Winter Colours by Donald McRae

Author:Donald McRae [McRae, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471135408
Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Chapter Thirteen

Summer’s Over . and We’re All Happy

‘Wakey-wakey!’ the Kiwi voice bubbled and crackled as the plane banked to the left, ‘this is your captain speaking . and, folks, as you all know, having flown with me so many times before, I, Captain Speaking, am the world’s most famous pilot.’

The blue information screen flickered through the red-eyed gloom. Local time: 4.26 a.m.

Just what I needed – twenty-eight hours in and a stand-up comedian had taken over the graveyard shift. I’d left London early on Sunday afternoon, flown through a missing Monday, and, at last, made it into a bleary Tuesday morning over Auckland. It was not the right time for Captain Speaking to make his showbiz entry at the Mile-High economy club. I yearned instead for one of those Kiwi pilots who modelled himself on the bluntly efficient ‘Unsmiling Giants’ from All Black history. Then, it would’ve only required a flick of the mic and a curt ‘Yup’ to let us know that we’d reached New Zealand.

Two minutes of airy witter later my inner scream, for a Colin Meads grunt-a-like to throttle aviation’s answer to Noel Edmonds, was finally answered. The silence was blissfully sombre, broken only by the lowering screech of the engine and a heavy clank of wheels opening up beneath us. And, at 4.40 precisely, as the plane taxied across the runway, a different voice, a deeper and more mysterious voice, said the only six words we needed to hear. ‘Welcome to the city of darkness . ’

It could not have been more appropriate. On my first visit to the dark heart of rugby, New Zealand’s largest city had turned all black. For ten days, downtown Auckland had been without light. The longest power-cut in history might have been a warning to the world’s most electric team but, even at five in the morning, I saw it as a more poetic symbol. For thirty years, for three long decades of rugby, I had wondered what New Zealand might look like. And, strangely, my dream had been right – it was black, black, black.

But, on the southern edge of the city, the airport still had electricity. So the drowsy face of the man at passport control had lit up when I slipped my little blue book across his high white desk.

‘South African? Mmm – good on ya, mate! You enjoyin’ the Super 12?’

I knew, then, that I had truly arrived in New Zealand. It was 5.25 a.m. and we were already into it. I did my best and, when asked, gave my opinion of the new ‘tackled-ball’ law and its impact on the Super 12.

‘You’re dead right, matey,’ my passport-pal enthused, ‘but I reckon it’ll suit you South Africans more than us. Unlike us and the bloody Aussies, you fellers don’t go to ground so much. You prefer to stand in the tackle, don’tcher?’

The snaking queue of British backpackers behind me listened dolefully, too weary even to contemplate a gang-tackle which would not only bring me down but open up their exit from airport hell.

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