The Old Balmain House

by Graham Wilson

  Chapter 24 – Alison brings the children back

  Next day we go round to visit Sarah. I ask Edith if we should try to find her number and ring first.

  “Oh don’t worry about that rubbish” she says. “She is my cousin, after all and, seeing she is old like me, she is not likely to be gone out or too busy.”

  So we go there.

  The door opens. Before me stands an old lady, genteel and gracious, but with a touch of wildness. Those eyes, Sophie’s eyes, stare out at me, only a hundred years on. I do not know how I know that the eyes in a tiny black and white photo are the same. But in my heart and soul I know this lady carries Sophie’s likeness in this part, even yet.

  Sarah knows Edith at once, even after all these years. She invites us in. Edith simply says that I am the son of her sister, Helen, who Sarah played with those many years ago.

  But I swear Sarah looks at me with an insight that says she knows I am more than that. She indicates for me to bring an extra chair. She and Edith take two much loved chairs by the fire, while I sit between them.

  As I raise my eyes from their faces, to the place above the fire, it is like the whole story comes alive in vivid colour. There are two paintings, one of a picnic with boats behind. In the centre are two ladies talking, as if awaiting their departure. The other painting shows the same two ladies, half talking and half gazing out to sea. They look to a familiar, long remembered horizon.

  I do not have to ask, who are these people, the people of the picture story? They look as vibrant and alive as if I was standing there talking to them. I know, unspoken, they are Alison, grandmother, and Maria, mother of Sophie. I know it with complete certainty.

  I realised, after a minute of staring, transfixed, that Sarah is talking to me. As I look back to her, there it is again, that same smile and those same eyes. Creatures of her flesh are living above on canvass.

  So, before we talk, the unspoken bond is made; to seek and discover the truth which I will try to tell in words and she will tell in a final picture.

  Then we tell our respective stories. I tell her the little I have found out, and of our new house. Sarah tells us the story she got through her Mum, most of which is written in this book.

  The final thing she says is. “One thing that has really stuck in my mind, since my Mum, Rachel, told me this story many years ago. It is what she said just after she finished telling the rest.”

  “She said, ‘I really wished that Gran Alison had lived until after Sophie had gone, because I knew, deep down inside, that she would know where Sophie went. It was like they were kindred souls, different outside but forged in the same crucible of love and fire.’ I don’t know how it helps, but it seemed she was saying I had to find out about my great-grandmother and that may give a missing clue. I have looked through all the things of hers that were passed down through our family but I am no wiser. Perhaps you can see something that escapes my tired old eyes.”

  I try to think too but nothing comes to me. I shake my head.

  Sarah says, “It is not a question for today, but do keep looking, still.

  Then she asks to see the perfume bottle. I give it to her and she holds it, warm in her hand, for a long, long time. Her face grows still and calm, as something flows between her and that tiny little bottle. It is like she is taken to another place, her face glowing with a strange happy light, while tears trickle slowly down her cheeks.

  She takes off the bottle top, inhales the smell, saying “Oh it brings it all back, those happy, golden days of my childhood. I am glad it has been passed along the chain to your family. Perhaps one day your daughter too will have need of this.”

  I say to her. “These are yours, you are her nearest kin.”

  She looks at me and says. “Perhaps they are mine but, if I was meant to have them, then I think Maria would have given them to me herself. I am not sure, but for now I would like you to keep them in your care.”

  I have gained so much understanding but still no closure. Where did Sophie and her friend Matty go, those many years ago?

  So I return to the Historical Association. There is a lady sitting at the table who I do not know. As I rummage, seeking inspiration, she looks up at me. So I tell her some parts of the story. When I mention an Alison who lived at Balmain long ago she says.

  “There is something, though I am not sure if it will help you. About ten years ago, one New Year’s Eve, when the crowd was gathering at East Balmain, a couple set up their picnic at the edge of the rocks in the park to the east of the ferry wharf. It was somewhere about here,” she says, pointing to a map showing the end of Paul Street where the park starts.

  She continues. “They decided to go for a walk, while they were waiting for the fireworks, but they wanted to leave their valuable things somewhere safe, to save carrying them. They saw a small space in the rocks, behind where they were sitting. In the entrance of the space one of the rocks was loose, just sitting there in the start of the hole. So they pulled it out, to put their things behind it.

  But, behind the rock, they found a small box. Inside was what appeared to be a little girl’s diary. It was in a small metal tin, wrapped in oilcloth. It had the name Alison written on it. They thought it might be important so they brought it here. From the type of paper we know it dates to around 1850. I looked at some of it and it seemed to me to be a small girl’s meanderings and dreaming, from when she was about five or six years old. But it talks about a few things, like a secret cave with a small black friend Ruthie and a magic perfume bottle of memories.

  I feel a surge of wild irrational excitement. “Could I see it please,” I say.

  So she goes and finds it, then gives it to me. It is about six inches by four inches and an inch thick, still wrapped in its oilcloth cover. I peel this back. On the faded pink cover is a small girl’s hand writing. It says the name ‘Alison’.

  Almost reverentially I open the cover. I gaze at the writing, now 160 years old, of my great grandmother’s half sister. The first page starts.

  “I am so happy. It is my birtday and I am 5. My Mummy has given me this for a preset to write in.”

  A few pictures are on the next two pages; then I turn to the next page after with a jolt.

  “Today we buried my Mummy. She died last night. I trying not to cry, but I miss her so bad.”

  To the next page. “Today I am even more unhappy. My brother Archie who is 9 has died too. He was my best friend and I miss him so much. He was very sad too when Mummy died but we tried to help each other be strong. And now he is buried next to Mummy. But the worse thing is how it is hurting Daddy, like two holes in his heart.

  Then the next entry. “My Daddy went away on the boate today. I am trying not to cry while I write, I don’t know if I will ever see him again. But he gave me a special present, a blue-green bottle, like the sea with waves on it. It was Mummies. When I open it I can smell her and I am happy, but I still want to cry. So when I was crying I put my tears in the bottle and I think it will help me be strong.”

  Then an entry with a description about what her Gran Mary had told her about the bottle. Followed by “Now I understand how I can put my happy memories in it. I will fill it up so full so when Daddy comes home I can make him happy.”

  Then a bit further on. “Daddy came home today. Hooray I am so excited, I want to dance and shout.”

  Then next entry. “Today I met Mrs Helen, she is sad too because her hubsand died. But I made a special promise with her. We will both try not to be sad.”

  Then “I know Mrs Helen likes Daddy and I think Daddy likes her too. That is good because Mummy is not here anymore and she would want little Hannah and Alexander to have a new mummy.”

  About half the diary was filled with her little notes and memories getting longer as the years passed, about her school friends and other people, and what she did and liked.

  Then a little black girl called Ruthie starts to appear. She describes how Ruthie and her would go exploring and ‘search th
e shores for tressures.’

  Then something electric, ‘Ruthie and I found a little cave. Only we know and we have both promised we will not tell anyone else about it.’

  From the description I am almost sure they are describing Ballast Point. I don’t know why I am so sure but I know this is the clue Sarah and I have been looking for.

  Perhaps Alison too has reached out to bring us to this place. But it is so.

  Now, with total certainty, I set out on the last part of my journey.

  I search the archives for the history of Ballast Point, and discover work was done on the installation of a tank there at about the time the children disappear. I finally find a work assignment for two workers Fred Jones and Joe Wilson, who are each paid five pounds by a shipping company to level the site and prepare it for a tank and jetty to be built. A week after the work begins I find in a log book the notation. “Today Mr Frederick Jones took two charges of dynamite to shift a large rock which prevents the levelling being completed”. It is dated September 3rd, 1908.

  This is the last day the children are seen. My mind sees a picture of two little children in a cave below and I feel unutterably sad.

  I continue my research. There are now the remains of three big tanks there and they don’t sound original. There is no longer a scrubby edge to the headland, it has all been removed.

  Finally I track down documents relating to the installation of the new tanks, in 1942, from Navy Archives. I am like a dog with a bone. I can’t leave it, there must be more. Buried amongst Navy reports of the construction, is a hand written notation, ‘Works delayed for two hours today. Military Police called. Remains found under rocks removed and report lodged to police’

  Police archives defeat me. Then I think. Perhaps the remains were lodged with the coroner. I think their archives should be in a retrievable form.

  I manage to locate Glebe coroner’s records, which appear to be the most likely place of dispatch at that time. I open a heavy bound book that records the incomings and outgoings in 1942. There it is, two days after the Military Police site visit.

  ‘Remains of two children and associated goods found at Ballast Point, Balmain. Lodged with report A109201-42, and stored in Bay 23, container 5.’

  Yet more investigation; this storage area no longer exists but a custody chain does. My search leads to an old ware house in western Sydney. The accession clerk confirms the location and currency of the record.

  ‘Transferred in 1963, last review of evidence 1942.’

  I realise I am at the end of the trail. I am not sure if I want to know what this container holds. I think, What help will it bring? Who will benefit after all this time? But I need to know and Edith and Sarah deserve to know too. As the nearest living relatives to this time and place, at least they can represent those who suffered the loss and accept its closure.

  I ring them to inform them of what I have found. They say, “Go on.”

  We walk along air conditioned corridors, the attendant and I. There is a faint anaesthetic hum. We come to the marked bay and then to the marked cubicle and then to a shelf and drawer.

  It is opened and I know with total certainty this is them.

  The piles of broken bones lie mingled in death as in the final moments of life. It is the blue bird that convinces me, told from Maria, to Rachel, to Sarah, a tale of Matty’s loving gift to Sophie, the pledge of their friendship.

  An exquisite fairy wren, colours and detail perfect, carved and received with such love. I feel its soul soar and fly free with the spirits of these two children, going to a place of peace and happiness. This is the secret of the perfume bottle, that when all else passes such love remains.

  A month later we gather all the family members we can find; Rodgers, Smiths, Wilsons, Campbells, McNeils, McVeys, Bullers, Williams and Martins, and others too.

  We have approval of the Council and the other officials to place a small casket with their remains, cemented in to the rock of Ballast Point, covered with a plaque bearing their names.

  Fittingly the Point is now a place for people to enjoy, fashioned into the shape of a ship, which waits, as if to carry them to another far off land.

  Sarah, body frail in the spring breeze, stands at end of the point, above the small casket and holds the small blue bird aloft to the bright blue sky.

  Her voice carries to us all, tired and thin, but resonant. “This bird is the symbol of our family having finally reached a place of understanding and peace. I ask it to fly free and bring these two dear spirits across space and time into a joyous eternity.”

  I thought then perhaps she would fling the small blue bird into the sky so it too could fly away. Instead she walks quietly to me. She stands and stares at me with those sad, but smiling, eyes. She speaks in a soft voice that only I can hear. It may be my imaginings but it is as if small Sophie is talking to me.

  The voice says. “Please take this small blue bird and, with my perfume bottle and picture, place them in the place from whence they came, as put there by Maria. Perhaps, in some time and place beyond all our knowledge, another small person will have need of them.

  “And would you write this story as you have discovered it, to go along with them too.”

  I know also, without any words spoken, that Sarah will paint her picture. Spaced around its frame are three much loved old Balmain houses holding the stories of their families. The space in the centre is filled with Sophie, Mathew, little Alison and a small black friend, all met again, finding treasures on sea shores; dreams carried aloft on the tiny wings of a small blue bird.

  When our ceremony is finished we take the blue bird, the perfume bottle and the small sepia photo and place them all on the ledge of the chimney in the old Balmain house.

  Now I have written it, just these words, it is complete.

  I know that Sarah has painted her picture though I will not see it.

  I place my words into a tightly sealed package. It rests alongside these other things, in the chimney of the house, perhaps one day to be read again, perhaps to pass into dust. I think that these words are like the feathers of the brightly painted blue bird and will carry our many linked souls through time and space and into eternity.