Silver Wattle (24 page)

Frederick finished chewing the piece of peach he had in his mouth and turned to me. ‘I’m here with Galaxy Pictures. I work in film distribution.’

‘You’re here to destroy our local industry, according to the papers,’ Beatrice said.

It was difficult to get used to how Beatrice spoke at the table. I had been brought up to not contradict a guest lest it embarrass them. I had never seen an argument break out at luncheon. Tension, Mother always said, would give everyone indigestion.

‘Some might see it that way,’ Frederick answered. ‘But I don’t.’

‘Well,’ said Alfred, ‘take the case of one of our most famous directors, Franklyn Barrett. He had to shut down his production company because he couldn’t get his films distributed in his own country.’

Frederick sighed and looked at me. ‘What we do is sell packages of films in advance to Australian theatre chains and independents. This country has the highest cinema attendance in the world. Going to the pictures every week is even factored into the basic wage. Cinema managers need a constant supply of films. Only the United States produces enough of them to guarantee that supply.’

‘That’s all well and good,’ said Alfred, ‘but you distributors make the cinema managers purchase films twelve months in advance and there are rumours that you fix it so Australian films can’t get on the bill at all. American distributors have been accused of cutting off supplies of films to managers who dare to put Australian pictures on the program. Sounds to me like you Yankees are trying to shut down the industry here. The Americans talk about free trade and competition, but they prefer to be a monopoly themselves.’

‘That’s hogwash,’ Frederick hissed. ‘If the films are good enough, the cinema managers will show them.’ He flashed his eyes at me. ‘What sort of picture do you intend to make?’

Frederick had put me on the spot. Apart from the fantasy of directing a film, I had given little thought as to the kind of picture I wanted to make. ‘I like the films of Hans Richter and Fritz Lang,’ I told him.

‘Ah,’ said Frederick, laying his palms on the table and rolling his eyes. ‘Artistic films that don’t make any money.’

‘What sort of pictures make money?’ Philip asked. ‘Doesn’t art factor at all?’

It was chivalrous of Philip to come to my defence. Beatrice, Alfred and Frederick were shooting attacks and counter-attacks around the table as if that were a normal way to make conversation. I felt unnerved—not to mention foolish.

Frederick took a breath and spoke more calmly. ‘I’m sure Miss Rose will make an excellent film. I’m only saying that Australian audiences want romances and comedies.’

Dessert out of the way, our group moved to the garden for some tea and fruit served in the summerhouse. The conversation changed from the pictures to cricket and real estate at Palm Beach. Philip sat next to me.

‘If Australians don’t make films about their own country then they may as well be an American colony,’ he said. ‘Why is it that a Czech can see that better than we can?’

‘We were almost a colony under the Austro–Hungarian Empire,’ I told him. ‘Even for a Czech the national language was German, a foreign language. It would be a shame if Australians gave up their own culture so easily.’

The Rolands were setting out croquet hoops on the lawn. ‘I can’t abide that mindless game,’ Philip said. ‘Shall we take a turn about the garden?’

There was a path, wide enough for two, through the garden. We would not be out of the view of the other guests, so it did not seem improper to accept Philip’s invitation. I walked next to him past the azaleas and oleanders, aware that our arms brushed against each other when the path pinched around a curve.

‘I told my father about my plans to study children’s medicine,’ he said.

‘How did he respond?’

‘He would be happier if I pursued general surgery, but at least children’s medicine is superior to psychiatry.’

‘Why does he have such a poor opinion of psychiatry?’ I asked. ‘It is healing the mind.’

Philip stopped in his tracks and looked back to the group playing croquet. ‘It’s not just my father,’ he said. ‘It’s the opinion most people have. Even Beatrice would prefer it if I dealt with matrons’ dizzy spells and old men’s gout, and she’s not usually conservative.’

I thought of the lie my family had told about Emilie having been bitten by a diseased dog. ‘People are ashamed of the mentally ill,’ I said.

Philip turned to me. ‘You don’t think that way, do you? You understand. You visited Klara every day and gave your real name.’

‘Don’t most relatives give their real names?’

‘No.’

We walked on and the path curved around the edge of the garden, turning back in the direction of the summerhouse.

‘I’ll miss you when I go to Europe,’ Philip said. ‘It’s so easy talking with you.’

I sensed feelings were changing between us, and shrank back. Something was not right. Philip was engaged to Beatrice but seemed happier speaking with me.

‘Beatrice will listen to you,’ I told him. ‘She’ll understand if you make her.’

Philip shrugged. ‘Beatrice’s conversations are one-sided and a bit like my father’s,’ he said.

The bitterness in his voice surprised me. Wasn’t he in love with Beatrice? Perhaps he was frustrated because she was difficult to pin down. I did get the impression she had left him in limbo a few too many times.

Beatrice saw us returning to the summerhouse and called out. ‘Come and join the game, Adela. I know Philip made you walk around the garden with him to avoid it. He does it every time.’

After a few rounds of hitting balls with mallets, three o’clock arrived and I excused myself to go and meet Klara after school at the Vegetarian Cafe. While Beatrice went to arrange for the chauffeur to take me to the city, Frederick approached me.

‘I hope I didn’t offend you,’ he said. ‘Beatrice gets me hot under the collar. She does it on purpose.’

‘Not at all,’ I assured him, although he had made me feel foolish.

‘Officially, I distribute films,’ he said, running his hand over his slick hair. ‘But unofficially I scout for talent. I produced several films back in the States. If you bring me your script we can talk about it.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, quite sure that unless I felt like making a mindless romance or a comedy, Frederick Rockcliffe was the last person I would approach to produce my picture.

‘Car’s ready!’ Beatrice called from the house.

The gathering walked to the front steps with me to bid me farewell. I was conscious that Philip lingered in the background. The chauffeur drove the car up to the front steps. There was a sudden ‘pop’ and then a hissing sound. Steam poured from the bonnet. The chauffeur climbed out and scratched his head. ‘The engine’s overheated, Miss Beatrice.’

Beatrice rolled her eyes. ‘Again? That’s twice this week. I’m sorry, Adela.’

‘I can take a taxi,’ I told her.

‘Nonsense,’ said Beatrice, wrapping her arm around me. ‘Philip will drive you to town. He has to go in that direction this afternoon anyhow.’

‘I don’t want to impose.’

‘You won’t be,’ Beatrice assured me. Then, leaning her head close to mine, she whispered, ‘It will be my way of apologising for inflicting that crass American on you. He’s a friend of Robert’s. It’s the only reason I invited him.’

Philip left the top of his Talbot down so we could enjoy the afternoon sunshine. The roar of the engine and the wind rushing by our ears limited our communication to smiles and nods. In a way it was better. I did not want to talk about Beatrice.

Philip turned the car into George Street and pulled up outside the Vegetarian Cafe. He craned his neck to look at the Gothic script sign and the pictures of smiling sheep and cows that adorned the windows. ‘Here?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘I’m impressed by people who live by their convictions,’ he said.

I expected that he would keep the engine running while he climbed out to open the door for me, but he pulled the car to the kerb and turned the engine off.

‘You must think I’m a brute for how I spoke about Beatrice,’ he said. ‘As you can see, she’s a terrific person and she’s certainly taken a shine to you.’

‘Please don’t apologise,’ I told him. ‘There’s no need.’

Philip glanced at me and smiled. ‘You see, my mother and Mrs Fahey were best friends,’ he said. ‘After Beatrice was born they always said that she and I would get married when we grew up. Nobody questioned it, least of all me or Beatrice. I think that’s why I never bought a female mud-figure. I never thought of there being other women.’

He turned and fixed his eyes on me. I was aware that his hand inched closer to mine and I was sure he was going to clasp it and take me in his arms. But the spell was broken by Klara’s arrival.

‘Doctor Page!’ she cried, hoisting her books higher under her arm. ‘Are you joining us for afternoon tea?’

‘Hello!’ said Philip, opening his door and stepping around the car and onto the footpath to greet Klara. ‘No, I’m not going to impose on your time with your sister. I was dropping Adela off. We were at a luncheon together.’

Philip opened the door for me. He searched my face when I got out but I looked away. Everything was different from how it had been just an hour ago. Philip had feelings for me beyond those of a friend, and I was drawn to him too. I had gone to Beatrice’s luncheon expecting to have a good time, not for everything to be pulled off balance.

‘My class is giving our first concert next month,’ Klara told Philip. ‘I will be playing the Grieg Piano Concerto. Do you think you will be able to come?’

‘Klara,’ I said, ‘Doctor Page is very busy and that concert is during the day—’

‘I’d be delighted,’ Philip said, cutting me off before I had a chance to finish. He looked from Klara to me. ‘I’ll ask Robert and Freddy if they want to join me.’

I blushed to the roots of my hair. Klara noticed, which made my cheeks burn more. Philip wished us well and climbed back into his car and started the engine.

He waved one more time before driving off. I was overcome by a sense of pleasure mixed with foreboding. I felt myself drawing closer to Philip even as he moved away.

P
roduction for Peter’s film commenced with a tight shooting schedule of three weeks. Peter had to secure his main actor between theatrical roles and also make the most of daylight hours as the days were growing shorter. It was a relief to have a distraction from thinking about Philip. We did not have a telephone at the house so he had sent a note asking to see me. Several times a day I relived the pleasure of Philip’s hand lingering near mine and the idea that he had intended to embrace me. But after the pleasure came pain. I did not want to cause Philip and Beatrice suffering by coming between them. I did not believe it was possible to build my happiness on someone else’s misery. So I did not answer the note. How could I? Beatrice was my friend.

I arrived at Peter’s studio in Surry Hills for the first day of shooting, and realised I was going to have my work cut out for me.

The studio was on the top floor of a house in a street that had been condemned for demolition. The walls were lopsided and the veranda sagged, as if the dwelling knew its fate and was resigned to it. There was a brewery next door with a foundation stone marked 1851. The broken windows and chains across the doors suggested that it was condemned as well.

I climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor. Strains of Ravel’s
Pavane for a Dead Princess
wafted through the door. I knocked and Peter opened it. The studio was large but crowded: canvases were stacked against each other; columns of phonograph records were piled against bookshelves crammed with not only books but crockery, photographs, candle stubs and beer bottles. On one shelf there was a set of stoneware mugs shaped into the faces of the British royal family. The floor was barely visible for the newspapers that lay strewn on it, as well as the brushes and paint tins. In the middle of the space a light dangled from the ceiling with bits of paper pinned to its shade. The air reeked of mould and nitrate of cellulose—the latter, I guessed, emanating from stored films. I had heard that if you put a match to a single frame of film you could blow your hand off. The studio was a bomb waiting to explode.

‘Come, meet the actors,’ said Peter, directing me towards the end of the studio where Hugh was sitting with two men and a woman. We passed the light with the bits of paper stuck to it and I saw that they were lists: shopping lists, exercise lists, aims-for-the-year lists. There was even a preproduction to-do list. For someone whose studio was so disorganised, Peter was obsessed with lists. I caught a glimpse of the items on the preproduction list: ‘Meet with Adela to discuss storyline’; ‘Send crew location schedule’. Those things had never happened and I realised there was a difference between writing things down and doing them.

‘This is Leslie Norris,’ said Peter, introducing the oldest actor first.

‘What a pleasure!’ said Leslie, giving a flourish with his hand. His theatrical voice rattled my eardrums. He had a tic at the corner of his mouth and I avoided looking at his face, afraid that I would inadvertently adopt it.

Peter turned to the woman, who sniffed and screwed up her eyes, before looking in the direction of the other man, who he introduced as Sonny Sutton. Sonny resembled a weather-beaten Rudolph Valentino and the hand he used to push back his hair was blistered. ‘Welcome to the set,’ he said. His voice was as soft as Leslie’s was loud.

I thanked the men for their welcome and glanced at the woman. Peter introduced her as Valerie Houson. She sniffed again. I thought she had a cold, until I smiled and she responded by pinching her lips together. I realised that the likely answer to anything I asked Valerie would be a sniff. Her face was caked in powder and she reeked of Coty perfume. I was the only other female in the room and I sensed that Valerie did not like the competition.

With the introductions out of the way, we followed Peter up a flight of rusty stairs to the flat roof of the building where a sitting room had been set up, with chintz lounges and maritime pictures on the walls. Stretched over the ceiling of the set was a layer of muslin. It billowed in the breeze like a wispy cloud. A faint whiff of hops drifted on the air.