Silver Wattle (28 page)

Beatrice grimaced and ran her hand through her unruly hair.

I was in awe of Beatrice. She had more courage than I had imagined. I wondered what Philip saw in me that he did not find in her. She had travelled and served in the war. I had not done anything significant.

‘Well, come on then,’ Beatrice said, slapping her knees and drawing herself out of her melancholy. ‘Let’s get this dress.’

After Beatrice had purchased the raspberry dress, we ate lunch at a restaurant in Market Street before making our way to Chinatown. Beatrice steered me away from the headless ducks on hooks and crabs in tanks in the food stores and led me to a street lined with curiosity shops. ‘This is the place I love best,’ she said. ‘It’s a treasure chest.’

We entered a shop piled with brocade cushion covers, drawstring handbags, embroidered slippers, parasols and lanterns. Beatrice stopped to admire a green cheongsam on a hanger.

‘Tell me about Egypt,’ I said.

She bowed her head and leaned against a hatstand. ‘Philip was stationed in Egypt as a medical officer,’ she said, looking back at me. ‘I went there to join him. I don’t think any of us were prepared for the carnage. One day the ambulance I was driving to the hospital was shelled. Margaret was killed and I was shredded with shrapnel. When they got me to the hospital no one expected me to survive. “I promise to live if you will marry me,” I said to Philip, before they put me under.’

‘So he promised?’ I asked, trying to mask the tremble in my voice.

Beatrice smiled dreamily. ‘I’ve been running around the world looking for excitement, but that’s because I knew when the time was right I would settle down with Philip. When Mrs Page died, it was like losing my own mother. Even when we were children, she always said, “You’ll take care of my Philip if anything happens to me, Beatrice, won’t you?”’ Her face turned serious. ‘I will never break that promise. Never.’

We were silent for a moment, weighing up the gravity of her vow.

‘Is that why you joined up with the nurses when Philip was posted to Egypt?’ I asked.

Beatrice nodded. Her voice dropped to a whisper and she said, ‘Lately, Philip has been looking distracted. I’m afraid I’ve kept him waiting too long…I’m afraid that there’s somebody else.’

A sickening feeling twisted my stomach. I clutched a row of shirts to hold myself upright.

‘Dear God, Adela!’ said Beatrice, grabbing my arm. ‘You’re as white as a sheet. Here, let me help you.’

‘It’s the lack of air,’ I said, tugging at my collar.

It was not the air, it was the guilt. Only the day before I had kissed Beatrice’s fiance on a secluded beach.

‘It is stuffy in here,’ agreed Beatrice, leading me to the door.

In the next street was a French cafe, its blue tablecloths and baskets of bread incongruous with the calligraphy of the signs of the stores next to it and the smell of bamboo and rotten fish that permeated the air. We sat down at a table near the window. Beatrice ordered some water and a pot of tea. Despite the mildness of the weather I shivered.

‘Maybe you’ve got influenza?’ said Beatrice. ‘Let me get you a taxi.’

‘No, truly, I’m fine, Beatrice. It was just in there. In that shop.’

I hoped that she might change the subject from Philip. I tried to distract her with questions about her travels in England and on the Continent, but each answer returned in some way to him.

‘I gave myself to Philip in Egypt,’ she said.

The blood drained from my face. I should have been embarrassed at such a shared intimacy but instead I was hurt. I thought about how Philip had restrained himself with me. ‘I want you more than anything in the world,’ he had said. I was shocked that he had been intimate with Beatrice. The only solace was that Philip and Beatrice had become lovers before he had met me. A sensation I could not explain passed over me. I glimpsed something inside of Beatrice that I had not noticed before; as if another person existed behind her freckles and energetic manner. But the feeling soon faded and everything seemed normal again.

After an hour had passed, I deemed that I had been polite enough and excused myself. I wanted to get away from Beatrice. I felt cold-blooded knowing that Philip was in love with me, and not her. I told Beatrice that I had to help Uncle Ota at the cinema.

‘Goodbye, Adela,’ she said, kissing my cheek. ‘I’m glad you could come out with me today.’

‘Goodbye, Beatrice,’ I replied.

She made no reference to seeing me again. The oddness of that only occurred to me as I walked to the tram stop. She seemed innocent of the nature of my relationship with Philip, yet I had the distinct feeling that I had been given a warning.

When I arrived home, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds and the world looked grey. I wanted to run upstairs and collapse onto my bed. But when I approached the gate I found Uncle Ota on the front veranda with Frederick Rockcliffe. They both had a glass of beer in front of them and leant back in their chairs, looking relaxed.

What is he doing here? I thought. Frederick’s boisterous manner was the last thing I needed.

Frederick jumped to his feet when he saw me.

‘Mr Rockcliffe came by this afternoon to have his photograph taken by you,’ Uncle Ota explained. ‘I found out that he works for Galaxy Pictures so I decided to get a better deal for our cinema. He likes the idea of a night a week devoted to Australian films.’

Frederick pulled out a chair for me. We had never discussed taking his photograph and I was irritated that he had turned up without an appointment. But I did not want an argument. All I wanted was to find a way to extricate myself from the conversation so I could be alone.

‘That’s wonderful.’ I sat down and tried not to stare at Frederick’s purple bow tie. I did not believe what he had told Uncle Ota about approving of a night dedicated to local films. From the discussion at Beatrice’s luncheon, I knew that Frederick represented an American company with American interests.

Klara walked out of the house with a tray of assorted nuts. Despite my effort to put a polite smile on my face she could tell something was wrong. She cocked her eyebrow as if to say, Are you all right? I answered her by lowering my eyes in a way that conveyed: We will talk about it later.

‘Do you mind if I practise in the front room, Uncle Ota?’ Klara asked. ‘I don’t want to disturb you and Mr Rockcliffe. But I have a piano examination tomorrow.’

I hoped Frederick would take the request as a prompt to leave. Instead, he answered as if the question had been directed to him. ‘Not at all, Miss Rose. I’d be enchanted to hear you play again.’

Klara blushed with delight and returned to the house.

‘Mr Rockcliffe has been telling me about opportunities to build cinemas on the south coast,’ Uncle Ota said. ‘The pictures are increasing in popularity but there aren’t enough cinemas. They are watching picture shows in sheep fields and School of Arts halls.’

‘This is apart from my interests with Galaxy Pictures,’ said Frederick.

I wondered why he felt he had to explain that to me. What he did or did not do in accordance with Galaxy Pictures was no concern of mine.

Uncle Ota and Frederick spoke about opportunities in country towns but all I could hear were Beatrice’s words in my head: ‘Philip has been looking distracted. I’m afraid that there’s somebody else.’

Frederick gestured towards the plate of nuts but I had no appetite. The sound of Klara’s piano playing drifted on the air.

‘What is that music?’ he asked.

‘The
Ritual Fire Dance
by Manuel de Falla,’ I answered.

‘Manuel de Falla,’ Frederick repeated, shaping his vowels to imitate my pronunciation of the Spanish composer’s name. ‘It had some queer buzzing notes at the beginning, like a swarm of bees gathering to attack.’

I was amused by Frederick’s description of the music. He was the one who had not wanted to go back to work after the Grieg Concerto because he had found it stirring. He did not use the terms someone familiar with classical music might, but I liked the fact that his responses, although raw, were sincere.

‘It is from a ballet called
Love, the Magician
. There are gypsies and witchcraft,’ I explained. ‘A young woman is haunted by the jealous ghost of her deceased husband. The
Ritual Fire Dance
is to get rid of him.’

Frederick was taken aback. ‘She tries to get rid of him?’

‘He was cruel. She has a handsome young lover.’

Frederick ran his thumb over his knuckles. I had the impression that he was absorbing the information for use at a later date. He turned to Uncle Ota.

‘You have talented nieces,’ he said. ‘A pianist and a photographer.’

I wondered where Frederick had gotten the idea of me taking his photograph. Had he seen some of my work at a socialite’s house or had Philip shown him the portrait I had taken of him and his father? But to ask him might start another train of conversation, and I wanted to avoid that.

The aroma of Ranjana cooking dinner wafted from the house: turmeric, garlic and cinnamon. They were scents that never floated from the other houses on our street. For one tense moment I thought Uncle Ota might invite Frederick to stay to dinner, although I could not imagine him picking his way through vegetable kofta and
sag paneer
.

‘If you come Thursday morning, I can take your photograph then,’ I told Frederick, praying that he would take the hint from my voice that I was tired and he should go.

To my relief, he stood up. ‘It will be a pleasure to be photographed by you, Miss Rose.’

We saw Frederick to the gate and watched him climb into his car. He waved after he started the engine. ‘See you Thursday!’

I watched the car turn the corner and regretted the brusqueness with which I had spoken to him. He was brash but somehow polite, and despite the garishness of his suits he was not unattractive. It probably was not easy to be an American in a culture that did not appreciate people speaking their minds.

I told Uncle Ota that I was not feeling well and asked Ranjana to excuse me from dinner. My bed was the most welcome spectacle of the evening. I pressed my face into the pillow and cried all the tears that I had been holding back. I felt cursed that I had met Philip when Beatrice was engaged to him. I turned over and stared at the ceiling. Laughter burst up from the dining room and I heard Thomas asking where I was. I could have been in Japan the way I felt; I was so removed from everyone else.

I longed to open my heart to Klara, but exhaustion got the better of me and I fell asleep before dinner was over and she came upstairs. I awoke at one o’clock in the morning with Klara asleep beside me. I watched her peaceful face, unable to make up my mind about whether I should wake her or not. Then I remembered that she had a piano examination and did not want to disturb her.

I slipped out of bed and padded down the hall to the upstairs sitting room. Uncle Ota had left the porch light on. In the glow of the lamp I saw Louis’s ghost by the gate again. Just as before, he was wearing his military uniform and peering into the house. We are both on the outside of life, looking in now, I thought.

‘So your uncle is a collector?’ Frederick asked, when he arrived to have his picture taken. He was standing near the shelf with the African masks.

‘My uncle gathered those pieces on his travels,’ I told him. ‘And now we have our own museum. That red and black mask is from the Congo. The tribal chiefs wear such masks when making sacrifices to their ancestors.’

Frederick picked up the resin mask and studied its carvings. I could not help but smile: Frederick was wearing a red and black checked suit. He replaced the mask on its hook and moved on to the bookshelves, which sagged under the weight of our collective library. He ran his fingers along the plays by Shaw and Ibsen and the volumes of Nietzsche.

‘“The man of knowledge must be able to not only love his enemies but also to hate his friends,”’ he said, quoting the German philosopher. He turned to me. ‘Have you read all these?’

‘My uncle read them on his voyages but I am familiar with them too,’ I told him. ‘And you, Frederick, do you read?’

I realised that I had called him Frederick instead of Mr Rockcliffe. I had picked up the habit of using Christian names from the Vegetarian Cafe and Beatrice. But he did not seem to mind.

A smile came to his face and he shook his head. ‘I don’t have the luxury of time to read books. But I make sure I keep the company of those who do.’

I remembered a conversation between my father and mother that I had overheard as a child. Father had described an acquaintance of theirs as a ‘self-made’ man. Gentlemen were supposed to despise men who had made their own money, but my father clearly admired him, just as Aunt Josephine respected women who earned their own living. Frederick Rockcliffe was a young man determined to lift himself up in the world.

I decided that his portrait should be in sharp focus and taken from below. There were two spaces in the parlour where I photographed those clients who did not wish to have their picture taken at home. The first was a corner with an armchair upholstered in pink brocade and a still life in a gold frame above it. That was where most society ladies chose to be photographed. The other space was against a stark white wall. It was there that I planned to photograph Frederick.

‘Why not against the bookshelf,’ he asked, when I showed him where I wanted him to sit.

His suit would clash with the decor so I wanted to keep the background simple. But I gave him a more diplomatic explanation. ‘This portrait should be about you, not books—especially as you don’t read them. Pretending to be something you are not doesn’t show confidence.’

I knew that I had hit the right note when he smiled. He wanted to look powerful, not silly. My photograph would help him achieve that—and one day I would speak to him about his suits.

Frederick sat on the stool against the wall. ‘Your uncle invited me to the premiere of your film,’ he said. ‘He gave it a glowing review and I trust his judgement. I can get it distributed for you.’

‘It’s only a short,’ I told him.

‘Cinemas need those as well, you know.’