Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “Outstanding,” Rowland agreed. “Once you get used to him.”

  Having established that the rooms had been adequately equipped they returned to the Reynolds Suite to dress for dinner.

  “I’ll be glad when we’re home and not expected to change clothes three times a day.” Clyde sighed, struggling with his bow tie.

  “It gives the upper classes something to do,” Milton replied, looking every inch the gentleman himself. “Otherwise they’d be wandering the streets in search of a purpose.”

  “We have a purpose,” Rowland murmured, looking up briefly from his book. “We just like to serve it in dinner suits.”

  “Drink, Rowly?” Milton poured himself a glass of scotch.

  “No, I’m fine.” Rowland glanced at Clyde who was swearing at the strip of material with which he had been wrestling. “For pity’s sake, help Clyde out before he hangs himself.”

  Shortly thereafter they set out for the restaurant, picking Edna up on the way out. As the sculptress was not yet ready they waited in the narrow hallway. A few minutes later Bishop Hanrahan and his party approached from the other direction. The bishop forced his squat form through them with a grunt. Father Murphy followed, in a mumbled exchange of “excuse me” and “I beg your pardon”. Isobel squeezed past next. She paused as she brushed against Rowland and smiled. Since the bishop’s niece had been in tears through most of their acquaintance, he was surprised by how lovely the smile made her face.

  “Miss Hanrahan,” he said cordially, and for some reason she blushed and looked away.

  Finally, Father Bryan sidled through behind Isobel. He greeted them affably as was his fashion. He asked hopefully after Edna and promised to catch up with them all later.

  Milton knocked loudly on Edna’s door as they watched the bishop’s party descend the stairs.

  “Hurry up, Ed!”

  Eventually she emerged resplendent in a gown that plunged daringly at the back. Her sunset hair was caught loosely into a knot at the nape of her neck.

  “What took so flaming long?” Milton complained.

  “You look pretty, Ed,” Rowland said quietly.

  She put her arm through his, and once again he was the beneficiary of an enchanting smile. “Really? My back’s a bit cold.”

  He looked behind her carefully. “Yes, I can see how that would be an issue.”

  They were seated that night with the Theosophists who were continuing to Sydney. Among them were the Watermans, Colonel and Mrs. Benson and Hubert Van Hook.

  The numbers were evened by Mrs. Amelia Sommerville and her daughters, Alice and Margaret. Australians, they had just completed a tour of Europe and were returning home, having absorbed a great deal of culture and purchased several excellent hats. Amelia Sommerville was keen to get back to Sydney society, which she assured them, would have sorely missed her daughters.

  “Sinclair?” she said when Rowland found a pause in her conversation long enough to introduce himself. “You must be one of the Woollahra Sinclairs?”

  “Actually, I believe I’m the only Woollahra Sinclair these days”, Rowland replied, a little uncomfortable with the elation of the society matron’s voice.

  “Why of course!” she gushed. “Girls, this gentleman is the son of Mrs. Henry Sinclair. Young man, your mother and I were great friends when she lived in Sydney. Indeed, my late husband and I dined often at Woodlands House. How is your dear mother—I haven’t had word from her for some years now.”

  “I have every reason to believe she is well, Mrs. Sommerville,” Rowland said politely.

  “Oh dear,” Amelia Sommerville lamented. “The war spoiled everything. If not for the war, I daresay your mother would not have left Sydney and you young people would have already been well-acquainted.” She gestured expansively towards her daughters. Margaret smiled primly and Alice giggled. They were not unbecoming—coiffed, aging debutantes.

  Rowland wasn’t quite sure how to respond. His mother had left Sydney after Aubrey was killed serving in France. She had taken the loss of her middle son very hard—in fact, she still did. It was a little disturbing to have it reduced to a social inconvenience.

  He decided to introduce his travelling companions. Amelia Sommerville’s enthusiasm seemed to wane a little. Rowland had no doubt she was now remembering the scandalous rumours which surrounded Woodlands House in the last few years: stories of vice and immorality, Bolshevism and nakedness, hedonistic disrespect for propriety. Exaggerated, of course, but not altogether unfounded.

  Nevertheless, Amelia Sommerville seemed delighted to find him seated between her daughters.

  On the other side of the table, Edna tried valiantly to engage Mrs. Waterman in conversation but the Theosophist remained cold and curt. Despite the competing chatter of the Sommervilles, Rowland could hear the cutting responses to Edna’s friendly enquiries. He could see the hurt and embarrassment on her face and he bristled. He was not the only one to notice. Hubert Van Hook intervened to engage Edna whilst Clyde spoke to Mrs. Waterman, who seemed less hostile with him. Rowland relaxed and returned some of his attention to his own conversation.

  The Watermans retired first and the mood at the table improved markedly with their absence. It was Edna who noticed the wrap that Mrs. Waterman had left behind.

  Rowland stood. “Shall I take it back up to her now?” he volunteered, glad to have some reason to escape the zealous attention of the Sommerville women. He winked at Edna and added quietly, “Wouldn’t want the old crone to come back looking for it.”

  Clyde tossed him the wrap.

  “Good show—most thoughtful of you, son,” Colonel Benson approved. “I believe their stateroom is number thirty-nine… the first class deck, of course.”

  Rowland thanked him. The Bensons were a little stuffy but much easier company than the Watermans. He left the dining room and walked out onto the deck as he headed towards the first class accommodations.

  It was a mild night, the moon full and immense above the dark Atlantic. He stopped at the rail, taking in the black velvet sea beneath the encompassing sky. Glorious, but unpaintable. There were some things that could not, should not, be captured in oil and canvas.

  “Mr. Sinclair. It is a grand night, is it not?”

  Rowland turned, startled by the unexpected voice. Isobel Hanrahan stood close behind him.

  “Miss Hanrahan.” He glanced about them, half expecting a clergyman to emerge from the shadows. “Are you alone?”

  “I am. I saw you leave, Mr. Sinclair. My uncle thinks I am visiting the powder room.” She laughed softly. “He won’t be following me there at least.”

  “But you’re not there.”

  She gazed at him plainly. She was certainly beautiful. Even in the colourless cast of the moon, her skin seemed warm.

  “I came after you.” She stepped closer.

  “Really? Why?”

  Isobel smiled, conspiratorially, seductively.

  “I was hoping you might like to kiss me, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland was startled. He was perfectly accustomed to women who had come of age in the heady liberated twenties. Indeed, he found it entirely agreeable—but Isobel Hanrahan was a bishop’s niece. It was hard to reconcile that she intended to be so forward.

  “I would never presume…”

  She leant into him. “I wish you would presume.”

  Common sense told Rowland that such a course of action was ill-advised, and yet he had no desire to offend the lady. Surely it would be discourteous to refuse such a forthright invitation. Isobel Hanrahan put her hand gently on his arm. In the end, civility prevailed over sanity and he bent down and let his lips find hers.

  Again, he was surprised by the intensity of her kiss… there was little about it that was shy or chaste. It was ardent and lingering, and most definitely, pleasant.

  Finally, she allowed him to pull away.

  “I had better be getting back, Mr. Sinclair,” the bishop’s niece said a tad breathlessly. “It’s been grand—I
shall look for you again.”

  Rowland studied her, somewhat bemused by Isobel Hanrahan’s unexpected favour. “I think you had better call me Rowly,” he said.

  She kissed him again, briefly this time, and walked back towards the dining hall. For a moment Rowland couldn’t remember what he was doing standing out on the deck and then he glanced down at the wrap in his hand. Oh yes. Mrs. Waterman—stateroom thirty-nine.

  It was in this slightly preoccupied frame of mind that he approached the door of the Watermans’ stateroom. The corridors were empty as most passengers were still at dinner. The door was ajar. Raised voices from within made Rowland hesitate.

  “It’s bad enough to have you simpering after Krishnamurti but must you be so abominably rude to everybody else?” The surgeon’s voice was furious.

  His wife’s strident American twang was quick and sarcastic in response. “Gallantly to the aid of the pretty young thing, Richard,” she spat. “I can’t make small talk with these insufferable people when there is so much to be done.”

  “For the last time, Frannie, we are not following Krishnamurti to India!”

  “But don’t you see Richard, Annie is eighty-five. When she’s gone, Jiddu will need a confidante—someone to help him with his work. This is my calling.”

  “Krishnamurti seems to prefer the pretty young things himself,” Richard Waterman said cruelly. “Anyway he has resigned from the movement.” The surgeon’s voice was tightly controlled. “For Chrissake woman, you have all but ruined us with your obsession with that man. I wish to God we had never got entangled with Theosophy. What use will your brotherly love be when we are bankrupted?”

  “Let us be bankrupted then!” Francesca Waterman screamed in reply. There was a crash as something was flung against the wall. “I will go to India, Richard. You cannot stop me!”

  There was silence in the wake of her declaration. Rowland saw his chance and knocked.

  Richard Waterman answered the door, his face still red from the heated exchange that Rowland had overheard.

  “Sinclair! What are you doing here?”

  Rowland held out the wrap. “Mrs. Waterman left this behind.”

  The surgeon took the garment, clearly flustered. “I say, that’s frightfully good of you. Frannie would forget her head…”

  “No trouble at all,” Rowland assured him. There was a brief moment of awkward silence.

  “I might say goodnight, then.” Rowland checked his watch. “I should return before I’m missed.”

  “Yes, of course,” Waterman babbled. “I wouldn’t be leaving that Miss Higgins alone for too long either.” He grinned clumsily.

  Mrs. Waterman’s sniff was audible. She said nothing else but once more something was thrown against the wall. It sounded like glass.

  The surgeon had Rowland’s sympathy. The poor man appeared to have married a shrew.

  “Well good night, Sinclair,” Waterman murmured, blanching as his wife proceeded to hurl items about the stateroom.

  Rowland’s eyes were compassionate. “Good luck, sir,” he replied.

  13

  GIANT AIRSHIPS

  Large commercial airships will in the future be common vehicles for long distance travel, especially for trans-oceanic trips according to Mr. W. D. Shilts secretary of the Goodyear Tyre and Rubber Company at Akron, Ohio, USA, who recently spent several weeks in Australia on company business.

  The Canberra Times

  Edna pegged another print to the line above her head, inspecting the result in the red safe-light. They had converted the smallest room of the Gainsborough Suite into a dark room so that she could develop the film shot on their travels. She had originally left Sydney with her father’s Box Brownie, determined to chronicle their exile. Amused by her sudden enthusiasm for photography, Rowland bought her a Vollenda in Germany—the latest in photographic ingenuity. The camera was compact and less cumbersome than the Brownie and importantly, it took roll film. Over the past months Edna had become increasingly fascinated with the medium, using it as an outlet for the creative energy she would have otherwise expended in sculpture.

  They had been on board more or less continuously, for over a month now. The Aquitania had docked briefly in Ceylon, and they had spent a couple of days on the tropical island. They had stayed with some old friend of Rowland’s father— an exotic sojourn of heat and spices, imperial luxury under mosquito nets. Other than that, the trip had been unbroken. They found themselves retreating to the improvised studio of the Gainsborough Suite more often as the days seemed to become increasingly similar. Pleasant, indulgent but repetitive all the same.

  When not occupied in the studio, they still spent many hours playing cards, dining, dancing or being otherwise entertained. It was not a difficult existence. Hubert Van Hook joined them regularly, and Isobel Hanrahan sought refuge in their company whenever she could escape the notice of her uncle.

  Edna ran her eyes over the series of prints she’d just pegged up. She’d taken them in Ypres where they’d stayed for some weeks. The haunting rows of white military headstones were sadly stark in the dim crimson light, the images poignant: Rowland, still on crutches, before the stone that bore his brother’s name; Clyde gazing out at the reality of the war that they had been too young to join; Milton at the Menin Gate, reading the names of those whose remains were not recovered. She sighed, guiltily glad that the men she loved most had escaped the war.

  She shuffled through the pile of prints from Germany. Was it because she’d just been looking at photographs of war graves? The pictures from Berlin seemed ominous. Milton larked for the camera as he always did, but in the background the onlookers appeared hostile, contemptuous. Photographs on the Zeppelin. Rowland had insisted they go—she’d been terrified of the vast and silent airship. Her new camera was the only thing that kept her mind from the fact that they were half a mile in the air, hanging beneath a bag of gas. There were several photographs taken in the Zeppelin’s elegant passenger lounge. Even in these, there were brown-shirted officers seated behind them—they had been everywhere, watchful and arrogant.

  She put the sheaf of prints down, thumbing through a selection she’d developed the previous evening—taken on board the Aquitania before they’d reached New York. There was a picture of Rowland and Annie Besant, deep in discussion. Orville Urquhart smiled at the camera from a chair beside the old lady.

  Edna remembered that Isobel Hanrahan had wanted a portrait of the Englishman for the locket he had stolen. She thought sadly of her locket. Rowland had given it to her—though she couldn’t remember why. Men of Rowland’s means did not need occasions. He had dropped it casually into her hands and returned to drawing her. Perhaps he had just wanted to sketch her delight. She had never before owned anything so fine. Still, Orville was dead and none of this was Isobel’s fault. She took the photo and slipped out of the blackened room.

  Rowland and Clyde were both painting in the large parlour of the Gainsborough Suite. Milton sat in an armchair immersed in some supposedly celebrated book he’d picked up in New York, which he claimed was about “a bloke who didn’t go to his own parties.”

  Rowland was working on a portrait of Annie Besant. Edna had offered him numerous photographs of Theosophy’s World President, but he preferred to rely on his notebook and memory. Edna glanced at the work.

  “What do you think?” he asked noticing her gaze.

  “You didn’t need my photographs,” Edna murmured. “Annie’s just magnificent isn’t she? Fierce and compassionate at the same time.”

  “I thought so,” Rowland agreed.

  Edna sighed. “I hope I matter like that one day.”

  “Matter?”

  “Like Annie. She’s changed the world, Rowly… imagine changing the world.”

  Rowland rather liked the world the way it was, but he wasn’t going to risk starting a debate on equity and social justice. He was a Sinclair. It was not an argument he could win.

  “What are you going to do with the bac
kground?” Edna asked, touching the bare canvas around Annie Besant’s likeness.

  Rowland shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Paint her aura,” Milton said, without looking up from his book.

  Rowland laughed. “I’d consider it, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen an aura.”

  “You need to be really drunk,” Milton advised sagely.

  “What have you got, Ed?” Clyde asked emerging from behind his easel.

  “Oh this.” Edna handed Clyde a photograph. “I developed it this morning. That’s Orville standing by Annie… I thought Isobel might like to have it.”

  Milton laughed. Rowland returned to his painting.

  Clyde grinned as he handed the photograph back. “I think you’ll find Isobel’s no longer grieving for Orville.”

  “Oh. Are you sure?”

  Clyde looked at Rowland. Rowland kept painting.

  “Isobel Hanrahan seems to have set her cap for our Rowly,” Milton informed Edna. “All that Art can add to love, yet still I love thee without Art.”

  “Wilmot,” Rowland sighed, “and a trifle melodramatic.”

  Edna dropped into the chaise lounge. “Really,” she said. She smiled delightedly at Rowland. “How lovely.”

  “Yes, quite,” he muttered uncomfortably. He did not object to Isobel’s interest. She was a beautiful woman, charming and inexplicably eager. Rowland Sinclair was not an insecure man, but he found the young woman’s sudden passion, a little unusual. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it.

  Milton and Edna were now gossiping about Isobel’s infatuation as if he were not in the room. In truth he was a little irritated that the sculptress was so personally indifferent to the overtures of the bishop’s niece. He hadn’t really expected her to be jealous—he just wished she was not so enthusiastic. He ignored them and continued to work.

  The scream took them all unawares. A cry of pure terror, repeated. Rowland put down his brush and stepped without delay into the hallway. He could see a door open a few rooms down—the epicentre of the shrieking. He knew that room. He walked towards it, Clyde at his shoulder and Milton and Edna just behind. Other doors were opening along the corridor. Rowland grabbed the handle and pushed the door wide.