25

HARRY feels as if he has been asleep for a matter of minutes, no more, when Brassac shakes his shoulder. The mechanic is fully dressed.

‘No,’ Harry replies, longing to close his eyes again. ‘Too early. Dark still.’

‘Already dawn,’ Brassac says. ‘Voila!’

He folds back the flap of the tent, allowing in pale yellow light. Seeing the outline of the Voisin so close to him reminds Harry of the significance of this morning.

‘Banks,’ he groans.

He rises, is surprised to find he already seems to be wearing shoes (though they are loose) and accepts the flask of water that Brassac passes to him. He swallows deeply, but his mouth still tastes of onions. He would like to perform his usual morning callisthenics routine, but on stepping outside he senses that he is the last man up. He quickly ties his shoes, splashes some water from the flask over one hand and rubs it on his face and hair, then jog-trots to the nearest tree and unbuttons his trousers. His urine, he notes, seems unusually yellow. He must try to drink more water. Then he hears the sound of an engine, full-throttled, getting louder.

‘Is that Banks already?’ Harry calls out, running back towards the camp.

But the sound is not coming from the Wright machine, which is standing as it was the previous night, though now it has a multi-coloured sky as a spectacular backdrop. Harry can make out the silhouette of Banks himself near the front of his machine. He appears to be looking towards the entrance of the paddock, as are Brassac and Jordan, who has his cap pulled down low. A motor car is approaching, travelling quite fast, the sound of its engine suggesting that the driver does not mind putting stress on his vehicle. As it climbs the hill the early-morning light burnishes the metal of the motor car, making it look as if it had been dipped in gold.

‘What a beauty,’ says Jordan, braces hanging loose from his trousers. ‘One of them new Oldsmobiles.’

The engine stops abruptly when the vehicle reaches the Wright machine. A stout figure alights and is greeted by Banks. A vigorous handshake ensues, the two men conversing closely before walking around the aircraft, apparently making a final inspection.

‘Monsieur Headmaster,’ says Brassac.

Then they are all striding over the ground that is slightly damp from dew towards the pilot and his patron, Jordan following only after he has looped his braces over his shoulders and cleared his nostrils with a grotesque snort. Harry, stepping out, is the first to reach the Wright machine.

‘Good morning, Old Boy,’ says Banks, already buttoned into a leather flying-jacket. ‘Magnificent morning it is, too.’

Harry can feel the pale eyes of the visitor appraising him, scanning him as if he were a painting in an auction house. Because this man is so neatly turned out – despite the weather he wears a tweed suit with the lower parts of his trousers tucked into woollen socks, with a silver watch-chain stretched across the buttons of his cream-coloured shirt – Harry is acutely conscious of his own tousled hair and stubbly chin as Banks steps forward.

‘Mr Adamson, this is Mr Houdini. I’m sure you have heard much about him.’ Above his stiff collar and tie, Adamson has a military-neat moustache and oiled hair severely brushed back.

‘Indeed,’ he says, his accent as English as a lord. ‘The magician.’

‘I prefer to think of myself as an escape artist,’ Harry says, releasing his hand from the headmaster’s grasp. ‘Shake any tree in America and a dozen magicians will fall out.’ Adamson does not smile. His attitude is that of a teacher assessing a lad’s excuse for not producing his homework.

‘An escape artist? If you say so. An amateur aviator as well.’

Amateur stings like a slap but Harry lets it pass.

‘I have flown already. Near Hamburg, last year. I plan to fly here also.’

Adamson seems amused by this. ‘Do you indeed? Came down in Hamburg, I hear. Now I suspect you’re only after the record – one that Banks here is confident of claiming this very morning in my machine. Will you even persist if he succeeds? You Americans have never been much interested in finishing second.’

Harry feels powerless to counter the smug confidence of this headmaster and his pilot, who is whistling tunelessly while making some adjustments to the engine of his flying machine. Before Harry can even frame a response, Adamson’s attention turns elsewhere.

‘Ah, salut Monsieur Brassac,’ he says. ‘My man has told me about you.’

The mechanic, who has sidled up behind his employer, nods in response. Harry notes that Brassac is as calm as he is unsettled. And somehow it irks him further that the bumptious headmaster and Brassac share similarities. They have almost identical moustaches, though Adamson’s is flecked with grey, and both wear dark hats. This reminds Harry that his own head is bare. There will soon be some bite to the sun: he had best seek some shade, though it is hard to find.

After another brief exchange with Brassac, which to Harry seems designed only to demonstrate his command of French, Adamson confers further with Banks. He consults his handsome pocket-watch, then returns to his motor car to supervise Jordan. The driver is conducting an inspection of the headmaster’s gleaming Oldsmobile, which has temporarily upstaged the Wright flier. Harry turns to Brassac, who has his hands deep in his pockets.

‘I have an idea. Why can’t we get the Voisin out into the field quick as we can, fuel it up, and let it go? Jump in ahead of Banks!’

Brassac’s immediate response is to raise one dark eyebrow. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. ‘Not ready. One mistake … finis.’

Harry’s impatience bubbles over. ‘It is always not ready. Something is always not right. And this is a perfect morning.’

Brassac shakes his head again. ‘Regard,’ he says, turning to face the clump of trees on the fringe of the paddock, some fifty yards distant.

At first Harry sees nothing other than the trees, their branches thin and skeletal, and the small dark shapes of some roosting birds. Then he sees leaves at the tips of the branches sway slightly as if tugged by the hands of an unseen puppeteer. And he feels a soft puff of breeze on his face. He turns to the mechanic.

‘You think it’s too windy?’

Brassac holds one hand out flat, then abruptly twists it over. Harry knows what he means: sudden, dangerous gusts.

‘You should tell them,’ he says. Then he reads the mechanic’s eloquent silence: ‘No, I see. I should tell them. Yes, it would be best that way.’

Harry approaches Banks, who has finished a final inspection of the Wright machine and is squeezing his hands into a pair of long leather gloves.

‘Planning to stick around, Old Boy, or might it be too painful?’

‘Oh, I’m staying,’ Harry replies. ‘But listen – my mechanic urges caution. He maintains it will be too windy to fly this morning.’

Banks does not try to hide his incredulity.

‘There’s barely any breeze,’ he says. ‘I’ve grown rather fond of Brassac, but he is strangely reluctant to let our flying machines use their wings. If we let him have his way, we’ll still be here at Christmas.’

He peers down at his goggles, adjusting a strap.

‘As you wish,’ Harry replies without rancour. ‘It’s your decision. But I feel duty bound to warn your patron also.’

‘Be my guest. Though I think you’ll find him even more anxious than I am to let this bird fly.’ He turns to finalise his preparations.

Harry strides quickly towards the headmaster. Brassac is where he’d left him, hat tilted up towards the sunrise. Harry reaches the Oldsmobile in time to hear Adamson spouting a lecture at a bemused Jordan.

‘I have two great passions in life: educating young men, and machines,’ he is saying. ‘And it is the ingenuity of men that has placed us on the brink of a revolution in transportation. Distance is being defeated, on land and in the air. Just as this splendid vehicle represents a leap ahead from the crude horseless carriages of a decade past, so too will this Wright apparatus soon be supplanted by even more sophisticated flying machines—’

Harry cuts in. ‘Could I have a quick word?’

Adamson exhales loudly, irked by the interruption.

‘Ah, our peripatetic magician. I saw you chatting. Is my pilot ready to go?’

‘See, that’s the thing,’ Harry says. ‘I have passed on to him a warning from Brassac, who maintains the conditions are unsuitable.’

‘Unsuitable?’

‘He says there is an unpredictable breeze.’

Adamson turns to Jordan.

‘You see his game? An American trying to halt the advance of the British empire. A breeze? The merest zephyr, if that.’

He faces Harry again.

‘I'd actually expected better of you: honest competition rather than desperate delaying tactics. What you should understand, Houdini, is that I had this Wright Brothers machine imported from Europe at considerable personal expense – customs duty alone close to eight-hundred Australian pounds – specifically to fly it here. Why? Because the first certified flight in this burgeoning part of the empire should be made by a British citizen. I still maintain that my man Defries pulled it off in Sydney last December. Only petty technicalities regarding towing prevented due recognition of that feat. Now, no-one – no-one – will doubt what is achieved in the same machine.’

Adamson pauses, as if expecting to hear a chorus of ‘Hear hear!’ But the only immediate response comes from Jordan, who mutters quietly: ‘Eight-hundred quid? Bloody hell!’

‘Well, as I said to Banks, it’s your choice,’ Harry says.

‘So it is,’ Adamson responds. ‘And Banks appears to be ready.’

The pilot is standing in front of his machine, criss-crossing both gloved hands above his head.

‘Come on then,’ says Adamson, striding forward. ‘Let us now see history made.’

ALL except the headmaster help. Cursing and straining, Jordan turns the Wright flier so it is facing towards the paddock’s slight slope. The rest of them take up positions around the machine. Brassac shakes Banks’s gloved right hand and readies himself by the propeller, which towers above his head. Harry stands by the tail section, his hands resting on a wooden strut. Harry has said nothing further to Banks, whose face is expressionless and somewhat pale beneath his new goggles. He clambers into his open-sided seat directly in front of the wing assembly, then buckles a canvas lap-strap.

Adamson positions himself twenty yards away. Harry sees him check his watch once again: he is either impatient or recording the time for posterity. Harry feels surprisingly calm now. There is nothing more he can do and is reassured by Brassac’s apparent lack of concern. He sees Banks fiddle with the throttle and elevator controls and his boots push forward on to a small footrest. Banks reaches behind to turn a switch near the metal fuel tank and gives a thumbs-up signal. The mechanic swings down on the propeller. The engine starts with a raucous clatter. Pungent blue-black smoke surges towards the rear. The machine is alive now, shaking and shuddering and straining to be free. The pitch of the engine-noise rises until Harry can hold the vibrating, bitter-smelling beast no longer.

‘Now!’ he calls out, though he doubts Banks can hear him.

The Wright machine surges forward. Harry takes a few steps to regain his balance, then can only watch the crate rattle and roar into the empty paddock, its wingtips rising and falling with every bump. He sees a cloud of smoke and leaves and dust rise behind it. And he hears the headmaster.

‘Come on, man – take her up!’

Adamson has his hat off and is waving it above his head. His sudden exertion has caused one half of his shirt-front to be tugged clear of his trousers. But Harry is distracted by Adamson only for a moment. His gaze returns to the Wright machine, but he finds it hard to gauge its progress because it is travelling away from him. And the sound of its engine seems to come and go as if caught by a breeze.

‘Regard,’ says Brassac, who has appeared beside him. Once more he directs his attention to those distant trees. There is no denying it: the outer leaves are moving more vigorously than previously.

‘Go!’ The headmaster is cheering as if he were watching a school boat-race. ‘Go, my beauty, go!’ And then: ‘He’s up!’

Banks has his machine off the ground. One set of wings dips, then the other, before Banks steadies the machine, which rises some more.

‘There goes the record!’

Harry says it with a sigh, a slow release of breath. He exhales these words. They are like poison seeping from a sore.

‘Wait,’ says Brassac.

‘Come on!’ yells Adamson, flinging his hat up.

It seems to Harry that Banks has his machine only twelve or fifteen feet off the ground. Harry strains his eyes, trying to see more clearly. Why isn’t Banks getting more elevation? Even as he ponders this the tail dips and the front half rises.

‘Ah!’ Brassac murmurs.

He says it just before it happens. As if certain it will happen.

The flying machine quivers, then falls. It dives, front first, as if eager for the earth’s embrace.

The spectators hear the engine noise, a thud, then nothing other than their own feet running. All apart from Adamson, who is standing like a statue, bareheaded, his right hand still up until it slowly droops.

They run. Ignoring the discomfort he feels, Harry soon passes Jordan, who is holding his cap. Harry is looking ahead, trying to determine if the rising cloud in the paddock ahead is dust or smoke. He has seen no sign of movement at the crash site. Then he makes out a shape unfolding itself from the ground. It seems to Harry he is watching himself emerge from the milk-can after his most dangerous stage routine – rising up and stretching out and turning around to reassure an audience that everything is alright.

But Banks is not alright.

He is bleeding and black, coated in oil and dirt and disappointment, and all this darkness makes the bright red splashes on his forehead, mouth, and chin appear even more startling. He is still wearing his goggles, though they have been shattered and knocked askew. He is fiddling at them with unsteady fingers when Harry reaches him. The first impression he has of this scene of destruction is an eerie silence. The scattered pieces, all the cables and spars and twisted wheels and sections of shredded fabric, have already settled in their newly assigned places.

He stretches out his arms to steady Banks. But the pilot misinterprets the gesture, imagines that Harry wants to shake hands, so they are temporarily entwined like lovers. Then Banks winces and sags. Harry manoeuvres him away from the worst of the wreckage and sits him down on what used to be part of the tail section of his flying machine. He gives Banks his white handkerchief and instructs him to hold it to his chin, where an ugly gash is bleeding freely. The pilot does so, noticing for the first time a rent in the back of his leather glove. He looks up at Harry through useless goggles.

‘Rather a mess, Old Boy,’ he says weakly, slurring the words. He tries to smile, but his mouth and chin are too painful. Yet still he tries to say more. ‘Not sure what happened. Just seemed to lose control fast. Went down.’

‘Easily done,’ Harry tells him, crouching close. ‘I crash-landed in Germany last year; smashed up the propeller. These machines are temperamental things. Too much rudder, a sudden breeze …’

Banks tugs at his goggles, but his gloved left hand is still shaking and he doesn’t object when Harry uses a pen-knife from his pocket to slit the strap. The goggles fall free, revealing one eye, rimmed with purple, that is almost closed. Banks blinks and looks down, as if the sunlight hurts him.

‘The breeze,’ he mumbles. ‘You warned me.’

‘Enough of that,’ says Harry, scanning the debris. The Wright machine has shattered like a toy tossed to the ground by a fractious infant. He recognises the rudder control handle, snapped clean across at its lower end. Then they both turn on hearing an approaching vehicle. Jordan emerges from his Darracq holding a small cloth bag.

‘Never been much good on my feet,’ Jordan explains. ‘Went back to the auto when I saw how far there was to go. Remembered I had a medical kit.’

He produces a rolled-up bandage and a metal flask, which he offers to Banks after removing a cap. The pilot takes a sip, then gags.

‘Thought it was water,’ he splutters.

‘Better than that, mate. Brandy. Just what you need.’

Banks takes another sip and this time keeps it down. After slurping some more he returns the flask to Jordan, who walks away to examine the debris. Harry unwinds a length of the bandage to secure around Banks’s forehead. He is familiar with bandages. One of his tricks, a variation on the straightjacket escape, uses bandages soaked in water to make them tighter. But he needs Jordan to hold one end of the bandage while he cuts it. He looks up to see where the driver has got to and notices that Brassac has arrived. Seeing the wreckage, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

Harry is about to call for assistance when another motor car arrives some twenty yards away. Leaving the engine of his Oldsmobile running, as if he does not plan to stay long, Adamson gets out, gives his pilot a cursory glance to satisfy himself he is conscious, then steps briskly towards the remnants of his investment.

‘What a waste,’ is all he says. ‘A wretched, damnable waste.’

Harry does not know if he means money or time and the headmaster will not make eye contact with him, let alone assist Banks. He is considering holding the loose end of the bandage with his teeth, leaving his hands free to cut and tie it, when he senses a sudden movement.

A flock of parrots is passing overhead. Harry is transfixed by their colours, brilliant reds and greens and yellows, and the way they swoop and soar. The birds dip and glide, circling the accident scene and squawking as if finding it especially interesting. Then they are gone again.

Flight is as natural to them as breathing.

Quiet. Effortless. Easy.