Jenefer

In just two days I’ve received six e-mails. Incredible. Two from the States. One of those says they are descendants from a Thomas Rundle from Camborne who emigrated to California. Even though it’s quite possibly Gweniver’s brother, Tommy, I can’t get sidetracked. I send a polite answer back saying who I am. If I don’t stay on Roswyn’s trail I could end up anywhere. This feels like a rabbit warren with too many turns and no radar to find my way. Most of the messages were from the UK but were not of our family. That I know of anyway. But there’s one e-mail from Canberra and this is the one that gets me writing a feverish reply.

We are in our forties and have two children: Nick, twenty, and Tammy, eighteen. They’re both in university. You mentioned only Roswyn. We wondered why. There were many other brothers and sisters. Roswyn was the second eldest and was my husband’s great-grandmother.

Write soon. Tonight.

Tell us some more. What secrets have you uncovered? I’d like to know why Gweniver left here single. Not many did unless they were orphans.

Just pressed the send button. I can’t bring myself to tell them Gweniver’s secret; not about Roswyn. They all believe Gladys is their triple-great-grandmother. How can I change all that now? Roswyn must never have been told. Or it would be written in a family Bible or something. They’d know surely. What exactly did Gweniver want the box to do? Maybe it’s too late now.

ZennaFlourish2.ai

Caleb hasn’t come to the Year 12 room to go home yet so I decide to find him. The Ag Science area is first port of call. Although there are some Year 10s there, swishing out their cattle yards, Caleb is nowhere. No one’s seen him. Then I think of the art room. Of course. If Caleb’s not playing footy, or in the Ag Science area, he’s finishing off art work. His subjects sure take up heaps of time; hardly ever see him at lunch any more. I spend most of my lunches with Erin and even then it’s watching her practising for the Year 12 drama. So glad I don’t do drama. Erin does music as well and she has to sing in the play — it’s a send-up of Pirates of Penzance; it’s called Psychedelic Shores. Erin plays Mabel and has to dance on a surf board to Dirty Dancing music. We saw a video of the original — it had Gary Allen in it as the Pirate King. Chris Haynes is the only guy doing drama, and has to be Frederick. (There’s no Pirate King — too bad.) Chris doesn’t sing as well as Erin. I reckon Caleb would do a better job, but of course I don’t tell anyone.

Caleb has to finish his painting early, before assessment, so it can be hung in the hall for the drama night. All the kids doing any sort of art subjects are feverishly working for this display. Some are doing sculpture. Tim and another friend are putting together an animated cartoon on computer. Each frame was sculpted from plasticine before it was photographed. Incredible.

When I reach the art room, it’s quiet. No one there. Just about to leave when I see it standing against the wall. It has to be Caleb’s painting. Huge. Six foot wide at least and all done in the earth colours he loves so much: red, yellow, white, brown and black. I can see the land, sweeping from one corner to the other, a dam, trees — his peppermint gums? Dots that look like raindrops; they’re not perfectly round. I look closer; just above the little black and white feet walking across the canvas, there are hands, and under the hands, incredible — it’s music, little dots with tails that seem alive, swirling across the red, and up into the clouds. I’m standing here just staring; everywhere I look there’s something more to see.

There’s a movement behind me. Caleb. ‘Found the painting, eh? Like it?’ He sounds shy and I turn quickly. ‘Yeah, I like it.’ How can I say how incredible it is — it’s about everything he cares about — nature: the land, animals, camels, yes, even a tiny rabbit. And then he tells its story. He does it respectfully like it’s a painting he’s found in a cave from 20,000 years ago.

‘These white lines? They’re ripples of water. The clouds are where God is, the Spirit of the Land — he overlooks everything regardless of how it turns out. The raindrops are the tears when children were taken away.’ I look carefully, most are black, a few are white. I think of Gweniver. ‘These are the ones who got lost, who didn’t make it.’ He points to a crowd of shapes that look like dots with wings and I guess he’s thinking of his uncle. How many others were there? The hands. ‘The hands are so important — we do everything with them, work together, learn. They show how we care for things, like the land, our culture. And the feet — we can all walk together too.’

‘The music?’

‘And the music.’ He doesn’t explain, just looks like he’s seeing it for the first time too, and I realise the painting is everyone’s story. The story of his family and culture, of the land that’s so important to who he is, but a bigger story too. The clasped hands at the bottom, one white, one black — his and mine? But not just ours. No wonder the art teacher wants it in the hall. If this painting had sound, it would be a symphony, its grand harmonies inviting all to listen to the truth within their hearts.

ZennaFlourish2.ai

When I get home I tell myself I really should finish some work for school. Semester’s nearly over, but I just check the e-mail first. Won’t take long.

Please, Tam. Most of my really old olds have died. I’ve got a great-aunt, but nothing like a Grandad who is as old as yours. You should be so lucky.

This is a very big thrill for me to be meeting you like this. Tamara is typing — don’t think I could see the keys properly now. You asked about my Grandmother Roswyn.

She was the mildest lady. We all loved her. Always gave me a penny when I went to see her when I was little. Grandpa was dead by then. Grandma always loved music. She had a Master’s Voice gramophone and on Saturday nights a lot of our family would go there and she would put on a record. No one was allowed to touch it, though. She had a most beautiful singing voice, even then, and she sometimes would sing along.

Her mother (Gladys) was a tough old lady — she would never let Roswyn have singing lessons or do anything with her talent. She believed the stage only produced fallen women. So when Grandma Roswyn married, she let my mother and aunts all have singing lessons. Some of them did quite well too. And music has been a part of our family ever since. Even I can still play the violin on a good day. Grandma paid for the lessons and made sure we had a piano in the house. The other aunts used to wonder where all the talent came from.

Hope this is interesting to you.

Tam thinks she’s my fifth cousin, but they don’t know about Roswyn; we’re most probably fourth cousins. Straight away I send a reply to Pawley.

Oh Pawley, I know why you could play the violin so well. Richard Drew was a virtuoso if the reviews can be believed. Pawley’s my second cousin, twice removed. Worked that out from a family relationship table on the web. Incredible, eh? I wish I could tell him, but I don’t dare — not until I’m sure it wouldn’t upset him. Wish I could meet him.

It turns out we’re related and they were looking for us! It’s incredible finding the other half of your family, especially when you didn’t know it existed.

ZennaFlourish2.ai

I’ve finally managed to tape up the second ripped page. It was easier than I thought since the writing is different, smaller and more ordered than Gweniver’s scrawl. The first one was something Gweniver had written before she left Cornwall. And if Gweniver’s name were only on this one, it’d prove my theory about Zenna Dare. Wonder why she never burnt it or threw it out? Did people go through the rubbish in those days? Was keeping it the only way to make it stay a secret? Or did she keep it as a memory of the dream she had. Poor Gweniver. I wonder how you let go of a dream?

London, 5 November 1848

Dear Zenna

Where are you? Why do you not answer my messages? See, I have copied this poem from a Shelley anthology and write your name within.

To Zenna

The keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear Zenna!

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sang them

Again.

As the moon’s soft splendour

O’er the faint cold starlight of Heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later,

To-night;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter

Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

Please tell me where you are. You have disappeared as surely and mysteriously as your famous namesake at Zennor. Do not let it end like this. Please. R.