One night Tim got into a drunken argument with Mayor Horace Wolff at the Riff. It was over bigoted remarks that Wolff made about Aboriginals generally and our head groom, Jacko, in particular. Tim fought the mayor in a merciless pitched battle, which escalated into a pub brawl involving sixty-two men and fifteen women. During the brawl an assailant kneecapped Wolff and he wound up in hospital.
It was whispered that Tim was responsible but his fellow drinkers closed ranks and nobody dobbed him in. Fortunately Wolff was too crapulous to remember anything. Our venerable mayor had finally got his comeuppance and only his toadies expressed their sympathies in the Wolfftown Chronicle. Everyone else refused to comment.
Of course Brendan Kane was tickled pink. He quietly rewarded Tim by giving him a promising young stallion bred for racing purposes. Grandpa was very fond of Tim, he’d not only lent Tim radical books to read, he’d also been in his ear like a gnat about the ideals of the French Revolution: liberty, equality and fraternity. And somehow during their drunken, rambling late night discourses at the Riff, Grandpa had altered Tim’s thinking in a major way. Prior to his intervention, Tim had been in firm possession of all the entrenched prejudices common to Wolfftown. Brendan Kane was aware of just how dangerous it was to be a free thinker.
He warned Tim, ‘Listen, everybody knows that Horace Wolff has been heading for a bruising for quite some time. But make no mistake – just about every prominent person in Wolfftown is standing right behind that fucker. He was elected Lord Mayor fair and square because he says outright what everyone is thinking.’
Tim shrugged. ‘He’s a real pusbag and his enemies are growing in number.’
‘True but I can count on one hand the number of locals who are sympathetic to the Aboriginals’ plight. Never lose sight of the fact that if you get branded a bleeding heart the bigots will hunt you down mercilessly. It doesn’t pay to be too outspoken. Don’t be foolish and watch your goddamn back, Tim.’
There was another elephant in the room. I’d been raised to never ask anyone direct questions about their ancestry. I couldn’t understand why there was so much shame about the legacy of evil springing from our penal colony beginnings.
I asked Grandpa about it and he reckoned, ‘Just about everyone has one or several criminals hanging in their family tree. Even Clare Dasher has sheep thieves lurking in her illustrious background. But you didn’t have to be a murderer to wind up in Van Diemen’s Land; many folk were convicted and transported for minor crimes such as stealing a wheel of cheese. Transportation to Australia was used as an alternative to execution. Also some sexual acts deemed “unnatural” by the law were hanging offences until the late 1800s.’
‘Grandpa, what are unnatural acts?’
He studied his empty beer glass thoughtfully. ‘Sasha, I think it best if you ask Lil about that.’
‘Oh. So do we have murderers and cheese thieves in our background too?’
‘Of course we do. But don’t forget that convict transportation to Australia got rid of the destitute and unemployed in England and Ireland. It was cheap labour.’
Much has been made of Tasmania introducing compulsory education in 1868 but in Wolfftown it was an open secret that the school’s enrolment book was cooked. Many of those enrolled never showed up. Poorer children were expected to work fulltime in the home and the fields and older children were made responsible for raising their younger siblings. At thirteen years or even younger children were paid a pittance to work in factories, domestic service, trades or on farms.
Grandpa held the view, ‘Until the government finds it judicious to properly educate all its citizens, we’re just going to have the same level of ignorance and bigotry in this town.’
I knew I was damned lucky not to have to enter domestic service. Girls my age were sleeping in small, shabby attics and toiling for over seventy hours a week as live-in maids. Often they were preyed upon by the sons or husbands of the household, yet dismissed if they fell pregnant. No doubt there were some kind masters and mistresses but the moneyed folk I knew often debated the ‘Servant Question’. This involved whining about how shiftless, ungovernable and lazy their underlings were. But Lily had a different attitude and under her guidance Appletorte Homestead went from being feared to being prized as a place of employment.
Lily didn’t let me get away with much. She probably felt that she had to be strict with me to compensate for Grandpa’s leniency. If it had been left up to Grandpa I would have been able to squirm out of piano lessons but Lily was adamant. And so I continued to trek over to the Dasher Estate once a week to be taught by Mr Tremont Pearson. Initially the poor man probably didn’t know what he was getting himself into. I liked him and my loathing of the piano had nothing to do with his teaching style.
Tremont was feted locally as being the most debonair of the Dasher entourage. His public concerts always sold out in advance. The Baudelaire Theatre would be packed to the rafters with hyperventilating females, swooning at the sight of Tremont bending his long golden curls over the keyboard. He was rakishly handsome with penetrating blue eyes and just a soupçon of vulnerability. Poverty had reduced him to always wearing the same black suit but his undertaker garb became fashionable when the Cads copied his style. Tremont had the longest fingers I’ve ever seen on a man and no doubt his skilful appendages featured in many a sensual daydream.
When Tremont set foot on the main street, all female heads swivelled in his direction. It was like the cattle yard at sale time when the studs paraded. The poor bloke could barely take a step outdoors without being accosted by young women hell bent on entrapment. It perplexed me that even though Lily was a highly accomplished flirt, I never once saw her flirt with Tremont.
Lily often invited Tremont to dine at Appletorte and he’d play his latest compositions just for her. Often she was so moved that she’d weep uncontrollably. I didn’t find her behaviour odd because I too was frequently in tears. At the Baudelaire, when an accomplished actor delivered profound universal truths I wept in buckets. But it didn’t stop there. I also wept while listening to phonograph recordings of Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poems or J.S. Bach’s preludes. Certain reproductions of Renaissance paintings could throw me into a deep melancholy that lasted for hours.
Brendan Kane had a passion for gypsy culture and made no bones about the fact he had Russian gypsy blood running in his veins. He frequently paid travelling troupes of gypsies to perform in the front bar of the House of Blazes. There was a lot of floor space once the tables were shoved out of the way. Which was just as well because the drinkers got wild and boisterous demonstrating their appreciation.
One chilly winter’s evening I was in town with Lil, and after we’d had dinner with Grandpa we went down to the House of Blazes. I loved everything about the gypsy women’s costumes, the deep sensual reds and flaming orange silks, the jangling bells and golden chain belts that were draped low around their wide undulating hips, the flashing fake jewels and the flowing scarves that they used to great effect. A voluptuous gypsy, with loose dark hair hanging down to her bottom, began a languid, slow belly dance. She was wonderfully sensual and her movements were perfection itself. Yet for some unknown reason she tipped me into a bottomless pit of despair.
The entire bar was joyous; the drinkers were ebullient and I was completely at odds with the jovial mood. It made no sense at all, given that two minutes earlier I’d been laughing with delight at the crazy antics of a handsome young fiddler. I was disgusted with myself. There were several hard-bitten faces around me and I knew many of them had sad life stories: failed marriages, lost loves, mines that yielded nothing, and grinding poverty. Yet here they all were, with joy in their faces; grateful for the warmth of the pub’s open fires, the cheap glasses of plonk and the opportunity to briefly forget their troubles in the heat of the gypsy’s wild dance.
In the scheme of things I had absolutely nothing to complain about. So when Lil was distracted by a handsome bloke trying to solicit her attention, I snuck outside t
o the veranda and shivered in the cold shadows until I’d composed myself and could return to the bar with a cheerful face. After all, nobody should have to put up with a morose, over-privileged girl.
Lily too was prone to sudden swings of emotion. She’d been entertaining our guests one winter’s night when a maid whispered to her, ‘Miss Lily, Tim sent Jacko with a message. I’m to tell you that Bess has taken a turn for the worse. But Tim’s looking after her and –’
Lily was out of her chair even before the maid had finished speaking. I turned to Grandpa, ‘It’s Lil’s horse, she’s very sick.’
Grandpa whispered, ‘I’ll look after this lot. You go after Lil, then report back to me. She’s going to get very emotional even though Bess is twenty-nine years old and nearing the end of her life. You see, Lil learnt to ride on Bess so they’re very close. Bess was a big part of her childhood.’
I ran after Lily. In the twilight all I could see was her white velvet gown flitting down the carriageway and heading towards the stables.
When I got there, Tim’s dog, Jess, stood guard in the doorway. Things were so tense you could have cut the air with a knife. Bess was lying on her side and Lily was rocking with distress as she cradled Bess’s dark head. Bess’s stall was lit with a single lantern and the other horses were strangely silent. Tim was kneeling in the hay and trying to reason with Lily, but I could tell that she’d moved beyond his reach.
It began to rain heavily on the tin roof, a strange pagan drumming sound. I hovered in the doorway until Tim came over and said very quietly, ‘Tell Brendan I’ve done everything possible but Bess is dying of natural causes and old age. All I can do now is make her death easier. I started the process before Lil got here. He’ll know what I mean.’
‘What can I do, Tim?’
‘Lil reckons she won’t leave Bess on her own tonight. Get a manservant to bring me some bedding and pillows for Lil and a warm coat or something. I don’t know why she gets around half naked in winter.’ He pinched my cheek. ‘Not that I don’t think she’s a knockout in that winsome getup.’ I turned to go. ‘Sasha, you’d best grab my oilskin off the peg or you’ll get drenched out there.’
I took the bedding back to the stables myself and draped a heavy woollen coat around Lily. She glanced up at me but her eyes were completely blank. She didn’t seem to recognise me. The Lily I knew had disappeared and I was terrified.
Tim whispered, ‘There’s nothing you can do now, Sasha. I’ll send a stableboy up to the house soon to let Brendan know what’s happening. Go now and I’ll take care of everything. Don’t you worry about a thing, eh?’
I returned to the house. True to his word, Grandpa was entertaining our rowdy guests with risqué stories while the manservants lubricated everybody with a selection of fine French liqueurs. In our house Lily had completely broken with accepted social etiquette. She insisted that the ladies would no longer be banished while the gentlemen indulged in port and cigars. Under the new regime, after we’d finished with the cheese board, all our guests retired to the conservatory, where they got to smash billiard balls around, make boisterous repartee, foxtrot to phonograph records and smoke like chimneys. I noticed that it was in the shadows of the conservatory that adulterous liaisons were arranged and illicit trysts established. It must have shocked and delighted the Wolfftown ladies who were used to spending a good hour powdering their noses and squeezing their peaches while their gentlemen indulged in manly pursuits.
Because I’d been made Lily’s understudy for the evening, I went through the motions of being charming to our guests. I was extremely solicitous of their wellbeing but my mind was still back in the stable. Seeing Lily like that had shaken me to the core.
After the last guests had staggered to their carriages, Grandpa asked, ‘Has Lil been a bit out of sorts lately? Is she happy?’
I was perplexed as I didn’t know what he was really asking me or why. Grandpa understood Lily better than any of us, so what was he getting at?
‘Sasha. I’m not snooping. I think I should mention –’
He paused and I felt a deep sense of foreboding. ‘What, Grandpa?’
‘The Kane curse. It’s damned difficult to explain.’
‘What is it?’
‘It first appeared on your grandmother’s side of the family. My wife, Bella, had a history of melancholy all her life. I consulted every doctor, quack and charlatan I could get my hands on, even in London. I loved her more than life itself. The doctors had her taking cold water treatments, strong opium dosages and a peculiar health procedure to release back held energy. They also tried a rubbing treatment that was marginally successful.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It was first practised by the ancient Romans.’
‘Oh?’
‘It involved medical massage to her most feminine private parts. The doctors called it release of hysterical paroxysm.’
‘Oh?’
Grandpa looked decidedly grim. ‘Sasha, I think it might be better if you ask Lil to explain it to you.’
‘Does the Kane curse bump them off?’
‘No. Much worse, they kill themselves. That’s what happened to my Bella, the despair got too much for her. No one quite knows what causes it. Bella had extremes of emotion, swinging wildly between high good humour and total despondency. She’d turn grave as a mustard pot over quite trivial matters.’
The ground shifted under my feet. Lily and I had this in common. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit it, so instead I asked, ‘Did Rose have the Kane curse too?’
‘Yes. In her case it was uncontrollable high spirits followed by a sapping of her energy and a loss of interest in daily life. Now before you get upset, I want you to know that it doesn’t affect all Kane females, only some of them. It was the Wolfftown wowsers who named it the Kane curse.’
‘You mean I could go mad like Ophelia?’
The idea held enormous appeal. I’d seen a romantic oil painting of the dead beauty. Ophelia looked quite stunning as she floated in the lily pond.
‘No, Sasha. You will not turn into Ophelia. The Kane curse will pass on by and leave you unscathed.’
Frankly I was disappointed. ‘So you don’t think I’ll ever get it?’
‘No. Not unless you start imbibing copious quantities of alcohol like your mother did. Or if you develop a raging appetite for laudanum like some stupid women in this town.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Well, excessive alcohol or opium consumption makes for ill health. Take for example how booze affected Torte. He wasn’t always a debauched drunkard, merely a heavy drinker. He turned into an alcoholic when he lost Rose.’ He gently stroked my hair. ‘But I know you to be a sensible lass with a stable temperament. I seriously doubt the so-called Kane curse will ever seek you out.’
I still felt distinctly uneasy. ‘But why did you ask me about Lil?’
Grandpa turned away and gazed out the window. I waited with dread in my heart. It felt like an eternity had passed before he turned to look at me.
‘I’m really worried about her. The curse first reveals itself as a sort of mad gaiety followed by total despair until the victim’s life force is drained.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’m not asking you to be disloyal to your aunt. I just wanted to know if she’s been doing anything out of the ordinary. And don’t worry about her sexual indiscretions either. All Kane women are sensual creatures and I’ve known for some time about her love affair with Tim O’Flaherty.’
I was stunned. How could it be that I didn’t know? I’d always flattered myself that I knew everything that went on in our household.
Grandpa got to his feet and selected a bottle of vintage port and three glasses from the sideboard. ‘Well, I’m going down to the stables. I’ll have a nightcap with Tim and Lily, then I’ll see myself off the premises.’ He stroked my cheek. ‘Get some sleep, possum. There’s nothing you can do to make this better. It’s adult business. But rest assured that
Tim knows more about horses than anyone in Tasmania and he’ll ensure Bess’s death is an easy one. I’m trusting you to stay mum and say nothing to Lil that will add to her distress.’
It was then that I realised what Tim hadn’t wanted to say. And sure enough, when Lil returned to the house at dawn, for a change of clothes, Bess died peacefully.
Just as Tim and Grandpa had predicted.
10
TASTY OUTDOOR PICNICS
Lily grieved for weeks and just when I was beginning to despair of her coming good, Grandpa presented her with a lively young stallion. Otis was a magnificent horse; highly intelligent, well-muscled, with a thick glossy black coat and impeccable manners. Otis had been trained on the mainland by Sydney’s foremost horse trainer. At Grandpa’s suggestion, Tim put Otis through his paces and pronounced, ‘He’s perfect for your girl, Brendan. Otis just needs to build a bit more trust. And Lil’s more than capable of sorting him out.’
She knew none of this of course. Nobody in their right mind would want to be caught out deciding what was right for our headstrong Lily.
Lily was soon seen bustling around the stables making Otis feel at home. It was as though a flame had been relit. Naturally Otis required daily exercise and Lily took to riding out with Tim. Sometimes they even rode twice a day. And within a couple of weeks she was back to her old self.
The spring weather arrived, releasing us from what Grandpa had derided in a Shakespearian rant as the winter of our discontent. I accompanied Lil into town when she decided to have new clothes made, and was nonplussed when she reined in the buggy and tied up our horses outside Cuthbert’s Fine Tailoring.
Mr Cuthbert was not the sort of bloke you’d find in the Tub of Blood nor did he drink at the Riff or the Phoenix. His manner suggested he avoided the conviviality of Wolfftown’s pubs and liked to sip nothing more than lemon juice or sour milk. He took a step backwards when Lily and I entered his shop.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 13