21

THE comet also has competition.

Early in 1910, diamond miners in the Transvaal region of South Africa spot a spectacular moving light. It travels north, flaunting its brilliant arching tail, often visible to the naked eye in different parts of the world even when the sun is up. It is christened the Great Daylight Comet and effectively upstages Halley’s discovery, which arrives later and is less dramatic. Many who spot the flashy newcomer believe they have seen the long-distance time traveller making its scheduled return. Such confusion is understandable and means that on a Friday night, late in February, there are two comets vying for attention.

But not everyone is studying the heavens.

Harry’s focus is much lower: a few hundred feet above Plumpton’s Paddock, where he will transform himself from performer to aviator. On Sunday he hopes to fly; on this Friday night – even as Audran and Puccini return to the hotel – he is towelling himself down in his dressing-room after another successful exposition of the milk-can routine. The applause was sustained and generous. There were no technical hitches for him to discuss later with Kukol and Vickery. Rickards, who has joined him backstage, is well-satisfied with the week’s takings. Yet Bess finds him unusually agitated when she joins him after the show. He seems distracted; his welcoming kiss barely brushes her cheek.

‘Did you notice them, my sweet? The two who left early – near the front, to one side.’

‘Could have been house seats,’ Rickards interrupts. ‘Perhaps the pair you asked for yourself, Double?’

‘No,’ says Harry, feeling again the stab of the young swimmer’s blithe indifference. ‘I fear those seats stayed empty.’

‘Empty? Might as well give away pound notes outside,’ Rickards mutters.

‘Things happen,’ Bess says. ‘Illness. Accidents. There’s no telling why some tickets aren’t used, or why people must go. You had to leave the Malwa’s costume ball yourself because of seasickness—’

Harry has no desire to be reminded of this. Especially with Rickards there.

‘Yes, yes. But to walk away, knowing the climax of the show is near. I noticed them. Vickery too. At a time when it is critical all is in order …’

Bess is relieved when Rickards interrupts, piling on the praise.

‘Nobody could tell if you were distracted, Double. You pulled it off again. That’s the professional in you. I’ve seen all the pretenders – Grossi the Mind Reader, Hassan Hindoo the Indian Magic Man, Carter the Great … Each one clutching on to your own coat-tails. All of them lower-bill acts. Not in your league, Double.’

Rubbing at his damp hair with a towel, Harry seems slightly mollified.

Still hoping to move the conversation away from absentees, Bess picks up a jar with a garish label on the far side of Harry’s dressing-table.

‘“Zam-Buk”,’ she says, reading the label. ‘What is this?’

‘An ointment, Ma’am,’ says Rickards. ‘Liniment. Regularly advertised in the papers.’

‘May I?’ Harry takes the jar and examines the label. ‘I’ve never heard of Zam-Buk. Certainly never used it. What is this doing here, Rickards?’

‘Glad you asked. I spy a rolled-gold commercial opportunity here.’

‘How so?’

‘Advertisements, Double. They’re always looking for endorsements.’

He adopts his carney’s voice. ‘“A Melbourne Lady Says Zam-Buk is a Boon to All Sufferers of Tender Feet”. They’d pay very handsomely for something with your name on it. Something like this: “My wrists are often lacerated by the handcuffs. Nothing has ever given me such remarkable relief as Zam-Buk. Sincerely yours, Harry Houdini, The Prison Breaker.”’

‘I’d rather “Escape Artist”,’ Harry responds. ‘Or “Great Mystifier”.’ But otherwise he seems content with Rickards’ script. He unscrews the lid of the jar to examine the contents, then recoils.

‘The smell!’ he says. ‘Pungent. Making my eyes water already. Like an evil concoction of turpentine and vinegar. But you say it is effective?’

‘I say nothing,’ Rickards replies. ‘I’d just write the adverts. Imagine this: “Zam-Buk: Endorsed by the First Man to Fly in Australia!”’

Harry indicates his approval with a nod.

‘Precisely! People always want more. Every performance must seem more incredible than anything that’s come before. Every claim more impressive than one made last week.’

He has replaced the lid, but regards the liniment jar with renewed respect.

‘How are your plans progressing there?’ Rickards asks. ‘All set to fly?’

Bess notices her husband’s lips tighten. The promoter has overstepped.

‘Steady progress, Rickards. I will be there again on Sunday. My machine is a magnificent piece of engineering. And almost ready.’

‘Ready in days, Double?’

‘Weeks, if not days. Depending on weather. Which none of us control.’

‘More’s the pity,’ says Rickards, pocketing the liniment jar. ‘I’ll take this. The manufacturer’s details are on the back label. There are discussions to be had. In which, I warrant, I will be the one in control.’

Harry is silent after the promoter leaves. He is only half-dressed, with the fresh shirt Kukol has out for him still on its hanger.

Bess is content to wait again. Pleased, too, that the departing spectators appear to have been forgotten. She is intrigued to know what the composer thought of the show. She tries to recall some of his tunes. An aria, perhaps, from La Boheme or Tosca. But she soon gives up. The lingering smell of the remedy for tender feet or lacerated wrists is too distracting.