Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  In the darkness, she saw again the great mass of birds in their eerie silence, as hundreds had gathered that evening in 1945 like a great biblical shadow descending over the manor.

  She shivered.

  6

  The Frosts Return

  One of Holly’s conditions of the residency was that the guests were to dine together nightly at the manor. Elizabeth, who disliked small talk, had been dreading this stipulation. Dutifully, however, at six pm she met Ginger and Nick outside Ginger’s Nest to walk to the manor. At the sight of the older woman, Elizabeth immediately felt underdressed in the navy trousers and cardigan she had hastily thrown together. Ginger, flamboyant as ever, wore a red dress with a plunging neckline, revealing a startling amount of her impressive décolletage. Chandelier rhinestone earrings flashed in her ears. The only nod to the rural environment was a pair of red strawberry-motif gumboots. Elizabeth relaxed a little when she saw that Nick wore his uniform of black jeans and a leather jacket.

  They walked together through the darkness, Nick lighting the way with a torch and solicitously pointing out obstacles. When they knocked on the door of the manor, Holly, wearing a brown dress and gold jewellery, and clearly in her element as the hostess, threw open the door and ushered them into the dining room.

  During dinner, Nick paid court to Ginger, whose eyelashes fluttered constantly in his direction. Holly had seated Elizabeth next to James Frost. The gardener wore jeans, although his blue-striped shirt and black jacket indicated that he’d gone to some effort.

  ‘James’s staying in the house,’ Holly said with an arch smile. ‘He’s virtually part of the family, aren’t you, James?’ She giggled like a teenage girl, rubbing James’s arm, while Bob sat dourly, looking as if he’d prefer to be slumped in front of the television than hosting a dinner party. Elizabeth again wondered what kept the couple together. It was a mystery to her why some relationships that appeared to have nothing to bind them endured, when other love affairs fizzled away. Absorbed in her musings, she missed whatever Holly had been saying to James.

  ‘Too right.’ James smiled at Holly. ‘We have something in common, don’t we, Holly? An interest and love of the history of Currawong Manor. The Ruins has always been a part of my family. My old man, Dennis, worked here. So I jumped at the chance to return. It’s a great feeling knowing Dad planted so much here that’s still thriving today – overgrown as it is.’

  Elizabeth puzzled, as she observed Ginger flinch and glare at James as he spoke.

  ‘I’m so pleased you accepted the offer, James, darling,’ Holly gushed.

  ‘I think I was meant to return, Holly. It’s as if the garden needed a Frost to . . .’ He searched for the word that eluded him.

  ‘Your father worked here?’ Nick leant forward, intrigued. ‘He must have some stories to tell.’

  ‘I bet,’ James said. ‘Too late, I’m afraid. Both my parents died overseas not long ago. Dad told me a few snippets over the years, but you know what it’s like – you always think people will be around forever.’ He looked uncomfortable at the sympathetic attention now directed at him. ‘I always thought that Dad was in love with Doris,’ he revealed. ‘Mum often teased him about it, anyway. He never seemed to recover from Doris’s tragic death, and often claimed he felt responsible and he should have done more.’

  ‘Never mind, duck.’ Holly patted his arm. ‘You’ve got us now. Ginger, I hope you’re enjoying the roast?’

  Elizabeth was relieved she was seated next to James. She felt somehow exposed around Nick Cash, and couldn’t help a rising suspicion he was trying to turn the book into more mudraking over her family history, rather than the direction she would prefer – an exploration of the three Flowers as Muses on her grandfather’s art and life. She had also been dreading having to make polite conversation, but Holly kept up a stream of gossipy chitchat and endless complaints about the renovation. ‘Only a madwoman would have taken on this project, isn’t that right, Bob?’ was her favourite refrain. All Elizabeth and James really had to do was nod and agree.

  The meal was simple but delicious. Holly had used a variety of James’s home-grown seasonal fruit and vegetables. Elizabeth attacked with gusto a homemade vegetable soup with slices of goat’s cheese, home-baked crusty bread, a lamb roast and a rhubarb and apple crumble. Ginger, she observed, only picked at her food, however, consuming a few mouthfuls from each plate. The cancer’s affecting her appetite, Elizabeth realised. Ginger must have picked up on her sympathetic thought; she looked over to watch as Elizabeth finished off her large bowl of crumble and cream.

  ‘I used to be able to put away my grub like that once,’ Ginger said approvingly. ‘Oh – before I forget.’ She passed a green Harrods shopping bag across the table to Elizabeth. ‘Blood is blood, so it’s probably fairer to let Elizabeth have first dibs on some of these old letters and photographs that I treasure the most.’

  Nick protested, ‘Ginger, I’m writing the book. I need all the primary material I can get.’

  ‘And you will, darling boy,’ Ginger placated him. ‘But I feel Rupert would have wanted his granddaughter to have a little peep first.’ She winked at Nick. ‘And I’ve got plenty more for you, dear. Doesn’t hurt to share, does it?’

  Thrilled to be given first look at her grandfather’s private papers, Elizabeth smiled gratefully at Ginger, but was disconcerted when the older woman only stared through her with a slight twist of her lips. Why did Ginger appear to dislike her?

  As they were finishing their after-dinner coffee, Holly gushed, ‘How exciting that you’ve all become friends. Being at Currawong Manor can only give your book added depth. If Rupert’s spirit is still somehow connected to Currawong Manor, and I believe it still is – don’t I, Bob?’ Bob stared straight ahead, chewing a slice of bread. Undaunted, Holly pressed on, ‘. . . his spirit must be elated to see creativity flourish again at the manor. Don’t say it, Ginger! Let me have my fanciful belief that Rupert is watching us right now and smiling.’

  ‘All I was going to say is that you’re a marvellous cook, Holly,’ Ginger said. ‘You would have given Doris a run for her money. But seeing as you mention it, I’m sorry to pop your romantic bubble, but I didn’t see Rupert smile a lot in 1945, so I doubt he’s smiling now. The man I knew would be more likely standing behind you wanting to wring your neck over the renovations. I don’t think he’d like the Ruins being too modernised.’

  ‘Naughty girl,’ Holly admonished Ginger, then collected up the empty coffee cups. ‘Well, I’m going to watch the UK Channel and catch up with Eastenders. If anybody would like to join me, they’re welcome.’ She stood up and looked around hopefully, but everyone quickly made excuses. ‘No takers? Then could I have a volunteer to run Dolly’s meal out to her? She’s in the end Nest near the woods. I’ve kept her dinner warm in the oven.’ Dolly hadn’t joined them for dinner, and Holly had explained that she kept to her cabin and never came into the main house, but they took her a tray in the evenings.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere near her food,’ Ginger snapped, ‘in case I decide to drop a few rat pellets in it. And I refuse to wait on the dollmaker’s daughter!’

  ‘Now, Ginger.’ Holly looked simultaneously delighted and shocked at Ginger’s outburst. ‘That’s not very kind. The dear old thing’s had a dreadful life, and she’s so poor.’

  ‘I have my reasons for disliking her, as you will shortly find out,’ Ginger promised. ‘Come on, Nick. You can escort me home and we’ll have a nightcap.’

  Nick hesitated, clearly torn between his interest in Dolly and a desire to stay in Ginger’s good books. Elizabeth jumped in quickly. ‘You run along with Ginger, Nick,’ she encouraged. ‘I’ll pop Dolly’s tray to her.’

  ‘Splendid!’ Ginger boomed. She went around the room kissing everyone on both cheeks – even Bob, to his alarm. ‘Come on, darling!’ She linked her arm through Nick’s and they left together.

  ‘Would you like a hand to wash up before I leave?’ Elizabeth volunteered.
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br />   ‘No, love.’ Holly was already stacking plates. ‘James and Bob will fix it, won’t you, boys? Just take one of the big torches from the kitchen, Elizabeth. It’s pitch black out there.’

  Holly wasn’t exaggerating: it was difficult to see a foot in front of her. A thick fog had set in and the absence of streetlights was unsettling for city-bred Elizabeth. It didn’t help that she had to navigate the path while carrying a bag containing covered plates and soup in a glass jar. The distance between the Ruins and the Nests had previously seemed much shorter that it did now, alone and in the dark, and the dinnertime banter about her grandfather’s spirit took on a more malevolent aspect in the night garden.

  An owl hooted, startling Elizabeth. As she waved the torch around, trying not to see a sinister face in every shadow, she wished she had asked Ginger and Nick to wait for her. Despite her concerns of overturning one of the plates, Elizabeth found herself walking faster, her breath coming in ominous-sounding gasps, her feet crunching twigs and stones. Flashbacks to media accounts of murders in isolated country areas made her pulse race. Despite the frequency of muggings in her Sydney suburb, Elizabeth had never felt afraid in the city. No matter what hour you were out, there were always other people around. But if anything predatory waited for her in this remote area, who would hear her scream? Holly was back in the house sitting comfortably in front of Eastenders while the two men clattered the plates in the kitchen, and in any case Elizabeth doubted sounds from the garden would pierce the manor’s thick bluestone walls.

  It was with no small measure of relief that she finally spotted through the mist the lights emanating from the Nests. Thankfully, she’d had the presence of mind to leave her outdoor light on before she left for dinner – even if it did mean that a few insects now hovered about it, at least she wouldn’t have to fumble for her keys.

  She walked past her own cottage to the end Nest; unlike the other three, this showed signs of more long-term habitation: there were pot plants, garden statues and a little wooden bench out the front. When she knocked, the door opened immediately; Elizabeth had the impression that the elderly woman staring sullenly at her had been waiting impatiently.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Dolly said in a disappointed tone. ‘Working for her now, are you? I’m starving, so thank you very much.’

  Elizabeth began to apologise, but Dolly said, ‘Goodnight,’ and firmly shut the door. Just before it slammed in her face, Elizabeth saw behind Dolly that the dimly lit room was filled with hundreds of handmade cloth dolls. An unsettling, slightly sinister sight.

  Standing outside Dolly’s Nest, Elizabeth heard another owl hoot, followed by the loud noise of a twig snapping. She tensed; in the night it sounded like a gunshot. Over by Owlbone Woods, a shape moved separately from the darker shadows. A shape that could well be a person. And then she heard the old swing creak as if somebody was pushing it – or on it.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called, hoping her cry would bring Dolly back to the door or prompt Nick or Ginger to look outside. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Holly’s words at dinner returned to her – Rupert’s spirit is watching us right now and smiling – and then, chillingly, Ginger’s caustic reply: The man I knew would be more likely standing behind you wanting to wring your neck.

  Another cracking twig, another creak from the swing, and Elizabeth began to half run towards her Nest. She knew her panic was irrational, but the knowledge didn’t alleviate her fear. Someone was watching her from the woods. Someone – or something – that wished her harm.

  Only after flooding her Nest with light did Elizabeth begin to relax. She drew the curtains against the night and told herself she had imagined everything. It must have been a kangaroo or some other large animal wandering in the bush. Still, she couldn’t stop herself checking inside the tiny wardrobe and under the bed. A treacherous thought whispered that no door could keep out a ghost and her grandfather’s spirit – if he had died, and hadn’t faked his own death and was living elsewhere – could be standing beside her right now. Anything seemed possible at the Ruins. After all, there must have been a reason why Rupert had been labelled ‘the devil’.

  7

  Through the Blue Door

  Elizabeth woke disoriented in the half-light. A kookaburra was calling outside; it took her a few seconds to register that she was in the Blue Mountains, sleeping in a small cottage near the Ruins. She had slept deeply, through wisps of a dream about trying to reach some celebratory event with her mother. Getting there at last after driving down the wrong street, they found Ginger in a sleazy nightclub serenading a riotous group of American army officers. In the second part of the dream, Elizabeth wandered through the garden at Currawong Manor. Moonlight bathed the Diana folly, which was covered now with roses, and a swing slowly creaked in the breeze. Elizabeth had then ascended the staircase to the manor’s towers, sensing with every tentative step a presence waiting ahead, an invisible, shadow-like energy.

  In the dream’s final stage, the moon guided her through Owlbone Woods along a tree-lined path. The trees began to press in on her as she walked, looming in a confused tangle of bark, roots, leaves and dirt. She had a panicked feeling that she couldn’t see ahead on the path – and all the time she somehow knew that just around the next corner, or lurking behind a trunk, something terrible was biding its time. Dark red blood trickled down the trunks of spectacular red bloodwoods, black ash and scribbly gum trees laced the winter sky like black veins as they stretched, sang and pulsated. Flashing montages of leaves, close-ups of tree trunks with silver-grey bark peeling in strips like skin, their branches rasping, scratching. Everything in the nightmare had reeked of earth, decay and fear.

  Attempting to shake off the bizarre dream, Elizabeth got up and made herself a cup of chamomile tea. She reread one of the letters Ginger had lent her.

  44 Brick Lane, Surry Hills

  April 1945

  Dear Ginger,

  I hope this letter finds you in good spirits, my girl. Dora’s writing this for me, as you know my spelling and pencil skills aren’t so flash. Thank you very much for the money you sent last week. You shouldn’t have sent it, you naughty girl. I nearly fell over when I saw how much it was! I hid half of it out of habit – if your pa was home he’d head straight to the track or two-up with it. There’s been no recent news of him, but I imagine he’s on his way home. I’m not saying anything about him to the neighbours. Loose lips sink ships, as we know too well.

  I pray for you every night, Ginger. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, and the Lord only knows you’re as stubborn as I am – and a handful – but I am your ma and this house will always be your home. The neighbours aren’t speaking to me since they found out you did a flit up the mountain to ‘his’ place. Good riddance to the lot of them! Now at least I can hang out a line of washing in peace. In answer to your question, Mrs Gripe from next door is still carrying on with the Yank when her husband’s at work. I can see you laughing now, but I’m the one who has to listen to them! Thank God your pa isn’t here as it would set him off terrible.

  I ran into Jennifer and William, who send their good wishes. Their boy’s still waiting to see what can be done about his poor legs. Makes you glad for what you’ve got, doesn’t it? Shocking to see how some of our boys have had to get by since they returned. For all their talk, Curtin and his mob don’t seem to do too much for them. I thought at one time that Jennifer’s boy might have been a match for you, Ginger. You seemed to get along and he had nice manners. This war is bleeding cruel to the young ones. A beautiful lad like him returning a cripple and the men who sent him growing fat in their mansions. Our boys of course are faced with the housing shortage on return, and what do the rich fat cats do? Just what they’ve always done, Ginger: nothing. It’s one war for the rich and one for the poor!

  Don’t let them people make you forget yourself, Ginger. You’re a good girl, despite your temper. I’m praying for you every night. Not that God’s ever listened to me! I think Brick Lane must be b
eneath his notice.

  Thanks for remembering to ask about my hip. It’s been a bit better lately, but the old ticker’s been racing a bit. As you know, Nanna died of a bad heart so I have to be careful. But plenty would swap for my place, so not much point in grumbling, is there? Spread the joy and keep the sorrows to yourself, Ginger. That’s my advice for my loved girl.

  Love, Ma

  ‘Sounds like good advice,’ Elizabeth muttered. The woman’s maternal concern for her young daughter’s welfare at ‘ “his” place’ was still apparent in the letter after all these years. What would ‘Ma’ think of her Ginger now? It was difficult to reconcile the older, glamorous, worldly Ginger with the young girl she’d been, the offspring of her semi-literate Surry Hills mother. Elizabeth felt touched and a little saddened by the anxiety behind the carefully written words. Would her own mother care if she ran off to live with some bohemian artist with an unsavoury reputation? It wasn’t that Lois was a bad mother, she reminded herself; she was just detached, and always seemed too busy to notice what Elizabeth was doing. Unless of course Elizabeth was embarrassing her parents with her more controversial photographs.

  While she was reading, it had started to rain outside. Drops now pounded on the slate roof and Elizabeth silently cheered. She could stay in her Nest and listen to one of the tapes she had discovered in the Harrods bag Ginger had given her at dinner. She was pleased to know that she would be the first one to listen to it, that Nick would have to wait his turn. She quickly showered, dressed in leggings and a warm jumper, and was preparing breakfast when a knock sounded on her door.