by Peter Watt
The signal to land brought the little aircraft into a sweeping circle overhead as it approached a cleared area of the paddock. The Bleriot touched down, bounced a few times and came to a halt only twenty yards from where the two men stood. Dust trailed its landing as the bamboo tail skid-ploughed a small furrow in the earth. The engine spluttered into silence and Matthew Tracy – now better known as Matthew Duffy – eased himself from the cockpit to clamber to the ground. He wore goggles and a leather skullcap and his face was splattered with black oil. Beneath the grime of the flight was a face many women found appealing and the young man also had the muscled body most men envied. Matthew walked towards the two observers, taking off his goggles to reveal his eyes still untouched by the oil from the engine.
‘We have a visitor,’ Randolph said, walking towards his friend. ‘Colonel Duffy.’
As he approached the tall, broad shouldered man in his early fifties Matthew held out his hand. There was no mistaking the bearing of the military man he had been – and still was – when he returned Matthew’s firm handshake.
‘Sir, it has been a few years since we last met,’ Matthew said with a broad smile. ‘It is good to see you.’
‘It is good to see you, young Matthew,’ Patrick said, releasing his grip. ‘What, ten, twelve years?’
‘Thirteen, I think,’ Matthew answered just a little sheepishly. ‘I should have kept more in touch with the family.’
‘At least your mother has kept us up to date with news of your adventures,’ Patrick said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket that he’d slung over his shoulder. He wore expensive suit trousers, a clean-starched shirt, braces and a straw boater hat. ‘Can I offer you a cigar?’ he asked, producing three fine Cubans.
‘No thank you, sir,’ Matthew replied. ‘I am just a little dry in the throat after the flight.’
‘Kate, your mother, wrote from Queensland to say that you were doing something with your Bleriot down our way,’ Patrick said, offering the third cigar to Randolph who accepted it gratefully. ‘Although you took great pains to conceal the importation of your aircraft into Australia I was informed of its existence. As you had not broken any regulations with our Customs the matter was not of any concern to the civilian authorities. But it did pique my interest – especially as it was by a cousin in the family of a well-known adventurous character. You know, you worry my Aunt Kate to death with your escapades overseas.’
‘I don’t mean to,’ Matthew said. ‘My mother is a good old stick.’
Patrick smiled at the young man’s reference to his mother. Even in her late fifties Kate Tracy was a very good-looking woman with considerable wealth and power in the state of Queensland. Many eligible men attempted to court her but Kate Tracy, once also known as Kate O’Keefe and originally Duffy, thwarted all advances. Her life was lived for her only son and the financial empire she ruled over.
‘So, what was that all about?’ Patrick asked, gesturing with his cigar towards the paddock where the bag of flour had been dropped.
‘I was experimenting with the idea of using aircraft to drop bombs,’ Matthew answered. ‘Texas rigged up a latch system that I could operate from the cockpit to release the bag, which under other circumstances might have been a modified artillery shell with fins to assist a more accurate flight.’
‘You realise that Harry Hawker has just last week flown his Sopwith off the Caulfield race course in demonstration flights and has made some good money for his efforts. You could have done the same.’
‘That Yank Harry Houdini beat us all to the first demonstration flights in Australia.’ Matthew shrugged. ‘What I have in mind here will be more important than financial gain when we go to war with the Germans.’
‘So you believe war is imminent in Europe?’ Patrick asked, drawing on his cigar.
‘I have toured Europe – even Germany – and I can feel it coming,’ Matthew answered, glancing at his tiny monoplane parked only a few yards away. ‘I know aeroplanes will be vital in winning the war when it does come.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Maybe, as a means of observing the enemy and directing cavalry formations against them.’
‘More than that,’ Matthew said with passion creeping into his voice. ‘They will be used to bomb and machine-gun the enemy in places where we cannot reach them with our current arms. Only the lack of development of better aircraft prevents us from equipping planes to carry out those tasks already. We both saw what those rapid firing weapons could do to us in South Africa,’ Matthew continued, referring to the time when he had enlisted under-age and fought as a mounted infantryman at Elands River while his cousin Patrick Duffy served as an officer with the mounted infantry in many battles of the Boer War. Matthew’s youth had been eventually revealed and he was sent home to Australia. ‘I think the days of the mass cavalry charges are over. Aeroplanes will become the new cavalry to swoop on targets and support our infantry.’
‘You know, you are talking military heresy,’ Patrick cautioned, grinning. ‘The gentleman of the cavalry will never admit to being upstaged by mere machines.’
‘Mounted infantry will still have a role,’ Matthew consoled. ‘I just see that the invention of the aeroplane is going to change warfare beyond our wildest dreams.’
‘Matthew,’ Patrick said, ‘it is getting late and I have to return to Sydney for an important company meeting but I need to talk to you at more length about your ideas. There are people I want you to meet and I am offering for you and Mr Gates to come to my place on the harbour. You know where my house is. If it is possible I would like to have you both attend – say, next Sunday at 3pm. We have important business to talk about.’
Matthew sighed. He always felt that the time might come when he would eventually be forced into a meeting with his estranged Sydney family. It had been many years since he had met with Fenella Macintosh on a beach at Manly to say farewell. He vividly remembered the pain in her eyes as he walked away and out of her life.
As if reading Matthew’s thoughts Patrick added with a smile, ‘Fenella will be at dinner that day with her young man.’
‘I am glad to hear that, sir,’ Matthew answered.
‘I am your cousin,’ Patrick continued. ‘You may as well call me by my name. After all, you no longer have any connections to the army that I know of.’
‘I think that I would be more comfortable calling you by your first name, Colonel.’
Patrick slapped Matthew on the shoulder, understanding the military joke between them. Despite their blood link the younger man was paying his cousin the respect due to a highly decorated and experienced soldier. It would not be Patrick but Colonel that Matthew would continue to call his cousin.
‘As you wish,’ Patrick replied, turning to walk back to his car which he’d parked at the end of the paddock by a newly constructed sturdy tin shed. ‘I will see you both next Sunday for dinner.’
As Randolph and Matthew watched him stride away Randolph turned to Matthew. ‘What was that all about?’
‘I am not sure,’ Matthew answered, shaking his head. ‘It has been years since I last had contact with the family in Sydney and now the colonel suddenly turns up out of nowhere. Whatever it is, I am sure we will learn over a good meal and port wine at the Macintosh mansion on Sunday. In the meantime, we have to put the old girl to bed.’
Matthew and Randolph strode towards the little Bleriot. Hooking up ropes, they pulled it towards the shed they’d especially constructed to house the aircraft. As they towed the Bleriot Matthew could not take his thoughts off Fenella. It had been so many years and they had both changed so much. Matthew had one advantage in their meeting, however. He had seen her while sitting in the darkened auditorium of a picture palace in Sydney. She was not at the time in the theatre, but actually on the screen. Fenella Macintosh was making a name for herself as a famous film actress.
The young woman slumped at a wooden table with her head in her arm did not appear to be aware of the man standing behind her, armed with a long-bla
ded knife which he held raised ready to stab her.
‘Okay, cut. We will try that again from a different angle.’ The young woman raised her head from the table to glance at the man who had called the direction. ‘We need to see the grief in those big, beautiful eyes of yours, Nellie.’
Fenella Macintosh turned to her would-be killer and took his hand. ‘Darling, you have an invitation to dinner next Sunday night at my father’s house,’ she said. ‘A long-lost cousin will be the guest of honour.’
Guy Wilkes smiled down at Fenella. He was a handsome, dashing figure with dark, oiled hair parted in the middle and piercing eyes highlighted by the excess of stage make-up. Fenella was similarly made up, highlighting her most expressive features so as to convey her feelings to the audience, without recourse to sound. ‘I don’t think this script will work, Arthur, old dear,’ Guy complained to the older man who joined them at the table.
Arthur Thorncroft frowned. He was a solidly built man but carried his sixty years well. He still retained the bearing of a man who had fought as an officer with the New South Wales contingent that had been sent to the Sudan. Thirty years earlier he had faced the fierce Dervish warriors. There too he had met a young colonial serving with the British army by the name of Patrick Duffy and an unlikely friendship had blossomed between the two men. In Arthur’s world he would have liked their friendship to have developed into a more physical and intimate relationship, but Patrick Duffy was not that way inclined. Despite their differences, the two men remained close friends and Patrick’s daughter, Fenella, was the nearest thing Arthur had to his own daughter. ‘My dear boy,’ he sighed, ‘to stay in business we have to make something a little more sophisticated than bushranger films. The unwashed masses want melodrama from our studios – otherwise the Americans will crush us out of existence.’
Now it was Guy Wilkes’ turn to frown. He had hoped to be portrayed as a sadly heroic figure fighting the evil establishment of colonial Australia instead of a maniacal, jealous husband bent on killing his unfaithful wife. After all, had not the portrayal of bushrangers packed the tents and community halls in rural Australia and the newly built picture palaces in the cities? Had not those same films made him the heart-throb of women who swooned whenever he appeared in public? On the other hand, he might be able to identify with the character he was portraying when he looked into the wide eyes of the young woman at the table. Fenella Macintosh received the same adoration from half the male population of Australia; the other half was yet to see her on the silver screen.
‘The crew feel that we should pack it in for today,’ a young man said to Arthur. ‘We can have an early start tomorrow.’
Arthur turned to the young man whom he had appointed as his assistant film director, script supervisor, location selector, and manager of film props and lighting. ‘Yes, well, if that is the feeling we will call it a day,’ he agreed to the relief of the small group of people on the film set. The camera man carefully dismantled his hand-cranked camera in its wooden box on a tripod and took the cumbersome apparatus away. Soon he’d develop the footage of film they had shot that day.
‘Did I hear you tell Guy that you were having a long-lost cousin over for Sunday roast?’ Arthur asked. ‘And, if I had to guess, would I be right in saying it was young Matthew Duffy?’
‘It is, Uncle Arthur,’ Fenella replied.
‘Ah, how is Matthew?’ Arthur asked with genuine concern. His memory of Matthew was of his camera assistant bent on joining the contingents steaming across the Indian Ocean to fight the Dutch farmers in South Africa. Matthew had succeeded and found his war at the Elands River battle.
‘You must tell him to contact me when you see him,’ Arthur sighed. ‘It has been a long time.’
‘I will,’ Fenella replied. ‘I am sure that he will come and visit us on the set.’
‘Well, I will let you lovebirds enjoy the rest of the day and bid you a fond farewell.’ Arthur turned to walk away and his assistant fell into step, chatting with his boss and lover about the requirements for the next day’s filming of Love Lost and Found.
Arthur’s exchange with Fenella had aroused Guy’s curiosity. ‘Who is this cousin of yours?’ he asked with a churlish note to his question, sensing something intimate from the past.
‘He is the son of my father’s aunt,’ she said, using a cloth to wipe away the excess eye shadow from her face. ‘He left his home in Queensland when he was about fifteen to travel to Sydney and for a short while worked with Uncle Arthur as his assistant.’
‘So, he is one of them,’ Guy said smugly, dismissing the mysterious cousin as any threat to his hold on Fenella.
‘I strongly doubt that,’ Fenella retorted. ‘He was able to lie his way into the army and fought in South Africa very gallantly, so my father has told me, before being revealed as under-age. He was sent home and, from what I have heard, worked his mother’s cattle properties in Queensland as well as travelling the world to some very exotic places. Father has told me that Matthew is now an aviator.’
‘None of that does not say your cousin is not one of Arthur’s mob,’ Guy snorted dismissively.
‘Well, Matthew used to send me love letters from Africa – when he was a soldier,’ Fenella replied, knowing full well that her reply would upset Guy. It did not hurt to remind the man in her life that he always had competition for her affections. Her statement had its effect and Guy Wilkes, debonair actor of the silver screen, fell into a surly silence as he wiped the make-up from his face.
Arthur Thorncroft was last to leave the film set. He had paid carpenters to construct the shell of a living room, open on one side to allow natural light to filter in assisting the cameraman do his work. The window on the back wall was in fact a painting to save on construction costs, and when the scene had been completed in his melodrama about a wife in love with another man, it would be replaced with another picture.
Arthur was very good at hiding his emotions and none of his staff were aware of what a financial dilemma Arthur’s film company faced. From 1907 to the previous year profits for his films had meant for an optimism that had proved to be falsely based. Developments in the thriving Australian film industry were being sabotaged by the emergence of more cheaply produced foreign films swamping the local market. Also a system had developed in the Australian industry where the separate entity of the distributor – a middleman who could more efficiently supply the exhibitor with a steady supply of imported movies – was cutting producers like Arthur out of the distribution of their own films to cinemas. To keep ahead of the strangulation of his films by the powerful distributors Arthur had been forced to borrow heavily for production costs so that his own films could impress even those middlemen distributors. Arthur had always relied on the Macintosh family – headed by Patrick Duffy – and financial support had always been forthcoming. Patrick had allowed his children to assume the Macintosh family name on his maternal grandmother’s dying wishes and Patrick had even accepted a conversion from his Irish Catholicism to that of his grandmother’s stern, Protestant beliefs although he did not demonstrate any real adherence to religion in his life. Lady Enid Macintosh had been a formidable woman in her time and this trait continued in her great-grandson George Macintosh, whom Arthur was scheduled to meet at the set this evening.
George Macintosh was punctual. He arrived in his expensive, chauffeured car, stepped from the vehicle, adjusted his tie and glanced around the empty lot. With purposeful strides he walked to Arthur’s cluttered office.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ George said coldly, not bothering to offer his hand. ‘You and I have some business matters to discuss.’
Arthur gestured to a chair. George Macintosh was around thirty years of age, with an aristocratic demeanour and handsome appearance. He stood at average height and carried no excess weight considering the playboy life he led among Sydney’s most respectable society. He had the suave good looks that attracted even married matrons and many had used their feminine charms in an attempt to win his fav
our. But George Macintosh had an eye for young, single women and was very successful in his endeavours to bed them.
Appraising the man sitting opposite him, Arthur experienced the usual chill of apprehension he always had in George’s company. Arthur remembered an old Macintosh rumour that somehow the family had brought down on their heads a terrible curse for an atrocity committed on their property of Glen View in central west Queensland over half a century earlier. Looking at George, Arthur wondered if the curse was the younger man himself. He wished Alexander, George’s younger brother, had been more motivated to take on the management of the Macintosh financial empire of shipping, rural properties, stocks, shares and real estate development. Now that empire could be said to include shares in the blossoming film industry. But Alexander was very much like his father, Patrick, a man driven more by adventure than business.
‘By business, I presume you mean the profits of my last film,’ Arthur offered.
‘Should we say, the lack of profits,’ George replied, steepling his fingers under his chin.
Arthur knew from past experience that this gesture usually spelled something he would rather not know about. ‘This film will recuperate that loss,’ he said defensively, not really believing what he had just stated. ‘But I will need more funds to complete shooting.’
George rolled his eyes dramatically. Maybe he should have been the actor and not his sister, Arthur thought, watching George’s pained expression. ‘I am not sure that lending any more to you would help,’ George said. ‘As I see it, the options are either closing down your company and selling off all assets to a rival or replacing you as the producer.’
Arthur had half expected that he would be put on the mat over the losses but did not expect to be sacked. He was stricken by the thought. ‘What if I spoke to your father,’ he suggested, sweat oozing on his hands. ‘He and Lady Enid initially backed me in setting up the company.’
George’s smile lacked any semblance of warmth. ‘My father has delegated all financial management to me – as you well know – and at the moment he is too preoccupied playing soldiers to be interested in any decisions that I might see fit to make. You have no other choices than those I suggest. So what is it to be? Bankruptcy or bail out while you can?’