Salvation Creek

by Susan Duncan

  'This was the place she loved best.This is where she always longed to be,' Adrienne says. She means, of course, Dorothea Mackellar.

  Bob is at the kitchen door emptying the tea pot into a drain where a whole lot of delicate purple and white native violets bloom happily. He explains that today, Barbara is not well enough to get up. Does Adrienne mind talking to her in the bedroom?

  We move down the long hallway, past some of Barbara's early Australian pottery collection, past the photographs of Lovett Bay in the 1800s. Adrienne runs her hand along the bagged walls, then the cupboards, feeling her way, feeling another era, perhaps, in her life.

  Barbara sits up in bed in her large, dimly lit bedroom where heavy pink and blue curtains hold back the light from outside and a large cedar chest of drawers dominates one wall. She is glowing pink from her shower and her freshly washed hair is parted to one side and caught back with a pale blue barrette. She looks incredibly young and carefree and her eyes are filled with anticipation.

  Adrienne and I sit on two chairs culled from the dining room and Barbara straightens her carefully prepared list of questions. I've brought a tape recorder and we press the button. Bob tiptoes in with tea and puts the mugs on the bedside table where they stay untouched.

  'Is the house different?' Barbara asks Adrienne. 'How did you find it when you arrived at the front door?'

  Adrienne pulls her chair closer to Barbara and lies her arm on the edge of the bed, as though offering it to Barbara to hold if she wants to.

  'It felt a little ghostly, I suppose. But only at first. I felt perhaps she was saying, "Oh, you're back again".'

  'Did you come here very often?'

  'I never came here with Miss Mackellar although I visited the house a couple of times with her permission. She often told me to bring my two sons here for a holiday but she didn't understand that we didn't have the finances for holidays.

  'They were quick visits. She was in hospital at the time. Mr Birch and I came – he was her driver – and once the housekeeper, Mrs Scallwell, came too, just to pick up something she wanted, but mainly to check everything was all right.'

  'How did you find it then?'

  'It was beautiful.'

  'There is very little mention of this house, Tarrangaua, anywhere.'

  'This was her private place. Here she was out of the public eye altogether. She loved the isolation and was passionate about the bush. She could cook for herself, although she wasn't terribly interested in it, and I remember her telling me about sitting out there on the verandah having a steak and a bit of salad. A kookaburra came along and sat on the rails and if she didn't give him some he would jolly well help himself.'

  'That still happens!' Barbara says, laughing. 'There is a legend,'

  she adds,'that says Dorothea used to swim across the bay with only a red bathing cap on and that Chips Rafferty, who lived on the other side, would wait with a towel ready to wrap her. There's no mention of Chips in your book but I like the story. It makes Dorothea sound like a free spirit.'

  'She was a free spirit, but Chips was a real friend to turn his head in a gentlemanly manner and wrap her in a towel.'

  'There has also been talk of a relationship between them?'

  'I don't think so,' Adrienne replies after a moment. 'Not from what I know of her.'

  'There is a nearby pathway known as Lover's Lane. Do you think there was anyone else around here in whom she had a romantic interest?'

  'No, I don't think so. She had friends who came up from Sydney occasionally. But Dorothea was a very private person and she would be very circumspect about anything like that. She had very strong feelings about what constituted good behaviour. Dignity was very important to her. Not a forced dignity, either. It was a natural dignity, the kind that comes from understanding exactly what is right and wrong, what is dignified or undignified.'

  'Did she have much of a sense of humour?'

  'Yes, and a quick wit that could be very cutting if anyone tried to put anything over her or tried to take advantage of her.'

  'Can I ask why you're so interested in Miss Mackellar?' Adrienne asks. 'Your questions go far beyond what I thought you'd want to talk about.'

  'I guess my interest was spurred along by the bushfires when the house, and virtually the history of it, could have burned to the ground. I wanted a record of what had been here and what remained and as soon as I wanted to know more about the house I realised I had to find out more about Dorothea Mackellar. There was so much we didn't know.You are the only direct link we have found to her. How long did you know her?'

  'Eleven and a half years, twelve hours a day, six days a week, and she loved to talk. On a good day she never stopped talking. On a bad day, she would be exhausted. Towards the end, she started having little mini-strokes, which tired her out. If anyone said anything that riled her, that could also be exhausting.'

  'She loved language, I suppose.'

  'There would be certain words that would always affect her. Just the names of some colours would bring tears to her eyes. She thought that "The Colour of Light" was her best poem.'

  'She never married and never had any children. Do you think she felt her life had been wasted in any way?'

  'No, I think she was quite satisfied. She had done what she could and left something behind her that was worthwhile. She hadn't brought disgrace on her family, or done anything terrible. She never did a horrible thing to anyone. She was not self-satisfied and I don't think she died with any regrets. But there was sadness.

  At times. She could not mention her brother Keith, who was killed in the Boer War, without tears spilling. Right to the very end.'

  Barbara puts her notebook aside, slipping her pen inside the pages so it won't get lost in the folds of the bed linen.

  'I have only one more question. A small one, but important to me. What did she wear, do you remember? Were her clothes dark or light? Did she wear hats?'

  Adrienne thinks for a while before answering. 'She liked softly coloured clothes as I recall. Yes. And some bright florals. She always wore a bright floral housecoat indoors. I'm not sure about hats. By the time I knew her, she didn't go out much.'

  Barbara lies back on her pillow and I leave the room. Disappointed for her. Dorothea looked nothing like her ghost. There is no more mystery, except to wonder whom it was, that Melbourne Cup day, who passed by so whimsically.

  Adrienne stays with Barbara and the two of them talk for another hour. Not about Dorothea, Adrienne tells me later. About family, love, dreams and hopes.

  By mid November, after the wild spring winds have whipped through Lovett Bay and scattered the last of the bright yellow wattle, chemo is almost a month behind me. Barbara is fading slowly but fighting every step of the way. In her bedroom, where we now have most of our chats, because she rarely leaves the room, she insists she is feeling better and better.

  I have a boat, now. One of Bob's sturdy metal crates, which I've named Tin Can, and although I'm still too nervous to use it often, just knowing it's waiting at the foot of the garden makes me feel more independent. I ask him if I can buy it after Barbara tells me he is planning to design and build a smaller boat to whiz to and from Church Point.

  'Only if you give it a test run first,' he says as I broach the subject early one morning when the ground is golden from puffs of fallen wattle and the first hint of summer has blown in on an aromatic westerly wind.

  'Could you give me a couple of lessons, too?'

  'Yeah. But there's not much to driving a boat. Five year olds can do it. You'll pick it up in a flash.'

  'Course I will.'

  The first time we go out we motor slowly because I know that's the best way from my forays with Sophia, but when we hit the open part of the bay, he tells me to push the throttle forward. We race along in an ear-splitting engine roar and I think I'm banging along brilliantly until I look at Bob's wincing face.

  'What's wrong?' I shout.

  'You're breaking my fucking balls!' he shouts
back, his hands cupping his testicles.

  'Oh God, sorry.'

  I yank the throttle back and he nearly goes through the windscreen. Oops. Forgot that little lesson with Sophia.

  'Sorry.'

  He breathes again. White-faced. 'There's a middle speed, you know. There's not just slow and flat out.'

  He reaches across and moves the throttle until we're rocking along nicely. 'Right. Now turn back to Lovett Bay.'

  I swing the wheel sharply and almost shoot Bob out of his seat. He bumps his head hard against the side window.

  'Oh God, I'm so sorry.'

  He gets back his balance and looks at me. 'You are the worst learner I've ever experienced. A shocker.'

  And we laugh because we both know it's true and Bob's face is transformed. The lines of weariness soften, the tight band of restraint around his mouth relaxes. He looks years younger. There's a hint of larrikin about him, like the name of his boat, and I wonder if he chose it because that's what he knows lurks inside him.

  'If you want a boat to race to Palm Beach, this isn't the right one,' Bob says after we agree on a price. 'The engine is a bit tired and if it blows up within a year, I'll refund some of your money.'

  'Sounds fair.' To me, the boat feels stable and solid. It suits me beautifully. 'Anyway, I've given up rushing,' I add.

  'What you need is practice,' he says. 'Get out every day. On your own.'

  He takes a deep breath. Seems to steady himself a bit. 'Have a go at docking,' he adds. 'Do it over and over until you feel the strength of the wind and water.'

  'I know about breezes,' I say. 'They can nudge you into the middle of the bay before you start the engine.'

  Bob nods. 'You've got to respect the elements.You can't treat them lightly or they'll get you.'

  17

  NEARLY A MONTH AFTER MY last chemo treatment, the new editor at a magazine I once edited has offered me part-time work and I decide to take it on. I am worried about being home all day with nothing to think about except my health. And I've committed to house renovations. I need the extra money. The plan is to spend three nights a week staying with Pia in her inner city apartment. Bob and Barbara will look after the puppies and I will return home every Thursday night for a three day weekend.

  My head is still bald but no-one seems to care. Despite their image, women's mass market magazine offices aren't glamorous places. Everyone works too hard to bother with frilly clothes and high heels but I try, for a day or two, to wind a scarf around my head.Then I stop. I am who I am. And right now, that means bald. With a funny little bump on my crown that looks a bit weird.Too bad.Take me or leave me. There will be no more bending to be someone I am not. Not for a job, a man, a friend or even a life. Somehow, during the last few months, I have finally grown into my skin. The influence of environment or the threat of mortality? Probably a bit of both.

  But I have no idea how to handle life beyond chemo. After months of feeling like an alien I am suddenly dumped back into mainstream living. Do I march on as though cancer never invaded my life? Am I cured? Can I behave like everyone else again and eat and drink whatever I like? The truth is, no-one ever gives you the all-clear so the threat of a recurrence means a sense of being constantly on the edge of a precipice.

  Physically, I just thought I'd quickly feel ok and bounce back to normal. I wasn't prepared for the tiredness to continue and even escalate for the first few months after the end of chemo. And my concentration is still shot.Two minute spans are about the limit. I don't know if it's chemo, menopause or just the whole damn bang lot of what's happened in the past six months. Bottom line, concentrating from the beginning to the end of a sentence is torture.

  After four weeks of struggling to get to the office by nine, struggling to work solidly through the day to 5.30 pm, I am exhausted. Often, I have to crawl under my desk to rest, hoping no-one will see me. The effort of even sitting for long periods is dizzying. One night, I sit at my desk until everyone has long gone because I cannot find the energy to stand and walk out of the building.

  Every day, hot flushes pound in and out with their attendant waves of nausea, and they make interviewing people hell. I sit for ten minutes, cool and in control, and then out of nowhere my forehead starts to prickle with heat, my face turns purple, sweat gathers in large droplets under my eyes and bottom lip. Then it gushes in streams down my face, shirt front, back and the backs of my legs. I look wrecked and I feel like I am slowly going mad.

  Nearly everyone is kind and understanding. People do their best to help me out. A cold drink, a box of tissues to mop the sweat, a fan turned directly onto my face. I particularly remember Glenn Close, the American actress, when I interviewed her in Far North Queensland on the set of the miniseries South Pacific. 'If I break into a sweat,' I told her, 'please don't worry. I had my last chemo treatment a month ago and my body is still adjusting.'

  She looked at me closely, a slight woman with flawless skin and clear grey eyes, exuding health, sexuality and intelligence. 'Come inside where it's cooler,' she said. 'Tell me how we can make you as comfortable as possible.'

  No fuss. Just cut to the practical. She let me bumble around my questions, never lost patience when I repeated one or two and made me feel like a member of her family. She had the ability to see beyond herself and compassion came easily to her. Which I must say is rare in the Hollywood stars I've interviewed over the years.

  But coming home from that assignment, with my right arm encased in a tight elastic bandage to prevent lymphoedema, which is sometimes triggered by long flights, I know I've done a poor job. And I don't have a clue how to prevent it happening again. My mind is like a quagmire, thoughts fracturing before they form. Even worse, I have trouble understanding what people say to me. I hear their words through a kind of slow motion fog.

  I have lost, too, the journalistic instinct for the headline quote – the sensational sentence everyone latches onto and that catapults a bland interview into hot gossip. Cancer, which threatened my well-being, makes me suddenly protective of other people's welfare. So I self-edit and soften indiscreet words that I know would cause a furore in print. It is a form of professional suicide, but I can't live any other way now.

  On a personal level, every simple decision seems to have major ramifications. What kind of takeaway food might do me harm? Is barbecued steak carcinogenic? Will colouring my hair – when it regrows – increase the risk of cancer? What is good for me? What will hurt me? It feels, some days, as though I am wading through a paddock filled with landmines. The cancerous growth has been removed so, technically, I am not sick any more. Only I am sick from chemo. But it's not the kind of sickness people can see. There is no gushing nose, no fever, no cough, not even a tummy ache. Only a wave of wretched tasting chemicals in my mouth every so often, and a tiredness that permeates every fibre of my body. I am caught between wanting to push myself harder and being terrified it might hurt me, send me back to the cancer ward. It's a bastard not knowing why you've had a disease because it means you have no idea what to do in future to prevent it happening again.

  We talk one day, Barbara and I, about having no 'lift'. We mean when you go to step up – off a boat, up some stairs, across a watercourse – and there's no strength to make the step. No lift. I've never thought about where the strength to climb out of a boat comes from before. What instruction goes to the brain and is then passed down the body until the right muscles get the message and, poof, like magic you raise yourself to where you want to be? Now I put a foot on the pontoon and nothing happens. The other foot doesn't follow unless I pull myself up with my arms. Instructions aren't getting through from the brain to the muscles. It is shocking and humbling.

  One night Pia returns late to her apartment with a group of friends in tow, and the music plays until 3 am. Once I would have joined the party but now I cry from sheer weariness and cannot get up the next morning until an hour after I am supposed to be at the office. But if it isn't the noise of a party disturbing me, it is the sou
nd of drug deals taking place in the laneway alongside the building, the guttural scream of buses climbing the hill outside the front windows. All the scatty, random sounds of a city at night that seem unremarkable when you live in it. When you live far from it, in a place where the soothing slurp of an incoming tide fingering the large rock at the bottom of the garden lulls exquisitely, city noise is like the constant hammering of a headache.

  At Pittwater, my tired mind winds down just by sitting for a few moments and watching light play on water. Colours are always changing. Silver dawns, fiery sunrises, hard flat noons when the sun sucks the colour from the trees. And then lush late afternoons when greens turn deeper and deeper until they fade into the black of night. The bay is its own kaleidoscope. Silver, turquoise, lime, blue, gold, orange. Sometimes bloated with water. Sometimes so drained by the pull of the moon, the sea grass lies stranded and bowed until the water rises and it can begin again its silent, underwater ballet.

  The smells, too. The dank, briny scent of low tide when the sand lies exposed and wet, almost muddy. The dusty, roasted smell of eucalypts in the heat of a forty degree day. The sugary fragrance of wattles, the musty smell of damp rocks.Then there's the wind. On the coast, there is almost always wind, but each one has a personality, characteristics that tell you where it is coming from without having to look to see which way the bows of the yachts are pointing. A southerly is clean and cool, a northerly clingy and damp. In summer, a hot, parched westerly brings the fear of bushfires until a frisky sea breeze late in the afternoon forces it back the way it came.

  On a calm day of soft rain, light and shadow melt restfully.

  When balloons of purple clouds roll in and thunder bellows, rain pounds down in a shimmering wall and lightning flashes in jagged forks or long, flat sheets. When the sun shines and there's a hint of breeze, the bay glows like the pearly scales of fresh fish and is almost rainbow coloured. Sometimes the wind whisks the water until it is lacy with whitecaps and it is pleasant to simply sit and listen to the way the sounds change with the weather. The song of casuarinas, the taffeta rustle of cabbage palms, their fronds trilling like notes on a piano, the agonised creaking of spotted gums. And occasionally, the snap and crash of a huge branch falling to the ground. It is impossible to disengage from the physical world and I am reminded, over and over, that control is an illusion.