Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion Read online

  The name, though …

  “Plimsby, as in, George Plimsby?” I said. “The industrial manufacturist? The one with that ruddy great flying brass behemoth circulating over Bristol, periodically blotting out the sun? ‘Another Fine Plimsby Product,’ and all that rot?”

  Moggy nodded. “He’s her father.”

  “Great Scott, Moggy!” One’s mind, such as it was, couldn’t help but reel at the implications.

  “She’s his only child, you see, and he dotes on her —”

  “And he’s letting her marry you?”

  “Thank you, Reggie!”

  “No, no, sorry, what I mean to say is —”

  “Oh, no, I understand very well what you mean to say. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He thinks I’m a gadfly, a dilettante, a lay-about and do-nothing who stays out half the night at the clubs and the other half at the casinos.”

  I gave him the raised eyebrows as politely as one could under the circs.

  “Which may have been true enough before,” he hastened, blushing, “but that was the old Cyril Moglington. I’ve turned over a new leaf now. A good woman, treasured beyond pearls, or what have you. He’s given me a job.”

  “A job?” I cried, aghast at the very notion. “Not in a factory, surely!”

  “An important managerial sales post within the company. That’s why I need your help, Reggie.”

  “My help?” I’d fallen into a repeating habit, which my aunts said made me sound like a parrot, but what else was there to do?

  “Let me explain …” he’d said.

  Little was I to know his explanation would lead to my being in accidental possession of the sole prototype of a revolutionary new invention that did not, strictly speaking, belong to me.

  It had seemed like a solid gold scheme at the time. I hadn’t even given any thought as to whether or how I stood to profit from it, beyond the noble deed well done and pip-cheerio bonhomie for a chum and all.

  By the time that thought crept in, as well as others about the actual plausibility of Moggy’s plan, it was half-past too late.

  Which was how I’d ended up what felt like miles over terra firma, pretending to be someone else.

  Well, not instantly ended up, to be sure. There’d been various travel arrangements required, beginning with the good old GWR to trundle me from the gleaming lofty brow of the metrop to the hearty working-man’s backbone that was Bristol.

  It is, they say, where those genius engineering chappies Brunel and Jessop had gotten much of their start. Locks, docks, and floating harbours … railways, steamships, airships … more factories and manufacturies than you could shake a fish at. Or is it shake a fist at? Either way.

  But, for each genius engineering chap like Jessop or Brunel, and each genius business-and-commerce chap like George Plimsby, there must be thousands of the non-genius everyday laborer chappies. Which meant that, overall, it wasn’t the prettiest of places, to be sure. Rough-handed, bustling, and sweaty. Still and all, it’s what makes civilized life possible for the rest of us, hey what?

  After the train, it was a chug-a-tug down the river and into the aforementioned floating harbour, which did not float per se but had something to do with locks and ships and whatnot. There’s an immense concrete and steel spire out there, sunk through into the bedrock, or some such, with an inner revolving axle. Tethered to that by the thickest cable I’ve ever clapped the oculars to was George Plimsby’s vast hovering monstrosity.

  Don’t get me wrong; I’ve nothing against flying. I’ve taken the odd whirl in a whirligig and done the trans-oceanic via airship before. Very different, the dirigibles, the soundproof cabins, the take-off from a sky-tower mooring station and all. You’re up in the clouds before you know what’s what. Quiet, and smooth. Like a balloon, up up and away, a drink in your hand and not a care in the world.

  Plimsby’s factory is another kettle of gears. The size of a town in its own right, it’s kept perpetually aloft by grinding airscrews and roaring propellers that would give tornadoes a run for their money. A liftavator ascends the spire to a rather gantry-like topmost platform. Then, a fellow finds himself climbing into a suspended gondola that carries him up along the angled cable on motorized pulleys.

  We Wilmotts aren’t usually bothered by heights, as a rule, but every rule does have its exceptions.

  I do admit, the ride was spectac in the scenery department, if quite the white-knuckler. Scarier, somehow, than any of the airship trips I’d been on. More … real, in a way. The wind, for instance. Could have done with some enclosed windows on that gondola, rather than open-sided waist-high rails.

  I could see everything, and in greater detail than was strictly soothing to the nerves. Smokestacks, chimneys, slanted rooftops, crowded streets, colleges and hospitals and churches packed in among manufacturies, the occasional spot of green for a park or winding ribbon of a waterway … that famed suspension bridge across the Avon, that marvel of modern design, looking like something someone’s kid brother might have knocked together with a builder’s set for his toy automotives…

  All in all, stunning view, squirrelly on the nerves. Not so distant and indistinct as to be meaningless, but vivid enough that a person could readily imagine — whether he wanted to or not — the fall if that cable let go. By the time the gondola reached the factory, my knees were shakier than Moggy’s plan. I’d had ample occasion for first, second and third thoughts by then, not that any of them were sparking the bulbs.

  Honestly, it had made some sort of sense when he laid it all out for me. I’d agreed, after all. I might have come up with something similar myself.

  Plimsby had, you see, entrusted Moggy with securing new accounts. Moggy reasoned that he’d make a better impression on the old man if he could land some juicy prospects snap out of the gate.

  Hence, this viscount fellow, who was quite interested in placing an advance order for the upcoming line of the latest model of the whatever-it-was. He, being of the aged-and-infirm variety, however, wanted to send his son to make a personal inspection before anything was engraved in bronze, as they say.

  The son, Lord Bramford, had a desperate terror of heights and an even more desperate terror of his father learning about it. He got Moggy aside in private and asked if someone else couldn’t possibly go in his stead. A proxy, as it were, who could have a look about, take some notes, and so on. If, that is, a fellow could be found who bore a close enough resemblance, had the right manner, and could be counted on to play along.

  Someone like, say, Reginald Wilmott.

  Moggy’d get his account and approval to marry Gertrude, Bramford wouldn’t have to make the dizzying ascent, the viscount and old Plimsby would be none the wiser. Everyone happy, victory all around, hey what, and pop the bubbly for the home team.

  In the meanwhile, here I was, aboard this citadel of brass and steel as it droned its endless circuitous route above Bristol. I’d heard somewhere that Plimsby did this to avoid certain laws, taxes, and regulations — his factory not therefore technically being within city limits, and so forth — crafty, if a bit uncouth.

  The noise of the machinery drowned out most shots at meaningful conversation, which suited me just as well. I was, remember, impersonating the son of the viscount of something-or-another.

  As for the actual inspection, I daresay it went well enough. Not that I understood half of what I was seeing, but, I was a social-events veteran at nodding in the right places even when I had little inkling of the particulars. Words such as “amazing” and “dashed impressive” tumbled from my lips at appropriate intervals.

  I also had Moggy and Gertrude (she was in on it, of course; the sweeter they look, the more devious they are) on hand to coach me as needed.

  No doubt, the whole affair was helped along by the fact that George Plimsby, a man who’d made his fortune through hard labour and the sweat of his brow, was properly overwhelmed by titles and peerage. Not to mention a snappy suit. The state of my flat notwithstanding, few were
on par with Reggie Wilmott when it came to putting on the ritz. If my jacket was a tad on the bold side — Moggy’s eyes half-popped when he saw it — well, it had been very much the fashion at the shore this season, and easily excused as an eccentricity. Plimsby himself was dazzled to the bone, I dare say.

  I won’t say the old chap fell all over himself at meeting the purported son of a viscount, didn’t kowtow or the like. Still, he knew what was what. Those Fine Plimsby Products were very much the rage among the nouveau riche and jazzy set, but it was slow going to convince the blue-bloods to embrace certain modern conveniences over tradition. Nominal patronage of a viscount would go a fair ways in that regard.

  So, I went on the factory tour and made the duly admiring remarks. I even took a habits-and-preferences test, filling out a questionnaire done with a punch card and brass stylus, which was then fed into a device that made bulbs flash and ticker-tapes chatter. Very technical, don’t you know, very STOTA, as they might say, state of the art.

  By the end of the thing, a deal had been struck that must have been satisfactory all around. More than satisfactory, judging by the dazzled lights gleaming in more than a few pairs of eyes.

  I shook hands with old Plimsby. He wrung mine with a fervent and calloused grip that almost put me in fear for the Wilmott digits.

  “I’d be delighted, Lord Bramford, if you’d accept the gift of a prototype, with my compliments,” he told me.

  “Oh?” I let him have my best beaming smile and hoped he didn’t catch on that I’d come through this entire afternoon with the barest notion of just what this newfangled product he’d been pushing even was. “Awfully good of you, old chap, but hardly —”

  “In fact, I’ve already taken the liberty of having one calibrated to your individual settings.”

  “Have you?” With, of course, no idea what he meant, until I remembered the barrage of questions earlier.

  “I don’t often leave the factory, but, in your case, I’d be more than happy see to the delivery myself —”

  “Daddy,” chirped Gertrude, coming to my rescue at that point, “I’m sure Cyril can take care of that. You’ve so much to do.”

  “Hrm, well, yes …”

  I stifled a gulp when it struck me he’d been scheming for an invitation to the lordly estate and abode, which might have been stretching the ruse a bit further than was strictly comfortable. Thanks to Gertrude and her timely interruption, I was able to escape before getting in any deeper.

  Don’t get me wrong; I live well. My flat is top-notch, under the clutter. But, being adequate to my needs, it lacks many of the amenities old Plimsby would be expecting. Whenever I find myself craving those, I can pop over to the ancestral rock-pile for a fortnight or so. My aunts are regularly after me to move back on a more permanent basis, of course, claiming that my habits (deplorable) and my housekeeping (slovenly) will land me in hospital with some disease or another. I agree that fresh air is fine and well in its place, but after about ten or twelve days at a run, I’ve had as much peace-and-quiet country living as I can take for a while.

  No, give me the steam-city, the bustling metrop, any day.

  I went home, did something of a slapdash wash-and-dress, and headed out for a night on the town with the warm knowledge of having helped a chum bolstering the spirits. Soon, I’d nearly forgotten all about the whole affair.

  A few days later, Moggy turned up and brought Brassworth with him.

  I was, I must admit, flabbergasted. Stunned on sight wouldn’t be an exaggeration. How often do you open your door and find standing there a full-size automaton, in the likeness of a man, but made completely of metal?

  Yes, completely! Even the clothes, a rather natty suit-looking getup, were metal … from the top of the bowler hat to the tips of the shine-polished shoes! A brass mask of facial features … impeccable wire hair … jointed-finger hands that would have done credit to a concert harpsichordist …

  I mean to say!

  “Hullo, Reggie,” Moggy said. “Going to invite us in, or stand there and gawp?”

  I invited them in. Manners must, and what else was I to do?

  “Well,” I said. When it seemed I had nothing more to add to it, I said it again. “Well.”

  “Well indeed,” said Moggy. “This is Brassworth. Your new valet.”

  “My what?” Stunned, now I did gawp.

  “Your new valet. Your gentleman’s gentleman. Your manservant.”

  I directed the gawp toward the automaton, which had come into the flat without the sort of clanking, spring-sproinking and gear-grinding you might imagine. Instead, it moved with a sort of gliding stride so smooth I half wondered if there were wheels set into the bottoms of those shined metal shoes.

  Brassworth, having come in, doffed the hat — I thought it might attach by magnets — and held it watch-chain level in the best deferential fashion. I saw that the eyes were not metal, but a kind of tint-glass, smoked amber in color.

  And they moved. Side to side in their sockets like ball-bearings, none of that straight-ahead fixed stare like a statue. The eyes bloody moved … they even blinked with mechanized regularity! The more I stared into them, the more I felt the uncanny sense of an intelligence staring back.

  Moggy kept prattling on, and it gradually dawned on me what the whole ‘Lord Bramsford’ business had been about.

  “Another Fine Plimsby Product?” I blurted.

  “Dash it all, Reggie, weren’t you paying any attention?”

  “I remember some drivel to do with mod cons this and revolutionary advances in that. Are you telling me that… that Plimbsy… that he’s making and marketing…”

  “Yes!” cried Moggy, flinging up his hands as if I were the most hopeless dunce he’d ever met.

  “What’s he sent me one for, then?”

  “I couldn’t very well take Brassworth to Lord Bramford, now, could I? He’s calibrated to your settings!”

  “My … the punch card and the machine …?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Those questions about… what time I wake up, how I take my tea, where I buy my shirts?”

  “Now, you needn’t worry about it,” Moggy said, sounding glad I’d finally caught up to speed. “I’ve already spoken to Lord Bramford, and he’s quite willing to order his own on the sly so that old Plimsby doesn’t find out —”

  “Moggy,” I said, “you know I don’t have a valet, I haven’t had a valet in months!”

  Which was a not un-sore subject, as Moggy also knew.

  I had, as I’ve mentioned, gone through a couple of them lately. Indignantly, I reminded Moggy of those unfortunate incidents, to which his retort was on the first charge, Brassworth wouldn’t be pilfering the potables. As for the second, well, that just meant I’d have all the more reason to appreciate the Plimsby absolute confidentiality guarantee.

  “I am,” I declared, “despite what my aunts might think, perfectly capable of looking after myself, getting the old eggs-and-b together of a morning, and all that.”

  He gave me a look that I hardly appreciated. The eyebrows were, I dare say, hoisted at a rather dubious slant. After the favour I’d done him, I found it a rather unsympathetic response to say the least. The fact of the matter furthermore being that I could scarcely cook an egg to save my life, and as for the b, the less said about that the better … well, that was notwithstanding. Not the point, as it were.

  We bantered it back and forth, the way chappies do, until a drink stopped seeming merely like something that would go down well and started seeming like something of a necessity. I was so glad for the tumbler sitting at my elbow that I’d picked it up and had a sip of the fortifying before three things occurred to me in quick succession.

  One was that I’d already finished the drink I’d made for myself just before Moggy arrived. The second was that, during our bickering, the brass valet hadn’t been standing in the foyer but was taking such an unobtrusive exploratory around the flat that I’d not even noticed.

&n
bsp; The third was that this was a deuced doozy of a drink!

  Truth be told, I may have gotten a bit careless of late with my mixology. A splash and a plunk and there you go, whatever on ice, over the teeth and past the gums and all that.

  But, this, well, I won’t say it’s as if the world stopped on its axis or the like … but it did give me pause. I don’t know when I’ve had a better! Perfect ratio, perfect temperature … and with a twist! I preferred the twist, just, lately it had grown to seem too much a bother.

  There was even a slivered curl of lemon peel for garnish as a final finishing touch.

  I lowered the glass and looked at Moggy. He looked back at me, rather smugly, I thought, and dipped a nod in the direction of the automaton.