Sydney 1965
Odette gazed around the boisterous, jovial group gathered in The Greasy Spoon. It was a celebration for Odette, who had collected the newspaper industry’s award for the year’s best feature story. These were the equivalent of Hollywood’s Academy Awards and already there had been offers to lure her away from the Gazette.
How the last years of her cadetship had sped! Odette had slipped into the role of a graded journalist with dizzying success. It had been a dream run of stories. Odette put it down to a few lucky breaks but her editors and mentors at the Gazelle knew better. She had a way of getting people on side, making them confide in her, baring their souls and stories. She had a keen eye, and her descriptive writing could bring tears or a wry smile. She cut through pomposity and superficiality and went straight to the heart of the story.
Odette had travelled overseas covering major events from Wimbledon to a maharajah’s wedding in Kashmir. She had profiled celebrities and unknowns alike, but was happiest observing the patterns of people’s lives around her. A few exclusives and scoops guaranteed her a large by-line but she still listened to and respected advice and counsel from Nancy Corrigan and Kay Metcalf, who continued to rule the roost at the magazine.
Occasionally Odette considered settling down and buying a really nice flat, but at other times she thought she might take off and wander around Europe. She still shared the flat with Elaine and when Aunt Harriet came to visit, Odette bunked down on the lounge.
Her relationship with Aunt Harriet had entered a new and easier phase. Her success and independence put Odette in control and her aunt was happily guided by Odette when it came to discovering Sydney’s sights, shops and smart places to eat.
Without saying too much. Aunt Harriet made it plain she was rather impressed with the people Odette interviewed, and could name drop heavily in Amberville. To hear Aunt Harriet tell it, she always knew Odette would make a fine writer, she’d been a clever girl destined for the bright lights and had been supported and advised in her career by her aunt. Odette listened and said nothing, pushing to one side the uncharitable thought that if Harriet had had her way Odette would be behind the teller’s cage at the local Bank of New South Wales.
Odette loved her freedom, the stimulation of her job and the friends with whom she worked and socialised. She went out to dinners and parties with young men she met through work. She had a few romantic flings that waned in a week or so and the once or twice she had been tempted to get into bed with a particularly handsome and charming escort, the memory of Zac had held her back. In her heart she felt she was being unfaithful to him, even though there was no commitment between them. She also felt that no lover would ever be as special as Zac. She knew one day she would have to let go of his memory, but for now, life was full, busy and stimulating.
Tony James from the Clarion had also made it to the big city, working on an afternoon tabloid, and they saw each other for a drink every few weeks. They frequented the King’s Crown tavern, the pub favoured by the Australian Incorporated Newspapers crowd. In the various bars the different sections of the paper held sway — the journos, the photographers, the print men, the advertising and the editorial staff. Other news organisations had their own locals in Surry Hills and on Broadway, and if there was a big story breaking, or some particularly juicy gossip, small bands would venture into foreign pubs to glean what they could from the opposition.
Odette was constantly on the move, zipping from one job to the next, chasing after stories and people. The only time she came to rest was when writing up an interview. Always on a deadline, always down to the wire, her energy would be focused on the sheet of paper in the old Remington and she would be oblivious to the noise, chatter and activity about her. She was the only person in her section who didn’t smoke, but instead drank endless cups of tea. At one point she’d thought it would be rather sophisticated to wave about pastel-coloured Sobranie cigarettes in their smart black and gold box, but they were expensive. Then she’d taken to dragging on unfiltered pungent Gauloise, but decided the foul taste in her mouth, stained teeth and headaches weren’t worth it, so she tossed away the blue packet and declared her vices were claret and Greek food.
But no matter how many stories Odette covered, each assignment gave her a new challenge and a sense of excitement. And this latest story was no exception.
Odette had been dozing for the past hour, her head leaning against the car window, her arms wrapped about her body, while Max, the photographer, drove up the mountain road.
Max, chubby, redhaired and known as Eveready, rolled down his window, taking a deep breath of the fresh mountain air. The shrill call of a whipbird suddenly cracked from the trees by the road, causing Odette to stir and stretch.
‘How much longer?’ she yawned.
‘Two hours, about. You’re missing the view.’
As the station wagon turned a hairpin bend Odette looked out of her window and gasped. They were on the edge of a precipice looking down a steep hillside that disappeared in a thicket of rainforest. Massive tree ferns and subtropical growth clung to the mountainside. In the distance, stretching to the horizon, rolled lush green valleys and rugged ridges.
Odette pulled out her notebook and began scribbling.
‘Started to write your story already?’
‘Nope. Just making notes, thinking of questions.’
Max nodded. ‘Yeah, you’re not like some of them. Start writing their intros on the way to the story. Know what they’re going to write before they get there.’
‘I hope I’m never that one-eyed, Max.’ Odette chewed her pencil and stared out of the window. ‘It’s beautiful. No wonder people throw away their jobs in the city to come here.’
And that, in a nutshell, was the story they were chasing.
The chief of staff, Nancy Corrigan, had called in her star reporter and told Odette she was sending her out of town for a few days.
‘Outback? Oh good,’ said Odette.
‘It’s not quite the outback . . . more the tropical north of New South Wales. The actual place is called Peace Valley, I believe.’
‘Never heard of it. What’s it like?’
‘I gather it’s a valley of old dairy farms which have been taken over by city runaways.’
‘Kids on the lam?’
‘More like adults opting out.’
‘You mean like the hippies, flower people smoking hash, indulging in free love and folk songs?’
‘Those sorts are up there . . . in fact, in the hills around the valley there are supposed to be all kinds of people. But the story I’m interested in is a group of families, some of them middle-class professionals, who have settled there. They’re starting new and different lives.’
‘Umm, sounds interesting, if they are thinking people and not the fruitcake variety.’
Nancy Corrigan’s lips twitched in faint amusement. ‘From what I’ve heard they are quite coherent and cognisant of their actions.’
‘How did you hear about them?’
‘My dentist left town to go up there. He told me about it. It sounds like it could be a good picture story. I can’t give you any more information, go and see what you get.’
And so Max and Odette packed camera gear and clothes in the back of the company station wagon and drove from Sydney, north along the Pacific Highway. As they’d made a late start they stopped overnight and continued on the next day, arriving at midday. They checked into a country pub at Lismore and asked directions to Peace Valley.
‘Never heard of it,’ said the lady supervising the cleaning of the public bar and balancing the cash register.
They had little luck anywhere else until Max suggested they find the local feed and grain store. ‘They’re bound to have come into a big centre for supplies, I reckon.’
The local merchant was vague and shook his head. ‘The name doesn’t ring any bells with me. I thought I knew most places out this way.
Course there are a lot of farms being sold and new people moving in, maybe it got divided up and called something new.’
‘What sort of people are moving in?’ asked Odette.
‘Pitt Street farmers, I guess. Been a few city people in and out. Said they’d sold up in the city.’
‘That would be the people we’re after. Can you remember where they said they were, or do you have any accounts with an address or something?’
The man scratched his head. ‘Most times they pay cash. But one of the boys delivered some equipment up in the hills to some mob recently. That’s right — said there were a bunch of families on the one property. Big place, mind you. They’d ordered some pretty good farm machinery.’
‘Where’s the fellow who delivered it? He could tell us where he went.’
‘That would’ve been Terry. He’s out delivering a load of grain. Be back first thing in the morning.’
While Max recharged his batteries by flaking out in his room above the noisy public bar, Odette looked up the address of the local newspaper and trudged down to the Northern Star. She asked to see the chief of staff on duty and explained she was interested in finding some Sydney folk who had bought land in the area.
The local newspaperman regarded the pretty young woman before him. ‘Doesn’t sound like much of a story,’ he remarked drily. ‘Lot of people buy land up this way. It’s cheap.’
‘I don’t mean as an investment or to retire up here. I mean youngish educated families who are moving into the district from the cities.’
‘Be a bloody mad move if you ask me. The towns in the area are dying like the dairy industry. There’s no work. Small schools and hospitals closing. We’re the main centre now. Just what are you after?’
Odette tried to assess whether he was being cagey, not wanting to give away too much, or if indeed he did not know of the new settlers who were moving into the area. If he hadn’t heard about it, she didn’t want to alert him and give away her story. If indeed there was a story in it.
She thought quickly. ‘Look, I’m really after just one family. A dentist and his family. They’ve apparently fled Sydney and he left a lot of unhappy patients in his wake. Ripped off the system, and left a rather large debt behind.’ Odette said a silent apology to Mrs Corrigan’s good dentist.
‘Who did you say you worked for again?’
‘I didn’t. But I’m with Australian Incorporated Newspapers.’ She didn’t specify the Women’s Gazette, knowing a beat-up story about a crooked dentist was not the sort of story they would run.
‘Look, I can’t help you. But I’m just a paper-pusher these days. Go and talk to Tom Ribbons our rural guy — he gets about.’
‘Thanks for your time.’ Odette shook his hand and retreated, glad she hadn’t given her name. He wouldn’t be able to track her down if he started to think about the story for the Star.
She decided not to talk to the reporter and went back to the hotel instead. She knew Max would still be out like a light, so she walked up to the taxi parked outside the hotel and rapped on the window.
The driver, who’d had his head back on the seat, snoring soundly, came to with a jump and leaned over and opened the front passenger door. ‘Sorry, luv. Where to?’
‘Anywhere. I’m a tourist. Show me the sights.’
He grinned at her. ‘You’re pulling me leg.’
‘Fair dinkum. I want to see some of the local area.’ She grinned back at him.
The driver switched on the ignition of the Holden and chuckled. ‘You mean the cathedral, the park, the river? Won’t take long.’
‘No, I was thinking of further out. How far can we get into the local hills and valleys before dark?’
‘Oh, a fair distance I s’pose. Which direction?’
‘The prettiest. Do you live in town?’
‘Yeah.’ The driver cruised down the main street, not quite sure about this lady passenger.
‘If you wanted to move to a really pretty rural setting, get away from it all, so to speak, start a new life, where would you go?’
‘Do I still have to drive a taxi? I mean, if I had to make me living, that would change things a bit.’
‘No, you’ve got a bit of money; maybe you and a couple of friends buy some land and decide to build a place, start life over without the hassles, or maybe retire and do what you’ve always wanted. Where’d you go?’
The driver’s face cleared. ‘Ah, that’s easy. The valleys below the mountain. Bloody beautiful they are. All old dairy farms.’
‘Then that’s where we’re going.’ Odette settled back in her seat.
The driver cast her a sidelong glance. ‘Okey-dokey. You planning on moving up here?’
‘Just looking. Tell me about the district. What’s the climate like, the land, the people?’
‘Wettest part of the State. Subtropical, green and misty. The locals are conservative solid farmers and timber workers. What is this, “Pick-A-Box”?’
They began to wind through countryside dotted with farmhouses, paddocks, fat cows, and banana plantations. The driver spoke softly, knowledgeably, and with obvious attachment to the area.
‘These mountains are extinct volcanos and as you go higher and further north you get into real rainforest country. I’m from the Tweed Valley outside Murwillumbah and that’s truly God’s own country. My family go back to the mid-eighteen hundreds — the first cedar cutters. Can’t say I blame them at the time, but it’s a damned shame what they did. The lure of red gold they called it, forests that had been there for thousands of years were destroyed.
‘The first farmers came in the 1860s. Scottish and Irish emigrants. They started clearing for agriculture and, of course, that wiped out the local Aboriginal tribes who were hunter-gatherers — they lost their food supply. Then came the sugar cane and after that the dairy industry, bananas, timber and small crops.’
‘Why do you live in town? You obviously care for the countryside.’
‘We were never farmers; my family always lived and worked near town. Couldn’t talk my missus into moving away from all the mod cons now.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’d go bush like a shot. I’m not a pub man, I get fed up with town life. But what to do? Given half a chance but, I’d muck in with these new settlers.’
‘New settlers? You know about them? Tell me what you know,’ asked Odette with interest.
‘City people. Mainly from Sydney. Started moving up here a year or so ago. Bought up a couple of adjoining dairy farms that’d gone broke and have set up their community trying to live off the land, building homes, educating their kids and trying to fit in with the landscape, so to speak.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’
‘You didn’t ask. Specifically.’
Odette made a mental note. Some reporter. ‘Right, I take your point. Do you know where they are?’
‘Sure. I go out and see them a lot. I run a couple of women into town once a fortnight for supplies. Though they have themselves pretty well organised. It’s more a social outing for them really.’
‘Could you take me there?’
‘Not now, be dark and the track is risky at the best of times. How about tomorrow?’
‘Done. Would they mind me just dropping in?’
‘Wouldn’t think so. They’re civilised people. Got different ideas to some folk, but I have to say I’m pretty impressed with what they’ve done and what they hope to do. Idealists and dreamers to some extent, but someone has to make a move and try and sort out the mess we seem to be slipping into, eh?’
‘What sort of mess?’ Odette leaned forward, craning her neck to try and see the tops of the trees lining the crude dirt road. In the distance jagged peaks tantalisingly appeared between clouds and tree tops.
‘Too many people, too much rubbish, too much greed . . . ah, you’ll hear about it tomorrow.’ He glanced at her curiously. ‘Why are you so interested anyway?’
‘I’m a reporter.’
‘Figures. You going to take the mickey out of this mob or take them seriously?’
‘Neither. Just tell what I see and hear. Will they mind? I don’t want to go in and pretend I’m not a reporter. I don’t work that way.’
‘Then you’ll be welcome. The road gets a bit rough from here, we’d better start back. I’ll show you the Cat Waterfall if you like.’
He turned the taxi into a muddy trail and drove several hundred yards and stopped. ‘It’s just a short walk from here.’
Odette followed the chunky driver, who was wearing shorts, knee-length socks, sandals and a white short-sleeved shirt.
The track led to a small lookout suspended at the edge of a cliff. Opposite them a high rock face formed a semicircular curve of grey and rust granite, its wet surface glinting in the last shafts of sunlight. In the centre of the long drop of rock, danced a sliver of misty water, falling to an unseen pool below. Fringing the bare wet slice of rocks clung bird’s-nest ferns beside tallowwood trees and parasol tree ferns.
‘Why is it called Cat Falls?’
‘Listen.’
Above the rumble of tumbling water came the plaintive wail of a cat.
‘What is it? Not a real cat surely?’ asked Odette in astonishment.
‘Catbirds. Live on fruit and nuts in the tops of the trees and meow like a cat. Hence the name.’
The catlike call rang out again and Odette laughed. ‘I’ve never heard of them. What do they look like?’
They’re hard to spot — a fairly big bird with bright emerald-green plumage. You generally only hear them at sunrise and dusk, like now. Nobody knows why they call like that. Certainly not imitating cats, as there have never been cats in rainforest country. Nor dogs. Even wild ones.’
They headed back towards the parked taxi. ‘You certainly are a mine of information.’
‘You can’t live in an area like this and not learn a thing or two. Maybe if more people came here they’d appreciate what we have and look after it a bit better instead of buggering up the country. I tell you, by the time we get into the 1980s it might be too late.’
Odette nodded thoughtfully, but preferred not to get into a discussion. Her driver had given her more than enough food for thought and she was beginning to long for a hot mug of tea or a long cold beer. She bet Max was already propping up the bar back at the pub.
The drive back to town was spectacular and they travelled in silence as the last of the day was gently enfolded in a mist that wrapped around solid trees and floated across the land, obscuring the valleys where sleep and stillness seemed to settle.
Odette found Max at the bar as she had expected.
He waved to her. ‘Where’ve you been? What’re you having?’
‘Dinner. Let’s eat, I’m starved. I’ll have a drink with dinner. Do you want to eat here or up the road at the Chinese?’
Max picked up his schooner of beer. ‘Let’s go into the dining room. The locals tell me the grub’s good.’
Odette followed Max as he slid his bulk from the narrow stool and headed towards the hotel dining room. ‘And what else have the locals been telling you?’
‘Seriously, Odette, we could be onto a weird story here.’
‘Is that right? Let’s order, then tell me.’
They settled on roast beef for Odette and a well-done T-bone for Max, who then pushed the plastic menu to one side and leaned across the table, lowering his voice. ‘There are some funny stories going round about these people up in the hills.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like sex orgies, and devil worship, and drugs and sacrifices!’
He leaned back, raising an eyebrow and nodding sagely. Odette burst out laughing. ‘Rubbish!’
‘How do you know it’s rubbish?’
‘How do you know it’s true?’ she retorted.
‘Where there’s smoke . . . ’
‘Come off it, Max. I don’t believe a word of it. I have totally the opposite opinion. Anyway we’ll find out tomorrow.’
‘How’re we going to find out that kind of stuff? They’re not going to admit it. We might have to snoop a bit. And, say, have you found out where they are?’
Odette sipped her glass of gin and flat warm tonic. ‘Maybe we’ll have to pretend we’ve come up to join them. Maybe get involved in some wild orgies and stuff; what do you reckon, eh. Max?’ She grinned at him.
‘Now you’re pulling my leg. But why would people with good jobs, nice homes and all that, toss it in to hide out in some hills far away from regular civilisation?’
‘Maybe they don’t think too much of what we call civilisation.’
‘Well, it’s not normal to want to go back to the Stone Age.’
‘Max, let’s just wait and see what we see. Here’s your steak. Cripes, how can you eat meat that’s been grilled near charcoal like that?’
‘I like to make sure it’s dead.’ Max eyed the pink juices around Odette’s roast beef with distaste. ‘Cheers!’ He downed his beer and they chatted casually throughout the meal. After their fruit salad and custard had been served, Odette excused herself and headed for her room as Max decided on one for the road before turning in.
Odette trudged down the hall with the thin and scratchy hotel towel, shut herself in the cold tiled bathroom, washed her face and changed for bed. With no radio in her room and the hotel’s sole television set blaring in the lounge below, she sat up in bed with her notebook and jotted down the taxi driver’s remarks. There certainly seemed to be some dichotomy between what Eveready had picked up in the bar and the attitude of the taxi driver. She yawned and switched out the small bedside lamp. Hopefully the muddy waters would begin to clear tomorrow.
It was a sparkling day as Max and Odette followed the taxi into the meandering valleys hidden in the verdant hills.
‘This taxi bloke seems to know the area,’ commented Max as they turned off the dirt road along a dense forest track.
The track came to the crest of a hill with a breathtaking view of the valley with terraced slopes layered in tropical growth. On the valley floor were neat fields and a wide stretch of a calm river which reflected blue sky and fluffs of clouds. In the centre of a cluster of trees rose a simple wooden spire from a barely visible arched and shingled roof. Drifts of lazy smoke rose from secluded areas. Snatches of brilliant flame tree flowers glittered amongst an emerald greenness that appeared soft and friendly. The setting, thought Odette, was idyllic, unreal . . . almost paradise.
‘Looks like a movie set,’ remarked Max. ‘What was that film . . . The Secret Valley or something? Where everyone fell apart and became a hundred years old when they left.’
‘Lost Horizon,’ murmured Odette.
The taxi wound down the track which was now overshadowed by palm trees and tree ferns and lined with clumps of bracken.
They arrived at the base of the valley and the taxi, bumping across a grassy area close to the river, pulled up before a large building which appeared to be some sort of community centre. But its graceful sweeping roof and circular shape was unlike any building they’d seen. The driver got out and came over to Max and Odette.
‘This is the Hub — the meeting place — but as no one knows you’re coming, I suggest we go up to one of the houses and introduce you. The Rawlings are just up the hill.’
They got out of the car and Max locked it.
‘Not necessary round here,’ grinned the cabbie.
‘Ah, force of habit. If I lose the gear it’ll come out of my pay.’
They walked through some Bangalow palms, a clump of banana trees and clusters of sweet-smelling white ginger plants, then suddenly came upon a stairway of rough log steps leading to a house so well hidden in the foliage, it caught them by surprise. Not so much hidden, Odette mused, as blended into the hillside. It seemed to grow there like part of the natural vegetation. She and Max stopped to stare in delight.
The house was built from old wood and hand-made mud bricks. It was open and airy with an encircling verandah, yet it seemed cosy and inviting. Large round windows set with stained-glass birds and flowers punctuated the walls. Plants and flowers were hung around the verandah where woven hammocks swung and a wind chime tinkled in the breeze. A chook eyed them momentarily from the garden then went back to scratching among the flowers and herbs.
The driver headed up the steps calling out, ‘Anyone home?’
‘Yes. Come on up.’
Peter Rawlings came around the verandah to greet them. Tall, fit and tanned, he had shoulder-length hair streaked with grey, was clean shaven and comfortably dressed in a tie-dyed T-shirt, a batik sarong wrapped around his hips and muddy gumboots on his feet. He grinned broadly and warmly shook the driver’s hand.
‘Hi, Nev. Good to see you. You’ve brought some friends.’
‘Well,’ the driver suddenly realised he didn’t know their names.
Odette stepped forward. ‘Hi. I’m Odette Barber and this is Max Jenkins. Nev has been kind enough to bring us up to see you. We sort of hired him as a guide. And right off, let me say, I’m a magazine writer, Max is a photographer, and I’d like to discuss the possibility of writing about your community here.’
‘Hmm. I see.’ Rawlings studied Odette with a frank and friendly stare. ‘Come in and we’ll talk about this over tea. It’s not up to me, you know,’ he explained pulling off his boots.
The driver kicked his shoes off and Odette did the same, indicating to Max to untie his desert boots.
They walked into the main living room of the house and Odette caught her breath. ‘What a lovely room!’
There was an open fire with a large comfortable sofa in front of it covered with colourful rugs. Several sheepskin mats were spread on the floor along with what looked like valuable Persian scatter rugs. An iron potbellied stove stood in a far corner, its chimney disappearing through the roof. A skylight was set in the centre of the peaked roof and sunlight slanted into the room. The rest of the furniture was rustic, hewn from chunky, natural shaped wood.
The room was filled with light and colour, and interesting bits and pieces — a spinning wheel, an artist’s easel, huge pottery urns filled with stems of ginger and wild flowers, books and several wood carvings.
Peter Rawlings lifted a kettle of hot water from the edge of the potbelly stove and put it directly over the heat. He fetched a tray set with ceramic mugs, a jug, teapot and a bowl of honey.
‘This is my wife’s pottery. Lemon grass tea okay?’ He poured the hot water over some crushed green stalks in the teapot and set it on the coffee table made from a slab of tree trunk, polished to a smooth golden gleam.
‘I realise this is a bit of an intrusion but there didn’t seem any other way of contacting you people other than just turning up. My editor’s dentist moved up here, which was how we heard about you,’ said Odette anticipating his question.
‘We aren’t seeking publicity. Most of us are professional people who have decided there’s more to life than accumulating material possessions and pushing and shoving in the corporate or professional world. We’ve found other like-minded people and, as other friends and family see what we’re doing and how we live, they too are joining us. But we don’t want to become a tourist attraction, we are just ordinary people leading our lives in what we think is the best way possible. I believe more people should consider what we’re doing — we devote ourselves to our families and friends, we care for our environment, for now and for our children, we try to be self-sufficient and to learn new skills. We have found a peace of mind not possible in the hurly-burly of city life.’
‘It seems you wouldn’t be here without having achieved some status or financial gain in that world, though,’ said Odette, dropping a spoonful of dark honey in the clear hot tea.
‘That’s true. This is run on a share basis — you have to buy in — and we pool money for community expenses. It’s actually very structured and organised. However, there are people living here who haven’t bought, they work in return for housing. We’re pretty flexible.’
‘And children?’
‘We run our own primary school, it’s rather adventuresome — two of the wives are teachers disillusioned with the narrowness of standard education. We encourage a lot of self-development and experimentation. But they stick to the basics enough that the children can attend high school in the town. However, in the future we might educate our teenagers ourselves.’
‘What about if someone gets sick?’ asked Max.
‘There’s a healing centre. We have a midwife, a nurse, and specialists in other medical therapies like acupuncture, Chinese herbs, massage and counselling.’ Seeing Odette’s questioning look, he explained. ‘A lot of us follow certain Eastern beliefs and we believe what goes on in the mind and the heart can affect the whole body. But I shouldn’t be going on about all this. You will have to meet our community leaders and talk to them and we’ll all decide whether we can allow you to write about us. I feel it can be beneficial to other people, but the majority rules here. A lot will depend on your attitude and understanding.’
‘I appreciate that, it sounds fair. Can I meet the . . . er . . . leaders?’
‘There is a meeting planned in the Hub — that’s our meeting place — at sunset. Spend the day wandering about and meet us there late this afternoon. You are welcome to stay overnight, on the understanding that you do not write about us if we do not agree to it.’
Odette shook his hand. ‘Fair enough. No pictures I assume?’
‘After the meeting, if they agree. You’ve got the day off, Max,’ laughed Rawlings. ‘I’m off to do some work in what we call the food basket . . . where we grow our basic crops . . . if you’d like to join me.’
‘I’ll be heading back to town. I threw some magazines and newspapers in the cab if you’re interested, Peter,’ said the driver.
Odette and Max watched the two head back down the track to the taxi. ‘I think the driver is telling him we’re okay,’ said Odette. ‘He wouldn’t have brought us here if he didn’t think so.’
Peter Rawlings, who turned out to be a solicitor, introduced Odette to his wife Ruth who was working in a vegetable garden behind their house. She was wearing shorts, a man’s cotton shirt and a big shady hat. She wore no make-up, was pretty and, Odette guessed, in her early forties.
She straightened up and brushed the soil from her hands. ‘I’m just off to the studio. Come with me, I think you’ll find it interesting.’
In a large airy room made of mud bricks with a thatched roof, a group of women were working at all kinds of crafts: preparing fleeces for spinning and dyeing, painting, silk screening, weaving and woodworking. In a smaller studio divided from the main room, a group of potters worked on bowls and pots. Small children were dotted about, working with clay and paints and coloured wool.
Odette wandered about watching and chatting to the women who were friendly and laughed a lot. Just outside the studio an attractive woman wearing a marvellously hand-painted sarong sat before an easel putting the finishing touches to a canvas of flowers and gardens painted in naif style.
‘That’s just beautiful,’ exclaimed Odette. ‘Do you sell your paintings?’
‘Sometimes. Mostly I just use them for barter. We barter a lot in the local towns in exchange for things we can’t make ourselves.’
Odette found the childlike, cheerful and brilliantly coloured picture entrancing. ‘I’d just love to hang that in my bedroom. It’s such a happy picture.’
‘Then it’s yours.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t. Let me pay you for it. Or barter something.’
‘All right. How about your shoes?’ grinned the artist.
‘Here, try them on,’ offered Odette, kicking off her sturdy Italian straw sandals.
‘Fit like a glove. Here’s your picture. Be careful, it’s still a bit wet.’
Odette was thrilled. ‘You’re sure? Have you always worked as an artist?’
‘Good grief, no. I just started painting up here. Among other things.’
‘What did you do in the city?’
‘Do? I didn’t do anything. Oh, I raced around to lunches and dinner parties and shopped and spent money redecorating the house or going places and seeing people. But it wasn’t doing anything. And I was lonely — even with a rich and successful husband.’
‘What’s he doing now?’
She laughed. ‘Still rattling around in the mansion, I suppose. I don’t know. After twenty-odd years of being dependent, catering to him and his life, I decided to look after my needs. The kids are grown up and out in the world. Thought I was mad till they came here and saw what I’m doing. My daughter says it’s like I grew up and left home too!’
Odette joined the studio group for lunch, spread out on lengths of coloured fabric under a tree — simple but delicious home-cooked breads, vegetable platters, nutty pies and fruit.
‘Do you eat meat?’ she asked.
‘Some of us do, though not every day. We tend to listen to what our bodies crave. Sometimes it’s pasta and vegetables, at other times a baked leg of lamb is great. Basically, anything in moderation is the rule of thumb unless it’s against your spiritual beliefs,’ she was told.
For the rest of the afternoon Odette wandered about, observing a unique community. There was a serene atmosphere about the valley, yet it was busy and productive. The design of the homes especially fascinated and pleased her.
She meandered down to the river and found a large rock that nature had hollowed into a comfortable seat. She settled into it, dangled her bare feet in the river and leaned back against the rock and closed her eyes.
Had she been asleep? Or dreaming? She heard her name softly spoken. Blinking, she opened her eyes and stared up into the smiling face of Zac.
For a moment she was speechless. ‘Zac?’
He sat down beside her and took her hand and kissed her fingertips. ‘Lazing by the river. Is this how a hard-working reporter gets her story?’
‘It’s called soaking up the atmosphere. You knew I was here?’
‘I heard. I admit to being a little surprised, but then Cerina said our paths would cross again.’
‘What are you doing?’ Odette sat up, longing to fling her arms around him and hug him tightly, but she held back shyly.
‘My gypsy family is camped near this valley. I met some of the people who have moved in here and found we shared a love of music. One of them went back to Sydney and I inherited his house, so now I live here too.’
‘Are you still writing songs?’
‘Very much. I’ll sing for you tonight. So, have you conquered the big city, little bird?’
‘Somewhat. It’s been fun. Though comparing my life there with the life you all lead up here makes me feel . . . discontented,’ she shrugged.
‘You still have mountains to climb. What are your plans?’
‘Oh, I’ve been saving up. I might go overseas for a trip. See what’s over there. Being a reporter is rather exciting but sometimes I think it’s not what I want to do forever. I mean, I’ll never stop writing . . . but we’ll see. Tell me about your life.’
He laughed at her. ‘What you’re really asking me is, is there a lady in my life?’ He tweaked one of her curls. ‘No, not at the moment. What about you?’
‘Oh dozens of men!’ She laughed back at him and this time flung her arms about him. ‘Oh Zac, I’ve missed you.’
He kissed her nose. ‘It was best we went our separate ways. I thought about you lots though.’
Odette found his mouth and kissed him. ‘I’m never letting you run away again.’
He pulled away gently. ‘Slowly, little one. What will be, will be. It’s enough we’ve found each other again. I told you I’d never be far from you.’
‘All right. Tell me about this place. Is it all as tranquil as it seems?’
‘Within ourselves it is. But outsiders don’t quite appreciate what we’re trying to do. So we are careful about how we are presented to the world. People get some funny ideas when they don’t know or understand what and who we are. Some just call us rainforest runaways, thinking it’s easier not to face up to the realities and responsibilities of life in the so-called real world. It is harder to start afresh, believe me.’
‘I heard some pretty outlandish stories in the pub.’
‘These sorts of communities will become more common and accepted over the years. And there will be some that don’t adhere to the same philosophy. Drugs, poverty, desperation — you take the same problems with you. You have to go back to the beginning and create a new lifestyle. One that protects the stability of the life systems for people and for our environment. We’ve squandered what God and nature gave us, someone has to be the voice in the wilderness.’
‘You’ve just exchanged one tribe for another, Zac’
‘It’s true, it is a rather tribal lifestyle here. But unlike my gypsy family who are eternal wanderers, those here think they have found their Utopia.’
‘It’s been tried before — William Lane and his group who went out to Paraguay and the Catholic Church Rural Settlements — why should Peace Valley work?’
‘Maybe it won’t. But some of us have to try. And selfishly, it’s bringing joy to those who live and work here. They believe they are building a better world for their children, and hope that their ideals will eventually be integrated into the wider community.’
‘And they’re fulfilled and content in doing so?’
‘Very much so. Come, we must get to the meeting and see what they decide. I shall speak up for you.’
‘Zac, only if it is what you truly want. This place really is magic. I don’t want to see it spoiled by publicity.’
A dozen men and women were seated in a circle on the floor on mats when they entered the Hub. Max was sitting between Peter and Ruth Rawlings. They fell silent as Odette and Zac entered. Zac led Odette to the centre of the ring, sat her down and stood beside her. Briefly he spoke about Odette, how he had known her for some time, that he respected her integrity and she could be trusted.
Max rolled his eyes skywards. Odette was incredible. Or just sheer lucky. How did she always manage to get on top of a story?
For some time they discussed the arguments for and against her writing about Peace Valley. The speakers were impressive, both articulate and passionate. It was finally agreed that a positive and intelligent story putting forth their beliefs with personal anecdotes and facts would achieve more than the suspicion and innuendo currently circulating. Hands were raised in a unanimous yes vote. The one stricture placed on Odette was that she didn’t reveal the precise location of their valley. She agreed. Max was free to photograph who and what he wanted, provided no photo gave away their location. He nodded.
They were shown to the small one-room cabins generally made available to visitors to the settlement.
‘Tomorrow we’ll drive into town and get our stuff from the pub and I’ll phone the office and tell them we’ll be back in a week,’ Odette told Max.
‘Right, I’ll let the missus know. I wouldn’t mind her seeing this place. Open her eyes a bit I reckon,’ said Max thoughtfully.
Odette smiled to herself — Peace Valley was working its spell on the cynical news photographer. If her story could make just a few people stop and consider how they lived and how they cared for the world about them, it would achieve something.
Later, Odette stretched comfortably in the pine bed. She lifted up the ends of the mosquito net and blew out the hurricane lamp. She hadn’t felt so at peace in a place since her visits to Zanana.
And as if in a dream, Zac softly came to her, lifting up the edge of the mosquito net, dropping his sarong to the floor and sliding in beside her. Wrapping his arms about her, he drew her to the warmth and strength of his body in a loving embrace.
As his mouth found hers, Odette’s lips curved in a contented smile. She kissed his top lip, slowly ran her tongue along the fullness of his bottom lip, then, in an explosion of passion, there was no more gentle holding back. Mouths open with desire their tongues explored each other. Odette moved her body on top of his, smothering the long firm length of his body with her softness.
Zac ran his hands down her back, crushing her breasts to his chest, clasping her buttocks between his thighs. Odette arched back straddling his body, guiding the full hard strength of him inside her wet, warm and willing body. Moaning softly, she rode him, absorbed in her own pleasure, head thrown back, hair tumbling about her shoulders. Zac lifted his head to suckle the hard points of her nipples until she came with a gasp and collapsed across him.
Gently rolling her off his body, Zac smoothed her damp hair from her face, and lowered his head to slowly kiss and lick her to arousal once more, languidly sliding back into her, lifting her legs high over his shoulders. Together their bodies rocked and sang, melting into each other as one, and Odette felt she’d come home.