by Di Morrissey
The sun was setting and it felt almost as if the remaining daylight was being sucked from the sky above the trees. Already it was becoming too dim to make out details, however Stella was reluctant to move. She knew she should return to the house as it would be dark by the time she trudged back.
But then came the reward for her patience.
In a swift move, the owl took off from its branch, spearing into the clearing with its magnificent wingspan of bronzed, cream and tawny feathers edged in black. It swooped low to the ground before delicately grabbing its prey, a small rodent, and rising triumphantly above Stella to disappear silently into the treetops.
She quickly lifted her glasses but could see little in the gloaming light. The owl had left to feast on its supper in some private space. And all was still and quiet once more.
Or was it?
Stella kept the glasses pressed to her eyes as a flicker of movement caught her attention. Ah, yes, there was something further along at the edge of the clearing. Two figures, dark shapes in thick jackets, were dragging something. Why would they be trespassing? Were they hunters? What sport could be out here? she wondered. Deer perhaps? A large paddymelon?
At that moment there was a rush and a blur streaked past her field of vision. She dropped her binoculars, lifting her arms to shield her face, and felt a rush of wind from large wings. The owl had swooped so close to her, she’d stumbled a few steps backwards into the foliage. She glanced up and saw the owl sitting in a nearby tree, watching her, its head tilted slightly to one side.
Aware again of movement, she looked back at the clearing where a man, deerstalker hat pulled low, carrying a branch in his hand as a walking stick, passed by her.
She went to step out and greet him, as one did when crossing the path of another walker in the woods, but the young man’s rapid stride, downcast eyes and grim expression stilled her, and, at the same time, she realised he was unaware of her presence among the trees.
She glanced up at the owl, which was close enough now to make out its dramatic markings without her field glasses. Its bright eyes blinked as if bored, but as Stella moved, the owl’s gaze darted to her, then its head swivelled, body remaining in position as it looked behind and all around from its perch on the leafy branch.
Slowly, Stella reached into the pocket of her woollen skirt and pulled out her notebook with its pencil attached on a cord. Keeping her movements slow and deliberate, she opened the book to a blank page and glanced at the owl, the passer-by now forgotten.
As she swiftly and delicately moved the pencil over the page, glancing from notebook to bird and back again, the owl haughtily ignored her. But she had the sense the bird knew it was being sketched and, by the angle of its head, was posing, giving her its best profile.
A smile hovered at Stella’s lips as she traced the pattern of gold and black feathers, the arch of its beak, the bright eyes, its gnarled claws gripping the branch. She worked swiftly, capturing the highlights, the body of her drawing to be filled in later where the feather pattern was perfectly repeated. She closely studied the bird’s expression, hoping it wouldn’t take flight.
It was now too dim to see well, and the sudden realisation that she was a fair way from home made her close the notebook and slip it into her pocket. Stella smiled at the silhouette of the bird.
‘Thank you, beautiful creature.’
She walked across the clearing to where she’d left her bicycle leaning up against a low stone wall below the road. She looked for the track among the trees that would take her to the creek, and then to the fields below the house on the hill – sometimes she rode, other times she hiked directly down from the house.
A light mist drifted through the valley as she walked briskly by the stream and headed up the hill, pushing her bicycle to the dirt road home.
Then she saw the outline of the man she’d glimpsed across the clearing. She recognised his deerstalker hat, rubber waders and the long walking stick as he rapidly made his way towards the old road. Where had he sprung from, she wondered. And where was the other man who’d been with him? Perhaps they’d been fishing in the creek.
She was some distance behind him so he was oblivious to her presence as he disappeared over the rise.
As she settled herself on the bicycle, adjusting her skirt and cramming her beret in place on her head, Stella heard her husband’s car approach along the road, giving a large blast on the horn. The new 1935 Buick was the doctor’s pride and joy.
She hoped some animal hadn’t crossed in the path of her impatient husband. Dr Holland was a busy man with a quick temper and he didn’t suffer fools or malingerers. The local townsfolk respected him, however, as he was a skilled medical man and dedicated to helping his patients.
He was often away attending meetings and medical events, so Stella, and Dr Holland himself, were pleased that she kept herself busy with her ‘art hobby’, as he called it. Her painstakingly delicate paintings of the birds, and sometimes flowers and other wildlife she observed around their home, were considered ‘very pretty’ by her husband. Had he known the hours and hours she devoted to each one, Dr Stephen Holland might have considered it something of a lavish expenditure of her time. But with the help of Mrs James, the housekeeper, their home was always neat and clean, meals were served on time, and although he rarely ventured into the domestic area to see it, the kitchen, pantry and laundry were always spotless.
It sometimes occurred to Stella that this was not the life she had imagined before meeting the charming and urbane Dr Holland while she was attending art classes at the Hobart Technical College. She had taken a short, basic course in anatomy for artistic purposes rather than medical ones. She and the doctor had been introduced at a small reception at the college, where Dr Holland was a guest lecturer for several nights. He’d been intrigued that she had taken her art so seriously as to take this course.
‘If it was good enough for Leonardo da Vinci, I thought it might help me,’ she’d said, and smiled.
Then, on a visit to the historic buildings of the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, Stella had felt a light tap on her shoulder. Dr Holland had explained he was there to pass the time on a pleasant Saturday afternoon, so together they wandered through the galleries and exhibitions. He’d then suggested he take her for a cup of tea.
Over the following weeks and months, their paths crossed several times until one day he asked her to join him for lunch.
She’d learned he was a widower and that he hadn’t been ‘out and about in the world’ for quite some time. Her sense of humour made him chuckle and he declared she was the best medicine he knew. He asked if he could see her again.
Their courtship, that of the serious medical man and the pretty young art student, had given her the impression that she was rescuing a mature and mourning man and showing him new ideas and a rather different world. She had shared with Stephen her bubbling enthusiasm, her adventurous spirit and a carefree, happy demeanour and chatter, which had long been absent from his life. There had been many dark years of tiptoeing around a bedridden wife and whispered, painful exchanges, she discovered.
For his part, Stephen had told Stella he found her independence and energy, her passion for art and her great interest in birdwatching somewhat refreshing.
They had seen each other several times when, one day, Stella mentioned that she was planning to go on a sketching trip with another woman artist. Stephen suggested his local township and recommended a good, affordable boarding house, then offered to drive them to the many attractive places where they could sketch and paint in the south-east.
Stella fell in love with the Huon River area, and indeed, eventually, also with Stephen Holland.
After he proposed, Stella had made it clear that her art, while not a career, fulfilled and cheered her and that it would always be a part of her lifestyle. She had assured Stephen that it would not get in the way of her duties
in the home. But her husband-to-be had waved a hand airily and told her, ‘You are fortunate, my dear girl. The home part is established. You will have little to do to occupy yourself, as Mrs James has it all under control and knows how I like things to be. So, by all means, dabble away in your free time.’
Stella had still had doubts about her decision to marry the doctor, because she’d read enough and heard enough from other women artists about the challenge of keeping up with one’s domestic life while also pursuing your art. Although she’d known she wasn’t marrying into a life of drudgery, she was more than aware that domestic toil could take a toll on her creativity and weigh on her artistic freedom. She reasoned, however, that if Mrs James and her husband, who was the property’s caretaker and farm manager, came with the marriage, plus the ready-made home, she should be grateful, even if she wouldn’t have the opportunity to create her personal space with her own stamp on it.
The wedding was small but elegant. The candlelit reception was held at Dr Holland’s club, and the magnificent floral arrangements, the expensive table settings, fine food and smartly attired guests indicated that this group was sailing through the Depression in style.
Stella had chosen a wedding dress, made by a well-known Melbourne seamstress, of melting cream satin that flowed around her body like a second skin, discreetly edged with seed pearls and lace on the bodice. From a beaded cap a long veil floated, with tiny flower buds along the border. Her huge bouquet was of white roses, orchids and lily-of-the-valley nestled among trailing ferns and ivy.
Stephen Holland could barely keep his eyes from his dainty and beautiful young wife.
And so Stella moved to Arcadia, Dr Holland’s farm, and dwelled in the shell of a previous woman’s life, releasing her own taste, flair and fun in the studio Stephen had set aside for her personal use.
On a rare visit to Stella’s space, the doctor and Mrs James had noted the chamber pot planted with brilliant nasturtiums on the windowsill; bunches of grasses and twigs and shells and rocks on a ledge; a jug and fruit and dried loaves of bread – rock hard, protected by a coat of lacquer; all amid the drifting odour of turpentine and candle wax.
The doctor had given a tight, indulgent smile and commented, ‘Very bohemian, my dear.’
The only time her husband relinquished his formality was in their bedroom, where, on occasion, he was robust, rough almost, in his lovemaking, to which she submitted meekly, being unschooled in the matters of sex.
Once one of the models in her life class had commented, ‘The fancier and more proper men seem to be, the raunchier they are with their fine jackets and clobber gone.’ And she’d given a raucous laugh and made a rude gesture, causing the other students at their easels to laugh.
Mrs James occasionally gossiped about people in the village and their dire episodes of hardship and tragedy, remarking how lucky Stella was to have a lovely home, no financial worries, and a good husband.
Stella had nodded and agreed that she was a very fortunate woman. Married life might not have been quite what she’d expected, but she felt lucky indeed.
But now, a couple of years on, the good doctor was settling into middle age and seemed less interested in sharing her passions. Although he rarely spoke about it, Stella was well aware that he hoped she would soon settle down. Perhaps she’d soon have a baby, which would anchor her and focus her attention. But so far, a child had not been conceived. He also found that women had become rather too independent in general in the years since the flapper era, as he would declare to her while he read the newspaper. It wasn’t that Hobart had exploded with jazz music and permissive women drinking and smoking. But even in this quiet village women were becoming more adventuresome and taking matters into their own hands more often. While their husbands might have found it admirable, they also felt the ground shifting somewhat beneath their feet.
*
The doctor’s car slowed beside her bicycle.
‘You’re out late, my dear. This is dangerous, you have no lights on your machine. I nearly ran into some fool walking across the road back there. Why are you out in the dark? Shall I wait for you?’
‘No, thank you, dear. Go ahead. I’ve been observing the most beautiful owl, and time got away from me.’
‘Well, it’s far too dark to see much at all. Please hurry yourself. Mrs James has supper prepared, I take it?’
It was a small admonishment; all good husbands had a right to expect a pleasant wife, a glass of sherry and a light supper to welcome their return at the end of the day. Too frequently of late, Stella knew, Stephen would frown and disappear into his study when he arrived home to find that she was still completely lost in a painting or some project in her studio, unaware that six o’clock had ticked by long ago. The doctor was a man of order and routine. Tidy and meticulous. But, nonetheless, he was always prepared to go forth when needed in the dead of night or at other inconvenient moments, if his medical expertise was required.
Mrs James had left their supper ready to be served. She had Mr James and a brood of her own to look after at home, so she rarely stayed unless the Hollands ate on the dot of six, in which case she would wait and clear the dishes afterwards. The Jameses lived in a cottage on the Hollands’ land so it was a short walk through the fields for her.
Stepping into her studio, once a conservatory attached to the kitchen where the first Mrs Holland had stitched and sewed in the good light from the tall windows, Stella took off her jacket and scarf, removed her sturdy shoes and smoothed her silk blouse. She breathed deeply in the tranquillity of her personal retreat.
‘Stella . . .? Is that you?’
‘Coming, dear, just cleaning up a little.’
As they ate, Stella only half listened while her husband recounted the small triumphs of his day.
Obviously aware that he didn’t have her full attention, he paused, took a sip of his claret and asked, ‘So, you found a few birds of interest that kept you out late. An owl, you said?’
‘Not any owl. The masked owl. Endemic to our island state, I believe. Wonderfully marked and it seemed so . . . smart. We watched each other. I had the feeling he allowed himself to be seen.’ She smiled. ‘I did a preliminary sketch. I’m hoping to find it again to get more observations of its movements, habits and so on. It’s very similar to the barn owl.’
‘Hmm. Well, be careful. Owls are night creatures, and I don’t want you out in the dark. Especially when there are odd bods wandering around the place like that chap on the road. Surely you must have seen him. Fishing, I assume; it looked like he was carrying a rod.’
‘It looked to be a rather large walking stick. I think I saw him earlier as well, with another fellow heading towards the stream. They appeared to be carrying something. Maybe they were planning to camp and fish, or maybe hunt something? I didn’t see them well. I just knew it was the same chap on the road by his hat. And that very solid branch he was using to walk with.’
‘That’s a bit odd. I don’t like strangers in our neck of the woods. Fishing people always ask permission. And there’s no hunting here, even in these straitened times.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Could you not restrain your birding to closer to the garden? Seems to be enough twittering out there for you to observe.’
Stella lowered her gaze to her unfinished soup. ‘Perhaps, dear.’ She doubted the owl would venture so close to the house. ‘Would you care for some cheese now, or by the fire? Edna Browne made it from the Holmeses’ cows’ milk. It’s rather delicious and creamy.’
Dr Holland demurred and soon after retired, so Stella returned to her studio and, by the warm yellow glow of her desk lamp, began to transfer the sketch of the owl from the notebook to the thick art paper at her easel.
It was as if the creature were coming to life as the delicate hues of watercolour paint slid across the surface of the cotton-rag paper. But the intricate details of feathers and the depth and expression in
the dark eyes eluded her. She knew she needed to see the owl more closely again. And again.
*
It was two weeks later that Stephen announced he had to go to Hobart for a seminar.
‘Would you like to accompany me? Maybe go to the theatre, and you always enjoy the art gallery while I’m occupied at work. Visit the stores . . .?’
Stella shook her head. ‘You’ll be busy. And we were there not long ago. I am quite happy to be here with Mrs James, but thank you for thinking of me, Stephen.’
He smiled and shrugged. ‘Please yourself, my dear. It can be very lonely down here; I just thought you might like to see the bright lights a little more frequently. Of course, we shall be going to the mainland in a month or two. You will be coming to Sydney, I hope?’
‘Of course. A week or more, isn’t it? I am looking forward to seeing my sister. And, well, the usual things we do.’
‘Shopping, teas, visit the zoo and ride on the ferry perhaps?’ He smiled. ‘We’ll plan something together. You choose. And, of course, there will be the Medical Association Dinner.’
Stella tried to look enthusiastic, but she found Stephen’s formal Medical Association functions a strain. The other wives were older and seemed to know each other and Stella had little to contribute to their chatter. They were polite and made cursory conversation, but what with the age gap, their differing spheres of interest and the fact that they rarely saw each other, they had little in common.
Stella had her own plans for the Sydney trip, though, including visits to the Mitchell Library, where she would do some research to collect botanical and ornithological information, and to the Art Gallery of New South Wales. She also liked to accompany her sister to quaint tearooms, the cinema and for walks in the Botanic Gardens and around the city foreshores.