Silver Wattle (29 page)

I mulled over Frederick’s offer while adjusting my camera. I wanted to make pictures and perhaps he could help me. But as the session continued, I decided working with him might be too difficult. He would not strike the simplest pose without questioning why he should do it. I asked him to turn his body while facing the camera and we ended up in a half-hour argument over it.

‘It looks dishonest,’ he said. ‘Like I’m about to run away rather than fight something head-on.’

I appreciated that Frederick was aware of what he wanted but not his manner of getting it. He wore me out. I was adjusting the lights when he quoted Nietzsche again: ‘“No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.”’

I stood up and looked at him. ‘Pardon?’

‘That’s my motto. Own yourself.’

The photographs I had taken would make Frederick look like his own man. It was interesting that we should have the same end in mind when our approaches to achieving it were so different.

‘I think you’ll be happy with the result,’ I told him.

‘I know I will,’ he said, to my surprise. ‘You know what you’re doing.’

‘When would you like to see the prints, Frederick?’ I could not believe I had just called him by his Christian name again.

‘For God’s sake, call me Freddy,’ he grinned. ‘You sound like my mother when you call me Frederick.’

‘Then you must call me Adela,’ I told him.

I was not comfortable to be on personal terms with Freddy, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was my own fault.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. ‘I can drop by this Saturday and take you and Klara to the party.’

‘What party?’

‘Have you forgotten already? The one Robert is holding in honour of his orchestrion.’

In Prague, afternoon teas were intimate affairs with no more than a handful of guests gathered around a table spread with cakes and sandwiches. When Klara and I arrived with Freddy at Robert’s house in Lindfield, ‘intimate’ did not describe the number of people spilling out onto the verandas of the shingle-roofed mansion, or standing on the lawn and tennis court. From the number of Packards, Bugattis and Delages parked outside the fence there must have been at least fifty guests. We stopped at the gate and I looked for Philip but could not see him. I had been unsettled by my conversation with Beatrice. Which one of us did he truly love?

‘Welcome!’ said Robert, rushing down the path towards us and opening the gate. ‘Come in.’

Robert’s garden reflected his elegant and quirky personality. The house was framed by a massive lilly-pilly tree. In its branches sat two red and green king parrots. The oak trees, although leafless because of winter, flickered shade across the lawn and the path to the house was bordered by lavender in bloom. The path was geometrically tiled with an emu silhouette motif. The theme continued at the end of it where a giant statue of the bird formed an archway with its legs. The air was fresh and without a trace of salt. The soil gave off a rich aroma, different from the rocky ground at Watsons Bay.

Freddy was called to join the game of croquet that was taking place on the lawn.

‘Go on, be a gentleman,’ Robert told him. ‘I’ll take care of Klara and Adela.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Freddy said to us.

‘An apology is not needed,’ Klara replied.

I sensed Freddy’s reluctance to leave us and wondered why. The players were young women. Perhaps he was more interested in Robert’s orchestrion than I had assumed.

‘Come and meet my mother and sister,’ said Robert, guiding us towards the house. ‘They are terribly shy. They encourage my parties but always disappear somewhere on their own. I’m sure they will find you non-threatening conversationalists.’

Mother would have loved this house, I thought: the polished jarrah floors, the winged chairs, the cream embossed wallpaper and tiled fireplaces. The interior had elements of an English house in its ceiling roses and picture rails, but it was light and airy and had a calming effect on the soul.

Robert directed us to the sitting room where two women with high foreheads and immaculately set hair were drinking tea from Royal Doulton cups.

‘Mother, Mary, I’d like you to meet my friends,’ Robert said. ‘Miss Adela and Miss Klara Rose.’

If Robert had not warned me that his mother and sister were shy, I might have been intimidated by the two stiff-postured women who looked back at us.

‘Robert tells me that your aunt is an Indian,’ Mrs Swan said.

‘That is right,’ I replied. I wondered if Mrs Swan was about to express her disapproval and worried about how I should respond. I liked Robert and did not want to embarrass him, but I was not going to have Ranjana belittled either.

Mrs Swan surprised me when she said, ‘My late husband was stationed in India when we were first married. Some of my happiest memories are of Bombay.’

She was not comfortable with meeting new people, I could see that from the way her chin trembled when she spoke. But I was impressed by her graciousness.

Mary was not dashing like her brother, but had gentle eyes. ‘And you are a pianist?’ she said to Klara. ‘Robert must show you his music room.’

‘We are on our way there now,’ Robert told her.

‘Very well, you had better hurry. Do not leave the other guests alone too long, my dear,’ his mother instructed him.

I sensed that Mrs Swan and Mary had shared all the conversation they felt comfortable with and were politely dismissing us.

Klara and I followed Robert down a corridor lined with paintings of thoroughbred horses until we came to a set of double doors.

Robert opened them and ushered us into a space the size of an ocean liner’s dining suite. In the middle of the room was a Mason & Hamlin grand piano and a harpsichord. Musical instruments from around the world hung on hooks on the walls. I recognised a few instantly: gongs, gamelans, bagpipes and balalaikas. A long wooden flute ornately painted with a dot pattern lay on a shelf. I had seen something like it before. I remembered the documentary Doctor Parker had screened at one of our Tuesday nights. It was a didgeridoo. The main attraction in the room was not the orchestrion, which had been set up in one corner, but the pipe organ that took up an entire wall.

Klara rushed towards the instrument. ‘Do you play?’ she asked Robert.

‘It’s my passion,’ he said. ‘It’s like having a full orchestra at my fingertips.’

Klara stood on her tiptoes and glanced from Robert to the organ. She was longing to hear him play but did not want to be rude by asking.

‘What sort of music do you like?’ I asked Robert, trying another tack.

He stepped up to the instrument and brushed his finger over the lower keyboard. ‘Anything really. Sometimes traditional church music and other times I lose hours playing Broadway hits.’

The sinews in Klara’s neck were stretched taut. ‘You have to use your eyes, hands, feet and ears all at once, don’t you?’ she asked.

Robert sat on the stool. ‘It’s like a hike, a dance and a swim in a rough ocean made at the same time,’ he said.

He poised his hands over the keys and began to play. Klara and I stepped back. I recognised Pachelbel’s Canon in D major. I had heard the pipe organ played in church before but in Robert’s music room the sound was colossal. The clamour of the party outside evaporated with each clear note. I imagined conversations coming to a stop and heads turning in the direction of the house as one by one the guests became awestruck by the music. The floor vibrated under our feet and the tambourines, castanets and cymbals on the walls rattled and jingled. I pictured Mrs Swan’s Royal Doulton tea set tinkling to the pulse of the music. Robert tossed his head and pressed his lips together and played with boundless energy. I was so entranced by the richness of the music that I hardly noticed Klara take my hand until she squeezed it so tightly she crushed my fingers.

Robert played the final chord then lifted his hands from the keyboard, pausing a moment before turning to face us. I was about to compliment him on his wonderful recital when a familiar voice called out.

‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you. But I only had to follow the music.’

I turned to see Beatrice and Philip in the doorway. Beatrice was wearing a sea-green dress with silk piping around the neckline. She looked stunning. Philip appeared relaxed in a white suit. Beatrice’s engagement ring was still on her finger. Philip tried to catch my eye, but I averted my gaze.

Beatrice rushed forward to kiss me and to greet Klara. ‘So here is the little sister at last,’ she said, embracing her. ‘Though not so little, she is almost as tall as me.’

‘How’s Aunt Helen?’ Robert asked Beatrice.

Beatrice’s smile faltered. ‘She’s a little better this morning, thank you. I didn’t want to leave her but she insisted that she only needed her nurse today.’

Freddy arrived at the door and told us that afternoon tea had been laid out on the tables. ‘You’re fools if you linger,’ he said. ‘It’s a feast.’

‘Better go then,’ said Robert with a laugh. ‘The cooks have been at it since yesterday.’

We followed Robert out onto the veranda where long tables had been set with cucumber and watercress sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, strawberries dipped in chocolate, as well as every kind of cake imaginable. Klara lingered near Robert, fascinated by his knowledge of music. I was as astounded when I overheard him say that he was the only musical member of his family. ‘My father was keen on sport. The Swans have always been athletes. I’m a kind of aberration.’

Beatrice recognised the women from the croquet game and showed them her ring. Philip stood by her side. I took the opportunity to escape into the garden. He still loves her, I told myself, feeling the ache in my heart.

I strode across the lawn behind the cypress hedge and towards the tennis courts. The further away I moved from the party, the more relieved I felt. The garden had three tiers. The lowest was natural bushland, but on the second was a maze. I was drawn to it out of curiosity and a desire to disappear.

‘To find your way in and out of a maze, all you have to do is brush your fingers along the left-hand side of the hedge,’ Father had explained to me once when we walked through a maze at a summer party in Melník.

I reached out and let my fingertips glide over the velvety leaves. A sense of calm fell over me as I progressed along the path moving in lines towards the centre. Statues and urns marked the pilgrimage. I arrived at the centre and found a pond with carp swimming in it and a stone bench.

I sat down and closed my eyes, turning my face to the sun. The throbbing in my heart quietened and I experienced fleeting seconds of peace.

I heard footsteps on the gravel and opened my eyes.

‘Adela?’

Philip stood before me. I thought I must be dreaming and reached out to touch his sleeve to see if he was real. He had beads of sweat on his upper lip. Did people perspire in dreams?

He sat down next to me. From the look in his eyes I could have imagined that he was in love with me. I could have told myself that he had followed me through the maze at the risk of being seen because he wanted to kiss me. But I refused to believe any of these things. I did not want to be hurt again.

‘Adela,’ he said, touching my hand.

I snatched it away. ‘Don’t!’ I said, standing up and moving towards the pond. ‘You’re engaged. To Beatrice.’

‘I’m going to break off our engagement,’ he said, following me. ‘Today. After Beatrice and I leave. I wanted to tell her this morning, so that she wouldn’t show off her ring, but she was running late and it couldn’t be helped.’

‘Beatrice says you became lovers during the war and that she gave herself to you. But you told me that we should wait.’

Philip was quiet, then said: ‘The war…it changed everything. We were young but we didn’t know if we would be alive the next day. We did a lot of things without prudence, without thinking through the consequences properly.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘It is better to wait, Adela, believe me. Love is sacred.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘If I had waited, things would be less complicated now with Beatrice.’

‘You expected to marry her, I suppose. You didn’t think that would change.’

Philip nodded sadly. ‘Yes, there was that too.’

‘Beatrice said that you grew up together,’ I said. ‘That you promised to marry her when she nearly died.’

Philip shook his head. ‘Beatrice says a lot of things, some of which aren’t quite true. I’ve come to understand that she sees me as a warm, comfortable blanket rather than her life’s partner. She’s different when she’s in Europe. She’s more independent. She hardly writes to me when she’s there. And when she does it’s no more than a page of hurried prose.’

A voice called out: ‘Philip!’

We jumped back from each other before we realised that the cry came from far away. Someone was calling from the house. It was a woman’s voice but it was not Beatrice.

‘She will be heartbroken just the same,’ I said. ‘And your father. He adores her.’

‘Yes, he does,’ said Philip, sitting down on the bench. ‘And Beatrice will be hurt and embarrassed too. But after a while they will see it’s for the best. Beatrice deserves someone who loves her with as much passion as I love you. Not a man who feels affection for her as a brother does for a sister.’

The stillness of the maze was peaceful. It was as if everything had stopped for us. Perhaps the guests had moved inside to hear Robert’s orchestrion. I hoped whoever it was who had called out Philip’s name had given up looking for him.

‘What will you do?’ I asked, sitting down beside Philip.

He squeezed my hand. ‘It will be all right, Adela. Please don’t worry. Beatrice will be upset for a while. But a few months of unhappiness is better than a lifetime of lies.’

I pressed my head against his chest. It felt right to be with him.

‘Happy?’ he asked me.

‘Yes.’

He leaned over and kissed me. I ran my fingers through his hair.

‘Philip!’

The voice we had heard earlier called again. Only this time it was closer and more urgent.

‘Philip!’ Another voice joined in with the first. And then another. It sounded as though several people were looking for him.