The Boy and the Squeaky Trolley

The trolley had one bad wheel, and everyone on the launch field knew it.

It sat at the front on the left side, and it squeaked at every turn. It was a thin, high noise, like a mouse singing in a cupboard. He pushed the trolley across the grass in the early light. The wheel announced him to the whole field before he arrived.

He was fifteen, and this was his first summer job. Every morning he reached the field at four o'clock, when the sky was still dark blue. His work was simple. He loaded the trolley with baskets, burner pipes and folded fabric. Then he wheeled it from the van to the launch line. Then he waited for the next load.

The balloon pilots arrived in twos and threes, drinking coffee from paper cups. They were friendly, but they never used his name. They said, "Hey, trolley boy," or, "Where is the trolley?" or just, "You." Ferran had told them his name on the first day. Two weeks later, he was still waiting for someone to use it.

It was a small thing, and it mattered more every day.

On a quiet Thursday, he stood at the edge of the field. He watched the first balloon fill with warm air. The fabric rose slowly from the grass, round and glowing. It looked like a lamp the size of a house. A young woman in a green jacket stood beside the basket, checking a line of small flags. This was Yelena. She was the youngest pilot on the field. She was also the only one who ever said thank you.

"Good morning," she called. "Is that your trolley making all that noise?"

"Yes," Ferran said. He felt his shoulders go stiff. "I'm sorry. I've tried to fix it. It won't stop."

"Don't be sorry. I can hear you coming from the other side of the field." She smiled at him. "It's useful."

"I wish somebody would just say my name," Ferran said. He did not mean to say it aloud. The words simply fell out of his mouth.

Yelena tilted her head. "What is your name?"

"Ferran."

"Ferran," she repeated, slowly, as if she were tasting it. "That's a good name. But I think I can do better than that."

"Better?"

"A name that people will remember." She grinned. "Leave it with me."

Ferran did not know what that meant, so he decided to forget it.

The next day, he arrived at the field and heard the news before he saw anyone. A voice was shouting across the grass.

"Squeak! Hey, Squeak! Over here!"

It was the oldest pilot, a tall man with a moustache. He waved both arms. Another pilot came running with a coffee in each hand.

"Squeak, can you bring the big basket? Please?"

"Squeak, where is the spare burner?"

Ferran stood in the middle of the field and stared at them. Behind a balloon, Yelena was trying very hard not to laugh.

"You told them to call me that," he said.

"I told them it was your name," she said. "Pilot's honour."

"It's not my name! It's the sound of a broken wheel."

"It's a nickname. They are different things." Yelena put a hand on his shoulder. "Nobody forgets a nickname. Besides, it is much better than trolley boy."

Ferran wanted to be angry. He looked at her face and then at the pilots waving at him. He could not find the anger anywhere. Something warm sat in his chest instead, and it felt a little bit like being at home.

"I wished for a name," he said finally. "I didn't wish for that one."

"Wishes never come in the shape you expect," Yelena said. "That's how you know they are real."

For the next week, everybody on the field used the word. Ferran got used to it. He began to answer to it without thinking, the way a dog answers to its own name.

Then came Saturday.

It was the biggest morning of the summer. Seven balloons lifted off together, and the sky filled with colour. Ferran stood at the launch line with a hot cup in his hands. He watched them climb, one after another, into the pink morning light. Yelena's balloon was the last. It was white and gold, and it rose without a sound.

Normally the pilots landed within a few miles, and the chase crew drove out to collect them. But that morning the air carried Yelena a very long way. She drifted past the river and over the low hills. At last she came down in a huge field of tall maize, far from any road.

Ferran heard the news ten minutes later, when the chase driver called the field on the radio.

"We can't find her," the driver said. His voice was tight. "The maize is taller than a man. We can see the balloon from the road, but there is no track to it. We have driven round the whole field twice, and she has no signal on her phone."

The crew chief frowned. "Send the trolley," he said. "We need someone on foot with the equipment bags. Squeak, can you go with the second van?"

"I can," Ferran said.

He loaded the empty envelope bags and climbed into the van beside the driver. Twenty minutes later, they stood at the edge of the maize. The stalks made a green wall in front of them.

"She's in there somewhere," the driver said. "But I can't drive through it, and I can't hear her."

Ferran looked at the wall of maize. He looked at the trolley in the back of the van, with its one bad wheel. Then he had an idea. It came so fast that he did not dare to say it aloud.

He lifted the trolley down onto the track. He took hold of the handle. He began to push it slowly along the edge of the field, back and forth, back and forth.

Squeak, went the wheel, again and again.

The sound was thin and high, and it carried across the maize like the call of a bird.

"What are you doing?" the driver asked.

"Wait," Ferran said. "She told me she could hear me from the other side of the field."

They stood in silence. Ferran pushed the trolley another ten steps, and then another ten. His arms were beginning to ache.

Then, far inside the maize, a voice rose.

"Squeak!"

Ferran stopped. His heart jumped.

"Is that you? I can hear you! Keep going!"

"She's to the left," the driver said. "Past that tall tree!"

Ferran pushed harder. He turned the trolley, and the wheel sang out loudly, and the voice answered from a little closer. The driver found a narrow gap between the stalks and started cutting a path. Ferran followed with the trolley, step after step. The voice grew nearer until he could hear laughing in it.

Then the stalks parted, and there she was. Yelena stood in a small clearing beside her fallen balloon. Her jacket was covered in leaves, and her hair was full of pollen. She looked tired and very glad to see him.

"I knew it," she said. "I told them. Nobody could lose a trolley with a wheel like that."

Ferran laughed. He could not help it. He stood in the middle of the maize. The balloon lay spread beside him like a great gold flower. He laughed until his eyes were wet.

"Thank you, Squeak," Yelena said.

"You're welcome," said Ferran.

He took the trolley's handle again. The wheel turned once, and spoke for him.

Squeak.