Arcadia

by Di Morrissey

  Stella had no set agenda, but soon the fresh, crisp air, the clear sky and calm surroundings soothed her. What harm could befall her on such a peaceful morning? It was market day in the village, and Mr and Mrs James were heading off to buy, sell and bargain. Dr Holland had arrived home from his conference but was already doing his rounds, seeing patients.

  She took a different track towards the township, which led down to where their stream flowed into the river beside their landing and small boatshed. A few years before they married, Stephen had developed an interest in sailing and had commissioned a compact little sailing dinghy of the lovely local Huon pine, named the Charlotte-Ann, after Stephen’s mother.

  Stella loved the river and its busy activity. With the coastal steamers, the ferry to Solitary Island, the work boats and the barges carrying wood from the sawmill, there was always something to watch. Sometimes she took bread to throw to the seabirds and swans. Occasionally she fished from one of the jetties dotted around the shoreline, accompanied by Mr James. Dr Holland had made it clear that he was not pleased about this unladylike activity, but he had realised his young wife was bored and had asked Mr James to keep an eye on her to make sure she was safe.

  Stella enjoyed Blackett James’s company, even though he was relatively taciturn. Known as Blackie due to his name and swarthy colouring, he was a gentle soul. She’d been surprised to learn how fond he was of animals, and saw how gently he spoke to them, soothing cows and horses; and the depth of his knowledge about the local birds, as well as the other wildlife and their habitats, was quite remarkable. He was a kindly, considerate man, too. Sometimes, when Mrs James took her fortnightly afternoon off work, Mr James would take Stella and Mrs James for a short sail in the Charlotte-Ann around the bay to the channel entrance.

  Stella loved the different perspective of the small township as seen from the water. The moored boats bobbed in the swell around the busy government pier, and watercraft came and went from the private jetties in front of the few houses that were scattered around the curve of the bay. Tucked further along was Jarrard’s sawmill, beyond which rows and rows of apple orchards stretched into the distance.

  Towering above, the hills rose from rainforests with spreading tree ferns and sassafras trees, to the tall, ancient eucalypt forests and, on the other side, the stands of Huon pine.

  This was a world of their own, best accessed by water, the road to Hobart being still a challenge for some, but which her husband enjoyed in his motorcar. Here she felt safe and protected.

  Stella walked to their landing, pulling her short jacket around her as a fresh breeze blew up.

  The sound of hammering came from the slips, and she stopped where a boatman was working on the Charlotte-Ann. She watched him for a few moments until he paused and saw her. He gave a short wave of acknowledgement.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she called.

  ‘Not really, ma’am. Just her annual check-up. Clean the hull of growth, touch up the anti-fouling paint. She’s in fine fettle. Were you wanting to take her out, ma’am?’

  ‘Oh no, thank you, not at the moment. She is such a lovely little thing, isn’t she?’ Stella jumped down and picked her way to the slips where the sailing dinghy was resting, tethered by strong ropes.

  ‘She certainly is a nice little rig. She’ll be around a long time provided she has some care. The Huon hull will outlive the lot of us,’ he said, and chuckled.

  ‘It’s beautiful wood. Do you work with the boats? Are you a boatbuilder?’

  ‘I’m from the mill, Mrs Holland. This is a little extra job for the doctor. Mind you, I do some part-time work with the scallops when there’s a big season. There’s still plenty of work round these parts. Plenty of fine wood. Dr Holland would know all about that.’

  ‘My husband is a medical man, not so much a business­man.’ Her husband never discussed business matters with her, or anything about his practice, as he took doctor–patient confidentiality very seriously. Although, when she thought about it, neither did she discuss her art with Stephen.

  The man smiled at her. ‘Now, I’d best get back to my work and we’ll have her shipshape and afloat again in a day or so.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stella murmured, and walked back to the path that wound around the waterfront. To one side were lawns and a picnic area where locals had once sat to watch the sailing races. The ferry race from Hobart had ceased years before, but she’d seen photographs of it in her husband’s office.

  At the main wharf there was a lot of activity as the steamer readied to pull away with passengers bound for Hobart. She stood and watched while a crewman hauled in the fat ropes and the passengers settled themselves on board, several standing at the railing.

  And then she saw him. He was staring towards the mill, where the tramway was piled with logs and planks. His eyes were shaded beneath his hat, but even at that distance she recognised the crumpled coat and scraggly moustache. Slung over his shoulder was a leather bag and he was gripping the handrail. Stella shrank back, even though she doubted he would see her. Did he know her? But then her notebook had been left at her door, so he knew where she lived. Who was he? Standing beside him was a well-dressed man with fair hair. Stella wondered if he could be the other man she’d glimpsed in the forest.

  The gap between the steamer and the wharf was widening, and she felt some relief that the vessel was leaving with him aboard. But for how long? Who was this man whom she’d seen hurry away from the creek that evening, and would he return? And why did he presumably wish her dead, which was the only interpretation she could imagine from the ghastly sketch?

  Again she thought perhaps she might show the drawing to her husband, but then she thought better of it and decided to mention it to Mr James instead.

  *

  When Stella looked out and saw Mr James working in the garden close to her studio she took her notebook from the desk drawer and brought it out to him.

  Blackie James, though he appeared big and tough, recoiled as he looked at the shocking sketch Stella opened before him, and his face blanched. ‘Good God, Mrs H, that’s you? Why would anyone draw such a picture? How did you come by this thing?’

  As Stella explained what had happened, he shook his head. ‘Well, you shouldn’t be out alone in the evening. Please, promise me you won’t go out at dusk or later. If you want to study them birds, I’ll come with you, lass.’ He paused, thinking, before continuing, ‘And while I’d never encourage a wife to deceive her husband, perhaps in this case some things are better left unsaid.’ He raised an eyebrow, studying her face.

  ‘It’s all right, Mr James, I won’t trouble my husband with this drawing. He would only fret. And Dr Holland has already cautioned me about going out in the evening.’ She gave a small smile. ‘You have to see the owl, though. He’s beautiful. He attacked the fellow, so I ran, and that’s when I dropped my sketchbook.’

  Mr James looked dubious. ‘Take care, Mrs H. I think this man means you harm. Doing something like this.’ He slapped the cover closed. ‘That’s a threat, that is.’

  ‘Well, he’s gone on the Hobart steamer, with a fair-haired man.’ She hesitated, frowning. ‘He was carrying a large stick when he was in the forest. Like for hiking. There was another man with him when I first saw him. I wonder if that was the fair-haired man I saw today?’

  ‘Hmm. They’ve been on your property. Don’t sound like poachers or fishermen. I just wonder why he’d bother returning your book. He’s sending some sort of message. If the doctor is away, be sure to lock the doors. You give the missus or me a call if you’re concerned. Anytime. The cottage is a skip and a jump from the big house.’

  ‘You’re both too kind.’

  ‘Put it out of your mind, Mrs H. So . . . when are we going out t’see this owl friend of yours?’

  *

  After dinner that night, Stella sat turning the pages of a magazine as Stephen Holland read
his newspaper, puffing on his pipe. He lowered the paper and looked at Stella.

  ‘You’re not dabbling in your studio this evening?’

  ‘I will shortly. I thought I’d keep you company while you had your port.’

  ‘I’ll put the radio on, shall I? Maybe some nice music?’

  As he fiddled with the dial on the radio console, Stella commented, ‘I went down to the waterfront for a walk this morning. I saw that the Charlotte-Ann is getting a health check.’

  ‘Yes, I asked one of the workmen to clean her up. She’s a grand little boat, pays to keep her in good nick. I might take her out when she’s done. Haven’t been sailing for a bit. Too busy, I’m afraid. All these new poliomyelitis cases are taking up such a lot of time. It’s very concerning.’

  ‘Dr Fraser is a good locum, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness. I’m hoping he’ll stick around, as he seems to have taken a fancy to one of the girls in town. But at the moment we are both being kept busy. I just hope this terrible illness can be contained before it turns into something bigger and more serious. Ah, there we are.’ He found a station broadcasting classical music and sat back down, tapping out his pipe.

  Stella flicked through the magazine, but she wasn’t really looking at the pictures or articles, nor was she paying attention to the music. Her mind was full of thoughts and images: the masked owl; the strange, almost luminous green light in the old forest; the rich, dank smell of fungi, and the delight she felt at the sudden appearance of the tiny, delicately hued mushrooms and toadstools.

  The concert on the radio came to an end and as the audience applauded, Stella put her magazine to one side.

  ‘It’s been a long day so I might turn in,’ she said. ‘Good night, dear. Sleep well.’ And she slipped from the room. But instead of turning down the hallway to the bedrooms, she changed her mind and went into her studio.

  She was deeply immersed in a drawing when her husband’s footsteps paused at the door and he peered in.

  ‘I’m retiring now, Stella. Please finish what you’re doing and join me. I have locked up the doors.’

  It was a summons. Sighing, she put down her charcoal, resenting what was to come. Did all wives feel like this? If she was honest with herself, she recognised that, while she still loved him, the attraction and sophistication of Dr Stephen Holland had worn off within a year of their marriage, and having never had sex, or ‘relations’ as Stephen called it, with anyone else, she had nothing to compare her experiences to or with. She wished she had a close female friend she could talk to about such things. Certainly not her mother, and with her sister living in Sydney they rarely had a chance to catch up. She’d come close once to an intimate conversation with Mrs James, who had such a large family, when the housekeeper had once made a passing reference, with a wink and a smile, to Mr James being playful beneath his reserved exterior, ‘If you know what I mean, Mrs H.’

  Stella had smiled and nodded, but she hadn’t really understood, thinking that ‘playful’ was not the word she’d apply to Stephen’s demands in the bedroom.

  Sighing, she turned out the light and moved reluctantly down the hallway.

  Arcadia, 2018

  After a late night chatting and reminiscing with Sally and Toby once she’d read Katie a bedtime story, Jessica woke early and crept quietly out of the house before breakfast. She was finding it difficult being back on home territory, even though none of her relatives had stayed in the area after her family had moved to Sydney. And, even though this wasn’t her own farm, which had been sold long ago, this was the place that held her first memories.

  Her mother had given Jessica a list of old friends and neighbours to visit, but Jessica wasn’t ready for that. For the questions, the curiosity, the family news. Every time some friend or acquaintance kindly asked how she was doing, it felt like pinpricks jabbing at her, as if they were piercing her confidence with their well-meaning concern. She felt as though her hurt and worries were leaking through the tiny holes.

  Sally was exactly the person she needed to be with, as was the quiet and stoic Toby. The ease of being with old friends, where she could be herself, was calming. She loved little Katie, who simply treated this new person in her home as family. Like most four-year-olds, she was already demanding Jessica’s attention, wanting to play or snuggle quietly together with a book whenever she got the chance.

  Now, in the mornings, Jessica had taken to walking in the Old Farm, where solid oak trees had begun to join together, linked in a shady embrace, sheltering, everyone hoped, the strange tubers and fungi around their roots. It was a moody oasis of shadows and damp soil that encouraged occasional wild truffles – ‘black diamonds’.

  On the New Farm, stocky little hazel trees inoculated with truffle stock marched over the low hills in orchestrated rows, which made for easy harvesting and care but not the same atmospheric romance of the old woods. On the hilltops the crocus blooms opened their petals to the sunlight in neat rows of purple and gold, like a floral marching band.

  The homestead, on the crest of the hill, looked like it had been there forever. Its tall windows on the ground floor overlooked the rose garden and framed a lovely vista of fields and woods and a glimpse of the creek. The cottage close by was surrounded by a glorious English flower garden at the front, and a large kitchen garden at the rear, which Jess knew had been planted by the old housekeeper in Sally’s grandparents’ time, Mrs James.

  Sally had told Jess how much she loved living in her grandmother’s and mother’s house. She treasured the sense of continuity and belonging. Two of Stella Holland’s delicate paintings still hung on the wall in Stella’s old studio. Sally’s grandfather’s den, with its old framed medical certificates, was largely untouched; walking sticks and everyday items that had been used for three generations were still kept in the kitchen and the delicate Minton china in the dining room, and many old tools and gardening things were still in the shed and the garden nursery. Sally’s mother had modernised the house so it was easier to live in and bought some new appliances over the years, but essentially it had remained as Jessica remembered it from her childhood.

  When Sally and Toby had moved into the big house and Mollie decamped to the smaller cottage, Sally had added a few touches of her own, including a sheltered entertaining area with a pizza oven, which she called her ‘outdoor dining room’. However, she hardly touched the conservatory, Stella’s old studio, other than some slight changes to the furniture so that it could be used as a comfortable sitting room. She would escape there whenever she could grab a free half-hour to have time out and read. Mollie explained to Jessica that she was now the business manager of the farm, keeping track of accounts, staff, orders, and the myriad details of an expanding family business.

  Within days of being at Arcadia, a place of such happy memories, and in the warmth of a friendship that never changed, Jessica felt the tension melting from her body. For the first time in a long time, she had a sense of tranquillity, and a faint hope that her life would change for the better.

  *

  With Katie tugging at her, Jessica followed Toby and Sally as they walked slowly across the fields, crouching every few yards to inspect the rows of low purple flowers, petals still furled around their precious hearts. The well-trained Jasper trotted behind.

  Jessica squatted beside Toby as he pointed to the little rust-red rocket heads jutting from the centre of each crocus.

  ‘See the stigmas peeping out? As the sun comes out they’ll push up and open, and there will be all the powdery stigmas. Three threads to a flower.’

  ‘That’s why they’re called the “flower of the sun”,’ said Sally quietly, almost reverentially. ‘We harvest every crocus by hand, thousands of them, and process them the same day. Takes thousands of threads to make just a gram of saffron.’

  ‘So their life span is sunrise to sunset?’ asked Jessica.

 
‘Not really, only once the stigmas are ripe. We pack them in black glass to protect them from the light and they stay fresh quite a long time. Some chefs make a bit of a thing about them . . . like hearing your tea leaves were picked on a Sri Lankan plantation at dawn, or telling a customer in Perth their salmon was swimming in the Tasmanian wilderness that morning. They don’t mention that the poor thing was swimming in a smelly fish pen with hundreds of others.’

  Toby straightened, cupping one of the crocus blooms in his hands. ‘Precious cargo. Sally and Mollie make a fabulous paella. The saffron makes all the difference.’

  ‘Turns any dish gold,’ Sally said and smiled. ‘Curries, spicy dishes, desserts, and even gin. We’ll give you one of our special saffron-infused G & Ts tonight.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Toby. ‘So, have you decided yet if there is anything special you’d like to do while you’re here, Jess, or anywhere you’d like to go?’

  ‘No plans,’ said Jess quietly. ‘Just hanging out. Right, Sally?’

  Sally glanced at her. The tone of her voice didn’t sound like the Jessica she knew. It reminded Sally that her friend was still trying to deal with her world falling apart, even though she mostly put on a brave face.

  They returned to the glasshouse carrying baskets of the delicate crocuses, handing them over to the team of workers sitting at the long tables ready to trim the red stigmas to be dried and packed.

  *

  At the end of Jessica’s first week, Mollie had a party, ‘just a few friends round to dinner’, some of whom Jessica knew, while others were recent arrivals in the district.

  Everybody brought something they’d made or grown: sourdough bread, jams, pickles, fresh produce, a basket of mushrooms, local wine, a delicious dessert. Mollie made a curry and saffron rice, Sally made tangy chutney and naan bread, and Jessica did a salad, throwing in flowers from the chives, and petals and leaves from the nasturtiums.