Sweet Wattle Creek, 1986
The day of the Centenary was finally here. The Shaw household had been on the move from first light, and it was pointless trying to sleep. Tim and Maureen had insisted I stay over with Dillon, although I hadn’t slept much, my brain and body seemed to be on high alert. But maybe that was because of Ian.
He and Miriam had asked me over to his house beside The Grand, but I’d felt the need to stay close to my son. I knew he understood, although I almost changed my mind when he gave me a goodbye kiss. But I told myself we would have plenty of time. In fact, I told it to myself so many times I think I was almost convinced.
Then again there was always the bleak possibility that I was going to die at Walter’s hand sometime over the next two days.
Something else had happened to give my already fragile emotions a battering. Yesterday Tim had received a call from Brisbane. ‘Soph?’ He’d had the strangest expression on his face, so I knew it was serious as he handed over the phone.
‘Is this … Sophie Matheson? I saw your picture in the newspaper and I …’
She didn’t have to go on. I was already in tears and the next minute so was she. It was my mother and she’d recognised me and tracked down the number for the Herald. It wasn’t a long conversation but it was a very moving one. We covered a lot of ground. She seemed to think this was all their fault and I had to assure her it wasn’t, and then there were apologies for not intervening on her part and not asking for help on mine. ‘We miss you both so much,’ she’d said, and that set me off again. When we finally finished the conversation, I knew that Walter or no Walter, Dillon and I were going to be seeing my parents in the not-too-distant future.
‘Miss South will arrive at ten,’ Tim shouted from the kitchen, where it sounded like he was in the midst of organised chaos.
‘That’s only four hours from now!’ Maureen added with a large dose of sarcasm. Clearly things were tense.
‘I’ll take Dillon with me,’ Tim said when I joined them, bleary-eyed. ‘He’ll be fine. And then he has that school thing after lunch.’
Riverton High was going to perform a historical re-enactment in Main Street as part of the Centenary. Costumes would be worn and speeches made, their drama teacher’s bright idea. Very uncool in Dillon’s opinion, but at least he would be amongst friends and teachers, so I felt I could leave him without worrying too much while I did my work.
Christy joined us then, and she was carrying what looked like a plastic suit bag. Self-conscious and trying to pretend she wasn’t, she laid it carefully on the sofa and began to unzip it.
‘Ah, the big moment,’ her father said with a chuckle.
‘Sshh.’ Maureen nudged him with her elbow.
Christy lifted the garment from its wrapping and stepped back. ‘Voila!’ she said, turning to me with a smile. But I could see she was desperately worried I wasn’t going to like it.
She needn’t have been. I was speechless, something that tends to happen when I am feeling extreme emotion.
‘She spent hours making it, Mum,’ Dillon hissed urgently in my ear. ‘Say something nice.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that.’ I laughed, and there was a hiccup in there, as if I might be about to cry. ‘It’s amazing, Christy. Really. Just … amazing …’
The dress was probably a nod towards the 1930s. Elegant, slim-line, it was the colour of the ocean on a sunny day. The buttons at the front were just for show—there was a zipper underneath. She’d also added a little hat with a neat piece of net attached.
I gave her a hug. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said. ‘Where did you get the idea for the design?’
She was blushing with pleasure but pretending to be cool. ‘Ah, in some of those books Ian’s always looking at. I was in the library and I was reading one and saw a dress I liked. He said it was an Eileen Nicholson design, and I remembered the wedding dress and how much you liked it, so I thought I’d try something else of hers.’
‘Christy, it really is beautiful. Thank you so much.’
She laughed and rolled her eyes. ‘Okay.’
Tim and Maureen were standing behind us looking proud, and then the baby gave a howl and Maureen groaned and went to pick her up.
‘You’re not really calling her Centenary, are you?’ I asked Tim.
‘Actually,’ he glanced at Maureen for confirmation, ‘we thought we might call her Belle. What do you think?’
Of course I thought that was perfect.
* * *
Gwendolyn South was immaculate in a yellow-and-orange flower-print dress, and a cream linen jacket with big shoulders. Her hair was that grey-blonde tint older women seemed to go for, and her eyes were very dark. I thought she’d had some work done on her face, but maybe she was just well preserved. She was certainly striking. When we were introduced she held out a beautifully manicured hand with a single diamond ring on her little finger.
‘Sophie. How good to meet you. You can’t imagine how delighted I am to be back here in Sweet Wattle Creek. I like to think of it as home,’ she added with a warm smile.
I murmured a response. Although I didn’t know her, there was something in her eyes that led me to believe this wasn’t ‘home’ at all. She was acting. Playing the part of Gwendolyn South, while the real Gwen looked on.
Photographers clicked their cameras. I had dark glasses on and my hair was brushed over one side, and I’d convinced myself that no one would be looking at me. Anyway what did it matter? The cat was well and truly out of the bag.
We did a fast walk through the exhibition in the RSL Memorial Hall, although she did pause briefly at the blown-up photograph of the young airman, and then a stroll around the town. She kept saying, ‘Oh yes,’ and ‘Very nice.’ It was a performance and I was beginning to think it unlikely I would hear anything like the truth from her lips—with their carefully applied pale-orange lipstick.
The CWA had a stall in the park and were handing out scones and jam and cream. Mr Scott was seated on a chair with a cup of tea balanced precariously in his hand, and Mrs Green and Ellie waved at us as we went by. They seemed to have gathered quite a crowd. Brad was manning his own stall, stacked high with the Centenary edition of the Herald. I hoped Tim was paying him overtime.
The Riverton mayor was coming towards us, tricked out in his robes, the gold chain so polished it was almost blinding. Gwen had already met him. He was a big fan, evidently. Perhaps even Gwendolyn South could hear too much about her past glories because without warning she turned to me, clutching my arm so hard it hurt.
‘Can we go and see The Grand?’ she asked.
That was a surprise, but I was quick to agree and the next thing I knew her chauffeur—courtesy of Channel Five—was whisking us away in air-conditioned comfort.
I debated whether she expected the old hotel to be the same as she remembered it—and why did she remember it anyway? Had she known someone who lived there? I wanted to ask lots of questions, but now Gwen had gone quiet. She’d shut down and I didn’t know how to approach her.
Once we arrived she climbed straight out of the car, wincing at the blast of heat, and began to pick her way towards the blackened remains.
I was watching her, trying not to be obvious about it, but I wanted to know what she was feeling. Honestly, it was hard to know, those sunglasses were enormous. She stood for a long time, staring at what was left of The Grand. A warm breeze stirred the leaves of the trees and the dust at our feet, and she reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. It was the slight tremble of her hand that gave her away. Despite what she might claim in public, I knew that these weren’t happy memories.
Gwen turned to me and forced a smile as she pointed across the fields, where the housing estate was inching forward.
‘That’s where the Beauchamps had their house,’ she said. ‘It was Arthur Beauchamp who got me into movies. He was a producer and he always said I was a natural. Jane Beauchamp was my friend, and we kept in touch when I left.’
‘And the Davies. Did you know them, Miss South?’
‘Of course I knew them. Stanley and Violet. Jo was the school teacher. And Frank, of course.’
I wondered why ‘of course’, but before I could ask she’d turned back to The Grand with a frown, and said, ‘Why have they just left it like that? Like some sort of awful memorial to Belle. It doesn’t make sense. They all hated her.’
I’m sure I started. I was so desperate I wanted to grab hold of her and shake her. Force her to tell me everything she knew. But at the same time I was aware that Gwendolyn was someone who needed to be handled gently. I would have to find the right opening, make her feel she could trust me, and only then would she give up what she knew.
‘Oh, you mean Belle Bartholomew,’ I said evenly, pretending to peer at the building, even lifting my sunglasses for a better look. ‘You knew her, then?’
‘Of course I knew Belle! My sister Tilly and I lived here with her.’
Her sister? I tried not to let my mouth fall open. ‘Tilly worked at the Herald for Bill Shaw, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, she did. After The Grand … well, we went to live for a time in Melbourne. With Eileen Nicholson. She was Belle’s friend, and Belle thought it was best while she decided what to do with us.’ The words made her smile. ‘Then our father came to find us and Frank gave him some work. Or maybe it was Violet’s idea, she enjoyed playing the lady bountiful when it suited her, and she probably felt guilty for treating us so badly. I stayed on with Mrs Nicholson, but Tilly missed the Herald, so she came back, and then … he married her, Frank did. I remember thinking at the time that it was an awful waste. She was such a good journalist. She could have gone anywhere, done anything. Perhaps Frank realised he’d never be able to keep her happy in Sweet Wattle Creek. He took her to London and Jo and Pom took over the farm. They came back, but not to Morwenstow. They seem to be great travellers, Frank and Tilly. Or so I’m told. She wrote a book about The Grand.’ She turned to look at me. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t read it.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ It must have been the book neither Nola nor the State Library could find.
‘They probably banned it from Sweet Wattle Creek,’ she added, and laughed. ‘I can imagine it had some uncomfortable truths in it, knowing Tilly. We lost touch. I haven’t heard from her in years.’
She looked away, but I sensed the sadness in her. ‘I think I know her son,’ I said, trying to keep the elation out of my voice. Gwen knew so much. I was beginning to believe she could answer all my questions.
‘Josh? He’s a Davies through and through,’ Gwen said dismissively. ‘Not a creative bone in that boy’s body.’
I wanted to scrabble in my purse for my pen and paper so that I could write everything down, but I thought if she saw me doing that she might clam up.
‘And Belle? What happened to Belle?’
Abruptly she went pale and tottered on her wedge sandals. I caught her arm, steadying her, fearing she was going to faint. ‘I hate the heat,’ she murmured. ‘When you’re young you don’t really notice it, but now I can’t abide it. Not anymore.’
‘Ian’s house is just there,’ I said, pointing towards the lane. He’d given me the key in case of emergencies. ‘Do you need to rest for a moment? I could get you some water?’
It was selfish of me but I didn’t want her to get back into her air-conditioned car and drive off. I had a feeling if I let her out of my sight she would vanish and then I’d never know what happened to the people I cared about in this story.
She glanced back at the car and saw that some of her entourage of reporters and television cameras had caught up with us. I could hear the clicking as they recorded this moment for prosperity and the six-o’clock news.
‘Come on, then,’ she said with a hint of laughter in her voice. ‘I used to wag school, you know. Loathed it. Maybe I haven’t changed that much after all.’