The Windmill

• Rebecca Swan, Grade 4
• Short Story
• 2019

One sunny day, my siblings and I were eating breakfast. It was porridge. Again.
However, although our breakfast was nothing out of the ordinary, little did we know what excitement the day had in store for us. It all started when Dad asked if we would like to come with him to fix the windmill.
“Can we? Can we?” we all cried eagerly.
Mum considered for a moment. “Okay,” she sighed, “but only if you finish your school work.”
Of course, none of us were thrilled about that, but we’d never win that argument with Mum, so we rushed off to the schoolroom.
After lunch, we finally left. We could barely contain our enthusiasm and, as if we weren’t already excited enough, Dad recited poetry all the way to the windmill. My favourite was A Broken Web by Will Ogilvie.
The scenery never bored us, no matter how often we saw it. We drove past the air strip where we went sliding on the clay pan after the floods. On the other side, glittering in the sunlight, lay the tranquil, brown creek where we often ventured out to row, swim and create intricate cubbies in the bush.
Dad drove so we wouldn’t get bogged. When we arrived, he climbed up the windmill with his tools while I looked for finch nests under the bushes. It was fascinating to watch the colourful birds flutter about. I was so absorbed that I was startled to hear Dad calling out, “John! John!”
Peering through the bushes, I saw John racing up the ladder. Dad was stuck with his arm clamped by the windmill. John had to turn the wheel to release it, but he didn’t know which way.
Time was running out! If John couldn’t release the pressure, Dad’s arm would break!
Down below, all our attention was fixed upon the dilemma above us. “Come on, John! Come on John!” we all whispered to ourselves. We hardly dared to breathe.
CRACK! The bone snapped.
John turned the wheel desperately. The pressure eased, but the arm was still trapped. He heaved with all his might and Dad was finally freed.
If we had hoped that he would escape without a scratch, however, we were terribly wrong. Blood dripped down his arm, but he didn’t seem to feel any pain! Seeing our tears, he even managed to smile. I sprinted to the car to fetch a rag to wrap around his arm. It wasn’t much, but I wanted to do something to help him. Even while John was driving us home over the bumpy tracks, I didn’t see a single tear in Dad’s eyes.
Mum came running out to greet us, but halted in alarm as he staggered in with us clustered around him. “It’s all right, darling. It’s all right,” he gasped. He even made jokes, recited poetry and prayed with us as he lay on the couch for hours waiting for the Flying Doctor.
I wish I was as brave as him!