Zenna Dare

by Rosanne Hawke

  There’s a movement behind me. Caleb. ‘Found the painting, eh? Like it?’ He sounds shy and I turn quickly. ‘Yeah, I like it.’ How can I say how incredible it is — it’s about everything he cares about — nature: the land, animals, camels, yes, even a tiny rabbit. And then he tells its story. He does it respectfully like it’s a painting he’s found in a cave from 20,000 years ago.

  ‘These white lines? They’re ripples of water. The clouds are where God is, the Spirit of the Land — he overlooks everything regardless of how it turns out. The raindrops are the tears when children were taken away.’ I look carefully, most are black, a few are white. I think of Gweniver. ‘These are the ones who got lost, who didn’t make it.’ He points to a crowd of shapes that look like dots with wings and I guess he’s thinking of his uncle. How many others were there? The hands. ‘The hands are so important — we do everything with them, work together, learn. They show how we care for things, like the land, our culture. And the feet — we can all walk together too.’

  ‘The music?’

  ‘And the music.’ He doesn’t explain, just looks like he’s seeing it for the first time too, and I realise the painting is everyone’s story. The story of his family and culture, of the land that’s so important to who he is, but a bigger story too. The clasped hands at the bottom, one white, one black — his and mine? But not just ours. No wonder the art teacher wants it in the hall. If this painting had sound, it would be a symphony, its grand harmonies inviting all to listen to the truth within their hearts.

  When I get home I tell myself I really should finish some work for school. Semester’s nearly over, but I just check the e-mail first. Won’t take long.

  Dear Jenefer

  Nick’s away on camp but he’ll send the photo as soon as he gets back. I’m not sure about the different type of file to send so that you’ll see it okay. You still should get it before snail mail anyway. I forgot to tell you. I was talking to my Grandad this morning. He’s so adorable and as sharp as old cheese. Get this. He remembers Roswyn! Thought you might like that since you mentioned her. Roswyn was his grandma, she died in 1925, he said, when she was in her late seventies. He was fifteen and remembers her clearly.

  Cheers

  Tam

  Dear Tam

  Please ask your Grandad to write to me, or could you ask him to send an e-mail. Does he know how to do that?

  Please, Tam. Most of my really old olds have died. I’ve got a great-aunt, but nothing like a Grandad who is as old as yours. You should be so lucky.

  Love Jenefer

  Dear Jenefer

  I’ve got Grandad here and he’s going to talk while I type. (He comes over every day — has to keep walking to keep his circulation going.) Here goes:

  My dear Jenefer

  This is a very big thrill for me to be meeting you like this. Tamara is typing — don’t think I could see the keys properly now. You asked about my Grandmother Roswyn.

  She was the mildest lady. We all loved her. Always gave me a penny when I went to see her when I was little. Grandpa was dead by then. Grandma always loved music. She had a Master’s Voice gramophone and on Saturday nights a lot of our family would go there and she would put on a record. No one was allowed to touch it, though. She had a most beautiful singing voice, even then, and she sometimes would sing along.

  Her mother (Gladys) was a tough old lady — she would never let Roswyn have singing lessons or do anything with her talent. She believed the stage only produced fallen women. So when Grandma Roswyn married, she let my mother and aunts all have singing lessons. Some of them did quite well too. And music has been a part of our family ever since. Even I can still play the violin on a good day. Grandma paid for the lessons and made sure we had a piano in the house. The other aunts used to wonder where all the talent came from.

  Hope this is interesting to you.

  Best regards

  Pawley Hayes

  Cheers from Tam (your fifth cousin) too.

  PS Isn’t Grandad brilliant?

  Tam thinks she’s my fifth cousin, but they don’t know about Roswyn; we’re most probably fourth cousins. Straight away I send a reply to Pawley.

  Dear Mr Hayes

  I guess you must be like a second cousin to me. Thank you so much for telling me about your grandma. I found her name mentioned in something of Gweniver’s. No doubt Roswyn would have been born just before Gweniver left for South Australia; she must have been fond of the baby.

  Many thanks, Jenefer

  Oh Pawley, I know why you could play the violin so well. Richard Drew was a virtuoso if the reviews can be believed. Pawley’s my second cousin, twice removed. Worked that out from a family relationship table on the web. Incredible, eh? I wish I could tell him, but I don’t dare — not until I’m sure it wouldn’t upset him. Wish I could meet him.

  Dear John

  Thank you so much for putting me onto the Hayes family in Cornwall.

  It turns out we’re related and they were looking for us! It’s incredible finding the other half of your family, especially when you didn’t know it existed.

  Thanks again

  Bye, Jenefer

  I’ve finally managed to tape up the second ripped page. It was easier than I thought since the writing is different, smaller and more ordered than Gweniver’s scrawl. The first one was something Gweniver had written before she left Cornwall. And if Gweniver’s name were only on this one, it’d prove my theory about Zenna Dare. Wonder why she never burnt it or threw it out? Did people go through the rubbish in those days? Was keeping it the only way to make it stay a secret? Or did she keep it as a memory of the dream she had. Poor Gweniver. I wonder how you let go of a dream?

  London, 5 November 1848

  Dear Zenna

  Where are you? Why do you not answer my messages? See, I have copied this poem from a Shelley anthology and write your name within.

  To Zenna

  The keen stars were twinkling,

  And the fair moon was rising among them,

  Dear Zenna!

  The guitar was tinkling,

  But the notes were not sweet till you sang them

  Again.

  As the moon’s soft splendour

  O’er the faint cold starlight of Heaven

  Is thrown,

  So your voice most tender

  To the strings without soul had then given

  Its own.

  The stars will awaken,

  Though the moon sleep a full hour later,

  To-night;

  No leaf will be shaken

  Whilst the dews of your melody scatter

  Delight.

  Though the sound overpowers,

  Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

  A tone

  Of some world far from ours,

  Where music and moonlight and feeling

  Are one.

  Please tell me where you are. You have disappeared as surely and mysteriously as your famous namesake at Zennor. Do not let it end like this. Please. R.

  Jenefer

  It’s nearly teatime; Kate’s drawing in the lounge and Hamilton’s picking out tunes on the piano. Steffi’s putting a little table that she’s just waxed in the kitchen to dry and Dad’s cooking his favourite pasta: pesto with pine nuts, with Phantom of the Opera blaring so loud on the sound system I can hear it down here. Dad’s been getting into music ever since he saw the box. Kate’s Celtic storybook tells me all about the Merrymaid of Zennor, how she was Cornwall’s most famous mermaid and had an exquisite voice. In human form she fell in love with the church warden’s son and they both disappeared. Richard Drew must have thought of Gweniver’s alias after he’d taken her to Lamorna Cove and showed her that rock. Everything is falling into place, in my mind at least, even though I have no conclusive proof.


  Now I’ve just got time to check the e-mail. E-mail has never been so addictive. Can’t stop thinking about Roswyn; she must have been Gweniver’s child. The Hayes don’t know about it, but Roswyn’s musical talent, the fact there is no birth date recorded, the musical talent in the family — it all fits.

  Dear Jenefer

  Grandad’s still talking about you. He can’t get over it. Nick’s home at last. We’re sending the photo you wanted and one of us too, plus the family tree Dad’s been drawing up for the past ten years! Nick says he hopes jpeg files will be okay on your system. Let us know if there is a problem. Tell us too if Zenna Dare is who you think. It all sounds so fantastical, though Dad’s not surprised — says musical talent does run through our side of the family. Even Nick plays the sax when he feels like it. He’s good too.

  Cheers Tam

  PS We’ve included another photo that looks like the same lady. And Gweniver’s will. We still have the lute that looks like the one in the photo — hugely old. Grandad says it was Roswyn’s. Cheers.

  PPS Let’s be friends on Facebook.

  I try not to get too excited by the mention of the lute as I stare at the icons shouting attachment. They squat on the screen, insignificant squares, out-staring me, unblinking, daring me to double click on them. This may be nothing at all. Like Roswyn, Gweniver may keep Zenna’s secret until eternity. I click on one. It’s the family tree. I print it out to study later. Roswyn is shown as Gladys’s second child. The next one is the picture of Tam’s family. They look nice. Bill is dark, so is Nick. Tam looks like her mum.

  I click on the next attachment; watch the little dotted lines flicker and materialise into a black and white photograph. The lute! It’s Gweniver— it has to be. Looks like her. Hard to tell sometimes, with these old photos. No name, though. She’s in a gypsy costume. For The Bohemian Girl? It’s possible Richard Drew had it done. Maybe that was how the daguerreotype photos came about when Aunt Dorie said the family could never have afforded it. They were Richard Drew’s. For publicity? Or did he have a soft spot for Gweniver, even in the beginning? For all I know Gweniver misjudged Richard Drew completely. There was never any publicity about Zenna Dare after 1848, so he may have kept her identity secret — maybe he did care after all. But I’m not sorry now she came to South Australia. If she didn’t I would never have been born.

  I still can’t call the lute proof. Someone could say the photo just looks like Gweniver, or what does dressing up as a gypsy prove — so what? The will comes up next. Nick’s scanned it in. And there on my computer screen is Gweniver’s squirly writing. Suddenly, more than anything this links me with the Hayes family across the world in Cornwall, more than any of their words have done, even more than Pawley contacting me.

  Written on this 30th day of July 1849:

  I, Gweniver Rundle, of Fore Street, Camborne, of sound mind and before God, state that if I should not reach the colony of South Australia, I do bequeath all my worldly goods to my sister Gladys to distribute as she should see fit. My lute and other goods of value that I cannot take, I hereby leave in Gladys’s care.

  As God is my witness, Gweniver Rundle.

  Guess the Hayes family wouldn’t know why everything was left to Gladys, and who it would be distributed to. I click on the next attachment. I’m not really expecting anything; I’m getting used to the idea of never knowing for sure. The photo materialises on the screen.

  For a full second I stare at it. It couldn’t be for more than that one moment, just long enough for the phantom to call for his angel of music and then I stand up; the chair clatters on the slate and I yelp. It’s meant to be a scream but it freezes on the way out.

  ‘What!’ Kate comes thumping down the stairs. The piano stops abruptly and Hamilton’s steps follow her. ‘Jenfa! What have you done?’ Kate’s in here now and she sees the screen; slowly walks up to it. All she can say is ‘Jenfa’ with an un-Kate-like awe.

  I nod. My chest is starting to heave — I can’t help it. The shock of not expecting to find out and then — this!

  ‘It’s the dress.’ She looks back at me, to check. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I breathe it out like a quiet sob. And I stare again at the beautiful lace right up to her neck. She sure does look virginal — the reviews were right. Underneath is written: Miss Zenna Dare. She’s smiling at someone to the right of the camera. She looks like she’s just sung the most beautiful aria ever and the audience has asked for five encores. Zenna is an elusive phantom no longer — she was real and she was Gweniver.

  Kate runs into my room across the hall; she’s only gone a minute and brings in the white dress from the box, Gweniver’s dress. ‘Careful’ I say. I’ve never dared unfold it — it’s so old — and here’s Kate carrying it in. The skirt slips out of her arms, uncurls, and I stop at how lovely it is. It too has exquisite lace right up to the neck. A waist Dad could put two hands around, the V in the front bodice cascading lace to the floor. She wasn’t so tall. None of us see the paper that falls from its folds.

  Oh Gweniver, now we know. Then I say this next bit really slow. ‘Kids, our great-great-great grandmother was a famous opera singer.’ Kate starts squealing so that Steffi and Dad come rushing down.

  ‘We know now!’ Kate’s jumping, and Hamilton’s laughing. Check that. Yep, Hamilton’s laughing.

  But I don’t tell them about Roswyn. Not yet. Maybe never. Maybe some things are meant to be secret. What if I was the only one meant to know.

  It’s not until much later that I decipher the paper Steffi has picked up from the floor.

  Gweniver

  South Kapunda 1858

  Long my imprisoned spirit lay

  Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;

  Thine eye diffused a quickening ray —

  I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;

  My chains fell off, my heart was free,

  I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

  Charles Wesley 1707–88

  How I loved to sing those hymns when young and loved them for their tunes, their beauty of phrase, not understanding the truth hidden therein. Redvers is correct — our society is hardly Christian at all. Everyone believes it is, but what Christ taught rises far above our puny rules of what to wear and how to act. He taught a love of God and of each other; if we could only embrace that sentiment we would not be forcing others to be like ourselves.

  Not everyone agrees with Redvers, I have noticed, especially when he starts discussing Native Affairs. The Irish too. He thinks better cottages should be built for the miners and if money was spread around a bit more there would be enough for everyone. Even Mr. Richard Hawke, who treats Redvers like a nephew, was cautioning him after chapel last week. He has said before that Redvers’ lack of ecclesiastical training enables him to see things in a fresh light. But this time he told him to bide his time a little more.

  Redvers told me afterwards that too much time gets abided and not enough done to help those in need. I think he wishes he were one of the gentlemen with the money and he would put it to better use. At least he has built this lovely house. There is plenty of room, even more allowed for in case it is needed: a room under the stairs that could be furnished. I have started a garden and yesterday Redvers helped me plant a pepper tree by the front gate, and the little white roses are flourishing by the verandah. Everyone says gardens will not grow here for the fumes from the mine, but we will prove them wrong.

  The items I brought with me to this country I have packaged up. The dress I had to bring with me, regardless of the room in the trunk. It was one I wore in happier times. There are the things I wrote before I married Redvers too. What soul searching I went through, writing it all down, hoping to find some peace of mind. And Redvers has always been true to his promise; he has always treated me with the utmost love and respect and has never referred to my old life unless I myself brought it up. Redvers appro
ves of the idea of putting my past to rest, entombing it as it were, in the cottage box. At first I was going to burn the things, but I still hold a hope that some day when it does not matter so much, something can be done.

  The family was so divided and I caused it all. Gladys only consented to have Roswyn if I never contacted them. She said it would be best for the child. Now I wish for everyone to be reconciled and be a whole family again. Gladys was even cross with Mary for offering me a home in South Australia. What did Gladys expect me to do? Live in the poor-house? I did not deserve Mary’s kindness but she was always like that. She saw beyond the hypocrisy of the rules that have been made. Just like dear Redvers.

  Perhaps with this box left here, Roswyn can be written to and told how much I love her, that it was either South Australia or death for me, or shame for us both; that in the society we were part of, there was no alternative.

  If this box should ever be found I pray it will only be seen as the out-pouring of a mother’s heart. I have suffered the loss of Roswyn all my life and will continue to do so. Every birthday I think, ‘Roswyn will be such-and-such-an-age today. I wonder if she’s alive, if she is well, what she is doing.’

  For me it can never be the end. Can a mother’s heart ever forget?

  The White Rose

  I love the white rose in its splendour,

  I love the white rose in its bloom.

  I love the white rose, so fair as she grows

  It’s the rose that reminds me of you.

  The first time I met you, my darling,

  Your face was as red as a rose;

  But now your dear face has grown paler,

  As pale as the lily-white rose.

  And now that you’ve left me forever,

  From your grave one sweet flower grows,

  But I will remember you, darling,

  When I gaze on that lily-white rose.