The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  Seeing Bianca cowering behind her jodhpurs filled Christina with a sudden yearning for the intense discussions that might have been – about facial scrubs or the relative merits of depilatory cream versus waxing. Options that might have been discussed with the gravitas of solving world affairs, but in reality she had no idea where Bianca stood on the issue of hair removal any more than she knew her daughter’s preference for underwear. Bianca had banished her from laundry duties years ago, declaring it ‘gross’ for her underthings to pass through her mother’s hands.

  Christina winced with a fleeting jealousy towards the person who had taken her place and stolen her daughter’s confidences. It was a mother’s job to offer advice on bras, pimple treatments and lipgloss, all those items that marked the milestones to womanhood. Usurped by schoolgirls, probably Phoebe. She wasn’t even sure whether Bianca had started her period yet. Their most intimate interactions were passing a serving dish at dinnertime. Loss gaped before her and, overwhelmed by an urge to hold Bianca close, Christina stepped forward.

  Bianca stepped back, pulled her jodhpurs higher to cover herself.

  Christina felt the blow of it and leaned against the doorframe. ‘Are you going for a ride?’ she said.

  Bianca shrugged, cupped her elbows in her hands, hiding her chest without seeming to do so.

  Christina tried again. ‘Maybe you could take Licorice down to the showground and practise some jumping?’

  Bianca’s mouth twisted. ‘I dunno. I might go for a trail ride.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Christina smiled and waited for Bianca to reciprocate, then wilted as Bianca shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the magazine open on the bed.

  Realising Bianca’s embarrassment, Christina rushed to cover it up. ‘Well whatever you end up doing, make sure you’re back before it’s dark.’

  Bianca nodded but did not move, did not shift her gaze from the bed. Some unutterable sense of loss pinned Christina there.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes all right, I’m going. I’m going.’ Christina fled back to the hexagonal room.

  Thoughts jostled inside her head. Was it just her? Every time she tried to interact with her daughter, Bianca ran like a scalded cat. Christina had no basis of comparison, no way on knowing if this was a normal relationship to have with a teenage girl or whether she was a terrible mother. It was a dire truth to admit. She sensed the secrets Bianca kept hidden from her but despaired of a way to unlock them, to return to their once easy relationship. However she came at it, she was forced to acknowledge that around Bianca her failings as a mother were writ large.

  Her eyes rested on the cupboard door and wondered what secrets it contained. Gripping the paint scraper, she slid it along until she found a gap between the door and the frame. She wriggled it but nothing budged. This time she put all her weight behind it and dug the paint scraper in as deep as she could and loosened a finger-length sliver of paint. Christina let out a triumphant, ‘Yessss!’ Within minutes she had removed enough paint to slide the paint scraper between the lock and the frame. As she jiggled the ball of the lock, the door came free, only a millimetre or two but it was enough. Rocking back on her heels, she prised it open and peered into the gloom. Strange, the cupboard was not dark. Her memory of this wing was that it stood at an angle to the main house with a thicket of rhododendrons in between. Maybe her assumptions were wrong.

  Christina played the torch through the narrow gap and in a recessed corner spotted a suitcase. She tried to reach it but the suitcase remained inches from her fingertips. Examining the door hinges, she decided that if she scraped away the paint from the screws and removed the hinge pins, the door might come free from the frame without damaging it. For what, though? The suitcase probably contained nothing more interesting than sheet music.

  Removing the hinge pins worked. Within minutes the door hung at right angles to the room and the gap was wide enough to pull the suitcase out into the light. It was filthy, but even if it did only contain sheet music, she had to know.

  As the sky slid from amber to steel, Christina unbuckled the suitcase. Inside was a thick wad of papers. Not wanting to touch them with dirty hands, she poked at them with the paint scraper and saw drawings. Her pulse quickened. If these were sketches by Rivers, she had finally found something that inextricably linked the painter to this house. She scrambled to her feet and rushed to the nearest bathroom to wash her hands.

  On the way back, she noticed Bianca curled up on her bed, her back to the hallway and Bluey Baa-Baa pinned against her chest.

  ‘Bee?’ she said but Bianca didn’t answer. Although darkness had well and truly fallen, it was too early to be asleep. She tiptoed into the room and peered over the prone form of her daughter. Unless Bianca was a very good actor, she did look fast asleep. Christina pressed her hand to Bianca’s forehead. There was no heat. She went to turn the bedside lamp on but thought better of it. It was Saturday, there was no school tomorrow and the number of nights Bianca barely slept at all, it was no wonder she was tired. She should sleep. Missing dinner was not the end of the world.

  Kneeling next to the suitcase, Christina laid out the sheets of paper. Some were letters between Constance Sutton and Rivers about the plans for the gardens. She grouped them in rough chronological order and began reading. With growing excitement, she discovered that Rivers had spoken to the Danish landscape designer Paul Sorensen but, reading between the lines, had baulked at the cost of employing this rising star of the Blue Mountains set and inquiries had lead Rivers to Constance Sutton. In her first letter, Constance expressed immense keenness for a project of such scale and inquired whether living on site during the garden’s construction was a possibility. She mentioned a daughter, Genevieve, who would need to come too as she had no one reliable to leave her with in Melbourne.

  Christina rested on her haunches. A daughter. She re-read the letter but Constance did not mention her age. A single mother, divorced or more likely widowed. The next letter appeared to have been returned to Rivers by Constance, who had scrawled an illegible reply on the last page.

  My dear Mrs Sutton,

  I am delighted that you are interested in accepting the commission for the design of the gardens at my Blue Mountains residence. Perhaps I should make it clear to you that this is a large undertaking as the existing garden is almost exclusively lawn and native flora. From this I wish to create a garden worthy of comparison to the great gardens of northern Italy. My vision is that these designs shall be a strong influence on the final layout at Bartholomews Run. To that end, might I respectfully point out that this will be an arduous engagement requiring your commitment for several months. If you conclude that it is too difficult a contract for a member of the fairer sex, I shall not be offended.

  However, if your commitment remains steadfast, there is another small matter I feel honour bound to raise with you. Turning our Blue Mountains house into a grander version of itself is as much an artistic endeavour as it is a practical one. My loving wife Mary currently finds herself in a delicate condition. She hopes the remote location will mean we receive significantly less visitors and thus, without the strain of entertaining guests, she shall have more time to rest before the Spring arrival of our newborn child.

  Christina paused. Mary Rivers was pregnant when they came to Bartholomews Run but there were no records of the Rivers ever having children. Had she not carried to term?

  Forgive me, Mrs Sutton, but I feel that it is in both our best interests that I am candid with you. You say your daughter Genevieve is fifteen. I am sure she is an accomplished girl, given her mother is a woman of many accomplishments herself, and I do wonder that in the interests of matrimonial harmony whether it might be best if the young lady obtain a live-in position as a companion or maidservant in your absence. This will have the added advantage of providing her excellent skills and experience that will be most beneficial in her own future marriage.
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br />   Furthermore, a woman of such tender years may find several months in the remote locale that is Bartholomews Run a tedious venture. I shall of course be working. I felt the muse somewhat stifled in Sydney and I find the change of scene inspirational. Naturally, my dear wife shall be resting and you will be busy with the garden. I cannot help wondering whether your Genevieve might distract you from your work, a distraction neither of us can afford. It is mine and my beloved Mary’s aim that our relocation to the Blue Mountains shall be an ocean of calm after what has been a somewhat inclement period in our marital relations. As a woman who has experienced the married state herself, I am sure you fully comprehend the sensitivity of my missive. I look forward to receiving your considered response in due course.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Bartholomew Rivers

  Christina re-read the letter. It was dated 16 April 1929, so Mary would have been around three or four months pregnant. What had Constance Sutton made of this pompous, wordy letter? It sounded as if the real reason Rivers gave her the commission was because she was a woman, an unknown, and therefore cheaper. But how arrogant to tell Constance to put her daughter into service rather than bring her to Bartholomews Run? The gall of the man.

  ‘What are you doing, CC?’

  Christina shrieked, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘God, Jackson, you scared the life out of me.’

  Jackson laughed, sitting on the floor next to her. ‘What’s all this?’

  She explained, showing him the plans of the potager vegetable garden, the walled orchard, the paths and the dry-stone walls. There were elaborate sketches Rivers had made of the wrought ironwork, showing how he intended for people to move through each garden room. Jackson examined the plan of the summerhouse and its ornamental lake.

  ‘Looking at these makes you realise what a massive undertaking this was. Rivers had to build everything from scratch,’ he said.

  Christina gathered the sheaf of papers and photos and returned them to the suitcase. ‘I know. There must be an expert at the historical society who could examine what’s left of the garden and compare it to the original design.’

  Jackson grimaced. ‘More strangers traipsing over the place.’ He indicated that she should turn around and he began massaging her shoulders. Christina relaxed into his grip, felt the tension ripple down her spine and sighed. ‘Oh that feels so good.’

  ‘All part of the service, ma’am.’ Jackson dug his thumbs into the base of her neck.

  Christina groaned. ‘Bianca was a bit funny this afternoon,’ she said, her concern floating back to the surface.

  Jackson’s fingers dug deep.

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Sorry, honey, sorry.’ Jackson kissed her neck and Christina leaned back into him. ‘Is she sick?’

  ‘I don’t know. One minute she’s lying on her bed reading a magazine. The next she says she’s going riding but when I turn around she’s fast asleep on her bed, fully dressed. Well I think she was asleep. Either that or she’s a good actress.’

  Jackson’s hands slipped away and Christina swallowed her disappointment. He stood and offered her his hand. Pulling herself up, she asked, ‘What are you going to do now?’

  Jackson shrugged. ‘Make a few calls.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I might stay here a while longer then. Keep sorting through these papers.’

  Jackson nodded and walked off down the corridor. She watched him leave before picking up the torch.

  Squeezing her shoulders through the door, she let the torchlight scout ahead of her. The room was long and narrow with low ceilings. Looking at the rough thick timbers beneath her feet, Christina realised it had once been a verandah. Why in a house that had in excess of thirty rooms would Rivers choose to enclose it?

  There were several pieces of furniture shrouded in dust covers. Something in the far corner caught Christina’s eye. She swung the beam expecting more furniture, but slumped in a chair was the lifeless figure of a woman.

  Christina shrieked and clasped her hand to her breast. She waited for her breathing to slow. When she was sure she could hold the torch steady, she stepped forward.

  In the half-light, she seemed real enough, but if it weren’t for the surprise, the discovery of the slumped figure wouldn’t have given Christina such a nasty shock. Given the rest of her glamorous attire, this great beauty should have been wearing full-length satin gloves with a large diamond bracelet clasped around one wrist. But her hands were hideous mittens, tied at the thumb with kitchen string. One arm rested on the chair, the other lay in her lap, clumsy appendages unsuited to a beautiful woman.

  They used them when she was a student. Every artist owned a lay figure for when the flesh and blood models went home or had to rest. They were useful for focusing on minute details such as the play of light or a fold of fabric. The question was, what was she doing in here?

  Christina cast the beam around. Beneath a small window stood a wooden etching press. A cabinet as wide as she could stretch her fingertips filled one wall. It had many small drawers with bevelled edges and black iron handles. In one she found three rusty tins of Indian ink. Stacked in a wider drawer were copper plates that had oxidised and were now worthless. Another drawer held an array of etching pens, another wax. If it were not for the degraded state of the items, Rivers could have walked into the room and commenced preparing an etching.

  But Rivers could not have painted in here for there was no natural light. The torch beam revealed that the only other furniture was a single bed and a couch. She peeled off the dust cover and exposed a stained crimson velvet. Stacked against the foot of the bed were several sheets of plywood.

  Holding the torch between her neck and her chin, she lifted up the first sheet and laid it face up on the bed. What she saw brought tears to her eyes. Her first instinct was to check the right-hand corner for Bartholomew Rivers’ scrawl. The painting was breathtaking, not only for its subject and the skill with which it was executed, but also for the fact that Christina recognised it immediately.

  It was the hexagonal room. No other room in the house had a fireplace with a sunburst pattern in amber ceramic. There was the cocktail cabinet, open with a martini glass in which swam large green olives, the bottle tipped over dripping onto the carpet. Gold tassels tied back thick drapes allowing a fortuitous band of sunshine to illuminate the crimson velvet lounge. Against the velvet sprawled a naked woman. She was the picture of anticipation with her back arched and her magnificent breasts thrust towards the man who observed her, the artist. She had turned her long neck so she could see him approach through a half-opened eye, a martini glass precariously balanced in her hand. She was taunting him with her fecundity. It leapt from the painting and in an instant Christina made the connection.

  This was the girl who modelled for Sophia. The auburn locks were the same but gone was her lightness. Taking the painting out into the light of the hexagonal room she propped it against the wall and rifled through the photos in the suitcase until she found the ones she wanted. There was a woman, head thrown back in laughter, her arm around the shoulder of Mary Rivers. The laughing woman wore pants and a man’s shirt. Mary stared into the camera’s lens as if imploring it to release her. Her shapeless frock failed to disguise her advanced pregnancy. Christina turned the picture over. Scrawled in Rivers’ cursive, it said Connie and Mary in the new garden theatre.

  Dumping the contents of the suitcase onto the floor, she no longer cared about protecting or preserving it. There had to be more photos. Christina scattered the plans and letters, snatched up each photo, looking for evidence. A large cream envelope contained folded plans and as she pulled them out a number of photos cascaded to the floor. She sorted through them as though shuffling cards, slowly at first then faster as she realised the enormity of her discovery.

  In photo after photo, Rivers had captured
the nude figure, mostly in the garden. There against the doorframe of the newly constructed summerhouse; here, sunning topless by the pool. Rivers had written to Constance telling her he did not want Genevieve at Bartholomews Run, but Christina does not need to read her name scrawled on the back of photo after photo to know it is the same girl he had painted in The Ravishing of Sophia and in the hexagonal room. Christina could see that any mother would want to keep her beautiful daughter by her side where she could protect her from danger. She would never have left Bianca at fifteen alone in the city whilst she disappeared for months on end. Yet, here she was in what could only be construed as compromising circumstances.

  There are other more disturbing photos of Genevieve. Dressed in sheer frocks, her underwear discarded. In one she stands naked but for a large straw hat, gazing at the camera with a look far too knowing for one so young.

  Christina put the photos aside; she could no longer bear to look at them. This new painting of Genevieve was unnerving. Christina had completely misunderstood Rivers’ intentions. She had thought The Ravishing of Sophia was Rivers both idealising virginity as well as capturing that moment before it was gone. However, now Christina knew that it was Genevieve who had posed for Sophia, it cast a whole new light on the painting and the man. Genevieve was a fifteen-year-old girl, no doubt caught up in the attention she provoked in Bartholomew Rivers. After all, she was at an age where young women were often developing an awareness of their sexual powers and testing its boundaries. In Sophia, Genevieve’s purity had not been transgressed, although it was clear that Rivers intended to take it from her, if not in real life, at least in oils. Christina was sure the three men in Sophia were all incarnations of the artist. But in the hexagonal room painting, Genevieve’s innocence was long gone.