by Susan Duncan
Barbara reads my mind. 'They've stood for years. In much bigger winds than this,' she says calmly.
But I have heard, usually on a still day not long after big winds, the sudden gunshot crack and then smash of a tree as it lets go of the earth somewhere in the national park. There are no tall trees near my house so I never feel threatened, but at Tarrangaua, the trees loom over the house, not one or two but dozens. Where is the rule, I wonder, that says trees may only topple where they will do no harm?
'What about the old-timers around here? They must remember Dorothea?' I ask, deciding to worry only about situations I can control.
The wind picks up the rain and hurls it onto the verandah.The table and chairs where we usually sit turn black with the wet. Water pools in the western corner. One chair scoots along the entire length of the verandah as though it has a life of its own.
'Water's building up in the corner,' I add. 'Might do damage if it sits there too long.'
'Bob will see to it,' she says.
I move back to the sofa. Reach for another scone.
'Why don't we try to find a couple of them? Old-timers. Take a cattle prod to their memories,' I suggest.
'Not that simple,' Barbara says. 'Pittwater is a funny place. People come here full of enthusiasm. Love the summers, the boats, and the life. But many don't stay. After a while, it gets too hard. Loading the shopping. Docking the tinny in strong winds. Running out of petrol in the middle of the bay.Two years sorts most people out.'
'Yeah, the removalists told me two years is the deciding point. But there must be someone. 'There always is, I think.
Bob walks in from his workshed, smelling of wood shavings. Cold air hangs off him.
'Figured it all out?' he asks.
He reaches for a scone. His hand not quite thoroughly scrubbed. Slaps on too much jam. His tongue quickly tidies the sticky red dribble. The puppies look up. Beseeching. A crumb? Bob ignores them and in a minute or two they settle. Tiny puffs of disgruntlement and disbelief. They know they are irresistible.
'We're trying to figure out who's lived here the longest. Who would have known Dorothea Mackellar,' Barbara explains.
Bob moves in front of the fire. As though he needs to thaw. The front of his faded grey trackie top is streaked with dirt, his pants are pouched at the knees.
'Won't be easy. The locals who lived here all year round, not the weekenders, are probably dead,' he says.
Bob licks his fingers, one by one.
'Dorothea died in 1968,' Barbara says. 'And she didn't come here for the last eleven years of her life. So that means we're looking for people who were adults, or at least old enough to have accurate memories, about forty-five years ago.'
'That can't be too hard. I'll start asking around.'
Bob and Barbara exchange a smile, making me feel like the village idiot. Barbara has searched for six years without success. But a gritty little kernel of determination settles inside me. I have never enjoyed being beaten.
'Bit of a challenge for me. Fill in some time,' I say flippantly.
Bob moves from the fire. Throws on a log. 'Got a bit more to do.Then I'll come in.'
Barbara asks: 'Have we got enough for three for tea? This weather won't ease for a while.'
I get up. 'Thanks, but no. I want to get home before dark. Get the puppies settled.'
No-one tries to pressure me.
'Come on, puppies,' I say, 'let's attack all those steps and go home.'
'There's an old pathway,' Barbara says, 'that runs from Bob's shed to the back of your house. It's overgrown but Bob will clear it. Easier than going up and down the steps.'
'I've never noticed it. How long's it been there?'
'Years. Once, a doctor owned the house directly behind you. Where the old chimney still stands. According to local legend, he was in love with Dorothea and used the path to visit her. Locals call it Lover's Lane.'
'Did Dorothea return the affection?'
'Not according to legend.'
'Then we should rename it. How about Barb's Lane?'
Barbara smiles and, for a moment, weariness falls from her eyes.
'Oh, Lover's Lane will do. I think it will have its day again, that lane,' she says.
It seems an odd response but I let it go.
Bob and I walk out together. In the laundry, I pile on clothes – scarf, sweater, jacket.
'Put this on.'
Bob hands me a bright yellow, slightly ripped slicker.
'Sure you don't want to stay until the weather drops off?' he asks.
'Nah.'
I bend down, grab the puppies, one under each arm. Just in case the thrill of discovery overwhelms them and they decide to rush off. I open the back door and peer out. It's dark enough to be late evening. Light from Bob's shed shines like a beacon.
'So what goes on in that mysterious shed of yours?'
'Bit of this. Bit of that.' He pulls his collar up. 'Come and have a look.'
He grabs a puppy. Stuffs her down his shirt. It's Vita and she squirms with delight, licks his face. I do the same with Dolce, who is less entranced.
We run for the shed, a dark brown weatherboard building about ten metres from the house. I have passed it many times now, heard a radio and mistaken the chatter for a group of people gathered in the shed. Called out hello and been answered with silence.
'So this is where you come to escape.'
I say it lightly but Bob is serious.
'Come out here to think,' he says.
His eyes are black. Shoulders hunched. He struggles to find words. I cringe at my thoughtlessness. What he is dealing with, Barbara's illness, is inescapable. But I cannot talk about illness and death right now.Too many of my own fears.
I look around the shed from the shelter of the carport then take a big step up to the wooden floor. There is no door to stop the wind from seeping in, no heating to dull the cold. It's like stepping into an icebox.
Bob goes straight to the workbench in front of the window. He is silent and lets me poke around. It's a shabby, spider web encrusted shed with grimy windows. There's little attempt at order. Machinery is scattered everywhere. Sanders, grinders, saws. All huge and expensive looking. The kind that fools you into believing you would be able to rebuild your house if only you had the time. Drills, about three, lie on the bench. Nails, screws, nuts and bolts scattered like shiny confetti. There are hammers and screwdrivers, all sizes, and dusty containers full of little treasures. Ordered boxes and jars sit undisturbed in rows, their contents obscured by years of dust. Everywhere, the underlying smells of paint and turpentine.
Bob stands fiddling with bits of hose near a pile of fresh wood shavings. Trapped under his clothes, Vita wriggles like a restless foetus. From his perch, he can see who goes to and fro on the water, how the weather is building. Who's coming to call.
'Nice spot. See who's arriving. Decide whether you want to come out from hiding or not,' I joke.
He grins. And the shadowy edges of wear disappear from his face. 'Something like that.'
'Has anyone ever done a biography of Dorothea?' I ask, picking up the biggest screwdriver I've ever seen.
He hands me Vita and leaves the shed. Wordless. I'm not sure what to do. Wait? Go? Not for the first time, I think Bob is unfathomable.
After a minute or two, the back door bangs shut. A shadow streaks through the rain. 'Here,' Bob says, pushing a book in a wet plastic shopping bag towards me. 'This is the only book we've found about her life.'
In the bag there's a faded paperback with a drawing of a coquettish looking young woman on the cover. My Heart, My Country, by Adrienne Howley.
'Who was Adrienne Howley?' I ask, turning to the back cover to read the blurb.
'She nursed Dorothea for the last eleven years of her life in a hospital in Randwick,' Bob says.
'Is she still alive?'
'I don't know. Good place to start, though. With your search.'
That night I call Sophia in Melbourne. 'Bob need
s to talk about death and dying. I don't think I can help him,' I tell her.
'Why not? You know more about it than most people. What are you afraid of?'
I hesitate. 'It's too close to home.'
There's a long sigh. 'We're all gonna die one day, remember? Only a fool fails to get a grip on that.'
'Yeah, but . . .'
'It might help you.'
'I thought you might call him, talk to him. You're good at all that stuff,' I say.
'Ah, come on.That won't work. You're right there!'
'But what if I say the wrong thing? Make it all worse? Cause new problems?'
'You won't.'
'Barbara's fading. She looked translucent today.'
'Yes.'
'She can't make it up and down the steps any more. Bob has to drive her. He's got an old ute. Drives it down the track backwards and up the track, frontwards. It's a frightening sight. Does about twenty-five kilometres a year, he says.'
'Yes,' Sophia says. She is not shocked by the news of Barbara.
'Bob says chemo is not a cure. It's just giving her more time.'
'Does Barbara talk about her health?'
'Not really. Not in any way that admits any possibility that she won't survive.'
'How does he handle that?'
'Life goes on as usual. They're getting the painters in soon, to paint the house. I want to help them both but I don't know what to do.'
'Be there for the family. They will be so busy supporting her, they will need support themselves,' Sophia suggests.
'What about finding little goals?'
'What kind?'
'Not tiring, unachievable goals. Just interesting events that can be brought to her door.'
'Go on.'
I hear Sophia settling into the deep chair by her phone. Ready for a long chat. She'll be dressed in her old, navy blue cashmere sweater and orange fleecy-lined trousers, her old dog, Lucy, at her feet. Not much changes around Sophia. She's worked out who she is and what matters.
'Well, she's fascinated by Dorothea Mackellar. Done some pretty good research. There's a biography written by a woman called Adrienne Howley. If she's still alive, I think Barbara would like to meet her. Thought I might try to find her.'
'Hang on a sec.'
The phone clunks and footsteps echo across a bare wooden floor. After a few minutes, Sophia settles back into her chair with a sigh and a whispery shuffling of papers.
'Hmm, I thought so. She's a nun, a Buddhist nun.'
'Who?'
'Adrienne Howley.'
It feels like cymbals clashing, drums rolling, crowds cheering, the universe reeling – all at once. Fate? Coincidence? What does it matter?
'I don't know where she is right now, but I'll make a few calls and let you know,' Sophia says.
It takes a week for Sophia to find Adrienne Howley's phone number. In another of those little twists of fate, it turns out she lives just north of Newcastle, only three hours' drive from Lovett Bay. Easily manageable for a day's round trip.
'She's written a book you should read,' Sophia tells me. 'It's called The Naked Buddha. It's a simple explanation of the life and teachings of Buddha. It's very good.'
'How did a nurse in an old people's nursing home end up writing a biography of Dorothea Mackellar and a book explaining Buddhism? What kind of a dame is this?'
Sophia's belly laugh booms down the phone.
'Give her a call and find out.'
'I feel a bit like a fairy godmother granting wishes. Do you?'
'Feels good, huh? Once you stop thinking about yourself all the time, the world opens up again.'
'Gimme a break, Sophia. Permission to whinge just a little.'
'Nah. Now bugger off and get Adrienne organised to meet Barbara.'
'You don't think it will be too much for her? She's pretty fragile.'
'Ask her. But do it before you ring Adrienne.'
It's difficult, when you feel weak and ill, to find the energy to talk to a stranger, to ask questions that reveal the person before you. For Barbara, energy is a precious and finite commodity. Perhaps she has other, more pressing chores, the kind you race to finish when time is limited. Captions on photos in the family album. Letters to children, the kind that when you are no longer a physical presence, they can open and read and feel the comfort of their mother.
I know Barbara is a passionate collector of native Australian plants. I've seen her exquisite collection of pressed native flowers with their names carefully hand-printed below – almost finished but put aside at a time when the future seemed infinite. Did she really have the time for a total stranger to come by to fill in a few details about Dorothea Mackellar?
Bob is in the shed when I walk to the house to tell him about Adrienne. I can see his face through the window, round and full of concentration, bent towards his job. There is a sound like humming over the top of a buzzing machine. He's singing, I think – but, God, he's really tone deaf!
The shed still looks like a madman's hardware sale. In the daylight, I can see broken furniture – chairs, small tables, shelving, stacked in a corner. There's a loft, too, next to the carport, which is used as storage for huge bags stuffed with sails for his boat, he tells me.
'That's my boat down there. Larrikin,' he says, pointing out his shed window.
'The one with her backside sticking out of the water? I've gone past it hundreds of times.'
Bob's not fond of my description. 'She's a racing boat. Built to be light and take the weight of people in the rear.'
'I see. Now listen. I've found the writer – well, Sophia's found her, the woman who wrote Mackellar's biography.'
Bob looks shocked. 'Already?'
'Actually, it took longer than we thought. She's a Buddhist nun.'
'Nun!'
'Buddhist nun.' I can barely speak. Laughter set to explode – like the puppies just before their morning walk.
'I have never really asked,' I say, looking around, thinking if I had a kitchen in this kind of disarray I would never even toast a slice of bread again, 'what you do?'
'I fix problems.'
'What kind of problems?'
'Engineering problems.'
'And?'
'And what?'
I give up. 'So do you think Barbara would like to meet the nun?'
'She's inside. In bed. Today's not a good day for her.'
'Well, can you ask her at some stage? Today if possible?'
I'm anxious to nail down dates and times. My old journalistic habits have kicked in. Always hammer down the story. Quickly.
He drops a couple of metal tubes and walks towards the house. I'm left standing.
'Come on!' he calls impatiently.
'Oh, right.'
Barbara is asleep in the end bedroom so we tiptoe back along the hallway to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
Bob reaches inside the fridge and pulls out two plates – one with an orange and almond cake, another with a lemon cake. 'There're a few scones here, too,' he says, his eyes smiling but his face serious.
'Overdoing the cooking thing, aren't I?'
He doesn't answer, but cuts a sliver of both cakes and puts the scones back in the fridge, saying: 'The scones will need heating to be any good.'
'Those scones are rocks now. Chuck 'em out.'
'I design and build kilns,' he says, as if there'd never been a break in the conversation in the workshed.
'Is that why Barbara loves pottery? Why there's so much around the house?'
'Brick kilns,' he says. 'Not pottery kilns.'
'Oh.'
Silence. Not comfortable.
'Have you built many?'
'Yeah.'
'Where?'
'Up and down the east coast of Australia.'
'So where does all the pottery around the house come from?'
'Barbara's been collecting Australian pottery from the twenties, thirties and forties for years. Half the collection is still packed in boxes.'
; 'Is she good at it?'
'Yeah. She's an expert, really.'
We both turn with relief when Barbara opens the kitchen door, looking so tired I feel like holding her up. But she smiles, takes a cup of tea and, when Bob asks, says yes, it would be wonderful if Adrienne Howley could visit.
Bob sees me out the back door.
'There're a couple of points I forgot to mention,' I tell him.
He stops, which I gather is a signal to continue.
'Adrienne is in her seventies.'
He shrugs: 'I can drive her up the hill in the ute.'
'She's also blind.'
'Anything else?'
'Not at this stage.'
'Good.'
I don't know why, but I never doubted for a moment that an elderly, blind, Buddhist nun wouldn't hesitate to climb into a total stranger's car, drive for three hours, then climb on a boat, and clamber up more than eighty steps to sit and talk to a woman dying of cancer about a poet who'd died more than thirty years ago.
16
I'D EXPECTED AN ANSWERING machine, which is usually what you get when you're in a hurry to contact someone, but Adrienne Howley picks up the phone on the second ring. Fate again? After burbling a slightly chaotic explanation of why I'm calling, I hear a long sigh from the other end of the line. Before she can say no, I bulldoze on.
'Could you find time to come here? I'd pick you up and drive you home, but it would be better, if you have the time, to stay overnight. There's a little boat trip, too. Only five minutes. And easy. If you can manage it.'
'Tarrangaua,' she almost whispers. 'Oh, I'd love to come. I've always wanted to go back there and I never thought it would happen. Thank you, thank you for asking me.'
And it's as simple as that. All she has to do is arrange for her cat to spend a couple of nights with her local vet while she is away.
'Shall I wear my robes?' she asks just before we complete our arrangements.
