Jack Manning.
Sneezing, she sat at the writing desk and ran a finger across the cracked surface. It was purchased from Anthony Horden’s mail-order catalogue in the summer of 1924, and remained unused. Inside one of the drawers sat a tub of unopened furniture wax, a stubby pencil and . . . the coin was cool beneath the pad of her fingers. Fishing it out, Cora rubbed the metal on her moleskins. There he was, Waverly No. 4, Mr Purcell’s prize merino stud ram rendered for posterity in metal in a swirl of horn and woolly growth.
Flicking the shilling coin high in the air, Cora caught it with a determined swipe. In spite of everything, there were some good parts in the weather-beaten chronicle that was her life. Some.
Chapter 8
The Queen’s Club, Sydney, 1923
Olive and her mother were already seated in the dining room of the Queen’s Club when Henrietta appeared in a waistless crepe chiffon gown of palest blue. The waiter escorted her with the minimum of fuss to their corner table overlooking Hyde Park.
‘Gracious, Henrietta,’ their mother exclaimed, ‘late again.’ Nevertheless she nodded approval at Henrietta’s pearl necklace, the longest strand of which reached to her waist.
‘Well, you do persist in dragging us to your Club, Mother, when there are any number of fashionable eating houses.’ Henrietta glanced around the damask- and crystal-burdened room, nodding to a number of older matrons who had their own daughters and daughters-in-law in tow.
‘Even if they had not closed the tea room at the Queen Victoria Building we would still be ensconced here,’ Mrs Peters argued as a waiter draped heavily starched napkins across their laps. ‘This is fast becoming the most fashionable place in Sydney. Besides, membership is very restricted.’ She flicked open the menu.
‘The modern set spends the midday hour in mixed company.’ Henrietta retrieved an ivory fan from her purse and began wafting it about. ‘This club has only been opened for a few years and already I can feel myself becoming crusty,’ she whispered behind her fan to Olive.
A waiter hovered close by and poured water into stemmed glasses.
Mrs Peters addressed the waiter smoothly. ‘Steamed snapper with parsley sauce, cabbage and mashed swede and –’ the menu was subjected to a final withering gaze ‘– walnut trifle for dessert.’
‘For everyone, madam?’ the waiter enquired.
‘Everyone,’ Mrs Peters confirmed, closing the menu with a decisive snap.
Olive stifled a giggle: Henrietta detested parsley sauce and cabbage.
‘Marjorie Madgewick was telling me last night that the new Parisian designer, Coco Chanel, caused quite a sensation recently. It would appear tans are now de rigeur.’ Henrietta enjoyed being at the forefront of knowledge.
‘No, really?’ Olive was intrigued. Madame Chanel had the European set wearing jersey men’s-style jackets and bell-bottom trousers.
‘It’s true,’ Henrietta enthused. ‘Apparently she was horribly burnt while on holidays and, voila, suddenly brown skin is in fashion.’
‘How appalling,’ Mrs Peters lamented. ‘I myself will never understand the interest you girls have in the European set. Why, it was only a handful of years ago that they were blowing everyone up over there – including our own countrymen.’
As their fish arrived the business of eating took over. Olive looked at the sunken-eyed fish laid out like a sacrificial offering and wished for veal cutlets and spaghetti. This dish, like so many things redolent of their life in North Sydney, had been condemned to history, as had the unfortunate inhabitants dwelling in the path of the great bridge construction. She had long since learnt not to argue. Patience and agreeability were now Olive’s greatest virtues, especially as nearly four months had passed since Jack’s departure. His absence left a gap in Olive’s daily life too large to fill.
Mrs Peters chewed. ‘Tasty, is it not?’
Olive’s cabbage was well boiled and the parsley sauce was concocted of such finely chopped amounts of the plant she could hardly complain. She gave the expected smile, receiving a nod of approval from her mother. She missed Jack’s company. He wasn’t as reserved as the young men Olive now mixed with and his conversation was never limited to the polite chitchat that centred on boring financial or legal institutions.
Henrietta poked uninterestedly at her food. ‘So, you’ve been behaving yourself, little sister?’
‘She’s been out with the Gees twice this month. Their son Archy is –’
‘Boring,’ Henrietta interrupted. ‘Haven’t you seen Martin Woodward? He’s dreamy.’
Olive brightened. ‘Well, I met him –’
‘He’s sailing to Great Britain in the New Year,’ Mrs Peters interrupted. ‘Apparently he hopes to continue on to Cairo to see Lord Carnarvon’s discovery.’
‘They opened the burial chamber belonging to the boy king Tutankhamun, Henrietta,’ Olive began excitedly. ‘Buried treasure in this day. Isn’t it amazing? How I would love to do something as thrilling as travel and adventuring.’
‘Anyway, you can forget the Woodwards, young lady. The wealth isn’t there. Your sister has set high standards.’
Henrietta Eton was very much the wealthy wedded woman. In the short month since her marriage she had become something of a benefactor to a number of less fortunate women with some musical ability.
‘I did ask, Mother, if Mrs Eton senior could source someone suitable for your household. I suggested even a housekeeper would suffice, but things haven’t improved, staffing wise. There has been a massive decline in the number of those in service since the war.’
‘Tell me something new, Henrietta.’ Mrs Peters sniffed. It was a matter of contention between mother and daughter that Henrietta should have three servants by December and Mrs Peters still made do with one. ‘How people in the classes can get uppity and choose not to follow a profession required by many of us is beyond me.’
The arrival of the trifle, wobbling unceremoniously on gold-ringed plates, was a pleasant distraction. A great spoonful of cream was arranged indulgently on her plate. Her mother excused herself and went to the powder room.
‘Are you happy?’ Olive asked her sister. ‘Aren’t you bored?’
Henrietta laughed. ‘Lack of work is something our class aspires to, Olive. It leaves those of us fortunate enough to be born into a life of privilege free to pursue other interests. You’re still not thinking of employment? You know neither Father nor Mother would allow it, and the Etons’ tolerance for such inclinations is non-existent.’
‘So, you’d see me bundled off to the wealthiest man I could nab, with the prospect of idleness as a future?’
Henrietta played with the cream around the trifle, her round diamond and sapphire ring glinting beneath the electric light of the chandelier. ‘What a ridiculous attitude you have towards life, Olive.’
‘It is my life, Henrietta,’ she reminded her sister. ‘I should be able to choose how I live it. The world is changing yet you seem stuck in the past.’
Henrietta set her spoon down. ‘Maybe I like the past; the security, the comfort of it. You’re quick to judge, but how do you think you would fare if you were left to your own devices to clothe, feed and shelter yourself?’
‘And what would you say if I told you I’d formed a liaison with a land owner?’ Olive took a sip of water, the time allowing her to gauge her sister’s reaction. Henrietta’s demeanour improved considerably. ‘This land was built on the sheep’s back, by men such as Kidman and Gordon. Everyone knows that’s where the true money in this country lies.’
‘Good heavens.’ Henrietta’s perfectly coiffured bob shook with excitement. ‘Haven’t you been busy! And who is this wealthy squatter? Certainly there are few in my circle.’
‘You wouldn’t know him, Henrietta, but when we marry it will be for love, and I hope to be involved in the running of his business. It will be the absolute most.’
‘I thought you’d forgotten about your silly notions of romantic love, Olive,’ Henrietta replied i
n a clipped tone. ‘You’ll come to realise that these aspirations you and your young friends harbour may seem quite modern, however the realities of life outweigh the emotional. Still, if the gentleman in question has money our parents can hardly disagree to the union, especially if the wool clip is large. Your friend will be requiring financial advances and our brothers are well positioned in the money market to afford such a service. The Etons have superlative contacts so he’ll be welcomed into the fold. That’s how dynasties are forged through marriage. You must purchase a house nearby for the coming season. Oh, you and I will be quite the pair. Well done, Olive. I believe your coming nuptials will eclipse even mine!’
Olive gave a choked reply. How one sentence could be so construed quite flabbergasted her.
‘I thought Jack Manning would soon fade from view,’ Henrietta continued. ‘Of course it’s terribly difficult for young women of means these days. The magazines and papers daily describe the 1920s as a period of change and everyone talks about the modern woman and her ideals – that romance and romantic appeal are far more important than class distinction. It’s all rubbish. But, my dear sister, if you achieve both love and wealth while satisfying your penchant for remaining active, well, you will be quite the example of female possibility.’
It was exactly the reinforcement Olive required as her time apart from Jack grew longer. He was the type of man the modern girl clamoured for: a handsome adventurer who lived his life according to his own terms. Maybe Henrietta was correct. Perhaps her Jack would become all her worldly sister imagined.
‘Shopping time,’ Mrs Peters announced, rubbing her gloved hands together. ‘On the account, thank you, Mathews.’ She tipped the head waiter a shilling.
Olive whispered fiercely in her sister’s ear, ‘Not a word.’
The afternoon passed in a blur of chiffon, voile, silk and printed rayons. If there was one thing Olive’s mother was born to do it was shop, and she could argue with the best of them when it came to quality and price. While the general populace worried about increasing food prices, for Mrs Reginald Peters money was no object. Her grosgrain ribbon-tied boxes screamed new money.
It was dusk by the time they returned to Rose Bay, the heady scent of jasmine following them up the pavement and into the single-storey building. The house with its cream stucco finish, wrought-iron window grilles and arched porch was in a relatively new style known as Spanish-American, and her mother’s latest concern was the sudden interest in such buildings. God forbid everyone should end up having a house similar to theirs.
Once in her bedroom Olive dumped her shopping on the bed and sat lengthways on the wide windowsill, breathing in the fresh sea air. Her world was so different on this side of the harbour. Every part of her life was changed and in some respects it was for the better. Everyone was happier, more settled. With her brothers barely home, Olive assumed a more central role in daily life. It was as if her parents finally took note of her existence. Apart from lectures on the importance of marrying within one’s class, and the necessity of shared values – and, by extension, affluence – it was actually now quite fun to be in her mother’s company. She had become surprisingly tolerant of her modern values. And when her father wasn’t at his Club he regaled them with tidbits of social scandal and business acumen that set them all to laughing for hours on end. How much more difficult this made Olive’s current scenario. None of them were aware of her imminent desertion – a looming event, and one that she pinched herself about on occasion.
The breeze stirred the lace voile curtains. Taking a last sniff of jasmine- and salt-scented air, Olive selected a floral perfume from her dresser and spritzed the nape of her neck. Jack’s last letter explained that Thomas and May had closed up the shop and that Thomas would contact her in a fortnight to advise her of their anticipated travel date, and the boarding house on the North Shore from which he would collect her. Not a word was to be said to anyone. Olive was to slip out the front door and leave her family behind without a goodbye. It was best that way, Jack wrote, it was the only way. Olive thought of Jack’s constant letters, a swell of guilt hounding her thoughts. She did write back, yet her life seemed so inconsequential in comparison to his that she rarely went beyond a page. While she’d wavered over leaving her family, Jack continued to write of his experiences, of the countryside, of his unfailing desire for Olive to join him as soon as possible. He made everything sound so tremendously exciting and romantic.
The noise of her father’s six cylinder sounded in the driveway and then the front door slammed. Olive could smell kidney being sautéed as she walked swiftly down the hall and greeted her father. She took up her usual pre-dinner position in a chair directly opposite the fireplace. Her father stood at the mantelpiece and her mother handed him a brandy. She could do this, Olive told herself sternly. She would do it. Women were capable of living extraordinary lives, romantic lives; even if she were a little afraid.
‘Oh, Reginald, our first of the season.’ Mrs Peters picked up a green and silver card from the mantelpiece and waved it in the air. ‘I love Christmas. It’s just so festive.’
Her father sat down in his armchair, shook open a newspaper and frowned. ‘Hmm, it’s a good month away.’
Christmas remained one of Olive’s most favourite times of the year. For a moment she wished she hadn’t agreed to leave Sydney before the holiday season.
‘Another squatter has filed for bankruptcy. Smaller holdings, following the resumptions late last century, and increased taxes have not helped the landed, and the Country Party still hasn’t quite enough weight to assist.’
‘What party is that, Father?’ Olive enquired, although her thoughts turned to presents.
‘It was formed to improve the status of graziers and small farmers, and to secure subsidies, however wool isn’t the growing centre of economic activity that it once was.’
‘Oh, but there’s money to be made from sheep, everyone knows that,’ Olive insisted.
Her father peered over the top of the paper.
‘If you are the owner or investor, Olive,’ he corrected. ‘For the rest it’s slab huts, flies and toil.’
‘The outback always looks so much better in oil,’ Mrs Peters offered. ‘Tom Roberts really has an artist’s eye for the romantic.’
Olive squirmed in the horsehair armchair. Staying on for Christmas seemed a remarkably good idea. ‘What’s a slab hut?’
Her father folded the newspaper, resting it across his knee. ‘My dear girl, you really don’t want to know.’
Chapter 9
Absolution Creek, 1965
Cora was on the left wing of the sheep. Horse ambled through a stand of box trees, the winter-dried canopy of leaves rustling like paper. Her breath came out in white puffs as she squeezed her chilled fingers clad in leather gloves. Meg’s response, received in the mail a fortnight ago, was totally unexpected.
Dear Aunt Cora, the letter had begun and was followed by the usual pleasantries. Cora could still see the words excited and delighted on the lined paper, even though the letter itself was now ash in her fireplace. It was the next paragraph that almost made Cora withdraw her offer.
We would absolutely love to move to the country. I say ‘we’ because I am actually married with twin girls. My husband, Sam, is a mechanic, and I’m sure on such a large property there would be any number of vehicles that would require his attention. As for our children, they will be ready for primary school next year and would hardly be a bother in your large homestead. I know my married state is probably unexpected news, however . . .
A male in her house and two young children – hardly the arrangement she was hoping for. The dialogue went on for another paragraph before Meg’s closing statement.
You were right about Mother. She is against the idea. As a mother myself I can understand her concern at my moving so far away to start a new life . . .
The knowledge that Meg’s mother was against her daughter’s move was enough for Cora to send a positive reply.
Sometimes even the best plans went slightly askew, although she had to admit she was annoyed with Meg. The girl could only be in her early twenties. What was she doing with her life? With a sigh Cora looked across to the adjoining paddock.
Through the fence the rams grazed into the easterly wind, heads down in an arrow formation. Having fulfilled their yearly duties they were pleased to be free of their demanding harem. Not one looked up from the grass as the ewes passed, except for Montgomery 201. Absolution’s prize stud ram stood apart from the rest of the mob on a slight rise, head high, his nostrils sniffing the wind. Cantering to the fence on Horse, Cora looked across at the great animal. A descendant of Waverly No. 4, he was pure perfection. Big framed with soft rolling skin – an almost perfect staple in terms of length, colour and strength – he also had a propensity towards siring twins. His genetics were already evident having improved Absolution’s flock and wool clip in the three years since his purchase.
‘How are you going, Montgomery?’ she said as Horse gave an unfriendly snort.
The ram reciprocated with a haughty stare, lifted his front hoof and gave a single strike to the ground before walking away.
‘Good to see your temperament hasn’t changed.’ Horse gave a whinny in agreement. ‘Worth the money, don’t you think?’ Cora doubted her ride would agree. Horse and Montgomery had a strained relationship that extended back to Montgomery’s first day on the property. Horse had lifted the wooden latch at the yards to sneak a mouthful of Montgomery’s lucerne hay and had quickly found himself on the end of a charging ram. By the time Cora reached the yards to investigate the ruckus, the lucerne was trampled into the dirt, Montgomery was standing sentry next to it and Horse was high-tailing it through the scrub. ‘Come on, Horse, let’s go.’
Horse managed a quick two-step over a rotting log and made a beeline for Tripod. Clearly he was in one of his moods today, more interested in irritating the dogs than keeping up his pace. When the three-legged musterer slowed, Horse nosed him in his bottom, which led to Tripod barking and snapping.
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