Aunt Tabbie's Wings

By Jack Dey

Finally Bluey surfaced and exhaled. Then Gwendolyn grasped for the surface, coughing violently, clinging to Bluey's neck. Hannah broke down and sobbed, dropping to the ground as she took in the unbelievable sight. I took Mum in my arms and we both cried tears of shocked relief. Bluey had Gwendolyn and they were both safe. He struggled against the current, as he swam in a zigzag, aiming them close to the shore at our feet. I wasn't prepared for what happened next. I will never forget it as long as I live. Bluey shoved Gwendolyn up onto the bank. She was coughing hard. When she got her breath, she screamed at Bluey, tears running down her face.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST LET ME DIE? NO ONE LOVES ME. I WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER OFF DROWNED!"

Bluey dragged himself up onto the bank, picked Gwendolyn up in his arms and held her shivering, frightened frame tight. He spoke softly to her, "I love you, Gwendolyn and I would give my life for you. That's how valuable you are to me and to us."

One orphan child's journey through the horrors of abuse and torture at the hands of hatred. The trials and tribulations of a wounded heart and the ever present need to find the safety of a pure father's love. Aunt Tabbie's Wings is a heart warming story depicting the incredible healing and life changing power of Father’s agape love. Come on the journey and be inspired, lay down your life and set a child free. A simply delightful tale of love, adventure, struggle and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Dey
• Release date: Jul 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311501554

Jack Dey

Jack Dey, born to adventure, lives in the beautiful rainforest of tropical North Queensland, Australia. He has three loves in his life: Jesus; the Editor—his wife of 30 something years; and writing adventure novels. He is the author of MAHiNA; Paradise Warrior; Aunt Tabbie's Wings; The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse; The Legend of Ataneq Nanuq; The Valley of Flowers; La Belle Suisse (co-authored with Dodie La Mirounette); Zero; Naive; and Brindabella's Prophet. He is currently researching and writing his latest book, Apostate. Jack writes only to please Papa God and considers his writing a ministry, demanding nothing from the reader for his e-books. If you like Jack Dey’s books and would like to support his ministry, please consider praying for the team at Jack Dey and telling your friends about his other titles. New books are constantly being written with the intention of being a pencil in Jesus’ hand and bringing joy and encouragement to you, the reader.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The old Bible, dog-eared and fraying, lay closed on the old woman's lap. As she studied the timeworn cover, the long past years dissolved in a moment of memory, recalling with affection the history wrapped around its tattered and well thumbed pages. Painfully and with arthritic fingers, she flipped open to the first page and stared down at the inscription with fondness.

To my beloved Father, Sergeant Major Pell (Bluey) Burns. All my love, Tabbie.

Running her finger over the dedication, a tear slipped down her cheek and plopped onto the back of her gnarled, skinny hand resting across the open Bible. With her chrome wheelchair parked hard against a large window overlooking the garden and her bony legs covered by a homemade, knitted woollen blanket, she sat peering out into the warm afternoon sunshine. As if whispering to an intimate friend, her praying lips began to slowly move, but made no sound. Yet the tears came quickly, signifying the depth of emotion in the silent conversation.

Tabbie was sixty, but she looked more like ninety. Rheumatoid arthritis had invaded her body at an early age and now painfully swollen joints made it impossible to do much but sit and stare. The nurses did all they could to make their favourite charge comfortable and ease the pain, even though she never uttered a word of complaint. There was something about Tabbie that drew people to her. A warm smile, a charismatic personality and a profound love for troubled humanity that reflected in her deep, piercing blue eyes full of compassion and wisdom. She seemed to know when people were hurting and it was a regular occurrence for a distressed nurse to be found sitting in Tabbie’s company, sobbing violently as she emptied her heart to the old woman while basking in the love and hugs of which Tabbie seemed to have in abundance.

Tabbie had a word of encouragement in proper season for everyone—from the doctor to the ones who emptied the rubbish bins—leaving the nurses to wonder whether she could actually see inside a person. Protectively and lovingly, everyone called her Aunt Tabbie. However, Tabbie's skinny frame worried the doctors. She hadn't been well for many months now, and arthritic pain was engulfing her ever faster, but they suspected something else more sinister was lurking just under the surface.

Asked if she was feeling well, she would simply reply with a twinkle in her eye, My times are in the hands of my Father in Heaven.

Drawn to her infectious love, Tabbie had a busy visitor schedule. Every day, well wishers would surround her in the guise of bringing encouragement to the old lady, but in most cases the visitor would leave receiving the comfort. Aware of the ploy, Tabbie’s protective nurses became annoyed when people obviously visited just to take from the giving woman, selfishly using her as a sounding board for their own problems. By the end of the day, the caring staff could see Tabbie's strength starting to fade, becoming distressed physically until they forbade any more visitors. Even after the exhausted, frail woman was wheeled back to her room, her phone would ring incessantly into the evening, still giving and giving until Matron put her foot down and the phone was diverted, leaving the caller to deal with Matron’s impatient ire head on.

Although the night hours were racked with awful anguish, that was the time Tabbie spent in the presence of Father, learning from Him and sitting at His feet in prayer. Still, the door to her room was never locked and the nurses kept careful vigilance during the night, monitoring her pain level. Even though Tabbie never complained, the nurses knew when the discomfort had become intolerable, as her sharp blue eyes clouded over into an icy grey before relief was administered in the form of pain killers and Tabbie drifted off into another world.

*~*~*~*

Matron Jillian Miles took her job seriously. She was a large, stern woman with a round face who ran the nursing home like a tight navy ship. Crisply in command, nothing escaped her notice and if the nurses did anything wrong, they owned up to it immediately. Some had tried to conceal their guilt when things got out of hand, but when Matron discovered the covert plot to deceive, she let the culprit have it with both barrels once they were discovered. Needless to say, the guilty party never tried it on again. Not only was she known for being decisive and tough, she also had a disguised, soft and compassionate heart which wouldn’t allow her to hold a grudge. Nevertheless, as experience dictated, it was best for subordinates to remain on the leeward side of the staunch disciplinarian and confess all shortcomings, enabling continued survival on the turbulent sea of nursing home protocol.

Matron glanced up at the clock on the wall and sighed. 9:30 am. Although it was time to do her rounds, she hadn’t had the breathing space to even glance at the mountain of paperwork left for her from the nightshift staff and the doctor was already making a steady path towards her station. Just as she shifted gears and mentally prepared for the doctor’s arrival, the phone on her desk began to ring, calling her attention away from her mounting workload. A frustrated huff escaped her lips, watching the doctor rapidly approaching while glancing back to the incessant toll and contemplating to leave it ring. In a moment of weakness, however, she gave in to her natural curiosity and answered it.

Matron Jillian Miles.

A timid voice she didn’t recognise answered her query. Hello, Matron, this is Senior Constable Ian Palmer from the Juvenile Corrections Department.

Yes, Constable Palmer, what can I do for you?

"I know it’s an unusual request, but you’ve helped us out with our Young Offender Programme in the past. I was wondering if we could bring a fourteen-year-old, at-risk female to see Aunt Tabbie. The last time, she facilitated a miraculous turnaround in a very tough case and this time, it's even worse."

Matron couldn’t believe what she was hearing and her ire went from cooling breeze to stiff gale in just a few shaky seconds. "Constable Palmer, Tabbie is not well! I understand that she has an immense love for people, but she is in a nursing home for a reason!"

Palmer felt the passion in Matron’s reply and could almost sense the phone receiver’s temperature rising as the stern woman gave him a taste of her stinging tongue. I... I understand your concerns, Matron, but the Young Offender Programme is falling helplessly behind and is failing this child. If I don't do something, this child will self-destruct!

Matron’s sternness imploded in on itself and she sighed harshly, listening to the desperation and concern in the young policeman's voice, sensing she had just become a victim to her own good-heartedness. "I will talk to Tabbie and if she agrees, then you may bring the child here. On one proviso…"

Name it, Matron! the young constable was about to agree to anything.

"The instant Tabbie shows any sign of distress, you and the child are to leave. Immediately! Agreed?"

Agreed, Palmer released a pent-up and nervous breath, making the phone crackle in Matron’s ear.

*~*~*~*

Two nurses helped Tabbie shower and dress and after she was presentable, Matron entered her room but taking one look at Tabbie’s pained demeanour, Matron was already reconsidering her proposal to the officer.

A young policeman has made a request, Tabbie, Matron’s voice drew Tabbie’s attention away from the busy nurses and to the door where she was standing. He has an at-risk juvenile female of which he is hoping to bring here for you to talk to. I have tentatively approved, providing firstly you agree and secondly, that you are well enough to take on such a task.

The two nurses gawked up at Matron in surprise. Their astonished expressions left little doubt to their opinions, and when their stern boss read their faces with uncanny accuracy, she almost agreed with the unspoken... ‘you’re not serious!’

In contrast to the objections, Tabbie's blue eyes were brilliant in the morning light. She nodded and smiled affably as if this meeting had already been arranged and she was expecting the child at any time. Of course she can come!

Tabbie recognised Father’s fingerprints immediately and tried to stifle a gasp as the nurses lowered her into her wheelchair and then placed her woollen blanket over her legs, hoping Matron wouldn’t protest and cancel the proposed meeting.

*~*~*~*

Ian Palmer strolled casually up to the nursing home’s glass front door in the company of a distracted young girl, as if the occurrence was a normal part of his day. But he felt the nervousness intently when the unimpressed juvenile female protested loudly at coming to an old people's home. Unmoved, Palmer gave the girl an ultimatum: the old people's home, or back to Greyton’s tough and regimented institution for hardened juvenile offenders and take her turn swabbing out the filthy ablution block. Precariously settling on Palmer’s first option, the young girl fidgeted uncomfortably, peering around like a caged animal. Totally out of her peer situation among the old people, she suddenly felt vulnerable wearing Greyton institution’s dark green, long trousers and shirt with anti-social piercings all over her face, telling the world to take a very definite hike. The short-cropped, boot-polish-black hair only intensified the rebellion creeping over her young face, giving her the appearance of hardness far beyond her years. Intentionally, her severe dark appearance purposely deflected any interest in her disguised femininity, making it extremely obvious she didn't trust anyone... especially men.

Palmer pulled the door open for the girl and she slipped in without offering a word. They walked down a polished corridor, his shoes making a clip-clop sound echoing in the quiet as he walked. The girl gawked around in horror at the sights she was taking in, as old people were being wheeled around or slumped and parked in wheelchairs next to windows, doing nothing but staring.

Why did you bring me here?! she squirmed, peering over her shoulder and frantically searching for a safe exit back onto the streets.

There’s someone I want you to meet, Palmer glanced sideways, expecting a negative response.

Well, I don't want to meet them! the girl was becoming agitated.

Calm down, Casey. There’s nothing to fear here.

I'm not afraid! she suddenly spat, leaving her voice echoing up the corridor.

Okay, Wonder Woman, prove it.

The obvious challenge calmed her down. No one spooked out Casey Lowe... no one!

They rounded a corner and pushed open a glass door, entering a large lounge room. An old woman in a wheelchair sat at the end of a lounge and smiled as they entered. Casey was immediately taken by the depth of the old woman's blue eyes and her calm aura surrounded by a peacefulness and warmth she had never felt before. The old woman’s smile drew Casey immediately, but she fought against it, closing her mind, not wanting anyone shaking the strong, emotional walls she’d built around her life for protection.

Casey, this is Aunt Tabbie.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 2

Tabbie’s acute mind surveyed the troubled young girl and her forlorn figure perched uncomfortably on the edge of the lounge. She silently winced at the pieces of metal forced through the young, attractive facial features, pondering the reasons a pretty young woman would deliberately try to mutilate her beauty. But quietly, Tabbie understood the signs of deep self-hatred. With the girl’s harrowing story written vividly in her face, the disturbing eyes reflected the hollow, destructive paths of violent storms not too distant past and the emptiness of a short life full of pain and etched in distrust.

Casey, is it, dear? Tabbie entered the awkward silence.

Yeah! the girl retorted sharply, as if the old woman had no right to ask.

Would you like to tell me something of yourself? Tabbie gently prodded, bracing herself and all too certain of what was coming.

Fat chance, lady! Casey spat defiantly while glancing rebelliously at Palmer.

Casey…! Constable Palmer chided.

Tabbie eyed the constable for a moment and then filled the uneasy silence, Mr Palmer, would you excuse us for a moment, please? Tabbie pointed to the door.

Reluctantly, Constable Palmer rose from his seat next to Casey, gave Tabbie a glance of concern and started for the entrance. I'll be just outside! he threatened.

Tabbie followed him to the door, pushing her wheelchair with her skinny arms. Once he was safely outside the room, Tabbie thrust it shut and locked it behind him. A bewildered expression erupted on Palmer's face as he rattled the door from the outside, making Casey laugh. But she quickly brought herself back in check, not wanting to find any reason to connect with this strange old lady.

Tabbie then wheeled herself directly opposite Casey. Now, if you can't tell me about you, would you allow me to tell you about me?

Tabbie’s smile disarmed the rebellion in Casey’s eyes, but if the old lady was attempting to find out anything about her, she would have to come up with something more eloquent than locking Palmer outside. Considering the old woman’s offer, Casey eyed Tabbie for a long moment, finally coming to a decision.

"Yeah, if you want. But I ain’t saying nothin’!" then enforced her stance by folding her arms across her chest in deliberate defiance.

As Tabbie searched the ceiling for a place to begin her tale, Casey couldn’t help but notice Tabbie's rich, deep blue eyes and felt increasingly drawn by their hypnotising allure, making it more difficult to maintain her bitter facade.

Now, let me see. When I first met my father, Sergeant Major Pell Burns, I was a little younger than you, Tabbie casually stated.

"Hang on... when you met him?!" Casey interjected wildly.

Tabbie giggled at herself. "It does sound a bit strange, but let me explain and it will make more sense as we get further into the story. Sergeant Major Burns was a military man and a God-fearing man. He had a shock of red hair and stood nearly six foot five with a heavy build. He wasn't a handsome specimen by any stretch and being a ranked military officer, he hadn't had time for a wife. His peers just called him Bluey and like any redhead, his temper ignited slowly and then burned hot until he exploded, causing unwary bystanders to dive for cover. Bluey's temper was offset with a deep sense of compassion and concern for hurting people, and yet he could handle the smallest butterfly in his huge hands without hurting it. People respected my dad, especially those under his care, but you just didn't want to mess with him. He loved God and His creation and whenever an opportunity arose, he would walk for hours out into the bush, taking in the beauty of the Creator’s masterpieces.

In 1965, he planned a hiking trip with a close friend to walk the famous Milford Track in New Zealand. Back then, it was still in the hands of the government but conditions on the track were pretty primitive. Everything was planned, aircraft tickets purchased, hiking boots, equipment and all the supplies arranged for the four-day walk. Almost about the time they were supposed to board the plane from Sydney to Auckland, his companion took a tumble and broke his leg, leaving Bluey in a quandary: abort the holiday and lose his outlays, or continue on alone. Tussling with his thoughts, Bluey came to a quick decision and decided to carry on alone, a decision that would have great consequences for the lives of many, especially mine.

*~*~*~*

MAY 1965

The final call for Air New Zealand Flight NZ112 echoed across the passenger lounge, prompting the forty-year-old redheaded giant to make his way towards the boarding gate. A petite hostess in a short miniskirt craned her neck to peer up at Bluey's face, offering the giant a warm smile and handed him back his boarding pass after checking his name against the passenger log. Collecting his pass, he ambled down the sloping walkway, making it reverberate under the passion of his thudding hiking boots, finally finding his way to the waiting brand new DC8 in company of other nervous passengers.

As he entered the aircraft’s doorway, he ducked his head, avoiding a collision with the aircraft frame. Another petite hostess met him at the entrance and pointed him to a window seat, ten rows down. Mentally measuring the seat room, Bluey winced at the confined space he would somehow have to fold himself into for the long, three-hour flight—one of the painful drawbacks of being so big, that smaller humanity couldn’t comprehend. He was sure the confining nightmare would continue once he arrived in Auckland, with a ninety-minute flight to Christchurch in an even smaller Fokker F27.

By the time the DC8 began its taxiing routine in preparation for takeoff, the plane was full and Bluey's long legs were buried in the back of the row in front of him, hoping the person wouldn’t want to recline their seat. The 1960s decor onboard the DC8 were typical brown tones and the seats were padded like hard rubber mats, instead of armchairs. The aircraft came to a halt at the end of the runway and after a few seconds motionless, it turned one hundred and eighty degrees and faced directly down the tarmac and into the wind. As the pilot pulled the throttles wide open on the four jet engines and released the brakes, Bluey could feel the person in the seat in front being pushed back hard against his legs, making the confined space even more cramped. But as the aircraft gathered speed and thrust itself effortlessly into the wide expanse of open blue sky, the airliner levelled out and the pressure on his legs decreased.

An hour and a half into the flight, a meal was served and although Bluey was hungry, he couldn't put the tray table down over his knees and decided to let the meal pass him. The person in the chair in front soon finished their meal and was fidgeting, making Bluey even more uncomfortable.

The expected attempt to recline came and with nowhere for the seat frame to go, the chair remained forcibly upright. The face of an annoyed balding man appeared over the headrest, swivelling resolutely in his seat. Taking a breath, the man determined to give the obstruction a piece of his mind, when his view suddenly filled with the image of an unimpressed suffering giant folded uncomfortably into a sardine-tin-sized compartment. Bluey's face must have spoken volumes, prompting the frightened man to spin around, with no further reclining attempt.

By the time the DC8 landed at Auckland Airport, ninety minutes later, Bluey could finally unfold himself, but his legs were aching from being crammed into the tiny space. He wandered slowly, limping slightly down the international airport hallway to join the line up for customs. The queue was long and moving slowly, but Bluey didn’t mind the delay. It gave him a chance to iron out his frame before the next contortionist act tried to mould his size 20 into a size 6. The officiating customs officers could see Bluey waiting in line, a full head and shoulders above everyone else. Once he finally made the customs' desk, they asked him if he had anything to declare.

Yes, I am stiff and sore from being crammed into a sardine tin, Bluey teased.

One of the customs officers looked him up and down, gawking at his huge size and joked, You’ll need to be careful here at this time of year, sir. Snow is expected at higher altitudes.

The customs officers chortled at the gibe, but were relieved when Bluey joined into the good-hearted banter, waving him on and bidding him a good stay. The tired giant began to relax in the friendly, casual atmosphere and enjoyed his first encounter with the New Zealand people. Making his way down to the luggage collection and finding his property, he then followed a green line painted on the sidewalk for a brisk ten-minute walk to the domestic terminal and the flight to Christchurch. He sighed heavily, contemplating the next painful stage, lifting his backpack onto the check-in carousel and waited for his seat allocation to be confirmed.

Welcome to Auckland, Mr Burns, a sweet natured clerk announced. Your Fokker F27 will leave in fifteen minutes for Christchurch and the South Island. Enjoy your stay, sir.

Bluey nodded to the woman and made his way to the gate and another sardine tin. He peered through the window, looking out onto the tarmac where a tiny, twin-engine aircraft met his gaze, imagining the despot plane poking its tongue out and mocking his big frame.

Great! he sighed, flopping down into an airport lounge seat, making the seat scrape as he landed. Peering eyes watched him with disdain and then quickly looked away to avert his piercing glare.

The Fokker would leave Auckland in the far northwest corner of the North Island and travel over the plains and lowlands; then directly over the Cook Strait between the North and South Islands, hugging the prairies of the eastern South Island before eventually landing in Christchurch, midway down the eastern coast. It was then another long day's travel across the mountains by bus from Christchurch to Te Anau, and the wilderness freedom of the Milford Track. All the hassles of travelling would become insignificant and worth the effort when he could finally relax, encompassed in a frosty, late autumn wonderland.

As the final boarding call was announced, Bluey loitered for as long as he could before entering another painful confined space. A lone hostess watched the big man ambling across the open tarmac toward the small plane from the Fokker door, folded down and acting as a staircase when boarding passengers. As he approached, the quick thinking woman sized up his ability to squeeze into the tiny seats and as she greeted him, she offered him a place next to her at the front of the craft with plenty of leg room. Bluey nearly hugged the hostie as he surveyed the stingy compartments that smaller people were having trouble fitting into and now he could at last relax and enjoy the flight.

By the time the plane touched down into Christchurch, Bluey and the hostie had spent an enjoyable ninety minutes talking and laughing, something that didn't come easily to the big man around women. Reluctantly, Bluey said goodbye to his new friend and went to find his accommodation for the night.

*~*~*~*

Chapter 3

The small city of Christchurch, falling asleep in the chill of the late autumn evening, had an overgrown country town feel to it, yet the niggling promise of a cold night sent weary footsteps fleeing the hobbled sidewalk and leaving the town centre almost abandoned. As Bluey searched up and down the deserted, slender main street for accommodation for the night, most of the shopfronts were closed. However, on the other side of the street about a hundred yards away, a grocer was bringing in his wares for the night, prompting the tired, freezing giant to make a beeline for his position.

As he approached the busy, apron-touting man, Bluey called out, Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for accommodation for the night. Can you help me?

Unconcerned by the familiar request and grappling a heavy load, the grocer shouted deliberately over his shoulder as he struggled inside, wrestling with the remaining tables, Y.M.C.A. down the road on Hailey Street be the only thing open at this time of night. Without waiting for an acknowledgement, the grocer slammed the front door to his shop closed, disturbing