Silver Wattle (52 page)

The roads down south were rough to travel by motor vehicle. Many were nothing more than horse and cart runs. The tracks were often too narrow for the van and on the first day of our journey we became bogged twice. On the second day, we saw a farmer misjudge the depth of a river crossing. His truck sank like a weight, and it was only quick thinking on Uncle Ota’s part to throw the driver a rope that saved him from being washed downstream. The time we lost saving the farmer meant we would not reach the town before dark so he invited us to camp on his property.

The moon was full, and in the firelight I saw Esther and Hugh exchange a glance when Hugh handed her a cup of tea. I envied them the joy of falling in love.

I remembered how Esther had been unsure of Hugh the day before when he had offered her his hand. People hurt others all the time, even when they loved them. Especially if they loved them. It was usually because they were in pain themselves. I closed my eyes and for the first time in a long time allowed myself to think about Philip. Since sound films had become important to the fate of
The Emerald Valley
I had taken up reading the newspaper again. One day I had seen an article about the Aerial Medical Service. A Presbyterian minister was trying to raise funds for a service to fly doctors to remote areas in the Outback when medical assistance was needed. I glanced at the picture. There was Philip standing next to the Reverend John Flynn. My heart had surged with pride. I was happy for him.

I opened my eyes again and looked at the stars. I remembered the night that Philip and his father came to our house in Watsons Bay with their telescope and how Philip had tricked me into believing he knew how I liked my tea.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Ranjana asked, rolling over. ‘I can see your teeth glowing in the moonlight.’

‘Nothing.’ I had not realised I was smiling.

‘Well, go to sleep,’ she said. ‘We have some more driving ahead of us and we have to make an early start.’

I tugged the blanket up around my neck and drifted off to sleep still thinking about Philip. He had found a fulfilling purpose but something in his expression in the photograph had made him seem lonely.

The first stop on our schedule was a town south-west of Thirroul where we had booked the School of Arts, a ramshackle building that had been erected at the turn of the century. The weather was hot and the sun beating down on the tin roof made me dizzy while I helped unpack the equipment and put out the seats. The hall could hold two hundred people and, as the town’s regular showman had left the area to run theatres in Victoria, we expected a good turn-out. Sound pictures had not yet reached country New South Wales, so we were one step ahead of them. We put up posters in the town and handed out leaflets in the main street, but on opening night only three men and two women turned up and none of them would cross the threshold.

‘We’re not paying,’ announced one of the party, a man with a sun-burned face. ‘We’ve paid too much for rubbish before.’

Uncle Ota assured them that the picture we had to show was of the best quality, and even offered that they come in for free. If they did not like the film, he would not charge them. But the disgruntled five shook their heads and walked away.

‘Why did they come at all if they weren’t intending to see the picture?’ asked Ranjana. ‘Just to scoff?’

An unsuccessful first night did not bode well for the rest of our journey. We had paid for the School of Arts four nights in advance, intending to screen not only
The Emerald Valley
but
The Bunyip
and some other Australian silent films that we had hired. It did not help our spirits when we discovered the local pub owner, who had provided our accommodations, was charging us three times his normal rate.

‘I can’t trust you entertainer types,’ he claimed, when Uncle Ota challenged him about the deception. ‘You’re always ready to skip town.’

We were wondering if we should give up the tour for lost when I had an idea. ‘Why don’t I replace the scenes in Watsons Bay in
The Bunyip
with scenes from here?’ I said. ‘People are vain. Surely they will turn up to look at themselves and where they live?’

The following day, we set out to capture the town on film. The baker and the grocer were obliging for the scenes outside their stores but the rest of the townspeople were unfriendly. I approached a group of men to ask them to act as extras but they turned their backs on me. The women gave me the same chilly reaction even when I turned on my charm.

‘What a lovely dress,’ I said, approaching a woman standing outside the post office. ‘It will look nice in our film.’

The woman turned on her heel and walked into the post office without as much as a backward glance.

‘We’ll be in your film,’ a voice said. I turned to see a group of boys standing behind me. The spokesperson looked about nine years old with sandy blond hair and a smudge of dirt on his nose. The rest of them were as motley, with unevenly buttoned shirts and their socks rolled down. Hugh suggested we film the boys playing cricket.

‘Here,’ Uncle Ota said afterwards, handing the boys tickets. ‘Come to Saturday’s matinee. For free.’

Uncle Ota hurried back to Thirroul to get the rushes developed. We were thrilled to see how well the town fitted in with the plot, even though we’d had to keep the scenes on the beach that had been shot in Watsons Bay and in one frame there was a glimpse of a ferry crossing the harbour.

The matinee was attended by the town’s children who brought along their mothers and fathers. The audience applauded at every scene in
The Bunyip
and enjoyed the pictures we showed afterwards. Most of the parents returned for the Saturday evening session and we had to bring in extra seats. Even the group who had refused to enter the hall on our first night in town showed up.

‘Children are the teachers of their parents,’ Uncle Ota said to me when he saw the crowd lining up at the door.

The Emerald Valley
was acclaimed by the crowd, who stood up to applaud and confirmed what we already knew. It could have been a hit. Afterwards, Hugh and I fielded questions from the audience about the theme of the film and how it was made. The audience’s enthusiasm both buoyed and depressed me: it was wonderful to have the picture well received but it was sad to know that it had no chance of national distribution.

We continued our tour for two months, working our way down the coast through the towns of Unanderra, Wongawilli and Dapto all the way to Nowra, then back up the coast again through Gerringong and Kiama.

In Kiama, Hugh met me in the hallway of our hotel when I was on my way down to breakfast. We had finished late the previous night, but he looked refreshed. There was something else different about him. He was smiling. Not just smiling but beaming. I realised that he was a different person to the man I had first met at the Vegetarian Cafe. He had softened. But of course, I could not tell him that.

‘Do you think we could stay here a few more days?’ he asked me.

‘Do you like Kiama so much? I thought you had to get back to Sydney?’

Hugh was suddenly shy and glanced at his hands.

‘What is it?’

He blushed. ‘Esther likes the church here. We want to get married.’

I grabbed his shoulder and nearly screamed for joy, but I checked myself. We had been warned by the management not to make too much noise in the mornings. My eyes filled with tears. ‘Hugh!’ I whispered. ‘That’s wonderful!’

Esther, Ranjana and Uncle Ota were already in the dining room when Hugh and I entered. Giallo was bouncing on Esther’s shoulder.

‘It looks like Hugh’s best friend has taken to you too,’ I told her.

Esther’s face was the mirror of Hugh’s. She was beaming too. It pleased me to see her so happy. Perhaps not every love story ended badly.

When Hugh told Ranjana and Uncle Ota the news, Ranjana became so excited that the manager rushed out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was about. But Ranjana sent him one of her queenly looks and he scurried away.

‘You must give the others time to get here,’ I told Esther. ‘Klara, Robert and Thomas would not miss it for the world. And you must have a pretty dress, Esther. It will be my gift to you.’

Esther and Hugh were married in Saints Peter and Paul Church four days later. The church was restful, with translucent light filtering through the stained-glass windows and forming columns on the floor around the altar. The smell of sea salt drifted in the air and mixed with the scent of Esther’s lily bouquet. She was beautiful in the antique white dress with a tan underslip that Klara had rushed from Sydney with and which Ranjana had altered overnight. Uncle Ota was best man and stood by Hugh with Giallo on his shoulder. Klara was matron of honour. Peter took time away from the opera he was writing to come.

As Hugh was a Catholic, there were no difficulties with their church marriage but I wondered if Esther was thinking about Louis and if her happiness was tinged with some sadness too. My thoughts drifted to Philip. Had I been wrong to turn him away? Perhaps all I had needed was time? Esther had loved Louis with all her heart but she was also able to love Hugh passionately. While the priest was talking, I noticed the blue and black butterfly on Esther’s bouquet.

She glanced down and blinked. From the flush that rose on her neck I realised that she saw it too. The butterfly stayed during the wedding vows and exchange of rings and was still riding on the bouquet when Esther and Hugh left the church as man and wife.

Outside, Esther and Hugh posed by the front door for me to take their photograph. As I was about to depress the shutter, the butterfly took to the air and winged away towards the sun. Esther and I watched its path until it disappeared from sight.

‘What are you two looking at?’ asked Uncle Ota, shading his eyes. ‘A gull?’

Esther turned to me and smiled, her hands trembling. I waited for the mist in her eyes to clear before I took the photograph.

Afterwards, when we sat down to the wedding lunch, Esther leaned over and touched my arm. ‘I understand now,’ she whispered. ‘He was trying to tell me to be happy.’

When Stuart Doyle heard of the success we’d had on the south coast with
The Emerald Valley
, he recommended that Australasian Films distribute it even though it was a silent picture. Australian exhibitors were in a gridlock with American sound companies who wanted to gain a monopoly by enforcing expensive contracts on local operators. The Americans out-priced themselves and only the large venues could afford the equipment required to screen ‘talkies’. The suburban theatres still needed silent films and would do so until Australia developed its own sound technology. It was a small window left to us to have
The Emerald Valley
screened nationally, but I seized the opportunity. There was no glamorous premiere or publicity; the film’s success snowballed by word of mouth. Everywhere the picture was screened, Freddy’s dignity was restored and he was recognised as one of the local industry’s supporters.

Ironically,
The Emerald Valley
generated a profit for Australasian Films in America.
It seems there is still some nostalgic interest among the public for silent films
, Stuart Doyle wrote to Robert.
And, of course, the United States is a large domestic market.

The Emerald Valley
made more money for Australasian Films than did
For the Term of His Natural Life
, which also had found itself outmoded overnight. Because the production costs of our picture had been lower, the profit margin was much higher.
For the Term of His Natural Life
, the budget for which had blown out to sixty thousand pounds, made a loss.

Stuart Doyle offered Hugh a permanent job with the new Cinesound Studios. I told him to take it. The steady income would help him support his new family. Esther was pregnant.

On Freddy’s birthday that year, I stayed with Uncle Ota and Ranjana, who had bought Esther’s house from her after she had married Hugh, and drove to Waverley Cemetery in the afternoon to place flowers on Freddy’s grave. It was something I had done every November since Freddy’s death. The cloudy weather suited my mood on what had become the saddest day of the year. I shivered when I saw the cemetery gates. They reminded me of the first day I had seen them, when Freddy was laid in the earth and put away from me forever.

I bought irises from the flower seller, then took the path to Freddy’s grave. I had been in too much pain after my husband’s death to think of tombstones, so Klara and Robert had stepped in and organised everything, including the verses from Tennyson’s poem for Freddy’s epitaph. I placed the flowers on the grave and knelt to read the gold lettering:

The words I had read so many times suddenly touched my soul. A ray of sunshine burst through the clouds and sparkled on the graves around me. The darkness that had settled on me for so long lifted and floated away. It was as if for that moment, Freddy had embraced me then let go. I felt as if he had told me that it was time to move forward.

I was returning from the path to the main gate when I noticed an old man shuffling ahead of me. I recognised him instantly. He did not look as formidable to me as he once had. I realised that he must have been visiting his wife’s grave.

‘Doctor Page,’ I called.

Doctor Page Senior turned and squinted at me. I was almost expecting a reprimand for disturbing his peace and was relieved when he smiled.

‘Mrs Rockcliffe,’ he said, stepping towards me. ‘I was sorry to hear about your loss. It is a while ago now?’

‘Five years,’ I told him.

Doctor Page studied my face. His eyes looked dazed with pain. I realised that he was sweating although the breeze from the ocean was cool. I reached out and took his arm. ‘Shall I walk with you?’ I asked him.

Tears filled his eyes and I remembered the day I had taken the photograph of him and Philip. Perhaps if I had seen Doctor Page before visiting Freddy’s grave, I might not have greeted him and continued to harbour resentment for his collaboration with Beatrice’s lie. But I was aware now that I was as fallible as anyone else. I had no cause to be self-righteous. When I stood before Freddy’s grave, I had finally understood how lucky I had been to have loved him. I had loved him unexpectedly and imperfectly. But I had loved him just the same.