Poet's Cottage

by Josephine Pennicott

  Those small incidents aside, I embraced the life that Pearl introduced me to. We would go mushrooming in the early morning together when the frost was still lacing the ground. Thomasina and Marguerite listened, eyes wide, as their mother told of the parties the fairies held around the white-topped mushrooms that had risen overnight. Then we’d troop back to her cluttered kitchen with its overhanging utensils and its plethora of pots and ladles to fry the fairy mushrooms in butter. Or laugh together as we experimented with making wine from parsnips and rhubarb.

  Even her more unconventional habits, such as her nudism, lost some of their initial shock. She was Pearl: artistic, bohemian, free. If she didn’t always behave in a conventional manner – as Maxwell did – I chose to turn a blind eye, putting it down to her ‘artistic temperament’. It never occurred to me that I was artistic and yet failed to behave in a similar fashion. I was too enraptured by Pearl, the two children (although rarely glimpsed – Maxwell had employed a local girl, Emily McCarthy, to assist with looking after them), and the house with its velvet draping, vast library and prints.

  Indeed, whatever else Pearl did or didn’t do in her life – such as dusting – one thing the town agreed on was that she achieved the Herculean task of restoring Poet’s Cottage to far beyond its former grandeur. Like most of the locals I was fascinated by Poet’s; somehow it seemed to have a dominating presence in our town. Having researched its past for my book, Historical Buildings of Pencubitt, I knew it was conceived and designed by the architect of Blackness House, Edward Frick Hellyer; his family of nine had lived at Blackness House. The Hellyers had a tragic story which has been frequently recounted. He had lost a child in the house, a baby who died at birth, not an uncommon happening in those days. Then an older daughter of about six was killed at Blackness House in 1835 as she played in a wooden cart pulled by the family dog. Hellyer’s wife had died a year later, and six months after that Edward took his own life at Poet’s Cottage. Tourists never tired of hearing the tragic story. No wonder rumours of unquiet spirits circulated around both places. Over the decades a belief grew at Pencubitt that Poet’s Cottage favoured creative types, due to the small number of artistic people who had lived in the house. For a short period in the late 1940s it was leased by a flamboyant dance teacher from Hobart who was later found washed up dead on Shelley Beach.

  Even if the previous occupants did not sleep easily in their graves, Pearl clearly enjoyed restoring Poet’s and disturbing whatever ghosts lingered. Prior to her arrival, damp had settled into the house and the walls were covered with mould. The plaster was cracked and floorboards were chipped and stained, with holes so large you could put your hand through them. Maxwell had always been popular in Pencubitt for his down-to-earth manner, but there was a general feeling that a fool and his money had been quickly parted when he chose to remain in Poet’s Cottage. When he had first inherited the house from his parents, he’d lodged in a room at the old bakery in the town centre, a warmer alternative to being exposed to the sea. Most of his time, however, had been spent in the social whirl of Hobart, two hundred miles away, or Launceston, both cities offering more distractions for him.

  After he and Pearl were married, locals were preoccupied by the frenzied activity to make the home liveable for their arrival. Many disapproved of so much effort being spent on restoring Poet’s Cottage when there were superior houses nearby in better condition. Furniture, ceilings and walls were replaced, drapes hung, chandeliers restored. Floors were retiled, leadlights installed, trees cut down and flowers planted. Most luxurious of all was the building of a garage to house a car. Every day some new arrival or departure at the cottage started a ripple effect of curtains twitching in nearby houses and tongue-clicking at the local shops while hams and cheeses were sliced for the Pencubitt housewives. It was unheard of in those hard years between the wars for people to throw money around as Pearl and Maxwell did. Most people of good sense just made do.

  In fact, Pearl could be generous to a fault. It wasn’t safe to admire a brooch or beads or a dress; she would instantly attempt to press it upon you. She could also be blind to the impact of her words and actions. The games she liked to play with people were slightly sadistic at times. She had an innocent cruelty about her; I was often reminded of a child pulling the wings from a fly. And so the many happy memories – the two of us dancing at Poet’s Cottage, Pearl in screams of laughter as she attempted to teach me the Charleston, or Pearl reciting poetry as Maxwell and I sprawled on the divan and floor, enthralled by the worlds she spun – are intermeshed with her darker moments. The times when the ‘black wolf dragged her into the dark wood’, as she referred to it. Then she became moody, introspective, staring into the fire, despair and weariness a heavy mask upon her face. On one trip into the dark woods she sketched a cloaked figure of death devouring dismembered babies.

  However, despite the occasional shadow falling over Poet’s Cottage, my regular visits there were, for a while, the happiest times of my life. Pearl introduced me to a richer way of being. Unlike most people I had grown up with in Pencubitt, she thought and cared about the same things that nourished my soul. My neighbours spoke only of the weather, grocery prices, the latest factory closed down along the coast or the dashing Prince of Wales. Pearl spoke of ancient myths, Sophocles, Paris, and Virginia Woolf, Freud and Mondrian. She quoted Picasso, Colette, Blavatsky, Blake and Shelley, talked of the Brontës as if they lived down the road, and bought overseas magazines with their glossy colour covers. In her presence everything became brighter, more intense. I unintentionally began to try to mimic her: more fool me – as if a sparrow can imitate a peacock! There must have been a few people sniggering behind their hands as I wove scarves around my head, tentatively applied lipstick, rouged my cheeks and strung beads around my neck. Even the inevitable rumours that we were having a ménage à trois at Poet’s Cottage and my mother’s disapproval of ‘that harlot’ failed to diminish my enjoyment of my visits.

  Then Pearl hosted the murder night and séance at Poet’s Cottage and everything changed.

  Invitation to a murder

  YOU ARE INVITED TO A MURDER.

  THIS DIABOLICAL EVENT WILL TAKE PLACE AT POET’S COTTAGE ON SATURDAY 17 AUGUST.

  Following the gruesome slaying, the world-famous medium Madame Rosa Drake will be present to invite the spirits for guidance and clarification of the crime.

  IF YOU ARE AT ALL OF NERVOUS DISPOSITION OR

  SUFFER FROM HEART PROBLEMS, STAY AT HOME.

  IF, HOWEVER, YOU FEEL LIKE TEMPTING FATE,

  PLEASE WEAR CLOTHES THAT A FEW BLOODSTAINS

  WON’T MAR – THE VICTIM MAY WELL BE YOU!!

  RSVP essential to Maxwell or Pearl – Poet’s Cottage.

  ‘What a dreadful, American sort of party to host!’ my mother sniffed, just as I had anticipated she would. She held the black-embossed invitation from her as if it smelled. ‘A sinful waste of money, too, when so many are going without. The way she throws her money about! Dreadful, common woman. I’ve heard some truly wicked things about her lately. Those poor little girls of hers – one of them is not even his!’ Mother had worked herself up so much she was red in the face.

  ‘Mother, please! It’s not good for your heart to go on like this about the Tatlows,’ I pleaded. ‘Just let it be. She’s not hurting anybody.’

  ‘Not hurting anybody? Are you blind, Birdie? It’s hurting me to witness my remaining child throw all sense of decency out of the window in her haste to follow that evil harlot. Look at you! You have colour on your face like a common tramp. Poor Maxwell! She gives him the total runaround; the fishermen have seen her swimming without a stitch of clothing on. Most sinful! I never thought I’d live to see such depravity in my town. She should be locked up in an asylum for her poor girls’ sake. There’ve been rumours she’s been fornicating with one of the Stephens boys on the beach – in view of the entire town! And then there’s that good-for-nothing Emily McCarthy who’s meant to be bringing up the girls, giving herself
airs and graces, carrying on with Maxwell with his own wife under the same roof!’

  ‘Oh, Mother, they’re just idle rumours, probably spread by one of the Stephens boys themselves. You know what they’re like. As if Pearl would be interested in Teddy or Arthur when she has Maxwell! Besides, I’m her friend. If there was anything like that going on, she would have told me.’

  I tried to ignore Mother’s comment about Emily, which gave me a twinge of jealousy I had no business to feel. Maxwell and Pearl had become so reliant on Emily they had nicknamed her Angel. Before they employed her, I’d been the only local truly welcomed at the house. Oh, there was Violet, but she was of a different class and didn’t count.

  But Mother wouldn’t be silenced. ‘Father Kelly has been to visit her several times and she was always most rude to him. Tried to debate the existence of God! At least he should be grateful she had her clothes on when he called. The poor man said she flirted with him in a very unseemly manner. And her children appeared to be half-witted. They had no shoes on and were drawing over the walls. Can you imagine?’ Mother evidently couldn’t; her eyes bulged from her head as she beat her chest to display her agitation. I was too fearful to mention that Father Kelly had accepted his invitation for the party lest Mother demand to accompany me.

  She tossed the invitation on the table. ‘A murder game?’ she sneered. ‘Somebody will murder that trollop if she doesn’t watch herself!’

  On the Saturday night, Victor called to accompany me to the party and together we walked up the pitch-black main road towards Poet’s Cottage. I could hear the sea – that familiar soothing backdrop to my life. I wondered if Victor would attempt to hold my hand, and couldn’t tell whether I was relieved or disappointed when he didn’t.

  ‘Your mother wasn’t very happy,’ he commented. ‘Doesn’t she approve of gentlemen calling for her daughter?’

  ‘She has one of her heads,’ I said, lying to defend my mother. ‘She doesn’t approve of murder being turned into a party game. I don’t think it’s anything personal – she’s often said to me how much she likes your family.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Victor said. There was an odd pause between us. We had reached the gate of Poet’s Cottage; I could hear jazz music playing and the sound of laughter from the lit warmth within. ‘Because I intend to call often for you, Birdie Pinkerton. Did I mention how pretty you look tonight?’

  I stared up at him, joyous confusion rippling through my body. I had taken special care with my toilette for the party: I’d had a wave done with the new finger perm, and Mother and I had worked for weeks on the navy-blue dress I was wearing. It was cut from the latest Vogue pattern. Mother had let me wear her good pearls and matching bracelet. There wasn’t enough money to stretch to new shoes, so I hoped my black Mary Janes would suffice. It was important I looked my best; not only was this my first date with Victor, tonight was my introduction to Mrs Bydrenbaugh and Violet. Victor ducked his head towards me and I panicked, wondering what I’d do if he kissed me. How would I know how to respond? Where did the noses go? Before I could find out, the door opened.

  ‘Birdie! Victor!’ Maxwell stood there dressed in a black pinstriped suit with a patch over one eye. (For piratical effect, he confided to me later.) ‘Come in out of the cold so we can start our murder!’

  ‘Aunty Birdie!’ Marguerite appeared at the door in a pink dressing-gown, her hair in braids. ‘Daddy said we could wait and see what you’re wearing. Is that the man you’re going to marry? Daddy said you might but Mummy said he would never marry you.’

  ‘Marguerite!’ Maxwell cuffed her lightly on the head. ‘That’s enough. Little girls with big ears and bigger mouths should make sure they get all their details straight. Who wouldn’t want to marry Birdie? I’d marry her myself if I wasn’t married.’

  ‘Mummy said . . .’ Marguerite began again until a warning look from Maxwell subdued her.

  ‘Off to bed and make sure you brush your teeth. Where’s Angel? I don’t want you girls wandering around with the murderer loose.’

  Marguerite squealed.

  ‘Really, Maxwell! Do you have to get her so overexcited?’

  Pearl appeared in the doorway. Shocked in spite of myself at her daring costume, I avoided looking at Victor. A red shawl was pinned haphazardly around her chest, threatening to slip off at any moment, leaving her half-naked. She wore a pair of Maxwell’s pants, and had fixed a silk turban around her hair, secured with a large Egyptian-style brooch. Half a dozen strands of beads hung around her throat and her eyes were smudged with dark kohl. She looked exotic and sensual and I immediately felt overdressed and young in my navy frock.

  ‘Talking about murder when my girls need to be in bed?’ Pearl shook her head, then smiled. ‘Come on in, Birdie, you look so sweet. Come on, I won’t eat you! Hello, Victor! Yum, I might eat you!’

  ‘Where’s Thomasina?’ Maxwell asked Marguerite as he led her away down the hall.

  ‘Mummy gave her a belting earlier for breaking the little china dog that Grandpa left her. Thomasina’s been in a foul mood since. She keeps saying she feels sick. Angel’s putting her to bed. Mummy sent her there without supper.’

  ‘Well, you must join her,’ Maxwell said. ‘Come on, pumpkin, before you turn into a princess.’

  ‘Daddy! It’s the other way around!’

  Pearl watched the exchange with a strange bitter smile on her face. ‘Maxwell spoils the girls. I swear he prefers their company to mine.’

  I thought about Pearl’s frequent mood swings, her tendency to disrobe at the most inconvenient moments, and for a treacherous moment thought I could hardly blame her husband for preferring the company of his innocent daughters. So often lately I could sense a tension between husband and wife, like sharks gliding beneath the surface of a frigid ocean.

  ‘Come on, Victor,’ Pearl said, linking her arm through his. ‘Come and meet the guests. You too, Birdie.’

  I followed them into the front room, lit by a Gloria lamp and the firelight. Pearl, of course, hadn’t bothered to clean up for the party. The room was in its usual state of disarray.

  ‘Everyone!’ Pearl sang out. ‘This is one of my best friends in Pencubitt, Miss Birdie Pinkerton, and her handsome man is Victor Watson. I can tell you we’re in safe hands tonight because, as you know, Victor’s father George is head of the local police station. There’s going to be a murder most foul here tonight. That’s why we’ve invited the local priest along!’

  Although there were only a few people seated on chairs or on the floor of Pearl’s small front room, it seemed to my panicked mind that hundreds of people had swivelled their heads to look at us, and a wave of laughter filled my ears. I felt they were laughing at me, gauche and unattractive in my homemade frock while Pearl stood entwined with Victor, her breasts nearly falling out of her shawl.

  ‘You must know Diana and Violet.’

  Diana? I blinked in terror at Mrs Bydrenbaugh and her daughter, seated together on the sofa. Mrs Bydrenbaugh was dressed in a cream evening dress with a fox fur slung around her shoulder, while Violet was in a green silk dress and white fur.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s the little girl who’s doing the history of Blackness House,’ Mrs Bydrenbaugh said, peering at me through her pince-nez. ‘How is it coming along, Miss Pinkerton?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Diana! Don’t be so stiff. Call her Birdie,’ Pearl said, enjoying herself as she watched our interaction.

  ‘How is it coming along, Miss Birdie?’

  ‘It’s going slowly, Mrs Bydrenbaugh,’ I admitted. ‘The bad weather has prevented me from sketching for several days, and Mother has also been poorly, needing my assistance at home.’

  ‘Poorly? What is the matter with her?’

  ‘Religious mania,’ Pearl said.

  ‘Darling, don’t be so rude about Birdie’s mamma,’ Maxwell said, entering the room. ‘The girls are in bed and want you to kiss them.’

  ‘Oh, they can wait,’ Pearl said airily.

&nbs
p; ‘If you don’t go up, Thomasina will get out of bed and go wandering. She’s complaining her tooth is sore again.’ Maxwell poked the fire, his face averted, but I had the impression he was angry.

  ‘Alright, I’ll go. Does that suit you, Maxwell? Come on, Victor! Let’s go and kiss my monsters goodnight together.’ She half dragged Victor out of the room.

  A strained silence fell upon our small group on her departure. I could hear Pearl giggling as she ascended the stairs and Victor’s deeper voice replying. Maxwell continued to jab at the fire. Sparks flew from the grate and I had to resist the temptation to follow Victor up the stairs to protect him from Pearl.

  ‘Blackness House has a most intriguing history, don’t you think?’ Mrs Bydrenbaugh said at last. ‘Since I was a small girl growing up there I could feel the ghosts within its walls. I’ve always thought that somebody should write a novel about it. Of course, there was a biography written about Edward Frick Hellyer but Blackness House only rated a brief mention and the poor man’s suicide was glossed over. I believe he was a genius. You know that he built Poet’s Cottage, too? Such a fine-looking house. It’s a tragedy that the poor man had to suffer what he did. Little wonder he lost his mind. They were tough times back then. People complain about the climate now and the cost of living. How would they have endured what our ancestors did?’

  ‘Mother, do we have to talk about history?’ a breathy little girl’s voice piped up impatiently. ‘You must be boring Birdie to smithereens. Hello, Birdie, I’m Violet.’