by Peter Watt
‘Yes, the images do look real,’ Patrick agreed. ‘But then they were real when Mr Thorncroft filmed them.’
The short film clattered to an end and Patrick’s two boys, George aged fifteen and Alexander aged twelve, both moaned in unison that the magic lantern had nothing else to offer – they had wanted it to go on forever!
Arthur Thorncroft turned to the young man who had assisted him and nodded his approval. In his late thirties but with the receding hairline of an older man, he looked small next to Patrick Duffy. Though they were of a similar age, Patrick’s hair was still thick and curling despite a distinctive dash of grey peppered through it. With his clean shaven face dominated by startling emerald green eyes, Patrick stood tall and broad-shouldered, still bearing the ramrod posture of the military officer he had once been when fighting Her Majesty’s colonial wars in Africa. His was not the finely chiselled, handsome face of an English aristocrat but that of the Irish rebels of his father’s ancestry. Although perhaps not fashionably handsome, his rugged presence nonetheless turned the head of any lady in a room, although it was not a power he seemed conscious of.
Patrick glanced across at his three children, still glued to the deep leather chairs of the Macintosh library. Arthur pulled aside the long, heavy curtains, allowing the sunlight to flood the room. The delicate beauty of the two eldest children, George and Fenella, was revealed. They reflected their mother’s aristocratic looks, but when the Australian sun shone on Alexander, it revealed his remarkable likeness to his father. Physical similarities to their parents aside, it was the very different personalities of the three children that often enough would puzzle Patrick. Fenella may be the mirror of her mother in appearance and mannerisms, but there was also a snobbishness that was not hers alone. Alexander was reserved to the point of being timid; not unlike his cousin Daniel, he was an easy target for George to bully – which the latter did with an unhealthy enthusiasm. Patrick secretly hoped that his youngest son would, in time, learn to stand up for himself.
Then there was George himself, a strangely sullen boy with a tendency to cruelty and deceit. Patrick shuddered at the thought that passed through his mind with the haunting presence of a rotting corpse. He did not want to compare his eldest son with a man who had been so instrumental in bringing misery to two families for so many years, a man who was dead but whose evil legacy still echoed down the corridors of time. Was it possible that people could inherit characteristics from those who had gone before? Was it possible that George displayed some likeness to a young Granville White? Patrick reflected on this with his inborn Celtic superstition for the unexplainable. Even Lady Enid Macintosh, Patrick’s maternal grandmother, had remarked to him once that the boy had an uncanny similarity to Granville.
‘It’s the future, Patrick.’ Arthur’s words cut across Patrick’s brooding thoughts. ‘A means of unlimited possibilities. Imagine: we could record events as they happen and then take those moving pictures to any place in Australia to show people the closest thing to being there. Or record on film someone as famous as Miss Deborah Cohen performing her arias before royalty. All Australians – even those in the most remote areas – could then share the splendour of her fame.’
‘Miss Cohen is renowned for her voice,’ Patrick countered quietly. ‘How would your moving pictures have any meaning with just an image and not her voice?’
The dapper little man thrust his hands in his pocket and glanced across at his assistant. Patrick followed his look and wondered if the young man was another of Arthur’s many lovers. It was something that he would never dare ask; some things were better ignored between friends.
‘Ralph has thought about that for some time and come up with the answer,’ Arthur replied. ‘You explain to Mr Duffy, Ralph,’ he said with a triumphant smile.
The young man coughed nervously and shifted his feet. ‘We use a gramophone in conjunction with Miss Cohen’s image on the screen, Mr Duffy,’ he replied softly. ‘All we have to do is synchronise voice and film. A bit tricky, we concede, but it can be done by trained projectionists.’
Ralph looked visibly relieved as Patrick nodded his head approvingly at the young man’s answer. ‘On that matter you have answered my question, Arthur. But I can assure you that I will probably have many more questions after I discuss the question of incorporating your moving pictures into the Macintosh companies with Lady Macintosh.’
Arthur smiled again, sensing that he had won his friend’s financial support and could now visit Europe and America to further his knowledge of this new technology and its limitless possibilities. Arthur Thorncroft had a vision. All he needed was money – a lot of money – to see that vision realised.
‘Would people pretend to do things on the moving pictures one day, Mr Thorncroft? Make up stories like those in stage plays?’
This was an echo of Arthur’s own thoughts and he turned towards the one who asked the question. ‘They would one day, Miss Macintosh. Just like the great actors and actresses of the stage today. They would be seen by more people in the world than ever before.’
Fenella’s enigmatic smile went unseen by all in the room except the man who had answered her. She has the vision, Arthur mused. ‘It might be that one day you will be one of those people that the world will see. You are certainly beautiful enough, like your mother.’
The young woman blushed at the compliment but was bold enough to stare into his eyes when she replied softly, ‘I will be, Mr Thorncroft.’
Patrick glanced up from the cumbersome projector he had been examining with scientific interest. ‘First you finish your education, young lady,’ he growled gently. ‘Then I think you will meet a young gentleman fitting your station in life and get married.’
‘Oh, I will do that some day, Father,’ she replied lightly. ‘But I have so many things to do first. Just like Mama wants to do now.’
His daughter’s reply had a barb that stung Patrick. Catherine’s restlessness had been all too apparent over the last year and it was obvious that the tension between them had not been missed by their daughter. She was too perceptive for her age, he thought. What is between a man and a wife is their concern only, not that of mere children. He was tempted to reply to the barely concealed challenge but checked himself. ‘I think it is time you children thought about music practice,’ Patrick said gruffly.
There was no moan of protest. All three Macintosh children knew better than to argue with the gentle but strong man who ruled their lives with love and discipline in equal amounts. They dutifully bid him and Arthur a good afternoon and slouched off for the detested hour on the piano under the sharp nose and beady eyes of their music tutor, Miss Graham.
Patrick turned his attention to his guests and finalised plans for their next meeting on the matter of finance before escorting them to the grand entrance of the Macintosh family home, where a carriage waited to carry them the few miles back to the growing city of Sydney. Patrick waved to Arthur then turned back towards the house and walked to his grandmother in the drawing room. There was much to discuss. He only wished Catherine had been with him this afternoon to witness the miracle of the moving pictures.
Lady Enid Macintosh was an impressive woman even in the first years of her eighties. Her frailty was only visible in the transparent, smooth skin of her face which seemed delicate as rice paper but otherwise was barely marked by the signs of time. From her face burned the emerald green eyes that marked the women of her family, eyes that Patrick also had inherited through his mother, Fiona, Enid’s daughter. Her once raven hair was now snow white but carefully groomed into a bun on her head.
Enid sat with her hands in her lap, where a pair of spectacles lay. Her vanity did not allow anyone to see her wearing them when she perused company reports or read the newspapers. Although she had been dozing when Patrick entered the room his presence was immediately sensed and the green eyes, now only slightly opaque with age, were open as he took a seat opposite. The room seemed strangely devoid of ostentation, given its lo
cation in a house that could afford any luxury available in the colony of New South Wales.
Enid smiled warmly. ‘Mr Thorncroft has departed?’ she asked. ‘I hope your meeting was fruitful.’
‘You would have enjoyed yourself, Grandmother,’ Patrick said. ‘The moving pictures are not the work of the devil as you might believe.’
‘Oh, I know that. But I fear that people will use the invention for the devil’s work some day. Perhaps that does not make sense to you, but I have a feeling nothing good can come of such an invention.’
‘It can make money.’
‘Well, that is a good thing for the company, I suppose,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘And that is what it is to be a Macintosh.’
‘I’m not all Macintosh,’ Patrick reminded his grandmother.
‘I know it was hard for you to allow your children to take my name,’ she said with a hint of compassion. ‘But it was arranged with your Uncle Daniel a long time ago, Patrick. A necessity, so that against all odds the Macintosh name should survive. Did you know that your Uncle David was fascinated by photography?’ Enid continued as she reflected on the complexity of family relationships. ‘I think he would have been very fascinated by Mr Thorncroft’s project.’
‘Does that mean that you will give your approval to any proposal I put to our bankers to finance Arthur?’ Patrick asked.
‘I think so. I know that is what David would have wanted. Perhaps it is also possible that moving films will capture all that is good in people’s lives.’
‘Thank you, Grandmother,’ Patrick said, rising to kiss her.
Enid waved him down, indicating that she had not yet finished with business. ‘I have received a letter from Germany this day. A letter from Helen.’
Patrick sank to his chair. His grandmother could never bear to refer to Helen or Dorothy as his sisters – or at least half sisters. The old animosities that once existed between Enid and his mother prevented her from doing so, he thought.
‘I hope she is well and enjoying life in the von Fellmann family,’ he said politely. ‘Are we to see her one day?’
‘It seems so. She and her husband will be travelling to Sydney and then on to Queensland. Her husband has a post with his Church up there.’
Patrick had never met his half sister’s husband. Karl von Fellmann was one of his Aunt Penelope’s twin sons. A few years younger than Helen, he had married her after his ordination as a Lutheran pastor. Penelope’s other son had followed in his father’s footsteps and taken a commission in the imperial German army.
‘Then her visit is more than just social.’
‘Yes,’ Enid replied with a slight frown. ‘Her husband is seeking missionary work in Queensland amongst the Aboriginal people. Helen has requested that we grant her and her husband land at Glen View to set up a mission station.’
Patrick raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘A bit late for missionary work around Glen View,’ he commented pragmatically. ‘The dispersal of ’62 took care of that. The only blackfellows at Glen View are the ones we brought in from surrounding districts to work the cattle.’
‘Apparently Helen knows that but she feels her husband can provide a central place to minister to all the dark brethren that might be displaced in the districts around Glen View. They feel they could provide a place for them on Glen View.’
‘What is your view of her request?’
‘I have my thoughts,’ his grandmother replied thoughtfully. ‘But I would rather hear yours first, as the owner of Glen View. It is only right.’
Patrick knew from experience that whenever his grandmother made such a statement she had already decided that her thoughts would be opposed to his. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair before replying. ‘My two grandfathers are buried on Glen View,’ he replied. ‘So also my cousin Peter Duffy, not to mention my Uncle Angus. The property is more than just a money-making enterprise. It might be one of many properties we own but even you must appreciate its family significance to both you and me, and to your great-grandchildren.’ He examined her expression for a reaction and was pleased to see just a hint of self-doubt.
‘You are right,’ she finally said. ‘We cannot give up one inch of Glen View for any reason whatsoever. God has given us the land and Helen will just have to understand.’
‘I am sure that if she and her husband approach the Queensland government they will be more than sympathetic to a request for land to be used as a mission station,’ Patrick said rather lamely. ‘I know the government up there is seeking a solution to the Aboriginal problem by spreading Christianity amongst them.’
‘They have been steeped in their heathenism for so long with their primitive beliefs,’ Enid said with the conviction of her Christian devoutness, ‘that I sometimes despair that our faith will ever truly take root amongst them.’
Patrick found himself silently agreeing with his grandmother. What he had learned of the Aboriginal people mystified him. Aided by the Native Mounted Police, his maternal grandfather had launched a deadly and thorough expedition to slaughter every man, woman and child of the Nerambura clan of the Darambal people on Glen View. By 1868 only one full-blooded man survived and even now he remained a legend amongst the frontier communities in the colony of Queensland. While Wallarie lived so too did the Nerambura people. Although Patrick would never approve of the methods his grandfather used to disperse the Nerambura he did at least understand them. His grandfather had been at war with the land, carving out a place fit for good Christian men and women. The Nerambura had resisted his holy crusade and so had to be eliminated. But could such terrible violence go unavenged? So many violent deaths had come to both the Duffys and the Macintoshes over the years for no apparent reason. It was as if both families had unleashed a primitive curse upon themselves.
‘Patrick? You are miles away,’ his grandmother interrupted. ‘What is bothering you? Is it Arthur’s proposal?’
He realised that his withdrawal was disturbing her. His grandmother was sensitive to his moods and might construe his reflective silence for worry. ‘No. I was thinking about something else. I’m sorry if I seem to be distracted.’
He rose again and kissed her gently on the forehead. Reaching up to touch his face with her delicate, frail hand, Enid said perceptively, ‘Life has a way of going on despite all our worries. One day our family will find the peace we seek.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I just hope it comes in our lifetime.’
Patrick left his grandmother alone in the drawing room, taking his troubled thoughts with him. But Enid harboured her own troubled feelings. Had she made the right decision to side with her grandson and leave Glen View firmly in Macintosh hands? Or should she have conceded to her grand-daughter’s request to provide a place for the Aboriginal people? For many years she had harboured the fear that all the problems that had beset the family had a source far away on the brigalow plains of central Queensland, a force released by the bloody slaughter of an ancient people whose soul was the land itself. The more Lady Macintosh tried to justify their decision, the more she was reminded of a name that always seemed to be present in the shadows of her life, the strange heathen name of a warrior: Wallarie.
TWO
The teak inlay and expensive brass fittings of the room reeked of opulence and an assurance that the food served here would be the finest in the colony. Catherine Duffy’s appearance in the hotel restaurant caused the heads of a couple of colonial matrons to turn. Whispered comments concerning her public appearance without her husband were made as their eyes followed the beautiful woman to a table where a man sat, obviously awaiting her company.
‘I am so pleased to see that you could join me for dinner, Catherine,’ Brett Norris said as he rose from his chair. ‘I feared you might have trouble getting away.’
Brett Norris had journeyed to Sydney to explore future prospects for his family’s enterprises. But his first order of priorities had been the renewal of an old acquaintanceship with the beautiful Catherine Duffy, nee
Fitzgerald. From his first meeting with her he had confirmed his belief that she had learned the error of her ways in marrying the Australian. Catherine had a discontentment that he knew he could exploit and their rendezvous in the hotel restaurant was the fourth time they had met to dine and talk. But Norris wanted more than talk. He wanted the wife of Patrick Duffy more than he wanted any financial opportunities that the Australian colonies could offer.
Catherine flashed a smile as she allowed the waiter to assist her into her chair. Brett Norris could not help admiring this woman with the beautiful green eyes, milk white skin and long, fiery titian tresses piled elegantly on her head. ‘Patrick is more interested in managing Lady Enid’s companies and playing soldiers with his regiment than my whereabouts,’ she replied with an edge of bitterness.
‘His regiment might be called on to campaign in South Africa against the Boer, the ways things are going,’ Norris cautioned. ‘How would you feel about him leaving you?’
Catherine accepted the crystal flute of champagne poured for her by the waiter. ‘He has seen enough war,’ she replied, sipping from the flute. ‘Knowing my husband as I do, I doubt that he will leave his grandmother to go away, even if his regiment is called to service in Africa.’
Brett Norris pursed his lips in disagreement. He was a handsome man, approaching forty, and now controlled his father’s companies. Iron, coal, railways, arms of war and textile factories in England were the mainstay of Norris & Son and the company now sought further afield for the raw materials of their industry. ‘I think, knowing the little that I do of your husband,’ he said, ‘that he could not bear to relinquish his command of the regiment in time of war. Men like your husband have misguided ideas that they must be prepared to lay down their lives for men who need their courage and leadership.’
