Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  As I tore into the house, Ma’s familiar voice with its broad accent boomed from the pink room. I paused at the door, suddenly reluctant to enter. Shalimar was crouched outside on the floor eavesdropping, which she often did. When she saw me, she put her finger to her lips. For a few moments we were co-conspirators as we hunched there together.

  ‘It’s most kind of you to come all this way, Mrs Jarvis,’ Doris said. ‘But you mustn’t be concerned about Ginger. She has settled back in nicely. We are so grateful to her for everything she has done for our family.’

  ‘That’s a relief to hear, Mrs Partridge. She’s normally a good girl with her letters, but she had dropped off lately with her news and so I was getting a bit worried if she was . . . Oh, thank you, Miss Sharp! I don’t mind if I do, those scones are as light as a fairy. My Ginger hasn’t made them, I warrant.’

  ‘I hear from Ginger you’re expecting another,’ Doris continued. ‘Congratulations to you and to your husband.’

  Ma made a grunting sound, which I knew expressed her horror at her condition. Terrified that she would reveal how unwelcome this pregnancy was – something that would be anathema to Doris, smitten with her new baby – I hastily entered the room.

  ‘Here she is!’ Doris said.

  Miss Sharp was seated next to Ma, cradling a sleeping Lois. Ma looked so normal and large next to the two gaunt women, both of whom had more money to feed themselves than she did. The red-faced little baby was the only one who could match her cheeks for ruddiness.

  ‘Ma, I told you not to come. What a waste of a train fare.’ I stooped to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘I didn’t come for you, Ginger, but to pay my respects to Mrs Partridge. You’re looking well, my girl, although very untidy.’

  I glanced over at Doris and Miss Sharp, who were sitting with bowed heads, obviously weary of social chitchat and wanting the meeting to end. ‘Have you finished your tea, Ma? I could show you where I sleep and the gardens, and you can meet the other Flowers.’

  Taking the hint, Ma drained her cup. ‘I haven’t got long, Ginger. I’m planning to be on the one o’clock train so I’m home to make dinner. Let’s get moving.’ Standing up stiffly, she nodded to Doris. ‘Thank you for the cuppa, Mrs Partridge.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Doris replied, reaching for Lois and holding her tightly against her chest. ‘Do you pray, Mrs Jarvis?’

  ‘Too right I pray, Mrs Partridge.’ Ma puffed up like a bantam rooster, as if her religious belief was being questioned. I was grateful she didn’t pull her rosary beads out of her pocket and insist we all get down on the floor there and then.

  ‘Could you kindly remember to pray for me?’ Doris asked.

  ‘Of course I will!’ Ma reassured her. ‘And your new beautiful little girl.’ She glanced at the baby with a frown, as if fretting about what was ahead for her.

  Doris inhaled the smell of baby Lois while I half pulled Ma out of the room.

  Outside we nearly tripped over Shalimar, still hunched by the door, listening.

  ‘This is Shalimar Partridge,’ I said to Ma.

  ‘How do you do?’ Standing up, Shalimar extended her hand, and I could see that Ma was impressed by her beauty and good manners. One thing Doris always tried to drum into her daughter was manners. Shalimar, of course, could turn them on and off at will.

  ‘Did you come to take Ginger home again to the city?’ Shalimar asked.

  Ma glanced at me. ‘Ginger’s welcome to return when she’s ready,’ she said. ‘There’s always a bed for my girl.’ But I caught the anxious flicker in her eyes and I knew the money I now sent regularly was an enormous boon. It would be needed more than ever with another baby on the way. No matter how many currawongs perched on the roof, or how suspicious Ma was, I was here until I found a better position.

  ‘You’ve got a baby in your tummy, haven’t you?’ Shalimar said to Ma.

  Ma nodded, her eyes taking in the perfect features of the girl staring up at her. ‘How on earth do you know that? I’m hardly showing! I just have a bit of a fat tummy,’ she said.

  Shalimar giggled. ‘How do you think I know, silly? I listened at the door. Mummy’s got another baby now. Miss Sharp says that the dolls gave Mummy Lois because of her dead babies. Miss Sharp says the dead babies grow in the garden.’

  Ma said in her usual blunt manner, ‘That’s a very strange thing for Miss Sharp to say to a child! You had best not go repeating that bit of silly rubbish to anyone else. If you do, I’ll get my Ginger to wash your mouth out with a big bar of Sunshine soap.’

  ‘Ginger can’t tell me what to do,’ Shalimar protested instantly. ‘None of the Flowers can. They’re only paid to pose for Rupert. If I tell him stories about your Ginger he will send her away.’ She leant towards Ma, eyes sparkling, and I knew with dread what was coming. ‘All the Flowers take off their clothes,’ she said in her sweet voice. ‘They have great big bottoms, bosoms and fat tummies. Your Ginger is the fattest with an enormous tummy and bosoms. She’s a greedy pig, that’s why! Only Miss Sharp can tell me what to do.’ She smiled sweetly and disappeared into the back of the house, leaving Ma and me looking after her.

  ‘Needs a good smacking, that would take the sassy mouth out of her,’ Ma said, as I knew she would. I was only surprised she had managed to restrain herself from pulling down Shalimar’s knickers and giving her a belting that would stop her sitting down for a few hours.

  ‘Doris spoils her rotten,’ I whispered. ‘The only person permitted to wallop her is Miss Sharp.’

  ‘That old bat doesn’t seem right in the head to me,’ Ma said loudly. ‘Filling a child’s brain with macabre fancies. You should report her to Mrs Partridge. Though on second thoughts, better not – that poor woman looks exhausted. Don’t load her barrel up with anything, Ginger, lest she turn the rifle on herself.’

  I dragged her further along the corridor, dreading the thought that Miss Sharp had heard us. ‘It wouldn’t do any good anyway, Ma,’ I hissed. ‘The Partridges let Sharpie run the place.’

  ‘Well, she’s not doing a very good job of it, is she?’ Ma looked around with a critical air. ‘The whole house could do with a mop.’

  I led Ma up the twisting staircase to the towers and she followed me with more agility than you would expect in a woman nearly five months pregnant and with a sore hip and back. She surveyed the tiny room with little interest, pursing her lips. ‘Not much space in them,’ she said. ‘But nice and clean enough compared to the big rooms downstairs. I hope you’re learning how to pick up after yourself, Ginger?’

  Ma tested out my bed and found the firmness to her liking. ‘That poor devil downstairs is skin and bone. She’ll make herself ill and won’t be able to care for her two children,’ she said. Her shrewd eyes locked with mine for a second. ‘What do you think has happened to make her nerves so bad?’

  ‘Search me,’ I replied.

  ‘Maybe one of you girls is causing her some worry with her husband?’ Ma paused, watching my face, while I tried to keep my expression neutral. ‘Well, give it up,’ she said, seeing straight through me.

  I shook my head, terrified Ma would drag me home if she knew the truth.

  ‘Come on, Ginger! I wasn’t born yesterday. What’s going on with everyone in this house?’ Ma was always able to ferret out when something wasn’t right, and she wouldn’t relent until she got the information she was after.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I began.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that, young lady.’ She patted the bed next to her. ‘Come and tell your ma what’s on your mind.’

  I sat beside her. ‘It really is nothing,’ I repeated. In an attempt to distract her I started with the story of the currawongs on the roof.

  As I expected, she scoffed. ‘What a pack of rubbish, Ginger! I thought you’d have more sense than to believe in fairytales. Perhaps if you did more around the house, you wouldn’t have time to be working yourself up over such nonsense.’

  ‘Well, why ask me what’s wrong if
you’re just going to ridicule anything I say?’ I cried. ‘And it’s not just the currawongs! I wouldn’t trust Sharpie as far as you could throw her.’

  Ma shook her head. ‘Miss Sharp did seem a bit mad, I’ll grant you. But all this gobbledegook about birds! Have you gone totally off your rocker, Ginger?’

  ‘I can’t say I’m too pleased to hear you’re expecting again, Ma. You need to lock yourself in the bedroom so he can’t reach you. It doesn’t seem right at your age to be afflicted with another,’ I said sulkily, trying to change the subject.

  ‘Hello.’

  We both jumped and looked around.

  Wanda leant in the doorway, watching us with a supercilious smirk. ‘I heard Ginger’s ma had come to visit. How do you do, Mrs Jarvis? I’m Wanda Cafarelli if you can get your gob around that. The first Flower.’ She thrust a hip out in pathetic imitation of Alida Valli. ‘Some might say his original and favourite Flower.’

  Ma took in Wanda’s made-up face, insolent stare, and her halter-neck top and skirt. I could almost see the word trollop hanging in the air from her mind to mine like dirty socks on a line, connecting us.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Wanda,’ Ma said in her most unpleased tone.

  ‘Likewise.’ Wanda took in Ma’s worn brown shoes, red-raw hands, grey-streaked hair drawn back into a bun and shabby floral dress. ‘Have you shown your ma Rupert’s studio, Ginger? He told me he’d love to say hello.’ She hitched up her skirt, fiddled with her suspender belt, swearing under her breath over a ladder in her stockings, before waving her red talons at us. ‘Ta ta, then. I’m going to lie down and have a rest. Rupert had me working all night.’ She pouted. ‘There’s no stopping him some nights.’ She exited into the adjoining room, leaving a trace of her scent – Evening in Paris by Bourjois – and Ma shaking her head.

  ‘Not exactly the type I like you running around with,’ she said.

  ‘Shh, Ma, she can hear you!’

  I was furious with Wanda for playing up to Ma, embarrassed by Ma’s coarseness, and disgusted at myself for caring about what Wanda would think of my mother.

  Descending the stairs, I heard Miss Sharp in the pink room, reprimanding Shalimar for some mischief. Seizing my chance, I led Ma quickly through the kitchen and washhouse. As we walked through the garden towards the studio, Ma admired the wallflowers and clucked her tongue over the naked statues. I tentatively knocked on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Rupert’s voice called from within.

  ‘It’s Ginger. I’ve brought my ma to say hello. She’s about to catch her train back to Sydney.’

  ‘What the dickens?’ Rupert opened the door, frowning, and I tensed, expecting a tirade about disturbing his work. With his new beard, Rupert had now begun to resemble the image the general public would have of him in later years – that of the devil painter who had orgies with naked women and had possibly murdered his daughter before vanishing to start a new life elsewhere.

  ‘Wanda said you wanted to say hello to my ma,’ I said, dropping the cow into it now I had a pretty fair idea she’d been lying through her teeth.

  Rupert surveyed Ma’s stern face, her unfussy clothes. Something in his intense dark eyes relaxed for a second. He held out a hand and then, noticing the paint spatters on his fingers, withdrew it. ‘Mrs Jarvis? My wife told me you were here. It was most thoughtful of you to call. You’ve caught me at a disadvantage; I’m working on a painting. But yes, I did want to say hello and thank you for coming all this way to pay your respects.’ I could tell he was lying, but I appreciated his attempt to make her feel at ease.

  Ma hesitated and her eyes took in Rupert’s face, as if looking for the answer to something that puzzled her. ‘I just wanted to thank you for looking after my Ginger.’

  I held my breath, expecting some caustic reply from him or the door slammed in our faces. He was as predictable as a wild bear.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Jarvis,’ he said politely.

  Ma nodded. ‘I’ll keep you and your wife in my prayers, sir,’ she said.

  My eyes went from one to the other, trying to fathom the strange undercurrent.

  ‘Do you want to come in and look around?’ Rupert actually held the door open for her as if she was an important guest. Ma, not knowing how rare the invitation was, considered for a second. Beyond Rupert, I could see Kitty standing naked in the middle of the floor next to the stuffed tiger and a pile of fruit. I held my breath. Naked woman aside, would Ma be able to stand the stress of the cluttered studio where chaos ruled and where Rupert created his disturbing worlds on canvas?

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I have to leave to make my train.’ Ma’s eyes went to Kitty and her lips pursed. ‘I can’t say I approve of what you call art, Mr Partridge, but you’ve looked after my Ginger. Just be careful, sir. You’ve got a new baby and your wife needs you. Don’t ruin things for yourself at home. I’ll pull my Ginger out of here if I think any funny business is happening. Keep your strength up and your mind busy.’

  With that she turned and walked away. It was the only time they would meet. The memory of that meeting still makes me cry at times. Ma, wasted by poverty, and Rupert, destroyed by war; I would never have thought they could even pass the time of day amicably, but on that afternoon I was witness to some kind of connection between them. I had never seen Rupert treat another human being – with the exception of Shalimar – with as much gentleness.

  That was another reason why I respected him, for the chivalrous way he treated my ma. God knows, very few people had ever treated her with the respect she deserved. And that was also one of the reasons I found it impossible to judge him as harshly as many others did.

  Years later, I can still see Ma’s expression as she looked directly at Rupert as if they shared some private knowledge. What did Ma really know in that moment? The dead don’t tell their secrets, more’s the pity, which is why I’m taping these memories now.

  Ma did lose a child and her own life in February the following year, thanks to that good-for-nothing father of mine. But I can’t talk about him at the moment, as his story isn’t fit to be mentioned in the same breath as Rupert’s. I only wish Ma was still around to see how I prospered in the end and so that I could share some of my later good fortune with her. She might have been poor but she was a true lady, my ma. Her small house was always spotless and she did her best with the little that life had given her. She always opened that shabby green coin purse when the beggars came. I only have to think of that purse and I feel my stomach drop with sadness.

  ‘We don’t have much,’ she’d say as she handed over a few bob to some desperate person. ‘But it’s a sin to hang on to it.’ She was filled with sage wisdom, remonstrating with us if she caught us complaining over something. ‘If we threw all our problems into the centre of the ring there’d be plenty of unfortunates who would snatch yours,’ she’d tell us.

  I regret I didn’t treat her better and that we fought about so many things. The distressing recollection of my shame at her coarse manner when she met the Partridges still haunts me. I let her down, I’m afraid, by my callous snobbery and by not following her advice. I denied her so much with my selfish actions at Currawong Manor. I should have been with her in Sydney in the last year of her life to help her out more.

  ***

  Rummaging through a folder of papers, Ginger pulled out a letter she had written to her mother, one she had found among Molly’s things after she died. She reread it, her lips moving as she remembered the terror she had felt at the time that what they had been involved in would be discovered. And the suspicions she had always harboured that her mother had known everything.

  17

  Gum Tree Ghosts

  After Ma’s visit, I knew I wouldn’t see out the year at the Ruins. I couldn’t wait to escape the now increasingly tense atmosphere and return to the city where my mind continually romanticised how much gayer life would be. I had begun squirrelling away money to start a new life in Sydney. I had big dreams of taking singing and d
ancing lessons and becoming an entertainer in the clubs.

  Rupert was working on his Stems and Sirens series using all three of us together in the studio, so there was little opportunity for any private conversation. Sometimes he’d spend all day with Kitty in the bush, working on the later pictures of the Kitty in Owlbone Woods series as we headed into warmer weather.

  On the days when Kitty and Rupert were out together all day, leaving me feeling jealous and rejected, Wanda and I were at a loose end. Miss Sharp, never one to miss a chance to make life even more miserable, kept us busy slaving in the house, cleaning out cupboards, polishing windows, and – of course – looking after Shalimar and Lois. Miss Sharp must have relaxed her rules, because Dolly had begun coming to the manor again to play with Shalimar, the two of them forming a truce following their last row. Still, despite their different circumstances both the girls were Queen Bees, so I knew it wouldn’t be long before they were hammer-and-tongs over something.

  Shortly after Ma’s visit, Dennis had bought a lovely fat pig that he butchered in the backyard in preparation for Christmas. The three of us were posing in the studio when the deed took place; Rupert blanched at the sound and shook for quite a while afterwards. He was a sensitive soul, Rupert. I don’t know a lot of men who would have reacted to a pig being butchered in that way. Later, he did a series of quickly executed oils of slaughtered pigs, intestines hanging out of their slit, plump bellies, their tiny snouts open in a screaming grin, as they stood on their trotters bound with wire and flashed a victory sign. There wasn’t a lot that happened at Currawong Manor that Rupert didn’t find to use in his artwork.

  The Mount Bellwood art show was a mountains’ institution. Since the 1920s, it had been held every year in late October. The Rhododendron Festival was held at the same time, and people flocked to Mount Bellwood from all over the mountains and further afield to view the beautiful flowers and see the displays of local art. The towns in the mountains also competed every year to win a trophy for the most creative mountain village – Kitty had told me there was great rivalry between the towns over this award, the winner of which was announced at the art show. Leura was then the reigning champion, but Mount Bellwood had won more times than any other town, which was a source of great local pride. Points were awarded for the tidy and well-kept gardens and general maintenance of the village, as well as for crafts, baking, vegetables and local school displays. Bonus points were awarded for the art exhibition. Meanwhile, the coveted Rhododendron Princess title would go to the young woman who had raised the most money for charity that year.