Silver Wattle (23 page)

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Uncle Ota hissed at the projectionist out in the wings. ‘If my wife’s presence was annoying you so much, why didn’t you speak up earlier?’

‘What’s wrong with
you
,’ the projectionist spat back, ‘that you can’t see the colour of your wife?’

Uncle Ota’s eyes narrowed. If he had punched the projectionist in the face for the insult, I could not have blamed him. But just as Uncle Ota clenched his fists for a fight, the audience burst into cheers. The picture was back on the screen, and coming out brighter and steadier than usual and at a much better speed. Ranjana waved to us from the projectionist’s window.

The projectionist realised he was beaten. He snatched his jacket and ran for the door. ‘Never stoop to answer a slight and soon the truth will come to light,’ Uncle Ota shouted after him.

Ranjana became our projectionist, and while a female in the role could have been a novelty, we never let the audience see her in case someone objected to ‘an Indian’ screening the film. Ranjana wore an opera mask when she worked in case anybody glimpsed her through the projection room window. This led to tales of the ‘masked projectionist of Tilly’s Cinema’ and speculation that our projectionist might be a criminal camouflaging razor scars or a Russian prince in hiding. The rumours were good for business and we never had an empty session. Ranjana thought the escapade amusing, especially when Union Theatres and Hoyts, having heard of the excellent projection at Tilly’s Cinema, sent her letters offering positions. ‘I should accept one for the fun of it,’ she joked. ‘Imagine their faces when I roll up demanding my two shillings per film!’

Even though I’d had to buy a Kodak folding camera and upgrade my darkroom facilities, I was coming out ahead with my portrait work. Esther had given me enough money for Klara’s first year of tuition but, unless Aunt Josephine was able to send us more money soon, I would have to earn enough to cover her tuition for the rest of the time she attended the school. I wished I could write to Aunt Josephine to tell her what I was doing—earning my own living. She would be proud.

My career kept me busy and I had not been to the Vegetarian Cafe in weeks. I decided to take Klara there one day after school. But when we arrived, the cafe was crowded. The only seats left were in the booth where the young man with the cockatoo was sitting with his skinny companion.

‘We’ll have to come back later,’ I said to Klara.

We were about to leave when a voice called out, ‘You are welcome to sit here. We weren’t planning on staying much longer.’

I turned to see that the skinny man was pointing towards the spare bench opposite him. Something about his bright smile made me accept his offer, although I was embarrassed about my last encounter with his friend.

‘I am Peter,’ the skinny man introduced himself. He was wearing his usual cap and scarf although it was hot outside. His gigantic eyes and grin made me think of Felix the Cat. ‘This is my friend Hugh and that is Giallo sitting on his shoulder. Giallo found himself on the wrong side of a rottweiler and Hugh found himself in the wrong trench.’

I was surprised at Peter’s flippancy. Hugh grimaced but did not seem offended. Now I was close up I saw he was a good-looking man with Irish skin and light blue eyes. He nodded to us, although he did not smile.

I let Klara into the booth and took the place next to her. ‘I am Adela and this is my sister, Klara,’ I told the men. Klara flashed me a surprised look because we had all introduced ourselves to each other by our Christian names, but the atmosphere at the Vegetarian Cafe was very informal.

‘You don’t sound like kangaroos,’ said Peter with a laugh. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Prague,’ I answered.

Klara scratched the cockatoo’s head. He closed his eyes and leaned towards her. ‘Giallo does not sound very Australian,’ she said, taking up Peter’s playful tone.

‘I drove ambulances in Italy during the war,’ Peter said. ‘The day I returned to Sydney I found poor Giallo lying in a ditch. He barely had his flight feathers and I didn’t expect him to live, but I took him home and kept him warm. The next day he was lively and calling to be fed. I took him to meet Hugh, who was still in the army hospital. It was love at first sight for both of them.’

I glanced at Hugh who said nothing but did not seem as sullen as my first impression. Perhaps he was self-conscious around people, as many men who had lost limbs seemed to be. Besides, Peter was so talkative it was hard to get in a word. Peter turned out to be knowledgeable about Europe and about classical composers. He was interested in Uncle Ota’s job at the cinema and nearly jumped out of his seat with excitement when we told him the story of how our uncle had saved his wife from sati. We found out that he had been an art student the day war broke out and he had become a vegetarian after the armistice was declared.

‘War makes life cheap. I wanted to make it sacred again. I couldn’t stand bloodshed any more…and especially not of innocent animals,’ he told us.

We were talking about castles in Czechoslovakia when Hugh suddenly interrupted by asking me, ‘What’s your surname?’

‘Rose,’ I replied.

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Adela Rose? The photographer?’

It was strange to be referred to that way. I had photographed many elite people in a short amount of time, but I found it difficult to call myself ‘a photographer’ let alone ‘Adela Rose, the photographer’. I considered myself an amateur who had found herself in the right place at the right time.

‘I’ve seen your work in the
Sydney Morning Herald
,’ Hugh said.

The newspaper had published the pictures I had taken of Edith’s house. It was a significant professional leap for me, but Hugh would have had to have studied every picture in the paper to have noticed my credit. Although he did not say whether he liked the photographs or not, I was flattered he had remembered them.

‘Hugh is a photographer too,’ said Peter. ‘He’s shooting my picture.’

My heart skipped a beat. ‘Your picture?’

Peter nodded. ‘Production begins soon. I have my actors and budget sorted out. I just don’t have a script girl yet.’

‘What does a script girl do?’ I asked.

‘She’s the second pair of eyes to the director,’ Peter said. ‘She sits beside him and times the scenes with a stopwatch. She records the takes and types them up for the editor, and she also makes notes on what the actors are wearing in each scene in case anything has to be shot again later.’ He flashed a rueful smile. ‘My girlfriend did it for me on my other pictures, but she’s found another bloke.’

‘Your other pictures?’ I cried. ‘How many have you made?’

Peter puffed out his chest. ‘I’ve made two so far and I have a much bigger budget for this one.’

Klara pinched me but I did not need any prompting. ‘I could be your script girl,’ I told him. ‘I can type and I’m very interested in the pictures.’

Peter was taken aback for a second but then his face broke into a grin. ‘Truly? What luck then! And I suppose you’d be willing to take the stills photographs as well?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Settled!’ said Peter.

Klara squeezed my leg, Peter grinned and Giallo did a bobbing dance. Only Hugh’s grim expression gave any clue that something might be amiss.

I received an invitation to a luncheon at Beatrice’s home along with an apology that it had taken her longer to arrange than she had expected and a promise that she would send her chauffeur to pick me up. The day of the luncheon, I arrived at her residence and the butler showed me to the drawing room where Beatrice and Philip were waiting with the other guests. It was a surprise to see Beatrice and Philip together as I had only known them apart. I was astonished by their mismatched heights: Beatrice stood much taller than Philip. She leapt towards me and seized my arm. ‘Our guest of honour is here,’ she cried.

I noticed the engagement ring on her finger: an emerald set in white gold with brilliant-cut diamonds. It was the kind of ring I would have chosen. I was not one to covet other people’s things; Mother had said it was vulgar. So I was repulsed by the feelings of jealousy that rose in my heart.

The other guests stepped forward to greet me. Philip said hello before introducing an elderly couple who turned out to be Beatrice’s aunt and uncle, Mr and Mrs Roland.

‘Oh, no formalities, please,’ said Mrs Roland, who had the same red hair as her niece. ‘Call me Florence.’

‘Adela,’ I said in return.

Florence blinked and I was startled to see that she had false eyelashes glued to her lids. Society ladies never adorned themselves with artifice: that was for actresses and harlots. I wondered if Beatrice had inherited not only her aunt’s red hair but her eccentric manner as well. I thought of Aunt Josephine and her work ethic. Perhaps aunts have more influence on us than we realise.

‘I am Alfred,’ said Beatrice’s uncle, a smile twitching beneath his walrus moustache. ‘But don’t waste time with old fogies like us. Meet the young men.’

I smiled at the two male guests. The younger, who was about twenty, wore his golden hair parted down the middle and a silk suit. His dress style was urbane but his glowing face was as innocent as a country boy’s.

‘I’m Robert Swan,’ he said. ‘And this is my friend, Frederick Rockcliffe.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rose,’ Frederick said, in the growling tone of an American accent.

It was something of a jolt to be referred to politely. I had become used to Beatrice and her family’s habit of calling everyone by their Christian name. Frederick was around thirty with dark hair and shadows under his eyes. Along with his round face and tiny nose, he reminded me of a panda bear. I should have guessed from his shirt with the polka dots on it that he was a foreigner. It was too flamboyant for a luncheon.

When we arrived at the dining room, the food was already on the table and, apart from the occasional appearance of a maid to clear dishes and refill our glasses, we served ourselves. I was glad that Beatrice was aware I was a vegetarian. My stomach turned at the sight of the platters of oily roasted quails, sauteed pigeons and jugged hare.

‘What’s in those?’ asked Robert, pointing to a plate of stuffed tomatoes.

‘Cucumber and cream cheese,’ Beatrice answered him. ‘And over here we have mint salad and egg noodle pie. Adela is a vegetarian and I am one today too.’

‘Good-oh,’ said Robert. ‘I’ll tuck into that then. There’s something very clean about vegetarian food. I dare say it’s better for one’s digestion.’

‘It isn’t English,’ said Mrs Fahey. She was looking better than she had previously although she still wheezed.

Beatrice leaned towards me. ‘Mother is third-generation Australian but she worships everything English.’ Then, turning towards her mother, she said, ‘It’s a good thing our ancestors were upstanding British convicts, isn’t it? I was thinking of stealing a horse later today myself.’

Mrs Fahey sent her daughter a horrified look. ‘Will you stop saying things like that, Beatrice!’ she said. ‘You know they were free settlers. Horse stealers indeed!’

Philip and the Rolands burst into laughter and were joined by Robert. Frederick and I exchanged a glance, not sure of the family humour. Philip brought order back to the discussion by asking me how Klara was finding the Conservatorium High School.

I gave him a rundown of what she was learning in her eurythmics and musical theory classes. ‘Most of the lessons are taught by the head of the school, Alfred Steel,’ I told him. ‘With the exception of French, which is taken by Madame Henri.’

While I spoke, I was aware of how close Philip and Beatrice sat to each other. They looked comfortable together and nodded their heads in unison to show their interest in what I was saying. The jealous pang that had bothered me earlier pinched me again.

‘They had a devil of a time getting the Conservatorium of Music started,’ Robert said. ‘They not only had to form a school out of amateurs but they had to educate the public about classical music to create an audience. There were many who said the money was better spent on hospitals and public works than “highbrow” music.’

‘Robert is often invited to guest lecture at the Conservatorium of Music,’ Beatrice explained. ‘He plays the pipe organ.’

‘Truly?’ I asked Robert. The Conservatorium of Music was the tertiary institution above the high school Klara attended.

‘My interest is world instruments,’ he said. ‘I’ve just purchased an orchestrion, which contains a wind section, kettle drums, cymbals and triangles to simulate the sound of an orchestra.’

‘I’d love to see that, Robert,’ said Beatrice, clasping her hands under her chin. Mrs Fahey coughed and Beatrice hastily removed her elbows from the table.

‘Well, perhaps I should arrange afternoon tea once I’ve got it set up. It will take a while to arrive here from Germany,’ Robert said. He turned to me. ‘You could bring your sister. I would be delighted to meet her.’

Klara loved all things musical and, with Robert’s interest in unusual instruments, I was sure that she would be enthusiastic to meet him. I gladly accepted.

The dessert was pêche Melba, a mix of peaches, raspberry sauce and ice-cream.

‘This dessert was created for the Australian opera singer, Nellie Melba,’ Philip explained to me and Frederick. ‘As the ice-cream is only one element it takes the edge off the coldness and spares one’s vocal cords.’

Florence turned to me. ‘You took Beatrice’s and Edith’s portraits, didn’t you?’

Before I could answer, Beatrice clapped her hands. ‘She did a wonderful job of Edith! She turned her into a beauty. It’s given Edith a different picture of herself. She has bought herself racy new clothes and has become quite the centre of attention.’

‘Well,’ said Florence, touching my arm, ‘if you made Edith a beauty, you must be good. Do you only take portraits?’

‘At the moment,’ I told her. ‘But I will soon be working on a picture as a script girl. I would like to make a film of my own some day.’

Philip looked at me. At first he seemed surprised, then his face brightened. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘That’s fascinating!’

‘Ah, well,’ said Robert, nodding towards Frederick, ‘there’s your man. Tell Adela what you do, Freddy.’