The Dreaming

by Barbara Wood

  "All right you two," Frank said when the carriages finally arrived, "let's not waste any time. I'm starving!"

  The King George Hotel was on fashionable Elizabeth Street, not far, in fact, from the flat where Ivy Dearborn had once lived. As the Downses rode past the familiar green door with its polished brass knocker, Ivy felt Frank's hand squeeze hers, and knew the intimate joy of a shared memory.

  In the second carriage, Sarah and Adam talked excitedly about the show, and Beth again told Hugh how proud she was of him. But Joanna stared out the window, trying to will away the headache that had plagued her for days.

  The carriage went past a steamship office, and Joanna was reminded of how she and Hugh had searched for the Beowulf, the ship her grandparents had taken to Australia. They had finally learned that it had gone down at sea with all hands in 1868. It had been a privately owned vessel; the captain/owner had drowned with his crew, and there were no surviving records or logs or passenger lists. Joanna had written to the Retired Seaman's Association and to various related organizations, hoping to find someone who might have sailed on the Beowulf with her grandparents. The few responses had come to nothing.

  She felt a hand on her arm, and turned to see Sarah giving her a questioning look.

  Joanna smiled to reassure her, then she said, "Which scene did you like best, Sarah?"

  "I loved them all," Sarah replied. She was thinking of Philip, how she wished he could have been here, and how he would have enjoyed the show.

  She recalled the day in the country when she and Philip had accidentally met, and kissed. They had walked and talked for hours afterward, not touching, sharing themselves in the spiritual rather than the physical sense. He had told her about his boyhood in America, his family, how the War Between the States had changed their lives. And she had told him about growing up at the mission, being neither Aborigine nor white. They had talked about architecture and healing, about music and sheep, Navahos and the Rainbow Serpent. And finally, as he had promised, they had gone their separate ways, he back to Tillarrara to finish his sketch, she to Merinda to deliver mail to his wife.

  In the five years since his departure, Sarah had heard from him occasionally— a Christmas card from Germany; a letter from Zanzibar, where he was studying Muslim architecture; a picture postcard from Paris. He had also sent her a copy of his book, with a painting of Merinda on the cover. His communications were always brief and light; he never spoke of love, or of their chance encounter. And Sarah read loneliness in his letters; she sensed his restless, searching spirit. The last letter she received from him had arrived six months ago—"I have asked Alice for a divorce. We are simply too different, and my way of life makes her unhappy. But she will not grant the divorce."

  Finally the carriages arrived at the brightly lit King George Hotel. The Westbrooks and the Downses crossed the hotel lobby and entered the small foyer of the restaurant, where maids in uniform took the ladies' coats and the gentlemen's hats. As Frank was saying, "I hope the roast beef is rare tonight," a flustered maître d' came in. "Oh dear," he said. "Mr. Westbrook! There appears to have been some sort of mix-up. We have your party down for tomorrow night. I'm afraid the private room you requested for tonight has already been given to someone else."

  "Now see here—" Frank began.

  But Hugh said, "It's all right. Mistakes happen. Do you have any tables available?"

  "I believe so, Mr. Westbrook. Let me take a look." He disappeared behind the curtain that separated the restaurant from the foyer.

  "Imbecile," said Frank.

  "What will we do," Joanna said, "if he doesn't have a table?"

  Adam said, "We can try Callahan's."

  "But the tables there are so small, Adam," said Beth.

  "We could try Moffat's Crystal Cafe," Hugh said.

  "It's awfully late," Joanna said. "Doesn't the cafe close early?"

  Frank said, "I don't like the pudding at Moffat's."

  The maitre d' returned. "We can accommodate your party, Mr. Westbrook," he said. "If you will follow me, please."

  As Hugh emerged on the other side of the curtain, the familiar faces did not at first register with him, nor the fact that everyone in the restaurant was standing up. But when they all shouted, "Surprise!" he suddenly realized that the gentleman standing near the orchestra was Ian Hamilton, and that the two men holding up champagne glasses were McCloud and his son, and that the woman with the outrageous osprey feathers in her hair was Maude Reed. And as the musicians struck up the familiar melody of "The Swagman," Hugh saw other faces well known to him—Camerons and McClintocks and more Hamiltons—until he realized with a shock that nearly the entire Western District must be represented here tonight.

  When Pauline came up to him and gave him a glass of champagne, he said, "I thought you had an early train to catch," and everyone laughed.

  "Surprised?" Joanna said.

  "Stunned. Did you know about this?"

  "We all did. Come on, there's a special table just for us."

  "Good God, the governor is here."

  Everyone sang "The Swagman" as Hugh and Joanna passed among the tables, and when the song came to an end, the applause lasted so long that Hugh had to hold up his hands for silence. "Thank you one and all, my dear old friends," he said. "I don't know what to say."

  "Never thought I'd see the day!" Ian Hamilton said.

  Beth came and stood next to Hugh and said, "Father, we have a surprise for you." She turned to the governor of Victoria, and smiled.

  The governor, a man appointed by the British Crown to oversee the management of colonial affairs in Victoria, spoke with great energy and ceremony, addressing the nearly one hundred people in the room as if he were giving a speech before Parliament. "You have given your people," he said to Hugh, "their own culture, separate from the heritage they brought with them from Mother England to these distant shores. And to show her appreciation ..." He produced a sheet of vellum, tied with ribbon and sealed with wax. "It is my great honor to have been chosen to present to you, Hugh Westbrook, this special commendation from the Queen-Empress herself, Victoria."

  Hugh accepted the letter and began to read it out loud, but he had to stop when his voice caught. So Joanna took the letter and read it for the guests. "Through your poetry," the Queen had written, "we are brought to a closer understanding of our subjects so far away, with whom we have had sadly little contact, but who are beloved to us all the same." Joanna paused, then looked at the gathered guests, and said, "It is signed Victoria, R.I."

  There was a moment of silence, then Angus McCloud said, "Give us a few words, Hugh."

  Hugh cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I wasn't prepared to make speeches tonight. Needless to say, I am deeply honored that Her Majesty has read my poems. I'm reminded of an old friend of mine who has since passed away, by the name of Bill Lovell. He wasn't well educated, he could barely read or write, but he was given to speaking his mind whenever he felt like it. One day, a grazier he worked for said, 'If you don't mend your ways, Lovell, I'll throw you off my station.' And my friend said, 'You can't treat me like that. I'm a British object.'"

  When the laughter died down, Hugh said, "My dear old friends. What my poems are about is who we are and where we are." He looked at Joanna and said, "While we might have come from far away, and while we must never forget that Britain is our mother, we know that Australia is our home. And our future."

  The applause rolled out through the closed doors of the dining room. It could be heard in the hotel lobby, where a man in a mariner's uniform was walking toward the desk. He was a weathered-looking gentleman with a neatly clipped white beard and faded blue eyes; he wore a dark-blue naval jacket with brass buttons and an officer's cap; he carried a duffel bag.

  "Pardon me," he said to the clerk at the desk. "I understand you have a Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook staying here?"

  The clerk said, "One moment, please," and he consulted the registration book. "Ah yes, here we are. But I'm afraid they aren't in. I h
ave their keys, which means they are out of the hotel."

  "Do you know when they'll be back?"

  "I couldn't say. You're welcome to leave a message, if you like."

  The stranger thought a moment. "I don't know that it would do any good," he murmured. "I've got a boat to catch. And where I'm going, there's no forwarding address, no way they can reach me."

  Laughter came from the dining room, and the sea captain turned and looked across the lobby. "It sounds like someone's having a good time," he said with a smile.

  "Must be a private party," the clerk said. "I was told that the dining room is closed tonight. Would you like me to tell Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook that you were inquiring after them?"

  "It wouldn't do any good. They don't know me, and I don't know them." He thought for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, "It's not important. Good night to you then." He picked up his duffel bag and went out into the dark.

  While the orchestra played waltzes and polkas and the lively "Click Go the Shears," and waiters passed through the crowd with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres, Joanna moved among the guests, thanking them for coming, and accepting praise for her husband's success.

  Pauline came up to her and said, "Congratulations, Joanna. The party is a great success."

  "Pauline, I'm so glad you and Judd could come."

  Pauline looked past Joanna and saw Beth join Adam and her father for a group photograph. She felt a pang of envy—not for Hugh, whom she had long since accepted as having lost, but for Joanna's daughter. Beth was the kind of girl Pauline would have liked to have, smart and pretty and full of life. She was the kind of girl who had occupied Pauline's fantasies when she had still dreamed of having a child before she had finally come to accept the fact that she was one of those women for whom motherhood was never meant to be.

  "I'm sorry Colin isn't here," Joanna said.

  Pauline looked at her, thinking of the first time she had seen Joanna, fifteen years ago, at the party she had given for Adam. It was strange, Pauline thought, how one's perceptions changed over the years. "Thank you," she said, knowing that Joanna and the whole district knew why Colin had left Australia three months ago.

  Kilmarnock was in trouble. When world wool prices fell, Colin's tenant farms failed, and because of an economic depression that struck the colonies, evictions were not succeeded by immediate purchase. MacGregor had then tried turning to Melbourne real estate in an effort to recoup his losses, buying large tracts of new houses in the suburbs with the expectation of selling them at massive profits. But because of the depression, the high flow of immigration of the previous ten years slowed to a trickle, bringing Victoria's building boom to an end. The sound of hammers and chisels that had been a constant feature of Melbourne for as long as anyone could remember finally ceased. Supply exceeded demand; there were no buyers for the new houses, and the auctioneer's raucous cry as he sold the property of bankrupt estates became the new trademark of Melbourne. Colin had been left holding empty houses, and most of his tenant farms and runs continued to stand unoccupied and unworked. It was common knowledge around the district that he had been forced to mortgage Kilmarnock to pay his debts.

  Pauline would never forget the look on his face when he had walked into the parlor, stood before her and said, "I'm ruined, Pauline. The bank is going to call in my note. They're going to take Kilmarnock from me."

  Pauline had suspected this would happen for some time, but the starkness of Colin's tone, the desparate way in which he had said it, had made it suddenly terrifyingly real. She knew what would happen if the bank took Kilmarnock: It would divide the property into smaller properties and sell them individually. And so when Colin had added that he was going to go to Scotland to see if he could raise the money to save the station, Pauline had known the truth: He was never coming back.

  It amazed her now to realize that she, who had always striven for victory and conquest, who thrived on competition and lived for the trophy, had failed, at both motherhood and marriage.

  Ivy joined them then, a glass of champagne in one hand and a caviar canape in the other. "Joanna!" she said. "What a wonderful party!" Ivy was fifty-two, with gray in her red hair, and wearing a long black gown that suited her handsomely. Aside from the illustrations she had done for Poems by an Outback Son, Ivy was famous for her paintings. "Mrs. Downs," the Cameron Town Gazette had reported, "has somehow managed to capture on her remarkable canvases the blue of Australian skies and the clear transparency of Australian distances. For once, in the opinion of this art critic, we have scenes of the local countryside that are not done up to look like the English countryside, by giving us quaint hedges and low-lying mists. Mrs. Downs gives us in her landscapes the hot north wind and the dry grass and the strong light. She is aware that she lives in Australia, not in Surrey, and that is a very refreshing notion!"

  "Yes, it is a wonderful party," Pauline said to Ivy. Her prejudice against Frank's wife was a thing of the past. Disappointments in her own life had led her over the years to temper her judgment of others. She had come to appreciate Ivy as the woman who made Frank happy, and to admire her for being a woman who had, by her own determination, made her way in the world, and in a profession dominated by men.

  "Have you heard from Colin?" Ivy asked.

  "He said he would write to me when he got to Scotland. I am expecting a letter any day now."

  "I wish he would let Frank help him, Pauline," Ivy said.

  "I tried to talk to him about it, Ivy, but Colin is stubborn. He said that he will not encumber himself with any more debts, and you know how he feels about accepting charity, even if it is from family. He wouldn't accept a single shilling from Frank."

  "Pauline," Ivy said, "is there really a chance you will lose Kilmarnock?"

  "Yes."

  There was the sudden pop of the photographer's flash powder across the room, as he took a picture of Hugh with the governor. "You know that you always have a home at Lismore, Pauline," Ivy said.

  "Thank you, Ivy, but everything will be all right. Colin will find a way. He will come back with the money."

  The three fell silent while the noise and music of the party continued to go on around them.

  Pauline thought of her last hours with Colin, as they had stood together at the dock, waiting for him to go aboard his ship. Colin had not wanted her to come and see him off, but she had insisted. They had not spoken on the train, and had said little on the dock. Then they had embraced politely, and he had walked up the gangway. Pauline had realized in that moment that she could recall only their good memories—their early days as husband and wife, their nights of passion, their days of competition. She thought of Colin's hard body and the way he had excited her. She thought of the beautiful parties they had presided over at Kilmarnock, and how elegant their life together had been. And she wondered if, had she tried harder, been less selfish, could she have made their marriage a successful one? Was it in fact she, and not he, who was responsible for the lack of love between them? She would never know now. Pauline was on her own at long last, destined after all to become "Poor Pauline."

  "I have to warn you, Joanna," Ivy said, "my husband and a few others are trying to talk Hugh into standing for Parliament."

  The three women looked over at the group of men gathered at the bar, and they heard Frank saying, "I'm telling you, when we're federated we're going to need men like Hugh Westbrook in government."

  And while Hugh protested, his friends all heartily agreed with Frank.

  The Melbourne Times was now the largest newspaper in Victoria and, like his paper, Frank had also expanded. Since his marriage to Ivy, the watch chain that stretched across his vest had become twice the length of a normal man's. His hair had grown away from his forehead so far that it was only when one looked at Frank from the rear that one noticed he was becoming gray.

  "I read your latest editorial on Aborigines, Frank," Ian Hamilton said. "I must say, you said some pretty harsh things about the Aborigines' Rights Prote
ction Board. Recommending that it be abolished and that the blacks be allowed to run their own reservations!"

  "Good God, Ian," Frank said as he drank his gin and tonic, and handed the empty glass back to the bartender. "The board is made up of idiots. It was their idea that government reservations should be for full-bloods only, which of course meant driving the half-castes into the cities, where they were supposed to support themselves somehow. You've seen the disastrous consequences. They can't function in our society. They need to be taken care of."

  "I don't see why," Hamilton said.

  "For God's sake, man, don't you think we owe them something? The latest census has revealed that there are only eight hundred Aborigines left in Victoria, and none of them are full-bloods."

  "That's my point exactly, Frank. Everyone knows the Aborigines are going to be extinct in about twenty years. There aren't any left in Tasmania, are there? So why worry about a problem that isn't going to be around much longer?"

  "That's asinine thinking," Frank said as he stepped aside for Judd MacGregor, who said, "Pardon me," and reached past the men for a glass of champagne.

  Judd turned away from the bar as the conversation moved from Aborigines to sheep, and looked around the crowded room. His gaze settled on young Beth Westbrook, who was laughing at something Declan McCloud had just said. Declan was twelve years old, like Beth, and both were preparing to enter Tongarra School next month.

  As Judd watched the Westbrook girl, he recalled again the meeting that had taken place in the office of the school superintendent, Miles Carpenter, between Hugh and Joanna Westbrook, and Carpenter and his assistant, Scott Mclntyre. Judd had also been present. Whenever an issue came up involving whether or not to admit a questionable pupil, it was school policy to have the teaching staff represented. Judd had volunteered.

  Miles Carpenter had been astonished at first that Westbrook should even consider enrolling his daughter in a boys' academy. "Extraordinary," he had said. "A girl wanting to be a grazier." But he had invited Hugh and his wife to present their case.