by Di Morrissey
‘What? Show me, you’re joking!’ Sally reached for the photograph.
‘He’s asleep. Well, I assume so,’ said Jessica.
They peered at the apparently naked man, a blanket draped over his hips. His arm stretched out in sleep, one bare leg exposed.
‘It’s in here,’ exclaimed Sally. ‘Look, there’s the shelf behind him. It’s taken in here!’
Heads close, they studied the photo. ‘Gosh, he’s good-looking. Like a Greek god,’ said Jessica. ‘Looks posed, doesn’t it? Who would have taken it?’
‘Jeepers, what else is there?’ Carefully Sally flipped through the photos, then stopped with a gasp and peered closely at a small photograph.
‘There’s more?’
Her eyes wide in disbelief, Sally handed the photo to Jessica.
It was an idyllic setting of a stream, shaded by an old tree, rushes and wildflowers studded along the banks, and in the sparkling water a pretty woman was laughing up at the photographer as she lay beneath the surface of the water, her naked body gleaming silvery white.
‘It’s our creek, the spot where we swim, near the big hole,’ said Sally, almost breathless.
‘Yeah, it could be. Who is this?’
Sally peered closely at the photo, then looked at Jessica. ‘I’m sure of it. She has such a distinctive face, so pretty. I recognise her from Mum’s album. It’s Stella.’
‘Your grandmother! Holy cow! She’s gorgeous. I mean, that could be today. So . . . who took the photo?’ Jessica stopped, staring at Sally as the reality dawned on her. ‘Your grandmother was swimming naked with the Greek god! And this was their love nest!’
‘Don’t say that!’ snapped Sally, still in shock.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Sal.’ Jessica reached over and put her arm around Sally’s shoulders. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, is it? I mean, she married an older man. Wow, do you think your mum knows?’
‘Of course not!’ Sally exclaimed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t think so,’ she went on in a faltering voice. ‘My grandfather was . . . well, I never met him, but my mother respected him. He was the driving force here. I hope he never knew about this. If it did happen . . .’
‘It happened! Look around. Doesn’t it all make sense now? More to the point, do you think your grandfather, the stuffy old doctor, found out? We’d better go through the documents.’
‘We can’t let my mother know about this. She adored her mother, and her father,’ Sally wiped her face. ‘I can’t believe this. But I just can’t think how to bring this up with Mum.’ Sally shook her head and paused to re-read the letter.
Jessica looked around with fresh eyes. ‘Sal, you have to find this guy, or his descendants.’
‘Why? He’ll be long dead. And what’s the point?’
Jessica hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Okay. It’s your family. We should take these papers and photos, though. In case you do want to pursue this.’
Sally didn’t answer as she held on to the fragile note.
Jessica put all the papers back in the box with the old eggcup, and glanced around.
Sally stood up. ‘Say goodbye, Jess. A small door in our childhood just closed. No way I’m coming back here.’
‘Maybe a window opened? No, you’re right. This seems too creepy now.’ Jessica looked down at the metal locker. ‘We’ll keep this between us, if that’s what you want. Just for now. But this isn’t the last of it. You’ll have to find out more or it will haunt you.’
Sally recognised the look on Jessica’s face. She’d always been intuitive, and Sally had learned that when Jessica made decisions or comments out of left field there was always a reason for them, even if Jessica didn’t know it herself. They’d both learned to listen to Jessica’s ‘inner voice’.
Silently, they left the cave and, with Jessica carrying the tin box, they scrambled down through the rough scrubby undergrowth and rocks to the river.
Without saying anything to the other, each knew a bridge had been crossed. But there would be a journey ahead of them.
South-east Tasmania, 1938
Mrs James mopped her forehead. ‘I swear I’m going to melt. You’ll come in and find just a puddle on the kitchen floor.’
‘Yes, it’s dreadful. Please don’t think you have to bake or cook hot meals. We can eat cold roast pork, and cold soups and sliced apples and cold custard. I’m sure there are other things too,’ said Stella, feeling rather at a loss as she was not a dab hand in the culinary arts.
‘Don’t you fret, Mrs H. The men need their victuals. Especially Dr Holland. He’s been working long hours.’
‘Yes, he has,’ agreed Stella. ‘Surely this heatwave can’t go on much longer.’
Mrs James grimaced. ‘Some of the old bushmen are saying it’s going to be bad. It’s already broken records.’
‘Dr Holland mentioned something about that too. He seems quite concerned about people’s health in this heat,’ said Stella. ‘How is your family?’
‘My kids are spending time at the creek or down at the bay; young Terry is with my mother. Some of their friends seem to be wagging school, although, I suppose, what with Christmas coming, school is winding down anyway.’
That night, Stella and Stephen sat in the sitting room after dinner with the French doors wide open, hoping a breeze might spring up.
‘The heat is terrible, and they say it could go on for months!’ Stella said. ‘Everything is so dry.’
‘It’s very worrying for my patients. People are not coping well, and there’s a very real chance our state could be facing an epidemic. There’s been an outbreak of poliomyelitis on the mainland and in New Zealand, and if it takes hold here in these conditions, the humidity . . .’ He shook his head and sighed.
‘Is there nothing that can be done, some method of prevention?’
‘There’s no cure, though I’m sure scientists are trying their best to find one. There are different treatments, and we can quarantine the patients, of course. But I can’t say I agree with Sister Kenny’s methods.’
‘Who is Sister Kenny, dear?’
‘Oh, she’s a nurse from Queensland who’s working on the mainland, no official nursing credentials, although she did her bit in the Great War. She’s developed an unorthodox technique she’s been using on patients with the poliomyelitis. Exercising their muscles and such. Quite the opposite of the official thinking, which is to keep patients immobilised.’
‘You mean in the iron lung and restrained in their beds?’
‘Indeed. She seems to have built up quite a following all over the place. She’s a rather controversial character,’ said Stephen.
‘Surely one must try everything. Let’s hope the epidemic doesn’t reach us in our valley,’ said Stella. ‘Perhaps we should curtail any trips away for the time being.’
‘I have to agree. Leaving here would not be wise.’
Unfortunately, Stephen’s fears were soon realised. Within weeks, Tasmania was gripped by a severe polio epidemic that would prove to be one of the worst in the world. It stretched services and treatments and tried tempers as restrictions on travel were enforced, and care centres were quarantined. Fear of catching the infection led to families isolating themselves or being kept in their homes by doctors and the government, and children stopped going to school and stayed away from friends. There was whispered gossip of families smuggling children in the boot of their cars to far-flung valleys, farms, the seaside or even to the mainland to try to escape the infection, not considering that they might be carriers themselves.
Fathers were isolated from families for fear of bringing germs home from work, or they lost their jobs when their bosses were afraid they might spread the disease if someone in their household had become infected. Neighbours retreated from old friends, engagements and marriages broke up when someone contracted the disease, homes were fumigated and sufferers were
ostracised. Stephen told Stella that some nursing staff in Hobart’s hospital and treatment centres underwent extreme bathing and cleaning procedures, sometimes having to soak in foul phenol baths before travelling or visiting friends and family.
It pained Stella to see the tiredness and concern on her husband’s face as the weeks dragged into months and the death toll and number of infected children rose. He explained that there were few medical staff who knew how to use the newly introduced respirator machines, which terrified the young patients.
After one particularly trying day, Stephen sat slumped in his chair, rubbing his brow. ‘It’s draining on the families, and now the children know that they could die or be crippled for life. When I go into the hospital in town, I see the young trainee nurses outside scrubbing the linen in the yard in giant tubs of strong disinfectant, as no laundry will take linen from the infected patients. And today I found one of the senior nurses on a meal break so exhausted she was asleep at the table with her veil in her soup.’
Stella’s heart went out to him. ‘My dear, you are doing more than your share. You’re called out in the night so often; you’re not getting adequate rest. And I can’t forget that story you told me of having to treat children on the doorstep of the hospital, holding them upside down to clear their throats so they could breathe. You are so patient and reassuring to worried parents.’
Stella wanted to do whatever she could to help, so she threw herself into projects in the community to support ‘the crippled children’. She heard terrible stories, such as mothers being hospitalised and their children distributed among other families, sometimes for years. Some children, after lengthy stays in hospital and rehabilitation, even forgot they had brothers and sisters. For some parents the trauma of seeing their children undergoing painful treatments became too hard to watch and they stayed away. For other parents it meant a three-hour bicycle ride each way on a Sunday to visit a sick child.
But with schools closed for months at a time, the lucky children who escaped the scourge were able to spend long days swimming, blackberrying, rabbiting and picnicking, running wild while attention was focused on the sick and the needy. There was a silver lining to everything, if you looked hard enough, Stella supposed.
*
Stella had snatched a rare morning to spend in her studio to take her mind off the endless rounds of worry and work.
As she quietly got on with the rough sketch of old forest trees that she’d started, she felt herself sinking into the peaceful quiet greenery and mysterious shadows of the place. The room was silent save for the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and the swishing of her brush as she changed colour.
Suddenly the door opened and Mrs James hurried in, looking stricken. Before Stella could speak she burst out, ‘I have to go. It’s Terry . . . my youngest. He’s sick, he’s got the polio, we think . . .’
Stella jumped to her feet. ‘Oh no! Has Dr Holland seen him?’
‘No, we’ve got to take him now. Maybe get him up to Hobart. Would you mind keeping an eye on my other kids, please, till, well, I dunno when?’
Stella dropped her brush, ‘Of course! You and Mr James take Terry. I’ll take care of the family. Please don’t worry, Mrs James.’
Mrs James was already hurrying down the hall, untying her apron.
For the next six weeks Stella cared for the brood of James children, ranging from Matty, aged eight, to Flora, who was nearly fourteen. She kept them away from school in case another of them had been infected, and moved the four of them into the big house, as Blackie James was intermittently travelling between the hospital and Arcadia and trying to keep on top of his work. Stephen was also keeping long hours, and so Stella engaged Winsome, a young woman from the village, to help her with meals and cleaning.
In the mornings, Stella supervised schoolwork with Flora’s help, and each afternoon she took the children on nature walks around Arcadia to observe, draw, collect specimens, look for platypuses in the river or find wombat holes; indeed, anything that caught their attention.
One balmy evening Stella gathered them together and, as a special treat, and with strict instructions as to what to do and how to behave, they followed her through the field and down to the wild Far Forest in the late afternoon light.
She had not seen any strangers in the forest since the episode of the man in the deerstalker hat a few years ago, but thinking about his drawing still deeply unsettled her. Stella refused to have her greatest pleasure – walking amongst the tall eucalypts – tarnished or taken from her, no matter how disturbing the experience had been.
The children had never ventured there before. When glimpsed from the house on the hill, it was a place of deep green mystery and secrets. The ancient trees clung together, linked by vines and an understorey of layers of mossy logs, fungi, ferns, and dripping spores and springs. In one part, through a storm-torn break in the canopy, the sun filtered down, illuminating a clearing of grasses, patchy shrubs and brightly coloured plants, which Stella whispered to the children was the ‘animals’ playground’.
She knew this spot well, and she told them to sit in the shadows at the edge of the clearing where they were not to make a sound, fidget or fuss.
‘If you sit quietly, settle down and wait and watch, we may see a surprise. Something special. Don’t speak and don’t move. Just watch. All right? Understood?’
‘I’m scared,’ whispered Gladys.
‘No, this is a secret, it’s special,’ said Flora, patting her younger sister’s hand.
‘I don’t see nothing,’ Matty said.
‘Anything,’ corrected Stella.
‘What’s in the bag?’ asked Donald, seeing Stella pull a little cloth bag from her satchel.
Stella put a finger to her lips and smiled. Once the children had calmed and were waiting expectantly, she moved quietly out into the clearing, looking up into the trees on the other side. Softly she began calling, ‘Dododo, doodoo.’
Suddenly there was a whoosh and a soft shadow speared from a tree across the clearing. The children caught their breath as the magnificent owl glided to the ground, folding its wings, and stood several feet in front of Stella, its beautiful white face watching her, its head tilted expectantly.
Stella reached into the cloth bag and grasped something wriggling. The owl swiftly opened its wings, soared above her, then turned and arrowed across the clearing to where the small creature Stella had released was making a dash for shelter.
Talons forward, wings spread, in a swift pounce the owl angled to the ground, scooped up the mouse and returned to its tree across the clearing.
‘Wow!’
‘What was that?’
‘Ooh, poor little mouse,’ squealed Gladys.
‘It’s so big! Make it come back again,’ cried Matty.
‘He’ll be eating his dinner. Sometimes the mouse escapes,’ said Stella, though it had only happened once. She’d developed quite a knack for trapping the mice from the barn.
‘That’s the most beautiful bird I’ve ever seen,’ said Flora, close to tears.
‘He’s my friend,’ said Stella softly. ‘He watches out for me, so I bring him a mouse occasionally.’
They took turns birdwatching with her field glasses, all hoping to spot the masked owl as it sat quietly camouflaged on its branch.
Back in the big house after supper the children spread themselves around the long kitchen table with paper, pencils and paints to record what they’d seen. Everyone drew a picture of the owl. They had also started a scrapbook of plant samples and took turns to describe the habitat they each came from.
Watching them, Stella realised that while the children played games around the house and garden near the cottage, pedalled a billycart and had a swing in a tree, helped with the cows and did their chores, they hadn’t developed skills to observe the world around them.
But now they were all
enthused. Even Matty, who was usually hard to settle, seemed to enjoy his task of helping to sort a selection of feathers, grasses and seeds they’d collected, putting them in little boxes and envelopes.
As they finished their pictures and were packing away the materials, Stella saw that Flora held a blue flower in front of her and stopped in surprise. The small bloom and unusually shaped leaves were unlike anything she’d seen before.
‘Flora, where did you pick this? It’s lovely,’ said Stella.
‘Oh.’ Flora looked a little flustered. ‘Um . . .’
Stella waited expectantly.
‘I sort of found them.’
‘Goodness. Where might that have been?’
‘She took it out of the old shed,’ blurted Gladys. ‘There were some bags of yucky looking mushrooms there too.’
‘What shed? Whose shed? You mean you stole it?’ asked Stella in a puzzled tone.
The children were all silent, staring accusingly at Gladys.
‘We told ’im we wouldn’t go back there,’ said Matty.
Stella sat down and said calmly, ‘It’s all right, you can tell me. I promise I won’t say a word. I just thought it’s a rather unusual little flower.’
‘It was growing next to the mushrooms in a special place. And you can’t get any more,’ said Matty in a swift prattle.
‘That’s a shame. I rather like it,’ said Stella. ‘So tell me, where is this shed?’
The children were quiet a moment.
‘We’re not supposed to tell,’ said Matty.
‘It’s up the river,’ began Flora.
‘Who told you not to talk about this?’ asked Stella gently.
In a rush the story tumbled out, with all of them talking at once.
‘The man who comes here. He has a boat.’
‘He brings things. Sacks and bottles and stuff.’
‘He has plants and seeds.’
‘You mean like vegetables? To grow?’ asked Stella. ‘Where does he live?’
