Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  I looked around the empty garden, then ran to the scribbly gum tree with its swing. I glanced behind the tree – no Shalimar. I looked in the old cowshed at the bottom of the garden, suspecting she might have buried herself in the straw, but only a few cows stared impassively back at me. Hurried investigation of the chook yard also proved futile. Where on earth could she have gone? I glanced towards the woods, hoping she hadn’t gone there to hide.

  ‘Are you looking for something, Ginger Flower?’ Dennis stared quizzically at me from the herb patch, where he was busy with a hoe.

  ‘Have you seen Shalimar?’ I asked, trying to sound calm. ‘We were playing hide and seek.’

  Like me, his eyes went towards the woods. ‘Shalimar will deserve a smack if she took off in there,’ he said. ‘She should know better. Have you checked the house?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t want to disturb Doris.’ Fear was leaping about in me like a frog on fire. I had visions of the girl lost forever in the woods, and Doris and Rupert’s fury that I had failed in taking care of her. What if she had stepped into a steel trap or fallen victim to a hunter’s bullet? Or strayed into the dark, forbidding waters of Mermaid Glen? I wasn’t sure whether she could swim. Or, God forbid, was it possible that she could make her way through the bush to the grim-sounding Devil’s Leap, a cliff edge which Doris had warned me wasn’t fenced properly?

  ‘Don’t panic yet,’ Dennis said. He put his fingers to his lips and blew an ear-piercing whistle, then shouted, ‘Coooeee! Shalimar!’

  The only reply was the wind moving the trees and a bird’s mournful call.

  ‘Best check the house first,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘I’ll go to the old stables and make sure she’s not there.’

  Doris looked up in surprise when I burst into the kitchen. Her arms were covered in flour, which also streaked her cheeks. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Where is Shalimar?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘We were playing hide and seek and I can’t find her.’

  She frowned, removing her apron. ‘Check all the rooms,’ she ordered. ‘I hope she hasn’t gone to disturb Rupert.’

  Frantically I searched the rooms and even ascended into the towers calling her name, but there was no sign of her anywhere in the house. I was terrified, remembering an unfortunate neighbour of ours in Surry Hills whose only daughter had wandered off when her back was turned doing the washing. The girl was never seen again. If Shalimar was lost forever, then it was my fault. I should never have taken my eyes off the wilful girl for a second. I should have known she was up to some devilment. I would lose my job, perhaps even end up in gaol. My terrified mind jumped from one horrible scenario to the next. I knew she was dead. She had to be dead, and it was all my fault. I had killed her with my stupid game. I’d be in the papers for losing her, and Ma would disown me.

  A loud cry from the studio caught my attention. Rupert was bellowing for Doris. I ran towards the noise. When I reached the studio and stood in the doorway, the scene before me might almost have been comical if I hadn’t been so anxious.

  Rupert was shaking a canvas at Doris, while Kitty and Wanda, both half-naked, stood back in a corner of the room, Kitty looking upset while Wanda smirked. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ he shouted. ‘Keep her out of the studio! Do you have any idea of how much Prussian blue costs at the moment? And she used it all! Look at this mess!’

  The canvas, a painting he’d recently begun, was soaked in blue, half obscuring the original image.

  ‘She’s got paint over all my things, including the monkey!’ he roared. Wanda giggled and he threw his brush at her in a fury. ‘Where the devil is Ginger? Why wasn’t she looking after her?’

  Shaking, I stepped forward. He strode towards me, making me flinch. ‘Why did you let Shalimar come into the studio?’ he shouted. ‘You’re in charge of her!’

  ‘Leave Ginger alone.’ Doris pulled on his arm. ‘Control yourself, Rupert! Ginger and Shalimar were playing, and Shalimar went off and hid. We still can’t find her. She must have sneaked in when you were having a break or busy with your Flowers. Shalimar was probably trying to show you how good she is at art. It’s not Ginger’s fault!’

  ‘Well, whose bloody fault is it?’ he shouted. ‘And where were you? With Dennis sowing blasted seeds, I suppose? Where’s Miss Sharp when I need her? She’s the only one who can control the child. All you care about is the damned kitchen or garden!’

  ‘Watch yourself, Mr Partridge!’ As I’ve mentioned before, I have a temper when crossed, and now I finally found my voice. ‘Don’t you speak to me or Mrs Partridge in that tone. It’s not my fault your daughter wrecked your painting. I might not be from your side of the tracks but I won’t be spoken to like that by any man. And in my opinion, that bloody painting’s probably the better for having paint spilled all over it! That’s the last time you shout at me – I’m leaving right now. I don’t need your bad manners, and that monkey gives me the creeps!’

  There was a stunned silence. The Flowers looked shocked, and Doris and Rupert stared at me as if I’d grown two heads. Then, to my confusion, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. I watched incredulously as they whooped, howled and hung on to each other like a pair of lunatics.

  ‘That’s telling you, Rupert!’ Doris said, when she could speak. ‘Oh, Ginger! Please don’t abandon us, although he fully deserves it!’ She took my arm. ‘You are adorable with your temper. It’s high time Rupert got a talking-to. Rupert, remember how much you need Ginger and calm yourself down. Ginger, you’re right. He is a frightful bully and his flea-bitten old monkey does stink!’ At the mention of the monkey Rupert started laughing again, which set the Flowers off as well. I stood with my mouth open, feeling humiliated.

  ‘Ginger, get that old-maid lemon out of your mouth!’ Rupert swooped over to hug me. ‘I just love this girl!’ he roared. Doris smiled, but I fancied I saw a flash of anger cross her face and I saw over Rupert’s shoulder that Wanda’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ever since I met her she’s been going on about monkeys. That’s why I thought you’d like my friend. And you’re right, you firecracker.’ He ruffled my hair affectionately. ‘The painting may well be improved by all that blue. Picasso says there’s no such thing as a mistake in painting.’ He paused and looked around, still grinning. ‘I can see you’re going to keep me on my toes, but where the hell is Shalimar?’

  ‘She’s here, sir.’

  We swung around in surprise. Just outside the entrance to the studio, Shalimar stood next to a girl who looked a few years younger than her. But unlike Shalimar, who wore beautiful clothes made from the best fabrics, sewn for her by Doris on her Singer machine, this child, although strikingly pretty with her long dark hair and pale skin, was in a shabby jumper too big for her and a faded green tartan skirt. Right now, though, both children were splattered with mud.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ Rupert stared at the child as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  ‘Dolly?’ Doris moved towards her, and said over her shoulder, ‘Rupert, surely you recognise it’s Miss Sharp’s Dolly? Dolly, we haven’t seen you for ages, where have you being hiding? What on earth have you two scamps been doing? Your clothes are filthy!’

  Miss Sharp had a child of that age with such good looks? It didn’t seem possible to reconcile this pretty child with that crabbed woman. And where, I wondered again, was the father? The dour old biddy had got caught on the wrong side of the counterpane, as Wanda had said, but who on earth would want to bed her?

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m Dolly Sharp.’ The child stared up shyly at Doris. ‘I found her wandering in the bush looking for tigers and bears. My mother has a bad head and is lying down. Your girl’ – she pointed at Shalimar – ‘was wanting to swim in Mermaid Glen. I didn’t think that was safe. I thought it best to bring her back to you. There’s wild animals and unsafe things in the woods.’

  ‘Don’t tell fibs. I’m going to kick you hard, you liar, and break your leg. You’re
the one who promised to show me a secret in the bush and take me to Mermaid Glen,’ Shalimar shouted.

  ‘She’s lying!’ shouted both girls as they pointed at each other, incensed. I was taken aback by the intensity of feeling between them.

  ‘Let’s sort this out at the house,’ Doris said. ‘Then Daddy can get back to work and clean up his studio. You really are a tiresome child,’ she said to Shalimar, and bundled her away towards the house.

  Rupert ushered me out of the studio so that he and the Flowers could get back to work, and I was left standing outside with Dolly. She looked at me in a challenging manner; as with Shalimar, I found her gaze peculiar for a child of her age.

  ‘You’re the third Flower,’ she said.

  ‘And what of it?’ I replied shortly. I’d had a bellyful of children and their impertinent ways today.

  Dolly looked at me slyly, and didn’t reply.

  ‘Do you go to school?’ I asked the first question that came to me.

  But the infuriating child refused to answer. She just said an abrupt goodbye and walked off. She paused to talk to Dennis on her way through the garden; he pointed at the towers where a few birds were perched. They spoke for a few minutes before she left, with a last longing look at the swing. She slipped into the shadows of Owlbone Woods as silent as a little ghost, with her long dark hair flapping on her shoulders, huddled against the severe cold in her threadbare old clothes.

  Curious as to what she and Dennis had discussed, I went over to him.

  ‘Poor little Dolly,’ he said. ‘She’s a nice girl when you get to know her. She must get lonely playing in the woods by herself, but she’s lived there all her life. Sometimes I give her vegetables when we have a surplus. That’s what she was asking for, some things to make broth. I’ll get a bag together for her and leave it at the old scribbly gum. I feel sorry for the wee scrap. She’s only seven. I keep telling Miss Sharp to let her come and play here, but she reckons they would fight and they do scrap every time they get together.’

  I asked him the question she had declined to answer.

  ‘She goes to the local school down the mountain, but they can’t hold her there. It’s like trying to make the wind sit at a desk. She keeps running away. She’s a creature of Owlbone Woods that one, as much as any possum, kangaroo or snail.’

  When I enquired what they had been saying about the birds on the roof, Dennis looked uncomfortable. ‘We were watching the currawongs. They’re part of the superstition attached to the Ruins.’ He dug his rake into the soil, upturning golden potatoes, which he scooped out.

  ‘What about them?’ I asked.

  ‘The currawongs, so they say, predict either a birth or a death in the house.’ Dennis brushed dirt from the potatoes. ‘That’s why it’s called Currawong Manor.’

  ‘What a load of rot,’ I scoffed. ‘Don’t tell me a grown man believes such fairytales?’

  ‘I don’t just believe it, I know it,’ Dennis replied, his face serious. ‘And you will, too, Ginger Flower, if you stay long enough. My dad saw it with his own eyes on three separate occasions, with the births of Christopher and Rupert, and Ivy’s death. The currawongs flocked to the towers and roof. Dad swore to it on my mother’s life and the Bible, and he never told a lie, that man. The birds covered even the chimneys. It was an eerie sight, he said, one he’d never forget.’

  ‘But there’re always currawongs and birds about!’ I protested, watching as he threw the potatoes into a large hessian sack.

  ‘Yes, you’re right there, Ginger Flower, but I’m talking not one or two but hundreds.’

  ‘I can’t believe you would listen to such superstitious rubbish,’ I said, wondering if he was playing a game with me.

  Dennis brushed dirt from his trousers. ‘Ginger, don’t think country life is the same as life in the big smoke. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe, things that make no logical sense at all. But it’s better to accept them, not examine them too closely, and go about your business. That’s what the old ones of the woods like. It’s a mark of respect. So don’t go asking too many questions or worrying your gorgeous head over the currawongs. It’s safer that way. You don’t want to offend them or risk them even noticing you. Keep to your own business and they’ll do the same.’

  Now I was totally confused. ‘Offend who?’ I asked. ‘Not the currawongs, surely?’

  ‘Just let it go, Ginger. There’s a lovely girl.’ He indicated the house. ‘You had better buzz off, Ginger Flower, before Doris comes out looking for you. Go on, scarper.’

  And that’s all I got from Dennis that day.

  But that Monday was a significant day for me, because I began to realise that something was wrong at the manor. The edge of a secret had been revealed by Dennis, something that lay beneath the surface of life at the Ruins, and it was only a matter of time before I began to work away at it, trying to see the full picture.

  It was also the first time I heard the currawong tale and realised why everyone looked slightly nervous when they saw those birds. It was the first time I met Dolly. And – in the interests of Australian art history – that day was the beginning of Rupert Partridge’s only venture into abstraction, with his series Melancholy Blue Monday.

  Later critics of his work who admired this brief foray claimed that Melancholy Blue Monday was a reflection of Rupert’s true mental state after his traumatic wartime experience, that by distorting the figure he had freed an upsurge of creative energy that had been stifled by his figurative work. What a load of rot, like so much else said about Rupert Partridge. The painting came about because Shalimar disobeyed me and ran off and spilled the paint, and that’s the truth of it. You got the scoop from Ginger!

  14

  Roots of Evil and the Winter Witch

  August–October 1945

  Life continued at the manor with its shambolic routine, but overseas the war had taken a dramatic turn. I’d never heard of Hiroshima and Nagasaki before they were bombed in August that year, and I’d no idea how to pronounce the words, but they were such pretty names for places that suffered so grim a fate.

  I’ll never forget Rupert’s distress as he listened in the studio to the radio announcing the first atomic bomb strike. He usually didn’t allow the radio to be on when he was working, as it distracted him, and I privately thought that if he was going to get himself so worked up about it he would have been better off not knowing. I’d never known a man so sensitive, or so I thought at the time, because in my naivety I didn’t fully comprehend the calamity. Unlike today there wasn’t constant graphic news footage of disasters, and it also seemed to be something happening far away. Ageing may bestow some crappy manifestations, but it brings dual gifts of wisdom and empathy.

  ‘Mankind’s insane,’ Rupert said to the three of us Flowers as we stood transfixed at the immensity of his despair. We’d been posing for early studies for Death’s Garden, and we were three young, naked women surrounded by beautiful artificial flowers and fresh flowers from the garden; we had no idea how to deal with the news, nor the sight of Rupert hunched over his cigarette, his head in his hands, defeated by the chirpy tones of the broadcaster’s voice. At the time, I was shocked by his unpatriotic reaction. All I could think was: we were no longer at war! Did he have no normal feelings at all? And he accused others of insanity!

  Still, it was terrible to see him so distraught – I believe he was heartbroken. I wondered afterwards whether perhaps that was the moment a part of Rupert’s soul lost the will to keep going. Rupert’s art changed after the bomb dropped, as if his creative mind had fragmented with the atom bomb. Abstraction became more prevalent in his work, symbolising that there was no longer any meaning to form or life. Reality for him had been shattered forever.

  Over the radio, we could hear the sounds of a country celebrating Japan’s surrender. People were cheering in the streets, dancing and singing. A national holiday was declared – oh, how I burned with envy! We Flowers were dying to break our poses and cheer and jump up
and down. But Rupert couldn’t bear the thought of innocent children and their mothers caught up in the killer flash of cruel light that dropped so suddenly from the sky. He was haunted by visions of Japanese children – some no doubt the same age as his own child – looking upwards as the American planes began their death mission.

  I remember glancing at the other Flowers and fighting a shameful urge to laugh out loud at the sight of us wearing elaborate headdresses of flowers and clocks and all sorts of other weird things, Kitty in a black veil like a nude bride of death. I wore a grey diaphanous gown, and of course Rupert had created my headdress from rotten fruit and books – he was never one to miss a chance to torment me by making me look foolish. I should have been grateful the monkey wasn’t perched up there with the fruit.

  I was young and should excuse myself for that reason, but if I’m going to be honest, I was irritated. I want to be honest in these tapes. It’s time for me to unlock the secrets I’ve carried for so long. I’m weary of it all. I don’t put people on pedestals and I won’t be putting myself up there either. It’s lonely on a pedestal and the air just smells of bullshit. I couldn’t understand Rupert’s sobs. The war was something that had really only affected me personally when it came to being deprived of food and pretty things, and getting around Sydney. Like everyone, I’d grumbled over blackouts and brownouts, but I was mostly content to do my bit. I knew young men who had been killed, and after the initial shock I had cried awhile, sent a card to their families and loved ones, and then, for me at least, life moved on. I couldn’t fathom this wretched depth of emotion from a man. As sad as the bombing was, it felt to me as though it had almost happened in outer space. I wanted to dance and cheer like the rest of Australia.

  I’m so glad I’m not an artist, I thought, feeling mildly disgusted at Rupert’s carry-on. If they feel so intensely I’m better off not being an artistic fool. Which was a pretty superior thought from someone with a heap of rotten fruit on their head, I must admit.