Currawong Manor Page 4

  Bob nodded. ‘Wouldn’t advise it, though,’ he mumbled into his teacup.

  Holly whacked him on the arm. ‘Don’t listen to him, girls!’ She helped herself to a scone and went on, ‘She’s had work done, of course. Not just Botox, but she looks like she’s had a total—’

  ‘Does it bother you if I have, Holly?’ Ginger appeared at the back doorway, holding a folder. She had changed out of her smart funeral outfit and now wore a purple velvet workout suit. Elizabeth became engrossed in examining her teacup, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl, but Holly, not so easily intimidated, looked unconcerned.

  ‘Ginger, dear, I didn’t hear you sneaking around. It does bother me, because you look so beautiful and I’d love to know who you go to,’ Holly gushed. ‘God knows I could do with some help myself, so I wish you would share your secrets. Now, would you like a cup of tea? Bob, move over, pet, let Ginger get off her pins.’

  ‘No tea. I just dropped in to give Elizabeth some of my photos for her inspiration board for our shoots. I don’t waste time at this stage of my life. I like people to be prepared. I take it you do inspiration and mood boards, Elizabeth?’ She glared at Elizabeth, who nodded. ‘Good! We’re trying to tell a story here and I want to make damn sure we’re all on the same page as we tell it.’

  Elizabeth stood up to take the folder off Ginger, feeling as if she was in the presence of a feisty school headmistress.

  Ginger went to leave, paused for a second at the door as if considering something, and then turned to Holly. ‘You didn’t know him,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea who Rupert Partridge was. He would have hated you trying to turn Currawong Manor into Partridge Land. Yes, he had flaws aplenty, but in my book he was a true gentleman. He never had a chance, poor Rupert, with his family background. Boyd had talent, Nolan and Tucker had talent. Rupert just longed to emulate the big guys. He was consumed with jealousy, crippled with anxiety and his demons. And for your information, Holly Shaw, we didn’t just “take our clothes off” for him to paint us. We were far more to him than that. Without the Flowers, there would have been no paintings. Even if the Partridges didn’t always acknowledge our contribution to Rupert’s career, the paintings exist because of his muses!’

  Ginger’s angry glance swept over the four transfixed people in the kitchen. Holly went to speak, but Ginger held up her hand to stop her. Elizabeth noted her long red-varnished nails and the telltale age spots on her hands. ‘You might own the Ruins now – as much as anyone thinks they own this place – but you don’t own the past, and I won’t let you twist it for your own purposes. I’m overseeing this project, Holly, and you know how important it is to me to have the real truth out there finally!’ She banged the door behind her.

  ‘Really, Bob! You could have stood up for me,’ Holly snapped, her cheeks flushed. ‘How could you let her talk to me like that in my own kitchen?’ She took a sip of tea and shook her head. ‘I feel dreadful that she got so upset,’ she said. ‘She’s so ill and it can’t do her any good to get wound up. God, you have to be so careful when you’re dealing with her, I’m learning. She’s so temperamental and fiery. She loses it over the smallest things you couldn’t imagine.’

  Bob stood up to wash the cups, ignoring her. Elizabeth felt embarrassed on Holly’s behalf. ‘We had best go and look at the Nests,’ she said, standing up too. ‘Fleur will have to return to Sydney soon.’

  ‘Do you want me to show you how to get there?’ Holly offered, looking relieved when they declined. ‘I don’t fancy running into that hothead again today,’ she confided. ‘They say redheads have tempers, but time and the grey hair under all that hair dye doesn’t seem to have altered her personality. I’m afraid she’s going to attack me. I might have to lock all the doors tonight,’ she added dramatically.

  Bob winked at Elizabeth and Fleur with a mischievous air, as he wiped a teacup.

  ***

  ‘Are you sure you want to stay?’ muttered Fleur as they walked down the winding cobblestone path.

  ‘I couldn’t abandon the project,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Mum would love that! I’d never hear the end of it. Hopefully Ginger’s only uptight because of Kitty’s funeral. Holly said she was normally very sweet.’ Behind the house was a big birdcage filled with cockatoos and brightly coloured parrots. Elizabeth felt sad looking at the imprisoned birds, and wondered why the Shaws locked them away when so many birds flew wild in the native bush nearby.

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Fleur didn’t sound convinced. ‘These gardens go on forever, don’t they? It’s so Secret Garden!’

  The garden was surrounded by a drystone wall and hawthorn hedge. The path took them past Rupert’s studio towards a steep set of concrete steps that led to the stone cabins that were the Nests. Beyond the Nests was a crumbling wall surrounding the entrance to Owlbone Woods, which stretched far into the distance in a misty lavender-blue smudge.

  As Fleur and Elizabeth paused to admire the garden, a peacock made them cry out in delight as it fanned its shimmering jade-green tail. Fat brown and black hens clucked free. In the centre of the garden was a stone pond. Rising from the middle of it, a naked goddess held a bow and arrow in the air. A dilapidated wooden trellis with overgrown rosebushes arched over the statue, and beside it was an iron seat.

  ‘That’s the love folly Rupert created,’ Elizabeth said. ‘The goddess is Diana. Doris Partridge was rumoured to be the model – although some people claim it was Wanda.’

  Elizabeth gazed at the impassive face of the goddess – her empty stone eyes, a moon crescent and animal companions surrounding her, including a dingo and several cats. At her base were two cherubs, hands entwined around a goblet of wine. They appeared twee and romantic, but a closer examination revealed a serpent winding around them, forcing them together. The snake’s head draped over one cherub’s plump shoulder, its forked tongue flicking a warning while its tail caressed the other’s breast. Around the wine goblets were carved large insects. One cherub held a spear poised as if about to plunge it into the chest of the other. The surface of the stonework was worn, adding to the aged effect Rupert had created. The words Love Eternal were engraved on a plaque below the cherubs, accompanied by a few lines of poetry.

  ‘What a romantic gesture,’ said Fleur. ‘It’s sad to see it fallen into disrepair, but I’m sure Holly will crack her whip to restore it.’

  Elizabeth read aloud from the plaque.

  ‘That’s different,’ Fleur said. ‘Is Rupert also a poet?’

  ‘Mary E. Fullerton,’ Elizabeth explained. ‘It’s an extract from a poem called “The Skull”. Rupert was a great admirer of Fullerton’s writings and her journey, which began in a bush hut in Glenmaggie. He always admired women who aspired to be more than their era permitted.’

  ‘I could never imagine Leslie installing Diana in our garden,’ Fleur commented. ‘Your grandfather must have been a right romantic.’

  A twinge of sadness rippled through Elizabeth as she looked at Diana. What would it be like to inspire that sort of passion? ‘There’re four acres of flower and vegetable gardens and potting sheds,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘You can just see a small fruit orchard between here and Owlbone Woods. In the forties they were really self-sustaining at the manor – apparently Holly wants to revive those days. I’m sure Diana’s folly will be high on her list: she really seems to believe Rupert’s spirit is working alongside her. Mermaid Glen’s in the woods. I’ll take you to it next time you’re up. We can brave the witchy woods together.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to see a place with such a terrible history. Especially knowing Shalimar drowned there. It must have been horrendous for everyone. My God!’ Fleur stopped short, having spotted a man digging near the old wooden henhouse. He looked in his forties, muscular and sun-bronzed, with blond wavy hair. He had a scarf knotted through his tight denim jeans in place of a belt, and wore a fitted t-shirt. ‘Don’t tell me that’s the gardener? An improvement on the other real bird peacock we just saw strutting around. Your stay mig
ht be more interesting than I thought it would be, Liz!’

  ‘Hello there,’ the man called as they approached. His gaze went immediately to Fleur. Elizabeth had long grown used to the attention that Fleur attracted effortlessly from men, and it no longer stung as it would once have done. ‘Are you after the Nests, ladies? They’re that way.’ He pointed with his hoe.

  ‘Thanks very much!’ Elizabeth responded. ‘I’m Elizabeth Thorrington, and this is my friend Fleur. I’m staying here to photograph the manor. So you’ll be seeing me around.’

  ‘James Frost,’ he replied. ‘Gardener and odd-job man for Holly. Give me a cooee if you need anything. Here comes Madame Mist. She’s arriving earlier and earlier.’ He pointed towards the thin strands of silver-grey fog that were beginning to emerge from the woods and drape across the garden.

  ‘Thanks, James,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting him,’ Fleur spluttered as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘I can think of several things I could “cooee” James Frost for! I do love a man with a hoe!’

  Elizabeth joined in her friend’s laughter. ‘You’re a married woman,’ she reminded her.

  ‘No harm in looking, and you’re free and easy. Was he wearing a ring? Damn, I didn’t notice. He’d keep you toasty on freezing mountain nights.’

  ‘I’m happy to have a good-looking guy to check out instead of Bob’s pained expression!’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘But what’s with the scarf in his jeans?’

  ‘Who cares about the scarf in his jeans?’ Fleur quipped and the pair started laughing again.

  They passed the wooden henhouse, where a couple of peacocks fraternised with more hens. Lavender, sweet pea, roses, pots of thyme and a host of native flowers added fragrant and visual beauty. A hawthorn hedge guarded the vegetable garden, its rectangular beds enclosed in neat red-brick paving. With a manic grin, a scarecrow reached its broom arms out to them, a strange sight with its bobbed grey-wool hair, oversized grey cardigan and black skirt.

  ‘Reminds me of Dolly Sharp.’ Elizabeth burned to photograph the scarecrow. It would make a spectacular series of black and white images, especially in the mist. But everywhere in this enchanted garden she saw a photograph. No wonder her grandfather had elected to bring up his family here. Currawong Manor was an artist’s paradise. A real family home – if you ignored the superstition . . .

  ‘Check out all their vegetables and herbs!’ Fleur exclaimed. ‘Surely that’s too much for one couple?’

  ‘They probably sell to the local farmers’ market and shops. It explains James Frost’s presence.’

  Fleur raised an exaggerated eyebrow and the two women laughed again, but Elizabeth quickly sobered when they came to a large scribbly gum tree; from one of its sturdy branches dangled an old wooden swing. A melancholy chill rippled through her. Once Shalimar had delighted in playing here – kicking upwards to the sky, laughing, oblivious to what life had in store for her. But who ever knew how their life would pan out?

  They arrived at four small bluestone cabins set against more hawthorn hedges near the drystone wall and dirt lane that led to the woods. The cabins had all been designed to resemble miniature Ruins, even down to the colour of the front door and the small stone lions outside each one. They looked wonderfully atmospheric, next to each other in a row, shrouded in mist, which was now so thick that the main house couldn’t be seen from where they stood.

  ‘They look as if they’ve been here forever, don’t they?’ Elizabeth marvelled. ‘But Holly and Bob knocked down the original garden sheds and stables to build these retreats. When the artists’ residencies aren’t running, she’ll use the cabins for the rest of the year as guest accommodation.’

  ‘That’s a good way to make the place pay for itself.’ Fleur adjusted her scarf, hugging herself in the rapidly cooling air. ‘So, you’ve got one Nest and Ginger’s in the other. Who’s nesting in the other two?’

  Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Dolly Sharp, for some inexplicable reason, has a permanent Nest rent-free. It was a condition of Rupert’s mother’s will that the dollmaker, and any family she had, would be allowed to remain at the manor. When Rupert and his family lived here and Miss Sharp was their housekeeper, she and her daughter, Dolly, apparently lived in the woods in a little cottage. One of the legends of Owlbone Woods is that nobody finds the dollmaker’s house unless her spirit wants you to. She’s meant to be buried there. I’ve never come across it, myself.’

  ‘How creepy!’ Fleur shuddered. ‘Don’t tell my children if they visit, or they’ll be off searching, hoping to dig her up.’

  ‘I suspect the story was started by local children,’ Elizabeth said. ‘After her mother’s death, Dolly had no other family. It was good of Holly and Bob to keep her on here.’

  ‘It’s just part of Holly’s obsession with Rupert, isn’t it? Following all his wishes to the letter,’ Fleur said. ‘And the fourth Nest?’ she added.

  ‘That’ll be for Nick Cash, I guess,’ Elizabeth replied.

  Fleur paused in the act of fumbling in her handbag for her mobile phone. ‘What was his band called again? Yellow Shark or something?’

  ‘The band was Sharkbait,’ Elizabeth reminded her. ‘I thought they were a great act. They were up there with Skyhooks and Hush. They were just a bunch of kids, really, when “Dingo Blood Ball” was number one, back in the seventies.’

  Fleur whistled, her eyes gleaming with mischief. ‘Loads of women would kill to be marooned over the winter in the misty mountains with Nick Cash. Is he married?’

  ‘Divorced, I think,’ Elizabeth said casually. She found her key and checked the number on the label for the blue-painted door. ‘I do think he has a fascinating face and he’s too cool for school, but I’m sure we won’t be each other’s type.’

  She ignored Fleur’s grin and pushed open the door, then stepped inside. The interior of the cabin featured a tiny kitchen and living area, another door leading off it, presumably to a bedroom and ensuite bathroom. In the kitchen was a little white-painted table with a cheery vintage cloth laid over it, and a jar of red and yellow roses placed on top. Also on the table was a bulky yellow folder with a photo of the manor on the front, presumably containing visitors’ information. The living area had a cosy-looking couch.

  Elizabeth turned slowly, taking it all in. It was like being inside a doll’s-house version of the Ruins. Thankfully, there was central heating. The Nest was as cosy as you would imagine something called a nest could be. She would need it for the frigid mountain winter ahead.

  She turned to face Fleur, knowing her friend would have to leave to go back in Sydney. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said. The two women hugged goodbye, Fleur promising to visit soon.

  Elizabeth lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, wondering whether she had done the right thing in coming to Currawong Manor. Was her mother right – should the past be left to slumber?

  She heard a scratching outside her door. What on earth was outside? A wild animal . . . someone trying to break in? More rustling noises goaded her alarm into action. Grabbing the first thing that came to hand, her much-loved and well-travelled copy of Sally Mann’s Immediate Family photography book, she went to the door.

  Chilled, she watched the door-handle being tried up and down.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called loudly, hoping she didn’t sound like a frightened mouse.

  ‘Sorry!’ a man’s voice replied. ‘I must have the wrong place. I’m Nick Cash. I hope I didn’t frighten you. Do you know where I’m staying?’

  Fuming inwardly, Elizabeth opened the door, switching on the outside light. An attractive dark-haired man with stubble on his chin and wearing a leather jacket, stood outside, holding his keys. His apologetic smile faded, as he registered the large book she was carrying and her pink pyjamas.

  ‘You must be Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘Sorry if I frightened you, or disturbed your night-reading, but if you could point me to my Nest?’ Elizabeth had the suspicion he was trying not to laugh at the sight of
her prepared to wallop him with an art book.

  ‘It’s the second one along,’ she said coolly, pointing in the direction. ‘And you didn’t frighten me. Ginger’s next to me, so don’t go knocking on her door as she might frighten you if you disturb her. Dolly’s is the last Nest, and I wouldn’t recommend you knock there, either. See you in the morning. I’ll get back to reading my book now.’ And she shut the door quickly before he could reply.

  4

  The Devil’s Flower

  ‘I’ll start at the beginning, shall I, on the day I first met the “devil of Australian art”?’

  Ginger paced in front of Holly, Elizabeth and Nick Cash, who were crowded together uncomfortably on the tiny sofa in Ginger’s Nest. Ginger had insisted they all meet straight after lunch to assist her in taping her memories. Elizabeth smiled to herself as she noticed the flirtatious look Ginger bestowed on the dishy writer. She was mentally photographing the scene as Holly fussed over Nick, offering him drinks.

  Every surface of Ginger’s room – including the floor – was strewn with frocks, scarves, shoes, magazines, books and handbags. ‘Don’t you ever pick up after yourself?’ Holly had asked when Ginger first opened the door to them.

  ‘I’ve no time for domestic affairs.’ Ginger had waved a hand airily, and ushered them inside. ‘As the old saying goes: if the shelves are dusty and the pots don’t shine it’s because I’ve better things to do with my time, honey. At my age, a little clutter doesn’t bother me. You, my dear Holly, can hire a local woman to clean if it bothers you. I don’t want to waste time kissing a vacuum cleaner. I’ve more important things to fill my remaining hours with than domestic drudgery!’