Currawong Manor Page 3
‘Did you see her recently?’ Elizabeth asked, watching Fleur across the room, on her mobile as usual. Whenever she was away from her family, Fleur was always phoning her German au pair, fretting over what her children were doing.
Holly hesitated, glancing at Bob before she replied. ‘We did, but we couldn’t get any sense out of her. I don’t think she was too happy about Flowers of the Ruins going ahead. I got the impression she thought we were treading on her toes with her own book, Murder at the Manor, although that’s so long out of print now. I’m afraid we had to ask her to leave in the end. I was so distressed, as I had been dying to meet her, but she was nothing like I expected.’
‘Kitty and I were making plans to meet each other just before she died,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I regret our plans didn’t eventuate. She was another link to my mother’s past. I had tried years before to get in touch, but she had no interest then in meeting me. I had the feeling at the time that she didn’t want to resurrect her time at Currawong Manor.’ Exactly like Mum, she thought.
‘A rum do,’ said Holly. ‘But she was a strange one, wasn’t she, Bob? Between you and me,’ she lowered her voice and glanced around, ‘she told me she was staying at Fern Falls in Leura, but it was obviously a lie. The woman reeked. No decent hotel would have let her in the door. It was plain—’ She broke off as she spotted Ginger making her way towards them. ‘I’ll tell you more later!’
Bob winked at Elizabeth over his cup of tea, and Elizabeth felt briefly flattered that the sour-faced man appeared to have accepted her.
Ginger was frowning as she approached. ‘Why the hell did you invite the media, Holly?’ she blasted, indicating an apprehensive-looking young pair standing back against the wall, as if wishing they could disappear into it. ‘Those babies just told me they’re from the Mountain Daily and asked for a comment. As if I would want to give interviews as my old friend is being cremated! And Dolly Sharp has no right to be here!’ She jerked her head angrily towards the wooden table where the feast was set up. Dolly stood there alone, ignored by the chatting crowd.
Holly was unfazed by Ginger’s outburst. ‘Think of the book, Ginger,’ she said. ‘We need all the publicity we can get. And Australian Lady wants to interview you as well. They sent me an email last night. Do you honestly believe that if the positions were reversed and we were burying you today Kitty would have knocked back publicity?’
‘Jesus, woman. You’re worse than my agent!’ Ginger spat. She shot the group an icy stare. ‘I think I’ll skip the scones, toadies and bullshit. I’m going to the manor to knock back a bottle of Jack in memory of Kitty. I’m more likely to find her spirit there than among this farce! Oh God, Patrick boring Bishop’s heading this way. I’m out of here!’
‘Bob will drive you,’ Holly offered, but Ginger succinctly told him where to put his keys before sashaying off in a cloud of Chanel No 5, clinking bracelets and trailing scarf, nearly knocking over a smartly dressed older gentleman in a black tuxedo and tails. His clipped grey hair framed a lined, alert, attractive face. The trio watched as Patrick attempted to speak to Ginger, who shot him a look of dislike. The pair exchanged a few words before Ginger exited the room, leaving Patrick staring after her with a wistful expression.
‘Poor old Patrick,’ Holly said, smiling into her cup. ‘He’s a well-known local character, and was a visitor to Currawong Manor back in the forties – you’ll have to photograph him for the book, Elizabeth. He plays the piano in the local cinema wearing a top hat and tails, and also owns the small history museum in town. He’s a fount of useful information – he’s even self-published books about Mount Bellwood, though some of his ideas are a bit wacky. I think he’s lonely after his wife’s death in the seventies. I bet you wouldn’t know how to iron a shirt if I died tomorrow, would you, Bob?’ She glanced around to make sure nobody could overhear, before she added, ‘Perhaps Kitty’s death affected her more than she admits. I feel terrible for agreeing to the book if it’s only going to work her up so much. She’s been very ill, I know that.’ She looked over her shoulder before mouthing, ‘Cancer.’
Fleur’s return saved Elizabeth from attempting to decipher why she felt so shocked about Ginger’s ill-health.
‘What’s wrong with Ginger?’ Fleur asked, before launching into her own complaints about how Silke, the au pair, was threatening to quit because the other au pairs ignored her in the park, and how Louis, her son, was refusing to do his homework. Elizabeth only half listened. Fleur’s domestic blow-ups always ended the same way – Fleur returning home to placate Silke, soothe her children with treats and save the day. All Elizabeth could think was, How on earth am I going to put up with Drama Queen Ginger?
3
Aspiration and Desire
Elizabeth looked out of the car window as Fleur drove down the tree-lined main street of the pretty, historical town of Mount Bellwood. Unlike the lower-mountain towns, Mount Bellwood still retained a shabby, olde-worlde feel. There was a butcher’s shop with a striped awning, a clothes and shoe shop ‘locally family run since 1893’, a post office, and a police station that looked like a cottage from the set of Midsomer Murders with its collection of trailing pelargoniums and pansies out the front. A vintage store had a collection of mannequins and some fascinating bric-a-brac displayed outside. Further down was an old-fashioned milk bar called The Land of Goodies. The street was filled with an eclectic mix of people, a lot of them clustered at cafes meeting friends or gathering sustenance before setting off on one of the many nearby bushwalks. Elizabeth wondered aloud how long it would be before Mount Bellwood fell victim to the gentrification slowly creeping up the mountains as a consequence of Sydney’s inflated real estate prices.
‘People think it’s too cold to come up this far,’ Fleur said. ‘The commute turns a lot of them off, too, but the new highway might make a difference. A lot of artists live in the town, no doubt drawn by the Rupert Partridge connection. And the prices are cheap compared to Leura! I’d love to pick up a weekender, but the children are too busy every weekend for us to get away.’
Elizabeth wondered what it would be like to have to schedule your weekends around your children’s needs. The pain twisted inside her again, briefly. Was her mother right? Had she left it too late to start a family? Why had all her relationships never worked out? Why did her lovers feel as if they took second-place behind her career – why couldn’t she attract a man who appreciated her creative demands and schedule?
They were now driving alongside the old railway line, the radio on, Handel’s Messiah playing on the ABC. Barbed wire, electric fences and warning signs – Keep Out, Private Property, Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted – heralded their arrival at Owlbone Woods.
The Currawong Manor estate included Owlbone Woods, three hundred acres of bushland with a beautifully forested glen and a waterfall on a fork of Baxter’s river in Megalong Valley. Of particular interest to Elizabeth, the Mermaid Glen waterfall at Weeping Rocks featured several of Rupert’s statues. Always privately owned, the property had never been a tourist attraction, although Holly was now hoping to open it up to the public. Scraps of information Elizabeth had gathered from her mother over the years suggested the locals of Mount Bellwood avoided Owlbone Woods as an unlucky place. Not only had Shalimar Partridge drowned at the glen, but Rupert had also gone missing somewhere there after her death. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes’ drive from Mount Bellwood,’ said Elizabeth, checking her watch, ‘but it feels as if we’re in the middle of nowhere. Can you imagine how much more isolated it must have felt in Rupert’s time? The constant worry of bushfires in summer must have worn them down.’
‘I still find it odd that Lois won’t come near the place,’ Fleur said.
‘There’s no way Mum would return,’ Elizabeth said. ‘She gets angry every time I mention it. I’ve given up trying to convince her. But I always found the woods in Rupert’s work magical. And years ago I came up here to visit Mermaid Glen and found it haunting but really beautiful. I’m hoping to
photograph it now and try to capture its menacing quality.’ It had been years, too, since Elizabeth had seen inside the manor itself. Just before Lois sold it she had reluctantly agreed to bring Elizabeth along when she came up here to collect a few things. The day had ended badly with Lois becoming morose and bitter about her childhood, but Elizabeth always remembered how wonderfully whimsical the house was, and she was both excited and anxious about seeing it again.
The two women shared a strange reverie as the bumpy unsealed road gave way to Woodswallow Lane. A few minutes later, they came to a long driveway flanked by bloodwood and tea trees. A worn white signpost read Currawong Manor. Beneath it in red paint was the freshly painted graffiti: The Ruins.
‘I even found it referred to as the Ruins in the Mountains Tourist guide,’ Fleur commented as she paused the car and gazed at the picturesque entrance.
‘The locals have always called it the Ruins, apparently,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘Not just because it’s fallen into ruins, but because it ruins lives. You already know about the tragedy around Shalimar’s death – my grandmother hit by the train the night her daughter died, my grandfather disappearing. But there’s more to it. After Rupert’s parents – my great-grandparents – lost their favourite son to the war, Rupert’s father, Reg, either killed himself or disappeared, and his mother, Ivy, shut herself away in one of the rooms and barely ventured out.’
As Fleur turned the car into the driveway, Elizabeth fell silent, reflecting that Kitty’s death could perhaps also be attributed to the Ruins’ curse. And it had left its indelible mark on Lois, too; after the tragic happenings to her family in the 1940s, Elizabeth’s mother, barely a month old, had been taken into foster care, enduring a series of different homes until she’d been old enough to make her own way in the world. Little wonder she seemed incapable of compassion or tenderness.
Shaking off the familiar bitterness, Elizabeth continued, ‘It’s all so penny-dreadful. The manor was originally the home of an eccentric Englishman, Reverend Greenman. It’s all going to be in the book. The Shaws are determined to include as much Gothic drama as they can.’ In preparation for the book, Holly had been flat out interviewing locals, trying to unearth scandal, ghosts and mayhem – not only related to the Ruins but also Mount Bellwood in general.
‘Holly must have some money to have taken on Currawong Manor,’ Fleur said. ‘But people love creepy old homes with secrets festering within them. I don’t think she’s a fool, Elizabeth. Just be careful she doesn’t use your family history to make her own fortune!’
‘I wish we’d been able to keep the manor in the family, but Mum wasn’t interested and it needs too much renovation,’ Elizabeth said ruefully. ‘Holly and Bob must have more money than sense, but Holly seems determined to turn both the Ruins and Mount Bellwood into a thriving artistic community. At least she does care about the art side of things. The previous owners couldn’t have given a rat’s about Rupert and his work. Holly sold her gallery in London as well as their flat to buy the manor. That’s how obsessed she became with Rupert.’
After proceeding slowly along the driveway, shadowed by the overhanging trees, they now reached a crumbling drystone wall and rusted iron-lace gates guarded by two large, chipped, moss-covered stone lions. One had lost its head.
‘Well, there it is,’ Elizabeth said, her voice quivering. ‘Currawong Manor.’
At the end of the carriage drive was a large two-storey bluestone home, flanked by wattles and gum trees. The house resembled an English vicarage, the afternoon sun highlighting the romantic splendour of the stones. Dark-green ivy smothered most of the facade, though it had been carefully clipped away from a vivid blue front door. Up the left side of the house ran an old rusted iron staircase, which Elizabeth knew didn’t go anywhere. A verandah with iron railings ran around the manor’s entire circumference, its deep shade dotted at intervals by chairs and wooden barrel tubs of wildflowers. The roof was red slate with parapet lines, and on one side only, a couple of odd-looking turrets. Several saffron-yellow brick chimneys and large Gothic-style windows added to the otherworldliness of the place, while wooden tubs of lavender and cascading trellis roses mingling with the dark ivy lent a more traditional charm.
‘It’s beautiful!’ Fleur exclaimed. ‘It’d make a perfect location for weddings or a film. I can see why Holly loves it so much. It’s like something from a fairytale. Shame Lois didn’t want to hang on to it – though I suppose you can’t blame her.’
They parked behind Bob’s red Commodore and a Landrover and climbed out of the car. ‘It’s magical, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth said. ‘Even the air smells enchanted!’ She inhaled deeply, looking at the house with a yearning expression. ‘Everything is so much what it shouldn’t be, but it all works together in a strange, mysterious way. Mum hated it, said it gave her nightmares.’ She glanced up to examine the towers.
‘What are you looking at?’ Fleur opened the boot to remove Elizabeth’s bags.
‘The currawongs,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Be careful with that red bag,’ she warned, taking the bag from Fleur. ‘It’s got my lenses in it. You know the old story about when the currawongs gather in numbers on the towers of the Ruins? It’s meant to indicate a death or birth of one of the manor’s inhabitants. That’s another reason Mum avoids the place. She believes all the old superstitions about it.’
‘And you don’t?’ Fleur asked.
Elizabeth screwed up her face as she continued to examine the towers. ‘When I did my Northern Territory book, The Magic Dirt, I spoke with Aboriginal people who claimed there are places we shouldn’t enter as they can lead you into other worlds – or just really bad things happened there because of old curses or the soil being tainted by bad magic. Hanging Rock in Victoria is meant to be one such spot. But currawongs foretelling death? I’d have to see it to believe it.’
She was interrupted by Holly opening the front door. ‘I knew I heard your car! I just told Bob to pop the kettle on. Come in. Welcome to Currawong Manor!’
***
The manor’s interior was as fairytale, peculiar and run-down as the exterior. The blue door with its black cast-iron lion’s-head knocker and a faded painting of a naked woman opened into a long hallway with chequerboard tiles, its high ceilings featuring elaborate rosettes. Elizabeth felt a feather of anticipation brush her as she crossed the threshold.
Holly led them into one of the two spacious front rooms. Both rooms kept the large stained-glass windows that Reverend Greenman had had shipped out from England; they streamed radiant colours into the room, making Fleur exclaim in delight. Inspired by the exotic colony their work would be travelling to, the London glassmakers had created windows featuring a woman (presumably a symbol of Australia) with the word Oceania scrolled under her feet. Native flowers, waratahs and eucalyptus leaves adorned her head and decorated the side panels. Snakes and sheep lay at her feet, and she also carried an armful of snakes. She was clothed in the Union Jack and sheep’s wool. The other front room, which had been a library/study, was now known as the ‘Pink Room’, Holly explained as she led them into it, as its walls were once painted strawberry pink. ‘Bob hated it,’ she confided. ‘But we’ve given it a great face-lift thanks to Farrow and Ball and their Elephant’s Breath grey!’ The shelves were half empty. ‘A lot of the books were mouldy,’ Holly said. ‘Sadly, we had to bin the lot.’
Elizabeth felt an odd wrenching in her heart. In spite of the renovations, the manor looked so forlorn, unloved and shabby. And it smelled of damp.
‘A tip, isn’t it?’ Holly said breezily. ‘You should have seen it before I started work! The previous owners had just abandoned all their crap here. They didn’t even bother packing most of it. Made me wonder if they were so spooked by the locals’ ghost stories they were afraid to pack! But I suspect the lazy gits just left their muck for me to clear up. Come and see the dining room now. Watch your step!’
The dining room was even more of a mess, with ladders propped against walls, strips of wallpaper
peeling away, cans of paint stacked in corners, and general renovation chaos everywhere. ‘My lovely boys have knocked off for today. I’m sure they’d have found reasons to hang around if they knew two pretty girls were due. Let’s see how Bob’s ruined the tea.’
She ushered them down the hallway past the French-polished rosewood staircase (which Elizabeth knew led up to the master bedroom, as well as a smaller bedroom and the towers) and through to a spacious open-plan renovated kitchen/conservatory with windows overlooking the back garden and Rupert’s old stone studio. The kitchen walls were freshly painted in a buttery colour with lavender-grey trim. The whitewashed wooden cabinets and large cherrywood table contrasted beautifully with the smooth porcelain sink and tall gleaming taps.
‘What a gorgeous kitchen!’ Elizabeth exclaimed as she admired Holly’s copper pot collection hanging from hooks, and shelves of blue-and-white-patterned china.
‘We knocked through to the maid’s room,’ said Holly. ‘Not an easy job up here when you don’t know which builders are reliable – we had to learn through trial and error. But I insisted on having a kitchen similar to my one back home. It’s the most important room in the house. There was a time I’d have said the bedroom was, but those days are . . . Speak of the devil, here’s Bob. Did you go to China for the tea?’
Bob, entering through the back-door, held up a handful of mint.
While Bob sliced lemons and took cups down from the dresser, Holly buttered scones, chatting about the funeral guests and their outfits.
‘Did you invite Ginger for a cuppa?’ she asked Bob, as he handed around cups of tea. Obviously comprehending his grunt as an assent, she went on, ‘She seems to have settled herself in nicely in the Nests. I’ve put you next to you, Elizabeth, if you fancy some company; Dolly won’t bother trying to be social with anyone. Ginger claims she won’t be lonely – says she’s too busy writing her memoirs.’ Holly sipped her tea and pursed her lips. ‘She’s not writing! Talking into a tape recorder isn’t writing. Your grandfather Rupert,’ she nodded to Elizabeth, ‘he’s the main talent – the real story. Those life models just took their clothes off, and any old exhibitionist can do that! I could do that right now, couldn’t I, Bob?’