He drove his spade into the sand with a grunt.
“France,” he said.
I could imagine the old bugger sitting at the head of a table and calling his fifty-year-old son “the boy”. He was far too content with himself for my liking.
“You should be on the wireless,” I said, “telling jokes like that.”
“You reckon, do you?” he said, and he made a slow study of me. He did not rush over any of the details. He observed, as I had not, that the trousers of the new suit were an inch too short and the jacket was a fraction too tight. “That’s what you reckon, do you?”
“Yes, I reckon,” I said. “I reckon you’re a bit of a wit.”
He wasn’t frightened. He knew he was too old to be hit. “What do you want the frogs for?”
“I’ll pay sixpence a frog. I’ll be wanting two frogs every day.” This scheme was not what I’d intended, but now I wanted to force him to do something for me.
“You don’t say,” he said without a sign of interest. He went back to his spade and shell-grit.
“That’s a shilling a day, seven shillings a week. It’s good money.”
“Who’d pay money for a frog?” His eyes were half clouded with cataracts but his scorn glowed through them.
“Do you want the seven bloody shillings or not?” I said.
“No,” the old man said with great satisfaction. “I don’t.” He picked up the sack of shell-grit and hoisted it on to his shoulder. I watched him trudge down the beach—a sack-carrying burglar who had stolen my sense of well-being.
I was always up and down in my moods and now I looked around the bay with a jaundiced eye. I saw a broken lemonade bottle in the sand. I began to suspect that Geelong might have the capacity to let me down, to be one more malicious, small-minded provincial city with no vision, no drive, no desire to do anything but send young men off to fight for the British and buy T Model Fords. However, the rest of that December Monday restored my faith in the city which, although it was not quite as grand as my vision of the morning, was still more than receptive to Herbert Badgery, Aviator.
I have had a long and wearing relationship with Henry Ford and it was only weakness that brought me back to him. The first thing I did in Geelong was introduce myself to McGregor, the Ford agent. I showed him my newspaper clippings and he was happy enough to engage me as a commission agent at five pounds a car. So when I arrived at the
Geelong Advertiser
I was able to park outside their window in a brand-new T model. I put my book of newspaper clippings under my arm and went to see the editor.
The suit I was wearing had previously belonged to Mr Harold Oster, and the Osters being the Osters I made no secret of the fact. So although Harold Oster’s arse was built too close to the footpath and although his arms were an inch too short, I made no secret of the fact. I even ventured, as few in Geelong would have done, a few jokes at Mr Oster’s expense. My familiarity with the Osters served as a better introduction to Geelong than any suit I could have had tailor-made in Little Collins Street.
My clothes, I told the editor, were at present in transit to Ballarat where I had been on my way to investigate the establishment of a new aircraft factory. Now, forced to spend the time in Geelong while the craft underwent repairs, I was keen to conduct discussions with local business men. I had already, I was pleased to inform the editor, found a degree of intelligence and enthusiasm in regard to the idea which was quite extraordinary. I would not let myself be drawn on the possibility of switching the site from Ballarat to Geelong but the editor foundhimself bold enough to run the following headline which my host, bright red with pleasure, read to me at breakfast: “ AVIATOR’S MISHAP MAY BRING NEW INDUSTRY TO GEELONG.”
Jack McGrath was not only flattered to find himself described as intelligent but also gratified to learn that his new friend had flown the first
“France,” he said.
I could imagine the old bugger sitting at the head of a table and calling his fifty-year-old son “the boy”. He was far too content with himself for my liking.
“You should be on the wireless,” I said, “telling jokes like that.”
“You reckon, do you?” he said, and he made a slow study of me. He did not rush over any of the details. He observed, as I had not, that the trousers of the new suit were an inch too short and the jacket was a fraction too tight. “That’s what you reckon, do you?”
“Yes, I reckon,” I said. “I reckon you’re a bit of a wit.”
He wasn’t frightened. He knew he was too old to be hit. “What do you want the frogs for?”
“I’ll pay sixpence a frog. I’ll be wanting two frogs every day.” This scheme was not what I’d intended, but now I wanted to force him to do something for me.
“You don’t say,” he said without a sign of interest. He went back to his spade and shell-grit.
“That’s a shilling a day, seven shillings a week. It’s good money.”
“Who’d pay money for a frog?” His eyes were half clouded with cataracts but his scorn glowed through them.
“Do you want the seven bloody shillings or not?” I said.
“No,” the old man said with great satisfaction. “I don’t.” He picked up the sack of shell-grit and hoisted it on to his shoulder. I watched him trudge down the beach—a sack-carrying burglar who had stolen my sense of well-being.
I was always up and down in my moods and now I looked around the bay with a jaundiced eye. I saw a broken lemonade bottle in the sand. I began to suspect that Geelong might have the capacity to let me down, to be one more malicious, small-minded provincial city with no vision, no drive, no desire to do anything but send young men off to fight for the British and buy T Model Fords. However, the rest of that December Monday restored my faith in the city which, although it was not quite as grand as my vision of the morning, was still more than receptive to Herbert Badgery, Aviator.
I have had a long and wearing relationship with Henry Ford and it was only weakness that brought me back to him. The first thing I did in Geelong was introduce myself to McGregor, the Ford agent. I showed him my newspaper clippings and he was happy enough to engage me as a commission agent at five pounds a car. So when I arrived at the
Geelong Advertiser
I was able to park outside their window in a brand-new T model. I put my book of newspaper clippings under my arm and went to see the editor.
The suit I was wearing had previously belonged to Mr Harold Oster, and the Osters being the Osters I made no secret of the fact. So although Harold Oster’s arse was built too close to the footpath and although his arms were an inch too short, I made no secret of the fact. I even ventured, as few in Geelong would have done, a few jokes at Mr Oster’s expense. My familiarity with the Osters served as a better introduction to Geelong than any suit I could have had tailor-made in Little Collins Street.
My clothes, I told the editor, were at present in transit to Ballarat where I had been on my way to investigate the establishment of a new aircraft factory. Now, forced to spend the time in Geelong while the craft underwent repairs, I was keen to conduct discussions with local business men. I had already, I was pleased to inform the editor, found a degree of intelligence and enthusiasm in regard to the idea which was quite extraordinary. I would not let myself be drawn on the possibility of switching the site from Ballarat to Geelong but the editor foundhimself bold enough to run the following headline which my host, bright red with pleasure, read to me at breakfast: “ AVIATOR’S MISHAP MAY BRING NEW INDUSTRY TO GEELONG.”
Jack McGrath was not only flattered to find himself described as intelligent but also gratified to learn that his new friend had flown the first
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