by Di Morrissey
‘That’s just beautiful,’ exclaimed Odette. ‘Do you sell your paintings?’
‘Sometimes. Mostly I just use them for barter. We barter a lot in the local towns in exchange for things we can’t make ourselves.’
Odette found the childlike, cheerful and brilliantly coloured picture entrancing. ‘I’d just love to hang that in my bedroom. It’s such a happy picture.’
‘Then it’s yours.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t. Let me pay you for it. Or barter something.’
‘All right. How about your shoes?’ grinned the artist.
‘Here, try them on,’ offered Odette, kicking off her sturdy Italian straw sandals.
‘Fit like a glove. Here’s your picture. Be careful, it’s still a bit wet.’
Odette was thrilled. ‘You’re sure? Have you always worked as an artist?’
‘Good grief, no. I just started painting up here. Among other things.’
‘What did you do in the city?’
‘Do? I didn’t do anything. Oh, I raced around to lunches and dinner parties and shopped and spent money redecorating the house or going places and seeing people. But it wasn’t doing anything. And I was lonely — even with a rich and successful husband.’
‘What’s he doing now?’
She laughed. ‘Still rattling around in the mansion, I suppose. I don’t know. After twenty-odd years of being dependent, catering to him and his life, I decided to look after my needs. The kids are grown up and out in the world. Thought I was mad till they came here and saw what I’m doing. My daughter says it’s like I grew up and left home too!’
Odette joined the studio group for lunch, spread out on lengths of coloured fabric under a tree — simple but delicious home-cooked breads, vegetable platters, nutty pies and fruit.
‘Do you eat meat?’ she asked.
‘Some of us do, though not every day. We tend to listen to what our bodies crave. Sometimes it’s pasta and vegetables, at other times a baked leg of lamb is great. Basically, anything in moderation is the rule of thumb unless it’s against your spiritual beliefs,’ she was told.
For the rest of the afternoon Odette wandered about, observing a unique community. There was a serene atmosphere about the valley, yet it was busy and productive. The design of the homes especially fascinated and pleased her.
She meandered down to the river and found a large rock that nature had hollowed into a comfortable seat. She settled into it, dangled her bare feet in the river and leaned back against the rock and closed her eyes.
Had she been asleep? Or dreaming? She heard her name softly spoken. Blinking, she opened her eyes and stared up into the smiling face of Zac.
For a moment she was speechless. ‘Zac?’
He sat down beside her and took her hand and kissed her fingertips. ‘Lazing by the river. Is this how a hard-working reporter gets her story?’
‘It’s called soaking up the atmosphere. You knew I was here?’
‘I heard. I admit to being a little surprised, but then Cerina said our paths would cross again.’
‘What are you doing?’ Odette sat up, longing to fling her arms around him and hug him tightly, but she held back shyly.
‘My gypsy family is camped near this valley. I met some of the people who have moved in here and found we shared a love of music. One of them went back to Sydney and I inherited his house, so now I live here too.’
‘Are you still writing songs?’
‘Very much. I’ll sing for you tonight. So, have you conquered the big city, little bird?’
‘Somewhat. It’s been fun. Though comparing my life there with the life you all lead up here makes me feel . . . discontented,’ she shrugged.
‘You still have mountains to climb. What are your plans?’
‘Oh, I’ve been saving up. I might go overseas for a trip. See what’s over there. Being a reporter is rather exciting but sometimes I think it’s not what I want to do forever. I mean, I’ll never stop writing . . . but we’ll see. Tell me about your life.’
He laughed at her. ‘What you’re really asking me is, is there a lady in my life?’ He tweaked one of her curls. ‘No, not at the moment. What about you?’
‘Oh dozens of men!’ She laughed back at him and this time flung her arms about him. ‘Oh Zac, I’ve missed you.’
He kissed her nose. ‘It was best we went our separate ways. I thought about you lots though.’
Odette found his mouth and kissed him. ‘I’m never letting you run away again.’
He pulled away gently. ‘Slowly, little one. What will be, will be. It’s enough we’ve found each other again. I told you I’d never be far from you.’
‘All right. Tell me about this place. Is it all as tranquil as it seems?’
‘Within ourselves it is. But outsiders don’t quite appreciate what we’re trying to do. So we are careful about how we are presented to the world. People get some funny ideas when they don’t know or understand what and who we are. Some just call us rainforest runaways, thinking it’s easier not to face up to the realities and responsibilities of life in the so-called real world. It is harder to start afresh, believe me.’
‘I heard some pretty outlandish stories in the pub.’
‘These sorts of communities will become more common and accepted over the years. And there will be some that don’t adhere to the same philosophy. Drugs, poverty, desperation — you take the same problems with you. You have to go back to the beginning and create a new lifestyle. One that protects the stability of the life systems for people and for our environment. We’ve squandered what God and nature gave us, someone has to be the voice in the wilderness.’
‘You’ve just exchanged one tribe for another, Zac’
‘It’s true, it is a rather tribal lifestyle here. But unlike my gypsy family who are eternal wanderers, those here think they have found their Utopia.’
‘It’s been tried before — William Lane and his group who went out to Paraguay and the Catholic Church Rural Settlements — why should Peace Valley work?’
‘Maybe it won’t. But some of us have to try. And selfishly, it’s bringing joy to those who live and work here. They believe they are building a better world for their children, and hope that their ideals will eventually be integrated into the wider community.’
‘And they’re fulfilled and content in doing so?’
‘Very much so. Come, we must get to the meeting and see what they decide. I shall speak up for you.’
‘Zac, only if it is what you truly want. This place really is magic. I don’t want to see it spoiled by publicity.’
A dozen men and women were seated in a circle on the floor on mats when they entered the Hub. Max was sitting between Peter and Ruth Rawlings. They fell silent as Odette and Zac entered. Zac led Odette to the centre of the ring, sat her down and stood beside her. Briefly he spoke about Odette, how he had known her for some time, that he respected her integrity and she could be trusted.
Max rolled his eyes skywards. Odette was incredible. Or just sheer lucky. How did she always manage to get on top of a story?
For some time they discussed the arguments for and against her writing about Peace Valley. The speakers were impressive, both articulate and passionate. It was finally agreed that a positive and intelligent story putting forth their beliefs with personal anecdotes and facts would achieve more than the suspicion and innuendo currently circulating. Hands were raised in a unanimous yes vote. The one stricture placed on Odette was that she didn’t reveal the precise location of their valley. She agreed. Max was free to photograph who and what he wanted, provided no photo gave away their location. He nodded.
They were shown to the small one-room cabins generally made available to visitors to the settlement.
‘Tomorrow we’ll drive into town and get our stuff from the pub and I’ll phone the office and tell them we’ll be back in a week,’ Odette told Max.
‘Right, I’ll let the missus know. I wouldn’t mind her seeing this pla
ce. Open her eyes a bit I reckon,’ said Max thoughtfully.
Odette smiled to herself — Peace Valley was working its spell on the cynical news photographer. If her story could make just a few people stop and consider how they lived and how they cared for the world about them, it would achieve something.
Later, Odette stretched comfortably in the pine bed. She lifted up the ends of the mosquito net and blew out the hurricane lamp. She hadn’t felt so at peace in a place since her visits to Zanana.
And as if in a dream, Zac softly came to her, lifting up the edge of the mosquito net, dropping his sarong to the floor and sliding in beside her. Wrapping his arms about her, he drew her to the warmth and strength of his body in a loving embrace.
As his mouth found hers, Odette’s lips curved in a contented smile. She kissed his top lip, slowly ran her tongue along the fullness of his bottom lip, then, in an explosion of passion, there was no more gentle holding back. Mouths open with desire their tongues explored each other. Odette moved her body on top of his, smothering the long firm length of his body with her softness.
Zac ran his hands down her back, crushing her breasts to his chest, clasping her buttocks between his thighs. Odette arched back straddling his body, guiding the full hard strength of him inside her wet, warm and willing body. Moaning softly, she rode him, absorbed in her own pleasure, head thrown back, hair tumbling about her shoulders. Zac lifted his head to suckle the hard points of her nipples until she came with a gasp and collapsed across him.
Gently rolling her off his body, Zac smoothed her damp hair from her face, and lowered his head to slowly kiss and lick her to arousal once more, languidly sliding back into her, lifting her legs high over his shoulders. Together their bodies rocked and sang, melting into each other as one, and Odette felt she’d come home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Zanana 1921
Mrs Butterworth knew immediately Kate had fallen in love. And there was no mistaking that Ben was the object of her affections. The two were rarely apart. Walking demurely side by side but so close their arms brushed, they wandered about the gardens, oblivious to everyone. They sat together deep in conversation on Catherine’s rustic bench in the rose garden. They stole lingering kisses in the shadows of the grotto. Ben was always finding some excuse to come to the house, bringing fresh vegetables from the garden, newly laid eggs or a bouquet of wild flowers.
‘Do you think Sid and Nettie are aware that their son is besotted with Kate and she with him?’ Wally asked Mrs Butterworth one morning.
‘Probably not, though I’m sure they must know something is up with Ben, he has a silly smile on his face every minute of the day.’
‘How serious do you suppose it is? I mean, it can’t get too serious, can it?’
‘What do you mean, Wal?’ Mrs Butterworth stopped rolling out pastry on a long marble-topped bench and stared at him.
Wal put his cup down on the kitchen table. ‘Well, you know. She’s Kate and he’s . . . just Ben.’
‘Wal, get to the point!’
‘Kate is the heiress to Zanana. Ben is the . . . gardener. Isn’t that what you’d call him?’
Mrs Butterworth sat down at the table, pouring the remains of the teapot into her cup with floury hands. ‘I hadn’t thought it through like that. Oh dear, I suppose I should talk to Hock Lee.’
‘Maybe you should talk to Kate first.’
Mrs Butterworth looked for the right moment to have a little heart to heart chat with Kate but she just couldn’t seem to catch Kate alone or when she wasn’t flitting butterfly-like from task to task or flying off to see Ben.
Kate’s time and attention were divided between Ben and Zanana. She was more than happy that her plans for sharing Zanana with convalescing servicemen had proved to be a successful and fulfilling decision. Her love for Ben flowered daily and each day was one of joy she’d never known before.
She thought no further ahead than the next moment when she might see Ben — arranging to meet him at a particular time at the grotto, or coming around a corner of the house or garden and being surprised by him. Often Kate had an invalid soldier in tow and she and Ben would merely exchange a few words and a secret smile. But the light in their eyes, the tenderness in their voices, the conspiracy of their smile, made it patently obvious to everyone how fondly they felt towards one another.
Kate was humming as she carried a pile of freshly washed sheets smelling of sunshine to the great cedar linen cupboard. Mrs Butterworth, bustling along the hall, her head bent over a sheaf of papers, almost collided with her.
‘Oopsadaisy! Sorry, Kate, I wasn’t looking where I’m going . . . these eternal rosters and accounts.’ She smiled at her. ‘Need a hand there?’
Without waiting for an answer, Mrs Butterworth opened the set of floor-to-ceiling cupboard doors on the right of the linen room. The sweet smell of camphor laurel and lavender drifted from the wooden shelves of neatly starched and pressed bed linens. Kate put away the pile she was carrying and closed the doors.
‘I love this little room. Its smell always makes me think of the times I played hide-and-seek around the house.’
‘You and those games. You had poor Harold and me running from one end of this great place to another.’
Kate reached out and squeezed her arm. ‘They were special days. Growing up here with you and Dad were happy times. I always felt so safe and secure. You’ve been wonderful.’
‘We did our best, luv,’ Gladys said softly. ‘My goodness, you make it sound like you’re going away or something. Kate? I’ve been meaning to talk to you. About you and Ben.’
‘What about Ben?’ Kate demanded.
‘Now, Kate. I know you too well. How serious are you and Ben? It’s obvious you are both rather attached to one another. I assume he hasn’t discussed . . . marriage. I mean, it’s one thing to enjoy a little flirtation, but serious courtship is quite another. Especially for a girl in your position.’
‘What do you mean, Mum?’ Kate was genuinely surprised.
‘I mean you and Zanana. You’re the mistress of a big estate, an heiress. If your parents were alive today you’d be having grand balls and mixing with high society, meeting eligible young men.’
‘Oh, Mum. I don’t want any of that. Times are different now since the war.’
‘I don’t believe so, Kate. You have to be aware of your responsibilities, your inheritance, your future.’
‘My future will be here at Zanana. And Ben is as good a man as any so-called society bachelor. Anyway, there hasn’t been any mention of marriage. We just . . . enjoy one another’s company.’ Kate didn’t want to pursue the matter further. ‘I have to get Mr Hollingsworth, I left him in the garden. Don’t worry, Mum, there’s nothing to worry about.’
There was a slight edge to Kate’s voice and she moved away in unnecessary haste. Mrs Butterworth bit her lip. Nonetheless she decided to have a frank talk with Hock Lee.
She took him aside on his next visit and he listened attentively, his cherubic Chinese face betraying little expression.
‘You are quite right to be concerned, Mrs B. But we must take care we don’t make too much of what might be just a small infatuation. Kate can be stubborn and we could just push her along a path she has no intention of following to its conclusion. This is first love and no one can be told it isn’t the love of a lifetime. Unfortunately, Kate has had little experience of the outside world and young men.’
‘Hector Dashford was rather keen on her.’
‘I think Kate put the kibosh on that. And really, I wouldn’t like to see our Kate married to Hector, would you?’
‘Dear me, no. when I think back to that episode during the war . . . how Harold and Wally despised him for being such a coward and taking the credit away from Ben.’
‘Exactly. But who does that leave? We must get her out and about. She has to experience more of life and people — young people and not the older folk she mixes with here.’
‘The men do idolise her, Hoc
k Lee.’
‘I know they do. And she genuinely enjoys their company and stories, but she should be having fun with people her own age. It’s not your fault, Gladys. I blame myself a bit. I tend to think of Kate as either a little girl or a very sensible and mature young woman, when really she is still a delicate rosebud. I’ve been too wrapped up in my work to pay attention to her blooming.’
‘I imagine your business is very demanding; I don’t know how you keep track of so many things.’
‘I’ve made it my life. When Robert died, I focused all my thoughts and energy into those projects — at the cost of my private life, I suppose,’ admitted Hock Lee sadly.
‘I often wondered why you never married. I didn’t like to pry.’
The now stout Hock Lee smoothed his still jet-black hair and smiled at Mrs Butterworth. ‘My parents did try to arrange a marriage for me, but I didn’t want that. Don’t get me wrong, the old ways work very well; but somehow I felt the responsibility of a family would be like dividing myself in two. Without realising it, I suppose I made the decision to carry on in the world I knew best. I haven’t regretted it — besides, Zanana and its family are part of my life too.’
Hock Lee and Mrs Butterworth discussed Kate’s future for some time, finally agreeing on a plan.
Hock Lee broached the subject with Kate, who immediately retaliated by saying, ‘You and Mum have been talking about me and you’ve hatched this together, haven’t you?’
‘Now, Kate, this is not some awful plot. We thought you’d be excited and happy at the idea of getting out into the world. You work far too hard here at Zanana; you should be buying pretty clothes, going to parties with other young ladies, travelling a little perhaps.’
‘Why?’ Kate asked stubbornly.
‘Because you cannot make any judgement about anything unless experience is part of that decision. It’s part of the process of living and growing.’
