flamboyant, occasionally adventurous, as he felt befitted a man of literary sensibilities. He had a penchant for unusual colours and extravagant neckwear.
“I’m sure we can find you something more to your taste in Europe,” Rowland offered, as the poet complained that the dark grey three-piece suit made him look like an undertaker.
Clyde snorted. “Could always rob some gypsies, I suppose.”
“Stop grumbling, Milt,” Edna chided, as she adjusted his tie. “You’d hardly expect Wilfred to order cravats and velvet jackets.” She giggled. “How would he explain it?”
Rowland smiled. The thought amused him.
The airmen joined them for a drink or several before the next leg, which would take them on to Singapore. Kingsford Smith was in excellent spirits and Pethybridge an enthusiastic chorus. And so they drank gin and tonic water in a small bar near the airport and toasted the Southern Cross . McKinnon and Lambert flirted outrageously withEdna, who enjoyed the game, while Kingsford Smith talked of his plan to develop a motor car based on his beloved aeroplane.
“I say, that’s not a bad idea,” Milton said, nodding thoughtfully over his glass. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for investors?”
Clyde groaned. “The suit’s gone to his head,” he muttered.
Kingsford Smith seemed to accept that Milton was a man of means, however, and regaled him with the potential of the venture.
“My capital’s tied up at the moment.” Milton sighed, as if he was in fact burdened with capital. “I do know some chaps who might be interested, though.”
“He means you, Rowly,” Clyde murmured. “The bloody fool’s going to commit your fortune to this bloody aero-car cross-breed.”
Rowland laughed. “I’ll have to squander it somehow … might as well have an aero-car to show for it. Will it have wings, do you suppose?”
When the Southern Cross left Darwin for Singapore, her passengers were slightly less than sober. Perhaps for this reason they were not unduly alarmed that their pilots were in a similar state. Even so, the leg was uneventful. The winds were with them and they made good time, arriving tired and crumpled into the tropical heat. They were duly met by the Australian High Commissioner to the island and made discreetly welcome.
Leaving the valiant Fokker to be refuelled, they checked into the colonial splendour of the Raffles Hotel under the false names on the passports that Hardy had requisitioned for them. Kingsford Smith and the pilots were, of course, recognisable, even in Singapore, and signed their own names with a flourish. They did not appear to notice the subterfuge beside them. Briefly Rowland did wonder what explanation Hardy had given for the fact that the Southern Cross’ passengers were travelling incognito. But perhaps he had not given an explanation at all; perhaps he had just given money.
The suites, like the rest of the hotel, were lavish invocations of the British Raj—teak wood floors and hand-made carpets underfoot; majestic ornate plasterwork above; furniture that hinted at the East in a style that befitted the glory of the Empire. A barber was sent up as they bathed and dressed for the evening.
Rowland regarded his own reflection a little dubiously as he deftly manipulated a bow tie. He wasn’t really sure about the evening attire which had been left for them in the suite. White dinner jackets were not entirely new. They had become quite popular in Australia after some visiting duke had adopted the trend, but Rowland had never worn one before. He’d always considered the style unnecessarily loud, and whatever visiting Englishmen may have thought, Sydney was not the tropics. Still, they were in Singapore, and he was supposedly an art dealer.
Milton was much more pleased with his reflection, but then, he usually was. They had all been provided with the white-jacketed dinner suits with slight variations in style. Rowland did wonder who had made these particular
“I’m sure we can find you something more to your taste in Europe,” Rowland offered, as the poet complained that the dark grey three-piece suit made him look like an undertaker.
Clyde snorted. “Could always rob some gypsies, I suppose.”
“Stop grumbling, Milt,” Edna chided, as she adjusted his tie. “You’d hardly expect Wilfred to order cravats and velvet jackets.” She giggled. “How would he explain it?”
Rowland smiled. The thought amused him.
The airmen joined them for a drink or several before the next leg, which would take them on to Singapore. Kingsford Smith was in excellent spirits and Pethybridge an enthusiastic chorus. And so they drank gin and tonic water in a small bar near the airport and toasted the Southern Cross . McKinnon and Lambert flirted outrageously withEdna, who enjoyed the game, while Kingsford Smith talked of his plan to develop a motor car based on his beloved aeroplane.
“I say, that’s not a bad idea,” Milton said, nodding thoughtfully over his glass. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for investors?”
Clyde groaned. “The suit’s gone to his head,” he muttered.
Kingsford Smith seemed to accept that Milton was a man of means, however, and regaled him with the potential of the venture.
“My capital’s tied up at the moment.” Milton sighed, as if he was in fact burdened with capital. “I do know some chaps who might be interested, though.”
“He means you, Rowly,” Clyde murmured. “The bloody fool’s going to commit your fortune to this bloody aero-car cross-breed.”
Rowland laughed. “I’ll have to squander it somehow … might as well have an aero-car to show for it. Will it have wings, do you suppose?”
When the Southern Cross left Darwin for Singapore, her passengers were slightly less than sober. Perhaps for this reason they were not unduly alarmed that their pilots were in a similar state. Even so, the leg was uneventful. The winds were with them and they made good time, arriving tired and crumpled into the tropical heat. They were duly met by the Australian High Commissioner to the island and made discreetly welcome.
Leaving the valiant Fokker to be refuelled, they checked into the colonial splendour of the Raffles Hotel under the false names on the passports that Hardy had requisitioned for them. Kingsford Smith and the pilots were, of course, recognisable, even in Singapore, and signed their own names with a flourish. They did not appear to notice the subterfuge beside them. Briefly Rowland did wonder what explanation Hardy had given for the fact that the Southern Cross’ passengers were travelling incognito. But perhaps he had not given an explanation at all; perhaps he had just given money.
The suites, like the rest of the hotel, were lavish invocations of the British Raj—teak wood floors and hand-made carpets underfoot; majestic ornate plasterwork above; furniture that hinted at the East in a style that befitted the glory of the Empire. A barber was sent up as they bathed and dressed for the evening.
Rowland regarded his own reflection a little dubiously as he deftly manipulated a bow tie. He wasn’t really sure about the evening attire which had been left for them in the suite. White dinner jackets were not entirely new. They had become quite popular in Australia after some visiting duke had adopted the trend, but Rowland had never worn one before. He’d always considered the style unnecessarily loud, and whatever visiting Englishmen may have thought, Sydney was not the tropics. Still, they were in Singapore, and he was supposedly an art dealer.
Milton was much more pleased with his reflection, but then, he usually was. They had all been provided with the white-jacketed dinner suits with slight variations in style. Rowland did wonder who had made these particular
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