‘I guess so. I’m no good at needlepoint, watercolours or embroidery and I don’t really like reading French novellas out loud. And I know I should try much harder.’
‘Ah, I’m starting to get the picture. You must be what? Nearly thirteen and you’ve been getting a rather superficial education. Thank God your grandfather has been teaching you the rudiments of mathematics or we’d be in big trouble. And of course you must be coming on by leaps and bounds with your musical skills.’ She tore the head off a daisy, one petal at a time. ‘I’m sure you must be the envy of every piano-playing lass in Wolfftown just by having Tremont Pearson as your teacher. He’s such a brilliant composer too, a true maestro. To be sure it’s only a matter of time before Tremont becomes internationally famous.’
I wisely remained silent. I knew it wasn’t the right time to mention that I hated the piano. And it was obvious to me that Grandpa had stretched the truth a bit. We most certainly hadn’t been dedicating ourselves solely to the pursuit of pure mathematics. For one thing it would have put paid to our delicious luncheons at the Riff. Grandpa was young at heart and he loved playing hooky. There were better ways to spend an afternoon than sweating over dry equations and boring mathematical formulas.
When I knew Lily better, I discovered kindness and negotiation were her forte. Lily Kane’s world was a protean one and anything was possible. I was thrilled when she moved into Madam’s former bedroom and all her trunks from Europe arrived. And as Lily set about restoring Appletorte Homestead back to its former glory, I conceived the notion that the future was rosy and the ugliness and uncertainty of my childhood was well and truly behind me.
Wicked Lily. Lily of Montmartre, Moscow, London and Melbourne. In an unconventional family crammed with black sheep, she’d still managed to disgrace herself. From a very early age she’d been able to catch the eyes of discerning gentlemen. And by the time she was sixteen Lily Kane was an acknowledged manslayer. She cemented her bad reputation by making off with a visiting British diplomat and fetched up in London. Easily bored, she then abandoned this dashing gentleman and reinvented herself as an exotic dancer in Paris. After which she became the mistress of a famous Montmartre painter.
Tales of wicked Lily’s notoriety made it back to Tasmania. The Wolfftown Chronicle slyly reported that someone who bore a marked resemblance to Miss Lily Kane had been spotted in Paris by a nameless Wolfftown butcher – Mr Denholm no doubt – at the notorious Cabaret de L’Enfer, ‘where she writhed naked on a black velvet cross for the edification of paying customers: Parisian artistes, the louche fashion crowd and bohemians of lax morality.’
No doubt gossip about Lily gave our local chaps more than just a tweak of the heartstrings. She was catnip to the male species.
Lily had also featured in a mainland society gazette, promenading on the arm of one of Melbourne’s wealthiest manufacturers. He’d made a killing in patented laxatives. Undeterred by his married status, he’d set Lily up in her own mansion in the prestigious Melbourne seaside borough of St Kilda. While holidaying on the mainland, Mr Denholm had spotted her at the annual Melbourne Cup. He informed everyone that Lily Kane appeared to be in the pink of good health. Butchers notice these kinds of things.
Being bad gave Lily a special luminescent beauty, a burning bloom that set her apart from other women. Under her guidance the household was set back on course. She missed nothing and our staff respected her as she was strict but fair. Lily was hell bent on restoring our respective reputations. She plotted our course with all the military precision of Napoleon invading Moscow.
Lil had a secret vice. She was a list maker and she stored these lists in a locked roll-top desk. I’d spied on her slipping down to the study in the middle of the night, unlocking the roll top and adding things to her lists. I discovered her campaign strategy when I filched the key from her jewellery box.
I was terribly flattered to discover she was genuinely interested in me. In her bold handwriting, I read: Expanding Sasha’s social circle and Educating Sasha Torte. Lily had a lot of work ahead of her, as she was determined to increase my social circle by stealth. It appeared that not only were we going to become sociable and outgoing but we were also about to become first rate hostesses. When invited to Appletorte for one of our grand dinners, Lily envisioned our guests being entertained by witty conversation, breathtaking style and stunning cuisine.
I was delighted to discover that Lily not only liked Viola Taylor but she thought she was a highly suitable friend and confidante for me. Lily hadn’t quite warmed to Viola’s father, the vicar, or his dull wife but there were no surprises there. I laughed when I read that Lily thought both Viola and I needed an overhaul of our sartorial style. She was hell bent on stopping me from wearing my gumboots to dinner and determined that Viola should renounce her hobnailed walking boots. Lily was quite sure that with her guidance Viola and I would morph into elegant young ladies. This sounded like it might be fun, whereas her plans for my education seemed quite taxing.
Lily planned on teaching me the rudiments of Russian conversation, art appreciation, firearms, archery and ballroom dancing. Experienced tutors would be chosen by Grandpa in order to enlighten me in the fine arts and sciences. Frankly it made my head spin just thinking about it, so I turned my attention to the third list.
List three was extensive and covered several continents: Men I’ve had. Attached to this list were appendixes including: Men worth seducing, Dud Studs and Prime marriage material. Even though Lily had tried to disguise their identity by using only their initials, I was able to work out who most of them were.
Lily had been very thorough. In a few short months she’d assessed our town, Strahan and moved onto cataloguing the gentlemen of Hobart. With all the care of a professional zoologist she’d named, labelled and analysed the merits and demerits of each bloke’s character along with his lovemaking skills. One lucky bloke had six stars next to his initials, for his proficiency in the art of cunnilingus.
My hands trembled when I stuffed Lily’s lists back into their respective pigeon holes. I knew too much and wished to God that I hadn’t betrayed her trust. I also wanted her to know it was me and not our servants who’d been snooping. So on the evening of my discovery I crept into Lily’s bedroom and left the purloined desk key on her pillow with a note of apology. Nothing was said about the matter but an unbreakable bond was forged.
I was an anxious child and I worried about everything and everyone. Although I was excited about the changes Lily was bringing to my world I was very worried about whether I’d be able to cope or not.
My conscience kept nagging me that if I didn’t stay vigilant bad things would happen to my loved ones. I’d often wake up in the midnight hours and worry if the noise I could hear was foxes slipping into the hen house to kill and maim. When my terror peaked, I’d get out of bed, creep down the servants’ stairs and head over to the hen house. And only when I’d seen that all was well, would I go back to bed. If Lil had been out for an evening in town with one of her admirers, I’d surreptitiously check in on her at four in the morning to see if she’d made it home safely. I was terrified that our Brougham might have broken an axle or the horses had run amok.
All this nocturnal activity meant I was frequently sleep deprived and it exacerbated my tendency to become overly anxious. To combat my fears I’d constantly check things. Were the fire screens properly in place? Had the boning and carving knives been put away somewhere safe? Was it possible that Cecily’s overzealous waxing of the top landing meant that someone would go arse over tit down the stairs? The list of my worries was endless. And as I was soon to discover, this was a trait I shared with Lily.
Until Lily’s arrival my education had been rudimentary and Papa’s predatory behaviour meant my governesses never stayed long. Lily was determined to rectify the situation. ‘Sasha, a girl without an education can only rely on her minor accomplishments and feminine wiles. She can be nothing more than an adornment in society; tinkling out Mozart, endless ne
edlepoint or producing ghastly still life paintings. But why not aim higher? If you acquire a fine education, you’ll excel in any field of endeavour you choose. You will also become a cultured and refined woman.’
I thought, hell yes. And vowed to lift myself up by my bootstraps.
The Kane clan valued education and my great-grandfather, Marcus Kane, donated the one hundred and ninety-eight pounds needed to build the first small schoolhouse in Wolfftown. Grandpa had inherited the Kanes’ respect for education. Early in the piece he’d spoken to Rose and offered to introduce me to the study of mathematics. That’s how I started going to Grandpa’s house in town for lessons. I count the time I spent with him as some of the best days of my life.
I always looked forward to visiting Grandpa’s mansion situated on the upper end of the wharf. The sound of the sea sucking on the jetty pylons could be heard clearly from his front parlour. The chaos of the port travelled straight up through the open windows as sailors sang, swore and yelled abuse down on the docks. Chains clanked and planks dropped as cargo was dragged or humped on and off ships.
Black cormorants lined up on the railings and hung out their wings to dry. They looked comical with their curved necks and prickly heads. Some of the male birds had wingspans one and a half yards wide. Seagulls screeched and fought over the putrid leavings of whalers and moaning fog horns were heard at all hours.
Grandpa loved the ocean and he’d furnished his house with an eccentric collection of nautical artefacts and furniture from all over the world. The briny smell of the sea permeated everything. His beloved wife, Bella, had died years earlier, so all traces of femininity had long gone. Wide windows offered panoramic views of the port and in the far distance were the mountains with their massed blue-green conifers.
Tim reckoned, ‘The south-west is chockers with ancient pine trees. A Brit botanist I met at the pub, reckoned some were well over two thousand years old, amongst the longest living organisms on earth. He was a pretentious git but that bloke knew his onions, to be sure.’
Townsfolk proudly told newcomers that Brendan Kane owned the best private library on the coast. His library was my sanctuary and it was where I started to make sense of the world. Formerly an old ballroom on the fourth floor, it was filled floor to ceiling with creaking wooden bookshelves. Grandpa employed a retired school teacher to maintain order and sort the crates of books that regularly arrived from London. Volumes of books were stacked on every surface but Grandpa knew exactly where everything was. Every single book had his nameplate pasted inside. The words Brendan Kane and nihil dulcius quam omnia scire, were dashingly entwined with a rearing rattlesnake. This loosely translates as, nothing is sweeter than to know all things.
Grandpa did his best to teach me basic accountancy skills. Patiently he counted out pennies and pounds onto the oak table and posed questions relating to compound rules. For a volatile man his patience was astounding. The library chairs were well worn with deep saggy springs. Because I was in danger of disappearing into the worn leather hollows he’d stack my chair with several solid tomes and I’d perch precariously on top. It was a balancing act and if my concentration lapsed I’d crash down onto the parquetry floor. Grandpa would help me up, dust me down and I’d climb back up onto the pile of books.
‘Head all right then, possum? No pain no gain my girl. Where were we? Righto, Freddy goes to market with one shilling and sixpence. You already know the cost of the apples, so how many pounds of apples could Freddy buy?’
I was utterly incapable of calculating the simplest sum and my humiliation was made worse by the prospect of losing my grip on the highly polished table. However Grandpa did succeed in teaching me how to tell the time. Nobody had ever tried to teach me to read a clock face and for years I’d lived in fear that an adult might ask me the time of day.
Trying to do mathematical equations made me so miserable that eventually Grandpa relented and introduced me to his book collection. He never once suggested that I should deceive my parents but I knew instinctively that it would be unwise to admit I’d spent the afternoon acting out a Shakespeare play, instead of wrestling with reductions and fractions.
‘You’ve got a real feel for the fine arts, Sasha, but no head for figures. Make sure you only ever employ trustworthy accountants. The world can be an ugly place for those who put their faith in the wrong bloke.’
How right he was.
I found an over-stuffed horsehair sofa hidden in an alcove. It was scratchy and hot in summer but preferable to the library chairs. No book was forbidden me. I entered a different world and became something of an expert on le vice Anglais. It was titillating to read up on French courtesans acclaimed for their skill in applying the lash. Court Judges seemed particularly susceptible to their charms. No doubt it has something to do with abdicating responsibility and the sheer relief of giving oneself over to a whip-wielding woman.
At that stage of my life I was dead keen to read about enterprising young women but they were a bit thin on the ground in non-fiction. Whenever Grandpa got a crate of books from London I’d hunt for them. Where the hell were they? I needed heroines I could aspire to because even though we had many working women in Wolfftown, the only truly successful women were hotel publicans, wealthy wives or courtesans. The last two categories frequently being synonymous. Let’s face it, many a promising financial deal has been forged in the cauldron of marital rights.
I spent hours poring over William Hickey’s adventures in eighteenth century London. Hickey’s tales of half-naked women, bare-knuckle fighting in sleazy gin haunts seemed very familiar to me as Hickey could have been describing the Riff.
I also became familiar with Dr Sigmund Freud’s recent work including Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. Despite being too young to understand all of it, I learnt a hell of a lot about what went on in the shadows of the Baudelaire Theatre. I also learnt that our sexual instincts are primitive and exceptionally strong. When I read that celibacy was unsavoury and an unnatural way to live, it finished me with any romantic notions of running away to a nunnery and becoming a bride of Christ.
Grandpa kept an eye on my reading habits and tried to nourish my intellect. Naturally I developed a passion for Shakespeare, it was almost an assured genetic trait. ‘Ah, Sasha, I see you’ve finished Hamlet. Marvellous bloody stuff isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I really like the bit where Ophelia goes mad.’
‘The Melbourne cast of Hamlet is sailing over next week. How about I get Lil to bring you into town for dinner and the opening night?’
‘Oh, yes please.’
‘It should be a tremendous production. I’ve got Miss Felicity Brown lightly treading the boards as Ophelia. She’s a real stunner and she can act. She’s got the face of an angel and a devilish mind. She’s been known to refresh her vocal cords with a virile stagehand or two between acts. My word, she’s a cheeky little minx.’ He toked on his pipe. ‘Miss Brown will be a pleasant change from the wheezing heifer we had eighteen months ago. When she pitched herself at poor Hamlet, he reeled backwards and collapsed in a heap. It brought the bloody house down.’
‘Did you cancel the play?’
‘Good heavens no, possum. I made an absolute killing as people came to see Hamlet played as a comedy. The actor playing Hamlet, my dear friend Bill Paxton, is a walking tragedy; a brilliant actor and a dedicated alcoholic. The audience can sometimes hear him throwing up in a bucket in the wings before he comes onstage. Bill understands pathos like no other actor I’ve ever seen.’ Grandpa tapped his pipe on his boot. ‘I felt I’d betrayed the bard when I extended the season due to popular demand. But Bill loved playing Hamlet as comedy, he’d had a gutful of serious drama. So tell me, what do you think is really troubling Hamlet?’
‘Ah . . . I’m not sure.’
‘Take the play home and read it again. Look at the scene where Hamlet yearns to kill his wretched stepfather but resists the temptation. It’s to do with sin and redemption. And when you’ve got the bull by the
horns, we’ll move right onto the ideals of the French Revolution. I’m determined you won’t grow up to be a Wolfftown bigot. I want you to eventually become an enlightened woman. Someone who genuinely gives a rat’s arse about liberty, fraternity and equality.’
And as I would later discover, this endeavour was as tricky as learning to ride an eighteen-hand horse. All over again.
Lady Dasher was known to be a music aficionado. Having achieved widowhood and the freedom to spend her late husband’s money as she saw fit, Clare Dasher established a cultured existence. She immediately set about improving the lot of talented but impoverished artists, poets, writers and dancers. All year round there were at least six or seven artists billeted at her luxurious estate. Most of them were virile young men who were known to be free thinkers and mavericks.
I began playing the piano early in life, for when I turned five Rose started teaching me how to play. Her teaching method was based on coercion and intimidation and one wrong note meant a sharp rap across the knuckles from her ivory fan. Even after Rose had long gone and I was taught by Tremont Pearson I still hated the piano.
Lily often caught me baking biscuits in the kitchen with Cook, when I should have been in the parlour thumping the goddamn piano.
‘Why aren’t you practising your scales, Sasha?’
‘I hate the piano.’
‘Nonsense. You do not hate anything. You may loathe, abominate, disrelish, despise or abhor people and pianos but never hate. It’s imperative we improve your vocabulary. And I want to see you spending less time baking in the kitchen.’
I’ll never forget my first visit to the Dasher Estate. Lady Dasher greeted me in the ballroom, cup of tea in hand and dressed in an ostentatious pink morning gown trimmed with white fur. It had been noted by the gossips that when Lord Dasher killed himself, her hair lost its mousy colour. As Oscar Wilde wrote of another, her hair turned quite gold from grief.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 9
