14

THIS is it.

A barren place. An almost-flat place. A farmer’s paddock from which most of the rocks have been cleared, or otherwise dragged into piles with tufts of dry grass clinging to cracks. It is a paddock without any animals, apart from creatures that cannot be seen: lizards slipping between rocks; coiled snakes sleeping under the exposed roots of trees around the perimeter fencing; birds nesting in these trees; and flies that land on the exposed salty skin of Harry and his driver as soon as Jordan slows the Darracq just inside the entrance to the paddock.

The tents, one much larger than the other, are their destination. A path of flattened yellow grass leads towards them. Jordan has to concentrate as his vehicle dips and lurches on the uneven ground but, even so, is struck by the change in Harry’s demeanour. A few minutes earlier he was dozing, twitching and making sounds that Jordan couldn’t understand, but now his eyes are bright with anticipation, like a child visiting the beach catching sight of the sea for the first time. As they get close enough for Jordan to make out several ‘HOUDINI’ signs around the bigger tent, Harry rises in his place and then springs up so that he is standing on his seat: a mahout showing off on the back of an elephant.

‘Don’t be such a bloody idiot,’ Jordan hisses as the Darracq’s wheels strike something and the American is almost dislodged.

But Harry ignores him. Cupping his hands around his mouth he calls out: ‘Bonjour Brassac! Ća va?’

The man in black, a plump man with a moustache, raises his bowler hat – a type of headgear that strikes Jordan as being more appropriate to Collins Street than this empty place with its flies and parched vegetation. But the driver has only a second to register the mechanic’s appearance before Harry jumps over the side and lands neatly on his feet while the car is still moving. Jordan’s curse reflects both his opinion of the American’s foolhardiness and his suspicion that one of the Darracq’s tyres has been shredded. He is correct.

When he stops the vehicle and gets out, his back aching from the rough ride, he sees that the right rear tyre now resembles a sausage skin stripped of meat. Flat and useless. Jordan also sees small pennants fluttering from the twin peaks of the larger tent that houses Harry’s flying machine. He sees Brassac the mechanic gesturing towards the machine, which resembles a piece of agricultural equipment, as he talks to his employer. Then Harry turns to consider another figure approaching from the second tent, which has no signs around it, is of much more modest design, and is located one hundred yards away.

Harry doesn’t wait for the other, bigger, man to reach him, but rather steps out to meet him. This must be Banks, the fellow with the Wright flier also intent on claiming the Australian record. He is a competitor but also, in Harry’s mind, a fellow member of the brotherhood of aviators.

Before Jordan turns his attention to replacing the ruined tyre, a hot and tedious task, he watches the two men meet. They shake hands, converse with hands on hips, appear to be surveying the whole paddock. Then Banks produces paper from a pocket so the famous visitor can sign his name.

Bugger me! the driver tells himself. Another star-struck fan. Jordan gets to work on the damaged wheel, wondering whether this bloke or Brassac could be interested in a Champion phonograph.

This is it.

A paddock with two tents, two flying machines, one mechanic and two aspiring pilots, one of whom must make regular trips to and from Melbourne to fulfil his contract with Rickards the theatrical promoter.

AND there it is.

Far from Diggers Rest, the Bleriot that has been ‘Exhibited and Flown Before Crowned Heads’ remains on display in Martin’s Magic Cave, its cables as taut as the string of a flexed longbow. Frederick Jones, the Bleriot’s proud owner, asks around, hoping to find an empty place on the outskirts of Adelaide that might serve as an airfield.