The Valley

by Di Morrissey

  ‘I try to find the provenance of a piece as best I can, but the owner of this box is a mystery. It was made in England and presumably brought out by pioneers. I wonder what letters were penned on it about their new life,’ mused Barry.

  ‘Well, you certainly have wonderful things,’ said Dani.

  ‘Pop in again, we get new bits regularly. Are you living around here?’

  ‘I’m staying out of Cedartown for a few months. I’ll definitely check you out again. I’m Dani by the way.’

  ‘Look forward to seeing you again, Dani.’

  Dani found Jason Moore’s office tucked away in a side street of the CBD where a row of old-style homes had been converted into offices and rooms for a vet, a solicitor, and several medical practitioners. She opened the door and was greeted by a woman in her seventies with a neat cap of curled, blue-rinsed hair, a shirt fastened at her throat with a cameo brooch.

  ‘Good morning, you must be Dani Henderson. Please take a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea?’

  ‘Please don’t go to any trouble. I’m fine.’ Dani wondered if the bustling lady was Jason’s mother, or an elderly aunt. She appeared very efficient in her pleated skirt and sensible shoes as she disappeared down the narrow hallway.

  The small reception area was unadorned apart from a flower arrangement tucked into a hollowed, weathered fence post with a glass vase inside. Several recent glossy architectural and art magazines were spread on the small table next to the sofa and chair. The woman who’d greeted her had a desk, computer and phone behind a white bamboo partition.

  The woman returned and sat down at her desk as Jason appeared, hand outstretched with a welcoming smile. ‘Thanks for coming in, Dani. Lovely to see you again. I’m so pleased Patricia twisted your arm.’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t have to twist too hard,’ lied Dani, wondering with suspicion exactly what Patricia and Jason had talked about. ‘I’m very curious about your plans.’

  ‘This is Miss Lawrence, my right hand. Come in. Would you care for coffee or tea?’

  Dani returned Miss Lawrence’s nod. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  She followed Jason along the hall. One side was glass and revealed two rooms that had been made into one, with a conference table, flat-screen TV and white board.

  ‘This was obviously an old house,’ said Dani. ‘I love how the whole street has taken on a new lease of life.’

  ‘They were little houses dairy farmers retired to from the land. They were going to be bulldozed but I managed to persuade Patricia this would be a better way to go so she swung the council. High-rise commercial buildings are on the horizon but, as I thought, doctors, solicitors and so on were quick to move into these places.’

  Never a man to miss an opportunity, surmised Dani. She bet he had already reserved an office in whatever new high-rise office block was being mooted in the town.

  Jason held open a door. ‘Please, this way. Before I show you the presentation, can we chat a bit?’ He spoke earnestly, leaning forward and locking his eyes on her. ‘The man behind this whole project is a visionary in my book, which is why I agreed to come on board.’

  ‘Oh, who’s that?’

  ‘A very big developer, well, entrepreneur, dabbles in all kinds of projects. Especially environmental and energy ones.’

  ‘Like? I mean, would I know him?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s very low key. Selling this concept is my job as well as helping create the vision.’

  ‘And what vision is that exactly?’ Dani hated nebulous ideas that masqueraded under ‘the vision’ thing. Trying not to sound as facetious as she felt, she asked, ‘And what is the mission statement for this project?’

  Jason flinched but ploughed on, ignoring the barb. ‘The fact is, people are moving away from cities in droves, so if what they’re looking for are homes, amenities, lifestyle, beauty, tranquillity, isn’t it better to provide that in an organic, sustainable, integrated and creative way? We want people to inhabit the existing landscape rather than impose themselves on it.’

  ‘That’s a nice philosophy,’ admitted Dani. ‘What’s the reality?’

  ‘It seems the reality is that the world is going to run out of fuel and we must make provision to change how we live,’ answered Jason. ‘That means, frankly, fewer people, and living in a place where, if needs be, people are self-reliant, self-empowered, in a community that cares for them as they care for it.’

  ‘So who is going to start that ball rolling?’ quizzed Dani.

  ‘A developer prepared to look at the whole concept as a community and be sensitive and clever in working each home into a suitable position so that it has light, sun, and privacy while leaving as much bushland and trees as possible.’

  ‘By sustainable do you mean solar power, compost toilets and water tanks? It does sound a bit like an expensive hippy commune,’ she said lightly.

  His earnestness melted as he conceded her point. ‘Well, sometimes those alternative ideas from the seventies were the forerunners of this so-called new thinking. Because we have modern technology to help create an innovative community we can use green power, and we can safely recycle water and sewerage. We still have to educate people, change their taste, if we’re to get away from pretentious energy-wasting homes.’

  ‘That’s a big call. Aussie culture is very much about a family house on the quarter-acre block, water views, all the trimmings. Two cars in the garage, a boat, a holiday shack. You can’t deny people’s aspirations, it’s what everyone works for,’ said Dani.

  ‘I’m not against people wanting the security and pleasure of a home they’ve worked for. Here we can have a variety of homes that don’t shriek my place is more expensive, bigger, better than yours. They’re designed to take advantage of their position, north facing, open to breezes and light, with views as well. What people create within their home and garden is their expression of who they are,’ said Jason. ‘We believe that the whole design is a gift to future generations.’

  ‘Why not just leave the unspoiled bushland as a gift to future generations?’ said Dani evenly.

  He sighed and made a gesture that made Dani feel as though he thought she was a simple child. ‘People have to live somewhere, Dani. Our cities are exploding and councils see growth as a means to prosperity. And, frankly, if we don’t do it someone else will. Perhaps with no sensitivity but as it’s been done in the past. The slash and burn approach. Raze the land, cram in houses, start from scratch and eradicate any reminder of how it was before.’

  ‘Okay. So we have all these beautiful, environmentally sensitive homes in a bushland setting. What about amenities? I mean, we’re talking about a huge area,’ asked Dani.

  ‘I’ll show you the layout in the boardroom shortly. Essentially it’s what we call cluster communities.’ Jason was keen to move on. ‘There’s a pattern to the layout that links homes without appearing intrusive. There’s a central arrival area with parking, a network of paths for bikes and walkers, a community pool, a gym and sports facility with soccer and footy field, a skateboard park and tennis courts. At the river there’s a small landing and a boathouse. There’s one general store for convenience foods. Lots of places where people can sit in the sun, walk around, meet each other. A place that encourages social interaction yet gives an overall sense of privacy and being part of the natural setting.’ He paused. ‘If it sounds like a big sales pitch, you’re right, but we are trying to do something special.’

  Dani was determined not to be swayed but she thought it sounded like the sort of place Tim would love. How remote and lonely would he find her cottage at The Vale? ‘It sounds so big though. Intrusive. What does the council think?’

  ‘It took some involved and lengthy show-and-tells,’ admitted Jason. ‘They of course were concerned about the infrastructure but glad to have more growth in the area. There’s a sewage-recycling plant, and wind and solar power designed to return energy to the main grid. And power and telephone lines are all underground. Wherever possible we’
ve kept things as unobtrusive as possible.’

  ‘It sounds expensive. Is this going to be a place for only those who can afford it? It’s still in reach of Sydney so you’ll have a bunch of yuppie weekenders who price everyone else out and have no commitment to the area.’

  ‘Some, perhaps. Hopefully people who choose to live in this type of a setting will appreciate and care for it. There’s a tiered system of larger homes to modest places for the downshifters. Some areas are set aside for small farms as well.’

  ‘But the whole thing is geared to people who can afford to sell in the city and move into this community,’ said Dani. ‘What happens to the people already living here with no big asset to sell? Where do they go when they want to downsize?’

  Jason paused and spread his arms. ‘That’s the conundrum isn’t it? They either stay where they are, move further away, or move to a home unit. Not the best options, I admit.’

  ‘There’s a challenge for you then,’ said Dani quietly. ‘Maybe stage two could address the local people. Farmers who want to get off the land as they age. Have you considered people other than tree-changers, young families, retirees from the city and baby boomers?’

  ‘We have. There are some townhouses that might suit young people and compact one-level homes, which we call support houses, designed for older people who want to stay in their home but have a safety net around them dotted through the community.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Dani. ‘Baby boomers aren’t going to slink off into the twilight in existing retirement homes.’ Dani had never thought about where her mother might end up. ‘I like the idea that they are still part of a community.’

  ‘It’s what we have to get back to – looking after each other but still being able to shut the door and be in our own space. The proverbial hearth and home is at the core of our civilisation whether it be a small fire in a cave, a pot-bellied stove or under-floor heating. Shelter, warmth, food, a place to be cool in summer whether it be lying under a tree on the river bank or catching the breeze on your verandah or courtyard.’ He leaned back, waiting for her reaction. Dani could tell he’d delivered this spiel before now.

  ‘It’s a lot to take in,’ she said slowly. ‘So where do you see me fitting in to this scenario?’

  ‘The land is country that originally belonged to Isabella Kelly and it occurred to me that the connection gave us a local identity to help market and brand the community. However, there’s been a lot of resistance to the idea of attaching the name of an infamous, scandalous woman to the project.’

  ‘How ridiculous! She sounds colourful. I’m intrigued by the conflicting stories I’m hearing about her.’

  He pounced. ‘Then perhaps you could undertake a bit more research to find out about her. In addition to photographs of the landscape I thought a series of paintings might set this project apart. We’d like you to paint the country, and any other conceptual ideas you have, and somehow involve Isabella. We’ll put you on a retainer to see what you come up with and then commission work from that.’

  Dani was floored, it was a great offer, albeit challenging. ‘You’ve never seen my art, and who passes judgment on my work? You? The mysterious entrepreneur?’

  ‘Partly. Mainly it will be the man who is primarily funding the project.’ He stood up, indicating a tray with glasses and bottled water. ‘Some cold water?’

  She nodded. Dani was quietly thinking through the offer as Jason filled two glasses. The money would be very helpful, but would this take her away from what she hoped to do with her art? She’d quit her job to move away from what she’d done previously.

  Jason broke into her thoughts. ‘By the way, Maxwell James thinks you’d be the right person for the job because of your graphic design and advertising background. But we want creative work not just commercial art.’

  Dani was surprised and somewhat reassured at the mention of Max’s name. She’d find out what he knew about all this. And Jason Moore.

  Jason gestured to the boardroom. ‘While you’re mulling it over come and see the plans, architectural drawings and specifications.’

  After another exhausting session that left her head spinning, Dani told Jason she’d have to think about it. It was a big step to go back to working for somebody after having made the great leap to freedom. And while on the surface the whole idea sounded attractive and innovative, Jason Moore came across as too citified, too much the big-time smoothie fronting for some shadowy billionaire businessman. It was not the kind of project, or person, she had expected to come across in a quiet backwater. Or maybe that’s precisely why these developers had chosen this beautiful river valley. She’d hate to be part of a scheme that spoiled this place. She thought of her great-grandparents. What would they think standing in her shoes right now?

  Dani declined Jason’s lunch invitation, thanked him, and only began to relax when she got onto the long, quiet bushy road from Cedartown out through Birimbal, the route to Kelly’s Crossing, where she stopped.

  Standing by the splashing clear stream, hearing the call of a whip bird, Dani tried to imagine this being the backyard of homes nestled amongst trees on the hills and in the gullies. She recalled how her mother had talked so nostalgically of the bush and countryside she had experienced in nearby Cedartown when she was a child, and, while they couldn’t go back to that safe and innocent time, perhaps Jason was right. If there had to be building in the bush this project could show the way, creating a place to be enjoyed while retaining the natural landscape and some remnants of the original setting. And, if done well and sensitively, it might alter how everyone thought about progress, development, change.

  He hadn’t mentioned the proposed cultural centre. She still had a lot of questions. But it would be challenging to be part of a staggeringly big new project like this, though it wasn’t where she saw her life heading. But then again, she would have an opportunity to paint what she saw as the statement of what this was all about – the present meeting the past to combine and merge rather than to subjugate it. She needed to talk to Max.

  7

  Mount George, 1845

  Isabella

  THE VISITOR DID NOT announce himself in the usual way, by riding slowly to the homestead, dismounting in front, calling a greeting, making his arrival known to the servants about the yards. Instead he galloped straight to the front entrance, swinging from the saddle, shouting to a native working in the garden to take his horse. The Aborigine moved slowly, and the visitor flushed with anger.

  ‘Come on, man, move. Move!’ he shouted, thrusting the reins at the native, and strode up the front steps, flicking off his broad-brimmed hat and running a hand through his sweaty hair. He spotted Hettie coming to the door along the central hallway. ‘Fetch your mistress.’

  Hettie looked past the man, wondering what emergency called for such haste. ‘Is there something the matter, sir?’

  ‘That is my concern. Show me to the drawing room. Tell Miss Kelly Mr Flett has arrived.’

  He seemed to know where the drawing room was without Hettie’s guidance so she fled to the plant house calling, ‘Miss Kelly, a visitor. In the drawing room. Mr Flett.’

  Isabella put down the native orchid she’d been potting and pulled off her gloves and work apron. ‘Have Lola prepare him refreshments. Run and tell Florian to keep Noona and the child quiet and out of sight.’

  ‘Master Florian is far away. Noona is in the wash house.’

  ‘Then tell her to keep the child with her and remain indoors.’

  The last thing Isabella wanted was the Community Magistrate to know she was harbouring a half-caste child. Without any formal acknowledgment Isabella had allowed more than two weeks to pass since her ultimatum to Florian, Noona and their child. She’d closed her eyes and busied herself about her property. Florian was a valuable worker and Noona was proving to be a quick learner around the house. She could imagine the pleasure it would give Henry Flett to charge her for allowing one of her white servants to fraternise with a b
lack on her property.

  Isabella did not like her wealthy neighbour whom she regarded as filled with self-importance and lofty ambitions. Each time she’d brought a dispute with one of her servants before the court Flett had ruled against her or dismissed the case. Indeed there were so many occasions when Flett had been hostile to her court applications that several of the servants, when arguing with their mistress, would threaten, ‘I will take you before Mr Flett.’

  It still rankled Isabella that a high-quality side-saddle sent out from England arrived when she was away from the district. It was left with a storekeeper who let anyone borrow it. When Isabella finally retrieved the saddle she found it damaged and roughly repaired. She had summonsed the storekeeper for ten pounds, the cost of the saddle, in the small debts court. But on the day of the hearing the river was in flood and she couldn’t cross. Flett dismissed her claim on the grounds she did not attend the hearing.

  In keeping with her upbringing and not wishing to make more of an enemy of Henry Flett, Isabella remained courteous and civil, but cool. ‘Good morning, Mr Flett. Forgive my delay, I was occupied with my plants which required me to tidy myself.’ She indicated to him to be seated as he’d risen to greet her.

  ‘I did not expect the lady of the house to soil her hands,’ he said with an attempt at levity.

  ‘I’m sure you are aware running a large property cannot be totally left to assigned staff.’

  Mr Flett avoided soiling his hands, preferring to work from his large cedar desk. ‘I have an excellent manager and overseer. If I may say so, Miss Kelly, it is unusual, indeed unseemly, for a lady like yourself to be involved in such matters. Although you have so far made a grand success of your holdings.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Flett,’ said Isabella, ignoring his condescending tone. She knew very well what the men in the district thought of her activities. Most were envious of her success. ‘And is this a neighbourly call or a business matter?’ she asked pointedly. Henry Flett did not make social calls on Isabella Kelly. While the activities of each was known to the other, and settlers could call upon their neighbours in times of trouble, Henry Flett would not be the first person to whom Isabella would turn.