Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  Christ, he would be singing ‘Yesterday’s Hero’ to a bunch of ducks if he stayed in this glen another moment. Over the years he had tried so hard to resurrect his band. Several times he had tracked down the Sharkbait boys, trying to interest them in jamming or even putting some tracks down in a studio, but although they all said they were keen to do it, they were so busy, man, with work and kids. Nick couldn’t help resenting the other three for becoming so normal and dull. How could any man worthy of multiple Countdown appearances prefer to cheer on a lot of brats playing junior soccer? But his fellow band members always had more important things, like swimming lessons, birthday parties and family time, and now kids in nappies like Silverchair were attracting all the attention.

  He had loved Elsa, who had believed in and supported his writing, but ultimately she had continued her pattern of mistaking the illusion of the screen for reality and falling in love with her co-stars. Even in the old days of the band, Nick hadn’t been a believer of open relationships. Why did everything have to be so complicated? He longed for a permanent lady, but he also feared settling down in suburbia. It had never made his parents happy, after all.

  He glanced around . . . had the statues changed position while he was wallowing in self-pity, or had he finally lost his marbles? He could have sworn one of the kneeling satyrs didn’t have his arm around the big-breasted woman before.

  A large black swan flapped its wings and hissed at him. Nick peered at it through the thickening mist. Did the bird have a nest there to carry on like that? More hissing and wing beating came from the bird. Nick knew nothing about swans, but he had never seen one of such a massive size. He wished he’d brought some stale bread to feed them with. He had enjoyed doing that when he was a little lad. Another stab of depressed self-pity . . . before his father died and his mother took off with that slimy slug he couldn’t stand.

  From the other side of the lake came a sound like a human sigh. Then a twig snapped, followed by a crunching sound. Nick wasn’t easily spooked, but for a second his instinct was to race after Elizabeth. He reminded himself that he was the sheriff of Mount Bellwood. These woods belonged to him and he’d die in his boots before he did something as cowardly as turn tail and run from a noise.

  ‘Hello? Anybody there?’ He hoped it wasn’t some trespassing local giggling as they eavesdropped on him singing ‘Dingo Blood Ball’ to a bunch of swans and ducks.

  There was silence from across the pond, but Nick couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was there. A somebody who was choosing not to reply. He debated whether to cross to try to discover who the somebody was.

  He decided against investigating, telling himself that it was because the old swan was still carrying on and he didn’t want to get his shoes wet. Besides, he needed to return to the manor to extract Ginger’s tapes from Elizabeth so he could start work. All excuses so he didn’t have to look for whatever was making the hair tingle on the back of his neck and his breathing quicken. He didn’t want to find out who the silent watcher at Mermaid Glen was, because he was afraid of something walking out of the mist and trees, something that he couldn’t explain.

  12

  The Blood Market

  ‘People are always fascinated by the sex bit. Sometimes I like to shock the puritans by hinting at salacious goings-on in the studio, but the sad truth is that Rupert was a gentleman. Journalists and gossipmongers don’t want to know that, however. They’re convinced Rupert was having the lot of us at once.’

  Ginger glanced at Nick with a flirtatious smirk. She had invited both herself and Elizabeth to Nick’s Nest following dinner. Elizabeth was subdued, feeling guilty over her over-the-top reaction when Nick had startled her at the glen earlier. Nick had ignored her at dinner, chatting with Ginger instead, and she couldn’t blame him. James, she told herself, seemed a much more genuine person, whereas Nick acted as if all women were ready to fall into his bed.

  Nick’s Nest was a direct contrast to Ginger’s chaos, with books in orderly stacks and a couple of guitar cases placed against the wall.

  ‘I’m a neat freak,’ he had readily confessed when Ginger teased him over it. ‘I was a latchkey kid after my parents’ divorce and Mum trained me up to keep the house in order.’

  ‘You’ll make someone a wonderful husband,’ Ginger said, grinning and looking meaningfully between Elizabeth and Nick. ‘Well, my dears,’ she said, hunting for her evening bag. ‘I must leave you both to enjoy my bedtime story. Here is the tape.’ She extracted the cassette from her bag and placed it on the coffee table.

  Elizabeth felt panicky. Ginger was going to leave her alone with Nick? ‘Why don’t you stay?’ she said quickly. ‘We don’t need to listen to tapes when you can tell us the story yourself.’

  Ginger shook her head. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It takes so much out of me, my dear, reliving those memories. When I record them I can at least get my emotions under control in private. And I also have a record of exactly what I said in case anybody tries to twist my story later.’ She shot a glance at Nick.

  Elizabeth kissed Ginger on both cheeks, inhaling her musky perfume and wondering over the mischievous twinkle in the old woman’s eye as she left. Surely Ginger wasn’t trying to pair her up with Nick? If so, she was going to be terribly disappointed.

  ‘We may as well have a drink as we listen,’ Nick said. ‘I get the impression Ginger might be trying to do some clumsy matchmaking, don’t you?’

  Elizabeth flushed. ‘Well, if so, she’s barking up the wrong tree! I thought she was after you for herself.’

  Nick laughed as he hunted for a corkscrew in the well-stocked kitchen drawer. ‘Why were you so uptight at the glen?’ he asked.

  Elizabeth watched him warily. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded like a total bitch. You did startle me when you just appeared like that.’

  And I’m on edge from this place, she thought, so beautiful but also so disconcerting and eerie. I feel as if I’m looking at a newly developed photograph and the image I think I’m seeing is not what is really there. But she couldn’t bring herself to say this to Nick – he would probably laugh or think her crazy.

  ‘Will I dim the lights?’ Nick offered cheekily, opening the wine.

  ‘No!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘If Ginger’s watching from her Nest she’ll think we’re all snuggled up together, listening to her voice.’ She accepted a glass from Nick.

  ‘To Ginger, our Emma Woodhouse,’ Nick toasted before pressing the play button.

  ***

  I remember nearly wetting myself before my first sitting, in May 1945. When I was summoned to the studio, I was convinced Rupert would ravish me right then and there, among the paints and brushes. The reality was an anticlimax.

  ‘Come in and shut the door behind you!’ Rupert’s manner wasn’t exactly welcoming when I timidly knocked on that studio door. ‘I finally have something I can use you for, Ginger. Take off that frock behind the screen and pop on the robe, then sit yourself over there, near the monkey.’

  I glanced over to a red sofa draped with shawls and the Australian flag. A tatty-looking, real stuffed monkey glared back at me with green glass eyes and his ugly snout pulled back in a vicious snarl. Was that Rupert’s idea of a joke? Was he taking revenge on me for my peevish comments on our first meeting? Rupert was busy unscrewing jars and pouring turpentine and linseed oil, so I couldn’t read anything from the expression on his face.

  I undressed quickly behind the lacquered screen in the corner of the studio; for a moment I paused, wondering if I could leave my slip on, and then decided against it. Several robes hung on a hook; I selected a red silk one and wrapped it firmly around myself, tying the sash, before walking out self-consciously into the room.

  I sat tentatively next to the flea-bitten, scabby-looking thing, waiting for further instructions. Should I disrobe? I instinctively knotted the robe tighter. I had no idea of what was expected. I found to my horror that I was shaking with nerves and my palms were sweating.
How had I ended up in this situation? Why hadn’t I listened to Ma’s warnings?

  Rupert was no help whatsoever, absorbed in mixing paints and humming ‘We’ll Meet Again’. I studied him as he worked. There was a curious pent-up energy about the man, as if a bushfire raged within every cell of his slight body. Unlike us mere mortals, I thought rather fancifully, he straddled unseen worlds. Human company was tolerated, but he was more engaged with his angels whispering direction. Or was it devils he summoned for guidance?

  He glanced over and gave me one of his rare smiles. ‘You’re quiet for once. Can you sit closer to the monkey, please?’

  I shuffled obediently over, feeling ridiculous. The creature snarled its sharp yellow teeth at me. I glared back at it. Was he mocking me by placing me next to this dirty thing? Why couldn’t I pose with an exotic tiger or a snake like Kitty and Wanda, or even a kitten? Still, I was grateful that he had allowed me to keep on my robe.

  ‘Lovely. Just sit very still. Turn your head slightly towards me – that’s good. Now, half look at the monkey. That’s perfect. Tilt your neck slightly towards me, just slightly. Eyes on the monkey. That’s it! Don’t move one muscle. I need you to remain still and keep your eyes on the monkey.’

  He began sketching on his canvas with a stick of charcoal. I could hear the scratching as he scribbled away, whistling. After half an hour, which felt to me more like five hours, he appeared satisfied with his draft and mixed more paint before taking up his brushes. I couldn’t believe how quickly my position had become torturous. Pins and needles pricked one foot, while the toes on the other foot cramped up. A trickle of sweat ran into my eye. A stray hair on my cheek tickled unbearably; I tried to gently blow it away without the action being detected. All the while I could hear the sound of my own heartbeat, voices in the distance outside – people able to move freely, scratch themselves if needed, turn their neck. Inside the room, all the sounds Rupert made – whistling, sighing and opening jars – were magnified and distorted.

  It didn’t help my discomfort that the monkey’s fur had a faint but distinct damp odour. Nor that the glass eyes of the rotten creature seemed to fill with increasingly malevolent dislike, echoing my own. What seemed an easy act – sitting still and doing nothing – had swiftly become the most arduous job on earth.

  After what seemed like weeks with only the occasional whistle from Rupert to break the monotony, he finally stood back to examine the canvas before uttering the blessed words, ‘That’s not bad. I think that will do for today, Ginger. You can go now.’

  I stood up and stretched, the relief of movement making me feel as if I had died and gone to heaven. Impulsively I asked to view the work.

  Rupert looked surprised at the request. It must be something the other Flowers didn’t bother with, but I was curious to see how he had represented me. Here’s a bit of Ginger life wisdom for you that I learnt growing up in Surry Hills: if you don’t push yourself forward in life, no one else will. I learnt the hard way that people are always happy to stand in front of you, so if you don’t want to be blocked off or shoved out of the queue, push yourself forward and hope it knocks them flying.

  The monkey was nearly completed and looked exactly like the ugly beast I had posed with. But I found it difficult to recognise myself in the half-finished figure. I was sullen, snarling in a similar fashion to the monkey, and my face looked fuller and stronger-jawed, my robed figure plumper than I believed myself to be. Behind me, obviously nearly finished, were the other two Flowers, sketched during previous sittings, half naked and dressed in flowing, Grecian-style robes. Kitty had a large snake draped over her breasts and Wanda posed wearing a helmet of feathers, a tiger at her side. The eclectic details in the painting initially suggested we were in an ornate oriental market, but a closer examination of the background detail revealed caged soldiers in digger uniforms, and Aborigines chained to tables where bones and soldiers’ boots were for sale. Goblets of blood dripped over the wares and onto our robes, and in my hand I held wattle flowers that also dripped blood all over the Australian flag. The other Flowers were also unfinished, but I fancied he had been more flattering to them than me. Wanda in particular looked far more attractive than in real life, very similar to Alida Valli, the Italian actress she loved and was always going on about. It certainly wasn’t the sulky-looking girl I knew.

  ‘It doesn’t look like me at all,’ I said, stung.

  ‘It’s not meant to,’ Rupert replied. ‘Otherwise I’d take a photograph of you, wouldn’t I?’ He turned away, taking a swig from his mug of water. ‘If you want a photograph and not a painting, you’ll have to sit for William Dargie. He’s your man. Now off you go. Send Kitty in to me, will you? Thank you for your patience.’

  And that was that. The painting, The Blood Market, along with Death’s Garden, became one of Rupert’s most acclaimed works. Every Australian schoolchild would recognise it. It’s the monkey that the critics all get worked up about, with all sorts of theories about Rupert’s statement on the ‘monkey-mind of war’ or the primate brain. I honestly believe if I hadn’t goaded Rupert when we first met about his art not making a statement about the times we live in, he wouldn’t have become as political with his paintings as he did. Ma called it the ‘dirty chimp one’ and was horrified that in later sessions he did paint me totally naked with that monkey. But all I ever remember about that painting is that monotonous first session, the smell of that long-dead monkey’s fur, and how I cried into my pillow that night, because I believed he saw me as the ugliest of the Flowers and I wished I had never accepted his stupid invitation and come to Currawong Manor.

  13

  Melancholy Monday

  April 1945

  I should talk a little more about Shalimar at this point. As with Rupert, so much garbage has been written about her that I don’t recognise her when I read it. I can’t even find her in Kitty’s silly Murder at the Manor, which had Shalimar as some sort of angelic goody-two-shoes. Either Kitty couldn’t remember anything accurately, or the editors cut it to pieces.

  I can’t stand the way people put the dead on pedestals and bleat that only the good die young. Let’s not beat around the bush – Shalimar was a trial. Yes, I know I shouldn’t say that about a child – especially one who was drowned. It’s not the done thing to speak ill of the dead, but it’s the truth. She was a beautiful-looking little girl, as is evident from her photographs. Rupert doted on her in a most unmanly manner. He spent a lot of time photographing her, and there was talk that he loved her more than he loved his wife. She was the sort of kid my ma disliked, an indulged brat with no discipline and far too familiar towards her elders. That angelic face masked a wilful, strange child. She could be vivacious and charming and you could have a good laugh with her, but she could also be very odd. I’ll not tart up the truth in nice bows and ribbons for Flowers of the Ruins – enough accounts have already done that. It goes without saying that she didn’t think I was the cat’s whiskers, either.

  The first time she got herself into my bad books was when I was supposed to be minding her one Monday in April, not long after I’d arrived at the manor. Kitty and Wanda were in the studio, Doris was baking bread, and Miss Sharp had one of her ‘heads’ – she occasionally suffered from severe headaches – and was at home, so I was left in charge of Shalimar. I tried my best to amuse the child. We played paper dolls, cat’s cradle and charades, but Shalimar quickly grew bored. ‘I want to see Rupert.’ (She often rudely referred to her father as Rupert.) Neither Doris or Rupert objected – and when I asked Shalimar why she called him by his Christian name, she said because it was his name. When I didn’t reply, she continued to whine. ‘These are baby games. I want to visit Rupert in his studio and paint.’

  ‘Well, you can’t, miss,’ I replied. ‘I’d like to be out with Clark Gable, not here with you, but we don’t always get what we want.’

  ‘Who said?’ Shalimar challenged. ‘I always get what I want.’

  I never heard a more truthful boa
st from her lips. Her bedroom was stuffed with delights that my siblings would have been dazzled by, but Shalimar took her toys totally for granted.

  ‘Not with me, you don’t,’ I retorted. ‘I’m in charge here and you do what I say whether you like it or not.’

  ‘You think you’re in charge, but you’re only a paid servant for Rupert to paint,’ Shalimar said. ‘You’re not my mother or Miss Sharp!’

  I itched to spank her bottom, but although Miss Sharp smacked Shalimar occasionally, I was unsure how Doris would react if I did the same. Miss Sharp behaved, as Wanda had caustically told me, as if she owned the manor. She was the only person who intimidated Shalimar.

  ‘Don’t be quarrelsome,’ I said, attempting to distract her from her bad mood. ‘Your face doesn’t look half as pretty when you screw it up like that. Imagine if the wind changed? Let’s play hide and seek.’

  Shalimar hesitated and then appeared to accept the idea. More fool me – I should have guessed she was up to something.

  Outside, the garden sparkled in the mellow autumn sunshine. The deciduous trees looked as though they were on fire with their orange and yellow leaves. Piles of dead leaves were raked up around the grounds and near the scarecrow. The sky looked as though it had been painted by a child in a bold splash of primary blue. Slapped against that brilliant blue were the vivid green gum trees. Rays of brilliant light dripped and dazzled between a complicated overhead lacework of trees and ferns.

  I stood against the old brick wall in the garden, covering my eyes, counting slowly to one hundred while Shalimar fled, giggling.

  ‘Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Coming, ready or not!’ I yelled.