with. Hills and mountains, so what, we had cinemas! Coal tips? Nothing, mate, we had a Top Rank Ballroom, and we had pubs, many of them! I never mentioned that they were closed on Sundays, well in all fairness, so were theirs!
So, many things had improved. I say many things because one bugbear was still around. You see, I lived with my parents, and that was a big problem.
I was born in June 1945, and just one month before that, Adolph Hitler had managed to lose the Second World War. Not really a problem for a one-month-old baby, you may truthfully think? You’d be right; my problem was not exactly the war. It was that the end of the war freed up my father and allowed him to return to MY home! I say my home because at that time of my life, it seemed to me that I owned everything that I could get my hands on. On arriving home from fighting the ‘Hun’ and looking at his new-born son, it was true to say it was hate on both sides, a problem that neither of us ever managed to solve throughout our entire time of living together. He thought he was still fighting the Germans and as there was no one small enough for him to pick on, I became the enemy.
The fact that the ‘Huns’ had blown the roof off our house was entirely my fault; he believed that rationing of food had been implemented by me, and on his return from his all-empowering conquests of war, there was another male in what was his domain! He might have taken some responsibility for that but, in his eyes, it was still my fault! He paced around thinking he was the male lion controlling his pride and that pride had no room for another male regardless of its age. When the lioness was not looking or had been distracted, one could expect him to take a quick swipe. Much better to kill it or take away any chance it had of succeeding and possibly taking over his domain; little did he know that the more he tried to curtail my actions, the more devious I became in order to survive!
Many, many times when I was young, he used to find a reason to cause trouble. In fact, most times he did not even need a reason. Me not asking permission to leave the table at mealtimes, eating too fast, eating too slow even, not wanting to eat at all were reasons in his mind to take his belt off and use it on me. We used to do a kind of dance where he would hold onto my wrist whilst knocking me around with his belt. It was a funny kind of dance routine: BASH, then my legs would take me around in a circle with him holding on to me, BASH, then another dance around in a circle; a number of times I wished that when he took his belt off, his trousers would fall down! No such luck! He managed to keep them up. The strange thing was that my mother just sat there watching; maybe she was wishing that for a different reason his trousers would fall too!
Things never got any better at home; in fact, the more money I earned the worse it became. Not the belt, of course I had grown much too big for that, so it was superseded by many arguments some of which I might have been slightly responsible for by over advertising that I was now earning as much money as he was, but I could spend mine as I wanted, and he had a house and family to keep. That is not to say I didn’t pay my share; two pounds ten shillings every week went to my mother and absolutely nothing to him! I didn’t hesitate to make sure that he knew I was wasting my money on whatever I wanted and whenever I wanted to. I think that this early spending might be partly to blame because, even to this day, I like to spend money, lots of it.
