‘A tow?’
‘Get your driver to bring his vehicle alongside, fix a rope, and pull this thing back up. Bit of a chore, otherwise.’
Banks says this with the nonchalance of a man asking to borrow a match. Harry nods and continues towards the Darracq. Sensing his mood, the driver lets him speak first. Jordan drops a cigarette at his feet and grinds it into the ground with a boot before replying.
‘Haulage as well now, is it?’ he says. ‘Righto then, if that’s what you want. But if it strains the motor someone will have to pay for it.’
Harry raises both hands in frustration. On stage – submerged in a milk-can, nailed inside a cabinet, restrained by a straightjacket – he is able to calculate to the second when he should free himself. But in this scrubby field he can shape events no more than he can stifle a breeze. He has been shackled by an unfamiliar set of handcuffs for which he doesn’t have a key.
Jordan drives his automobile closer to the Wright machine.
‘Like a dog pulling a bloody cow,’ he grumbles, before retrieving a length of rope from his toolbox and bending down to attach it to a bracket behind the machine’s leading wheel. Banks stops him.
‘Best I do that,’ he says. ‘Further back, I think – closer to the vertical struts, more central. Stronger there, you know.’
Jordan lets the rope fall on the ground, then returns to his vehicle.
Banks secures the rope and lifts a hand. Jordan slowly lets out the clutch and the Darracq strains forward. The rope between the two machines rises. As soon as it is taut, Banks gives the Wright flier a push from behind. It shivers and moves ahead, squeaking and groaning. Jordan glances back over his shoulder, increases speed a little, and engages second gear. The Darracq blows smoke but doesn’t stall. Harry is sitting in front, looking straight ahead. They have travelled just a little way when there is a bump and the car dips on Harry’s side. Banks has jogged ahead and jumped up next to him on the car’s running-board.
‘All going swimmingly,’ he says. ‘So I’ll save my strength.’
Then he starts to sing. Badly. Out of tune and skipping words.
‘Take good care of mother, boys, when I’m dead and gone,
‘Try and keep her last days free from pain,
‘Respect her old grey head, remember when she’s dead,
‘You will never know a mother’s love again …’
Harry finds it intensely irritating. Also disturbing, because of the distance between himself and his own mother. Yet he won’t tell Banks to stop, for that would further reveal his discomfort.
Jordan also stays silent. Although unhappy about the way his vehicle has been used, he enjoys the way Banks has irritated his impatient employer.
Jordan is now familiar with the paddock’s topography. He knows the location of the dam, only half-filled with water the colour of milky tea. He is familiar with the stand of trees around it, and the pair of improvised canvas hangars – like things left behind by a travelling circus – that house the Wright machine, the Voisin, and their attendants. It seems to Jordan that the two camps reflect the differences between the competing enterprises. The first, for a transplanted Englishman using an American machine, is relatively anonymous. The other is promoted like one of Rickards’ shows. ‘HOUDINI’ signs have been propped up against tree stumps, although there have been few visitors to see them.
Jordan stops near Banks’ camp, leaving the car engine running. Banks leaps off to prevent the Wright machine lurching on ahead, and if he notices that neither Harry nor Jordan get out to help him untie the tow-rope he says nothing about it. His manner is still jovial when he tosses the rope, neatly coiled, into the back of the car.
‘Much obliged,’ he says to the driver. Then he addresses Harry.
‘Will I see you tomorrow morning?’
The reply is clipped and immediate. ‘Yes. You will.’
Banks nods, then looks around and says:
‘Your name is everywhere, Old Boy. On the crates. On the sides of your machine in giant capital letters. But, you know, after I am the first to fly, it is my name people will remember.’ He walks away whistling.
Harry still cannot see his mechanic. This irks him further, and his mood worsens when Jordan mutters: ‘So we’re staying, are we?’
‘I must be here if Banks makes his attempt. We can return well in time for the performance on Monday night. You have a problem with that?’
‘No problem, mate,’ Jordan replies, rotating a matchstick between his teeth. ‘As I’ve said – you’re the one paying. Though you’ll pay a bit more for this, of course. First haulage, now an overnighter.’
‘And I will need you to drive to the Diggers Rest township later to send a telegram to Mrs Houdini, advising her I won’t be returning today.’
‘Can’t be done. Post offices are shut on Sunday.’ Seeing Harry’s exasperated expression, he adds: ‘I might find someone with one of them telephones.’
Harry grunts an acknowledgement, then asks: ‘Where in hell is Brassac?’
Jordan has stopped his car outside the tent, from which the front portion of the Voisin protrudes, when the mechanic appears. He is wearing his bowler hat, as black as his neatly trimmed moustache, and his tie is knotted in the centre of his stiff collar. This is visible above his customary grey apron over a dark suit. He is holding some cogs from a gear assembly like a chef emerging from his kitchen with a joint for lunch. When Jordan kills the engine, he fancies he hears music within the tent. But Harry shows no sign of noticing this. Ignoring the mechanic’s polite greeting, he approaches his man with evident agitation.
‘Did you know Banks plans to make his attempt in the morning?’
Brassac nods.
‘And that he has made a practice run already today?’
Brassac lifts his shoulders and lets them fall.
Harry sighs and momentarily stops pacing.
‘My Voisin – is it ready?’
‘Near ready. But …’
‘But what?’
