The Valley

by Di Morrissey

  Of course she’d buy it. She’d still like to keep her place in Sydney, it was a great investment and useful for her and Dani to have a bolthole in the city.

  Lara immediately began thinking of some improvements she’d make, without doing anything to change the façade of the house. But she could extend the back verandah and make it a huge family room. There was room in the backyard to add a lap pool, the summers were killers in the valley. So air conditioning would be a must. Her mind whirled on, imagining her books and paintings and rugs in the old house.

  Her tea was cold before she glanced at the other letters and she caught her breath recognising the handwriting on the envelope. But this time Thommo had posted the letter from the mountain.

  Dear Lara, if I may call you so . . . I have no excuses only regrets for what has happened, recently and so many years ago. There is no way I can make amends to your family, but I realise how much it must mean to you to learn about your father.

  Clem and me were best mates. Looking back we had a magic growing up, and I started to think of the things we did, the strife we got into, and the mischief. I’ve never talked about the war to anyone, ever. But Clem saved my life in New Guinea. So I thought, if you agreed and wanted to, I could perhaps meet you at the historical society some time for a cuppa and I could show you the little bits and pieces I’ve kept. And tell you some of the tales of two country lads who grew up in a place that I realise now was pretty special and peaceful in this rough old world. Thankfully the valley hasn’t changed too much, good people live here and people who care about keeping it healthy and not chopping down trees willy nilly and the like. If you don’t wish to see me, I understand. But I hope you might give an old man a chance to try and make good for a mate.

  Respectfully yours, Martin Thompson.

  Lara wiped her eyes. ‘The poor old bugger,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Who me?’

  Lara jumped. Carter stood at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Any tea left? I’m passing through, got to go up to Jason’s Birimbal estate. He wants some of the old trees identified and me to check on the boundaries. He’s done a magnificent job. Thought you might like to come with me.’

  Lara held out her hand and Carter stepped onto the verandah and took her hand in his. ‘I’d love to. A trip into the bush is just what I need. And I have lots of news to tell you. I’ll go and freshen up.’

  Carter heard the tremble in her voice and squeezed her hand. ‘No rush, matey. We’ve got all the time in the world. This is the valley, remember. It’ll always be here.’

  Dani

  Dani followed Greta through the deserted gallery. Max’s paintings, carefully hung, were even more powerful now. Each one glowed, shone with an inner light, drawing your focus and heart into each picture.

  ‘They’re extraordinary,’ breathed Dani with feeling. ‘They’re alive.’

  Greta nodded, giving a slight smile of satisfaction. ‘They are indeed very special. Ken Minton thought so too. He’s taking the entire collection back to New York. Max too, if he wants to work in the Big Apple for six months.’

  ‘What an opportunity. I’m so thrilled for him.’ Dani knew this humble, thoughtful man would be hailed as one of the great contemporary painters and she also knew Max would stay true to his roots wherever he worked.

  How she treasured the painting he’d given her. It was her inspiration, it motivated her to strive to be true to herself, it gave her physical comfort. It was hard to explain to anyone how, late at night or very early in the morning, she would stand before the whorls of paint and feel she was being taken somewhere special. Closing her eyes she would place a fingertip at the edge of the canvas and feel a tremble, a life force, a something.

  Max’s work would live on long after he had returned to the Dreamtime country of his ancestors. What a gift, what a legacy. Perhaps Greta would understand how she felt, but Dani remained silent as she walked past paintings she had watched evolve, grow, into these great expressive reflections of one man’s heart and soul.

  Greta opened the door of her office and Dani was shocked to see her collection of Isabella paintings stashed against a wall.

  ‘What are they doing here?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Jason brought them over, he wanted Ken Minton to look at them,’ explained Greta.

  ‘Oh no! How embarrassing. He shouldn’t have. Not in here, surrounded by Max’s genius.’ She was furious with Jason.

  Greta sat at her overflowing desk and gestured to Dani to sit in the opposite chair. ‘Dani, you came here to explore your passion, your dream, to stretch yourself. See if you are an artist. I know you’re not talking commercial artist, but true-to-the-heart artist. One who paints like they breathe, who does what they do because there is simply no alternative. Jason is very devoted to you, your work. He seems to know how you feel and he felt you’d want to know how you are going on this journey you’ve undertaken. And that a top expert’s opinion would give you some guidance,’ said Greta gently.

  ‘Oh God. What did he say?’ Dani steeled herself. This was agony. It was like someone taking her child away and putting him through some painful test. If he failed how would she comfort him? Would he go on and try again? But this was her own heart and soul. No one could help her with this challenge she’d chosen. She quickly held up her hand and said breathlessly, ‘Before you say anything, no matter what he said, it won’t stop me! I will not give up my art.’

  Greta gave a soft smile. ‘I’m pleased to hear that, Dani. Now, it’s not that bad.’ She glanced over at Dani’s vibrant canvases depicting the country Greta knew and recognised.

  ‘Ken is unfamiliar with the country you’ve painted, he knows nothing of Isabella but he recognised straight away it means a lot to you. There is a great passion and they are very evocative representations with great feeling, but not the work of a world-class artist.’

  Dani let her breath escape.

  ‘He was swift to say it is only his opinion and as we know opinions are very divided in the art world.’

  ‘Unless you’re a Max,’ whispered Dani.

  ‘Yes. Now, you could become a highly competent Sunday painter, win prizes from the Royal Art Society, and sell quite well. But he hopes you won’t go down that path.’

  ‘Oh, God, I’m not going back to graphic art, commercial design,’ said Dani with some heat.

  ‘Of course you’re not. Dani, maybe you’ll never achieve what you want with your art. I don’t know one artist who feels they’ve done their best work. But it’s the journey, not the destination, is it not? Now, these are another matter.’ Greta lifted several of Dani’s collagraphs from under papers and catalogues spread across her desk.

  ‘Damn that Jason! He’s taken them from the studio where the press is!’ Dani couldn’t believe the arrogance, the intrusion of that man into the most tender and tentative area of her life. ‘Just because he set up the printing press in the basement of the old house and lets me print there doesn’t mean he can steal my work!’

  Greta tried not to smile at Dani’s outburst. ‘Ken Minton thought these were very fine efforts and encourages you to keep going. They speak volumes about not just the tangible interpretation of the landscape but your own insights and emotions in the choices you make and how you construct them. Keep experimenting and be proprietary in the execution of the prints when you have one you think works well. Keep them to signed limited editions.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Fine art is executed and expressed in many ways, not just oil paint, Dani. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I’m just a bit in shock. I wasn’t prepared for this.’

  ‘Don’t be cross with Jason,’ said Greta. ‘Imagine how nervous you might have been if you’d known Ken Minton was going to look at your work. And by the way, not many emerging artists have the opportunity for such appraisal.’ Greta stood up. ‘Jason will collect these. They’re needed for the Birimbal launch. I’m looking forward to it. A lot of media coming I believe. Gr
oundbreaking stuff. Let’s hope it’s the way of the future.’

  Dani drove back to The Vale in a daze. Emerging artist, is that what I am? she thought. She did feel a bit like a chrysalis coming out of hibernation, but she wasn’t ready to spread her crumpled wings and fly off into the sunlight just yet. Damn Jason. She had mixed feelings about his gesture. He should have asked her.

  She stomped into her studio and stood, hands on hips, scanning the paraphernalia of her work. She was tempted to rush around and kick and overturn everything. But then she saw Max’s beautiful painting. It held her gaze, stilling her surging emotions. ‘Hold on, hold on, keep going forward, it is the journey,’ it seemed to say.

  Dani took a long breath and walked outside, feeling the warmth of the sun, the caress of a breeze. Down at the creek Tim was on his pony trotting and turning as Jason directed.

  Without thinking, Dani rushed down the hill calling, ‘Jason . . .’

  He turned, smiled, gestured to Tim to keep going and walked towards her. He was stunned when Dani exploded.

  ‘How could you! How dare you take my art, show them without my permission? Just who do you think you are!’ She was even more furious when she realised she was crying.

  ‘Dani, I did it for you, would you have shown your work to Minton?’ countered Jason.

  ‘I’m not ready. Not yet. It’s too soon,’ she shouted at him.

  ‘You could bury yourself away here and never be ready,’ said Jason firmly. ‘Have faith in yourself. Now you have some direction, some sense of where you’re going.’

  ‘Nowhere famous, it seems,’ she snapped. ‘I could be a nice Sunday painter . . . fiddling round the edges, dabbling after work. How insulting.’

  ‘But you’re not going to do that! Get on with it, Dani, you have a talent, don’t waste it,’ said Jason quietly. ‘You needed to hear that from someone who knows. Not me, not your mother, not even Greta. Someone who knows,’ he repeated.

  Dani was subdued but not convinced. ‘I think you’re arrogant and you took a dreadful liberty with my work. You intruded on my privacy.’

  ‘Okay, I apologise,’ he gestured with both hands upward. ‘But you wouldn’t have let me if I had asked. I could hear you saying you’re not ready. One is never ready to be judged. How do we ever know when we have it right? We just have to get on and do it, no matter what. Do you think Birimbal would have happened if I’d waited till I thought everyone would welcome it and see what I saw and think it was terrific? I just had to go for it.’ He spoke fast and with feeling. Then suddenly he reached out and pulled Dani to him and kissed her hard and passionately.

  For an instant she resisted. Then she clutched him wildly, kissing him with an uncontrollable release of pent-up feelings. It felt as though a torrent of old sensations were being flushed from her body. Old pains, fears and excuses left her and as she drew back, shocked and speechless, she was aware of the creeping shoots of something new feeling their way into the emptiness.

  They looked at each other in silence, their eyes saying it all.

  ‘Mum, Mum, what’s up?’ Tim trotted towards them, sensing his mother was crying and being comforted by Jason. He reined the pony to a halt and stared at them utterly puzzled.

  ‘It’s all right, Tim, I was just telling your mum I think she’s a brilliant artist and I love her very much.’

  ‘Oh, is that all,’ said Tim. And turned the pony away. ‘Can I jump the creek now?’

  Without waiting for permission he broke into a canter, headed to the narrow part of the stream, leaned close and urged Blackie to leap over the strip of bubbling water, losing his balance slightly as the pony landed and sprinted forward. Tim righted himself in the saddle and let out a whoop of delight.

  Dani gave a little gasp, then a smile of relief as Tim competently swung the pony into a wide arc. She turned to Jason. ‘This is all your fault, you know.’

  ‘Probably is,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But hey, we’re all flying now.’ And as Tim pushed the pony into a gallop up the rise, he took Dani in his arms, gently and tenderly, and kissed her again.

  Jason and Dani were having lunch at the Nostalgia Cafe, oblivious to the nudges and smiles of Claude and George who kept popping out to check on ‘the lovebirds’.

  ‘They just look so right together,’ sighed Claude. ‘They’re so into each other, both so bright and clever.’

  ‘They just look happy. ‘I never liked that Ginny. Dani and Jason look comfortable together,’ summed up George. ‘Send them out some of that raspberry slice you made.’

  Jason and Dani clinked their wine glasses, and smiled.

  ‘So when are you going to Sydney?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Jeff arrives on Thursday to stay through the weekend for Tim’s riding event. I’ll stay with Mum and drive down early Friday morning.

  ‘Would you mind if I came too? I’ve been putting off some business things in Sydney. I’d like to take you to a flash restaurant, maybe a show.’

  ‘That’d be great!’ said Dani promptly.

  ‘I was thinking of seafood, down by the harbour. What else are you doing?’

  ‘I have the last pages of Isabella’s story from Garth. So sad. I want to see if I can find her grave.’

  ‘What did happen to her?’ asked Jason who was now as swept up in Isabella’s story as Dani.

  ‘She got ill in gaol. Her property was sold out from under her very cheaply. Eventually – as usual she had to fight – the court awarded her one thousand pounds compensation for wrongful imprisonment.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like much considering her losses,’ commented Jason.

  ‘She estimated she lost a minimum of ten thousand pounds plus her health and a lot of land. When she got part payment she went back to England to seek medical help. But it didn’t do much for her. She had bad asthma and had to ask John Dunmore Lang to get the rest of the settlement sent to her. She eventually came back to Sydney, still ill, and I like to think she was hoping to come back to the valley,’ said Dani. ‘In letters she mentions that she kept a journal which she wanted to give to Charles Dickens, have him turn it into a novel.’

  Jason whistled softly in dismay. ‘Wow. What a shame that’s been lost. Well, at least we think you have her writing box. Maybe it has a secret drawer and you’ll find it. Did she ever get back here?’

  ‘She stayed in Sydney. There was another petition to the court years later to get her another thousand pounds, but it was roundly defeated.’

  ‘So she lived in penury in Sydney. How sad,’ said Jason. ‘After all she’d achieved.’

  ‘She was cared for by a Catholic institution and although she lived her last years in poverty there was a paid ad in the Herald giving details of her funeral. So she must have put money aside for her funeral at some stage.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can find out then,’ said Jason.

  Dani smiled inwardly at the ‘we’. It now seemed the most natural thing in the world to be doing things together.

  In Sydney Dani saw old friends who exclaimed how happy she looked, how she’d blossomed. And sounded a little envious as Dani described her new life of freedom and fulfilment in the valley.

  ‘Of course, she has a rich boyfriend – that must make life easy,’ commented one, unaware of the journey Dani had taken.

  ‘I’d like to downshift, give up this materialistic rat race – if I was brave enough to do it,’ sighed another.

  Dani and Jason stayed at the elegant Observatory Hotel in the Rocks at his insistence and took joy in discovering each other. Their bodies, their thoughts, their tastes, their habits and humour became familiar and precious to each other. They wandered hand-in-hand around the city, sharing favourite places. He took her to meet his mother, still living in their big family home overlooking the harbour. They went to Lara’s house, pleased to report back the garden was being well looked after.

  ‘The girl who’s been renting my little place at Paddington is moving back to Melbourne. I think I’ll sell it,’ said Dan
i. ‘The valley is home now.’

  ‘I sold my apartment some time back,’ confessed Jason. ‘When I broke up with Ginny.’

  And so there was only one task left and, on a cool, blustery day, they drove to what in Isabella’s day was known as the Necropolis, now Rookwood cemetery. They had the record of Isabella’s burial on 25 June 1872 and a vague location of her grave. They took a section each, wandering between the rows of graves, many well-tended, others marked by chipped concrete angels, great slabs of marble with fading inscriptions and rusting iron fences around long forgotten plots. But there was not a marker nor an indication of where Isabella Mary Kelly had finally come to rest.

  Jason dropped his arm around Dani’s shoulders. ‘If she had no relatives, no one would have tended her grave, it might have fallen into disrepair and eventually been covered over with another grave,’ he said softly.

  ‘It’s so sad. I suppose there was a priest here to conduct the service. But I wonder if anyone came to say farewell to her,’ said Dani.

  ‘Independent to the end,’ said Jason.

  Dani turned away, tears in her eyes. ‘Stubborn, opinionated, feisty, a fighter. How lonely she must have been. At least the valley gave her joy.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it did. And it’s a special place for us too, Dani.’

  His arm tightened round her shoulder and he drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her as the wind soughed between the graves. Jason dropped his head to Dani’s hair and murmured, ‘Dani, will you marry me? Make the valley home, together?’

  Dani lifted her head and gazed at him but before she could answer he kissed her. She finally drew apart and smiled up at him. ‘That’s a yes. Oh, yes.’

  Linking arms they retraced their steps as pale sunlight shone over the ghostly surrounds.

  ‘Jase . . .’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart?’

  ‘I will never let our children forget that you proposed in a cemetery.’

  ‘I think Tim will get a bit of a laugh out of it,’ replied Jason.

  Their laughter warmed the cold day and the place where a lonely woman from the valley had been laid to rest but was now no longer forgotten.