‘Well, I’d better be getting used to having another,’ Pam said, smiling and rubbing her growing belly. ‘Now, I hope your father is okay.’
Jean felt guilt burn in her stomach, but she squeezed Pam’s arm warmly. ‘Thank you so much, I hope so too.’
‘Well, make sure you take a little time for yourself in Sydney, too. It seems like another world, doesn’t it?’
Jean felt terrible for making her father the reason for leaving Liv when there was so much else she hadn’t disclosed. But she reasoned with herself that she never would have had the money to visit her dad without Magnus. She’d told Robert that her father had come into a little money and sent her some to make the trip. Money for a bus to the train at Katoomba, and a train to Central Station, where she’d then catch a bus to Sydney’s north and stay with him in the boarding house. More lies. She felt sick with nerves at what she was doing. She didn’t even know herself this past while. Wearing the clothes of a missing woman, leaving for Sydney with a man she barely knew. Who was she? And why was she acting in this way? She felt deeply ashamed, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She took a deep breath to still her racing mind.
She checked her wristwatch. It was an hour until Magnus was due to pick her up in front of the dance hall. She walked back to her house quickly, went inside and checked her reflection in the glass. She was wearing a deep red felt hat that had once been pretty but now had moth-eaten holes that she’d tried to patch over, and the best day dress she owned, also patched in places. Her hair was in the rolled curl style she’d read Sydney women were wearing. It would have to do.
Her breath was quick as she walked to the dance hall with her small case, her hat pulled low over her face. The late morning sun was hot and the sheer cliff faces shimmered with heat. It had been so long since she’d left this place – she had almost forgotten there was a world beyond its walls. Of course, she wasn’t the only one confined to this place. Petrol rationing made it difficult for families to leave the valley. She waited beneath the shade of the eucalypt in front of the hall, angling herself away from the street. It was quiet but the miners would be on the road soon for tea break. She hoped Magnus wouldn’t be late.
The car pulled up. Even coated in valley dust its surfaces gleamed. She walked quickly towards it, acutely aware of whether anyone was watching them. She didn’t wait for him to come and open her door but quickly got in, her small suitcase on her lap.
‘Someone’s in a rush to get out of here,’ Magnus said, an amused smile playing on his lips. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal tanned arms. They were not worker’s arms, worker’s hands. They were the type of arms that rested casually on leather steering wheels.
‘I may be a little excited,’ she said, feeling that hot guilt rise from her gut again.
Magnus shook his head. ‘Here, let me at least get that case off your knees.’ He took his time finding a place for her bag in the boot, Jean willing him to hurry, to get them out of here, lest they be seen.
The car had a radio and Jean felt herself relaxing with the music, the warm wind in her hair. As they left the settlement behind, the valley and its cliffs rose around them, magnificent and imposing before receding like a hazy dream. And then they were travelling up, through dense bushland.
‘We’re climbing out of the valley,’ said Magnus.
It was hot and his words were lost in the air rushing through the open windows. It was easier not to chat. She felt relieved by this and the languid sunshine on her arms.
They drove over the Blue Mountains, Jean admiring the small towns they passed with their shopfronts and charming restaurants. Magnus asked if she wished to stop for lunch at the famous Paragon restaurant in Katoomba, but she just wanted to be in Sydney. She couldn’t risk being seen in the Mountains, where on a rare and special occasion families from the valley visited a restaurant.
The traffic became more congested as they reached the outskirts of Sydney and the car slowed. The smell of petrol fumes and something else, perhaps the salty breeze from the ocean now nearby caused her whole body to tingle in anticipation. It had been so long since she’d seen the sea.
‘I had intended we stay at The Australia Hotel on Castlereagh Street, but a friend of mine, Mr Parker, has offered to host us at his home in Kirribilli for the weekend. It’s right on the harbour. A magnificent sandstone building.’
Jean felt nerves as well as excitement buzz along her shoulders. The harbour. The ocean. She couldn’t wait to cast her eyes over a large body of water. She’d grown up by the sea and hadn’t realised how entrenched it was in her psyche until she was forced to be so far from it. But who was this Mr Parker? She’d pictured herself having her own room in the hotel and even enjoying some time alone, without the burden of constant chores. Perhaps reading a novel. She realised she’d misread the situation.
But before she could panic, they were entering the city, the buildings rising around her, the people dressed in fine clothing; the extravagance of the women’s dresses, the tailoring of the men’s suits. She drank it all in, speechless. Magnus stopped the car outside a handsome building on Martin Place.
‘But before we head over the Harbour Bridge, refreshments my lady.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard of this place. The Black and White Milk Bar. It’s in all the women’s magazines.’
They entered the cool milk bar with its ornate tiling and shining silver milkshake makers and anticipation skittered over her skin once more. The servers were dressed in starched white pinafores with scalloped black collars and pretty little white caps. Art Deco lights were strung from the ceiling and behind the bar were elegant mirrors and elaborate half-moon plaster work.
‘Oh, it’s so glamorous. I feel like I’m in a Hollywood movie.’
‘It’s something, isn’t it? Sydney’s original milk bar.’
They took a seat at a glossy booth painted in the bar’s namesake, black and white.
‘What do you fancy? Order anything you like.’
Jean tried to hide her shock at Magnus’s excess. At home there was no extra money. Not enough money. Every morsel of food needed to be stretched as far as it could go and most of the time she went hungry, preferring Liv to eat her share to fuel her growing body and Robert needed a large serving for his long days in the mines.
‘A milkshake? Ice cream sundae? Some homemade chocolates? Or shall we just order all of it?’ asked Magnus, his eyes glinting, teasing.
Jean laughed and watched in amazement as he ordered with the elegant server. The woman had the most beautiful green eyes, which were offset by her taupe eyeshadow and dark hair that curled into a bob cut at her neck. Suddenly Jean wanted the same haircut. The same make-up. To be working somewhere glamorous like this. She knew her old clothes singled her out here, but she pushed down the feeling of inadequacy. She refused to not feel happy. This was a single weekend of freedom in her life, nothing more. She needed to not let herself get caught up in things. That’s what had led her to where she was now. Her passion. Her impetuousness. Her mother had always said she did things without thinking about the consequences. She never dreamed the consequences would be giving up her dancing to live in a faraway valley, struggling to feed her family with a man she was devoted to but felt no connection to. Struggling with the pull of the past.
‘After this we’ll swing by the department store around the corner. I think that now we’re in Sydney we need you dressed with a little more panache.’
Jean’s heart raced. ‘Oh, Magnus, I can’t afford all this. You’ve been so kind but we said no more gifts–’
Magnus waved her protests away with a flick of his wrist. ‘I lied.’
She shot him a reproachful look and he laughed. She couldn’t help but laugh as well. A zing of happiness shot through her.
But then two enormous frothy glasses topped off with whipped cream and maraschino cherries were placed in front of them.
‘I hope you like rum with your banana milk,’ Magnus said. ‘This is called the boo
tlegger punch, with a dash of rum essence.’ They watched the women pouring the shakes at the counter, stretching out the milk between silver cups as though it were an elaborate cocktail.
The milkshake was cool and creamy, and she savoured its deliciousness through a chilled straw. They brought out hamburgers with thick slabs of juicy meat the like of which she’d never tasted. The juices ran down to her elbows. And then there was coffee and rich chocolates in ornate wrappings.
Magnus smoked cigarettes and mostly talked about business deals he was doing in Sydney. He was considering purchasing his own milk bar as it was the ‘Hollywood’ trend. Jean was grateful that he was happy to talk so much about himself. She was a good listener and preferred it to talking about herself. And she didn’t know what she’d say if he wanted to know more about her. Her lies about simply being a ballet teacher in the bush felt flimsy, paper-thin and likely to tear at the first hint of deeper probing.
She wanted to say out loud what was playing on her mind. Magnus, I’m so grateful but I’m hoping you’re not expecting more from me than I can give you.
With bellies full and a little buzzed on caffeine, they walked around the corner to McDowells department store. It was more beautiful than she’d remembered. The window displays held the latest fashions, beautiful full skirts and elegant slanted hats. A tremor of excitement ran through her as her fingers found the silky, gossamer fabric of a dress in the ladies’ department. It was a pale pink with fine white roses sewn into it, but Magnus tapped her on the shoulder. He led her to a mannequin in the centre of the store dressed in a floor-length gown in the most stunning sapphire silk.
A memory flitted across her mind, shadowy, unformed.
Magnus indicated to a girl on the shop floor. When Jean tried to protest, he flicked his wrist again and mouthed the words, ‘Last gift, I promise’.
‘We’ll take the pink one and this blue dress. In mademoiselle’s sizing,’ he said. ‘Oh, and matching hats and gloves for both.’
As she stared at herself in the glass, the striking gown draped perfectly over her body, an image came to her, vague, buried, but she let it form, sink into her, like ink on rich parchment. She’d worn a dress similar to this once. She’d worn feathers in her hair. It had been the after-show party for the opening night of her first big performance. She had paid for it from her own earnings. From her split toes, from her aching muscles, from her tired mind. From her dancer’s spirit. She remembered the pride, the sense of otherworldliness as she stepped into the ballroom to greet their applause, wearing something she had worked so hard for, dreamt so long for. She had felt like a queen. She could still remember the scent of the roses they’d thrown. And now here she was having a dress like this bought for her. Caught in a web of lies. She took the dress off.
Jean knew that he’d want her to wear the pink one now and the sapphire dress for some kind of evening engagement. She pulled on the pastel frock and balled up her dusty one. She had forgotten how it felt to have new fabric against her skin. The greasy soap she washed their clothes in never seemed to clean them of valley dirt.
‘Fresh,’ said Magnus, as she emerged with the new dress on.
‘Thank you,’ she said, allowing herself a small smile. ‘I don’t even know how to begin to thank you, my gratitude . . . it’s overwhelming.’
‘You can start by joining me for drinks this evening wearing that blue dress,’ he said. ‘Mr Parker is expecting us shortly in Kirribilli.’
‘Magnus, I do need to visit my father this weekend. He’s very ill. In Mosman. It’s not too far.’
He patted her arm as he paid for the clothing. ‘We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to pay him a visit, don’t you mind.’
They crossed the Harbour Bridge and the smell of the salt intoxicated her. She closed her eyes to focus on it. The screech of gulls reached her, the slosh of waves against rocks. She watched the white caps of the water tossing the vessels below as though they were children’s toys. Magnus pointed to the grand homes that lined the foreshore.
‘See the sandstone one there? That’s where we’re staying. Right on the water.’
‘Oh my,’ she said, excitement and trepidation wrestling inside her chest. She wondered what Liv was doing now. If Robert was kicking off his black, oily boots on the porch, finding the meagre loaf of bread in the pantry, throwing his soiled clothing in the laundry tub. Her heart contracted with guilt at the same time Magnus took her hand and squeezed it. She hesitated a second before she squeezed back.
CHAPTER 21
Emmie
The children squealed as they splashed in the shallow stream. The morning sun cast a dappled tapestry through the gum trees and smooth white pebbles clunked as they were skimmed over the water and piled into towers. The air was as fresh and clear as the water under the little wooden bridge. It smelled like cut grass, wet soil and river moss. There had been dew through the garden this morning, and mist hovering at the valley walls, as though the earth had been breathing all night.
Emmie had taken so many gorgeous photos this morning, she wasn’t sure which ones to upload.
‘Don’t throw stones that are too big, please,’ she shouted. ‘And Seraphine, please keep an eye on the younger ones.’
‘Okay, Mummy.’
She hadn’t expected to get any reception at all, but right in the middle of the bridge, not an inch either side, there it was: a full four bars on her phone. She’d left everyone else finishing their morning coffees in the sunshine at the table on the patio overlooking the garden and offered to take the kids for a walk. It was only a short stroll out the hotel gates, past the old pharmacy, which the children were fascinated by, and to the bridge over the stream. Yes, she had slightly ulterior motives, but at least the kids were having fun and the girls were getting their sacred coffee-lingering time.
There had been a lot of talk of a sleepless night and the kids getting spooked. Sim had even started crying over breakfast and wanted to go home. But Seraphine seemed enchanted by the gardens and all the old furniture, and Emmie felt the same. She’d never been anywhere quite like this. There were so many stories here, she could almost feel them echoing off the majestic sandstone escarpment. Where the others felt fear or trepidation, she felt awed, inspired.
She opened Instagram and chose some of the photos she’d taken of the kids playing in the garden just as evening fell: one of them all over by the horse with the cliff face honeycombed in the background, and a photo of the beautiful afternoon tea Macie had served under the willow. She hesitated over the final image. Nathalie’s profile, framed against bare branches that were softened by the sinking sun. Her fingers moved quickly over her phone keys.
Time in nature creates space around and within us. These wild places refresh our spirit, free our minds to wander and wonder. And we wonder why we don’t seek out her beauty more – the touch of her sunlit fingers, the warmth of her breath in our hair, her high skies. And we know we are reconnecting to something bigger, something we forget about in the ordinary days of our small lives. #DaysofInnocence.
She was gaining more followers each day.
So idyllic, someone wrote as soon as she posted the images. Love the sense of whimsy and beauty in your posts.
OMG, you and your friends and the kids are so gorgeous.
Excitement zipped through her. Maybe she’d finally found her thing. She thought of all those manuscripts she’d spent years writing. The blog posts she’d spent hours perfecting.
‘Hey.’ Nathalie crossed the bridge towards her, a coffee mug in her hand. Her summer dress was the same muted greens as the tree leaves overhanging the bridge and her hair was plaited, falling loose at her back, but her eyes looked tired.
Emmie put her phone in her back pocket. An inkling of guilt wormed in her gut. Part of her felt like she should mention the Instagram account to Nathalie and the others, but she felt stupid. She had a few hundred followers. That was a drop in the ocean. Half the pictures were of the countryside or food, and there wa
s kind of a fictional aspect to it. It also felt weirdly self-important to announce that she had set up an Instagram account.
‘Sim’s happy now, thank God,’ Nathalie said. ‘Thanks for the distraction.’
They waved to the kids playing below them. The three boys were piling the pebbles, one on top of the other, seemingly making a stone city, while the girls had taken off their shoes and were squishing their toes in the sandy bank.
‘Mummy, Sim keeps stealing the boys’ pebbles.’ Findlay was looking up at them, her hands on her hips, her little body rigid with indignation.
‘It looks like you’re all sharing pretty nicely to me,’ Nathalie said shading her eyes against the morning glare.
‘Well, she’s not sharing.’ She stomped her foot.
‘I am so,’ cried Sim, her little mouth set in a pout. Sim pushed Findlay, who landed on her bottom with a wail.
‘Oh God,’ Nathalie said under her breath. ‘Hangovers and fighting kids do not mix.’ She made her way down to them and crouched. ‘Sim, you can’t push your sister. And Findlay, you shouldn’t be dobbing on Sim. Everyone was playing nicely.’
‘I wasn’t dobbing.’
‘Dobbers wear nappies,’ said Sim, poking out her tongue.
‘Sim.’ Nathalie shot her daughter a death stare and the child began to cry. Nathalie looked up at Emmie and shook her head helplessly.
‘Seraphine, why don’t you see if you can find tadpoles, or a frog,’ said Emmie.
‘A tadpole. I see one,’ cried Seraphine, pointing into the water. In an instant the tension was gone, as though it was a momentary ripple on the surface of the water, and all the children were peering into the shallows.
‘Ugh, thank you,’ said Nathalie, returning to the bridge. ‘That dynamic is happening way too often. Findlay trying to get my attention by telling on her sister. And Sim is just a mess. So many tears and it’s not even 9 am.’
‘She was really upset at breakfast, huh?’
‘Yeah, she can’t really verbalise how she’s feeling, but I think she’s picking up on the vibe out here. Speaking of which, Caleb wants to take us all on a tour of the ruins this morning before the day gets too hot.’
The Valley of Lost Stories Page 14
