Rifling Paradise

by Jem Poster

  ‘And what,’ asked Bullen, reseating himself on the sofa, ‘made you fix on Australia?’

  ‘I’m not sure that the decision was entirely mine.’

  I could see him weighing up my reply. ‘I mean,’ I explained, ‘that matters seemed to fall into place without a great deal of effort on my part.’

  ‘You’re a believer in the workings of a divine providence, Mr Redbourne?’

  I laughed. ‘That’s a very serious interpretation of a casual observation.’

  ‘Speaking for myself,’ he said, for all the world as though I had pressed him to give me an account of his personal philosophy, ‘I believe that our destiny lies in our own hands. And once we recognise that fact, our power is virtually unlimited.’

  I thought of the man’s failed business ventures and wondered what his philosophy made of those. ‘I understand,’ I said, shifting ground with more firmness than tact, ‘that you’ve offered to act as my guide to the region. Perhaps we might discuss practicalities.’

  Reflecting later on the moment, I realised that I had decisively undermined Bullen’s attempts to engage with me on terms of equality – to present himself as civilised conversationalist and fellow gentleman – but if he resented my less than dextrous manipulation of our discussion, he gave no sign of it, turning his attention immediately to matters of business. We easily agreed terms for the local excursions, but it quickly became apparent that his real interest lay in the possibility of accompanying me on longer expeditions, at my expense.

  ‘But no fee,’ he added quickly,‘apart from this: of the specimens killed on any of those expeditions, five go to me. My choice.’

  It might have seemed a small enough matter, but I could see at once that his proposal had serious implications. By creaming off the best of our bag – and I had a fleeting vision of him out there in some shadowy wilderness, gloating over his cache of rarities – Bullen would seriously diminish the quality of my own collection. I resisted, diplomatically at first but then more vigorously, and we were still debating the point when I heard Vane returning, his footsteps ringing out on the bare boards of the hallway. ‘Three specimens,’ said Bullen quickly as the door opened and our host entered.

  I have often noticed that an angry conversation seems to leave some residual stain on the air and, even if he had not overheard our altercation, Vane must have realised as he stepped into the room that my first meeting with Bullen was not proving a success. I saw his eyes flicker between the two of us as though he were assessing the situation.

  ‘Well,’ he said lightly, gesturing towards the deepening shadows outside, ‘at least we shall all be a little cooler now. We’ll be dining in half an hour.’

  ‘You mentioned other company,’ I said.

  ‘The Merivales. The family has farmed the opposite slope of the valley for three generations. Walter Merivale died last year, but his widow and son have kept things running smoothly enough. An admirable family, Redbourne – I can guarantee that you’ll enjoy their society.’

  I took leave to doubt it, though I naturally kept my opinion to myself. Vane had presumably imagined that Bullen – a man prepared to haggle like a fairground huckster in pursuit of his own dubious ends – was fit company for me, and I saw no reason to suppose that his other guests would impress me any more favourably. I excused myself, perhaps a shade abruptly, and went up to dress for dinner.

  7

  I could hardly have been further from the mark. From the moment Mrs Merivale stepped over the threshold, sweeping into the house a few paces ahead of her son and daughter, I realised that Vane’s neighbours were people of considerable distinction and refinement. Mrs Merivale herself was thin and strikingly tall, but with none of the awkwardness that so often afflicts women of unusual height. On the contrary, she held herself imposingly erect, her shoulders back and her head high so that, as we were introduced, she looked me directly in the eye. She was dressed in widow’s black and this, together with her angular features, gave an immediate impression of austerity; but as she offered me her hand, her face relaxed into a smile so warm and engaging that I felt as though I had been embraced.

  ‘And this is William,’ she said, standing aside. ‘My son.’

  Handsome and sturdily built, Merivale was almost as striking as his mother, but his face had about it the flush and fullness that come with high living and, though he couldn’t have been above twenty-five years old, the hair had already begun to recede from his wide brow. He bowed formally from the waist as he gripped my hand.

  I could see Miss Merivale out of the corner of my eye as I exchanged conventional courtesies with her brother, but I had no strong sense of her presence until she moved in on us, placing her hand on Merivale’s sleeve but addressing herself to me. ‘William,’ she smiled, ‘would be the perfect gentleman if he could only be persuaded to treat his sister with the consideration he extends to every other lady of his acquaintance. If I wait for him to introduce us, I may be obliged to stand here for another twenty minutes.’

  I have never met anyone who could more aptly be described as exquisite. Her face resembled her mother’s but was more delicately proportioned and of a milder cast – the high cheekbones less prominent, the fine jawline more unequivocally feminine. Her neck was long and slender, her fair skin almost translucent in its clarity. Although she had something of her mother’s erect bearing, she stood a good six inches shorter, the top of her elegantly coiffed head barely above the level of my shoulder.

  Merivale laughed quietly, a little easier, it struck me, for his sister’s intervention. ‘I am reproached,’ he said with playful gravity. And then, with an odd, archaic flourish: ‘My sister, Miss Esther Merivale.’

  Miss Merivale proved to be as charming as she was beautiful, an accomplished conversationalist with a quick but unmalicious sense of humour and a flattering quality of attentiveness. Her questions about my life in England seemed neither intrusive nor superficial, and I responded with uncharacteristic warmth and openness, while she for her part spoke so engrossingly about her own circumstances that, by the time the dinner-gong sounded, I felt as if I had been granted privileged access to her family circle.

  ‘This way, if you would,’ called Vane, shepherding us towards the dining room. Merivale stepped up to Eleanor as though to escort her in. As he did so, Vane half turned and, evidently with the intention of blocking the manoeuvre, interposed himself between his daughter and the young man. I saw the blood rise to Merivale’s face; saw Eleanor stiffen against the subtle pressure of her father’s hand, placed momentarily against her slender waist as he guided her through the doorway ahead of him.

  Vane occupied the seat at the head of the table, setting Mrs Merivale at his right hand and her daughter at his left. I had hoped that I might be seated next to Miss Merivale, but Vane motioned me to sit with the mother, while Bullen was accorded the honour I had coveted. With Eleanor at his other elbow, he sat directly across the table from me, stroking his beard and grinning broadly as if at some stupendous joke.

  Eleanor, I thought, was trying to catch Merivale’s eye, but as the soup was brought Bullen began to engage her in conversation, while Merivale leaned sideways and addressed himself to me. ‘I understand,’ he said, ‘that you’re here on a scientific mission.’

  I smiled. ‘You make it sound rather grand. I’m collecting specimens, but I’m an amateur in the field.’

  ‘Nothing to be ashamed of in that. From the little I know of the subject, I’d say that a spirit of informed amateurism has always been the driving force behind the discoveries of natural science. The world is changing, Mr Redbourne, changing with dizzying speed, and the days of the amateur may well be numbered; but that doesn’t invalidate either your own enterprise or the achievements of your predecessors.’

  Merivale had been unduly modest: I realised as we continued to talk that he actually knew a good deal about the subject, and before long we were deeply immersed in a discussion that ranged from the theories of Darwin, through hybrid
ism in plants and animals, to the shooting of hawks and owls. I had long been of the opinion that English gamekeepers were too vigorous and undiscriminating in their persecution of our native birds of prey, and I was delighted to find Merivale expressing comparable views in relation to his own country. ‘Even if,’ he said, leaning back to let the maidservant remove his plate, ‘it were to turn out that these birds really were responsible for all the crimes laid at their door, imagine the loss to us when the whole tribe has finally been shot out of the skies. If I had my way, they’d be protected by law. When I look up and see a pair of wedge-tails soaring in the air above me, my heart soars with them – really, Mr Redbourne, that’s the way it feels, as though I were up there alongside them, riding the updraughts. And though I’m not, properly speaking, a religious man, that’s the way I’m able to imagine the experiences the mystics speak of – as uplift, the mind or spirit rising like an eagle into a clear sky.’

  He paused, visibly excited and perhaps a little embarrassed at having expressed himself so unguardedly; and at that moment Bullen, who had evidently been eavesdropping on our conversation, leaned across the table, slapping the surface with his open palm.

  ‘I don’t imagine,’ he said, ‘that you spend much time giving your fellow farmers the benefit of your views. You’d get short shrift from anyone who’s lost stock to the creatures.’

  ‘I was speaking to Mr Redbourne,’ answered Merivale, colouring.

  I was doubtful whether Bullen had had time to drink more than two or three glasses of wine, but he’d certainly downed more than was good for his manners. As the rest of the party fell silent, he leaned back and addressed himself to the company at large, his face flushed and his voice appreciably louder and more emphatic than the circumstances seemed to require. ‘It’s the bane of our age,’ he said. ‘Sentimentalism. Looking for mysteries when the facts are staring us in the face. Turning aside from reality in order to indulge our finer feelings. Do you imagine the eagles share your finer feelings, Merivale? Not a bit of it. While you’re busy examining the world through your tinted prism, they’ll be dropping out of the sky to take one of your lambs.’

  Vane was looking round the table with an expression of mild bewilderment, but Eleanor had clearly grasped the situation and, while Merivale blushed and stammered beside me, she cut in, quick and cold: ‘What you call sentimentalism,’ she said, barely troubling to glance at Bullen, ‘may be a refinement of the human spirit too subtle for your understanding.’

  Vane gave her a withering stare. I would have intervened, but it was Bullen himself who restored a degree of order to the proceedings, breaking the silence with a high, barking laugh, as if to show that Eleanor’s barb had failed to penetrate his thick skin. ‘Your daughter’s as sharp as a tin-tack,’ he said, raising his wine-glass with mock ceremony and tilting it in Vane’s direction.‘I’ll wager she keeps you on your toes.’ Eleanor glowered but said nothing, and the moment was past.

  I should have liked to return to my discussion with Merivale but he had grown awkward and uncommunicative, as though Bullen’s intervention had left him inwardly bruised. Bullen himself seemed oblivious to the young man’s discomfiture, and as I listened to him holding forth loudly on a variety of topics about which he seemed to know next to nothing, I was struck by the sheer vulgarity of the fellow. By the time the coffee was brought, I was considering how best to ensure that our unfinished negotiations were not resumed.

  ‘That was a grand dinner,’ said Bullen, leaning back in his chair and wiping his beard with his napkin. ‘I’ll say this, Vane, you’ve done us proud.’

  Vane smiled. ‘At all events,’ he said, ‘it will be a dinner for you and Redbourne to remember when you’re out in the bush snacking on frogs and lizards.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with lizard,’ said Bullen. ‘But’ – he gave me a conspiratorial wink – ‘I doubt it will come to that. Trust me, Mr Redbourne, we’ll eat well enough.’

  ‘I’m sure we shall. And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’d like to take a turn in the garden.’ I placed my napkin on the table and withdrew, leaning above Vane as I passed him. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to join me,’ I murmured, ‘when circumstances permit.’

  He looked up at me, his brow furrowed. ‘I’ll come right away,’ he said.

  The air of the terrace was barely cooler than that of the dining-room, but it was sweet with the mingled scents of the garden. As Vane caught up with me, I turned to make sure that Bullen had not followed us out, and caught a glimpse of him through the window, his head thrown back and his mouth wide. A yawp of laughter reached me on the fragrant air. Vane gave me a sidelong glance.

  ‘I take it you’ve something on your mind, Redbourne.’

  ‘Indeed. Listen, I’m grateful to you for introducing me to Mr Bullen, but you both seem to imagine that I’ve come to a decision on the matter of his employment. In fact, I’m not at all sure that he and I are likely to hit it off.’

  Vane gave a throaty chuckle. ‘So that’s it,’ he said. ‘Well, I don’t imagine that the pair of you are going to forge a lasting friendship, but the plain truth is that Bullen has precisely the experience needed for an expedition of this kind. He’s not the most civilised of companions, I grant you; but then, you’re not going to the most civilised of places. He’s the right man for the job, depend upon it.’

  Another outburst of laughter from the house, more prolonged this time. Vane tilted his head towards the sound. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘Bullen knows his way around the region. He knows many of the old trails – paths followed by the aboriginal tribes – and where he doesn’t, he knows people who do. And he’s a skilled hunter into the bargain. You might find a more congenial travelling companion, but you’d look a long time before you found a more useful one.’

  I was silent for a moment, conscious of the force of his argument, but not entirely convinced. I should like to be able to claim that I had already recognised the brittleness beneath the rugged facade, but I believe that my unease owed more to a potent combination of resentment and snobbery than to any clear understanding of Bullen’s character.

  ‘You may be right,’ I said at last. ‘I’ll sleep on it.’

  ‘But not yet, I hope. Esther – Miss Merivale – has agreed to play for us. She’s a talented pianist, Redbourne, genuinely talented – quite a favourite in the drawing-rooms of Sydney. I’m not a musical man myself but I know fine playing when I hear it. I can tell you, you’re in for a treat.’

  He turned and began to walk back towards the house. Bullen had put me severely out of humour and I should have preferred to plead fatigue and send my excuses to the company, but it was clearly impossible to absent myself without causing offence and, after a few seconds’ hesitation, I followed.

  I entered the drawing-room to find Miss Merivale already seated at the piano, while her brother busied himself with arranging the chairs in a shallow arc around one side of the instrument. As soon as he had finished, Eleanor made for the centre of the arc and sat down, motioning me to join her. ‘You’ll see her hands from here,’ she said. ‘Her nimble little fingers.’

  Some quality of mischief in her tone and phrasing put me on my guard. ‘I understand from your father that she has acquired quite a reputation round about,’ I said, settling myself beside her.

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s clever girl, no doubt of it. And she knows it.’

  I glanced at Miss Merivale to see whether she had overheard but if she had, she gave no sign of it. She was dusting the keyboard with a small lace handkerchief, her head slightly bowed. Someone had placed a lamp on the piano’s polished lid, and her features shone in the soft light with something of the delicate translucency of a cameo portrait. She tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve and straightened her back, very calm and self-possessed. The room fell suddenly silent and she began to play.

  François Couperin had been a favourite of my mother’s, and I recognised the minuet at once. But whereas my mother’s attempts had been stiff and hesita
nt, the work’s intricacies always seeming a little beyond her grasp, Miss Merivale’s rendition shimmered and flowed, its phrasing immaculate, its tone bright and confident. She played with gentle precision, perfectly evoking an age less frenetic than our own, an age still capable of celebrating, without irony or embarrassment, the ideals of harmony and just proportion. Each note was accorded its proper value; nothing was rushed, nothing snatched or fumbled. Even the trills – and her fingerwork was indeed extraordinary – gave an impresssion of spaciousness, as though she had all the time in the world to execute them. As she played, she half closed her eyes and tilted back her head so that you saw the long line of her throat; her slender body moved gracefully, swaying a little from the waist in time to the music.

  She was playing from memory and as she reached the end of the piece, she moved seamlessly on to another. As she began the third, Eleanor leaned inward, her shoulder touching mine, her face so close I smelt the faint perfume of her skin. ‘You do realise,’ she whispered, ‘that she’s memorised dozens of these things? She might go on for hours.’

  More mischief, I thought, edging away. I tried to return to the music but my concentration had been broken, and I was almost relieved when Miss Merivale, with an elegant flourish, brought the sequence to a close and turned to acknowledge our applause. I leaned behind Eleanor to address Mrs Merivale. ‘You must be very proud of your daughter,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed, though I can take very little of the credit for her accomplishments. I have no musical talent of my own.’