Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  Elizabeth spotted through the rain the tall, blonde Holly Shaw standing outside the church with her husband, Bob, skulking beside her. ‘There they are,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s make a dash for it.’

  Holly, who shared Elizabeth’s interest in 1940s Australian art, had been born in the Blue Mountains but emigrated to England as a child and spent years running a small but successful art gallery in London. She returned ‘Down Under’ when her son flew the nest, and then discovered through a friend who knew Currawong Manor’s owners that the place was on the market. Holly was now attempting to make money from her acquisition while promoting Rupert’s art. Encouraged by the success of the Norman Lindsay house at Springwood in the lower mountains, she was aiming to remodel the manor along a similar theme. In the grounds she had re-created miniature cabins in the same style as the manor, calling them ‘the Nests’, and was offering residencies for artists, writers and craftspeople who embodied the spirit and traditions of Rupert Partridge in their work.

  After Holly’s second phone call, Elizabeth had met the Shaws at the Art Gallery of New South Wales in Sydney and listened with increasing enthusiasm to Holly’s vision for Currawong Manor. It was obvious they shared the same dream to resurrect her grandfather’s reputation and place Rupert Partridge alongside the more lauded names of Arthur Boyd, Sydney Nolan and Albert Tucker. Her mother might sneer at Holly’s appreciation of Rupert’s art, but Elizabeth felt moved by the woman’s passion for her grandfather and everything linked to him. Perhaps this was why she felt an immediate connection with the bubbly woman, rather than maintaining her usual detachment and caution towards new people (a photographer’s occupational hazard, she sometimes joked).

  Today, Holly was just as personable as Elizabeth had found her on their first meeting – and just as stylish, in black high heels and a black trench coat.

  ‘Here they are, finally!’ she cried. ‘This must be Fleur – so good to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying our beautiful Mount Bellwood weather.’ Holly grabbed Elizabeth and Fleur, bestowing kisses and hugs in a very un-English way. ‘Blooming heck, I was just saying to Bob it’s a good thing we brought our thermals over. Bob, stop gawping at gorgeous Fleur, close your mouth and shake her hand. Quickly, girls, let’s get inside the church – Ginger’s already here!’

  Bob, as taciturn as his wife was extroverted, gave an indecipherable grunt and was whisked indoors in pursuit of Ginger.

  Although Elizabeth had met several celebrities in her line of work and was rarely intimidated by them anymore, she felt nervous at the thought of finally meeting Ginger. From scraps of information she had picked up she knew Ginger had worked in early Australian soap operas before migrating to America. While fans of the Flowers tended to favour either Kitty for her angelic looks or Wanda for her sensuality and daring poses, it was Ginger whom Elizabeth had always felt the most drawn to.

  In the vestibule of the church, people crowded around an eye-catching figure. Recognising her immediately, Elizabeth studied her with interest. Even now, in her seventies, Ginger was as dynamic and fascinating as her younger, notorious 1940s self: her face, which retained its perfect complexion, was theatrically made-up: her large, almond-shaped green eyes heavily lined with kohl and spiked with false eyelashes, and her full lips painted scarlet. From her ears dangled brightly coloured yellow diamond drop earrings, and her green designer jacket sported an oversized brooch and a brightly patterned scarf. Beneath her jacket she wore a plunging black top which showed off her gravity-defying bust, a leopard-print bra peeking out. Silver bracelets and charms adorned her wrists, and her hennaed hair was gathered up in an elegant chignon fastened with jewelled combs.

  ‘Thank you, everyone, you’re all so kind,’ she was saying. ‘It’s wonderful to be back at Mount Bellwood.’ Her loud voice made everyone within earshot turn to see the ‘somebody’ among them. Elizabeth itched to photograph the scene. With everyone else clothed in sombre funeral garb, Ginger was a resplendent peacock amid a flock of sparrows.

  ‘Let’s grab her before she goes in!’ Holly pulled Elizabeth towards Ginger, who stared at them with a haughty air, which softened slightly as she registered who they were.

  ‘May I introduce you to each other?’ Holly said. ‘Ginger, this young lady is Elizabeth Thorrington.’ Holly’s round blue eyes went expectantly from one woman to the other, as if breathlessly awaiting a reaction. When neither spoke, she continued, more nervously, ‘Elizabeth’s the photographer for Flowers of the Ruins, remember? She’ll be nesting next to you, Ginger. Her mother—’

  ‘I know who she is. Don’t be a fool, Holly!’ Ginger exclaimed. Her broad Australian accent only hinted at her years in the United States. She shook Elizabeth’s hand in a firm grip that belied her age, her eyes scrutinising Elizabeth’s face closely. ‘Rupert’s granddaughter,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can see him in you.’ Unexpectedly, she whipped out a hot-pink handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘Lois’s daughter, so grown up and beautiful. Is your mother here?’

  Elizabeth shook her head, and Ginger blew her nose and fanned herself while everyone present gawked at her dramatic display.

  ‘I did call her, but she refused to speak to me,’ Ginger declared. Then she pointed a black-gloved hand at Fleur, her bracelets and charms clanking. ‘Who’s your blonde pal?’

  Elizabeth had been so absorbed by Ginger she had briefly forgotten all about Fleur. Not that anybody could forget Fleur for long, with her classically pretty features and elegant posture. Several guests at the funeral service had been glancing her way, either in recognition or simply admiring her beauty. Fleur was nearly always serene – when her children weren’t using their pester-power on their doting mother. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that she was often unruffled to the point of smugness; after all, she’d had an acclaimed ballet career, and two healthy children, a handsome husband and a boho-chic home at Bondi Beach. Elizabeth often wondered what her friend saw in her. Perhaps, as her mother had sniped, it was a case of opposites attracting: Fleur was blonde, gregarious and optimistic, while Elizabeth, with her shoulder-length brown hair, was more introverted, cautious and pessimistic. But the unlikely duo had struck up a friendship years before, when Elizabeth photographed Fleur in the comic ballet Coppélia for the Sydney Daily. And despite the differences in their temperament and upbringing, Elizabeth knew she could trust her friend.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Elizabeth said now. ‘This is my friend Fleur Amos. She’s here to help me settle into the Nests. Such a cute name for the cabins Holly’s had built, isn’t it? A terrific idea to hold residencies at the manor and help to pay for the renovation work.’ Damn, she was babbling, but Ginger’s narrow gaze made her nervous. Was she mistaken, or did the woman already dislike her? Old insecurities bubbled up in Elizabeth. Growing up with a distant and disapproving mother had made her more sensitive to the approval of other women. Naively, she had hoped that the connection she and Ginger shared with Rupert would have meant something. Or was she simply being paranoid? After all, she reminded herself, it had been Ginger’s wish that she be given the gig. Hopefully she was just being oversensitive or the next few months were going to be hell – as if life wasn’t difficult enough already.

  ‘I saw you dance years ago, Fleur, at the Opera House. You were wonderfully erotic in Salome.’ Ginger’s voice contained slightly more warmth when she addressed Fleur. ‘I read you had retired when you had your children. Rather a shame you had to put your career aside.’ Elizabeth felt Fleur tense beside her; Holly’s eyes widened at the comment.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ Oblivious to their reaction, Ginger rummaged in her Lady Dior quilted handbag and pulled out a set of black rosary beads. ‘I’m going to light a candle, find a pew and say a prayer for poor Kitty. Such a delightful girl Kitty was – the perfect model for Rupert, and a good friend to all. I can still see her blonde curls and cute dimples. She was the prettiest one of us. We all loved our little Kitty. What a disgraceful end for the darling woman. If only I’d known he
r state of mind and her financial worries! I could have helped.’ She glanced around the vestibule and pursed her red lips. ‘Why on earth her bloody children didn’t help her out more is beyond me. They’ve got a nerve to show their weeping faces here today!’ She dabbed at her eyes again; moved, Elizabeth almost went to place a hand on her arm in comfort, but was too intimidated.

  ‘First dear Wanda with dementia stuck in some awful nursing home. And now Kitty dying in a seedy hotel. I’m virtually the last surviving Flower.’ Ginger paused, patting herself on her bosom as if congratulating herself. People were openly staring at her and she repeated the comment louder. ‘I’m virtually the last surviving Flower!’, then, her voice changing to a rougher note, she demanded, ‘What the hell is she doing here?’

  The others turned to see who Ginger was referring to. Standing behind Elizabeth was a woman who looked to be in her sixties. Although she must have been around ten years younger than Ginger, she dressed like a much older woman, in a black cardigan and unflattering shapeless grey dress, a cloche-style hat of black and purple feathers over her bobbed grey hair. Elizabeth felt her breath catch in her throat and she shivered. It was as if a wing of death had lightly fanned the people gathered for the service. Animated chatter abruptly ceased. Several of the locals nudged each other as the hush fell over the crowd. There was something bird-like and predatory about the newcomer’s eyes, which had become narrow slits as she stared hard at Ginger. Was Elizabeth imagining the hint of a smile on her face as she coolly returned Ginger’s glare? A goose walking on your grave, Elizabeth’s mother described that eerie, chilling silence. Elizabeth noticed the woman’s large hands clenching and the slight snarl as her lips pursed, disgust on her face as her gaze swept dismissively over the crowd.

  ‘That’s Miss Sharp, Ginger. Dolly Sharp. The old dollmaker’s daughter. Surely you remember her?’ Holly smiled uncomfortably, fluttering her fingers in greeting at the woman, who ignored her, continuing to stare at Ginger.

  Intrigued, Elizabeth looked more closely at the elderly woman. Before her death, Dolly Sharp’s mother had been Rupert and Doris’s housekeeper, and worked for Rupert’s parents before that, but was known locally as the dollmaker. There seemed to be some inexplicable deeper connection between the families, entrenched in a mysterious provision in Rupert’s mother’s will, but Elizabeth hadn’t been able to unearth much information about it.

  ‘How could I ever forget her?’ Ginger snapped. ‘Keep her well away from me or she’ll get my tongue! Now, I’m going to light a candle!’ And with that she stormed off, leaving Holly, Elizabeth and Fleur looking at each other in stunned silence.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Holly apologised to Elizabeth and Fleur. ‘It must be the funeral upsetting Ginger. She’s normally so sweet.’

  I shouldn’t have come, Elizabeth thought, and recalled again her mother’s anger when she discovered Elizabeth was going to Kitty’s funeral. No doubt Lois was right – about all of it. No good would come of her returning to this place where such terrible things had happened to her family.

  ‘Okay?’ Fleur touched her arm lightly. The concern in her friend’s eyes smote Elizabeth, and she told herself sternly to get it together. In spite of its dark past, these days Currawong Manor was surely a tranquil haven, a million galaxies away from Lois and Sydney.

  2

  Smoke and Flames

  For the funeral, a mixture of locals, friends and relatives of Kitty’s from different parts of Australia had flocked to St Rita’s in such numbers that many had to listen to the amplified service from outside, standing beneath umbrellas. Elizabeth, seated towards the rear with Holly, Bob and Fleur, felt frustrated she didn’t have a clear view of Ginger. And that she couldn’t photograph the service itself. She did have her Canon with her but suspected that shooting the service would be frowned upon. She would have loved to use Linda in here, but the antique camera was too cumbersome for an event like this. Diving under a cloth to photograph the service from Linda’s accordion-like bellows, wooden frame and long brass lens would have been far too distracting for the mourners, but the results in this atmospheric old church could be spectacular.

  Rather than film, Elizabeth favoured developing her images on glass plate, which was popular in the nineteenth century. She used the collodion wet-plate technique, developed in 1851. It was a laborious process but worth it for the soft, timeless images it produced, which stood out in the more sharply focused contemporary photography scene; lovers of her work praised her poetic, elegant, melancholy portfolio of landscapes and portraits. The photographs were unique, bridging time and place; one of the more appreciative critics had said they ‘lurked in the collective memory’. The small, historic sandstone church with its jewel-like stained-glass windows, glowing butter-creamy taper candles, and the large blue-and-white Madonna statue surrounded by bunches of wildflowers and flickering tea-light candles would have made for some beautifully lit shots. Although Elizabeth did not consider herself a religious person, she was intrigued by faiths of all different paths; one of her favourite shoots had been of a witches’ coven in inner Sydney, the naked witches dancing around a cauldron in an old brick church. The combination of nudity and faith had resulted in some fascinating photos.

  At the altar of St Rita’s were three framed images of Kitty at different ages, and the memorial booklet featured the same pictures. The most recent photograph was ten years old and had been extracted from an interview in a weekend newspaper. It showed a wrinkled, elderly Kitty, although still recognisable as the white-blonde six-year-old in the earliest, black and white photograph. The third image was a reproduction of a painting; Elizabeth recognised it as one of Rupert’s portraits from the series Kitty in Owlbone Woods. In the painting, the young model, who resembled Veronica Lake with her long blonde hair, was draped in blue satin and sat playing with two kittens. The painting was saved from tweeness by the ominous slashes representing trees that appeared behind the figure. Although the Owlbone Woods series had never been regarded as Rupert’s best work, Elizabeth found the contrast between the grim woods and Kitty’s fairytale beauty chilling and fascinating. Each of the dozen paintings within the series conveyed the sense of a sinister ancient presence watching the innocent, unaware girl. In this painting, the spindly, witch-armed trees formed a lacework against the bright blue sky, their gnarled branches reaching out to Kitty as she played with the cats. Hurried dabs of white and silver paint could easily be the faces of ghosts – or unwelcoming nature spirits spying on the girl with harsh, knobbly eyes.

  Most Rupert Partridge collectors rated more highly his Crossroads, Stems and Sirens series or, of course, the Naked Flowers, his more controversial erotic nudes and photographs. Rupert himself had claimed the Naked Flowers as his favourite, and explained in a rare interview that he had been inspired from a young age by women artists such as Florence Henri and Marianne Breslauer, who had produced striking, erotic images in the early 1920s and 30s. But the darker shadows in the Owlbone Woods series had always whispered to Elizabeth.

  Craning her head, Elizabeth attempted to gauge Ginger’s reaction to Kitty’s photos. Ginger had outlived all the former residents of Currawong Manor, apart from Wanda in her nursing home and Dolly Sharp – if you could count her. No, not all, Elizabeth reminded herself: Lois, Rupert’s daughter, was alive and well in Sydney. What would her mother be doing right now to avoid thinking of her father, Currawong Manor and their tainted family history?

  Kitty’s son, who looked to be in his thirties and wore a well-cut suit and designer glasses (Elizabeth scanned the order of service for his name – there it was, Stewart Hastings), was at the pulpit, describing Kitty’s childhood. His gentle voice recounted her early life in Katoomba as one of thirteen children and the hardship her family suffered, leading to a short, unsuccessful stint in Sydney. He glossed over her colourful role as a Flower, only saying that Kitty’s time at Currawong Manor had inspired her later career as a catalogue model for David Jones and led to several small parts in
early Australian television shows. Kitty had then enjoyed a happy marriage to Eugene Hastings until his death in his late sixties. She had two children and two step-grandchildren. Which was all lovely, Elizabeth thought, but didn’t explain why Kitty had ended up alone and destitute in a dump of a hotel. Where had this softly spoken, well-dressed son been then?

  After Kitty’s mahogany casket had disappeared from view behind a velvet curtain, Elizabeth stood awkwardly next to the Shaws in the small adjoining room where the mourners gathered for refreshments. She took the Canon out of its case and snapped a couple of shots of the crowd. During the service the weather seemed to have cleared up, and an alluring light streamed through one of the big stained-glass bay windows, scattering rainbow colours onto an old wooden table laden with sandwiches and cakes.

  ‘Lovely send-off, wasn’t it, Bob?’ Holly said to her husband. ‘I hope when it’s my turn you put on an equally uplifting show. Gorgeous casket – but such a shame it just gets burned now. Pity her children couldn’t have spent the money on her when she was alive. Thank you, dear—’ She broke off to select a ham sandwich from a young girl carrying around a tray of food. ‘I doubt Kitty would have been organised enough to prepay for her funeral, but I don’t think her kids are short of a bob. She pulled quite a crowd. Not bad for a girl from a shack in Katoomba! How peculiar that she was staying in that fleapit . . . I can’t help thinking it just seems wrong.’

  Elizabeth glanced at her, surprised to hear her private musings verbalised.

  Holly pulled out a pink powder compact, dusted her face then snapped the case shut. ‘She certainly never let on about that, did she, Bob, when she visited?’

  Bob grunted a reply. They were an odd pair. Bob seemed to have two expressions – dour and pained. He looked as if he was always doing mental budgets and finding himself in debit.