Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  Fleur’s voice returned. ‘Sorry about that. How’s it going in the misty mountains?’

  ‘Oh, it’s very peaceful and relaxing,’ Elizabeth said quickly. ‘I can’t believe I’ve only been here a couple of days. Time seems different here. I’ve been sleeping so well. It must be the air . . .’

  ‘You’ve been sleeping well?’ Elizabeth could hear the amusement in her friend’s voice. ‘Christ, you sound like a right nanna. I bet you even have flannelette pyjamas and a pink hot-water bottle. Have you seen anything of the spunky gardener or Nick? They’re what you need to keep you warm.’

  ‘Only at mealtimes, really,’ Elizabeth replied, ignoring Fleur’s teasing. ‘Holly keeps James busy in the garden and I’ve been spending my time sorting through the material and tapes that Ginger has given me. There’s loads of good stuff, but it’s a strange feeling to discover Rupert in this way, as if he’s some character in a novel. It seems a bit voyeuristic. Perhaps I’m too close to him to do this project the justice it deserves. I don’t have the detachment needed to allow the material to inspire me.’ There, she had voiced one of her fears aloud.

  She looked out of the window. The afternoon darkness seemed to have crept up on her Nest without her noticing. How she missed hearing the traffic noises from the street in Sydney where she lived. She had never noticed before how comforting the sound of human beings going about their business could be. She would give anything right now to hear a siren, a car beeping or the next-door neighbour coming and going. The waiting silence of the bush seemed to press on her like the trees in her dream.

  ‘I can imagine it would be a bit uncomfortable, but I don’t agree that you’re too close to Rupert to tell his story,’ Fleur said. Elizabeth could hear a drawer opening and the clatter of a pan. Fleur was cooking dinner as she chatted. Nobody could multitask like her friend. ‘I said from the beginning you’re the perfect photographer for the book. Isn’t there something magical about you being back at the manor, Liz – a sense of things coming full circle? Anyway, at least your rellies are interesting. Not like mine – all bankers and accountants. We don’t even have a convict to boast about. Hey, stop that!’ Fleur yelled suddenly. ‘I said after dinner, not before. Stop fighting, Louis and Sugar, or I’ll turn off the television.’

  More background squabbling and then Fleur’s voice returned with an unfamiliar note of exasperation. ‘These kids are driving me mad,’ she confided. ‘Silke’s gone to the movies on her day off. I suspect she has a new boyfriend. She’ll be the next one to leave me. Remember the beautiful French girl who took off to live with that Northern Territory farmer she met at the Show? How could you ever make that up? And I just had an email from her the other day, she’s at some Aboriginal campsite with her new baby. She’s still wildly in love and can’t get enough of red dust and crocodile-infested waterholes. Sorry, where was I?’

  Elizabeth had been eavesdropping greedily on the snatches of domestic noise from Fleur’s home. Sounds families around the globe took for granted: doors banging, music playing, children squabbling over television shows. What Elizabeth wouldn’t give to be able to reprimand children for snacking before meals or fighting over television channels, and how she’d love to experience the ‘witching hour’ other mothers complained about.

  ‘What about Ginger?’ Fleur asked. ‘How are you getting along with the feisty old broad?’ There was the grating sound of a blender. ‘Sorry about the noise. Have you started shooting her yet? Camera, I mean not the other!’

  ‘She’s posing tomorrow.’ Elizabeth stared out the window. In the heavy rain, only a faint glow from the manor in the distance revealed its presence. ‘I’m not looking forward to it, to be honest. I have a feeling she’s going to be a total control freak.’

  ‘You’ll handle her, Liz. Are you okay, darling? Do you want me to pop up this weekend to visit? The children might like to explore the woods, look for dead bodies and witches’ cottages. It would do them good to get out of the city.’

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ Elizabeth reassured her friend quickly.

  Another squabble erupted in the background, and Fleur apologised and rang off. Elizabeth got up and started preparing for tomorrow’s shoot, her first at the manor. Hopefully the weather would cooperate so she could shoot outside. She wanted to re-create some of the 1940s shots of Ginger. She particularly loved a casual photo of Ginger reading a hardcover edition of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca on the iron seat in the garden’s love folly. Ginger was wearing a halter-neck top and dark shorts, her hair tied back with a scarf. One hand marked her place in the novel as she posed, a half-eaten apple in her other hand. She was relaxed, fresh-faced and as stunning as a young Rita Hayworth.

  Elizabeth hoped that re-creating the Rebecca photograph would be a strong introduction to their collaboration. She wanted to tap into the woman’s memories of happier days at the manor, and at the same time reveal an older, more experienced Ginger. Ginger had been a striking, vibrant model for Rupert in 1945, a knockout with her large bust, long legs, wavy shoulder-length hair and cheeky grin, but Elizabeth felt that age had only ripened her appeal, adding an intriguing layer of wisdom. It was the older Ginger that Elizabeth itched to capture, and she instinctively believed these nude photographs of an elderly Ginger would be the highlight of Flowers of the Ruins. Still, she could see that Ginger was so accustomed to being in charge of brand ‘Ginger Flower’ that she would first have to work hard to earn her trust. Considering that Ginger had appeared irritated by Elizabeth every time they’d met, Elizabeth wasn’t confident of her chances of bonding with the woman.

  The images of the Flowers that truly captivated Elizabeth were the few nude photographs she had seen. She believed this was a key connection between her own and her grandfather’s art. Since her training at the Sydney College of Fine Arts, Elizabeth had assembled a large portfolio of male and female nudes. The human form was so direct, and miraculously honest – not the magazines’ ideal, with their soulless airbrushing and digital manipulations, but the real naked body in its myriad shapes, forms and sizes. The pendulous belly and enormous breasts of a woman past her breeding prime; the tiny, wasted frame of a young female drug addict, whose cowed, unloved body revealed her story in whispers to the camera’s gaze. An old man with a bowed grey head, his shrunken penis and buttocks normally shunned by a youth-obsessed society transformed by Elizabeth’s camera into an image that proudly flaunted a rich beauty in every line and fold. The small child with her perfectly formed, prepubescent body, so unselfconscious and unmarked.

  In her nudes, Elizabeth saw the humbling rawness of life. For her, the human body contained a stronger spiritual essence than any of the organised religions she had explored over the years. She’d often marvelled that people so often looked outside themselves for miracles, when so many miraculous things happened inside them with their every breath.

  Before retiring for the night, after dinner at the manor, Elizabeth again studied some of Ginger’s photographs. A group shot taken in the garden was one of the rare photos in which Rupert appeared. Who was the photographer? That was another element of photography that intrigued Elizabeth: the anonymous eye and brain capturing time behind the lens. What was the person thinking at the time? Where were they standing, this silent witness? And there was the added poignancy that the image she was holding had been taken with her treasured Linda.

  In the scene, Rupert had his arm around Doris. He was half scowling, half smiling into the camera, his dark hair falling over one eye, a scarf tied around his neck. He hadn’t bothered to shave but wasn’t yet sporting the beard he wore at the time of his disappearance. His short-sleeved top and braces were paint-splattered, and he looked as if he had just been dragged away from his easel to have his photograph taken. Elizabeth felt her heart contract as she studied the grandfather she had never known but felt such a strong spiritual connection with. So intense, intelligent, consumed with life and possibility: but how cruelly his life story had flickered out!

  Do
ris was holding a tiny baby and laughing up at Rupert, presumably at something he had said. A wave of melancholy swept through Elizabeth as she realised the doll-like figure was likely her mother. Doris looked beautiful and elegant in a black dress, a string of beads around her neck and a long black scarf wound around her dark-blonde hair. In front of the couple stood Shalimar, an angelic vision with her long blonde curls. Elizabeth was always morbidly fascinated by images of Shalimar. Why did one family have to suffer so much? It was impossible to fathom, looking at their faces, that the rumours at the time were true and Rupert could have murdered Shalimar. Had he killed himself as his father was meant to have done, or taken on a new identity elsewhere? But why would he? It didn’t make any sense.

  The Flowers stood to the right of the couple like three older, beautiful daughters. They were dressed up for the occasion in floral frocks, hats and gloves. Wanda and Kitty smiled with their arms around each other. Ginger, more slender than in some of her other manor shots, pouted at the camera with a petulant, self-conscious air. In front of her was a little girl, a strained expression on her face as she glowered at the camera, long black hair to her waist and wearing a simple white-lace dress, a straw hat in her hand. Thankfully, Ginger was a godsend in that she documented everything. Turning the photo over, Elizabeth was relieved to see her now familiar copperplate handwriting: A sunny day at the Ruins, 1945. From left: Rupert and Doris Partridge, baby Lois, Wanda, Kitty, Ginger. Front: Shalimar, Dolly Sharp.

  Dolly Sharp? Elizabeth hunted for her magnifying glass to study the child’s face more closely. The dollmaker’s daughter had been, fittingly enough, like a lovely dark-haired doll. Did that mean that Miss Sharp herself had been the photographer? How frustrating that nobody thought to include the photographer’s name when they labelled photographs. It was another small missing piece from the mysterious jigsaw puzzle of Currawong Manor.

  She turned to another, older photograph, possibly also shot with Linda, although unlike the other image, it wasn’t dated. Judging by the clothes, it must have been taken in the mid-thirties. The image was shot beside the front door of the manor. Next to a stern-faced Ivy and Reg Partridge stood a luminously beautiful woman wearing a white dress with a string of black beads, her long blonde hair twisted into an elegant chignon and the hint of a mischievous smile on her lips. Next to her was a handsome, blond man with movie-star looks. The pair made a beautiful couple. Elizabeth knew from other photos the man was Christopher, but who was his stunning companion? Some girlfriend he had brought up from Sydney? Rupert was either away or had taken the photograph. And another photo of Ivy with two dark-haired men wearing white naval uniforms, and Christopher, resplendent and smiling with his arms around them, wearing an Australian army uniform, khaki shirt, trousers and a slouch hat. On the back of the photo was written simply, Frank and Joseph. No clues there.

  From Ginger’s Harrods bag, Elizabeth picked up a sketch signed by Rupert, dated 1945. The year he had mysteriously vanished. What was Ginger doing with it? She made a mental note to ask her about it in the morning. It was a surreal drawing of a young woman who appeared to be turning into a key; a red-haired woman’s mouth was on her breast. The red-haired woman held a small book, birds flying out of its open covers.

  Just as she was about to drift into sleep, still visualising the mood of the shoot she wanted to achieve with Ginger tomorrow, Elizabeth realised with a groan the accuracy of Fleur’s jibe. She was indeed snug in an old pair of striped flannelette pyjamas, clutching to her chest a pink hot-water bottle.

  10

  The Imperfections of Light

  ‘The light’s good here.’ Ginger struck a pose in front of a rosebush-covered trellis with the manor in the background. ‘This outfit will look good near the greenery.’ She glared at Elizabeth challengingly. ‘Stick Linda over there and let’s get this show on the road.’

  Fuming inwardly, Elizabeth moved Linda to the spot Ginger had indicated. Ginger had refused point-blank to be photographed in Diana’s love folly, and before that they had wasted twenty minutes arguing over her wardrobe choice – a pistachio-green and orange kaftan, teamed with gold bracelets, chains and a bejewelled hot-pink turban. Elizabeth had suggested a slightly less flamboyant outfit, showing her the Rebecca photograph she was trying to re-create.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Ginger rummaged in her bag for a powder compact to check her face. ‘I was a baby when Rupert took that. Anyway, I don’t want to look boring!’

  In vain, Elizabeth had argued that she didn’t want Ginger to re-create the outfit; rather she wanted to echo the reflective stillness of the 1940s photograph. Ginger could dress normally – no shorts, halter-neck top or pink turbans were necessary. But Ginger had continued to stride up and down the garden in her flowing kaftan, striking her chest and declaiming to the startled peacocks and chickens, ‘I will not be dowdy! With this book I’m making a statement for women the world over. I refuse to disappear into a grey twin-set, pearls and bob when I can sport a pink turban. I only hope you’re not going to pull a copy of Rebecca out of that bag of yours and expect me to pose reading it. Do you have any original ideas? I need a cup of tea!’

  Once she’d won that argument, Ginger had watched Elizabeth set up. ‘It’s creepy you working with Linda,’ she’d said, giving Elizabeth an odd look. ‘I never thought I’d pose in front of her again. Couldn’t you use more modern equipment than that old beast with its dirty cracked lens? Or can’t you afford it?’

  Elizabeth had ignored the jibe as she carried a stack of glass plates carefully over to where Linda waited, but she was half tempted to abandon the whole project. Instead she pushed one of her plates into her camera and positioned herself under the cloth, wondering why Ginger was being so difficult. Was she insecure or just on a power trip? The bond she had hoped to create hadn’t emerged – Ginger seemed to treat her more rudely with every second and Elizabeth felt perplexed and hurt by the older woman’s inexplicable dislike of her.

  Once Ginger was in front of Linda, however, the cantankerous woman metamorphosed into Ginger Flower. In her work, Elizabeth had been fortunate to experience sessions with frissons of magic when subject, lens and photographer somehow merged, to transformative effect. During shooting for The Magic Dirt in the Northern Territory, a young Aboriginal girl with no training or experience had blossomed in front of Elizabeth’s camera and now had a thriving international modelling career. Several actors Elizabeth had worked with over the years, who in ‘real life’ seemed to collapse into themselves, became more vibrant versions of themselves before a lens.

  The trellis wasn’t the background Elizabeth would have selected, but she had to admit that Ginger was right. The light was better where she had placed herself, and the quirky juxtaposition of the outrageous outfit against the roses and the stone manor with its fairytale towers made for a stunning series of portraits.

  ‘Look away for a second. Now back to me. Lovely smile, Ginger, not too much teeth. That’s right – smile with your eyes rather than your mouth,’ Elizabeth encouraged, feeling heartened by her subject’s evident enjoyment. Ginger, for once, obeyed her direction, as though sensing that the shots were perfect. The pair collaborated easily in the next half hour, with Ginger moving seamlessly from one pose to the next, somehow anticipating the effect needed even before Elizabeth vocalised an instruction. After the unpromising beginning, Elizabeth felt they were working well together.

  The photograph Elizabeth felt particularly excited about was one where Ginger held her arms out and back dramatically, looking up with her head tilted slightly towards the manor, an enigmatic half-smile on her face. Ginger’s scarves fluttered in the breeze and the manor seemed to shimmer behind her. There were even a few currawongs in shot. Elizabeth knew already how spectacularly mysterious the scene would be in black and white.

  Loading Linda with heavy glass plates coated with a sticky silver nitrate solution and their five-minute exposures presented technical challenges, but the end result was worth it. The antique lo
ok Elizabeth loved could only be achieved by Linda. It was the gently blurred line with its accidental spots, stains and discolourations that enhanced the image, gave it a story. It fascinated her how small nicks and scratches in the plates became part of the image, how flaws, chance and accident synthesised to create the enigmatic dream world of her photographs. Just as the imperfections in people gave a tone and depth to their being, Linda’s flaws on the developed images were to be valued. She saw her alliance with Linda as a metaphor for art and life. You didn’t need the latest up-to-date gadget – or the most expensive – to produce memorable images. Elizabeth knew the final product would be worth the frustration of working with Ginger, who, between poses, continued to mock Elizabeth for her ancient equipment. She didn’t even attempt to explain to Ginger that the fact that Rupert had used the same camera was a tangible bond across time that united them every time she dived under the cover, scrubbed her plates or waited for the world to appear through her plate.

  Before the light faded, Elizabeth ended the session with a few quick shots taken at the spot she had originally selected, the love folly. More amenable now, Ginger sat on the bench, hugging one knee, lost in thought. The manor was a looming shadow to her left. The photos contained a poignancy and the slight eerie quality Elizabeth had hoped for, but she already knew that the earlier shots that Ginger had insisted on were the pick of the day.

  ‘What do you expect, dear girl?’ Ginger smirked when Elizabeth admitted as much to her. ‘I’ve been around this game a lot longer than you have!’

  She studied Elizabeth as if seeing her properly for the first time. ‘You’re a lot like him,’ she said. Her voice was harsh and she glared at Elizabeth again as if blaming her for some memory that had surfaced. Then she added, surprisingly, ‘But I prefer working with female photographers. I did a few sessions with an Australian girl, Adelie Hurley, and with Bunny Yeager in the States. Have you heard of them?’