Paving the New Road

Chapter 3

6

GOSSIP

THERE is an interesting extract from a letter from Mr. Cuthbert Wells, in Singapore, to his daughter in Adelaide, relating to the wedding of the popular Adelaide girl Miss Alison Thomas, now Mrs. Charles C. T. Sharp. Mr. Wells was in a quandary about the frocking, but he tackled the subject nobly. “I felt greatly honoured when Mrs. Thomas asked me if I would give Alison away at the wedding. I was up very early and down at the hotel at 7.15. Mrs. Thomas, Sharp, and a Mrs. Millar went off first to the cathedral at 7.30 a.m., and Alison and I followed in my car, the former looking very charming in silk georgette dress of a pinky dove grey colour with a close-fitting little straw hat (cloche?) with a feather. Only the archdeacon, Graham White, was there beside ourselves, and the ceremony was soon smoothly over. We all— six of us — had a cheerful breakfast at Raffles Hotel, and I was at the office at 9 a.m., while the bridal couple caught the Plancius at 10 a.m. en route to Brastagi, Sumatra, for the honeymoon.

The Mail, 1932

Rowland lay on the chaise, laughing. He had abandoned his dinner jacket and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Edna sat on the rolled arm of the lounge trying to poke the feathers back into her boa. Clyde and Milton had also relinquished their jackets. The poet stood in the middle of the room singing French-sounding nonsense in a quite remarkably accurate impersonation of Haxton. Clyde was drinking like a man trying hard to forget.

Dinner had been a mildly alarming affair. Raffles, it seemed, was accustomed to Haxton. The waiters and maître d’ barely reacted to the American’s extraordinary antics. While the occasional diner tittered disapprovingly, most seemed to consider it part of Raffles’ exotic charm, some form of spontaneous floor show.

Maugham had, in the presence of his companion, retreated into an aloof but dignified reserve. Haxton had compensated by becoming increasingly loud and flamboyant. Champagne had accompanied dinner, and by the end of the evening the American did not confine his flirting to Edna. Rowland and Milton were more amused than anything else, but Clyde reacted with noticeable panic and so became the focus of Haxton’s attentions.

“He was fun though, wasn’t he?” Edna said smiling.

“No.” Clyde was blunt.

“Oh, Clyde.” Edna reached over and patted his knee. “You mustn’t take him seriously. Gerry’s quite sweet beneath all that nonsense. He has lovely taste in gowns.”

“Just let the poor chap drink, Ed.” Rowland put his hands behind his head. “Clyde’s had rather a shock.”

“Do Mr. Maugham and Gerry actually live here?” Edna asked brightly.

“Some of the time, I believe,” Rowland replied. “Maugham has a villa in France. Apparently Haxton’s been deported from Britain for some sort of misbehaviour, but of course the French are more understanding…”

Edna shoved him playfully. Her mother had been French. “Mama always said the English were frightful hypocrites.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Clyde begged tersely.

“Yes,” Milton agreed, taking an armchair opposite the chaise and looking directly at Rowland. “Why did Maugham whisk you away, for instance?”

Rowland’s brow rose. “He wanted to tell me about Bothwell, I suppose.”

“What about him?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Maugham hinted that Bothwell was in some form of intelligence work during the war.”

“Hinted?”

“Well, he didn’t say explicitly but I’m quite sure that’s what he meant. I suppose if Bothwell was working for the British Secret Service, it might be treason or some such thing to just come out and tell me.”

“But Maugham wrote a book.”

“Yes… perhaps I should read it.”

Milton sat back, playing with a peacock feather that had come loose from Edna’s boa and ended up in his collar. “It makes sense, though… Perhaps that’s why the Old Guard sent Bothwell on this caper in the first place. He’d spied before.”

“Maybe.”

“What about Wilfred?” Edna asked, sliding down to share the chaise with Rowland. “Do you think he was an agent too?”

Rowland laughed. The idea was ridiculous.

“He was going to do this if you didn’t,” Milton reminded him.

Rowland sat up. He pushed the hair back from his face. “You’re right, he was.”

“And he met Maugham during the war. Where exactly was Wilfred posted?”

Rowland shrugged. “France… Wil’s never spoken to me about the war. I wouldn’t have a clue what he actually did over there.”

Edna giggled. “Can you imagine what Wilfred would make of Gerald Haxton?”

Milton grunted. “He’d barely have noticed—the upper classes are full of chaps like Haxton.”

Rowland smiled. “I’ve known a few,” he admitted.

The oppressive humidity of the previous evening had dissipated in the deluge overnight, and so the morning was fresh, the air still warm but no longer cloying. With the first light of day, Edna had attempted to drag them all out of bed “to take in the sights”. Only Rowland could be persuaded to leave the superlative comfort of his bed, though he did so reluctantly. Fortunately, they were due back at the airport that morning and so Edna’s sightseeing would be necessarily limited to a walk on the beach before breakfast.

Although it was early, the paved boulevards of the European sector of the island were busy. Locals pushed carts, laden with produce or trinkets, along Beach Road. Bare-chested men in sarongs swept steps and paths while turbaned traders set up for the day’s business. Edna marvelled at the strength and endurance of the rickshaw pullers, who dragged white-suited businessmen at a run, negotiating a road shared with motor cars and bullock drays.

“It’s a shame we can’t stay longer, Rowly,” Edna said, as she paused to photograph the colonial splendour of the buildings which lined the thoroughfare.

Rowland smiled. “We can come back, Ed.” He held out his hand for hers. “Come on, we’d better return to Raffles.”

“Robbie!”

Rowland turned towards the voice.

Maugham and Haxton emerged from the teahouse behind them, dressed almost identically in pale suits and broad-brimmed straw hats. Rowland was mildly surprised to see Haxton. He had expected that the American would be somewhat unwell after his consumption the evening before.

Haxton kissed Edna’s hand and slapped Rowland heartily on the back. “Well, this is a lucky chance. I had expected I’d have to chase you to the airport.”

“Chase me? Why?”

“Willy wanted me to make sure you had this.” He handed Rowland an envelope.

Edna glanced at Rowland and coaxed Haxton away. “Gerry, you must let me take a picture of you… over here… in front of this palm tree.”

“What is this, Mr. Maugham?” Rowland asked, studying the envelope as Haxton moved out of earshot under Edna’s direction.

“A letter of introduction to an old acquaintance.” Again the stammer was barely noticeable.

“In Germany?”

“Yes.” Maugham started walking back towards Raffles, motioning for the Australian to follow. Rowland glanced back to see Edna arm in arm with Haxton at the window of some boutique. He fell into step beside the playwright.

“Peter Bothwell was staying with an old chum of his in Munich—Alois Richter. Of course, Richter has no idea what he was really doing in Germany.”

“I see.”

“All of Bothwell’s papers and whatnot are still at Richter’s villa… the address is on the envelope. The letter introduces a Mr. Robert Negus, a dear and trusted cousin of Bothwell’s widow. It gives you the authority to take charge of the poor fellow’s personal effects and chattels, and return them to her.”

Rowland slipped the envelope into his inner breast pocket. It didn’t seem unreasonable, but he was uneasy.

“Alois Richter has already received a telegram informing him to expect you,” Maugham said, stopping to light a cigarette.

Rowland frowned. “Why didn’t Wil give me the letter himself, before I left Sydney?”

“I hadn’t written it then, I suppose. In any case, these instructions are from Senator Hardy, my boy.”

“Rowly, wait!” Edna caught up with them and unburdened a large parcel into Rowland’s arms. Haxton was just behind her and similarly laden with purchases.

The sculptress smiled triumphantly. “We found the most divine Indian fabric, Rowly… sari, I think they call it. Yards and yards of the most glorious, vibrant silk.”

Rowland glanced at his watch, charmed as he always was by Edna’s unbridled enthusiasm for small things. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to arrange for it to be sent back to Sydney.”

“Sydney? Oh no—it’s not for me, Rowly.” She turned to Haxton, who beamed from beneath his dark moustache. “Gerry just had to have it.”

They took breakfast on the verandah at Raffles, sipping tea and enjoying a civilised repast in the cooling movement of a sea breeze from Indochina. Clyde sat between Edna and Rowland, where he was protected from Gerald Haxton. The American was either completely enchanted by Clyde or just amused by his discomfort, and continued to lavish the poor man with compliments and invitations that could be taken amiss. Maugham ignored his personal secretary’s eloquent zeal for the visibly mortified Australian, retreating into a kind of indulgent reserve.

Milton had enhanced his conservative suit with a black and gold cravat, which Rowland suspected had been fashioned from the cummerbund the poet had worn the evening before. One of the peacock feathers from Edna’s boa had also found its way into Milton’s hatband.

“It was a good idea to bring them,” Maugham said quietly to Rowland, while the rest of the party flirted and performed and chatted merrily.

“I do beg your pardon.” Rowland was a little startled.

“Your friends, my boy.” Maugham put down his tea and whispered again. “They’re eyecatching. You’re much less likely to be noticed among them.” He nodded approvingly. “That was well thought out.”

Rowland smiled as Milton stood to steal poetry once again, and Edna bestowed a glance upon Haxton that would have enslaved most other men. Eyecatching was an apt description. Even Clyde was noticeable for the fact that he was trying so hard to escape notice. Indeed, Rowland suspected Edna was flirting with particular dedication in a vain, but loyal, attempt to distract Haxton’s attentions from Clyde. The whole scene was typical, ludicrous, and yes, eyecatching.

In time they shook hands and took their leave of William Somerset Maugham and Gerald Haxton. It was time to get on.

Kingsford Smith and his crew were already at the airport when they arrived. They looked as though they, too, may have enjoyed a gin-sling or several the evening before. Rowland thought it better not to enquire too closely, all things considered.

Singapore was to be their longest stopover. The Southern Cross would land a number of times before she crossed the Alps into Vienna. In Ceylon they lay down for a few hours beneath mosquito nets at the Galle Face Hotel and left before dawn; in Karachi they slept briefly in the colonial splendour of the Killarney Hotel; and in Baghdad, Edna drowsed on Rowland’s shoulder as they waited for the Fokker to be refuelled.

At each stop they had been met by men who were connected with either Charles Hardy or Wilfred Sinclair, who had advice, warnings and instructions.

In Baghdad they received the news that Bert Hinkler’s body had been found in the Italian Alps after he’d been missing for over three months. They paused to farewell him with some local brew that was both sweet and potent. To Rowland and his houseguests, who knew Hinkler as a hero, the passing was sad, but to the airmen he was a friend, a brother-in-arms. They mourned him truly. No one spoke of the fact that they were about to fly a route not unlike that which had brought Hinkler to his end.