Zenna Dare

by Rosanne Hawke

  It nearly made me weep when I saw him limp to the front door, helped by his new young friend, Nathaniel, who carried the box. What I had nearly missed through my terrible burden of guilt. And now I hardly feel it at all. There is only Redvers’

  love and acceptance. It is Redvers who has shown me what love can be, what even God’s love is. Now I understand how Mary Magdalene must have felt.

  Mary showed them into the parlour, but Nathaniel quickly smiled and left. Redvers was still pale, and there were lines in his face that showed coming at all was a painful effort. I rushed forward with a chair.

  ‘Please, sit down.’ Mary went to make tea happily with a wink at me and one hand pulling a protesting Annie out of the room. Truly I feel I have never been so happy. Only one thing could make me even happier and that is impossible of course.

  Redvers had difficulty kneeling due to his injury so he asked me to stand beside him so he could look up into my face. First he asked me to open the box. I could not as it had a secret opening, but he gave me clues, and then I found the ring. He took my hand and called me his white lily. I could tell he was challenging me to contradict him but I did not dare. I had learnt my lesson.

  We sat together then, our hands linked. His kiss was just as sweet as I thought it would be.

  Jenefer

  From: Rossworld

  To: Jenefer Tremayne

  Subject: Zenna Dare

  Dear Jenefer

  Don’t know if you have seen this but I came across it in my travels through cyber space — an obscure US uni site on English theatre history. Have just forwarded the URL to you. Hope it is still useful.

  Regards

  Ross

  Miss Zenna Dare treated London to three glorious talent-filled seasons, and then suddenly disappeared from public view, never to perform again. Gossipmongers of the time spoke of a fallout with her manager or worse, of moral shame, but anyone who saw the virginal Zenna Dare would know this to be untrue. The sad fact is she may have died or retired quietly, or even emigrated to America or the colonies. If the latter is true, she never resumed her singing career. We would have heard if she took New York or Sydney by storm, as indeed she would have, if she had stayed under Sir Richard Drew’s management.

  So Richard Drew got knighted. For his contribution in finding musical talent, no doubt. I’m in my room again, just wondering about everything. Should be doing homework of course. Mr Mayes has said I could rewrite the last few chapters of Tess of the d’Urbervilles for my end-of-semester English assignment. But it was my own triple-great-grandfather who rewrote Tess of the d’Urbervilles. If there were more people like Redvers we wouldn’t have had so many Stolen Children (or people staring at Caleb and me on trains). If only Angel Clare were like Redvers. But then Angel Clare wasn’t a ‘howling Methodist’. What dreadful labels people put on others. So incredible how ignorant I was. Even about Caleb. And I don’t care anymore if some of the kids at school have reservations about it — that’s their problem. At least Steffi thinks Caleb is great. It would make a good tourist ad: Come to Kapunda — have your life changed forever.

  Now the box is left in the special place in the window space. It’s left open often and Kate comes when she likes to read my typed-up pages to get ideas for illustrations. I tell her that when we’re older we’ll make a good team; she can illustrate my books. Just at study time I can never resist looking in the house, trying to find a clue that I’ve missed. In the letter case there are only the pages left that were ripped up. They were even screwed up before that. And now they are here. Gweniver wasn’t very sure about what to do. I just have to piece them together. I turn the wheel, insert the key — every time I do this I get an incredible feeling of Gweniver having done it before. Her feelings fill the room sometimes and I know it’s only my fancy, as Steffi calls it, or because I’m reading Gweniver’s story, but it’s there all the same.

  Knowing someone’s story sure is powerful stuff. It brings so much understanding and empathy. I sense there’s still more I need to do. Did she want us to know she was a singer, was that it? Or was it something to do with the family? It won’t hurt if I get the little pieces out of the case and try and put them together. Ready for later.

  I’m just getting the last piece out, when my jumper catches on a little wood partition next to the ink bottle. I tug and suddenly there’s a clunk. Incredible! Under the inkwell and place for the pen, there’s a drawer! Maybe to someone in the nineteenth century a drawer under the inkwell wouldn’t be a surprise but it sure is to me. In it is a folded flat paper. Another one. I unfold it. It’s got a line right through it, had been scrunched up as well, with a poem on the back. It’s the letter she never sent — she must have put it here and forgotten about it.

  Gweniver

  Kapunda North, South Australia

  15 November 1849

  Dear Gladys

  I hope this letter finds everyone well at home. I am writing to let you know I have arrived safely. The voyage was too hideous to describe to you here. Suffice it to say only nine died, nor did we capsize at Cape Horn as Mama feared.

  Mary and Will are well as are little Emily and George. Mary is expecting a third and may be delivered by Easter. They are making their way in this new land with courage and forbearance. It is so unlike Cornwall that I do not know where to start to describe it. I could not have imagined the far side of the moon to be as different as this place is. The heat, the flies, the mosquitoes, the ants. Wherever one puts a foot one needs eyes on it to check for vermin. The black people seemed frightening at first, but are amiable enough. I wonder what they think about us all here, sharing this land. They are so at home in it and yet we try to tame it into something we can understand.

  How I wish our society was different and I could still have Roswyn with me. But I know she will have a good life at home. My arms ache at times and I console myself with Mary’s little Emily. An exile I am, but I understand it is my own doing. My punishment could not be worse.

  The Secret Rose

  My secret rose, it is too soon,

  Yet not before I see

  The blueness of your wondering eyes

  As they look up at me.

  My tiny Roswyn, all too soon

  They snatched you from my arms;

  But not before your little hand

  Lay warm between my palms.

  O Roswyn, little tender rose,

  Your mother do not blame;

  Just two things could I give to you:

  Your life and then your name.

  G.R.

  Jenefer

  There was a child! No wonder Gweniver was always so sad. I should have guessed. Steffi would have, I bet. Gweniver had to give up her child and leave her in Cornwall. Where, I wonder? With the family?

  This can’t wait. It’s the middle of the night but I log onto the ’net. I have to find out for sure that Roswyn was her child. I enter in International Genealogical Index on the web. When it appears I type a name: Roswyn Rundle. No hits. Roswyn Drew? No hits again. Roswyn by itself: there are too many — screens of them. I have to narrow it down. Who did Mary say in her letter Gladys had married? I run across to my room and check. It’s a long shot but who would you leave a child with if you couldn’t take her to the Colonies? With a sister, surely. And Gweniver wrote to Gladys; it must have been Gladys. If she left Roswyn with Clarice I’m in trouble; I don’t know who Clarice married, or even if she did.

  I try again: Roswyn Penwith. And there she is. Not a birth, but a christening.

  Roswyn Rundle, daughter of James Penwith and Gladys Rundle, christened Camborne Wesleyan Chapel, 14th August 1849.

  I stare at the screen. Is this proof? What if Gladys had a daughter called Roswyn and Gweniver just liked her? But would they give Roswyn a second name of Rundle if she wasn’t Gweniver’s? But why would Gweniver call her ‘my little rose’, and say
‘snatched from my arms’? No, she must have been Gweniver’s. And she was being christened while Gweniver was on the ship to South Australia! I scroll down the screen. Lots of kids have second names and yes, some are the mother’s maiden name. Gladys was a Rundle too. Roswyn’s adoption was carefully covered up. I bet illegitimate births weren’t registered often because of the shame of it in those days. Is that why there is no entry for Roswyn’s birth? I sit there for a while, soaking it all in. Poor Gweniver, what you must have gone through. Who took her in? Her friend, the old organ grinder? Was he the only one who understood?

  And suddenly I know what I have to do.

  There’s no point sleeping now. I click onto marriages in the IGI. Just hope Dad won’t get too hyper if I overstep the monthly Internet allowance. We should have free Internet access like they do in the States.

  Yes. Now a surname search. There are all these links. When you finally understand what you want to know, it’s almost like the web stretches out sticky strands and draws you in. Soon I’m whizzing along a highway

  in the genealogy web ring, and I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.

  I hope someone on this chat line is researching Hayes or Rundle. I had never realised how many people are excited by this stuff. That there could be people out there researching my family; people who could be

  writing me into their family tree and I’d be oblivious to it all.

  Gweniver

  London, 1848

  Now cease, my lute: this is the last

  Labour that thou and I shall waste,

  And ended is that we begun;

  Now is this song both sung and past:

  My lute be still, for I have done.

  Sir Thomas Wyatt 1503–1542

  How will I survive this? I must end it. No girl lives through such a catastrophe without shame to herself and to her family. When I go home, I shall throw myself from the cliffs at Portreath. Even that is wicked, but I do not deserve any better. I will always be a burden on my family. And Richard. In his cards and letters he’s trying to make it seem

  he cares. But I know him. He will never marry me. So I will not give myself the extra pain of hearing him sidestep his responsibility. Never will I tell him what has happened. How I could ever have compromised myself in this way I will never know. Mama will say, ‘You! How could ’ee!’ Da will be disgusted. I cannot bear to imagine Gladys’s recriminations.

  Was it only a dream? He said I was a songbird. What hopes I had, what fire in my belly for all those things he said I could achieve. It is all gone now. Richard calls me by another name but it is not me he loves, it is her, the girl he has created. She is the one who wears what he decides, sings what he wants, and even eats his favourite dishes. I can never live up to what he expects. ’Tis only Gweniver Rundle I am, a simple Cornish girl. A fool I was to think I could be any different.

  Recently I could tell Richard’s affections had changed. He was more attentive, in a way I did not understand. It was not like a proper courtship. Courtship and marriage I understand, not that predatory stalking of me. How long has it gone on? These three years? Was he waiting until I was old enough? Or was he gradually wearing me down? But I never was a party to it. He can have my deflowering on his conscience forever. Yet it must have been my fault. If I did not go to Penzance, if I did not go on tour. Perhaps that was the turning point, he must have thought I felt the same. Oh God, I sold my soul.

  When it finally happened, I left. I will not live as his kept woman. This is hell enough. He will not meet with me again for I shall never answer his cards.

  Jenefer

  In just two days I’ve received six e-mails. Incredible. Two from the States. One of those says they are descendants from a Thomas Rundle from Camborne who emigrated to California. Even though it’s quite possibly Gweniver’s brother, Tommy, I can’t get sidetracked. I send a polite answer back saying who I am. If I don’t stay on Roswyn’s trail I could end up anywhere. This feels like a rabbit warren with too many turns and no radar to find my way. Most of the messages were from the UK but were not of our family. That I know of anyway. But there’s one e-mail from Canberra and this is the one that gets me writing a feverish reply.

  Dear Jenefer

  What a lovely Cornish name you have and spelt correctly too. I’m not of the Hayes family you are after but I’ve been doing some Hayes global surname research and I know of someone who is researching your side of the family: Joan and Bill Hayes. They will be very happy to hear from you. Just click on the address below. Keep me posted — I’d love to hear how it all goes.

  Regards

  John Hayes

  Dear Joan and Bill

  I am a descendant of Gweniver Rundle who emigrated to South Australia in 1849. Gweniver was sister to Gladys Penwith who brought up Roswyn, christened 1849. Are you from this family? Please contact me if you are.

  Regards

  Jenefer Tremayne

  Dear Jenefer

  This is amazing! How exciting! We are in Cornwall and have been trying to trace our Australian connection for years. We knew of a Mary who went to Kapunda. Then a Gweniver who left for South Australia too, but no one’s ever known if she survived the trip out. Not much was ever said of her — a black sheep most probably. Gladys was an old tyrant and wouldn’t allow her to be spoken of — some rift in the family. Seems a pity to me. Even Mary lost contact. Are you a direct descendant? Tell us all about yourself. Bill can’t even sit down he’s that excited.

  We are in our forties and have two children: Nick, twenty, and Tammy, eighteen. They’re both in university. You mentioned only Roswyn. We wondered why. There were many other brothers and sisters. Roswyn was the second eldest and was my husband’s great-grandmother.

  Write soon. Tonight.

  Warm wishes

  Joan and Bill

  Dear Joan and Bill

  I am almost seventeen and in Year 12 here. I live in Kapunda, South Australia, where Gweniver came to be with her sister Mary. Do you know anything more about Roswyn? Or a Zenna Dare?

  Regards

  Jenefer

  Dear Jenefer

  This is Tam. Isn’t this fantastic? I had no idea we had cousins in Australia. How big is Kapunda? Is it a village? Or a suburb of Adelaide? Mum said to tell you we have a photo of a Zenna Dare, though no one knows who she was. It was with some things of great-great-grandma Roswyn Hayes. We’ll get Nick to scan it and send it if

  you like.

  Tell us some more. What secrets have you uncovered? I’d like to know why Gweniver left here single. Not many did unless they were orphans.

  Cheers

  Tam

  Dear Tam

  I desperately would like a copy of the photo. I think Gweniver was a singer and her stage name was Zenna Dare. I have no proof though. It’s just that we have a photo of her too, and I’m desperate for any clue. Though your photo may only be the same as ours. Kapunda has about 4000 people — it’s a country town. Is that the same as a village? I live in the house Gweniver lived in a few years after she married Redvers Tremayne. I think it’s cool too — having cousins in Cornwall. I had no idea. Six months ago I didn’t even know where I came from. So awesome.

  Bye

  Jenefer

  Just pressed the send button. I can’t bring myself to tell them Gweniver’s secret; not about Roswyn. They all believe Gladys is their triple-great-grandmother. How can I change all that now? Roswyn must never have been told. Or it would be written in a family Bible or something. They’d know surely. What exactly did Gweniver want the box to do? Maybe it’s too late now.

  Caleb hasn’t come to the Year 12 room to go home yet so I decide to find him. The Ag Science area is first port of call. Although there are some Year 10s there, swishing out their cattle yards, Caleb is nowhere. No one’s seen him. Then I think of the art room. Of course. If Caleb’s not playing footy, or in
the Ag Science area, he’s finishing off art work. His subjects sure take up heaps of time; hardly ever see him at lunch any more. I spend most of my lunches with Erin and even then it’s watching her practising for the Year 12 drama. So glad I don’t do drama. Erin does music as well and she has to sing in the play — it’s a send-up of Pirates of Penzance; it’s called Psychedelic Shores. Erin plays Mabel and has to dance on a surf board to Dirty Dancing music. We saw a video of the original — it had Gary Allen in it as the Pirate King. Chris Haynes is the only guy doing drama, and has to be Frederick. (There’s no Pirate King — too bad.) Chris doesn’t sing as well as Erin. I reckon Caleb would do a better job, but of course I don’t tell anyone.

  Caleb has to finish his painting early, before assessment, so it can be hung in the hall for the drama night. All the kids doing any sort of art subjects are feverishly working for this display. Some are doing sculpture. Tim and another friend are putting together an animated cartoon on computer. Each frame was sculpted from plasticine before it was photographed. Incredible.

  When I reach the art room, it’s quiet. No one there. Just about to leave when I see it standing against the wall. It has to be Caleb’s painting. Huge. Six foot wide at least and all done in the earth colours he loves so much: red, yellow, white, brown and black. I can see the land, sweeping from one corner to the other, a dam, trees — his peppermint gums? Dots that look like raindrops; they’re not perfectly round. I look closer; just above the little black and white feet walking across the canvas, there are hands, and under the hands, incredible — it’s music, little dots with tails that seem alive, swirling across the red, and up into the clouds. I’m standing here just staring; everywhere I look there’s something more to see.