29

Vendredi 4 Mars 1910

Welcome to Lake Plumpton.

Water everywhere in this place. Water making mud. Water finding holes in the canvas. Never in my apartment on the Boulevard Chantilly have I been so wet in the night. A night warm and still before the rain comes.

In the west, clouds came together like a blanket coloured violet. Then rain. Not as I have seen here before – rain for a short time only and then dry again. Last night the air became water, making noise on the canvas. I must move my bed under the Voisin wings for cover. I hear water dripping on the stretch fabric.

I worry that this fabric on the wings will be too tight and rip.

Ralfbanks has no machine for shelter. His tent only. The Wright is finis.

I wonder if he wakes up, his face full of pain, and thinks he has dreamed everything bad. Then he touches his mouth and eyes still sore and knows it was no dream. Now his trousers and boots are wet too. And when he leaves the tent, heavy with water on top, he can find his broken bird.

We have had no conversation since I take him tea and the phonograph. Ralfbanks wants to be solitary.

This morning, when rain was gone and there was sun to make steam off the ground, I saw Ralfbanks take some things outside to dry.

He moved his right arm, but I cannot say if he waved to me or was testing his damaged shoulder. He studied the mud and water where Plumpton has been dry. He rested on a stool, his torn-up face turned to the sun.

I am content with the rain. Nobody will come tomorrow. Even if Mr H. wants to hurry, Jordan the driver will not allow his auto on mud roads.

Because there will be no visitors I will take a small vacation.

I make loose the ropes and pull back the canvas, careful so that more water cannot fall inside, then let my blankets and the Voisin feel the sun. With an old shirt I will rub at the engine, to check that no rain has got into places for oil to cause more coughing. Then I will work no more.

I will boil a pot with wood kept dry under a packing case. Then I will brew some coffee and sip it, very slow. After, I will take the trenching tool and walk to a place inside the trees where I scoop a hole and move the intestines. Then I make a walk, keeping the tool with me for snakes.

Plumpton smells different in the wet.

Rain has made these pointed leaves smell when they are broken between fingers. A smell to clear the nose. The grass has a sharp smell too, although it has been torn up where the Wright machine came down. I look at scars on the ground and know that Mr H. will have record if he will listen to Brassac.

Making the Voisin fly is not like his stage magic. No tricks. No slipping knots. No curtain to hide behind. With patience he has the record.

Without, he will crash like Ralfbanks. I know this.

And I know this could be my last time with flying machines. After this place, I think to make retirement on the Boulevard Chantilly. Grow geraniums in a box on the window. Or have a tranquil cottage outside Paris and keep the fowls for eggs to make a fine omelette. Perhaps my sister Cecile would care to live with me.

I like to think of this. And it could be possible with bonus in American dollars Mr H. has promised for the record.

So he must listen and I will help.

Here there is sun. And plenty wet. Before Mr H. comes again, I must look near tree roots for mushrooms.