Gentlemen Formerly Dressed

by Sulari Gentill

  Milton started to laugh. Clyde’s lips were pressed tightly together but Rowland could see the Lord’s Prayer in his eyes. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Buchan, but we wouldn’t want to keep you from your own enjoyment.”

  Buchan pulled a lacy white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the thick line of kohl around his eyes. “Alas, alas, there will be no enjoyment for me. Do you see that magnificent creature over there?” He pointed his stick at what at first glance appeared to be a six-foot woman in a green chiffon gown. She danced with a young man in a mess jacket whose face was buried in the broad hard expanse of her chest. “I had an affair with that beautiful boy last week. I’ve adored him ever since—been unable to eat or drink, except for the odd meal and bottle of wine. Oh, how I’ve lain in bed obsessed with the thought of seeing him again. But passion, my dears, is a fickle friend and tonight the object of my ardour has eyes only for that inappropriately dressed fool. I understand that nautical dress is very fashionable right now, but a mess jacket… really!”

  “I’m sorry to hear of your… disappointment, Mr. Buchan.”

  “Are you, Mr. Sinclair?” Buchan leaned in and gazed into his eyes. “Are you truly? It’s good of you to say, even if you aren’t truly sorry. It’s well-mannered—a testament to gentle breeding. I think I might pass the time with you and your charming friends.”

  Clyde tensed, panicked.

  Buchan reached across and patted his hand. “Relax, poppet. I know… I do. I’m not in the mood for love tonight and if you do intend to stay to see this girl, Dabinett, sing, you will need the Countess to keep less understanding suitors back.”

  “In that case,” Milton said, standing, clearly unfazed, “I’d better fetch us some drinks.” Rowland fumbled in his jacket and handed the poet his pocketbook, guessing that the cost of refreshments would be extortionate.

  “A splendid notion,” Buchan chirped. “I’d best accompany you, though. The maids at the bar can be forward.” He turned back to Rowland and Clyde. “If anyone bothers you, my darlings, you say you’re with the Countess.”

  “Clyde, old boy, are you all right?” Rowland whispered as Buchan sauntered off with Milton. “You look a trifle unwell.”

  “Of course I do.” Clyde shook his head. “Why don’t you?”

  “I was at Oxford,” Rowland replied, shrugging. “Englishmen, you know. I’m sorry, mate, I should have realised this was not an ordinary dance.”

  “Rowly,” Clyde said, convinced his friend was taking the situation far too lightly. “We are surrounded… surrounded by men in evening gowns and make-up. We have to get the hell out of here!”

  Rowland grinned. “We’ll leave as soon as Miss Dawe has finished her act.” He nudged Clyde encouragingly. “Don’t panic, mate… just don’t ask anyone to dance.”

  Clyde glowered at him and Rowland laughed.

  Milton and Buchan returned with a tray of colourful cocktails.

  “What in God’s name are these?” Clyde demanded, staring at the selection of frothy concoctions, garnished with chunks of fruit and sprigs of mint. He was justifiably suspicious of everything now.

  “Funny you should mention the good Lord, poppet,” Buchan said as he considered the selection with theatrical poise. “For this divine creation is called an Angel’s Wing!” He handed Clyde a carefully constructed drink of layered brandy topped with cream. “Mr. Isaacs quite excellently chose the Black Velvet, and for Mr. Sinclair, an Americano. And this,” he said raising a glass himself, “is for me.” He took a sip and a puckered approving. “Ahhh, Between the Sheets.”

  The first act took to the stage—a male crooner in petticoats and bows who sang favourites from the twenties. Some sang along, others danced.

  The event did not seem to suffer from the inhibitions that stifled more conventional affairs. Men who had not been formally introduced flirted and cavorted and jostled to speak with the mysterious Australians whom only Cecil Buchan seemed to know. But Buchan was true to his word. He drove back every hopeful suitor with flamboyant threats, crying, “These are the Countess’ men. They are not for the likes of you!” For this, even Clyde came to regard the man with something akin to gratitude.

  Over a third round of cocktails, Rowland thought to ask Buchan about Lord Erroll.

  “Oh Joss,” Buchan flapped his hand at Rowland. “He used to come by with Pierrepont on occasions, but his interest is financial. These are quite lucrative events, you know.”

  “Financial… and here I thought your lot objected to actually earning a crust?” Milton murmured, glancing at Rowland. As much as Wilfred accused his brother of being idle, the Sinclairs would never have allowed him to be engaged in conventional employment. That sort of thing was for the aptly named working classes, of which the Sinclairs were not members.

  “Investment, sweet boy,” Buchan corrected. “I’m not suggesting the Earl of Erroll is my employee!” He beckoned them closer and confided. “Sadly for Joss, his titles were frightfully hollow and came with very little in terms of assets or private income. He finds himself in the sorry position of having to procure an honest living—though he is not so particular about the honest part—at least between seductions.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Joss has preferred to raise funds by marrying fortunes. Unhappily his second wife is not as comfortably off as the one he divorced, which is possibly why he’s back in London.”

  “He’s married?”

  “Yes, though Edith can rarely be persuaded to leave Kenya, even for a short while. By Joss’ accounts, the Muthaiga Country Club makes these shenanigans rather look like high tea with Great Aunt Mavis and the Embroiderers’ Guild!”

  It was about one in the morning when Sarah Dabinett finally appeared in the spotlight. Rowland could see Edna standing offstage with the Earl of Erroll. Allie was clearly nervous. She began her song hoarsely and noticeably off-key but under the gaze of a ballroom of men she seemed to gather strength and musicality and was soon belting out, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee”.

  “She can’t sing hymns here,” Clyde whispered, appalled.

  But perhaps the gentlemen in the ballroom were churchgoers, or possibly fallen clergymen, for it proved to be quite a popular waltz. Rowland could not help but be struck by the glorious absurdity of it all.

  On impulse, fuelled by cocktails, Milton took to the dance floor with a middle-aged man in tartan frills and a blonde wig. The poet was an excellent dancer. He led his partner on a twirling tour of the floor finishing with a somewhat ostentatious and unnecessary dip.

  Of course, this resulted in a reinvigoration of unwelcome attentions against which their only protection was Buchan.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Clyde muttered, when Milton returned to the table.

  Milton laughed. “You wait till I tell them at Trades Hall that I dipped a member of the House of Lords.” He put his arm companionably about Clyde’s shoulders. “Actually, he followed a lead better than most girls in Sydney and he was rather light on his feet.”

  “Dear Lord,” Clyde groaned.

  “I wouldn’t call him dear, old mate… it was just one dance after all… but he was a lord.”

  Edna slipped away from Erroll’s side and came over to join them. “Oh, I wish I had knees like that,” she said, glancing wistfully at a long-legged gentleman in a daringly split skirt and fishnet stockings.

  Rowland smiled. There was not a woman, let alone a man, on earth that the sculptress had just cause to envy.

  “Allie’s doing rather well don’t you agree?” she murmured as she tried Rowland’s cocktail and then Milton’s to compare.

  And then, suddenly, just as Sarah Dabinett began to sing, “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” it began… the sirens outside, the whistles shrill, and a deluge of constables into the ballroom. The exits were barred. Couples sprang apart and ran for it. Others fought and still others tried to negotiate.

  Buchan sighed. “It’s a police raid,” he said, shaking his head
. “Get out of here if you can, gentlemen, for we are all about to be arrested for public indecency.”

  Rowland cursed. “We’d better find Allie.”

  Milton grabbed his shoulder. “I’ll find her, Rowly—you go!”

  “What? Not a chance.”

  Milton dragged him aside as a fight erupted at the next table. “Listen to me, mate, you get arrested here you can forget about anyone in a position of authority listening to what you have to say about Germany.” He motioned to Clyde. “Get Rowly out of here.”

  Rowland began to protest again.

  “Trust me, Rowly, I’ll look after Allie. It’ll be no use the three of you getting arrested too and, frankly, my reputation is already beyond salvation. If by some slim chance you manage to get away, at least you’ll be able to bail us.”

  Buchan fell in with the poet. “Go,” he advised. “I’ll help Mr. Isaacs. I have nothing to fear from exposure—my affairs have already been aired in the press after the last raid. If you need your reputation for anything at all, get out of here, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I brought you here,” Rowland said to Milton. “I said I’d—”

  Milton reacted angrily now. “Look, you bloody fool. You’re the only one of us with any influence. I’ve been arrested before, Rowly. I’m happy to spend a few hours in an English gaol if it means you might be able to help those poor blighters in Germany. This is England—the police are not going to harm us. Now get the hell out of here or I’ll break your other arm!”

  Rowland stared at him startled.

  Clyde took charge. “Where will they take you?” he asked Buchan.

  “Brixton Bailey, most probably.”

  “Right, we’ll meet you there with a solicitor.”

  Buchan led them to a narrow stairwell. “The stairs take you to the bedrooms on the second floor. Your best chance is to climb out onto the roof and down a trellis.” He glanced with some consternation at Rowland’s arm, and embraced him suddenly. “Farewell, dear heart—try not to fall.”

  Milton laughed. He slapped Rowland on the shoulder. A truce. “Go on, mate. Good luck.”

  8

  MALTED MILK

  English Company’s Plans

  Mr. Peter Horlick, a director of Horlick’s Malted Milk Company, who arrived by the R.M.S. Maunganui on Saturday, stated that, although there were no definite plans, it was possible that his company would consider manufacturing malted milk in Australia. Malted Milk was drunk in practically every country in the world, and if a factory was established here it would probably supply all countries of the East.

  The United States was the best customer for malted milk, said Mr. Horlick. The partial abolition of prohibition had not affected the consumption there.

  The Sydney Morning Herald, 1933

  “What in…?” Rowland slammed the bedroom door shut.

  “What’s in there?” Clyde demanded as he tried the door himself.

  There was a scream and several naked men ran past them into the hallway. Clyde glared at Rowland, speechless.

  The corridor at the top of the stairs was long and wide, a dimly lit avenue of doors that were meant to be closed. The floor was littered with fox stoles and paste tiaras discarded in mid-flight. Dozens of men in dinner suits or evening gowns or now, nothing at all, ran into the bedrooms. Clearly this escape route was no secret.

  Clyde crossed himself and led them to the room at the far end of the hallway into which the naked men had, among others, fled. The two windows which had been opened were congested with hysterical escapees.

  “This way!” Clyde tried a third window which it seemed had been bypassed in the panic. It was heavy and the sash sticky but, determined to avoid jostling for space at the other windows, Clyde persisted. Finally he succeeded in shaking loose the counterweights and he forced the window up. “You first, Ed.” He glanced down at her pretty heels. “Better take off your shoes.”

  Edna did so, stuffing them into the pockets of Clyde’s dinner jacket. In stockinged feet, she climbed carefully out onto the slate roof. Clyde motioned Rowland out next and then followed himself. It had rained while they had been inside and the steeply pitched roof was treacherous.

  Rowland cast his eyes towards the lawn below, which now teemed with police and Black Marias ready to convey prisoners to the station. Then one of their fellow escapees slipped, sliding down the slope of the roof, collecting several men on the way. Tangled and grasping, the men tumbled in a frenzied clamour of arms and legs and lacy skirts, all screaming like hairy banshees.

  Edna gasped as they disappeared over the edge.

  Clyde craned his neck to see. “It’s all right, Ed. The box hedge has broken their fall.”

  Bobbies surged to the newly made dent in the hedge, grappling to separate and then restrain the conglomeration of bodies. Rowland saw their chance.

  “Over here,” he said heading towards the other side of the roof. “Let’s get down while they’re arresting those poor chaps.”

  The rose trellis was within easy reach but it was, as one would expect in late summer, covered with the barbed growth of a rambler. Edna was wearing gloves but Clyde and Rowland were not. Still there was nothing for it but to grit their teeth and climb down.

  Clyde went first, cursing as the rose thorns ripped and embedded in his bare hands. Edna climbed down with less damage by placing her gloved grip where his had already been. With only one hand to support his weight, Rowland’s descent was probably the most awkward and unpleasant but, in the end, they were all on the ground.

  “Dammit!” Clyde swabbed his torn palms with a handkerchief. He returned Edna’s shoes and placed his hands in his pockets. “We’re just going to saunter out of here,” he said. “If the police stop us, we say we were at a dinner party with Australia’s delegates at the economic conference, and came across to see what the commotion was about.”

  “Do you think they’ll believe that?” Edna was sceptical.

  “You have the distinction in this crowd of being a real woman, Ed—so yes, I believe they will.”

  Rowland followed Clyde’s lead and thrust his hand into his pocket. Edna slipped her arm through his and they walked casually towards the gate.

  Beresford stepped into the room, rolled his eyes and retreated. The Australian had once again answered the door himself. The butler could do nothing more. Surely he could not be expected to educate ill-bred colonials on matters of propriety.

  “Wil, come in,” Rowland said, relieved.

  Wilfred pushed past him. “This had better be important.” His eyes slowed upon the scratches on Rowland’s face and hands. “What the blazes have you been doing, Rowly?”

  “Good evening, Mr. Sinclair,” Edna said, looking up briefly, before she returned to Clyde’s hands from which she was extracting thorns and splinters with tweezers.

  “Miss Higgins, Mr. Watson Jones.” Wilfred nodded curtly.

  Edna stood. “I believe there’s a stock of iodine in the bathroom. Come on.” She smiled at Wilfred as she pushed Clyde ahead of her. “Don’t let the screaming bother you, Mr. Sinclair. Painters you know… they have such sensitive hands… and Clyde can be a terrible baby.”

  Wilfred stared after her.

  “Wil, I need a solicitor,” Rowland said the moment they were alone.

  “A solicitor? What on earth for?”

  “Milt’s been arrested. I need to secure his release.”

  “Arrested… when?”

  Rowland glanced at his watch. “About two hours ago.”

  Wilfred reared. “If that Communist troublemaker has broken His Majesty’s laws then I don’t see why you should—”

  “Bloody hell, Wil, just help me find a solicitor!”

  Even with Edna out of the room, Wilfred did not swear at his brother, though it was clear he wanted to. “What exactly has Mr. Isaacs done to get himself arrested?”

  “He was at a dance in Soho.”

  “And…?”

  “And nothing, he was arrested for being
at the dance.”

  “What… why?”

  “It was a dance for gentlemen… only gentlemen.”

  Wilfred stopped. “I knew it! Bloody cravats and poetry,” he muttered furiously. “I knew your so-called friends would—”

  “None of us knew what kind of dance it was,” Rowland said tightly.

  “None of you?” Wilfred’s eyes narrowed. “My God, Rowly, are you telling me that you were there too? Are you out of your mind? Do you have no concept of respectability?”

  “Miss Dawe invited us to come hear her sing. We didn’t know that it was anything other than a dance.”

  “I would have thought it’d be bleeding obvious!” Wilfred stepped closer, suspiciously, accusingly. “Had you been drinking?”

  “For pity’s sake, Wil!”

  “If your drinking has deteriorated to such a sorry state that you can’t tell—”

  “I promise you, Wil, I have never been that intoxicated that I can’t tell the difference between a man and a woman! Besides, I was cold sober when I walked into that dance.”

  “Tremendous!” Wilfred rubbed his face wearily. “Inebriation would have at least been a reason! You’re just an idiot!”

  Now Rowland really wanted a drink. “Look, Wil, just help me find a half-decent solicitor… please.”

  “Rowly, you cannot afford to be associated with—”

  “It was my idea to attend in the first place,” Rowland said angrily. “Milt stayed with Miss Dawe so that I could get out and protect my flaming reputation.”

  Wilfred sat down and removed his glasses. “And why was Miss Dawe performing at this so-called dance?”

  “She quite desperately wants to be a singer. Some chap who calls himself the Earl of Erroll arranged it.”

  Wilfred looked up sharply. “Josslyn Hay?”

  Rowland nodded. “He was a chum of Pierrepont’s, apparently.”

  Wilfred seemed about to say something but decided against it. “I presume this need to rescue your long-haired hanger-on cannot wait till morning.”

  “No, it can’t.”