The Bay Page 8

  ‘We all look like a bunch of extras from a Fellini fantasy,’ said a cheerful voice beside her.

  Holly turned and saw Mac. Naturally she was in purple with glittery bits. ‘Glad to see you’re hanging out with Lynn. Listen to what she and Stolle have to say, got their fingers on the pulse of this part of the world.’

  ‘So it seems. Thank you for arbitrating at the markets. We settled on a price and the historic mementos have been returned. I think Lynn and Stolle will be very helpful.’ Holly had embraced Lynn and Stolle while Andrew was still a little suspicious. But so long as Holly was happy with the arrangement he wasn’t going to fuss over some old household bits and bobs. She changed the subject. ‘So what goes on here exactly?’

  ‘Wait and see. Different people organise this every year so it’s never the same. Cynthia is doing this one, she’s big on drumming. Runs an interesting workshop to relieve stress by drumming. Frees the inhibitions and you can beat the shit out of a drum instead of your old man,’ said Mac with a grin. A young girl dashed up to her and gave her a hug. ‘This is Matilda, known as Matty. This is Holly.’

  ‘Hi, Matty.’ Holly touched the flower coronet she was wearing on her hair. ‘That’s pretty.’

  ‘Thanks. Mum and me made it this afternoon. And she did the French braids.’ She swung around to show them her hairstyle.

  ‘And this is Matty’s stylist . . . her mother, Kimberley,’ laughed Mac, introducing the attractive woman who joined them.

  She shook Holly’s hand. ‘Hello, I’ve heard about you. How are things at Richmond House?’

  Holly did a mild double take. ‘Oh, you know about my plans?’ She glanced at Mac but Kimberley broke in.

  ‘Don’t think me nosy. This is a small community so everyone gets to know everyone’s business, which can be good and bad. If I can help out in any way, let me know.’

  ‘Why thanks, er, what do you do?’ asked Holly.

  Mac patted her arm. ‘When you say “do”, you mean make a living in cityspeak. Here everyone does many things – hanging out at the beach is doing something. Ask people what their interests are and you might get closer to what people do.’

  ‘It’s one of the dreams people come here to find,’ said Kimberley. ‘To do what interests them. Follow their passion, to bliss out.’

  Following passions. Blissing out. Finding dreams. Holly suddenly realised with a little shock just how far she’d travelled from Mosman, at least in terms of language and values. She couldn’t recall anyone having mentioned share prices since she’d arrived. It was the first thing people asked each other back in Sydney. In Holly’s circle what their husbands did immediately established who they were and where they all fitted into the social hierarchy. There were no such ground rules here. She turned to Matty. ‘And what’s your big interest? Your passion?’

  Matty twisted her mouth as she thought about it. ‘Singing, designing clothes, dressing up rooms . . . oh, lots of stuff.’

  ‘You might give me some ideas on decorating my new place, when it’s ever finished,’ said Holly. ‘I’ve had a disaster with the builders, but Stolle is introducing me to a fellow he says is very good.’

  Kimberley laughed. ‘Stolle and Lynn know everyone all right. But seriously, if you want any design stuff, we have a very famous old bird up here.’ She glanced around. ‘In fact she should be here. Have you seen Nola?’ she asked Matty who was waving to another teenage girl.

  ‘No, Mum. There’s Erica, I’m going to sit with her.’

  ‘Yeah, Nola Florens. Made a fortune from fabric and wallpaper designs in the fifties . . . apparently invested shrewdly. She’s worth millions, so they say,’ said Mac.

  ‘My God, of course I know of her. Practically every house in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney had Florens wallpaper and fabrics at some time,’ exclaimed Holly. This was familiar territory.

  ‘Richest woman in The Bay. Bit eccentric but a good stick. She’ll be here, you won’t miss her,’ said Kimberley. ‘If you want an intro, I’ll fix it up.’

  ‘I’d really like that. Nola Florens has such a talent for using colour. Maybe we could all get together for a morning tea at the old house . . . well, in the garden perhaps. It’s still a shambles inside.’

  ‘I like that idea,’ enthused Kimberley. ‘I’ve always wanted to have a good look around Richmond House. And hearing Nola’s initial off-the-cuff colour ideas will be as entertaining as it will be inspired.’

  ‘You can be assured Nola won’t disappoint, dears,’ said Mac. ‘I’ve always wondered why she never became a TV star on a talk show with a decorator theme.’

  ‘The booze, one suspects. You can wobble a bit in The Bay, but not when you’ve got a million people watching.’

  As if on cue a male voice from behind cheerfully greeted them. ‘Hari Om.’ Holly turned to see a young man with a video camera and a tripod. Mac gave him a hug.

  ‘Hari Om to you too, darling. How timely. We were just talking about what one needed to make the big time on the little screen. Could you make me a TV star, Eddie?’

  ‘I’m not sure you have the magic “it” quality, Mac. But one day we’ll do a little screen test, hey?’

  ‘Promises, promises. Eddie, meet Holly. New in town. Doing up Richmond House.’

  ‘Delighted. So you’re the face that goes with the gossip.’ He grinned at her reaction.

  ‘Gossip?’ said a surprised Holly. ‘Whatever is being said?’

  ‘That you’re easy on the eye and hard on workers who don’t toe the line.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘And that’s just for starters,’ he added.

  ‘Take no notice of Eddie, Holly. He has a terrible reputation with women. Beware.’

  ‘Fair go, Mac. You’ll ruin my good name.’

  ‘Already ruined, young man, too late for salvation. I suppose you want me to put in a good word for you to video this gala occasion for the masses not lucky enough to be here?’

  Eddie smiled in acknowledgment. It was a smile that lit up an open friendly face, and Holly couldn’t help but overlook his cheeky demeanour.

  While the women worked out how to facilitate Eddie’s coverage without it becoming intrusive, he made small talk with Holly about her work at Richmond House. He had a cameraman’s eye for an attractive woman and he thought Holly was very beautiful, and certainly had fine photogenic features. There was a softness, a vulnerability to her. She was so simply dressed among the many peacock women that her lovely features and skin, her smooth blonde hair and warm blue eyes were shown to advantage. She must be around forty, he surmised, but could certainly pass for early thirties. He could have guessed she was a new arrival, she had a slightly bewildered, unsure look. Mac had obviously taken her under her wing. Good woman was Mac. He’d had a few heart-to-heart discussions with her. She didn’t know Laura, his ex-wife, for which he was grateful as he thought of Mac as a motherly confidante as well as being very perceptive.

  He focused his attention back onto Holly who was giving him a friendly smile. ‘So what are you going to do with the old place? Glad to know it’s not being bulldozed by developers. I heard a rumour that was in the wind. It’s very historic.’

  ‘I’m keen to learn more about the history of this place,’ agreed Holly.

  ‘There’s a bit in the library, but some of the best of the old photographs are up at the lighthouse apparently. I’ve been told that their quality is remarkable considering their age. I intend to really dig into that archive for the doco I’m making on The Bay.’

  Mac returned from talking with the organisers for the evening just in time to hear Eddie mentioning the lighthouse and its pictures. ‘Don’t forget the logbooks they’ve got up there,’ she added. ‘Tina, the ranger, is plugged into that stuff.’

  ‘I’d love to take a look at them when I have time,’ said Holly.

  ‘After you get the taps and lights working,’ Mac added, and Holly laughed.

  ‘Oh jeez, there’s my ex,’ Eddie said. ‘I’ll go talk to my d
aughter. Tell her not to take any notice of this goddess mumbo jumbo.’ He grinned and neither woman believed him for a moment. Suddenly Eddie turned back to Holly. ‘Look, just a thought. For my doco on The Bay I’d love to include Richmond House, its transformation, its history. Could be a good link to fill in the background to this area.’

  ‘Sounds interesting. Come up and have a chat about it,’ said Holly, glad she’d come after all.

  The woman at the foot of the steps handed Holly a leaflet and a flower from the basket she was carrying. ‘Pause as you get inside the door for the greeting.’

  Holly stepped through a curtain into the vestibule – and total blackness. She groped for a door but her hand was taken by a figure standing beside her. Holly recoiled in shock.

  ‘It’s all right, sister. Come into the embrace of light and love.’ A match flared, a candle was lit and put into her hand by a woman seemingly dressed in veils. The woman laid her hand on Holly’s head then touched her forehead with her finger while murmuring, ‘We are blessed, we are women, we are one. Go in peace and strength and join your sisters.’ She pulled aside a heavy drape and Holly found herself in the hall.

  The room brought back images of school concerts, the first time she voted, P&C meetings. She glanced around looking for the traditional portrait of a young Queen Elizabeth II, but instead saw portraits of garlanded Indian gurus. All around the walls and windows temporary swathes of dyed pink muslin were draped to soften the plain white. Several electric fans on the small stage blew over the rows of women already seated on mats on the floor. In front of each of them a candle flickered in a jar next to a paper plate and plastic utensils. A long strip of scarlet carpet ran down the centre of the hall.

  Holly hesitated, temporarily frozen by the detail of the room, but was gently edged forward by the women behind her until her elbow was taken by a firm hand and she was propelled across the room by Mac. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you to bring a cushion? The floor gets damned hard.’

  As they sat down the woman beside Holly introduced herself. ‘Hi, I’m Laura, and this is Alice, my daughter. You been to one of these before?’

  Holly shook her head. ‘I just moved here. Ah, do you know Mac?’ She gestured to Mac beside her.

  ‘No, I don’t. Seen you around, of course. Always been meaning to get my cards done.’

  Tinkling music suddenly seemed to rain down on them. Holly turned to see three young girls dressed as cherubs dancing along the carpet. They were followed by six striking bare-breasted women daubed with paint in a tribal pattern on their bodies and faces. They were wearing elaborate strands of beads and feathers and each carried a small drum. An amplified voice from the stage asked everyone to join with the warrior princesses.

  Laura leaned towards Holly. ‘Looks like Cher’s rejects from a seventies video clip.’

  Holly couldn’t help smiling as the warrior women began drumming and dancing, chanting, clapping, even slapping their bodies as they weaved through the audience before sitting down along one wall. There was silence. After a minute, eerie music wafted from the speakers, the overhead lights were switched off leaving the stage lights on – covered in coloured paper – and the flickering candles cast shadows on the faces of the seated women. Some began to sway as the music tempo and sound level increased. Then it tailed away and a woman’s voice came over the PA system.

  ‘Sisters, welcome. I am Cynthia, sister of the sun. I bring my blessings to light this night. Reach out and hold the hands of the sisters beside you as I call upon one of our wise women to give this year’s affirmation.’

  Holly took the hands of Mac and Laura then leaned forward to study the woman who walked on stage. Tall and solid, she looked to be in her seventies and was outlandishly dressed even in this group – magenta silk robes studded with gold stars, a jewelled embroidered shawl with a long silk fringe. A swathe of chiffon studded with shining sequins was wound around her head, its ends trailing. Dramatic art nouveau earrings swung to her shoulders.

  ‘What a fabulous costume,’ breathed Holly.

  ‘It’s not a costume, that’s just Nola. She’d wear something like that to a barbecue. Makes them herself,’ chuckled Mac.

  ‘She’s like a 1926 cover of Harper’s Bazaar,’ said Laura.

  ‘Of course, it has to be Nola Florens. I can’t wait to meet her.’ Holly was recalling how the designer had ruled the social pages in Sydney in the sixties.

  ‘Forget inviting her to tea,’ said Mac. ‘Make sure you have chilled champagne on hand. Nice of them to ask her to be the representative woman. She’s a bit isolated here, hasn’t mixed with the locals. They think she’s, well, a bit off the planet a lot of the time. You should see her place.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Holly.

  Nola Florens drew a small card from the folds of her gown and stood in front of the microphone and in a strong, clear voice began to read. ‘On this night we affirm our womanhood, our femaleness, our being as one. To nurture, to heal, to cherish and to love all those we know, those who are strangers, those who come into our community. We pledge to care for our world, the land, the water, the air. To support one another in all we do, to share the joy and share the tears. We promise to show our children that in women there is softness, there is strength, that we are thinkers, leaders, teachers. We promise to remind each other that we are here for each one of us. That united we are the power. The power of women!’

  She finished on a firm rising note and the women who had been holding hands, clapped, cheered, raised their arms, stamped their feet.

  As Nola Florens swept off the stage, from the corners of the room the warrior princesses moved quickly to the carpet, sat cross-legged and began to drum. The background music faded and the heady, heavy, throbbing took over.

  Holly had never heard such drumming. Marcus, their son, had flirted briefly with a drum set, but the tinny percussion that had ricocheted around his bedroom was nothing like this. The raw energy of the women, their focus, their concentration ranging from elation to a fierceness made Holly wonder what was going through their minds. They chanted as they beat the drums.

  It was fascinating to see the spell it cast over the women and girls in the room. Some threw back their heads, moved, clapped to the beat or joined the throaty chant. It reminded Holly of scenes of Native American dances. But then the beat and sound changed as four more women walked in and sat along the carpet and began playing didgeridoos. The drummers now picked up clap sticks and the song changed again. The haunting thrumming transported them to the red earth of the Australian outback. Holly was swept up in the atmosphere, the sounds, the emotion of the women. She’d never felt anything like it and she too joined in the clapping and swaying.

  The song ended on a crescendo and all the women in the room leapt to their feet, joined hands and raised their arms. To the renewed beat of the drums they began stamping, swaying, moving together, forwards and back, to one side and the other. It was a total release of energy, a nurturing of joy and love.

  Suddenly it was all over – the hypnotic sounds, the compulsive dancing – and in a surge of emotional relaxation there was much hugging and kissing and laughter. Everyone was sweating from their exertions and the temperature in the crowded hall. But they happily settled back on the floor as the cherubs led in a column of sarong-clad women with jugs of cool juices and great platters of food, mainly vegetarian.

  ‘This is divine.’ Holly hadn’t tasted such a delicious combination of vegetables. They were crunchy fresh and delicately flavoured with wasabi and an unusual honey on a bed of fregolane.

  Laura leaned over to help herself to chunky grain bread and olive tapenade. ‘I had a farm here. I wanted to get into Aussie bush cuisine, lemon myrtle, finger limes, rose apples – not just the avocado and macadamias everyone else here grows.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Too long a story. All got too hard. No water. Too far away for Alice to get to school. My ex is living there but he’ll never do anything
with it. I wanted to sell it, but he screamed he didn’t have anywhere to go. You know what men are like. Hate change.’

  Holly didn’t make any comment, but Mac slowly peeled a mandarine and said, ‘Change is good. You can only grow by changing.’ She turned to Holly. ‘You’ll discover that.’

  ‘Look at Bonnie Bitternden.’ Laura nodded her head, indicating midway down the hall on the other side of the carpet. ‘There’s someone who’s changed. That woman with the mad red hair, in the shock frock from the op shop. She was a boring, stitched-up Melbourne matron when she came here. Opened a little shop then went feral. The young boyfriend is the worry.’

  Mac glanced over to where the woman was sitting with her daughter Erica and Matty. Suddenly she stiffened, her eyes took on a strange expression.

  Holly looked at her. ‘What is it, Mac? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ Mac whispered tensely.

  ‘Oh, I’ll come with you,’ said Holly instinctively and she followed Mac’s gaze to the hippy looking woman with her teenage daughter.

  ‘Fire,’ said Mac in a distracted, trance-like voice.

  ‘What, what are you saying?’ asked Holly in some alarm, shaking her arm.

  Mac seemed to return to the present and shook herself. ‘Oh, hell. Let’s vamoose. I’m not into immolation by fire.’ She tried to smile and pointed to the lengths of gauzy muslin blowing over the row of burning candles.

  Holly blew out her candle and muttered goodbye to Laura, who was talking intently with the woman on her other side. ‘Watch the candles near those curtains,’ said Holly and Laura gave her a no-worries shrug.

  Outside in the cooler night air and bright moonlight Mac gave Holly a quick hug. ‘I’ll call you. Let me be, Holly. Goodnight.’ She hurried away, still looking distracted.

  As Holly got into her car she thought of Mac’s uncanny gift of prescience. She recalled the pain she’d seen in Mac’s face, and felt a cold shiver run down her spine. What terrible vision had Mac seen?

  THE AUTOMATIC BEAM OF THE LIGHTHOUSE WAS NO LONGER visible in the bright dawn sky and the slight breeze that usually came with sunrise had eased. An attractive young National Parks ranger, Tina Cook, put on her Akubra, took the keys from her shoulder bag and locked up the old lighthouse keeper’s cottage that now served as the Parks office and tourist centre on the lighthouse reserve. Her shift was over. Another ranger would start later in the morning. It had been a quiet night after the moon had gone down and the last of the moon watchers had left. All that remained was a handful of boozy teenagers who had to be urged to find somewhere else to continue their party.