Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (5 page)

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?”