Paving the New Road (7 page)

The wicker armchair creaked as Rowland sat down. It had been bolted to the floor of the
Southern Cross
, as had three others, in preparation for the passengers who would make this trip. The Fokker F.VII was a long-distance craft. While she had been designed to carry up to a dozen passengers, she had under Kingsford Smith’s stewardship been pushing the edges of aerial endurance and speed. Her interiors were a little rudimentary.

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 knick-knacks. 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 take-off, 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 the 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 the 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 McKinnnon and Lambert looked on amused.

Kingsford Smith came out of the cockpit and bowed. His eyes glinted and his wide mouth 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.

5

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 combated 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 the 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

T
hey 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.