To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 (3 page)

‘I think that I would be more comfortable calling you by your first name, Colonel.’

Patrick slapped Matthew on the shoulder, understanding the military joke between them. Despite their blood link the younger man was paying his cousin the respect due to a highly decorated and experienced soldier. It would not be Patrick but Colonel that Matthew would continue to call his cousin.

‘As you wish,’ Patrick replied, turning to walk back to his car which he’d parked at the end of the paddock by a newly constructed sturdy tin shed. ‘I will see you both next Sunday for dinner.’

As Randolph and Matthew watched him stride away Randolph turned to Matthew. ‘What was that all about?’

‘I am not sure,’ Matthew answered, shaking his head. ‘It has been years since I last had contact with the family in Sydney and now the colonel suddenly turns up out of nowhere. Whatever it is, I am sure we will learn over a good meal and port wine at the Macintosh mansion on Sunday. In the meantime, we have to put the old girl to bed.’

Matthew and Randolph strode towards the little Bleriot. Hooking up ropes, they pulled it towards the shed they’d especially constructed to house the aircraft. As they towed the Bleriot Matthew could not take his thoughts off Fenella. It had been so many years and they had both changed so much. Matthew had one advantage in their meeting, however. He had seen her while sitting in the darkened auditorium of a picture palace in Sydney. She was not at the time in the theatre, but actually on the screen. Fenella Macintosh was making a name for herself as a famous film actress.

The young woman slumped at a wooden table with her head in her arm did not appear to be aware of the man
standing behind her, armed with a long-bladed knife which he held raised ready to stab her.

‘Okay, cut. We will try that again from a different angle.’ The young woman raised her head from the table to glance at the man who had called the direction. ‘We need to see the grief in those big, beautiful eyes of yours, Nellie.’

Fenella Macintosh turned to her would-be killer and took his hand. ‘Darling, you have an invitation to dinner next Sunday night at my father’s house,’ she said. ‘A long-lost cousin will be the guest of honour.’

Guy Wilkes smiled down at Fenella. He was a handsome, dashing figure with dark, oiled hair parted in the middle and piercing eyes highlighted by the excess of stage make-up. Fenella was similarly made up, highlighting her most expressive features so as to convey her feelings to the audience, without recourse to sound. ‘I don’t think this script will work, Arthur, old dear,’ Guy complained to the older man who joined them at the table.

Arthur Thorncroft frowned. He was a solidly built man but carried his sixty years well. He still retained the bearing of a man who had fought as an officer with the New South Wales contingent that had been sent to the Sudan. Thirty years earlier he had faced the fierce Dervish warriors. There too he had met a young colonial serving with the British army by the name of Patrick Duffy and an unlikely friendship had blossomed between the two men. In Arthur’s world he would have liked their friendship to have developed into a more physical and intimate relationship, but Patrick Duffy was not that way inclined. Despite their differences, the two men remained close friends and Patrick’s daughter, Fenella, was the nearest thing Arthur had to his own daughter. ‘My dear boy,’ he sighed, ‘to stay in business we have to make something a little more sophisticated than
bushranger films. The unwashed masses want melodrama from our studios – otherwise the Americans will crush us out of existence.’

Now it was Guy Wilkes’ turn to frown. He had hoped to be portrayed as a sadly heroic figure fighting the evil establishment of colonial Australia instead of a maniacal, jealous husband bent on killing his unfaithful wife. After all, had not the portrayal of bushrangers packed the tents and community halls in rural Australia and the newly built picture palaces in the cities? Had not those same films made him the heart-throb of women who swooned whenever he appeared in public? On the other hand, he might be able to identify with the character he was portraying when he looked into the wide eyes of the young woman at the table. Fenella Macintosh received the same adoration from half the male population of Australia; the other half was yet to see her on the silver screen.

‘The crew feel that we should pack it in for today,’ a young man said to Arthur. ‘We can have an early start tomorrow.’

Arthur turned to the young man whom he had appointed as his assistant film director, script supervisor, location selector, and manager of film props and lighting. ‘Yes, well, if that is the feeling we will call it a day,’ he agreed to the relief of the small group of people on the film set. The camera man carefully dismantled his hand-cranked camera in its wooden box on a tripod and took the cumbersome apparatus away. Soon he’d develop the footage of film they had shot that day.

‘Did I hear you tell Guy that you were having a long-lost cousin over for Sunday roast?’ Arthur asked. ‘And, if I had to guess, would I be right in saying it was young Matthew Duffy?’

‘It is, Uncle Arthur,’ Fenella replied.

‘Ah, how is Matthew?’ Arthur asked with genuine concern. His memory of Matthew was of his camera assistant bent on joining the contingents steaming across the Indian Ocean to fight the Dutch farmers in South Africa. Matthew had succeeded and found his war at the Elands River battle.

‘You must tell him to contact me when you see him,’ Arthur sighed. ‘It has been a long time.’

‘I will,’ Fenella replied. ‘I am sure that he will come and visit us on the set.’

‘Well, I will let you lovebirds enjoy the rest of the day and bid you a fond farewell.’ Arthur turned to walk away and his assistant fell into step, chatting with his boss and lover about the requirements for the next day’s filming of
Love Lost and Found
.

Arthur’s exchange with Fenella had aroused Guy’s curiosity. ‘Who is this cousin of yours?’ he asked with a churlish note to his question, sensing something intimate from the past.

‘He is the son of my father’s aunt,’ she said, using a cloth to wipe away the excess eye shadow from her face. ‘He left his home in Queensland when he was about fifteen to travel to Sydney and for a short while worked with Uncle Arthur as his assistant.’

‘So, he is one of them,’ Guy said smugly, dismissing the mysterious cousin as any threat to his hold on Fenella.

‘I strongly doubt that,’ Fenella retorted. ‘He was able to lie his way into the army and fought in South Africa very gallantly, so my father has told me, before being revealed as under-age. He was sent home and, from what I have heard, worked his mother’s cattle properties in Queensland as well
as travelling the world to some very exotic places. Father has told me that Matthew is now an aviator.’

‘None of that does not say your cousin is not one of Arthur’s mob,’ Guy snorted dismissively.

‘Well, Matthew used to send me love letters from Africa – when he was a soldier,’ Fenella replied, knowing full well that her reply would upset Guy. It did not hurt to remind the man in her life that he always had competition for her affections. Her statement had its effect and Guy Wilkes, debonair actor of the silver screen, fell into a surly silence as he wiped the make-up from his face.

Arthur Thorncroft was last to leave the film set. He had paid carpenters to construct the shell of a living room, open on one side to allow natural light to filter in assisting the cameraman do his work. The window on the back wall was in fact a painting to save on construction costs, and when the scene had been completed in his melodrama about a wife in love with another man, it would be replaced with another picture.

Arthur was very good at hiding his emotions and none of his staff were aware of what a financial dilemma Arthur’s film company faced. From 1907 to the previous year profits for his films had meant for an optimism that had proved to be falsely based. Developments in the thriving Australian film industry were being sabotaged by the emergence of more cheaply produced foreign films swamping the local market. Also a system had developed in the Australian industry where the separate entity of the distributor – a middleman who could more efficiently supply the exhibitor with a steady supply of imported movies – was cutting producers like Arthur out of the distribution of their own films
to cinemas. To keep ahead of the strangulation of his films by the powerful distributors Arthur had been forced to borrow heavily for production costs so that his own films could impress even those middlemen distributors. Arthur had always relied on the Macintosh family – headed by Patrick Duffy – and financial support had always been forthcoming. Patrick had allowed his children to assume the Macintosh family name on his maternal grandmother’s dying wishes and Patrick had even accepted a conversion from his Irish Catholicism to that of his grandmother’s stern, Protestant beliefs although he did not demonstrate any real adherence to religion in his life. Lady Enid Macintosh had been a formidable woman in her time and this trait continued in her great-grandson George Macintosh, whom Arthur was scheduled to meet at the set this evening.

George Macintosh was punctual. He arrived in his expensive, chauffeured car, stepped from the vehicle, adjusted his tie and glanced around the empty lot. With purposeful strides he walked to Arthur’s cluttered office.

‘Hello, Arthur,’ George said coldly, not bothering to offer his hand. ‘You and I have some business matters to discuss.’

Arthur gestured to a chair. George Macintosh was around thirty years of age, with an aristocratic demeanour and handsome appearance. He stood at average height and carried no excess weight considering the playboy life he led among Sydney’s most respectable society. He had the suave good looks that attracted even married matrons and many had used their feminine charms in an attempt to win his favour. But George Macintosh had an eye for young, single women and was very successful in his endeavours to bed them.

Appraising the man sitting opposite him, Arthur
experienced the usual chill of apprehension he always had in George’s company. Arthur remembered an old Macintosh rumour that somehow the family had brought down on their heads a terrible curse for an atrocity committed on their property of Glen View in central west Queensland over half a century earlier. Looking at George, Arthur wondered if the curse was the younger man himself. He wished Alexander, George’s younger brother, had been more motivated to take on the management of the Macintosh financial empire of shipping, rural properties, stocks, shares and real estate development. Now that empire could be said to include shares in the blossoming film industry. But Alexander was very much like his father, Patrick, a man driven more by adventure than business.

‘By business, I presume you mean the profits of my last film,’ Arthur offered.

‘Should we say, the lack of profits,’ George replied, steepling his fingers under his chin.

Arthur knew from past experience that this gesture usually spelled something he would rather not know about. ‘This film will recuperate that loss,’ he said defensively, not really believing what he had just stated. ‘But I will need more funds to complete shooting.’

George rolled his eyes dramatically. Maybe he should have been the actor and not his sister, Arthur thought, watching George’s pained expression. ‘I am not sure that lending any more to you would help,’ George said. ‘As I see it, the options are either closing down your company and selling off all assets to a rival or replacing you as the producer.’

Arthur had half expected that he would be put on the mat over the losses but did not expect to be sacked. He was stricken by the thought. ‘What if I spoke to your father,’ he
suggested, sweat oozing on his hands. ‘He and Lady Enid initially backed me in setting up the company.’

George’s smile lacked any semblance of warmth. ‘My father has delegated all financial management to me – as you well know – and at the moment he is too preoccupied playing soldiers to be interested in any decisions that I might see fit to make. You have no other choices than those I suggest. So what is it to be? Bankruptcy or bail out while you can?’

Arthur rose to his feet, his face reddening. ‘If you just give this film a chance we will be back in the black,’ he said, controlling his rage at the smug, young man smiling at him from his chair. ‘After all, your own sister’s career is at stake. Would you deny her a chance to rival Lottie Lyell?’

‘But you are no Raymond Longford,’ George said, referring to the well-known and respected Australian film producer. He rose to end the meeting. ‘You have twenty-four hours to reflect on my offer. Good evening, Arthur.’

In a fog of despair, Arthur watched George leave his office. How could such a good family as the Macintoshes produce such a callous bastard like George? Twenty-four hours to find a solution to the problems facing his production company was not enough time. He would keep the news from his crew until the last moment.

3

T
he tropical sun was almost at its zenith over the territory of the Morobe District in German New Guinea as Alexander Macintosh observed the young New Guinean labourer endure his flogging in courageous silence. The long cane rod rose and fell with ferocious rapidity ten times before the punishment was over, and the blood ran in rivulets where it had broken the shiny black skin of the boy’s back. The young man was bent over a wooden structure and a huge, bearded white man towered over him, sweat staining every part of his dust-grimed white clothing as he wielded the long cane.

Sweat also trickled down Alex’s clean-shaven face beneath his wide-brimmed floppy hat. He stood at just under six feet tall, had the broad shoulders and chest of his Scottish forebears and a pleasant, open face. The white tropical suit that he wore was also stained with sweat, the result
of standing in the hot, midday sun of the tropics. Single and twenty-five years of age, Alex had steamed to the German port in New Guinea to trade and the Macintosh trader, the
Osprey II
, now lay at anchor in the placid waters just off the coast.