Silver Wattle (21 page)

I was shocked to hear Doctor Page speak that way. He had helped Klara, and I assumed from the way the other patients’ demeanours lifted when they saw him that he had helped them too. I wanted to ask what he meant, but before I had the chance Uncle Ota appeared by our side.

‘Doctor Page,’ he said, ‘your father is interested in some photographs my niece has taken. He would like her to explain them to him. Would you care to join us?’

A faint smile appeared on Doctor Page’s lips. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Miss Rose took some interesting pictures of a friend of mine. I’m most fascinated by her work.’

I wasn’t sure what Doctor Page meant and then I remembered the mud-man. I laughed sincerely this time and so did he.

We followed Uncle Ota to the corner of the room where my photographs hung and where Doctor Page Senior was waiting. I had taken a series of magpies that I was proud of, and a Gothic-looking photograph of a family of tawny frogmouths huddled on a tree branch. Amongst these beauties of nature were portraits of Uncle Ota, Ranjana, Thomas and Klara. I had wanted one of Esther too but she had refused to pose.

‘So you are not a pictorialist,’ said Doctor Page Senior, slipping on his glasses and studying the photographs. He was looking at the portrait of Klara where I had kept the edges soft and emphasised her face and hands, filling in the dimensions with side-lighting.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Australian photography hasn’t embraced the avant garde ideas that have dominated Europe since the war,’ explained Uncle Ota. ‘Painterly techniques and soft, romantic views prevail here. Adela has brought a bit of Prague to Australia.’

Doctor Page Senior turned to me. ‘Do you do commissions?’ he asked. ‘I want a portrait of myself and my son. I was thinking of an oil painting, but having seen your style I like the idea of a photograph much better.’

I was lost for an answer. I was hardly a professional photographer and was not sure I could live up to what Doctor Page Senior was expecting. He seemed like an exacting man.

‘What a delightful idea,’ said Doctor Page. ‘Please say you’ll do us the honour, Miss Rose.’

I realised that I had been given a way to more adequately repay Doctor Page for his kindness to Klara than the gift of the mud-woman. ‘I think a portrait of father and son is a wonderful idea,’ I said. ‘I’m honoured that you have asked me to take it.’

Doctor Page Senior frowned. ‘My son will be marrying soon and leaving me. The portrait will be a memento.’

Doctor Page winced. ‘Father likes to dramatise things,’ he said. ‘He has some idea that after Beatrice and I are married we’ll forget him. Nothing could be further from the truth.’

His father smiled and I wondered if he had been seeking that reassurance from his son. ‘Beatrice keeps him on tenterhooks,’ he said. ‘No sooner do they set a wedding date than she’s off travelling again. But she’s promised to settle down soon. She told me the other day that she’s ready to have babies—lots of them.’

The mention of Doctor Page’s fiancee unsettled me. I had been enjoying having him to myself that evening, although I was surprised that he had not brought her with him. Her name conjured up an image of a slinky brunette with exotic eyes. She would have to be someone magnificent to hold men like the Pages under her spell.

‘You will have your hands full with grandchildren then,’ I said cheerfully to Doctor Page Senior. ‘I don’t think you will be forgotten or left alone.’

Doctor Page glanced at me. There was a distinct look of worry in his eyes, but I could not fathom what had disturbed him.

After the guests had left, I helped Uncle Ota straighten up the parlour. Ranjana, Esther and Klara had already washed the dishes and retired to bed. We were alone together for the first time since Esther and I had gone to Madame Diblis’s seance.

‘You have your first commission,’ said Uncle Ota, plumping the cushions. His face was turned away from me, but I heard the pride in his voice.

He was as good to me as my own father had been. What had Mother written to him in that letter that Milosh had destroyed? And why had they both quoted lines from ‘May’? Now we were alone together, I took a deep breath and broached the subject.

‘I want to ask you about my Aunt Emilie.’

Uncle Ota froze mid-action. ‘Emilie?’ he repeated, turning slowly. He sat down on the sofa and hummed a piece of music. It took me a moment to place it: ‘Quando m’en vo’ from Puccini’s
La Bohème
.

He stopped humming and smiled sadly. ‘Your father and I first saw your mother and aunt at the opera. They were so beautiful,’ he said.

I waited for him to say something more but he started humming again.

His mind was far away, remembering something. I watched him, trying to read his thoughts. But what happened in Prague, when my mother and her sister and my father and Uncle Ota were young, was still a mystery.

The following week, I arrived at the Pages’ residence in Edgecliff with Uncle Ota’s camera. He was working as an usher at Tilly’s Cinema most weeknights, as well as his guide job at the museum. Klara’s illness had brought home the importance of extra money. ‘You make use of my camera,’ he told me. ‘I’m too busy.’

The Pages’ house was white with green shutters and a red shingled roof with wide eaves. The maid invited me inside and I was impressed by the restful atmosphere. The floors were polished hardwood and the rugs and walls were in soft tones of sand and stone. Doctor Page and his father were waiting for me in the sitting room.

‘Good morning,’ Doctor Page Senior said, rising from his chair. ‘I thought we would have the picture taken here.’

The room opened onto a flagged terrace with a view across Double Bay to Manly. It was pleasant, not fancy, and the natural light was serene. I was surprised Doctor Page Senior wanted to be photographed in the sitting room rather than the formal drawing room I had passed in the hall. Perhaps he was not as severe as he first appeared.

‘Father and I are fond of this room,’ Doctor Page said to me. ‘It’s like a comfortable armchair that one sinks into and finds hard to get out of again.’

‘The subject of a photograph should be in their natural environment,’ I said. ‘Otherwise the result will be posed and insincere.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Doctor Page.

He was looking smart in a grey suit with his hair swept back from his face. I was wearing a taupe skirt and blouse that I had sewn myself. A thrill ran through me when I caught him glancing at me with admiration. His fiancee must have many beautiful clothes, so I was pleased that he approved of my one good business outfit.

I suggested that the photograph be taken at the bureau, where Doctor Page Senior could sit and his son stand, and where the light from the window was gentle. I did not use a meter for my work. I could not afford one. But judging the light by guesswork was an advantage: it trained me to see things the way my camera would.

The bureau was cluttered with bric-a-brac that was distinctly feminine: shepherdesses and angels; a set of Royal Doulton cat figurines.

‘You can move those if you think they are distracting,’ said Doctor Page Senior.

‘But the ornaments add personality to the scene,’ I said. ‘Did they belong to the late Mrs Page?’

Doctor Page Senior’s lips trembled and he nodded. I was taken aback by the unexpected show of emotion. ‘It would be nice then to include them in your photograph with your son,’ I told him. ‘It puts her in the picture with you.’

Having lost my own mother, I was moved by the mix of happiness and pain I saw on the men’s faces when I mentioned Mrs Page. My eyes met Doctor Page’s and I saw that we understood each other. There was something refreshing about not having to make further explanations.

After the photographs had been taken, Doctor Page Senior invited me to join him and his son for lunch. I discreetly sorted my way through the pickled meats and sausages to find the lettuce and tomatoes. But Doctor Page noticed.

‘I’ll ask the cook to bring you vegetable soup,’ he said.

I nodded gratefully. He had gone to some trouble to make sure Klara was served meatless dishes at Broughton Hall. Another doctor might have scoffed at the idea.

The maid entered and whispered to Doctor Page Senior. He excused himself to take a telephone call. When he left the room, I asked Doctor Page if he had told his father how we had met each other. ‘I mean, does he know about Klara?’

Doctor Page shook his head. ‘I told him I met your uncle at the museum. Father doesn’t need to know everything. Sometimes it’s better when he doesn’t.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I want to put what happened with Klara in the past. I want her to have a fresh start. Illnesses of the mind have a stigma about them.’

‘I know,’ said Doctor Page. ‘By the way, call me Philip. We aren’t on formal terms now.’

‘Philip,’ I repeated. ‘And you must call me Adela.’

‘What a lovely name,’ said Philip. ‘It rolls off the tongue: a-DELL-ah.’

He pronounced my name perfectly. We turned back to our food.

Doctor Page Senior’s voice boomed from the hall: ‘Europe again!’ Then after a pause he said more calmly, ‘Well, yes, I suppose if you are not well.’

Philip clutched his knife and fork. I assumed Doctor Page Senior was talking to his fiancee’s mother. It sounded as if his fiancee was planning another trip.

‘I want to ask you what you meant the other night about psychiatry,’ I said, trying to distract Philip from the telephone conversation. ‘Why do you think you can’t help people? You did so much for Klara.’

A shadow passed over his face. ‘I hope to change specialties,’ he said, pushing around a carrot on his plate. ‘I want to work with children. Perhaps if I can help people when they are young, there may never be a need for places like Broughton Hall.’

That was a beautiful vision, I thought. ‘Where will you study? The University of Sydney?’ I asked.

‘London, most likely,’ he said.

I had a sense that Philip wanted to say something more but before he had the chance his father stormed into the room. ‘Well, they are off again,’ Doctor Page Senior said. ‘Helen plans to leave in a few months. She wants to take the waters in Switzerland even though they have just come back from France. I don’t want any dilly-dallying this time, Philip. You are going with them, and I want you and Beatrice to have wedding rings on your fingers before you leave.’

The colour rushed to Philip’s cheeks. ‘I can’t give up Broughton Hall at the drop of a hat, Father.’

Doctor Page Senior waved his hand. ‘Psychiatry! It’s a hoax profession. What sort of doctor doesn’t heal with his hands?’

Philip glared at his father. Doctor Page Senior did not respect what Philip did and I could see that it hurt him.

I left the Pages’ house that day puzzled. I understood that Doctor Page Senior’s gruffness may have had something to do with his wife’s death, and that he did not approve of Philip’s chosen profession. But what baffled me most was Philip’s relationship with Beatrice. For a man who was supposed to be head over heels in love, he did not seem sure.

I returned to the Pages’ house the following week, to show them the prints.

‘The tones are rich,’ said Doctor Page Senior. ‘And the photographs so well composed.’

Philip approached his appraisal from a psychological point of view. ‘The pictures show the photographer’s positive worldview,’ he said. ‘Father, look how peaceful we appear together. And Adela has even managed to bring out the tranquillity of the room.’

I remembered the tension that had erupted between Philip and his father after the portrait had been taken. But Philip was not being sarcastic. Perhaps ‘peaceful’ was the way he preferred to think of his relationship with his father.

‘Well, now we must pay you,’ Doctor Page Senior said to me.

‘I can’t accept any money.’

Doctor Page Senior lifted his eyebrows and I realised I had spoken too soon. As a ‘portrait photographer’ I should charge him, but Philip had been kind to Klara, beyond what Broughton Hall required of him, and I wanted to thank him. But I could not say that so I gave another reason for why I would not charge for the photographs.

‘I have a confession to make,’ I said. ‘I’m not a professional portrait artist. You are my first commission. I have only taken pictures of my family and birds and dogs before. But I was flattered by your invitation and did not wish to refuse. I hope you forgive me.’

‘Forgive you!’ said Doctor Page Senior. ‘You must let us help you. Such a talent as yours can’t be wasted.’ He turned to Philip. ‘Tell Beatrice about Miss Rose. I would like a portrait of her as well. That way I shall have something to remember you both by when you leave for Europe.’

Philip clenched his fists. I could feel another tense mood coming on between him and his father.

‘Of course I will do that,’ I said, before their tempers had a chance to take hold. ‘Just tell me when.’

The following week, Doctor Page Senior arrived in his chauffeur-driven Bentley to take me to meet his soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

‘You’ll like the lovely Beatrice,’ said Doctor Page Senior, once the chauffeur had packed my equipment in the boot and started the motor. ‘She’s been away in France for months and I’ve missed her good humour. She has a positive effect on me.’

‘Was she at finishing school?’ I asked.

Doctor Page Senior laughed. ‘Oh, Beatrice would have none of that. Besides, she has a charm of her own. No, unfortunately her mother is not well and they went there to take the waters and breathe the mountain air.’

A short while later, the chauffeur pulled into the driveway of a house in Rose Bay. The garden was tropical with palms and tree ferns. The plain sandstone bricks of the house were a contrast to its richly decorated interior. My eyes did not know which detail to take in first when the butler invited us into the entrance hall: the French silk wallpaper; the hand-painted cupids on the ceiling roses; the chandelier that sent sparkles of light around the floor. The butler showed us to the drawing room and my senses were besieged by the wood panelling, Persian drapes and the gold detailing on the teak chairs.

The door opened and two ladies entered. They were so different from each other that if Doctor Page Senior had not introduced them as mother and daughter I never would have guessed that they were related. Beatrice was wiry with hair the colour of wild strawberries. Her hair was so untamed it looked as though it were on the verge of escaping the gold clasp that bound it and scampering around the room. She was not the woman I had pictured.