It took me five minutes to unpack, hanging my couple of frocks in the tiny wardrobe. Then I crossed to the latticed windows and glanced down; far below were the cobblestones, and a wave of giddiness overcame me.
I lay down on the bed, praying there would be none of the bedbugs that plagued my nights in Surry Hills. The faint sounds of a piano wafted from a room below; someone was playing the delicate tune of ‘Greensleeves’. Reassured that life continued downstairs, I closed my eyes. Sleep soon overtook me and I lay oblivious to the growing shadows that surrounded the bed as the afternoon stretched into evening.
9
The Flowers of the Towers
May 1945
‘You’ve got to watch your back with Sharpie.’ Wanda exhaled cigarette smoke and wiped a fleck of tobacco from her lip. ‘You might think Doris runs the joint, but she’s happiest in her floral pinny cooking, or grubbing in the garden digging spuds. It’s Miss Sharp you have to keep an eye out for. Don’t get in her bad books if you can help it. He won’t hold with anything said against the old bitch, will he, Kitty?’
Kitty nodded as she pinned up her hair in rags. She glanced nervously at the bedroom door. Wanda, sitting on the end of my bed, continued, undaunted. ‘Sharpie’s the real lady of the manor. She’s delivered half the village, so most locals won’t hear a word against her. Her mother delivered Rupert before the doctors took over her trade. Sharpie’s always crowing about assisting her mother when she was only a nipper, pulling Rupert out of Ivy. Can you imagine that old witch peering into your privates?’
Kitty and I giggled. Chuffed, Wanda went on. ‘Sharpie refused to work with the doctors. Said she mistrusted their modern methods. Silly cow didn’t want to move with the times. As if her mouldy herbs could match proper trained doctors!’ Wanda sneered, before tiptoeing to the door to check nobody was outside.
Satisfied that the landing and staircase were clear, she came back and perched on the bed again, stubbed out her cigarette in an old saucer and said, ‘When Rupert’s brother was killed fighting, Sharpie kept the place running. Both his parents died of grief when the favourite son was killed overseas. His father couldn’t stand Rupert, thought him a total pansy for his interest in art. You know the locals call this house the Ruins and spread all sorts of rubbish stories. They say it’s haunted, the currawongs predict death and birth, and the manor is built on cursed land. Reverend Greenman built it in 1876, and when he died in 1908 he had himself entombed in the missing tower. When the Partridge’s bought the house, they knocked that tower down. Ivy insisted – she said there was a lingering odour. They gave the good Reverend a proper burial in the local cemetery, but people say his ghost haunts the manor, seeking vengeance because his final wishes were disregarded and he can no longer rest in “his” house.’ Wanda laughed as I shuddered at the macabre tale. ‘Don’t tell me you believe in all that crap?’ She picked up my homemade hand treatment of lemon juice, rosewater and glycerol and rubbed a generous dollop of it into her hands without asking permission. ‘I’ve been here two years and I’ve never seen a ghost. Rupert’s probably cooked up all the tall tales so people leave him in peace to paint. It’s just his style. I saw him chase the CWA woman out of here last year with a garden rake when she came collecting donations. He’s mad as a cut snake – and he hates most people. I guess we have that in common. All he cares about is his art. I’m not surprised Doris hangs off Dennis in the garden. I bet he enjoys teaching her how to sow and procreate. Perhaps the seed she reckons she’s carrying now is a Dennis offshoot? If so, it might grow up to be like him – a weed. Although she’s always claiming she’s preggers and then loses them. Fibbing for attention, I bet you a fiver.’
‘That’s foul,’ Kitty said in a sharper tone than I had heard her use before. ‘Doris and Dennis are only friends and you know it. And if Doris ever hears you say something like that against her, you’ll be out of here. You won’t be able to moon after Rupert then!’
So the kitten did have claws, I thought, resisting the temptation to applaud.
‘Grow up, Kitty,’ Wanda retorted. ‘It’s obvious they’re rooting each other behind Rupert’s back.’
‘You’re disgusting,’ Kitty said. ‘Don’t pay her any attention, Ginger. She’s jealous of Doris because she’s in love with Rupert.’
Wanda grabbed Kitty’s nail varnish and, ignoring her protests, began painting her fingernails leaving a half-moon. I studied her technique. Wanda was a smart alec but her love of gossip made her a useful source of information – even if you couldn’t always trust what she said. After weeks of enduring her frosty resentment, she was finally beginning to thaw with juicy titbits about life at the manor. And she was generous with beauty tips, such as the best method of teasing hair when creating victory rolls, treatments from milk, honey, sugar, oil and cornmeal, watered down gravy browning as a substitute for nylons, or that Pepsodent toothpaste was the best for whitening teeth.
‘Have you ever seen a ghost here, Kitty?’ Wanda asked, concentrating on her scarlet talons.
‘Never,’ Kitty replied in her sweet voice, her brief flash of temper now subsided. She twirled another rag into place in her long fair hair, thinking. ‘Once in the middle of the night I heard a woman weeping and wailing like a banshee from somewhere downstairs. It turned my blood cold and I had to pull the covers over my head so I wouldn’t hear the dreadful sound. I didn’t get a wink of sleep that night.’
We digested this in silence for a moment. ‘Probably Doris worrying over what to cook the next day,’ Wanda joked, breaking the spell. ‘God, it’s freezing, isn’t it?’
We all agreed it was chilly. I thought over Wanda’s melodramatic stories about the family downstairs. Like me, Wanda was escaping a life of poverty. She was a Queensland girl who had exchanged the tropical sun of Brisbane for the bright lights of Sydney to make her fame and fortune in the movies, no doubt inspired by Australian hits like Forty Thousand Horsemen – and had ended up on the streets (starving, she claimed, although I privately wondered if the correct S word was soliciting). Rupert had discovered her at The Rocks on his way to Julian Ashton’s art school. She was very nearly beautiful, with an oval face, winged eyebrows and black hair. Her father was Italian, and like many foreigners at that time had been interned during the war. Her mother had died when Wanda was a small child. It wasn’t easy in the war years for immigrants in Australia. From snippets Kitty had divulged, I gleaned that Wanda and her father had endured violence against them, which probably helped to explain her fiery temperament. Wanda and I clashed often, and I objected to her arrogant and bossy manner. At nineteen, she was three years older, and flaunted a world-weary manner. Still, Wanda Cafarelli would become the most popular of the Flowers among future collectors, admired for her black hair, dramatic features and voluptuous figure.
Petite blonde china-doll Kitty was the peacemaker. Since her family’s move back up to the mountains, her father, Brian, had joined the committee of the Mount Bellwood Art Society. Because of his artistic leanings, Brian was supportive of his daughter’s role as a Partridge Flower. Brian Collins mightn’t understand the symbolic meaning in Rupert’s work, but unlike many at that time he could appreciate Rupert’s talent.
Kitty was generally perceived to be Rupert’s favourite Flower – a fact she highlighted in an irritating way (bordering on exaggeration) in her book, Murder at the Manor. Rupert tended to feature her prominently in his paintings. She was a sweet, uncomplicated, not terribly bright girl. It would have been easy to put one over Kitty.
That evening in the tower, I studied her as she twisted rags in her hair. If a ghost was going to manifest to one of us, I’d back Kitty. She was so fey, much like Shalimar; ‘away with the pixies,’ as Ma would have sniffed. She claimed not to remember me from our time at St Augustine’s, although I was pretty sure she was fibbing; perhaps she was ashamed of her family’s reputation for being constantly in debt?
Crossing to the tower-window slit, I shuddered as I stared into the darkness below.
It was difficult to decipher anything tangible in the pitch black, but my imagination never failed to serve me a lurid vision of a grisly death on the cobblestones if I fell from the window. I turned away quickly and got into bed, again relieved I had the room to myself. I felt sorry for Kitty having to share with Wanda. I would have preferred to share my bed with my Surry Hills bedbugs than Wanda, although plenty of men would have no doubt disagreed.
‘Maybe tomorrow will be the day?’ Wanda winked. Bounding up from the end of my bed in her black silk petticoat, she blew an imaginary trumpet. ‘Drum roll, ladies and gentlemen, Ginger Jarvis is about to strut her stuff for Rupert.’ She imitated his abrupt tone: ‘Come on, Red – sorry, love, your name? Remove your underthings: brassiere, girdle and knickers on the chair, if you please. Where’s my ginger paint gone for Ginger’s pubic hair?’ She burst into laughter at her own vulgarity.
By now I’d been resident at the manor for several weeks, but Rupert still hadn’t asked me to pose. In fact, to my slight relief (and disappointment) I’d seldom seen him. He tended to keep to his studio, even sleeping and eating there when his muse was upon him. I knew he was engrossed in studies for a series called Trollop (which probably explained why Wanda was in the studio so often, I thought), but I had seen none of the artworks myself. I was kept busy assisting Miss Sharp with Shalimar. I didn’t know what I dreaded more – another day of Miss Sharp’s eagle eye and caustic tongue, or stripping for Rupert. As the weeks drifted into May, I’d begun to doubt he still wanted to paint me. Perhaps he no longer found my ‘sex-and-danger-filled face’ of any interest? I was attractive enough, but I lacked Wanda’s sensuality and Kitty’s pretty dolly features.
‘Leave her alone,’ Kitty said, coming to my defence. ‘Don’t tease, Wanda. Rupert’s a gentleman and you know it.’
‘Is he?’ Wanda stretched in the doorway, flashing a glimpse of the bosom that would one day be famous, its image fetching exorbitant prices from besotted Wanda Flower collectors. ‘If you say so, Kitty, he must be.’ She whistled and picked up her saucer ashtray. ‘Right, that’s enough of the old chitchat. I’ve got to put the pin-curlers in and get my beauty sleep. After all, have to look my best for Rupert tomorrow!’
‘Ignore her,’ Kitty said after Wanda had sashayed back to her room. ‘She’s acting like this because she feels threatened. She had Rupert all to herself before I came. Now with your arrival and Doris trusting you with Shalimar, she’s feeling insecure. Poor Wanda’s had such a terrible life. She doesn’t know how to share things – even Rupert. It can’t have been easy for her being an only child with no mother. We have to be kind.’
She’s a sly, up-herself, vulgar slut and I’d no sooner be kind to her than I would to Hitler, I thought, but I didn’t dare say it aloud to Kitty, whom I’m sure had never indulged an unkind thought in her entire sixteen years.
The following morning I was awake as usual before dawn. I slapped water over myself from the jug on the dressing table and dressed quickly before tying my hair back off my face in a red scarf. I loved sharing the dawn hour with the birds. It’s a habit I’ve retained throughout my life and I feel like a right lazybones if I ever sleep in until seven or later. And I enjoy watching the dawn break with only my thoughts for company.
I descended the tower stairs carefully in the darkness to discover with a disappointed wrench that Dennis and Miss Sharp were already in the kitchen.
‘Morning, Ginger.’ Dennis yawned. ‘Fancy some eggs and bacon?’
‘Do I ever!’ I replied, my spirits improving again. ‘I’m famished.’
‘I love a girl who loves her grub. I might be able to rustle you up a lamb chop as well, if you’re good to me,’ Dennis said, patting me on the bottom while Miss Sharp glowered at the two of us.
We ate in a dozy half-silence as Miss Sharp sat near the hearth, darning one of Shalimar’s pretty lace nightgowns.
‘You’ve settled in nicely,’ Dennis said between mouthfuls. ‘I feel as if you’ve always been here.’
Time seemed to run differently at Currawong Manor. I, too, felt as if I had been there for years rather than weeks. Now that the initial strangeness of the place had dissipated, its corridors and rooms seemed as familiar as traces of an old dream. The house was settling around me, and my old Surry Hills life now seemed like a shadowy memory. It was an odd enchantment that I barely noticed happening at the time, a subtle altering of perception, as if the manor and I were adjusting to each other like the sides of a fan folding slowly in on itself, revealing only a half-image in the creases.
‘Good morning, Miss Sharp, Ginger, Dennis.’ Doris bustled in with her usual efficient air, wearing a voluminous smock blouse and a deep crimson shade of lipstick that suited her. She was trailed by Shalimar. Dennis got up and hastily poured tea into a cup, then added cream from a jug.
‘Miss Sharp, I’ve an appointment in Katoomba at the hospital,’ Doris said. ‘If you supervise Shalimar while I’m gone, Ginger will help. Dennis, how will you get on today with the garden?’
‘Won’t get on with it at all,’ Dennis said in his easygoing, forthright manner. ‘I’m going to help Rupert with the statue he’s working on later.’
Shalimar scowled as she picked at a plate of eggs. ‘I don’t want Miss Sharp or Ginger to mind me,’ she whined. ‘I want you, Mummy.’
‘That’s enough!’ Doris sipped her tea, and made a face. ‘This tastes awful.’ She tipped it down the sink and instead poured herself a glass of milk from the bottle on the table. ‘Do you think I care what you want? You want, you want, you want, is all I ever hear. I want tea or coffee I can drink and an end to rationing so we can get some decent supplies for a change. You will do as you’re told.’
‘And quite right, too,’ Miss Sharp agreed, breaking the cotton with her teeth. ‘Little girls that cheek their elders and betters will get their little mouths washed out with Miss Sharp’s special soap.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Doris warned Shalimar, who stabbed at the eggs, no doubt imagining they were Miss Sharp’s eyeballs.
‘Never mind, Shalimar,’ I said, attempting to pacify the child. ‘We’ll have some fun together. How about we do some drawing for Mummy and Daddy?’ Shalimar was always creating beautiful artworks that looked to have been done by an adult. It was obvious she had inherited her father’s artistic talent.
Shalimar’s face brightened at the suggestion. ‘I’ve drawn a picture already,’ she said and passed me a sketch she had done on the back of cardboard box.
I took the picture, then stared at it in dismay. Her long hair splayed around her. Her unseeing eyes stared upwards at the sky. An innocent dead angel, her arms splayed as though on a cross, white dress rippling around her. Sinister-looking vegetation and trees were etched in dark, frantic strokes in the background of the lake – a contrast to the delicacy shadowing of the child’s sorrowful, delicate, dead face. At the time I was simply shocked by the macabre subject matter, but in retrospect of course it takes on an even darker air. Perhaps it was nothing but a coincidence, but I’ve read accounts of artists such as Picasso and Mark Twain who predicted tragic events – even their own death – in their work, and I cannot help wondering sometimes if it was a sign of some uncanny gift of foresight. Shalimar always made me uneasy. The infuriating child seemed to fear nothing, and constantly disobeyed her parents’ instruction that she stay out of Owlbone Woods. Miss Sharp had warned her that there was a bad man in the woods, made from trees and bark. I had heard her telling Shalimar her chilling story when they would sit together; she’d caution Shalimar that if she continued to wander into the woods alone, the bark man would hunt her down with his sharp teeth and claws and eat her.
As I sat staring in shock at the sketch, a voice came suddenly from the door. ‘I need you in the studio, Ginger – now!’
Startled, I looked up. Rupert stood in the doorway, looking as if he hadn’t slept in a week.
Doris raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Well, go on,’ she said, downing her milk and glanci
ng at Miss Sharp. ‘Best humour him.’
And that was how I was summoned for my first session as a Flower of the Devil.
TAPE ENDS.
***
After Ginger’s voice on the tape had fallen silent, Elizabeth sat listening to the rain, which had intensified while she had been immersed in the world of Currawong Manor in 1945. Every time Shalimar’s name was mentioned, Elizabeth had felt the poignant twinge of the onlooker who already knows the ending. It felt strange to hear her grandparents spoken about by someone who had known them personally. A few times she had had to stop listening and read her book, or walk in the garden, in an attempt to quell her rising agitation evoked by Ginger’s story. Ever since she could remember, she’d felt compelled to uncover more of her family history. Part of it was because she shared a creative bond with Rupert. And somehow she had always been haunted by the nagging feeling that some key in the past would help her understand her family in the present day.
She lay back on the bed and looked out the window at the grey sky and the heavy rain, deliberating whether to call her parents, then decided to phone Fleur instead. She longed for some cheerful conversation to distract her from her thoughts, to remind herself that outside the stone lion gates a normal world continued, of streetlights, delayed public transport, supermarkets, cinemas and art galleries. She needed to shake off the unsettled feeling from last night’s dream, which had been bothering her all morning.
Fleur answered on the third ring. ‘It’s so good to hear your voice, Liz. I was just thinking it feels as if you’ve been gone forever . . . Louis! Turn it down, darling. I’m on the phone to Liz.’ Fleur was one of the few people who called Elizabeth ‘Liz’. In spite of what she’d told Nick, Elizabeth didn’t mind the diminutive, but she’d been determined to keep things on a formal footing between them.
Currawong Manor Page 11
