Nothing was going to spoil today’s party, thought Lisa as she watched her mother walk up the front stairs. The first stage of the refurbished hotel was a revelation. The main casino building, the lobby and the conservatory had been given a complete facelift, the stunning recreations of the original colour schemes paired with fresh modern touches in the furnishings and artworks. Lisa loved these adaptations and the overall ambience of grandeur, light and space. She studied Monika’s face as she entered the lobby. Her mother looked around in astonishment. Her face lit up with delight. Adam Fox would have been as pleased as punch to see his hotel restored to a state that won such an approving smile from his Monz.
Lisa had been away on commercial photo shoots for the last six weeks so she was pleasantly surprised at how much the hotel had progressed for the celebration. She had also been busy preparing for an exhibition of photos about the Palace and the Fox family that was to be held at the State Library of New South Wales. It would be guest curated by Luke. She was still working with him on a final selection and was looking for an image that would make a fitting closing statement. She had brought her cameras with her, of course. It was not every day that Monika, Tom and Lisa were in the same room, let alone at the resurrection of the family’s famous hotel.
A model of the entire project was mounted on a table in the middle of the lobby. A crowd had gathered around to play with the interactive display buttons that illuminated areas of the proposed development with artist’s impressions, film clips with music and effects, fly-throughs of the interiors made startlingly vivid with CGI animations, and photos of historical objects that had been found on the building site.
In the long curving expanse of the conservatory, a generous buffet luncheon had been laid out on white damask-covered tables along the interior wall with ice carvings of the Palace logo, a modernised version of the original scrolled P that had graced all the hotel’s cutlery in the early days. A line of waiters in smart white Edwardian jackets with brass buttons stood to attention by the picture windows with trays of champagne flutes and cocktail glasses.
Lisa could not believe this was the same room where she had eaten a bowl of ice-cream when she was six, surrounded by a coachload of retirees in anoraks and cardigans. The ornate cream plaster ceiling had been re-created with exquisite attention to detail but also luscious new highlights of gold, aqua, pistachio and coral for the roses, cornices and friezes. The magnificent floral carpet underfoot was glossy perfection with its thick fairytale forest of rose brambles, all its buds, leaves, thorns and blossoms in buttercup yellow and carnation red on a dark field of navy blue.
Tom stood nervously with his family at the other side of the room. Monika approached him slowly. Lisa had warned him that their mother had slipped backwards over the last month, the Alzheimer’s taking its usual zigzag, but inevitably downward, path. He must not be unduly distressed if she had trouble recognising him or Natalie and the kids. It had been over two years since they had last laid eyes on each other.
‘Tom?’ Monika whispered, her eyes sparkling with tears as she approached.
‘Mum?’
They hugged and kissed. Monika beamed at her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Lisa could not have wished for more.
The other guests gradually took chairs at the front of the room. They included the heritage architects, business associates of the owners, academic consultants from the University of Western Sydney, journalists, photographers, the mayor and other local dignitaries. There were several speeches. Luke said a few words about his official history and then introduced Monika Fox. The audience burst into warm applause as she made her way to the lectern with Lisa at her side.
‘I am very proud to be here today,’ said Monika looking down at her notes, her voice a little shaky at first but quickly settling into an easy, light tempo. The professional writer’s mastery of words and love of an audience had overcome any nerves. Even the shadow of her stroke and Alzheimer’s seemed banished today.
‘My father had a good sense of humour, as some of you may know. He knew what the wags called his extravagant hotel in the bush. He even joked about putting a sign out the front: “Fox’s Folly. Lunatics Welcome at Discount Rates. Breakfast Included.” He was the kind of man who liked to prove other people wrong. He watched his hotel boom through the good times and struggle through the bad, wondering if the sceptics would have the final say.
‘Well, I can reassure you that if my father was alive today to see what you have achieved in this new incarnation of his vision, he would be the first to raise a glass and say: “Three cheers for Fox’s Folly. Long may she live!”’
There was much laughter and a big round of applause. Monika and the mayor were then handed a pair of golden scissors and together they cut the red ribbon strung across the doorway between the conservatory and the casino. The mayor announced: ‘I declare stage one of the Palace open!’ Cameras clicked madly and the crowd applauded again. Guests were then invited to mingle and enjoy drinks and food.
Lisa and Tom smiled at each other as people came up to get their official programs autographed by Monika Fox.
‘Remind you of anything?’ said Lisa.
‘Oh yes.’ Tom nodded.
‘Wait, wait, I want these two in the photo as well,’ protested Monika, grabbing Lisa’s hand as a press photographer assembled several VIPs for a publicity shot in the casino. Sunlight poured through the overhead dome and stained-glass windows, illuminating the brilliant white walls and columns in sharp contrast with the black lacquered woodwork and charcoal Art Deco carpet.
Lisa could not have felt happier as she stood with her arms around her brother and mother and smiled for the camera. Not all the sadness of the past could be healed overnight but this family reunion was an astonishing first step. For her and Tom. And for Monika, too. To stand up in public and speak with pride about Adam Fox meant she must have forgiven her father a little.
The clink of champagne glasses, the chatter of voices and bright bubbles of laughter, the polite nods and smiles of the wait staff . . . this scene, played out countless times in these rooms, seemed to have revived the soul of this elegant old hotel, reborn to inspire delight and pleasure once more just as Adam Fox intended.
The past was acknowledged in other ways, too.
‘The owners have agreed to include an art gallery in the hotel,’ Luke had informed Lisa that morning. ‘It will be called the Von Gettner Wing, featuring a work by Wolfgang, sketches and paintings by Freya, and family photographs by Laura. And your photographs of the hotel too, if you agree. Four generations of talent in one place. My idea.’
Lisa was overjoyed. She kissed her clever historian passionately to show her appreciation.
There remained only one ghost still not laid to rest at this banquet. Peggy. Lisa thought about her half-sister nearly every day, hoping that somewhere, out there in the world, Peggy had found a fulfilling, happy life. It seemed fitting that this act of remembrance had now been passed on to Lisa. In the last few weeks, Monika’s mind had started to drift again, letting go of Peggy and all the painful memories of her past.
Lisa heard a sharp bang from another room. She looked at Luke. ‘What was that?’ A gust had slammed a door shut. The wind was rising outside. Through the giant picture windows, Lisa could see the canopy of the gums in the valley beginning to toss violently like waves in a storm-lashed sea.
Lisa’s breath caught in her throat. In the far distance, over the purple ridge at the far end of the valley, she saw the grey haze of smoke on the horizon.
Mobile phones started ringing in the crowd around her. She heard urgent, hushed conversations and saw people’s faces grow agitated or gravely still.
Tom came over with Luke at his side. ‘It looks like the Lithgow fire has broken containment lines and is heading towards Mount Victoria. They say it could cross into this valley.’
‘I think it already has.’ Lisa pointed to the distant haze that was rapidly darkening and solidifying into a cumulus of sm
oke. ‘We should think about getting Monika back to the Ritz. Who knows how quickly that fire is moving?’
‘What do you want to do?’ Luke asked Tom. Tom and his family had driven up from Canberra the day before and were among the few guests who had been given rooms in the half-finished hotel.
‘We’ll be fine here for now, thanks, Luke,’ said Tom, who had lived through the 2003 fires in Canberra. ‘If they ask us to evacuate, we’ll make a move then.’
The wail of sirens was audible in the distance, no doubt fire trucks heading up the highway to Mount Victoria. Lisa saw the mayor in a huddle with his deputy, another councillor and the council’s communications manager, all on their phones. They looked sombre. It appeared events were moving fast and in the wrong direction. The official party shook hands with the hotel owners and made a quick exit.
The sky over the valley was a dirty yellowish-grey. That telltale bushfire light suffused everything with its queasy, yellow glare. More sirens screamed up the highway and the buzz of helicopter rotors came chopping through the air overhead.
‘Mum, are you okay?’
Lisa noticed Monika looking flustered as people began drifting away, preoccupied with their phones. Half-empty champagne flutes sat next to abandoned plates of finger food.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘There’s a bushfire heading towards Mount Victoria. People are a bit concerned.’
‘Well, we’ll be perfectly safe here, won’t we?’ said Monika.
Luke had told Lisa that the hotel was fitted with the most sophisticated anti-bushfire technology available. Triple-glazed windows with metal shutters. Giant underground tanks. Roof-mounted spray systems that threw a curtain of water over the entire building. Lisa nodded. ‘We’ll be fine for now, I guess.’
‘They’re about to close the highway at Mount Victoria,’ they heard someone call out. The last few guests began shaking hands, patting shoulders, wishing each other ‘good luck’ and heading towards their cars.
‘Well, I’m not leaving my family,’ Monika said. ‘I’m staying right here with you and Tom.’ She found a nearby chair to sit in.
‘Okay,’ said Lisa, ‘I’ll be right back.’
Natalie kindly brought Monika a plate of food and sat with her.
Lisa found Luke standing by the windows of the conservatory.
‘That fire is coming right this way. Who knows how far ahead it will start spotting?’ said Luke.
With winds gusting up to ninety kilometres per hour, embers could be carried a long way ahead of the fire front, starting spot fires anywhere. They could both see the towering smoke clouds gathering menacingly over the valley and heard the wind and sirens reaching a new crescendo of urgency outside.
‘Today of all days. Long live Fox’s Folly, eh?’ Luke shook his head in disbelief. ‘I hope I don’t have to write another chapter about this poor bloody hotel.’
‘The story never ends,’ said Lisa. She tucked herself in close to him and placed her right hand on the nape of his neck, stroking it gently.
‘Let’s just hope you’re right.’ He turned and took her in his arms then and kissed her tenderly. ‘For you and me, Lisa, I hope it’s just the beginning.’
‘Luke?’ Lisa looked at him curiously.
‘I love you,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I want to spend my life with you.’
‘That’s what I want too,’ she said.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Tom, ‘but the fire brigades are here in force. They want us to move our cars away from the hotel.’
Over the next two hours the firefront made its steady progress. Through the picture windows of the conservatory, the Foxes had ringside seats for the coming conflagration. They watched the choppers make their runs with their belly buckets swinging, cheering as plumes of white water cascaded into the treetops. The sky grew darker and the sirens louder as the fire moved towards them.
‘Embers are landing in the garden!’ called out Tom. Lisa was outside taking photos from the terrace, making sure to stay well away from the firies who had set up three trucks on the road in front of the hotel. She had heard reports that nine houses in Mount Victoria had been destroyed despite intense efforts to save them.
Lisa ran to the front of the hotel where Luke stood in the gravel driveway near the big hedge. Burning gum leaves, their curled edges glowing red hot, rained down onto the drive and the lawn. The air was almost too hot to breathe.
A gum tree exploded on the far side of the hedge, its canopy bursting into a giant torch flame. ‘Over here! Over here!!’ screamed Lisa.
Firies started running towards the door in the hedge.
‘Get hoses in there!’ shouted one of the fire captains. He looked at Lisa and Luke. ‘You two, back inside!’
The wind was gusting ferociously, carrying a blizzard of sparks, dust, smoke and debris. Smoke poured from the hedge and Lisa saw flames licking at its innards. It was lost; fire would consume it hungrily in no time at all. She began taking photos, pulling her jacket over her head to protect herself from embers.
‘Get back inside!’ shouted the fire captain. ‘It’s too dangerous!’
‘Just one more minute,’ pleaded Lisa. The white pylons of Blue Mountain ash in the cottage garden were burning brightly. This was her story, her life, her past.
‘Lisa! Lisa!’ It was Luke, waving at her urgently. ‘Come back!’
Under the onslaught of the giant wind, the cottage groaned, threatening to lift off its foundations. There was a crack as sharp as a rifle shot and the building screamed in pain. With a loud popping sound like a round of machine-gun fire, the corrugated-iron roof peeled back, spitting out its nails like old teeth. Lisa heard the shattering of window glass, the splintering of wood. Embers began their deadly work inside, flames blossoming within seconds.
And then she saw it. Propped up inside the roof rafters of the cottage, a bright rectangle of colour, an epiphany of beauty, its canvas wrappings falling away. Lisa knew immediately what it was: The Valley. Wolfgang von Gettner’s final painting. The original. Returned to ‘where it belongs’ just as Jane Blunt had told Angie in her letter. And in her wisdom, Angie had chosen to leave it there, the painting that had brought such joy to Adam Fox but such suffering to her and Freya.
‘Dear God!’ cried Lisa as she took photo after photo. She watched the hidden masterpiece burn like the valley it portrayed.
Behind her, a curtain of water fell with a crash in front of the Palace. She heard the thunder of the hoses from the fire trucks.
She knew the hotel would be saved but the cottage would be sacrificed. Her eyes blurred with tears for its passing but she also felt a sense of rightness. Of relief.
Angie’s story was ended. Angie, poor Angie, who broke all our hearts.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
* * *
While Palace of Tears is a work of fiction, parts of its story are inspired by the intriguing history of the Hydro Majestic hotel in the Blue Mountains. I have dramatically adapted historic events such as its opening in a snowstorm, a visit in 1921 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the filming of The Blue Mountains Mystery, a fire that destroyed the gallery, and its wartime conversion to a military hospital.
My own research owes much to the National Library of Australia’s brilliant Trove online newspaper archive. I am also grateful to John Merriman, Local Studies Librarian at Blue Mountains City Library and to the Sydney staff of the National Film and Sound Archives for their professional help.
I owe a special thanks to my friends Peter and Bobbie Rushforth for drawing my attention to Mary Shaw, granddaughter of the Hydro Majestic’s visionary founder Mark Foy and a rich source of stories. I am also grateful to Steve Tucker for a personal tour of the hotel while it was still under refurbishment in 2013.
I acknowledge my adaptation of a 1920s chef’s table menu recreated for The Savoy Grill and reviewed in Stylist.co.uk. Valued resources included John Low’s lavishly illustrated Pictorial Memories: Blue Mountains (Kingsclear
Books, 1991) and Dr Martin Thomas’s superb The Artificial Horizon: Imagining the Blue Mountains (University Melbourne Press, 2003).
My enduring interest in the internment of German-Australians during the First World War was first sparked by Gerhard Fischer’s Enemy Aliens: Internment and the Homefront Experience in Australia 1914–1920 (University of Queensland Press, 1989) and recently rekindled by The Enemy at Home, co-written with Nadine Helmi (University of NSW Press, 2011). Many years ago I watched film footage of the internment camps archived at the Australian War Memorial and knew I wanted more people to be aware of this story.
My heartfelt thanks go to my agent Selwa Anthony for her encouragement, guidance and wisdom. I am especially indebted to my publisher, Annette Barlow, and editor, Ali Lavau, for their passionate support and uncompromising advice. My thanks to Kirby Armstrong for her luscious cover and elegant internal design. My thanks also to Christa Munns and the rest of the Allen & Unwin team who have brought this book to life.
My greatest thanks are reserved for my wife, Claire, who shares and understands the challenges – and rewards – of the writer’s life. She not only provided critical insights and much-valued advice but gave me the space and time to write this book and the courage and faith to finish it.
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