SOPHIE

Melbourne, 1986

After our visit to the Registrar General, and then a stop-off at the council offices in St Kilda, where we were handed a wad of photocopied pages from business directories and post-office-address listings in regard to Rory Bartholomew and Bart Homes, we made our weary way back to Annat Street. There wasn’t time to go out for dinner, and besides, Miriam had cooked and she was eager to hear our news.

She widened her eyes at the newspaper accounts we’d found at the State Library, and bit her lip when we presented her with the birth certificate which showed Belle was indeed Martha’s daughter, and her father was one Nathan Ambrose. She was a highly appreciative audience.

‘No death certificate we could find,’ Ian said. ‘So she either changed her name, moved elsewhere or she’s still alive.’

A couple of glasses of Jacob’s Creek sauvignon blanc, and we were deep into theories about what could have happened. The fire at The Grand hadn’t occurred long after Belle went to live there, and Miriam thought Belle herself had set the fire, for the insurance. Ian pointed out that there was probably no insurance to claim, not during the Depression, and after all, The Grand wasn’t a functioning hotel by then.

‘If she burned down her home then she’d have nowhere to live!’

Miriam waved a dismissive hand. ‘She might have acted on impulse.’

‘It’s a creepy place, really,’ I said. ‘The Grand, I mean. It’s a shambles now, all blackened from the fire. No one has pulled it down or rebuilt it. I go jogging over there,’ I added to Miriam, who was looking at me curiously. ‘I see it all the time. Actually, at night, it’s creepy.’

‘She does go jogging,’ Ian said. ‘You should see her neon-pink shorts.’

I felt my face flame, but Miriam’s eyes were alight with laughter. She leaned towards me, a trifle unsteadily. ‘I’d hit him if I were you,’ she said softly.

‘My shorts are perfectly respectable,’ I retorted, annoyed when they both went off into gales of laughter.

‘Sorry,’ Ian managed at last, and then sobered when he saw my expression. ‘I didn’t mean … I’m being silly. Miriam will tell you I’m often silly.’

‘Very often,’ Miriam agreed, wiping her eyes. ‘But he’s also kind and generous and clever. Oh, and did I leave out good-looking?’

Now I laughed, at seeing Ian so self-conscious.

‘I used to think that one day we’d discover we were madly in love with each other and get married,’ Miriam went on thoughtfully, ‘but time passed and we never did. We’re friends, and I sometimes think friends are harder to find and keep than lovers.’

She was very frank, but I liked it. I liked her. And if there was a tiny sigh of relief deep inside me, to know that Ian and she weren’t an item and never had been, then I kept that to myself.

‘Did you know that actress who has all of Eileen Nicholson’s clothes is in town at the moment?’

‘Is she?’ Ian perked up.

Miriam looked cross. ‘Gwendolyn South, that’s her name. I’ve never met her. I might strangle her if I did. No, a joke. I’m sure Gwendolyn has saved many of Eileen’s pieces that might otherwise have been thrown away or lost. In a way she’s done us a good turn. I just wish she wasn’t quite so greedy when it comes to collecting.’

‘So why do you think she’s fixated on Eileen Nicholson?’ Ian asked, reaching for a dry biscuit and cheese. Miriam had offered to bring out the fondue set but we’d both groaned. She’d cooked an amazing meal, but cheese fondue would have been overkill.

‘Well that’s the thing. There was some connection. Somewhere. She gave an interview years ago and said as a child she knew Eileen and then when she was older, and richer, she had a chance to buy one of her pieces and it went from there.’

It sounded intriguing. As a child? Did that mean Gwendolyn had met Eileen in passing or was it a deeper relationship? Did she fit somewhere into this large patchwork quilt we seemed to be creating between us? I imagined a little square of cloth, or perhaps a star, with the name Gwendolyn South on it.

I said as much aloud and was pleased when they smiled in appreciation. ‘I like that,’ Miriam murmured, and then yawned. ‘God, I’m tired.’

‘Could we talk to her?’ I asked. Suddenly I felt as if Gwendolyn might be the key to everything.

They looked at me and then Miriam gave a decisive nod of her fair head and her eyes lit up. ‘Yes. Yes! She’s doing some television show over at Channel Five. She was retired, but evidently they talked her out of it. Probably offered her a shedload of money. I think her last movie was a bit of a flop, hence the retirement. Perhaps you could ask them if she’ll see you? If you mention the wedding dress she’ll be drooling at the mouth to get her hands on it.’

‘Hmm, what a picture you paint,’ Ian said, reaching for the bottle. ‘It sounds too good to be true, but if she can help fill out the story, why not?’

‘How about I ring up and ask?’ Miriam said, holding out her glass for a refill. ‘I can explain I’m working on restoring the dress for the upcoming Centenary at Sweet Wattle Creek, and we’re expecting quite a bit of publicity. Even if dear Gwen doesn’t jump at that then I’m sure Channel Five will.’

‘Why do you think you have greater kudos than me?’ Ian replied with a lift of his eyebrow. ‘A man of my standing.’

Miriam snorted. ‘You? You’re my minion, Ian, face it.’

I waved a hand at them and said I was going to bed. They were still at it as I closed the door. I could see they enjoyed their silly banter—like the bickering between a brother and sister. As long as I didn’t have to listen to them.

Strains of music drifted from one of the houses further along the street—it sounded like The Bangles’ ‘Manic Monday’, which seemed appropriate. I flopped down on the bed and tried to gather my thoughts.

I’d rung Dillon earlier and he’d sounded fine, in fact if anything he was impatient to get back to the board game they were playing. Tim and Maureen had gone to the pub, he’d said, for their one hour of freedom from the Baby from Hell. Of course the BFH had fallen asleep as soon as they’d closed the door, but Dillon was equally sure that as soon as they walked back through said door BFH would wake up.

‘Christy has some spare ear plugs she’s lent me,’ he’d said drolly, when I asked him how he expected to sleep.

It was good to hear him sound so normal and happy. And I was relieved my going away was not bothering him very much—there had been a time when he wouldn’t have let me out of his sight.

‘How’s it going with the wedding dress?’ he’d asked, probably to stop me questioning him further.

‘All right. We’ve found out a few things. I’m even thinking it might be enough for a book.’

Silence. I wished I hadn’t said it. I’d told myself I’d meant it as a joke, but Dillon must have heard the wistfulness in my voice and he must see, as I did, just how impossible it was.

‘Or maybe not,’ I’d added lamely with a laugh, to show I didn’t care.

Dillon had cleared his throat. ‘We can’t hide away forever, Mum.’

I’d realised then that he knew exactly how I was feeling and I’d been foolish to think I could conceal those feelings from him.

‘Dillon …’

‘We shouldn’t have to. You should write a book if you want to. You really should.’

And then what? Wait for Walter to come knocking on our door?

‘Thank you, Dillon, but … I’ll think about it. You know, I probably won’t have time anyway. You know how hard Tim works me.’

‘Maybe Tim could write it,’ he’d said.

That had brought me to my feet. I didn’t want Tim to write it. The book was mine. But I’d swallowed my words, not wanting to prolong this conversation, and said goodbye and I’d see him tomorrow.

I was tired, but I didn’t sleep very well. Too much going on in my mind, and, when I finally started to drift off, a little voice reminded me that Ian was just a few steps away. I turned over and told myself to behave. The strains of Roberta Flack’s ‘First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’ came through my window, and with a snort of disgust, I finally drifted off.

* * *

Miriam had rung Channel Five by the time we were up and drinking our coffee. They would get back to her, she said, but she thought they’d sounded interested because they’d taken down all the details. She’d tried Gwendolyn South’s publicist also, but had only got an answering machine.

‘What are you two up to today?’ she added, peering brightly over the rim of her cup. She seemed to have suffered no ill-effects from the wine last night, unlike Ian, who looked decidedly seedy.

‘Sophie wants to walk along the Esplanade,’ Ian said now, sitting up straighter and making an effort. ‘And I thought we’d visit Eileen Nicholson’s old shop in Collins Street. It’s still there, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I have the address here somewhere. She used to live above it, but then the Depression affected her business and she came here instead, to Annat Street.’

The name was unusual. It occurred to me that there might be something about Annat Street in the papers we’d picked up yesterday from the council offices. I hadn’t had time to look through them yet, but I unfolded them from my bag and began flipping through the pages, only half listening as Ian and Miriam discussed their plans for the day.

‘I’ll photograph the dress,’ she was saying, ‘and then make some decisions. I take it you’re not planning to have it hermetically sealed in a museum somewhere? You want to be able to show it. Perhaps even for some of Mrs Davies’s family to wear it?’

‘Well we didn’t ask, but I assume they want to keep it.’

‘Then we’ll go down the restoration path and not the conservation one. I might need to sew on some new materials, and replace any of the old disintegrating bits. I’ll clean it up first, and see what I can save. I’ll probably have to reinforce the lining and shorten the train. Well,’ she added, with a smile, ‘you don’t need to know all that.’

I was fascinated by what Miriam was saying, but then my eye caught a name on the post-office directory for 1910. I tried not to shriek, but my voice must have been rather high with excitement, because they both winced.

‘Annat Street! This is where the Bartholomews lived.’ I looked about me as if I expected Rory to materialise beside the fridge.

‘Let me see.’ Ian perused the entry and his eyebrows rose. ‘It’s the same number. Could the house numbers have changed over the years?’

Miriam snatched the paper from his hand. ‘They could, but I know this one hasn’t. Good heavens! It is this house.’ Now she was looking about her, too, as if seeing her surroundings with entirely new eyes.

‘Do you have the title for the house?’ Ian demanded, rubbing a hand over his chin. His whiskers rasped—he hadn’t shaved.

‘It’s with the solicitor,’ Miriam replied. ‘I’ll ring.’ And she got up and went out to the phone in the other room.

Ian looked at the clock and jumped up. ‘We’d better get moving or we won’t have enough time to do everything.’

‘Ian … Would you rather I got the train home? You can stay and do what you have to do.’

‘No, I need to get back as well or the committee will sack me. They’re slave drivers, Sophie,’ he added, leaning down towards me.

‘You can’t blame them if they want their money’s worth,’ I said, trying not to laugh.

‘Humph.’ He gave me another look. ‘How did you sleep?’ he asked.

‘Very well, thank you,’ I lied. ‘You?’

‘Miriam’s couch is a bit hard, but I think I drank a bit much to care. I always forget she can drink anyone under the table and wake up fresh as a daisy the next morning. We’re not all so fortunate.’

This time I did laugh, and he gave a reluctant smile.

‘I’ll be all right,’ he said, more to convince himself than me. ‘The coffee will kick in soon.’

‘You and Miriam are good friends,’ I said, and then was appalled to realise how wistful I’d sounded. Like an orphan peeping in through the window at a happy family sitting around their Christmas dinner.

‘Most of the time,’ he said, but he was watching my face.

He was going to ask questions, I knew it, and was immensely grateful when Miriam came back into the room, her face alight with news.

‘This house wasn’t Rory’s, it was his wife’s parents who owned it originally. They left it to Iris, and then Rory inherited the house when she died. There was a large mortgage and the house was sold during the Depression and turned into lodgings. Maybe it was just serendipity that Eileen Nicholson came here when her business was in trouble, or else she chose a place that was familiar.’

‘It was their family home,’ I said, not knowing whether to be glad of this new piece of information or sad for Belle, who had lost her home when her father died. ‘Belle must’ve had no choice but to go to her aunt … her mother, in Sweet Wattle Creek. The Grand, at least. She must’ve felt pretty awful about that.’

I didn’t know Belle, of course I didn’t, but our circumstances were similar in a way. I, too, had left all I’d known behind me after a catastrophic event, and had to make a new life for myself among strangers. I thought I knew a little of the emotional trauma Belle must have been through.

‘And then The Grand burned down a few months later,’ Ian finished the story. ‘We need to find out what happened next, don’t we? Does Belle have any descendants? Charlie Nicholson died so she didn’t marry him, but she was engaged to this Henry Collier. Did he go with her to Sweet Wattle Creek?’

‘I don’t think so. If Belle had descendants then why give her wedding dress to Jo Davies?’

‘A new start?’ Ian suggested. He looked at the clock on the wall again. ‘We don’t have time to find out anything else today. Not if you still want to go over to the Nicholson shop in Collins Street.’

He was right. Frustrating as it was, we couldn’t do any more today. Still, I reminded myself, we had the archives in the cellar at the Herald, and Bill Shaw’s ‘Recollections’, as well as various other resources in Sweet Wattle Creek. And we also had the residents. Although they seemed to have selective amnesia where Belle Bartholomew was concerned.

Had she done something of which the good folk of Sweet Wattle Creek disapproved? Was that why she wasn’t remembered? Or had she died in the fire at The Grand and was now only evoked as a ghost with flaming hair?

* * *

We took a tram into the city and walked down Collins Street. The trees were green and leafy, despite the heat and the traffic. Ian pointed out some of the landmarks, and grumbled about the ones lost to wreckers in the fifties and sixties, to make way for modernisation.

‘Eileen Nicholson’s shop wasn’t one of those unlucky ones. Here it is.’

We stood and stared at the gleaming windows of what was now an upmarket patisserie. The cakes arranged on velvet-draped stands made my mouth water, but Ian was still looking a little green. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Eileen’s clothing there instead, and her name printed in classy letters on the board above.

I had remembered to bring my camera with me, and took some photographs. One of them had Ian in it, leaning against the wall, staring across Collins Street and looking pensive. I felt a bit sneaky taking it, but it was such a good shot I couldn’t resist.

‘Come on,’ he said, interrupting my thoughts.

He held out his hand and nodded towards the door. ‘We’ll ask if we can have a look upstairs at her working space. She also lived up there, you know, in the last few months before she sold the place.’

‘Oh.’ Tentatively I gave him my hand, and he gave it a squeeze, as if he thought I might be in need of some encouragement, before he opened the door and set the bell pinging.

I don’t know if they would have let me upstairs if I’d been alone, but as usual Ian worked his magic, and soon we were climbing the narrow creaky stairs up to the second floor. This was where Eileen had overseen her creations, I thought, with the light from the windows falling over her work surfaces and her employees, all sewing industriously. And then, at the end, just herself, working long into the night. Or was I being too romantic?

But this was where she’d supervised the making of the wedding dress for her son and Belle. Even if she didn’t set all the stitches herself, I was certain she had personally put the finishing touches to it. The velvet train and the machine-made lace, the pearls and the diamantes. And maybe it was here she had wept for what would never be, when Charlie died on the Western Front.

I took some more photographs. Moody shots of the room and the light slanting across the polished floor. They’d be brilliant for the newspaper article. And the book. That is, if there ever was a book.

Downstairs, Ian bought me a rich, chocolate-coated pastry and himself a cup of tea. It was a long time since anyone had done anything like that for me, and even while I complained it would make me fat, I was moved.

‘You mean those shorts could get tighter?’ he demanded, widening his eyes comically.

I had to laugh then. I felt light-headed and giddy, like a girl without a teenage son and a violent husband, like a girl with her life in front of her. And it was terrifying and wonderful, all at the same time.