by Di Morrissey
While Dr Holland was financially secure, they led a quiet life on their land close to the south-east coast, so Stella did enjoy a change of scene sometimes, and was glad to stock up on the art materials that were hard to come by in their small village.
Now, in the mid-1930s, with the Great Depression forcing everyone to become more resourceful, Stella had embraced self-sufficiency by growing vegetables and keeping hens and bartering eggs for other commodities between neighbours. Indeed, the island state was pulling together and faring better than the mainland, which had led to one local group raising the notion of Tasmania pushing for independence from the rest of Australia.
At occasional get-togethers with his cronies, Stella would hear Stephen comment that Tasmania, with its shared resources, had a good economic future. That economic sensibility extended to his own home. Stephen gave Stella a modest stipend to spend on ‘fripperies’ for herself or their house and garden. He seemed pleased that, even though she was still a young woman, she had little taste for jewellery, fashionable clothes, or other ‘wasteful’ expenses. He knew she preferred to spend her money on books and art supplies for her hobby. She had once heard his gentleman friends congratulate Stephen on choosing such a pretty young wife with such moderate demands.
*
Once her husband had left for two days in Hobart, Stella gave Mrs James the days off, assuring her that she was quite capable of fending for herself. ‘Besides, I rather like keeping my own hours while Dr Holland is away,’ she admitted with a smile.
The first evening, Stella set off before darkness fell, gathering up her Everready pocket light torch, her binoculars (even though it might soon be too dark to use them), a candle and a box of matches just in case, her sketchbook and pencil and one of Stephen’s walking sticks, which he used when venturing out on one of his infrequent walks. The doctor walked with a purpose: a barn to inspect, a visit to check on the cows Mr James supervised for them, or to look for noxious weeds or unwanted plants, such as blackberries, encroaching through their hedgerows and the dry-stone walls the original English settlers had built using Ticket of Leave men as labourers.
Stella, however, loved to simply ramble. She walked for the sheer pleasure of fresh air and sunlight, the beauty of her surroundings, and the views from the top of the hill, towards the apple orchards in the adjoining properties in one direction and across the river in the other.
Sometimes she persuaded her husband to drive to the windswept clifftops overlooking the rugged coastline, where sheer cliff faces rose from the churning sea. Between some of the sharply angled cliffs were caves and blowholes. And at their base, on the exposed rocks, washed by waves, the fur seals sunned themselves, dived, played and slept, their sleek brown bodies gleaming in the sunlight.
Stella loved to watch the shrieking seabirds as they angled across the sky before spearing into the sea, sometimes emerging with a silver fish, as well as the shaking glittering spray from the wet bodies of sleek cormorants, and the gliding compact shearwaters with their huge wingspan.
‘Just think, Stephen, those birds have flown all the way from the Arctic to here. What a journey for them.’
‘Hmm, yes indeed.’
Stella had never imagined she would end up in such a wildly beautiful, if remote setting, where, she presumed, she would spend the rest of her life.
It was damply chilly that evening, so she buttoned her jacket and tied a woollen scarf over her head. Thankfully there was no wind, and still some daylight. She made her way on foot, staying close to the home paddock where there was a stand of English oaks planted by the first white settlers. She walked along the small creek to a gully that was always full of birdsong, then ventured into the Far Forest, where the old eucalyptus trees with deep hollows in their trunks offered the perfect spots for owls to roost.
Several of the Hollands’ paddocks had been fenced for cows and cultivation, and the remainder of their property ran into the boundaries of Crown Land, identified on old government maps in some musty council storeroom. The first owners of the farm had experimented with various crops, hops being one of the last efforts, but a glut had seen them give up. These days, Stephen was content to grow feed for their four cows, and he allowed Mrs James and Stella to maintain their kitchen garden with some flowers and vegetables. Running repairs were made courtesy of Mr James. The apple orchard had been let go wild, though Stella sometimes ventured there to pick apples when they were ripe and free of disease. Mrs James then made apple sauce and apple pies for a week or more to exchange with their neighbours. The Depression had taught the locals to gather and share whatever they could.
A new jetty had been built at Fish Head Point, and fishing was becoming a profitable enterprise. Indeed, with the new ice trucks, the fish emptied from nets and crays from the crabpots were packed in ice in the morning, transported to Hobart and sold for supper before the day was out.
Stella paused as she heard the call of a parrot settling for the night. She ventured closer into the forest and put her binoculars to her eyes, scanning the tall eucalypts in the shadowy twilight. She felt a shiver of excitement as she saw the bulk of an owl perched quietly on a branch. In the trunk of the tree she noticed the dark hollow of its nesting place. She couldn’t believe her luck at finding one so quickly. She strained forward, studying the large bird. If it wasn’t the same owl she’d seen before, it was nonetheless a masked owl. Such reticent, rare creatures.
And then, to her amazement, the bird gave a call, a not very musical screech, and a moment later there was an answering call. Whether it was a mate or a courting call, the fact that it had been so swiftly answered meant there was another owl in close proximity.
Stella wished she could discern between the male and female calls, but just knowing they were out there was thrilling. Were they a pair? Were there babies in their roost? Or was this a courtship ritual? Oh, how she wished she could turn on her torch to see them better, but she didn’t want to frighten them away.
Her eyes began to adjust to the gloom and she strained to identify the rustlings, mumblings and twitterings she could hear.
Then she saw the owl suddenly crane forward. It remained motionless but she knew its attention was focused on something below.
Stella moved quietly to get a better view, then stopped as she heard the loud snapping of branches and what sounded like heavy footsteps. What animal could be so clumsy, so heedless of where it was plunging? The answer came to her all too quickly.
Suddenly she shrank back, her husband’s warnings about going alone to the forest at night ringing in her ears.
‘Who’s there?’ It was a gruff male voice.
Stella froze for a moment. Then she decided to brazen it out.
‘Hello! I’m just observing the owls. Did you see them?’ She marched out from the trees so as to be seen more clearly.
‘Owls? Didn’t see any. Is that what you’re doing out here? Bit late for a lady to be out alone, isn’t it?’ The man gave a mean smile. He was possibly the same age as her, although that was where the similarity ended. He was dishevelled and had a shaggy moustache. As he moved towards her, Stella noticed the heavy stick in his hand and recognised the deerstalker hat.
‘Are you a birder too?’ She could see him more clearly now. She kept her face calm, but her mind was racing. Which would be the best way to run from him? She knew she’d slip on the mossy rocks near the creek, so best to run through the trees, was all she could think.
‘I’m not after your birds, lady. I have bigger fish to fry.’ He gave a cackle, lifting his stick and shaking it.
‘Oh.’ Stella turned to run. But from the corner of her eye, she suddenly saw the silent spreading wings and a spearing movement down towards the man. She heard him stumble backwards and shout an expletive as he fell. Stella didn’t glance back but darted away through the trees, holding her small satchel and clutching at her scarf. She found the path and swung around towards the roa
d, gasping for breath, hoping someone would be driving past as she ran towards her home. She wondered fleetingly if she should detour down to the Jameses’ cottage, but her house was closer and she could lock the doors.
She did not see a second man appear and help the angry man to his feet.
Panting, she flung open the unlocked kitchen door, slamming it behind her and sliding the bolt across. Catching her breath, she checked the other doors and windows. Should she telephone the Jameses? she wondered. Stephen had agreed to put the telephone line through to their cottage, which Mrs James had thought an unnecessary new-fangled indulgence, but Stella was glad of it now.
All was quiet. Stella turned on the light in her studio, dropped her satchel and reached into the slit pocket of her skirt. Her sketchbook had gone. She must have lost it in her mad dash from the stranger. She glanced out the tall windows that overlooked the garden, windows that had no curtains as she had never had any need to draw them. Stella clicked off the light and hurried from her special place, closing the door and retreating to the sitting room with its heavy drawn drapes. She turned on the lamps.
Then the telephone jangled, making her jump. She glanced at the mantle clock. It was probably her husband, checking in as he always did when he was away.
Lifting the bulky handpiece, she chatted briefly with Stephen, realising from his tone that he was tired. She kept her voice light and said nothing about disobeying his orders not to leave the house of an evening.
The following morning, in the sunlight, her fears of the previous evening evaporated. Perhaps the scruffy fellow was just a tramp, or one of the many poor men who were looking for work and sleeping rough during these hard times?
And when she stepped outside the front door, she was surprised to find her sketchbook resting on the front step. Oh, how nice of Mr James, she thought. He must have found it.
Then she remembered that Mr James was going into town this morning and wasn’t due back at Arcadia until midday. Had some neighbour known it was her notebook? She hadn’t written her name in it. She bent down and picked it up, glancing across the garden to the front gate. Their neighbours were some distance away and there were few passers-by on the lonely road. Shaking her head in bafflement, she went back inside and got on with her day.
It wasn’t until later that morning that she began to sift through the memory of the encounter with the stranger who had seemingly been attacked by the owl. Settled in her studio, Stella had opened the little book to her rough sketches of the owl when a turned-down page caught her attention. Turning to it, she froze in shock.
It was a coarsely drawn sketch, obviously done in haste, but there was no mistaking that it was a drawing of Stella in her skirt and jacket and the scarf over her head, hanging by the neck from the branch of a tree like a broken doll, holding in her hand an owl by its feet. Drips, presumably blood, oozed from the bird’s dead body.
Stella dropped the book, gasping. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror.
She turned and ran from the room, almost bumping into Mr James, who was returning from his errands and carrying the mail.
‘Mrs H, are you all right? What is it?’ he called in alarm as Stella turned and rushed down the hallway.
When he heard Stella gagging behind a closed door, Mr James smiled slightly to himself, recalling his wife’s many pregnancies. Perhaps, he thought, there was a baby on the way to this quiet house at last.
2
Hobart, 2018
Jessica walked through the doors of the baggage claim area, surrounded by a swirl of colour, noise and movement as people jostled for luggage, trolleys, friends, and relatives. It was all a blur for a moment, until she saw, a little to the left of centre, an island of stillness.
Sally was standing there, smiling, one hand in the pocket of her jeans and the other holding the strap of her shoulder bag. She had that familiar expression of self-contained calm, a somewhat quizzical lift of her lip, as if to say, So we haven’t seen each other for years. It’s no big deal. And it wasn’t, Jessica reflected. When you’ve shared a childhood, you’re linked forever by memories, shared adventures, secrets and dreams.
As Jessica walked towards her friend, it was as if she were suddenly in a silent tunnel: everything around her stopped, like a freeze frame. Then they were hugging in the midst of airport noise, laughter and shouts, and the clanging of the baggage carousel.
‘How much stuff have you brought?’
‘Not much. No idea, I can’t remember!’
‘So you’re not moving in then?’
‘Maybe.’
They shared easy laughter, both talking a mile a minute about nothing important. Silly, simple stuff. They were together again, and that was enough for now. They both sensed the heart-to-heart would come when the time was right.
They threw Jessica’s bags in the car and hit the road. But the closer they got to the coast, the quieter Jessica became, and the longer the pauses in their conversation. Sally seemed to understand, and only occasionally made a comment.
‘Remember the old jetty at Fish Head Point? Where we used to sail? Whole thing got damaged in a storm and it’s been pulled down. A few people rescued some of the timber, though. Some of it’s being used for vegie beds the way they use old railway sleepers.’
‘I loved your grandad’s old boat. The Huon pine clinker. What would that cost now? What happened to it?’ said Jessica.
‘It’s in the boatshed! Dad had it fixed up a bit . . . not long before he died,’ Sally said quietly. ‘I always feel close to him when I’m sailing her. Those old Huon pine boats are collector’s items. There’s a wooden boat club at the shed where the jetty used to be; there’s just a small landing there now. People store their boats and some fellows build sailboats in the old style.’
‘We had some fun times in that boat,’ mused Jessica.
‘Yeah. If only our folks knew what we got up to, eh?’ Sally chuckled.
‘Hmm.’ Jessica was thoughtful. She stared out the window for a bit. ‘Can’t remember when I was last here . . .’
‘We saw you in Sydney three years ago when Katie was one. You said then it had been more than a year since you’d come back home.’
‘Home . . .’ Jessica said slowly, looking out her window.
Sally glanced at her friend, wincing at her pinched expression. While Jess hadn’t said much in their phone calls, Sally knew this was all to do with Jessica’s disintegrating marriage.
She remembered the time, about nine years ago, when she had first met Jessica’s new boyfriend. She had never really warmed to Harden Blake, but Jessica had seemed so in love that Sally had never been anything but supportive of her choice. After Hardy proposed, Jessica had asked Sally what she thought about him. ‘I am doing the right thing, aren’t I, Sal?’
Sally hadn’t known what to say. Do you rain on your best friend’s parade when she’s deliriously in love and risk wrecking a friendship, or do you lie brightly that you think he’s terrific? Sally had known Jessica would see through her if she’d lied, so instead she had suggested to Jessica that she and Hardy live together a bit longer and delay the legal stuff.
‘But I don’t want to wait any more. I want to make a commitment. I’m tired of being led on, thinking this or that guy is the one, and then finding out they’re cheating, or restless, or don’t want to do anything that could smack of permanence. Hardy proposed. I said yes. That’s all.’
Sally had let it drop, but she had always felt uneasy about the conversation and wondered if she should have handled things differently.
As they drove, Sally decided to plunge in. ‘So what’s going on, exactly?’
Jessica didn’t answer straight away, but finally said, ‘I’m divorced. It’s over. Done. Been a nightmare.’
So here it was, the event that seemed inevitable in retrospect. The break-up. At least Jess didn’t have kids.
‘Why didn’t you tell me more about this before? From the little you did say, I knew things weren’t good, but I could’ve helped you, Jess.’
‘How? Change his personality? Tell me you knew this would happen, that you never liked him?’ Jessica’s voice softened. ‘I knew you’d be here for me when I needed you.’
Sally reached over and touched Jessica’s arm. ‘Of course. I could tell from your phone calls that you were stressed and maybe even a bit depressed, but I didn’t realise how bad it was. I didn’t want to make matters worse.’
‘I knew you always thought I never should have married him.’ Jessica’s tone was sad rather than accusing.
Sally sighed. ‘Friends also know when to shut up rather than spoil a friendship.’ She waited a minute. ‘So, what next?’
‘No idea. I just knew it was time to get out of that poisonous atmosphere.’
‘What brought it all to a head? Another woman?’
‘Been several of them, I suspect. One I am sure about. But you turn a blind eye, or do the same thing to pay him back. I never did, though. Only because I didn’t find anyone remotely attractive and I knew I’d just whine and blubber on their shoulder if I did.’
‘Big turn-off.’
‘Yeah. I wasn’t ready for another rejection.’
‘Do you think it was an age thing, you getting married?’ mused Sally. When Jessica didn’t answer, she went on. ‘Y’know what I mean? Biological clock ticking, you don’t want to waste time on guys ’cause you start to realise that they all want the same things and they never really grow up until they do marry and settle down. And here was a guy asking you to marry him, so you grabbed the opportunity.’
‘I don’t know what I thought.’ Jessica sighed.
‘I wanted you to be happy more than anything,’ said Sally.
Jessica turned to her and smiled. ‘Like you and Toby?’
‘Yes. And yes, I know you and I lead different lives, but our dreams and hopes used to be so similar. Different in some ways but fundamentally the same.’