Silver Wattle (22 page)

‘Ah, you are here,’ she said, throwing herself towards us. She kissed Doctor Page Senior then turned to me.

‘I’m excited to meet you,’ she said, stepping so close to me that she trod on my foot. She was almost as tall as Uncle Ota and next to her I felt like a child. If she wanted to stand for her photograph, I would have to climb on a box.

Beatrice introduced me to her mother. Mrs Fahey was a frail woman with mousy brown hair and a waxen face. From the way she wheezed and struggled for breath, I could see that she was seriously ill. But the affection between her and the vital Beatrice was obvious from the look of love in her eyes when her daughter helped her into a chair and covered her knees with a shawl.

‘How are you, Helen?’ asked Doctor Page Senior, sitting down next to Mrs Fahey.

‘Oh, still here,’ she answered, with weariness in her voice.

I bowed my head, trying to compose myself. Beatrice was so full of life, and yet I felt for her. She was going to watch her mother die—perhaps not for another year or two, but more slowly than I had witnessed mine pass. I wished there was something kind I could say to help her bear that blow. But there were no words for such things that could be said to friends or strangers.

‘I suppose we can’t keep Miss Rose waiting,’ said Beatrice, bouncing towards the windows and tugging the curtains apart. With the light on her face, I saw that she was about twenty-five years old—too old for finishing school—and that her white skin was covered in freckles. Most women would have bleached the spots with lemon juice or powdered over them, but Beatrice appeared to have made no such effort.

‘Well, I must be off to see some patients,’ said Doctor Page Senior, rising from his chair. ‘I’ll leave you ladies to it. The Faheys’ chauffeur will take you home, Miss Rose.’

After Doctor Page Senior had departed, Beatrice laid her hand on my arm. ‘Old Doctor Page told me that you are a vegetarian. Is that true?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I answered.

‘So you never eat meat?’ asked Beatrice, sitting down on a footstool so that her knees jutted upwards and made her look like a frog on a lily pad. ‘Not chicken or fish or anything?’

If Beatrice was about to ridicule me, I had no intention of being belittled for caring about lives other than my own. ‘I’ve seen maids behead chickens, a neighbour kill a cow with a poleaxe and a butcher drive a spike between a horse’s eyes,’ I told her. ‘Those poor creatures struggled and thrashed about in terror. It’s like murder to take their lives when we don’t need to.’

Beatrice’s green eyes focused on my face. She was not a pretty girl but I understood what Doctor Page Senior had meant about her not needing finishing school and why Philip was in love with her. Beatrice had something about her that was transfixing. She thumped her palms on her knees. ‘Well, that’s bloody fantastic!’ she said. ‘I wish I was that strong because I feel the same way. But nobody I know—apart from you now—is a vegetarian and Mother says it simply isn’t “English”.’

We both looked to Mrs Fahey. ‘It’s not natural,’ she said. ‘We were meant to eat meat.’

‘Well, Mother,’ said Beatrice, rising from her seat, ‘I’m going to invite Miss Rose to our next special luncheon and I’m going to tell the cook to make it a vegetarian one. It may be good for you.’

There was no malice in Beatrice’s voice but I knew that if I had ever spoken to my mother that way—let alone sworn—I would have been sent out of the room. Mrs Fahey merely laughed at her daughter. ‘Have some vegetable dishes if you wish, my dear,’ she said. ‘Philip and Robert will go along with you. But Freddy and Alfred will be horrified. You’d better have some lamb chops for them or they won’t come again.’ Then she turned to me and gave a shrug as if to say, You see what life has handed me? What does one do with such a wilful daughter?

Beatrice plonked herself in a rosewood armchair and wagged her finger. ‘There are too many boys around this family. I need girls to fight them with.’

Beatrice was a magnetic character. That men might find her charming did not surprise me. She was vibrant, loud and forceful. I glanced around the room and realised that the overblown wallpaper and frilly cushions were at odds with her breezy personality.

‘I wonder if you might prefer your photograph taken in the garden?’ I asked her. ‘The light is good. I’d like to place you in a natural setting.’

Beatrice jumped out of her chair. ‘Bloody marvellous idea!’ she said. ‘No wonder Philip thinks so much of you!’

I was surprised and flattered at the same time. Philip had talked about me to Beatrice?

Few ladies smiled in portrait photographs and those that did rarely showed their teeth. Beatrice grinned in every pose whether I told her to or not. ‘So what if it gives me wrinkles and makes my teeth look big,’ she laughed. ‘If I look too serious people won’t recognise me.’

Afterwards, we returned to the house where Mrs Fahey was waiting at a table laid out with scones and tea.

‘So you will come to our luncheon when we get around to organising it?’ Beatrice asked, motioning for me to sit down. ‘I’ll make sure there are nice dishes for you.’

She was so captivating and so earnest in her invitation that I could not see any way I could refuse. No wonder she can keep Philip on a string, I thought. You just cannot say no to her.

O
ne evening Uncle Ota came home with exciting news for us. He asked Ranjana, Klara, Esther and me to sit on the sofa before making his announcement. ‘Mr Tilly is retiring and has offered me the role of manager of his cinema!’

After a moment of stunned silence we broke into cries of elation. Being promoted from head usher to manager was a significant leap in responsibility. Mr Tilly had obviously recognised that Uncle Ota had the flair necessary to manage a cinema. I could not have been more pleased for my uncle. The Tuesday night soirees had allowed him to experiment with his entrepreneurial skills. Now, at the helm of a suburban cinema, he could put his showmanship to full use.

‘Well,’ said Ranjana, standing up to make a pot of tea, ‘that’s two family members in entertainment and one to go.’

She grinned at me.

Doctor Page Senior and Mrs Fahey were so pleased with the portrait I took of Beatrice that they were determined to find more clients for me.

‘There are society ladies who require portraits of themselves and their daughters, some of whom need “help” in the looks department,’ Doctor Page Senior told me. ‘Helen and I are going to send you to some wealthy clients and I want you to charge them and charge them well,’ he said, cocking his eyebrow. ‘You have exceptional talent and most of them have more money than they have sense. If they don’t spend their money on a good portrait they will only spend it on a frivolous dress. Think of it that way.’

Doctor Page Senior kept his word and before long I was photographing debutantes, society weddings and children. Word about my individual touch spread and I often undertook several sittings in one day. One society matron said I was the only photographer who could bring out the darkness of her eyes, while another claimed I had diminished her prominent chin by using the light correctly. I usually photographed my clients in their homes, and by the time Klara attended her first class at the Conservatorium High School I was being welcomed into some of the grandest manors in Sydney.

‘You must make Edith look beautiful,’ Beatrice told me, when she accompanied me to Bellevue Hill where I was to photograph her friend. ‘I haven’t got many female friends,’ she said, hurrying up the gravel drive, bordered by crepe myrtles, towards the Greek revival mansion. ‘Actually, the only female friends I have are Edith and you.’

I followed Beatrice past the columns to the entrance of the house. She turned the ringer. I wondered how she had decided I was her friend. I had only met her once. But it seemed to me that whatever Beatrice willed came to pass. So I accepted it as a compliment. It was no trifle for a woman who worked for her living to be befriended by a socialite.

A maid answered the door and ushered us to a drawing room with a Turkish rug and two marble fireplaces. Beatrice and I sat down on a
toile de campagne
sofa.

‘Edith will be my bridesmaid and I’m determined to do something for her,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘She desperately wants a husband but we can’t get Harold Cazneaux to agree to take her portrait for
Home
magazine. And her mother wants some pictures of the house when you’re finished. If you get them into the
Sydney Morning Herald
, she will pay you extra.’

Photography had been a means of expression but now I was making significant money out of it. As Doctor Page Senior had told me, society ladies were prepared to pay generously for a flattering portrait.

The door opened and a woman Beatrice’s age stepped into the room. Her skin was alabaster and her pale eyes were framed by colourless lashes. Her washed-out appearance did not bode well for a photograph to catch a husband.

‘This is Edith,’ said Beatrice, standing up to embrace her friend.

Edith grinned, revealing enormous teeth and an inch of gum. My mind raced to think how I could photograph her. Perhaps if I had her turn slightly away from the camera I could emphasise her long neck and straight profile. ‘Shall we begin?’ I asked.

After the photography session, Edith insisted we stay for tea. ‘Will we have it here, in the drawing room?’ she asked.

‘No, let’s sit on the balcony where it’s lovely and cool,’ said Beatrice.

Edith led us to the balcony, which overlooked the lawn, and told the maid to bring us tea. A breeze sprang up and sent the smell of gardenias wafting around us.

‘So, you’ll be marrying soon,’ said Edith to Beatrice. ‘Have you set a date yet?’

‘God, don’t you start,’ said Beatrice, lifting her hair and dropping it so that its roll fanned out and became untidy. ‘I’ve got everyone else on my back.’

Edith laughed. ‘Oh well, reluctance keeps a man keen.’ She turned to me and flashed her horsey smile. ‘It’s always been Beatrice and Philip, as long as I can remember,’ she said. ‘They were born on the same day, three years apart. Our families used to holiday every year in the southern tablelands and Philip and Beatrice had two ponies who they called Lancelot and Guinevere. Romantic, isn’t it?’

Beatrice smiled. ‘Philip and I spent our days by the river. He pretended to be the captain of a cargo ship and I pretended to be a pirate.’

I listened with interest as Beatrice and Edith talked about Philip. They knew things about him that I did not—the names of his childhood pets; that he had attended The King’s School; that he hated sour cream.

‘He wants to join an air club,’ Beatrice told Edith. ‘And buy his own plane.’

‘How daring!’ her friend replied, pouring us another cup of tea and passing around the date slice.

While Beatrice and Edith spoke, it dawned on me that they discussed Philip’s sporting achievements and weekend hobbies but never mentioned his work. It was surprising, because to Philip being a doctor was everything.

Beatrice continued to intrigue me. The society friends to whom Mrs Fahey recommended me were often mothers of young men, and seemed to be living in hope that Beatrice might tire of Philip.

‘Such a beautiful girl,’ one matron told me, after I had photographed her sitting on a sofa with her papillon puppy. ‘Wasted on Doctor Philip Page.’

Beatrice was strolling around the garden while I took the photographs, and I hoped the woman might expand on what she meant before she returned.

‘That young man does not need to work for a living,’ the woman continued. ‘If he had any sense he would be with her all the time.’

It was an interesting observation, I thought, because it seemed to me that the difficulties in their relationship were caused by Beatrice’s reluctance to spend time with Philip.

It did not take Uncle Ota long to make a success of Tilly’s Cinema. He selected programs the regular cinema-goers liked; placed advertisements in the local paper; and printed handbills to give out at the end of a session that announced the following week’s program. He introduced a lolly-bag promotion for a sweet shop for the children’s matinee. Each Saturday afternoon, throngs of children gathered outside the cinema. Ranjana and I handed them lolly bags before they burst into the cinema like a herd of wild boars. The promotion was a success, although the sweets were often hurled at the screen or rolled along the wooden floors, to the chagrin of our cleaners.

Ranjana suggested Uncle Ota promote a weekly afternoon session for mothers with young children. She and I managed a crèche while the women watched romance pictures. For some mothers it was a chance to catch up on sleep they never got at home, and afterwards they were treated to a soothing cup of tea and music courtesy of Klara and a violinist friend before we handed their children back to them.

While the changes Uncle Ota brought to the cinema were popular with the patrons, not everyone was enamoured of him. The book-keeper, who had been with Mr Tilly for fifteen years, protested against the extra workload Uncle Ota created and left to work with a law firm. Luckily, Esther proved to be an excellent replacement and took over the book-keeping with few problems. A more drastic confrontation occurred the night the projectionist walked out. Ranjana took an interest in every aspect of the cinema. She had left her job at the factory to help Uncle Ota and she wandered around behind the scenes looking for things to do. She enjoyed watching the loading of the films onto the projector and often entered the projection room when a film was screening to watch the projectionist at work.

‘I want you to train my wife to be your assistant,’ Uncle Ota told our projectionist. ‘If you get sick, we won’t be able to have a session.’

Uncle Ota was preoccupied with running the cinema and did not notice the projectionist’s pinched mouth. The following night during the screening of
Sunshine Sally
, Ranjana, unaware that her fascination with sprockets and spools grated on the projectionist’s nerves, was taken by surprise when he stormed out of the room, leaving the film to wind off the projector. The picture on the screen dimmed just as Sally was about to find out who her real parents were, then flickered before spinning off. The audience booed. Klara, drilled by Mr Tilly for such a crisis, struck up a sing-along number on the piano.