Had a little rewatch of the end of the series and it's only now occurred to me. How the actual bloody hell did they get thunderbird 2 into position in that epic transformer mismatch that they launched into space? Its at 90 degrees to the ground and all slotted somehow, so just, how? Who lifts the heavy lifter? One and three can hover about I guess, but nose up seems a bit of a stretch for the poor flying bathtub. It's not built for yoga!
There's every possibility I'm putting too much thought into this....
(some old memories, a bit of mild panic - not quite a panic attack, but it all comes round good in the end. So Thunderangst? oh and there’s fish and chips, so do not read if you’re hungry! - think that covers it all)
The day had involved a lot of digging, some swimming and far too many enclosed spaces for anyone's comfort. Some intrepid cavers had managed to get themselves into hereto unexplored caverns. Unfortunately this was one cave too far for their support team and when shifting rocks left them trapped and the call was made to International Rescue.
Stone age cave paintings and unique mineral formations meant that they couldn't just drill down to get everyone out. It all added up to more of a headache than it had any right to be, and proved that no two rescues are ever the same.
However, now everyone was safely accounted for and it was just a matter of collecting up their equipment and heading for home.
All Virgil and Alan had to do was wait for Gordon to finish off his handover to the local crews. Thunderbird Two had been parked on a nearby playing field for lack of any suitable spaces nearer to the cave entrance a little further down the small town. The last items had been stowed and Virgil was just taking a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet of the tree edged park, standing on Thunderbird Twos footplate. It was a mild evening, and the sun was just starting to dip enough to cast a golden haze over the greenery. He could feel himself winding down with each breath, calming as the adrenaline dropped. His moment of calm was brought to an abrupt stop by Alan appearing at his side and letting out a shrill cry.
“Hey Look! A Playground!” and with that Alan ran off, seemingly still with a healthy supply of energy. Virgil sighed, but he slowly followed Alan over to the small play area tucked at the edge of the field. It housed a small selection of swings, slides, climbing frames all nestled around a sort of assault course castle in the middle made mostly out of rounded logs.
Alan was already on his second go down the biggest slide by the time Virgil had ambled across and parked himself on a convenient swing. He rested the side of his head against the chain at this side, letting himself rock gently back and forth. The gentle movement was enough to restore Virgil's previous calm as the dipping sun warmed his back through his uniform. If his lids stayed down a little bit longer between each blink, well what did it matter? They were still waiting for Gordon, and nobody was going anywhere without him, he was the ride home after all.
This might have had something to do with how Gordon managed to sneak up behind Virgil and swiftly pull back and release the swing his brother was sitting on. This caused Virgil to let out a manly yell, (definitely not a childish squeal as Alan later reported) as his backside slid from the swing seat to meet forcibly with the floor. This could have ended in a rapid shortening of Gordon's life expectancy, had Gordon not arrived with a plastic bag crammed full of paper parcels containing fish and chips hanging from his elbow. The enticing smell escaping from within the paper folds was enough to pull Virgil up short before his plan for revenge was even fully formed in his mind.
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“Curry sauce or mushy peas?” Gordon asked as he parked himself on the next swing and pulled the bag onto his lap in order to rummage through the contents.
“Ugh,” was Alan's considered gastronomic opinion of the options given, having been drawn to the swing set at the prospect of food.
“Am I also to assume you would rather the battered sausage than the winkles then Alan?” asked Gordon, progressing with his investigation of the food.
“Ugh,”
“His refined palette is only matched by his superior linguistic skills, wouldn't you say Virgil?”
Virgil didn’t even bother forming a suitable response and instead resorted to miming grabby hands in the direction of the bag from his position on the floor, much like a small child. Gordon rolled his eyes and deposited an unspecified parcel in his brother's eager paws and was rewarded with a dopey grin in return.
The sun crept slower in the sky as they tucked into their fish suppers in companionable silence. But as with all things, it was not to last and a freshly fed and watered Alan was soon fidgety and went off to investigate the rest of the play equipment.
Virgil just rolled his eyes and reached for Alan's abandoned chips, waste not want not. Alan soon goaded Gordon into completing a series of challenges on the various play equipment and the competitive natures soon came to the fore.
“Bet you can’t get across the monkey bars quicker than me! - Hey Virg, Virgil! Time me! It's gonna be a world record!” Alan's voice cut across the quiet of the early evening.
“Seriously, squirt, you don't have a chance!” Gordon limbered up for his attempt. Virgil meanwhile polished off the mushy peas, since he seemed to be the only one who liked them.
After testing their speeds on the cargo net, the balance beam and the fireman's pole. Alan devised a circular route around the play area, to take in as many pieces of equipment as possible and decide the ultimate playpark champion. They agreed they would have one practice run, to get a feel for the course and then the timed attempts to declare the victor. Both were deadly serious as they tested each obstacle and it was shaping up to be an epic showdown.
Virgil had by now “tidied” the rest of the leftovers and was rocking himself gently on a swing with the toe of his boot, content to let the younger two burn off whatever mess of calories and adrenaline this was. He was only really giving them half his attention, as he watched the progress of the now rapidly advancing sunset behind them. Soon they would need to turn home, but a few minutes more wouldn't make much difference either way. He let their playful bickering wash over him just as you would the crash and pull of the ocean on a beach. Or he did until something jarred, a sharp intake of breath, ever so loud in a suddenly created silence. Two voices cut down to only one, and an unsure tone creeping in around the edges.
“Hey, Gordon, you ok?” Alan's voice had pitched up a notch, not a lot, but enough to draw Virgil's attention back to his previously jovial brothers.
Gordon stood stock still at the start of a rope bridge that joined two sections of the large wooden play fort. The sides of the bridge were made of long solid metal handrails from which the rope and plank crossing was suspended. His arms were stretched out, his shoulders tensed, with a hand on each handrail and his head bowed seemingly staring at nothing. Alan was behind him, his chatter clattering off Gordons silent back like pebbles against a window. Alan was clearly getting unnerved at Gordons frozen state and he glanced across to Virgil, his eyes pleading for back up.
Virgil got up and headed across, you didn't need squid sense to see something was up. As he got nearer he could hear Gordons slow forced breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, so steady you could feel the beats being counted in his head. Gordon was holding something at bay. Virgil climbed up the far side of the fort, to bring himself to the other end of the bridge, and it wasn't until he was standing there, seeing Gordon framed by those metal handrails, that he got it. It hit Virgil like a tonne of bricks, and his own sharp intake of breath was added to the steady rhythm.
The memories flooded back, of watching his brother pull himself up, time and again, on those hated parallel bars. Shoulders tensed, head bowed, determination dripping off him as much as the sweat, but sadness and despair trying to push those tired muscles down.
How many times had Virgil watched as Gordon inched his way along, framed or imprisoned by those rails at his side? There had been tears, there had been swearing, the encouraging phrases feeling dead to both their ears, when all Virgil wanted to do was lift his broken brother up and take away what pain he could even for a moment.
Those days had been hard. With far too many memories to deal with. Gordon had done what he always did, and wrapped them up in a layer of sunshine and pushed them to the back of his mind. It worked, most of the time, it wasn't like he walked around with those dark haunted eyes you read about in melodramatic novels. But sometimes there were cracks, something might just poke at the carefully wrapped edges, exposing something still a little too raw. As with today, it could be the silliest things, a certain flavour of Jello which transported him back to a hospital room. Or an elevator ping that was pitched just that little bit too near a heart monitor's beep.
Alan was starting to fret, not getting the reassurance he would have usually expected from either of his brothers, who seemed frozen at either end of the bridge.
“Guys. Seriously, what's up?” something in Alan's tone got Gordon to slowly lift his head, all without breaking the regimented march of his breaths in and out. It was enough though, and the first thing Gordon saw was Virgil's concerned eyes. Ever present, always there, adding his strength to Gordons own in silent support. It breaks the spell, and Gordon is no longer in a physio suite, the air sharp and medicated. He can feel the breeze ruffle the short hairs at the back of his neck and the slowly departing sun still valiantly trying to warm his shoulders. He is safe, he is well. His elbows unlock and his shoulders droop ever so slightly and he lets out a crooked laugh.
“Sorry Al, I was away with the fairies for a minute there,” he laughs again, but despite his previous attempts at controlled breathing he still ends up having to gulp in a few extra lung fulls to try and stop the shaky feeling edging across his chest.
“Jeeze Gordo, you scared me!” and Alan let out a laugh too, a little too high if anyone was being critical, but they were all willing to buy into the fragile pretence of normality if it gave them a way out.
If Virgil caught Gordons eyes and raised his brows in careful questioning, and if Gordon gave a miniscule nod in return, well Alan was going to stick to the script and resolutely not see it. Alan knew the score, not in front of the little brother. It could be infuriating at times, but on days like this Alan saw it for what it was, a defence mechanism as much for his brothers as himself. Alan was willing to play along if it helped, hell, in a way it made him feel useful. He couldn't be all strong comforting arms like Virgil, or detached logic like John, but he could help them piece back together their big brother veneers and give them someone to be strong for once in a while.
The journey back could have been a subdued affair, but Gordon seemed determined to well and truly paper over the cracks with some happy memories, and initiated Alan into the fine tradition of Thunderbus Karaoke. Any thoughts of haunted eyes were soon drowned out by copious amounts of ABBA. Alan didn’t have a clue what Waterloo was about, and really hoped that his brother wasn’t making him sing about washroom facilities.
Once they got home, Alan was sure not to notice Virgil give Gordons shoulder a reassuring squeeze or the unspoken nod of thanks it got in return. Gordon would be ok, he was home and he was safe.
