by Alexa Aella
Chapter 3.
“A wise person should have money in their head, but not in their heart.” Jonathan Swift
Later in the evening as I was driving to the house of my cousin, Tess, I was half listening to the radio, when I heard a news report which caused my blood to fire with a mixture of hope and dread.
“In news just in, tracker dogs in the Blue Mountains have found what appears to be the wedding ring of Gayle Vanderflute, on the summit of Mt Solitary. Police have said that the search will resume in the morning”.
My white, bloodless fingers clutched the steering wheel and I wondered. “What did this mean?”
Later, we were sitting around my Cousin Tess’s dining table, discussing the disappearance of my parent’s. Her brother, Chris, was hitting the wine bottle, a little too hard, and being his usual sarcastic self. I was trying to ignore him. My Uncle Martin, who was still wearing his business suit, was discussing police procedures with obvious knowledge, and I was listening hard, trying to glean some of this knowledge.
Tess and Chris were the children of my dad’s brother, Peter. Both their parents were living in a nursing home these days. But Peter, who had been a fairly famous football player in his time, now had fairly significant dementia.
I remember when mum had said to me, when I was young, that, it would be a living nightmare, for your mind to die, while your body continued to live on. But Uncle Peter actually seemed to be quite happy.
“I visited mum the other day’” announced Tess, “and she told me that your mum’s family was loaded.” She said this peevishly, as she served the apple pie for dessert, sounding as though I possessed something that, I should have been sharing with her.
“My relatives, the Rockefellers”, drawled Chris, blowing smoke into my face, as I opened my mouth to eat pie.
“Absolute rubbish”, interjected Uncle Martin briskly “if that was so, how come I know nothing about any money?”
“I don’t know where this money is either”, I chimed in, “I mean, look at our house! Mum and dad haven’t redecorated since 1972, and they never really go anywhere much, other than bushwalking”.
“That is only because your mother is such a Socialist do-gooder”, replied Chris, looking at Martin, as though waiting for a game to commence.
“You are barking up the wrong tree”, Martin said with an air of finality “My sister was…. is just a good person”.
Martin’s slight slip of the tongue; his use of the past-tense, sobered us all, even Chris, and we all sat quiet for a while, occupied by our own thoughts. Slowly, as I sat there, I became aware that the song, “Where Are You Now” was playing softly in the background.
Breaking the silence, Tess said with some degree of excitement, “this pie only costs fifty cents a slice to make. Can you believe it?”
The price of everything was one of Tess’s favourite obsessions: Tess always seemed to know the price of everything, and the value of nothing.
I got back home about ten and fell straight into bed, but I awoke at just past three in the morning. Some noise outside had woken me. I threw on my old school jacket; as it was pretty cold in the house, and I went out into the cold night to investigate.
I crept stealthily from the back door and went around the side of the house, which was dark and damp and perfumed with the aroma of flowers, eucalyptus, and damp earth. Then, time momentarily collapsed, dragging me for a moment, back to my childhood.
The source of the noise was simply a crying baby, next-door. I could see a woman walking up and down on the glassed -in veranda, holding the infant. Suddenly, it felt like babies were haunting me. So, I returned to bed, hoping that tomorrow would bring good news. I fell back immediately into a deep sleep, and dreamt that my parents and grandfather were travelling past me on an escalator. But I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t reach them. Dreams are like that.
Early the next morning, Katoomba police called and said that someone else had claimed the wedding ring and that the area at the bottom of Mt Solitary had been searched, and no other trace of my parents had been found. The search, however, was spreading out, and still continuing. I was glad that, the day was clear and sunny.
I felt buoyed by this news. I told myself that, it was likely that my parents had simply become lost and that dad was using his survival skills and knowledge to find food and water. He is probably having a ball, I thought. Trying to convince myself.
A small rap interrupted my train of thought and I looked up to see my Uncle Martin, tapping on the back window of the kitchen; the sunlight lending him an eerie glow. I let him in and he sat down, and accepted my offer of coffee.
“Any news?” He asked.
“Well, they haven’t been found, but I am sure dad is in full survival mode and chowing down bush tucker and collecting water on leaves and all that sort of stuff”
“No doubt you are right”, Uncle Martin said seriously. “However, what I also wanted to ask you was, whether you required my services as a lawyer?”
I felt confused and must have looked it, as Uncle Martin continued, “Do you know the wishes of your parents? He continued hurriedly, “in case of the worst case scenario. Do they have a will? Is what I am asking”.
I knew nothing about such matters, and shook my head dumbly. “You should have a look around”, he replied, “and if you find anything, let me know and I’ll take a look……..there is a will on file in my office, I am just wondering if there may be an updated version somewhere else”.
I merely nodded and he patted me on the arm in a fatherly fashion, and returned the way he came. Funny, I thought, I didn’t hear his car in the driveway. I raced to the front window, but the street was empty and Uncle Martin was nowhere to be seen.
One thing I realised was that, I really didn’t know anything about my parent’s financial situation, or plans for the future. I had been too busy having a great time in London. My London life felt so far away now and yet, I was living it only days ago. I pondered for a moment, if, I would return there, or if, I would choose to make a life here. I didn’t know at this point.
I decided that I better have a look about, and see if there were any important papers. I thought that I would start with the safe hidden behind a painting in my parent’s bedroom. The safe was another thing that I was not supposed to know about; I had never told anyone one about it, though. I had just thought that everybody’s parents’ had a safe at home. I realised now, that, they probably didn’t.
I walked down the dark hallway; dust motes hovered in slow motion in the needle like rays of sunlight, stealing through the open doorway of the spare bedroom. I turned right into mum and dad’s room, and suddenly felt as though I was going to cry. I saw my mother’s wedding ring on the table next to the bed, but I felt no sense of my parents here. I felt them to be gone from the Earth.
“Ridiculous!” I said to myself. “Now you are getting superstitious and having psychic feelings!” I didn’t believe in all that mumbo jumbo, but still, I really felt bereft and strange. “Just get down to business girl!” I said out loud. This seemed to break the spell, and I returned to practical matters.
I swung open the framed print of a nude called, “The spirit of the drought”, by Arthur Streeton. It was a beautiful painting, but when I was young, I was embarrassed to look at it, as I thought it was rude.
The safe had a combination code. But what was it? I decided to try the most obvious numbers related to family birthdays.
On my twentyish attempt, I got it! Numbers taken from my birth date and year; this felt like a message from my parents, in a strange way.
The door swung open easily and I could see, not only a pile of papers and letters tied with a red string, but a lovely polished timber box decorated with intricate designs of inlaid wood; sporting a fancy brass catch. I carefully lifted the box out, and noticed not only what a beauty it was, but how heavy it felt.
Slowly, I opened the lid and saw a pile of gold jewellery, which I could tell was
old and valuable. The intricacy of the design and superiority of the craftsmanship was obvious. I held up a glorious necklace of diamonds and sapphires to my neck, and looked in the mirror. I felt that I had seen this necklace before. But where? I racked my brain, but I couldn’t recall.
I pulled out the pile of papers tied together with a red ribbon, and sat on the bed and spread the papers out. Among the papers, were a few old letters. I selected one and opened it; carefully removing the fragile writing paper, inscribed with a flowing copperplate script.
11th May 1947
Dearest Ronald,
You are angry with me because I will not tell about my childhood. Please understand that, I do not want to talk about what came before the war. You see, what happened to my people is beyond my powers to understand. And, yet, I still have both my parents. I can be considered one of the lucky ones. I know this, but my heart weeps for all those others, and for my cousins, who lived in silence, in a basement, in Czechoslovakia, for one year eating rats.
I will tell you that, my family got away from Poland in the early days of Hitler, as my father could see something of what was to come. We lived in London for some years and I won’t pretend this was not difficult; learning a new language and new life.
I will also tell you that, I feel I belong in this country now. After all, eight Jewish convicts came out with the First Fleet. Their crimes are irrelevant to me. I merely choose to look upon them as friends, and even family in a way. Strange, I know.
That is all I have to say for now.
Much Love
Esther.
This letter, of profound sadness and hope, was from my great grandmother, to my great grandfather; perhaps in the days of their courting. It also made me realise that, often, there are two histories: the one we know, and the richer, more complex story, that lies beneath. And I thought; imagine if I had found out that my great grandmother had been an indigenous person, I am sure that the view from the front window would now provoke new thoughts and feelings in me. I closed my eyes and realised that, these feelings, would likely be, also, of sadness and loss.
The shrill ringing of the phone suddenly cut through my quiet concentration and I dashed down the hallway to answer it.
It seems that another item had been found by searchers in the vicinity of Mt Solitary and I had to go into the station and try to determine if it perhaps belonged to my mother.
I was about to fly out the door, when I thought about all jewellery, letters and the documents from the safe spread out on the bed in my parent’s bedroom. Quickly, I ran back to the room, scooped up the box and the papers and shoved them back into the safe. I would return to those papers later.
The item found in the bush by the searchers was undoubtedly my mother’s distinctive, old fashioned watch. I started to cry when I saw it, as looking at it made this whole nightmare more real. It really was torture not knowing if mum and dad were dead or alive, and how they had become lost.
I felt empty and lost as I drove back home. Behind me, a dark cloud loomed, seeming to grow bigger by the moment. As I pulled into the driveway, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.
As I turned the key in the front door, I noticed the smell of cigarette smoke wafting about in the soupy air. I went inside, and was just going to look at the papers in the safe again, when I noticed a face pressed against the back window.
My heart tap-danced for a moment, until I realised that it was just my cousin Chris. I opened the door for him, and he sauntered inside and sat down in his usual annoying manner.
“Any news?”
“Yes”, I replied in a way that sounded abrupt to my own ears, “mum’s watch has been found”.
Chris simply nodded his head in a very slow way. Then he continued.
“I went to see my mum this morning and she told me something very interesting; she said that your mother used to live in a very grand house called Goolara, near Wentworth Falls, when she was young. But some sort of upset went down between your grandparents at one stage and the mansion was set to be sold”, he drew the word, “‘mansion” out in a sarcastic manner. “In the end, though, they sent your mother off as a boarder to the posh, Stratford Girls’ School in Lawson and they shot off overseas for two years or so. When they came back, they had a bub with them. Your Uncle Martin”.
“I didn’t know anything about that!” I replied “I wonder what happened to the house?”
“Mum said that the house is still there. These days it is used as a guest house and to host the odd shindig. I’d say it would have to be worth a packet!”
Mum had said very little about her childhood and I had only a very dim memory of my grandfather, Ronald, a very quiet and aloof old man, who had lived with us when I was very young. I remember that he used to wear a three-piece, grey suit and silk tie, with a matching handkerchief, just to hang about in the lounge room every day.
I couldn’t help thinking that there seemed to be a lot about my own family, that I didn’t know, hadn’t noticed, or even thought about.
“I’ll ask mum and dad about all these things, when they come home”, I said.
Chris just sat looking down at his feet and said nothing for a few minutes.
“We could take a spin out there now if you want?”
Consumed with curiosity, I said “Let’s do it! But let’s grab a couple of umbrellas first.”
We were tearing along the highway, with the rain pelting down like stones from heaven and Chris was sucking on yet another cigarette, but I couldn’t put the window down because of the rain. I was starting to feel a bit dizzy and a little bit sick, and I was glad when I saw the turnoff to the left, where the road ran next to the lake.
The car windows were fogging up and I wanted to tell Chris not to smoke, that it was rude and horrible to do so, without even asking, but something stopped me.
Following Chris’s directions, I bowled along and we soon came to the end of a road made dark by overhanging trees and the angry metal sky. Looming up out of the rain was a hauntingly beautiful, Federation house. The house where my mother had lived as a child.
A brass, metal plate attached to the gate pillar, proclaimed the name of the house, Goolara.
Chris hopped out of the car and ran around to the boot and scooped up the umbrellas.
“Come around the back near the lake, you can get a pretty good look from there”.
“Sounds like you’ve been here before”, I said, puzzled. Chris had found out that this house had belonged to my mother’s family today, and yet, he seemed to know his way around here already?
“Oh! I came here for an excursion once, when I was in high school”. He coughed a wet and unhealthy sound and continued, “Actually, me and my mates ran off and had a smoke near the lake here. I just remembered seeing the house now”.
I nodded, but I was not convinced.
We trekked along a passageway, alongside the brick fence, which Chris assured me led to the lake. I was wearing the most inappropriate footwear, as usual: pink, Italian mini-stilettos, which were saturated with water and mud. I had almost fallen on my derriere a few times, and gusts of icy wind were also threatening to whip my skirt over my head, and turn the umbrella inside out.
The lake came into view, not the polished silver coin that it was on sunny days, but a moody and sullen waterhole of secrets. We sloshed along beside it, and then turned to look back at Goolara.
The house was on two levels, the lower level featuring a wall of rusticated stone and brick, with white tuck pointing. A small turret soared upwards on one side and a curved veranda on the other, was decorated with ornate fretwork, and a wandering wisteria vine.
“Imagine Mum growing up there! It’s just so grand, and I find it hard to believe!”
“Yeah, well, some people get all the luck” Chris growled, throwing the butt of his cigarette into a puddle and grinding his shoe down on it.
“My mum grew up in foster care and in homes. She had a rough time of it”, sa
id Chris looking up at me through the falling rain.
“She reckons it was only Whitlam getting rid of the uni fees, which allowed her to eventually make something of her life.”
“I didn’t know that about Aunty Brenda”, I said, feeling kind of guilty for some reason. “She was a good teacher and she seemed to love it”.
“She did. It was hard for Mum, but she changed her life afterwards”.
I didn’t know exactly what Chris meant by, “afterwards”. I didn’t ask.
A window on the floor of Goolara suddenly flew open and the solemn sounds of piano music drifted out into the wet world. Then, a dog began to bark and I saw a shaggy, white animal appear on the veranda barking in our direction. Soon, the cacophony increased, as the birds in a nearby aviary began to twitter and shriek loudly.
“I don’t feel like I belong here. Come on,” I said, “let’s go”. And we did.
As we walked to the car, Chris grabbed my arm. “Mum also mentioned that your grandmother’s family escaped from Germany, or somewhere, before or after the last war and somehow, they ended up in Australia. And, supposedly, they got their start here by selling some very valuable jewellery, which had been in their family for generations. I was thinking that maybe there are some gold and gems hidden somewhere?......We should have a look about”.
I must have looked nonplussed, because Chris just smiled crookedly and left it at that.
I was too tired to think about anything much when I got home; I just fell into bed and slept.
I awoke in the middle of the night and turned and switched on the bedside lamp and glanced around the room. My eyes alighted upon my old bookshelf and so, I shrugged off my blankets and padded over to have a look at the stuff that I used to read, and soon, I was taking a journey back in time, pouring over 1894, Pride and Prejudice and Wuthering Heights. Then, I noticed a book that I hadn’t seen before, or perhaps, I had bought on a whim and forgotten about. It was called, Meditation for Beginners. I flipped through the book and stopped to read a part which talked about cultivating thankfulness: thankfulness for simply being part of life. The passage said that life can be difficult and even horrible, but we can meet even these situations with an open and joyful heart. I felt sceptical, but I was intrigued by such ideas. Then, I dismissed them. If we start being thankful for injustice, unfairness and horror, then, we will never change anything. I then read some ideas about how to meditate, and that did sound interesting. So I lay down on the bed and tried to calm my mind.
Later, I dreamt that I had entered a room where the photos of all my friends’, relatives’ and pets’, hung all about on the walls in ornate frames. Even mum and dad. Then everything began to swing around and around and around very fast, until I woke up abruptly. It was still dark and I immediately fell back into a dreamless sleep.
