As Ginger herself often said to Lois and Elizabeth, it wasn’t the attention from local papers or the fact that she had managed to find work as an entertainer at her advanced old age that gave her the most satisfaction. Rather it was the smiles and laughter from her elderly contemporaries that made her new role so fulfilling. To see the shine in the eyes of residents when she sang ‘Danny Boy’ or ‘We’ll Meet Again’, as they relived precious memories. At Ginger’s urging, the old residents waltzed slowly in each other’s arms, remembering past dance halls, and husbands and wives now dead. The younger staff told her afterwards how her singing had brought back beautiful memories of their own grandparents. At all of Ginger’s performances there was a mixture of laughter and tears, and to her own great surprise she grew to love entering nursing homes.
One of Ginger’s most cherished, poignant memories was just before Wanda’s death in August 2005. Ginger had just finished singing ‘We’ll Meet Again’ at the Peppermint Tree, remembering as she belted out the song how Rupert used to hum it sometimes when he painted. As she was leaving, Wanda grabbed her hand, looked directly into her eyes and spoke more lucidly than Ginger had heard her since that first day when she remembered the monkey. ‘Thank you, Ginger,’ Wanda said. ‘Thank you so much.’ And for a few minutes, Ginger saw her old friend and rival looking out at her.
Even after Wanda’s death, the Peppermint Tree remained Ginger’s favourite place to strut, tap dance, croon her tunes, and tell her jokes and stories. They weren’t quite the audiences Ginger had previously envisaged, but singing her repertoire of Oldies and Goldies made her twilight years memorable for all the right reasons.
34
Some Sunny Day
January 2006
I’ve taped this throughout the last couple of weeks as I know my life is drawing to an end. I did try to write, but it’s an effort to hold a pen for too long. Such a relief to feel the curtain about to fall. The pain has been crippling. I haven’t coped with this latest round of chemotherapy – the indignity to the body is worse than the cancer.
I’ve had a rich, full life and I’m not afraid to die. I want to apologise again to my daughter, Lois, and my granddaughter, Elizabeth, for the suffering I caused by surrendering Lois to Doris when she was born. I still stand by my reasons for doing so, although I regret how it has affected you both. I thank you and bless you for your forgiveness, Lois. And for all the practical help you have given me over these last few years.
It’s meant so much to me to see the joy little Rupert has given both of you. I thank God I did return to Currawong Manor and attempt in my own muddling way to set the past to rights, even if I nearly gave up several times, thinking it impossible and too disruptive for you both to discover the truth.
Elizabeth, be the mother to little Rupert you would have liked to have had, but don’t judge your own mother. You know why she’s as detached as she is and how difficult her life has been. You will find comfort and solace in your family. Be proud of yourself and your gift in the same way that I’m so proud of all you’ve achieved with your photography, your marriage to Nick, and my beautiful great-grandchild. You’ve given my final years of life immense richness by being generous enough to include me in your family. And I believe it is this joy and purpose that has helped me to live so far beyond my original prognosis.
I love the book, Elizabeth. It meant so much to see how you and Nick portrayed us and gave those terrible events at the Ruins some dignity. The people who suffered in that house of sorrow deserved at least that. It has been wonderful to see Rupert’s talent reviewed, thanks to Flowers of the Ruins, and the retrospective of his work. I wish I could be there for the premiere of the movie, but I’ll be strutting the red carpet right next to you all in spirit. Rupert deserves it and it’s long overdue for my wonderful, complex friend. I am proud to have been his muse and to have been associated with him for the short time I was.
I shall miss my drinking sessions with you, Nick. I’m so pleased you took up your guitar again and your band is doing well. How ironic that ‘Dingo Blood Ball’ is back in the charts. The more things change, hey? I’m very disappointed I don’t get to see you dazzle them in your leathers onstage, but I’m proud you took notice of my nagging. You should never turn your back on your dreams, my boy.
A creative gift can’t be ignored – if you do ignore it, you deny your very existence. We are not where we are born to, or the circumstances of our lives. We are our own longings, our own triumphs and our failures – and we make our own fate. We are all flawed people, but we are still magnificent souls when viewed from the stars. And at times our mistakes can turn out to be our biggest triumphs – and our failures, the awards not given and the enemy who strikes us, are what awaken the giant within. I can see a meaning to it all now as I approach my last breath. It’s all beautiful and perfect.
I feel Ma around me lately as I lie in this nursing home. I wish I could have helped her more. I miss her and my husband terribly. Not to mention my good friend Pip. Hopefully they are waiting for me, and they all get along. I look forward to a few laughs with them. I die a happier woman knowing Lois is there for you, Elizabeth.
I’m too weak to talk for much longer, and the nurse with her trolley of pretty pills is coming soon. She has eyes like an angel, that nurse.
There’s not much longer for this old broad. When you start seeing angels you know the curtain’s falling. Dusk is here, night is approaching and I can taste death in every bite I eat and in every sip of water. My body is cold but my hands are blazing with fire. These are all signs, I know.
Thank you both for giving me the love you gave freely at the end. I know I wasn’t deserving of it – but you still continued to love me. Lois, there is nothing more important in life than family. I can recognise that truth now. I hope you don’t repeat my mistakes. We inherit all the dreams, frustrations, sorrows and secrets of our parents. Their unfulfilled lives become our blueprint. My wish is that now I’ve told my story, you will be free to follow your own paths. The cutting can strike new life from its parent tree if we give it the right conditions and care. All plants flourish with love.
Don’t forget to keep that Playboy for Rupert when he grows up. I want him to see what a good sort his Gee-gee Ginger was – even in her seventies. I know you thought it was dreadful, Lois, but I loved that shoot!
I’m going to die in this room soon with my burning hands and my newfound peace. I didn’t want either of you girls present, because I don’t want you to witness the exact second I pass. I don’t deserve it – and I don’t want to put either of you through it. But my last thought will be of you, Lois, my own flesh and blood, and my bitter regret that I missed out on so many of your everyday moments and caused you so much pain. But I believe regret is only useful if it helps us to make things right in our own hearts. And so please, Lois, make right the wrong I did by being a stronger and a better person and mother than I was.
When you discover I’ve gone, Elizabeth, I want you to photograph my dead body one last time. I have left instructions with the nursing staff to allow you in before they do their bits and bobs. I know it will horrify Lois, but I understand photographing the dead is important and beautiful to you. You can do with the photograph what you will. I know old Linda will capture me perfectly and I will not be concerned about photoshopping this time! But just make sure you shoot from my best angles, won’t you?
Do not cry or grieve too long for me, beautiful girls. Live your lives knowing that I am proud of you both. I know we will meet again. (Sounds like it’s time for a tune, folks!)
I am the happiest I have been since I was a little toddler. I’ve had a decent innings and I did a lot in my life. I didn’t do too badly for a little Surry Hills rat. I’m ready to kick up my heels and have a party when I get to that big dance hall upstairs. In fact, I can hear the music starting up for me now!
And that’s the final scoop from Ginger, so that’s all, folks!
TAPE ENDS
35
Elizabeth sat in a chair beside the bed, looking at the floor, while the pastoral care worker, Edith, said a prayer over Ginger’s body.
‘Are you alright, dear?’ Edith placed her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Elizabeth nodded, although she was deeply sad that she had missed the moment Ginger had died. She had gone home briefly to organise Rupert and Nick in preparation for her following night’s watch at Ginger’s bedside when she had received the call saying that Ginger had gone. In her phone call, Edith had also told her to bring in her camera.
Now Edith glanced at Linda, positioned in the corner. ‘What a fabulous old camera!’ she enthused. ‘Ginger told me all about it in her chats.’ She sighed, looking down at the dead woman. ‘I’m going to miss our talks. She was such a character and had lived such an amazing life. A true Aussie icon – it was a pleasure to care for her. And a real lady right to the end. Always wanting her lipstick, perfume, her wig on right and fussing about her clothes.’
Elizabeth smiled, wondering how Ginger would react to being called a real lady.
Edith glanced at the walls covered in photographs and artworks. ‘She kept us all entertained with her yarns about meeting the rich and famous.’
They studied the slices of Ginger’s life Blu-Tacked to the wall. There she was with a stylish kaftan and beehive hairdo, arms around Elvis Presley. On New York’s Brooklyn Bridge, in a black suit and hat and with cat’s-eye glasses, laughing and holding hands with her husband, Gordon. And a beautiful photograph of an older Ginger and Pip together, holidaying in Mexico in sombrero hats, looking happy and relaxed.
The black and white photograph Rupert had taken of Ginger reading in the Diana folly at the manor was pinned next to a signed photo of her looking movie-star glamorous in a red-spangled dress, posing with Sophia Loren. Her framed Playboy cover was positioned alongside a photo of her in a white tuxedo, Pip and Elizabeth flanking her at the launch of Flowers of the Ruins. That photograph, to Ginger’s glee, had made the society pages. There was a cherished photograph of Ginger sitting next to Wanda in her wheelchair, taken just before Wanda’s death, with Ginger in a vintage ball gown, and a smiling, spectacled Amity on the piano behind them. But the wall mostly featured shots of her great-grandchild and his artwork, including a large, colourful painting of two stick figures riding a spaceship – one clearly Rupert, the other with a mop of red hair – and a note written in his careful child’s hand: Get well soon, Gee-Gee. Love, Rupert.
In her last few years, Ginger had sought solace in spiritual reflections and theosophical thought and, to Lois’s disgust, had claimed to believe Rupert Junior to be the reincarnation of her mother.
‘I had best go and visit Mrs Brown’s daughter and say a prayer for Mina. They lost their mother as well in the night,’ Edith said. She lightly stroked Ginger’s face again. ‘Well travelled, Ginger, my dear. You died beautifully, exactly the way you wanted it. Elizabeth’s here to take your photograph now. You look gorgeous even without your cosmetics. I shall miss our lovely chats.’ She smiled at Elizabeth. ‘Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea, dear?’
Elizabeth shook her head, not trusting her voice, and Edith nodded, then made the sign of the cross over the dead woman before leaving the room.
When Edith closed the door behind her, the palliative-care ward felt unnaturally peaceful and silent. Elizabeth was alone with Ginger. Lois, who had refused to enter until the photograph was taken, was waiting in a nearby cafe.
Elizabeth approached the bed and looked down at Ginger. She barely recognised her without her wig and make-up, but Ginger had insisted in her instructions to the nursing team that how she was at the end was exactly how she wanted to be photographed. Elizabeth looked for signs of peace in Ginger’s face, but to her disappointment Ginger looked as if she was having a slightly troubled dream.
‘I love you, Ginger,’ she whispered. ‘Be at peace, you did what you could to make it up to us.’ As reverently as she could, she pulled the sheet back to display her grandmother’s naked body.
Slowly, her hand traced Ginger’s face and throat, and her artist’s eyes tracked down the still body. This body that had flaunted itself, inspired art, and given birth to Elizabeth’s own mother. Ginger, the ultimate control freak when it came to Ginger Flower, had trusted her granddaughter to document that most intimate and mysterious of moments – her death.
Elizabeth wiped away her tears as she drew back the curtains to let light flood the room. Outside, beautiful roses in planters and ornamental shrubs gave a sense of order and beauty to the small garden. Sitting on a bench on the far side a stranger sobbed into her handkerchief. Someone else had lost a loved one to the dawn. Grief and loss were a universal language.
Elizabeth pushed a plate into Linda, ducked under the cover and held her breath at the sight of the dead woman against the hospital sheet. She recalled the words of the American poet, Wallace Stevens: ‘Death is the mother of beauty.’ Ginger, in her final photograph – body wrinkled, stretched and distorted with time and decay – had never looked more beautiful. Elizabeth took her image, knowing she would never better it.
Within minutes, Lois entered the room. Elizabeth tensed, expecting a tirade about her photographing Ginger’s dead body. Lois, her face an anguished, universal mask of loss, ignored Elizabeth, however, and went straight to Ginger’s bed. ‘Mum? Don’t leave me, Mum,’ she said tentatively. The peace of the room vanished as Lois bent down at her mother’s bedside and began to sob. Elizabeth watched her mother, feeling the deep aching sadness pushing itself upwards within her like a melancholy plant she knew would never leave her.
Crossing to the window, she stared out. The bench was now empty – the stranger in the garden had left, returned to the duties and rituals of death and loss. Elizabeth watched golden-brown leaves being blown gently across the grass by a light breeze, the flowers and plants dappled in the early-morning Sydney light. Ginger had selected a day of summer sunshine to depart for her Dance Hall. She would be forever linked to Elizabeth with the secret she had divulged to her in the folly regarding Rupert’s fate. Elizabeth knew she would never hurt her mother by revealing Ginger’s confidence. She had pushed Ginger’s fantastic story deep inside herself where she didn’t have to wonder how much of it was true. To doubt her grandfather’s work was to question everything Elizabeth believed about the artist’s right to freedom of expression. Rupert’s work would always be about the fragility, beauty and mystery of life, as revealed by the naked human form.
The sky above was a pale blue and seemed to stretch forever. There were a few birds dotted in the sky.
It was going to be a beautiful day.
Acknowledgments
Currawong Manor has been blessed and elevated by the vision, hard work and belief of the following:
My publishers at Pan Macmillan Australia and the entire Pan Macmillan team led by Cate Paterson, Publishing Director. I give my most sincere thanks to the marketing and sales people involved, cover designer Nada Backovic and publicist Di Cohen.
I am grateful to everyone for your painstaking care in ensuring that not only Currawong Manor was presented as beautifully as the finished product you are holding, but that the content was awarded as much care as it received from Pan Macmillan Australia.
Currawong Manor has benefitted from the talents and strategic proof-reading of the following editors:
David Levell – fellow writer and husband who gave up (yet again) many hours of his own precious writing time to read a very early draft. His gimlet eye proofed out early glitches and his perceptive creative suggestions were taken on board.
Selwa Anthony – my agent, whose valuable input helped Ginger emerge into vivacious, sparkling, outrageous life. Thank you, Selwa!
Alex Nahlous, structural editor – who had the daunting task of unwinding threads and working with me towards reducing my original 170,000-plus manuscript down to a much trimmer, improved Currawong Manor, and did so with tact, sensitivity, humou
r and skill. It was a joy to work with you again after your contribution to Poet’s Cottage, Alex.
Clara Finlay – another editor I had the honour of working with on Poet’s Cottage, Clara again awarded my work her impressive and methodical editing talents, which helped add another rich layer to the world of Currawong Manor.
Emma Rafferty, Editorial Manager at Pan Macmillan – who contributed not only her analytic skills to the editing process, but also her creative empathy for the characters and story, which made her a joy to work with.
Bolinda Publishing for ensuring stories touch the lives of as many people as possible.
My overseas publishers Ullstein Buchverlarge, Meulenhoff Boekerij and Martinez Roca for ensuring my Australian murder mysteries travel more than I do. And my overseas agent, Kathrin Nehm at Thomas Schluck.
Warmest love and thanks to Sisters in Crime in Melbourne who for many years have provided inspiration and encouragement to me. You are always cherished by this Sister in Crime.
I aim to get as many details accurately represented for the world of my books. For assisting me in this, I’d like to thank Kay Truelove, Librarian at Edmund and Joanna Capon Research Library, Art Gallery of New South Wales for describing how the floor looked in 1940 at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.
Also Lee-Anne McConchie at the Information Services Research Centre for the Australian War Memorial Research Centre for her information on war artists and uniforms in the 1940s.
Jennifer Ross for her information on Albert Tucker and Heide, which helped add to the mood I was trying to create for Currawong Manor.
A huge volume of books were read as research for this novel. In particular I owe a debt to the following for the palette of colours that inspired me. WARNING: spoilers ahead so please read after Currawong Manor:
Australian Gothic The Life of Albert Tucker by Janine Burke (Vintage Australia, Random House books 2003)
Currawong Manor Page 36
