by Di Morrissey
‘Are you sure you will be all right wandering about alone? The traffic is getting very congested these days, not to mention the filth in some streets.’
‘We shall be perfectly fine, Robert. We shan’t venture away from the main centre; besides, it will be an adventure, won’t it, Mary?’
The young girl nodded, her eyes shining in excitement as she gripped Catherine’s hand, and held onto her boater, her eyes trying to take in the swirling sights, sounds and smells.
Catherine and Mary set off for their day on a horse-drawn bus, and travelled down George Street to Circular Quay to look at the ferries, steamers and quayside activity. They wandered through the Botanic Gardens, stopping to feed some ducks on a pond, buying a bag of bread scraps from a young boy. Nearby imperious peacocks strutted, the males trailing their magnificent plumed tails in arrogant abandon.
Back in the city, they looked in the shops in the Sydney Arcade. As Catherine strolled under the high arched glass and steel-ribbed roof, Mary ran forward to press her nose against a toy-shop window.
Piled in the window were coloured spinning tops, boxes of picture blocks, drawing slates and paintboxes, counting frames of coloured beads, and all manner of board games from cribbage and checkers and tiddly-winks to fancy compendiums of games in winged mahogany boxes. There were magic lantern slides, lead soldiers, masks, and every conceivable kind of clockwork toy. Inside beckoned rocking horses, dolls and dolls’ houses.
‘Papa gave you two shillings to spend, would you like to spend it in here?’ asked Catherine with a wide smile.
‘Oh yes, I think so.’
Mary bounded ahead and began peering into the glass display cases. Catherine felt like a little girl again and headed straight for the dolls. She had never been swamped with toys. Her mother had given her simple presents — board games or little bits and pieces for the dolls’ house her father had made for her. Catherine adored the dolls’ house and played with it more than anything else, playing out the life of a large and boisterous family. In comparison to her solitary and secluded life, this family lived a full and complicated life of emotional dramas and adventures. She smiled to herself, remembering the years of pleasure it had given her. She and Robert must give Mary a dolls’ house, she decided.
To Catherine’s surprise, Mary didn’t choose a toy or game but a little novelty money box. It was a small painted iron figure of a boy patting a dog and when a coin was placed in his hand, it slipped into a slot behind the dog’s ears.
‘I’m going to save up my threepences,’ she explained.
‘And then buy a nice toy?’ asked Catherine as the shop girl tied up the money box in brown paper and string.
‘No,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘I think I’ll just save them up.’
Catherine nodded understandingly as they left the shop. For Mary, memories of deprivation were still fresh and even at the tender age of six she was aware of frugality and the possibility of once again having limited resources.
‘I have two shillings to spend too and I am going to buy the Butterworths a treat. Look, there’s a sweet shop,’ pointed Catherine.
The two spent a long time looking at the confectionery selection, finally choosing a mixed bag of sugared almonds, coconut ices, barley sticks, nougatines, musk lozenges and some aniseed balls. They also bought a small bag of jujubes, Hinky Dinks and Wee McGregor butterscotch to share with Robert on the way home.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Mary, eyeing the bags of sweets.
‘It must be lunchtime then,’ announced Catherine with a smile.
They ate in the splendour of the dining room at the Wentworth Hotel, Mary sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair, a large white linen napkin spread across her lap. Balefully she eyed the pumpkin soup, lamb chops and vegetables to be followed by bread and butter pudding, for she had been much more attracted by the appetising sight and smell of the Sargents Pie Shop they’d passed on their way to the elegant Wentworth.
By the end of the day Mary could scarcely keep her eyes open and when Robert asked what they’d done, she rattled off their itinerary. ‘Bus, boats, shops, toys and sweets. We fed the ducks, had lunch and Mama visited a friend.’
‘Where was that?’ enquired Robert.
‘Macquarie Street. I’ll tell you all about it later, dear.’
By evening, when they arrived back at Zanana, Catherine was utterly drained. While Mrs Butterworth bathed Mary, gave her a boiled egg and toast and tucked her up in bed, Catherine rested in her bedroom. She appeared before dinner and joined Robert in the library.
Sipping his pre-dinner sherry, he studied her carefully. ‘Are you quite well, my dear? That was too big a day for you. Now tell me in detail what you got up to. Whom did you go and visit?’
Catherine smiled at him, her pale face lighting up. ‘Come for a walk to the Indian House before supper, Robert — the moon is very bright — I’ll tell you about my day.’
They wandered through the darkened gardens holding hands, and paused in the rose garden where the heady perfume from the roses hung in the balmy air.
Catherine breathed in deeply. ‘Mmm . . . You don’t have to see them to fall in love with them. Roses . . . the perfume I love most in the world.’
‘Not my most favourite,’ murmured Robert. ‘I love the sweet smell of your hair, your skin, your breath . . .’ He stopped and swung her to him, kissing her face, her hair and her lips, overcome by his deep and uncontrollable passion for her.
She kissed him back, filled with love for this man who was everything to her. She took his hand and, with a conspiratorial smile said, ‘Let’s go into the Indian House’.
They left their shoes on the marble steps and pushed open the carved wooden door. The moonlight streamed through the coloured glass in the windows and glittered back at them from the tiny mirrors on the red velvet walls. The smell of sandalwood hung in the air and the warmth from the day’s sunshine still lingered within the miniature one-room palace.
‘It takes me back to India every time I come in here,’ whispered Catherine.
‘There is a sort of magic about this place,’ agreed Robert.
They stood in silence for a moment, then Catherine sat on the massive canopied bed, peering up at the underside of the canopy where jewels shone in its artificial night sky. ‘Robert, I have something to tell you.’
‘Yes, my darling?’
‘I’m going to have a baby. Doctor Hampson told me so today.’
Robert sat down heavily beside her and took her hand. ‘That’s wonderful news! I can’t believe it. But how can this be after so long?’
Catherine’s soft laughter rippled round the room. She chose not to tell him what she believed. Recently, on a sudden impulse, she had decided to spring-clean the Indian House and sort through a few items stored in a carved chest and her travelling trunks. In a small drawer designed for valuables in the back of her travelling trunk she had found the little wooden box given to her by the old maharani. Inside was the bottle of attar of roses and her precious lingam. Joyously she had clutched them to her heart then carefully tucked them into the embroidered footstool by the bed on which they now sat.
‘Doctor Hampson says it is not unknown that couples who have difficulty adopt a child and simply stop worrying about conceiving, then it just happens!’
‘But what about your health, Catherine? You haven’t been well.’
‘Maybe this is the reason. But don’t fret, Robert, I will give you a son no matter what the cost.’
‘Oh no, not at any cost.’ He embraced her, suddenly fearful. ‘Come, let us go back to the big house. This calls for a celebration port. The oldest and finest in the cellar!’
But their surprise and joy was marred by firm warnings from Doctor Hampson that if Catherine insisted on going through with the pregnancy, she would be putting her health at risk. ‘Not just her health, her life, Mr MacIntyre. It is still early days, there are . . . ways, of dealing with this situation.’
As gently as he c
ould Robert broke this news to Catherine. She put a finger to his lips and told him to say no more. ‘Robert dear, there is no choice to be made. I want you to have a son. What must be will be so. I have no fears. I learned that from the guru in the Indian village. You cannot change what fate has already decided.’
‘Oh, Catherine,’ his voice trembling he gathered his precious young wife in his arms and held her to him, rocking her to and fro.
As the months passed, Catherine became more frail and was forced to spend most days resting in bed. Mary was cared for by Mrs Butterworth, eating with her and Harold in the big friendly kitchen, being ushered to Catherine’s bedside for short subdued visits. Robert was distracted and tended to ignore Mary’s presence, though the child waited for him to come home from trips to the city, rushing to take his hat and coat at the door.
Robert sat by Catherine’s bedside, lifting her pale hand in his, noticing the blue veins visible beneath her near translucent skin. ‘Catherine dearest, I am so concerned for you.’ He held her gently, almost afraid her frail body would break.
‘It’s all right, Robert.’ She smoothed his hair. ‘I love you so much.’
They clung together for a long time; then, seeing her exhaustion, Robert settled her amid the pillows and quietly left the room.
Catherine smiled weakly. ‘Now send Mary in, I want her to understand.’
Mary didn’t understand. All she knew was that a baby was coming and it was making her mama very sick.
It was in the early hours of a rainy night when Doctor Hampson was summoned to Zanana. A worried Mr Butterworth stood holding open the door, the lantern he carried casting wavering shadows under the portico. Carrying his black bag, his caped coat billowing behind him, the doctor hurried up the sweeping staircase.
Just before dawn, when the rain had stopped and the mournful chimes of the grandfather clock rang through the mansion, the doctor stepped back outside. He had done what he could but what he had feared all along had happened.
Catherine MacIntyre had given birth to a small delicate daughter. But the strain had been too much for her weakened body and fragile heart and she’d died peacefully in Robert’s arms, fading from life like the last pale flicker of a spent candle.
Mrs Butterworth took the newborn infant into the warmth of the kitchen and sat cradling the small bundle. She stared at the tiny heart-shaped face. Catherine’s features stared back at the broken-hearted housekeeper. Mrs Butterworth sniffed. ‘You poor wee mite.’
She rose to her feet as an ashen-faced Robert MacIntyre came into the big kitchen. He sat in a chair by the table, resting his head in his hands. Mrs Butterworth went to him and held out the tiny baby wrapped in a white cotton shawl.
He shuddered and leapt to his feet, the chair falling over behind him. ‘Take it away, Mrs Butterworth! I never want to see that child again!’ His reddened eyes glanced towards the door, and as he strode from the room he shouted, ‘And send her back where she came from! There will be no children in this house!’
Mrs Butterworth swung around to see Mary in her long nightgown, her face pale with tears, standing at the door.
Suddenly, like an outraged animal, the girl charged at Mrs Butterworth, her anger, fear, and frustration boiling over. She began wildly pulling on the shawl wrapped around the baby. Between sobs she gasped, ‘I hate you, baby! You took Mama away. I hate you . . .’
CHAPTER FOUR
Amberville 1956
The town of Amberville hadn’t improved in Odette’s eyes in the past three years. She found it small, boring and claustrophobic with no quaint country charm. The townspeople were closed and withdrawn and made her aware she was still an outsider.
Amberville looked liked most Australian country towns. A sprawl of mainly timber and iron-roofed houses with big verandahs, several well-kept churches and an imposing bank and post office. The broad main street was divided by wilting palms, parked cars and trucks. The pavement was wide, shaded by awnings from dim shops. No one hurried.
Isobel Street was the town’s business and social thoroughfare. At one end was the park with rusting swings and World War I memorial. At the other end was the new Returned Services Leagues club built with funds raised by veterans of two world wars. In between these was a century of enterprise — from the chemist shop, which always had the town’s prettiest girls serving behind the counter, to the musty hardware store where a bank of tiny drawers held nails, screws and bits and bobs.
The big general store, which still bore the nineteenth century designation of ‘emporium’, stocked everything from food to general merchandise and birthday gifts. The town jeweller, Mr Steiner, a goldsmith who fled Vienna in 1939, carried a range of silver and crystal wedding gifts, clocks ticked across one wall, and watches were neatly lined up in glass showcases with hands all pointing to quarter to three.
The haberdashery, run by two grey-haired spinster sisters, Ethel and Audrey Armstrong, stocked school uniforms, mosquito netting and bolts of practical fabrics. One section of the small shop was devoted to notions, ribbons and a range of brightly coloured knitting wool. A well-thumbed pattern book hung by a length of string next to the counter. When the ladies weren’t serving or tidying the shop, they sat and knitted tea cosies, covered coat hangers, toys and babies’ layettes for the Red Cross stalls.
The butcher’s shop had sawdust on the floor, and one of the black and white tiled walls was decorated with a poster of a massive bull dissected into popular cuts of meat. On crushed ice in the window were trays of fresh meat killed at the local abattoirs. The Trunkeys, father and son, uniformed in blue-and-white striped aprons, wielded knives and choppers with noisy dexterity at two great blocks cut from ancient tree trunks.
The newsagent was always busy, presided over by the bustling and bespectacled Mr Lennox. It was the first business to open each day so people could collect their newspapers which came up from Sydney on the overnight train. It was in the newsagent that locals bought their ‘ticket of dreams’ in the lottery, filling in the syndicate’s name with favourite lucky omens. It was here that neighbours paused to comment on the headlines, exchange gossip, or remark on the dry weather and the need for rain.
The young people of the town were to be found in the Athena Cafe, sipping frothy milkshakes from metal canisters or scooping ice cream from the bottom of their spiders — tall glasses filled with a fizzy soft drink. The ever-smiling Mr and Mrs Spiros cooked at a sputtering hotplate, meeting the demand for hamburgers, rissoles, bacon and egg rolls, and steak sandwiches. At night they were the last in the street to pull the iron grille across their closed doors.
Smaller shops came and went, changing hands to out-of-towners. At the far end of the main street near the war memorial was a garage with a mechanic’s workshop. It was also the seed and grain supplier. Next door, past a paddock where two old Clydesdale horses were seeing out their final years, was the blacksmith and farriers, still defying competition from the internal combustion engine.
Across the park, the community hall and council chambers were solid, conservative brick buildings. Further down the street was the whitewashed wooden schoolhouse and recently added fibro classrooms. A wire fence ran around the schoolyard where several horses were tethered after being ridden to school and where loyal dogs waited for their owners to be released at three each afternoon.
Isobel Street finally ended at the river where a vehicle punt chugged across to the far side. Around its banks and running back towards the hills was a square mile of dense rainforest known as the Brush. Odette quickly discovered and fell in love with this shadowed haven where only glimmers of light filtered through the canopy above. The roots of the fig trees formed walled caverns as big as rooms, making hiding places that smelled of rich rotting leaves. Aerial roots and vines swung like fat ropes from the tree branches, reaching towards the sweet moist earth. In here she was reminded of the secret peace and mystery of Zanana.
The Brush was home to a multitude of fauna unobtrusive except for the noisy exce
ption of thousands of fruit bats known as flying foxes because of their razor teeth and claws. During the day they hung upside down, enfolded in the velvet capes of their wings like a prodigious crop of dark ripe fruit. At twilight they rose in a screeching cloud to forage, devastating fruit trees for miles in every direction.
Odette trudged home from school. It was hot. She wished she’d brought her bicycle, but Aunt Harriet had sold it, along with almost everything else in the deceased estate sale of her parents’ home. It was typical of Aunt Harriet to take control and assume that she knew best and that everyone agreed with her. The years of caring for her father then living alone had made her somewhat impervious to the sensitivities of others. Most people didn’t argue with Aunt Harriet, not willing to challenge her imperious and often supercilious demeanour.
How Odette had hated every moment of that sale. A day of invasion where strangers had rifled through the accumulated life of Ralph and Sheila Barber with critical and bored comments.
‘These chairs are a bit tatty. Might do in the sunroom.’
‘Why do you think she kept all this old stuff? . . . S’pose we could make a bid for the fishing gear and sewing basket, luv.’
Odette had given up arguing and protesting as Harriet had busily sorted the contents of cupboards and drawers into piles. ‘Don’t need any of these linens, I have plenty,’ she trilled cheerfully.
Surreptitiously, Odette delved back into the box of linen when her Aunt’s back was turned, pulling out the crocheted doilies and cover for the sauce bottle. She also salvaged the hand-knitted cosies that went over their ‘soldier eggs’.
How the three of them had loved their soft-boiled eggs, each sitting upright in its eggcup; when the cosy was pulled off the warm egg, a silly face, funny message or sketchy picture drawn by Sheila surprised and delighted Ralph and Odette. There was a ritual to soldier eggs — the top tapped off with a knife — Sheila was a ‘little ender’, Odette and her father were ‘big enders’. The white was scooped out of the severed top, then the spoon plunged into the creamy yellowness, breaking the yolk, which had to be soft but with no gluey undercooked white. A piece of toast was cut into four ‘fingers’ which were dipped as deeply as possible, never letting the yolk dribble over the jagged edge. And when finished, the egg shell was tipped upside down in the eggcup and they joked with each other that they had an untouched egg.
