Banks takes another sip and this time keeps it down. After slurping some more he returns the flask to Jordan, who walks away to examine the debris. Harry unwinds a length of the bandage to secure around Banks’s forehead. He is familiar with bandages. One of his tricks, a variation on the straightjacket escape, uses bandages soaked in water to make them tighter. But he needs Jordan to hold one end of the bandage while he cuts it. He looks up to see where the driver has got to and notices that Brassac has arrived. Seeing the wreckage, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.
Harry is about to call for assistance when another motor car arrives some twenty yards away. Leaving the engine of his Oldsmobile running, as if he does not plan to stay long, Adamson gets out, gives his pilot a cursory glance to satisfy himself he is conscious, then steps briskly towards the remnants of his investment.
‘What a waste,’ is all he says. ‘A wretched, damnable waste.’
Harry does not know if he means money or time and the headmaster will not make eye contact with him, let alone assist Banks. He is considering holding the loose end of the bandage with his teeth, leaving his hands free to cut and tie it, when he senses a sudden movement.
A flock of parrots is passing overhead. Harry is transfixed by their colours, brilliant reds and greens and yellows, and the way they swoop and soar. The birds dip and glide, circling the accident scene and squawking as if finding it especially interesting. Then they are gone again.
Flight is as natural to them as breathing.
Quiet. Effortless. Easy.
26
Mardi 1 Mars 1910
Ralfbanks is finished.
He believed he was ready. Now the Wright machine is no more.
The schoolmaster departed in his pretty motor car muttering words not fit for school. He has left Ralfbanks to gather pieces of his machine and see which can be saved for something more.
I think not many. The Wright breaks like porcelain.
Ralfbanks is broken also. Head and mouth bleeding and one eye closed the colour of an aubergine. When the dark comes I bring to him some tea I made from the camomille. M. Bleriot’s favourite.
I say Oldboy, it smells like medicine.
His voice sounds like his tongue has grown too big. He tries to drink but I see this hurts his mouth. There are cuts inside.
Cuts will mend, but not his machine. Is strange to see Ralfbanks beside his tent without the Wright. There is a hole where it was. The engine and much else are smashed and there are no parts to fix it.
I worry still about parts for the Voisin.
Take what you need Oldboy, Ralfbanks tells me. He will never know, he says, looking where the schoolmaster has gone.
But these machines make an unhappy marriage. One French. One American. Tomorrow I will check its nuts to be sure.
Mr H. has not talked of the nuts I left in the Paris taxi for some time. Perhaps he has forgotten. He is happy now.
When the Wright left the ground he fears his record goes with it. But then Ralfbanks crashes too soon.
I can still be the first, Brassac, Mr H. tells me after.
He holds me as I have seen him hold petite Mrs H. and I fear he will kiss my lips. In one day, one hour, in the time that Ralfbanks goes up then down, clouds have become sunshine for Mr H.
But he will hurry. I know this. He must go to Sydney in a few weeks.
Still he has performances in the city. So I will not see Mr H. for some days. I am content with that. Now in this place once more is only Brassac, Ralfbanks, the Voisin and a broken Wright machine.
Mr H. will hurry though I must instruct him to learn from Ralfbanks.
Have patience.
Gather the most power before leaving ground.
Rise slow and hold rudder gentle like a baby’s fingers.
Most important: beware the wind.
Ralfbanks cannot fly, but in this place wind can still defeat Mr H.
Ralfbanks is a rival no more. The schoolmaster drove away but Mr H. gave him bandages. Jordan the driver brought him drink.
And I gave him music as well as tea. Until Mr H. comes once more, Ralfbanks has the Champion phonograph.
I bring it to him across the paddock, careful not to drop or get dust in its works. I show him how to crank up the machine to start.
He says he cannot take my Champion. But I tell him I am tired of the marching band and George H. Diamond’s mother.
When Jordan brings me more recordings I will resume the phonograph.
Ralfbanks thinks this a joke. Though it hurts him to smile.
New records, Oldboy? More than I will ever have.
