Although I longed to give him a good shake and tell him to pull himself together, I couldn’t bear seeing him so upset, and ignoring Wanda’s jealous sneer, I went over to him. ‘There, there, Rupert,’ I soothed, and turned off the radio with its celebratory songs and cheers. ‘Be at peace, my love.’ I held him and he wept into my shoulder.
In spite of his provoking choice of outfits and props for me, I was finding my new job of posing for Rupert jack-a-dandy. I had quickly become accustomed to his abrupt manner and the challenge of posing for lengthy periods of time, and I even grew to enjoy my sessions in his studio. I appreciated the fact that he didn’t attempt to keep up a chatty conversation so I was left to my own thoughts while I stood or lay in contorted positions. Lately, though, we had had a few chinwags during these sessions, and he’d told me about artists he admired, like Albert Tucker, Victor O’Connor, Thea Proctor and the official World War I artist George Washington Lambert, as well as photographers such as Max Dupain. He mentioned books like Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, and Evelyn Waugh’s A Handful of Dust. He even complimented me on my ‘thirsty brain’. His praise made me forget the sting I had felt when I thought he found me unattractive compared to Kitty and Wanda.
Before that day in August, I had only ever had to pose with the other girls once or twice, and those were brief sessions so Rupert could work on a head or face. I’d become complacent about posing, and the money was wonderful. I sent regular sums to Ma and treated myself to a strawberry-coloured sundress from Mark Foy’s catalogue, with white kid gloves and a white bag to match. When I sent off the order, I enjoyed speculating on who would be at my old counter preparing the parcel. I was also saving up for some good red shoes and lingerie.
Still, it had been a shock to turn up for our normal session and hear Rupert say casually, ‘I need to paint your breasts today, Ginger. Disrobe to the waist and lean against the tiger, if you would be so kind.’
We had been working on a small oil painting called Winter Witch, which featured me posing seductively against a stuffed tiger in a snowy scene. It was another weird painting of Rupert’s. At my feet lay a large patchwork knitting bag, from which spilled entrails and body parts, along with toads, jewels, knitting needles, and a grey scarf and socks. These last were similar to the many scarves and socks made by women all around Australia for the boys overseas.
I’ve only ever seen one copy of this oil in a book. My late husband bought the painting for me from a deceased estate in Melbourne years ago as a surprise birthday present. I like the way Rupert painted me in this one – not as surly as usual. He did love to exaggerate the bust a bit, just between you and me. I can’t remember ever being that large and perky.
I stared at him in shock when he first suggested getting my kit off.
‘Well, go on,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
Scarlet-cheeked, I fumbled with my clothes, relieved that he appeared to be engrossed in mixing colours on his palette and lighting a fag. I undid my grey, much-laundered Playtex brassiere and drab corset, wishing my underthings were slightly more presentable.
When Rupert finally looked up, he only nodded in approval at the sight of me naked to the waist. ‘Good, you’re ready,’ he said. ‘Lean against the tiger, just like yesterday. That’s perfect. Hold that pose very still and don’t move one inch.’ He held out the brush, measuring from my chin to my shoulder tip.
And that was that, really. Rupert looked at me no differently than a doctor or a nurse might have done. And the surprising thing was, after about half an hour of posing, it was easy to forget that I was half-starkers. I never felt self-conscious again. Anyway, Rupert was always a gentleman and there was never a hint of impropriety when he was working. So much for the puritans who claimed we were all having it off in the studio like a pack of sex-crazy American GIs in a brothel!
So when Wanda started trying to add fuel to the fire with all the rumours a few years after his disappearance, I found it difficult to stomach. Rupert Partridge had his faults, but he wasn’t a lecher. He was a serious artist – whether people liked his work or not. Wanda’s loose tongue and love of attention blackened his reputation quite badly. It’s a shame he wasn’t around to defend himself.
On that day when I first posed topless for him, I thought he hadn’t noticed my clumsy, embarrassed disrobing, but Rupert, who could be so vague over so many things, was surprisingly sharp about everything that occurred in the studio’s sacred space. I was taken aback a few weeks later to receive in the mail the unmistakable beautiful striped box from Mark Foy’s lingerie counter. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a white French-lace brassiere, matching knickers, a half-slip and girdle suspenders. With them was a note in Rupert’s distinctive black-inked scrawl: To the one and only Ginger, who deserves pretty things. Not the most orthodox of gifts to give to someone, perhaps, but things were never particularly orthodox at Currawong Manor.
I was in love with him, of course. There, I’ve said it. Which made everything so much harder than it should have been. Rupert and Doris barely slept in the same bed together. Rupert was always complaining the house was too noisy to work in and slept in the studio. I told myself he did it to avoid Doris.
During that winter of 1945, Doris kept hinting that she was pregnant, and although Wanda bet a tenner it was another false alarm and she’d lose the baby, she did put on the pounds. Dennis made her a lovely wooden crib, and in the last weeks of August, we Flowers were packed off to our families for a while, because Doris insisted she needed total peace in the house: Wanda to Queensland, Kitty to the village, and me to Sydney. Unfortunately, there was an outbreak of polio in Brick Lane, and Doris banned me from returning for a couple of months in fear I would infect the household. On reflection, I can imagine that she found it difficult to share her husband with three nubile life models. And she had good reason to fear me, for as Ma had always said, right from when I was a little nipper, if I wanted something, I took it. And right or wrong, I wanted Rupert Partridge. More fool me!
Lois was born in October, when I was back in the mountains. Doris was totally besotted with her, and Miss Sharp did everything she could for the little baby. It was hard to believe I’d first arrived at the manor in April – six months ago. The days had seemed to float away in a dream-like fashion.
Soon warmer weather returned to the mountains, and the tower rooms were unbearably hot; they made me constantly sick to the point of nausea. We woke early in the morning, bleary-eyed from the little sleep we had snatched during the stifling night, in sweat-soaked bedclothes or totally naked – three wilted Flowers. Dark circles under our eyes, and our weary expressions at breakfast were testament to how poorly we had slept the night before. That summer I lost a few pounds, which alarmed my ma when she visited – but I’m getting ahead of my story.
Rupert, of course, was hardly affected by the heat when it came to productivity. Nothing, including a new baby, seemed to slow him down. He continued to sleep in his studio – he claimed it was cooler – and would often work through the night and sleep most of the day. He was planning on travelling to the outback with a painter friend of his in early December, and wanted to get as much done as possible before he left. He was no fool, Rupert. If I was a man, I’d scarper, too, when there was a small baby around. On the few nights he did sleep in the manor, we would hear him screaming as some dreadful nightmare attacked him. His cries were so loud they drifted up to the towers and hung like smoke in the air before us, while I lay trying not to hear his distress.
It was both shocking and shameful for a man to break down in that way. We all knew the war must have been grim for the boys that went, but we believed you had to get on with things. And he was only in a military hospital in Australia and hadn’t seen direct action, so I couldn’t understand why he’d make such a row.
Rupert was finishing off his latest series and hoping to take it to London. He had originally said he’d never show the paintings to the public, but I think the success in Europe of fel
low Australian painters – like Rupert Bunny and John Peter Russell, both of whom he admired – persuaded him that it might be time to reveal his own unleashed demons. And Bryan Robertson, his agent, was pushing him to show them. They were nightmarish oils of trees with grotesque faces and body parts attached to them. One in particular gave me the willies: it was an old gum tree with bayoneted babies instead of branches, and scalps dangling in place of leaves. The tree had an enormous, erect phallus from which dangled a copy of Winston Churchill’s ‘We Shall Fight on the Beaches’ speech. At the base of these monstrous trees were a range of miscellaneous items – including cigarette packets, war medals, rifles, eyeballs with swastikas, stiletto heels and bloody hearts – like some macabre pirate treasure.
Roots of Evil, the series was called, and although it was largely overlooked by collectors – who admired the nude Flowers more – Bryan believed it was an important series for Rupert. I agreed with Bryan. Rough, clumsy and morbid as most critics claimed they were, the paintings were also the gnarled older sisters of the Kitty in Owlbone Woods series, where many of the trees also carried a sinister air in a more sophisticated style. Roots of Evil was responsible for releasing the monsters in Rupert’s dreams. I can never forget the sound of those pitiful screams drifting upwards while we perspiring Flowers lay in the towers listening.
***
When the tape ended, Elizabeth and Nick sat looking at each other, feeling as if they had emerged from a strange dream.
‘Wow.’ Nick ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a few tufts sticking up. ‘Rupert was taking a few risks if he was having an affair with Ginger in his own house.’
An odd silence fell between the pair. Ginger’s confession of her passion for Rupert had introduced a sensual note to the room. Elizabeth was aware of the intimacy of her knee almost touching Nick’s, the lateness of the hour. She sipped from her glass of wine, conscious of a strange impulse to reach out and smooth Nick’s hair where it was rumpled. What would he do if she initiated some contact between them? If she touched his lips? Her red lipstick smeared the side of the glass. She thought about putting her mouth to Nick’s and leaving lipstick smeared on his full lips.
‘Was he in love with Doris?’ Nick wondered, snapping her out of her disturbing reverie.
Elizabeth stood up quickly, her head spinning. ‘I’m sure Ginger will say he was in love with her,’ she said, trying to sound flippant although her voice was distressingly husky. ‘Well, that was all very interesting, but I had better get some sleep.’
Looking a little surprised by her brusque manner, Nick saw her to the door. She paused and looked up at him, still struck with the longing to touch his lips or run her hands through his hair. He felt so oddly familiar to her. She knew if she didn’t leave immediately she would embarrass herself. It would be far too easy to throw common sense to the wind just as Ginger had done in the forties. She quickly turned away again and walked down the dark pathway towards her own Nest.
Just before she went inside, Elizabeth couldn’t help glancing back. Apparently oblivious to the frigid night air, Nick still leant against the doorframe, watching her.
15
The Land of Goodies
‘I hope you don’t mind Sugar and Louis coming, Liz?’ Fleur said as they strolled down Mount Bellwood’s main street on a cold but clear and sunny Saturday morning a few days after their phone call.
‘It’s fine,’ Elizabeth assured her, although her heart had sunk when Fleur first rang to say the children would be with her. It was far easier to talk when she had Fleur’s undivided attention. On their arrival, Louis, with all the attitude of his fourteen years and horrified he was expected to spend the day with his mother and her friend in the country, had retreated into the world of his Walkman. Eleven-year-old Sugar (her real name was Stella, but Fleur always called her Sugar due to her addiction) kept up a recurring soundtrack: ‘Could we have a picnic with treat food after we stop at the shop?’
‘Sugar, if you keep pestering me you can wait in the car and you will get no treats at all today!’ Fleur warned but, as usual, never carried out her threats. Even Fleur admitted her children were hopelessly over-indulged.
As Elizabeth had gloomily forecast, normal conversation was impossible as Sugar ran off in one direction and Louis, in his oversized black jumper with Kurt Cobain on the front, refused point blank to walk with them. ‘No way, Mum. What if somebody from school is up here? Walk ahead of me so they can’t tell I know you.’
‘Is it any wonder I’m looking so wrecked with such horrible beasts for children?’ Fleur moaned, her statement belied by her stunning appearance.
In the past, Elizabeth had been secretly convinced that, given the chance, she would be the perfect parent. She would set boundaries, provide discipline and bring up her children in an idyllic country house and garden. She’d often fantasised about this pastel-shaded life where she wore Cath Kidston gumboots and grew eglantine roses in arches over a sprawling weatherboard house, while a pony with a velvety nose frolicked through the backyard and her children laughed and played happily together. Unspoilt, intelligent, interesting children, who would help her bake bread, gather eggs, and who would love and respect her.
Her dream of the pony and country cottage shrivelled away like a dying balloon as she had focused on her artistic dreams.
And anyway, where was the soul mate who fitted into this Country Style dream? She couldn’t visualise most of the urban men she met brushing a pony, gathering eggs from a henhouse or drinking at the local pub. All her ex-partners were happiest in a world of inner-city cafes, a place where they could easily catch the latest exhibition, opera or play, and the real estate guide was their Bible.
Sugar was again whining for a milkshake, and when told they were on their way to an antique shop, erupted: ‘Mama, please, no! That’s boring!’
Intent on achieving her next sugar hit, she barged into an elderly woman coming along the street. To Elizabeth’s surprise it was Dolly Sharp. She hadn’t seen the woman since her second night at the manor, when she’d delivered dinner to Miss Sharp’s Nest.
‘Do watch where you’re going, darling,’ Fleur said. ‘What do you say to the lady?’
‘Sorry,’ Sugar muttered and walked off.
Dolly Sharp briefly glared at them. Feeling she should say something, Elizabeth stepped forward, greeted her, and introduced Fleur and the children. ‘We thought we’d have a picnic in Mermaid Glen,’ she said. Elizabeth was half repelled, half fascinated by the odd woman with her bobbed grey hair, grey cardigan and grey skirt. She looked angular, dreary and irritable, as if her clothes matched her emotional state.
‘You’d be wise to keep out of the woods,’ Dolly said dourly. ‘It’s not a safe and fit place for children. It’s not like Sydney where children can stroll in a fenced-off park in safety.’ She nodded and continued on her way.
Fleur looked at Elizabeth with a quizzical expression. ‘Whatever can she mean?’
‘I think she’s trying to warn us off,’ Elizabeth said. ‘From what I’ve gathered, the Sharp women have always regarded the woods as their own private territory.’ She watched the grey figure cross the street further down to enter a small grocery store, and wondered if she was still haunted by Shalimar Partridge’s tragic story. It must have been a traumatic thing for seven-year-old Dolly to have witnessed.
‘What a strange woman,’ Fleur said. ‘The way she looked at Sugar, as if she had run into her on purpose! And her drab clothes. I can’t bear that prissy type of sourpuss spinster who’s never had children and doesn’t like them—’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, Liz. That was a thoughtless, foul thing to say in front of you. But obviously you’re not in that category. The children adore you, and you them.’
Elizabeth looked at Louis listening to his Walkman, oblivious to his surroundings, and Sugar wailing for a milkshake, wondering how people could be so blind when it came to their own offspring. If she had procreated, would she also be so biased towards her chil
d?
‘Here we are!’ she said hastily, stopping in front of the shop she’d noticed on the day Fleur dropped her off at the Ruins. Assorted bric-a-brac was displayed in iron trellis baskets at the front, and in the window, framed by vintage lace curtains, were an old rocking horse and planters of colourful flowers. ‘This is Misty Mountain Memories. I’ve been dying to show it to you, Fleur. It’s a real treasure trove.’
They entered the shop, which was packed with weekend browsers.
‘Good morning,’ Elizabeth greeted the elderly pair behind the counter, who gave Sugar a meaningful look as they adjusted the large sign on the counter:
We love you to buy, so enjoy your browse.
But if you break our fine wares,
It comes out of your purse – not ours!
‘Do they sell milkshakes here?’ Sugar demanded. Louis had headed straight for the stand of comics and magazines.
‘Not here, darling, but I’ll get you one soon, I promise. Now be a good girl so Mama can look.’
‘This looks like a boring shop,’ Sugar pouted.
‘Hello! What a small town Mount Bellwood is turning out to be!’ Nick’s voice boomed across the store. Elizabeth became instantly self-conscious as Nick headed towards them, followed by a woman holding a vintage floral dress and a handful of hats.
Nick gave her a friendly smile, and turned to introduce his companion. ‘Elizabeth Thorrington, the photographer for Flowers at the Ruins, meet Elsa.’
The introduction was unnecessary, on Elizabeth’s part anyway, as she had immediately recognised the actress – and Nick’s ex-wife. Elsa looked beautiful in a camel-coloured boho-style dress with burgundy boots. Several other customers were staring at her openly.
‘And your friend?’ Nick asked.
‘Fleur,’ said Fleur, shaking Elsa’s hand and then Nick’s.
‘I’m Nick’s ex,’ Elsa said warmly. ‘Pleased to meet you both. I’ve heard heaps about you, Elizabeth – “the poetess of the flesh”.’ She was quoting from a recent, favourable review in Artsview journal. ‘And here’s yourself, so gorgeous in the flesh! I just caught your show this week in town. It was everything Nick said it was. Very profound. I love the way you blur the past and present and work with memory and mystery. I can see why Nick was blown away by it.’
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