by Di Morrissey
‘What are you doing with yourself now you’ve finished with the Isabella series?’
‘I’ll show you if you like. I’m experimenting with some collagraphy. I’ll explain later. Black coffee or white?’
‘Strong and black, thanks. I’ll get the saddle, where do you want to stash it till the big day?’
Jason roared with laughter after Dani told him about Roddy’s great idea of the ‘valley beast’. ‘He’s certainly a marketer’s dream – but not for me. Thank God he didn’t want to market Birimbal. The movie launch was enough.’
‘I feel kind of sorry for him though,’ said Dani. ‘I don’t believe he intended to rip people off, he really wanted the movie to work. I feel sort of responsible for all the locals who put in money and lost it on all the development hoopla.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Dani. If people invest in a speculative scheme they have to be prepared to lose as well as make money. I’m sure no one is going to blame you,’ said Jason.
Dani didn’t answer for a moment, thinking that was all very well for Jason, he could afford to lose a few thousand. People like Barney and Helen, and Claude and George couldn’t. ‘I just wish I could repay the people here in the valley somehow. They’ve been so wonderful to me and Mum. You too,’ she added, suddenly realising how much Jason had helped her and Tim.
‘People are happy to see you and your mother settling in, young Tim fitting in and blossoming. How is your mother’s family history search working out?’
‘She’s suddenly got a lead. Someone up on the mountain, has no idea how to find him. She’s going to ask around.’
‘Mmm. What’s his name? Maybe I can help. I suppose she’s been told they’re a very close-knit community up there.’
Dani laughed. ‘Barney was a bit less diplomatic, said there are some old-time weirdos there. Helen says there’s probably still an old hippy element, and drugs.’
‘Maybe Lara should be careful about accepting cookies from strangers, even little old ladies,’ suggested Jason.
Dani was thoughtful. ‘There is something really odd about Mum’s dig into the family past. I know this sounds crazy, but she got some hate mail, well, anonymous letters warning her off.’
‘Did she go to the police? That sounds a bit heavy-handed,’ said Jason seriously.
‘I thought so too, but Mum brushed it off. There’s nothing that sinister in our family tree, that we know of, anyway. But it’s creepy that the letters are hand delivered and whoever is writing them seems to know what Mum’s doing.’
‘She’s being stalked? Dani this could be serious. For you and Tim, too.’
‘I guess so.’ Dani had been so wrapped up in her own activities she hadn’t pushed her mother more about the letters. ‘I’ll talk to her about it.’
‘Maybe the writer lives in town and follows her moves, I wouldn’t want to be trailed up that treacherous mountain road into hillbilly country,’ said Jason. ‘When is she going?’
‘I have no idea.’ Dani stood up and shrugged, as if shaking off the uncomfortable thoughts. ‘Come into the studio and see my latest efforts. And thanks for getting the saddle for Tim. I’ve no idea where to hide it.’
‘I could take it across to Kerry’s cottage,’ suggested Jason. ‘Then when he goes to see Juniper and Bomber you can tell him to look in her tack shed.’
‘Great idea. I’ll stick a card and a ribbon on it. Too big to gift wrap.’
When Jason returned from his car with Tim’s glossy new saddle, Dani asked, ‘Do you mind if I ask you what’s going to happen to your grandparents’ home? It seems a shame if it just sits there like a museum but with no visitors.’
‘It’s difficult. I think I told you Kerry is fiercely against changing anything. She wasn’t left any property and in the circumstances I’ve just let it slide.’
‘Jason, surely you don’t have to comply with the will,’ said Dani. ‘You know after Roddy talking about tourism here it occurs to me your place could attract the kind of visitors to the valley who are interested in history and so on,’ said Dani.
‘You mean strangers traipsing through the family pad? Kerry would hate that,’ exclaimed Jason.
‘If she doesn’t want it turned into a boutique hotel or a B&B because she doesn’t want anything changed, you could leave it as a living museum. It would be a terrific attraction. Kerry could run guided tours on weekends or whenever she wanted to. She’d be good at that,’ enthused Dani.
Jason stared at her. ‘Hmm. If we had the proper security. Kerry is retiring and private, but when she talks about horses or that house she’s very knowledgeable. I wonder . . .’ He paused, rubbing his chin. ‘It might solve some family problems.’
‘You could invent a ghost in the house, run pony rides for kids, have a picnic area,’ went on Dani, but Jason held up his hand.
‘Let’s not get carried away here. Small steps. It’s a good idea. Good on you, Dani.’ He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then drew back in embarrassment. ‘Sorry. I feel you may have taken a weight off my mind about Kerry. We’ve never been very close, we have such different interests. This could be the answer.’
‘Go and talk to her,’ said Dani gently. She hoped the idea of turning the house into a museum would go down well with Kerry. Families. They were never easy.
They stood quietly in Dani’s studio, contemplating the textured interpretations of the landscape Dani had been experimenting with for printmaking.
‘These are exquisite, Dani,’ said Jason. ‘How you’ve brought all the physical elements into the image. I’d love one of the prints when you do them.’
‘Really?’ Dani was pleased as he seemed to genuinely like her work. ‘I’ve been researching more about collagraphy, it expanded from traditional printmaking like relief and intaglio printing. Flowered in the 1930s and during the Pop Art explosion in the 1950s and ’60s. It’s considered fine art,’ she added.
‘My grandfather had a printing press. He used to self-publish his legal hypotheses on how the country should be run,’ said Jason. ‘We might still have it and you’re welcome to use it. It would need a bit of a scrub up.’
‘That would be fantastic!’ said Dani. ‘Where would it be?’
‘His old office in Cedartown was full of stuff, it was moved to the big house. Kerry would know, I’ll ask her. There’s a huge storage shed that even has my grandfather’s old Daimler in it.’
Dani shook her head. ‘Jason you’ve done more to support my art since I came here than anyone. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘I wish I could use my hands like a craftsperson,’ he grinned. ‘All my pictures are visions in my head of how I want the landscape to be and still nurture a community. I’ll have to pick up a chisel or brush and give it a go.’
‘If Birimbal and the linked village community concept take off in other places you’ll have created something really significant,’ said Dani. She stopped, feeling a bit shy at the passion in her voice. ‘Well, I’m thinking I should go to the beach next week, get some coastal flotsam to use in a series of sea and shore collagraphs.’
‘Hey, can I come along? Might take a day off, haven’t been over to the beach for ages. Can I drive you? I know some untouched beaches, maybe have lunch somewhere?’
That’d be fun,’ said Dani. ‘Provided you don’t mind me crawling among the rock pools and along high-tide line.’
‘I’ll carry the collection bag,’ said Jason. ‘I’ll call you to see when it suits you. Now I’d better go and hide this birthday gift. And have that talk with my sister.’
She watched Jason head down to the creek carrying the saddle and unconsciously touched her cheek where he’d kissed her. She couldn’t help wondering if he was still seeing Ginny when she dropped back into Australia from her overseas jaunts.
18
Lara
IT WAS MID MORNING on a warm, sunny day and Lara was looking forward to the drive up the mountain range that provided such an enchanting backdrop to the valley. Ther
e was no great pressure to hurry back as Tim was going over to Toby and Tabatha’s after school to watch Barney unveil some new ‘toy’ for his grandchildren. She glanced at her watch. She’d been told it took an hour to drive up the mountain. She’d have lunch and ask around and hopefully find Mr Martin Thompson, and have a chat and be back by the time Barney brought Tim home for dinner.
As Lara drove down the dirt back road out of town towards the mountain she passed a sign indicating the turnoff to the Cedartown cemetery. It was an old road lined with gum trees and she realised she’d never been there. Yet this was where her grandfather was buried. Her grandmother was buried in Maitland near Harold’s sister whom she’d been visiting when she died. Lara was living overseas when her grandfather died a few years after Emily and she didn’t go to his funeral. But she was so glad she’d taken baby Dani to visit him in his last years.
She turned the car along the dirt track and saw the cemetery neatly set out behind an old bush post-and-rail fence, sentinel gum trees standing guard. There was no one there, it was still and peaceful. A small sign by the gate gave a plan of the various sections, separated by religion, united by family plots.
Lara began to wander among the serried headstones and statues in the Anglican section out of curiosity, spotting family names that had become familiar to her, some she remembered from childhood as friends of her grandparents, some were well known in the town. She came across a very early section and became quite absorbed in details on the headstones of pioneers and early settlers where elaborate and simple words told of heartbreak – a child who died too young, a mother in childbirth, a young father fallen from a horse.
Before she knew it she was in a row of more recent times and then she passed a plain marker with just a name and date and nearly missed it. Harold Williams 1878–1971.
It hit her as if someone had slammed a fist into her belly. To see her Poppy’s name like that. Unadorned, no loving phrases, no headstone, no story. And worse, in front of the granite marker, where perhaps there had once been grass or plants or some small trim around the plot, now there was only rubble and weeds. Faded plastic flowers from some place else had blown against it and Lara snatched them up and threw them away as the tears flooded from her eyes.
How could this be? She was hurt, sad, shamed.
‘Oh, Poppy, I’m sorry. So sorry,’ she wept, crouching down to pat the dusty black granite.
As she sat there she began to calm, the simplicity of the small head marker was probably what he would have wanted. Harold didn’t like anyone to make a fuss. He was a quiet, dignified, unpretentious man. But he deserves better than this, thought Lara.
Then she said firmly, ‘Poppy, I’ll bring Dani to visit you and we’ll spruce you up. I’m living in Cricklewood so I feel so close to you and Nana. I promise. I’ll be back, soon.’
Lara, who had held back from grieving for loved ones throughout her life, suddenly felt a release of long pent-up pain. As though by suppressing the death of her stepfather, her grandparents, her mother, and now her biological father, she would somehow hold on to them. But in this quiet and peaceful place where mere symbols stood for people once loved, she felt the presence of those departed to some better place of belonging. And in letting go of those people she had held tightly in her heart, a new space opened up, and she saw how there could be a different sense of keeping close those she’d loved. A prism reflecting flashes of light, memories, pictures, emotions, moments, spun through her mind. These would never fade or be lost, and she felt the presence of her family, comforting and close.
She felt better. She began to think about ways to rejuvenate her grandfather’s grave without ruining its simplicity. She looked around and studied other plots. She’d love to have growing plants but unless they were watered they’d never survive. Then she passed a Mr Bugg’s grave. It was covered in a blanket of healthy lush groundcover of pointy grey-green leaves with small buds. Obviously a native that thrived here. Lara snapped off a small sprig. ‘Sorry, Mr Bugg, just taking a little sample to see if the nursery can tell me what this is.’
Lara glanced back at her grandfather’s resting place in the quiet corner. River stones scattered on the grave, and this plant as a border. Poppy would like that, she decided. But as she turned to walk back to the car, feeling at peace and making plans to visit every week, she stopped in shock. There was a headstone with an urn and a small plaque with a framed and fading photograph in the centre. Above it read, ‘Rest in Peace’, and below was a loving inscription –
Clem Wallace Richards
Brave soldier, beloved son and husband
1919–1944
And there was the same photograph of the shy, smiling soldier Phyllis had shown her. The same man she’d glimpsed as an apparition in the lounge room at Cricklewood the night she was going through the old photographs. Suddenly he was achingly familiar to her. Was this the reason she’d come back here? What had Dani started? All at once the threads of her life were coming together. Lara hoped in a few hours she’d have answers to fill in the remaining gaps.
The road took her by surprise. It was really bad. Twisting, steep and narrow, the rutted dirt had loose stones and she had no idea what she’d do if another vehicle came around one of the numerous hairpin bends. Going up she clung close to the rise of the forested mountain, coming down she’d be on the unprotected edge with a ravine dropping away with no end in sight. With the thick overhang of trees and tree ferns it would be a dark road by twilight. She’d better be on her way home before then. Lara was relieved there was blue sky, she didn’t want to think what the road might be like in the wet. She drove slowly.
On the plateau the view was breathtaking. Rounded ridge tops and sharp peaks topped with foamy clouds rolled away in green waves to the horizon. The valley below was an unseen world, easily forgotten. But as she drove past farm gates and fences Lara had a sense of isolation, of a community hidden from sight. There didn’t seem to be any village or any focal point of the area and Lara was bewildered as to how she was going to find anyone at all up here. Then she saw a quaint sign swinging on a board above a mail box. It was shaped like a violin and in elaborate gothic-style writing said ‘Handmade Musical Instruments’.
She stopped the car and walked to the gate. A path led to a small white weatherboard cottage so she went and knocked at the door. She was about to turn away when the door was opened by a tall thin man in his sixties with thinning grey hair to his shoulders and a beaky nose.
‘Morning, are you here for a lesson?’ he asked peering through his rimless glasses.
‘No. I was wanting directions actually.’
‘You lost? Where’re you headed?’
Lara gave a bright smile. ‘Well, I assume I’m here, but I’m looking for someone, a Mr Martin Thompson . . .’
‘Where’s he live?’
‘Er, that’s the problem. I don’t know . . . just up on the mountain. He’s an old timer so I thought locals might know him.’
‘I’m not a local. Got to be born here to be a local. So how’re you going to find this fella?’
‘Is there a post office or shops or some place central where I could ask about him?’ asked Lara.
‘Have you tried the phone book? Come in and look him up in our local directory if you like.’
‘Thank you.’ She felt foolish. Why hadn’t she thought of that? She followed him into a house that had stained-glass window inserts, hanging chimes and glass mobiles, and furniture covered in books and piles of music. Photographs of earnest guitarists hunched over flamenco guitars and concert violinists and pianists lined the walls. In a room that obviously served as his working studio was a long table covered in bits of instruments, wood shavings and small tools. Instruments and their cases leaned against walls and sat in piles. A grand piano dominated the room though it too was almost buried beneath notebooks, sheet music and leather-bound books.
‘My goodness. You seem to have a lot of work happening. You actually make instruments?’
‘Repair, restore, as well as make new ones. Lot of musos up here.’ He shuffled papers, uncovered a telephone on a side table and began searching for the phone book.
‘Really? That’s interesting. Is there a hall, somewhere for concerts?’
‘Yeah. Kinda. More for the kids though. Not a lot to do on the mountain, but we manage to entertain ourselves.’ He gave a hint of a smile as he handed her a small booklet of typed pages stapled together.
‘I’ll just see if he’s listed.’ She thumbed through the small population of local phone numbers, some with hippy-sounding names. No Thompsons were among them.
‘No luck?’ He picked up a piece of fine-grained wood in the shape of a guitar top.
‘No. That’s beautiful wood.’ She watched him fit it then sand an edge.
‘American beech. I use Aussie wood when I can get it. Need a friend in forestry to find downers – dead wood, stuff that’s going to be bloody woodchipped unless someone like me uses it.’
‘I have a friend in National Parks I can put you in touch with if you like.’
‘Beaut. Write his number down. I’m Sagaro by the way.’
‘Lara Langdon.’ She wrote down Carter’s number for him. There you go, Sagaro. That’s an unusual name.’
He grinned. ‘From my orange days when I was a Senyasin. Few of us up here. Maybe your friend has a Senyasin name?’
‘I doubt it. He’s an old codger from Second World War days.’ She paused. ‘I wonder. Could I look at that directory again, please?’ It was such a local list of names it might be possible. She thumbed through it. ‘Bingo! Here it is! Under Thommo. Nothing else. Eighteen, The Easement, Falls Road. Where’s that?’
‘By Glenborough Falls. You seen them? Lot of water running at the moment.’
‘No. I can see I’ll have to spend some time up here. Is there a lot to see? It all seems so . . . tucked away,’ said Lara.
Sagaro nodded his head vigorously. ‘People like their privacy up here. The biodynamic farmers are fussy about a dog or anyone unknown setting foot on their land – bugs and such. And, well, you never know what people are farming, eh?’ He grinned and put down the tool he was working with.
