Sweet Wattle Creek, 1986
Ian’s eyes lit up as he followed me down into the basement of the Herald building. I wasn’t surprised. I knew he’d be eager when he saw all the old newspapers stacked in year-dated rows, their pages full of stories just waiting to be rediscovered.
He’d come over with a request for Tim to run an appeal for information about the wedding dress.
‘Josh,’ who was Mrs Davies’s nephew, ‘got back to me. The old lady is still under sedation, but he asked some of the relatives who came to visit and no one knew anything about it. I just thought, on the off-chance that someone in the district knows something, we should put the word out there.’
I hadn’t had any luck either and it seemed like a good idea. Tim was willing and asked me to write the story. He had another sheep duffing/rustling interview to deal with. Whoever was stealing the stock hadn’t been caught yet and the police were coming under pressure. Pressure from Tim, that is. He had an appointment with the police sergeant in Riverton, and sensing the mood he was in from lack of sleep, I just hoped he wasn’t arrested.
I admitted to myself that I’d been avoiding Ian. The other night, when we’d all sat down to dinner, it had seemed so very … well, nice. I’d caught myself smiling afterwards for no apparent reason. That had thrown me. So I’d taken a hard look at myself and finally admitted Ian was the sort of man I might have let myself fall in love with, not perhaps in the days when I was still young and silly, but as an older and wiser Sophie, yep he was perfect. However, the thought of my heart being open and vulnerable to any man, no matter how nice, frightened me.
Walter had done that. He’d taken away my naiveté and my trust in other human beings. Walter was like a dark storm cloud hanging over me and my son, a warning of what might happen if I made another mistake.
Ian wasn’t Walter. Instinctively I knew that. Ian was another kind of man altogether. But I also knew that I must resist this emotional tug towards him, no matter how difficult. I couldn’t afford to trust my own instincts and I had no right to put Dillon in jeopardy, and no right to risk everything we had just begun to rebuild by a selfish and hasty action.
Women could live without the companionship of men. Women could live without the sort of hearts-and-flowers love portrayed in books and on television. Some of them through choice and some of them because the right opportunity had never presented itself. So why shouldn’t I live a solitary life?
But it wasn’t just having a man in my life that I missed. Sometimes I longed to be the sort of woman I used to be, open and warm, not watching my every action, my every move. I’d lost her when Walter moved in, and then when we ran … I’d had to close down that person, hide her deep beneath the layers of lies and subterfuge. Like a spy in a Cold War movie, deep undercover.
There were times when I just wished I could press rewind, and go back to the time before, but of course I couldn’t. What was done was done and I had to move forward.
All of this was going through my mind as Ian and I drafted the piece he wanted us to run in the newspaper. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go. Afterwards, I felt obliged to offer him a cup of my appalling coffee and then watch his face with amusement as he tried to be polite and gulp it down.
He replaced the mug gently on my desk. ‘You were talking about the newspaper archives downstairs,’ he said, and gave me a hopeful glance. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a quick look, if you have the time?’
I laughed. ‘Now the truth is out! That’s the real reason you came over, isn’t it? Come and see my archives!’
To my dismay it sounded rather flirtatious—another way of asking someone to come and see their etchings—and Ian noticed. In fact, he seemed keen to join in.
‘You’ve caught me out,’ he said with a broad wink. ‘Nothing I like more than seeing a pretty woman’s archives.’
I froze. The silence between us grew awkward. He looked at me sideways, clearly confused by my mixed signals. He cleared his throat. ‘If it’s okay I’d love to take a peek at Tim’s grandfather’s treasures,’ he said evenly. ‘I promise I won’t be any trouble,’ he added, raising an eyebrow.
I should have said no, I was busy, but my mouth twitched. I held the smile back but he saw the softening in my expression and stood up eagerly.
I sighed. ‘Follow me,’ I said with a hint of resignation, but I was afraid I had already given myself away. Some Cold War spy I’d make.
Downstairs in the chill of the basement, he darted back and forth between the shelves, making the sort of noises a hungry person makes when confronted by an all-you-can-eat-for-a-dollar buffet. He was itching to get started but still he glanced at me, silently asking my permission.
‘Go ahead. Just be careful,’ I warned, as he lunged forward, and then told myself how silly it was to say such a thing. He was trained to be careful. That wasn’t the reason for my reluctance at all, but I couldn’t tell him the truth. That it was me who needed to be careful.
Ian reached for a stack of First World War issues and didn’t bother to answer, or perhaps he’d forgotten I was there. I noticed he wasn’t flipping through them as I’d hoped, searching for the names Charlie Nicholson and Belle. He was reading every word with rapt attention. At that rate he’d never get anywhere, but I understood his absorption.
I was probably almost as bad. History was fascinating, or so I’d discovered. Not the dry and dusty stuff I remembered from school where we were forced to learn about the British Empire and the Norman Conquest. This was Australian history, Sweet Wattle Creek history, and very close to home.
Ian had his head down, murmuring to himself. I had to smile, although I made sure he didn’t see me, and then I set off on my own search of the metal shelves. Last night I’d been thinking about The Grand and the fire, and that was what I was looking for as I pulled out a stack of 1930s newspapers. I needed to find a headline. I was sure Bill Shaw would have made the most of the destruction of such a local landmark, in his usual powerful and somewhat flamboyant prose.
The Depression was big news. There were numerous stories on the rising unemployment and suffering throughout the district, as well as further afield. Suicides were up, Bill informed me. I read about the road works in Riverton which had been created expressly to give employment to those without jobs. I’d meant to skim over the stories, but before I knew it I was deep in the middle of a long column Bill had written about a group of homeless unemployed people. ‘Travellers’ they were colloquially known as.
Evidently, they had come to Sweet Wattle Creek in search for work, and made their home by the creek. It sounded like quite a shantytown, with huts built of items they’d scavenged. Two by four, sheets of plywood, rusted iron, cardboard … anything and everything was put to use.
Unfortunately their efforts were in vain. Constable Nash moved them on after a month and told them not to come back. Although most of the town seemed to be in favour of this—there were stories of pilfering and theft—Bill was less inclined to believe the answers were quite so black and white.
Times are tough. Times are hard. We all know this. People tend to turn in on themselves and horde their essentials. And yet surely in such times we should be pulling together, as we did during the war? We need to show some compassion for those on the outside of our communities, not drive them away.
Tilly was a traveller and now she is a reporter for our very own Herald newspaper. A girl of seventeen, abandoned and in dire circumstances, she has blossomed under the care of Miss Bartholomew of The Grand. Tilly and her sister have been taken in by Miss Bartholomew, despite strenuous objections from some of the townsfolk of Sweet Wattle Creek. In my opinion we can learn a great deal from such heartfelt actions.
I rubbed my eyes—the print was small and smudged—but I knew I’d heard the name ‘Tilly’ before. It wasn’t that common. Tilly from The Grand, and Miss Bartholomew. And then I remembered. When I’d been transcribing Bill Shaw’s ‘Recollections’, I’d read about Martha’s daughter and Tilly, the girl who was forty years Bill’s junior, the girl he found so delightful.
I turned the newspaper pages, hoping to discover more on Tilly, but instead I found a story by her. And then another. They started as small pieces, local interest stuff, but grew into more important stories as the months went by. Did Tim know the girl? Was she still around when he was a child, visiting the Herald offices with his grandfather, and watching the presses rumble out the next edition? If Bill was that fond of her then it was likely he’d heard talk of her and knew what had happened to her.
Here was another brilliant idea for one of Ian’s storyboards. I was just about to call out to him, to explain it to him, when my eye was caught by the very thing I’d been looking for.
The Grand Gone!
The headline blazed up at me, just as I’d expected. Bill Shaw had taken up the whole front page, and it occurred to me, with a chill, that Tilly might have been inside the building when the fire took hold. She might even have perished.
I must have made a noise because Ian said, ‘What’s up?’
I looked up at him. ‘The fire. At The Grand. I’ve found the reference.’
He came over to me, standing so close I could feel his body heat and smell his subtle aftershave. Something inside me responded but I ignored it, deliberately focusing on Bill’s words and reading aloud.
‘Last Tuesday one of Sweet Wattle Creek’s most historic buildings was destroyed. By the time the fire was noticed it had a firm hold on the old hotel, and there was nothing anybody could do but stand and watch.
‘Combined with the tragedy of last May, this seems unnecessarily cruel. We must hope the fire was accidental and not deliberately set. Miss Bartholomew’s plans to set up a house for travellers, where they could rest and be helped and perhaps find employment, must now be put on hold.
‘The Grand Hotel was built by Miss Bartholomew’s grandparents in 1886 and run by Mrs Ambrose, formerly Miss Martha Bartholomew, until it was closed to patrons in 1915. Mrs Ambrose continued to live there, making it her home, until she died last year. Since then her daughter, Miss Belle Bartholomew, has been in residence.’
My voice wobbled and I think I gave a shriek.
‘Is that …’ Ian was staring.
‘Yes! That’s her! That’s the connection with Sweet Wattle Creek, Ian. Belle Bartholomew owned The Grand. Charlie and Belle.’
‘She was here all along,’ he murmured, eyes wide.
‘Yes, yes, hidden in plain sight!’
We were face to face, only inches apart. I felt my mouth smiling.
‘Belle Bartholomew,’ he said. ‘You sweetheart.’
And then he kissed me.