Paving the New Road

by Sulari Gentill

  Regardless, Rowland could only look about in awe.

  Edna glanced over at him, her eyes bright.

  Tommy Pethybridge emerged to see that all was well outside the cockpit. Kingsford Smith’s co-pilot was apparently usually his engineer. He was an extraordinarily enthusiastic fellow, delighted at the chance to fly with the man who was clearly his idol. Unable to contain his exuberance, Pethybridge positively crowed in a manner that was quite endearing…in the beginning, at least. As they waited for the ferry tanks to fill, he spoke to them with inordinate joy of the more mundane practical matters: of what not to touch, what to expect, where they would land and the duration of each hop. With great pride and ceremony, he familiarised them with the plane and emphasised that they were to stay out of the way while the great Smithy did “what God had created him to do.” Finally, Pethybridge presented them with legal documents which indemnified Kingsford Smith Air Services Ltd, in the event of any accident.

  Edna was curious. It was no secret that Kingsford Smith’s Australian National Airways had only recently failed, its assets sold by receivers, leaving the bankrupt airman with only the Southern Cross to his name.

  “New company,” Rowland whispered. “I suspect the right-thinking men of the Old Guard may be funding it…I can’t imagine why else Smithy would be asking so few questions.”

  “Oh.” Edna giggled, pointing out the Campbell & Campbell letterhead. The waiver had been prepared by Eric Campbell’s own firm.

  Rowland smiled. Of course. In his experience, anything which involved the New Guard would necessarily become farcical. It was oddly comforting.

  There were two other crewmen, McKinnon and Lambert, a navigator and a radio man, who would make the journey with them. Both were young men, excited to be flying with the famous Smithy. They conducted final checks very loudly, glancing often at Edna to ensure she was appropriately impressed by their aerial knowledge.

  Kingsford Smith popped his head back to announce that he was about to warm up the engines. Rowland smiled, noting the Felix the Cat badge on his flying helmet. It seemed an odd standard for a grown man. Having already been shown the cockpit, Rowland had seen the picture of the American actress Nellie Stewart, which had famously been on every flight with the airman. There was also a horseshoe and various other knickknacks. He could only guess that Kingsford Smith was superstitious.

  Each of the three engines gunned in turn. The laminated plywood of the Southern Cross’ body shook as the noise rose in a bone-rattling crescendo. Edna looked a little alarmed. Rowland handed her the large bag of chocolates they had picked up from Mark Foy’s the day before. Edna feared nothing, but occasionally she required sweets.

  Through the small window, Rowland could make out the row of lights created by the headlamps of the Old Guard motorcade.

  When the Southern Cross began to move, it became very obvious why the chairs had been bolted to the floor. Weighted with extra passengers and crew, as well as enough fuel to see them easily to Darwin, she waddled like a hobbled bird down the runway. Clyde crossed himself. Edna ate chocolate. Milton recited loudly, though his undoubtedly appropriated words were lost in the deafening scream of the Southern Cross’ motors.

  The Fokker bounced once and then finally she left the ground. Pushed back into his chair by the force of the takeoff, Rowland felt exhilarated, taken completely by the wonder of it. They were flying…in something that seemed far more rudimentary and loosely engineered than his car. They were sitting on garden furniture, for God’s sake. And yet, they were flying.

  Spontaneously, they broke into applause. From the cockpit, Pethybridge whooped in response. As the plane gained altitude, Rowland reached over and took the bag of sweets from Edna. “You’ll make yourself sick,” he said as she protested. “We’re fine, Ed…Smithy is the world’s best pilot.”

  Edna closed her eyes and exhaled as she gathered herself.

  In time, they became accustomed to the noise, and to the vibration of the craft. Somehow Edna managed to curl up in the wicker armchair and sleep. Clyde sprawled out in his chair, his limbs hanging loosely as his body slumped into fitful dozing. Rowland and Milton remained wakeful. McKinnon explained a little about how one navigated the Southern Cross at night, using compass, stars, and basic geography. The sun rose behind the plane’s right wing.

  And then the noise stopped.

  “What the—?”

  McKinnon moved towards the cockpit. “The engines have cut out.”

  “Shouldn’t we have landed first?” Milton demanded, as the Southern Cross began to drop.

  “That would have been ideal,” Lambert agreed.

  Edna was jolted awake still bewildered by sleep. “Rowly…what—?” She stood.

  Rowland pulled her down again. “We should stay out of the way, Ed,” he said, taking his cue from the crew who seemed concerned, but not panicked.

  The engine choked and spluttered and coughed into life. The plane began to claw upwards, and then the engine died again. Now they began to plummet out of control. Edna screamed. For a minute the swearing was unrestrained. Rowland was aware that he’d pulled Edna into his arms but, plunging to Earth as they were, it did not seem improper.

  From the cockpit they could hear shouting as the pilots struggled with the controls. The Fokker resisted and bucked. Everything but the bolted wicker chairs was thrown about the cabin. And then the Southern Cross raised her nose, and slowly eased into a hesitant glide.

  “What happened?” Rowland asked over his shoulder as he helped Clyde to his feet.

  “We’ve lost the engines,” McKinnon replied. “Smithy’s trying to find someplace to land so we can work out what went wrong and hopefully get her back up.”

  “I’ll settle for just getting her down at the moment,” Milton muttered.

  Fortunately they were quite close to Darwin now and barren unpopulated stretches were not scarce. Voices rose in the cockpit, now audible without the competition of the engines.

  “What’s going on?” Edna asked, her knuckles white on the arms of the wicker chair.

  “Smithy’s refusing to dump fuel.” Clyde stood closest to the cockpit where the airmen argued. “McKinnon and Lambert think he should, but Smithy reckons it’s not necessary.” Clyde leaned against the door to listen. “He says he’s not going to carry the can for some hairbrained rescue again.”

  “So he’s going to let us explode!” Edna was outraged and suddenly terrified.

  “I’m sure he’ll do what he can to avoid that, Ed.” Rowland spoke with deceptive calm. “I’m sure he’s done this hundreds of times…If anyone knows what he’s doing, it’s Smithy.”

  Clyde nodded, still eavesdropping. “Pethybridge seems to agree with Smithy…”

  “So what do we do?” Milton squinted out of the window.

  “I think we’d better hang onto these chairs,” Rowland said, pushing Edna firmly back into hers. “It might get a bit bumpy.”

  The Southern Cross continued to descend, to glide to Earth. McKinnon and Lambert were either convinced by Kingsford Smith’s confidence, or had simply given up, for they returned to the cabin and instructed their passengers to brace themselves.

  Clyde crossed himself again.

  “Would you stop that?” Milton said irritably. “It’s too late to become devout now.”

  “I’ve still got time,” Clyde muttered.

  “Catholics,” Milton returned in disgust.

  The Southern Cross made contact with the ground, skipping once before her wheels stayed against the hard sand on which Kingsford Smith had brought her down. Inside the cabin the occupants held grimly to the groaning wicker as the plywood body rattled and shook. When the plane finally came to a stop, the relieved passengers cheered and applauded while McKinnon and Lambert looked on amused.

  Kingsford Smith came out of the cockpit and bowed. His eyes glinted and his wide mo
uth stretched into a smug grin.

  “Best pop out and check what went wrong with the Old Bus,” he said. “You folks feel free to stretch your legs…but don’t go far. It’s probably just the push rods…We’ll have her fixed in no time.”

  And so they clambered out onto what seemed to Rowland to be the flattest land on the planet. Red earth stretched out in a vast occasionally tussocked plain. It was already uncomfortably warm, though the sun had only just risen over the horizon. Immediately, Rowland was struck by the colours, the shades of ground and gold, the immense, watchful blue of the sky.

  As tempted as he was to join the men as they poked about the motors discussing rods and torque, he could not take his eyes from the plain, from the way the light fell on the ancient face of this land. He pulled the notebook from his jacket, watching Edna as she bent to touch the ochre soil.

  He drew quickly, making written notes to remind himself of the colour or sense that he could not reproduce with simple graphite. He was caught by the strangeness of the sculptress here, the incongruity of her creamy skin, her elegant dress and pretty shoes in a land that seemed to devour the delicate. And yet there was something in the way her hair seemed to blend with the red and gold of the landscape, the way she pressed her hands into the dirt, that seemed to belong here too. She noticed his gaze and held up her ochre palms. “Just look at these colours, Rowly…the ground is so hard, like it’s been fired by the sun. I feel like I’m inside the Earth’s kiln.”

  Rowland smiled. “Sounds a little uncomfortable.” But he knew what she meant. It felt somehow like the Earth was created here, like this was the first place.

  “Righto…shall we start her up?” Kingsford Smith jumped down from the wing.

  Rowland was startled. They’d been tinkering with the motors for only a few minutes. He’d expected that anything serious enough to completely compromise the engines would take a while to repair. It was almost more disturbing that it did not.

  “It was just a push rod,” Pethybridge said, as he followed Kingsford Smith into the craft.

  And so they all did likewise. Any lingering doubts that the plane would function were allayed when the engines roared on cue.

  “What if this happens while we’re over water?” Edna whispered.

  Rowland squeezed her hand wordlessly. The sculptress had a point.

  Chapter Five

  AUTHOR’S PREFERENCES

  Mr. Somerset Maugham

  Interviewed

  Mr. William Somerset Maugham, the famous author and playwright, who is visiting Sydney, made some interesting observations in an interview yesterday regarding Russia, and on modern literature.

  Mr. Maugham was sent to Russia by the British Government in 1917, and he was there during the two revolutions which occurred that year. He is of the opinion that if the Allies had handled the situation properly by giving support to the Provisional Government and combatted the unreliability of one or two members of that Government and the outpouring of German money, the situation might have been saved.

  “After the armistice, I resumed the most agreeable occupation of a man of letters,” said Mr. Maugham. “In Russia I worked from 9 a.m. till 10 p.m., and I only then realised how jolly it is to be a writer. You have your freedom; you can work when you like, and you are not at anybody’s beck and call. Though you have much less money than is made in many other vocations, and you are exposed to the slings and arrows of the critics, it is a delightful life. All you require are some blank sheets of paper and a fountain pen.” The interviewer suggested that perhaps brains were also necessary, but Mr. Maugham insisted that as far as play-writing was concerned it didn’t require brains, but only a certain knack. “I think this knack is only a natural sense of logic,” continued Mr. Maugham. “Much nonsense is talked about the technique of the drama, but so far as I can see, the whole mystery of it is to get a good story and to stick to it like death.”

  —The Sydney Morning Herald, 1921

  They stopped in Darwin long enough to bathe and eat, while the Fokker was refuelled. Wilfred had somehow organised for fresh clothes to be awaiting them at every stop to minimise what they would need to take on board. He had instructed his English tailors by telegram to ensure that trunks of appropriate attire would meet them in Munich.

  Milton was a little put-out by the traditional nature of the suits which had been supplied by a local tailor under instructions from Rowland’s very conservative brother. The poet’s personal style was flamboyant, occasionally adventurous, as he felt befitted a man of literary sensibilities. He had a penchant for unusual colours and extravagant neckwear.

  “I’m sure we can find you something more to your taste in Europe,” Rowland offered, as the poet complained that the dark grey three-piece suit made him look like an undertaker.

  Clyde snorted. “Could always rob some gypsies, I suppose.”

  “Stop grumbling, Milt,” Edna chided, as she adjusted his tie. “You’d hardly expect Wilfred to order cravats and velvet jackets.” She giggled. “How would he explain it?”

  Rowland smiled. The thought amused him.

  The airmen joined them for a drink or several before the next leg, which would take them on to Singapore. Kingsford Smith was in excellent spirits and Pethybridge an enthusiastic chorus. And so they drank gin and tonic water in a small bar near the airport and toasted the Southern Cross. McKinnon and Lambert flirted outrageously with Edna, who enjoyed the game, while Kingsford Smith talked of his plan to develop a motor car based on his beloved aeroplane.

  “I say, that’s not a bad idea.” Milton nodded thoughtfully over his glass. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for investors?”

  Clyde groaned. “The suit’s gone to his head.”

  Kingsford Smith seemed to accept that Milton was a man of means, however, and regaled him with the potential of the venture.

  “My capital’s tied up at the moment.” Milton sighed, as if he was, in fact, burdened with capital. “I do know some chaps who might be interested, though.”

  “He means you, Rowly,” Clyde murmured. “The bloody fool’s going to commit your fortune to this bloody aero-car cross-breed.”

  Rowland laughed. “I’ll have to squander it somehow…might as well have an aero-car to show for it. Will it have wings, do you suppose?”

  When the Southern Cross left Darwin for Singapore, her passengers were slightly less than sober. Perhaps for this reason they were not unduly alarmed that their pilots were in a similar state. Even so, the leg was uneventful. The winds were with them and they made good time, arriving tired and crumpled into the tropical heat. They were duly met by the Australian High Commissioner to the island and made discreetly welcome.

  Leaving the valiant Fokker to be refuelled, they checked into the Colonial splendour of the Raffles Hotel under the false names on the passports that Hardy had requisitioned for them. Kingsford Smith and the pilots were, of course, recognisable, even in Singapore, and signed their own names with a flourish. They did not appear to notice the subterfuge beside them. Briefly, Rowland did wonder what explanation Hardy had given for the fact that the Southern Cross’ passengers were travelling incognito. But perhaps he had not given an explanation at all; perhaps he had just given money.

  The suites, like the rest of the hotel, were lavish invocations of the British Raj—teakwood floors and handmade carpets underfoot; majestic ornate plasterwork above; furniture that hinted at the East in a style that befitted the glory of the Empire. A barber was sent up as they bathed and dressed for the evening.

  Rowland regarded his own reflection a little dubiously as he deftly manipulated a bow tie. He wasn’t really sure about the evening attire which had been left for them in the suite. White dinner jackets were not entirely new. They had become quite popular in Australia after some visiting duke had adopted the trend, but Rowland had never worn one before. He’d always considered the style unnecessa
rily loud, and whatever visiting Englishmen may have thought, Sydney was not the tropics. Still, they were in Singapore, and he was supposedly an art dealer.

  Milton was much more pleased with his reflection, but then, he usually was. They had all been provided with the white-jacketed dinner suits with slight variations in style. Rowland did wonder who had made these particular selections—some expatriate Old Guardsmen, no doubt. He was, if truth be told, rather impressed with the Old Guard’s efficient attention to detail.

  Milton sported a black-and-gold cummerbund rather than the white waistcoat. Rowland found it somewhat garish, but Milton was obviously satisfied. Indeed, the poet fished a tropical flower from one of the suite’s many vases and fashioned a boutonniere to complete the florid ensemble.

  Clyde cursed, perspiring already with the humidity as he fumbled with cuff links. Feeling the heat himself, Rowland opened the doors that led out to the balcony, allowing the salted sea breeze to refresh the room. The sky churned and rumbled, dark with the promise of a tropical storm. The air was heavy and tasted of rain. Rowland watched, glad that they were not still in the air.

  Edna waltzed into the suite after a perfunctory knock. She wore an evening gown of green Chinese brocade, which deepened the colour of her eyes. The dress hugged her figure and the straight, tight skirt was split on one side almost to the hip. A boa fashioned entirely from peacock feathers draped over her bare arms. For a moment, Rowland forgot to breathe. Clyde whistled. “You couldn’t wear that in Sydney.”

  Edna turned for effect. “Isn’t it exotic? I’ve never had anything quite like it. It’s such a shame we’ll have to leave it behind.”

  Rowland swallowed. “I’ll have it sent back to Sydney, if you like, Ed.”

  Edna beamed at him. “Yes, please. I wonder who chose it for me? It doesn’t look like something Wilfred would select.”