Decline in Prophets (9 page)

Rowland glanced up… several young men were indeed watching them from the tables.

“They’re waiting for a chance to cut in,” he said, wincing as they went into another turn. “They’re probably hoping I’ll fall.”

Edna giggled. “You’re not going to—you used to quite like dancing—what happened to you?”

“You shot me, I believe.”

“Are you still going on about that?” she laughed. “I thought you’d forgiven me.”

“Nothing to forgive, Ed.”

She gazed at him openly, intensely, and he looked away in case his knees buckled again.

“We’ve had fun, haven’t we, Rowly?” she said. “I never imagined the world to be so marvellous.”

Rowland nodded. “It’s been smashing. Are you sorry to be going home?”

“We have a while before we see Sydney,” the sculptress replied. “And we’ll see the world again.” She smiled. “We have yet to conquer it, Rowly.”

“I rather think you already have,” he said, though he knew she was talking of their work. Edna had always been more ambitious than he—for both of them.

“As I thought,” Rowland murmured as he caught sight of Hubert Van Hook weaving towards them.

He relinquished Edna to the arms of Van Hook and returned to the table. Milton and Clyde were on the dance floor, so he sat again with Annie Besant.

“You did very well out there, Rowland,” the old lady commended as they watched Edna reign over the ballroom. “Your stick will be a distant memory soon.”

“I certainly hope so.” He leant in towards her. “Tell me Annie, did you know about Urquhart’s association with Miss Hanrahan?” he asked quietly.

She nodded gravely. “I’m afraid he was quite cocky about it. I begged him not to treat her badly… such a sweet, innocent thing.” She fumbled for a handkerchief and
dabbed her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Annie, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Quite all right, my dear boy… this has been such a tragic affair in every way. Miss Hanrahan is not a worldly creature… I’ve never seen Jiddu so angry. He, Orville and
Hubert all grew up in the movement… but only Jiddu truly understood the teachings of the Society… and Orville grew to be the furthest removed from them.”

She smiled knowingly at him, her aged hand finding his strong one. “I’m eighty-five, Rowland. I had rather wished I could die leaving the ideals I have worked for in good hands. I
had hoped to convince Jiddu to return but there is little chance of that now.”

“Perhaps there will be someone else…”

She shook her head. “I cannot help feeling we have run out of time. Not so long ago the world was ready to hear of hope and tolerance, of brotherhood and love.”

“And now?”

She sighed. “I have just come from Europe, Rowland. Mad, evil men are coming to power… men with closed minds and dark hearts… and before you ask, it is not clairvoyance but
common sense that leads me to that belief.” Her eyes were soft and bright with sadness. “I worry about young men like you, like Mr. Isaacs who wears his ideals so outrageously, loyal
Mr. Jones with his quiet decency… You must promise me that you will not let yourselves be changed—that you will keep your minds open.”

Rowland pressed her hand warmly. He admired her, believed her, though he was not entirely sure what she was saying. “Annie, would you care to dance? I would consider it an honour and a
kindness if you would.”

Annie Besant laughed. “I should be delighted, Rowland. I am not yet too old to raise the occasional eyebrow, I think.”

And so Rowland Sinclair danced with the great liberationist. Their steps were careful, without flair or showmanship, but their conversation was that of sincere friendship and mutual regard, and
in that respect there was no misstep.

7

I
t was the first hours of the day. The party of Australians had discarded their coat-tails, and sat in their waistcoats with their shirtsleeves
rolled as they dealt with the serious business of cards. They played in the comfort of Godfrey Madding’s private suite in the company of both the captain and Yates, the ship’s
ginger-haired doctor. Edna still wore the dark crimson gown in which she had captivated everyone the previous evening, but she was focussed now on the cards she held. A reasonable sum had already
changed hands in the course of the game.

Madding poured whisky generously for all, except Rowland, who never drank the malted liquor voluntarily. It was a lively informal gathering, neither unduly raucous nor overly refined.

“I am afraid we were unable to find the photo of Miss Higgins’ mother,” Madding told Rowland quietly. “I’d say Urquhart disposed of it.”

Rowland nodded. He had suspected as much. He would tell Edna later. For now, let her play cards.

“My staff captain confirms that Urquhart had been liaising with Miss Hanrahan since we left England. The crew had noticed them,” Madding murmured. He shook his head.

“Do you think His Grace was aware of it?”

Madding shrugged. “I hope not, for the girl’s sake.”

Milton had just upped the ante in a show of bravado when the game was interrupted by an urgent knocking. Clyde answered the door to admit a crewman who sought Dr. Yates and the captain.

“There’s been an accident on the first class deck, sir,” the sailor reported. “Dr. Yates is required to attend.”

Yates rose immediately. He had been losing anyway.

“Spit it out, man,” Madding demanded impatiently. “What happened?”

“Excuse me, sir. Mrs. Besant has fallen down the stairs.”

The Australians now discarded their cards and stood.

Madding raised his hand. “You’d all best stay here,” he said. “I realise Mrs. Besant is a friend of yours… I’ll let you know as soon as
possible…”

Madding and Yates left forthwith. Milton finished his drink and poured another as they waited.

“She’ll be all right,” he said, a little too loudly. “Annie’s a tough old bird.”

Madding was as good as his word and a crewman arrived within thirty minutes to inform them that Annie Besant had sustained a nasty knock to the head but was otherwise unhurt. Yates was keeping
her in the infirmary until they made port in New York. The evening thus dramatically and abruptly concluded, they returned to their own suites to retire.

When Rowland Sinclair and his friends visited, Annie Besant was looking quite well despite the large bandage that swathed her forehead. She was sitting up, sipping a cup of tea.
Jiddu Krishnamurti was reading in the easy chair beside her bed. There were no other patients in the
Aquitania’s
infirmary and so the nursing staff was most solicitous of her every
comfort.

“Drunk again?” Milton suggested grinning.

“Don’t be impertinent, young man!”

“How are you, Annie?”

“Thoroughly embarrassed, if you must know,” she responded, smiling at the several young people who had entered the infirmary. “Everybody has been most kind, which only leaves
me feeling sillier for my clumsiness.”

Rowland Sinclair, Milton Isaacs and Clyde Watson Jones lined up at the foot of her bed, all leaning against the rail as they asked about her health. Annie Besant regarded them warmly. It was a
particularly Australian habit, she observed—to lean. Australian men seem to lean whenever possible—against walls, posts, chairs. Her late husband would have considered it offensive,
slovenly, but Annie found it somehow charming… Australians had the ability to relax in any company or circumstance—they would face Armageddon itself leaning casually on a fence. It put
her at ease in their presence.

“We’re lucky you weren’t more seriously hurt.” Edna refilled her cup from a silver pot on the bedside table. “Whatever were you doing?”

Annie Besant chuckled. “I can’t remember anything, Edna, my dear, but I’m sure I was not sliding down the banisters.”

“What a superb idea.” Milton laughed.

Krishnamurti shook his head making a clicking sound. “I had only just closed the door to my rooms when I heard the commotion,” he said. “I ran out and found Amma had
fallen.”

“What’s the last thing you remember, Annie?” Rowland asked.

“Why, I was dancing with you, dear boy.”

Rowland smiled. “Well, that’s not something you should forget.”

“After that, things are a little confused I’m afraid… I remember turning the key… but nothing else.”

“We’ll be in New York Harbour in a few hours,” Clyde mentioned. “Will you be strong enough to disembark, Mrs. Besant?”

“Dr. Yates seems to think so,” she replied. “Don’t you be concerned, Clyde dear—I will be well looked after by our friends in New York. They’ve installed me
at the Plaza—you must come and see me if you have time.”

“We’ll find time,” Rowland assured her.

They stayed talking until Hubert Van Hook arrived with the Watermans and the Bensons, at which point they wished the Theosophists well and made their way to the observation decks. The vast
majority of passengers had gathered for the
Aquitania’s
entry into New York Harbour.

Rowland had visited America before, but his friends beheld the Lady of Liberty for the first time as the ship passed between Governors and Ellis Island. He stood back from them a little with his
notebook, drawing their figures in the shadow of the colossal statue, capturing their awe and excitement in the forward lean of their bodies, the crane of their necks. He worked quickly, making
individual studies of their faces, widened eyes, unconscious smiles, the backdrop of the great city itself.

“Bloody oath! Look at the size of those buildings!” Clyde gazed out at the arresting skyline. “They’d have to be thirty storeys high.”

“Seventy-seven, actually.” Rowland spotted the decorative peak of the Chrysler Building.

“Americans!” Milton grunted. “Overcompensating.”

“For what exactly, Milt darling?” Edna asked, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“The fact that we’ve got a better bridge,” Clyde replied before Milton could.

The process of berthing and disembarking was a long and tedious exercise. They were detained only briefly to speak to the New York Police. As Madding had suspected, jurisdiction over
Urquhart’s murder was neither clear-cut nor coveted and the investigation seemed only cursory. Consequently they were free to go only a short while later.

It was the end of October and winter had come early—the cold was damp and clawed at their lungs from within, the wind bit at the exposed skin of their faces. The port seemed to hold more
people than lived in Sydney, all in great coats, their faces obscured by scarves.

Dispirited crowds of men huddled around lit drums and loitered near the shipping offices. Tattered women spruiked chestnuts and apples for pennies and underdressed children perched on
ledges.

“Things are hard here, Rowly,” muttered Clyde, who always noticed such things.

Rowland nodded. Just as the buildings and crowds in New York were bigger, so too did the economic hardship seem amplified. Perhaps it was the cold. Poverty would be particularly bitter in the
New York winter.

“Oh, here’s trouble,” Milton warned, as he noticed Edna distributing the contents of her purse amongst a group of ragged children. Within moments she was swamped in a jostling
crowd of juvenile beggars. Milton grabbed her hand, pulling her out and bundling her into one of the Cadillacs which were being loaded with their trunks. “Good thing your old chum sent cars
for us,” Milton said as he climbed in next to the chauffeur. “What with Ed trying to start a riot.”

Rowland agreed. He looked a little troubled. “Perhaps I should explain about Daniel.”

“Come on Rowly, get in—you’ll catch your death,” Edna called from the back seat of the first car.