by C. Fonseca
“I don’t think the scary nurse who glared at me from the desk in the corridor would approve.” Eleanor dragged a heavy upholstered chair close to the state-of-the-art hospital bed and sat down.
“She’s a softie. Alice is an extremely competent and compassionate nurse. Everyone here knows I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.” He craned his neck to peer at the wires and monitoring equipment behind the bed. “Don’t let all this paraphernalia frighten you. It’ll be gone in a couple more days.”
Eleanor leaned over to brush her hand lightly across her father’s broad shoulder. “That’s good to know,” she said. “I would have come straight from the airport, but Leo, not so tactfully, suggested it would be better if I showered and changed first. He said something about socks and armpits.” Imitating what Leo had done, she pinched her nose.
Her father grinned. “Good idea. They are very particular here about clean socks and the liberal use of deodorant.”
Eleanor laughed. “Good thing I took Leo’s advice.” She lowered her eyes, wondering if it would be all right to ask her father about his heart attack. She looked up, and he gazed at her questioningly.
“What is it, Nell?”
“Tell me what happened, please. When did you realise something was seriously wrong? Had you been feeling unwell? Leo said you told Mum it was indigestion when she asked why you were rubbing your chest after dinner that night.”
“Hmm. Up ’till then, I hadn’t noticed any symptoms. It did seem a bit like indigestion. You know that feeling after you’ve eaten a big roast, followed by pavlova?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Actually, no. It’s years since I’ve had a Sunday roast. As for pavlova, now you are making me drool. I doubt Mum has time to bake these days like she did when Leo and I were kids.” It had been a long time since Eleanor had tucked into a wedge of her mother’s crispy pavlova with its gooey marshmallow-like centre.
He scratched his forehead. “If your mother has her way, I’ll never eat pav again. From now on, I’ve got to limit red meat, cream, butter, and salt. All the good stuff. And then once I’ve recovered from the surgery, there’s cardio rehab twice a week to rebuild my fitness.”
Eleanor squeezed her misty eyes shut. While working across the world, she’d suffered nightmares about being unable to get home if anything happened to her family. She opened her eyes and looked at her father. Thankfully the nightmares had not turned into reality. Eleanor was home and her father was alive. “I’m here to help with things like that. I’ll be able to take you to rehab.”
“Thanks, love. That will take some pressure off your mother.” He sighed. “I’ll be happy when I can get behind the wheel again and drive myself around, that’s for sure.”
“Of course, you will.” Eleanor smiled encouragingly, although Leo had mentioned their father would not be able to zoom around in his classic sports car for at least a couple of months.
Her father got a faraway look in his eyes. “I’ve never experienced anything like it before. As if some monstrous beast was sitting on my chest.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “Then I heard this strange voice saying something like, “Just relax, Harold. You’re having a heart attack.”
Eleanor squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry, Dad. That must have been terrifying. The main thing is that the surgery was successful and you’ll be home soon. Then I can fuss over you, take you to rehab, and feed you poached fish on a bed of lettuce.”
He scowled. “That will be stretching your culinary skills to the max, sweetheart.”
Eleanor giggled and lowered her head in agreement. “I’m afraid my cooking hasn’t improved—probably because I don’t spend much time in the kitchen.”
A beaming smile lit up her father’s face. “I just remembered about your TV show. Leo downloaded the footage from your television debut, but I haven’t seen it yet. We can watch it together when I get home.” Pride glowed in his eyes.
“Jeez. The Ian Sinclair Show seems as if it was months ago. I haven’t even had a chance to see the recording myself,” Eleanor said. “It’ll be fun to watch it with you at home.”
Home. Eleanor hadn’t realised how good that could sound. She’d return home at least once a year to catch up with family and recharge, but there was never enough time, and the pressure of getting back to work usually sat heavily on her shoulders. Eleanor sighed. Jet lag and exhaustion was a bummer—she was on the verge of tears again. How long could she stay in Melbourne this time, before she had to head back overseas?
“Are you all right, Nell?”
“Yes, I am, Dad.” She shook the thoughts away. There’d be time enough to worry about that later.
He squinted at the bedside clock. “Sarah had to pick up some papers at the office, but she’ll be back soon. Your mother has been so excited about having you home, too. Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Not since the plane landed.”
“Sarah wouldn’t have told you about Helen’s trunk then,” he said.
“What trunk?”
“Would you believe the Chinese government returned Helen’s personal effects?”
Eleanor leaned forward in her chair. “Finally. I made that special trip to Beijing two years ago after the promised ten-year anniversary release date, but the government refused to hand over her things. They were still questioning Helen’s motives for going to Chengdu at the time of the earthquake.”
He shook his head. “Bloody red tape. Accusing Helen of being a spy.”
“Totally ludicrous.” Eleanor had been powerless, unable to slice through the excessive bureaucracy and gain possession of her aunt’s belongings. “I don’t suppose anyone’s had an opportunity to look in the trunk?” Eleanor smiled eagerly. She couldn’t believe she was finally going to get the chance to see what Helen was working on when she died.
The sound of the heart-rate monitor changed, and her father’s fingers tightened around her forearm.
Eleanor looked up hurriedly to see his strained face. “Are you okay, Dad?” She took his hand, her eyes darting towards the door. “Should I get someone?”
He squeezed her fingers and shook his head. “I’m okay, Nell. Once I’m home, we can go through the trunk together.”
Eleanor caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Don’t worry. I can sort through Aunt Helen’s belongings—”
“It is wonderful that you are home, Ms Heysen, but it’s time for me to check your father,” Alice said, wheeling a medicine trolley to the end of the bed. Eleanor hadn’t even noticed her come in. “Mr Heysen has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. We’ve heard so much about you. Welcome back.” She skirted the bed, leaned over, and pressed the monitor screen.
“Thank you, Alice.” Eleanor let go of her father’s hand and jumped to her feet. “I’d better go and let you take a nap before Mum gets back.” She stifled a yawn behind her hand. “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, Nell,” he said softly and laid his head back against the pillows.
“Seems like the both of you need a rest.” Alice gave Eleanor a wry smile. “See you again, Ms Heysen.”
Eleanor rubbed her eyes. Now that she’d finally seen her father and knew he was doing okay, the idea of stretching out on a bed sounded like heaven. She knew she’d bounce back after a few hours of sleep, but now, her body ached and keeping her eyelids open was near impossible. She wanted nothing more than to climb into bed. That was if she could stop herself from opening Helen’s trunk first.
Chapter 3
Winds and dragons
The tram came to a shuddering halt at the crowded La Trobe Street stop, and Eleanor braced herself against a metal pole before being caught in the slipstream as everyone headed for the exit, only to be slowed down by the crowd of people trying to get on. The CBD was simply mad at peak hour. She breathed a sigh of relief when she jumped out of the tram and caught sight of the State Library Victoria, w
ith its sturdy portico supported by eight lofty Corinthian columns.
Eleanor glimpsed a flash of bright blue enamel through the top of her partly open canvas rucksack and hurriedly re-tightened the drawstring. She lifted the rucksack onto her shoulders and readjusted its leather straps. It was heavy, but not any more weighty than usual. The burden of the box’s contents and honouring Helen’s memory far exceeded its actual weight.
It was almost two weeks since Eleanor had found out about Aunt Helen’s trunk. She’d spent nearly all of her time with her father since she’d got home to Melbourne. Her dad insisted that no one fussed over him, but of course she did, and they’d fallen into a comfortable routine. Apart from driving him to various medical appointments around town, they’d spend the morning together discussing politics or world events, teasing each other about their differing taste in music, and just hanging out. It warmed her heart to be able to spend so much time with her father again.
This was her first foray into the city. Inside her jacket pocket was the map of the library her father had insisted on printing for her. She took it out and quickly looked over it to check her bearings before glancing at her watch. Ten minutes was more than enough time to find her way around the building, into the Russell Street Welcome Zone, and to the gallery foyer.
She was pleased with herself. Eleanor had timed it perfectly for her appointment with Katherine Kent, her mother’s friend and the manager of collections.
The library was in the final phase of major renovations, and as she strode past the temporarily closed main entrance, Eleanor gazed nostalgically across the expansive forecourt lawn. She’d spent many stolen moments sprawled on the lush grass daydreaming or perched on one of the well-worn stone steps far away from the pompous, stuffy Law Library in the Supreme Court Building—where, as a law student she was supposed to be.
It was here that she’d explored the world through stories, atlases and maps, exhibitions, photographs, and travel journals that had piqued her curiosity for faraway people and places.
She reached inside her jacket to tug on the strap of the Leica camera that hung from her shoulder. She patted it lovingly. After her meeting, she hoped to have time to take a few shots before racing home again. Her camera of choice today was fitted with a crisp 50mm Summilux lens. Perfect for shooting in the low-light conditions of the domed nineteenth-century building.
Checking out her reflection in the sliding glass doors at the library entrance, Eleanor pulled at her short hair and straightened her collar. “You’ll do.”
She entered the East Wing directly into a bright white-walled foyer. Tantalizing aromas from the ultra-modern coffee bar tickled her nose. “Hmm…Melbourne coffee.”
There was no smell of musty old library books here. The lounge space was filled with a sprawl of people in armchairs, while others sat at long work desks and stared at their screens. One wall was flanked by a larger than life mural depicting giant pages of books, where colourful illustrations appeared to leap off the pages. Brilliant.
Eleanor growled, instinctively reaching for her rucksack, clutching it to her side as a dozen or so schoolgirls barrelled past, almost knocking her off her feet. The worn canvas bag essentially carried her life’s necessities when she traversed the globe, and it had suffered a lot of abuse over the years. She pulled it against her chest, took a deep breath, and sighed as the children—giggling and whispering—and their minder moved down the stairs and out into the sunlit street.
On her last assignment in West Africa, Eleanor had witnessed first-hand how some rural communities placed little value on educating girls. It incensed her that many females had hardly any opportunity for even basic schooling and the tiniest possible chance in the world of learning to read and write. She glanced at the people around her. Most of us here take our privileges for granted, not realising how lucky we are.
With her rucksack hoisted safely on her shoulder, Eleanor strode past the security guard, along the corridor, and towards the designated meeting place. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d be late for her appointment, and she hated tardiness, especially in herself.
* * *
Alexa pushed up the bridge of her thick-framed glasses and held the leather-encased, velvet-lined image at eye level. The precious daguerreotype measured a mere two and three quarter by three and a quarter inches, and its imperfections and quirks hinted at its history. The portrait, a silver-plated copper image, portrayed a woman holding a tiny infant and was dated 1854, making it very rare. The delicate plate couldn’t be used to make copies. It was too fragile and easy to damage. A one-off.
It was crazy to think that using her smartphone, Alexa could in mere seconds, capture and manipulate an image and beam it to the world across social media.
Alexa lifted the daguerreotype into a cotton-lined box, carefully closed the lid, and held the box in the palm of her hand. “Creating you was a lot more complex.” She caressed it with her blue-gloved finger. “So, where will you be in a hundred years?” Alexa mused, then scowled. “Tucked away on a tiny piece of the library’s eleven kilometres of shelving. But I won’t forget you.”
“Are you talking to the objects again?” Jac Dupont walked into the lab, pointed at the box, and rested her hand on Alexa’s shoulder. “Those images can’t talk back. They’ve been dead a long time.”
“Phew. I’m actually relieved to put it away safely,” Alexa said with a sigh and placed her chin on her friend’s wrist. “Hi, Jac. You’re right about the dead not speaking. It’s one of the post-mortem portraits. You can hardly tell the baby’s dead in the mother’s arms.”
“Creepy. One of the shadier sides of Victorian photography.” Jac squeezed Alexa’s shoulder, then removed her hand. “My teams had a hell of a time preparing the two hundred drawings and paintings for this installation. Good reason for us to get out of here tonight and celebrate.” She twirled around on the tips of her patent-leather flats. “The gang’s heading for cocktails and nibbles in an hour or so. Can I count you in?”
Alexa pursed her lips. “I’d like to join you, but I have to return this to storage and then keep an appointment.” She checked the wall clock. “Oh damn…” She placed the archival box onto a trolley, threw her coat and bag over her shoulder, and tucked the folder Katherine had left on her desk under her arm. “I have to get this all the way to storage then sprint to the Cowan Gallery to greet my visitor.” She swore under her breath.
Jac wrinkled her nose. “Meet us afterwards then. Come on. It’s Friday,” she said. “Isn’t it a strange time for a meeting?”
“It wasn’t arranged by me. Katherine was summoned to an emergency meeting with the Chief. She couldn’t contact the woman, who’s the daughter of her old school friend or something. I’m just the fill-in meet and greet.”
“What’s it about?” Jac asked. “Maybe a new acquisition?”
“Hopefully. Katherine promised we’d help with identification.” Alexa retrieved the folder from under her arm and read the label on the front cover. “The historical slides are part of the estate of Eleanor Heysen’s aunt. She’s the one I’m meeting today. Eleanor, I mean. They may relate to Chinese/Australian migration.”
“Well, that could be fascinating.” Jac crossed her arms matter-of-factly. “Who was her aunt?”
“There is a tragic side to the story. She was a journalist who went missing after the 2008 earthquake in Sichuan.”
Jac rubbed her temples. “The one that killed nearly seventy thousand people. The Great Sichuan Earthquake?”
“Uh-huh…and where thousands more were unaccounted for.” Alexa shuddered and stared down at her hands, unable to comprehend the scale of such a devastating tragedy.
“My brother and I were travelling in Tibet at the time.” Jac shook her head. “There was a lot of political unrest, and then the earthquake happened in China. I remember an Australian National Press photojournalist based in London disappeare
d somewhere near Chengdu.”
“Hmm…interesting. I wonder if the journalist’s disappearance was linked to the political turmoil.” Alexa checked the wall clock again. “Oh no, the story of my life. I’m running late.” She glanced at the large two-tiered trolley with the tiny box containing the daguerreotype sitting on the top shelf. She rolled it towards the exit. There was no way she’d run with the precious cargo. “Be a darling and lock up here for me. I may see you later.”
Jac called out after her, “Hey, I think the photojournalist’s name was Helen.”
“Oh, really?” Alexa raised her voice just a little as she manoeuvred the trolley towards the hallway. “I’ll let you know how it goes with Eleanor.”
The trolley’s wheels vibrated and echoed through the subterranean maze of corridors and passageways as Alexa walked as fast as she could.
* * *
Eleanor shifted her weight restlessly from one leg to the other. Katherine Kent was nearly fifteen minutes late. Either that, or Eleanor had gotten the time wrong. It had been years since she’d met her mother’s friend, but she couldn’t recall Katherine as someone who would be late.
Walking over to a wooden bench close to the librarian’s desk, Eleanor removed the rucksack from her shoulders, figuring she might as well sit down if she was going to have a long wait. She dropped heavily onto the bench, drew up her legs, sat cross-legged, and pulled the rucksack with Aunt Helen’s precious contents into her lap.
At this end of the gallery, she was well positioned to observe the library patrons getting on with their business, without being too noticeable. What were those two men doing, with their arms folded, heads down on a desk? Were they asleep or praying? Or the young mother with her toddler balanced on the edge of her knee who typed on her keyboard with her free hand?
