Free Paving the New Road by Sulari Gentill Page B

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, andcontinued 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 eye-catching. 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. Eye-catching 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, eye-catching.
    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 Bagdad 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