The Golden Hours

“Are you hungry?” A man’s hoarse voice interrupts my slumber. I prise open my eyes a fraction of an inch and shiver as I peek over my dew-covered bedding. A woman’s face peers down at me, checking for signs of life. Her dark brown eyes glint below a severe fringe and a starched white mob cap. Behind her, twin jet trails have traced a diagonal in the sky like tiny white water-ski tracks in an enormous lake.

“Is he hungry, love?” The man enquires, engrossed in the background. She shrugs. 

“Are you hungry, sir?” A questioning squint crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“I could murder a glass of water.” I croak, staring up at her, and roll onto my elbow to survey my unfamiliar surroundings, drawing the quilt around me for warmth.

“Sparkling or still?” she asks, steadying my shoulder as I lurch forward to sit up. 

“Still water’s fine,” I say, leaning against the encircling wickerwork.

There’s a mighty whoosh and a tremendous roar from above. 

I jolt my head up, drawing a sharp breath. 

Two eight-feet long vertical flames explode skyward into a cavernous red balloon. The fiery blast warms the immediate area, bathing the three of us in its afterglow.

“We have fresh coffee, of course.” She says with a wry smile.

“Coffee might be better,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

The man adjusts the earflaps on his leather aviator’s cap and strolls toward us in a careworn green boilersuit. “Welcome on board, Mister Jenkins.” 

“Call me Jonny,” I say, kneeling up on the woven willow flooring.

“We haven’t been introduced.” He halts beside her and she smiles. “This is Maria.”

“Today, your pilot is Marcel,” she says, holding his hand. “Marcel Montgolfier.”

“Do you prefer fresh baked bread or toast, Jonny?”

“I’d prefer toast but I---”

“I can offer homemade cherry jam,” Maria says, proffering a candy-striped mug. 

A chugging aluminium box whistles beside me and fluffy white steam clouds appear from its brass exhaust pipe, permeating the surrounding air with an intense smell. 

I take a deep breath and allow the malty scent of sweet yeast to invade my nostrils. Inhaling the rich aroma is like sliding into a warm bath after a frosty winter hill walk. It reminds me of weekend visits to my grandma’s house as a youngster and waking up to her baked bread rolls for breakfast.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” I say, cupping my hands around the chunky ceramic mug as she pours the steaming coffee. “But I have to be somewhere today.”

“All in due course, sir,” she says, skewering two slices of fresh bread onto the end of a telescopic toasting fork.

“No,” I say, hauling myself upright. “You don’t understand.”

“We’re already on our way and---”

“You’ve got to be joking?” 

My knuckles whiten as I grip the wicker basket’s rough edge, afraid to look down. 

We’re weightless and drifting like ghosts in limbo between heaven and earth. 

This isn't real, I tell myself, not real. It's just a vertiginous dream.

Our craft is floating above an endless ocean of fluffy white candy floss. Hazy white curls of mist obscure the ground below and make distances difficult to estimate. 

My jaw sags as I watch the sun’s uppermost edge clears the horizon line. Its first rays suffuse our silent world in luxurious golden light, forging elongated, dark purple shadows in their wake. The immense power of the sun’s solar energy reinvigorates the earth, kick-starting a new day.

I hold my breath in awe as dawn’s crepuscular gloom retreats. My head leans back and I look up at the sky. The clouds are gigantic, glazed on their underbellies with radiant pink. They’re like the painted clouds in a child’s Bible story.

Down below, tree tops materialise out of nowhere and the chimneys of remote properties emerge along with barn roofs and cow sheds. Stone walls appear next and define the contours of the landscape with the help of rivers and roads that subdivide the gentle topography underneath us.

“Is this your first time, Jonny?” Maria asks, toasting slices of bread on the burner.

“Yes,” I say, inching round to face them. “I don’t know how I got here, but---”

“Don’t worry, Jonny,” says Marcel. “It’s all part of your special day.”

“Ah, I get it,” I say. “Did Gerry Calhoun have anything to do with this?”

“Does that name sound familiar, Maria?” Marcel asks, winking at her.

“Hmm, let me think.” Maria frowns with a thoughtful pout. “Oh, yes.”

“He’s unbelievable.”

“You’d no idea, right?”

“We always dreamed of flying.”

“It sounds like you’ve both got some history, Jonny?”

“I recall as youngsters, we made hot air balloons from dry cleaner’s laundry bags. The light plastic bags were about a meter long and half a meter in diameter. We’d tape the hole shut where the hanger stuck out. At the bottom, we secured a cross made from drinking straws. Then we’d stick straight pins up through the straws and push birthday candles down onto them. Holding the top of the bag, we’d light the candles, so they didn’t melt the bag. Within a few minutes, the bags would warm up and our hot-air balloons were ready to fly. We loved to release dozens of them at night and watched them drift off into the dark sky.”

“That sounds like a wonderful sight, Jonny.”

“A couple times we equipped them with time released fire crackers. We’d take a cigarette and poke holes down its length, then pushed firecracker fuses into the holes. Then we’d light the cigarette, attach it to the hot-air balloon and release it. The balloon would float away and every few seconds, the cigarette would light a fire cracker. We’d watch the sparkling fire crackers fall from their balloons, and then see the flash and report a short time later. Small town Britain was exciting when we were kids and maybe a bit more risky.”

“You had a lot of fun.” Maria smiles and puts an arm around Marcel.

I squint my mouth to one side. “Now it’s time to get serious.”

“I trust you’ll enjoy the rest of the trip,” says Marcel. “We’re due to rendezvous with your best man in about an hour.”

The time aloft seems to melt away. Maria assures me that no two trips in a hot-air balloon are the same and the moments aloft always evaporate. We follow the southern coastline’s thermal air currents, heading west along the limestone cliffs until I spot outskirts of my home town. Maria confirms the time as we approach the familiar landmarks.

Marcel is an expert at manoeuvring his balloon and our descent is peaceful, drifting over my old neighbourhood. I recognise the local cricket field and Gerry’s vehicle waiting in the visitor’s car park below.

“Hey!” Gerry waves as the wicker basket touches down on the mowed grass. “What kept you, Jonny?” Gerry approaches, clutching my dry-cleaned suit in a plastic bag.

“I can’t believe you kept this a secret.” 

“It was nothing to do with me, buddy.”

“Yeah, right,” I say. “Who else then?”

“Seriously? I’m just following orders.”

I frown and turn to face Marcel and Maria.

“We’ve instructions to wait until after the reception.”

“Your next flight’s during this evening’s golden hour.”

“Does Shelley know about this, Gerry?”

“Oh, she knows, all right.”

“Really? How come?”

“She’s a hopeless romantic.”

“I trust you’ve got the ring.”

“Oops!” He says, patting his pockets.

“Please don’t tell me---”

“Nah, just joking.”

THE END