He takes it from her. Squints slightly to read it. Then replies:
‘No. This is the love duet from Act Two. Dick Johnson the outlaw and his Minnie.’ Softly, as if reading the lyrics for the first time, he recites: ‘“Mia gioia, o amor! Con te, mio amor, con te!” But these are just words. If only you could hear my music that accompanies them. Rises above everything.’
‘I hope to hear it one day. But what do those words mean? I know very little Italian.’
‘What do they mean?’
He looks straight at her.
‘What joy, my love, to be with you.’
Silence. Then Audran knocks on the door.
51
MOTOR cars begin arriving at the paddock before dawn, inching up the slight slope like penguins struggling towards their burrows on a beach. Then the horse-drawn buggies, springs creaking, and local children on ponies determined to see this contraption of box-kites and cables that some say cleared the treetops two days earlier. Word has spread that the ‘World’s Greatest Mystifier’ may do more than just fly his machine. He will allow himself to be shackled and then suspended upside-down during a flight. He will take off while blindfolded. He will leap, fully clothed, from his Voisin biplane into the Plumpton dam. Any of these rumours seem plausible, and Rickards is not responsible for all of them.
It is Sunday. Theatres and stores and post offices and museums and eating-houses are closed; there is little alternative entertainment. Few dare speak openly about it, but flying machines are known to be dangerous things: this experiment with flight offers people a tantalising chance to watch a birdman seriously injure himself or even die. Now that executions are no longer held in public, there are few opportunities to witness such a compelling spectacle. Harry understands this. He accepts that the surest way to attract a crowd is to make it known that at a certain time and place he will attempt a spectacular stunt that could lead to his sudden death.
Sydney-based sailors from the racing yachts Culwalla and Sayonara, photographed by The Argus just two days earlier, engage vehicles to ferry them to Diggers Rest. John Jordan learns to his chagrin what some of his fellow drivers are charging to convey spectators from Melbourne to the paddock, replicating the same journey he has made in his Darracq dozens of times over the previous weeks, and curses the fact that he will miss out on this financial bonanza. His only prospect of extra income lies with the phonographs he has not yet offloaded. But in the paddock there will be greater demand for bottles of cool lemonade or ale than anything musical.
Ralph Banks hears, then sees, the first of the vehicles arriving while taking his first piss of the morning. He drips on his trousers in his haste to button himself up. Brassac mutters a single word – ‘cirque’ – and spits on the ground. Together they ease the Voisin into the open. They have not fully completed this process when Brassac stops and shakes his head.
‘Beaucoup de vent,’ he says.
Banks feels it too: a light wind from the south-east, enough to make the fabric on the Voisin’s wings billow where it catches the breeze. The two men exchange a glance. Then the machine’s owner is upon them, wearing his cream suit once again, greeting them with hearty backslaps as if they haven’t seen each other in many months. Other vehicles pull up nearby, their drivers having followed Jordan’s Darracq into the paddock, and soon the Voisin is surrounded by a throng of wide-eyed, inquisitive people.
Brassac tips his hat and nods in the direction of Mrs Houdini, who has remained seated in the back of Jordan’s car. The mechanic would like to pay his respects in person, as she is always friendly to him, but is concerned about all the strangers around the Voisin. He is poised to use his spanner on the fingers of anyone trying to touch his machine when Harry leads the crowd away, signing autographs on newspapers and shirtsleeves and talking about flight. Banks follows, curious to hear what he is saying.
‘I don’t even seem to hear the propeller when I’m up. I only know it’s there right behind me,’ Harry says. Spotting Banks, he decides that an introduction is necessary: ‘This is my brother aviator Mr Banks, who might have claimed the record himself if not for an unfortunate mishap.’
Banks smiles, which hurts his face. But nobody wants his autograph. And while Banks admires Harry’s relaxed familiarity with these strangers, he senses he is waiting for someone. He seems impatient. Every time another car arrives he appraises it before looking away, apparently disappointed.
‘Your wife is coming?’
‘My wife is already here,’ Harry replies distractedly. ‘She accompanied me. And our son. My promoter Rickards is coming also, plus the guy who can ice things for me – Taylor of the Aerial League.’ Banks whistles softly.
‘George Taylor? I’ve heard of him. A chum of Hargrave’s. Last year he got off the ground himself from sand-dunes near Sydney in a motorless aeroplane. They say he’s a bit of a daredevil.’
‘Rickards maintains that Taylor is the one who can certify what I’ve achieved here,’ Harry continues. ‘Settle things beyond any doubt.’
‘Is there any doubt, Old Boy?’
Harry is looking away again.
‘I wonder if this could be them now,’ he says. A fine automobile gleams in the early light. Brassac and Banks are the first to guess the driver’s identity.
‘Monsieur Headmaster,’ says the mechanic.
‘Sod it,’ Banks responds. He wanders off to make himself less obvious.
The Oldsmobile halts. Lawrence Adamson emerges as if ready to address a school assembly. All that he lacks is an academic gown.
‘Houdini,’ he begins, with a curt nod. ‘I intend to satisfy myself that everything here is above board.’
‘Of course,’ Harry replies. Then he realises there are other men in the motor car. They get out even as Adamson strides away to inspect the Voisin: first Rickards, very dapper in a straw boater with a violet band that matches his tie; then a smaller man, bareheaded, whose most striking feature is a droopy bow-tie wedged between the peaks of his starched collar. Coupled with an aquiline nose and a high forehead, this spotted tie gives him the appearance of a man who would be more at home in a library than a scrubby field. Yet he surveys the scene with undisguised delight and thrusts one hand out at Harry before Rickards can even introduce them.
‘George Augustine Taylor,’ he says in a high-pitched voice. ‘Overjoyed to meet another disciple of the Air Age! Such a celebrated one, too.’
‘Swell to see you here,’ Harry responds. ‘I hope I can put on a good show.’
‘Course you will, Double,’ says Rickards. ‘Everyone here is in your corner. Except for him, of course.’ He winks at Adamson, who appears to be interrogating Brassac. The mechanic keeps his spanner ready.
‘You mustn’t mind him,’ says Taylor, sweeping back a forelock. ‘Our friend Adamson backed the wrong horse, that’s all. But this country needs men like him who appreciate that aviation represents the future.’
He wishes Harry good luck and turns to make his own examination of the Voisin. Rickards remains behind, apparently well pleased with himself.
‘Blooming masterstroke getting him here, Double.’
‘Taylor?’
‘No – Adamson. Once I offered him the chance to hob-nob with the honorary secretary of the Aerial League, he didn’t hesitate. Even proposed we use his vehicle, just as I’d hoped. Shouldn’t you be getting ready?’
‘Sure,’ says Harry, noticing that the crowd has swelled further. He hears laughter; an eager buzz of conversation. A man in shirtsleeves has unfolded a tripod and is securing his bulky black camera to its top.
‘All these people … Astonishing. There was barely anyone yesterday.’
