Silver Wattle (26 page)

Uncle Ota placed his hand on my wrist. ‘We will find a way to do that,’ he promised.

Uncle Ota and I agreed to keep the content of Doctor Holub’s letter to ourselves. There was no need to alarm the others, especially Klara, who was looking forward to performing that afternoon. She twirled in front of the mirror in the sapphire gown Ranjana and I had made her until she was dizzy. When she walked out onto the stage in it, with an orchid corsage and her hair softly waved, she was breathtaking. Klara did not look like my little sister any more, she was too sophisticated. In the past year she had grown willowy—all arms and legs and a long torso. I recalled the previous night when we were in the kitchen together preparing dinner. Uncle Ota was in the habit of stacking the plates on the top shelf, which I could not reach. ‘Where’s the stool?’ I had asked, looking under the bench. I turned to see Klara on her tiptoes taking down the plates for me.

I listened to Klara play and willed myself not to look around the auditorium for Philip. I thought of the first time I had heard the concerto in Prague. Father had taken us to the concert hall before he left for the war. The hall was different from the Conservatorium’s auditorium with its stark white walls and green chairs. I closed my eyes and remembered the feast of Art Nouveau trimmings, the stained-glass windows and the sculptures. I imagined sinking into its velvet chairs and the warmth of the chandeliers dangling from the ornate ceiling. If Father had not been killed, Milosh would never have come into our lives and we would all still be together. The thought made me sad and I opened my eyes and turned my attention back to the performance. The Grieg Concerto suited Klara’s style. The structure was simple and repetitive but Klara and her classmates played each movement with such passion it was difficult to believe that the oldest of them was only sixteen. When they finished the final movement with ease, the audience stood up and filled the auditorium with the sound of applause. I forgot myself and looked in the direction of the dress circle. Philip was sitting there with Robert and Frederick. Beatrice was not with them.

I barely heard Mendelssohn’s violin concerto or Berlioz’s
Symphonie Fantastisque
after that.

At the party given afterwards, I trembled when Philip approached us with Robert and Frederick. My heart thumped so loudly I was surprised nobody else seemed to hear it.

‘Miss Rose, you were marvellous,’ Robert gushed to Klara. ‘The strongest artist in a program of fine artists. What a gift to our country that you have come here!’

Klara blushed with the praise. ‘Thank you very much.’

I introduced Klara to Robert and explained to her that he was a guest lecturer at the Conservatorium of Music. I was aware of Philip’s eyes on me.

‘My orchestrion has finally arrived,’ said Robert. ‘I would very much like to have you both to an afternoon tea to christen it.’

‘We would be honoured,’ I told him.

I could not bring myself to look in Philip’s direction, although I felt him lingering next to Robert. I turned away and caught Frederick eyeing my new dress, a pink chiffon gown with a layered skirt.

‘I like the way the waistline is higher than the current fashion,’ he said, circling me. ‘You look like a ballerina. It’s a flattering style for a petite woman.’

I smiled, but thought that Frederick had a funny way of giving a woman a compliment. He was like a mechanic looking over a car.

Ranjana and Uncle Ota, who had been talking with Klara’s teacher, joined us. No sooner had I introduced them to Robert than a waiter weaved his way around the room ringing a bell.

‘Time for us to leave,’ said Robert.

‘But it’s early,’ said Frederick, inspecting his watch. ‘Who can listen to stirring music then just go back to the office?’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Robert. ‘But they need the hall for the Conservatorium students to practise.’

Frederick turned to Uncle Ota. ‘Would you and your family care to stroll around the Botanic Gardens with us. The weather is magnificent.’

Ranjana glanced at Uncle Ota. Frederick’s effort to be cordial surprised her. But it was hard to look past the red pockets and lapels of his suit.

‘My wife and I must get to the cinema for the evening session,’ Uncle Ota told him. ‘But please accompany Klara and Adela for an hour or so.’

‘We’d be delighted,’ said Robert.

The afternoon was sunny with a gentle breeze rising up from the harbour. The gravel of the path crunched beneath our feet. We walked towards the teahouse where Robert had suggested we celebrate Klara’s performance with vanilla ice-cream.

‘That’s exactly what we should do,’ Philip said, his eyes briefly meeting mine. ‘Klara has done more than triumph in music. She has triumphed in life!’

The table in the cafe was small and everyone apologised to each other when we bumped knees while taking our seats. Robert and Klara shared stories about Indian musical instruments. Klara told the men about Uncle Ota’s collection, including a string instrument called a sarangi on which she and Uncle Ota had somehow worked out how to play a Bulgarian folk dance.

Philip was sitting so near to me that I could feel the warmth of his body penetrating the air between us. His fingers lingered near my teacup. I experienced everything with a heightened consciousness: the smoothness of the icecream, the raspberry scent of the tea, the polished wooden table under my wrist. In all the pangs I had suffered thinking about Philip, I could never have imagined the sweetness of being together.

After the ice-cream, we continued our walk through the Gardens along the path to the ponds. A child ran past, chasing a ball that was gathering momentum as it rushed down the hill towards the water. Frederick and Robert sped after it, with Klara, her concert dress hitched up to her knees, after them. Philip slipped his arm through mine. ‘Come,’ he said.

I hardly noticed where he was leading me until we stood in a grove of trees sheltered from the sight of the others. He grabbed my hands and we clung to each other like two frightened children. His eyes searched my face. The breeze blew through the trees and rustled my dress and hair. Philip threw his arms around my waist and his lips swept over my face in search of mine. I felt delirious, as if I were sinking into a dream. But I woke from it with a start.

‘No, stop!’ I said, pushing him away. ‘Beatrice. You’re engaged now.’

Philip’s eyes flickered. ‘Perhaps now that she has finally agreed, it’s me who’s not sure.’

I swallowed. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘When I’m with you, I feel things I don’t with her. I’m engaged to the wrong woman.’

Since that day in the car, whenever I thought about Philip I tried to imagine that Beatrice was his sister. I was happiest when I could abandon myself to such fantasies. But fantasies could not become real.

‘Am I frightening you, Adela?’ Philip asked, his voice unsteady. ‘Or do you feel it too?’

If it was love he was feeling, then my heart was burning with it. I saw now that the flame had been ignited the first time I had met him in his cramped office and had grown steadily ever since. Now it was like a forest fire, in danger of engulfing everything.

‘Yes,’ I stammered. ‘I love you. I love everything about you. But I don’t want you to break off your engagement. Not unless you are sure.’

‘I am sure,’ he said, stepping towards me.

I rejected his embrace. ‘No, don’t see me for a month,’ I told him. ‘Be only with Beatrice. If you still feel the same way then I will see you, but not before then.’

I heard the excited voices of Klara and the others returning from the pond. I rushed out of the grove to meet them. The boy was on Robert’s shoulders, his rescued ball in his hands. Frederick was helping Klara, whose shoes were slipping on the grass, back up the hill.

Philip brushed his fingers down my back, then moved a step away.

Frederick drove us home, along with Robert, because Philip had to return to Broughton Hall for the evening rounds. Once we were in the house, I wanted nothing more than to take off my dress and disappear under the bedcovers. I was about to run up the stairs when Klara put her hand on my arm. She was too astute not to have guessed the cause of my distraction.

‘You’re in love with Doctor Page, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘God help me,’ I told her. ‘He is engaged to his childhood sweetheart. She is a wonderful person. I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t know what to do.’

Klara took a step towards me. There was love in her eyes but I did not feel I deserved it.

‘I can’t blame Philip for falling in love with you,’ she said. ‘Who couldn’t? And you are well suited.’

‘But Beatrice?’

Klara looked away and nodded. She was at as much of a loss as I was about the answer to that problem.

Uncle Ota screened
The Ghost of Spooky Hill
at Tilly’s Cinema. The audience booed it so much that it only ran for two nights. The curtains and the tablecloth on the set kept flapping, and in one climactic scene I was caught in the frame with the slate in my hand. The redeeming points were that Peter did not seem to mind the audience’s reaction and that Hugh’s cinematography was outstanding. If Hugh could get a start on one quality film, then he would have a magnificent career ahead of him. But there were few professional directors willing to give a one-legged cameraman a chance.

One day I received a note from Hugh asking me to meet him at the Vegetarian Cafe the following afternoon. When I arrived he was sitting in his usual booth with Giallo on his shoulder.

‘Hello, pretty!’ said Giallo, lifting his claw to scratch his head.

‘Where did he learn that?’ I asked Hugh. ‘Is that what you say to him?’

‘No,’ said Hugh, almost smiling. ‘He just knows what I’m thinking.’

I laughed, pleased to see Hugh was in a good mood. I was not so vain as to think he was flirting with me. I was sure I was the only woman he could say that sort of thing to because he felt safe with me.

We ordered cold milk and cheese sandwiches. When they arrived, Hugh spread his hands on the table. ‘I’ve got good news for you,’ he said. ‘Yet another Australian production company has gone to the wall and I managed to persuade the assistant director to give me some end-of-reel pieces of film. I’ve got about six or seven minutes’ worth. Enough for a decent short film. I can shoot something for you if you come up with a tight script.’

‘Truly?’ I asked, almost jumping out of my seat with joy. ‘You want to work with me?’

I was over the moon that Hugh had remembered the conversation we’d had about making a picture together. He seemed as pleased as I was by the unexpected windfall.

‘The only problem will be the developing and editing,’ he said. ‘That can be expensive.’

‘I can probably cover the development for a short film,’ I told him. ‘And my aunt can do the editing if you show her how.’

Hugh raised his eyebrows.

‘Quite often the films we get at the cinema are damaged. Ranjana has to cut and splice all the time,’ I told him. ‘She’s good at it.’

‘Well then, you just need actors now.’

‘Oh, I have those,’ I said. ‘I think it’s time you met my family.’

My good fortune in finding a talented cameraman and a supply of film was a welcome distraction from thinking about Philip. I had told him not to see me for a month but found myself fretting that I had not heard from him. Perhaps he had forgotten me and was busy planning his wedding. That would be better for everybody, but the idea vexed me so much that one afternoon, on my way to the cinema, I did not look where I was going and was almost run over by a tram. In the end I decided the only solution was not to allow myself to think about Philip at all.

I sat with Esther’s old typewriter under the silver gum and wrote a short film about a picnic where a boy sees a bunyip but nobody believes him. Uncle Ota and Klara agreed to act in the picture, while Esther took on the role of script girl and Ranjana offered to help with the catering. The boy was to be played by Mr Tilly’s nephew, Ben.

It took us two days to make the film. Uncle Ota was a natural actor, but Klara stole the show. In one scene she was sitting on the beach with Ben. She had not noticed that the camera was rolling and she was telling him about Mister Rudolf. Her animated facial expressions and Ben’s delight were magic. When Klara glanced at the camera and saw that Hugh was filming, she brought her hand to her cheek and smiled. Her face lit up with an incandescent beauty.

‘You were right,’ said Hugh, when we took a short meal break before moving the camera. ‘Your family are actors.’

Everyone sat down on a picnic blanket to eat the sandwiches that Ranjana had prepared. I noticed that Esther was sneaking glances in Hugh’s direction. There were tears in her eyes. Hugh and Esther’s fiance would have been about the same age. Her pity would irritate Hugh if he became aware of it. I diverted his attention to Giallo, who had moved himself to Thomas’s shoulder.

‘Rather good,’ Thomas said to Giallo, pointing at the harbour. He was starting to speak in short phrases and in a mix of Czech and formal English.

‘Hiccup!’ Giallo cackled.

‘Hiccup!’ agreed Thomas.

Ranjana burst into laughter. ‘God help us! My son is being taught to speak by a bird!’

‘Oh well,’ said Uncle Ota. ‘Not everyone can boast of a child fluent in English, Czech, Marwari and Cockatoo!’

Raymond Longford’s film
The Blue Mountains Mystery
was scheduled to screen at Tilly’s Cinema in September. Uncle Ota suggested that we premiere my film as a short teaser before it. But in order to get it on the program, we had to edit it quickly.

Ranjana, Hugh and I sat up after the last picture session each night for a week to cut and splice the film in the projection room. I’d had no idea that a six-minute picture could be so time-consuming, and now understood why the editing of a feature film sometimes took months.

‘It’s three o’clock in the morning,’ I said during one session, looking at my watch.

Hugh had a part-time job in a studio the following day so I told him to go home. There were only the final intertitles to be added and Ranjana and I could finish the edit in the morning. When we returned home, Ranjana’s eyes were drooping with exhaustion.