by Di Morrissey
Odette headed towards the Indian House and there, standing by the steps, waiting with a smile, was the slim shape of a young man. Memories of the caretaker’s son, the tilt of his head, his shy smile, flooded back to her. He waited expectantly as Odette walked towards him.
‘Odette . . ? Odette?’
Her name, how did he know her name? She’d never told him.
‘Odette?’
The vision of the Indian House and the figure by the steps began to waver and fade. Odette blinked. The yellow and orange squares of the plastic tablecloth filled her sight. She lifted her head. She was in the kitchen with Aunt Harriet standing beside her, tapping her on the shoulder and calling her name.
‘Odette . . . you fell asleep. It’s gone midnight; go to bed, dear.’
‘Oh.’ Odette looked around with a dazed expression.
‘Are you all right? You didn’t go out with your friends?’
Odette shook her head and got to her feet, stretching her arms.
Her aunt tightened the belt of her chenille dressing gown. ‘Sleep late in the morning. It’s a holiday, you said you didn’t have to work.’
Odette nodded sleepily and went towards the door.
‘Happy New Year, Odette.’
‘Same to you, Aunt Harriet.’ She yawned and left the room.
The older woman stood in the middle of the kitchen, a sense of loss overwhelming her. The girl she’d hoped to raise as her own, to mould and guide, was gone. In her place was a strong-willed young woman she hardly knew. They were linked by a blood tie but each unable to show affection for the other. They were strangers still. Harriet sighed and switched off the lights with a click and walked slowly back to her neat narrow bed.
Zac returned but was vague about his absence. He gave Odette a hug when they were alone by the river and told her that his gypsy family had sent their love to her.
‘You saw them? Where are they?’
‘North. They are all well.’ He changed the subject. ‘Look what I’ve bought.’ He held up a new guitar. ‘Listen.’ He ran his long brown fingers across the strings. Slowly he began to pick out a haunting rhythm which grew faster and stronger, his fingers becoming a blur. He closed his eyes, his head bent low over the instrument, lost in the sounds of the fiery music.
He finished with a flourish and Odette clapped her hands. ‘That’s breathtaking, Zac. I didn’t know you could play like that.’
‘Flamenco. It has a long and ancient history with us. But I’m not so good compared to the true aficionados. This is my music . . .’ He sang her a song he had written called ‘The Road of Hopes and Dreams’. He finished and smiled ruefully at her. Odette knew he was struggling to find the words for what he had to say. He could sing them, but couldn’t say them.
‘Where is your road leading, Zac?’ she asked gently.
He gazed into the distance. ‘I’m not sure. But, Odette, it’s time. I have to leave.’
She nodded. ‘I know. I sort of felt it coming. Will I see you again?’
‘Of course. I’ll always be a part of your life, Odette. But you have your path and I have mine.’
‘Can’t we travel together?’ Her voice quivered.
‘Oh, sweet bird.’ He gathered her in his arms and rocked her. ‘You and I cannot be together. Our destinies are different, but our friendship will always be there. Even if it’s some time before we see each other again.’
‘I don’t like this,’ came her muffled reply.
He laughed softly and lifted her face, his finger under her chin. ‘You are going to be a good writer. You are going to travel, to help people and find fulfilment in your career, because you have a special gift. I know this. And you will find love, too, never fear.’
‘Oh, Zac, I love you.’ She flung her arms about his neck and held him tightly, her hot tears running down his neck. Blindly she found his mouth and kissed him, pouring out love she’d never been able to give.
He kissed her back knowing this was her first kiss of love and desire. Then he pulled away. ‘No, Odette. Not yet. Not me.’
‘Zac, Zac . . . please.’ She continued to kiss his face and mouth and slowly Zac kissed her back.
Odette lay back in the grass pulling Zac to her. ‘Show me, Zac, please. I want it to be you,’ she whispered.
He was still for a moment, then said, ‘This won’t make me stay and you musn’t keep on loving me, Odette.’
She stemmed his words with her mouth, and began pulling at his shirt.
He smiled softly. ‘Slowly, little kitten.’ Tenderly he began to stroke and kiss her, burying his face in her neck, running his hands along the slim length of her young body. Odette relaxed and allowed Zac to pleasure her, arousing and caressing her, till she was ready, then he slowly eased into her taut body and made it sing. When she cried out with pleasure, pain and joy he hugged her tightly, his body trembling, until finally, their breathing slowed and their entwined bodies seemed to melt together.
Odette opened her eyes and hugged Zac to her, feeling the warmth of the sun on his back, the smell of crushed grass about them and the sound of sighing leaves. ‘Oh, Zac, I feel so beautiful.’
‘I’m happy. You are beautiful . . . and very special.’ He stroked her face and hair, and ran his hands along the hollow flatness of her belly as if he were stroking a cat. Slowly he lowered his face and licked the sweet red stickiness from between her thighs. ‘You are a woman now, Odette.’
‘And I feel wonderful.’ Odette knew he had given her a precious gift by making her transition into womanhood one of beauty and pleasure.
Gently he pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s swim and wash you, pretty one.’
They stood waist deep in the cool running river and Zac rubbed her body with his hands and trickled water gently over her hair and skin. Above them Odette heard a bird call.
It was a mournful cry; one of longing, of loss and parting. And it echoed her heart.
The first weeks of the year dragged through stifling hot, lethargic days. The inland was baked as the sun blazed day after day without relief. Odette longed more than ever for the broad cool sweep of the Parramatta River in Kincaid and the surf of Sydney’s golden beaches.
In Amberville the civic centre swimming pool was a cement bath of tepid water. The scrub creek barely flowed and what little muddy water there was had been commandeered by a group of laughing Aboriginal children from the settlement on the outskirts of town. They were banned from the public pool.
Swarms of small black flies descended, sticking on lips, brushing into the corners of eyes and nostrils, covering sweaty backs. Aunt Harriet hung strands of curling sticky brown flypaper from light bulbs and kept doors closed, raising the temperature indoors by ten degrees. And in a final desperate capitulation, went about without stockings.
At the Clarion one window was stuck shut with paint and couldn’t be opened, and through others oozed the hot air of the street. Everyone learned to live with wet armpits and damp backs. The fly-spotted ceiling fans turned sluggishly as if the air was thick as cream, and did little to relieve the suffocating atmosphere.
Odette fanned herself with a notebook. Was it hotter inside than out? She was supposed to be joining Tony James at the council chambers to cover what promised to be a contentious meeting. She knew if she didn’t leave in the next few minutes she’d be late, but she couldn’t summon the energy to move. She felt lethargic, bored, depressed. She missed Zac. Life wasn’t heading anywhere in particular. She was lonely and didn’t know where to look to find some answers or direction.
‘Odette . . . ? ’
She spun around. Mr Fitzpatrick was standing by her desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up and held by metal elastic bands, his collar open and his tie loosened.
‘I’m on my way, Mr Fitz.’ She jumped to her feet.
‘Steady on, girl. Come into my office.’ He seemed serious. With a sinking heart Odette following him, instinctively grabbing her notebook and pencil.
He pointed to the spare
chair, sat behind his desk and pulled his spectacles down from his head, dropping them onto his nose. ‘Now, let’s see . . . where is it . . . ?’ He shuffled some papers in front of him. ‘Ah yes.’ He smoothed a letter, folded his hands on top of it, and peered over his glasses at her. ‘Just how serious are you about this journalism business? What are your plans?’
‘Plans? What do you mean?’
‘Don’t waffle, give it to me in clear sentences. Do you want to be a reporter or not?’
Odette bristled. ‘Yes, I want to be a reporter. I intend to be a heck of a good one. I want to make a name for myself. I don’t know how I’m going to get there, but that’s where I’m going.’ She straightened up in her chair after this rapid speech, staring directly at her editor, slight defiance in the set of her shoulders and determined mouth.
The older man’s lips twitched and he handed the letter to her. ‘This might help clarify matters a bit then.’
Puzzled, she took the letter, glancing at the elaborate letterhead of Australian Newspapers Incorporated, based in Sydney. The letter, addressed to Mr Fitzpatrick, went on to say they would be happy to have Miss Odette Barber join their staff as a cadet, commencing as soon as was practicable, on their four-year course covering all aspects of journalism . . . She will be attached to the women’s magazine section, probably the Women’s Gazette. And it was signed, George Mendholssen, editor.
Odette could hardly speak. She skimmed the letter again. ‘What’s this all about . . . How . . . ? ’
Mr Fitzpatrick grinned and leaned back triumphantly in his chair. ‘Let me put you out of your misery. I still have a few contacts down in the big smoke press world. I sent them a copy of your gypsy story and told them a bit about you, and suggested when a cadetship came up they might consider you. You’re in, young lady.’
‘Oh, Mr Fitz, I don’t know what to say.’ Tears sprang to her eyes.
‘You’d better start making plans. You’ll have to find some place to live; I suggest you share with someone. It’s not much money, you know. But I reckon you’ll get on your feet soon enough.’ He came around the desk and stuck out his hand. ‘You’re on your way, kid. Congratulations!’
Odette shook his hand then impulsively jumped to her feet and hugged him. ‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘Steady on,’ he laughed. Then, placing his hands on her shoulders, he said quietly, ‘You can thank me by doing well down there and not losing sight of that dream of yours. Don’t let your old bush editor down. I hope I’ve taught you a thing or two.’
‘You have. More than you know, Mr Fitz.’
He turned away from her, busying himself with some papers on his desk. ‘Well, young lady, get on with your job, you’re late for that council meeting,’ he said gruffly.
‘I’ll make it!’ Odette’s voice was full of strength, happiness and confidence as she dashed from his cluttered cubicle of an office.
‘You will. I’ll bet on that,’ he smiled, watching her bound round a desk, grab her handbag and run for the stairs.
Aunt Harriet fingered the letter from Australian Newspapers Incorporated as though it held some vaguely contagious disease. ‘This is all very well and good, Odette, but just how do you expect to live on a meagre salary in Sydney where you no longer have a home or know anybody? You are terribly young to be going off alone, I don’t know that I can allow it.’
‘Aunt Harriet, I’m nearly eighteen. You can’t force me to stay here and this is a great opportunity. I’ll share a flat with another girl, or I could board with Mrs Bramble for a while.’ Odette was calm and reasonable which defeated Aunt Harriet far more than a heated debate.
‘Well, I’m coming with you, to see that you are settled and safe.’
‘I don’t need a chaperone, Aunt Harriet.’
‘Odette, please allow me to fulfil at least some of my family duties. It is a small thing to ask that I at least accompany you, seeing as how you probably won’t be involving me or Amberville in your new life.’
Aunt Harriet looked terse and angry, her mouth set in a thin, bitter line. Sadly, she was one of those people whose exterior demeanour masked their deep-seated feelings which were denied and rarely recognised. That which she wanted most — affection from Odette — she only succeeded in alienating.
Odette sighed and felt guilty. She knew what her aunt said was true. Aunt Harriet and this small town would not be forgotten, but would become her past. She took a breath and made an effort to sound warm. ‘I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Aunt Harriet, don’t get me wrong. Come if you wish, though I think it will be a bit disorganised getting settled. Surely it will be nicer for you to come and visit when I’m settled in my flat.’
Harriet brightened. ‘Visit? Well I suppose I could make the odd trip down to Sydney. And it would be nice to look the Brambles up again.’
She bustled away and Odette looked around the small neat living room with its three-piece floral lounge, bulky wooden radiogram with glasses cabinets on either side holding the good sherry glasses, the framed prints hanging from the picture rail of two hunting dogs, an arrangement of roses and a seascape.
It was a room in which she had spent little time and Odette doubted she would miss it or even remember it. The years with Aunt Harriet now seemed like time spent waiting at a comfortable bus stop in the company of a stranger she might never see again. She would have Aunt Harriet down to visit though, thought Odette. Now that she could see her life moving in a positive direction she felt more generous towards her unbending aunt, locked into the narrow world of Amberville.
Odette began to feel excited. It welled up from her toes and she flung out her arms and pirouetted through the room.
‘And one of the first things I’m going to do is . . . visit Zanana!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Zanana 1917
Kate sat under the shade of a white cedar by the sunken garden, a walnut stationery box balanced on her lap. Concentrating, she put the final touches to the delicate watercolour of this peaceful corner of the garden. It was a small picture but it captured the serenity and beauty of the splashing fountain, a bird dipping into the pool and flowers softly nodding in the breeze.
She straightened and dreamed awhile as the picture dried in the noonday heat. How far away this ‘Great’ War seemed. She missed Harold’s sturdy figure and cheerful call. And she knew, too, how lonely Gladys felt, especially at night, alone in their bed. But there was plenty to do to keep her busy and she and the Johnsons flung themselves into the local war effort.
Sid was still bitter at being turned down on medical grounds, and he worked long hours till physically exhausted to prove himself able-bodied. Nettie spent a lot of time with Gladys who was glad of her company. Ben worked steadily beside his father, wanting to discuss the progress of the war, but realising it was a sensitive subject with him.
Kate sighed and slipped her painting into the box with her paints and fountain pen along with the completed letter to her father. She had also written cards to Wally Simpson and Hector Dashford. They’d been told how much mail from home meant, so Kate wrote regularly to boys from the town, trying to make her letters cheerful and filled with interesting bits of news about Zanana and Kincaid. She never spoke of the war or the struggle and sadness felt by women left to battle along without their menfolk. She described the seasons, the beauty of the countryside and gardens, the wild birds she fed and had tamed, and small events in the life of the town.
Periodically, a letter would come to Zanana from France. Harold Butterworth wrote simply and from the heart with long lists of questions about Zanana — how was the farm doing, how were they managing, what news of the townsfolk and Hock Lee? He spared his wife and Kate details of what they were going through, only saying that it was hard and seemed like it would never end. He did, however, always try to relate some humorous anecdote, for as he often said, if they couldn’t find something to laugh about even in that hell, then all was indeed lost. But Kate knew how hard thi
ngs must be when she read of the rising lists of casualties, and tried to read between the lines of the terse news dispatches.
Kate returned to the house to find Gladys Butterworth sorting and packing fruit and vegetables from the gardens to be sent into town and distributed among the needy. With so many households deprived of their breadwinner, many were struggling to feed their families. Hock Lee sent a horse-drawn wagon each week and often drove out in person to check that all was well at Zanana, returning with the produce to give to the many charities he supported.
‘Finished your picture, dear?’ asked Mrs Butterworth.
‘Yes, and my letters. It’s so hard to write happy letters when what you really want to say is, come home, we miss you, we worry about you.’
Mrs Butterworth bit her lip. ‘I wish I knew what was happening to them. It’s such a long time between news . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished. It could be weeks before relatives knew of a loved one’s death.
Kate hugged her, thinking how her guardian mother had aged in the year Harold had been away. ‘They’ll all be home safe soon, Mum.’
The sound of a motorcar in the driveway made Mrs Butterworth take a deep breath and straighten her shoulders. ‘There’s Hock Lee. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Kate ran to open the big front doors, skipping down the steps to greet Hock Lee with a hug. Now with Harold away at war, her godfather filled the void in her life.
Hock Lee greeted her with a hug and a kiss. ‘I know I say it every time I see you, but you become prettier by the week.’
‘Thank you, Hock Lee. I like to hear you say that!’ Kate laughed.
‘How is Mrs B?’
‘A bit down in the dumps, I’m afraid. Going so long without news is difficult for her. Will this war end soon?’
Holding hands, Hock Lee and Kate walked into the house.
