When he disappeared, Dolly’s mother moved back into the manor for a short time to help Ivy. Doris had written several times from Sydney offering assistance, but being arty and English, Doris wasn’t Ivy’s type. Dolly’s mother knew Ivy would fade away without Christopher. And sure enough, in January 1943, the currawongs began to gather again at the Ruins.
Ivy spent her remaining days walking the grounds of the manor in a quiet, resigned grief. As she watched the old woman’s soul slowly leaking away, the dollmaker had bided her time, growing her herbs, studying the moon and making her dolls. She knew that Ivy’s will to live was weakening and her spirit was preparing to leave the earth; when she knew the time was right she asked Ivy to add a clause to her will stating that she and her daughter would be permitted to remain at the manor for as long as they wished to do so. It was done with Ivy’s blessing. There was no deception involved in the suggestion, for Ivy no longer cared about anything in this world. She had no thought or regard for Rupert. As far as she was concerned, Christopher hadn’t survived the battlefield and so Rupert – the runt of the litter – had little chance if he was sent overseas. The addition was witnessed by Dennis Frost, then the gardener at Currawong Manor – and Brian Collins, and entrusted to the family solicitor. It was one of the few decent things the Partridges did for the Sharp family.
Shortly afterwards, Ivy, sitting in the garden watching the woods with dulled eyes, let out one final shallow breath. Dolly’s mother discovered her in the garden, sitting on a bench near where Rupert later built the Diana folly, facing the woods with a small smile on her empty face. The dollmaker believed that as she breathed her last, death bestowed on Ivy Partridge some pleasure. When he examined her, the doctor claimed that Ivy was suffering from circulatory problems, but Dolly’s mother claimed she had died from a broken heart.
For years afterwards, Dolly’s mother said, when the moon was in a certain quarter, she would see Ivy sitting on the wooden bench where she had died. Or at twilight time or early dawn, there she would be, gliding across the grass towards the woods, her long grey skirt and shawl wrapped around her, more animated in death than she had been in life.
As for the cats abandoned by the Americans, the dollmaker was proud to have saved their lives and been accepted by them. Rumours were beginning to spread through the village about big cats prowling in the bush – but there had always been sightings of such things. Several circuses had lost animals over the years, and people often mistook wild dogs or large quolls for big cats. These stories aided Dolly’s mother in ensuring that people kept away and she was free to continue to plant the sleeping angels in the backyard.
Mothers cautioned their children not to stray into Owlbone Woods. And so the secret was passed along, women’s mouth to women’s ear, as the best of secrets travel. But gradually women stopped needing the dollmaker’s services. Rumours of wild animals in the bush kept them away. Only the very desperate or foolish then came to visit Dolly’s mother at the cottage. And throughout the 1950s and 1960s she lost interest in making her dolls.
***
Dolly felt detached as she remembered that stormy night so long ago, drifting to sleep in her mother’s arms. It had been the final conception story her mother told her, and Dolly knew it was the truth. For her mother to have finally shared the tale of Dolly’s origins, Rupert’s disappearance must have rattled her as surely as the storm rattled their small dwelling that night.
Now, after pausing to stroke a few of her favourite dolls, Dolly read aloud the final few paragraphs of her note:
She chose the timing and location of her own death. She said her final goodbyes to me on the winter solstice in the 1970s and wandered into Owlbone Woods, where she lay down in one of her sacred secret places and allowed her spirit to leak into the earth.
Time for me to finish this record before the sun rises. Writing and reliving the past has tired me. I’ve been up all night and know the time is coming to make amends in my own way. Moon time, Mother used to say; the wise follow moon time and fools follow clocks. In clock time, I was seven, when I watched Shalimar Partridge drown. The world seemed a different place back then. The sky seemed to stretch forever, people moved more slowly, and some understood the language of the clouds.
The best stories of all are told not by humans but by birds, trees, leaves and sky. Turn your back on their tales and you lose the thread of all truth. I know these woods – every cave, every tree, every wild animal. I know the hidden things that I’m too afraid to look upon. I know all the fern-shrouded walking tracks and the rocks that glimmer and store within themselves a thousand legends and stories. I know the love to be found in the earth, the great, wise old trees. I know what’s waiting for me. My bones feel as if they have already melted and I am dust, earth and sky. I am ready. The woods are calling me. They are my home, my final breath, and all I want is their peace.
A True Account by Dolly Sharp
Currawong Manor, Mount Bellwood, August 2000
***
‘Dolly? Wait!’ Elizabeth, her camera over her shoulder, wearing Nick’s leather jacket over her pyjamas and gumboots, her hair rumpled, rushed towards Dolly, who was walking towards the woods in the dawn light. ‘I came out to photograph the mist. Where are you going so early?’
The two women stared at each other for a moment, and Elizabeth asked softly, ‘You’re not thinking of doing something stupid in the bush?’
‘Is it stupid?’ Dolly said. ‘Old Reg, my father, chose his time at Devil’s Leap, and my mother also knew when to go.’
‘No,’ Elizabeth said softly. ‘We don’t know for sure if Reg leapt to his death. And your mother was in her seventies when she died. I’m sure she wouldn’t have wanted you to do something so drastic.’
‘I belong in the bush,’ Dolly said stubbornly. ‘I don’t belong to this modern world.’
‘Not belonging doesn’t mean you have to terminate your life,’ Elizabeth pointed out. ‘You could still work here. Help Holly with the grounds and the house.’ Encouraged by a sudden spark of interest in Dolly’s eyes, Elizabeth continued. ‘Perhaps you could even get involved with the local school in teaching some of the bush lore your mother passed along to you? You’re really good with children. I’ve never seen Sugar, Fleur’s daughter, react so well to an adult the way she did with you.’
‘Do you think children these days would be interested in hearing me talk about things like that?’ Dolly asked.
Elizabeth impulsively hugged her, and was surprised when Dolly made a small sound, like a purr of pleasure at the contact. ‘I know children would love your stories about the bush.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘Your mother passed on so much of her knowledge to you, perhaps it’s now time it was shared. And, purely selfishly, I’d dearly love to photograph the woods with you.’ She glanced at the fence leading to Owlbone Woods, remembering with a tinge of fear the intruder – the panther? – prowling outside Miss Sharp’s cottage door. A few birds, black dashes in the grey mist, flew overhead, then disappeared into the lacework of the trees. A bottlebrush shrub was bursting with colour as rainbow lorikeets enjoyed a nectar breakfast.
‘I couldn’t take children into the woods,’ Dolly said flatly, watching the birds feast. ‘I believe they’re still out there.’
Elizabeth didn’t have to ask her what she meant. ‘You could still get involved in other ways. It could be a new beginning for you, Dolly,’ Elizabeth persisted and was rewarded with a twisted smile from Dolly.
32
The Angry Ghosts
RPA Hospital, Sydney, May 2001
‘You’re not holding him properly. Come to Gee-Gee Ginger, Rupert!’ Ginger snatched the baby from Nick’s arms, pressing him to her breast.
Rupert Xavier Thorrington-Cash, weighing 4.07 kilos, measuring fifty-four centimetres and all of twenty hours old, ceased his wailing to stare in wonder at the long black spikes around the lady’s eyes, and her bright red lips. The fierce love blazing from her eyes reassured him he was safe, and he quickl
y fell asleep.
‘There, lambkin. Don’t you worry, little Rupert. Gee-Gee Ginger will look after you, little man,’ she crooned, walking over to the hospital window.
Pip, clutching an enormous bunch of Australian natives, raised an eyebrow at Nick and smiled. ‘She’s totally besotted. All I’ve heard from her for months is Rupert, Rupert, Rupert. Just wait until you see his toyshop – I mean, his room – full of toys and clothes!’
‘Ginger!’ Nick spluttered. ‘I told you not to go overboard. We don’t have the space for it. I don’t want him spoilt!’
‘Oh, be quiet, Daddy!’ Ginger retorted. ‘I’m making a room for Rupert at my place. He can come and stay with his Gee-Gee Ginger when he’s ready and I’m going to spoil him rotten!’
‘Don’t say the Granny word,’ Pip whispered explanatorily.
Elizabeth, looking on from the bedside chair, where she had been talking to Fleur on the phone, savoured how their new son had dramatically deepened the love she had with Nick. She looked back and forth between Pip and Ginger, smiling to herself over how happy they both seemed together. Although Patrick disapproved of their relationship in his quiet way, the winter–spring affair had rejuvenated Ginger. She had surprised her doctors by outliving their original grim diagnosis. Indeed, Ginger said that she would always be grateful for the cancer and to the doctors for advising her to put her affairs in order – because she had, and look what she had gained.
Ginger clucked and murmured to the sleeping infant. For a moment her face was filled with sadness as she clung to Rupert. Elizabeth’s heart – particularly open and sensitive after her recent labour – ached for all Ginger had sacrificed.
Elizabeth crossed to her side and they both looked down at the sleeping infant.
‘He’s the most beautiful baby in the world,’ Ginger whispered.
Elizabeth fervently agreed. She longed to ask Ginger if that was how she had felt when she had given birth to Lois, but she didn’t want to upset her more. She knew Ginger was heartbroken that Lois still refused to communicate with both Ginger and Elizabeth since discovering that Ginger was her natural mother. The shock of the lifelong deception had been too much for her.
Michael, Elizabeth’s father, had telephoned several times over the last few months, promising to visit when his new grandson was born – but Elizabeth knew he would have to sneak away from her mother. Even though she had understood that Lois was shattered by Ginger’s confession, it had wounded Elizabeth deeply that her mother refused to have anything to do with her during her pregnancy.
Studying Ginger’s face as she inhaled the odour of brand-new baby from Rupert’s sleeping, lemon-blanketed form, Elizabeth wondered what it was about Ginger and her daughter that had made them push away their own children.
‘Check out his fingers, Ginger.’ Nick, his hair even more untidy than usual after his night with Elizabeth in the labour ward, stared at his son. ‘He’s going to be a muso for sure. I’ll have to buy him a little three-quarter-sized Fender to jam with me.’ He looked up at Elizabeth, then turned to Ginger. ‘Elizabeth was a warrior last night. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘I can’t believe they let you watch,’ Ginger put in. ‘It was more civilised in my day – back then, women’s business was women’s business. I don’t see how it can help a relationship intimately if a man has had to see all that.’ She looked meaningfully at Elizabeth’s groin.
‘That’s enough of your silly old-fashioned rot, Ginger,’ Pip said, and Elizabeth gave him a mental high-five. ‘It’s a different world now, thank God. Dad always says he regrets not being present at my birth. He was only allowed to see me through glass hours afterwards, and even then he had to be gowned and masked.’
‘I’m amazed your mother didn’t just pop you out at the sink while washing up,’ Ginger snapped. ‘All that hippy-dippy bullshit she used to go on with.’
Rupert stirred at her tone and Elizabeth quickly reached for him, Ginger reluctantly relinquishing the infant.
Ginger studied the hospital room, taking in the balloons, fruit, cards and stuffed toys. ‘Are either of your parents coming in today, Nick?’ she asked, picking up a few cards that had fallen over, and casually adding, ‘Any news from Lois, Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth shook her head, wishing the pain would dull. ‘Dad rang to say he would be in later,’ she said. ‘Alone, from what I gathered.’
‘Give her time.’ Ginger sighed. ‘It’s been an awful shock for her. I won’t give up on her, but every time I call she hangs up, and all my letters have been returned. She’s a bloody stubborn devil.’
‘I wonder where she got that from?’ Pip grinned. ‘Ginger’s right, Elizabeth. To find out that what she believed her entire life was false . . . You’ve got to let the dust settle on this one.’
Elizabeth nodded, her dark hair falling around her face as she attempted to conceal her sadness. How she would have loved Lois to see baby Rupert, but Lois was adamant she would have nothing to do with Elizabeth. She had apparently become hysterical when she heard the child was to be named Rupert. But for both Nick and Elizabeth, there was no other name they could have contemplated calling their son. Elizabeth was kept busy throughout her pregnancy working on Flowers of the Ruins.
‘My parents will be in soon,’ Nick told Ginger. ‘My father can’t wait to meet you. He’s a huge fan of yours from Terrace Street – and the paintings, of course.’
Ginger puffed out her chest and preened, patting her hair. ‘He’s going to be an even bigger fan after I do that Playboy spread,’ she boasted. ‘I’m signing the contracts this week. Pip thinks it will be good publicity for Flowers of the Ruin and so I decided not to wait until I turn eighty.’
‘I can’t believe you’re going ahead with that, Ginger!’ Elizabeth cried. ‘The nude shots I took of you are so beautiful, you don’t need any retouched Playboy images.’
‘Says who?’ Ginger challenged. ‘I want them to retouch me as much as they can. Yes, your shots are beautiful, but I look so old in them! You could have photoshopped me a bit instead of all that soft-focus-wrinkles bullshit! God, Liz, even Rupert painted an idealised version of us, and we were barely eighteen, our tits pointing upwards! What the hell is wrong with all the young people today?’ She turned huffily to Pip. ‘All this insistence on boring realism. The old stars – the real stars – knew the power of glamour, mystery and illusion. Your photographs may have been arty-farty, Liz, but you made me look ancient with that stupid old camera. And Playboy pay a helluva more than you do, my dear girl!’
‘You are seventy-two,’ Elizabeth pointed out.
‘My point exactly!’ Ginger snapped. ‘I’m only seventy-two, there’s no need for me to look like an old woman!’ She grabbed her breasts in both hands. ‘How many seventy-year-olds do you know who have breasts like these? I could beat most younger women in a yoga session any day.’
Elizabeth rolled her eyes at Nick, who grinned. She knew from experience that there was no besting Ginger in a verbal stoush. She and Ginger ceased their bickering for a moment to peer into the crib where Rupert now slept. As Elizabeth glanced up at her grandmother, she felt her heart contract with wonder. One of the original Flowers of the Ruins gazing down at her great-grandson. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine a greater creative moment. She wondered if it was possible that her heart could love anything more than these 4.07 kilos of peacefully sleeping humanity between them. She was already visualising walking around their inner-city suburb with Rupert strapped on to her front. She was determined not to be a staid or conservative mother: she’d take Rupert to art galleries, travel with him from a young age, and teach him the power and magic of books, creativity and the imagination.
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ A voice pulled Elizabeth out of her daydream of perfect motherhood. To her utter shock, both her parents entered the room, her father carrying a large bunch of flowers. He awkwardly approached Elizabeth to embrace her. Lois, looking wary, carried only her handbag, and hovered near the doorway as if ready t
o flee.
Ginger turned from the crib and straightened up, staring at her daughter. Elizabeth and Nick exchanged alarmed glances. Seeing the pair of them in the same room was as nerve-racking as witnessing two wild cats come together – would they rub noses or claw each other to pieces? Elizabeth felt as if she was seeing her mother for the first time as she looked at her through Ginger’s eyes, and she realised how similar the two women were. How could she have missed the resemblance between them? Lois had auburn hair streaked with grey, and her eyes were the same elongated shape as Ginger’s, except Lois’s were hazel, not green. Their pointed, determined chins were identical. The differences between them were largely superficial, Ginger’s flamboyant, attention-seeking style contrasting with the stylish monochrome colours Lois favoured.
‘Lois?’ Ginger looked to be on the verge of tears. Her eyes were fixed on Lois as if she couldn’t believe she was seeing her in the flesh. ‘You came after all. I can’t believe it. Look how tall and beautiful you are.’ She stepped towards her.
‘Not for you!’ Lois spat. ‘I came for my daughter and to see my grandson. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you were here.’
‘Of course,’ Ginger acceded meekly, retreating. ‘Go and look at him, Lois. He’s the most beautiful baby.’
Lois ignored her and walked towards the crib. For a second, her expression softened as she gazed upon the sleeping baby. ‘He looks just like you did when you were born,’ she said to Elizabeth, but at no stage did she congratulate or embrace her daughter.
Ginger dared to stand beside Lois as they both stared at the baby. ‘He looks just like you did, Lois, when you were a baby,’ she whispered.
Lois glanced at her with anguished eyes. ‘How could you even say that today?’ she said. ‘What sort of person are you? How could any woman give away her own baby?’
Ginger studied Lois’s face, unflinchingly absorbing every bit of her daughter’s pain. ‘It was a different time,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll forgive me. I don’t expect you to now, of course, but I hope one day you’ll understand my decision from my point of view. I was poor. You couldn’t imagine how tough it was back then. Doris was insistent, so desperate for another child, and I needed to keep working, sending money to my ma.’
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