‘All obstacles are falling,’ he’d cried. ‘The record is mine to claim!’
He’s welcome to it, Rickards tells himself, shuddering at the thought of leaving the earth in one of those contraptions. But already he’s thinking how good it could look in his advertisements for Aviation Week: ‘Featuring The First To Fly In Australia! Also Appearing Nightly At The Tivoli.’
More cheering above. Rickards is barely listening. He is wondering if he might manage to get a flying machine on stage inside a theatre.
JOHN Jordan pulls his cap down even lower, fastens the top button of his jacket, and turns up the collar. It’s the best he can do, but rain will still trickle inside his shirt. His Darracq is not waterproof, either. Although he has secured the roof he doubts it will keep out a downpour like this.
Sheltering under the awning of the King’s Theatre, where The Prince and the Beggar Maid should be finishing within a quarter hour, Jordan curses the greed and folly that led him to take his motor car out for the evening, hoping for a few passengers to make it worthwhile. Should have taken the night off. At least Houdini has said nothing about returning to the paddock again tomorrow. Probably trying to make things sweet with his wife.
He’s meant to be getting her one of the Champion phonographs: must have one ready next time he does a pick-up and be sure he gets paid for it. He also needs to get more recordings for Brassac: that should secure the sale. Jordan hears muffled applause from inside. Close to the end, he guesses. One decent passenger will do him – with any luck, a well-heeled type heading to Flemington or Essendon. Then, in the morning, he’ll lie in, ignoring the roosters and dogs and people stirring nearby. He can be sure there’ll be another pre-dawn start before long.
He turns. Someone large is splashing his way through the gloom, sticking close to the shopfronts for shelter. Only when he is beside him does Jordan make out the dark cloth and metal buttons of a policeman’s uniform. Rain is streaming off his helmet and the ends of his thick moustache.
‘What a night!’ the policeman says. ‘Could feel it building up for hours. Now it’s really come down.’
Jordan grunts in agreement. The policeman stamps his sodden feet.
‘Flinders Street. Near the station. Isn’t that your usual spot?’
‘Haven’t been there much lately,’ Jordan replies. ‘Got myself a regular job driving that American handcuff bloke. Know the one I mean?’
The policeman grins. His teeth are uneven.
‘Sure do. Hauled him into the dinghy myself after he’d done his Yarra stunt. Spewed his guts out. Could have ruined my boots. What’s he like?’
‘Odd fish. Restless. Mamma’s boy. But he’s got money, which is what I like. You know, he’s convinced himself he disturbed a body in the river.’
‘Maybe he did. Though I reckon I would have seen it. That’s the place some of them do it. Off the bridge. And when there’s rain like this, all sorts of stuff gets swept down from upstream. Bodies too.’
‘What happens to them?’
The policeman removes his helmet, dabs his wet hair with a handkerchief.
‘Some go out to sea. Others end up on a sack of ice at the mortuary. And unless they’re claimed, which is unlikely, as I dunno how anyone could recognise some of ’em, they’ll take a one-way journey to a paupers’ pit at the cemetery. And if the carter can’t be buggered making the trip’ – he leans forward, so that Jordan can smell the tobacco on his breath – ‘they’ll get stones put in their pockets and be tossed back in the river.’
IN Adelaide it isn’t raining. The crowds have thinned at Martin’s Magic Cave. After more than a fortnight on display the novelty value of a French flying machine has diminished. But Frederick Jones now knows where it’s going next – a patch of farm land at Bolivar, north of town. Room enough for some trials. The owner of the property, a farmer named Winzor, hasn’t asked for a fee. So the Bleriot will go to Bolivar, the weekend after next.
And the comet is coming.
29
Vendredi 4 Mars 1910
Welcome to Lake Plumpton.
Water everywhere in this place. Water making mud. Water finding holes in the canvas. Never in my apartment on the Boulevard Chantilly have I been so wet in the night. A night warm and still before the rain comes.
In the west, clouds came together like a blanket coloured violet. Then rain. Not as I have seen here before – rain for a short time only and then dry again. Last night the air became water, making noise on the canvas. I must move my bed under the Voisin wings for cover. I hear water dripping on the stretch fabric.
I worry that this fabric on the wings will be too tight and rip.
Ralfbanks has no machine for shelter. His tent only. The Wright is finis.
I wonder if he wakes up, his face full of pain, and thinks he has dreamed everything bad. Then he touches his mouth and eyes still sore and knows it was no dream. Now his trousers and boots are wet too. And when he leaves the tent, heavy with water on top, he can find his broken bird.
We have had no conversation since I take him tea and the phonograph. Ralfbanks wants to be solitary.
This morning, when rain was gone and there was sun to make steam off the ground, I saw Ralfbanks take some things outside to dry.
He moved his right arm, but I cannot say if he waved to me or was testing his damaged shoulder. He studied the mud and water where Plumpton has been dry. He rested on a stool, his torn-up face turned to the sun.
I am content with the rain. Nobody will come tomorrow. Even if Mr H. wants to hurry, Jordan the driver will not allow his auto on mud roads.
Because there will be no visitors I will take a small vacation.
I make loose the ropes and pull back the canvas, careful so that more water cannot fall inside, then let my blankets and the Voisin feel the sun. With an old shirt I will rub at the engine, to check that no rain has got into places for oil to cause more coughing. Then I will work no more.
I will boil a pot with wood kept dry under a packing case. Then I will brew some coffee and sip it, very slow. After, I will take the trenching tool and walk to a place inside the trees where I scoop a hole and move the intestines. Then I make a walk, keeping the tool with me for snakes.
Plumpton smells different in the wet.
Rain has made these pointed leaves smell when they are broken between fingers. A smell to clear the nose. The grass has a sharp smell too, although it has been torn up where the Wright machine came down. I look at scars on the ground and know that Mr H. will have record if he will listen to Brassac.
Making the Voisin fly is not like his stage magic. No tricks. No slipping knots. No curtain to hide behind. With patience he has the record.
Without, he will crash like Ralfbanks. I know this.
