by Di Morrissey
‘That’s the old area that was mined out years ago,’ said Pam.
‘The mines are so close together. People must have had claims lying cheek by jowl.’
‘In the big rush they did. Can you imagine being underground and seeing your neighbour in the dull light, and he finds opal and you don’t? Apparently that’s how it went. Lot of luck involved.’
Pam swung the car up a steep driveway where Kerrie was surprised to see trees and shrubs. As they reached the top of the driveway she caught her breath. ‘Heavens! How amazing. This is some garden.’
‘Give anything enough water and it goes mad in this climate. Ingrid has a massive tank and a drip system so the water doesn’t evaporate. Plants just love it.’
‘I see what you mean about the security,’ said Kerrie as she looked at the chain and padlock fastening the gate of the wire fence that surrounded the garden. Beyond the cultivated garden, on the other side of the fence, Kerrie could see the untouched bare red earth.
A tall fair-haired woman, straw hat on her head, straightened up from among the plants and waved. She smiled as she let the two women in. ‘Welcome, welcome. Pamela. So good to see you. And this is your friend – hello, I am Ingrid.’ She spoke with a strong Scandinavian accent.
Kerrie shook her hand and they gave each other a frank, appraising look.
Ingrid was slender, tanned and very Nordic looking. Kerrie guessed she was probably about sixty and would have been stunning in her youth for she was still beautiful.
‘Thank you, Ingrid. I hope we’re not imposing. I’m so keen to see some of your work. Pam made it sound so interesting.’
‘These days I don’t make as much jewellery as I used to. My garden has become my passion. Look at the produce, Pamela! You must take some with you.’ She led them through the garden and pointed to a small raised terrace with a vine-covered pergola. An iron table and chairs sat in the shade beneath the pergola facing the view. ‘I sit out here and have a glass of wine to watch the sunset and pretend I am in Portofino.’
‘Or Ravello,’ said Kerrie, suddenly thinking of the wonderful time she’d had with Milton when he’d first taken her to Italy.
‘Ah, you know it! I adore Ravello.’
Pamela followed Kerrie and Ingrid into the dugout, and Kerrie paused to admire a small sculpture by the front door.
‘This is lovely. Who did it?’ She touched the rough surface of the clay figure of a child carrying a bird.
‘It’s an experiment. I’m using the local clay. I’ve started making pottery, too.’
‘You’re always making something, Ingrid. Are you going to sell them?’
‘You have a gallery?’ asked Kerrie.
‘Did have. I’ve closed it. It was too hard to keep up with the work. It started to become a job and I became too commercial, so I stopped. It was not what I wanted . . . You know what I mean?’
Kerrie nodded. ‘But you still make jewellery?’
‘Only when I want to and when I have some suitable opals. I’m making some exhibition pieces.’ She smiled. ‘They’re a bit wild.’
The women followed Ingrid into a vestibule lit by a skylight and then, following Ingrid’s lead, slipped off their shoes. The floor had been laid with cool slate tiles, some of them handpainted with unusual patterns.
‘I love your tiles,’ said Kerrie. ‘I suppose you did the artwork, Ingrid.’
The rooms in Ingrid’s dugout were domed, circular and painted pale blue. Everywhere pictures, carvings, wall hangings, books, rugs and ceramics were displayed. Through a beaded curtain, which Ingrid lifted, lay her workshop. Benches and tables were covered with tools, pots, paint and lumps of clay under plastic wrap, which lay next to boxes containing a jumble of not easily identified odds and ends.
‘I do a lot of gold and silver work, but the pottery is interesting me more at the moment,’ she said.
‘You’re so talented, Ingrid,’ said Pam. ‘I wish I had some creative outlet. You and Kerrie have a lot in common. Kerrie’s an artist, too.’
‘I’m just trying to be a painter. Ingrid has many skills. I’d like to see some of your work, if that’s all right?’
‘Look in the cabinets.’ Pam nudged Kerrie.
‘I’ll make us some coffee.’ Ingrid and Pam went to the kitchen as Kerrie stood, awestruck, in front of the glass cabinets.
The cabinets held a display of jewellery unlike anything she’d ever seen before. Strange one-eyed creatures clasped dazzling pieces of opal between their teeth. A necklace was made up of a shining crystal opal held between two dainty paws and suspended from lengths of gold. Bones, fossils, chunks of rocks, leaves, wood and other objects were studded with various coloured opals, some cut and polished, some just glittering from their bed of potch, exactly as they had been dug up. There were solid gold and silver figures, weird-shaped boxes and decorative pieces.
Pam joined her. ‘Pretty stunning stuff, isn’t it.’
‘How does she make these? I love that necklace of golden balls, their texture, and they’re not perfect spheres,’ said Kerrie.
‘Kangaroo droppings. Dipped in eighteen-carat gold,’ said Pam.
‘What? So they are!’ Kerrie laughed aloud. ‘And the little paws holding the opal?’
‘Mice. She uses lizards, frogs, beetles, any wildlife that curls up its toes in her garden.’
Ingrid came back with a pot of coffee and three colourful handmade mugs on a tray. She smiled at Kerrie. ‘My work is amusing, do you think?’
‘That’s a very dramatic necklace,’ said Kerrie, pointing to large circles of opal encased in heavy gold.
‘They’re from a fossilised worm, the inside of which was opalised. So I sliced it into rings of opal. I love fossils. Some of these have come from this area. Have you been to the lake? You must go there.’
‘We’ve arranged that. I’m going with her,’ said Pam.
‘That’s wonderful. You’ll love that. Such a dramatic landscape,’ said Ingrid.
‘Have you met Shirley yet?’
‘Yes, yesterday.’
‘I wonder if she will tell you about Stefan. She tells most people,’ said Ingrid.
‘Stefan was Shirley’s partner,’ explained Pam. ‘It’s a strange, sad story.’
‘What happened?’ asked Kerrie.
‘It would be better if she tells you,’ said Ingrid.
‘I don’t want to pry,’ said Kerrie.
‘Shirley has a lot of interesting stories to tell. Especially about the early days,’ said Ingrid. ‘She was so kind to me when I first came here.’
‘She’s a special lady all right,’ agreed Pam. ‘She might be nearly eighty, but she’s got the energy, humour and smarts of someone much younger.’
‘I’m looking forward to going out to see Opal Lake,’ said Kerrie.
‘Some visitors see only a dried-up lake bed – unless we’ve had unusual rain,’ said Ingrid. ‘But if you see it through an artist’s eyes, a very different world will open up.’ Ingrid smiled at Kerrie as if sharing a secret.
5
THE MORNING SUN HAD yet to warm the ground, cold from the winter’s night. Kerrie climbed the small hill to Shirley’s dugout, enjoying the walk and relishing the crisp clean air and a horizon that stretched for miles. She was looking forward to seeing again this woman who was so warm, humorous and intelligent. How quickly one seemed to make friends out here, she thought. She circled the top road. What an eyrie it was up here, almost fortress like.
As she approached the dugout she heard Shirley call out, ‘Good morning, Kerrie. If you’ve come about the car, Doug’s still looking at it. Would you like to join me for a cup of tea while you wait?’ Shirley, who was sitting by the entrance to the dugout, indicated the chair next to her.
‘Thanks, that would be good. Can I get it?’
‘No, thanks, Kerrie. Enjoy the view. My joints are good this morning, so I’m getting about just fine.’
Kerrie sat back in the sun and looked around her. The town of
Opal Lake was essentially flat but there were some small hills, and Shirley’s place, on Old Tom’s Hill, was high up. From her perch she could see all of the little township below. A blue car came into view, stopping outside the hotel.
When Shirley brought their mugs of tea, she too noticed the blue car down below.
‘That’s Carl, in for his weekly heart starter and to pick up his messages. He mines out past the lake and comes in every Wednesday for a few supplies, his rum and updates from his stockbroker.’
‘Really?’ laughed Kerrie.
‘He worked in a bank for years, took early retirement and invested his super. He’s one of the few people who seems to make money out here. Sells a bit of opal, too.’
‘Does he do well with his opal?’
‘Who’s to say? If he does, he certainly doesn’t spend it on himself. Lives like a bloody bat in a cave, comes out to forage and then retreats. Doesn’t like to socialise, that’s why he comes into town early. A pity he’s such a loner, he’s well educated and we’ve had a few deep discussions over the years. Mainly comes to see me so that he can borrow a few books.’
They drank their tea.
‘What a great spot this is,’ mused Kerrie. ‘If you sat here all day, you could pretty much see what everyone else in Opal Lake is doing.’
‘Only when they’re on the surface,’ said Shirley with a smile. ‘I don’t leave my place, but in the morning I love to sit out here, look around and think. It’s always so peaceful.’
Kerrie glanced at her. ‘Memories, too. I suppose you must have a lot of them.’
Shirley was thoughtful for a moment, then she said, ‘When I was a little girl and came here with my father,
I thought that this was a wonderland. When I came to the opal fields as an adult, I thought I’d landed in a war zone. All those holes and craters in a barren desolate landscape. All the hardship, all those failed dreams.’
‘You see the world differently when you’re a kid.
I suppose everyone sees it from a new perspective at every stage of one’s life. The world certainly looks different to me now,’ said Kerrie.
‘It’s funny how I don’t feel any different on the inside, even though I know time has moved on. I’m still the energetic, passionate young woman I once was, although that person is trapped inside a failing body. Very annoying,’ said Shirley cheerfully. ‘The best I can do to deal with these changes is not to have any mirrors in my dugout.’
‘What were you like as a little girl?’ asked Kerrie. ‘I bet you were a happy child, cheerful and polite, and everybody liked you.’
‘I think I was a bit of a horror. My mother was always very glad to pack me off with my father to the opal fields, Lightning Ridge and, later, out here.’
‘What an adventure that must have been,’ said Kerrie, but before she could ask Shirley more about her childhood, the older woman turned to her.
‘But how about you? You’ve told me that you recently lost your husband. That must have been a terrible thing. Can I ask what happened?’
Kerrie suddenly felt herself choke and she couldn’t speak. Her vision became blurred by tears. When Shirley reached out and took her hand and squeezed it, she couldn’t hold back an uncontrollable sob.
‘It’s all right, Kerrie. It’s good to cry. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.’
‘Oh, Shirley, I’ve had to be strong for everyone else, do everything. There’s been nobody I could talk to . . .’ Her crying stopped her words. And then, suddenly, she began pouring her heart out to Shirley. ‘I loved Milton so much. I miss him so much. I keep going into his studio, expecting to see him. I can’t believe he’s not coming back. We didn’t have long enough together . . . He was so wonderful. I just don’t feel that I want to go on without him. Everything is so . . . empty.’
Shirley nodded and handed Kerrie a tissue from her pocket. ‘There’s an enormous hole in your life now, and you need family and friends who love you, care about you, to help you through this.’
Kerrie dabbed at her eyes, feeling calmer. ‘There isn’t anyone. I’ll just have to move on with my life by myself. But it’s hard. I’m so lonely. I never really realised how much my life revolved around Milton.’
‘It happens. One person can dominate your life forever, even if they are only around for what seems too short a time. I can sympathise, because I also lost the man I loved far too soon.’
‘Did you?’ asked Kerrie, feeling more in control and not at all embarrassed about her sudden breakdown in front of Shirley.
‘We met when I was nursing in Sydney. It’s a long story. Sad and hurtful. But for another time, perhaps.’
Kerrie instantly felt guilty that she had caused Shirley pain. ‘Oh, I’m sorry if I’ve brought back unhappy memories.’
‘They’re always there, below the surface. The hurt, the loss. But it was a long time ago now. Tell me, do you have any children?’
‘No,’ said Kerrie. ‘I don’t.’
Shirley looked at her. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you would.’
‘Milton already had a family from his first marriage and he didn’t want any more. I have three stepdaughters. But they’re a challenge. They’ve never accepted me. The smallish age gap between us hasn’t helped,’ said Kerrie candidly, surprising herself. ‘They’re really not that much younger than I am.’
‘So Milton must have been a lot older than you? Why did you marry an older man? Surely you had lots of handsome young men chasing you.’
‘Milton was more than twenty years older than me. He was so much more mature and sophisticated than all those other young men, who seemed gauche in comparison.’
‘You’ll be a target for them now, I bet. Young, beautiful and available,’ said Shirley with a smile.
‘I’m not looking for a relationship,’ began Kerrie.
‘No, you’re not. Do you have close friends?’
Kerrie shook her head ‘Not really, our friends were more Milton’s friends. I had my mother, but she died not long after Milton’s heart attack. I was always so busy with Milton, his career and his girls that I didn’t need anyone else. Oh, Shirley, he was so talented. All the world knew what a wonderful artist he was and I loved being part of that, too. It was such a privilege.’
‘But no time for you, huh?’
Kerrie’s tension subsided. She smiled. ‘That didn’t matter when I had Milton. He was amazing. You would have enjoyed him, Shirley. He was such a powerful personality, he just swept you along, made you laugh, got you excited about his ideas. He had enthusiasm for everything, from a building to a plate of food. He was generous and loving and passionate about everything. There were no half measures in his life.’
‘He sounds exhausting. Exhilarating maybe, but overwhelming, too,’ said Shirley. ‘But this is the old, wise Shirley talking. The young Shirley would have totally enjoyed being with him. No wonder there’s a big gap in your life, now.’
‘Yes. I’m not sure how to fill it,’ said Kerrie slowly.
‘I hope that taking up my art again might help. If I’m good enough.’
‘It’s not a matter of being good enough,’ said Shirley briskly. ‘It’s doing something you enjoy, and which fulfils you. So tell me more about these stepdaughters. What happened to their mother? Is she around as well?’
‘No. She died when they were quite young. Alia was still a toddler. Milton had a housekeeper for years and she stayed on, even after we were married, because Milton and I travelled so much. He took on commissions all over the world.’
‘So really you’re the only mother that Alia’s ever known? I would have thought that would make the two of you close. But I’m no expert. I’ve never had children – mine, or anyone else’s.’
‘Alia was attached to Wendy, our housekeeper, but she was also influenced by the older girls who didn’t like me coming along . . .’
‘And taking their father’s attention. They stopped being the centre of his world,’ finished Shirley.
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‘I did try hard. I tried to find the balance between laying down rules and being authoritarian and being their friend, but it was very difficult. And I’m afraid they were spoiled by Milton.’
‘And now?’
‘It seems even harder. None of us has Milton to turn to and all of Milton’s estate was left to me, and the girls really resent that, even though they have a lot of money from their mother. And it’s been a mammoth and sad job going through his studio and sorting out his work – some of it has been on loan to galleries throughout the world.
I also have to decide which pieces to sell if the galleries want to retain them, and what the fair price should be. I’m getting conflicting advice from dealers, auction houses and curators. It’s all very confusing, which is why I wanted to get away for a couple of weeks.’
‘I see. Are his girls involved in any of this?’ asked Shirley.
‘No. They were very possessive of his work, and they liked the attention, the openings and the money it generated, but they didn’t really understand it. Milton knew that.’
‘But you did, and you appreciated it,’ said Shirley quietly.
‘I thought he was a genius. Still do. And I was happy to be his administrator, social secretary, wife, you name it,’ said Kerrie. ‘While I had Milton I didn’t care that I didn’t have time for my own art.’
Shirley nodded. ‘But you have time now. And the independence, too, by the sound of it. So go for it.’ Shirley glanced at Kerrie. ‘Just tell me if I’m being a nosey old lady.’
‘No, not at all,’ said Kerrie quickly. ‘Actually it’s nice to talk to someone who’s interested in what I’m doing, and what I feel.’
Shirley reached over and patted her arm. ‘Come and spend some time here in Opal Lake. I think you’ll find a few kindred spirits, as well as an opportunity to work.’
Kerrie felt a sudden rush of gratitude to Shirley with her motherly tone. ‘I just might do that. I like it out here. So many people want me to come again. I feel as though I’ve been drawn here for some reason.’