Irma, who had seen sunset on the Matterhorn and moonlight on the Taj-Mahal, truthfully exclaimed that Colonel Fitzhubert’s garden was quite the loveliest she had ever seen.
‘Clay is very difficult to remove from a good carpet,’ Mrs Fitzhubert said. ‘Wait till you have one of your own, my dear.’ The girl was certainly a beauty and wore her deceptively simple frock with an air. The Leghorn hat with the crimson ribbons was probably Paris. ‘My mama had two – the first was French.’
‘Aubusson?’ Mrs Fitzhubert enquired.
Oh, Heavens! If only Mike would come! ‘I mean husbands – not carpets . . .’ Mrs Fitzhubert was not amused. ‘The Colonel used to tell me in India that a really good carpet is the best investment after diamonds.’
‘Mama always says you can judge a man’s taste pretty well by his choice of jewellery. My papa is quite an expert on emeralds.’ The older woman’s neat little faded mouth had fallen open. ‘Indeed?’ There was simply nothing else to be said and both ladies looked hopefully towards the door. It opened to admit the Colonel followed by two ancient slobbering spaniels.
‘Down dogs! Down! I forbid you to lick this young lady’s lily white hand. Ha! Ha! Fond of dogs, Miss Leopold? My nephew tells me these brutes are too fat – where is Michael?’ Mrs Fitzhubert’s eyes swept the ceiling as if the nephew might conceivably be concealed in the pelmet drapes or hanging head downwards from the chandelier. ‘He knows perfectly well we lunch at one.’
‘He mentioned something last night about a stroll up to the Pine Forest – but that’s no excuse for being late the very first time Miss Leopold comes to luncheon,’ said the Colonel turning a glassy blue stare on the visitor and automatically registering the emeralds on the slender wrist. ‘You’ll just have to put up with us two old fogies. No other guests I’m sorry to say. At the Calcutta Club eight was always considered the perfect number for a small luncheon party.’
‘Fortunately we are not lunching off those detestable Indian chickens,’ said his wife. ‘Colonel Sprack kindly sent us over some mountain trout from Government Cottage last night.’ The Colonel looked at his watch. ‘We won’t wait for that young scapegrace or the fish will be ruined. I hope you like grilled trout, Miss Leopold?’ Irma obligingly adored grilled trout and even knew about the right sauces. The Colonel thought that damned idiot Mike would be lucky if he landed the little heiress. Why the devil didn’t Mike turn up?
A shared appreciation of the trout’s delicate flavour could hardly be expected to keep a three-handed conversation going throughout the long leisurely meal. Mike’s place was presently removed from the table. An uneasy silence accompanied the mousse of tongue despite the host’s monologues on rose growing and the outrageous ingratitude of the Boers towards Our Gracious Queen. The two ladies discussed with desperate animation the Royal Family, the bottling of fruit – to Irma the most boring of mysteries – and as a last resort, music. Mrs Fitzhubert’s younger sister played the piano, Irma the guitar, ‘with coloured streamers and those divine gypsy songs.’ As soon as coffee was served the host lit a cigar and left the ladies marooned on the pink sofa behind the carved Indian table. Beyond the French windows Irma could just see the lake, leaden under a sombre sky. The drawing-room had grown uncomfortably warm, with Mrs Fitzhubert’s little puckered face coming and going on the pink air like the face of the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. Why, oh, why had Mike failed to appear at luncheon? Now Mrs Fitzhubert was enquiring if Mrs Cutler was any sort of a cook? ‘Dear Mrs Cutler! She cooks like an angel! I have the recipe for her divine chocolate cake.’
‘I remember learning to make mayonnaise at my boarding school – drop by drop with a wooden spoon. . . .’ Irma descended from the pine forest where Mike wandered incorporeal through the mist. The drawing-room was spinning.
At last the clock on the mantelpiece proclaimed a reasonable hour for departure and Irma rose to go. ‘You look a little fatigued,’ Mrs Fitzhubert said. ‘You must drink plenty of milk.’ The girl had pretty manners and quite an air for seventeen. Michael was twenty – exactly right. She accompanied the visitor to the hall door – unfailing sign of social approval – and hoped, for reasons too complicated to be entered upon here, that Irma would visit them in Toorak. ‘I don’t know if our nephew has told you that we intend giving a ball for him after Easter. He knows so few young people in Australia, poor boy!’
After the suffocating warmth of the drawing-room the damp pine-scented air of the garden was blessedly cool. A sudden flurry of wind sent a long shiver through the Virginia creeper, scattering its crimson leaves on the gravel before the house, bowing the heads of the prim standard roses in the circular flower bed. Then stillness again and the distant striking of the stable clock echoing across the lake. Gone now the misty transparencies of the morning. Opaque saffron clouds piling up on a muddy sky; the pine forest an iron crown encircling the mountain’s crest with stiff spikes. On the other side of the forest, far below, the unseen plains forever shimmering in waves of honey-coloured light, and rising out of them the dark reality of the Hanging Rock. Doctor McKenzie was right: ‘Don’t think about the Rock, dear child. The Rock is a nightmare, and nightmares belong to the Past.’ Try to follow the old man’s advice and concentrate on the Present, so beautiful here at Lake View with the white peacock spreading its tail on the lawn, fat grey pigeons waddling on little pink feet, the stable clock striking again, bees going home in the fading light. A few drops of rain plopped on the Leghorn hat. Mrs Cutler was coming out of the Lodge with an umbrella. ‘Mr Michael reckons there’s a storm coming up. My corns are shooting something cruel.’
‘Michael? You’ve seen him?’
‘A few minutes ago. He called in with a letter for you, Miss. If ever a young man had lovely manners it’s him – oh, my! your pretty hat!’ The Leghorn was tossed aside on Mrs Cutler’s shining linoleum. ‘Don’t bother – I shall never wear it again – the letter, please.’ The door of her best bedroom closed disappointingly on the cosy chat Mrs Cutler had been looking forward to all day. The hat, however, was presently retrieved, its ribbons tenderly ironed, to appear for many a year at church on Mrs Cutler’s devoted head.
In Irma’s room the venetian blinds were closed against the heat of the day. She had just thrown up the window and was about to open Mike’s letter when a streak of lightning zig-zagged across the pane. In a flash of blue light the weeping elm stood out with not a leaf stirring. Suddenly a mighty wind rose up from nowhere, strangely warm, the elm began to shiver and shake, the curtains billowed out into the room. To drum rolls of thunder, the storm broke, with full bellied clouds exploding in the heaviest rain the Macedon people could remember on the Mount, within minutes washing the gravel from the carriage drives and swelling the mountain streams. In the Lake View pool the muddied water came swirling down over the head of the stone frog. Out on the lake, the punt, torn from its moorings, rocked wildly on the lily pads. Driven by the gale, half-drowned birds fell to the ground from the tossing trees and a dead dove went sailing past the window like a mechanical toy. At last the wind and rain lost their initial fury. A pallid sun came out; the sodden lawns and ravaged flower beds took on a theatrical glow. It was over, and ‘Irma, still at the window, opened the stiff square envelope.