I still wake up smelling and savouring the memory of those meals. In my dreams, I see tables laden with fruit, yoghurt and cream. Baked dinners, freshly cured ham, pork, chickens, duck and lamb. Garden-grown roast potatoes crisp on the outside, tender and soft inside, smothered with butter and tangy with salt. My mouth still waters to recall the freshly baked bread and simple but delicious puddings. Salad greens straight from the garden and washed under the tap. Tomatoes that sizzled and snapped in your mouth – I’ve never experienced that intense flavour in any tomato since. Vegetables beautifully marinated in herbs and Doris’s homemade butters. Peas scooped from the pod and eaten raw and plump; blackberries, juicy and tart, trickled with warm cream. Eggs gathered from the hens while still brown and warm. Simple food, grown in nature and transformed by Doris’s irresistible and unforgettable alchemy. The manor’s few visitors I believe, came as much for Doris’s cooking as for Rupert’s art.
‘Who’s that lady?’ A little girl appeared at the back door, startling me. She wore a grey tunic-style dress below which a white tulle petticoat peeped, and black stockings. Her long blonde hair was fastened with a black ribbon. She was like a beautiful doll with her pretty face – I’d never seen a child so fair. But her eyes were old for her years, and she spoke as if she was the adult and we the children. Dust motes sparkled around her as her cornflower-blue eyes examined me critically.
‘Shalimar, aren’t you meant to be with Miss Sharp?’ Doris said. ‘This is Ginger; she’s come about a job. She’s going to be living with us for a while.’
The child nodded. ‘I know who she is!’ she exclaimed in a sweet, confident voice. ‘Miss Sharp said a new Flower would be arriving. A red rose that smelled of fire, sparks and heat.’ She held up a cloth doll with red woollen hair. ‘So she made Rose for me.’
‘Didn’t I tell you to stop taking dolls off Miss Sharp? And “she’s” the cat’s mother, so use people’s names!’ Doris snapped Which was a bit rich, considering Doris had just done the same to me in the kitchen. ‘Miss Sharp is spoiling you. I shall have another word with her. Go to your room.’
The child glowered at her mother; she threw the doll on the ground before vanishing in a swirl of skirt and tulle. She was an eerily beautiful creature, but I was surprised that Doris would tolerate her temper. If one of us had behaved in such a way, Ma would have ordered us to pick up the doll and whacked us for insolence.
I watched the specks of dust floating in Shalimar’s wake, feeling an odd clutching regret in my stomach. I’d made up my mind firmly to never become a mother. There was no way I would ever answer to any man and promise to obey him. But Shalimar was so special. She made you long for dreams you didn’t realise you had.
‘Your daughter is beautiful,’ I said.
‘Thank you.’ Doris smiled at me properly for the first time since we had met. ‘I’ve been longing for another one for so long.’ Her hand went to her stomach, and I reflected on what an odd bird she was. Ma would howl whenever she fell again, but Doris wore an expression of hope and yearning. ‘Rupert loves her so much he doesn’t even care about having another. But it will do her good to have another child around.’ Her hand still on her stomach she looked at me meaningfully, then stooped to collect the abandoned doll. ‘My tea will be getting cold,’ she said. ‘Let’s find Rupert. He’ll be delighted to see his Flower has arrived.’
We walked through a washhouse, with a wringer that would have made Ma sigh with envy. There was a small dunny at the back of the house where a few hens were clucking, and an old tabby cat lay soaking up the sun. A cobbled path led to a stone building with a slate roof, tubs of wildflowers outside and several concrete life-sized statues of naked women at the entrance. Like the main house, the door was painted blue.
‘Here’s his studio.’ Doris knocked and I heard a man’s voice call out. ‘In you go,’ Doris ordered, poking me in the back. ‘Rupert! Your new Flower’s here. Exactly as Miss Sharp predicted, as our daughter’s just informed me.’
I stepped through the blue door and into my new life as one of the Devil’s Flowers.
8
Bones of the Lost Boys
I was shocked by Rupert’s studio when I first saw it in April 1945. Not because of the two masked, naked women, peacock feathers in their hair, holding bows and arrows and posing next to a red velvet sofa and stuffed real tiger. It was the chaotic beauty in the room that disturbed me. The palpable presence of a creative energy. I stood, mouth probably catching flies, as I attempted to take in the exotic jewellery-box beauty of the studio. I tentatively inhaled the pungent odours of oil paints, turpentine and linseed oil, and felt my head swim. In later years I would wistfully recall their aromas – but when I first started posing, the studio smells made me crook.
Rupert stood at a large easel at the far end of the stone room. He wore a paint-splattered blue shirt, braces, black vest and grey trousers. A roll-up dangled from his lip. His tangled black hair hung to his chin. As with the first time I’d met him, he was unshaven.
Canvases, brushes, wooden frames; all you would expect to see in an artist’s studio met my fascinated gaze, as well as things I would never have imagined, such as the tiger, and a vast collection of hats, elegant beaded dresses, gloves and bags. A red and yellow lacquered Chinese screen stood in the corner of the studio, and there were guns in a glass case, an axe, and other props: velvet drapes, patterned silk textiles, antique lace, rolls of wallpaper, books, children’s toys, a wooden rocking horse, stuffed birds, and military-style helmets. A cabinet overflowed with stones, shells, dried starfish and sea horses, while near the unlit brick fireplace stood a dressmaker’s dummy covered with buttons and badges. A large board pinned with newspaper clippings was propped against a wall, and above it were shelves holding deer antlers and deadly looking animal traps. A glass cupboard contained china teacups and hundreds of keys, while another was overflowing with cloth dolls. I felt captivated by the studio’s eccentric charm and bizarre, eclectic beauty. As I stood there taking it all in, I fancied that the models glared at me from behind their sequined black masks, but neither made an effort to cover up. They were obviously well used to being naked in public.
‘What the devil?’ Rupert exclaimed, pushing back his hair. ‘Ah, it’s you! Miss “A Monkey Could Paint Better”.’ He whistled and stepped out from his easel, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. His face guarded, it was impossible for me to gauge his reaction at my arrival. Although he had invited me, I was now terrified of being sent packing. Who else could I turn to?
‘Take a break, ladies!’ he instructed, his eyes seeming to drink me in. Kitty (for I well knew it was Kitty under the mask) and the other model stretched and languidly covered themselves with wraps, then sat down on the sofa to watch us. Neither woman displayed any embarrassment. It was me, feeling ridiculously overdressed in my coat, who felt my face flare.
‘You took your time, Red.’ He jerked his head towards the girls, who were watching our exchange. ‘D’you think you’d be able to carry a pose?’
I imagined Ma’s horror at the suggestion, and I saw again her lined face and shaking hands. Her floral tin stashed away with small amounts of money and her constant fear that Pa would discover her secret hoard. I heard his belt striking her on the nights he came home ‘full’, followed by her screams and then, even worse, her quiet weeping in the still, dark house in the early hours. And afterwards, her piteous excuses to us as she attempted to dismiss his violence. I remembered with a clench of anger her shabby clothes and all the things she went without every day of her life so her children could be provided for. The absence of anything pretty, frivolous or unnecessary in her life – all these thoughts flashed through my mind as I stood staring at him in his beautiful studio, a universe away from Brick Lane and Surry Hills. I knew I had let Ma down terribly by coming to Currawong Manor, but to return to Brick Lane would be to let myself down.
‘Yes,’ I replied, sticking my chin up in the air. ‘Do you want me to start now?’
‘Nope. I don’t need you for this section. You can scarper and have something to eat. Has Doris allocated you a bed? You’ll have to share with one of the girls.’ I sensed resentment emanating from the two models as they sat quietly following the conversation.
‘No volunteers to welcome the new Flower?’ he chided them. ‘Stop sulking, Wanda. Robes off, back to work. The fun’s over!’ He waved a paint-splattered cloth at me as the girls began to disrobe. ‘Go to the kitchen, Red, and tell Doris you’ll have Kitty’s room. I’m sorry, love, your real name again?’
‘Ginger,’ I said, wondering if he had really forgotten my name or was playing some strange game.
‘I love your face, Ginger. I can’t wait to paint it. It’s filled with sex and danger.’ I just stared at him, thinking him mad as a hatter, and retreated from the room as quickly as I could. I’d noticed Kitty didn’t seem too happy about giving up her bed, and I felt the excitement of the day ebbing away. These girls didn’t like me, and soon I would have to stand naked with them for hours. And Rupert’s last sentence had seemed so intimate; I felt exposed in front of the other girls’ watchful eyes. What on earth had I let myself in for? I was beginning to feel a sense of anticlimax.
On my return to the kitchen, I discovered that friendly Dennis was gone and Doris sat alone at the table sketching in an old notebook. ‘All sorted?’ she said, not looking up.
‘I’m to have Kitty’s room,’ I replied.
‘Yes, that would be best. You can have your own room and they can bunk together. I’ll get Miss Sharp to make up a bed. Sit down, you look done in,’ Doris urged. As she got up and went over to the stove, I removed my coat and sat in the chair in front of the fireplace.
‘Tuck in.’ Doris placed a heaped plate of stew with a slice of buttered bread in front of me. I attacked it ravenously, and Doris watched me with evident approval. ‘I’m relieved you’re not banting.’ She smiled. ‘Rupert doesn’t like it if his Flowers wilt.’
‘Have there been many Flowers?’ I asked, swallowing a mouthful of the delicious stew.
‘No,’ Doris said. ‘I posed for him originally, or he’d travel to town, hiring models for studies. He discovered Wanda in the city about two years ago. Kitty’s a local girl who posed on and off, just simple things like hands and portraits, before moving in last year to save her father the trouble of travelling. He’s been waiting for you.’
He’s been waiting for you. Why did that sentence sound ominous?
Propped up on a patchwork cushion in a rocking chair was Shalimar’s cloth doll. I felt uneasy as I studied its green button eyes, red woollen hair and black felt dress. I saw again the flash of Shalimar’s white petticoat as she ran down the hallway. Other scenes from the last few hours came back to me: the masked Flowers and the glassy eyes of the tiger. Shelves of traps in Rupert’s studio, their cruel jaws created to inflict suffering and death. The dollmaker’s strange words, and the mean-spirited kangaroo shadowing her black skirts like a dog. The stone lions guarding the gates. Everything felt too extraordinary. Suddenly I wanted to return to familiar routines, a household I knew and understood. The manor with its blue door, naked women and strange adornments was simply too new and overwhelming.
‘Fancy a cup of tea, Ginger?’ Doris asked, bringing over a brown teapot, a plate of scones and a side dish of cream and jam.
I asked what she was drawing and she showed me a strikingly executed sketch of a group of young men sitting together, one lying wounded, with a battle scene half drafted behind them. ‘It’s called Bones of the Lost Boys,’ she explained.
‘You’re an artist as well?’ I exclaimed, now feeling envious of her talent as well as her fashion sense.
‘Not really.’ Doris shrugged. ‘Once, in another life, I studied at the Slade in London, but schoolgirl dreams must be put aside with a small child and domestic duties.’
I nodded, pretending to know what she meant by ‘the Slade’. I was dazzled by her casual reference to living in London – no wonder she was so effortlessly stylish. She popped on a floral apron, pinned up her hair and began peeling potatoes; somehow, she made even this humdrum task seem glamorous.
‘I’ll just get these started and then I’ll take you to your room,’ Doris went on. ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable . . .’ She paused and I wondered what she was about to say. She glanced towards the doorway before going on in a more businesslike tone. ‘When Rupert doesn’t need you, and when you’re ready, we expect you to help out with chores to earn your keep,’ she said. ‘I can’t abide idleness. Wanda’s a green thumb so she’s been helping Dennis in the garden. Kitty’s happiest in the kitchen. You could help Miss Sharp with Shalimar when you’re free.’
She glanced again towards the door as if checking nobody was listening before continuing in a whisper. ‘Shalimar winds everyone around her little finger and is quite a handful. Miss Sharp is a bit old-fashioned in her methods and it doesn’t help that Shalimar’s spoilt rotten, I’ll admit. She’s as headstrong as they come, but Rupert adores her and finds it difficult to say no to her. It doesn’t make Miss Sharp happy! And yet her daughter Dolly’s about as controllable as a bushfire.’ She began slicing the potatoes into a pot of salted water.
My heart sank as I contemplated having to spend any more time around Miss Sharp, but I murmured something about being glad to help out wherever I was needed. That I had seven brothers and sisters and although I was the youngest at sixteen, we were all accustomed to looking out for each other.
When she was finished with the potatoes, Doris removed her apron, studying me shrewdly. ‘Your mother must be glad to get you out of the house and helping out a bit with some money. Finished your tea? Drink it up and gobble down that scone.’
She watched as I greedily obeyed her instructions. ‘It’s good to see you have an appetite and some meat on you,’ she said again. ‘Rupert loves to paint curves, not bony angles, so keep nice and plump for him. Finished? Come on, I’ll show you to your room.’
We walked down the hallway to a winding wooden staircase. As we climbed I noticed that plasterwork was missing and the walls could have benefited from a good clean. A couple of leadlight windows were broken and spider webs laced the high ceiling cornices. A sigh of neglect seemed to ripple through the stale air, as if the very foundations of the house yearned for happier times. My nose wrinkled at the damp odours permeating the air. Although not entirely unpleasant they were unsettling; it was as if you could sense the manor’s gradual decay.
‘It’s impossible to keep on top of it all,’ Doris said defensively, with her uncanny instinct for knowing your thoughts. ‘Rupert’s away a lot; he couldn’t care less about domestic matters. And Ivy, his mother, was just as negligent. Not to mention the cost of restoring a place like this! Things have been tight with the war. I’d be lost without Miss Sharp to help me. And the garden needs so much attention, even with Dennis working for us full time.’
‘No, the place is beautiful,’ I said, solemnly. And it was, even in its shabby imperfections.
Doris looked at me with a queer expression. ‘I thought so, too, when I first came here,’ she said. ‘The house held me in its enchantment. I was in love with every nook, cranny and cobweb. I don’t feel like that anymore. Nowadays all I see are the bills, the merciless cold, stinking heat, bushfires, spiders and snakes.’
We had reached an alcove in the brick wall where a smaller, wooden twisting staircase led up into darkness. ‘The Flowers live in the towers,’ she said, grimacing over her rhyme.
The winding staircase was so narrow that a fat person couldn’t have ascended it, I was sure. Despite Doris insisting I had to be plump for Rupert’s paintings, I thought I would have to watch my meals at Doris’s table lest I become stuck in the staircase like a cork in a bottle. The walls were visibly damp and the damp smell grew stronger as we ascended. I began counting the stairs but gave up after seventy-five, feeling anxious at the thought of daily risking all these steps in this crumbling, peculiar house. A couple
of times I paused to rest and fight a slight feeling of panic and nausea, as though I was being locked away.
‘Are you alright?’ Doris, hearty and fearless, stopped and looked back at me.
‘I’m fine. I’m just catching my breath.’ I closed my eyes, resisting the temptation to say I had changed my mind and wanted to go home.
A short time later, my heart pounding from the climb, we reached the landing where two diminutive tower bedrooms lay directly opposite each other. There was barely room to swing a cat between them. I could now understand why the models so resented having to share their space.
‘You’ll have this room,’ Doris said.
The room she indicated had a tiny wardrobe, a mirror, wash jug and an iron cot with a white linen counterpane embroidered with pink, yellow and blue flowers. I wondered how on earth they had managed to get the bed up the stairs.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Doris said. My case was already on the bed. Thankfully, whoever had carried it up those stairs hadn’t unpacked it, and I was spared the shame of them witnessing my few worn belongings.
‘Does anyone else live in the manor?’ I asked, suddenly reluctant to be left alone. The walls seemed to be about to swallow me whole. ‘Does the dollmaker . . . I mean, Miss Sharp, live here?’
‘Miss Sharp has a cottage in Owlbone Woods with her daughter. We have our share of visitors but none this last month. Edgar, Rupert’s artist friend, was visiting earlier but has long left.’
‘Miss Sharp isn’t married, then?’ I dared to ask. It was impertinent, but I had been curious ever since I’d heard of the daughter.
Doris regarded me coolly. ‘We don’t discuss that, Ginger,’ she said crisply. ‘I’m not interested in gossip, and neither Rupert nor I judge people on others’ standards of morality.’ With that she turned to descend the stairs, leaving me alone in the gloomy tower. ‘Rest, and then come downstairs for some afternoon tea,’ she called.
Currawong Manor Page 10
