Before the Storm

by Morrissey, Di

  ‘Right,’ Patrick said, standing up. ‘Thanks for lunch, I’m off. You coming down to the office?’

  ‘Maybe, I’ll see how I go unpacking and also working on a few ideas. Might go for a run, I’m a bit stiff after the drive.’

  ‘Good idea. See you at dinner.’ He turned at the door. ‘Sam and I are really glad you’re back, kid.’

  She smiled. ‘Me too.’

  4

  Ellie was pleased she’d brought a formal outfit back from Melbourne with her. She felt good in a dress and heels, which she hadn’t worn since she couldn’t remember when.

  Seeing her come down the stairs, Patrick smiled and went and changed his old linen coat, reappearing in a snappy dark blue velvet jacket and a red tie.

  ‘Do I measure up to accompany you, my dear?’

  ‘You certainly do. Add a beret instead of your fedora and you’d look like some famous roué off the streets of Paris.’ She laughed.

  ‘Oh, I hope not, I had more the Maurice Chevalier appeal in mind.’

  ‘Is this your strategy to persuade Kathryn O’Neill to chat to us?’ asked Ellie with a grin.

  ‘No. That’s your job. A woman of her era would never divulge anything personal to a gentleman.’

  Walking into the art gallery half an hour later, they were both surprised at the large turnout. The room was decorated with huge urns of flowers and pots of plants amid boughs of greenery, which complemented the delicate colours and brushstrokes of the paintings. An older woman, who Patrick explained was the gallery director, came over to greet them.

  ‘Sonia, this is my granddaughter, Estelle. She’s helping me out at the paper for a bit.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Estelle . . . How lovely for you to be working with your grandfather,’ said the woman with a smile.

  Ellie jumped in. ‘Please, call me Ellie. Yes, the Chronicle is such a great paper, we’re very proud of my grandfather. Actually, I’m writing a tribute article on Mrs O’Neill for her birthday. I’d love to say hello again. Do you think I could have a few moments with her?’

  ‘Oh, wonderful, yes, she’s just arrived. And you must also talk to Heather Lachlan, our artist. She’s been painting portraits for years but this is the first exhibition of her flower studies. Such a talent. Mrs O’Neill encouraged her to do this show, partly to raise funds for our gallery extension.’ Sonia glanced away as her name was called. ‘Oh, I better go, I need to check on some things before the speeches begin.’

  After she’d hurried off, Patrick and Ellie turned their attention back to the crowd.

  Ellie saw Kathryn O’Neill being escorted into the room by Susan McLean and whispered, ‘There she is, Poppy. Don’t you go being nice to that PA – I told you, remember, she’s the dragon lady whose dog attacked Sam.’

  ‘I remember. All the more reason to talk to her,’ Patrick said, and made a beeline for the pair. Ellie trailed behind him.

  ‘Hello, Mr Addison,’ said Susan coolly.

  ‘I just wanted to thank you for the chat Ellie had with Mrs O’Neill the other day . . .’

  Ellie noticed that Patrick edged to one side so that Susan had to turn slightly, putting Kathryn O’Neill out of her line of sight. Ellie hurriedly left Patrick and Susan and approached the elderly lady.

  Susan gave a tight smile. ‘That was quite all right. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  Ellie stepped in front of Kathryn O’Neill, ignoring the man standing next to the guest of honour. ‘Hello, Mrs O’Neill, thank you for your time the other day.’

  ‘Oh, Estelle, hello.’ The elderly woman gave a small smile.

  ‘I was just wondering if you could spare me a few moments to talk about your land at the Botanic Gardens –’

  ‘Excuse me, Ms Conlan, Mrs O’Neill is not here to be interviewed.’ Susan stepped between them, taking the older woman’s arm. ‘Are you ready, Mrs O’Neill? Would you like some water?’ she asked, steering her away from Ellie.

  ‘It’s just that it would be such a shame if anything happened to the Botanic Gardens,’ Ellie said loudly over the background chatter. Kathryn O’Neill’s back was turned and she appeared not to have heard.

  ‘Damn,’ muttered Ellie, and looked back to see an attractive man smiling rather quizzically at her. She realised it was the man who’d been standing next to Kathryn.

  ‘Oh, excuse me for butting in.’ Ellie smiled. ‘It’s very hard to get any time with Mrs O’Neill.’

  The man held out his hand. He had a friendly, open face, and was maybe in his early forties, she thought.

  ‘Hi, I’m Dave Ferguson. So, what did you want to talk to Mrs O’Neill about? Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

  Ellie shook his hand. ‘Good to meet you. I’m Ellie Conlan. I’m writing a story about her.’

  ‘Are you from the paper?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Er, yes, sort of. My grandfather is Patrick Addison, who runs it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I’ve heard of him. Your grandfather is a bit of a legend in this town,’ said Dave. ‘So you’re a reporter?’

  ‘Oh, no, not really. I’m just helping do the occasional story. What do you do?’

  Before he could answer, they heard the tinkling of a bell. Ellie looked over to see Kathryn O’Neill standing beside the microphone next to the gallery director.

  Ellie studied the elderly woman, who was elegantly dressed and seemed very composed as Sonia fiddled with the microphone. Then Sonia stepped forward, tapped the mic and called for attention.

  ‘Good evening. Thank you all for coming. This truly is a special evening for the gallery as we honour two exceptional women, Mrs Kathryn O’Neill and local artist Heather Lachlan, honoured by the Victorian Art Society. We also want to thank our generous donors, who are all listed in the catalogue, and especially the VicWide Community Bank and branch manager Dave Ferguson, for their support. Thanks also to our hardworking staff and volunteers. Now, without further ado, I want to hand over to patron and friend, Kathryn O’Neill, to do the opening honours.’

  The room fell silent as Kathryn O’Neill looked out across the audience.

  Ellie found herself genuinely curious as to what the O’Neill family matriarch would be like in a public forum such as this. She knew from her research that Kathryn had often been in the public spotlight over the years due to her contributions to numerous causes and charities, so she found it intriguing that so little was known about the woman herself. This applied to the O’Neills as a family, too. Patrick had mentioned that he put this down to the ­family’s obsessive desire for privacy, or perhaps it was their need to avoid public scrutiny, he’d said. Maybe this was simply what happened when one family held sway over a town – socially, in business, in local government. And all because of money, which bought influence and allowed them to position themselves among the seats of power.

  Ellie had assumed such days were long gone, but as Patrick had told her, ‘Never underestimate old money. The reins of influence are not relinquished easily. The methods change, and politicians are not always the moral guardians we hope them to be. Technology, money, spin doctors, sycophantic staff, ambition, these have too often put Them and Us on opposite sides of the fence. Good men and women find it an unwinnable war, so they don’t participate – unless there’s a chance to feather their own nests.’

  ‘That seems a bit harsh, Poppy,’ Ellie had said at the time. ‘There are good people, young people, out there standing up and fighting for change and recognition of what needs to be done before it’s too late.’

  As her grandfather’s words came back to her, Ellie wondered if this proud and privileged woman in front of them had any inkling of how this different generation thought. Ellie doubted any of the younger members of the O’Neill family felt the need to march in the streets for a cause they believed in.

  A hush fell and everyone looked expectant. But this was no quiet old lady propped
up to utter platitudes. Her body language was confident as Kathryn handed her walking stick to Sonia and steadied herself, gripping the podium with both hands. Ellie waited for her to lift her glasses on the gold chain around her neck and read from notes, no doubt prepared by Susan. But Kathryn O’Neill did no such thing. She looked above the crowd, speaking to the back of the gallery, where Ellie noticed that Heather Lachlan was standing.

  Kathryn gave a slight smile. ‘This evening we are fortunate to be among beautiful flowers, which bring us joy in reality and are captured here so exquisitely by a woman who is not only a talented artist but a wise and gentle friend.

  ‘Friendships, like flowers, can fade, be forgotten, or treasured in the everlasting garden of memory. Like flowers, friendships need tending through sun and rain, drought, floods, neglect and absence. Heather has been my true friend for over fifty years.’

  This brought a subtle intake of breath; the long association between the two women was clearly news to most people.

  ‘Even if friends walk in separate directions, you carry the seeds of that friendship, knowing they can be replanted wherever you may be. When an occasion comes along which makes you aware of the passing of days, I urge you to reach out, not just to friends of long standing, but to new ones. I encourage you to share life stories and anecdotes, with friends both old and new. I feel nowadays we are living life long-distance, through technology and lack of touch.

  ‘While Heather’s flowers here are botanically accurate, she adds an interpretation, if you will, of what each bloom means to her. For, like people, you can make assumptions about what you see on the surface, but you need to go further. Ask yourself, what do your friends mean to you and why? What does someone’s story, their history, tell you about them?’

  It might have been her imagination, but Ellie thought Kathryn’s gaze, which had been sweeping around the room as she spoke, lingered on Heather as she delivered these words.

  ‘I do hope you will treasure one of these unique flowers in your home and know that the funds raised tonight will go towards supporting the gallery. I thank you all.’

  There was a burst of applause.

  Sonia gave Mrs O’Neill her walking stick and took her place at the microphone. She signalled to the artist and pointed to the mic, but Heather Lachlan shook her head with a shy smile from the back of the room and waved away the opportunity to say a few words.

  ‘Before the formalities of the night come to an end,’ Sonia said, ‘I’d like to again thank Heather Lachlan for her striking artworks, and Mrs O’Neill for making this event possible and for her beautiful words. Enjoy the exhibition.’

  On cue, waiters appeared with glasses of champagne and orange juice, and Dave handed Ellie a champagne.

  ‘Well, that was lovely,’ said Ellie. ‘I take it you are the local bank manager, Dave?’

  ‘That’s right. You’re not one of our customers? You should be.’ He grinned. ‘Even if you’re not from here. Where do you call home?’

  ‘I’m based in Melbourne. But my grandfather has mentioned the bank. Community supported by and for the locals. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s the essence of it. Let’s have a look around. I really like some of these paintings.’

  They kept talking as they stopped to look at each of the artworks. Ellie told Dave a bit about herself and asked, ‘Where were you before coming to Storm Harbour?’

  ‘I did a stint with a different bank in Melbourne early on, but these days I move around the state, going where the bank sends me.’ He pointed to a painting. ‘That one’s striking. I wouldn’t mind buying one of these to hang in the bank.’

  Ellie leaned in to look at the details. ‘It’s great. The artist really has brought out the strength and even the personality of each flower.’

  As the crowd started to thin, Ellie noticed Patrick heading towards her. ‘My grandad looks ready to sit down in his favourite chair with a whisky. I’d better go. Nice to meet you, Dave.’

  ‘A whisky sounds like a good idea, actually.’ He smiled. ‘Hey, would you like to have a drink sometime?’

  Ellie blinked in surprise. Was he asking her out on a date? She hadn’t been on a date for she didn’t know how long. Before she could think too hard about it, she said quickly, ‘Sure, yes, that’d be nice.’ They exchanged phone numbers and then Ellie nodded to Patrick that she was coming. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Dave. See you around.’

  She gave him a quick wave as she linked her arm through her grandfather’s, and glanced back over her shoulder.

  Dave was still looking at her with a big smile.

  *

  The next morning, Ellie put the paper down next to her boiled egg and toast and turned on the radio.

  ‘Let’s hear what the local news has to say,’ she said to Patrick as he spread fig jam on his toast.

  They both paused, lifting their heads to stare at the radio when they recognised Sally’s familiar voice.

  ‘According to an unnamed source in Storm Harbour Council, our council could be considering a plan to redevelop some or all of the land comprising the Botanic Gardens and the Gardens Caravan Park, a haven for visitors, campers and a small community of permanent residents, and also a prime stretch of real estate in the centre of town.

  ‘We approached a spokeswoman for the O’Neill family who said only that the family had, quote, “No knowledge of such a plan nor any comment to make”, unquote.

  ‘When contacted about the issue, Mayor Meredith Havelock stated that she is not aware of any formal application for such a development currently lodged with the council.

  ‘Retired horticulturist and landscape designer, Andrew Hayden from Melbourne, whose father was responsible for the design and supervised the planting of the Botanic Gardens in honour of Mrs Kathryn O’Neill, told us he believes the town is privileged to have the Gardens in such a rare setting.

  ‘Steven and Cassandra Northcotte, current managers of the Gardens Caravan Park, said they had no knowledge of any such plan.

  ‘No doubt if any redevelopment plan is in the works, it will be raised at the next council meeting. This is Sally Gordon for Storm Community Radio.’

  ‘Holy moly! That’ll have everyone choking on their breakfast!’ said Patrick.

  ‘It will certainly make the community sit up and take notice. But Sally has scooped us! I wonder who the leak is in council who gave her the story, though? And why they didn’t come to us.’

  ‘Well, Sally’s in at the council chambers all the time looking for stories. Jon and I decided a while ago that we’d only go to the council meetings if we thought the councillors were going to discuss something really newsworthy. Otherwise it can take up hours of our time for nothing,’ said Patrick. ‘But if this is on the agenda, I’ll be at the next council meeting, that’s for sure.’

  His phone started to ring. ‘Okay, here we go. We say only that we are not commenting, but we are investigating the story, if anyone asks.’

  ‘Got it.’

  As Patrick fielded phone calls and rang a few of his council contacts, Ellie went into the sunny room at the back of the house, which she’d taken over as an office. It had been her grandmother’s domain where she sewed, read and relaxed.

  For a moment Ellie surveyed the little room in the morning sunlight; the softly faded chintz sofa, the antique desk and upright chair with its needlepoint cushion of cheerful flowers and her grandmother’s initials in a corner. Patrick had left the framed photos as well as some books and magazines and an unfinished needlepoint where her grandmother must have kept them. He had filled her favourite vase with what he called ‘happy flowers’.

  The house had more room than Patrick needed, but he refused to downsize, and Sandy and Ellie had given up long ago trying to persuade him to move. Now Ellie found the many private and personal spaces comforting and endearing. And having a space of her own to work in w
as a joy. It occurred to her again that her compact flat in Fitzroy was going to feel very claustrophobic after living here.

  She opened her laptop on the desk and went to the newspaper’s Facebook page. She skimmed the comments, pleased to see that all the articles they’d posted had attracted discussion from various viewpoints, but then her hand froze as the words of a standalone post leaped out at her.

  Who does that mayor woman think she is? We’re not having some slag with a dirty past tell us what we can

  and can’t do. We know all about what she’s been up

  to, and she’ll get what’s coming to her if she doesn’t shut up and stop asking questions.

  Ellie was familiar with trolling, but she’d never been as close to it as she was since setting up the Facebook page for the paper. At first the comments had been snide but general, and a few had been about the mayor but they hadn’t been too personal. That had clearly changed with the comments she’d found now. The fact that they were directed at someone she knew and liked was painful.

  She took them down after checking the page of the person who’d posted them. Unsurprisingly, it led to a dead end. She’d need more time to try to work out who was behind the fake name.

  People hide behind their social media handles and think they can say anything, she thought as she stood up and glanced out the window. Patrick looked so happy working in his vegetable garden, but Ellie knew she had to talk to him about the comments, even if it might upset him.

  ‘Poppy,’ she called out as she walked over to him, ‘what do you know about Meredith Havelock? You know, before she moved here? Does she have some sort of, ah, colourful history?’

  Patrick straightened up and pushed back his hat. ‘What’re you talking about? I’ve no idea, actually. She and Jim settled here when he retired early. Health reasons or something. Why?’

  ‘Where’d they move from?’

  ‘Melbourne, I think.’ He went over and turned off the hose. ‘What’s wrong, Ellie?’