Silver Wattle (32 page)

We found ourselves dripping and muddy on the doorstep of a weatherboard bungalow. Uncle Ota searched for the key under a flowerpot, as our landlady had instructed, and found it. We were relieved to see there was a provision of dry wood and coal in the hallway to light a fire.

‘We’d better get dried off,’ Ranjana said, hoisting Thomas on her hip. ‘We don’t want to come down with pneumonia.’

The house was cosy with cottage windows and hardwood floors covered with braided rugs. A veranda with curved eaves protected it from the worst of the weather. We started the fire in the sitting room and I noticed that we had a view out to sea. Although the rain had stopped, flashes of lightning darted across the swollen ocean.

The following morning, while we were preparing breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Uncle Ota answered it to find our landlady holding a pail of milk. ‘It’s from the dairy,’ she explained, passing the pail to Uncle Ota. ‘Mr Rockcliffe wrote to say there was a little boy here and that I should deliver fresh milk every morning.’

Uncle Ota reached into his pocket for some coins to pay the woman, but she shook her head. ‘It’s all been fixed up.’

When Uncle Ota returned to the kitchen, he placed the milk on the bench and scooped out a cup for Thomas.

‘It’s still warm,’ said Thomas, licking his lips. ‘Delicious.’

Ranjana picked up a cloth and wiped his mouth. ‘You be sure to thank Mr Rockcliffe when you see him next.’

‘I will,’ promised Thomas.

After breakfast we walked to the town to inspect the cinema. The rain had left puddles on the unfinished road and Ranjana had to tug Thomas to stop him jumping in them.

‘Thomas!’ she scolded. ‘Not in your best clothes.’

Thomas giggled. When the next puddle appeared he did his best to jump into that too.

‘Well, better a boisterous boy than one who can’t walk or jump at all,’ said Uncle Ota. ‘We have to count our blessings.’

Buggies and motor cars were pulled up in the town’s streets. People scurried in and out of stores, carrying bread, potatoes, saddles and other household and farm necessities to their vehicles. A woman cradling a baby stopped when she saw us, as did a man in an oilskin coat. At first I thought we might have stood out as city dwellers because of my bobbed hair and Uncle Ota’s two-toned shoes, but I realised that they were looking at Ranjana. I shivered when I remembered that awful day when we were attacked on our way to the cinema. But the stares here were more curious than hostile, and when we said ‘Good morning’ our greetings were mostly returned.

‘Ah, here you are,’ said Mr Garret, the real estate agent, when we walked into his office. He had been eating fried eggs and reached for his handkerchief to wipe his mouth. ‘I’ll get the key. The cinema is down the street.’

He pulled a sheet of paper from the stack of files on his desk and disappeared into the back room, returning a few moments later with his coat and hat. ‘The cinema hasn’t been used in a while but it has a roof,’ he laughed, stroking his sideburns. ‘The old one didn’t. Weather like yesterday’s used to send us scurrying to get out of the place.’

‘The School of Arts has a roof though, doesn’t it?’ Uncle Ota asked.

‘Yes, it does,’ Mr Garret agreed. ‘They screen a few sessions a week and are talking about putting in new seats. But they won’t be able to compete with a purpose-built cinema like the one you want to open.’

‘Won’t that upset the committee?’ asked Ranjana.

Mr Garret was taken aback, as if he hadn’t been expecting her to speak English. ‘Business is business,’ he replied, addressing his answer to Uncle Ota. ‘And the School of Arts doesn’t have the seating capacity to fulfil the town’s true picture-attendance potential.’

When we saw the cinema we did not know whether to laugh or gasp. It was nothing more than patched iron and weatherboard walls and a warped roof. A faded sign hung above the doorway:
The Royal Picture Palace
. I thought Mr Garret opened the doors gingerly, afraid that if he pushed too hard they would twist off their hinges. The interior was as dilapidated as the exterior. The matchboard and fibro walls must have made the cinema a cold place to sit in winter and an oven to endure in summer. The air stank of a mix of salt and cow manure. The seats were planks resting on bricks.

‘There isn’t a biograph box. You will need to build one to pass the fire regulations,’ Mr Garret said. He sounded as if he were making a decorating suggestion rather than pointing out a major fault with the building.

Uncle Ota tapped his knuckles against a pillar. The lattice ceiling shook and we dodged the falling dust. The pillars blocked the view and I wondered what they were doing there because there was no gallery to support.

‘This building has to come down,’ observed Uncle Ota, poking at a rust patch in the wall. He turned to Mr Garret. ‘We are going to have to start from scratch, which is a bigger investment than I was intending.’

Mr Garret lifted his chin. ‘But when it is done…just imagine the crowds it will attract…the profits. What do you think?’

‘What do I think?’ replied Uncle Ota, raising his eyebrows. Two mice poked their heads out of the lattice and scampered down a wire and into a hole in the floor. Uncle Ota’s face broke into a smile. ‘I think it might work.’

Uncle Ota wrote to Freddy with an estimate of what he thought building a picture palace would cost.

We have potential competition from Wollongong Theatres who have made enquiries into leasing land. If we want to make a go of this, we had better get it right from the start. We should look at about 1800 seats with at least 300 of those in a well-appointed dress circle. If we want to maximise potential then we need decor at least as good as you would find in Wollongong, though my suggestion is that we do better with sprung seats and a magnificent foyer to keep up the novelty of a luxurious theatre. These people are proud. They do not want to be second to any major centre and we can do well by catering to that. We also need the latest equipment. I have checked with suppliers and it looks as if we will need a minimum of around 10,000 pounds.

Uncle Ota grinned when he wrote in the figure. He was throwing down the gauntlet to Freddy, testing his nerve.

Uncle Ota waited for a reply by mail, but instead opened the door one day to find Freddy pulling up at the gate.

‘Thirroul is too good a township to lose to a competitor, and if Southern Pictures build a reputation here, then other places could be conquered,’ Freddy said, before he had even taken off his hat to greet Ranjana and myself.

Uncle Ota invited him into the sitting room. Ranjana set about making tea. ‘Can you obtain the capital quickly?’ Uncle Ota asked.

‘I’ve already done it,’ said Freddy. ‘I mortgaged my house. I want you to do whatever is necessary to build the best, most impressive cinema on the south coast.’

Freddy stayed for lunch. I was curious to see how he would react to eating the korma curry and lentils Ranjana had prepared, but he ploughed through his food with a voracious appetite.

‘Now, Mrs Rose,’ he said to Ranjana, ‘I want you to source the best equipment for your projection room. And I want you to stop hiding. You are a talented projectionist. Let people know who you are.’

Ranjana rolled her eyes. ‘That’s easier said than done—’

‘Only in one’s mind,’ said Freddy, cutting Ranjana off. ‘That’s the problem with black people in my country. They struggle to be second-class whites. They should use what is unique about them. White people couldn’t have invented jazz.’

It was the first time I had ever seen Ranjana lost for words.

‘The projection room will need to be fireproofed, and isolated from the rest of the cinema in case of an emergency,’ Freddy said, before glancing at his watch and standing up. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stay. It’s been delightful.’

‘No!’ cried out Thomas.

We turned to look at him.

‘I haven’t said “Thank you, Mr Rockcliffe” yet,’ he protested.

‘What for?’ Freddy asked him.

‘For the milk,’ Thomas said.

Freddy gave him a salute. ‘You are welcome, young man!’

He was like a storm that crashed through the sky but cleared the air. Freddy took significant risks in anticipation of large rewards. I found him inspiring.

I walked Freddy to his car.

‘Are you all right down here?’ he asked me. ‘Is there anything you’d like from Sydney?’

I shook my head. ‘Thank you, but I have everything I need.’

He pursed his lips. ‘Did you bring your typewriter? Are you working on something new?’

‘No.’

Freddy did not say anything. He reached forward and brushed a leaf off his windscreen. There was a question on the tip of my tongue that I wanted to ask. I had been waiting to ask it but had kept losing my nerve.

‘Freddy…have you heard from Philip and Beatrice?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Don’t you find that strange? Klara says they haven’t written to Robert either.’

Freddy turned to me. ‘Do you know what the difference is between civilisations that survive and those that perish, Adela?’

I could not see what his question had to do with our conversation and did not answer.

Freddy started the engine. ‘Civilisations that survive deal with their present and their future. Those that perish cling to their past.’

Freddy sent me a wave before speeding off down the road. I bit my lip, holding back my indignant tears. I was sure now that Freddy had known I was in love with Philip and had been insensitive enough to make light of it. I would be cordial, for Uncle Ota’s sake, but I would never ask another thing of Freddy Rockcliffe I promised myself.

A week later the postal truck delivered a package to me. ‘It’s heavy,’ said Uncle Ota, lifting it onto the dining table. I cut the string and opened the package to find a new Imperial typewriter inside. Freddy had not included a letter, only a poem with the writer unacknowledged:

The poem lacked rhythm and structure and I had a suspicion that Freddy had written it himself. But I did not laugh at it. I appreciated the sentiment. Perhaps Freddy realised he had hurt me and was sorry. He was abrupt but he motivated people. I had given thought to what he had said about clinging to the past. I rolled a piece of paper into the typewriter and composed a thankyou note.

The next day, I set up the typewriter on the dining room table and listed ideas for a script. I was ready to take some risks myself to realise my dream of making pictures.

I typed the first three pages effortlessly, but as I was winding on the paper for the fourth page I looked out of the window and noticed the fig tree in our neighbour’s garden. I suddenly remembered Philip’s face on the day we had parted in Broughton Hall’s garden—and froze.

Uncle Ota wasted no time setting about the construction of the Cascade Picture Palace. Two months after he had seen the site, the old building had been demolished and the foundations for the new one put in place. While Uncle Ota consulted architects over granolite stairways and stained-glass windows, Ranjana set about sourcing an Ernemann cinematograph and a Crompton 10 hp motor convertor. She had a superior knowledge of her craft compared to most projectionists and was tired of the stares and the second-class treatment that suppliers dealt out to her.

‘I am renouncing my position as a “token Australian”,’ she proclaimed one morning. She swapped her western clothes for saris and her pearls for a bindi. But instead of the traditional cotton and silk saris, Ranjana made hers from western fabrics. One day, when she and I had to travel to Sydney to source Axminster carpets, she donned a sari of linen patterned with giant maple leaves. The coalminers and their wives waiting on the platform could not take their eyes off her. If she had hoped to discourage people staring at her, the outfit had the opposite effect. But Ranjana, who had insisted that we buy first-class tickets, acted as if the attention was homage. She lifted her chin like an exotic maharani leaving her palace in Jaipur. Her performance worked. I expected the guard to stop us entering the carriage and to tell us that dark people were not allowed to travel first-class. Instead, he dusted off our seats with his handkerchief before allowing us to sit down.

‘Thank you,’ Ranjana said, like a true sovereign. Then, turning to me, she whispered, ‘Freddy was right.’

I thought of the day Freddy had come to our house in Watsons Bay to have his picture taken and how he had quoted Nietzsche: ‘No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.’

Perhaps there was more to Freddy than met the eye.

While the cinema was being built, we screened three sessions a week at the School of Arts to become familiar with our audience. The locals loved everything from serious documentaries to frivolous comedies. Thirroul truly was a potential goldmine.

I missed Klara and was happy when she and Esther stayed with us on weekends. The scenery around Thirroul was breathtaking and Klara was enamoured of it. I accompanied her on walks in the bush because I wanted to spend time with her. But Klara had inherited Uncle Ota’s adventurous spirit while I was timid.

‘Aren’t there snakes in the bush?’ I asked her. The weather had turned warmer and I had heard that snakes came out of hibernation in spring.

‘Plenty,’ Klara replied. ‘Tigers, browns, copperheads and red-bellied black snakes. The tigers are the most deadly.’

‘Doesn’t that worry you?’ I asked, watching her scramble up the slope ahead of me.

Klara turned to face me. ‘They can’t move faster than you or I can walk. If they sense the vibration of your footsteps approaching from a distance, they will move away. So we will proceed through the undergrowth slowly and make up for lost time on the established tracks.’

‘And should one of us get bitten?’ I asked.

Klara patted the satchel she wore on her hip alongside her water bottle and compass. ‘We will cauterise the wound and apply a tourniquet.’