The conversation was being dominated by Roger Castlemaine, a cousin of Rowland’s father. A man well in his seventies, he considered himself the family patriarch, and dispensed loud advice like a font of conservative wisdom. They entered at the end of a monologue. “… of course that was during the real war. It’s not something you lads would understand.”
Rowland glanced at Wilfred who maintained a stony-faced mask of stoic civility. Castlemaine’s real war was the Boer War—the old man had always considered the Great War a skirmish of sorts, during which the Empire had given in to the more brutish warfare of lesser peoples. It was one of his favourite subjects.
Rowland suppressed a surge of ire—if Wilfred could endure the old fool, then he could do likewise. His head was throbbing again, however. Courtesy demanded that he spend some time greeting his guests despite his impatience to confront Leadbeater.
He welcomed them each politely, making vague enquiries and giving equally vague responses to theirs. Milton took a seat beside Wilfred, who studiously ignored him. The poet seemed to find that amusing.
Rowland sat beside his mother, casually deflecting any questions about the Truth article as “nonsense”. His Aunt Mildred, who had a nose for scandal, was persistent, but Rowland had become expert in evading the inquisitive probing of his relatives.
“And how precisely are you occupying yourself these days, Rowland? Your father had always thought you suited to the legal profession.”
“Had he? He was mistaken, I’m afraid.”
“Nonsense, Henry was never mistaken. He would be most disturbed that you have not yet settled down.”
“Just weighing my options, Aunt Mildred.”
“Young people these days have too many options.” Mildred wagged a gnarled finger at her nephew. “It will be your undoing… that’s just my opinion but I’m entitled to it.”
“For goodness sake, Millie, leave the poor boy alone!” Elisabeth Sinclair patted Rowland’s hand. “Aubrey’s always made Henry very proud.”
There was only a slight pause. Rowland barely blinked.
“I don’t know how proud Henry would be right now,” Mildred went on, ignoring the fact that she and Elisabeth were talking about different men. “It does not pay to be careless of one’s reputation.”
“Ernie, come out from there and show Aunt Mildred your yo-yo.”
“Your reputation is very important, you know.”
“He’s really getting to be quite clever with it—show everybody that whirling thing you do.”
Ernest obliged.
“A man’s reputation is… oh my Lord!”
It was probably not the best place to be whirling a wooden object about one’s head. The impact was inevitable: shattering the Royal Doulton teapot and sending the tepid brew in all directions. Mildred screamed and sat down, lamenting her nerves, as Mary Brown emerged to see that the mess was cleaned up and a fresh pot made with the minimum of fuss. The conversation moved from Rowland’s reputation to china patterns.
Rowland pulled Ernest onto his lap. “Well done, mate,” he whispered.
The boy nodded solemnly. “Uncle Rowly,” he asked gravely. “What happened to your repustation?”
“Reputation, Ernie. Met the same fate as that teapot, I think.”
“Can you paste it?”
“It will probably always leak.”
He kept Ernest on his lap after that, in the hope that the boy’s yo-yo would fend off his Aunt Mildred at least.
Eventually he stood, hoisting his nephew over the rail of the verandah and on to the lawn so that the boy too could escape.
“I’m afraid I have some business to attend to this afternoon, so you’ll have to excuse me…,” Rowland began.
Stanley Onslow, an uncle on his mother’s side, laughed, a vibrating, jarring cackle that was hard to overlook. “I can only imagine what kind of business you young men are engaged in,” he said in a whisper that was too loud and pointed for discretion. The genteel gathering tittered. Aunt Mildred seemed about to unleash another diatribe on reputation.
“Now Stanley, you mind your manners.” His wife, a matron of extensive girth, spoke reflexively, as if it was an admonishment she made often.
In response, Onslow lowered his voice and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat, as he looked meaningfully at Edna. “I must say, old man, I like the look of the business you’re doing here.”
Now Rowland bristled immediately. “Just what do you mean?”
“I’ve asked Rowly to take care of some matters for me,” Wilfred intervened, standing to place a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You best be on your way, Rowly.”
Clyde put down his cup and stood hastily, in case they should attempt to leave without him.
Rowland felt a touch of guilt over abandoning Edna to contend alone with his family, but the sculptress seemed entirely unperturbed by the notion. The conversation had moved now to polo and Edna was doing an admirable job of feigning interest.
“The reception commences at seven sharp,” Wilfred informed him quietly. “Just make sure you’re back in plenty of time… and let Leadbeater know that if he doesn’t retract his nonsense he will be hearing from our lawyers.”
They walked briskly outside, relieved to finally get away. Rowland told Clyde about Phil the Jew and Nellie Cameron. Clyde whistled in disbelief. “Good thing you got rid of them Rowly. You would have been exuding a lot more than an aura if old Frank Green had got wind of this. He slashed the last bloke who messed around with Nellie.”
“If I’d accepted Miss Cameron’s offer, I have no doubt Wilfred would have beaten him to it.”
Milton slipped eagerly into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. It was not a liberty he would normally have taken; Rowland rarely gave up the wheel of his beloved car. On this occasion, however, Rowland was still suffering the after-effects of the morning’s assault.
The generous Teutonic engine roared to life—she was not a subtle machine. It was only as they were driving out in full view of the verandah that it occurred to Rowland that his brother would have preferred he use the Rolls-Royce, at least while the family was at Woodlands. The German origin of the S-class Mercedes-Benz had always been a cause of contention between the Sinclair brothers.
There were still a couple of persistent reporters outside the gate. Milton engaged the supercharger and gave them little chance to photograph Theosophy’s latest World Prophet.
The mid-afternoon traffic was light in the city and they made good time across the Harbour Bridge and then to Mosman. To Rowland’s dismay there were also several reporters outside the entrance to The Manor.
“Open up! It’s His Holiness, come to see Mr. Leadbeater,” Milton called to the man at the gate.
“For God’s sake, Milt, shut up,” Rowland muttered as he observed a reporter scribble the statement down.
The gates were opened immediately and the yellow Mercedes pulled up to the entrance of The Manor.
It seemed Rowland’s new status had some benefits for they were admitted without question and shown directly to Leadbeater’s study. The Theosophist was not alone and appeared to be engaged in some form of heated exchange, audible through a slightly ajar door.
“Look, you bloody fool—if you don’t listen to me you’ll end up like Frannie.”
“I really don’t see what more I can do, Richard,” Leadbeater’s voice was calm in reply.
“Well, don’t say you weren’t warned, you mad bastard…”
The door was flung open and Richard Waterman stalked out. He stopped, momentarily startled by the presence of Rowland Sinclair and his friends. “I say… hello… didn’t expect to see you here… terrible hurry I’m afraid… jolly nice to see you again.” The newly widowed surgeon donned his hat and hurried out before any response was possible.
Charles Leadbeater emerged as Waterman departed. He was dressed in a pair of loose gathered trousers, over which he wore some form of smock, secured at the waist with a purple
sash. The ends of his long grey beard were tucked into the wide band. He tinkled as he walked for his pointed slippers were sewn with small brass bells. On his head was a black fez complete with hanging tassel.
“Saints preserve us,” Clyde muttered.
Leadbeater placed his palms together and bowed low. “Namaste. Welcome back, Rowland, my darling.”
The unexpected endearment took Rowland’s voice for a moment. He recollected his composure and spoke evenly. “Mr. Leadbeater, I wonder if I may have a word about your announcement.”
“Rowland, it would be my pleasure.” Leadbeater beamed. He clapped his hands imperiously. “Shall we take some refreshment in the garden whilst we talk?” With a flourish of his arm he opened the French doors and skipped outside calling, “Bring sustenance for the learned one.”
Milton grinned. “After you, learned one.”
Rowland sighed. His headache was getting worse.
They found Leadbeater sitting cross-legged on a wicker chair on the lawn. Awkwardly, they took the adjacent seats. Maids rushed out with tea service, trays of cakes and a hookah.
Rowland began directly. “Mr. Leadbeater, your announcement yesterday was mistaken and ill-advised. I have come to ask that you retract it.”
“It was not advised at all, darling,” Leadbeater replied airily. “I saw your great destiny in your aura—clear, magnificent. I could not be mistaken.”
“Regardless, sir,” Rowland said tightly. “The announcement was made with neither my knowledge nor consent. I am not willing. I require you to retract it.”
“Oh, I understand the mantle of World Prophet is heavy. You will become accustomed to the burden… in time you will embrace it.”
“I have no intention of embracing it, Mr. Leadbeater. I must insist that you retract your announcement.”
Leadbeater stood. He appeared not to hear. Raising his arms above his head he began to chant and skip amongst the chairs.
Rowland tried in vain to regain the Theosophist’s attention. “Mr. Leadbeater… Leadbeater… for the love of God…”
Still the man skipped and twirled around them, chanting joyously in some unintelligible language.
Rowland was losing his temper. He stood. The chanting assailed his throbbing head.
“Dhamang, Saranang…”
Rowland’s patience gave way. He reached out and grabbed Leadbeater by the beard, ready to pound sanity into the man.
A flash stayed him. More flashes exploded from through the hedge.
“Whoa, Rowly.” Clyde grabbed him before he hit Leadbeater, who was still chanting in some kind of manic frenzy.
Rowland felt Milton’s hand on his shoulder. “Let go of the beard, mate.”
Rowland released Leadbeater, reluctantly.
More flashes.
“Rowly, we have to get out of here,” Clyde warned. He nodded towards the hedge. “Photographers.”
“Come on,” Milton dragged him towards the driveway. “You’ll be hearing from his lawyers,” the poet shouted over his shoulder.
“Don’t go, my darling,” Leadbeater begged as he continued to skip. “I must prepare you. We have already lost so much time… I should have had you as a child…”
Rowland got into the car, a little stunned. The man was utterly mad. Milton gunned the engine and pulled out. They left Charles Leadbeater pleading on the lawn for his World Prophet to remain.
More flashes as the photographers captured their getaway.
Rowland pushed the hair back from his face, frustrated. No doubt his altercation with Leadbeater would feature in the next day’s paper. Wilfred was not going to be happy. He was none too pleased himself.
32
A NORMAN LINDSAY FANTASY
A gift of fancy in writing as well as in drawing is shown by Mr Norman Lindsay in The Magic Pudding. The story describes the adventures of Bunyip Bluegum (a native bear) and his friends Bill Barnacle (an ancient mariner) and Sam Sawnoff (a penguin bold). Bunyip decides to leave his little home in the gum tree because his uncle’s whiskers blow about too much and get in the way. On his travels he meets Bill and Sam who are the owners of a magic pudding named Albert. There is a dark history attached to the way in which they acquired the delicacy. Albert varies his flavour to steak and kidney, apple or whatever the temporary owner wishes. Furthermore he rather likes being eaten.
The Argus
It had been some years since the ballroom of Woodlands House had been used for an occasion so grand. The current master was not inclined to throw such formal receptions. This evening was to honour the newest Sinclair who had long since retired in the care of his nurse. Young Ernest had, however, been granted special permission to participate in at least the first hour of his little brother’s party. He stood sombrely beside his father and uncle in the receiving line.
The Sinclair men were formal and dignified in white tie and tails. On that count Rowland had finally drawn the line.
It was not in fact the kilt that had set his resolve, but the stockings, garters and other paraphernalia. It was just too much to ask. He had the Sinclair tartans Wilfred had ordered returned, before Milton decided to borrow them.
Once it became clear that nothing would get his brother into a kilt, Wilfred abandoned the dress himself on the grounds that it was more important that the Sinclairs present a united front. Rowland had the uneasy feeling that they were preparing for a siege, but at least they were doing so in long pants.
The Bairds arrived in a blaze of Highland colour and pageantry. At their head was Fletcher Baird—Kate’s paternal grandfather and, as far as Rowland could tell, some sort of clan leader. He was a generously built man whose girth burgeoned over the blue and green plaid of his kilt.
“Fletcher.” Wilfred shook Baird’s hand. “You remember my brother, Rowland.”
“Cannot say that I do,” Baird replied, taking Rowland in with shrewd cold eyes. “But I have read about him.”
At a loss for response, Rowland waited for his brother’s cue. He’d not yet had the opportunity to tell Wilfred of his latest encounter with Leadbeater.
Wilfred chose to ignore the challenge. “I trust Roburvale is comfortable, Fletcher.”
“Excessively so, lad. We have no need for soft beds and feather pillows. In the Highlands a man oft lays his head on naught but hard stone and he is grateful to the good Lord for it. Still, your whisky cupboard is full and for that kindness, I thank ye.”
Rowland bit the inside of his cheek. He was in enough trouble without laughing at this point. Fletcher Baird moved into the ballroom to greet his granddaughter, whilst the Sinclair men continued to welcome those that came behind him.
Rowland was, if truth be told, enjoying the spectacle that was the Bairds. Somehow they seemed to manage being the backbone of the Glen Innes Temperance League whilst maintaining a fondness for whisky. No one mentioned the inconsistency and all was well. Physically their kinship was declared by a preponderance of red hair. And, of course, the men were wearing kilts.
It seemed the Truth had been passed around amongst the Bairds and many had an opinion on Rowland Sinclair’s new celebrity. Rowland stood by as Wilfred deftly diffused each pointed and indignant reference to the article.
“Don’t complain, never explain,” Wilfred directed him quietly when it became obvious that the curious, clearly disapproving prodding would continue.
Kate’s Aunt Maggie beckoned Rowland aside—she smelled just faintly of lemon and whisky. Rowland smiled—he remembered Margaret. She’d always been partial to some appalling drink called a toddie which she consumed often for supposedly medicinal purposes. She had an interesting face, lively green eyes and a beauty which the lines of age had faded only slightly.
“I read about you, Rowland,” she said. “’Tis a bonny thing, a fine thing indeed.”
This caught him by surprise.
“They always said I was a bit fey myself,” she confided as she clasped his hand in both of hers. “Well done, my dear boy. How exciting… I
have dreams, you see, when the moon is full—since I was a wee girl. The World Prophet! How very special… I had a dream before the last war—tin soldiers and black ink, and then another just recently when that poor racehorse died… it’s a gift, a wonderful terrible gift… I understand, my boy.” She rubbed his hand warmly once more. “You must let me show you the moon some night,” she whispered before she went back to her husband’s side.
Rowland stared after her for a while.
“Why Mr. Sinclair, what a pleasure to see you again.”
Rowland turned. She stood almost posed, wearing a rather unnecessary shade of pink, her platinum hair twisted high upon her head. Her gown, though painstakingly modest, was fashionably cut, and she met his eyes with an expectation of admiration.
Rowland shook the white-gloved hand. “Miss Bennett, I must say I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Of course I’m here, silly,” she said giggling. “We are to be godparents together.”
Kate swooped in. “I’m sure I mentioned it, Rowly—we’ve asked Lucy to be Ewan’s godmother…”
“I was frightfully honoured,” Lucy chirped. “I adore children.”
“Isn’t it just perfect, Rowly?” Kate smiled at her friend, who laughed suddenly. Rowland remembered that Lucy Bennett had always laughed for no reason, and in a manner carefully contrived to look gay. He found it no less irritating now. “Why don’t you show Lucy the rest of Woodlands before supper,” Kate continued. “I’m sure Wil can manage by himself.”
Rowland smiled politely, wondering why Kate couldn’t inflict her unmarried school chums upon her own relatives instead of tormenting her husband’s only living brother. Surely there were eligible men among the Bairds—but for some reason they were allowed to drink their whisky unmolested.
Decline in Prophets Page 24
