Harry seems perplexed by her questions.
‘My dear, this is precisely why I hired Brassac when I bought the Voisin in Germany. There is no better mechanic than Brassac. No mother tends her child more tenderly than he looks after my machine. He worked for Bleriot – first man to fly over the English Channel. I trust him to get things ready. Only when everything is prepared will I take my place at the controls of the Voisin. Then I can soar like a gull swooping over the waves.’
He can picture himself doing this. Glows while recalling his first successful flight in Hamburg three months earlier – the exhilarating feeling it gave him of being completely liberated. After a lifetime spent being confined, restrained and locked up on stage, he experienced a novel sense of release. Harry can also remember the world’s response to Bleriot’s historic achievement the previous July. He had been performing in London at the time, but the response to his most daring routines were not a patch on the awestruck enthusiasm for the Frenchman and his rickety machine. Nobody, nobody, had ever done anything so bold. Fly clear from one country to another! In a matter of hours Bleriot became the talk of the world.
Always envious of anyone else’s success, Harry knew at once he had to achieve something similar – at the very least, incorporate aviation in his own act. Perhaps pull off one of his escapes while dangling from a moving flying machine …
Now, in this new country, he has a chance to add his name to the aviators’ honour board. His fork, with the last chunk of chop, is poised in mid-air. And Bess, who knows how quickly he can be distracted, is annoyed.
‘You didn’t answer my question. With everything else you already have on, when will you find time for your machine?’
‘Sundays, to start with. I have no performances on Sundays. Plus there are days clear without matinees. And, well, I will see what is necessary. Find a way to get things done. As I always do.’
‘And how will you get there? Isn’t this farm some distance away?’
‘Not so far, I am told. And it’s not a farm. My Voisin is being prepared in a field – a fine open space.’
‘You cannot drive.’
Harry hates to be reminded of any inadequacies.
‘I will engage a driver to get me to and from the field at Diggers Rest. A curious name, eh?’
His good humour is returning. But Bess isn’t done yet.
‘And why, exactly, are you so set on flying?’
‘To be the first. Wright was first in the world. I can be the first here. The Aerial League of Australia is offering a prize. You know I must be first. First in my profession; first in all I do. When I cannot strive for so much, well, goodbye to the joy of life for me.’
Bess flicks away a speck of meat he has sprayed on to the table.
‘So … I do not contribute to your joy of life? Myself, and our son?’
He flinches as if struck.
‘We are a team, my love. Just as we were as the “Original Houdinis” in the travelling circus, performing for dimes across the USA fifteen years ago.’
Bess has never forgotten the freaks, fat ladies, performing monkeys and trick bicycle riders in the Welsh Brothers’ circus. Between escape acts she doubled as a singing clown. Harry slapped on make-up to become a wild man from Mexico. She remembers the smell of the damp sawdust and animals’ pens. Remembers the strangers’ eyes piercing her clown’s costume. But she lets her husband continue.
‘We are still as one. Any glory I win as an aviator is yours as well.’
She gazes into her glass. Sips the wine.
‘It seems I will see very little of you. There are so many performances, and now your ambitious plans for the flying machine as well. I’m not at all sure what I will do during your absences, with only Mayer Samuel for company. I feel removed from everything I know here. Ah, Mr Audran …’
Horace Audran, manager of the Metropole, has appeared beside their table as suddenly and silently as one of Harry’s stage illusions. First there is an empty space between their seats. Then, all at once, it is filled by this slim, slightly-built man with thinning hair who is never seen in public without his long-tailed jacket, starched dress shirt, black tie and striped trousers. He reminds Bess of an undertaker. His manner is attentive; his fingertips pressed together and his head slightly to one side, as if always listening. Sunlight from a nearby window is reflected in his rimless spectacles.
‘Good afternoon,’ he says. ‘How are my distinguished guests today?’
‘Just swell, Audran,’ Harry says, half-rising from his seat.
Bess notices Gerald the waiter approaching. But Audran raises his right hand. He will attend to this table personally. He refills Bess’s glass and pours the last of the ale for Harry, who invites the manager to join them.
‘Thank you,’ Audran replies. ‘But I’m just passing to check that all your needs are being attended to, sir. You’ve already made quite an impression in Melbourne. You, too, madam. Your grace and charm have been noted.’
Smooth as soap, Bess thinks.
‘We have a question for you, Mr Audran. At least, my husband does … about a chauffeur.’
‘I need a driver, Audran. A reliable man who will make himself available for regular excursions out of town. And not too larcenous in his charges!’
The manager removes a slim notebook bound in black leather from his waistcoat pocket. A pencil is tucked into one side. He finds a clear page and makes a few quick annotations. Only then does he say anything.
‘I’m sure we can arrange that. One of the taxi-drivers from the Flinders Street rank could be persuaded to come to an arrangement.’
‘Swell. And there’s something else you can do. Solve a riddle for us.’
‘A riddle, sir?’
‘My wife believes she has heard mysterious music in the hotel. Not the sounds of a wind-up music-box either. Much more grand.’
‘Just once or twice,’ Bess interjects. ‘And I could have been mistaken.’
Audran faces her, his eyes a watery blue behind his spectacles. ‘Can you recall when you last heard this?’
‘Just yesterday afternoon.’
‘And get this!’ Harry has the delighted expression of a comedian delivering a punchline. ‘She heard the music – then it was gone. Vanished!’
