Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  ‘My parents loved to drink and gamble. Thank God I didn’t inherit that from them.’ Nick pushed a vine leaf around his plate.

  Elizabeth felt bemused at how the two men, who had little in common on the surface, appeared to enjoy their conversation. She could see why Nick was successful as a true-crime writer. He had a warm personality and could easily engage with anyone. He was enthusiastic, curious and appeared genuinely interested in people. It hadn’t escaped her notice that when he had first heard Ginger and James would be accompanying them to dinner, he had given Elizabeth a knowing look and laughed as if he could easily see through her ruse. Infuriatingly enough, the more the two men seemed to enjoy each other’s company, the more Elizabeth began to wonder if she had been mistaken about Nick’s interest in her. She found herself wishing she hadn’t invited Ginger and James along, so she could have got to know Nick a little better.

  ‘It’s like any job, I suppose,’ James went on. ‘It has its pluses and minuses. I remember Dad used to say he felt as much of an artist as Rupert.’

  ‘Doubt whether Rupert would have agreed with that sentiment.’ Nick sawed through a lamb shank. ‘And so you followed in your old man’s footsteps. You didn’t ever feel like forging a new path for yourself?’

  ‘No, why should I?’ James replied. ‘The Frosts have been gardeners since we came out on the First Fleet. Dad traced us back to the sixteenth century in England where we were gardeners in Somerset. It’s in our bloodline to work with the soil. I’d far prefer to work with plants than people. Plants won’t lie to you. They respect you if you respect them. More than I can say for most humans!’

  ‘All this passion over vegetables and flowers,’ Nick glanced at Ginger. ‘You’re very quiet for once, beautiful lady. What do you have to say about Mr Frost senior? Was Dennis as handsome and passionate as his son? Were all the Flowers lusting over Dennis Frost?’

  Nick was right, Elizabeth realised. The normally vivacious Ginger, who couldn’t tolerate not being the centre of attention, was unusually silent.

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say, Nick?’ she asked.

  Nick repeated his question, looking at her with concern. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Of course I’m okay!’ Ginger snapped. ‘It’s just so noisy in this restaurant. I can’t hear myself think, and I have a touch of stage fright. Don’t you all look at me like that, as if I’m making it up! I always get nervous before public speaking. People expect so much of you. What were you talking about, Nick? Oh, yes, my word – Dennis was a good-looking man alright, very charming and earthy.’ Ginger laughed at her own joke before continuing. ‘The more things change, hey? Here I am back at the Ruins with Dennis’s little boy and Rupert’s granddaughter.’ For a moment Elizabeth could have sworn tears glimmered on her lashes.

  ‘It’s not often I get told in my mid-thirties that I’m a little boy.’ The gardener smiled.

  ‘Make the most of your thirties, my boy,’ Ginger warned. ‘The years fly by so quickly. Inside yourself you’re eighteen and ready to take on the world, but the mirror tells you a different reality. I know what the doctors say, but I’m thinking of going to Egypt next year, and I’m planning on studying German or Mandarin or perhaps both. I always wanted to learn a language. People give up too quickly these days. They can’t wait to plan their own funerals!’

  A belly dancer appeared, to much laughter from a nearby table, and Ginger groaned. ‘I can’t bear this sort of silly rubbish!’ She frowned as one of the men at the neighbouring table got up to dance with the woman. ‘What’s wrong with the world that you can’t go out and enjoy a quiet meal?’

  ‘Ginger, don’t be tetchy, lest you sound like an old woman,’ Nick said. ‘No harm in people having a bit of fun.’ He glanced at James and Elizabeth, who were now talking together. ‘Well, it was meant to be a quiet meal,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Although it seems Elizabeth was eager to avoid being alone with me.’

  ***

  Ginger smiled to herself at Nick’s annoyed expression. Elizabeth was looking very pretty tonight in her unflashy way. It seemed unbelievable that Dennis’s son was still hanging around the manor. That was Holly’s doing. The Englishwoman was determined to re-create as much of the original house as she could for her business. It was surprising she hadn’t hired a child actor to pretend to be Shalimar or something equally tacky.

  Ginger excused herself from the table and went to the bathroom, where she reapplied her blazing red lipstick. She had been honest when she said she suffered from stage fright, but tonight she welcomed her nerves as an escape from the nagging guilt. Ginger wanted to create a future that was so bright and extraordinary it would wipe out the darkness of her history. She wanted to book her trip to Egypt, spit in death’s eye, and live. She felt all wrong in this ageing, diseased body lately. So many things irritated her about it, such as the shape-forming knickers she now wore; yes, they were the best-quality suck-the-gut-in shapewear you could buy, but Ginger longed for the vintage lingerie she had once loved. It wasn’t just the pretty, flattering details of the lingerie, their thrilling labels proclaiming Made in Paris, it was the quality that was missing, as it seemed to be lacking in everything nowadays.

  But more than anything, she still – even after all these years – missed her ma’s steady eyes, her no-nonsense ways. None of Ginger’s three surviving siblings wanted to have anything to do with her. They were all too busy with their own dramas, their children and grandchildren. With her husband gone, Ginger had nobody. She was just a name on a Christmas card list as far as her siblings were concerned. Her ma had understood who she really was. Everyone else only saw the persona she had created – flamboyant, life-of-the-party, sex-bomb Ginger Lawson. But Ma – God rest her soul – knew the real Ginger. She wouldn’t have approved of who she had become. Ma believed a woman’s place was in the home and that a proper woman sacrificed her own wants to her husband and kids. You always put yourself last in Ma’s rule of life.

  Tears stung Ginger’s eyes. Not wanting to ruin her make-up or return to the table with blotchy cheeks, she sternly blinked them back, and blew her nose. It must be coming back to the mountains that had triggered all this introspection and self-pity. Ginger had believed she had accepted her lot in life, come to terms with the choices she had made. Returning to the manor was waking the old wraiths, and the secret she had hidden for so long was scratching her insides ferociously, urging her to try to make atonement.

  Before going back to the table, Ginger checked herself again in the mirror. For a second, she didn’t see her own well-preserved face staring back at her – she saw a thirteen-year-old Shalimar. She stared in shock. Shalimar, lost to time, her beautiful oval face forever young. In Ginger’s vision, water appeared to be dripping from the mirror, the water of Mermaid Glen on that day when Rupert had dragged out the lifeless body of his daughter, howling as he had cradled her and they had struggled with him to release her body.

  Taking deep breaths, Ginger forced her mind to calm, sought out her own, familiar reflection. Shalimar was not in the mirror. Shalimar was a pile of bones buried in Mount Bellwood Cemetery, lying for eternity beside her mother in a grave Ginger left flowers upon whenever she could bear to visit. She was being fanciful and fearful, she told herself, letting the memories that kept assailing her at Currawong Manor get on top of her.

  That was the worst thing about ageing, Ginger told herself, looking now into her own eyes in the mirror. Not your body’s gradual deterioration and the surface changes in your appearance – yellow teeth, fragile bones, indifferent male glances, grey hair, the skin that felt so dry and alien as you began to slowly wither – but the hovering ghosts. The sadness of realising the wasted seconds, emotions, thoughts and dreams.

  Shrugging off her melancholy, she checked her teeth for lipstick before adding a last slick of berry gloss. Let Shalimar lurk in every mirror Ginger glanced in, she told herself, throwing back her hennaed hair and raising her chin. She was Ginger Lawson, and back in the 19
40s she had done what it took to survive. She had Ma’s strength and resilience and she wasn’t afraid of ghosts, dreams, memories, death, mirrors or Rupert Partridge. They were all shadows. What was real was the waiting applause, the envious stares of the women her age who had given up. The expensive jewellery she wore, the outrageously high heels she could barely walk in (but she’d break her legs before she’d bury herself in flats), the Chanel perfume and the bright lipstick that she now wielded as if preparing for war. Which, in a way, she was. It was time to take on the good folk of the Blue Mountains. Hopefully, there would be some locals, who had delighted in sneering at her when she was a Flower of the Ruins, present to see how glamorous she still was. Success was the best revenge in Ginger’s book of life.

  She wasn’t going to let Rupert down any more than she had already done. She stuck back her shoulders and hoisted her breasts higher.

  It was showtime.

  23

  At the Flicks

  The historic Mount Bellwood Cinema was in Drake Street, the town’s original main road. Built in the 1920s, the cinema had recently been renovated, although it remained faithful to the original design with its touches of art deco, art nouveau and Edwardian style. The lobby – with the original gilded ticket box still in place at the front – had a black and white checkerboard floor, crystal chandeliers, and a couple of Rupert Partridge goddess statues. Inside the cinema itself, red velvet drapes covered the screen. Below the screen, a piano and a wooden table holding plates of sandwiches and large enamel teapots gave the grand surroundings a more homely air.

  Elizabeth, sitting next to Ginger, with James and Nick to her right, looked up and admired the ornate ceiling decorated with classical figures from Greek mythology, naked cherubs and bunches of fruit. She would have to return another day with Linda to capture the large room’s elegant beauty. For Ginger’s talk tonight, she had brought her Canon, which stood ready on a tripod beside her seat.

  At the piano sat a tall, elderly, grey-haired man wearing a black tuxedo and shiny black shoes. Elizabeth recognised him from Kitty’s funeral. He began a jaunty music-hall tune as the locals filed in, finding seats, chatting and laughing with friends. Most had had the sense to bring blankets and shawls; Elizabeth realised with a shiver that the cinema was nearly as cold as the mountain air outside.

  Standing up, she moved into the aisle, adjusted the lens and snapped a few photos of the piano player. Holly joined them.

  ‘That’s Patrick Bishop, head of the Mount Bellwood Historical Society,’ Holly told Nick. ‘He always gets done up like a Christmas turkey for the flicks. He’s been playing the piano here for years. He dresses up like someone from an old film even on the weekends. Amazing, considering he’s in his eighties. If you need any help for the book, Patrick’s your man.’

  Nick took out the small notebook he always carried, and wrote down the name. With renewed curiosity, Elizabeth remembered the tension between Ginger and Patrick at Kitty’s funeral.

  ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t already popped over to meet you,’ Holly said. ‘But he’s not fond of the Ruins, I’ve gathered.’

  ‘He believes in the superstition about the birds?’ Elizabeth asked, her foot tapping as Patrick played a rousing version of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’, some of the audience clapping along and several of the older women gazing adoringly at him.

  ‘I don’t know about that, but he had some sort of falling-out at Currawong Manor and no one seems to know why,’ Holly said as the music ended with a flourish and Patrick stood, bowing to applause.

  Several young girls in black uniforms walked around the aisles with trays of sweets, Choc-Tops and popcorn. The hall was now packed with an eclectic mix of people; the event had obviously attracted people from far and wide.

  ‘I can’t believe that old bore is still alive,’ Ginger said, gesturing to Patrick Bishop as she strode up to join them. ‘Look at him, done up like the Duke of Mount Bellwood, thinking he’s Cole Porter. He was friends with Rupert once. And he’s still playing piano here. I feel as if I’m in a time warp.’ Ginger checked her lipstick in a compact mirror; Elizabeth could see she was nervous.

  ‘You’ll be brilliant, Ginger,’ she whispered.

  ‘Thanks. Just don’t tell me to picture them in their underwear. Not sure I’d want to see Patrick in his long johns,’ Ginger retorted.

  Elizabeth tried not to laugh at the mental image Ginger had conjured as Patrick adjusted the microphone at the front of the hall.

  ‘Welcome one and all!’ The microphone boomed and a few people groaned, covering their ears. An attractive, grey-haired man hurried up from the front row, adjusted the microphone and handed it back to Patrick.

  ‘That’s Pip,’ Holly said. ‘Patrick’s son. Patrick’s wife, Olive, died in the seventies.’

  ‘Probably bored her to death.’ Ginger yawned.

  ‘Thank you, Pip,’ Patrick said, then resumed his speech. ‘Tonight is a very special event for Mount Bellwood. It’s not often we get to see such a fascinating double billing. Rebecca, directed by Alfred Hitchcock and based on the Gothic novel of the same name by Daphne du Maurier, is one of the classics of cinema and was one of the most popular films of the 1940s. The movie won two Academy Awards, including Best Picture. Many critics believe it to be Hitchcock’s finest work, but I would recommend you read the original novel with its unusual mix of Gothic elements, romance and murder mystery. It was first shown in this cinema in October 1945, and over the years locals have enjoyed repeat showings.’

  He paused and looked around with a beaming smile. ‘But first up, and even more exciting for us, we’ve been awarded – with the kind permission of the Edgar Cabret estate – an uncensored viewing of Broken Bloodied Brushes, in which we’ll be treated to rare footage of such Blue Mountains luminaries as Norman Lindsay, Edgar Cabret, and the wonderful Monica Baillie with her beautiful landscapes. In my humble opinion, ladies and gentlemen, Monica was one of the most underrated artists of this era in the Blue Mountains.’ The audience applauded – whether at his words or to keep warm, Elizabeth wasn’t sure.

  ‘Give me strength,’ Ginger said loudly. ‘Baillie is one of the most boring artists of the Blue Mountains. Only Patrick would consider her oh-so-pretty, decorative works art!’

  Several people sitting nearby looked around to see who’d spoken. Patrick glanced across as well, and Elizabeth had to resist the urge to shush Ginger. Why was the old woman always so intolerant of other people’s views?

  With a more restrained smile, and a slight tremor in his voice, Patrick continued, ‘But I know a lot of you have braved the winter chill tonight mainly because of the other featured artist in the documentary, Rupert Partridge. The film features footage shot at the notorious Currawong Manor and provides a brief glimpse into Rupert’s studio and personal life. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked about Currawong Manor or Rupert Partridge, I’d be a very wealthy man. And, ladies and gentlemen, we are blessed to have present with us here a genuine icon: Ginger Lawson!’ There were cheers, and Ginger waved from her seat. ‘You may know her as one of the Flowers, as Rupert’s life models were so poetically called. Ginger has graciously agreed to introduce this short film to us. And so, without further ado from boring old me, may I hand you over to the one, the only, legendary Ginger Lawson!’

  The crowd applauded enthusiastically as Ginger sashayed her way to the stage.

  ‘Thank you, Patrick,’ she crooned, eagerly grabbing the microphone. ‘Good evening, everyone. My name is Ginger, and as Patrick has just said, I was one of the life models fortunate enough to work with Rupert Partridge in the 1940s. You may get a glimpse of me in my birthday suit in this film. I’m a lot older now, ladies and gents, and I’m not as toned as when I first posed, but Playboy magazine are still after me to pose nude for them, and I’m planning to do so on my eightieth birthday. So keep your eye out for that issue!’

  There was laughter and a few wolf whistles. Encouraged, Ginger fluttered her eyelashes and swa
yed her hips coquettishly. ‘Go get ’em, Ginger!’ an elderly woman sang out from the crowd.

  Elizabeth smiled to herself as she shot frame after frame. Once again, in front of her very eyes – and camera – Ginger had materialised into a different person; the morose, distracted woman from dinner had vanished, and here again was the fabulous Ginger Lawson, still breaking hearts after all these years.

  ‘There’s been a lot of rubbish written about Rupert over the years, but I knew the real man,’ Ginger continued.

  ‘Did he do it, Ginger?’ a man called from the audience. ‘Did he kill Shalimar and fake his own disappearance?’

  Ginger searched the audience, trying to see who had spoken. The mood in the room shifted into a darker energy with his question. Elizabeth began to realise how impacted the small mountain village was by the deaths at the Ruins in 1945. Throughout the decades a whirlpool of innuendos and wild rumours had swirled about the town, until the tragic fate of the Partridge’s had encapsulated the landscape of Mount Bellwood. What should have been half-forgotten with time had instead increased in energy. An unsettling town memory, haunting generations: the ‘not knowing’ ensured the locals couldn’t lose their interest in the case. The Partridge’s story had become their story.

  ‘I’m working on a book about happened all those years ago,’ she said. ‘The photographer for the book – that beautiful young woman over there in the aisle with the camera – happens to be Rupert Partridge’s granddaughter, the well-known photographer Elizabeth Thorrington.’

  Horrified, Elizabeth flushed red as the entire hall turned to examine her with excruciating interest before their heads swivelled mercifully back to Ginger.

  ‘If you want to know the truth,’ Ginger went on teasingly, ‘you’ll just have to wait for The Flowers of the Ruins to be published and let the moths out of your wallets. But I’ll say one thing,’ she paused and looked challengingly at Patrick Bishop, who stood near her with his head bowed. ‘There’s been a lot of bullshit spread about Rupert by people who had their own axe to grind. Rupert Partridge was a complex, wonderfully kind, sensitive artist.’ She took a breath. ‘And some people here know more than they ever let on at the time. But I’m keen for justice to be done at last. Rupert was labelled the “Devil of Australian Art”, but he deserved more. He changed my life for the better when he lifted me out of poverty and introduced me to art, books, and a life in front of the camera. Remember, folks, it’s not where you start from in life – it’s where you finish. And now, I hope you enjoy the film.’