by Peter Watt
Satisfied that this stage of the operation had achieved its aim of familiarisation with the aircraft, Patrick declared that the biplane would be stripped down and packed in wooden crates for transport back to Sydney where it would be placed in secret storage until next required.
The five men then cleaned up around the farmhouse and departed in a couple of trucks to the nearest village for lunch and beers at a pub. They did not speak of their time at the farm but shook hands with the two men from Point Cook who would now take a train from Sydney to Melbourne and rejoin the aviation school at Point Cook. Both these men had also been sworn to secrecy – knowing only that they were to assist in the exercise at the farm.
When Matthew and Randolph returned to their hotel in Sydney Matthew picked up the mail from the front desk. Among the letters was a gilt-edged invitation.
‘It appears that the colonel is rewarding us for our contribution to his mission,’ Matthew said, scanning the stiff card. ‘You and I have been invited to attend his regiment’s annual ball for officers at one of Sydney’s finest hotels.’
Randolph dropped his swag on the floor of the hotel foyer and took a seat in one of the comfortable leather chairs. ‘Do you think that Miss Macintosh will be attending?’ he asked, attempting to sound casual.
‘I am fairly sure she will,’ Matthew said, glancing at his friend. ‘But she will probably be escorted by her beau.’
‘Probably,’ Randolph answered, attempting to keep the disappointment from his voice.
‘But as we are to report to Arthur’s studio tomorrow I am sure that you might have the opportunity to speak with Nellie and ask if she has been invited to the ball. You never know . . .’ Matthew could read his American friend like a book and saw the hope glimmer in his demeanour at the suggestion. Matthew had never seen Texas Slim as taken by any woman like this before. He was more like a little school boy than the tough adventurer Matthew had come to know. Matthew hoped that Randolph would be successful in his bid to woo Nellie. He had disliked Guy from the moment he had felt his limp handshake upon their meeting.
‘Well, old chap,’ Matthew said, ‘I think that it is time to retire to the bar and catch up on the drinking we were denied at the farm by the colonel.’
The following day, the men shuffled into the studio to be met by Arthur Thorncroft whose lips pursed in annoyance at their dishevelled appearance.
‘You two must have had a good night,’ he said, turning on his heel and indicating that they should follow him.
The celebration in the hotel bar upon their return to Sydney had ended in a brawl with a couple of station hands down from Queensland who happened to hail from a rival property near Kate Tracy’s. Honour and the reputation of her ringers had been insulted and the ensuing fist fight drew in innocent bystanders to the point of men spilling into the city’s streets and gutters and leaving teeth and blood behind in the bar.
By the time six police had been dispatched to deal with the brawl Matthew had settled all damages with the publican and the two rival parties stood side by side discussing the merits and superiority of Queensland horsemen over those in any other state. The police left shaking their heads. Still the short, fierce fight with fists and feet had left Matthew with a split lip and Randolph with a black eye and bruising to the side of his face.
Arthur led them into a room scattered about with bits and pieces of camera parts. They were greeted by a pleasant young man in his late twenties. He had an open, warm smile on his clean-shaven face and wore a woollen vest with the arms cut away.
‘Bob Houston,’ the cameraman introduced himself, shaking Matthew and Randolph’s hands firmly. ‘I am Mr Thorncroft’s leading cameraman and pleased to meet you both. Mr Thorncroft has informed me that you were once an apprentice to the trade of the camera, Mr Duffy.’
‘I will leave you in Mr Houston’s capable hands,’ Arthur said, preparing to depart. ‘I am sure you will quickly update your knowledge, Matthew, and Mr Gates appears to be an intelligent man despite being born an American. If you need to see me, I will be in my office.’
On a table in the centre of the room was a wooden box with an extendable lens and at the side of the box a brass cranking handle. ‘Mr Thorncroft has briefed me that you gentlemen need to learn how to use this camera we have just purchased,’ the cameraman said, guiding them to the table. ‘Of course there is a lot more to filming than just simply cranking the handle and pointing the camera at the subject. You need to be fairly proficient before the camera is handed over to you. But what exactly do you need to know about the camera’s specific use?’
‘How it can be used from an aircraft flying approximately five thousand feet from the ground – or lower,’ Matthew said quietly between the hammer blows in his head.
‘Interesting,’ Bob Houston uttered. ‘May I ask why you want to film from an aeroplane?’
On instructions from Patrick, Matthew had already prepared his cover story. ‘We have been asked by a wealthy landowner for aerial film of his property. It appears he wants to use the bird’s eye view of the terrain to assist him in planning water storage from natural watercourses on his land.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Bob commented, already opening the wooden case to expose the mechanical workings of the camera. ‘I have never heard of that being done before. I heard that you are an aviator. It might have been handy when I was in South Africa chasing those Dutch farmers during the war when I was with the New Zealand Mounted Rifles.’
Despite his hangover, Matthew was amused at his own ingenuity. Maybe there was a future in aerial photography for mapping terrain and assisting the future of Australia’s vital agricultural industry although his passion for the potential use of aircraft in combat was still his priority. But he was also interested to learn that the cameraman was a New Zealander and had served in the same war as he.
‘I served with our army in South Africa,’ Matthew replied. ‘What rank did you hold?’
‘Sergeant,’ Bob replied. ‘Unlike you Australians we had to prove that we could supply our own horse, rifle and equipment before they would recruit us. Every young bloke in New Zealand wanted to join up but originally they only took those who could prove they could afford to fight and die for the good old British Empire. You look like you might have been pretty young to have served.’
‘I was,’ Matthew replied with a grin. ‘When we get the chance you and I should swap a few stories. One of them is how I got sent home.’
For the next couple of hours the cameraman took both Matthew and Randolph through the mechanics of the camera and how it operated. He cautioned them about the flammability of the cellulose film and said that developing the film was a lesson for a later date even though Matthew was already experienced in such matters from his time with Arthur many years earlier.
When both his students demonstrated to his satisfaction that they could load and unload the film from the camera, Bob called a break for lunch. He suggested a counter meal at a hotel nearby and Matthew and Randolph readily accepted his invitation to join him.
To Randolph’s delight, Fenella appeared on the set outside the camera room just as they were departing. She was in discussion with Miss Myrtle Birney, the scriptwriter, over changes to the script. She glanced up at the three men and an expression of concern shadowed her face when she noticed the two in company with the New Zealand cameraman. Randolph suddenly felt embarrassed. His battered appearance was not presenting a good image for the woman he hoped to impress.
‘Cousin Matthew and Mr Gates,’ Fenella said mischievously. ‘Have you both been involved in the same accident?’
Matthew grinned. ‘You might say that,’ he replied. ‘But, as they say, you should see the other blokes.’
Fenella smiled sadly at her cousin. ‘I can see that you have changed little since I knew you as a young soldier. Fisticuffs prowess seems to be a trait of Macintosh and Duffy men. And I can see that you have drawn poor Mr Gates into your wayward life. I had the impression that Mr Gates might be
a gentleman,’ she sighed.
‘Oh, Texas can mix it with the best of them,’ Matthew said with some pride. ‘Don’t let his Yankee charm and ugly looks fool you. I could tell you some stories about our adventures but think I will not, lest you blush.’
‘Mr Gates,’ Fenella said, turning her attention to the American standing quietly to one side, ‘I am sure that we have something in make-up that will conceal the bruises to your face.’
Randolph stepped forward, sweeping his Stetson hat into his hands. ‘I truly appreciate your offer, Miss Macintosh,’ he said. ‘But I have come to learn how to live with cuts and bruises in the company of your cousin.’
‘Come, Mr Gates,’ Fenella persisted, reaching out to lead him by the hand. ‘We have a dressing room near Uncle Arthur’s office and I am sure that he would not begrudge me repairing the damage that your friendship with my wayward cousin has caused your fine looks.’
Randolph glanced at Matthew, who shrugged. ‘Sounds like Nellie might be able to finally do something to make you look handsome,’ he said. ‘I will go to the pub with Bob while Nellie patches you up.’
As Fenella led Randolph away. Matthew grinned. The unexpected silver lining to the brawl was that it created an opportunity for the American to make conversation with Nellie. Who knows where that could lead, Matthew thought as he followed the cameraman off the set.
Fenella sat Randolph down in a chair. A large mirror covered the wall and the room had a strong smell of grease paint.
Fenella found a jar of pale-coloured grease, applying it delicately with her fingers to the bruised areas of his face. Randolph could smell the scent of her perfume as she leaned over him.
Fenella stood back to admire her work. ‘There, Mr Gates, you can hardly see the bruising anymore.’
‘Thank you, Miss Macintosh,’ he said. ‘It has been a long time since I can remember such a soft and gentle touch from a woman.’
‘That is sad to hear,’ Fenella said, impulsively touching his face with her fingers. ‘I would have thought that such a charming man as yourself would have known the touch of many beautiful ladies.’
‘Not much time for that,’ Randolph replied. ‘My life has been mostly spent in the company of rough men or roaming those places in the world hardly on the map.’
‘You are a very interesting man, Mr Gates,’ Fenella said. ‘I am sure that you have the opportunity to share your time with female company.’
Randolph was aware of how close Fenella was. His attention was drawn to the moist outline of her lips. He reached out and drew her to him, kissing her with tenderness.
‘Mr Gates!’ Fenella gasped, breaking the embrace to draw away from him. ‘I do not think that was appropriate.’
Randolph silently cursed himself for his impetuous action. ‘I am sorry, Miss Macintosh,’ he mumbled in shame. ‘It is just that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.’
Brushing down her dress, Fenella stepped back, indicating that the American should leave the room. Randolph understood her gesture and, hat in hand, departed the room without another word being spoken between them.
‘God damn you, Gates,’ he muttered as he placed his hat on his head. ‘You deserve to be horse-whipped, tarred and feathered, and run out of town on a rail.’
When he found the hotel where Bob Houston and Matthew were washing down their cheese sandwiches with a cold beer he strode across to their table.
‘Did you ask Nellie to escort you to the regimental ball?’ Matthew asked, glancing up. But his friend’s sorrowful expression answered his question. ‘I take it she must have said no.’
‘Worse than that,’ Randolph said, taking a seat at the table. ‘I doubt that Miss Macintosh will ever speak to me again.’
Randolph stared at the working men crowding into the bar for a meal and ale. What he would have given to have had a steady job and the chance to prove his worth to Miss Fenella Macintosh.
7
Patrick Duffy sat alone at the dining room table by the large French window that overlooked the well-manicured gardens below. In front of him was an article reporting that the Australian Prime Minister, Mr Joseph Cook, had called a double dissolution of both houses of Parliament. He had complained to the Governor-General, Sir Ronald Munro Ferguson, that his Liberal Conservative majority of one in the House of Representatives and minority in the Senate were unable to govern properly. The PM’s adversary on the Labor Party opposition, Billy Hughes, had stood and predicted that the Liberals would be cast out of power. Patrick pondered on what a change of government might mean to their mission and so absorbed in the article was he that he was hardly aware his son had entered the room carrying a cup of tea.
‘Good morning, Father,’ George said, standing by the window to gaze out on what was shaping up to be a beautiful, clear and warm winter’s day in Sydney.
‘George,’ Patrick said, glancing up from the paper he now folded neatly on the table. ‘What brings you here this morning?’
‘Oh, I have brought some papers for you to sign . . . nothing of great importance . . . and thought that I might ask what is going on with cousin Matthew and his Yankee friend. In my opinion, there seems to be a lot of cloak and dagger stuff underway. I just hope that it does not jeopardise any of our German trading interests.’
‘You know better than to ask me about my work,’ Patrick replied. ‘I can reassure you that none of it puts our financial affairs with the Germans in jeopardy.’
‘You really think that a war is coming?’ George asked, taking a sip of his tea.
‘I know that to most people there appears no real sign of war but in my business I am paid to be ready. Yes, I think that we could very easily be at war with Germany sooner rather than later.’ Patrick spoke in a measured tone, silently reflecting on the arms race between Britain and Germany for naval supremacy.
‘Does my brother think the same way?’ George persisted. ‘He is, after all, one of your officers in the regiment.’
‘I have not had much opportunity to discuss the matter with Alex,’ Patrick answered. ‘You seem to have tied him up with company matters.’
‘If I remember rightly,’ George continued, ‘it was you who insisted that Alexander undertake the trip to New Guinea and Rabaul when you heard that I was looking at expanding our operations with the Hamburg merchants. You have never done that before.’
Patrick was growing uncomfortable with his eldest son’s questions. They were infringing on his military role rather than that of chairman of the family companies. It was a father’s duty not to differentiate his love for his children but in the case of George, Patrick knew this was not so. From childhood the man before him had exhibited disturbing traits of coldness and cruelty. He had demonstrated many times that his only interest was his own pleasure and the acquisition of power. Nor had George any sense of duty. He had refused to take a commission in Patrick’s militia regiment and had insisted on taking possession of Granville White’s house for his sole use. Patrick had agreed because he had to admit that his eldest son was very good at managing the many companies Patrick had inherited from his grandmother Lady Enid Macintosh. Patrick had little interest in the world of banks and trading, preferring to spend most of his time in the company of fellow soldiers. He had been promoted to command a militia battalion of infantry in Sydney with Scottish traditions and his duties as commanding officer to his soldiers called on most of his time. He had been delighted when his youngest son had shown a keen interest in soldiering and taken a commission to rise to his current rank of captain acting as a company commander. Patrick suspected that the influence of his own father, the legendary soldier of fortune Michael Duffy, had a lot to do with Alexander’s choice. Alexander knew all the stories of how his mysterious grandfather had fought – from the New Zealand wars through the American Civil War to the arid lands of Mexico’s revolt against the French and finally in South Africa against the Dutch farmers. Along the way Abraham Lincoln had personally awarded his grandfather the Congre
ssional Medal of Honour. Patrick himself had fought in colonial wars in Africa, commanding the fierce Scotsmen who had enlisted in the English army after the Highland clearances. Soldiering was very much in the Irish-Scottish Celtic blood of his ancestors.
‘I thought that the sea voyage would be good for Alex, that is all,’ Patrick finally replied, dismissing any further attempts at interrogation from his son. ‘I have to change and attend duties at the regiment,’ Patrick continued, rising from the table.
‘Do you know that we have a German relative visiting our shores?’ George said. ‘Major Kurt von Fellmann is currently on a Pacific tour to inspect military installations and part of his inspection brings him to Sydney to meet with members of the German Australian Station.’
Patrick paused at the doorway to the dining room. ‘You mean Penelope’s son, brother of Karl?’
‘Twin brother, I believe,’ George answered, smug in the fact that he was privy to news that not even the formidable military intelligence apparatus he suspected his father of being part of was yet aware of. ‘I could offer him an invitation to the regimental ball when he arrives.’
Patrick could see the smirk on his son’s face. ‘How did you find out about his visit?’ he asked, suspicious.
‘I have friends in the German consulate here in Sydney,’ George replied. ‘They are, after all, not enemies of Australia.’
‘Leave an invitation for him,’ Patrick said. ‘He is related, albeit distantly.’
George placed his empty cup on the table. ‘I already have,’ he said, wiping his mouth delicately with a linen napkin from a silver holder. ‘I anticipated that you would like to meet him. After all, you are both officers with much in common.’
Patrick wanted to say something about his son’s presumption in extending the invitation before consulting with him but let it slip, accepting that his eldest son was a very clever man despite all his darker traits. In a sense, George was attempting to please him, which was not something he often did. After signing the papers on the table before him Patrick departed, leaving George alone in the dining room.