by Di Morrissey
‘That’s better — you look like the fairy princess of the forest.’
Zac took her hands and twirled her about till she was breathless. She spun to the ground and sat cross-legged and laughing while she caught her breath.
Zac reached for his old guitar and sat beside her. ‘I’ll sing you one of my history songs.’ He sang of the tales of tribes of gypsies forced to leave their ancient lands of India and Egypt. He sang of the crossing of the Red Sea when Pharaoh’s troops were engulfed by the waters but one couple escaped to become the founders of a gypsy tribe. How the sons of Cain forged the nails used in the crucifixion and for this act were forced to flee in fear. And finally he told of the day the tribes conquered the land of Chaldea and when it grew too small for them, they divided . . . some travelling to India, others towards Egypt. They carried with them the secret sciences, their language, knowledge and patrin — the art of reading secret signs and messages left by the gypsies to each other as they travelled around the country. At the conclusion of his song, Zac closed his eyes and sang with passion of ‘the day the children of the tribes shall find themselves together in one place once more’.
The notes died away and Zac put the guitar on the ground beside him. ‘And that, sweet Odette, is the curse of the gypsies — to wander until we find our home once more.’
Odette sat in silence, quite overwhelmed. The story, the music, Zac’s impassioned singing, had struck deep within her. She broke the silence. ‘It’s all so tragic, yet so beautiful. I want to know more about your people.’
Zac rose. ‘Another day, Odette. Come and make your greetings to Cerina, our queen.’
Shyly Odette shook hands with the old gypsy woman who was the queen of this group and others travelling in the vicinity. Now an old woman, she was still a great beauty. The fine high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and flashing dark eyes dominated her face. The crinkles etched around her mouth and eyes, the papery networking of lines crisscrossing her skin, spoke of a full and rich life. Her long hair was streaked with silver which contrasted with her deep olive skin. Surprisingly long fingernails tipped her thin bony fingers. Cerina radiated a strength and power that could have been intimidating, but the gentleness in her eyes put Odette at ease.
Cerina smiled into Odette’s eyes, then turned her palm over and studied it carefully. ‘Very interesting.’
‘Read Odette’s palm, Cerina,’ said Zac.
Odette glanced at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your future . . . some of us have gifts for chiromancy, palmistry, chirology — call it what you will — it all has to do with predispositions, tendencies and traits, as well as predictions,’ explained Cerina.
‘You can tell my future?’ Odette glanced at her upturned palm resting in the old lady’s long brown fingers.
‘Sit down, child.’ They both sat on the ground, their colourful skirts spread about them like the petals of a flower. The queen took both Odette’s hands in hers and studied the pattern of creases on the palm of her hands. She then touched and bent each finger of her left hand.
‘The thumb is the finger of misfortune . . . the index finger, the finger of good luck . . . Ummm.’ She was silent for a moment, then spoke in a soft voice. ‘I see sadness has befallen you in your young life, but the shadows are fading. Soon you will follow your destiny . . . and use these hands to achieve your dream. There is love waiting for you, but the path twists back on itself before you find it. You have great strength and courage and a strong sense of purpose. But for you to find joy you must follow your heart, not your head.’ She patted Odette’s hand. ‘Be happy, child.’
Gently Zac helped the Queen to her feet and they watched her walk with slow, barefooted dignity, to her caravan.
Odette gazed at her hand. ‘Gosh . . . that was fascinating. But can you tell exactly the things that are going to happen?’
‘Oh, you want times, dates, names! The little reporter, eh?’ Zac dropped an arm about her shoulders and gave her a playful squeeze. ‘Why spoil the mystery and surprise of life? One day we’ll ask Cerina or one of my lady cousins to read the tarot cards for you.’
Odette slipped the wispy skirt and shawl off and handed them to Zac. They began walking back to where her bike was propped at the edge of the camp.
‘Are you going to stay long this time?’ asked Odette.
‘Long enough. I need money for a new guitar. I am going to work for the local blacksmith for a while. One of our gypsy trades, you know. We work well with metals, with magic, with horses and with animals like dancing bears and ponies,’ he grinned.
‘And music’
Zac looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, and with music. My music is everything to me, Odette. Like your writing is to you.’
She sighed. ‘I wish I could persuade Aunt Harriet that’s what I want to do. I don’t want to go to university.’
‘It could be helpful.’
‘Mr Fitz, the editor at the Clarion, says no one can teach you to be a reporter, you learn by doing.’
‘By having doors slammed in your face, by going to the scene of the crime, eh?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Then do it. Can’t you make this part-time job, full-time?’
‘The Clarion is a small weekly newspaper. They already have enough people.’
‘You don’t know that. Talk to the man in charge. He probably thinks you are happy with an after-school job. Does he know you have this burning desire to be a newspaper writer?’
Odette shook her head. They had reached the tree where Zac’s horse was tethered and her bicycle leaned against the trunk. He picked up her bike and offered her the handlebars.
‘Then go chase your dream, Odette. Cerina said you will soon follow your destiny and use your hands. Pick up the pen and start.’
She smiled at him. ‘I think I have to learn to type . . . once I get a typewriter. Thanks, Zac, you don’t know how much you’ve helped me.’
He kissed her softly on the forehead. ‘Yes, I do. Come visit me at the smithy’s some time soon.’
Odette had thought about Zac’s advice and had decided to speak to Joe Fitzpatrick, the editor of the Clarion. Where once she might have just rushed in and stumbled through her explanation, hoping for the best, this time she’d sat and thought it through. The things the gypsy queen had said to her made sense. She knew what she wanted her destiny to be; she was going to follow her heart and not her head.
Odette had taken a piece of paper and made notes — what she wanted, how she hoped to achieve it, and the potential obstacles. She had made a column of pluses and minuses about herself and the practicalities and possibilities of achieving her aims. She had been pleased to see there were more notes in the plus column.
Finally she’d taken out the stories and little articles she’d written, sifted through them for the four best and polished them one more time before giving them to Mr Fitzpatrick. She thought the one based on the old letters and photos from the man’s wife had worked well. She had debated about simply confronting the editor in his office, which would be easy enough to do as he ran an ‘open door’ policy at the paper, but decided against that idea. Instead, she had telephoned and asked for a specific time to talk to Mr Fitz, then dropped her stories onto his desk two days prior to their meeting.
It was Friday afternoon and her appointment was for four o’clock. Odette raced home from school and dressed carefully. She put on a skirt and neat blouse, school shoes and white socks, and tied back her unruly auburn curls with a blue ribbon. She slipped into her skirt pocket a scrap of paper with the points she wanted to cover, in case she got nervous and forgot.
‘I’m going to the paper, Aunt Harriet. might be a bit later than usual.’
‘You be home before the light goes,’ called her aunt. Then, catching sight of her, asked, ‘You look very neat and nice, dear; doing something special?’
‘No. Just a meeting with the editor.’ Odette sailed out with a grin on her face.
Although she’d
had many encounters with Mr Fitz and felt very comfortable in his cluttered old newspaper office, Odette felt quite different this time as she went into the Clarion’s office on Isobel Street.
Nervously smoothing her skirt and pushing a curl back into place, Odette went towards the cubicle which served as the editor’s office. Fitz, as he was known, had grey thinning hair, a ruddy face, and always wore a bow tie, white shirt and waistcoat. A gold chain, like a chain of office, stretched across his chubby waistline. At the end of the chain in the left pocket of his waistcoat was a gold fob watch which he referred to a dozen times or more a day. A habit which amused Odette as the deadline of the Clarion was Thursday afternoon.
Fitz waved to the spare chair opposite his overflowing desk. He shuffled some papers to one side and pushed his bifocal glasses up on his head, folded his arms and leaned on the desk. ‘What can I do for you, my girl?’
Odette was equally direct. ‘I want to work for the Clarion. Full-time. I want to be a reporter and I’d like to start with a cadetship.’
‘This isn’t a city newspaper with cadetship schemes and training programmes, Odette.’
‘I realise that. In a way, because the Clarion is small, I think I could learn more here about all aspects of journalism and how a paper is put together.’ She gave him a quick smile. ‘I reckon you could teach me a lot, Mr Fitz.’
‘Humph.’
‘Did you read the pieces I’ve written at home?’ She saw them sitting on his desk.
Mr Fitz shuffled through her pages and muttered, ‘I looked at them’.
Odette continued. ‘I know you don’t have a big staff, and I suppose it will be a while before I can be useful . . . I mean, do pieces fit to print.’
‘Do I get a chance to poke my oar in here? You seem to be using up all my arguments.’
‘I’ve thought about what you might say, how hard it is — money and all that — but overall, Mr Fitz, I think it would work out for both of us. There are more advantages than disadvantages.’
‘Is that so?’ he remarked with a bemused expression.
‘Mr Fitz, if I don’t get a job here, I’ll have to try for a scholarship to uni or work in a bank or something horrible like that — if my aunt has her way.’
‘She doesn’t approve of a newspaper career?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘We’ll have to prove her wrong then, won’t we?’
‘You mean . . . ?’
‘As you have assessed, I can’t offer you much money, or any fancy journalism course. But I can teach you a thing or two about the newspaper racket. However, I don’t know if you’ve got what it takes, or if you can write, despite these polished little pieces.’ He tapped her articles. ‘So what say we take you on board on a six-months’ trial basis?’
‘Oh, Mr Fitz . . .’
‘Don’t look so surprised, you had it all figured out in the first place!’
The first person Odette told was Zac.
She rode furiously from her interview with Mr Fitzpatrick to the old blacksmith’s shop at the far edge of town. As she approached she could hear the ringing of metal against metal.
Inside, Zac, stripped to the waist, was hammering a piece of glowing steel on the anvil. The work and the heat from the charcoal-burning forge behind him made the sweat run over his body. His body was slim yet firmly muscled and Odette thought he looked like the pictures she’d seen of the Greek gods carved by great sculptors.
Zac nodded to her but didn’t stop the rhythmic motion of his beating. Odette sat by the tall doors on the stump of wood, worn smooth and comfortably curved from decades of use. Here men had waited for horses to be shod, watching the metal being worked into shape by the blacksmith.
Zac finished, plunged the hot metal into a wooden cask of water where it hissed briefly then quickly cooled. He scooped up some cold water, splashed it on his face and came to her. ‘Hello. You look very businesslike. What have you been up to?’
‘I took your advice and went to the editor and asked for a job. I told him what I’d like and why, and he . . . agreed.’ She jumped up and impulsively hugged the bare-chested Zac. ‘Thank you, Zac. Thank you.’
Her elation was infectious and he hugged her back, spinning around in a circle making her legs and skirt fly out. ‘You did it, not me. Congratulations!’
Odette squealed from sheer joy and exhilaration. Zac swung her back to the ground but didn’t release her. She looked up into his dark eyes, his laughing mouth, white teeth sparkling in his tanned face. She slowly reached up and wiped a smudge of grease from his cheek, aware suddenly of his strong arms around her and the musky smell of his damp body.
Awkwardly she dropped her hands and wiggled from his arms. He let her go but reached up and untied the ribbon from her hair. ‘Here, you don’t have to look like a lady reporter now. I like to see your hair all loose and free.’ He spread the mass of red-gold curls over her shoulders, fingering its silky texture.
Odette spun around. ‘Well, I just wanted to let you know. See you later.’ She fumbled for her bike, and rode off without glancing back at him.
‘Don’t be frightened of your feelings, little sparrow,’ Zac called softly. Then, bending down, picked up her blue hair ribbon which had fallen to the ground, and pushed it into the pocket of his shorts.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zanana 1901
As the sun glinted across the Sydney harbour foreshores it gold-plated the surface of the water before bouncing onto land where it flashed on the gleaming metal and polish of a string of dark carriages and sulkies. Slowly this sombre procession made its way to St Stephens Church at the top end of the city for Robert MacIntyre’s memorial service.
Befitting the man, Hock Lee had arranged a service for Robert that was stylish, tasteful and fashionable. Hundreds of business and political figures along with the Sydney society set were attending, but no relatives. Many of the mourners were amazed to learn that Robert had no relatives either in Australia or Scotland. The last of his family, a spinster aunt, had died in Scotland some years before.
As the church began to fill there was whispered speculation about the future of Zanana and the MacIntyre fortune. It was an issue that deeply troubled Hock Lee as executor of the estate. Matters were complicated by the lack of a will. Hock Lee and Charles Dashford had been unable to find any trace of a document, though the solicitor was sure Robert had made a will.
‘I urged him to formalise matters with me after Catherine died, and even earlier when he began adoption proceedings for Mary. And I must say, he gave me the impression he had written a document,’ said the urbane and proper Dashford. ‘I assumed it was at Zanana or his office. He simply refused to discuss it with me — always evaded the issue.’
Hock Lee had found Mary’s incomplete adoption papers but nothing else, which was very unlike the methodical Robert; but recalling how distraught Robert had been since Catherine’s death, Hock Lee wasn’t so surprised. Some instinct stopped him from showing Charles Dashford the letter Robert had written and left on his desk the day he’d taken his life. The note had been brief.
Hock Lee, my dear friend, forgive me for what I am about to do. Life has overwhelmed me and I cannot go on without Catherine at my side. You have been a staunch friend these past years, please remember me with kindness. I know you will keep a firm hand at the helm of Zanana. Sell my business portfolio and invest the money for the estate to be maintained in perpetuity.
Without my beloved, Zanana is no longer a place of love and sanctuary. It is filled with memories which pain me too deeply. I would like to rest beside her. On occasion, place a rose on our grave as a symbol of our too brief time together in this life. Now we shall be as one through eternity.
Hock Lee had seen to the sad task of quietly burying his friend Robert next to his adored Catherine. They lay together in the top terrace of the rose garden where a simple marble angel stood guard over the twin headstones. Thereafter, Hock Lee made it his own private gesture to place a ro
se on their graves whenever he visited Zanana. When there were no roses in bloom he simply sat quietly between them, recalling a particular happy memory of the times they’d shared.
Putting aside his own grief at the loss of his best friend, Hock Lee took control of his partner’s estate, with the help of Charles Dashford who saw to any legal matters.
Hock Lee wasted no time in calling in the Butterworths for a serious talk about the future of the children. ‘The options are: I take them on, which I am proud and happy to do. However, my lifestyle and business demands would not provide a stable or fulfilling environment for them.’
‘What are the other options?’ asked Harold.
‘That Mary be sent to a private boarding school, and Kate be raised by a nanny and governess till she is old enough to go to boarding school.’
‘That sounds a very cold way to raise a child. Where is the love and family care?’ Mrs Butterworth couldn’t help a note of indignation creeping into her voice.
‘There is one other choice . . . and that is for you both to be guardians and bring them up, here.’
‘Stay on at Zanana and raise the children?’
Hock Lee nodded. Mrs Butterworth began to cry and searched in her handbag for a handkerchief. Harold dropped an arm about her shoulders. ‘There, there, luv. Don’t make a scene.’
‘No. It’s made me happy. It’s what I’ve wanted all along. I love that baby like my own. As I did her mother.’
‘And Mary is a good little kid. No trouble,’ added Harold.
‘Well then, that’s settled. I’ll have the legal arrangements for guardianship drawn up by Dashford. I was rather thinking it would be nice to have the baby christened at the memorial service. Unorthodox, but somehow I felt it might be symbolic. What do you think?’
‘Whatever you say, Hock Lee. I’ll just be glad to see her christened properly. Will you be her godfather . . . and can we call her Kate . . . Katherine, after her mother?’
