Annie’s Story
Courtney was chattering as we drove home. I’d picked her up from the childcare centre, and although it only took fifteen minutes from there to home, Courtney had rolled off the names of a large number of friends. Surely that was a good thing? My child made friends easily. I couldn’t remember a single friend from when I was four years old, although I still had a few from later school years. Not that I saw them very often these days.
For a moment the old Kew Asylum buildings rose above us—they had been redeveloped into desirable residences in the 1980s—and then I was turning into Suckling Street and pulling into our driveway.
The two-storey Victorian-era house had been Reuben’s, bought in the 1970s. Later he’d turned it into two apartments and he still owned the one at the top, but the lower one he’d gifted to me. I’d been talking about buying a place, after the breakup with Ben and before I knew I was pregnant. I’d happened to mention I was interested in somewhere on the north side of the Yarra and Reuben had turned up his nose. He came from a time when which side of the river you lived on was socially important. The south side was for those with wealth and standing in the community, the north was tougher, more avant-garde. I thought that would have suited Reuben, but it seemed he was at heart a very conventional man.
‘You’ll live with me,’ he’d told me. ‘I have plenty of room. What do I need all this room for? You’re my daughter and one day this house will be yours anyway.’
I hadn’t argued. Kew was an older, established suburb close to the city, and it was relatively safe. Shortly after the offer was made, I discovered I was pregnant, and safe and conventional suddenly seemed far more desirable than avant-garde. Besides, Reuben was the only living relative I had. Both he and my mother had been only children, and my mother had been the only grandchild in her family. We didn’t need to book a big table for Christmas dinners.
I slipped my key into the door and once inside turned on the light, Courtney running in front of me. Immediately, Nephetiti leapt for safety on the table, giving me a resentful look. Before Courtney came along, Nephetiti had been my only child and the cat still held a grudge.
‘Can I watch The Wiggles, Mummy?’ Courtney was heading for the DVD player.
‘Yes, all right. Just for a little while.’ I set down my bags and scooped up the cat, carrying it into the kitchen.
Nephetiti was a regal name for what was a stray white tabby, abandoned by some neighbours, who found her way to my sympathetic door. Nephetiti was enough her own cat to be able to cope firstly with my long work days and irregular absences, and then Courtney’s appearance. Most of the time the three of us rubbed along okay together, and if it wasn’t perfect then what family was?
While Nephetiti happily lapped up her fishy food, I collected one of my bags and emptied the contents out onto the table. I’d taken digital photos of the Trompe L’oeil and printed them out and I wanted to look at them at my leisure. I also hoped to put them onto my computer and enhance them, because I was curious about the numerous scenes I’d noticed in the painting. Each one a small, intimate story of its own.
For my father the task itself was enough, but I wasn’t like that. I craved to know the story behind the object I was working on. I needed to personalise my work to make it relevant, and this Trompe L’oeil felt very personal.
It was tempting to sit down and get straight to work, and once upon a time that was exactly what I would have done, but Courtney had changed all that. My daughter needed a proper meal, a bath and a bedtime story. And, if I was lucky, she would sleep through the night and allow her mother some time of her own.
So I left my work where it was and went into the bedroom to change into comfortable sweatpants, my favourite long-sleeved top and my warmest socks, all to the tune of Dorothy the Dinosaur, before returning to the lounge. The autumn weather had turned chilly, a reminder that winter was just around the corner, and Melbourne winters could be bleak, soggy affairs.
Our house was on a rising slope and the large lounge/sitting room had a view from the front of the house as well as part of the side. Outside the front windows I could see the river and beyond it the city rising up in the distance, the bright lights winking, the traffic noise muted. Outside the side windows I could look down to where the slope had been dug out to form a sunken yard and garden. The houses beside and behind us had high fences and tall trees, so it was a shadowy, damp place at the best of times, although very private. I rarely went out there and I made the excuse that it was Nephetiti’s garden, and the tabby Queen of Egypt preferred I kept my interference to a minimum. One day soon, I promised myself, Courtney and I would plant some plants and maybe even some vegetables, just so my daughter understood that not all food came packaged from the supermarket.
When I’d first moved in I’d still felt as if it was Reuben’s house and it had taken a while before I began to change my surroundings. A colourful rug here, a bright splash of a painting there, cushions like jewels on the immaculate white sofa. And of course Courtney had made her mark, too, with her basket of toys and little-girl clothes and vivid paintings and drawings stuck on the walls. There was a crayon portrait of Nephetiti on the fridge which I was rather proud of.
I’ve made my will.
My father’s words from today echoed back, sobering me. Papa loved me, I knew that, but he’d had an austere upbringing. He’d never been the sort of father to give me a kiss and hug, not spontaneously anyway. Although, I had to concede, with Courtney he was far more indulgent and liberal with his hugs and kisses.
My mother, Geneva, had been a buxom, busy woman with wild, dark hair and laughing eyes. She was the extrovert, the party-giver, the exact opposite of Reuben, and yet they matched together so perfectly that no one really noticed.
Geneva died young, when I was two, so it always seemed tragically romantic to me. Perhaps they might have divorced, too, eventually, but as it was there was no chance of their happiness turning sour. It would always shine bright.
I had reached to draw the curtains over the view of the garden when something caught my eye. The yard was darker now, full of shadows, but I was certain I saw a man standing against the side fence. Stepping closer, I cupped my hand to the glass to block out the reflection of the room, and peered down.
It was just for a second, but in that second the image was imprinted on my retina. Dark coat, white face, staring up at my window. And then he was gone.
I blinked, searching the yard, my heart thumping. Where was he? How could he have vanished like that? He must be hiding. But I couldn’t see any hiding places that made sense. If I didn’t know better I might have thought he was a ghost.
No—I shook my head—I still wouldn’t believe it. I was tired, it had been a long day, and the lights from the room behind me could have played tricks on my mind. With a determined swish I drew the curtains just as Courtney trotted into the kitchen to join me.
‘What are we cooking, Mummy?’ she demanded, and now the only terrifying thing I had to deal with was my daughter wielding a knife over mushrooms and stirring the cubes of beef into the marinade without upsetting the lot. Thankfully, she was yet to insist on the actual cooking part, so I did that, and then we sat down to eat our meal.
After a bath and a story Courtney’s eyes were closing, and I kissed her goodnight and crept out. I stood outside the door a moment, holding my breath, but tonight wasn’t going to be one of those nights when my daughter called out for another story or a drink of water.
Back in the kitchen I poured myself a glass of red wine, tidied up the dishes, and at last got to what I’d been wanting to do all along.
Nephetiti had curled up on the most comfortable chair in the room, and barely acknowledged my pat as I went by. The photos were waiting, the scenes in the painting tantalising in their incompleteness. I examined each print intently, using a magnifying glass, making notes and quick sketches. When I felt I’d done all I could, I took the memory card from the camera to the computer and downloaded it.
This was better, and I realised I’d been holding off, keeping the best till last.
There was a paddle-steamer. I zoomed in and I could see the captain at the wheel—tiny, for this was one of the early scenes, far back in the past, and far back in the Trompe L’oeil—and beside him a crewman with red hair. There was a name on the bow in almost invisible letters. I zoomed again, trying to read what it said, but it was impossible to get more than the first letter. An A.
I was about to give up when I remembered a software program a friend in photographics had thought I might find useful. He’d presented me with a copy and I had found it invaluable in situations where lettering or small details were beyond the capacity of the human eye. The program clarified the words and pictures, and, if not a perfect solution, I found I could usually make a wild guess.
I hadn’t needed to use it for a while, but after a few false starts I got it up and running, and set it to work on the paddle-steamer.
It was amazing how much clearer the little boat and its crew became. I could see that the captain was smiling and he had grey eyes, and the mate had a toothless grin, and there was actually a woman seated to one side, a wide-brimmed hat shading her face, while she leaned on the raised side of the boat with a languid arm.
And most important of all the name on the boat was more decipherable. There were still two letters missing, but there was enough for me to be fairly certain about what it spelt.
Ariadne.
Leaning back in my chair I smiled, hardly noticing the ache in my back and the sting of my eyes. I had a clue. Well, two clues. The Goldminer Hotel and the Ariadne paddle-steamer.
It would be too much to hope, wouldn’t it …?
Nevertheless I brought up the search engine and put in the name and the words ‘riverboat paddle-steamer’ after it. The list came up. There was a classic Thames riverboat called Ariadne, but I skimmed over that and the next entry about cruises on the Great Barrier Reef. At the very bottom of the page I found something more hopeful, and quickly clicked onto the link.
The website came up in sepia, like an old photograph. The Ariadne, paddle-steamer, Echuca. Restored … for hire … revisit the past … And then the paragraph that told me that the Ariadne had been a working riverboat from the 1860s to the 1890s when she’d run aground and been left to her fate. Luckily, she’d languished undisturbed by the bank of the Murray River until she was rediscovered, raised and restored.
I felt ridiculously proud of myself. I’d made an important discovery. It may not help me to find out the identities of the two girls in the painting, but at least I knew one of the places they’d been and maybe even the people they’d met along the way. I dashed off an email to the address on the website, asking for any information and briefly explaining my reasons.
I was about to close the computer down when I decided to take one last look at the scene. That was when I noticed that the ribbon around the woman’s hat was actually another word, written in deceptively flowing script.
‘Molly. Her name is Molly.’
‘Mummy? Are you talking to yourself?’
Courtney leaned against me, her body warm and smelling of little-girl shampoo. She blinked at the enlarged picture of the woman on the boat and smiled. ‘Is that Molly?’ I gave her a hug, loving her so much I was dizzy.
‘Yes. Mummy is talking to herself,’ I said, ‘and she’d better get some sleep. How about we both get some sleep?’
‘Okay.’
After I’d tucked my daughter in again I considered what I needed to do tomorrow. Back in the lounge, I turned off my computer and by the time I’d carried a mug of camomile tea into the bedroom I was yawning. There was a novel beside the bed, but as usual I never got to read more than a page of it before I had to close my eyes.
Tonight as I lay in that world between dreams and reality, I found myself remembering the faces of the two girls and their determined expressions. I still had the sense that in a way they were speaking to me, but now I was beginning to be able to hear what they were saying.
I’d already forgotten about the white-faced man in the garden.
* * *
The following morning when I arrived at work, Clive from History Victoria was there, waiting for me with another man. I felt my stomach tighten at the sight of them. I had a pretty good idea what this meant. Reading my expression, Clive gave a little grimace before turning it into a smile for the benefit of his companion.
‘Annie, you remember Sebastian Rawlins?’
‘Of course I do.’
We clasped hands briefly and I was subjected to Sebastian’s hawklike stare before he turned again to the painting. He was in his thirties, young for a man in his position, although he had the manner of someone much older. History Victoria had its hierarchy the same as any other organisation, but because it was partially funded by the government, every decision had a political significance that needed to be taken into account. Sebastian Rawlins’s job was to scrutinise those decisions for any possible fallout. Though quite why he was here now, examining my painting, I had no idea. Were they going to give the job to someone else? I felt a sliver of regret that I’d become so personally involved with the Trompe L’oeil so quickly. It made it almost impossible to turn my back and walk away.
‘Is this a significant piece?’ he said.
‘An interesting piece,’ I replied. ‘Whether or not it’s significant … well that will take time to determine.’
Sebastian said nothing. He seemed to be lost in the wonder of the painting, and then he reached out and touched one of the figures. I winced and it was only Clive’s grip on my arm that stopped me from slapping away his finger.
‘We have a problem.’
I turned to face him. ‘What problem?’
‘This man here.’ Again he touched the surface of the painting, resting his fingertip on one particular figure. ‘He is the problem.’
Curiosity momentarily overcame my agitation, and I peered closely at the man in question. His face was a blur, his features indefinable. He appeared to be wearing a checked tweed type coat and a top hat, and he was standing before a gaudy-looking building with ‘Dunolly Music Hall’ written on it.
‘Do you know who he is?’ Sebastian Rawlins demanded, and he turned to look at me. He was so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek. Against all my instincts I turned my head to look back. His eyes were hazel, but there was a ruthlessness to them, a quality that made me want to back away. Despite the warning bells ringing, or perhaps because of them, I kept eye contact. I was as stubborn as my father.
His mouth twitched, amused by my stance.
‘This is Gervais Whistler, goldfields’ entrepreneur, respectable businessman,’ he finally answered my question. ‘What isn’t widely known is that much of his wealth came from music halls and brothels, and some travelling entertainers he signed up and then exploited. At one stage he was a business partner of George Coppin of Melbourne theatre fame, and he also owned or ran The Gold-miner Hotel.’
I frowned, too interested now to play games. ‘How do you know all this? I’ve only just started my research.’
‘Ah, but I have friends in high places, and some of those friends aren’t keen for Mr Whistler’s colourful past to become common knowledge. He’s been sanitised over the years and now you’re threatening all that careful work.’
The penny dropped. ‘He’s somebody’s grandfather. The skeleton in the cupboard. Is that it?’
That little smile again.
‘Well I can’t help family history. This is too important a piece to be shut up in a warehouse and forgotten. I won’t let that happen.’
‘I told you,’ Clive muttered with a glance in my direction. ‘Annie doesn’t do compromise.’
Sebastian’s lips tightened. ‘She just might have to.’ He took one more look at the painting, and this time his gaze swept across it, only to rest on a scene towards the left-hand side, where the paint-work was the most badly damaged. It lingered longer than I would have thought necessary before he turned away, making for the door with the stride of a man with a full day ahead.
‘Keep me informed,’ he barked over his shoulder.
Clive paused long enough to pat me supportively on the shoulder before scuttling after him.
When they were gone I took a moment to gather my wits. Sebastian was worried about some person portrayed in the painting because of the connection to his masters. I didn’t pretend to be naive enough to believe that person couldn’t have the painting taken from me if they were fearful enough for their reputation. The spin, the way things looked, seemed to mean everything in politics these days. It only took one misstep for the media, or the other side of the house, to tear down a politician’s carefully constructed reputation, and I could see that a dodgy ancestor might be awkward if one were Minister of Finance or in some other monetarily responsible position.
But I couldn’t be worried about that, I had my own job to do. If they tried to stop me then I’d fight them. Whoever this Gervais Whistler once was he was now only a small part of the lives spread out before me. Still, if he had once owned The Goldminer Hotel it would be interesting to find out more about him. Discreetly, of course. Under the radar.
I moved to the left, trying to decide where Sebastian had been staring just before he left. This part of the Trompe L’oeil was quite seriously damaged, but there were patches that had survived. I could see the thick trunk of a gum tree, and a building … a house or a hut? There wasn’t enough of it to tell. Part of a long skirt and perhaps a woman’s shoulder covered in a shawl? A dark patch with a section of white, almost like a face staring out at me …
My heart gave a little jump.
No, my eyes were forming pictures that weren’t there. This wasn’t a man in dark clothes with a white face—the man in my garden. There was no man in my garden. Certainly, when I looked closer I could see nothing to persuade me this was a person at all. The paint was damaged, too badly damaged for the miracles of my photographic friend’s software, and although I could clean it up, I would need to find a contemporary copy of the painting to be able to understand the story it was telling.
Had History Victoria found one? Was that how Sebastian knew so much? Well, if he wasn’t going to share with me … I smiled—I had my own sources.
According to Sebastian, the painting was a threat to someone important, but if he’d thought by telling me that he was putting me off then he was making a huge mistake.
My smile grew; I’d always enjoyed untangling secrets.