Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  And so I was shooed away by that woman, with her beak-like face and claw-like hands, and I couldn’t interrogate Shalimar any further. I will always believe that Shalimar felt guilty and wretched over the fate of the kangaroo. It was a great pity she didn’t open her mouth to me; it may well have saved her life if she had. But of course she couldn’t, could she, with Miss Sharp hanging around?

  A few nights later, I woke in the dead of night. I listened, and thought I heard somebody ascending the tower steps. Then a ghostly white shape appeared in the doorway – it was Shalimar, I realised, my heart thudding. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out that she was looking straight at me, and appeared to be in a trance. Then she turned slowly away. Getting out of bed, I followed the oblivious girl onto the landing outside Wanda and Kitty’s room, where she paused as if listening to check they were there, before nodding to herself as if satisfied.

  Lost in her own world, Shalimar began to descend the stone steps. One foot followed the other, blindly seeking out the next step, as her white nightgown billowed behind her. I hovered as near as I could on that narrow staircase, poised to grab her if she stumbled. I was terrified she would plummet to her death by missing a step or tripping on her nightdress, but at the same time panicky at the thought that if I woke her she would die – I had been told that this was what happened to sleepwalkers if their trance was disturbed.

  Shalimar walked downstairs with only the sound of the big grandfather clock ticking to disturb the silence, then arrived at the front door, which, as always, was unlocked. She stood looking at the door without attempting to open it. Finally, and to my enormous relief, she walked slowly back to her bed.

  I never mentioned this incident to Doris or Rupert. Looking back, it seems remiss of me not to have told them. But I was still smarting over their indifferent attitude to me.

  The macabre fate of the Partridge family was about to enter its final chapter. Shalimar’s body would soon be found at Mermaid Glen, Doris would end up under a train and Rupert would vanish, his disappearance spawning sensational rumours about what really happened at the Ruins. And the rest of us at Currawong Manor would be accomplices to a dark and terrible secret that we pledged to keep until the grave.

  But before all of those horrific events, we would have to endure dinner at Mount Olympus, and a circus. By this stage, life at Currawong Manor had become increasingly tense, and I knew I couldn’t stay there for much longer. Still, I didn’t know how close we were to the end of our time at the Ruins.

  19

  Dinner at Mount Olympus

  Edgar had invited us to his home in Leura. He mischievously included Miss Sharp, but of course she declined with her usual sour expression. Wanda and Kitty weren’t coming either – they’d gone out for the evening to Mount Bellwood’s local cinema to see a showing of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca and hadn’t bothered to include me. Although both girls were mostly friendly enough, I always felt like the odd one out. If they had sniffed out my affair with Rupert, it wouldn’t have helped them warm to me. I’ve always been convinced that Wanda was in love with him. And Kitty, being the innocent she was, would have been horrified I had betrayed Doris’s trust.

  Since discovering the ghastly painting and photographs, I had scarcely spoken to Rupert, other than to ask each morning whether he would be needing me in the studio that day. I still felt humiliated over how easily he had accepted my breaking off our affair. If I’d had one ounce of Ma’s practical wisdom, I wouldn’t have given him a second thought, but at nights I lay staring into the darkness, trying to stifle my sobs and telling myself he was a useless sod – a broken scarecrow of a man. It didn’t help that our affair had unlocked a door in me and I would never be able to return to the Ginger I used to be. I would forever yearn for a more cultured world than the lives and aspirations of my family and neighbours from Brick Lane. From then on, no matter how far I travelled – to exotic countries, meeting wealthy, interesting, successful people from all walks of life – at the back of the great sights and people, lurking like a starving shadow, was Rupert. The insufferable man was somehow present in everything I did. His haggard face, his too-knowing eyes with all the horror he had witnessed inside them. His hands with their bitten nails. The memory of his kisses, his slight body pressed against mine, the taste and smell of him lingering in my dreams. Even now I sometimes see in my mind an unexpected sharp flash of his rare crooked smile, and recall again the sorrow I had experienced when I was young and believed that love given should be returned. I had no notion that desire, love and anger entwined can be so dangerous and self-destructive. And that what our heart craves can be the opposite of what our spirit needs.

  I loved Gordon Lawson with a calmer devotion. My siblings sniped that I had married him for money and that he couldn’t be trusted because he was American and owned a nightclub, but he really was the most honourable man you could envisage, and he was a faithful husband. Unlike Doris, I eventually chose to settle with a man who loved me. Even knowing that, it still sometimes stings that Doris treated me with as much veiled hostility as she did. If I wasn’t stripping for Rupert in the studio or minding their children, I didn’t seem to register with her. I despised the Partridges for years over my treatment. Where would Rupert be without the Flowers? He needed us for the images he created, but although he paid well there was little respect awarded to us for those long hours of posing. And Doris took too, in ways that were ultimately more damaging.

  But in the spirit of defiance I accepted Edgar Cabret’s invitation to Mount Olympus, determined to use the opportunity to show Rupert what he had given up.

  I had spent weeks making the dress I was going to wear, after digging into my precious savings to buy the shockingly expensive material from Mark Foy’s. It was a deep shade of emerald green that contrasted beautifully with my red hair. It had raised shoulder lines, a plunging neckline and fell to the knee, similar to a gown I’d seen Rita Hayworth wearing in a photo in the Women’s Weekly. I pinned on it the only piece of jewellery I had – a topaz-coloured rhinestone butterfly brooch. I wanted to dazzle Rupert, and as the evening approached I indulged in daydreams in which he bitterly regretted letting me get away.

  But when I descended the staircase that night and saw the Partridges waiting for me at the front door my heart sank. Immediately I felt cheap and obvious next to Doris, who was resplendent in a white gown and long ivory gloves, a white band with diamantes around her head. Her hair had been waved and she wore sparkling chandelier earrings and a string of real pearls. It had been a long time since she had made an effort with her appearance, but tonight she looked so dazzling and elegant that I couldn’t help but stare. Shalimar and baby Lois were also dressed beautifully in white dresses with white mini-capes. In my tawdry, hand-sewn green dress, I felt like the trollop Rupert had turned me into in his hateful painting.

  Of course he never protested when you told him it was over, a little voice taunted me. He was only relieved he didn’t have to do it himself. Why would he be interested in a fat, freckled, red-haired girl when he has a wife who is elegant, sophisticated, well spoken and all the other things you are not? And what sort of a person was I that I would sleep with another woman’s husband? Doris was aloof, but she had also been kind to me. I had eaten at her table and taken her wages. Little wonder Rupert chose to depict me as a trollop. These and other such thoughts flashed through my head.

  Miss Sharp stood at the hall doorway leading to the pink room, watching as I tentatively descended the winding steps. The dollmaker’s triumphant sneer clearly said that I paled in comparison to her mistress. However, Dennis, waiting with the family to drive us, let out a whistle when he saw me. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Ginger,’ he said in his irrepressible way. ‘Scrubs up alright, don’t she, folks?’

  None of the Partridges replied immediately. Rupert, in honour of the occasion, was wearing one of the few white shirts he possessed that wasn’t splattered with paint. He wore a grey-and-black-checked wais
tcoat with black dinner trousers and looked very handsome, even with his beard, which I had never really taken to; I thought it made him look like a sinister, rakish pirate. ‘You look very nice, Ginger,’ he said, and I fancied I saw sadness in his eyes, although it was probably a trick of the light.

  Lois started to cry and I automatically reached for her – I knew instinctively how to soothe the fretful child – but Doris held her tightly to her chest, staring at me sullenly. She seemed not to care that Lois was dribbling down the beautiful beaded gown she wore. Lois continued to grizzle, and Shalimar and Rupert turned towards Doris and the baby. I thought my heart would break watching them together. They were the real family. I had nurtured such high hopes and dreams for my future at Currawong Manor, and yet it had all turned so quickly to nothing. I had been a fool to trust Doris and Rupert. I felt used by the pair of them.

  As I hovered awkwardly in the hallway beneath the great chandelier I pondered why Doris had suddenly turned on me. Had some sneak been telling tales about my time with Rupert? Miss Sharp? The old girl hadn’t been herself since Buster’s death and I knew I wasn’t one of her favourite models. All this flickered through my mind as I stood in the hallway feeling guilty, sick, alone and ashamed. I felt myself to be totally without friends and fancied I knew how that pig must have felt when it saw Dennis coming with the axe. How I wished I had pleaded a headache tonight; even though the manor wasn’t exactly a place I wanted to be in all alone, at least I wouldn’t have to face the humiliating evening ahead.

  I’d never been to Edgar’s house in the neighbouring village of Leura, but I’d heard plenty about it from Wanda, who had visited several times. Edgar had built Mount Olympus on Black Snake Road, one of the more picturesque cliff-facing streets. He had a magnificent view of the mountains and boasted that on a good day he could see all the way to Sydney. The large white-brick house had been built in the shape of a wave; Edgar had commissioned a famous Sydney architect to design the rooms to achieve the best possible view of the mountains. The house was as exotic and over the top as its owner, and had been featured in magazines.

  Edgar came out to meet us at the car dressed in formal tails, a dazzling hot pink shirt and yellow bow tie, his long silver hair tied back in the ponytail he was known for. He carried his walking cane decorated with the head of a kookaburra, one of Edgar’s better-known creations. Kenny Kookaburra’s fame had escalated in the thirties with the grisly murder in Tasmania of its literary creator, Pearl Tatlow.

  Edgar’s grand home was a fascinating place to peruse. Artefacts from his travels around the world were displayed everywhere: masks and spears from Africa, statues and artworks and beautiful art books. The walls were painted in various bright colours and the large windows looked out onto breathtaking views of the mountains, which seemed to stretch forever. The house itself seemed overly large for one man. Edgar’s only companions were an obese white poodle called Bonnie and a beaming housekeeper by the name of Rhonda, who seemed, on first acquaintance, the polar opposite of Miss Sharp. She fussed around us all as she took our coats, exclaiming over Shalimar’s beauty.

  ‘Miss Shalimar, I’ve made some lovely ginger beer for you. I remember from your last visit how much you loved it. And I’ve some ginger slice that you will love! All little girls love my ginger slice. Mrs Partridge, you’ll be having your usual, I imagine? My, we need to feed you up, Mrs Partridge, you’ve lost so much weight. I won’t worry about Mr Partridge as he’ll be looked after by Mr Cabret. And little Lois is a wee beauty. Poor little mite!’ This last because Lois was grizzling and crying as she often did. ‘And what about you, Miss Jarvis? What can I offer you?’ Her tone noticeably cooled as she addressed me.

  I had no idea what to ask for, being ignorant of alcoholic beverages. I felt out of my depth amid the grandeur of Mount Olympus.

  ‘How about you try my homemade fruit punch?’ Rhonda suggested. ‘It’s Mrs Partridge’s favourite as well. Yummy punch, I call it.’

  I nodded my assent. Rhonda bustled off to fetch the drinks, and as I studied Edgar’s lounge room I told myself I must have imagined her slightly frosty attitude. There was a piano in the corner of the room on which Shalimar began playing ‘Greensleeves’. Edgar and Rupert had almost immediately begun a heated discussion of Sidney Nolan’s latest artwork. The pair loved nothing more than a good argument. Doris, meanwhile, sat down and tried to settle Lois, who continued to cry.

  Unable to bear the sound of the baby’s distress a moment longer, I stopped pretending to be absorbed in Edgar’s collection of spears and crossed to Doris. ‘Let me help,’ I said, reaching for the baby.

  Doris glared at me. ‘I don’t need your help,’ she said. ‘It’s because of you cuddling her all the time that she’s become as fretful as she has.’

  Stung by the dislike in her voice, and overwhelmed with shame, regret and misery, I retreated to sit on the couch, my cheeks flaming. I knew that what I had done to her in sleeping with her husband was unforgivable, but it still rankled that I could be dismissed so easily from her favour and that all the hard work I had put into looking after her children meant so little to her. Not many would put up with Shalimar and her spoilt ways, and yet Doris had the hide to accuse me of spoiling Lois! I felt like telling Doris her fortune and walking out, but instead I sat trying to ignore Lois’s cries and instead listen to Shalimar’s pretty, poignant tune on the piano. I wished I could turn back the clock and that I didn’t feel so alone. Scraps of conversation floated over me from the two men.

  ‘I’m not saying he can’t paint well, but only when he chooses to,’ said Edgar. ‘Everything he does is purely for shock value.’

  ‘The judges just don’t care about his lousy form. It’s criminal how they throw money at him. And the shocking way they treated Dobell. The man’s a wreck.’

  ‘Meaning they should throw the money your way?’

  ‘It’s the bloody war that’s changed everything. I can’t think of half a dozen decent paintings done since then. Those drafts of Nolan’s Ned Kelly, perhaps? The stink of blood and guts is affecting us all.’

  ‘Tell me more about The Bones of the Lost Boys, Rupert. Sounds like an intriguing idea. You won’t need your Flowers for that one, will you?’ Edgar attempted to change the subject.

  I remembered Doris describing her Bones of the Lost Boys when I first arrived at the manor. I watched with interest as she flinched, her face flushed with anger as she stared at Rupert. ‘Could you please keep your voices down? You’re upsetting Lois. Shalimar, can you play something a bit more cheerful?’

  Rhonda returned bearing a tray of drinks and I took the iced glass she offered, sipping it quickly, grateful for the distraction it provided.

  Dinner slightly restored my good humour – a tender baked turkey with vegetables from Edgar’s garden and a trifle with a steamed pudding to follow. As usual, Doris only picked at her food. As I’ve mentioned, for someone who loved cooking so much, she never seemed to enjoy eating. I was the opposite. Very little ever ruined my appetite in those days and I ate for the both of us. At the same time I knocked back glass after glass of the well-named yummy punch, enjoying the numbing effect. Lois continued grizzling throughout the meal in accompaniment with Rupert and Edgar’s bickering. Distracted by Lois’s crying, I missed the next part of the conversation until Rupert’s exclamation startled me. ‘Don’t tell me they still believe in all that old Owlbone Woods rubbish! It’s bloody Patrick stirring things up to try to sell his books.’

  ‘You can’t stop talk, Rupert,’ Edgar said, slicing a wafer of cheese.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d encourage that old rot for a second! You’ve been living up here listening to bloody Rhonda jabber for too long.’

  ‘Rupert . . .’ Doris, rocking Lois, uttered a warning.

  ‘Why don’t you just let them into the woods, then?’ Edgar continued. ‘It’s no wonder rumours thrive when you keep the bush to yourself. Even the children are kept out with your fences and threats. What are you afraid
of, Rupert, if the stories aren’t true?’

  ‘It’s my damned property and I don’t want all of Mount Bellwood up there wrecking the place, falling over Devil’s Leap and disturbing the wildlife. It’s bad enough I have to put up with illegal hunters and poachers!’

  ‘Are you more concerned for the wildlife or the children?’ Edgar shot back. ‘Because you know what they’re saying in the town . . .’

  ‘Edgar.’ Rhonda appeared and began clearing the table. ‘I don’t think it’s a particularly good time to talk about such matters, in front of little people with big ears.’ Her warning gaze went to Shalimar, who was leaning against Doris, constantly interrupting the conversation, vying for some attention from Rupert.

  I excused myself to go to the bathroom. To my surprise, I found it difficult to walk in a straight line. Whatever Rhonda put into her yummy punch had made me as full as a boot.

  Edgar’s bathroom was gleaming and modern with its bright blue bath and matching sink, its chequered floors. All the tap fittings were ultra-modern and shiny. I had a weep in the bathroom and even, I admit, said a little prayer in case, for once, the big guy was on my side and listening. I applied a fresh coat of lipstick, dabbed my eyes, and opened the door. To my surprise, Rhonda was standing outside as if waiting for me.

  ‘I’ll just have a word with you, my girl.’ There was no trace of her previous fussy good nature. To my shock, she forcefully pushed me back into the bathroom and locked the door behind us. ‘What do you mean by all your carry-on at the manor?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit rich? You’ve got all the gossips in Mount Bellwood jabbering about you and him.’

  I poked out my chin. ‘What business is it of yours?’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip if it upsets you. And who are you to question me? I’m not doing anything wrong.’ But I must have looked as guilty as I felt because the canny old bitch wasn’t convinced for a second.