by Di Morrissey
Emily glanced at her husband, wondering at the way he retreated behind that whistle, a song to which she knew no words, which put a distant light in his eyes and took him some place where she’d never been and would never know. She’d learned to keep her thoughts and questions to herself when he whistled like that. It had something to do with the war, which he rarely spoke about except to recount a humorous anecdote or tell of some cultural and seemingly trivial social event in France or Belgium, but he was a lovely storyteller and made everything sound interesting.
How lucky she was to have married the man she’d known since they were children in the crowded terraces of Cricklewood in North West London. He’d grown to a man in Australia, lean and handsome.
How delighted she’d been in 1916 when smartly uniformed Private Harold Williams arrived to visit while on leave from the Australian Imperial Force units that had been moved from Egypt to England. He was much taller than her five feet three inches, and was slim as a strong young tree. His hands had seen hard work but she admired his long fingers. He had a lovely smile and humorous blue-grey eyes that always seemed to spot the funny side of life. His dark brown hair refused to sit flat no matter how hard he tried to slick it down. She’d always thought him an attractive boy and now he’d become a handsome soldier indeed.
He was doing more field ambulance corps training before going into action in France. It touched her to learn that he’d kept in his pack her letters and a photo of her taken under a parasol at Brighton the previous summer. How she had worried when she didn’t hear much from him during his early years in Australia, but she wrote to him frequently.
London, 2nd of March 1910
Dear Harold,
Thank you very much for your keepsake. I thought it was very good of you to send such an interesting book on Australian flowers and it arrived in perfect condition. They are different to what you would see here in London. I should like to see them in reality as they must be awfully pretty . . .
Would you like me to send you some books? I am as fond of them as ever and as I have got such a lot I will send you two every week, two will follow this letter.
The latest craze in London at the present time is the great number of picture palaces. You can hardly go from one street corner to another without coming across one of them, especially in the Walworth Road. They are places you can guess I never enter. Another craze is that of skating and we have several skating rinks in our neighbourhood. Up to the present I have never been to one but I look forward to that pleasure sometime or other. I suppose you know I have started work at a surgical instrument maker in Oxford Street and have been there just over twelve months.
It must be lonely for you out there if you don’t make many friends, don’t I wish I was out there. I’ve learned to play the piano by ear just a little, that reminds me, Cyril Bromley plays grand.
Dear Harold, do you ever think of the old times when we used to play together? I had a temper then and Harold I’ve still got it, I’m sorry to say. The girls at work call it my ‘monkey’.
Well, I think I’ve told you all the news about everybody and everything so I will now close with best wishes, hoping you spend a happy Easter, and prosperity and success in all your efforts.
From your old friend,
Emily.
How slowly the time had passed until November 1918 when Harry was back in England for two weeks’ leave coinciding with Armistice Day. They marked the visit, and his birthday, with an evening concert at the London Palladium and afterwards he took her to a charming little teahouse in the theatre area for supper. It was there, at a table in a quiet corner of the teahouse, that he reached across, took her hands in his, and asked her to become his wife.
A week after the fleeting visit, Emily wrote to Harold wishing him: Health, wealth and happiness all the time. My thoughts will be always with you. I feel ever so pleased we had such a nice evening last Wednesday.
Harold was back in France with his unit for Christmas but this time he was spared the horrors of war. Emily sent him a card that reflected their closeness, signing off: From your sweetheart and pal with fondest love, Emily X.
The war had affected her family with the wounding of Emily’s brother Alf who had served in France with a British regiment. She treasured the embroidered card he sent to her, spelling out in coloured stitching, ‘Souvenir from France’. His own souvenir was a severe leg wound that kept him in a wheelchair for a long time.
Harold and Emily had only one more chance to be together, for just a few days, before his battalion was sent back to Australia.
The Australian government assisted with the passages of brides and fiancées of Australian soldiers, allocating berths for them on ships repatriating the Expeditionary Force. These vessels with women and children as well as soldiers became known as Family Ships. Emily was eventually booked on the Zealandic, sailing on 27 March 1920.
Her departure that morning from the family home, and later from the railway station where the boat train left for Southampton, was highly emotional for everyone involved. Instructions from the Repatriation and Demobilisation Department of the AIF set out the ground rules for farewells:
It is not possible for this Department therefore to issue passes to persons other than passengers, and it is therefore advisable in the interest of all concerned that the final leave taking should be made at home or at the Railway Station. On no account will passengers’ friends be allowed at the ship’s side.
So Emily set out alone for a vast, near-empty country still emerging from the pioneering era on the other side of the world. It took great personal courage and no small sense of freedom and adventure. The Great War was over, the world was now apparently secure and, sustained by her love for the shy young man in the slouch hat, she was certain her life would be a happy one.
Dani
The sunset at Riverwood was an art show in itself. Dani would have been quite happy to spend the evening with a barbecued chop and a cold drink on the verandah before going to bed with a good book. But she knew Max and Sarah would soon be picking her up for the art show at the Hungerford Regional Art Gallery. So she dressed and when they arrived went out to meet them as they chatted with Barney and Helen.
Sarah was of fragile build with a sweet smile and soft pale gold hair. With the powerful build and dark good looks of Max they made a striking couple. But Dani saw straight away that the graceful Sarah had her own strength, she was no dandelion to disappear in a strong breeze but a woman who’d bend like a willow while firmly keeping to the spot.
‘Let me know what the show’s like, I’ll pop in when I’m in town,’ said Helen. ‘Do you want us to let Jolly outside?’
‘We had a big walk up the hill, she’s had dinner and is very comfortable in her basket on the verandah, thanks, Helen. I don’t think she’ll go wandering after dark.’
Driving to Hungerford, Max filled Dani in on the Regional Art Gallery, how it had grown with council support and several arts grants. ‘But it’s really blossomed since Greta arrived as curator. She’s been very innovative and given not just local artists exhibitions but painters and artisans from Canberra, Melbourne and Queensland.’
‘But her main focus is local talent,’ said Sarah. ‘She’s nurtured a lot of people. There’s a woman who does beautiful ceramics and glass she found working in a shed on a farm, and a very eccentric and talented potter from Jumbai up on the mountain. They’ve sold pieces to galleries in Sydney.’
‘I’ve heard Jumbai is an interesting place, once you cope with that drive up the mountain,’ said Dani.
‘Yeah, still remnants of the seventies hippy mob hanging out there, but it’s now attracting artistic strays and some of the tree change set,’ grinned Max. ‘The farm scene is changing too I hear. Some biodynamic farming is happening, but I’m not sure what that means exactly.’
Sarah was more enthusiastic. ‘It’s a happening place, but not everyone’s cup of tea because of remoteness. Sort of a sleepy hollow on top of a big hill, but hunt around
and you’ll find everything from classical musicians, to wild experimental bands, weavers and sculptors. It’s a very vibrant community. Though there are rumours of a darker side to it,’ she added.
‘Sounds interesting. I’ll have to make the effort even if it is a nerve-wracking drive,’ said Dani.
‘There are no plans to improve the road, and the locals like it that way. Keeps out the tourists and bureaucrats,’ said Max.
The gallery parking lot was full. Well-dressed people were threading their way through the cars and along the roadside into the front gardens of the gallery, which looked to be a restored and extended old home. Sculptures and installations from previous exhibitions were displayed on the lawns and along the verandah.
Inside there was a buzz and bright lights, a crush of laughing, chattering people, waiters circulating with trays of drinks. To Dani it had the stimulating atmosphere of a gallery show in Sydney. There were several display rooms and a long main area with standing works and walls ablaze with large, boldly executed, colourful canvases. In one section there were smaller prints and lithographs but the predominant works were the striking paintings captioned ‘Dream Interpretations’.
Dani’s initial impression was that none of the pictures had the subtlety and intricacy of Max’s work. This was all show, it lacked soul. She whispered to Sarah, ‘I’m glad they’re not my dreams, more like nightmares. I wonder what the artist ate for dinner.’
Sarah smiled, ‘I don’t like to criticise another artist’s work but I think he’s indulged in a little too much Arcimboldo.’
When Dani raised a questioning eyebrow Max explained, ‘Sixteenth-century Italian artist who painted figures and portraits using creatures, food, flora and fauna as features. Very inventive if sometimes disturbing.’
‘So what are your influences, Max?’ asked Dani.
‘Nature.’ He indicated the outdoors. ‘Certain places or images that I see and subconsciously file away. When I look at a landscape some of those impressions find their way onto the canvas. I don’t paint a literal landscape. Well, you saw some of my work,’ he said modestly. ‘What about your influences?’
Dani was caught offguard. Max treated her as a serious artist. ‘I suppose landscape, but more a sense of place. Places that mean something. I don’t want to paint attractive “scenes”. I have to feel a connection to it. Like there’s something underneath. How it used to be. What it looks like after a fire, or a storm. What people, creatures, have passed through it. I can’t explain really. It’s a long time since someone has asked me anything like that. I’ve never really thought about what draws me to a subject.’
Max nodded. ‘Very intuitive of you. It’s how we think of country too. That we are interlinked, the land is a part of us, we share the same space, act upon each other. I see it as a layering process and we all return to the land eventually.’
Sarah nodded in agreement. ‘It’s not just an Aboriginal attitude. I feel it too. Your country calls you back, Max says.’
Max glanced around the room. ‘There’s Henry Catchpole, have you met him?’ he asked, pointing at a spry-looking man with silver hair. ‘His is one of the original families in the valley.’
‘No, but Helen said I should meet him. He runs the local historical society, right?’
Henry, in his seventies, had impish blue eyes, a ready laugh, a firm handshake, held himself straight and looked her firmly in the eye. Dani guessed he had a military background.
‘I hear you’ve come to explore your family roots. You’re a Williams aren’t you?’
‘My great-grandparents. I’ve never thought of myself as being part of a . . . dynasty,’ laughed Dani. ‘I just came here on an impulse. I’m surprised you’ve heard about me.’
‘Not much escapes Henry,’ said Max. ‘He’s a walking encyclopaedia on valley history. Can tell you what your great-grandparents had for breakfast every day.’
‘Hal Williams loved saveloys. Used to send young Lara up to the bacon factory for them,’ replied Henry promptly.
Greta Handle, the gallery curator, stood on the small raised platform in front of a large canvas and called for everyone’s attention through the microphone. She was statuesque, yet softly round. Her greying blonde hair sprang from the confines of a French roll. She radiated intelligence and an artistic sensibility, a hippy who’d joined the ranks of the bourgeoisie to conform but at the same time supported artistic rebels. She wore a loose emerald velvet jacket with touches of embroidery and a large chunky necklace of painted ceramic beads that looked like it had been specially made for her. She gave a short, articulate speech – a brief history of the artist and his work and an explanation of the theme of this exhibition. She then called on Councillor Patricia Catchpole to speak.
Henry’s wife, an attractive woman in her late fifties, spoke succinctly about the role of art in the community and pledged continued council support for this important regional gallery. She then announced she had great pleasure introducing someone who was making a significant contribution to the region by giving a donation to the gallery and would be instrumental in assisting the growth of the shire.
‘What’s that mean?’ said Max in a low voice to Sarah. ‘Don’t like the sound of that.’
Sarah shrugged.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Mr Jason Moore.’
There was a murmur beneath the applause as a tall, dynamic man jumped up and kissed Patricia on the cheek, turning to give a dazzling smile to the audience.
‘Has he just arrived from Sydney?’ Dani asked Sarah. ‘He looks like he’s stepped out of a trendy cover spread for a yuppie magazine.’
Sarah shrugged again. ‘I’m not up on the cool Sydney people. He’s certainly got an air about him.’
Poised and self-confident, Jason Moore addressed the crowd in a warm and gentle tone that Dani felt was a bit of an act. She studied him without paying full attention to what he was saying. Mid to late thirties, well groomed, hair styled, clothes casually tailored and expensive labels she had no doubt. She felt Max stiffen beside her, so tuned into what Jason Moore was saying.
‘I believe the time is ripe for this valley to become a landmark example of the transition between the old world and the new. Where fallow farms give way to a rich cornucopia of new opportunities, new lifestyles, new residents and a renewal of appreciation of what a special place this is. For years towns like this have been dying, productive farming dwindling, young people disappearing to cities far from their roots and families. That is no longer the future.
‘As a statement of the commitment of the Genovese Foundation, founded by my family, to building the future of the Oxley River Shire, I would like to announce that – in addition to supporting the arts, such as this wonderful gallery – the foundation has plans to create a new and vibrant community.’
He paused. He had everyone’s attention and the room was utterly silent.
‘To that end a new township will be developed that will not only bring all manner of opportunities to the area, but we are dedicated to doing it right, learning from the past and consolidating a new future for a very special part of this shire. High on the list will be the development of an arts and cultural centre which we hope will spawn talent that may be displayed in a wonderful new space. So I therefore have great pleasure in declaring Dreams and Means open. Thank you.’
After a burst of polite applause there was a buzz of conversation about this startling announcement. It was clearly news to everyone.
Dani caught Henry Catchpole looking at his wife with a raised eyebrow. Patricia looked faintly smug. Being a councillor she would have known what a bombshell this news would be.
‘Where is this new community going to be? Sounds like he’s bought up big somewhere,’ said Sarah.
‘Here we go again,’ grumbled Max. ‘Another jackpot for the white mob with lots of dough. I’ll talk to Henry and see what he knows.’
Sarah was engaged by a group of friends who swirled by and Dani wa
s momentarily beached in the crowded room. She was relieved to spot Claude and George. As she threaded through the clusters of people, everyone was talking about Jason Moore’s remarks. All interest in the paintings had evaporated.
Greta was surrounded, as was the ever-smiling Jason Moore. A newspaper photographer was snapping them both. A girl with a tray of empty glasses save for one champagne was negotiating her way back to the bar. Dani reached for the champagne at the same time as a large paw.
‘Oh, sorry, do go ahead.’ She looked at the owner of the large hairy hand and saw ruddy cheeks, brown eyes behind glasses and a full bushy ginger beard.
‘After you. They’ll be around with another tray soon enough,’ he said. ‘I can recommend the food if it passes this way.’
‘Quite an event,’ said Dani conversationally. ‘It seems that Mr Moore has dropped quite a bombshell. Do you know him?’
‘Me? Not at all. I don’t mix in society circles,’ he said. ‘Though I don’t like the sound of his plan. Cultural centres and development means someone’s trying to sugar coat a grab at making money out of this place. I’m glad I keep out of town and away from local politics.’
‘So why are you here tonight?’ asked Dani with a small smile.
He looked uncomfortable. As much from the apparently unaccustomed tie as her question. ‘I’m just the artist. Greta insisted I be here.’
Dani felt sorry for him. ‘Oh, congratulations, the show is fantastic. And such a roll up, I hope you sell a lot.’
‘I dunno about that, these things bring out the freeloaders and social climbers. I didn’t know that Moore bloke was going to make his announcement.’ With relief he took a drink from a fresh tray as it was offered.
‘I don’t think most people knew, judging by the reaction. It did steal your thunder a bit. Why didn’t you say a few words? I’d like to know about your paintings, how they make the transition from dreams to canvas,’ said Dani warmly.
‘I’m no good at talking and people aren’t really interested. One woman asked me what the painting was called, like that explains it all. Didn’t want to know where it came from. Unlike you. Do you paint?’
