The Sequin Star

by Belinda Murrell

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ asked Larry as he opened the rear door.

  ‘Thanks, Larry,’ Kit replied. ‘Take the rest of the day off and enjoy the festivities. We’ll walk back to the house after the opening. Could you please take our guests’ bags home with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir,’ said Larry. ‘Thank you.’

  There was a long queue for a ferry to take them across the harbour.

  ‘Funny to think that, after all these years, this will be the last time I catch this ferry,’ observed Kit. ‘Once the bridge opens, it won’t be used anymore.’

  From Circular Quay they walked to the southern approach to the bridge, pushing through the dense, hot, jostling crowds. Families were dressed in their Sunday best. Fathers carried young children on their shoulders. Work-worn mothers beamed with anticipation. Children skipped and dashed among the throng.

  Claire’s eyes darted back and forth, soaking up all the colour and excitement. Vendors were selling trays of food. A young hawker accosted them, clutching a pile of Harbour Bridge postcards and photos. Another boy was juggling tennis balls, hoping to make a few pennies.

  ‘Hopeless,’ Jem declared. ‘An amateur. Perhaps we should be performing. We’d make a fortune with all these people around.’

  Rosina took him by the arm and dragged him away. ‘Today is a holiday. I’m not going to even think about performing.’

  ‘It looks like most of New South Wales is here for the celebration,’ said Kit, leading the way. ‘Are you all right walking in this crush? How’s your knee?’

  ‘We can’t help but walk nice and slowly,’ Rosina replied. ‘But it can’t be much further.’

  Several large stands had been fenced off, with seats for official visitors and dignitaries on either side of the official dais. There were crowds of uniformed police officers patrolling the VIP area and checking the guests’ tickets. Those without tickets were moved on. Photographers and reporters wandered by, while a film crew was recording the festivities. A sense of expectation hung in the air.

  ‘Looks like the police are watching out for trouble,’ Jem observed. ‘I’m sure they’re expecting the New Guard to pull some crazy stunt to humiliate the Premier.’

  ‘What could they possibly do?’ asked Rosina. ‘Kidnap Mr Lang in front of a million eyewitnesses?’

  ‘It’s probably best if we don’t discuss the New Guard in front of my father,’ Kit suggested, looking around warily. ‘Not everyone here is sympathetic to the Premier.’

  Kit led them up to the entrance to one of the stands and past the official dais. The stands were already crowded with people dressed in their holiday finery. A man in a white coat stood guard by the entrance.

  ‘Morning, Mr Hunter, sir,’ said the attendant. ‘Your father is already here. Your seats are in the front row.’

  ‘Thank you, Ernie,’ said Kit, showing a handful of tickets. ‘These are my guests.’

  Ernie nodded and ushered them into the stand. Kit was greeted by several people as he led them along the front row.

  ‘There you are, Christopher,’ boomed a tall, distinguished-looking man standing next to the barricade. ‘You are late.’

  ‘Sorry, Father,’ Kit replied. ‘We were held up with the crowds. Father, I’d like you to meet my guests: Rosina Sterling, Jeremy Bates and Claire Stanton.’ He gestured towards each one in turn.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Hunter,’ Rosina said. Claire noticed that she spoke with an accent that was slightly more like Kit’s than her usual intonation.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Sterling.’

  After everyone had exchanged greetings, Mr Hunter asked Claire, ‘How do you know my son?’ Claire paused, not knowing what to say. It crossed her mind that if Kit really was her grandfather, then that made Mr Hunter her great-grandfather, which just seemed ludicrous.

  ‘I . . . we met . . .’ began Claire.

  ‘I met them recently while I’ve been doing some research for our charity event,’ Kit explained vaguely. ‘Miss Sterling has been helping me with some ideas for the children’s entertainment.’

  Rosina raised her eyebrows slightly but nodded. ‘We were thinking something along the lines of a circus?’

  Mr Hunter frowned. ‘A circus? That sounds terribly vulgar. However, I suppose that would appeal to working-class children.’

  Jem, outraged, began to reply but stopped in time.

  Kit smiled. ‘I don’t think the children would be very interested in opera, Father, but I’m sure they’d love some juggling, acrobatics, magic tricks . . . and perhaps some bareback equestrian displays,’ he said, turning to Claire. ‘I would like to host a large event where our firm invites unemployed men and their families for lunch. I thought it would be beneficial to organise some entertainment to cheer them up, as well as providing food and care packages.’

  ‘That’s a big job,’ Claire agreed. She thought of Jem’s family living at Happy Valley. ‘I’m sure the children would love it.’

  ‘Well, just make sure you don’t invite any communist agitators,’ Mr Hunter ordered. ‘I won’t spend my hard-earned money feeding revolutionaries and their brats. We’ll leave that job to that lunatic Lang, shall we?’

  Mr Hunter glanced back towards the dais, where the Premier would be presiding. Planes roared overhead. A military band was marching down the road, followed by a regiment of soldiers carrying rifles and bayonets. Union Jack flags fluttered overhead.

  ‘I bet ten pounds at the club that the brute would not still be in government to open the bridge today,’ Mr Hunter announced gloomily. ‘It appears that I’ve lost my money. However, it won’t be the only money I lose if we do not get him out of the way.’

  ‘Father, I don’t think that Mr Lang is a communist,’ Kit began. ‘I heard him speak at –’

  ‘The official party is arriving,’ Mr Hunter said, turning away. ‘We should take our seats.’

  Rosina glanced at both Jem and Claire and shrugged.

  A convoy of limousines drove up, depositing the officials one by one at the base of the steps leading up to the dais.

  ‘There’s our illustrious Premier,’ said Kit. He pointed to a tall man in a three-piece suit, with a thick moustache and a fedora hat. He escorted his wife from the vehicle and stood at the bottom of the steps, ready to welcome the remaining dignitaries.

  Claire took a close look. Jack Lang seemed quite ordinary, laughing and chatting to his wife.

  ‘So the New Guard didn’t succeed in kidnapping him after all?’ whispered Rosina.

  ‘Frank told me a rumour that they tried but Lang foiled the plan because he was driving his own car instead of travelling in the official limousine,’ Jem said in a low tone. ‘Frank reckons Eric Campbell and the New Guard had some half-baked scheme of kidnapping Lang and the New South Wales cabinet and incarcerating them in Berrima Gaol. I imagine their only motive could be to overthrow the Lang Government and install Campbell as the leader.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Rosina. ‘Not even Campbell would be quite so mad.’

  Kit glanced at his father. He was deep in discussion with the men next to him.

  ‘Here’s the Governor-General, Sir Isaac Isaacs,’ Kit observed, quickly changing the subject.

  An open-topped limousine arrived, escorted in front and behind by a number of cavalry officers on cantering horses, all carrying their swords aloft.

  Mr Hunter turned and looked. ‘It should be the Governor-General opening the bridge today, if not His Majesty himself.’

  The crowd cheered and clapped. At the rear rode a final officer on a chestnut horse, wearing a British hussar uniform and a chest full of medals, Instead of the usual ceremonial cocked hat, he wore a cap. He saluted the Governor-General as he rode past and was saluted in return.

  Everyone moved forward, pressing against the barricade. Their stand had an excellent view
of the proceedings. The State Governor, Sir Philip Game, read a message of congratulations from King George V, accompanied by more cheering. The band struck up ‘God Save the King’. The Premier made a speech, calling for unity and reconciliation, then unveiled a plaque.

  A wide, blue silk ribbon stretched across the road, waiting to be cut by the Premier with his golden scissors to officially open the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

  Suddenly, the officer in the hussar uniform surged forward, spurring his horse towards the ribbon, his cavalry sword aloft. The horse pranced and cavorted, nervous of the noisy crowds. The officer hacked through the ribbon and it fluttered free.

  The crowd roared. Pandemonium broke out. Dozens of police ran forward to try to restrain the officer. Photographers and reporters shoved forward. Flashes popped. People cheered loudly. Others booed and hissed.

  The cavalry officer raised his sword to the sky in a gesture of triumph. ‘I declare this bridge open in the name of His Majesty the King and all the decent and respectable citizens of New South Wales,’ he announced.

  ‘By Jove, it’s Captain Francis de Groot,’ cried Mr Hunter. ‘He’s done it. He stopped Lang from opening the bridge.’

  A police officer grabbed the bridle of the horse, which reared up and backed towards the stand where the Hunter party watched on.

  ‘Stand back,’ warned the rider. ‘I am a King’s officer.’

  Police officers wrestled Captain de Groot’s sword away and dragged him from the saddle. His foot caught momentarily in the stirrup, his cap fell off, and Claire heard his head hit the ground with a sickening thud.

  From the stand next door, Claire could hear angry voices shouting. People jostled and pushed, trying to get closer. She felt a flutter of nerves at the anger in their voices.

  ‘Chuck him over the bridge,’ yelled someone.

  ‘Stab him with his sword,’ cried another.

  By contrast, the men sitting next to Mr Hunter were all talking with great excitement about the stunt.

  ‘That will give those reds something to think about,’ said Mr Hunter. ‘De Groot has just shown them that we will not let them take over this country of ours without a fight.’

  Francis de Groot, lying on the roadway, looked up at the policemen towering over him. He turned to the one clutching his sword. ‘Be careful of that sword – I carried that in France.’

  Captain de Groot was hauled to his feet, and he dusted himself off.

  He glanced towards the crowd in the stand and smiled. Claire thought she heard him murmur, ‘I did it.’

  The policemen surrounded the captain and hustled him away into a car. Someone led the riderless horse away. Other police began searching the crowd, looking for further troublemakers.

  The blue ribbon was hastily retied and the Premier stepped forward to cut it again, this time with his scissors, to a thunder of applause and cheers. RAAF planes roared overhead, ships tooted from the harbour below, and a twenty-one gun salute rang out in a deafening volley. Charles Kingsford Smith flew his famed Southern Cross high above the bridge. The crowd settled down, excited by the pageantry.

  The grand parade began to pass in an orderly march – bands, school children and various floats, all coming from the city and crossing the bridge to finish in the streets of North Sydney.

  A highland pipe band paraded past in their tartan kilts and sporrans, their bagpipes wailing and drums pounding. These were followed by one hundred men in suits, a large banner pronouncing them as the Sydney Harbour Bridge Workers. A lone rider followed them, a small boy in a big hat, shorts and long socks, trotting along on a chestnut pony.

  ‘That’s Lennie Gwyther,’ Rosina said. ‘The nine-year-old boy who rode alone six hundred miles to be here.’

  ‘He’s tiny,’ said Claire in disbelief.

  Lennie was followed by a group of Aborigines, then a parade of colourful horsedrawn floats depicting various historical scenes and themes.

  At last, the final group in the parade marched past. The official party climbed into the waiting limousines and drove across the bridge to attend the opening celebrations on the northern side.

  ‘Do you want to walk across the bridge?’ asked Kit. ‘Are you feeling up to it, Rosina? Or we could get a lift with my father?’

  ‘Let’s walk,’ Rosina said. ‘It’s a beautiful day and there’s still so much to see.’

  Thousands of people were now streaming forward to make the historic crossing. Claire stepped out between Jem and Rosina, wearing her new two-tone blue velvet shoes, her broad-brimmed hat shading her face from the hot autumn sun.

  14

  The Ball

  It was late afternoon when the four walked to Kit’s home after a huge day of festivities. It was a sprawling mansion called Beaumont in Kirribilli on the northern foreshore of Sydney Harbour. A high wrought-iron fence separated it from the street, and it was surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns and fragrant rose gardens running down to the water.

  To the left was a large garage, which had once been the stables and carriage house, where the limousine was already parked. A gardener was raking the gravel driveway.

  Claire was fascinated. Nanna had told her stories about her grandfather’s family mansion – Mum had even taken her to see the spot where it had once stood. However, the mansion had long since been bulldozed and the site turned into a huge block of blonde-brick flats. It made Claire feel sad that Beaumont would be demolished.

  The housekeeper, Mrs Bruce, opened the door and let them into a wide entrance hall. Servants were bustling around, arranging flowers, moving furniture and setting up tables for the party. A grand staircase swept up to the floors above. The girls were shown to an upstairs bedroom where they could get ready. Jem was given another room to change in.

  ‘There’s a bathroom through that door there for you to use,’ said Mrs Bruce. ‘Your bags have already been brought up from the car.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Bruce,’ said Claire.

  ‘If you need anything else, just ring the bell there and one of the servants will attend to you.’ The housekeeper withdrew, closing the door behind her.

  Rosina looked around with sparkling eyes. The room was spacious and elegant with windows looking out over the harbour to the city. Original artworks hung on the duck-egg blue papered walls. Chinese silk rugs were scattered on the floor. A large carved double bed, a chest of drawers and a dressing table – all in matching inlaid timber – dominated the room.

  ‘This house is utterly gorgeous.’ Rosina took off her hat and laid it on the bed.

  ‘It certainly beats the caravan.’ Claire stood by the window looking out. The view was breathtaking. ‘I would love to live in a house like this.’

  ‘Look at this bathroom, Claire,’ said Rosina. ‘It has a rose-pink bath!’

  Claire peeked in to see the white-and-black chequered floor and pink bathroom fittings.

  ‘It’s bright,’ said Claire. ‘I’m not sure that pink is a good colour for a bathroom.’

  ‘It’s modern,’ Rosina said as she opened a jar of gardenia-scented bath salts.

  Claire laughed. She couldn’t imagine the room being described as modern. To her, it was quaint and old-fashioned.

  ‘I’ll toss a coin to see who gets the first bath,’ Rosina suggested. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a soak in a real bath tub. This will be heavenly.’

  ‘No,’ replied Claire. ‘You go first. I don’t mind going later.’

  ‘Look at the bath towels,’ Rosina called, sticking her head around the door. ‘They are huge and soft and fluffy – no flour sacks here.’

  Claire listened to the sound of water rushing into the bath. She felt dejected as she looked out at the harbour, the view at once so familiar, yet so alien. Will I ever get home to my own Sydney? My own time?

  Rosina eventually finished in the bathroom and it was Claire�
�s turn to bathe. After a week of living in a caravan, Claire couldn’t believe how lovely it was to sink into a bath full of warm, bubbly water and just lie there. The bath helped soak away her pensive mood.

  Afterwards, Claire dressed in her underwear. When she came out, Rosina was already made up and dressed. Rosina helped Claire put on her own make-up in front of the huge mirror. Finally, she pulled on the evening dress that Malia had helped Rosina make.

  Mrs Bruce knocked on the door, just as they were finishing their toilette, bearing a tray. ‘Master Kit sent you these.’ The tray held several beautiful white rosebuds from the gardens. ‘He said he hopes they might be useful to wear tonight. You’re expected downstairs in five minutes.’ She closed the door behind her.

  Claire smelt a delicate rosebud. ‘Oh, they are beautiful. They smell divine.’

  ‘It was so sweet of Kit to send them to us,’ replied Rosina. ‘He’s very thoughtful, isn’t he?’

  Claire felt a nervous feeling in her stomach. She didn’t want Rosina to get too interested in Kit – Kit had to marry Nanna.

  Rosina pinned a rose in her dark hair. ‘Smile, Mademoiselle Claire. This is going to be so much fun.’

  Claire obediently smiled at her reflection. She swung back and forth in front of the mirror. With her hair styled short, she looked older and more sophisticated. Her grey-blue eyes sparkled with anticipation.

  Malia and Rosina had created a stunning new dress from the sack-like frock from the markets. The soft pale-green of the velvet was a shade that Rosina called celadon. The halter neck was tied with a ribbon and the rest of the dress fell close to the knees, then flared out into a floor-length train. With a rose in her hair and elbow-length ivory satin gloves, Claire felt truly elegant.

  Rosina’s crimson satin dress was equally beautiful, with shoestring straps and a skirt draping to the ground. She wore long black gloves with a diamante circus bracelet that glittered in the light. Rosina danced in front of the mirror with a pretend partner then curtsied to her reflection.