Currawong Manor

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Currawong Manor Page 25

by Josephine Pennicott


  Ginger resumed her seat to wild applause and cheers. Elizabeth quickly packed away her tripod while the curtains opened and the lights in the cinema dimmed. ‘You were wonderful, Ginger,’ she whispered as she sat down next to the elderly woman.

  Ginger didn’t seem to register her comment. She was staring at the screen as the title appeared, the old black and white film flickering. ‘I remember this day as if it were yesterday,’ she said. ‘When Jim arrived to shoot the movie. They were such good days. The world seemed a better place back then even with the war having just ended. I just wish I had appreciated it all more at the time. I was too busy with all my emotional dramas.’

  Not a safer place for Shalimar, Elizabeth thought, but then the opening titles ended and the presenter appeared on the screen – a smug-looking young man, his dark hair slicked back with brilliantine, and wearing a checked suit. Next to him at an outdoor table, was the notorious Norman Lindsay. ‘Norman, could you tell us a little about the impact the war had on your art? Many Australians suffered but it must have been terrifically tough for the boys who were called away like yourself, who had artistic talent. How does an artist cope with the shocking reality of war, resume normal life and take up the brushes again?’ The name of the interviewer, Jim Ogilvy, appeared on the screen as he asked the artist the lengthy question, and Lindsay thought it over, now looking like a mischievous pixie.

  ‘Jim, that’s several questions in one there that you’re making me work for.’ He leisurely lit a cigarette and the presenter fished around in his pocket, eventually locating his packet, he tapped one open and lit it. The audience, used to a faster editing pace, laughed at the sight of the pair smoking.

  ‘Each man is different, Jim, and we all fight a different war. My brother Martin, for example, was in the trenches in the Great War and he lugged a lovely statue of a big faun with him wherever he went. He made his trench his own. But what does sort of annoy me, Jim, is your assumption that the war is over and everything’s tied up nice and dandy back here and we just went into our studios and resumed painting. For me, for many of us that went and served, the war will never be over, Jim. The war isn’t something that happened over there (he gestured angrily with his cigarette as he spoke) in Europe and on a certain day it finished with a polite, steady line connecting the two. The war is happening even now, Jim. It’s happening in this garden as I’m talking to you. It’s happening in this house at Springwood and it’s happening in the Blue Mountains. It’s not a straight line, Jim. It’s jagged and there’s blood over everything, Jim. Blood over my prints, my models, my brushes. Can’t you smell it?’

  The camera panned to a pensive looking Jim as he continued to smoke his cigarette nodding, evidently smelling only his cigarette smoke, as Norman spoke.

  After the interview with Lindsay, there came a few minutes’ footage of Monica Baillie. Standing in front of a large oil painting of The Three Sisters, she presented as an elegant bohemian vision with a colourful scarf turban, and several silver necklaces adorning a long white tunic smock dress. Monica spoke about her love of the bush and how the Blue Mountains had been a spiritual and artistic refuge for her following her husband’s death overseas.

  An electric charge shot through Elizabeth’s body as Rupert appeared on the screen. She sat up straighter in her seat and stared, fascinated. Her grandfather was obviously in his studio, seated in front of a half-finished painting. Elizabeth didn’t register what the painting was; she was too focused on Rupert himself. He wore a scarf tied around his neck and a short-sleeved shirt, and in spite of his air of exhaustion he looked handsome, intense and sensual. This dashing-looking young man was the ‘devil of Australian art’?

  Jim asked him a question about the war. ‘I remember the rain,’ he said quietly as the camera lingered on a close-up of his face. ‘It never seemed to stop raining. And a group of boys, most of them very young and from the country, faces as fresh as squirted milk. All of them keen for adventure and egging each other on. A lot put their ages up, just to have an overseas holiday. I was posted to Wangaratta, then Bankstown. Those fresh-milk faces were on their way to New Guinea. Most of them had to look it up in an atlas.’ He smiled sadly for a moment. ‘It was their first trip away, and all of them were dead in a week. Their faces haunted me for years, laughing and bantering, waving goodbye. Those naked, youthful, milky boy faces . . .’

  The camera panned around his studio to where the three Flowers stood listening, Ginger robed and the other two models naked. Near them were a stuffed tiger and bowls of fruit. Wanda wore a dish of fruit positioned on her head.

  Elizabeth glanced at Ginger, whose eyes glistened with tears. The audience barely had time to register the Flowers and the chaotic studio before the camera returned to Rupert. He spoke into the lens now, his voice stronger, and Elizabeth felt as though he was talking directly to her, communicating with her from beyond the grave, and a lump of emotion rose in her throat. This handsome stranger was her own blood relative.

  ‘I was luckier than most. I found work as an artist in a plastic surgery unit where I drew all the horrific effects of the war. Men with their noses missing, or half their jaw or cheek gone. Men whose faces had been turned into unrecognisable masks, faces once as unblemished, innocent and youthful as those of the boys who had marched smiling and laughing to their deaths in New Guinea. I sketched men who couldn’t sit still because they were twitching like nervous rabbits. I got to document all these rotten, spoilt fruits of the war. My brushes were dipped in the nightmares, horrors, screams and pain of the boys who believed in the sacrifice they made for Australia. There was no doubt in my mind when I returned to the mountains that mankind was insane, for only insane men would inflict upon each other what I witnessed.’

  He stopped and looked down at his hands for a few moments before resuming. ‘But all I could do – all I was capable of doing in the nightmarish days and nights in that halfway house to hell – was paint the rotten, spoilt, bloody fruit.’

  ‘Rupert? Are you finished making the film now? I’m so bored.’

  The camera shifted jerkily to a little girl, luminous in the black and white footage, wearing a light-coloured dress, her long blonde hair falling to her waist. A collective sympathetic horror rustled through the audience. This must be Shalimar, and everyone present knew the fate awaiting the beautiful child in a few weeks’ time.

  ‘Can you please come and play now?’ she continued. ‘Doris’s busy and Miss Sharp is so bossy. Please, Rupert, stop making the film. Uncle Edgar and Jim, stop filming and let Rupert play.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Rupert’s voice came from out of shot. ‘Turn off the bloody thing, you two. It’s as boring as bat shit. I want to play with Shalimar.’

  The film ended awkwardly with a brief, almost incoherent rambling statement from Edgar in his studio at Mount Olympus, followed by a montage of shots of the mountains and valleys and empty frames with black marks all over them. There was a smattering of applause.

  The lights came up and the audience rose and headed towards the refreshments table, a swell of conversation filling the room. Elizabeth, fighting with strong emotions, glanced at Ginger, who was still staring at the screen.

  ‘Are you alright, Ginger?’

  The older woman flinched. ‘Yes – it’s just the shock of seeing Rupert like that, looking so young. I never really thought of him as young when I knew him. I was such a child myself.’

  Patrick Bishop ventured hesitantly towards them with his son in tow. ‘Ginger,’ he said. ‘You look as beautiful today as you did on that film. I saw Kitty as well before she died, you know. She visited me at home. Life had not been as kind to poor Kitty. It was distressing to see how she had let herself go. But you, dear Ginger, bloom as beautifully as you always did.’

  ‘You’re either lying or going blind – or my mirror is,’ Ginger snapped, then she said, more gently, ‘I was just saying to Elizabeth how young Rupert looks in that film. I can’t believe it’s still in existence – but what
happened to the rest of the footage? Edgar and Jim were both at the manor for about a week, driving everyone bonkers.’ She frowned for a moment, looking troubled, then her expression lightened. ‘Edgar and Monica sounded like a pair of hippies, didn’t they? Too much drink, I suppose. And I wonder what happened to that oily-looking Jim?’

  ‘Who knows where he got to, dear lady,’ Patrick said, wisely choosing to ignore the bulk of her remarks. Elizabeth thought she saw a suspicion of a smile on his lips. ‘I’ve never heard of any missing film. Perhaps Edgar discarded it for some reason. Or Rupert may have thrown it out? He was such a volatile, tempestuous man. Shortly before you arrived, he threw me out of the manor, you know!’

  ‘Yes, I remember you saying.’ Ginger smiled slyly. ‘Rupert wasn’t the most tolerant person when it came to fools or bores.’ She took Patrick’s arm and laughed at his pinched expression. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that! There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then, Patrick, and we’re both greyer, although probably no wiser. Let’s all go and grab a cuppa and bore each other with our news. I want to find out more about this handsome son of yours.’ She winked at Pip and held out her other arm to him invitingly; he took it, beaming. The trio walked over to the refreshments table.

  ‘Quite an operator, isn’t she?’ Holly appeared in front of Elizabeth, holding a cup of tea and sandwiches. ‘Don’t you love the way she manages to insult old Patrick and yet somehow still has both him and his son eating out of her hand? Oh, to have that much sex appeal!’

  ‘There you both are!’ James came over. ‘That old film was pretty amazing, wasn’t it? What a shame there wasn’t more footage from the manor. I wanted to see more of the gardens. I’m sure Dad said they had filmed him and took heaps of footage around the joint.’

  ‘You’d be the only man present wishing for more shots of the garden rather than the naked Flowers!’ Nick said in a choked voice. The others glanced at him. ‘Are you okay, Nick?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Sorry? Yeah, give me a minute.’ He glanced around the room, his expression tense. ‘God, how awful was it to see that little girl, knowing she only had a few weeks left to live? It’s one thing to read about them, but when you see them on screen, it brings them to life. She was so young and innocent.’

  Elizabeth rubbed his arm, liking him even more for his unashamed display of emotion. ‘Your words will bring her story back to public attention,’ she said softly. ‘That’s a gift you have, Nick. You give a voice to the ghosts and ensure their life – however brief – is recorded and remembered.’

  Nick nodded. ‘Ginger was probably annoyed she wasn’t filmed with her kit off,’ he joked in an attempt to divert the sympathetic attention focused upon him. ‘Are you staying for Rebecca?’ he asked Elizabeth and James.

  ‘Too right,’ James said. ‘But I don’t think Ginger is, somehow.’ He nodded towards the door.

  Elizabeth turned in time to see Ginger and Pip walking out of the cinema, Ginger holding Pip’s arm and laughing loudly.

  ‘They’re not stopping to say goodbye,’ Nick said, shaking his head admiringly. ‘Our Ginger’s a fast worker.’

  ‘Isn’t she now?’ Holly said. ‘I think Ginger’s worse than some old tomcat. I hope she doesn’t give Pip a heart attack.’

  ‘Come on, let’s take our seats,’ Elizabeth said.

  The room soon darkened, and the drapes swished open to the opening shot with the title across the screen. Elizabeth shivered with pleasure at the iconic line: ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . .’

  24

  Circus

  Ginger watched the snow drifting down outside. Overnight the world had turned into a silent, white Christmas card. Last night, flirting with Pip, she had felt alive, indestructible. There was a spark between them, but this morning she couldn’t help wondering if there was any point in taking things further. Having a terminal illness wasn’t the best starting point for a relationship. Where was the etiquette book on how to tell a new lover you had cancer?

  The heavy grey sky, drifting snow and bare-leafed trees couldn’t have been more different to the November day Ginger was about to describe from over fifty years ago. Ironically, the very brightness of the sunshine in 1945 had ensured that the shadows would be deep and far-reaching.

  ***

  There wasn’t a lot of entertainment to be found in Mount Bellwood, apart from the occasional fete or garden show. But Morris and Bullen Brothers came annually, offering a welcome respite from bulbs, pet shows and jumble sales. The circus set up in the grounds of the village school, where all important outdoor events were held.

  At the time it seemed a welcome diversion from the studio sessions and we agreed it would give Doris a rest with the baby.

  On 8 November, Wanda, Kitty and I volunteered to take Shalimar to the circus so Doris could rest or – more likely – work in the garden, planting seedlings she had recently received from Sydney. Over breakfast that morning, Doris asked Miss Sharp if Dolly would be interested in joining us.

  ‘Do we have to have Dolly, Mummy?’ Shalimar whined. ‘She’s so meddlesome.’ Studying Shalimar over my cup of tea, I privately marvelled over the pot calling the kettle black. Shalimar must have somehow guessed my thoughts, because I felt a kick on my shin, although her face remained as innocent as ever.

  Miss Sharp hesitated. ‘Thank you for thinking of Dolly, but I don’t approve of those shows.’

  Doris poured tea and helped herself to some lemon slices. ‘Miss Sharp, what an odd thing to say. What on earth could you possibly have against a circus?’

  The dollmaker pursed her lips as she stacked plates. ‘I don’t like the way they treat the animals, Mrs Partridge.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re all well cared for,’ Doris said dismissively. ‘Morris and Bullen have an excellent reputation. The animals are most likely better off than in the wild.’

  ‘That may be your opinion, Mrs Partridge, but I don’t hold with wild animals in cages. They should be in the jungles and plains where they belong, not forced to perform as cheap entertainment for folks who should be staying home and doing their chores. It’s a foolish waste of time to be watching a circus when you could be scrubbing a floor or cleaning a window.’ The spiteful old devil shot a look at the three of us Flowers.

  ‘Can’t people just have some fun for once?’ Wanda said, glaring at Miss Sharp.

  Doris jumped in quickly, seeing that trouble was brewing. ‘Dolly will have to miss out, then. Let’s hope she doesn’t mind too much. What does she do to entertain herself, Miss Sharp? Your Dolly seems to be rather a mystery.’

  Miss Sharp carried the plates over to the sink. ‘Don’t you go fretting over my Dolly and working yourself up in this heat. It’s not good for Baby if you get upset. My Dolly’s a good girl and keeps herself busy. Anyway, Dolly’s happiest in the woods playing. A circus wouldn’t appeal to her.’

  Wanda sighed heavily, rolling her eyes and Doris shot her a warning look.

  We dressed up in our best for the special event. I felt as pretty as Lucille Ball in a frock of two-tone pink, the bodice a light rose pink with cap sleeves and the skirt a darker shade. I’d copied it from an old Women’s Weekly and run it up on Doris’s Singer machine.

  An excited crowd lined up outside a large, jaunty-looking tent with orange, white and navy stripes. We Flowers received a few whistles from the local boys but they were too bashful to approach us. We all enjoyed speculating over what wonders were inside the rows of white trailers and cages. The sun was blazing and our spirits matched the sunshine. The war was over and there seemed much to celebrate.

  I kept a close eye on Shalimar, but never once did it occur to me to scan the crowd for people thinking to snatch or do mischief to a child. This was still fifteen years before little Graeme Thorne’s kidnap and murder, and two decades before the Beaumont children vanished at Glenelg Beach in Adelaide. Back then, people just didn’t contemplate that children could fall victim to people who wanted to do them
harm. We were a lot more trusting in those days.

  Rupert had spared no expense with our tickets. The Morris and Bullen Brothers circus was a beauty, living up to all the claims on its posters. I’d never seen anything like it – six elephants, two bears, four lions jumping through hoops, three tigers, a panther and a couple of leopards. Miss Sharp had plenty to disapprove of there. Girls in sequined outfits and feathered headdresses sold fairy floss and ice-cream. I felt as if something magical was about to occur, an event of monumental importance. Well, something monumental was around the corner, but not what I could have ever envisaged or wanted. What seemed so luminous at the time has now diminished into a grotesque memory. In my nightmares I smell raw sawdust and see the sad, garish faces of painted clowns. I hear the infectious brass band, the crowd singing and clapping along to rousing songs like ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. I feel the excited innocence of the young girl next to me. Why couldn’t I have kept her safe? For the next day, of course, would be Shalimar’s last.

  Clowns cartwheel in my dreams and pretty girls in spangled outfits stand upright on the backs of ponies, galloping past with artificial, forced smiles. Monkeys in hats and glittering jackets screech, while skinny, wasted-looking lions roar with deadened eyes. In my recurring nightmares, Miss Sharp and Dolly parade around the ring, arms stretched out to the crowd, encouraging applause. Miss Sharp is the ringmaster, in top hat and tails; Dolly is a doll with buttons for eyes, stitches crisscrossing her arms, legs and mouth. They wave to the crowd, who clap along to a song.

 

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