the shed, but it looks absurdly frail and insubstantial. Strings, wood, stretched canvas. It seems to be nothing but a network of lines – more like a spider’s web than a piece of engineering. I say to myself: ‘This thing’s made of emptiness. Of air.’
“Lady – and gentlemen – I present to you: the Empire State.”
Rufus’s upper-class English accent sits strangely with his showman’s theatrical manner as he talks us round the machine, pointing out this new feature, that design improvement, facts and figures spilling from his mouth. I notice something, and ask a question.
“Why has it got skis? For Canadian snow?”
“They’re not skis, Agnes. They’re floats. The Empire State will take off from – and land on – water. Lake Ontario itself is our airfield. And the Niagara River, above the Falls, will be our landing ground.”
It’s fifteen hours later, and the morning sun is rising higher over Lake Ontario. Last night, after dinner at the Rosedene Hotel, and too much conversation from the over-animated Rufus, I slept fitfully: the spindly frame of the aircraft, straining to hoist itself from the surface of the water, occurred and recurred in my dreams. I awoke early and could not get back to sleep. So at six o’clock this morning I came down here to the hotel lobby and sat quietly, watching the dawn light creep up the sky, mirrored in the lake. That was over an hour ago now. Rufus appears: his laughing face is unnaturally excited. He holds a bottle of Coca-Cola and in a single gulp he drinks the entire contents, straight from the bottle like a kid. His voice booms at me. “Ready to fly, Agnes? I went up to your room – it wasn’t locked, so I opened the door and popped in: I found it empty. ‘My bird has flown’, I thought. So I guessed I’d find you down here. Come on, let’s get breakfast.” His head jerks as he talks, and his animation is almost manic. Most of all, I’m annoyed at the thought of him going uninvited into my room, among my things – but I just smile and nod politely. There’s no point having an argument with him right now: in just one hour’s time, my life will be in his hands.
We go into the dining room and sit down: the staff serve us, and bring a breakfast for Chisholm too, but there’s no sign of him. Rufus tucks in hungrily to rashers of bacon, swollen sausages and a mountain of toast, dripping with butter. He keeps talking with his mouth full: the sight of mashed food in his mouth, and the sheen of grease on the meat piled on his plate, nearly turns my stomach. I find that I’ve no appetite for the plate of food in front of me. I make my excuses to Rufus and go to look for Chisholm. As soon as I leave the dining room, I see him, striding towards me in the lobby.
“Agnes, I’ve just been handed a telegram: Inspector Trench sent it to this hotel. Jimmy Nolan sent a message to the New Amsterdam Hotel in New York, exactly as he and I agreed when we met him in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Really? I thought that your cover was blown. Surely that’s why the Gophers have been pursuing us and trying to kill you?”
“Inspector Trench’s telegram also says that he has some important new evidence, and it changes everything.”
“And it is?...”
“He wouldn’t say what the evidence is. He said that he needs to show it to me, rather than tell me about it. Nor does he say which ship is being used for the shipment – but he did say that the loading is planned for the early hours of tomorrow morning, at Chelsea Piers. So, the inspector would like you and I to get back to New York, for tonight. Apparently the police want you and me in attendance at Chelsea Piers, to identify Nolan after they’ve arrested him.”
I’m about to speak, but Rufus appears.
“Come on Chis old boy, you’ll need some food inside you before this little jaunt.” We all head back into the dining room, although all I can face is coffee. I try to put the Gophers out of my mind, and concentrate on what is ahead of me this morning. A different sort of fear.
Although I volunteered for this flight, the truth is, I’m terrified: the moments pass like I’m watching myself in a movie at the cinema. I see myself walking with Chisholm and Rufus out to the lakeshore, sun glinting on the water. Rufus is talking to us, telling us about the flight, but again it’s like the movies: I see his lips moving, but I hear nothing. And I feel I’m a spectator, that I have left my real self back there on the shore, standing and watching, as a rowing-boat takes the three of us out to where the Empire State waits for us on the surface of the lake. Maybe it’s the fear, but I can’t help bursting out laughing at it. It looks like a duck, sitting on the water. This is a proud moment for Rufus: my laugh provokes a serious glance from him. “Twelve men carried it out to this position.” he says earnestly, as the boat pulls up at the front of the flimsy contraption. The boat wobbles in the water as Chisholm helps me step up onto a kind of wooden bench, bolted onto the top of lower wing of the airplane. There’s also a thin metal rail for our feet to rest on, below and in front of the edge of the wing. As I sidle onto the bench, I hear Rufus instructing me.
“Agnes, you sit in the middle of the bench. You’re the lightest of the three of us, you see. For balance, Chisholm and I will sit either side of you, as his and my weights will be similar.”
I feel like I’m sitting on a park bench. My feet are on the rail, my legs and skirt stick out over the water, and I think for a moment: as we fly along in the wind, my dress will blow right up over my head. I picture the crowds in Niagara, watching us landing – and getting an eyeful of my legs. I should feel concerned, I guess, but probably because I’m so scared of the flight, I just start laughing hysterically again.
Rufus ignores my giggles. His voice is brisk and firm. “Put your safety belt on. It’s got a horizontal strap that goes around your waist, and a vertical one between your legs.” Aha, I see. The straps are designed for men, but they bundle my skirts up around my legs and protect my dignity as well as my safety. I fasten the buckle: it’s fiddly and awkward. Rufus passes some leather goggles up to me. “Fix these around your head, Agnes.” As I put them on, Rufus climbs up too and sits on my left-hand side, and glances at me again: he’s all smiles again. He grasps two long sticks that poke up just in front of him. “These are my pilot’s controls. By the way, you look like a real aviatrix sitting there, Agnes. Maybe tonight we can take that moonlight walk?”
“Perhaps you find a girl more attractive when she’s wearing aviation goggles?”
He doesn’t answer that. I’m glad: I don’t want the effort of speaking further. I know we’re just seconds from taking off: a choking, breathless feeling has come from nowhere, rising and pushing inside my chest. Chisholm is climbing up too now, sitting on my right-hand side. The three of us are squeezed together on the tiny bench. The pressure in my chest feels like it must burst: to distract myself from it, I look around and behind me. Just behind where Chisholm and I are sitting, and connected by belts to the two propellers behind the wing, is the gasoline-powered engine. It looks like a kind of kit toy, lots of odd metal parts fitted together. Somehow, it will power us up into the skies. It looks hardly big enough to lift a kitten.
But then it starts. A raw roar fills my ears.
I expect us to set off with a jerk, but nothing happens. We’re not moving at all. The roaring goes on, we sit and wait, I gaze ahead at the glittering waters stretching into infinity.
The tone of the roaring rises to an almost unbearable pitch: it’s unbelievable that a little metal box can generate such sound. And yes – I have a slight, almost imperceptible feeling of movement. We’re sliding, inch-by-inch, forwards, over the water. The little waves on the surface of the lake start slipping past the outline of my shoes: first one-by-one, then a few at a time, and then the waves below my feet move faster, they start to blend into a blur of blue water. I see spray rising from the fronts of the skis that stick out in front of us. We seem to be skimming the crests of the waves, scudding along: water sprays up, wetting my face, but it’s only for a moment: the spray lessens. The skis are no longer touching the surface of the lake: they’re flying over the top of the water. The rush of air gets faster and faster.
I can feel the wind hitting the glass of my goggles. There’s a sense of breaking free from something. From gravity. And I look down at my shoes again, and the crests of the waves have become mere tiny glitters on the blue, far below me. I’m detached from them. Floating.
The wind in my face is strong, like being in a car with no windscreen. We climb higher, and the horizon widens every second. I can no longer see the ruffles of the waves on the surface of the lake: it looks like a flat blue plate. I can see the curve of the shoreline, trees and houses. Soon, I can make out whole towns, strung out along the bay. The airplane rises and turns. Away from Canada, towards the USA.
The moments pass, like a dream, in an endless azure infinity. The lake below, the sky above and around. Despite the furious wind in my face, the sense of effortless floating somehow feels like a deep, deep pleasure: the choking and breathlessness are all forgotten now. Breathing this blue air feels like a heavenly ecstasy. Either side of me, we’re passing fluffy, cotton-wool clouds. I gasp as one cloud passes below us. Then we see another cloud straight ahead, a white, blurry ball. We hit the cloud and we’re plunged into chill damp grayness, but a moment later