The Last Rose of Summer Page 5
‘Where one dwells is not as important as what lives within one. I am as happy here as in a palace.’
Robert flashed him a sharp look. ‘I want to make my wife happy. I can afford to give her beauty and comfort. I see nothing wrong with that.’
‘No, but do not neglect the giving of love and peace. Now, if you will pardon us, I wish to talk to your wife. There is cool water and tea near to the fire.’
‘Catherine, I don’t . . .’
She smiled and laid her hand on his arm. ‘It is all right, dear. I am quite safe.’ Suddenly she didn’t want Robert with her. Whatever it was this wise man was going to tell her, she would share with Robert later.
Robert left the mud house and stood staring thoughtfully into the embers of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. What in the Lord’s name was Catherine getting into here? What were they doing in the remote hills of India? He glanced about him and saw the boy sitting cross-legged on the ground by the tonga. Through the straight dark trees he saw a figure in black pass through the shadows, a massive bundle of twigs and sticks piled like a giant turban on its head. He couldn’t make out if it was a man or woman. The figure for a moment seemed like a bizarre bird.
Robert shuddered. He was at once overwhelmed by a wish to be surrounded by familiarity; not the remembrance of misty Scottish landscapes, but the sunny openness of gum trees, bright blue sky, and the stretch of Parramatta River where he planned to build his palace for Catherine. A thought came to him as he recalled her enthusiasm about her visit to the zanana. That’s what he would name their home . . . a place of sanctuary she’d said. He smiled to himself. His gentle little bride was showing a streak of independence indeed. Let her enjoy all this, whimsy — surely this was what honeymoons were about. It would be back to reality and settling down to married life soon enough.
Catherine was also feeling overwhelmed. The guru was speaking to her in simple yet profound terms. As he opened her mind to new thoughts she saw that the path which led to harmony and joy was to be found within oneself. She felt he was preparing her for something.
‘It can be a lonely journey, even with a loving partner at your side. You are walking side by side through life, but each is following his own destiny. Do not cross from your path to walk ahead or behind the other, but follow your own.’
Catherine nodded. As he talked everything he said to her made clear sense and gave her a feeling of comfort and tranquillity.
The guru reached into a pocket within the folds of his garment and cupping a small object in his hands explained, ‘I am giving this sacred lingam to you. It is not an object to be worshipped, but a symbol which represents many things.’ He took her hands and dropped into them an elongated egg-shaped grey stone with several red dots on it. It was heavier than a normal stone and very smooth.
Catherine curled her fingers around it, and it nestled into the hollow of her palm. Immediately she felt a tingle vibrate through her fingertips. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘It is believed these tantric lingams fell from heaven during the creation. They are found in only one place, the Narmada River. They represent a form of energy and will bring about harmony within you. It is also a symbol of fertility.’
Catherine looked down and blushed slightly. The guru reached out and touched the top of her head. ‘Peace, my child. Remember this life is but the beginning of the journey to a blissful state.’
Catherine continued to sit with her head bowed, both hands clasping the little grey stone to her heart.
The guru slowly rose to his feet and went to the door to join Robert. ‘Your wife is a special lady, Mr MacIntyre. She is like a flower bringing sweetness and beauty into your life. She is a gift. Make every moment precious.’
Robert looked into the deep black pools of the guru’s eyes and tried to fathom what he saw there. Steadily the guru returned his gaze and Robert was first to turn away with a feeling of disquiet.
Catherine came and took Robert’s arm to bid the guru goodbye. ‘Peace,’ she said.
The guru bowed and touched his heart.
Robert tightened his grip on her arm and led Catherine to the tonga. The guru straightened and watched them leave with a soft, sad smile.
As the couple returned to where they’d left the landau they sat in silence, the thudding of the horses’ hooves the only sound. Robert gave Catherine a sidelong glance. She was staring into the distance, one hand thrust into the short taffeta jacket over her Edwardian high-collared blouse.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’ he asked quietly.
‘Oh, Robert . . . it’s difficult to explain. He simply talked about . . . things. Spirituality, life, peace and following one’s path. That this life might be only the start of . . . other lives.’
‘Umm. That doesn’t sit too well with my Presbyterian upbringing. What does it mean?’
She leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘It means we must live for every moment, my dearest. Life can be just a blink in eternity’s eyes. Let’s make every moment special.’
‘I agree with that.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I think you and my friend Hock Lee are going to get on very well,’ Robert smiled, but his heart was heavy. He’d found the day depressing. He hoped the houseboy had a good whisky on hand back at the Residence.
Catherine decided to keep the lingam the guru had given to her to herself. She had vowed never to keep a secret from Robert, but some feminine instinct told her that to expose it to others, even her beloved husband, would somehow lessen its power and its meaning. She wrapped the egg-shaped stone in a velvet cloth and put it into the ebony box with the perfume bottle and tucked it amongst her corsets and undergarments in her travelling trunk.
Their last days in India were spent in Delhi and passed in a whirl of diplomatic and social parties, a trip to Agra to view the Taj Mahal by moonlight, and eventually by train to Bombay. They stayed at the Taj Mahal Palace close to the Gateway of India where their boat departed for Australia.
The long days at sea were peaceful and meditative and they cemented the bond between Robert and Catherine. Out of all the stars in the universe, their two orbits had overlapped and become one. It felt right and inevitable that they should be together.
Catherine wondered what she faced in her new life in a new land, but felt no fear. She dreamed her dreams from the comfort of a deckchair under a shady hat. Robert, reclining beside her, was relaxed and happy, too, but in his head he was planning and dreaming of the magnificent home he would build for Catherine — Zanana, the home of his dreams.
The fire had burned low, Catherine’s head was bent over her needlepoint as she concentrated on filling the tiny mesh squares with pink wool. She held the tapestry at arm’s length and looked at the half completed bouquet of roses.
The double cedar doors opened quietly. ‘Shall I take away the tea things?’ enquired Mrs Butterworth.
Robert started in his chair and straightened, lifting his newspaper.
‘Were you asleep, dear?’ asked Catherine with a smile.
‘No, not really. Just daydreaming. I was thinking about when I met Hock Lee . . . and our honeymoon . . . just reminiscing.’
Catherine dropped her hands into her lap and looked lovingly at her husband. ‘It was a special time. But every day continues to be wonderful, Robert,’ she said softly.
They smiled at each other across the room, oblivious to Mrs Butterworth wheeling the tea trolley from the room, a smile also creasing her face. Gladys and Harold Butterworth had never been blessed with children and Gladys hoped the day would come when this happy couple would produce an heir to Zanana, and they could all share the joy of a child.
Without any words being spoken, a similar thought was in the minds of Catherine and Robert. He crossed the room and sat on the chaise beside Catherine, gathering her in his arms. ‘I love you, my sweet.’
‘Oh, I love you too, Robert . . . I wish . . .’ She buried her face in the lapel of his jacket, her shoulders trembling.
‘I so want a baby . . .’ came the muffled, tearful response.
‘It will happen in good time. You must stop fretting about it, Catherine.’
She nodded and sat up and pulled a lace-edged handkerchief from the sleeve of her tea gown. She wished she could share the heavy burden in her heart. She felt she was under a bad spell. In all the confusion and excitement of arriving in Australia and moving into a temporary cottage while the building of their home began, Catherine discovered she had misplaced — she refused to believe it was lost — the special stone the guru had given her. Now she recalled with regret him telling her it was a symbol of fertility. She knew Robert would say she was being silly and superstitious but in her heart Catherine believed she would never become pregnant until she found the grey stone, no matter how much or how often Robert loved her.
A thought came to her. Perhaps she should return to India and find the guru once again. She dabbed at her eyes and smoothed her hair. ‘Thank you, darling. I feel better now. Come and walk with me in my rose garden. I always feel happy and at peace amongst my roses.’
CHAPTER TWO
Kincade 1953
It had been raining all week. Odette flung her homework to one side and went to her window. Through the curtain of raindrops she could just make out the grey river between the streaming red rooftops and sodden trees. She felt caged and restless. The smell of the cake her mother had in the oven drifted warmly up to her loft bedroom.
Odette hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Zanana, the strange old mansion on the river. She longed to go back and see the caretaker’s son and explore further. She’d rushed away in such a hurry she never did get a chance to pick any of the roses for her mother.
The next day, Friday, was sparkling, clear and freshly washed after the days of rain. Odette hurried home from school, changed into old clothes and called to her mother that she was going for a row.
‘Stay around our part of the river, Detty. Don’t you go near that house on the river,’ sang out her mother from the back garden where she was unpegging clothes from the Hills Hoist clothesline.
Odette closed the front door, pretending not to hear. She hated to deceive her mother, so she rationalised that if she didn’t really hear the admonishment, she wasn’t really disobeying her. But the fascination of the mysterious house and gardens and the prospect of exploring more of it was too enticing.
The boy appeared from the bamboo grove as she skipped down the wharf. They exchanged shy greetings.
‘I can’t stay long, I’m supposed to help my father,’ said Dean.
‘My parents don’t want me to come here either. They think it’s dangerous. I mean, if I had an accident or something, no one would know. I didn’t tell them about you.’
‘That’s good. But don’t worry, you’re quite safe around here. And you’re not by yourself.’ They grinned conspiratorially.
‘I think I know how we can get inside the house,’ he added.
‘Not breaking in!’ exclaimed Odette.
‘No, it’s not breaking in if a door is open, is it?’
‘I suppose not. Well, let’s just have a look first.’
Odette was cautious but Dean led her back to the large peeling white house. They went to the rear, past the conservatory, to the kitchen door. It was bolted, but a broken wire-mesh door led into a large dark empty laundry. Iron washtubs stood against one wall next to a blackened copper over a brick fireplace. Shelves and cupboards were thick with dust and in the far corner a door hung on broken hinges.
‘Is that a pantry or a cupboard?’ asked Odette as the boy dragged the door ajar.
‘It’s the cellar.’ A flight of stairs led into darkness below. ‘I went down and had a look around, we can get up into the kitchen from here. You game?’
Odette nodded. ‘Yes . . . it looks scary and dark. Did you go into the house?’
He smiled and took a small torch from his pocket, turning it on. ‘No, I thought I’d wait for you so we could explore together. I’ll go first.’ He wasn’t about to admit he’d felt nervous about going into the old house alone.
Shining the torch ahead, the two went down the stone steps. It smelt dank and Dean kept brushing away cobwebs, which stretched across the narrow passageway, from his face.
‘I’m glad you’re going first,’ giggled Odette nervously.
At the bottom the boy shone the torch around the small stone room. Rows of wooden racks which had once cradled vintage wines reached to the ceiling. Several large wooden casks stamped ‘Penfolds Co.’ lay on their sides and a faint sickly sweet odour hung in the air.
‘Come on. This way.’ The boy followed a narrow corridor behind the racks to a small wooden door. With a hefty yank he opened it. ‘These stairs go up to the kitchen.’
The stairs were narrow and steep and at the top was another door which opened easily. They stepped into the kitchen. It was a kitchen, work area and pantry combined.
‘This is bigger than our whole house,’ gasped Odette.
Their feet left imprints in the thick dust on the black and white tiles. The large fuel stove recessed into the solid wall had rusting pans piled on it. Where once had stood a smaller iron stove, a Kookaburra gas stove had been fitted. Postwar gadgets hung beside Edwardian kitchen utensils.
Opening the doors of a large cupboard Odette exclaimed, ‘Look there’s still food in here.’ She peered at the large circular rusty tins of imported coffee and tea. ‘I don’t suppose they’re any good now.’
‘What’s this for?’ asked Dean, studying a box on the wall where a series of small wooden flaps were hooked up to what looked like a bicycle bell and telephone.
Odette flipped down one of the wooden flaps. In gold lettering was printed, Small Drawing Room. ‘It’s a bell thing, to call the maids,’ declared Odette. ‘Golly, look at all the rooms.’
‘Let’s look around.’ The boy moved past the pantry and into the hallway. A corridor led to the left, a flight of stairs to the right.
‘Let’s do the downstairs first,’ suggested Dean.
Rooms led into each other, hallways went in circles and Odette lost all sense of direction. They paid little attention to the English wood, leather and upholstered furniture standing in shadowy corners, but admired the huge rooms, with high ceilings, carved woodwork, fancy light fixtures and ornate mirrors.
‘Gee, you could play tennis in here.’
Odette ran to a leadlight bookcase that went from floor to ceiling. The glass doors were locked and she tilted her head in order to read the titles on the spines of the old leather-bound books. ‘I wish I could get in and read these . . . I love books.’
But the boy was calling from the next room. ‘Look at this!’
In the centre of the games room stood a massive billiard table on solid carved oak legs. It was covered by a once white cloth. Dean lifted a corner showing the unmarked green baize beneath.
‘And look at this table, it’s got a chess, draughts and cribbage board set in the top in different coloured woods.’ Odette ran her hand over the satin marquetry of a small games table.
‘Let’s go upstairs.’
From the main vestibule a broad curved staircase led to a gallery encircling the first floor. They hung over the balcony looking down at the entrance, wondering if anyone had ever fallen to the marble floor beneath. Above them was suspended a three-tiered chandelier, its teardrops of crystal dull and dusty.
Rooms led off the gallery and they opened the door of the first. In its original state it must have been a pretty room, papered in a William Morris print. High windows looked out towards the rose garden, double French doors opened onto a balcony. But in later years metal railings had been added, from which hung the remains of a green curtain that divided the room in two. The beds were weirdly out of place — tarnished metal, high and skeletal, with heads and ends that cranked into vertical positions. Thin horseh
air mattresses smelled of age. It was a cold and sterile room, and without saying anything they left, opening the next door. It was identically fitted out.
The next room along the hall had a black and white porcelain sign screwed to it: Bathroom. A deep white tub stood on claw legs, a rusting shower head hanging from a metal pipe above it. A commode chair with stained china chamber pot stood in a corner by the large and bulky porcelain sink unit.
‘Yuk.’ Odette closed the door. ‘It’s like a hospital.’
‘I think it must have been. Look.’ The boy peered into another room where an old-fashioned cane bath-chair and several antiquated wheelchairs were stacked on top of each other. At that moment they both jumped at the sound of footsteps on the gravel drive below. Cautiously the boy ran to a window.
‘It’s my dad,’ Dean whispered. ‘Quick.’
Trying to run silently, they raced down the stairs and around the corridor towards the kitchen, but missed the turning and found themselves back at the main entrance. Through the etched glass panels of the front doors they could see the outline of a figure rattling the doorknob.
Stifling nervous giggles, they retraced their steps, wending their way back through the maids’ rooms to the kitchen and down into the cellar.
‘Where’s the torch? I can’t see.’
‘I must have left it upstairs. Take my hand.’
Stumbling a little, the boy led Odette back into the laundry. He put a finger to his lips and listened, then whispered in her ear. ‘You go. I’ll go back through the conservatory and hope he doesn’t see me.’
Odette nodded, stepped into the daylight and ran swiftly through the terraces down to the safety of the bamboo grove. She waited for a few minutes breathing heavily, listening for a shout or following steps.
All was quiet save for the swaying creak of the bamboo. She hesitated; then, making up her mind, hurried back through the bamboo and bottom terrace to the rose garden. Heedless of the thorns on the old wood, she broke off six long-stemmed yellow roses. The flowers were in their final flush of blooming and a shower of petals rained from the bush as she tugged the flowers free.