Entering the Union Club was like walking into any of the popular gentleman’s clubs of London. Algernon Benedict felt at home amid the walnut-clad walls, overstuffed leather lounges, sumptuous lighting, and discreet staff.
Clement stepped aside for the newcomers. Give him a music hall and a lively tavern any time. He watched his father disappear up the staircase, followed by the puppy-dog of a servant. Stifling a yawn, he considered respite in his room, but shrugged that thought aside as he made eye contact with the last of the Englishmen, who shared a secret look that suggested he’d rather be anywhere but in the stuffy old Union Club.
Clement’s lips twitched in a grin. Sport was to be had with this new bunch of pretentious somebodies and, perhaps, confederates to be made. He followed them into the lounge.
‘It’s a little early, don’t you think?’ said the youngest member of the group. ‘I’ve got an appointment at the museum shortly and a talk at the exhibition hall to attend …’
‘Soda water for Mr Ridlay,’ ordered one of the others. ‘I’ll have a nip of whisky. Something Scotch, if you please.’
The oldest gentleman in the group eyed Clement, seating himself in the wingback chair his father had vacated, and shuffled over. ‘Interested in a little company, sir? I don’t believe I’ve seen you around. New in town?’
The others followed and Clement recalled a photographic image he’d seen of a waddle of penguins. He pointed a finger at the waiter, enough to ensure a drink would arrive without any delay, and waved to the seats beside him. ‘Be my guests.’
A gruff snort came from one of the gents and a drag of heavy chairs over thick rugs as the waddle gathered around.
‘I’m new in town too,’ said Mr Ridlay. ‘Hopped off the boat yesterday, though it was in harbour for near a week. You? I mean, how long have you been in Sydney?’
Clement accepted his glass from the waiter, sniffed at the amber liquid it contained, and quaffed it down. ‘A few days,’ he admitted. ‘My father and I are exploring the colonies instead of touring the continent.’
‘Introductions are in order!’ The older gentleman who interrupted the start of the conversation had a thick girth covered over by a tight vest and stained jacket. His wiry walrus moustache and bushy eyebrows wiggled with every word. ‘My name is Walter St Leon. This young gent on your left with the Scotch brogue and the red face is Mr Alexander Ridlay. Over here are Messrs Stenton, Crosse, McIntyre, Benisso, and Hunt. You probably guess from Mr Benisso’s olive complexion that he’s from the continent. Nice, isn’t it, Louis? Or Naples. I can never remember which. The rest of us are from various quarters of Britain except for Mr Hunt, who is native born.’
The native-born Mr Hunt was clean-shaven with brown hair, and a twinkle in his eyes as he leant forward to shake Clement’s hand. Clement stood with the same action, and bowed to his new friends. ‘Clement Benedict. My father, who you’ve just missed, is Lord Algernon Benedict.’ Clement proceeded to shake the proffered hands.
Mr Walter St Leon’s bushy eyebrows caused a ripple effect in his bald scalp as they rose and dipped, mightily impressed with the status of Clement’s father. Most people were, which is why Clement made sure to always mention it.
‘I don’t believe I’ve heard of Lord Benedict. Where’s his estate? North or south? Your accent certainly doesn’t give you away. Mind you, I’ve not been back home for nigh on five years and was usually busy in the back of some museum or other, so it’s not likely I would’ve heard much about anyone. Interested in the natural sciences at all, Mr Benedict?’
Clement was starting to wish he’d followed his father’s lead and returned to his room for a rest after all. His eyeballs were burning: a sure sign of impending headache. St Leon’s bombastic mode of speech was abrasive to say the least.
‘We’re all connected to the Royal Society, Mr Benedict. In Australia for scientific purposes … mostly.’
Clement enjoyed the sound of Mr Ridlay’s voice, Scottish brogue with velvet undertones. Where most Scotsmen were clipped and raucous, Mr Ridlay’s speech was gently soothing. Ten to one, he’d been to elocution lessons and learned well enough to be understood without losing the hints of his heritage.
‘And adventure,’ added Mr Hunt. ‘I’ve been showing these gents up and down the coast for the past six months. Stenton, Crosse, and McIntyre are studying animals. Benisso draws pretty pictures of flowers, and St Leon is studying the natives. Ridlay, why are you here again?’
‘Pretty flowers,’ was the answer, and Clement enjoyed hearing the edge in the young Scot’s voice. Not all gentle velvet then. ‘I have a commission to identify as much of the flora as I can, collect samples, and render likenesses. I have a particular interest in Aboriginal agricultural methods.’
Clement dropped his hand on the Scot’s arm and gave it a squeeze. ‘The Garden Palace has an excellent exhibition of flora and fauna from around Australia, and a grand collection of paintings and sketches from artists and botanists. The Scott sisters, in particular, have quite an eye, and I do believe some of John and Elizabeth Gould’s illustrations are available for perusing as well.’
‘An admirable collection of weaponry from the Aboriginal tribes too. Some are my own contribution, given to me by a tribe I befriended out west.’ St Leon didn’t have the overall appearance of a man interested in, let alone on friendly communications with tribes in any direction. ‘I’d consider it an honour to show you and Lord Benedict the collection and provide commentary …’
Clement gave a slow nod. It might prove a distraction for this father. ‘Are there any items of a religious nature? My father is quite interested in artefacts of a more spiritual purpose rather than warfare.’
‘The local savages aren’t much for religion, Mr Benedict. Their main focus is survival in the wild Australian bush. Killing and fighting, yes. Praying to gods? No. Culture is something they have yet to aspire to.’
Mr Ridlay objected, ‘Perhaps we just don’t know them well enough, Mr St Leon. I haven’t heard of a single society yet where culture does not run deep. Warfare and survival are, on the surface, easy to observe. The details of spiritual belief are often hidden much deeper …’
‘Nonsense! I’ve talked to many an Aborigine. They can barely grasp the concept of language let alone higher beings.’
‘Perhaps they just don’t like you,’ Mr Hunt mumbled as he waved the waiter over for another round of drinks.
‘What was that, Hunt? Are you being impudent?’
The remaining gentlemen diverted the conversation to flora and fauna with recommendation to Clement on where the best locations were to observe kangaroos, koalas, and wombats. Cigars were passed around and the air in the warm room became cloying and thick with smoke.
Clement re-joined with desultory non-committal chitchat, finished his drink, and rose. His eyes throbbed with the need for sleep, and if he didn’t escape soon he felt sure his skull would crack in two.
‘So very nice to meet you all,’ he said, excusing himself from the group. ‘There’s an excellent program of music at the Garden Palace in the evenings; perhaps I’ll see you at one of the concerts or wandering around the exhibits. Good day.’
‘Come to one of the Society lectures, Mr Benedict. I’ll leave details with the concierge. I’m sure you and your father will find something of interest to be heard.’
‘Most kind.’ A rapier of pain slid into the top of Clement’s head and cut through brain matter to the base of his skull. He shook Mr Ridlay’s hand, refrained from any more nodding. ‘Good day,’ he repeated.
The door from the lounge was opened with a soft swish. ‘May I bring anything to your room, sir?’ the attentive doorman asked.
‘Nothing,’ Clement croaked out. ‘I do not wish to be disturbed.’
St Leon’s grumbling voice was cut off as the door closed. Not even a murmur of sound filtered through into the foyer. Clement headed for the grand staircase, hoping that his father was indeed resting. Pain inflamed his eyes and his temples throbbed. He made it to his room without meeting any fellow guests, or his father, along the way. The curtains were drawn and the dresser held a porcelain pitcher of water and a bowl. He sloshed water into it and splashed it over his face, lacking the energy for more vigorous cleaning. He pulled his necktie from his collar, unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged off his coat. He needed sleep and quiet and darkness. He poured a nip of brandy from the decanter beside his bed, sipped, appreciated the burn on his lips, and sunk onto his bed.