It’s a new thought. ‘Is that why people call it Mother?’
He grins across at me. It makes me feel I’ve understood him; guess everyone likes that feeling. ‘Could be,’ is all he says.
Gweniver
North Kapunda, 1852
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky:
The dew shall weep thy fall tonight;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like a seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
‘Virtue’, George Herbert 1593–1633
Redvers Tremayne has returned, even earlier than I had hoped. But he has had an accident. I feared I had left it too late. The mail cart overturned on him just outside Kapunda near the River Light when the river came down in flood and washed away the horses and the four other passengers. ’Tis a mercy he was not also drowned. Mr. William Hawke’s newly arrived brother, Nathaniel, had been coming back from Adelaide with supplies to start up butchering; he came across the horse first, then found Redvers lying on the track and brought him back. There was gold in his bag, Mr. Hawke said, so Redvers Tremayne has been lucky. Lucky too that no one stole it while he was lying unconscious.
As soon as it was politely possible, I went over to the house, mainly to help. Mr. Tremayne’s sisters and mother are usually busy enough as it is with the family and household duties. Dr. Blood had just been as I arrived. When I found Susannah crying in the kitchen I feared the worst but it was simply reaction to the good news Dr. Blood had given. Redvers Tremayne may always walk with a limp but he would survive and no amputations necessary if his legs healed properly. I sat down and cried with her. As she wiped her eyes she regarded me solemnly. She is older than I and perhaps that is why she spoke so directly.
‘We never thought Redvers would go to the goldfields, not after he met you, Gweniver. Why do you refuse him?’ She hurried on, knowing I would be offended. ‘I know you must have because he talks only of you. And it has been two years. And no engagement or anything.’ She leaned forward; her whole body spoke the question that her swollen mouth did not. She knew I cared for him too; that there must be a motive for my reticence. Though I could not tell her.
‘I thought there was reason enough. Enough reason that I know would deter most men.’
‘Redvers is not “most men”, Gweniver.’ I almost flinched; how true that was. ‘Redvers even follows the concerns of the natives. He’s tired of the way they’re thought of as less than human, and heathen as though we had brought God with us. He says the Protector of Aborigines should come and sit at one of their campfires by the river before he makes decisions in Adelaide that will affect their lives for generations.’
I smiled. ‘He said that?’
She nodded, then leant forward again.
‘Gweniver, please consider him. He has said himself he is ashamed of our society, of the way it is in tiers and bound by man-made laws. The Irish are thought little of. We Cornish are looked down upon too. But this is a new country. Gweniver, I’m telling you all this because things can be changed here; Redvers does not think like many other men. He is an accepting man. Sometimes embarrassingly so, but he says he only ever wants to treat others as he’d like to be treated. It is the golden rule, is it not? Whether society thinks it is right or no?’
I sat riveted to my chair. She was describing her brother to a dot. If he could tolerate all these others surely he could accept me. Or would his fine sentiments not stretch that far?
‘He lives his faith simply. If it’s written in the Bible to love your neighbour, that is what he does. To Redvers, “neighbour” includes everyone.’
I nodded thoughtfully. Mr. Tremayne certainly had the passion to try and change things. Much of the way society was run at home was still in place here. Susannah touched my knee then.
‘Please do not underestimate him, Gweniver. We have all known you for more than two years. You are a special person and Redvers is no fool. This talk of honour and respect … what do they mean if they destroy someone’s life and happiness? Make a new start, please do. You will make us all very happy.’ I sat there staring at her, horror-stricken. It was as if she knew all about me, knew what had happened, what I had done, and it did not matter at all. Could Redvers possibly be the same?
Soon I had the opportunity to find out. Elizabeth took me inside the house to his room and left me there alone. I moved closer to the bed, almost wringing my hands in emotional pain and indecision. I do not deserve this man, one half of me was saying. But you want him, said my heart. Oh be quiet, heart. Yes, I want him. Then fight. Do not walk away with nothing said.
‘Mr. Tremayne — Redvers?’ Suddenly, being polite seemed ludicrous. ‘I am truly sorry.’ He was regarding me, propped up on two cushions. ‘About your accident,’ I added. He lifted his hand and I went closer to sit on the chair by his side. His face was scratched and so were his arms. His eyes were dark and shadowed. There were bandages around his shoulders; his legs I could not see.
‘M — Gweniver, I missed you.’ Speaking seemed difficult, but the little lines at the corners of his mouth started to quiver, as they would when he smiled. And at such moments when one thinks something worse could have happened one’s tongue becomes loosened. That is the only way I can explain what I said next. ‘And I you.’ Oh God, help me now, I prayed. Then I went on. ‘I am also sorry for refusing you, for I didn’t want to.’ And I told him about Richard Drew and about what had happened. All of it. The expression on his face barely changed. Perhaps it hurt too much to change it but I could not stand the silence.
‘You must be disappointed,’ I prodded. Now he would tell me he had met someone else in Bendigo, and would be returning to marry her. A woman who did not refuse his suit, one who had not sinned so badly.
‘Gweniver, you never had need to tell me.’
Still in shock, I uttered, ‘It is not something I wanted anyone to know.’
‘No one will hear it from me.’
But I could not let it rest; I had to know his mind, and his heart. ‘Does your offer still stand?’ Now that you know everything, I almost added.
‘Gweniver, I love you. I loved you more because whatever it was had bothered you so much. It showed you had a pure heart —’
I stood suddenly, knocking the chair. ‘You mock me, Sir. You can say that? After what I have told you?’
He almost raised himself off the bed, winced, then thought better of it. ‘What happened doesn’t change who you are, Gweniver. It is you I love. Not just you with a proviso that you have done nothing wrong. That would be love with conditions. Not true love at all.’
‘But everyone says it changes one. To sin in such a way.’
‘Are they a greater authority than God?’ I shrank at his tone; perhaps it was the pain from the accident (Susannah said his legs were crushed) but I had never heard him quite so passionately angry. ‘Where is the charity in this society? Tell me. In Bendigo, I met a young woman who had been transported at twelve years of age for stealing bread for her ailing mother. And where is the charity in forcing a wronged girl to leave her home to find a decent life 10,000 miles away? If we cannot give people second chances, then Christ died for nothing.’ He stopped then, calmed himself and apologised; asked to hold my hand in his. ‘Gweniver, you are you no matter what happened.’
And suddenly I could see what he was talking about befor
e he went away. The forgiveness. This was the whole reason for going to chapel, for believing in Jesus Christ. The guilt does get taken away. One just has to accept it. Never had I felt forgiven before, nor realised how it worked. It was just as if I was given another opportunity to start living.
What happened may never leave me, but with Redvers loving me, it no longer had power to haunt me. The awful sting of it was gone.
Jenefer
This time I’m taking Kate with me to Mortlock Library and it’s not just because Caleb’s playing footy. Dad’s doing the honours to the railway station and back. Since I’m still on my ‘L’s, he has to come with me. I must be getting better; he only shouts once.
Aunt Dorie gave me her Cornish teacher’s phone number. Get this — the teacher is actually a Bard; I never knew they still had offices like that. She was a wealth of information about Cornwall and its part in the development of South Australia, like the Bible Christians being one of the forerunners of the Uniting Church. So much I never knew. I’ve already got enough about Gweniver’s life here in Kapunda and background material from Kapunda Library for my independent History study. A bit about Cornwall too. Now this is for me. I may never prove Gweniver was also Zenna Dare but I might be able to find more about Gweniver’s singing career in Cornwall.
Kate loves Mortlock. Should have brought her before, I guess. The library has organised the inter-library loan and Dad’s paid the fifteen dollars for it to come across from Melbourne University. Kate and I take the book into Mortlock, after leaving my student ID with the librarian at the desk. First I get Kate settled onto a computer with the International Genealogical Index so she can see how it works. I can almost hear the clackety clack of train wheels as she connects to the web. Then I sit down with my iPad and the book, not so thick fortunately, and find out info that supports what Gweniver wrote on her pages, like who Joseph Emidy was, and all about the Assembly Rooms in Truro. Nothing about Zenna Dare, though. I’m beginning to realise Zenna Dare only sang in London. And then I find a reference to Miss Rundle. I backtrack. It’s a quote from an old paper.
Mr. Drew introduced his new pupil, Miss Rundle, to the Assembly Rooms in Truro this month. She truly is a gem. Not only does she sing well but has a knowledge of Cornwall’s musicians and face-to-face has great charm.
It must be Gweniver. The dates fit with the information in her writings. It would have been mid-1846. I keep reading and find only one or two chapters that I need to photocopy. There’s only one more reference to Gweniver and this time I’m sure — her whole name is used.
Gweniver Rundle delighted audiences in Falmouth and Truro, in Tea Gardens, Music Halls and the Assembly Rooms. She sang at balls and concerts in all the major centres during the latter part of 1846. Many young singers began their careers in this way in the early and mid-nineteenth century. With none of the entertainments we have today, such musical evenings were well attended. Most of the singers, and quite possibly Gweniver Rundle too, would then be introduced to the theatres in London if they were successful in their own counties.
I’m still appalled at the lack of information writers seem to have about individual people in the past, especially ones who weren’t terribly famous or at least not for long: ‘quite possibly Gweniver Rundle too’. It’s so frustrating. A whole book on music in Cornwall in the early nineteenth century and only two references to Gweniver (and nothing concrete) and no reference to Zenna Dare at all. Though that may mean Gweniver didn’t have the alias in Cornwall. She, or Richard Drew, must have made it up for London. In case it all went wrong? Then no one would know it was her.
Even then her family may never have heard about it. There was no TV or radio, just newspapers, and what if ordinary miners in Cornwall never saw a London newspaper or magazine? That’s presuming they could read. They would never have known. The incident she refers to involving Richard Drew must have happened in London. It’s so awesome what I’ve found out about Gweniver but may never be able to prove. I wonder if I’m the only one who knows.
Kate’s finished with the IGI now. She looks all flushed and happy. ‘Do you know how many Mary Davies there were in the 1800s?’ I shake my head.
‘Thousands, Jenfa. Thousands.’ Her freckled nose is screwed up and her teeth are showing; she looks cute and she asks me what I found out. Amazing what a bit of attention does for kids. We’ve decided to buy Steffi some Haigh’s chocolates for her birthday. Then I take her to the Blue Lemon, just like Caleb did with me. I push aside the unwelcome image of Amy, Sokha and Ben coming across us that day. When I rang Amy later she was all tight-lipped. It just wasn’t the same. Sokha’s okay, though. Suppose I shouldn’t blame Amy — she’s never met an Indigenous person. Nor had I. Wasn’t I the same? Sokha says Amy can’t work out why I don’t go back to the city more. She thinks I’ve got sunstroke.
‘You love Mum, don’t you?’ Startled, I wonder what I’ve missed. Kate’s talking about Steffi all of a sudden.
‘Sure.’
‘Then what about your own mum. Was she nice?’
‘Dad said she was.’
‘You reckon he loves my mum more than yours?’
I stare at her. ‘Does it matter now? At the time he loved mine, now he loves yours.’ Dad never mentions my mum any more unless I ask. Not since Steffi anyway.
‘What happened? She go away?’
‘She died.’ Why didn’t Dad tell the kids all this? Though he wouldn’t have known Kate was interested. I didn’t until now. It’s obvious I haven’t said enough. Kate has that ‘what next’ look on her face.
‘We were coming home from the shops. There was an accident. A car hit ours at an intersection. Mum died.’ I find it doesn’t really bother me to talk about it — it’s just a fact I know — like history. Gweniver seems to affect me more, which is weird.
‘Why didn’t you?’ I check her face; five months ago it would’ve sounded like she wanted me to have died too, but her features are clear of guile. She just wants to know.
‘I was only two. The car seat kept me safe, I guess.’
‘That’s so sad, Jenfa. I’m glad it didn’t happen to me.’ I lean closer and hug her. ‘If it didn’t happen I wouldn’t have got you for a sister, now would I?’ And that’s when Kate tells me.
‘Can I tell you something, Jenfa? You won’t hate me?’
‘I couldn’t, could I? You’re my sister.’ She’s regarding me dubiously; she knows that’s not a great reason. So do I — look at Gladys and Gweniver — they were sisters. Gladys sure didn’t let Gweniver off the hook. My face must have changed, got more serious, for she says it then.
‘It was me — I let Sher Khan out. That night —’
Instantly I can remember Hamilton’s pitiful sobbing for a tiny rabbit and my own anger at who could be so mean. It’s threatening to spill and I’m trying hard not to let it show. This is the old Kate. I thought she’d been better lately. But I relax; she’s telling me about then, not now. This is the first time she’s come this close so I have to make an effort.
‘Why did you do that?’
I expect her to shrug but her eyes fill with tears instead. ‘Caleb likes Hamilton better than me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is. He brings things, hay and hutches.’
‘Do you really want hay and a hutch?’
She hesitates and I can tell she’s thinking Caleb could have easily thought of something different. ‘No. But Hamilton’s so quiet and everyone thinks he’s an angel but he’s not. He does things too — stuff Mum and Dad don’t see. They see me, that’s all.’ She sniffs a bit, while I wonder what came first: this behaviour of his or her treatment of him. ‘But when he spat the dummy that day — when I locked Sher Khan in the computer room — he was different. He’s not a nerdy pushover at all.’
Kate can be surprising, but this is the best bit yet. I’m still trying not to grin at her use of slang
that I had no idea she knew.
‘You’ll need to say sorry, you know. He’s still upset.’ There’s a quick flash of fire in her eyes before she thinks about it. Having little kids for siblings makes me feel so old.
We make our way down to the train and I’m thinking about Zenna Dare again. How weird it is that so much of Gweniver’s story is like our own. Kate and I together. And now Kate and Hamilton’s too.
Gweniver
North Kapunda, 1852
O, my luve’s like a red red rose
That’s newly sprung in June.
O, my luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!
Robert Burns 1759–1796
Redvers wants me to marry him before Christmas. He had brought some money back from the goldfields, but he is going to invest it in Nathaniel Hawke’s butcher shop so he can build a house later on. Yesterday was the first day he was allowed out of bed by Dr. Blood and he came directly to Mary and Will’s to see me and to propose properly. He had his grandmother’s ring. But Redvers is apparently a craftsman for he did not just bring a ring. He brought a box. The ring was inside. He made the box before he went to Bendigo; he said he made it for me, because he wanted me to share his home with him. The box is in the shape of a mill cottage with a water wheel just like the ones we have at home. We both know we will never return to Cornwall now. This is our new world and we shall make our life and home in it together.
Zenna Dare Page 15