Our Shadows

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by Gail Jones


  But Frances was also discomposed and entering her private thoughts.

  Here it was again. Indelible as the woman aflame was the memory of Nell sleepwalking at night, roaming in her pyjamas in what had seemed a pure isolation. This image: Nell without will but somehow still instinctively defiant, walking a few steps, then fumbling at the doorknob but finding no way out. Frances would watch from her bed as Nell tried, walked back, her open eyes glassy and moistly vacant, and then tried again. Back and forth, in a meaningless repetition. It was the rattling doorknob that prevented her return to sleep, so Frances rose eventually to calm and guide her sister. She held Nell’s shoulders, and whispered, and helped her back to her bed beneath the wave. The night had seemed huge, the wash of darkness irrepressible, the occulted world enlarging as her vision adjusted.

  It was not that easy, she thought; they were not yet in the clear.

  Night would come soon. The moon’s deadly face, close and delineated. Its high seas clear.

  After the next town, she would park the car by the side of the road and sleep curled in the back seat. She would let her mind drift towards an air pocket, a safe space, in a calm locked somewhere. She would slump into the quiet sorrowing of her sister’s confession and hope to wake refashioned by what each had spoken.

  All of it still here.

  ‘Soon,’ Frances said, wanting to draw closer to her sister. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  85

  She estimated: east of the rabbit-proof fence, with the water pipeline running alongside, seven or so kilometers north of Southern Cross, the town named by gold miners for a constellation. All the streets in the town, she’d heard, were named for stars. After woodlands of mallee and ironstone and granite ridges, after shrubby plains and red open ground, here were sparse wheatfields and barley, stubble after harvest and the green of a new season; here were wire fences, scant homesteads and cultivated land. The colours had changed, and the trees, salmon gums, morrels.

  She was in a dream of driving. Distance and the hours had made her slant and dreamy. She thought of Nell and her need for absolution. She thought of her family, collectively and in single face; they streamed towards her and away as the road slid beneath her. And now she was sifting and recalling her time with Val: her statements from the heart, coming from all points of the southern sky. How she spoke of the stars; how they pulsed in the night as she spoke.

  Now it seemed to Frances that Val travelled beside her. She must listen more, learn more, she must find her way respectfully back. The impression of Val’s voice had remained and she’d been given a change of direction. There had been a promise, a future, that she now daydreamed towards. When they parted, Val had reached out to touch Frances’ cheek. It was the gesture of an elder, the bestowal of a message on skin. As she left, Enid and Val waved fulsomely together. The sky flew behind them, gleaming, as she sped back into her own mind.

  And now there was another question, another thought travelling in the car. The Thai boys, safely rescued, had revived and brought him back. Now, after so much forgetting, Frances remembered the name of the man trapped underground: Modesto Varischetti.

  She had gazed in dark wonder at the illustrations in her reader at school.

  Modesto Varischetti was from Gorno, in Italy. He was a miner who had lost his wife after the birth of their fifth child. The local priest suggested he go to Australia to make money in the gold mines. So the story went.

  Sometime in 1907 he was working underground in Bonnievale, just beyond Coolgardie. A huge thunderstorm hit the area, an unseasonable squall, and 160 men were trapped in the Westralia Mine as water flooded into the shafts. All escaped but one: poor Modesto Varischetti. His fellow miners had given him up for dead, when tapping was heard, human tapping, down below.

  Trapped in an Airpocket! the caption read.

  A steam pump was rushed to the mine but did little to lower the water level. Day after day went by; newspapers named him The Entombed Miner. The name made Frances afraid; the word entombed was new to her then, and terrible.

  It was a seven-year-old boy who suggested the use of deep-sea divers. And so it began: a series of exploratory dives, by two men in diving suits, lowered into the main shaft. The divers were kept alive by an air-hose sent from Fremantle, 560 kilometres away. The pump was set to work, supervised by a mining engineer, Herbert Hoover, a man who their teacher, Sister Teresa, said would become president of the USA.

  True story. President of the USA. Sister Teresa wrote his name in neat script on the blackboard.

  On the sixth day one of the divers, Frank Hughes, located Varischetti on level ten.

  ‘Alive!’

  This was the image that most captivated Frances, the deep-sea diver emerging from water in the tunnel, and Modesto’s expression of amazement and fear. He must have imagined he was hallucinating; the sight of the figure in his diving gear must have been terrifying. Hughes bought a lamp, candles, food and cigarettes. There were letters, too, from Modesto’s older brother Giovanni, who waited anxiously above. Still they were unsure how to bring the miner safely to the surface.

  The rescue looked doomed. The newspapers predicted disaster. The phrase ‘entombed miner’ circulated like smoke.

  On day nine the divers again gave the miner cigarettes and food. They judged him weak and decided he had not much longer to live. They tied a rope around his waist and led and hauled him through the sludgy black water of the mine. Imagine, said Sister Teresa, sometimes submerged, sometimes just his nose and mouth out of the water, sucking desperately at air.

  Nine days. Imagine.

  And she saw him, the ravaged face, the slouch of dying in his body, and in her own mouth was the taste of mud, in own her nose its mucky stench, in her own body she felt the pull of ropes and the panic of revival.

  As a child Frances felt that she knew Varischetti, so earnestly had she imagined his plight. First the darkness and terror and his relegation to live burial, crouched in the tunnel in a stuffy pocket of compressed air. How did he pass those first six days, with just a small headlamp to see by, and that massive aloneness? Then, the stunning advent, the helmet emerging from muddy water. It must have looked like a nightmare, the dripping creature and the entombed miner, trembling and unsure. Behind circular glass, filmed with condensation, he would have seen the pale outlines of a human face. He might have felt he was peering into his own phantom mirror. He might have thought: this is how death comes, as a half-visible face. A surrender. A loss of distinguishing features. And what of the drag through stopes and tunnels; what of the lift by ropes out of the shaft?

  She had also imagined the scene on the surface. She saw his body held in the shape of Christ’s deposition. He was hanging from their arms half-dead, blue-coloured and somehow holy. His face was a mask of mud. His dark eyes were closed. There were the two divers in their monstrous suits; there were the other miners, jigging and rejoicing, and there was the brother, Giovanni, his head in his hands, weeping uncontrollably with joy and disbelief. Leathery miners, unsentimental, tough; they were soft now, expressing a united reprieve.

  Varischetti recovered and resumed underground mining. He died at fifty-seven from fibrosis of the lungs. Frances read somewhere, years later, that when everyone thought him doomed, he’d been sent questions by a journalist, translated into Italian, to record for the world a man’s responses to imminent death. He claimed on rescue to have been unable to read the questions. But he sent a letter from underground to his dearest friend, Joe. He bade him a miserable farewell; farewell, dear Joe. And he apologised to the mine manager and his mates for having caused such bother.

  Her despondency had left her. Frances was now travelling lighter, with one puzzle solved, and was quietly astonished at the clarity of her recall. The miner had come back to her full-bodied, easeful, whole, and without a hint of fiction or contrivance. The name had returned and with it the wondering schoolgirl who was so persuaded by resurrection. This was the story that hung shadowy over the stricken Thai b
oys; it was her own childhood, and her own obsession with the miner entombed. It was her understanding, innocent and fearful, that one is a different person at night, that there are darknesses that one might die or recover from. This simplest of philosophies, this being and nothingness.

  Slowly, she was entering the town of Southern Cross. It was tiny after all: like Coolgardie, no more than a few hundred souls. Modest houses, shabby fences, tall pale gums. The Great Eastern Highway became for a stretch Orion Street.

  She was thinking stars, sisters, skinnies.

  She was thinking she must look up the Pleiades.

  Val, her lovely voice. Nell, her faraway face.

  Driving carefully, she was slower now; there was no sense of rush. Instead of passivity and incoherence, there was the dawning of a frail, provisional faith. There was a gathering here and a lacing of the bare strands of her knowing. Frances turned the car towards a service station and stopped for petrol. At the bowser she stood in a stilled moment, looking around her. A fading light. Marian blue. The high call of birdsong.

  She bought a soggy egg sandwich and a polystyrene cup of tea.

  The large woman behind the counter asked where she was from.

  ‘Kalgoorlie way,’ she said, surprising herself.

  And where was she heading?

  Albany way, she answered, to see her parents.

  ‘Nice country, Albany. Cool. The Southern Ocean.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Frances. ‘Cool. The Southern Ocean.’

  Modesto Varischetti. His was the image of a face sprung from darkness and found alive. It was with her that he lived; it was her alone that he visited; it was to her he whispered and confided the bleak strangeness of the world.

  Modesto Varischetti, what a beautiful name.

  The name in its syllables sounded like a bounce.

  It was a salutation, it seemed to Frances, as she resumed her long drive.

  Notes and Acknowledgements

  This novel connects known historical figures to the worlds of fictional characters.

  Paddy Hannan (1840–1925) was born in Quin, County Clare, Ireland, and is renowned as the principle ‘discoverer’ of gold in the West Australian goldfields. What is known of his life is patchy and in some cases contradictory: all biographical sources but one state he was a lifelong bachelor; a single line in Tess Thomson’s Paddy Hannan: A Claim to Fame (Thomson’s Reward, Kalgoorlie, 1992 p. 34) suggests this was not the case, that he both married and fathered a child. I have retrieved his marriage certificate from Births, Deaths and Marriages, Victoria, and therefore included a brief marriage in this fictive version of his life. The shape of Hannan’s life is respectful, but its details are imagined.

  The 1854 Mooghaun Hillfort treasure is historically true, however there is no evidence Paddy knew of it at fourteen years old. I have invented the crown: although some have been uncovered, there was no crown among the find at the Mooghaun Hillfort. All the other objects are historically verified.

  I am grateful to Peter Beirne of the Clare County Library in Ennis for help with significant details; and to Anne McNamara, Pat Hannon, and Des and Anne Lynch in Quin for speaking to me about the Hannans and the Lynches.

  Modesto Varischetti is also a historical figure and I have tried to retain the essentials of his story. Details in this novel come mostly from newspaper reports of the time.

  Mining information has been garnered from many disparate sources. There may be mistakes, for which I’m solely responsible. But I trust I have honoured, in some small way, the lives of my father and grandfather and the generations who endured the labour of underground mining.

  There exists a language centre in Hannan Street Kalgoorlie, Wangka: Goldfields Aboriginal Language Centre, which I have visited. I am grateful to the centre for texts, and to Sue Hanson for advice. Other local sources have been important: The name Ngulyi is derived from Alice Nannup’s memoir When the Pelican Laughed (ed. Lauren Marsh and Stephen Kinnane, FACP, 1992). I acknowledge the traditional custodians of the Wongatha land, on which much of this story takes place, and pay my respects to its elders, past, present and emerging. The city of Kalgoorlie-Boulder published a Reconciliation Action Plan in October 2019.

  Readers interested in Antony Gormley’s Lake Ballard installation might consult Antony Gormley Inside Australia (Thames & Hudson, 2005). Each statue at Lake Ballard represents and is based on an individual from the area.

  Midas Street does not exist in Kalgoorlie; originally, in my thinking, it replaced Croesus Street. However, I have taken creative licence and moved it closer to the Super Pit: anyone who knows the area might imagine it at the top of King or Dwyer streets in Boulder.

  I am grateful to friends and colleagues in Australia and abroad who have affirmed and supported my work. Victoria Burrows generously read a first draft of this book and offered incisive, intelligent and crucial advice.

  My friends Prue Kerr, Susan Midalia and Victoria Burrows visited the goldfields and Lake Ballard with me in 2003. I thank each of them for that extraordinary trip and their excellent company. The Menzies donga is a comic memory for us all.

  Thanks to Jane Novak for continuing assistance and professional advice. Thanks to the team at Text Publishing, especially Michael Heyward, for taking on Our Shadows with professional tact, due irony and earnest support.

  My family offered precious encouragement in the writing of this book, particularly my mother, Noreen Jones, who kindly answered every question and discussed her own memories patiently and at length. This novel is for her, with my love and gratitude.

  GAIL JONES is one of Australia’s most celebrated writers. She is the author of two short-story collections and eight novels, and her work has been translated into several languages. She has received numerous literary awards, including the Prime Minister’s Literary Award, the Age Book of the Year, the South Australian Premier’s Award, the ALS Gold Medal and the Kibble Award, and has been shortlisted for the Miles Franklin Literary Award, the International Dublin Literary Award and the Prix Femina Étranger. Originally from Western Australia, she now lives in Sydney.

  PRAISE FOR THE DEATH OF NOAH GLASS

  ‘Swooningly lyrical, carrying the reader along in the wake of its beauty.’ Australian Book Review

  ‘The Death of Noah Glass is among [Jones’] finest work and I expect it will be among this year’s outstanding novels.’ Australian

  ‘A superb novel full of sadness and mystery. It further confirms Gail Jones’ reputation as one of our great writers.’ Readings

  ‘Beautifully lit…Jones’ writing demands that the reader slow down in order to enjoy every word. Martin is an artist, but then again so is the author, and she too notices hue, texture and nuance.’ Big Issue

  ‘Jones has challenged herself—and her readers—in another rich and accomplished work.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘The Death of Noah Glass combines an enjoyable escapade involving art theft, mafia conspiracy, romance, and a suspicious death with a literary exploration of grief, identity and the power of the past to damage present lives. Fans of Jones will not be disappointed, and new readers should find much to recommend it.’ Books+Publishing

  ‘From the Renaissance to the contemporary era, from Italy to Australia and back via Japan, Jones demonstrates not a quaint equivalence between the sister arts, but an unruly dynamic of disjunction, rupture, play and appropriation that sets off a force field of narrative and semiotic energies.’ Sydney Review of Books

  ‘Jones writes with perception on the emotional chaos wrought by grief, and how difficult it can be to operate within relationships when there is so much that will remain unknown.’ Otago Daily Times

  ‘This polished, pensive novel…swirls so much about, tantalising with implications amid the patterned intricacy of linked scenes, returning symbols and motifs. It’s a book that needs to be read closely.’ Saturday Paper

  PRAISE FOR A GUIDE TO BERLIN

  ‘What Jones has done in this cool and intricate novel is to e
xpand the stylistic possibilities and exploit the metaphysical implications of Nabokov’s extraordinary story…Hers is an unashamedly cerebral work that will only gain by rereading; but it is also, like its Nabokovian parent, a narrative that pulses with feeling. Its pages finally summon not one ghost but millions of them.’ Australian

  ‘Beautiful and brilliant.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘A remarkable investigation of reading and speaking, and of the interaction between high literature and immediate human experience…The novel is a demonstration of both the power of storytelling and its limitations…a full and moving exploration of the experience of knowing others through literature and life.’ Monthly

  PRAISE FOR FIVE BELLS

  ‘Gail Jones’ magnificent new novel propels her to the forefront of Australian literature…The novel is a profound meditation on memory and emotion, as well as a rhapsodic evocation of place. Neither Jones nor Sydney need putting on the map, but the combination is a winner…a brilliant work, both explicitly Australian and insistently cosmopolitan.’ Australian

  ‘Five Bells is many things: a love letter to Sydney and its physical beauty; a deeply moving exploration of the effects of grief and loss; and, perhaps most importantly, a luminous and shimmering reflection on time, memory and mortality.’ Griffith Review

  ‘Thoughtful, intelligent and intensely lyrical…Jones’ skilful negotiations with the past—with individual and collective memory, as well as with the literary canon—have provided her with a framework for a novel of unmistakable contemporary relevance.’ Guardian

 

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