“What do you think, Charlie?”
“I think if Herbie has a cold, we should leave him behind.”
“He’d be very disappointed.”
“Boys often are.”
It’s not clear whether Charlie is delivering this from a sympathetic viewpoint, or whether he considers himself past all that as he’s reached the advanced age of twelve. Regardless, Charlie should claim whatever maturity he can as he’s off to Eton next fall, something that Sarita engineered for him, and now can’t seem to make peace with. It might do Charlie some good to be away from his mother. She’s protective of him and his generally abrasive, pugilistic way actually makes her coddle him more as she worries about him not being likable. He is a fantastic thug, this Charlie, and will no doubt do well at school. He challenged the gardener’s son to a boxing match the week before and gave him a black eye and the boy was two years older and three inches taller. Well, Charlie has a low center of gravity. One might say that about his build, and also about his personality. He reminds Ward of his father-in-law.
Ward hears some loud, enthusiastic honking, an off-stage horse screech followed by a clatter of hooves and some colorful French, and then there’s the motor car, a large German thing that Harmsworth is very, very fond of. The driver, Bradford, is stylish in goggles and some sort of leather coat and in the back, waving, in some extreme goggles of his own, is Harmsworth himself.
“Are you ready?” shouts Harmsworth as he draws near.
“Ready for what?”
“For air travel,” Harmsworth shouts over the now sputtering, idling engine.
“Not really,” says Ward. “It’s far too early.”
The front door swings open and Herbie, bundled in a muffler with the evasive mittens jammed onto his fists, is propelled out the door. Sarita steps onto the porch. She’s carrying Roddie, who’s five and too old to be held, but that’s not a battle worth having. “I want you to stay away from the flying machine. For God’s sake, don’t get under it. Or into it,” she says. “Be careful!” She’s waving. “Have a wonderful time!” Although these two admonitions seem to be at odds with each other.
Ward delivers some reciprocal waving, hardly necessary, since they’ll be home by lunch. “I’m in back with you, am I?” he asks Harmsworth.
“Yes, yes. And the boys are up front with the driver.” Harmsworth is wearing an ankle-length fur coat and matching hat.
Ward looks at his own wool and shifts on the seat. “I feel underdressed,” he says.
The car starts and there’s a jerk forward where Ward feels tugged back—this is his normal reaction to innovation—and soon they are speeding along, a disruptive spectacle. Startled horses, leaping pedestrians, disgruntled deliverymen pass by in quick succession—a proliferation of brief faces and gestures and words that recede so quickly, so quickly, as if time itself—the length of seconds—is being altered by this motor car. Harmsworth drums his fingers along the fine leather backing the front seat in approval of all his smooth progress and the mayhem it occasions.
“What do you think?” says Harmsworth, shouting in the wind.
“I think I should get some goggles,” Ward replies.
Bagatelle Field is populated at this early hour, a small but concentrated crowd that parts like the Nile as Harmsworth’s car, horn blaring in a helpful, determined way, suggests this accommodation. Herbie is now standing with his elbows resting atop the windscreen, chatting with the chauffeur in French, then remembering to use his proper, unfortunately slang-free English. Charlie is silent. Ward can practically hear the gears turning in the boy’s brain. He must be really enjoying himself as this tends to turn him grim.
Bradford pulls the car at a sharp, arbitrary angle and kills the engine. “Sir?” says Bradford, looking to the backseat, although Ward isn’t sure what he’s asking.
“Right,” says Harmsworth.
There’s a moment where the only spectacle is a wall of backs, people’s coats, rough sorts and fancy sorts all jammed together.
“I can’t see anything,” says Herbie.
“Maybe Lord Northcliffe will let you stand on the seat,” says Ward.
“Absolutely not,” says Harmsworth. “We’re press. Out of the car!”
Bradford gets the door and soon they are following Harmsworth through the gathered people, who seem to realize that any man capable of wearing such a coat—which, from the back, makes him look like an enormous, furry penguin—must be, if nothing else, important.
The flying machine does not look airworthy, nor even a capable go-cart. It looks like something the children might create in the garden from a collection of pastry boxes. Ward’s lack of faith is completely canceled out by Harmsworth’s enthusiasm. He assembles his writers, who gather around him with nerves on edge, pencils ready. Harmsworth has a reputation for biting people’s heads off, but that’s certainly not the man Ward knows, and few people know Harmsworth as well as Ward.
There’s Herbie just where his mother told him not to go, under the machine. But she must have meant when it was off the ground, and now he’s on his way back. Charlie, overcoming his reserve, asks Harmsworth, “Lord Northcliffe, could I please meet the pilot?” to which Harmsworth replies, “Let’s wait and see if he actually does something.” Charlie smiles and nods: He too has high standards.
The last time Santos-Dumont had tried this, last month, he had managed to get the machine off the ground for a distance of sixty meters. This is, of course, exciting as anything heavier than air being elevated, particularly with a man in it, is exciting, but it doesn’t really have a practical application. It’s not as if men need to elevate themselves; for such a short distance, one would think a series of leaps would do the job adequately. But there’s some practical element at work here. Harmsworth has a nose for this and it can’t be abstract or merely recreational for him to be this wound up. Scientific innovation, that’s one thing and maybe it’s new, but not news. Harmsworth works his writers. He sends one to the end of the field, another over to the man working the moving picture camera, and a third to observe the pilot close-up in these final moments.
Santos-Dumont marches up to the machine and takes the ladder in purposeful, focused strides. “And he’s off the ground!” says Ward.
“Don’t be silly, Father,” says Herbie.
The pilot gets into the machine and, to Ward’s understanding, appears to be facing the wrong way. Gliders have the pilot at the wings with a tail sticking out in back, as if the pilot’s sitting on a big bird, and that makes sense. Shouldn’t flying machines look like birds? This flying machine is sort of like an elephant head with boxy ears: the pilot sits at the wings looking down the length of a clumsy trunk. The whole thing looks clumsy. Were Ward to go shooting off the ground, he’d want something a tad more substantial around him, but that’s the point, isn’t it? Substantial will never leave the surface of the earth. Harmsworth is staring at the machine with such concentration that one would think he meant to levitate it with the power of his mind. Ward could use a drink—a little brandy to stave off the chill, but he hasn’t thought to bring any. He’s also forgotten gloves. Herbie sniffles beside him.
“Why don’t you wipe your nose?” Ward asks.
“I can’t get my hankie out of my pocket with my mittens on and Mama made me promise not to take them off.”
Ward laughs and wipes Herbie’s nose with his own handkerchief. “There.” Charlie would never let him do this, even when he was six, but Herbie, at ten, doesn’t mind.
“Thank you,” he says.
“Charlie,” says Ward.
“What, Father?” he replies.
When did Charlie start sounding so mature? “Maybe one day you’ll fly a machine like this.”
“Yes, Father,” Charlie says. He’s being overly polite, as if having his father present is somehow an imposition. Ward makes a funny face at Herbie, mouths
Yes, Father in that dyspeptic way that best approximates Charlie’s condescension.
Now there are men wheeling the plane around. Someone is running up the track with a windsock, making calculations. At least it isn’t raining. Look at Harmsworth, nodding at some truth that has crystallized out of his liquid imagination. Theirs is an odd friendship. At heart, they are just two school chums from Milne, two neighbors who used to chuck rocks at passing carriages and, on occasion, lift penny candy from the corner store. And now Harmsworth is a Viscount, and Ward is a millionaire. So why shouldn’t this machine start flying through the air? Stranger things have, obviously, occurred.
The engine starts up, first with a flat flapping, then a rattle, then a clunk—has it died?—but then there’s a rich growl, as if the plane has cleared its throat. The engine now has the familiar, confidence-inspiring chug. Ward suppresses a cheer. Men are now running alongside the plane in jackets and ties, dressed for occasion, not weather, and Santos-Dumont is standing upright, leaning into the next second. The machine speeds along, and onward some more, and Ward momentarily forgets that it’s actually designed for a different purpose than running along a track. Faster goes the machine, and a little faster, then, with an insistent jerk, the machine begins to ascend. The wheels have left the ground. The machine has escaped the surface of the earth. This awkward structure of boxes and bits of wood is motoring through the air. Ward hears himself utter, “I don’t believe my eyes.” For the first time he actually understands the failed transaction that gives meaning to that sentence. There’s a man being propelled through the air, standing in this machine. Ward loses the image as he unpacks it, because the crowd has moved, racing towards the plane. He finds himself walking with the crowd, following Harmsworth, whose coat, if nothing else, makes him easy to pick out. Herbie and Charlie are lost in the crush of people, unable to resist running ahead. Ward cautions himself not to worry. They’re boys—he shouldn’t know where they are. There is Harmsworth, with two writers. Ward catches up.
“Two hundred and twenty meters,” says Harmsworth, “and six meters off the ground! And in less than twenty-two seconds!”
“Sir,” says one of the writers, “should that be the headline?”
“No, you idiot!” says Harmsworth. “The headline, the headline, you fool, will be, ‘England Is No Longer an Island.’”
“Sir?”
“Write the damned article and don’t send it anywhere until I’ve approved it.” Harmsworth looks around. “And where is Parker?”
“Interviewing the pilot, sir.”
“Which is where you should be, or at least talking to the man with the moving-picture camera. You’ll want to see what he’s captured whenever it’s available.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you waiting for?” Harmsworth pulls a cigar out of his pocket and sticks it in his mouth. He chews at it, perhaps forgetting that it’s not lit.
“Well, you straightened him out,” says Ward.
“He’s just the first in a long line.” Harmsworth looks up and down the length of the field, impressively agitated. “Ah, Wardy, don’t you see? Doesn’t anyone see? It’s only a matter of time before they fit that thing with a gun. And do the math. Last month, that machine only made it twenty meters. Today, it’s two hundred and twenty meters. England has got to catch up quickly and develop an appropriate line of defense. How long do you think before these aeroplanes are crossing the Channel?”
“Crossing the Channel?”
“Wake up, Herbert. It’s the twentieth century.”
She can hear Dimples and Cricket arguing and is going to tell them to stop but then decides against it. Why shouldn’t they argue? In the next room Herbie and Roddie are sound asleep. Herbie has the covers pulled over his head and Roddie is snoring lightly. Herbie must have given him his cold. Well, next year with Charlie gone, Sarita can make over the room for Herbie. But wait—she won’t have to do that. The move to Rolleboise will mean plenty of room for everyone.
It’s late, but Charlie’s lamp is still lit. She knocks lightly on the door.
“Enter,” he says.
Sarita swings open the door and sees him sitting bolt upright on his bed, dressed in pajamas. There’s a book splayed, facedown, on the pillow but Charlie is occupied without it or other distractions.
“You should go to sleep soon. That was a long day,” says Sarita.
“I will.”
What is he thinking? “I hope you’re not concerned about going away to school.”
“Not really.” He cocks his head to one side and meets Sarita’s gaze. “I know that Herbie says he’ll be a pilot, but he’ll never do it. He’ll be too scared.” Charlie has that intense look on his face, the one where sometimes he starts crying even though he isn’t unhappy.
“Charlie,” says Sarita, “someone has to be a pilot. Why not you?”
“Do you think I’ll be a great man, like Santos-Dumont?”
“Absolutely,” says Sarita. “I’ll be sure and let the birds know to keep out of your way.”
“Mama—”
Sarita raises her hands, guilty. “I was being flippant. I know you’re very serious. The birds will get out of your way. And I will get out of your way. And everyone else, Charlie, will get out of your way. You are a special boy. You work hard. Anything you really want I have no doubt that you will get.”
This is an easy statement to deliver since she truly believes it. However, she cannot believe she’s letting this boy go away to school. She can’t believe she’s letting this boy go. As she wanders back along the corridor, she’s tearing up. If she allowed herself, she could sob now, but she doesn’t. Self-indulgence like that is good for no one. She steps inside the young boys’ room. Roddie rolls over onto his side and settles into sleep. Maybe she’ll stay for a few minutes, just a few. She’ll watch his sleep-puckered mouth, the curls damped at his ears, the rise and fall of the blanket, the quiver of his breath set off by dreaming.
Casement is visiting and all routine has been disrupted. Sarita is happy to have him because this recent spat had completely depressed Herbert in a way that shocked her. Casement really is the closest thing Herbert has to a brother and, as Herbert is no longer in touch with the Wards, is actually all the family he has. Sarita had told him to just give Casement the money, had said it didn’t matter if Roddie gave it to Irish widows or—what was that ridiculous school where they were teaching children how to speak Irish? Saint Edna’s? Something like that. Regardless, it was hard to have an opinion about any of it because it just seemed so unimportant. She did wonder who would want their children learning Irish. No one but potato farmers had spoken it in probably hundreds of years and why revive it? Why not bring back the Plague while you’re at it? But she’d counseled Herbert to give the money because it didn’t make sense not to. So finally Herbert had arranged a transfer of funds and, sure enough, here is Casement visiting, although he’ll soon be back in Brazil, his latest posting.
It’s getting late. Dinner took twice as long as usual and the children are still awake, because they haven’t seen their uncle Roddie in a while and they do love him. Sarita has sent Marie to bed not only because the girl was yawning but because Herbert and Casement have had a fair share to drink, will most likely drink more, and Sarita doesn’t want the maid circulating the details.
“Tell me a ghost story, Uncle Roddie,” says Herbie.
“A ghost story. Won’t that frighten you?”
“I certainly hope so,” he replies.
“Oh, be quiet, Herbie,” says Cricket.
“She’s only saying that because she gets scared,” Herbie responds. “She makes Dimples go and stand outside the door of the water closet and talk to her when she’s in there.”
“She does,” says Dimples. Charlie starts laughing.
“Herbie, you’re a toad,” says Cricket. “Mother?”
“You want me to quiet him? Cricket, I’m a big admirer of a good ghost story.”
“Mama tells really good ones,” says Dimples. “They’re from Argentina, so no one else has ever heard them. There’s that one about the maid who was killed by the son of a gentlemen.”
“A ridiculous story,” says Ward.
“Every word of it true,” says Sarita. “Go on, Roddie, give us a story. Surely this is easy work for an Irishman.”
“All right,” says Casement. He draws his eyebrows together dramatically, the gears of his imagination grinding almost audibly. “In the days of stage coaches, there was once a man who stopped at a country inn. The innkeeper said that all the rooms were taken, and that he would have to sleep elsewhere, but the man protested that there was no other place and that any bed would be acceptable. He would pay well. To this the innkeeper’s wife replied that there was one room, although they never let it out anymore—”
“Because there’s a ghost in the closet. I don’t want that story,” says Herbie. “I want a true story.”
“I thought that was pretty good,” says Ward.
“But it’s Dickens, Daddy. I want a real one.”
Casement smiles indulgently. “All right. This one is set after the Great Famine when a great many people in Ireland died. A landowner had come to a cottage where a woman was just hanging on. She had lost her husband to the typhoid, and five of her six children. She only had the wee baby left and was struggling on through the cold with whatever food she could beg. This landowner demanded his rent, and when the woman could not pay it, he threw her out and boarded over the door, telling her that she better not come back until she was willing to earn her keep. So the woman moved off down the frozen road in her bare feet and rags, clutching her baby, and she raised her finger to the landowner and delivered a curse, but he did not understand it because it was in Irish.”
“But what was it?” asks Herbie.
“I’m really not sure,” says Casement. “My Irish isn’t good enough.”
“But it was bad?”
Valiant Gentlemen Page 32