It was the eyes Tamara remembered. There had been other things, of course, on what had so far been her only trip to Europe – to revisit the graves of the ancestors, as Bec had put it – but the impression of the eyes lingered, soiling her skin. She’d been twenty-three then and a bit of a nervous Nelly at first but that had soon changed; she had never been one to live in terror of the unknown.
Greece, first. The islands. There, in the stark bones of marble temples, she discovered the mystery and magic of the past. She also discovered ouzo and the sensation of reeling off the walls of the corridor leading to her bedroom overlooking the fishing harbour, the boats with their multi-coloured sails, the lemon trees growing in the garden. She made much of her discovery, believing that ever more she would be able to taste the essence of the islands in the ani-seed-flavoured liquor. A false hope; she discovered the ouzo magic had deep roots and could not be transplanted.
After Greece Italy, where from Genoa to Palermo she was pinched so often her bottom was covered in blue exclamation marks when she showered of an evening.
They never troubled her. They were all part of the joy of living that overflowed so exuberantly in the Italian spirit. As long as you took them the right way you could think of them as compliments. As fun. She was young, alive, some would have said beautiful, and being pinched was part of it, telling her that others thought so too. They were harmless.
She went on to Paris, Berlin and London. Things were different there. It was in those northern cities she first encountered the eyes, hard and speculative, signalling not laughter but danger. Even on the main streets they stripped her bare as she passed. Initially she ventured no further but found she could grow used to anything in time. It wasn’t long before she was exploring the shadowed alleyways piled with rubbish. From overflowing bins a hundred eyes watched as she passed, rats jealous of their citadels.
Was she looking for something? Someone? She could not have said. Late one London evening, the first darkness pressing down, she turned into a lane leading between the blank walls of warehouses to the moon-glint water of the Thames. There she found the answer in the rainbow lights of a bar, its face to the river with its wail of passing barges, riding lights shining like jewels in the darkness.
She pushed open the door and went in.
A bar room dimly lit. A handful of drinkers. At one end of the counter she met a man about her own age. He was wearing a feathered hat and told her he was an artist.
‘Got a name?’
‘Aladdin. Aladdin Warboys. But I lost my lamp,’ he said.
They talked or mostly she did; Aladdin was not much of a talker, more a man of action. Was he ever. Afterwards, she never knew how it happened, she went back with him to his place, a garret with a skylight. She lay on the bed and looked over his shoulder at the pacing clouds. She floated. She flew.
They became an item. He came with her when she paid a visit to the Scilly Isles off Lands End. One warm night they intended to go for a drink at the Island Hotel but when they got there his hand drew her on. Instead of drinking beer or gin they made love in the heather, the loom of the Bishop light flowering in the west. She listened to the crying of gulls and knew it was time to go home.
Aladdin came with her. She discovered that, like ouzo, he was not transplantable. He didn’t take to Tasmania and Tasmania didn’t take to him. He soured the relationship with endless complaints, while the locals looked askance at his feathered hats. It wasn’t long before they were sick of each other. He left. She stayed.
She thought she might miss him and for a few days did, but the loneliness passed. She asked herself whether their weeks together had been a waste of time. She decided that on the contrary they had been a valuable experience. Through her relationship with Aladdin she had discovered two things that stood her in good stead.
Her roots were here, in this land. She had seen as much of the world as interested her; now she was home.
The second thing was she’d found she had the courage to accept adventure. She had survived the watching eyes, the rats and alleyways; she had survived Aladdin Warboys. She saw that the family estate must be modernised to achieve its potential in a modern and competitive world. She would face opposition: from the farm managers, from Grandma Bec, perhaps even from her brother, but after Europe and Aladdin Warboys she knew she had the will to take on the lot of them.
The estate named for Hobart’s river became her lover and her love.