by Peter Corris
'No drinking.'
'At least we could show the workers drinking. Drunken shearers and the like?'
'No drinking.'
I left it there, along with the question of the scenario and some insurance matters and negotiations about the price of film stock. I own I let the whole matter drift somewhat; it was agreeable to go riding out along the Geelong Road or have a game of billiards in the Horatian when I could get away from Elizabeth. I was well and truly tired of her by this time; her conversation was mainly about the hospital business which is not something a man wants to talk about before or after dinner, and she was already up to the old female trick of trying to change me.
'Have you considered brown suits, Richard?' (I customarily wore blue or grey.)
'No. Don't like brown.' (I didn't tell her the reason for this which was that the shade reminded me too much of army uniform.)
'You should, it would suit your colouring. Do you think the velvet on the lapel of that topcoat is quite the thing?'
'I'm a film producer, must look the part.'
'A gentleman film producer.'
And so on. The truth was I could see no future for Brown Knight Productions. I'd had a good ride and even managed to skim a little of the operating capital off into my bank account. After a while I converted this to gold and acquired a money belt as I had in the dark, dangerous days of war. I extended the horse riding, pistol shooting and billiards playing and tried to ease myself out from under Elizabeth. (If you consider that the wrong expression just think about it for a moment. I can assure you it's not.)
A short conversation with Daphne one day put me on my guard and forced me to make departure plans. I'd run into Elizabeth's sister in the city by chance. She was buying cream buns and I seized the chance to pump her a little. I took her to a cafe and ordered coffee. She looked around, extracted one cream bun from the bag, and ate it in two bites.
'These are for mother,' she said, jaws working. 'It's almost the only thing she eats.'
She'll be lucky to see any of that lot, thinks I, but I just nodded. Daphne's conversation was almost exclusively about her mother and food, as Elizabeth's was about hospitals and clothes, and their father's about radicals and grog. 'Here's the coffee,' I said. 'Sugar?'
'Three lumps. When are you and Elizabeth getting married, Richard?'
I almost upset the table but I fought for control. 'Oh, I don't know. Has Elizabeth said anything about it?'
'No, but she's getting her trousseau together.'
'Oh?' I sipped coffee wishing it was brandy.
'Lilac silk.'
I shuddered. Daphne leaned across and touched my hand. 1 do believe you shook with passion, Richard. Just like in the novels. Oh, Elizabeth is so lucky!'
I was trembling now, and turning pale I fancy. I got out my cigarette case, opened it somehow and got a cigarette to my mouth.
'Can I have one?'
Daphne leaned forward eagerly. Flesh flowed across the little table and I had a vision of the size Elizabeth might reach if she abandoned all dietary restraint as Daphne had. I fumbled a cigarette out for her and lit it. She puffed luxuriously.
'Father would kill me,' she giggled.
I smoked in nervous puffs thinking of Macknight as my father-in-law, holding the money bags. I imagined the wedding with Daphne supporting Maud Macknight in a corner and the aftermath – enough lilac silk to make a parachute and, in the fullness of time, old Cameron promising the children a thou apiece if they signed the pledge.
'Drink up, Daphne, have to run.'
It was the douche bag that had caused me to feel secure. I knew that Elizabeth was still using it and in those days the most popular method of trapping a man into marriage was to get yourself in the family way. Of course old Macknight would have ranted and preached but there were conventions about that sort of thing – the worst hellfire and brimstone vilifiers became doting grandparents after the knot was tied and the pup was dropped.
Still, Daphne didn't have the wit to invent anything and women have an instinct about these things anyway. It was time to settle pressing accounts and head north. I scooted off to Spencer Street and bought a ticket on the night train to Sydney. Then it was back to the flat to throw things into bags, collect any cash lying around and leave time for a few stiff ones before the train left. I had an arrangement to meet Elizabeth that night and a braver man might have turned up and faced the thing but not I. The thought of her as Mrs B. was just too much to stomach. I rang The Gables and left a message with Manning that I was indisposed.
I'd finished packing and was just shrugging into my greatcoat when there was a knock at the door. I opened it and there stood Elizabeth, filling the aperture, a vision in blue velvet.
'Elizabeth, I . . ., ah . . .'
She brushed past me. 'No need to explain, Richard. My, you can pack quickly when you've a mind to. Give me a drink and a cigarette.'
I was so thrown I just set about obeying; I unshipped the brandy bottle and poured two stiff ones. She puffed smoke at the ceiling and stood with her back to the cold fireplace. 'I gather you had a chat with Daphne today?'
'Er, yes.'
'I knew you'd be reluctant but I didn't think you'd be this quick off the mark. What, leave poor father in the lurch? Desert me?'
'Elizabeth, I don't think . . .'
'We're getting married, Richard.'
Maybe it was the alcohol and nicotine, or perhaps it was the mere sight of her, all pale and boneless-looking, but I found the courage somewhere for a spirited reply. 'I'm hanged if I will!'
She smiled and reached into her handbag. Slowly she put down her cigarette, lifted her glass and finished the brandy. 'You'll be hanged if you don't,' she said. 'Have a look at this, Richard dear.'
She passed across a small magazine, roughly printed, six or so pages. It was open at a page that carried a photograph. I peered at it. Twenty four men in military uniform. Smiles and grim looks. Names listed underneath. The room spun and I heard a roaring in my ears. The man at the back on the extreme right was Lance Corporal William Hughes and Blind Freddy could tell that it was me.
23
Of course I tried to bluff it out, said it wasn't me, couldn't be me, too young, different coloured hair and so on. But she had me dead to rights.
'What else could you have been but a deserter? Skulking around in Switzerland. Tony Grace of South Africa, I ask you.'
I flopped down into an armchair and drew my hand wearily across my face. 'I've told you about that. It was a secret mission, very hush hush.'
'Nonsense. You can hardly be trusted to order dinner. Secret mission! Bosh! You were on the run from the Australian Army and you know what the penalty is for that, don't you, Richard?'
I do believe she'd been looking forward to this conversation. As I found, there was no end to her deviousness – she might even have put Daphne up to tipping me the wink. Still, I wasn't going to fall in a heap. I took some more brandy and thought about it. Elizabeth threw her cigarette in the empty fireplace and looked at me. Odd thing was, her look could only be described as fond.
'You've no proof,' I said.
'Oh, but I have. I recently met a gentleman who was badly wounded in the war. Leg wounds, very severe. He can't move around much but his mind is keen. Very keen. He's writing a book about his war experiences and do you know, Richard, he can remember every man who was ever under his command. Remembers their names and faces and mannerisms; it's quite remarkable.'
My mouth was dry and I reached for the brandy again. Elizabeth extended her glass and I topped us both up.
'Oh, yes?' I said. My necktie felt tight and I'm sure my hatband would have felt the same if I'd been wearing a hat. My temples were throbbing.
'Thank you,' she took a ladylike sip. 'Yes. I think you'd be interested to meet him. I should add he has very good eyesight. I think he fancied himself as a rifle shot and took an interest in men who displayed the same talent. His name is Thorndike, Richard – Major Wilfred Thorndike.'
I gulped the spirit down and felt it burn my throat. 'He's here, in Melbourne?'
'Yes, under the care of a friend of mine. I won't say where.'
I think that was as close as I came, before I turned thirty, to breaking down and blubbing in front of a woman; I did it often enough in later years, Christ knows. There didn't seem to be any point in further denial but one thing still puzzled me. I finished my drink and had another; well, it wouldn't be the last time I'd be drunk when a train pulled out with an empty berth. I remember one time in San Francisco . . . ah, memories. 'Elizabeth,' I said, 'If you know I'm a deserter and a scoundrel, why the devil d' you want to marry me?'
That look of fondness she wore became stronger. She took a few steps, bent down and kissed me. 'Because I love you, Richard.'
I'll never understand women.
It was downhill all the way after that. To Elizabeth it was all perfectly reasonable: either I'd marry her or she'd inform on me to the authorities and I'd be executed for desertion, or imprisoned until I couldn't do her or any other woman any good. This monstrous proposition, the sort of thing that no man would serve up to a woman, was to her a blueprint for action and, indeed, happiness. I got her drunk a few nights later (not as easy as it may sound, I was near-paralytic myself with the effort) and teased some of her further thinking from her.
'I'm worthless, Elizabeth,' I moaned. 'Worthless.'
'True, Richard,' she said with a steadiness well beyond me, 'but marriage will improve you.'
There it was, you see – the old story of a man being changed by the love of woman. I never saw it happen, either in life or, convincingly, on the screen. It was all very demoralising; I looked back on all the difficulties I'd had since, well, since Dudleigh really, and it seemed that I'd finally been run to earth. I think it was kind of tired, defeatist thinking that made me go along with the marriage plans. I trembled at the thought of Thorndike sitting there, somewhere in the city, probably unaware of his role in the scheme of things, set like a bomb to blow my life into fragments. I had no doubt that Elizabeth was capable of having me arrested, either in bed or on the run at some train station or port. She'd drop names into her conversation, Judge This and Commissioner That, to let me know that she had influence. I had no friends and couldn't influence people. I was licked.
The marriage preparations were truly horrible. Elizabeth excelled herself at lining up a tame minister (she was as pagan as me), sending out invitations and organising a reception that seemed designed to let the State of Victoria know that Elizabeth Jocelyn Macknight was getting married. One of her hardest tasks was to persuade Cameron that alcohol was an essential part of the wedding breakfast. She succeeded and I knew that if she could manage that it was useless to resist her in anything else. I smiled, bought clothes, met friends of the family, attended afternoon teas and felt the ring in my nose and the shackles around my feet.
Occasionally, I broke out. I recall a couple of monumental drinking bouts at this time and losing at poker twenty pounds that Elizabeth had given me to buy flowers or some such nonsense. She smiled sweetly and forgave me. She seemed to think of nothing but the day itself, and not a minute beyond into the certain hell she was preparing for us.
Five days before the ghastly event I shook myself from my torpor and took action. I tried to the best of my ability to locate Thorndike. I broke into Elizabeth's private office and ransacked her correspondence looking for a clue. I followed her on a couple of expeditions here and there, only to find that they were connected with the nuptials. I bribed a maid at The Gables to tell me about callers and telephone messages. Had I found Thorndike I believe I would have despatched him on the spot, so it was as well that I did not.
Perhaps the lowest point I reached was when I found Helen Hawes' name on the guest list.
'You're not inviting her, surely?'
'Why not?' Elizabeth smiled in a fat, complacent way I had grown to hate. 'She's one of my oldest friends.'
I thought of Helen's lean body and the inventiveness of her love-making. Something of this must have showed in my face because Elizabeth was calling her a whore within seconds and I was snarling something back. Then it came out that Elizabeth had contrived Helen's discovery of our early clandestine sessions.
I was aghast. 'I can't go through with this, Elizabeth.'
'You must.'
'I'll go to gaol rather than marry you. I've been there before.'
She smiled that maddening smile again. 'I know you have, dear. I also know other things about you. You have problems that you're not aware of.'
'Like what?'
'Like a child with a mother who is reputed to be one of the stupidest women on the south coast of New South Wales. This woman has a vengeful father who has sworn to give this child a father or to bring it half-way to orphanhood.'
'What are you talking about?'
'His name and hers is Ryan.'
'Jesus.'
We were in my flat; I was sitting in an armchair and Elizabeth was by the window looking out at St Kilda Road. It was raining and car and carriage wheels swished on the road. I would have given anything to have been out there, drenched to the skin, but heading north. She let the curtain fall and came across to me. Her cool hands moved on my hot temples.
'Whatever you may think of me, Richard, I'm not a south-coast cow girl with dung on my boots. And I'm not stupid. I want you to succeed and I'm sure you can . . .,' she paused but kept smoothing my hair,' . . . with papa's help and mine.'
'Yes, Elizabeth.'
She had a point in a way. One of the benefits of the marriage nightmare was that it deflected attention from The Squatter's Dream (sorry, Australia), and therefore from my own failure to do much towards the production other than feather my nest in a small way and learn a bit about the business. I suppose I had dreams of a towering success – a Brown Knight Production that would take the world by storm and make me enough money to be able to thumb my nose at petty authority.
I hadn't been sleeping well. I was pursued by phantoms – Les Darcy came skipping towards me wearing his boxing outfit; then I was in uniform, sniping away at the Germans who turned into sausages as my bullets struck them; I saw the man Hans Steller had sent to the bottom of the Rhine surface, streaming with water and blood. But that night, Elizabeth and I slept together in the flat; I was full of brandy and dreams which made the reality seem bearable. Just.
I won't bore you with every detail of the wedding. It was ghastly throughout. It rained for one thing; Elizabeth and Daphne got wet on the way to the church and looked like nothing so much as beached whales, pale and blubbery with their wet finery draped around them like seaweed.
Although more than half a century has passed, I can still see us standing in front of the altar with the Anglican clergyman (old Cameron's father had traded-in Presbyterianism on a more bankable Anglicanism years before) got up like a schoolmaster in drag. I can still hear the meaningless words ' . . . honor and obey . . . death do us part' and smell Elizabeth's heavy, sickly-sweet perfume. (My mind races on to my other weddings – on board ship with a dypsomaniacal captain who lusted after my bride, in a whorehouse in Reno where the bride had slept with everyone, man, woman and child, in the room etc. etc. . . . all dreadful, but none so bad as the first.)
After the religious ceremony came the civil horrors. The rain had eased to a drizzle and we bundled into motor cars to travel to the speechmaking and slobbering at the Exhibition Hotel in the city. This must have cost Cameron a month's takings: there were flunkeys to do everything from wiping the mud off shoes to keeping the glasses filled. Macknight seemed to go into a trance at the sight of so much booze. I spoke to him a couple of times but he was somewhere else in his mind.
I had presented myself as an orphan to the Macknights. Of good family to be sure, but scattered – a mighty landowner in Western Australia, a timber miller in New Zealand, South African connections. As a consequence, my side of the banquet hall was a mere pocketful of acquaintances – an a
mateur jockey (a gentleman) who'd done a little work on the Kelly film, a few knights of the green baise from the Horatian and a couple of people to whom I'd given a guinea to cover the hire of a dress suit. Helen Hawes hadn't come, of course.
Somehow I got through the speeches: an uncle of Elizabeth's, a member of the upper house of the State parliament, extolled her virtues although he'd only seen her twice before since her birth. I mumbled a response, said something appreciative about the ghastly pile of silver and crystal that constituted the wedding presents, thanked Cameron and Maud for giving me their daughter (I almost choked on that), and essayed the only humour on the occasion.
'When can a Scotsman see a joke?' I asked.
Stony faces.
'After the surgical operation.'
Stonier faces.
I stumbled from the dais and, in the vicinity of the ladies' toilet to which I had mistakenly made my way, I bumped into Mrs Macknight. Like all drunks she had found a way to get hold of her poison and time to consume it. She gripped me by the arm, looked blearily up at my face and tried to remember who I was. I was none too sober myself by this.
'Richard, mama,' I said. 'Your son-in-law.'
Her vision seemed to clear and her grip intensified; I carried the bruise for weeks. 'Get drunk and stay drunk, young man,' she said. 'That's the only way. They're devils!'
I was well on the way to putting this advice into practice and normally I would have continued on that course. But something about her face; its puckered, robbed-of-life intensity, sobered me. I went to the lavatory, washed my hands and face, straightened my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror. Despite all the disappointment and dissipation, I was still a dashed handsome fellow – clear-eyed, well, reasonably so, square-jawed and with a full set of teeth and head of hair. Who were these bloody Macknights to get the better of a Browning?
It was still the champagne and brandy talking, of course, but not altogether. I stood at the back of the dining room and looked at them all. Amazing how many secret tipplers there must have been among that sobersided lot. How many hypocrites. I wager that if I'd been able to do blood tests and genetic scans (not that such things were available then), I'd have found a good few whelps that didn't belong in the litter.
