Zanana 1899
Sitting in the peace of her rose garden, Catherine drifted into a reverie, thinking back over the past two years since her arrival in Australia.
Her first glimpse of her new country had brought tears to her eyes. In the pearly dawn light the north and south headlands enfolding the calm reaches of Sydney Cove seemed to reach out, drawing the ship into a protective and welcoming embrace.
After the heat and harshness of India, the routine of their days at sea with its uniformity of surroundings and colours, the already brilliant blue sky, golden light and lush greenness of the harbour foreshores was like a dreamy painting come to life.
Robert draped his arm about her shoulders as they stood at the railing. ‘No regrets, my love? Do you think you will be happy in your new home?’
‘I’d be happy anywhere with you, Robert darling. But his . . . it’s like a picture in a storybook.’
Robert smiled contentedly and squeezed her shoulder, thinking, as he did so often, how lucky they were to have found each other.
Once they docked, they were swiftly scooped from the excited crowds milling about the decks by Hock Lee. Robert’s old friend welcomed Catherine with hugs and laughter, and swept the pair off to his parents’ beautiful home overlooking Mosman Bay. They would stay there for a few days before heading to Robert’s estate on the river next to the small town of Kincaid.
Catherine soon came to realise how respected and successful her husband was in this thriving city. Everyone congratulated Robert on his choice of such a gracious, charming and beautiful wife. Escorted by a beaming Hock Lee, the newlyweds were feted by the social elite at lavish receptions and dinners. In between the social events, Robert and Hock Lee spent days together going through the books, discussing the details of their business ventures. Hock Lee had managed their affairs well in Robert’s absence and they now began exploring plans to develop and expand their commercial empire.
In addition to shipping chilled meat and dairy products to Europe and England, they imported tea, spices and silks. They acquired a fleet of fishing trawlers and sold fresh seafood in the city markets and exported smoked and dried fish. Robert was keen to build special water tanks in their ships so they could export the exotic fish species which abounded in the rivers, estuaries and off the Australian coast.
Hock Lee also had several boats plying the Torres Straits with island-born divers collecting bêche-de-mer, the fat sea cucumbers which were in great demand in Hong Kong. While visiting the northern tip of Australia he had learned of the existence of the pearling grounds in Warrior Reef and he suggested to Robert they investigate the possibility of adding several pearling luggers to their fleet.
To add weight to his argument, Hock Lee took from his safe a small cloth bag and carefully poured its contents onto his desk. Perfect spheres of near luminescent creams and whites, from small beads to fat marbles, shone against the green blotting pad.
‘If this is an example of the crop, then I say it’s certainly worth the investment,’ laughed Robert.
‘The pearl shell is what they dive for — the pearls are a bonus.’
Robert rolled a pearl between his fingers. ‘And what plans had you for these little beauties?’
‘I thought a gift for your lovely wife might be appropriate.’
Robert smiled. ‘Indeed. I assume you have a friend in the jewellery business in the East?’
‘I believe so,’ grinned Hock Lee. His network of Chinese business acquaintances, far-flung relatives and contacts, never ceased to amaze Robert.
After the whirlwind introduction to Sydney, Catherine was glad finally to be heading to their home. She was anxious to see where they would settle. Robert had taken up over a hundred lush acres along a quiet stretch of the Parramatta River. Some of the land was undeveloped, the rest had been small farms. It was some distance from the city but its remote rural beauty entranced Catherine.
She assured Robert she did not mind the isolation. ‘Compared to what I’ve read and heard about the pioneers and settlers in the bush, to be away from Sydney is no hardship. And to be honest with you, my darling, city life is fun on occasion, but I am not a social butterfly. I prefer to be here and see our home come to life.’
While their mansion was being built by a team of workmen, they lived on the estate in one of the disused cosy farmers’ cottages, lavish by most farmers’ standards, but exceedingly modest in terms of the home Robert envisioned.
Catherine studied the detailed plans and artist’s rendering of their estate and paced it out on the ground. She stopped, slightly out of breath, and stood where the front entrance would be, gazing at the vista of undulating countryside. She turned to Robert. ‘You are building a palace, a fairy-tale mansion. Do we need such a grand house?’
‘Need? No, in all honesty, I suppose not. Our needs are simple — shelter, warmth, shade and a place to raise children. But why not include beauty, harmony, space, privacy and imagination? I have worked hard all my life, Catherine. I had no home to speak of, and this house has been a dream that I have clung to and which has seen me through lonely and dark hours. That dream was to one day find a lovely wife and have about me the laughter and love of a family. And while I would be equally happy with you in a hovel, my darling, I can afford to give us something special. I want to create a place that will stand for generations as a testament to our love.’
Catherine embraced her husband, too overcome to speak, vowing to herself to make every day they shared one of joy.
And so began the creation of the grand house on the river.
True to his promise to involve her in all aspects of his life as a partner and helpmate, both Robert and Catherine consulted with the Italian architect brought to Australia to oversee the construction of the house.
Catherine showed such a flair for landscaping that Robert let her make the decisions about the design of the grounds while he concentrated on establishing a dairy, a produce farm, and a mixture of beef and dairy cattle on a small but exclusive scale.
When it came to setting up an orchard, Robert did not wait for trees to reach bearing age, but had mature trees transplanted to the estate. The drive leading to the house was planted with stately boxwood trees and soon the grounds began to look as if they had been established for years. However, the building of the mansion, with all its hand craftsmanship, was taking longer than expected, so Robert doubled the number of workmen.
‘I still have to look after business in the city as well as this,’ he told Catherine. ‘Hock Lee is doing more than his share of the work.’
‘Then tell those men they are to take instructions from me,’ said Catherine. ‘I tell them things and they just nod and hold their caps and wait for you.’
Robert laughed. ‘All right, my love. We’ll give it a try. I’ll talk to them and tell them from now on you are the boss.’ He hugged her. ‘I wish I’d had all this done while I was away and just handed you the front door key. But I didn’t know I was going to find the girl of my dreams and marry her when I left, did I?’ He kissed her lightly.
‘Oh, Robert, I much prefer that we build together. We are creating something beautiful, something we like and that will be here to be enjoyed by our children long after we are gone.’
It took several attempts, some patience and a gentle but persistent firmness for Catherine to win over the workmen. Grudgingly, they began to see she was practical, fair and had a clear grasp of what was needed and the best way to achieve it.
So it was just as well they didn’t overhear her prolonged discussion with the Italian architect over the matter of feng shui. It had been Hock Lee who had alerted her to the importance of the Chinese belief in feng shui. Hock Lee had taken a deep interest in the creation of their mansion and its grounds, and Catherine enjoyed his company on his frequent visits. She could understand Robert’s attachment to the gentle and humorous Chinaman who seemed to have centuries of wisdom stored in his heart and head.
‘Feng shui is the placement of one’s home in the most harmonious and auspicious setting,’ he explained. ‘We believe we are linked to our surroundings and that a building should find the perfect balance between the geography of the landscape, nature, energy of the universe and our position within it; for it all affects our destiny.’
Catherine wanted to know more. It made sense to her. Instinctively she felt that they should disturb as little of the land as possible when building. Trees had been left standing, a watercourse left unaltered and the swell of a small hill incorporated into the design of the house and land.
Hock Lee continued. ‘Everything about us has an effect on us. Good if the feng shui is right, bad if it is wrong. Things like shape, colour, sound, sight and light, for example. We want to achieve a perfect balance between our lives and the natural rhythms of the universe so that we are living a fruitful, fortuitous and peaceful existence. We must pay attention to the direction the house faces, what is around it, the placement of objects within it. By thoughtful and knowledgeable adjustment of these things, your life will be greatly enhanced.’
Catherine attempted to explain this to Robert, who laughed indulgently but didn’t dismiss the concept out of hand. ‘I’ve learned over the years to trust Hock Lee’s beliefs, so if you can persuade the architect to go along with it, go ahead, my sweet.’
Hock Lee sent a feng shui man to see Catherine and the old Chinese gentleman, dressed in simple cotton pyjamas and a peaked straw hat, spent several days walking around the property, sitting on a hill gazing at the river, watching the movement of the sun and studying the plans of the mansion. Mr Wang had a long straggly silver beard and deep brown eyes which reminded Catherine of rich dark raisins studded in the doughy softness of his round face. His voice was light and soft and sounded like the wind through she-oak trees. Before leaving, he presented Catherine with a set of bamboo wind chimes to frighten away any evil spirits.
The Italian architect remained dubious. Especially when Catherine told him that the feng shui man advised that the house be turned around. The architect felt the front of the house should face the expanse of rolling countryside. But Mr Wang had shaken his head emphatically. ‘To face the river will bring wealth. The flow of the river is towards the front door meaning good fortune will flow into the home as the house is embraced by the bend of the river.’
Patiently Catherine went through the other feng shui suggestions with the architect, who finally threw up his hands, muttered in Italian and altered the plans so that the house faced the river.
Robert nodded as he looked at the revised plan. ‘It makes sense. I like this curving driveway to the front entrance too.’
Catherine smiled. ‘Signor Bocco is still muttering and tends to disappear when he sees me coming. But I’m happy. I can’t wait for it to be finished, darling.’
As the mansion grew from a skeleton to a solid structure, craftsmen laboured over the sweeping staircase, wood panelling, and interior details designed by Catherine. Her love of roses manifested itself in delicate patterns in the pressed metal ceiling panels and were etched into the frosted glass door sections. Around the ceiling cornices trailed plaster rosettes and stylised ivy leaves.
In the ballroom, Corinthian columns were set in the four corners and floor to ceiling windows flooded the room with sunlight. Catherine hated the darkness of Victorian design and had the room painted ivory. The pale daffodil brocade curtains at each window were held to the sides in a draped swag held by gold silk tassels. A Venetian crystal chandelier hung above a polished floor.
But not all the rooms were as lavish as the ballroom. Nooks and interesting corners were utilised for practical as well as decorative purposes. One section was turned into a cedar-lined linen room where ceiling-high shelves and cupboards held an exquisite collection of fine lawn and damask. Camphor, lavender and cedar chips kept moths at bay and the linens smelling sweet.
The workmen, now won over by Catherine’s enthusiasm, took pride in creating this splendid home, and they went out of their way to perfect small details and to please her. But Catherine derived her greatest pleasure from creating her rose garden. She experimented with all types of roses and found the Mediterranean-bred roses preferred the Australian sunshine. Borrowing a pair of stout boots from Mrs Johnson whose husband Sid looked after the stables, she hitched up the hem of her cotton skirt and worked alongside the gardeners, planting, grafting bushes and tying thorny branches along lattice espaliers.
A tiny walled garden in one section provided protection and privacy. The rambling roses clung to the natural sandstone wall, while others were pruned into hanging topiary clusters. The hillside rising beyond was terraced into rows of beds and banks, planted in a gradual shading and blending of colours. An old craftsman made a rustic garden seat from twisted tree branches. Catherine set this under a pergola among the roses in the walled garden, and it became her favourite place to sit and enjoy the beauty, perfume and peace of her rose arbour.
But she wasn’t yet done with the grounds of the estate. Robert staggered in mock horror at her next suggestion — that they build a bathing pool. The pool was dug close to the river bank, screened by she-oaks. It was tiled with blue and white Minton tiles and pale biscuit sandstone blocks were set around its edge. A bathing house, with separate change rooms for ladies and gentlemen, sat at one end with a discreet latticed screen for ladies to enter the water and swim in private. Catherine did not plan on taking up the new fad of swimming, but liked to look at the reflection of the trees and clouds in the surface of the long deep pool.
While Catherine busied herself with the gardens and finishing touches to the interior of the house, Robert spent time consulting with the architect and builders on a special project he kept secret from his wife. Several large wooden crates arrived at the estate but were quickly spirited out of sight.
One evening at sunset while Catherine was reading The Dawn magazine, Robert hurried off to find the builders. He came back into the house looking mightily pleased and embraced Catherine.
‘In two days we can move into the big house, my darling. But tomorrow I have a special surprise for you.’
The next morning, Robert took Catherine’s hand and they walked along the path by the river, where a sturdy jetty and boathouse were being built, through the near completed gardens up to the grand new mansion. Workmen were fitting the last panes of thick lavender glass into the conservatory and they gave Mr and Mrs MacIntyre a friendly wave as they passed.
‘Close your eyes, my sweet,’ whispered Robert.
With one hand shielding her eyes and the other holding Robert’s hand, Catherine was led to the front entrance of the house. Her shoes scrunched on the new driveway of crushed river stones.
‘Now look up.’
She opened her eyes. The imposing front doors stood open and welcoming, but what captured her attention and caused her to gasp in delight was the engraved name above the doorway — ZANANA 1898.
‘You remembered!’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Your visit to the zanana in India seemed to make such an impression on you, I thought it might be appropriate to name our home Zanana.’
‘It’s a wonderful idea, Robert! A sanctuary, a place of beauty and protection for women. Oh, I do hope we have daughters. Thank you, darling. It’s such a sweet thought.’
‘There’s more. Come.’ He led her through the grounds to the northeast corner of the estate. Once again he made her close her eyes until they reached a secluded part of the grounds. ‘Now.’
Catherine’s eyes flew open. She was speechless. She clutched Robert’s arm. There before them stood a miniature replica of an Indian palace. ‘An Indian House . . . a palace . . . oh, Robert!’ She ran forward, slipping her shoes from her feet at the marble entrance, and stepped inside.
Immediately Catherine was transported to India. Memories flooded back — the smell of incense, patchouli and sandalwood. The coolness of marble underfoot, the prisms of coloured light falling through jewelled windows. The carving, the mirrors and mosaics were all faithfully reproduced.
‘Oh, Robert . . . I had no idea. What is it for?’
‘For you, my darling. A little retreat for you. A souvenir of our honeymoon.’
‘You’re too wonderful.’ She hugged him. ‘I was wondering what you were up to with the architect.’
‘We had a lot of help from Sir Montague and Lady Willingham. They sent pictures and plans, and shipped over some of the materials.’
Catherine fell back among the silk cushions on the canopied bed. ‘I feel like a princess with my own fairy-tale palace.’
Robert and Catherine were soon settled in their splendid new home; yet despite its size and grandeur, the house had an air of warmth and intimacy. Catherine employed a lady from the nearby village to do the laundry and began training young girls to help in the house. While she busied herself with the final decorating touches to Zanana’s rooms, Robert applied himself to his business affairs once more, travelling to the city twice a week.
Once a week he lunched with Hock Lee in his new Lotus Tea Rooms which he’d opened in the heart of King Street, Sydney. Hock Lee’s mother, who seemed to have changed little since the days Robert had first known her on the goldfields, supervised the cooking of the Chinese and Australian cakes and delicacies served in the Tea Rooms, and the restaurant soon became a favourite institution with professional and working people. It was a large and simple room with black metal tables topped with round slabs of white marble; the floor was shiny black and white tiles, the curtains and table linens bright dragon red. The severity and simplicity of the room was broken by tall palms standing in brass tubs and several bamboo and silk Chinese screens. It was noisy and jolly with pretty waitresses hurrying back and forth with large china teapots and trays of sweet rice cakes, sandwiches, biscuits, old-fashioned English pastries and sponge cakes smothered in fresh cream from Zanana’s dairy. Simple wholesome fare such as soups, noodle and rice dishes were popular cheap meals.
Zanana soon became a showpiece, written about in newspapers and periodicals, and visitors were stunned by its gracious grandeur, the magnificent gardens and the elegant style in which Mr and Mrs MacIntyre entertained. Catherine gave dinners and luncheons for Robert’s business associates and for various charity organisations.
They kept their formal entertaining to a minimum, however, and Catherine devoted herself to her roses, taking an interest in the financial side of their garden produce which was sold in the city markets. But her days were lonely and she longed for a baby, superstitiously believing she would never have one till she found the little stone given to her by Guru Tanesh.
Loyal housekeeper Gladys Butterworth understood her longing for a baby, being childless herself. The doctors had told her she would never have children and she and Harold had resigned themselves to the fact as the years had passed. But Gladys believed that Catherine would have children one day for she was still young and, though a delicate build, appeared in good health. While she never raised such a delicate matter, she did her best to cheer up her mistress.
Catherine was grateful for the no-nonsense, positive thinking of Gladys Butterworth and she blessed the day the Butterworths had arrived at Zanana.
Harold and Gladys had travelled from the northern rivers town of Bangalow to spend time in Sydney. They called in at Zanana to visit Sid Johnson who ran the stables. Sid and his wife Nettie were old friends from the Bangalow district. Catherine happened along while they were visiting, and was introduced. They all took an immediate liking to one another, sparked by a mutual interest in the farm and garden.
Dressed in a navy pleated cotton skirt, its hem a trifle muddy, a white silk blouse with floppy chiffon bow at the throat, her waist cinched by a wide belt, a favourite straw gardening hat atop her fair curls, Catherine still looked every inch the lady of the manor. She offered to show Mrs Butterworth her rose garden and, as they strolled among the flowers, Mrs Butterworth told Catherine how she and Harold had been working for a wealthy pastoral home.
‘We had terrible flooding for the past two years, and it got them down. I think they lost a lot of money one way and another — it’s a hard life on the land — so they decided to sell up. Harold and me are down here for a bit of a break and looking around for other prospects.’
‘Do you want to go back to the country?’
‘I do like the countryside. Couldn’t live in the middle of a city. Though it’s nice to be near things. But something’ll turn up.’ She smiled cheerfully and sniffed a rose, gazing about the rose garden. ‘My goodness, I’ve never seen anything as lovely as this. What a peaceful place to come each morning. Get the day off to a jolly good start, I’d reckon.’
Catherine smiled at the wholesome, beaming country woman beside her. ‘You know, Mrs Butterworth, that’s just what I do. Tell me, what did you do for the family you worked for at Bangalow?’
‘You name it, Harold and me did it. Cook, clean, run the staff — what little there was — and Harold looked after the practical side of the house too. He always seemed to be fixing something.’
Catherine was pensive. She’d been looking for just such a couple. Several people had been sent to them, but Catherine had found them quite unsuitable and had decided to manage as well as she could with what help she had, and the extra staff she hired when needed. Harold had seemed a steady, affable sort of a fellow. She could contact the family they’d worked for and also quiz the Johnsons about their friends the Butterworths. Robert would have to be consulted. Then, following her intuition, Catherine resolved to take matters into her own hands. Robert had a series of problems with the latest cargo ships being delayed, so she decided not to bother him.
‘How would you and your husband feel about coming to work at Zanana?’
Mrs Butterworth stopped in surprise. Then her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness, I wasn’t thinking about getting a job here. I was just prattling on . . . I mean . . .’ She hesitated, studying the young woman beside her. ‘Do you mean it? I can’t think of anything more wonderful than to work here. For you. And your husband of course. Naturally you’d want to check out all about us. Well, my goodness. I’ll have to speak to Harold.’
She was quite flustered. Catherine laughed. ‘I know you weren’t hinting about working here. It just suddenly occurred to me. It could be a happy solution for both of us. Your husband aside, how would you feel about being our housekeeper and cook?’
‘Me? I’ll start work tomorrow. But it’s up to Harold.’
‘It’s up to both of you. Why not talk to him tonight?’
They returned to the orchard and Catherine spent a little more time talking to Harold and Gladys Butterworth and became convinced her idea, if impromptu, was the right one. The entire matter was worked out between the two women and the Butterworths moved into the caretaker’s cottage, sent for their belongings from Bangalow, and in no time at all seemed as if they had always been part of Zanana.
That had been almost a year ago.
Catherine’s mind returned to the present, and she stretched and left the rose garden.
Robert sat at his office desk in the city, rereading a short letter penned in copperplate writing. As a prominent and wealthy member of Sydney society he received many requests to act as a benefactor, but this letter — a straightforward request — intrigued him. It was from the matron of a large city orphanage. She had read about Zanana’s magnificent gardens, the dairy, the orchard and the market gardens, and she asked if she could bring the children under her care to the estate for an outing.
. . . these children are city dwellers, with little space about them and have never seen the source of the (albeit meagre) food which they receive. It would be instructional, and most beneficial to morale. Their ages range from three to thirteen and I would like to assure you that decorum will be observed should you kindly grant my request.
Robert folded the letter and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He would show it to Catherine this evening. It could provide just the diversion she needed and give her an outlet for her as yet unfulfilled wish for a family.
Robert waited until after dinner, when he and Catherine were settled comfortably in the small drawing room, he with his newspaper and she with her tapestry. They sat in companionable silence, until Mr Butterworth brought a small glass of port to Robert and a cup of sweetly spiced milky tea for Catherine. It was chai, the tea she had drunk in India and which Robert now imported for her.
Robert sipped his port, then drew the letter from inside his jacket. ‘I have a letter for you.’
‘For me?’ Catherine was curious as she unfolded and quickly read the letter. ‘So what are you going to do? I have no objections to her bringing the children to visit Zanana.’
‘I thought you might like to organise it. Make it a bit special. Put on a picnic or something. It would certainly be a day for them to remember. I don’t think they get out too much. Though the matron sounds an enterprising sort of woman.’
Catherine looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, it would be lovely for them. But in a way it’s sad for them too. Imagine what they are coming from and then to see a place like this . . . it could make for some discontent.’ She sighed. Robert knew that she was thinking how fortunate their own children — should they ever come along — would be to grow up at Zanana.
Slowly Catherine refolded the letter. ‘Perhaps we could arrange for them to come every year. Make it an annual event which they could look forward to, so they feel they are not just treated as a one-time charity visit.’
Robert stared at his beautiful golden-haired wife and a large smile spread across his face. ‘My dear, that’s a wonderful idea. In fact, why don’t you take on the orphanage as your own project, become its informal benefactress?’
‘You mean it would be like acquiring a whole family all at once? Don’t think I don’t see the reason why you suggested this, Robert MacIntyre.’ Laughter sparkled in the depths of her blue eyes.
Late the following day, Robert found Catherine sitting on the rustic garden seat in her rose garden, and noted with satisfaction her bright and happy demeanour. He kissed her cheek and sat beside her, taking her hand in his.
Catherine leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘Robert dearest, I have decided I would like to help the orphanage in whatever way I can. I think the children’s picnic will be a fine way to start things going. Mr and Mrs Butterworth will help me, along with the staff — I think they’ll rather enjoy it — and I have so many ideas!’ She could barely contain her delight as she began outlining her plans. ‘We will have a different theme every year — a circus, a carnival, an Aladdin’s cave — each year will be something new. You wait and see, it will make those social parties at Government House seem frightfully dull!’
Zanana’s first annual children’s day was a success beyond Catherine’s dreams.
Two dozen children travelled to the estate by a small steam ferry which ran regularly from Sydney to Parramatta. They were met on the wharf by a court jester who handed them kites with a lucky number painted on each. Zanana’s grounds were dotted with carnival tents housing games, a Punch and Judy show, clowns and donkey rides.
Robert shook his head in wonder as the donkeys appeared in colourful straw hats decorated with ribbons and flowers. ‘They’ll eat those hats, Catherine!’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll make more,’ she laughed.
Mr Butterworth, the head gardener, the foreman of the dairy, and Sid Johnson took small groups of wide-eyed children on tours of the orchard, the dairy, the vegetable plots and the stables to explain how Zanana was managed. Lambs were patted, attempts made to milk cows, creamy fingers were licked and rows of mature carrots uprooted in delight then washed and eaten raw. Mrs Butterworth led other groups through the grand house where the children whispered in hushed tones, surreptitiously fingering silk curtains or a satin cushion.
Then came the highlight of the day — the food. Long tables were set along the shady verandah and there was every kind of food small children dreamt about. Jellies, butterfly cakes filled with fresh cream, jam tarts, blancmange, custard tarts, fairy bread, rainbow cake, miniature meat pies, pasties, sausage rolls and toad-in-the-hole, followed by fruit they’d picked themselves, cheeses, ice cream and big jugs of fresh milk, home-made lemonade and ginger beer.
After this feast a magician entertained them all, pulling rabbits from hats, doves from his sleeves, coins from behind a boy’s ear — to their amazement and delight. Then, after Matron had issued strict instructions, the children were allowed to roam the gardens to play hide-and-seek.
‘The swimming pool area is out of bounds,’ she reminded her exuberant charges.
But, all too soon, late in the afternoon, the moment came when they had to leave the joys of Zanana for the austere environment of the orphanage. Matron lined the children up in single file in front of Catherine, who was standing beneath the portico. Each child was given a brightly wrapped gift that matched the number on their kite, then they were helped into horse-drawn carriages for the trip back to the city.
Their earlier shyness had evaporated and they began to wave and call out thanks and goodbyes to Catherine. Suddenly a small girl broke away from a group and dashed forward, flinging her arms about Catherine’s legs and burying her face in the apricot silk of her long dress.
‘I love you,’ she sobbed. ‘I want to stay here . . .’
Catherine lifted the small girl in her arms and hugged her. ‘Don’t cry, my dear. You’ll come here again. And I will come to see you too.’
Gently, she carried the girl to the carriage and handed the child to the driver, who settled her amongst the other children.
‘God bless you all,’ called Catherine, waving goodbye.
Spontaneously the children sent up a great cheer. ‘Hip hip hooray! Thank you! Thank you!’ They cheered again as the horses, with dancing plumes on their heads, clip-clopped down the curving drive and through the massive iron gates to the everyday world beyond the fairyland of Zanana.
Robert stepped forward and put his arms around Catherine’s shoulders as she tearfully waved her lace handkerchief at the departing carriages. ‘My dear, you have given them so much joy.’
‘Oh Robert, they gave far more in return.’
True to her promise, Catherine began visiting the orphanage every month bringing fresh fruit and vegetables from Zanana’s gardens. On each visit the little girl who’d flung herself at Catherine when she’d left the picnic, made a dash straight for her and clung to her. She was prised off and gently admonished by Matron each time and sent back to where she should be. The eager little five-year-old seemed to have an uncanny sense of knowing when Catherine was coming to visit, and she hung around the entrance of the building waiting for her.
On her first visit Catherine paused and exchanged a brief conversation with the bright-eyed child.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Mary.’ She bobbed a quick curtsy, holding the edges of her pinafore as she’d been taught.
‘And how old are you, Mary?’
She held up her hand. ‘I’m five fingers.’
Catherine stifled a smile. ‘And when’s your birthday? When will you be six?’
The child looked blank. ‘My birthday?’ She bit her lip and hung her head.
Matron stepped forward, saying to Catherine, ‘We celebrate a joint birthday here. One birthday party all at once. We find it easier that way.’
Catherine, thinking how sad it was not to celebrate your very own birthday, nodded and took Mary’s hand in hers as they followed the matron into the building.
Over the months Catherine found she was looking forward to seeing the determined young Mary and, in the face of her persistence, Matron allowed Mary to be the ‘welcoming committee’ for Catherine’s visits.
Privately, one day, over tea in the matron’s small office, Catherine asked about Mary’s history.
‘A typical story, I’m afraid. Her mother was a poor unmarried girl in service who got into trouble. It is usually a case of lose the job or lose the child, though in this girl’s instance it was a case of both. Little Mary’s father was the master of the house and in no position to acknowledge fathering a servant’s child. Mary has been here since a baby. She’s known no other home.’
‘How sad. She’s a dear little thing.’
‘They are all dear — and lonely — children, Mrs MacIntyre,’ said the matron gently.
‘Of course, of course.’ But the matron noticed it was little Mary who received an extra hug when Catherine bid the smallest of the children goodbye. So she was not too surprised when Robert MacIntyre visited the orphanage to discuss a certain matter with her.
‘My wife and I have not . . . er . . . produced a child and it distresses Catherine greatly. She longs for a baby. She has a lot of love to give and she feels unfulfilled despite our happy marriage and comfortable life.’
‘I understand. You’re saying she, you both, wish to adopt a child?’
‘That’s what Catherine wishes. She’s been thinking about it for some time. It’s not a rash or a sudden decision.’
‘And what about you, Mr MacIntyre? What are your feelings?’
‘I want whatever makes my wife happy. I had hoped a child might come along, but if that is not to be, then I think this is a sensible solution.’ Seeing the questioning look on the matron’s face, he added, ‘Of course I am sure in time I will come to regard the child as my own’.
‘You seem to have reservations.’
‘Well frankly, Matron, Catherine has her heart set on a little girl she has befriended here. I would like a son. Zanana is a big responsibility and inheritance, you understand.’
‘Of course. But in your circumstances there is nothing to prevent you also adopting a boy.’
‘Yes. I hadn’t considered that. Naturally it would be lonely for one child,’ said Robert thoughtfully. His face cleared and he smiled, his mind made up. ‘Yes, indeed. Well, one step at a time. Could I see little Mary without her being aware of the reason I’m here?’
Robert stood in the sun-filled children’s schoolroom now empty during the children’s play hour. In the grounds below the windows he could see a small gaggle of young girls skipping rope and playing hopscotch. Mary played near them, but alone, involved in some make-believe game of her own with clumps of grass and twigs. Two girls, a little older than Mary, approached her, holding out the skipping rope, inviting her to join them. Mary didn’t look up, but shook her head and seemed to be singing to a makeshift toy she held — a crudely fashioned doll made from dried grass.
‘Independent little miss,’ he thought. It was a good sign that she could entertain herself. There were no other children at Zanana other than Sid and Nettie Johnson’s small boy.
Having made up his mind and rather taken with the pert little Mary, Robert visited Hock Lee and told him his plan.
‘I think it an excellent idea, Robert. It will make Catherine happy and you must begin to think about the future of Zanana.’
‘Yes, indeed. If Catherine hadn’t set her heart on adopting young Mary, I would have chosen a boy. However, I plan to see how matters work out and perhaps take one of the older boys at a later date. I would prefer an older boy so one has some inkling of his . . . nature. After all, Zanana must go to the eldest son.’
Robert then called on his solicitor, Charles Dashford.
The well-bred, haughty Dashford said little, but his manner was disapproving. ‘It’s a big step, Robert. And, I mean, one never knows . . . the background of these children. This is a lifetime commitment.’
Robert dismissed his comments with a wave of his hand. ‘My mind is made up. Just draw up the necessary papers, please.’
Catherine and Robert went to the orphanage together to pick up Mary. The matron had already explained to Mary that she was going to live at Zanana but the child simply did not believe her. But when she was ushered into the matron’s office and saw Robert and Catherine smiling at her, she stood still, gazing at the adults in the room. Her natural ebullience was overcome by shyness and disbelief that this momentous event was actually happening.
Catherine held out her arms and for once Mary didn’t rush to her, but walked solemnly forward and stood before her, hands clasped behind her back, face downcast. Her hair was brushed and tied with a ribbon, her worn shoes had been polished and she wore a faded flower print dress, handed down, but clean and pressed. It was the first time Catherine had seen her not wearing the usual pinafore provided by the orphanage.
‘Hello, Mary dear,’ said Catherine softly. ‘Are you sad to be leaving all your friends here?’
The little head of curls swung firmly from side to side.
‘Speak up, Mary; you don’t have to be shy,’ said the matron.
‘No,’ came a small voice.
‘Are you happy you’re coming to live with us at Zanana?’
The head bobbed vigorously up and down, followed by a fervent, ‘Yes’.
‘Then why do you seem so sad, dear child?’ Catherine scooped the girl onto her lap.
‘They won’t let me take my pinnies and I only have this dress,’ mumbled Mary, burying her face in Catherine’s shoulder.
‘Oh, my sweet girl.’ Catherine held her tightly as tears began to spill from Mary and dampen Catherine’s dress.
The matron and Robert exchanged a sympathetic smile.
Robert leaned over and lifted Mary’s chin with his finger so that the little girl stared into his face. ‘That’s a very pretty dress, Mary, but I thought you might like some new dresses. We are going to look after you now and you are going to have your own room with everything you need.’
‘My own room?’ Her eyes were wide with astonishment. ‘All alone?’
‘You’ll be right next to us,’ said Catherine reassuringly.
Mary slid from her lap and went to Robert, giving him a quick hug, a big smile spreading across her face. Robert’s initial reaction was to recoil in surprise, then he awkwardly patted the curly head.
‘Let’s go fetch your bag, Mary.’ Matron took her hand. ‘I’ll take her along. It might be upsetting for some of the other children if they see you taking her away. It’s the dream of every child here. Sadly they can’t all be as lucky as little Mary.’
‘Matron, please make it clear to the other children that I still hold a place in my heart for them and I will keep visiting here. And our special days at Zanana will continue.’
‘Of course, Mrs MacIntyre; that is very kind and generous of you.’
Mary walked down the long dormitory where rows of identical beds lined the walls. From the foot of Mary’s bed, Matron took a small cloth bag which held Mary’s meagre clothes and few precious possessions: a rag doll given to her by a charity one Christmas and a tiny cardboard kaleidoscope — her prize in the lucky dip at Zanana’s children’s day. She had spent hours staring down the little cardboard tunnel, slowly turning it so the pieces of coloured glass tipped into changing patterns.
The rest of the children were in the schoolroom and as she was led past, they all looked up from their slates and a murmur ran through the room. The teacher rapped on the blackboard and eyes quickly went back to their sums. But Mary had sensed and seen the looks of envy, and she lifted her head and marched proudly.
Within a couple of weeks of living at Zanana, Mary knew every inch of the estate, had made friends with all the workers, had been given her own pet lamb, and had developed the habit of following Mrs Butterworth as she went about her chores.
Mrs Butterworth waved her away. ‘Shoo, Mary, you have to learn to be a lady. Off you go to the playroom. It will soon be time for your music lesson.’
Mary wrinkled her nose. Catherine was teaching her the piano and giving her school lessons, though she had promised that a governess would come and live with them and teach her when she was older. Mary was not looking forward to that day.
Catherine delighted in the little girl but found Mary’s energy tired her easily. In fact, she found her own strength was not as it had been; but she ignored any warning signs for nothing could take away from the joy of watching Mary blossom.
Robert enjoyed the little girl’s company on the occasions they spent time together, but he worried over the state of Catherine’s health. He was glad she was happy with Mary, but doubted his wife would be able to cope with another child so soon. He would wait and adopt a boy when Catherine was stronger.
Catherine continued to do the things she enjoyed most. She spent time in her rose garden, though these days she didn’t have the energy to work amongst her flowers but simply sat and enjoyed their beauty and fragrance. She continued the routine of Mary’s lessons, teaching her about the history of England and Scotland, weaving in stories of her own childhood. Mary sat entranced, as much by simply being with Catherine as by what she told her. Mary was devoted to her beautiful new mama and looked forward to her lessons where she was the focus of Catherine’s time and attention. However, as much as she enjoyed tutoring the bright and attentive Mary, the periods where Catherine rested in her cool bedroom became longer each week.
So Robert was pleased when Catherine suggested she take Mary to Sydney for a day’s outing the next time he went there on business. Robert kissed Catherine as they arrived in the city already teeming with office and store workers, street sellers and food hawkers.
‘Are you sure you will be all right wandering about alone? The traffic is getting very congested these days, not to mention the filth in some streets.’
‘We shall be perfectly fine, Robert. We shan’t venture away from the main centre; besides, it will be an adventure, won’t it, Mary?’
The young girl nodded, her eyes shining in excitement as she gripped Catherine’s hand, and held onto her boater, her eyes trying to take in the swirling sights, sounds and smells.
Catherine and Mary set off for their day on a horse-drawn bus, and travelled down George Street to Circular Quay to look at the ferries, steamers and quayside activity. They wandered through the Botanic Gardens, stopping to feed some ducks on a pond, buying a bag of bread scraps from a young boy. Nearby imperious peacocks strutted, the males trailing their magnificent plumed tails in arrogant abandon.
Back in the city, they looked in the shops in the Sydney Arcade. As Catherine strolled under the high arched glass and steel-ribbed roof, Mary ran forward to press her nose against a toy-shop window.
Piled in the window were coloured spinning tops, boxes of picture blocks, drawing slates and paintboxes, counting frames of coloured beads, and all manner of board games from cribbage and checkers and tiddly-winks to fancy compendiums of games in winged mahogany boxes. There were magic lantern slides, lead soldiers, masks, and every conceivable kind of clockwork toy. Inside beckoned rocking horses, dolls and dolls’ houses.
‘Papa gave you two shillings to spend, would you like to spend it in here?’ asked Catherine with a wide smile.
‘Oh yes, I think so.’
Mary bounded ahead and began peering into the glass display cases. Catherine felt like a little girl again and headed straight for the dolls. She had never been swamped with toys. Her mother had given her simple presents — board games or little bits and pieces for the dolls’ house her father had made for her. Catherine adored the dolls’ house and played with it more than anything else, playing out the life of a large and boisterous family. In comparison to her solitary and secluded life, this family lived a full and complicated life of emotional dramas and adventures. She smiled to herself, remembering the years of pleasure it had given her. She and Robert must give Mary a dolls’ house, she decided.
To Catherine’s surprise, Mary didn’t choose a toy or game but a little novelty money box. It was a small painted iron figure of a boy patting a dog and when a coin was placed in his hand, it slipped into a slot behind the dog’s ears.
‘I’m going to save up my threepences,’ she explained.
‘And then buy a nice toy?’ asked Catherine as the shop girl tied up the money box in brown paper and string.
‘No,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘I think I’ll just save them up.’
Catherine nodded understandingly as they left the shop. For Mary, memories of deprivation were still fresh and even at the tender age of six she was aware of frugality and the possibility of once again having limited resources.
‘I have two shillings to spend too and I am going to buy the Butterworths a treat. Look, there’s a sweet shop,’ pointed Catherine.
The two spent a long time looking at the confectionery selection, finally choosing a mixed bag of sugared almonds, coconut ices, barley sticks, nougatines, musk lozenges and some aniseed balls. They also bought a small bag of jujubes, Hinky Dinks and Wee McGregor butterscotch to share with Robert on the way home.
‘I’m hungry,’ said Mary, eyeing the bags of sweets.
‘It must be lunchtime then,’ announced Catherine with a smile.
They ate in the splendour of the dining room at the Wentworth Hotel, Mary sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair, a large white linen napkin spread across her lap. Balefully she eyed the pumpkin soup, lamb chops and vegetables to be followed by bread and butter pudding, for she had been much more attracted by the appetising sight and smell of the Sargents Pie Shop they’d passed on their way to the elegant Wentworth.
By the end of the day Mary could scarcely keep her eyes open and when Robert asked what they’d done, she rattled off their itinerary. ‘Bus, boats, shops, toys and sweets. We fed the ducks, had lunch and Mama visited a friend.’
‘Where was that?’ enquired Robert.
‘Macquarie Street. I’ll tell you all about it later, dear.’
By evening, when they arrived back at Zanana, Catherine was utterly drained. While Mrs Butterworth bathed Mary, gave her a boiled egg and toast and tucked her up in bed, Catherine rested in her bedroom. She appeared before dinner and joined Robert in the library.
Sipping his pre-dinner sherry, he studied her carefully. ‘Are you quite well, my dear? That was too big a day for you. Now tell me in detail what you got up to. Whom did you go and visit?’
Catherine smiled at him, her pale face lighting up. ‘Come for a walk to the Indian House before supper, Robert — the moon is very bright — I’ll tell you about my day.’
They wandered through the darkened gardens holding hands, and paused in the rose garden where the heady perfume from the roses hung in the balmy air.
Catherine breathed in deeply. ‘Mmm . . . You don’t have to see them to fall in love with them. Roses . . . the perfume I love most in the world.’
‘Not my most favourite,’ murmured Robert. ‘I love the sweet smell of your hair, your skin, your breath . . .’ He stopped and swung her to him, kissing her face, her hair and her lips, overcome by his deep and uncontrollable passion for her.
She kissed him back, filled with love for this man who was everything to her. She took his hand and, with a conspiratorial smile said, ‘Let’s go into the Indian House’.
They left their shoes on the marble steps and pushed open the carved wooden door. The moonlight streamed through the coloured glass in the windows and glittered back at them from the tiny mirrors on the red velvet walls. The smell of sandalwood hung in the air and the warmth from the day’s sunshine still lingered within the miniature one-room palace.
‘It takes me back to India every time I come in here,’ whispered Catherine.
‘There is a sort of magic about this place,’ agreed Robert.
They stood in silence for a moment, then Catherine sat on the massive canopied bed, peering up at the underside of the canopy where jewels shone in its artificial night sky. ‘Robert, I have something to tell you.’
‘Yes, my darling?’
‘I’m going to have a baby. Doctor Hampson told me so today.’
Robert sat down heavily beside her and took her hand. ‘That’s wonderful news! I can’t believe it. But how can this be after so long?’
Catherine’s soft laughter rippled round the room. She chose not to tell him what she believed. Recently, on a sudden impulse, she had decided to spring-clean the Indian House and sort through a few items stored in a carved chest and her travelling trunks. In a small drawer designed for valuables in the back of her travelling trunk she had found the little wooden box given to her by the old maharani. Inside was the bottle of attar of roses and her precious lingam. Joyously she had clutched them to her heart then carefully tucked them into the embroidered footstool by the bed on which they now sat.
‘Doctor Hampson says it is not unknown that couples who have difficulty adopt a child and simply stop worrying about conceiving, then it just happens!’
‘But what about your health, Catherine? You haven’t been well.’
‘Maybe this is the reason. But don’t fret, Robert, I will give you a son no matter what the cost.’
‘Oh no, not at any cost.’ He embraced her, suddenly fearful. ‘Come, let us go back to the big house. This calls for a celebration port. The oldest and finest in the cellar!’
But their surprise and joy was marred by firm warnings from Doctor Hampson that if Catherine insisted on going through with the pregnancy, she would be putting her health at risk. ‘Not just her health, her life, Mr MacIntyre. It is still early days, there are . . . ways, of dealing with this situation.’
As gently as he could Robert broke this news to Catherine. She put a finger to his lips and told him to say no more. ‘Robert dear, there is no choice to be made. I want you to have a son. What must be will be so. I have no fears. I learned that from the guru in the Indian village. You cannot change what fate has already decided.’
‘Oh, Catherine,’ his voice trembling he gathered his precious young wife in his arms and held her to him, rocking her to and fro.
As the months passed, Catherine became more frail and was forced to spend most days resting in bed. Mary was cared for by Mrs Butterworth, eating with her and Harold in the big friendly kitchen, being ushered to Catherine’s bedside for short subdued visits. Robert was distracted and tended to ignore Mary’s presence, though the child waited for him to come home from trips to the city, rushing to take his hat and coat at the door.
Robert sat by Catherine’s bedside, lifting her pale hand in his, noticing the blue veins visible beneath her near translucent skin. ‘Catherine dearest, I am so concerned for you.’ He held her gently, almost afraid her frail body would break.
‘It’s all right, Robert.’ She smoothed his hair. ‘I love you so much.’
They clung together for a long time; then, seeing her exhaustion, Robert settled her amid the pillows and quietly left the room.
Catherine smiled weakly. ‘Now send Mary in, I want her to understand.’
Mary didn’t understand. All she knew was that a baby was coming and it was making her mama very sick.
It was in the early hours of a rainy night when Doctor Hampson was summoned to Zanana. A worried Mr Butterworth stood holding open the door, the lantern he carried casting wavering shadows under the portico. Carrying his black bag, his caped coat billowing behind him, the doctor hurried up the sweeping staircase.
Just before dawn, when the rain had stopped and the mournful chimes of the grandfather clock rang through the mansion, the doctor stepped back outside. He had done what he could but what he had feared all along had happened.
Catherine MacIntyre had given birth to a small delicate daughter. But the strain had been too much for her weakened body and fragile heart and she’d died peacefully in Robert’s arms, fading from life like the last pale flicker of a spent candle.
Mrs Butterworth took the newborn infant into the warmth of the kitchen and sat cradling the small bundle. She stared at the tiny heart-shaped face. Catherine’s features stared back at the broken-hearted housekeeper. Mrs Butterworth sniffed. ‘You poor wee mite.’
She rose to her feet as an ashen-faced Robert MacIntyre came into the big kitchen. He sat in a chair by the table, resting his head in his hands. Mrs Butterworth went to him and held out the tiny baby wrapped in a white cotton shawl.
He shuddered and leapt to his feet, the chair falling over behind him. ‘Take it away, Mrs Butterworth! I never want to see that child again!’ His reddened eyes glanced towards the door, and as he strode from the room he shouted, ‘And send her back where she came from! There will be no children in this house!’
Mrs Butterworth swung around to see Mary in her long nightgown, her face pale with tears, standing at the door.
Suddenly, like an outraged animal, the girl charged at Mrs Butterworth, her anger, fear, and frustration boiling over. She began wildly pulling on the shawl wrapped around the baby. Between sobs she gasped, ‘I hate you, baby! You took Mama away. I hate you . . .’