Arcadia

by Di Morrissey

  9

  Arcadia, 1976

  Stella sat in the chair in her rose garden, which overlooked the untouched forest and the distant mountains. These days more cars travelled their road than had when she’d come here as a young bride, and there were new shops in their growing but still isolated township. The river traffic had increased too, with more leisure boats, yachts from the sailing club, fishing craft, and occasional scenic cruises. The farms in the area were expanding, with apple orchards being replaced by different crops, as well as some sheep and cattle.

  Arcadia hadn’t changed. But it wasn’t the same without Mrs James. She’d died as she’d lived – peacefully, not wanting to be a bother to others. She’d fretted about Stella being on her own as Mollie had moved north with Graham after their wedding. ‘Nonsense. I have your Terry, who is wonderful. I am doing perfectly well here, and I can get any help I want. And one day soon, Mollie and her family will come home here, to Arcadia.’

  Mrs James had smiled. ‘Yes. That’s a fine plan. I hope she doesn’t leave it too long.’ They’d reached out to each other, Stella’s long fingers stroking the older woman’s careworn hands.

  Within two months, Mollie and Graham had moved to Arcadia, leaving Graham’s family farm in the care of his father and brother.

  Stella remained in her old bedroom, and kept her studio unchanged. Mollie freshened up the master bedroom with new curtains and paint, but she focused mainly on tidying up the garden and running a few cows. Most of Graham’s time was taken up with his job as principal of the small primary school in Burridge.

  The Jameses’ cottage became guest quarters, though Stella contacted all the James children to tell them that the cottage would always be available any time they and their own families might wish to visit.

  Ever since her husband’s death, Stella had become more and more involved with the Art Society, which she enjoyed for the social contact as much as the exhibitions, the lectures, the painting trips and occasional master classes conducted by renowned visiting artists.

  Mollie found her mother clattering away in her studio one evening as she sorted through stacks of canvases and unframed pictures in the set of drawers wide enough to hold her artworks. ‘Mother, dinner is ready. What are you looking for?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to enter a piece in a rather special art show, an invitation-only event.’

  ‘Well, that sounds prestigious. What are you going to paint?’

  ‘Mollie, dear, my eyes aren’t up to scratch these days. In her letter, the director asked for a botanical work, and that requires a steady hand and good eyes. So I was thinking I might enter something I did some time ago. The one with Nyx or that purple–blue plant with the fungi.’

  ‘Okay, good idea,’ said Mollie. ‘Come and have dinner and I’ll help you later.’

  So after dinner Mollie and her mother rifled through the stacks of pictures. ‘Mother, you should do something with these. Sell them or give them away, or store them somewhere temperature controlled so they won’t get damaged by the weather.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I rather like having them around. They are dear old friends.’

  ‘Is this it?’ asked Mollie, pulling out a large painting of delicate fronds with mushrooms and the odd little purple flower in the corner. ‘It’s very good. So is the owl, of course.’

  ‘That’s the one! Thank you, dear. I remember the day I did the sketches for the Nyx painting very well.’ She smiled. ‘It was in 1935. Then I exhibited it in 1939, and it won a prize, which was a great surprise. But for some reason, I’ve never shown this one of the fronds before.’

  ‘It’s the perfect choice for the exhibition. Is there a prize this time?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. A piece of paper, perhaps. And the honour of meeting the curator, who’s an artist from America, I gather.’

  ‘What’s that little flower?’ Mollie peered at the picture.

  ‘I haven’t been able to find out. It pops up every year or so down under one of the big old trees. It seems to sprout from the fungus. I haven’t been there for a while, I must take a look again,’ said Stella wistfully.

  ‘Mother, do you think so? Please don’t go alone, you could trip and fall. Wait till Graham or I can go with you. It’s funny, I’ve never found that forest as romantic and fascinating as you seem to.’

  ‘I feel I know every inch of it. I’ll take my stick if I go, and let you know,’ she added.

  Mollie and Graham didn’t like Stella spending hours alone in the forest with no means of communicating with them if anything went wrong. When she went off to paint or draw or simply to birdwatch, one of them would go down with morning or afternoon tea to check on her. ‘I don’t know how she can just sit there for hours on end, with only her sketchbook and binoculars,’ Mollie had once said to her husband.

  The next day, Stella took a walk to the woods with her camera and notebook, treading carefully along the track that was imprinted on her heart. As she always did, she paused at one particular old tree and rested her hand in the shallow hollow in its trunk. She knew it would be empty, but the gesture brought back memories of the small notes that had been hidden there, which still made her heart leap.

  *

  The night of the Art Society reception to open the exhibition and announce its plans for the coming year, Mollie drove her mother to the gracious sandstone building, fashioned after a Greek revivalist–style temple, in a little park at the foothills of Hobart’s Wellington Park. Ancanthe, as it was first named, had been built by convicts in the 1880s and was now known as the Lady Franklin Gallery, after its creator, the wife of the then governor.

  ‘The Art Society is so lucky to be housed in this lovely building,’ said Stella as they drove up and parked the car. ‘After the Franklins left, the place became so neglected. Did you know they used to store apples and cattle fodder in here? Thankfully it was restored. Your father and I came to the opening, in 1948 I believe it was.’

  ‘That Lady Jane was quite a woman. We’re only just finding out about her,’ said Mollie. ‘Typical, isn’t it? The wives were never written into history. Like Elizabeth Macarthur in Sydney.’

  ‘I’m thrilled to be exhibited tonight,’ said Stella, linking her arm through Mollie’s.

  ‘I hope there’ll be photographers here and you get your photo in the paper. You look just beautiful.’ Mollie squeezed her mother’s arm, glancing at her elegant silk trouser suit and lace shirt, her hair coiled on top of her head, tendrils threaded with silver falling around her face, soft make-up and sparkling earrings.

  And Stella was photographed, standing next to her painting. When the director of the Society asked her to say a few words, Stella smiled shyly and, speaking quietly and graciously, she thanked the Art Society for its loyal support for the advancement of art in the community.

  ‘I believe artists can see in their mind’s eye the masterpiece that consumes their heart and soul, and the translation from mind to canvas can be a mysterious, unfathomable, uncontrollable journey to convey the same vision to the outside world. It can be frustrating, certainly, but it’s an unquestionable and unquenchable desire only a fellow artist, in whatever medium, can appreciate,’ said Stella with a small smile. ‘We tend to be a solitary breed, so on occasions such as this, we are grateful for the appreciation and also for the opportunity to share our passion. So thank you.’

  The director smiled broadly and led the applause as she shook Stella’s hand warmly.

  *

  Mollie stood back, watching her mother being feted and feeling proud as the director escorted Stella around the room. She was sipping a glass of sherry when a man she didn’t know approached her.

  ‘You’re Mrs Holland’s daughter?’ When she nodded, he added, ‘Do you still live at Arcadia? I am intrigued by your mother’s painting. I wonder if it is a composite, a fantasy, or botanically accurate?’

 
Mollie felt a bit taken aback. ‘I really couldn’t say for sure, Mr . . .?’ She gave him a questioning look. When he made no move to reply, she continued, ‘I believe she paints what she sees around her.’

  ‘A very interesting composition. Especially the fungus,’ he said with a twisted half-smile.

  ‘Are you an artist?’ asked Mollie.

  ‘Not at all. More a collector.’ He gave a nod. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He slid away, leaving Mollie feeling uncomfortable. She glanced across the room and saw him approach her mother.

  Stella smiled as he walked over to her, but then her smile faded, replaced by a puzzled look, and finally her face closed and she turned away abruptly. As Mollie hurried across the room towards her mother, she saw a photographer get there first and start talking to Stella, who now looked rattled.

  ‘Oh, Mollie, dear, ah . . .’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mollie linked arms with her mother.

  ‘Hey, that looks great, can I take a photo of you both for The Mercury, please?’ said the photographer. ‘Thanks. Great painting, Mrs Holland.’

  ‘Thank you,’ managed Stella.

  ‘Okay, smile, this way. And one more.’

  As he wound the film on, Stella squeezed Mollie’s arm. ‘I think I want to leave now. I’m not the social butterfly type.’

  They thanked the director and headed for the door.

  ‘Who was that man?’ asked Mollie.

  ‘I’m not sure. He made me feel uncomfortable. Brought back a memory, things I haven’t thought about in years,’ said Stella. ‘Silly of me. I suppose I need to get out more and mingle.’

  ‘No. He was creepy,’ said Mollie. ‘Still, it was a wonderful event. Are you inspired to do more paintings? Just before the speeches started, I was talking to a woman who owns a gallery outside of Hobart. She said she’d love to sell your work.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s not only eyesight that would hold me back – I do them for my own pleasure. I’d feel too constricted if I knew I was painting something to please someone else who had to pay for it.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to be recognised for what you do,’ said Mollie.

  *

  A few days after the exhibition opening, Stella left Mollie a note on the kitchen table to say where she was going, and set out to walk to the forest, carrying her trusty bag slung across her chest packed with camera and notebook. Using the solid walking stick that Mr James had cut for her long ago, she walked at a careful but determined pace, knowing exactly where she was going.

  In the misty air of a crisp morning she smiled at the dew lingering in patches the sun had yet to find. She saw her tree and crossed the clearing, heading towards it, and then stopped to look at its protruding roots. Some fungi, moss and ferns were growing around it, as she remembered. But the particular mushrooms she knew should be there were missing, as was her little lantern flower, which she’d seen pop up to bloom briefly before returning to its life beneath the soil – the same kind young Flora had first showed her all those years ago. She’d seen orange ones flower as well, but this purple one had only occasionally appeared, which is why she’d chosen to paint it all that time ago. From her last visit before the event at the Art Society, she had spotted the pale purple–blue tip bulging through the surface of the soil, and by now it should have been at full flower in its brief appearance above the ground.

  She knew it must be rare, or an anomaly she’d witnessed every few years. She wanted to photograph it for a botanist at the Botanical Gardens who’d asked for a picture after seeing her painting at the Art Society. And now, after all these years, she was keen to put a name to the little lantern-like bell that appeared among the fungi.

  How disappointing; it had not bloomed. She had never seen another growing anywhere else in all her years here, just the one at the base of this tree. She didn’t like to disturb anything in the forest so she had only ever once picked the little flower, and that was years before when she’d done the painting and had plucked the rare bloom to take to her studio so she could paint it in a better light. Once she’d painted it, she’d tucked the flower into her sketchbook, a special reminder, and later she would give it to a friend.

  She sighed, and was about to turn away when something caught her eye. She stood still, gazing at the ground. Something didn’t look right. The lichen, a twig atop the rotting leaf matter looked . . . with her artist’s eye . . . composed. Arranged, almost. She stooped and gently brushed away some leaves. The topsoil was pressed down and smooth, not moist and crumbly as it usually was. She knew the bulbs and roots of the flower were spread beneath, and she gently scraped the surface. Then she crouched down and, with the top of a twig, began scooping away the soil. It quickly became apparent that the network of rhizomes and filaments that fed the underground plants and bulbs had been severed. The plant that bloomed so briefly and rarely was gone. Entirely separated from its host. This had not been an accident; the careful replacement of the soil attested to that. She knew there were no more. And now it was gone. It would have been easy to spot, the small dash of purple against the emerald dampness, if you were here at the right time. It had disappeared in the last two or three days.

  A face, a figure, a familiar voice, flashed through her mind. Shakily she got to her feet. She turned her back and walked away, as quickly as she could, her knees trembling, her mind racing, her usually gentle face set in an expression of fury and sadness.

  Hobart, 2018

  Jessica leaned back, closing her eyes, tilting her face to the sun. ‘You can’t beat the smell of good coffee, croissants and car fumes,’ she said.

  Sally and Toby laughed. They were sitting at a table outside a trendy local café close by Carmen’s house.

  ‘So what do you two want to do this morning? I have to go pick up some things from a produce supplier,’ said Toby.

  ‘I’m easy,’ said Sally. ‘I might look for something to take back to Katie. There’re some cute boutiques around here.’

  ‘My niece has a birthday coming up and I should buy her a present, so I’ll come with you,’ said Jessica. ‘She’s three. Mum keeps saying we should get her and Katie together one day when they’re both in Sydney. Speaking of which, do you two have any plans to head over to Melbourne or Sydney soon?’ she asked.

  Toby shrugged. ‘Gosh, that’s up to you, Sal. We have to fit in my dad’s birthday. His sixtieth is coming up, and that might take up any spare time I have for a while.’

  Sally sipped her coffee. ‘I’ll see what Mum wants to do. She hasn’t been over to the mainland for a bit. She has friends in Melbourne she wants to catch up with.’ She paused. ‘No pressure or anything, but what about you, Jess? Any plans?’

  Jessica put her cup down. ‘No plans. But a few ideas starting to bubble away.’

  ‘You can stay with us as long as you want, you know,’ said Toby.

  ‘Thanks, Toby. You guys are so kind to me. This has been such a break. I kinda put my life on hold and that’s been good. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘Jess, we’re not pushing you out,’ said Sally quickly.

  ‘I know. I realise that I just needed breathing space, a little healing time. A chance to find a new direction. The thought of going back to live in Sydney with all the overbuilding, traffic and the exploitation of everything, is . . .’ She shuddered. ‘I see it all more clearly from this distance. The greed is depressing. After meeting and hearing Sean Hyland I feel, well, that I want to do something that means something . . .’

  Toby nodded. ‘We felt like that when we moved to Arcadia, didn’t we, Sal? We took a sideways step and gambled on something different. Sometimes I worry about it in the middle of the night, but I wouldn’t change anything.’ He smiled at Sally and she grinned back.

  ‘So many people feel the same way, it’s kind of catching. Perhaps it’s the surroundings – this is a special place, this whole
state. People come here to get out of the rat race, follow a dream, prioritise family and health and lifestyle. We just have to be careful that we don’t get loved to death, overrun or sold out,’ said Sally.

  ‘Careful, Sal, you don’t want to sound like a NIMBY,’ said Toby, chuckling.

  ‘You don’t read the independent papers and listen to ABC radio, and follow what’s happening in Canberra, like I do,’ said Sally.

  Jessica laughed. ‘You should get involved in local politics, Sally.’

  ‘She’s already stirred up the P&C group at the local school,’ said Toby, ‘and Katie’s only been going to preschool for a few months.’

  ‘Good for you, Sal,’ Jessica said. ‘By the way, what about your mum?’ she added. ‘When are you going to sit down and ask her about her mother, Shelter Bay, the Broadbents? Surely she must remember something?’

  Sally drained her coffee and put down her cup. ‘It’s tricky. I really don’t think she knows much or she would have said something over the years. She’s not the type to keep anything from me.’

  ‘Maybe see what Dan has to say first,’ said Toby.

  ‘I’m meeting him for lunch at the Botanical Gardens,’ said Jessica. ‘He wants to introduce me to a few people who work there, although I guess they might not be there on a Saturday. Had you heard about the Bookend Trust before he mentioned it last night?’ she added. When Sally and Toby shook their heads, she continued, ‘Me either. Dan said it’s a not-for-profit group of educators, academics and scientists who want to inspire students to choose environmental careers. Founded here in Tassie, but it’s Australia-wide and starting to spread overseas too. Great idea. Dan thought I might like to get involved.’

  ‘It does sound like a good idea, but surely you need a paying job?’ said Sally.

  ‘I know. Anyway, they’ll be interesting people to meet.’

  ‘Well, I better get going,’ said Toby.

  ‘Want to meet for lunch, darling?’ Sally asked him. ‘Take advantage of having a day in town?’