Rose snapped, ‘Be careful, Cecily, your hands feel rough and calloused.’
‘I’m sorry, Ma’am, but it is wash day and the scrubbing –’
‘No excuses. Make sure it does not happen again.’
Madam daintily stepped into satin-covered evening slippers and Cecily tugged and laced heavily boned stays of pink coutil to the required tension.
‘Start again. Tighter. I simply must have a smaller waist. That fat cow, Miss Adelaide Jones, is playing the piano tonight. She’ll be desperately trying to captivate us with clumsy renditions of Mozart. The poor man will be turning in his grave.’
Cecily placed plump pads of creamy satin over Madam’s hips and under her arms to emphasise her slender waist and then unfolded white silk under drawers. All Madam’s lingerie was imported from France, handmade and tailored to her measurements. Every undergarment was stored between layers of tissue paper and dried lavender in her bureau.
‘No, no, no, you stupid girl! Obviously what’s required is the pastel blue pair with the cream lace. No, no . . . ah, yes, those. Go ahead don’t be shy, feel the quality. Lovely aren’t they? Several nuns at the French nunnery, that’s where this lace was made, went blind from their years of toil.’
Cecily winced but it was obvious that Madam felt no guilt or pity at the nuns terrible fate. As an acknowledged beauty, she felt it was only right that other beings should suffer to enhance her magnificence. For it was Rose who told me, ‘Oysters only produce pearls when they are irritated by fragments of shells or parasites. You see, Sasha, they make a pearl by coating the irritant in layers of nacre.’ She’d held a pearl necklace choker close to her ravishing complexion and admired the effect from every angle. ‘Hardly a week passes when I don’t ask myself – what would we do without oysters?’
Once her under drawers were on, reams of frothy petticoats were laid out on the carpet and Madam stepped into them. Cecily then fastened the petticoat tapes into place. Rose pulled the bodice of her evening dress over her head and Cecily then smoothed the garment down her body. The process would be interrupted if Rose was a tad cranky or out of sorts.
‘You’ve got the calloused hands of an old hag. Ring for Therese.’
‘But it’s her evening off, Ma’am.’
‘I don’t give a shite. Get that lazy strumpet up here now.’
Rose liked to peruse herself in the mirror, while dictating to Cecily the additional adornments she required. The boudoir safe was unlocked and various jewels held against the fabric of her dress until she was satisfied with the effect. Final touches were usually an ostrich feather fan, evening gloves and a glittering bracelet.
Madam wasn’t above slapping Cecily’s or Therese’s face if she felt the effect was not up to the mark and maids were left in tears if they failed to meet her expectations. But if pleased, Madam would reward her underlings with her cast-offs. It was a nerve wracking business indeed.
Quality apples were once Tasmania’s main export. The fruit was one of the few things that Rose was really passionate about. She corresponded regularly with apple connoisseurs all over the world and was forever planting and grafting new species. Several of the newspaper cuttings show Mrs Torte proudly displaying her winning specimens at various fruit and flower shows. One of our gardeners was employed specifically for his expertise in apple culture and when Madam was not consumed by melancholia, she could be seen out in our orchards instructing him.
At the age of six I yearned to be changed into an apple, so that I could command her attention. For only then would I be turned lovingly in her hands and examined favourably.
Flighty and capricious, Rose was prone to bouts of melancholy which greatly increased in intensity when she took to the piano. Rose would stroke, thump and caress the ivories. I’d heard it whispered by Mrs Adair, ‘Not much you can do about Rose Torte, eh? She’s got Kane blood and comes from a long line of brassy barmaids and loose women – mostly actresses.’
Rose played a lot of Tchaikovsky and Beethoven and favoured their more violent passages. After assaulting the keyboard for a couple of hours she’d be sweaty and overcome by self-induced dementia. When Rose wept, she did so in buckets.
When I was about six or seven years old, I crept into the parlour when Mother was afflicted at the piano. Peeking out from behind the sofa, I witnessed her hysteria and was awestruck by her audacity. If I’d thrown a first-rate tantrum like the one she was having, I would’ve been banished to the school room. Rose’s histrionics were so out of control that my father sent for our family doctor. And then he went into town on what he termed as urgent business.
Dr Chester Dual was handsome with a luxurious dark moustache that he stroked meditatively when conducting medical consultations. During our cold winters, he sported a long black Astrakhan fur overcoat with a rolling collar, specially tailored to show off his athletic physique. The glossy fur collar matched the luxuriance of his moustache.
Our pantry maid informed me, ‘The good doctor is a mighty keen horseman with a preference for spirited mares. Why, Miss Sasha, he just can’t seem to get enough of your mama’s sticky date puddings.’
The other kitchen staff smothered their laughter and pretended to be busy. But I was confused because Rose never set foot in the kitchen.
I’d also overheard my father telling my governess. ‘Dual’s medical practice is booming, thanks to the number of women who have heart palpitations, just thinking about him. God knows what they see in that tosser.’
When Doctor Dual appeared in the doorway, my mother jumped up and slammed the piano shut. Sobbing, she flung herself at Dual and attacked him with both fists. He attempted to restrain her by pinning her arms.
‘I can’t endure it! I can’t! I won’t!’
‘Ah, Rose, Rose, stop it. You’re only hurting yourself.’
‘Don’t. Touch. Me.’
‘Calm down, darling. Remember there’s the child to think of.’
‘You beast! Let go of me!’
Madam was still struggling in Dual’s manly arms, but at the same time she was clinging fast. I seriously doubt if the doctor could have freed himself, for despite Rose’s appearance of fashionable frailty she embodied the strength of six sturdy barmaids.
Following what was ostensibly a struggle, my mother allowed Dual to loosen her stays and lay her out on the sofa. She assumed a position of wanton listlessness. As Cook had once remarked, Your mama is quite the cat’s pyjamas. Rose’s elegant neck was stretched back over the magenta cushions, allowing her plump bosom to be exposed in all its creamy whiteness. Finely tapered fingers rested on her temples and moist tendrils of red hair clung to her forehead.
The doctor reached deep into his bag. He poured a substantial amount of noxious-looking liquid into a phial. Then, by clutching Rose to his broad chest, he managed to get it between her lips. I recognised the smell as opium tincture. Although she seemed to be resisting, Madam was greedily slurping away. All the ladies of her social set took laudanum when they were indisposed. Being indisposed was a euphemism for everything from menses pain and the vapours to plain bad temper. Because even babies were given opium in the form of Dover’s powder, many people still think opium is good for one. The tincture did its dirty work and after a few minutes, Dr Dual covered Rose’s bare bosom and stealthily left the room. She remained supine, breathing lightly with an angelic expression on her face. I learnt a lot that afternoon.
Father took to sending Rose away to recuperate. She travelled all over Tasmania and sailed to the mainland. She would take the sea air at St Kilda in Melbourne, languish at Daylesford’s mineral springs, or mend the frailty of her nerves at a luxurious hillside retreat in Adelaide. Prior to her trips away she became positively skittish and Nanny would relax her vigilance with the flannel. After Madam had left the whole household would breathe a collective sigh of relief and Papa could be heard humouring my governess in his study.
On Rose’s return from one of her cures, Dr Dual was again summoned to Appletorte and my
health discussed as though it mattered.
‘I could not bear it if our child acquired the wasting disease.’
‘Rose dear, that’s unlikely to happen to young Sasha in the countryside.’
‘But, Chester, it’s such a disfiguring sickness. My vanity could not bear it.’
The doctor sighed, ‘So you’re determined that Sasha will undergo the fresh air prevention cure then?’
Rose raised her chin defiantly. ‘Yes, I am. For a year or two at the very least.’
For several months, in order to avoid pulmonary consumption, I went to sleep every night on a covered open-air balcony. My wrought-iron bed was set up on the balcony and a nursery light attached to the red bricks. I had a view of our lake and fernery and could see the golden lights of the east wing twinkling through the trees. I lay awake for hours and learnt to recognise the seasons by the texture and warmth of the wind. I was transfixed by the magnitude of the night sky; it’s sinister black velvet was pierced with bright stars and the overwhelming sweep of the cosmos made me feel small and insignificant.
Breezes lifted my quilts, frost dampened my covers, rain poured down near my pillow and startled birds landed on the railing and found themselves eyeball to eyeball with me at five in the morning. My father didn’t give a shite but Grandpa attempted to intervene on my behalf. He got nowhere.
Rose gave it to him with both barrels. ‘I won’t tolerate you casting aspersions on my maternal tendencies. I know what’s best for Sasha.’
Grandpa touched her arm. ‘Rose, I just think –’
She shook him off. ‘Not every woman wants to follow in the hoof prints of our bovine Mrs Pinkerton. Good Lord, every time her husband glances at her she squeezes out another baby. I’ve lost count, but there must be at least fourteen or even fifteen Pinkerton brats. And by the look of her she’s already got another bun in the oven. Really, it’s hardly a life for a woman, don’t you agree, Papa?’
Grandpa looked decidedly glum but said nothing.
As the months went by I got used to sleeping outside. Eventually my fear of the dark decreased and I learnt to listen to the music of the night, to distinguish the sounds of the long-eared bat, the owl, the dunnart, the quoll, the neighbour’s dogs and all their distant cousins, aunts and uncles. In the early hours of the morning I came to know the kookaburra, the magpie and the cockatoo. Soon my senses sharpened and I developed the acute sense of smell and hearing capabilities of a feral dog. My nerves were so finely strung that I could smell fear and hear blood pulsing as small animals were stalked by the kitchen cats. I could see the coloured hues of electrical energy emanating from their bodies and visualise the terror flooding their bloodstreams.
I’d detect the horses shuffling their feet, ducks turning in for the night, waves crashing on the rocks, sailing ships being put to sea and riders galloping hard into town. I also learnt to distinguish the light footsteps of my governess, Agnes Pinkerton, as she crept across the wet grass to spend the night above the stables with our horse master, Tim O’Flaherty.
If Agnes caught me watching her, she’d whisper, ‘Go back to sleep, sweetness. I’m just going to check on the horses and see if they’re all safely tucked up for the night.’
Adults always make the fatal mistake of assuming children are not familiar with the deceits their elders practise on a daily basis.
One night I heard the footfalls of an animal I didn’t recognise. When I leant over the balcony, I was able to see the intruder by the light of the moon. It was a magnificent beast, about six feet long from nose to tail tip. Then I noticed the strange dark brown-black stripes on the beast’s back. He stood over two feet high, with short brown fur, sloping hindquarters and long back paws. His stiff tail became thicker at the base and appeared to be an extension of his backbone. I thought it was a wild dog but his head was shaped more like the wolf in the fairy tale of Little Red Riding Hood.
The animal and I froze. His ears pricked up and his eyes glistened. We stared at each other. I could sense the colours of his energy just as he could see mine. I slipped down the servants’ stairs and crept towards him. Nervously I extended an open palm towards the beast and he sniffed me. The animal showed no fear and let me tentatively stroke his head and fondle his soft ears. By straining all my senses I could hear the blood pulsating through his ventricles, feel the sweat bristle on his back and smell the damp grass crushed beneath his paws. When an owl hooted, the beast glanced around sharply and emitted a distinctive terrier-like double yap. Then he was gone.
I stared for a long time at the footprints the animal had left on the dew-soaked grass. I was too excited to sleep and decided I’d get up early and ask Tim O’Flaherty about him.
The younger female servants could often be found giggling behind the kitchen curtains, spying on Tim as he went about his business in the stable yard. Being a quiet well-behaved child I was indulged by our staff and they provided me with a well-rounded education in the rudiments of domestic politics and the battle of the sexes. Having grown up around livestock I’d already witnessed sexual reproduction in full swing. I was very knowing but I was also smart enough not to show it, which meant that our maids were usually unguarded when I was around.
‘Gosh, Therese, look at them thighs on Tim.’
‘Cor, lucky damn horse. I wouldn’t buck if he gripped me like that.’
‘Cecily, you trollop!’
‘Oi, cut it out you two. If the Royal Governess hears you, she’ll twist your bloody ears orf.’
‘That new stable lad reckons our governess neighs. He done told me Agnes and Tim O’Flaherty go at it, about three times a week, hammer and tong above the stables.’
‘He probably fancies her because she’s horsey. It’s them huge teeth of hers.’
‘Oooooh, nasty!’
‘Gosh, I wish Tim would leave his muddy boots under my bed.’
‘Listen, you smutty tarts, not in front of young Sasha now.’
The morning after I saw the beast, I rose early and sought out Tim in the stables. He was mending leather bridles, long fingers nimble on the needle. Tim always smelt clean in a masculine way: fresh sweat, laundry soap and saddle wax. He was all black curls, tanned skin and white teeth. Tim was not an adult who interrupted all the time and when he listened, he gave you all he had.
‘It’s true, Tim, I’m not making it up. I touched him!’
‘I believe you. I saw the same animal when I was coming back late from the Cock and Bottle last summer. He followed me nice and easy and kept pace with my horse.’
I waited impatiently while Tim licked a new piece of thread and took his time threading the needle. He grinned at me. ‘You’re a curious one, aren’t you, Sasha? Let’s think, what else can I tell you?’ He plunged the needle into the leather. ‘It’s a thylacine or what the local lads call a Tasmanian tiger. They reckon it stands on its bloody tail, opens its jaws like a snake and relishes the taste of children. Apparently children’s flesh is sweeter than adults.’
‘Oh!’
‘A missionary called Terence Brownmore is to blame. The stupid prick swore he’d seen Aboriginals doing a dance to scare off the beast because it was gobbling up their offspring.’
‘So how come the tiger didn’t go for me?’
‘Don’t be daft. Tigers go after wallabies, small animals and birds. They eat the lot: livers, hearts, teeth. Thylacines won’t feed twice off prey, so they can’t be baited with meat laced with poison.’
‘People are trying to bump them off?’
‘Yep. That fucker Mayor Wolff convinced the money that the tiger is to blame for missing stock. It really pisses me off. Those fat-arsed landowners always reckon someone’s knocking off their profits.’
‘Do you reckon the tiger might come after me one night?’
‘Nah. Besides, he’s had ample opportunity. Think yourself lucky. With the mindless slaughter going on there won’t be any tigers left soon.’
Tim resumed his mending and I digested this in silence.
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br /> I didn’t dare tell Tim about seeing the colours of the tiger’s aura. For as Grandpa put it, ‘He’s a decent no-nonsense bloke that Tim O’Flaherty. Likes to call a spade a fucking shovel.’
Years ago I found an old scrapbook of gazette and newspaper clippings in the attic at Appletorte. There are a few recipes and household cleaning hints but most of the clippings concern Rose and Lily Kane. One of my most valued possessions is a photograph of Rose taken shortly before her disappearance and it still brings tears to my eyes. Because at eight years old, I was far too young to lose my mother. Even if that mother was Rose Torte.
Rose’s picture was recorded about seven in the evening at the official opening of the Hobart Royal Fruit and Farm Produce Exhibition in 1898. Behind her is a monstrous fruit display comprised of fifty bushels of apples piled high. The journalist noted it was sixteen feet high with a base of ten square feet. Eastern in appearance, it was a jaded potentate’s summer palace tiered and laden with evil gleaming apples. The display was surrounded by potted palms, lush foliage and a vast number of British flags. It’s precisely the sort of social event likely to entice Mrs Alain Torte. She stands wasp-waisted in a dark evening gown with an indiscreet amount of décolletage showing off the creamy ripeness of her splendid bosom. Her hair is piled high, emphasising her sharp cheekbones. Looking at her photograph I can still conjure up her special smell: a potent mix of opium, rose water and English complexion powder.
The photograph shows that on her right arm Madam is wearing an elegant beaded evening bag and on her left, the Third Marquis of Glastonbury. I later found out that Richard Nigel Beaumont was known to his friends as Big Dick Beaumont. Posing alongside Rose, Dick exudes the type of bonhomie that only years of extreme wealth and cultural nourishment can provide. Fresh from the Paris season, this British visitor became the toast of Hobart. It was therefore quite appropriate he should be photographed with Wolfftown’s renowned beauty on his arm. My mother knows it too, for on her lovely face she wears the most profound expression of satisfaction.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 4
