Arcadia

by Di Morrissey

  Flora shook her head. ‘Don’t think he lives here. He doesn’t grow things. He keeps a boat at the shed.’

  ‘Just a little one. He goes down to the Channel.’

  ‘He’s scary.’

  ‘How did you meet this man? Does your father know him?’

  ‘Nooo.’

  ‘We were fishing and we just went in to have a look around.’

  ‘He yelled at us.’

  ‘But then he was all right. We promised not to go inside his shed again.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘I thought you were milking? And Mr Fowler was popping in to pick up the afternoon milk?’ Stella began to fret. It was the one time she had agreed to let the children go and do chores without her.

  ‘We did that. We just went down to the river to play before supper.’

  ‘Children, you are not to go anywhere, especially the river, without me, or Winsome, or your father when he’s here,’ said Stella sternly. ‘I am responsible for you all.’

  Winsome turned away from the stove, where she’d been preparing the evening cocoa. ‘Cocoa is ready, children.’

  ‘All right. Have your cocoa and get ready for bed,’ said Stella firmly as everyone scurried over to collect their cups. She had the sense they were all relieved at Winsome’s timing.

  Stella picked up the small flower and held it up to the light, noticing how the colour seemed to shift from purple to blue. She wondered how she could capture the rich hue in a painting.

  Arcadia, 2018

  The sun was setting and pillows of mist rested softly in the dip below the hill, undulating slowly to some rhythm of the earth beneath.

  The air was fresh and Jessica felt more alive than she had in, well, she couldn’t remember how long. Maybe it was because of her happy childhood memories of the farm, which she hadn’t really appreciated at the time. Perhaps it was the contrast between her city life, her marriage, her intense work in the lab, and the simplicity of her life growing up in a rural town at the bottom of an island state.

  Now, seeing her childhood companion’s lifestyle gave her pause. The familiar hit her with the intensity of its difference. Had she forgotten what it had been like to grow up in what her Sydney friends considered a backwater?

  The practicalities of working the land for a living had changed but, thankfully, swathes of natural landscape, by dint of being left to its own devices, had survived.

  It seemed to Jessica that her grandfather, and his father before him, had treated their land as a blank canvas, to be wiped clean of undergrowth, trees, grasses. Where sheep and cattle and machines had stomped the delicate environ­ment into submission, the river courses had dried up, the droughts and dry seasons had been longer and more intense, and production had decreased each year. Her father had inherited their old farm but, being an academic, he had brought in a manager, and eventually, it had been run into the ground. Jessica sensed that her father had been quite relieved to pull up stumps and move to the mainland, to a city. He’d felt defeated by the bastardry of this apparently English countryside, which refused to behave in expected ways, instead turning all the rules of farming – as they knew them – upside down.

  Yet here at Arcadia, almost twenty years later, Jessica found herself in a gentle land. She admired with fresh eyes the way this family seemed embedded in their home, making a living and a life on their farm by apparently changing as little as possible. The ancient trees, especially the thick forest, the wild grasses and creek, where few if any introduced animals had ventured, was untouched and untroubled. The crops were planted in rows across the hills, but within their contours and around the original stands of trees, following paths dictated by the earth rather than the wounds imposed on its surface. When she’d commented on this, Toby had explained to her that he was experimenting, living with their land not on it, ‘in a partnership with nature’.

  As she watched the sunset, and the dappled shade cast by the green hills and old trees, Jessica recognised a softness here, like Stella’s gentle watercolours, that was so different from the images she was used to seeing: concrete highways, steel and glass high-rises, the anonymity of cookie-cutter, cheek-by-jowl homes with no backyards.

  Over the past couple of years, as her marriage had started to crumble, Jessica had occasionally escaped to the beach to try to relax on her own, but parking was a nightmare, people were often surly, and rips and sharks lurked. What should have been enjoyable times had only increased her feelings of stress and being trapped. No matter what she did she could find no respite from an atmosphere that was always frenetic, angry almost, and where life was dictated by a screen. People literally walked into her, looking down at their phones rather than where they were going.

  So one long weekend only a few weeks ago she’d flown out west, to the edge of the outback. But the dust, the heat, the flies, the seared surrounds had defeated and depressed her.

  And that was when she’d called Sally. ‘Sal, it’s me. I need to see you. I’m coming back home. Just me.’

  *

  In the fading light Jessica walked into Stella’s old studio, next to the kitchen. The long windows sliced the expansive view into quadruple vignettes, each a narrow portrait of a section of the garden, fields and forest. The last of the sunlight warmed the beautiful wooden walls, the comfortable chairs and wide bookshelves. Two of Stella Holland’s paintings were hanging above the oak desk where Jessica had put the old metal cashbox from the cave.

  She studied the paintings while she waited for Sally. She wasn’t an expert, but she thought them exceptionally good, and wondered again why there weren’t more of them on display around the house.

  The owl was her favourite. The dark eyes in the white mask stared directly at her with penetrating concentration and a hint of quizzical amusement. The feathers looked so real she felt she could reach out and touch their softness, each one perfectly groomed in its place in the dramatic pattern. There was a small plaque on the frame stating that this was the painting that had won first prize in 1939 from the Art Society of Tasmania.

  The other painting was of the delicate leafy fronds from a shrub or tree, with some tiny flowers in the corner, growing among some oddly shaped mushrooms. At the bottom of the picture Stella had written in a small flowing cursive script, Untitled Species. Arcadia, Tasmania.

  ‘Okay. I’m ready. I brought you that G & T I promised.’ Sally came in and handed Jessica a crystal glass containing a faintly golden liquid and a slice of lime.

  ‘Thank you. This is fast becoming my favourite tipple.’

  They clinked glasses.

  ‘It’s special, isn’t it? It’s all in the saffron and a few other local ingredients. The boys have done a great job. Did I tell you we won a medal at the Food and Beverage Show? There’s heaps of competition now, though, which is good. Toby wants to brew his own beer. The water here is so crystal clear I think we should produce a whisky.’

  ‘Everybody in Tassie claims their water comes from the pure snow melting off Cradle Mountain!’ Jessica laughed.

  ‘Maybe it does. I’m all for diversifying, but you can go a bit mad. I guess you settle down and specialise when you find your niche. We’ve got the perfect soil for the crocus flowers, so we’re doing well with the saffron. The truffles are a bit more hit and miss, but we’re persevering. Now, let’s get into the box while everyone is out.’

  The girls put down their drinks and Jessica eased open the rusted lid of the old box as Sally peered over her shoulder.

  Carefully they laid out the contents on the desk, before going through the documents again.

  Some papers were loose while some were in tattered envelopes, almost all of them too damaged to read. There was also a small diary, the blackened eggcup, the photos, the newspaper cutting and the violet note of farewell.

  Jessica gently spread out severa
l documents. ‘Okay, this certificate for Thomas William Broadbent. You’re sure you’ve never heard of him?’ she asked.

  Sally shook her head. ‘What else is there?’

  Jessica picked up the diary and flipped through it. ‘Doesn’t seem to be much detail in here. Oh, what’s this?’ She showed Sally a pressed flower, some crumbling leaves and seeds pressed between the pages. ‘What do you suppose these are?’ Gently she touched the plant. ‘Do you recognise it?’

  ‘No. Careful, it’s really brittle. Wait, let me take a photo before we handle it.’ Sally took out her phone and photographed the dried plants. She looked at the pressed flower. ‘Something about it looks familiar. Where have I seen that?’

  Jessica suddenly felt goosebumps and looked up. ‘It’s your grandmother, Stella, her painting . . .’ She pointed to the wall above them. ‘See, in the corner of the picture of the fronds!’

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Sally stared at the old flower and then at the intricate depiction of a single purple–blue flower that was almost hidden by a cluster of mushrooms and the larger leaves that filled the picture. ‘It’s the same, but it’s not a plant I recognise. Do you?’

  Jessica was leaning forward, studying the picture more closely. ‘It’s like a tiny orchid.’

  Sally looked to where Jess was pointing. ‘I’ve never really looked at this one carefully before because the owl painting has always been my favourite. We should find out what this plant is. I’ve never seen any of them anywhere, but they must have grown here if they’re in Stella’s paintings.’

  ‘We can look it up. What’s the diary say?’

  The two women leaned, heads together, poring over the pages.

  ‘Unidentified plant being used by TWB to investigate potential properties . . .’ read Sally.

  ‘TWB. Thomas William Broadbent! He must be the secret lover,’ said Jessica.

  ‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ said Sally softly, as she fingered the pale violet note.

  ‘Do you want to raise the topic of your grandmother having a lover in the back paddock?’ Jessica raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m curious to say the least, but I don’t want to say anything to Mum just yet, until we find out more.’

  *

  When Mollie joined them in the conservatory before dinner, Sally glanced at Jessica and ventured, ‘Mum, we were looking at Grandma Stella’s paintings earlier. Was anyone else in her family artistic?’

  ‘No idea. I hardly knew them, really. Some of the cousins turned up for our wedding in Melbourne. No one came here to visit that I recall – too remote, probably. But my mother loved it here.’

  ‘I think her art is stunning,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m surprised there isn’t more of it exhibited. Did she sell her work or only paint occasionally? There’s so few of her paintings around.’

  ‘She was quite prolific, actually; if she wasn’t gardening she was painting. Or the other way around. After she was widowed she got very involved in various art projects at the Art Society.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Sally.

  ‘She left some of her paintings to them,’ said Mollie.

  ‘You didn’t share the same interests? It seems a shame such amazing work went out of the family,’ said Jessica.

  Mollie waved an arm. ‘Look around you. This house is crammed with memorabilia. And there’re more boxes somewhere. In the attic, I think.’

  Jessica glanced at Sally, who quickly picked up the cue. ‘Mum, would there be old family stuff up there? Like going back to Grandad’s time?’

  ‘Good grief, I can’t remember. My father put a lot of stuff up there before he married my mother. Your grandmother was a young woman, remember, barely twenty-three when they married. He was an older widower, so I suppose he packed away his previous life. Like I said, this house has been in the one family for several generations. I don’t know much about my father’s first wife’s family. I wasn’t born till Mother was forty and Father died when I was still quite young.’ She uncrossed her legs and stood up. ‘I’m getting peckish, I might go in and start dinner. Toby and Katie must be back from feeding the chickens by now.’

  Jessica looked at Sally. ‘The attic. After dinner. With chocolates and wine.’

  *

  The candle was sputtering, so Sally and Jessica had propped up two torches to shine a light on the papers spread around them. The attic had no power and smelled musty and faintly of mice. Sally wondered what else might be stored in the suitcases and cartons stacked up here, and in what condition their contents might be.

  In the small pool of light, Jessica picked up her glass of red wine. ‘The more I read, the more confused I get. The papers from the tin in the cave don’t seem to have anything to do with Dr Holland’s old stuff.’

  ‘There have to be more of Stella’s things somewhere. Mum told me once she remembers her mother keeping a sketchbook even when she was an older lady.’

  ‘Why would the guy in the cave have kept that newspaper article about her winning first prize in the art competition?’ said Jessica.

  ‘He was proud of her? Or she gave it to him? Maybe she was proud of the painting.’

  ‘We need to look further. What’s in those wooden boxes? And there’s a steamer trunk over there.’

  ‘Jess, we’ll be up all night at this rate.’

  ‘Okay. So what do we have? This man, Broadbent, was seeing your grandmother secretly. But why would he leave some of his personal papers up there in the cave?’

  Sally frowned. ‘There could be lots of reasons. Maybe this was his special place. Maybe he was homeless. Maybe he was hiding from someone. Like the police.’

  ‘Oh, maybe he was a criminal! A murderer! Or just a loner. I wonder where his family is?’ Jessica said. ‘That’s it, I’m googling him.’ She sat on the floor and began tapping her phone. Sally continued to rifle through the tin box, pulling out a heavy sheet of folded paper.

  ‘This looks like some sort of drawing . . . it’s a map. Oh, where’s the buried treasure?’ Sally said, laughing, then was suddenly serious again as she looked at it for a moment longer. ‘It’s of some property, see, there’s a river marked and there’s an X up here. And it’s marked Forest.’ She turned the paper around. ‘Jess, this looks like here. Our place. Arcadia!’ Jessica looked up from her phone as Sally continued. ‘Why would he have done this? Maybe he had a bad sense of direction? The X must be the cave!’

  ‘If Stella was meeting some man in the cave, he wouldn’t want to be spotted on her property,’ said Jessica. ‘Though there is that swimming-in-the-creek photo.’

  ‘I remember Mum telling me that my grandfather used to go to Hobart and stay at his club. She said Dad stayed there once but said it was too pokey. So my grandfather must have left Stella alone some of the time.’

  ‘Wasn’t the housekeeper still working here?’

  ‘I doubt she would have prowled around the forest. Though Mr James might have.’ Sally was about to fold the map when she saw lines of spidery handwriting on the bottom.

  ‘What’s this, an address? Seawinds, Shelter Bay.’

  Jess returned her attention to her phone. ‘There’s nothing coming up on Google about him – unless he’s a thirty-year-old accountant in Cairns. Hm, there’s also a guy who was some sort of scientist, but he lived in England, so that can’t be him. Hang on, let me add in this Shelter Bay place.’

  Sally yawned while Jess tapped her phone.

  ‘Hm, still nothing. Must be too long ago. But we need to keep looking. C’mon, let’s open one more thing.’ Jessica started to pull the leather trunk away from the back wall, dragging it across the floor to the light.

  Sally jumped up and together they undid the old buckles.

  Sally sniffed. ‘Ooh, smell the camphor. At least some­one thought of storing things properly.’

  Jessica leaned into the box. �
��There’s a shelf that lifts out. Oh, gosh, this might be . . .’

  Sally held up a torch as Jessica untied and unfurled a bundle of large paintings and smoothed them out, spreading them across the floor, where they curled up again. Jessica smoothed one out and sat there staring at it. Sally picked up another. And another.

  ‘Stella’s stash,’ she said.

  ‘These are . . . stunning. Beautiful.’

  ‘I can’t believe this. Look at this one, it seems to be all wildflowers. With their botanical names. I love these! Oh, wow, they should be framed, or in a book! And look at these watercolours of mushrooms,’ exclaimed Sally.

  ‘And they’re in perfect condition. Let’s see what else there is.’ Jessica dived into the depths of the trunk. ‘Oh, look! Oil paintings. Here, take the other end.’

  Gingerly they unrolled a large oil canvas. It was a painting of a romantic and mysterious glade in a woodland setting of tall trees, filtered shafts of sunlight, thick ferns among roots and fungi. The little mushrooms and strange-shaped fungi were clustered over logs and lichen.

  ‘It’s like fairyland,’ said Jessica. ‘Magical. Ooh, look in the dark branches up there – the owl!’

  Sally squinted as she studied the painting. ‘I recognise it. It’s down in the Far Forest. Near the creek.’

  ‘That remnant rainforest land you’ve never touched?’ said Jessica.

  ‘Yes. It’s not heritage listed or anything, but my grandfather had in his will that it should remain as it is. I’ve forgotten why now . . .’

  ‘This should be framed, it’s significant to the house,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Mum says we have no more room, and I think she’s right! That’s probably why these have been left here and forgotten. Stella really had a talent, didn’t she?’

  ‘What else is there?’

  Eagerly but gently, they continued exploring the contents of the old trunk. By the time it was empty, they were surrounded by paintings, watercolours mainly, save for a few large oil canvases. There were also several botani­cal reference books, sketchbooks, and bundles of letters, which seemed to be correspondence between Stella and her family on the mainland. There were several packets of photographs and negatives. Her paint palette, still smudged with dried paint, brushes, boxes of chalky pastels, tubes of oil paints and tins of watercolours, all smelling faintly of linseed and turpentine, lined the bottom of the trunk.