Silver Wattle (49 page)

On the way back I mulled over Grace’s words. It was unusual to hear a farmer’s wife speak as she did. Since arriving in Australia I had been struck by the aggression with which people attacked the land and chopped down trees. Re-establishing harmony with nature had been my message in
In the Dark
, but I had no idea if my film had changed anyone’s outlook. Was it possible a simple walk with someone could do more than a picture ever could?

When we arrived at Echo Point I asked Grace if she would like me to take a photograph of her and her daughters as a memento. She accepted my offer gratefully.

‘Where are you staying?’ I asked her. ‘I can bring the photograph there in a couple of days.’

‘We are at the Carrington,’ she said. ‘Please do come on Friday at three o’clock. We would very much like to have you as our guest for afternoon tea.’

The following Friday, at the agreed time, I climbed the stairs of the Carrington Hotel with my photograph satchel under my arm. The entrance of the hotel was a tiled piazza surrounded by Doric columns and topped with an Italianate balcony. There were two men sitting in wicker chairs and reading newspapers near the entrance. ‘It’s too shocking to believe,’ one of them said. ‘I would have thought with his connections he would have been untouchable.’

I had continued to make a deliberate effort to avoid reading or hearing about the news since coming to the mountains. I gave generously to charities to help the unemployed, but the stories of shanty towns springing up around Sydney and the evictions of people from their homes were too depressing to do any good to my already troubled mind. I understood that the two men were talking about another politician being toppled for failing to fix our struggling economy.

High tea was being served that day in the dining room. When the maitre d’ led me past paintings and chandeliers to a long table at the end of the room, I was surprised to see not only Grace and her daughters waiting for me but several other ladies as well.

One of them, in a navy blue suit and matching hat, grabbed my arm before I had a chance to sit down. ‘Mrs Milson told me all about your wonderful walk,’ she said. ‘I’m wondering if you could take my sister and me to Wentworth Falls next week? We went for a hike with my husband and brother-in-law when they were here on the weekend and it was more like a sports marathon. We didn’t stop to admire anything.’

‘I’d like to try camping out there in the bush,’ said one young woman, with sunken eyes and skin as white as marble. The other women pressed similar requests upon me until Grace called them to order and reminded them that we had not even gotten around to introductions. I was unnerved. I had come to the mountains to be alone, not to become some sort of unofficial bushwalking guide for ladies.

The waiters brought us pots of tea, sandwiches, scones and cakes cut into bite-sized squares. It was only at that point that the gathering calmed down enough for me to notice the woman sitting at the opposite end of the table and smiling at me. She needed no introduction. I recognised her from her reddish-brown hair and the Scotch terrier who sat on her lap and the other one who lay by her feet on the floor.

‘You and I are kindred spirits, Mrs Rockcliffe,’ she said. ‘I greatly admired your film
In the Dark
. Your picture and my paintings show people that what is achingly beautiful is also fragile. Perhaps in this way we might encourage our fellow citizens to preserve our native animals and bush. I have been waiting with anticipation for you to make another film. Now, when do you intend to do it?’

May Gibbs was the author of
Tales of Snugglepot and Cuddlepie
, Thomas’s favourite book. He and I had pored over her books together, lost in the frolics of the Gumnut babies and Little Ragged Blossom. My eyes filled with tears, not only because her call to save something precious to Australia moved me but also because I realised how much I missed my family.

A week later, I was surprised to find a letter from Hugh waiting at the post office for me. Hugh had not written to me the whole time I had lived in the mountains. When I had told him about the cottage, he had said I was running away and that he was disappointed in me. I was anticipating another reprimand and was not let down.

You are the only one who thinks you are to blame for Freddy’s death. The punishment is not worth the crime, if any ‘crime’ was committed. I hope being away for this long means you are getting better and are not going to torture yourself any more.

Freddy was proud of you. Fiercely proud of you. You made him a happy man, although no amount of persuasion seems to make you able to see that.

Now that he needs you, what have you done? You have run away to the mountains like a scared cat. It is now that you have deserted him and reneged on your wifely duties.

I flinched. What did Hugh mean? How had I deserted Freddy?

As I am sure you are aware, the Royal Commission into the Australian picture industry is under way. Your uncle has been called as a witness, but not until next year, and no doubt you and I will be summoned some time in the future too. But it will be too late then. Freddy has been slandered by Australian producers and his reputation dragged through the press. He has been described as one of ‘those cunning Yankees sent here to destroy the local industry’. Where were you to defend him? Where were you to say that your husband risked his career to set yours in motion?

I gasped. Freddy? Dragged through the press? I shut my eyes as I relived Milosh thrusting the knife into Freddy’s chest. I had been helpless to save him. Now the Royal Commission was killing him again.

‘No!’ I cried. ‘Freddy did so much for this country!’

I turned to the next page, wondering if there could be any more terrible news. I had not read the paper in months and perhaps my family had been shielding me.

Do the right thing by Freddy, Adela. Do what would have made him most proud. Make
The Emerald Valley.
You have everything ready that you need. Robert will act as producer and we will dedicate the film to Freddy. The opening credit will be ‘To Frederick Rockcliffe, a great pioneer for the Australian film industry’.

I remembered May Gibbs looking at me down the table at the Carrington. ‘Your picture and my paintings show people that what is achingly beautiful is also fragile…I have been waiting with anticipation for you to make another film. Now, when do you intend to do it?’

I returned to the cottage. I would do anything for Freddy. But did I have the strength to make
The Emerald Valley
without him?

It was dusk and I sat down at the dining table and watched the sun set over the valley. I remained in the stillness for an hour before I heard rustling in the ceiling above me. I looked up to see the light fitting tremble. Then, suddenly, the ceiling vent flew open and a dark brown mass tumbled onto the table, knocking over my saucer and cup. The mass formed into a creature with broad paws. It wriggled itself onto its legs and stared at me with bright eyes. The animal resembled Angel, only its ears were smaller and rounder and it had no facial markings. Its coat was a glossy dark brown and the scent it gave off was like a mix of eucalyptus leaves and bark. Neither the possum nor I moved for a few minutes. I noticed that it held one hind leg differently from its other limbs and then realised that its left foot was missing. It was a past injury that had healed over and I wondered what misfortune had befallen it: a cat, a fox, a steel-jaw trap?

‘It is all right,’ I said, slowly standing up and backing away from the table. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

The possum kept its eyes on me as I edged my way around the room to open the door to the back steps. I gave the door a shove then inched my way back to the other end of the room. The possum lifted its nose to sniff the air and then, with one final backward glance at me, leapt from the table and scrambled for the door. It flung itself onto the railing and from there into a nearby pine tree.

It has learnt to compensate for that missing foot, I thought. It was badly injured but it survived.

I walked into the kitchen to fetch the brush and pan and an idea struck me: I had to do the same thing as the possum. The injury would always be there but I must learn to live with it and move on.

I cleaned up the mess, then sat down again to write to Hugh. My heart fluttered with fear and expectation.

Yes, Hugh. We must make
The Emerald Valley.
When can you get here?

F
or the convalescent hospital in
The Emerald Valley
, Hugh and I found a homestead in Springwood with a magnificent garden of liquidambar, all in fresh leaf, white cedar, elms and pines. There was a bevy of peafowl wandering about, including a tame peacock who we nicknamed King George because of his regal manner.

As breathtakingly beautiful as the Blue Mountains were for a location, they brought complications. They were not mountains that you climbed to reach their peaks. Rather, you started at their peaks and climbed
down
into the valleys, sometimes at a descent of two thousand feet. It was only logical that if we went down into the valleys to shoot a scene, the return trip was going to be an upward climb with heavy camera equipment, props, costumes and supplies strapped to our backs.

I felt responsible for the safety of our ten-year-old star, Billy Sulman, who had played David Copperfield at the Theatre Royal, and his guardian aunt, May Sulman. The other actor in my care was our ‘prince’, James Blake, an unknown player who we had taken from a suburban theatre.

The rest of the cast and crew consisted of my family.

‘We decided it was the only way we were going to see you,’ said Uncle Ota, climbing out of the equipment truck that had been driven by Ranjana. I blinked when I saw Thomas. Gone was his chubby face; he now had cheekbones and a defined chin. His legs were like long tree limbs under his shorts. He bounded through the gate and down the path towards me. There was no trace of a limp in his stride. A twinge of regret pinched my heart when I remembered who was responsible for that miracle. But I had learnt to turn those memories away.

‘You are a little man,’ I said, hugging Thomas. ‘You are not a baby any more!’

He pressed his cheek to me. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

Klara, Robert, the twins and Esther arrived the following day in Robert’s car. Emilie clapped her pudgy hands when she saw me.

‘I’m looking forward to getting some sleep again now you are reunited,’ said Klara, throwing her arms around my waist. She stood back a moment and glanced over me. A smile lit her face. ‘You look well,’ she said.

‘Thank you for understanding,’ I told her.

She took my hand and squeezed it. She was going to play the princess and Uncle Ota the doctor. Ranjana would be taking care of the continuity as well as supervising the rushes. Robert was to travel to and from locations to deliver supplies and courier the finished scenes to the development laboratory in Sydney. Esther had come along to babysit.

‘We have to minimise low-priority items,’ Robert instructed us. ‘Everyone must share a tent, and we must limit our cutlery—only two sets of knives, forks, spoons and plates are to be shared between the cast and crew.’

I wondered how Hugh was going to manage the steep descents along with his camera equipment. But for a man with one leg he was more agile than the rest of us and I remembered how I had seen him manoeuvre himself along the scaffolding for Peter’s film.

As we would be departing from the established tracks for filming, we hired a bushman by the name of Jimmy Ferguson as our guide. Hugh and I found him at the pub in Blackheath. I remained near the door, as women were not welcome in that domain, while Hugh asked who was the best guide in the area.

‘A lady by the name of Mrs Rockcliffe. Lives in Katoomba,’ the publican answered. ‘Bit of a loner but she’ll take good care of you. That’s what all the tourists say.’

From Hugh’s silence, I imagined he was trying not to laugh. ‘All right, who is the second-best guide in the area? We’re going into rugged terrain.’

There was a murmur of voices. ‘You want Jimmy Ferguson,’ a man shouted. The other patrons mumbled their agreement. ‘Knows the bush like the back of his hand.’

Hugh came out of the pub grinning. I was glad that he had taken the assumption about his disability so well. As for me being a guide, how had I developed a reputation so quickly? I could not have helped more than half-a-dozen people.

‘Well, Mrs Rockcliffe,’ Hugh laughed. ‘If our picture doesn’t work out you know what else you can do to amuse yourself.’

We found Jimmy Ferguson living in a house of rubble stones on the edge of a cliff with his Aboriginal wife, who came from the Dharug people. Jimmy was about sixty-five years old with grey hair and raw-looking skin.

The age of his ebony-complexioned wife was indiscernible. With her smooth skin and black hair she could have been thirty; but her missing teeth and rotund stomach made her look closer to sixty. Despite their rough-hewn appearances, it was clear from the way Jimmy and his wife spoke that they were intelligent people. After listening to our request, Jimmy scratched his beard and said that he would guide us if his wife—who answered to the name of Betty—could come along too.

‘She’s got superior bush skills and a sense of direction like an eagle. She can cook for you too. Save you lugging stuff up and down the mountains. She’ll find it for you down there in the valleys.’

We needed someone to organise the catering because Esther was staying at my house to look after the children. But eating goannas, snakes and possums was not something we would do. I wanted to capture the rock wallabies on film, not on my plate.

‘Ah, no worries, love,’ Jimmy assured me. ‘No animal need come to harm in the making of your picture. Betty knows where to find all the nectars, berries, fruits and tubers you could want, and her seed johnny cakes are the best around.’

On Tuesdays, we waited at the post office to receive Robert’s telegram after the latest scenes had been developed.
Scene 11, Slate 4. Not good. Too dark and flat. Rest fine.