39

IN New York, it might still feel like winter. In New York, where Harry has instructed his mother to keep the furnace on at night until he returns, it might still be snowing. But in Diggers Rest the sun is merciless. There are times in the paddock when Harry feels that the blood in his head will surely thicken and bubble like oil in an over-heated engine. He has never known such conditions: one hundred degrees in the shade and a dry, enervating wind that makes flight impossible. The nights are much more pleasant, mild and still. They remind him of August evenings in Central Park. He can picture himself strolling near the lake arm-in-arm with his two ladies, Cecilia and Bess, and his son Mayer Samuel. How proud they will be if, in addition to all his other accomplishments, he is the holder of an Australian flying record. His feat will be acknowledged by other aviators: they will greet him as a fellow pilot, not just a showman.

As soon as conditions are suitable, the record can be his. All he needs is one good day. Harry is sure of this, just as he has no doubts about his ability to manage the machine – even though he has not been aloft in the Voisin since Hamburg. There is nothing especially tricky to it: a wheel for the elevator at the front to govern lift; the same control to move the rudder. Hold it steady, make the turns slow. But he must be ready when the time is right. So he no longer leaves the Metropole just before dawn.

Jordan now meets him near the stage-door immediately after each evening performance. They drive in darkness to the paddock, where Harry snatches a few hours’ sleep under canvas near the Voisin and the snoring, muttering Brassac while Jordan stretches out as best he can in his Darracq. Then another day of tinkering and tuning begins. Fatigue is as relentless as the heat, like a heavy cloak Harry cannot shed. Yet still he performs.

Kukol and Vickery marvel at the way he can arrive at the theatre imperfectly shaved, irritable and red-eyed, then throw himself into his act as if it were the first show of a new season rather than one of the last. But it is only while he is on stage that Harry is not focused on his flying machine. Everything else occurs on the periphery of his field of vision. He remains ignorant of his wife’s activities while he is absent, though he continues to be assiduous with notes affirming his love. His latest begins, ‘My Darling One and Only.’ And even if he were aware of the Bleriot being tested in Bolivar there is little he could do about it. All he knows is the necessity of completing this job, pulling off his most spectacular stunt.

Jordan is unimpressed by the new arrangement. Nothing about night drives was mentioned in their initial deal. He is awaiting an opportune moment – perhaps when the American gets his crate off the ground and is even more pleased with himself than usual – to push for an increase in his fee. He signed on for early starts, not hair-raising excursions on ink-black roads.

Jordan has noticed that for the first half-hour or so of every trip, Harry is talkative and animated, still buzzing from his show and full of news. He tells Jordan about Rickards embracing the flight attempt as a scene-setter for his Aviation Week in Sydney. Rickards has sent a telegram to George Taylor of the Aerial League, advising him of the imminent assault on the record. A newsreel cameraman and one of Rickards’ mates at The Argus have also been tipped off. Jordan can’t get enthused about any of these developments. Hasn’t even heard of Taylor. He still thinks of flying as a mug’s game and is more concerned about keeping his Darracq on the road.

It’s easy for the American. He can burble about all that’s going on, then nod off. He tells Jordan how poorly he’s been sleeping, how his mind fills with strange and unsettling thoughts, yet still manages to slumber in the swaying, bouncing motor car. Jordan knows he has gone when the stream of conversation halts. He glances across and can just discern Harry’s head slumped forward on his chest or lolling back, mouth open. It’s alright for him, Jordan thinks. He doesn’t have to worry about whatever’s ahead or monitor the engine noise for odd sounds or wonder how long it will be before another tyre is shredded and needs replacing. Jordan doesn’t fancy attempting repairs by the light of a kerosene lamp and doubts the American would help. He has him pegged as a bloke who always has others to sort things out for him – his stage assistants and the Frenchman in the paddock.

Before he falls silent late on this Tuesday night, Jordan suspects that the American is buttering him up. Telling him about the crucial role he can play as a witness to his feat.

‘The Aerial League has precisely set out its requirements for the record,’ he tells Jordan. ‘The duration and distance of any powered and controlled flight must be certified. This could mean putting your own name to a historic document. What do you say to that?’

‘Don’t know I’d be any use,’ the driver replies. ‘Never seen anything fly other than birds. And Banks, of course, before he came a cropper. How could I swear your flight was controlled?’

‘There’ll be other men present with watches and the means to measure distance,’ Harry counters. ‘All you need do is sign your name on a paper.’

‘You know the kind of paper I like the most.’

‘Some things are more important than money, Jordan. I am reckoned to be the best at my stage work, but a performance is a transitory thing. To be able to prove you are the first at something ambitious, well, I reckon that secures you a kind of immortality. I could be in the record books by the weekend. You also, as an official witness.’

‘Rather be in my own bed,’ the driver mutters. ‘Besides, you could come down hard – as Banks did. He was pretty cocky before he went up, too.’

‘That’s the kind of negative talk I don’t want right now,’ Harry says. ‘I can already picture myself in the Voisin over the paddock, the stretched fabric straining, the engine running true. I’ll let you in on a professional secret. Most things I do look as easy as stepping off a log. But I must wait for the voice in my head every time. I stand there before a routine or a flight, swallowing the yellow stuff every man has in him. Then at last I hear the voice and get going, swift and sure as I can.’

Jordan sucks on a match. A voice? Irritated by his silence, Harry continues:

‘This voice now assures me all is in readiness. Even Brassac isn’t raising objections, as long as there’s no breeze. So I’m going to have a crack at it.’

Jordan curses as the Darracq’s steering-wheel twists in his hands. One of the wheels has struck something. Jordan listens for the thumping, flapping sound signalling a puncture. Only after a few minutes does he relax. The American appears to have sunk into an aggrieved sulk. Sod it, Jordan tells himself. He’s there to do a job, not to be part of a cheer-squad. Jordan changes gears and glances across as his car strains up a rise in the moonlight. Harry’s head is bobbing with every bump. He is dozing.

JORDAN wakes to feel sun on his face. His legs are numb and his tongue is as dry as the soles of his boots. It amazes him he can sleep at all in the cabin of the Darracq, wedged between the gear lever and steering-wheel. But after his first night out in the paddock, when he woke with spiders sharing his rough bedding, he has stayed in the vehicle. But still there’s no refuge from the droning biting things that leave his face and neck pin-pricked with itchy red sores. Jordan starts his day scratching, then reaches into a shirt pocket for his watch. It shows 7.13, later than usual. He eases himself out of the vehicle, shakes his numb right foot, then looks around at the expanse of flat, brown paddock on which the Darracq squats.

Jordan sees no signs of movement near Banks’s tent. If he were him, he would have gone long ago. Cannot imagine remaining an hour more than necessary in this paddock. But not only has Banks stayed, trying to rebuild the Wright machine with twisted parts, he has even assisted the American. Jordan guesses he is getting back at his patron, who has treated him like a leper since his crash. He suspects also that Banks admires the American for being game to have a go himself, unlike Adamson.

Jordan starts walking towards the larger of the two tents, using his cap to swish at insects. Brassac usually keeps some tea and damper for him when he knows he’s coming. Jordan can’t recall ever getting more than a sentence or two out of the mechanic, but senses a bond between them based on the demands of their mutual employer. Like himself, Brassac just wants this job to be done so he can get his pay and move on to whatever’s next. Still, damper is no substitute for money. Jordan has had to remind Brassac of the six pounds, two shillings still owed to him for the Champion phonograph that he clearly plans to keep. The Frenchman insists he must wait for a cash bonus promised for the flying record – another reason for them all to hope the American gets his machine up.

Jordan keeps his eyes down to avoid stumbling on rocks or roots or windblown branches. His fingernails draw blood tearing at a bite on his neck. Once the American has shot through he’ll stick to city driving. If he can make a go of it selling phonographs, all the better. The cockies can keep the flies and stingers and snakes. He is still a hundred yards from the bigger tent when the sound of a voice makes him look up.

‘Easy now,’ the American calls out. ‘We can’t afford to bend anything out of shape.’ The Voisin is being eased out of its shelter. ‘Careful – don’t put too much stress on that strut!’

Jordan can imagine Brassac rolling his eyes at these instructions. He has done this job on his own, or with help from Banks, countless times. He knows every wire and length of fuel line in the Voisin. He knows where each part belongs and how easily the whole apparatus can be broken. Yet still the American insists on supervising. The Voisin sways as its undercarriage, with wheels like those from a child’s perambulator – two under the wings, another at the front, and a fourth, much smaller one, under the tail – lurches forward. Jordan is reminded of a fractious colt being coaxed towards the starting stalls at a racetrack.

‘There – that’ll do it.’

The Voisin is in the clear now. The men let its nose rise as the tail section tips down. The front wheel turns slowly, unimpeded. Jordan sees Brassac wipe his hands on a cloth tucked into his belt before returning to the tent. The American stays where he is, hands on hips, admiring the rickety machine. Jordan can’t imagine risking his life in something that seems little more than a couple of box kites with an engine bolted between them. The American has balls, he’ll give him that. Or perhaps the lure of fame causes men to do stupid things.

He hasn’t been seen. Harry is fully absorbed in his inspection of the Voisin. He’s a master of illusion, but there can be no trickery here. No mirrors or secret panels. Either he gets the thing up or he doesn’t. Jordan can still recall the snapping grinding sound as Banks’s machine crashed, then the ghastly silence that followed. He wonders if that’s what the American is thinking about also, but his absorption causes Jordan to leave him alone. Besides, he’ll have to endure his company again later when they drive back for his show. Thank Christ he’ll be done with him in a week when he’s due in Sydney, record or no record.

A gurgle in his guts helps Jordan decide to hunt out some breakfast. He pushes on, skirting around the Voisin. When close to the main camp he smells eggs frying and silently blesses Brassac. Then he hears the Frenchman singing to himself. No, it’s not that. There’s a wheezy orchestra. Jordan grins. While the American has his head in the clouds the mechanic is taking a break, listening to ‘All the Girls on Earth’ on his phonograph. The one he hasn’t paid for yet.