Currawong Manor

by Josephine Pennicott

  ‘Monica, that’s enough.’ Patrick stood beside us, looking at her warningly.

  ‘But Patrick . . .’

  Patrick led her away as I glanced around, hoping nobody had overheard our exchange. My face was blazing and I felt weary and deflated by the spoken and unspoken judgment of everyone around me. I knew what the town said about me, I knew the direction their dirty minds wandered, and the worst of it was they were right. I could see Ma in my mind’s eye, shaking her head sorrowfully at me. When are you ever going to learn, my girl? Men aren’t interested in the cheap girls. You’ve tarnished the name of Jarvis and brought us all down. Are you listening to me, my girl?

  I went outside again, trying to escape my thoughts. Ignoring the taunts from local boys, I stood by the car, smoking, waiting for Doris and the girls.

  I recall driving back through Mount Bellwood that afternoon. Despite winning its stupid trophy at the art show that day, the town had a depressed, flat air. Nearly all of the stores along the main street were closed, their owners preferring to attend the art show than stand in a mostly deserted store all day.

  We didn’t pass Rupert either; he and Shalimar must have gone through the woods together. I thought again about his reluctance that Shalimar not play alone in the woods and only go there if accompanied by an adult. What was he afraid of?

  A flock of brilliant white cockatoos flew across the dark trees and I felt the earth throb in a faint response to the night edging towards us. The bush looked so eerie as I pressed my face to the glass, ignoring the excited chatter of Wanda and Kitty. Dolly, perched on Kitty’s knee, was silent. The bush reached back forever and it was easy to imagine that all sorts of phantoms wandered through its foliage.

  For one moment, I thought I saw Shalimar standing near a tree watching us as the car rolled past. I was sure that I had seen a small child with mournful eyes, mouth opening to call out to us. Startled, I turned in my seat to look back at her. Now I saw it was no child of flesh and blood, but the trunk of a small gum tree standing alone and defenceless as dusk fell around it, shrouding it from my view.

  18

  Trollop

  Towards the end of October, after the turbulent events of the art show, Rupert introduced us all to Jim, a dark-haired man with slicked-back hair, whom he told us would be hanging around for a week or so. Jim was making a short film on the effects of the war on artists in the Blue Mountains. Not a project I would have thought Rupert would be interested in, but he was never predictable. I believe a truncated version of it was later shown on ABC television in the 1960s, but I’ve never been able to find out if that rumour was true.

  The filming didn’t make much difference to my normal routine except that I had to get used to strange men gawping at me when I was posing in the studio. And I do know for a fact that slicked-back Jim had a tryst with Wanda, because – to put it as delicately as I can – there wasn’t a lot of privacy in the tower rooms. Kitty was booted out into my bed for a couple of nights, and it could only have been oily Jim groaning and going off like a steam engine in the adjoining room. I knew from listening to him talk to Doris that he had a wife and three small children back in Sydney. But even with all the best bread and cheese at home, what man can resist a tart? I can hear Ma’s self-righteous biblical lecturing now over the ‘mote in my brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in my own eye’.

  The week put a smug smile on Wanda’s sulky face; she got to flaunt her conquest to Rupert in a pathetic bid to make him jealous, and Jim shot heaps of footage of her around the manor, reviving her old dream that she was going to be the next Alida Valli. There wasn’t a square foot of Currawong Manor or the gardens not filmed.

  Jim departed after a week carrying a guilty secret home to Sydney. I don’t even remember his last name to look him up. As far as I was concerned, he was just a slimy interruption to my precious time with Rupert.

  I’ve wondered a lot over the years about where Shalimar really spent her time in Owlbone Woods. Despite being continually warned not to, she disappeared into that ferny, mysterious wilderness for hours at a time. But that spring, she became increasingly difficult to deal with. Even Miss Sharp failed to control her, and no amount of spankings or treats denied made any difference. Perhaps Shalimar’s outrageous behaviour was a bid for her father’s attention, distracted as he was, what with his art and our affair. Well, she got his attention alright after the incident with poor old Buster, which I’ll now relate.

  The kangaroo was often seen hopping around the manor. I’d disliked it ever since my first meeting with the animal, but I had since been told the story of how its mother had been found dead one day in Owlbone Woods, mangled by some animal, with tiny Buster still in the pouch, and this had made me soften a fraction towards the bad-tempered little creature. Miss Sharp had taken the joey home to her cottage and hand-reared it. The strange woman was uncommonly fond of Buster and it would follow her around. She was like some old witch from a fairytale, but instead of a cat familiar she had a kangaroo.

  Shalimar had never shown much interest in the animal, and Buster’s heart belonged to one old woman only. And so I was surprised one day when I saw Shalimar trying to befriend the kangaroo with small scraps of food. Miss Sharp called out to her to leave him alone as she didn’t want him getting fat, but as I’ve said, Shalimar refused to listen to anyone. Stubborn should have been her middle name. And then a few days later, Buster went missing.

  I suspected Shalimar immediately of withholding some secret from us. The child wore a guilty expression as she watched Miss Sharp calling for the kangaroo.

  ‘You know something, don’t you?’ I said to her while Miss Sharp walked around the garden, yelling, ‘Buster! Buster boy. Come home now!’

  Shalimar attempted to look innocent, widening her eyes and shaking her head, but I wasn’t fooled for one second. ‘All I know is that Rupert spends too much time with you,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Buster?’ I repeated, resisting the urge to slap her. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine what Shalimar might have done to him. As I’ve mentioned, he was a mean-tempered old beast with a strong kick.

  What had happened to Buster didn’t stay a mystery for long. After several days of Miss Sharp turning the manor grounds and the house upside down, his remains were discovered near a tree at Mermaid Glen. It was Rupert who found the mangled body on one of his walks. I think we were all thankful that Miss Sharp hadn’t stumbled across him. As much as I disliked the woman, I wouldn’t have wished her to see her old friend like that. Rupert and Dennis buried what remained of him in the back garden near some roses, and a weeping Miss Sharp assisted them in putting up a white cross. The family and the Flowers stood around the grave, Wanda with her usual supercilious smirk, Kitty sniffling as if Buster had been her own pet, though I doubted whether she had taken one iota of notice of the kangaroo up until this point; Kitty was a soft-hearted girl who could turn on the waterworks at a moment’s notice. As Rupert said a few words about Buster and what he had meant to the manor, I glared suspiciously at Shalimar, but her face remained neutral.

  After the impromptu service, we retreated to leave Miss Sharp in peace. I went to find Shalimar, determined to have it out with her. She was standing in the garden, rocking her swing back and forth with her hand.

  ‘What do you want now, Ginger Freckles?’ she said. Despite her defiant words she looked pale and strained.

  I held the swing to stop her pushing it. ‘I know you know something about what happened to Buster, Shalimar. I’m not saying you did it, but you know something about who did that cruel thing to Miss Sharp’s pet.’

  I imagined I saw a flicker of misery in her eyes. ‘Stop picking on me!’ she cried. ‘If I tell Rupert and Doris that you keep bothering me they’ll have you sent away. I know what you’ve been doing with Rupert in his studio. I saw you!’

  I lost my temper and grabbed her arm. ‘What did you just say? You repeat that filthy lie to anyone and I’ll fix you, you wicked, spoil
t, fibbing brat! Have you been spying on me?’ Before I had a chance to say more, she kicked me in the shin, wrenched her arm free and ran off.

  As it happened, that wasn’t the last blow that the day had in store for me from the Partridge family. While Rupert was escorting a distraught Miss Sharp home to her cottage in Owlbone Woods, I went to his studio to retrieve a Collins Crime Club book I had left behind. I let myself into the silent studio and immediately spotted my copy of Agatha Christie’s Five Little Pigs next to a jar of brushes. As I reached for it, I noticed a painting covered with a cloth in the corner. I would have ignored the canvas, but nearby on a wooden chair was Rupert’s sketchbook with a few drawings of a naked woman, my name scrawled beneath the sketches. Of course curiosity killed the cat, but I hoped to see what I desperately yearned for – some evidence of his love displayed in a beautiful, sensual work that flaunted and celebrated my youth and beauty.

  Yet when I raised the cloth up to view what I hoped to be his declaration of love, I instead discovered myself depicted as some sort of monster.

  All these years later I can recall my shock and hurt at his painting. The deformed creature in the painting, with her red hair and green eyes just like mine, had huge lips fixed in a vulgar sneer. She wore a bra with the American flag painted on it. The legs of the grotesque woman monster were spread open and cannon balls with screaming open mouths cried their protest at being so near to the woman’s crudely painted sex. The woman was screaming in triumph, flashing a victory sign, and she had the jagged teeth of a shark. In one hand she held up the head of a decapitated soldier, and in the other what looked like his severed penis. In place of nipples, on the woman’s enormous breasts were pinned war medals that dripped blood down her thighs.

  Even worse – stacked in a neat pile next to a jar of rusty keys were photographs. And when I examined them, I felt as if I had been bitten hard in the stomach by something revolting and vile. I stepped back with a disgusted cry, grabbed my book and ran out of the studio. Dennis, deadheading roses, sang out to me, but I ignored him.

  I wanted to vomit. I wanted to burn the painting and photographs, and I wanted to fly at Rupert and rake out his eyes with my fingernails. He had betrayed me. I saw then that he had taken advantage of my youth, my naivety; all the time I was dreaming of him, thinking he cared for me, he had been mocking me, insulting me. He had portrayed me as some ghastly man-eating trollop, a whore who delighted in crushing men’s souls. Of course he didn’t love me! I had always suspected as much, but now I had confirmation. I was merely a bit on the side, an inspiration for his art. By posing naked for the wretched man, I had become what my mother feared I would. How I hated him and longed to destroy all that he held sacred and dear.

  Of course, now that I understand more about that grotesque painting I see that The Trollop, as the series is known, was never meant to represent me personally. It stood for all Rupert’s anger and despair over what had happened to the Australia he had known before the Second World War. He disliked the way American culture had infiltrated Australia, and the way Australians were all too ready to discard their own culture and emulate the Yanks. I can appreciate the work now as Rupert intended, but when you are young and ignorant you read the world literally and through the filter of your own ego.

  I don’t really want to say too much more about The Trollop, as so much has already been said about it by a lot of arty wankers. It’s been compared to Tucker’s Victory Girls and Boyd’s Australian Scapegoat. One good thing about The Trollop is that it made me wake up to myself. Rupert was never going to leave Doris for me. I was just a distraction from his pain and his own self-disgust. I still can’t look at images of that painting without remembering how my foolish dreams had slapped me hard across the face.

  As for the photographs, my deep regret is that I didn’t destroy them then and there. I hate to think I could have averted later events so easily if I had taken some action.

  While I was furious and broken-hearted, I still needed the job. I needed time to reapply for other work back in Sydney. There was no way I wanted to throw myself on the mercy of my pa. I needed to be able to provide for myself, and so until I had enough money saved up that I could leave, I decided to continue posing for Rupert, although I would stop sleeping with him.

  When I broke the news to Rupert that our affair was over, he showed very little emotion. ‘Got sick of me, have you?’ he barked as he hammered some wood together to stretch a canvas. ‘Oh well, no shock there. Everything comes to an end eventually, and I figured you’d come to your senses sooner or later.’

  I hovered in the studio, watching him closely, hoping he would display some emotion, but he continued to strap his canvas together as if I had just announced my intention to stop eating butter on my bread rather than the fact that I was terminating our love affair.

  ‘Don’t you even want to know why?’ I asked.

  He glanced over at me with his dark, intense eyes. ‘Does it matter why?’

  ‘Most chaps would want to have a reason why they were being dumped,’ I said through a lump in my throat. ‘Have I meant so little to you that you don’t even care when I tell you it’s over?’

  ‘You’re a good girl, Ginger,’ he said, more gently. ‘I knew when I first saw you among that herd of sheep in the art gallery that you had a brain to match your face and body. You’re a survivor, Ginger, but I’m not like you. I’m weak and wasted. Your mother brought you up the right way and tried to protect you from weak men like me. You’re right to end this business between us. You deserve something better than a broken scarecrow.’

  ‘Oh, go to hell, Rupert!’ I raged, furious at him for taking it so well. I stormed out of the studio and I could hear his mocking laughter behind me. Although what he found so funny, I couldn’t imagine.

  ***

  Here’s another thing I’ve never told a soul. One night in early November, I had been hovering around upstairs in the manor, waiting until interfering Miss Sharp went downstairs, and then I went into Shalimar’s bedroom. The girl was lying in her iron bed, staring at me. It had been raining all day, and was still pouring buckets outside. A large rocking horse in the corner of the room was moving slightly, as if a child’s body had just left it.

  ‘Shalimar,’ I said, ‘what happened to Buster in the woods? Don’t make up a story if you can tell the truth.’

  Shalimar just stared at me.

  ‘I know you know something,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘Be a good girl and tell me what really happened to Buster. I promise you won’t get into trouble. It’s just that I know when a child is hiding something.’

  ‘What are you doing, Ginger?’

  I jumped. Miss Sharp stood in the doorway behind me, holding a mug. For some reason I had failed to hear her keys clanging to alert me to her approach. Her eyes were sharp, missing nothing; sharp by name and nature, as Wanda always said.

  ‘Don’t go disturbing Shalimar’s rest, now,’ she said. ‘What do you want with her?’

  I decided to come clean. The old stick could see right through me. ‘I want the truth, Miss Sharp,’ I said, and I stared hard at Shalimar, who looked defiantly back at me. ‘I want to know exactly what happened to your Buster in the woods.’

  ‘You stupid young woman, we all want the truth. What gives you the right to think truth’s owed to you?’ Miss Sharp began fussing over Shalimar in bed, tucking her in with the dolls, urging her to sip from the mug. ‘Haranguing a child who is shocked and distressed! You look to your own truth, Ginger. You can lie as much as you like to yourself, my girl, but you can’t get away with anything with me!’

  When I looked at her more closely, Shalimar appeared vulnerable, and frail. There were dark shadows under her eyes and she had a listless air. Confusion entered my mind. Was it possible she was innocent of any wrongdoing? But anger also brought a flush of blood to my face. If I thought I could have got away with it, I would have slapped Miss Sharp in that instant. How dare the old witch speak so rudely to me in front
of a child! I was fed up with being treated as if I was some sort of rubbish brought into the manor on Rupert’s boot. If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t be able to create. He needed me and I deserved more respect.

  ‘You were out of order with the child,’ Miss Sharp went on. She stooped over Shalimar, urging her to drink. ‘There you go, Shalimar. Drink it all up. It will make you sleep.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Never you mind. It’s just a few soothing herbs from the garden to settle the mite. Don’t come back in here again, Ginger. Keep to your place. You’re a Flower of the studio and that’s where you belong until you’re told otherwise.’

  ‘Can I talk to Dolly?’ I dared to ask. ‘She might know something if I ask her.’

  I knew immediately I had gone too far. Miss Sharp took a sudden step towards me and I hastily retreated towards the door. In her long dark skirt and blouse, she reminded me at that moment of a currawong. Why did this dour woman have so much power in this house? What was wrong with the Partridges that they couldn’t see how they were being manipulated at every turn by their spoilt daughter and this awful woman?

  ‘Have you lost your mind, Ginger?’ she said, her eyes dark with anger. ‘Dolly doesn’t fib. Buster wandered off into the bush and met a bad end with a local hunter! Don’t you dare go nosing around my child trying to put your wicked thoughts into her head. If you try that I’ll go straight to Rupert and demand he send you away! Don’t push your luck here, my girl! We’re all worn out with this business. You just go and paint your nails or read one of your magazines to fill your empty head with more rubbish.’