‘Afternoon, Mrs. The man of the hour is missing?’
‘I expect my husband back within a few hours. He is getting everything ready at the flying field.’
‘There again, is he? I thought he might have stayed put, having only a couple of shows left and all. It’s a wonder he still finds anything to do with that blessed machine.’ Rickards is patting his pockets. With a grunt of satisfaction, he produces a folded paper from his waistcoat. ‘Shame he’s not here, for I have very good news. So good I came to deliver it myself. I’ve received word today from Taylor himself!’
When Bess doesn’t respond, unsure to whom he is referring, Rickards regards her like a tutor considering a slow pupil.
‘George Augustine Taylor,’ he says slowly. ‘Secretary of the Aerial League of Australia. Very significant fellow. He has sent a telegram stating he’ll be here this weekend to observe Mr Houdini’s attempts to make a powered and controlled flight.’
Because Rickards seems so pleased, Bess hesitates to raise an objection.
‘He’ll be here at the weekend? Then he may miss the record. If conditions are favourable my husband plans to fly tomorrow, as you know.’
Rickards responds with the dismissive gesture familiar to any of his performers seeking more favourable terms in their contracts.
‘Sure he does. And good luck to him, too. But he’ll fly more than once, and if Taylor is there I’ll ensure he sees something worthwhile.’
‘So you’ll be going to Diggers Rest yourself?’
‘Me? Well, I’m not certain about that. It’s difficult for me to up and leave town when there are shows on. Still, an endorsement from George Taylor himself will be invaluable for Aviation Week in Sydney. And he’s the only one who can officially certify a record.’
He pauses and looks around the room, eyes flitting over her unmade bed and then her hair, which is still damp.
‘Everything alright, my dear? Been having a day indoors?’
‘Just a bit tired,’ Bess replies, annoyed by the liberties Rickards has taken. She tries to guide him to the door. ‘It’s been a long season for all of us.’
‘Indeed it has. And more commitments to come. Another two performances here, then Sydney. If he gets his flying machine up, he’ll get unparalleled attention there. Stirring times on the horizon.’
She nods but says nothing, though she is pleased to see him prepare to leave. He places the telegram on the table near the window.
‘Take care of yourself – and also your husband,’ he says. ‘I’m relying on you to keep him up to the mark. Taylor coming down is quite something for us. Make sure he sees his message. Should fire him up.’
He takes two steps towards the door and then stops, swinging around like a vaudeville comic preparing to deliver a punchline.
‘Oh. Another thing. The trophy your husband discussed with me … tell him I have the matter well in hand.’
‘The trophy?’
‘He didn’t mention it to you? No matter. Just something to commemorate the record in perpetuity. Assure him I’ll have it ready.’
‘But isn’t that premature? He hasn’t even flown yet.’
Rickards smiles indulgently.
‘There’s one thing I’ve learned about this business, my dear: forward-thinking is everything. Have all your props on hand well before opening night – that’s the shot. Right then. Must get along. And I do like your hair like that. A New York style, is it?’
This time he goes – Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines exiting stage right.
Bess returns to the dressing-table and picks up her hair-brush with the mother-of-pearl handle. She sees the reflection of Mayer Samuel, propped up on the bureau, leaning over to one side. She sees the desk on which her husband pens his notes and the phonograph assembled by the composer. She sees the telegram that Rickards has left. The brush lies still in her hand while she gazes into the mirror.
She sees a small woman with large eyes and mussed-up hair.
A faded Floral Sister trying to divine her own future.
44
THE morning sky resembles a child’s painting with finger-streaks of pink and orange and yellow. Harry leans forward, tense and eager, rising up in his seat to admire what he can see in the distance.
‘Just take a look at that,’ he exclaims as the Darracq enters the paddock. His Voisin is out of its canvas hangar. Every strut and support and cable has been given a spectacular backdrop by the sunrise, as though the machine was winched on to a theatre stage and bathed in flattering lights. ‘What a beauty!’ Harry says. ‘Isn’t she magnificent, my sweet?’
The setting is perfect: the colours; a clean sharp scent of grass and leaves; the conditions, warm and calm. Yet from where Bess sits in the rear of Jordan’s motor car, with Mayer Samuel on the bench-seat beside her, the Voisin still resembles a piece of farm machinery. Bess would like to echo her husband’s enthusiasm but feels disoriented after the long drive, which has reminded her of the ghost train at Coney Island with its dips and lurches and darkness. Yet she knows her husband needs her today: needs to hear her wish him well before strapping on his goggles and securing the leather flying-cap with its dangling flaps like a beagle’s ears. So Bess tries to sound positive.
‘It looks ready to go,’ she says, raising her son up so he can see.
Harry nods, but he is impatient. He jumps from the Darracq before Jordan brings it to a halt, staggering briefly on the ground before regaining his balance and running the fifty yards to the Voisin, carrying the small bundle he has kept by his feet during the drive. Brassac is tinkering with the propeller; Bess guesses it is him by the outline of his hat.
‘So – we’re all set?’ Harry asks him, not even bothering with a greeting. The mechanic gives the slightest of shrugs. He strokes his dark moustache and then raises his head like a dog sniffing the air. Not even a zephyr caresses his cheeks, and when Brassac returns his attention to the propeller and his spanner without raising any objections, Harry knows he will not hold him back this time. But suddenly Harry is unsure what he should do first. He must put on his cap and goggles, which he has brought with him; the Voisin’s engine must be warmed up; then the controls tested with a trial run around the paddock. And he must pray for no breeze. He turns, distracted by a voice behind him.
‘Allow me – no, I absolutely insist.’
Ralph Banks is leading Bess from the Darracq towards the Voisin. He has introduced himself and offered her his left arm, as if escorting her to a grand ball. In his other hand he carries a stool.
‘Morning, Old Boy,’ he calls out to Harry as they approach.
He places the stool on the ground, helps Bess settle down, then shakes Harry’s hand too enthusiastically. The gash on his chin has still not healed.
