know? I thought being from Sydney you would have heard.”
“No. What?”
“Richard Waterman—he’s rather big in sugar, I gather, aside from his surgical practice—made a small fortune before the crash… I suppose you might not know
him—new money, really.”
Rowland waited for Cartwright to get to the point.
“He married an American girl—now Mrs. Waterman—she introduced him to the Theosophical Society—she was quite devoted to that chap, Krishnamurti.”
“He’s not really with the Theosophical movement anymore,” Rowland pointed out.
“Precisely,” Cartwright replied. “The Watermans worked with Leadbeater for years preparing to bring the World Prophet to Sydney—built some kind of Roman amphitheatre for
Krishnamurti’s arrival.”
Rowland knew the amphitheatre on Balmoral Beach. He had always believed it just another folly built on the excesses of the twenties. “And then Krishnamurti abdicated,” he said
thoughtfully.
Cartwright nodded. “Waterman had ploughed a lot of money into building the amphitheatre, and of course the embarrassment of it all affected confidence in his other business affairs. It was
a complete financial cock-up.”
“So how do you know about all this?”
Cartwright shook his head. “Richard Waterman is in New York trying to borrow money to keep his other Sydney interests afloat. This sort of story has a way of getting round.”
“Embarrassing.”
“Rather.”
Rowland put down his brush and wiped his hands absently on his waistcoat, smearing it in the same alizarin red he’d been using to capture Cartwright’s smoking jacket. He could hear
Bradford’s formal courtesy in the other room. Apparently Clyde and Milton had returned.
They came into the studio a bit wind-blown but in good spirits. The venture into Central Park had seen Clyde produce several dramatic studies of seasonal colour as well as a few darker sketches
of the dissolute, ragged men who now slept there. The bedraggled figures were stark in contrast to the landscaped beauty around them, but they had become as much a fixture as the benches upon which
they huddled.
Clyde looked at Rowland’s finished portrait of Cartwright. He laughed. “This has worked, Rowly.” He glanced back at Rowland critically, noting the paint-stained waistcoat and
streaks of lighter pigment which showed up in his dark hair. “You’re a mess as usual—I’d swear you were finger painting.”
Rowland smiled and ran his hand through his hair again. He’d always been somewhat exuberant in the way he applied paint—it could be a little messy.
“Good Lord, Rowly, this is magnificent,” Cartwright exclaimed, looking at the painting for the first time. “I just cannot allow it to leave these premises…”
“It’s still wet, Danny,” Rowland replied, amused but not surprised. “I couldn’t take it even if I wanted to.” He looked around at the numerous portraits of
Daniel Cartwright that adorned the walls. “You’re right—it belongs here… where it will be in good company.”
“Quite so, quite so… I have just the place for it.” Cartwright grabbed the still wet painting and headed into the main sitting room. His guests followed.
“I’ll have it framed of course,” Cartwright announced, “but you’ll see that this is the perfect position…”
He gave Rowland’s painting to Clyde and dragged over a chair so that he could remove the work that already hung over the mantelpiece. He tossed that painting carelessly to Rowland and
retrieving his portrait from Clyde, hung it on the former’s hook.
“See… perfect.”
Rowland looked at the painting in his hands, and glanced at Clyde and Milton.
“Danny, this is a Picasso.”
“Yes, I believe it is. Was never really happy with it. Would you like it?… I have nowhere to hang it now…”
“Danny, this is a Picasso,” Rowland repeated with slightly more emphasis, finding it hard to believe Cartwright had virtually flung the work
“No. What?”
“Richard Waterman—he’s rather big in sugar, I gather, aside from his surgical practice—made a small fortune before the crash… I suppose you might not know
him—new money, really.”
Rowland waited for Cartwright to get to the point.
“He married an American girl—now Mrs. Waterman—she introduced him to the Theosophical Society—she was quite devoted to that chap, Krishnamurti.”
“He’s not really with the Theosophical movement anymore,” Rowland pointed out.
“Precisely,” Cartwright replied. “The Watermans worked with Leadbeater for years preparing to bring the World Prophet to Sydney—built some kind of Roman amphitheatre for
Krishnamurti’s arrival.”
Rowland knew the amphitheatre on Balmoral Beach. He had always believed it just another folly built on the excesses of the twenties. “And then Krishnamurti abdicated,” he said
thoughtfully.
Cartwright nodded. “Waterman had ploughed a lot of money into building the amphitheatre, and of course the embarrassment of it all affected confidence in his other business affairs. It was
a complete financial cock-up.”
“So how do you know about all this?”
Cartwright shook his head. “Richard Waterman is in New York trying to borrow money to keep his other Sydney interests afloat. This sort of story has a way of getting round.”
“Embarrassing.”
“Rather.”
Rowland put down his brush and wiped his hands absently on his waistcoat, smearing it in the same alizarin red he’d been using to capture Cartwright’s smoking jacket. He could hear
Bradford’s formal courtesy in the other room. Apparently Clyde and Milton had returned.
They came into the studio a bit wind-blown but in good spirits. The venture into Central Park had seen Clyde produce several dramatic studies of seasonal colour as well as a few darker sketches
of the dissolute, ragged men who now slept there. The bedraggled figures were stark in contrast to the landscaped beauty around them, but they had become as much a fixture as the benches upon which
they huddled.
Clyde looked at Rowland’s finished portrait of Cartwright. He laughed. “This has worked, Rowly.” He glanced back at Rowland critically, noting the paint-stained waistcoat and
streaks of lighter pigment which showed up in his dark hair. “You’re a mess as usual—I’d swear you were finger painting.”
Rowland smiled and ran his hand through his hair again. He’d always been somewhat exuberant in the way he applied paint—it could be a little messy.
“Good Lord, Rowly, this is magnificent,” Cartwright exclaimed, looking at the painting for the first time. “I just cannot allow it to leave these premises…”
“It’s still wet, Danny,” Rowland replied, amused but not surprised. “I couldn’t take it even if I wanted to.” He looked around at the numerous portraits of
Daniel Cartwright that adorned the walls. “You’re right—it belongs here… where it will be in good company.”
“Quite so, quite so… I have just the place for it.” Cartwright grabbed the still wet painting and headed into the main sitting room. His guests followed.
“I’ll have it framed of course,” Cartwright announced, “but you’ll see that this is the perfect position…”
He gave Rowland’s painting to Clyde and dragged over a chair so that he could remove the work that already hung over the mantelpiece. He tossed that painting carelessly to Rowland and
retrieving his portrait from Clyde, hung it on the former’s hook.
“See… perfect.”
Rowland looked at the painting in his hands, and glanced at Clyde and Milton.
“Danny, this is a Picasso.”
“Yes, I believe it is. Was never really happy with it. Would you like it?… I have nowhere to hang it now…”
“Danny, this is a Picasso,” Rowland repeated with slightly more emphasis, finding it hard to believe Cartwright had virtually flung the work
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