22

WASHING DISHES.

Important Bit of the Work of the World

Dishwashing is like living in one respect; it is exactly what we make it. For one girl it is a dull tiresome task, for another an opportunity for a necessary service to loved ones, depending entirely on the attitude of mind assumed toward it…

GAY EQUIPMENT.

Gay, colorful equipment is helpful to some. One girl replaced the old gray granite dishpan with a bright red one of different shape. Another found that the attractive little rubberised aprons, which may be bought quite inexpensively, made dishwashing far more cheerful. Attractive tea towels and gaily painted mop handles enlivened the process for still another girl…

If you wash dishes with sister or mother, make the most of the opportunity to have a good time together. In one household the dishwashing period is often gay with snatches of song. At other times mother and daughter talk about pleasant happenings, past or prospective. Sometimes they plan little surprises for Father or other members of the household.

AS AN OPPORTUNITY.

If dishwashing for you is a solitary affair, use it as the time to refresh yourself mentally, or, to plan usefully. One girl uses the dishwashing period for memorising verses or bits of prose which appeal to her. Another girl uses this time to review something she has recently read, to see how much of it she has really retained. Still another uses her dishwashing minutes to plan a new dress, some decorative scheme for a party, or a new way to beautify her room, and the like. All of which goes to show that one’s thoughts need not be immersed in the dishwashing task which, in time, becomes largely mechanical…

Advocate, 1 September 1934

“Xunmei, darling, your demonstration was wonderful!” Bernadine was back. She leaned conspiratorially between Rowland and the poet. “I wanted to show them all that there is so much depth and richness to Chinese culture. I’m afraid too many Occidentals think it’s all about lanterns and dragons.” She fussed them towards the table, sitting between them. Also at the table was Chester Fritz—their reserved host. Beside him, an English actress who had just finished playing Beatrice in the Shanghai Theatre Company’s production of As You Like It, a Greek acrobat and Chao Kung, an Occidental who spoke with a heavy East European accent and wore the saffron and ochre robes of a Buddhist priest. Before the entrée was finished, the actress had been prevailed upon to perform one of Beatrice’s soliloquies.

Rowland found himself wondering what it was that had singled him out for Bernadine’s particular attention. Surely she had come across Australians before. What could she possibly believe he could offer by way of entertainment?

As the second course was served, Bernadine raised the incident at the Cathay Hotel, without once looking at Rowland. Of course the direction of the enquiry was clear. Chao Kung, the Buddhist cleric, looked up from his prawns, and the acrobat crossed himself. Shao Xunmei deftly changed the subject with an anecdote about his time at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris.

“You’re an artist?” Rowland gratefully took the conversational lifeline Xunmei had offered him.

“More art lover than a serious artist,” Xunmei replied, winking. “What with poetry and martial arts, who has time to paint?”

“Rowland.” Bernadine inserted herself into the conversation again. “I did want to tell you how sorry I was to hear about that frightful incident at the Cathay Hotel. It must have been a terrible shock. How are you coping?”

Rowland paused. So, it was scandal that had piqued Bernadine’s interest in him. “Quite well, thank you.”

Bernadine continued. “When Mickey mentioned what had happened, I thought inviting you to one of my salons was the least I could do. To take your mind off the whole terrible business.”

“How very kind.”

“Was it dreadfully ghastly?” she whispered. “I imagine there was rather a lot of blood.”

“I don’t think—”

“You don’t suppose it was some kind of elaborate threat, do you?”

“Threat?”

“Commercial transactions in Shanghai are a brutal business.” She nudged her husband. “Isn’t that right, Chester?”

Chester Fritz nodded. “Yes, dear. Ruthless.”

“Perhaps the wicked fiend mistook the Russian girl for your beautiful Edna.”

Rowland’s expression was unreadable. He kept the horror, the cold realisation that it was possible, from showing on his face.

“It wouldn’t be the first time that a businessman’s family was threatened, or abducted or even murdered,” Chester added. “Shanghai is a place where fortunes are made and lost. The stakes are high and extortion has been the bread and butter of many criminal elements in the city.”

“It is vital to have good friends in this city, Mr. Sinclair.” Chao Kung joined the discussion. Rowland paused for a moment as he wondered how one addressed a member of the Buddhist clergy. He was pretty sure that that “Father” was not correct. There was a vague familiarity about Kung which he could not at that moment place. “Fortunately, sir, my friends are travelling with me.”

Kung’s fleshy lips curved up. “Of course. I pray that you will require no others.”

A commotion at another table interrupted all conversation. The macaw had somehow escaped its cage and was now flying around the pagoda. It flapped madly over heads, frighted by the screams elicited in response. Rowland stood to help with the recapture, happy to have any excuse to escape Bernadine’s interrogation. It seemed there were many people glad to leave the seats they’d been assigned. By the time the bird was recaptured, common purpose and laughter had thawed any reserve between the guests and formality was abandoned. It was Milton who eventually caught the macaw by using his fez as a makeshift hood to subdue the creature and return it, somewhat regretfully, to its cage and its mistress. The gathering cheered and, now out of their seats, did not feel compelled to return to them. Many took to the dance floor, others moved tables disrupting Bernadine’s carefully drawn seating plan. In amongst the disorder and joviality, Rowland found Edna.

“Oh Rowly, thank goodness!” The sculptress took his hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned by the sense of relief in her manner.

“The gentleman Bernadine wanted me to meet was anything but,” she said, pulling a face. “And the most determinedly boring man I’ve ever met.”

Rowland’s eyes flashed. “Did he offend you?”

“No, he was just a buffoon. Stay with me and he won’t return. Lord James’ admiration had no courage in it.”

“Point him out and I’ll—”

“Don’t be silly. Did you meet anyone interesting?”

Rowland told her about Shao Xunmei. He looked around. “I should introduce you and Milt.”

“Is that him?” Edna directed Rowland’s gaze towards the table at which Mickey Hahn sat. Beside her was an elegant man in scholar’s robes. The two were sucking on orange segments as they talked, their eyes fixed on one another.

“Yes.”

“I think it’s best we don’t interrupt.”

Ranjit and Harjeet had gone home, but Wing Zau and Clyde were still awake when they returned from the restaurant in Yangtzepoo. Emily Hahn had not returned with them, but left the party with Shao Xunmei. It was an act of impropriety which had upset their hostess and scandalised other guests. It seemed Bernadine’s rejection of the colour bar only went so far.

“She should be careful,” Wing observed. “The Shaos are no strangers to opium. Xunmei’s father was renowned for it. It comes with vast wealth and a poetic spirit. Perhaps that’s why Miss Hahn was drawn to him.”

Rowland was less comfortable with Mickey’s fascination with opium, her conviction that the drug would open the “real China” to her, than with her choice of companion. He had heard tales of opium addiction in the dens of inner Sydney, seen the vacant, listless eyes of those who’d been enslaved by the habit. He could not understand why the journalist coveted it.

“They seemed quite taken with each other.” Edna curled up in an armchair with a balloon of crème brandy. “And he does cut a tremendously romantic figure.”

“It was quite a bizarre gathering,” Milton admitted. “A collection of the brilliant and the odd.”

“One wonders why we were invited,” Edna mused.

“Well clearly, I’m the former,” Milton replied. “You and Rowly… who knows.”

“Bernadine had an inordinate interest in the details of Alexandra Romanova’s murder,” Rowland offered.

“Why?”

“Mostly for the sake of curiosity and gossip, I expect. She must at least believe I had nothing to do with it, or she would not have invited us.”

“That may not be true,” Wing said. “Mrs. Szold-Fritz is famous for the people who have attended her suppers.”

Clyde laughed. “Are you saying she isn’t fussy?”

Wing shrugged. “About certain things she is fussy.”

Rowland was quiet as he pondered over Bernadine’s theory as to why Alexandra had been murdered. He didn’t want to consider it, but he couldn’t ignore it. It terrified him. He moved a wooden chair next to Edna’s armchair and sat down. He told them of Bernadine’s supposition that Alexandra had been killed by mistake; that Edna had been the intended victim.

Milton and Clyde both sat up. Rowland took Edna’s hand before he continued.

“It may be nonsense,” he said. “But it is possible.” He looked down at Edna’s hand in his. “I think you should all go home.”

“What about you?” Edna asked.

“I’m still under investigation, I can’t leave.”

“Then we can’t either,” Milton replied.

“Milt, what happened to Alexandra—”

“We don’t know what exactly happened to Alexandra; who killed her. There’s a lot wrong with Bernadine’s theory.” Milton stood and paced. “If they killed Alexandra because they thought she was Ed, it still doesn’t explain what she was doing in our suite. If she wasn’t murdered there, but left there, why on earth did they think she was Ed?”

“On top of that, mate,” Clyde spoke up, “you’re trading wool, not a kingdom.”

“You’re not even doing that, Rowly.”

“But they don’t know that.” Rowland shook his head. “I know it sounds absurd. But if there’s the slightest chance that you are in danger—”

“There’s always a chance that we are in danger, Rowly,” Edna said firmly. “Even in Sydney. Even at Woodlands. It’s a dangerous world.”

“More dangerous in my company,” Rowland replied sullenly.

Edna laughed. “This may not be all about you, Rowland Sinclair.”

“Ed…”

“Oh, Rowly.” Edna placed her glass on the coffee table so she could clasp his hand in both of hers. “You’re panicking because Bernadine has somehow made you see me in poor Alexandra’s place.”

“Yes, I am. Ed, I can’t risk—”

“We’d do anything in the world for you, Rowly, but you cannot order us to abandon you.”

“I’m not ordering you to—”

“That’s just as well then.” Edna unfurled her legs and stood. “Come on. You and Milt get Clyde up the stairs to bed. We’ll worry about what we’re going to do next, tomorrow.”

Wing jumped up. “Allow me to assist,” he said, offering Clyde his arm.

“I’ll be fine on my own,” Clyde grumbled, but he took Wing’s arm to pull himself up.

Rowland lingered downstairs, helping Edna to collect the various glasses and dishes from the drawing room and take them into the kitchen. She watched him check that the back door was locked and then tossed him a tea towel.

“I’ll wash—you dry. You need to practise.”

She picked up a sponge and began washing the glasses. “Well at least the chauffeur and the butler didn’t kill each other while we were away.”

“There is that.” He told her about his conversation with Ranjit Singh on the subject of Wing Zau.

Edna smiled. “What exactly does he think Mr. Wing is trying to do?”

“I’m not sure.” He frowned. “Perhaps I shouldn’t disregard his suspicions. It wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong about someone.”

“Don’t be silly, Rowly. They just don’t get along, that’s all.”

Rowland didn’t reply. He was, if truth be told, not really thinking about Wing Zau.

“What’s wrong, Rowly?”

“Someone may have tried to kill you?”

“It’s more than that. You seem cross, out of sorts.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

Rowland sighed. “I’m sorry. I just feel guilty I guess.”

“Because someone might have been trying to kill me?”

“Yes that.” Rowland hesitated. “And because I’m so appallingly glad they got the wrong woman.”

Edna’s face softened as she realised why he was so troubled. She wiped her hands on her skirt and looked up into his eyes. “Oh, Rowly, you wouldn’t have wished what happened on either one of us.”

“No… but I saw Alexandra’s body, saw what had been done to her, and now I can only be glad that it wasn’t you.” He shook his head in disgust. “It just seems so indecent, Ed. She wasn’t you, but I knew her.”

“Rowly, it’s natural. You’re not glad she’s dead, just that I’m not.” She returned to the sink and washed another glass which she handed him to dry. “What have we been doing since Alexandra’s body was found, Rowly?”

“I’m not sure I understand—”

She answered her own question. “We’ve been trying to find out who killed her, and not just to clear you. We haven’t not cared. You haven’t not cared.” Edna handed him another glass. “You might want to dry the inside of the glass as well,” she suggested gently.

He smiled. “You’re right. Thank you.”

She rinsed the last glass and handed it to him.

He dried the inside. “I’d still feel safer if you went home.”

“I wouldn’t. I’ve always felt safer with you nearby.”