The Valley Page 5

  Helen suggested they leave Jolly on her verandah with Ratso as it would be hot in the car and a few of the places they were going had cranky guard dogs or were in a national park.

  Dani was glad they were in Helen’s old station wagon as the back roads were dirt and gravel. She could hardly believe the beauty of the gullies and hills, and every so often a vista of the great river. She took photos of old houses and barns with rusting rooftops, some leaning precariously and partially covered with uncontrolled vines. She photographed a cow beneath a flowering fruit tree and a standing brick fireplace – all that remained of a simple farmhouse. The rolling landscape, its colours, the way the sunlight fell through the trees, the small hamlets, isolated community halls, a schoolhouse for a dozen kids, a lopsided old wooden shed, a rusting 1930s truck in a field, all excited her.

  Occasionally they called into some of the newer homes or friends of Helen who’d charmingly ‘fixed up’ rundown farmhouses into farm stays or B&Bs.

  ‘These places are lovely. I had no idea people came out here for holidays.’

  ‘City families, wanting a taste of country living. Their kids haven’t been near a cow or had the kind of freedom our kids took for granted,’ said Helen. ‘Tourism is an issue with council, we have to be careful how it’s managed, what regulations are in place. More and more farmers are doing the farm stay as a very good sideline.’

  ‘I can see I need longer than a week here. I could spend days in the historical society in Cedars,’ said Dani. She’d taken to the local habit of abbreviating the town’s name.

  ‘Have you talked to Henry?’ asked Helen as they headed into thick scrubby country on a dirt road.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Henry Catchpole. Virtually runs the historical society, very big on family histories. In his seventies, probably knew your family. He’s been here all his life apart from the war and his great-grandparents were pioneers.’

  ‘Would he be useful?’

  ‘I reckon. He knows everything that’s happened in the valley and might give you some ideas of subjects and places to paint. He’s very entertaining, tells a good yarn. He’s been very helpful to me in sensitive issues with the council.’

  Dani didn’t answer as she looked around her. The scene was beautiful. The track wound down to a creek surrounded by ghost gums shedding their bark in hanging strips revealing silvery trunks mottled with faint mushroom-pink spots. The creek was clear, the stones beneath the water looked like they’d been artfully placed by a landscapes On the other side of the creek the track was steep and sharp.

  ‘Can we stop please, Helen? I’d love a photo of this place.’

  Helen grinned. ‘That’s why I brought you here. This is pretty famous, or rather infamous. It’s Kelly’s Crossing. Goes back to the first settlers in the area.’

  ‘Any relation to Ned?’ asked Dani.

  ‘Isabella was years before Ned. Apparently she was a pretty tough bird. A single woman who made a fortune in land, cattle, horses. There are stories of underhand dealings, that she befriended bushrangers, even slept with them, and flogged her convicts. There are stories about her riding around the country packing pistols on her hip. What’s truth or legend, no one knows for sure.’

  ‘Wow, if half of that is true, what a legend! What happened to her?’

  ‘Not sure. Most people around here don’t even know she existed.’

  Dani stood at the edge of the dancing creek, sunlight glinting on its surface. It was still and quiet and she could clearly imagine a woman riding across the creek, then spurring her horse up the steep bank.

  ‘Fabulous spot,’ she exclaimed. ‘I keep getting visions of how it must have been here way back in Isabella Kelly’s days.’

  Helen, a pragmatic woman, surprised Dani. ‘I had a feeling you’d relate to this place. A lot of things have happened at Kelly’s Crossing over the years. Good and bad. Few people come here anymore.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Ask Henry. He’s got some bee in his bonnet about Kelly’s Crossing.’

  Dani kicked off her shoes and walked to the edge of the creek. The water was refreshingly cold. But there was something else that made her shiver. Dani had the feeling unhappy ghosts hovered here. She resolved nonetheless to come back to this place.

  In a few days Dani was a regular at the Nostalgia Cafe, calling in for meals or a coffee and sometimes a glass of wine after walking Jolly at sunset. If they weren’t busy Claude and George would join her and she gradually came to know their story. They also took a great interest in her ‘doings’, as George put it.

  Claude was much younger than George, who was in his fifties, Claude barely thirty. They’d been together ten years as a couple. ‘We make every day precious. Well, as much as we can when he’s not in one of his moods,’ grinned George. ‘Chefs are very temperamental, you know.’

  Getting out of the city to fresh air and a calmer lifestyle was the main reason they’d come to Riverwood and, although they had been there only eighteen months, they seemed to know everything about everyone in the area.

  ‘Those boys love to gossip,’ Helen told Dani. ‘Don’t tell them anything you don’t want the world to know. They’re worse than a pair of old women at a CWA tea.’

  Dani arrived at the Nostalgia Cafe for lunch, left Jolly in her spot under the tree and saw at the side of the steps a boy sitting on the lawn with a selection of paintings spread before him. She stopped to admire the bright pictures of farm scenes and animals. Strong colours; firm, sure brush strokes and a few amusing touches jumped out at her. It seemed work too assured for the dark-eyed boy who gave her a winning smile.

  ‘Are these yours?’ asked Dani. ‘They’re very good.’

  ‘Yep. Did them last week. I went to Jumbai to a friend’s farm. That’s what I saw.’

  ‘Do you have art lessons? At school?’ Or were you also born with the art bug, wondered Dani.

  ‘Nah, I don’t tell anyone at school I paint. I just do this for pocket money. My dad is an artist too.’

  ‘I love the chook picture, how much?’

  ‘Fifteen dollars,’ he said firmly.

  Dani handed over the money and picked up the board painted in thick acrylics of hens pecking in a backyard. ‘What’s your name? Where is your dad?’

  ‘I’m Lennie, we live up the road, round that corner.’

  ‘Well, thanks, Lennie. Hope you sell some more.’

  ‘Saturdays are good here. If I don’t, I’ll pick fruit and sell that. I’m saving up for a scooter.’

  Dani propped up the picture next to the verandah railing as she took her favourite table. George appeared and she told him about her trip around the district with Helen. Claude joined them, putting a fresh baguette and olive oil on the table.

  The boys had never heard of Isabella Kelly or been to the historical society museum in Cedarwood. ‘See, I told you we’re not getting around and exploring enough,’ said George to Claude.

  ‘Darling, how’re the painting plans coming along?’ asked Claude, ignoring George. ‘Are you going to make the valley famous?’

  ‘No way. I’m just exploring options. Though it seems this part of the world hasn’t been exposed in an artistic sense. When you think of artists claiming certain landscapes – Pro Hart and Broken Hill, Sid Nolan with Ned Kelly and Hill End, Arthur Boyd and the Shoalhaven, Hans Heysen and the Adelaide Hills, Norman Lindsay and bohemia, Albert Namatjira and the real outback . . .’

  ‘Ah, there was an artist,’ sighed George. ‘And yet as an Aboriginal painter doing watercolours of the Northern Territory he was derided as selling out to whitemen’s culture.’

  ‘Until I saw those colours of the outback I didn’t believe they were real,’ said Claude.

  ‘Max has told us a lot about him,’ said George. ‘Visiting Max is doing a crash course in indigenous culture.’

  ‘Who’s Max?’ asked Dani.

  ‘Maxwell James. Lennie’s dad. The kid who’s selling paintings out the fr
ont. You haven’t been to Maxwell’s? That’s the first place – after us – you should go!’ exclaimed Claude. ‘He’s a terrific artist. Has his own gallery around the corner.’

  ‘Really? I’d like to meet him. What’s he like?’

  ‘You’ll like him,’ said George. ‘He’s shy and gentle but pretty astute. Tunes into people right off. He sculpts, paints, carves and is one of the best didge players in the area. In his own way he’s made a bit of a noise, well, spoken out in his mild way about issues concerning his people.’

  ‘His people? You mean Aboriginal people? That’s such a . . . parochial, well, condescending way of putting things,’ Dani said gently. That explained Lennie’s olive skin and dark curly hair.

  ‘The ol’ them and us. There’s always been, and continues to be, a lot of strife between black and white in a country town. Same as gays. It’s still an issue here,’ said George. ‘There’s a mob of activist blackfellas and well-meaning do-good whitefellas – mainly women I might add – here. And they come at issues from opposite ends. Sometimes they actually meet in the middle or get together.’

  ‘What sort of issues?’

  ‘Ah, the usual. Everything. From health, community housing, unemployed youth to haranguing council over not flying the Aboriginal flag outside chambers.’ George and Claude exchanged a shrug and a look. ‘We keep out of it publicly. But I follow things closely.’

  Dani gave them an amused but perceptive look. ‘And what do you think is really the issue?’

  ‘Old sores, an awareness things are being done better in other places. People here don’t want to be seen as a racist country town but there are some types who hark back to the old days when attitudes – on both sides – were different.’

  ‘It’s beginning to change though,’ added Claude. ‘People like Max are good.’ He nodded towards Lennie on the lawn. ‘He’s got great kids, they never ask for a handout.’

  ‘Max is married to a very nice white girl. Sarah is a primary teacher and they have two boys. Len is ten and Julian fourteen,’ added George.

  ‘I’d like to meet Maxwell. In fact, I might wander up there after lunch.’

  ‘You won’t miss his place,’ grinned Claude.

  Dani turned down the short street with simple houses and pretty gardens. Spotting the gallery, her first impression was how kitsch. The mish-mash of bright colours, the dot-painted crazy-paving path, native animals sculpted from old tyres, wood and cement standing round the front garden. The water feature with cement lizards, wind chimes in trees, the rainbow serpent writhing over the gallery entrance, which was the garage next to the colourful house. A large sign announced this was the Long River Gallery.

  Max ambled outside as Dani came through the gate. He was a handsome man. In his early forties, she guessed.

  ‘Hi, I’m Dani. George and Claude suggested I drop by. So did your son. I own my first Leonard James.’

  He laughed and shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you. Thanks for supporting him.’

  ‘Is he following in your footsteps?’

  ‘Not really, Len and Julian try to earn money any way they can. So long as they do their chores and homework I’m all for it. I’m not forking out eight hundred dollars for some fancy scooter.’

  ‘Your place is quite amazing,’ said Dani.

  ‘It’s different. Try to catch the tourists. They always like to take photos.’

  ‘Tourists? You seem a bit off the beaten track, how do people find you?’ asked Dani.

  ‘Word of mouth, from the locals and of course the internet. I have a hot website.’

  Dani laughed. ‘I believe it. I’d like to look around. Is this all your work?’

  ‘Mostly. There’s stuff I do for the commercial side of things and stuff I do for me.’

  ‘Ah, now that I can relate to.’

  ‘You’re an artist?’

  ‘I’ve quit my job in Sydney as a graphic artist and I’m planning to paint full-time. Just to see what I can do.’

  ‘That’s the only way to know. Have you had any art training?’ he asked with interest.

  ‘Off and on all my life. I chose not to go to art school. I guess I didn’t want to be told what to and how to do it. My father suggested communications and journalism and I got my BA but it’s not what I want to do.’

  They strolled into the art gallery and Max asked, ‘Do you see yourself selling your work? Landscapes of places like this sell very well to tourists.’ There was something noncommittal in his tone.

  ‘Actually, no. I got a bit of money after my divorce so I don’t want to feel I have to paint just to sell. Letting the market dictate what I do. I’m trying to find myself through my art. Not that I’m confused personally. Find my own style, I mean.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ said Max sounding relieved.

  ‘These canvases are what I call potboilers, they sell real well.’ He waved at small, neatly framed scenes of the area including a lot of seascapes and beach scenes. ‘The coast is very spectacular, only thirty minutes’ drive. And these are small versions of my large Dreaming ones.’ He pointed at a collection of small, colourful Aboriginal paintings of stylised animals and subjects that looked more like abstracts. ‘I have to cater to the market, I have a family and overheads running this place. It’s not just my paintings in here. I give space to other artists. But the big regional gallery in Hungerford is terrific.’

  ‘I’ll have to go and see what’s in there.’

  ‘They’ve got a fantastic director. A lady who was working as a curator in Canberra. In fact, there’s a big exhibition opening tomorrow night. You should go. Sarah and I are going if you’d like to come with us. Are you staying locally?’

  ‘I’m at Chesterfield, ten minutes away. I’d love to go.’

  ‘Ah, Helen and Barney. Nice people. How come you found this place? We try to keep it a bit of a secret.’

  ‘My mother was born in Cedartown. My great-grandparents lived there.’

  ‘Do you have other relatives still up here?’ Maxwell had a gentle soft voice and mild manner that contrasted with his looks, thought Dani. He was tall with broad shoulders, strong-looking. Handsome, too, with fine features, dark skin and thick curly hair. He sounded well educated and could obviously step between both cultures. George had told Dani that Max chose to identify as Aboriginal though his mother’s family were half-caste, which was tougher than being dark skinned. But his wife Sarah’s white family loved him and Max and Sarah were well liked in the area.

  ‘No rellies left here. Which is a pity. I’d like to have some claim to the place,’ said Dani, surprising herself.

  ‘If you were born in the valley you belong here. There’s a tree or a patch of ground where your spirit and dreaming are. Maybe you should spend some time here, try to find that place.’

  ‘That’s a nice idea,’ said Dani politely, thinking she had no desire to claim a connection with the town in the US where she’d been born. ‘You must have roots deep in the soil here. I envy you.’

  ‘If you follow the river from where it starts on the mountain all the way to the sea, you’ll come to know the valley. And if you have a creative connection to it, you’ll feel you belong, not just because of your great-grandparents.’

  ‘I’d never thought of it like that. My grandmother talked a bit about growing up here but she moved away when my mother was young so I’ve never thought about having any connection here. I happened to see a photo at my mother’s of the old days here, the early settlers, and that got me interested,’ said Dani.

  Max frowned. ‘A lot of the early pioneers and settlers didn’t understand the heart of the valley. They ripped out its guts, brought in strange animals, they fought my people, they changed it,’ he said with quiet passion. ‘But the land is forgiving. If you allow it, it can come back and embrace all of us. The river, that’s the heart that pumps life through the valley. It’s what we have to keep alive. That’s the job I inherited from my people.’

  ‘I wonder if my pe
ople and your people ever crossed paths?’ said Dani to lighten the mood.

  ‘Could be. My grandmother is still alive and in her nineties. What was your great-grandparents’ name?’

  ‘Williams. Harold and Emily,’ said Dani. ‘He worked for the railway. What about your family? Did they live in town?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Blackfellas, even half-castes, were stuck out of town. Planters Field. Known as the blacks’ camp in grandmother’s day. Planters Field Aboriginal Housing Reserve. It’s still a fringe community, but my family are scattered.’

  ‘Being here has got me thinking about my family,’ said Dani.

  Max gave Dani a look as if he was deciding something. ‘Come with me. I wonder about my family too.’

  She followed him around the side of the house. There was an old log and some bleached and twisted branches that looked like snakes.

  Max reached down to where some smooth stones were placed in a ring. He handed one to Dani. ‘Feel that. An old cutting tool. Look how well it sits in your hand, see the sharp edge, how it fits with your fingers and thumb. Very effective too,’ he said.

  She took it and rolled it around in her hands and then, holding the stone, bent down and hit a boulder at the edge of the garden. It made a satisfying clink, a chip spun away. ‘It does work well,’ agreed Dani. ‘How come you have this? It must be really old.’ She handed it back to Max who turned it over in his hands, caressing it.

  ‘Farmers dig them up occasionally and bring them to me. And I know where old ceremonial grounds are.’ He paused and, almost wistfully, added, ‘I wonder who made this, held this, worked with it. Perhaps one of my ancestors. It’s from this area, as I am, and that links me very deeply with this valley.’

  Dani was quiet a moment. ‘So you were here first.’ She looked Max in the eye, not rudely, or challengingly, but with a polite kind of defiance. ‘I’d like to think I belong here too.’

  Max replaced the primitive tool. ‘That’s why you’ve come back. You can’t go forward until you know your past.’