Palace of Tears

by Julian Leatherdale

  Over two weeks ago, young Master Robert fell to his death from Sensation Point on the track near the hotel. I think you know the spot well as we have walked there several times on your visits and it is a favourite lookout for our guests. As if the tragedy could be any worse, this fatal event took place on Master Robert’s thirteenth birthday with all his family and friends gathered to celebrate. My spirit is sorely tested even now to relate the terrible scenes I witnessed that day.

  It is almost beyond the power of words to describe Mrs Fox’s anguish at the news of her son’s fate. How pitifully she clung to the hope that her beloved boy might have, by some miracle, survived the fall. How desperately she beseeched God to preserve her sweet child, offering herself up in his place. We all wept bitterly that day but none more so and with a purer heart than Adelina Fox. Her suffering was beyond all endurance.

  I cannot do justice to the courage with which Adam Fox led the search party into the valley below. For four hours I attended Mrs Fox as we waited in an agony of anticipation for the searchers to return. I never thought I would live to see a sight so heart-wrenching as that of Mr Fox carrying the broken body of Master Robert from the cliff top. The utter despair that had taken possession of that man’s face is a sight I shall never banish from my mind.

  There was, of course, worse to come: Adelina Fox’s cries of distress on beholding her dead boy. ‘This is all my fault!’ she wailed, cradling her son’s pale face in her hands and wetting his cheeks with her tears. Oh, wretched motherhood that must bear such grief! Mrs Fox cried up an ocean of tears that day and it took Dr Liebermeister’s expert ministrations to finally calm her.

  Rosemary Cuff’s eyes misted a little and her voice grew husky. ‘Poor woman,’ she whispered, clearing her throat before reading on.

  At that point there was a dramatic new development. A man came forward claiming to have witnessed Robert Fox’s final moments, insisting that he saw a young girl push the boy to his death. He identified the girl in question as none other than Angela Wood, only daughter of the head storeman Frederick and his wife Freya Wood from the neighbouring cottage.

  Angie, as she is better known, had been a summer playmate of Master Robert’s for some years, though it was clear their friendship had come to an end as no one at the hotel had seen her since last summer. Robert had not invited her to the birthday party that day either, a fact of which I was painfully aware as Frederick Wood had come to see me about this awkward matter earlier in the week.

  The witness – a bushwalker approaching from the western end of the track – claims he saw Robert and the girl struggling at the cliff edge before he was pushed. Confronted by her father, the hysterical girl denied this accusation vehemently and returned to the cottage for further questioning by the Katoomba police officers.

  Thankfully most of the party guests had long departed and were therefore not present to witness the abominable scene that followed. Mr and Mrs Wood were summoned by Mr Fox to seek an explanation for what had happened. I have expressed my private suspicions and concerns about Mrs Freya Wood, nee von Gettner, in my letters before this occasion, you might remember. She is an artist and one of that breed of young bohemian women who seem to think they live outside the normal moral rules and conventions of society, whether from some delusion of superiority or divine dispensation I cannot say. But I have noted before that her influence on Mr Fox has been, in my opinion, a pernicious and corrupting one.

  My doubts about her state of mind were confirmed by the most appalling confrontation on this day in which she wept and screamed at poor Mr Fox. ‘This is the price that we pay for our lies!’ I heard her say. Mr Wood had to physically restrain his wife and escort her forcefully from the hotel.

  At Mrs Fox’s insistence, Robert’s governess Miss Jane Blunt has been dismissed without any references despite years of loyal service. This is punishment of course for what Mrs Fox sees as her failure of vigilance to protect Master Robert. I do feel sorry for the poor woman. Don’t misunderstand me when I say that Robert was a charming young man but he was also headstrong like his father and not an easy child to discipline at the best of times. While I sympathise deeply with Mrs Fox’s grief and rage, I do not believe the governess was remiss in her duties and therefore should not have borne such a heavy burden of blame for this tragic event.

  Though there will be a coroner’s inquiry, Mr Fox has made it clear that he believes the Wood girl did nothing out of malice aforethought and he will not be seeking any retribution through the law for his son’s death. However the wretched girl is now banished from the hotel grounds, as the mere sight of her is a provocation and disturbance to the Foxes’ peace of mind in their grieving. While we respect Mr Fox’s decision in this affair, it remains a matter of firm belief among the staff that this callous and selfish girl, whether out of childish jealousy or foolish negligence, by accident or by design, was responsible for the death of poor Master Robert.

  Lisa sat there, stunned. She could still smell the vanilla and spice candle and the fragrant milky steam from the cups of chai. She could hear the sound of the wind in the trees outside, the chink-chink of parrots and the purring of the tomcat dozing next to her. But it was as if the present-day world had ceased spinning for a moment and the horror and pity of that awful day long ago flowed through a gap in time and worked their power on her. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Without knowing all the facts, the motives and circumstances, and even at this great distance, Lisa still felt an overpowering surge of compassion for all those involved. Because she suspected that this day had been a turning point in the lives of nearly every one of them. And in the lives of many others to come after them.

  ‘It was Angie who broke all our hearts, poor girl,’ her grandmother had said to Lisa. Well, that much was clear from this letter. Adam Fox’s heart for one. Was he ever able to be a truly carefree, loving father again? Monika’s refrain ran through Lisa’s head. ‘Whatever happened to Angie, poor Angie? Whatever happened to her?’ How did her own mother know about this girl? What had Laura told her?

  Rosemary patted Lisa’s hand and poured her another cup of tea. ‘I’m sorry, Lisa.’

  Lisa shook her head. While appreciative of Rosemary’s sympathy, she was eager to know the truth, however painful, and anxious to learn more. ‘Thank you, I’m fine. Do we know what happened to Angie? You know, I mean, after that?’

  ‘I think we do – a little anyway,’ said Rosemary, fishing through the letters again and finding a second pink tab. ‘Here it is. Dated October 1916.’ Rosemary coughed apologetically. ‘This is not a pleasant letter either, I’m afraid. My great-aunt was not the most forgiving person in the world. And, well, times were different, I suppose you would have to say.’

  She found the relevant passage and read aloud:

  At last, dear Eddie, I can report that a kind of justice has finally been served. As I told you, two of the German staff were dismissed a month ago thanks to the lobbying of Mr

  Hawthorne and myself. Our patriotic duty done, two military district officers took Frederick Wood and Chef Muntz away for internment in the Concentration Camp at Holsworthy.

  Three days ago, I found out that Freya Wood and her daughter have elected to move to Liverpool to be nearer to the camp and Frederick. This morning, they vacated the cottage with all their goods in a motor van. Mr Hawthorne informed me that Mr Fox has arranged to pay the moving costs and gave Mrs Wood a considerable sum towards the rental of a house. God forgive the soft-hearted man.

  Lisa stared at Luke in mute astonishment.

  ‘This is all news to me,’ said Luke, looking just as surprised as she felt. ‘We have some more research to do.’

  Rosemary read excerpts from several more letters and Luke showed her some photos on his laptop. Mrs Wells certainly made an imposing figure in the two photos in which she made an appearance: a tall, long-necked woman with a stern triangular face framed by dark hair, which was severely restrained by combs, Lisa noted, not a bun.


  Lisa kissed Rosemary Cuff on the cheek as she left. ‘Thank you for sharing your great-aunt’s letters,’ she said.

  ‘It was a pleasure, my dear. I only hope they help you find whatever it is that you’re looking for.’ She squeezed Lisa’s shoulder.

  As she headed back to the car, Lisa stopped to take photos of Rosemary’s garden. With the sky rapidly darkening under a bank of thunderheads, a strong storm light illuminated the autumnal trees in front of them; it made every surface glow with an inner radiance and rendered every detail startlingly clear.

  This burning clarity was beautiful. But, try as she might, Lisa could not dismiss an unsettling conviction that such brightness was a sign of a great disturbance to come.

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Angie

  Meadow Springs, January 1914–November 1915

  It was all her fault. Robbie’s death. The war. Her father being taken away to a prisoner-of-war camp. People throwing stones at their windows. And now this: her mother’s decision to leave the cottage and move in with Auntie Eveline so they could be nearer to her father. Such were Angie’s thoughts as she lay, curled up in a ball of misery, inside her hedge, waiting for the removalist van to come and take them away.

  She had told the police the truth about that terrible day with Robbie. They wrote it all down and took it to court for a coronial inquest. Whatever that other man, the bushwalker, said was a lie. She might have pushed Robbie away from her but she did not push him over the cliff. The coroner’s court dismissed the man’s testimony as unreliable as he was standing ‘at a considerable distance from the two children with foliage obscuring his line of sight’. The cause of death was determined as accidental and the hotel was made to build a fence along that section of the track to prevent any such tragedy ever happening again.

  Even so, there were many days after that when she felt as if she was to blame. Over and over, the ‘what if’ questions nagged at her. What if she had never stolen the postcard? What if she had given it to him on the lawn? What if she had turned the other way and run to the flying fox instead of along the narrower path to Sensation Point? What if she had not been so foolish as to fall in love with Robert Fox?

  Freya and Freddie had been angry with her for the theft of the postcard, but they were unable to find the words to chastise her for what happened at the cliff. What could they possibly say that would encompass the awfulness of Robbie’s death? Maybe their reticence was also because they both knew, in their hearts, that her mother had played no small part in encouraging Angie’s resentment towards the party and, even before that, her friendship with Robbie.

  To be honest, Angie was used to Freya’s anger and would have preferred it. Her mother had retreated into silence for days on end, a white-faced, shrunken silence in which tears leaked from her eyes and she moaned like an animal in pain. Looking back, Angie wondered if Freya knew then just how terrible the consequences of Robbie’s death would be, how the whole world would turn against Angie and her family, and their simple life at the cottage would be torn apart.

  Her father also seemed bowed down, crushed under the weight of the disapproval he felt directed at him by his colleagues at the hotel. It seemed to be the way of the world that when something bad happened, someone had to be blamed. If not Angie, then it would be her father, accused of being too soft-hearted and lenient with Angie, for letting her mother encourage her to think she was better than she was.

  There was one surprise none of them anticipated: a letter from the governess, Miss Blunt. While the full force of Adelina’s rage was focused on Angie and her parents, Miss Blunt had taken some of that heat for ignoring her charge that day, despite the fact he was a young man perfectly capable of looking after himself. She lost her job, of course, and was given no references despite her years of service. Her letter was short but kind: ‘Please tell Angie that she is not to blame for what happened and that she must forgive herself.’

  Mr Fox did not come back to the hotel for another six months. There were even rumours that he would sell the Palace and walk away from this painful reminder of his son’s death, either out of his own grief or at the insistence of his distraught wife. The rumours proved to be false but they caused such distress among Freddie’s colleagues that, again, the poor man bore the burden of their hostile stares and icy demeanour. Freddie’s boys – Ben, Wally, Jacko and Dave – stayed ferociously loyal to their boss, communicating their sympathy without any formal declarations but with determined cheerfulness and hard work.

  Of course, Angie knew she was not really to blame for the war, though it came so soon after Robbie’s death that sometimes the two things were merged in her mind. The war was the fault of the Kaiser and Germany, according to the newspapers. At first Freya refused to take any interest in ‘this lunacy’ and insisted Angie ignore it too. But with his usual gentle insistence, Freddie persuaded Freya to let Angie read the papers and ask questions if she wanted to. ‘She’s bright, Freya, and she wants to know.’ Angie did want to know, even though she could not imagine for a moment how this great drama thousands of miles away could possibly affect their lives in Meadow Springs. It would not take long for her to find out.

  On 10 August 1914, only six days after Britain had declared war, Dr Liebermeister and Chef Muntz reported to the police station in Katoomba. They had both kept their German citizenship and so, as subjects of the Kaiser, they were required to fill in yellow registration forms as ‘enemy aliens’. As well as providing all their personal details, declaring any firearms and agreeing to report to the police station once a month, they promised to ‘neither directly or indirectly take any action in any way that was prejudicial to the safety of the British Empire during the war’.

  ‘How many guests of the Palace do I have to poison with my undercooked salmon before it’s considered “prejudicial to the safety of the British Empire”?’ joked Chef Muntz grimly later that week when Freddie came by with blocks of ice from the freezing works. The storeman shrugged. He noticed that Muntz had been careful to share his joke in German in case any of the kitchen staff overheard.

  The same day the cook and the doctor registered as enemy aliens, the newspapers announced recruitment offices were opening all over the country to raise the twenty thousand soldiers Australia’s prime minister had pledged to Britain. The war came a little closer to Meadow Springs when Freddie’s two youngest boys, Jacko and Ben, went down to Penrith to sign up for the First Division of the Australian Imperial Force. Freddie went down as well, watching over them in a protective fatherly fashion as the only way he could express his grief at letting them go.

  ‘Don’t worry, Freddie,’ Jacko told him with his cock-eyed grin. ‘You’ll have to work a bit harder until Christmas and then we’ll be back to help you out next year.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I reckon I’ll get a lot more done without having to chase after you two clowns the whole time,’ Freddie laughed, though his heart wasn’t in it. ‘Just as long as you promise to keep away from those bloody bullets!’ When Jack and Ben finished their training, their battalion was scheduled to embark for Egypt.

  Angie liked Ben and Jacko. They had been in the search party that collected Robbie’s body from the valley but they never looked at her unkindly or said a bad word. She was banished from the hotel and its grounds, so she hardly ever saw anyone from the staff, but every now and then Freddie’s boys greeted her with a wave if they spotted her in the distance in the cottage garden or on the way to school. Now Ben and Jacko were gone and she could tell their absence haunted her father, who had only just managed to hang on to Wally and Dave as they were not fit enough to join up.

  One evening shortly afterwards, Angie had her head bent over her homework in her tiny bedroom when she overheard her parents talking in the kind of earnest whispers she knew from long experience meant upset and trouble. Angie crept to the bedroom door and put her eye up to the crack of light.

  ‘What if they decide we are not loyal?’ she heard Freya saying. Her m
other had handed Freddie his supper and was pointing at the copy of The Mirror lying open on the table. ‘It says that Britain has already started locking up their Germans and we should do the same.’

  Freddie took a sip of the broth. He reminded his wife that The Mirror was one of the nastiest of the Hun-hating papers with its cartoons of ape-like soldiers in pickelhaubes, menacing nuns with bayonets and machine-guns.

  ‘It makes no sense to do it here,’ Freddie reassured her. ‘Of course, they had to lock up the crews from German merchant marine and naval ships, that sort of thing, as they can’t go home. And I read that some German plantation owners and their families have been brought out here from New Guinea and Fiji. But why would they lock up us Germans already living here? Except for some German nationals like Muntz, we are mostly Australian citizens like you or naturalised British subjects like me. We’ve sworn an oath to King and country. And anyway, what could we possibly do to help the Kaiser, all the way over here?’

  Freddie’s reasoning made good sense to Angie but did not seem to reassure Freya.

  Only a few weeks later, Freddie was enjoying his usual Friday-night lager up at the Gardner’s Inn in Blackheath with Wally and Dave. They listened to Tom Coffee telling the publican a story he had heard from Sydney.

  ‘This bloke tells me that the Waverley Political Labour League have adopted – and these are their exact words – “a pledge to abstain from the drinking of Resch’s Ale for the duration of the war”.’

  The bar erupted in a roar of laughter.

  ‘Won’t let a drop of the nasty Hun beer stain their dainty lips!’ shouted Tom as he took his handle of the precious amber from the outraged publican and raised it by way of a toast. ‘Bunch of bloody crackpots, if you ask me! It’s the best piss in town! Drink up, boys!’

  Freddie cheered, as did all the men at the bar, and raised his glass in solidarity with his fellow Australians. He told Freya and Angie the story when he got home to cheer them up and reassure them that, in the Blue Mountains at least, nobody took this kind of anti-German nonsense seriously.