The Opal Dragonfly

by Julian Leatherdale

  In the week following Christmas, Isobel concentrated on her own private project that she hoped would change her aunt’s mind about the fancy fair. With three days left to the ‘big day’, Aunt Louisa returned from an interminable meeting at the asylum of the Benevolent Society’s fancy bazaar committee. Fancywork from subscribers and supporters across Sydney had been arriving in vast quantities all day long. There had been discussions with officials from the city council about preparations: the layout and pitching of the tents; the order of events for the opening ceremony; and the seating arrangements for the official party including the Governor, the Colonial Secretary, the Attorney-General, the Lord Mayor, the society’s patron, Mr George Allen, and their respective wives.

  Aunt Louisa was tired when she arrived home but generally satisfied that all was properly in train. On her retirement to the drawing room, she found Isobel waiting with a smile on her face and the tea trolley ready with a selection of pastries and pot of freshly brewed pekoe. ‘Please take a seat, Aunt, and let me pour you a cup,’ offered Isobel.

  ‘That’s very obliging of you, my dear. Oh, macaroons, my favourite,’ enthused Aunt Louisa, sampling one of the delicacies on the trolley.

  ‘I have something I want to show you that I hope you will find agreeable,’ said Isobel, ‘But it is a surprise so you have to close your eyes.’

  Louisa was in a good mood and prepared to indulge Isobel’s whims. She took a sip of tea, a bite from a macaroon and then closed her eyes.

  ‘Very well. Now you can take a look.’

  When Louisa opened her eyes again she saw a large ink and watercolour sketch propped up on the chiffonier in her direct line of sight. It was a landscape study of the Botanic Gardens in all its civic grandeur and fecund loveliness. There was the wide sweep of the newly constructed seawall scooping out a dark glitter of harbour. And there, with its carousel-roofed bandstand, was the sunlit, pea-green Band Lawn, laid out like a welcome mat before the garden’s young forest of native and exotic trees. Thickly dotted across this bright rectangle were tiny figures in white and black, a happy congregation of men, women and children at leisure in their Sunday best.

  ‘did you do this?’ Louisa gasped, wiping macaroon crumbs from her chin.

  ‘Yes, Aunt,’ said Isobel. She tried to sound modest but was secretly thrilled at her aunt’s undisguised admiration.

  ‘Why, this is remarkable! With no word of exaggeration, it is worthy of a Lycett or a Martens,’ said her aunt, looking at her niece with wide-eyed astonishment. ‘I had no idea you were so talented, my dear!’

  Isobel laughed. ‘Thank you, Aunt. I painted it for the fancy fair. It can be auctioned if you like. I would hope it may fetch a pound or two.’

  ‘I am sure it will fetch more than a pound or two!’ scoffed Aunt Louisa. And then the penny dropped. The dowager grinned slowly. Her niece was seducing her with this gift. ‘Of course, it would only be right that the artist be present at the auction. So that she can see the appreciation of the crowd.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt, would you let me?’ cried Isobel.

  ‘Yes, my dear, of course. I shall be there as your guardian as will the other ladies of the committee. So I shall have no fear for your safety.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt! I promise to be as useful and hard-working as I can.’

  ‘I know you will, my dear,’ nodded her aunt, and even tilted her face a fraction in anticipation of a grateful kiss, which was cheerfully bestowed by her niece.

  And so it was settled. Isobel Macleod was to attend her first fancy fair.

  New Year’s day arrived, hot and windy. There had been no reprieve from the heatwave at Christmas and the winds blew stronger, drier and warmer every day thereafter. Thirteen white marquees were arrayed around the Band Lawn close to the seawall, their sides billowing as wildly as the sheets of a tea clipper in a gale. Isobel admired the swarms of white sparks that shimmered on the harbour in the blazing sun, dancing across its azure waters like fireflies. When the wind got up, those waters stiffened to white-capped peaks, dashing themselves against the seawall in an ecstasy of sea spray. But the wind brought no relief, only gusts of hot air, which, at their most fierce, blinded eyes and filled mouths with dust and grit.

  Despite this unrelenting hot weather, the opening ceremony went off punctually at nine o’clock with the official party seated on a festooned dais and the regimental band of the 11th providing the required accompaniment of patriotic pomp. Clutching his cocked hat firmly and extemporising in place of notes that refused to sit flat on the lectern, the Governor praised the work of the Benevolent Society in general and the Fancy Fair Committee in particular, finally declaring the bazaar open. The audience, some three hundred by Isobel’s estimate, applauded as best they could while being buffeted by the hot winds. At the conclusion of formalities, the crowd gratefully sought refuge inside the marquees. The number of visitors that day (calculated later by takings at the gate of one shilling for adults and sixpence for children) swelled to well over two thousand.

  Isobel had never seen anything quite like the ambitious scale and rich variety of the bazaar. Each billowing white marquee had been decorated with wreaths of flowers, branches of evergreen and fronds of rainforest fern. Suffused in the green light from these decorations and from the overarching trees, the interior of these tents resembled cool, welcoming sylvan glades. The walls were bedecked in a plethora of national flags and the entire exhibition inside each marquee made to seem even more spacious and luxurious with the strategic placement of large mirrors to reflect the riotous treasures of the stalls and gay apparel of vendors and visitors.

  Each of the marquees specialised in goods of one kind or another. The first was dedicated to toys and was, unsurprisingly, the favourite of families. Here, Master Charles pestered his parents for a sailboat or a wooden redcoat while his sister, Miss Sophie, pined after a composition doll in a cotton dress or a velveteen donkey with a red collar and silver bell. A zoological garden’s worth of plump fabric elephants, zebras, lions, rhinoceroses and tigers demanded to be cuddled by little hands. There was the usual offering of adorable puppies, kittens, hedgehogs and mice, and farmyard boxes of bright wooden cows, pigs, chickens, sheep and shepherds with crooks.

  A second marquee was devoted to baby clothes and accoutrements. A third was given over to small fancywork items including crochet and needlework, cross-stitch and embroidery—pincushions, work baskets, purses, reticules, tea cosies, slippers, snuffboxes, card holders—arranged tastefully in glass exhibition cases, some of them so high they eclipsed the stall vendors themselves. A fourth marquee was dedicated to quilts in myriad patterns, styles and materials, and a fifth to larger fancywork items: ottomans, chair-coverings, rugs, cushions, bolsters, firescreens, and card racks. A sixth marquee was solely the province of knitting and beadwork. The seventh was a ‘wonders of nature’ tent with a veritable florilegium handcrafted in paper, silk, wool and satin, in cross-stitch and embroidery. Its specimens included the ghostly blanched filigrees of skeleton leaf work, and the desiccated remains of flowers and seaweed pressed into mock-leather bound albums to resemble a kaleidoscope of inkblots. The eighth marquee was reserved for painted and sculpted items: ladies’ fans and mirrors, writing pads and blotters, diaries and albums, and diverse paraphernalia modelled out of wood, leather and wax. Cordoned off in self-important isolation was a gallery of landscapes and portraits executed by the multitudinous schools of Sunday lady painters.

  A ninth marquee featured metal and rustic work such as brass peacock-tail fireplace screens, miniature wheelbarrows to hold jewellery and all manner of objects beautified with pinecones, pebbles, leaves, moss, shells, fish scales and feathers. A tenth was the intriguing domain of pokerwork (both pyrographed wood and leather) with lovingly detailed jewellery boxes, trunks and chests, mirror frames, cameos, statuary, furniture, even musical instruments. Two tents, dominated by giant tea urns and battalions of teacups and saucers, had been allocated for the serving of finger food: scones, sandwiches
, bran pies, cakes, jellies, toffee, lollipops and popcorn. Patrons were accommodated at marble-top tables and in wicker chairs where they took tea and were entertained by singers, magicians and jugglers.

  The thirteenth tent was for the auctions, raffles, lotteries and wheels of fortune, where either specially selected, cheap and inconsequential, or simply unsold goods were disposed of through harmless games of chance. These included a lucky dip with a fishpond, bamboo rods and dangling paper fish on hooks. All this Isobel had anticipated except perhaps the impressive scale of the enterprise and the heady carnival air of excitement that she inhaled in greedy gulps. Nor did she expect the thrill and pride she secretly felt to be part of this astonishing public demonstration of the genius and tireless energy of women.

  She also did not anticipate the variety of other amusements and sideshows that gave the bazaar the atmosphere of a funfair. Apart from the regimental band with its program of bright, brassy marches and mazurkas, there were musicians on gypsy violin, xylophones and bagpipes. Madame Vadoma waited in her fortune teller’s tent with the promise of readings from palms, tea-leaves and a crystal ball. Gentlemen tried their luck at quoits, a coconut-shy and a small shooting gallery. Families watched gymnastic displays and acrobatic tumblers, pony jumping and a maypole pageant, and later that evening they would be entertained by tambourine and fan dancing and a pyrotechnic display. There was even a live chess match, with men dressed in mock-medieval cardboard costumes to resemble black and white pieces, who were then directed to move about a board the size of a croquet lawn.

  Isobel spent much of her time in the third tent assisting Mrs Long and Mrs Smart. She wished she had been old enough to help Winnie at the fancy fairs for the Female School of Industry. She felt close to her mother today. She told nobody but she had taken her mother’s opal dragonfly from its secret hiding place and wore it pinned to her pinafore underneath her blouse. How she wished she could wear it proudly in public but she dared not break her promise. Even hidden away, the dragonfly served as a constant reminder of Winnie’s love and protection and, in a way she could not explain, a comforting talisman that evoked her presence. She hoped her mother would be proud of her today, following in her footsteps and helping her sister-in-law.

  Whatever misgivings about charity work for the deserving poor she had harboured following her visit to The Rocks were dispelled today by the prevailing sentiments of altruism and goodwill. What she found most heartening was the convivial attitude of all the ladies and gentlemen attending the fair. despite the scepticism of Mr dickens, the male customers were, to a man, civil and courteous. They doffed their hats, paid charming compliments and parted with their sovereigns and shillings with no hint of condescension, reluctance or grumbling. Nor did Isobel feel troubled or oppressed by any unwarranted attention or unpleasant innuendo.

  A general agreement as to the worthiness of the cause informed the whole proceedings, thought Isobel, and, thus liberated from doubt or worry, everyone seemed determined to have a good time. Not that Isobel had a spare moment for reflection as she was kept furiously busy all morning, answering questions, wrapping up goods and calculating change. Even after her short lunch break, the pace of sales never slackened as long queues of customers swarmed around the stall tables, waving their currency about with gay abandon.

  At one point she thought she saw Major Tranter and his wife in the distance and even felt his eyes trained on her. Under this scrutiny, her heart trembled painfully with shame. The same occurred when she spotted the Misses Finch approaching her stall but she was spared that horribly awkward encounter when they were waylaid by friends. Familiar faces did appear in the crowd including those of Grace and Anna, whom she welcomed warmly and sold two pincushions and a beaded reticule. All in all, Isobel felt nothing but serene happiness and gratitude to be a useful pair of hands.

  At three o’clock, Aunt Louisa bustled over to Mrs Smart’s stall and took Isobel aside. ‘It is time for your painting to be auctioned, my dear. Come with me.’

  Isobel felt a thrill of anticipation pulse through her, a giddy childish joy that she had not experienced for as long as she could remember. As they entered the auction tent, she even squeezed her aunt’s hand like a small girl does when overcome with strong feeling.

  There was a large audience seated for the three o’clock session. The public auctioneer, Mr Steven Archer, was in his box and had already started the bidding on a peacock-tail firescreen. ‘I have two shillings from the gentleman in the red vest over here. do I hear three shillings? Her Majesty herself would envy you this fine piece! Three shillings? Three? Thank you, sir. I have three shillings down here! do I hear four?’

  Isobel watched the rowdy pantomime with pleasure. It reminded her of the music hall master of ceremonies at the Royal Victoria Theatre when she’d been taken there by William and Joseph a couple of years ago. This high-energy performance had the same cheeky brashness, parading as gentility, with sly winks and jokey grins as an aside to the crowd.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the great pleasure of introducing to you an as yet unknown young artist of prodigious and precocious talent!’

  Aunt Louisa looked at Isobel with an air of barely suppressed excitement. ‘You!’ she mouthed in exaggerated dumb show, in case Isobel had missed the point. Isobel nodded vigorously to indicate she understood.

  ‘Here is a lovely piece that perfectly captures the setting of our bazaar today. What an ideal souvenir of your time here, ladies and gents. The Botanic Gardens, superbly executed in ink and watercolour. And what a rare chance for the art collectors among you to discover the gifted artist, Miss Isobel Macleod.’

  Isobel’s Botanic Gardens was unveiled on the easel close by Mr Archer’s auction box; it had been substituted for one of Louisa’s paintings inside a very fine gilt hardwood frame. Loud muttering bubbled up in the crowd, heads twisted sideways, eyes narrowed, some people raised their opera glasses. Isobel blushed deeply. She would have preferred that Mr Archer not mention her by name. She was certainly not so proud as to seek such publicity, which, she knew, would appear immodest and unseemly in a young woman.

  But it was too late now. And then Isobel was seized by a twinge of panic. What if nobody likes it? What if it sells for only a few shillings—or doesn’t sell at all? She had seen several exceptionally ugly items pass in without bids. dear heavens! She had walked, eyes wide open, into yet another ambush, another opportunity for public humiliation. How could she be so conceited? She blushed to think of her own arrogance, all puffed up by her aunt’s well-meaning flattery, that she had not stopped to consider such a disastrous possibility.

  ‘I start the bidding at half a crown. Half a crown. Who will offer me half a crown?’

  The silence that followed stretched out for an agonising eternity. At least that was how Isobel experienced it, a yawning abyss of degradation opening up at her feet. But she was mistaken. It was a pause of merely a few seconds. ‘Over here!’ shouted a man in the front row.

  ‘I have half a crown from this gentleman. do I have a crown?’

  A hand shot up from another man seated six rows back. ‘And I have a crown!’ Mr Archer rose onto his toes and pointed his auctioneer’s hammer at the second man. The bidding then bounced around four different men in the audience and climbed smartly to three pounds, at which point the auction for Isobel’s painting settled into a tense back-and-forth volley between only two gentlemen. Isobel observed all this from her position alongside her aunt at the back of the tent, so all she could see were the backs of people’s heads: a sea of men’s fur collars and dark jackets and ladies’ elegant shawls and coats.

  ‘I have three pounds from the gent in the front row. The bidding is against you, sir,’ Mr Archer informed the second man, six rows behind. The auctioneer, normally a sober, sensible fellow despite his histrionic manner, was emboldened to proceed in leaps of one pound. ‘do I hear four?’

  The current bidder turned his head a fraction to see his competitor and Isobel gas
ped. His profile was unmistakeable. It was Major Tranter. She then recognised the slope of the shoulders of his wife, once Lady Charlotte Bathurst, seated at his side. Major Tranter was bidding for her painting! What could this mean? And who was the other gent?

  ‘The bid now stands at six pounds! Six pounds. do I hear seven?’

  The crowd was abuzz with exclamations of surprise. Aunt Louisa herself was growing quite red in the face and her short, ample frame was aquiver with nervous agitation. This was already much more than anyone had ever paid for a piece by an amateur lady painter that she could remember. She kept looking significantly at her niece as if to say, You see, I knew I was right about more than one or two pounds! Silly girl! Isobel smiled back at her but her heart was galloping far too fast. She could not decide if this was a good experience or a terrible one, to be so publicly and explicitly judged right down to the last pound, shilling and pence of one’s worth! How did professional artists tolerate such scrutiny?

  That was when the proverbial penny dropped. She stared hard at the nape and shoulders of the man in the sixth row, the other bidder. She studied the back of his head closely, his mop of golden tousled hair touching the collar of a mint green frock coat. There was a languorous ease with which he sat in the midst of this dramatic bidding battle. She had never seen him from this angle but there was no doubt in her mind who it was.

  Mr Probius. Of course it was, who else? Charles Probius.

  ‘I have ten pounds! And now fifteen! Twenty! Twenty pounds!’

  The audience were thoroughly enjoying the duel of the two bidders, which had turned into a full-pitched tournament. The excited murmuring grew louder and the audience became more aroused and amused by this overheated contest. There were even outbursts of laughter. Isobel’s face burned hotly. In a fanciful, almost delirious moment, she saw herself exhibited in place of her painting, standing up there next to Mr Archer’s auction box, the object of all eyes. Before her these two men, the one who had loved her ardently once and the one her heart suspected she may love now, were locked in metaphorical combat, wallets brandished like duelling pistols, to claim her as the property of the highest bidder.