by C. Fonseca
Alexa raised an eyebrow. “A hint to what?”
“A clue to why my aunt had them in China,” Eleanor said. “She’d written in her notebook that she intended to bring them here, to the Library. But she didn’t say why.”
“If you’re prepared to leave these in our care for the time being, we’ll investigate and compile a full report of our findings.” Alexa was at pains to reassure Eleanor that she understood how important her deceased aunt’s slides were to her family. “I can assure you we follow the strictest handling and documentation procedures. They will first go into Quarantine, then on to Preservation.”
Eleanor slumped back in her chair. “I suppose that’s fine. Sounds like you’ve got a plan.” There was a hint of a smile as she spoke, “I expect next time, I’ll be meeting with Katherine?”
Not if I can help it. Alexa eyed the dragon box eagerly but was careful to keep her voice controlled. “We’ll see how it goes,” she said smoothly, getting to her feet. “Katherine has so many meetings these days, you may have to make do with me.” Katherine had assigned her this project today, and Alexa would fight tooth and nail to secure it. The Norlane and Bolton stamp on the envelope could very well mean the slides were connected to one of the Library’s significant collections. The Lehmann Collection included such detailed images depicting life during the Victorian gold rush, and Alexa buzzed with excitement at the thought of having new material to investigate. On days like this, Alexa really did love her job. She held out her hand.
“Working with you will be just fine,” Eleanor said. With a handshake faster than the speed of light, Eleanor’s fingers brushed Alexa’s, leaving a trail of sparks that had Alexa wondering if Eleanor also felt them.
“Good, then I’ll see you soon.” Alexa put her hand to her mouth to hide her silly grin.
Chapter 5
Red lantern
Eleanor opened the heavy oak front door and could tell that her mother was not home by the wall of sound that greeted her. Ear-piercing music. She smiled fondly at the thought of her father enjoying his favourite bands at full volume while he had the house to himself.
She dropped her jacket and bag into a winged armchair near the cedar staircase and headed past the dining room to the study. A few hours ago, Eleanor had left the house a bundle of nerves, but Alexa Bellamy had put her at ease with her professionalism. And, damn it, the pictorial historian had a killer smile. Eleanor rolled her eyes at the direction her mind was travelling.
Knocking on the study’s half-closed door was pointless; there was no way her father would hear her with the sounds of Australian ’60s beat music blaring through his fancy sound system. Even so, she rapped loudly out of habit—after all, this was his sanctum.
She pushed through the door, expecting to find her father sitting behind his mahogany desk. A stack of open books lay across the desk’s leather topped surface, but the high-back rolling chair was empty. Over the din, she could hear a sharp tap-tap-tapping. “Dad? Dad, where are you?”
The music suddenly stopped. “Nell, is that you?”
She peered around the carved screen into the alcove where her father stored his cherished collection of records and audio equipment. “Oh, you’re in here. Are you okay?”
He laughed. “Yes, of course. I’m fine.”
“Really? Because that music was so loud it could burst my eardrums.”
He gave her a beaming smile and chuckled.
“Why are you laughing?” She couldn’t help but smile; it was good to see him more like his old self.
Her father picked up the ebony cane that lay beside him and tapped it on the wooden floorboards. “Because I’m happy to see my darling daughter, and I believe you meant that as a joke?” He ambled towards his desk.
She leaned towards him and laid an affectionate kiss on his unshaven cheek. “Is Mum home?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
“Obviously not.” He steadied himself, resting a hand on the desk before slowly sitting down. “It’s another late evening at the office.”
“Again?” Eleanor grumbled. She shook her head and moved to the window seat overlooking the garden.
Rays of evening light fell across the stone wall surrounding an azure swimming pool. She never tired of her parents’ stunning garden. Today it was filled with the brilliant colours and sweet fragrances of early spring. Eleanor gazed at the vanilla-scented wisteria, still in bud, scrambling along the pool house.
As the days grew longer and warmer, she’d be able to savour the blush-pink blooms and heady citrus perfume of the daphne bushes, which, along with the wisteria’s aroma would float in the breeze and tease her senses. This was her favourite time of year in Melbourne, before it got too hot.
“Don’t be hard on your mother, Nell. She lost almost two whole weeks’ work sitting by my bedside in the hospital, and now the two of you are waiting on me hand and foot since I came home,” he said. “It’s not Sarah’s fault I can’t pull my weight at the firm. There’s a lot going on.”
“I know, Dad, but you’ve had a triple bypass.”
“Sarah was here when I most needed her and so was your brother. And then you came back. I’m a lucky man.” He blew her a kiss across the table.
Eleanor feigned catching it and pressed it to her forehead, but she was still sceptical that her mother couldn’t make at least a little more time for her family.
“You know your mother’s doing what’s necessary for our clients, and for us. Anyway, Joel is around here somewhere. Thanks to you, I can ring for help on this gadget.” He pointed to the smartwatch she’d bought him when he’d flatly refused to wear a MediAlert pendant around his neck. “Had a visit from the doctor today, and he’s pleased with my progress.”
“That’s great, Dad. Really good news.” Eleanor gazed upward, thanking whomever was watching over her father, and the medical staff who’d saved his life. He’d had a tough two days last week before his medication had been adjusted. Even her mother had stayed home.
“Okay. That’s enough about me.” He shifted about in his chair until he was comfortable. “I want to hear all about your trip to see Katherine. Did she shed any light on Helen’s treasures?”
“Unfortunately, she couldn’t meet me.”
“Oh? That was a waste of your time.”
“Far from it, Dad. I ended up having a pretty good afternoon.” Eleanor briefly closed her eyes. “Where do I start? You know I always loved spending time at the library, but honestly, with all the renovations, it’s even more extraordinary.” She leaned forward and launched into what had transpired that afternoon. “I was on the edge of my seat when Alexa, err… Ms Bellamy, lifted the red velvet lining with nifty little tweezers and exposed a secret compartment.” Eleanor took a quick gulp of air. “Can you believe it? There was a really old print hidden inside, in nearly perfect condition!”
Her father chuckled. “Tell me more.”
Eleanor continued to explain nearly every aspect of her visit, only omitting how much Alexa Bellamy had captured her attention.
“Well, Ms Bellamy seems to have made a good impression on you. Does she think the images are of historical significance?”
“Yes, she does.” Eleanor grinned at her father. “I’d say she definitely took a keen interest. It seems they were the work of Australian photographers in the 1870s. Alexa had no explanation for why they were in China, but I left them with the library for further investigation.”
“That’s probably for the best. I was hoping they’d be able to tell us at least something about why Helen had them. I trust they’ll keep us informed?”
“They have thorough procedures and policies. It may take some time, but I’m reasonably satisfied that Ms Bellamy is proficient in her job and will keep us in the loop.” Eleanor reached into her back pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to her father. “Here, you’ll want to che
ck this out. It’s the temporary loan documentation.”
“Good, I’ll look at it after dinner.” He rubbed his forehead and slumped slightly in the chair. “Thank you for making time for this. I’m so glad you’re home.” Eleanor was surprised to see that tears threatened at the corner of his eyes.
She gazed at her father with concern. Usually stoic, the illness had changed him. Softened him, somehow. Away from the firm, he’d lost the tough corporate image. She’d always been his little Nell, but now the fierce need to protect him brought tears to her own eyes.
“So am I,” she whispered.
Her father cleared his throat.
A thick hard-covered book lay at the corner of his desk beside a copy of Eleanor’s recent publication, and he pulled Aunt Helen’s book towards him, holding it against his chest. “Helen would have turned sixty-five this Christmas. Being seven years older, and a selfish prat, I didn’t have much time for her when she was growing up,” he said sadly, placing the book back on the desk. “I remember a little red-headed whippersnapper with pigtails who complained about being born on Christmas Day.” He laughed quietly. “She carried that Kodak Instamatic our parents gave her for her eighth birthday everywhere.”
Eleanor leaned across the desk and squeezed her father’s hand. “I wonder what happened to the Instamatic. Helen used to talk a lot about popping in a film cartridge and heading out for a photo shoot as a kid. I know she’d rather have had Grandpa’s Leica camera, though.”
“You’re right, she would have. But he would have never parted with it then. It was his pride and joy.”
Now, the Leica was Eleanor’s pride and joy.
“Unlike me, you inherited his passion for photography.” He tapped his hand on Eleanor’s book. “Your grandfather saw that in you, and it made him happy; after all he gave you his precious camera when he could no longer use it. Helen and your grandfather would be proud of you.”
Eleanor lifted her aunt’s book off the desk. Published posthumously in 2009, it represented her life’s work as a documentary photographer. The weight felt good in her hands. Real. It was a constant inspiration for Eleanor and a tangible link to Helen.
She flicked through the pages until she found what she was looking for, the photograph of Helen with her arm firmly around Eleanor’s shoulder. Along with two hundred thousand campaigners, they were in Edinburgh, Scotland on part of the Long Walk for Justice. Trailing Helen as she covered the 2005 G8 Rally against poverty had been an incredible experience and one Eleanor would never forget.
“That’s a cracker of a photo, isn’t it?” Undisguised pride shone in her father’s eyes. “Wasn’t it the first time you went on assignment with Helen?”
Eleanor smiled, tracing her finger over the black and white photograph. “Just as her shadow, really. It was a frenetic few days chasing after Helen and her journo friends as they covered the many events amongst the huge crowds of people,” she said. “It was exhausting and scary at times, but I loved it, and definitely earned my dram of whiskey every night. I learnt so much from Helen. She was an expert at contrasting stillness and motion—isolating her subject in a crowd.” Eleanor closed the book, gently placing it on the desk, and rested her cheek in her hand.
“Will you be in for dinner, sweetheart?” Her father laid his hand on her forearm.
She lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Yes. If that’s okay. Are you expecting Mum?”
“Afraid it will be just the two of us tonight. Sarah’s tied up with a civil proceeding rising out of a regulatory investigation. As I said, she’ll be having a late night.”
“Okay then.” Eleanor shrugged, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. What else was new? “Would you like me to cook you something?”
“I believe Joel has everything under control.” Her father clutched his chest. “A man in my condition must be careful.”
She laughed. “I know how to open a can of baked beans.”
“Please pour yourself a whiskey. Unfortunately, I can’t have one.” He sighed dramatically.
She appreciated his self-mocking humour and winked. “I couldn’t, Dad.”
“Why not? I’ll sit here and sulk.” He grinned. “Go on. The Balvenie Tun was a gift from a satisfied customer. Someone may as well enjoy it.”
“It would taste a lot better if you’d join me. So, let’s wait until you can,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ll take my gear to the studio and freshen up and change. But you can tempt me with a glass of wine at dinner.” She tapped her watch and feigned a royal accent. “What time do we dine, Father?”
“Seven thirty. And there’s no need to talk posh.” He slipped his fingers around hers and squeezed lightly. “I hope you have enough room in the studio. I expect you are more comfortable there, out of Sarah’s way.”
She swallowed her irritation and ignored his reference to her absent mother. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dad. You saw my digs in London; I shared the same amount of space with three others. I love the studio, especially with the darkroom set-up, and it’s so peaceful.”
“If you change your mind, there’s plenty of room inside this commodious pile.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said. “It’s perfect.” And it was. Eleanor hummed happily to herself.
The studio apartment at the rear of her parents’ estate was a sanctuary. At thirty-six, having lived independently for years, Eleanor really appreciated having her own space.
“Off you go. You have about half an hour before we are summoned to dinner.” He extracted a remote control device from his cardigan pocket. “Ellington or Bach?” He pressed a button on the remote, and the room was filled with the richly textured sounds of jazz. “Easy choice,” he called after her.
Eleanor blew her father a kiss and skipped out of the room. She grabbed her belongings and took a shortcut through the living room onto the patio and across the inner courtyard to the studio. She removed her camera from the rucksack and took the stairs two at a time to the first-floor bedroom.
Eleanor was relieved her father appeared happy she’d left Helen’s slides in the care of Alexa and the library. During their meeting, she’d been impressed by the professionalism of the photo archivist, librarian, and historian. But just in case her judgement had been impaired by Alexa’s charm, she wanted to check Alexa’s qualifications. The slides were too important to her to be left in the care of someone who wouldn’t look after them properly.
It took all of sixty seconds to sit at the desk, power up her laptop, and type, Alexa Bellamy, State Library Victoria into the search engine. As she scrolled the webpage listing Alexa’s university achievements, academic papers, and the library’s in-house videos, Eleanor’s admiration only grew. “Alexa Bellamy.” She smiled. “I like that name; it kinda rolls off the tongue.”
Chapter 6
All green
The peter…peter…peter of a Jacky Winter bird—calling from where it clung to a low branch of iridescent yellow, flowering gum—caught Alexa’s attention. The small grey-brown flycatcher was swinging its tail from side to side, probably looking for a mate.
She raised her coffee mug. Alexa hoped the little bird had better luck with relationships than she did. He deserved success because, unlike Alexa, he was putting in a lot of effort with his song and dance routine.
Light poured through the open French-styled doors of the 1850s miner’s cottage. Reclining in her favourite wicker chair with her laptop balanced on her knees, Alexa picked up the thick slice of toasted sourdough baguette from her plate on the side table, sinking her teeth into the chewy, tender centre and creamy, locally cultured butter. The rays of sun were warm against her legs, bare below the mid-thigh hem of her cargo shorts, tempting notions of gardening and planting those punnets of heritage tomato seedlings she’d brought with her.
She’d arrived at the cottage late yesterday evening, parked her car in the carport just in case it rained, unpac
ked, and gone straight to bed.
This morning, she’d woken up with the incredibly attractive photographer on her mind. Eleanor had wanted to know about the images—where they were taken, and more importantly, why they were in her aunt’s trunk. Alexa could definitely assist with the first request, but the second was more of a conundrum. Hopefully she and the library resources could help Eleanor shed light on that mystery.
Eleanor had a reserved manner and had given away very little about herself during their brief meeting. It wasn’t just her good looks that piqued Alexa’s interest. She had an air of mystery about her that Alexa just couldn’t help but want to figure out. Although she’d intended to do a quick search online, as was her habit, one web page led to another. Eleanor’s images had featured in prestigious magazines; she’d won several awards; her first book had recently been published. “Wow.” Before Alexa knew it, just one more minute had turned into an hour. You did say you were a photographer. You just left out all the most interesting bits.
Alexa closed her laptop. She yawned, stretched like a lazy cat, pulled herself out of the low chair, and gathered her breakfast dishes, placing them in the sink. She glanced through the open French doors, ready to begin digging in the dirt and nurturing the plants the way her mum used to. Wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt over her tank top, a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, she headed out into the brilliant, mid-morning sunshine.
Alexa strode down the slate path which led to a small red shed, its roof laden with moss, at the end of the cottage garden. She eyed the comfortingly large amount of firewood stockpiled under its eave. The bespoke outbuilding, designed by her mother, held all the implements she’d need to plant the seedlings.
The garden was a chaotic mix of fruit and native trees, shrubs, honeysuckle, salad greens, vegetables, and a vast array of herbs. Her mother had taken a rather higgledy-piggledy approach when she’d planted it, and Alexa treasured every square inch of her legacy. She sighed heavily as she gazed across the small field of lavender where she and her grandmother had scattered Eloise Bellamy’s ashes.