‘Steady progress, Rickards. I will be there again on Sunday. My machine is a magnificent piece of engineering. And almost ready.’
‘Ready in days, Double?’
‘Weeks, if not days. Depending on weather. Which none of us control.’
‘More’s the pity,’ says Rickards, pocketing the liniment jar. ‘I’ll take this. The manufacturer’s details are on the back label. There are discussions to be had. In which, I warrant, I will be the one in control.’
Harry is silent after the promoter leaves. He is only half-dressed, with the fresh shirt Kukol has out for him still on its hanger.
Bess is content to wait again. Pleased, too, that the departing spectators appear to have been forgotten. She is intrigued to know what the composer thought of the show. She tries to recall some of his tunes. An aria, perhaps, from La Boheme or Tosca. But she soon gives up. The lingering smell of the remedy for tender feet or lacerated wrists is too distracting.
22
ON Sunday the sky is bleached blue and cloudless, although rain the previous night has left shallow pools in depressions on the track. Jordan can feel the wheels of his Darracq slipping on the damp surface as he nurses the car into Plumpton’s Paddock. He follows the faded strips in the tufty brown grass worn down by vehicles carrying crates of equipment and supplies. Harry appears invigorated by their arrival. He turns his face up to soak in the morning sunshine and thrusts his left hand high into the air. ‘Very little breeze,’ he declares. ‘Swell!’
They are well into the paddock when they see something travelling across their path up ahead – a very large motor car, or perhaps a lorry of some sort, apparently moving much faster than the Darracq.
‘What the …?’ murmurs Jordan, puzzled. Harry has risen slightly, hanging on to the low windshield for balance, also trying to identify this other vehicle. Then they hear it: a throbbing roar; angry and insistent. Closer now, they see that it is much bigger than they had imagined and a strange shape, broader than it is long.
‘Strike me, it’s a flying machine,’ says Jordan with a smirk. ‘Looks like that French grease-monkey is giving your crate a test run himself.’
But Harry is sinking back in his seat. His animation has vanished, replaced by abject despair. He seems to Jordan like a boy who has run to a store for sweets only to find the door bolted.
‘That’s not Brassac, or my Voisin,’ Harry says. ‘It’s the Wright machine. Banks plans to beat me to the record.’
Jordan stops the Darracq. They get out and watch the lumbering Wright machine continue its progress, its engine ever louder, reminding Jordan of an oversized toy, a rickety structure of boxes and struts and cables. It looks incomplete, as if the manufacturer ran out of parts to finish it. Broad horizontal sections are held together by flimsy poles. At its centre, like the body of a long-legged spider, is a dark shape – a seated man surrounded by equipment. He appears to be wearing gloves and goggles of some sort. The only part of him visible is the lower part of his face. No expression can be discerned because of his machine’s violent progress.
It is heading down a slight incline towards them, man and machine transformed into a blur as it lurches over the ground. Now they can also hear rattling: it sounds like every joint and screw and seam is about to come apart. The wheels – two near the centre, one at the front – look absurdly small and fragile. Acrid smoke hangs in the air behind it. The pace quickens, the engine noise increases. As they watch, flaps on the horizontal sections are twisted and the leading wheel skips once or twice, rises, and then is off the ground altogether.
‘He’s going to take it up!’ Jordan shouts.
Harry has taken several steps away and stands alone, hands on his head, powerless to do anything other than watch. Nobody can hear his anguished cry: ‘Beaten – I am beaten!’
And then, without warning, the engine noise decreases. The roar becomes a rumble and sputters out altogether after a final puff of dark smoke. The machine’s front wheel spins wildly on the rough grass and rolls to a halt a hundred yards or so away from where they are. There is an erratic shaking as the thing stops vibrating, then everything is still. Hot and still.
The man in the middle fiddles with some levers and clambers free, stepping over obstacles as if he were getting out of a cage. He jumps down, strips off his gloves, and nudges a pair of goggles up his forehead. Then he turns to watch Harry sprinting towards him.
As soon as the Wright machine slows down, Harry has set off. Running is awkward because of the wedges in his shoes, but he ignores the discomfort. He is focused entirely on the machine, its wooden propeller still spinning, and the man beside it; a large-framed man with broad shoulders, a leather jacket half-buttoned up, and a black streak across his sun-burned face. The tips of his gloves are also marked with grease: he is examining them when Harry hails him; even before he has quite stopped running.
‘Banks!’
‘Hello Old Boy,’ the pilot replies. ‘Magnificent morning, hmm?’
‘I thought … I thought you were going to take it up,’ says Harry, panting.
‘So did I. Conditions felt right – barely any breeze. But it was just a final test, assessing how the engine’s running under strain. Like a top, it seems. No, I will make my attempt at dawn tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’ Harry tries to sound casual. Sweat stings his eyes.
‘Why wait? Everything is in order.’
Banks takes a rag from his back pocket and uses it to wipe clumps of damp grass off his machine’s front wheel before returning his attention to Harry.
‘Will you be here? Should be something to see. You could be a witness to the flight. You and Adamson both.’
Harry is irked by his rival’s confidence.
‘Who’s Adamson?’
‘Headmaster of Wesley College. A man of many parts. This is his machine. He imported it last year and wants to be present when the record is set in his flier.’
‘If that’s what you manage,’ Harry responds. ‘I am also after that record.’
‘Don’t fancy your chances,’ says Banks, removing his goggles. ‘Your man is tugging his moustache out trying to fix your bird’s motor. Been sounding like a grandma with croup.’
‘Damn Brassac! He assured me he could fix it … Where is he, anyway?’
Banks gestures towards the far part of the paddock.
‘Still up there, I’ll wager, tinkering with something. He’s a cautious one, for sure. Warned me against trying a run at full throttle today.’
‘Nothing is achieved without risk,’ Harry replies. ‘And I’m going to tell him so myself.’ He starts walking back to the Darracq. Jordan is lounging against its side, enjoying the sunshine and a cigarette.
‘Was rather hoping you might give me a tow, Old Boy.’
The request comes from behind. Harry stops and turns around.
