The Resurrectionist (23 page)

N
O DOUBT THERE ARE SOME
who would laugh at the airs of those who are exalted in these colonies. Bigamists and kidnappers, cattle thieves and gamblers. There are men amongst us here worth more than baronets who speak with the commonest cockney tongue, women in the finest gowns who have sold their bodies on London’s streets. To laugh at them, or mock, however, is no easy thing, for what lies in their pasts is there for all of us. And so we conspire not to enquire, nor to tell, as if by this silence we might forget what was and make a life without a past, as if this were a land without history, a country founded on the air.

And yet the past is ever there. In the land and in ourselves. There are things that come to us without words, movements in our selves. As real as thought, or memory. But without words they cannot be, without names they are not given life.

These past weeks she is ever in my mind. Not the look of her but her presence in that room, the sense of some secret. It hums in me, something I cannot put aside. I am distracted in my work, distracted with my pupils, and yet I will not put
a name to it, will not give this feeling shape. Still, with each passing week I find myself thinking on my next visit, wishing I might find a way to pierce whatever barrier it is she sets about herself. In the images that I make, in their colours and their lines, I can feel her pressing, feel the way she is wound into their making. But I will not speak the word that might unhinge it all.

I
T IS
B
OURKE
who tells me of his wife’s invitation, speak ing the words almost as a joke.

Turning I ask that he repeat himself.

‘An evening of musical performances,’ he says again. ‘She bids me tell you she would find your presence gratifying.’

‘I have work,’ I demur, but Bourke is not to be so easily refused.

‘She asks it as a kindness to herself,’ he says.

And so it is that two nights later I find myself at the Bourkes’, moving uncomfortably amongst the guests. Their faces are known to me, their business too. They laugh too loud, coarse and crowing, the women overdressed and bejewelled, their faces hardened by the sun. We speak in words polite and undemanding. And then I lift my eyes and see Winter at the door, his sister by his side. He enters the room with his head held high, and though he shakes the hands of his hosts there is little warmth in the greeting that I can see. His sister looks ill at ease. She holds her head high as well, but looks like a woman who is here against her will.
If Mrs Bourke sees this in her manner she ignores it; instead she extends her arm and draws Miss Winter closer, speaking to her as if they were already intimates. Winter’s eyes do not leave his sister’s back, but with a smile Mrs Bourke bids him leave them. There is a moment when Winter might resist, but then he gives a nod, his face a mask, and turns away from the two of them.

Placing Miss Winter’s arm inside her own Mrs Bourke leads her off across the room. Though she wears a gown of pale green which suits her well beside Mrs Bourke she looks awkward and sad. That this should be is the stranger because she is fine-featured, and possessed of a dignity which draws the glances of the men and the scrutiny of the women as she is introduced. Even once the music starts, and the singer, a pretty girl recently arrived from India, begins, I see the way they look at her from behind their fans, and too the way she ignores their stares, gazing ahead, this careful attention of theirs only acting to place her further apart, as if she were a stranger in this place.

Then comes Bourke’s voice at my shoulder.

‘Your pupil makes a pretty picture with my wife.’ His eyes are upon the two ladies. Though he is a good husband and a faithful one, he is a man who appreciates the charms of the fairer sex and is comfortable in their company. I begin to compose a reply, but then her brother is standing there at Bourke’s side.

‘Mr May,’ he says, his voice inviting no familiarity.

‘Mr Winter.’

‘How does your sister find her lessons?’ Bourke asks. Winter regards me carefully.

‘She has not said she finds them unsatisfactory,’ he says. Bourke chuckles.

‘A rousing endorsement, to be sure. And you, May, how do you find her as a student?’

‘She shows some promise,’ I say, ‘though I am not the first
to offer instruction to her.’ Then, turning to Winter, ‘There was another tutor, a convict, she said.’

‘An employee of my father’s,’ he says abruptly.

‘Your sister says he was the author of the portrait which hangs in your drawing room.’

‘He was a man careless in everything,’ says Winter. I hold his eye with my own.

‘Yet he taught your sister well, I think.’

‘My sister takes instruction well enough when it pleases her,’ Winter says. Suddenly I am angry for her.

‘That is true of all of us, is it not? It is not a habit of our species that we thrive under the yoke.’

Winter regards me coldly, but before he can reply the singer finishes her aria, provoking a scattering of applause. The girl bows prettily, and Mrs Bourke steps forward, hands raised to quiet the audience.

‘Perhaps we might find another amongst our ranks who would perform for us?’ she asks, looking around. There is laughter from a pair of men in one corner; fixing them with a stare Mrs Bourke shakes her head. ‘We’ll have none of your sailors’ songs, Mr Wilkinson, I’m sure. I’ve heard more than enough of them down by the docks.’

Grinning delightedly at the general amusement which greets this remark, Mrs Bourke lifts her hands again. ‘Well?’

People shift and murmur, but when no one steps forward Mrs Bourke extends a hand to Miss Winter.

‘You play, do you not?’ she asks. ‘Perhaps you might do us the honour?’

Miss Winter seems to grow very still, though she does not shrink from the request.

‘No,’ she says, ‘I think not.’

Mrs Bourke shakes her head. ‘Please,’ she replies, ‘we crave accomplishments in this place. And I am sure you will have talent possessed by none of us.’

Standing there, I feel a sort of tenderness, Miss Winter seeming still to hesitate. But then she bows her head and consents.

With Mrs Bourke beside her she takes a seat upon the piano stool, her hands resting on the keys.

‘What should I play?’ she asks. Mrs Bourke looks down at her solicitously.

‘That is a matter for you to decide,’ she says. And so Miss Winter gives a nod, and then slowly, carefully, begins to play.

Her playing is not elegant nor even terribly fine, but she plays with such intensity, such longing, that it hardly seems to matter. What it is I do not know, only that it is as sad and wonderful as anything I have ever heard. She does not look around, nor seek the eyes of these watching her, just plays, and plays, sometimes dropping notes or faltering here and there as she goes, but it is almost as if this awkwardness is of a piece with her manner, the intensity of her longing made the more painful to hear by this clumsiness. And when she is done I lift my hands and clap, watching as she bows her head not to the audience but to the piano in front of her, then rises, and after clasping the hand of Mrs Bourke for a moment slips away.

For a long time after she has gone I stand watching the space where she last stood. All evening I have sought to avoid her gaze, whether out of sensitivity to her or myself I am not sure. But now I find I would speak to her, though I do not know what words I might say. And so, with a word or two to those I pass I follow her out through the doors into the
garden. Outside the air is cool, and smells of dust and smoke, the sandstone of the courtyard worn and golden in the light from the lamps. Two men are standing, smoking quietly. She is by the steps down to the lawn with her brother, the two of them in conversation with the Bourkes. Though he speaks amiably enough I see the way he holds her arm, the anger in him. Her face is turned half-away, and she cannot see me; motionless I will her to turn my way, to look at me. But she does not, instead taking the hand of each of the Bourkes in turn as her brother bids the two of them farewell. Only as they reach the drive does she turn, and her eyes meet mine, before she looks away again and they are gone.

Perhaps it is the memory of her music, but tonight I cannot sleep. All night her presence here, the sense that in her quietness there lies some sympathy. Overhead, possums scrabble on the roof, nightjars hoot and cry. It frightens me, to be so possessed. Come three I rise, thinking to work, and light the lamp upon my desk. In its glow insects move, points of light which dart and weave. One by one I open the boards between which I keep my drawings, following the lines of the birds I have sketched upon these pages. In their making they brought me happiness, but now they seem clumsy things, poor transpositions of the life. They do not move, nor call. Looking up I see my reflection distorted in the window’s glass, a chiaroscuro in the lamp’s golden light. Its features familiar, yet strange, as if the face were not my own but a mask, and beneath it only emptiness.

I
AM IN THE
R
OBERTSONS
’
DRAWING ROOM
with Amelia when her mother enters. Glancing round I wish her good morning, then return my attention to Amelia’s page. Behind me Mrs Robertson seats herself, and I can feel her observing us.

‘I am told she is a pupil of yours,’ she says at last.

‘She?’ I turn to her. Mrs Robertson smiles, as if my question amuses her.

‘Miss Winter, whose playing so enraptured everyone the other evening.’

I keep my gaze steady, but Mrs Robertson has seen what she sought, and taking up her fan flutters it at herself.

‘What do you make of her?’ she asks.

‘She shows promise,’ I reply, but Mrs Robertson only laughs.

‘You are most politic. What of her character?’

‘You are not acquainted with her?’

Amelia has turned to listen. Mrs Robertson raises a hand to shoo her off.

‘Leave us,’ she says, and with a bob to me Amelia stands. Only when she is well outside does Mrs Robertson give me a look which might charm another man.

‘I know her brother is said to be worth forty thousand.’

I just sit. Then, with sudden carelessness, she gives a laugh.

‘Really, Mr May, I sometimes think you are even more of a hermit than you say. Do you not know of the scandal surrounding her?’

‘Scandal finds many, given time,’ I say, but Mrs Robertson is not to be denied.

‘It is said her brother left Van Diemen’s Land on her account. She bore a child to an officer, a man married with a wife back in England.’

Perhaps the effect of this news upon me is visible, for Mrs Robertson smiles unpleasantly.

‘There is no child that I have seen,’ I say quietly.

Mrs Robertson laughs. ‘No. I am told it died, no doubt fortunately.’

I think for a moment to walk away, leave Mrs Robertson there, but that would reveal more than I suspect she already guesses.

‘Yet you have introduced Amelia to her brother,’ I say instead. A cold silence falls, and I know without another word I will not be welcome here again.

‘There is much forty thousand will forgive,’ she replies, then, rising, brushes her dress.

‘Finish your lesson,’ she says. ‘I wish Amelia to accompany me in the carriage.’

O
UTSIDE
I
WALK QUICKLY
. It is three hours till the time appointed for our lesson but remembering our last meeting I want to go to her immediately, as if I might offer her some absolution, some forgiveness, though for what I do not know. Only as I reach the road towards her gate do I pause, knowing that to arrive in such a state would merely compromise the both of us.

Mrs Blackstable greets me and, leaving me to wait in the parlour, goes to tell Miss Winter I am here. Left alone I pace about, looking now and again towards the portrait above the fireplace.

She appears at the garden doors, a beaded shawl wrapped loosely about herself.

‘I had not expected you so soon,’ she says. ‘I was in the garden, and must apologise.’

I shake my head. ‘There is no need,’ I say, ‘the fault is mine. I am early.’ Although I have spent the past few hours imagining this meeting, now I am here I am uncomfortable, and she oblivious to the changes in the way I feel.

‘Shall we begin?’ she asks, stepping closer. I nod, a little brusquely I suspect. She looks at me as if I have betrayed her in some way.

‘Perhaps outside,’ I suggest, and with a wary glance she bids me wait while she fetches her portfolio.

Walking across the lawn we seek out a place in which to sit. At last we choose a little arbour framed by a pale-skinned eucalypt, and, setting down the chair I have carried from the house for her, I wait as she seats herself. Taking up her board then, she begins to sketch, but it is clear at once that something troubles her, for she is distracted, unable to lose herself into her work.

‘Your playing at the Bourkes’ –’ I begin, but she turns, too quickly, then looks away again.

‘I am sorry for that,’ she says. ‘I am a poor musician at best.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I was greatly moved by it.’

She nods, the gesture dismissive. ‘My brother thinks my playing indulgent.’

When I give no answer she lifts her eyes to mine. For a few moments we sit thus, unspeaking.

‘I think you mistake me.’

‘No,’ I say, ‘I do not think I mistake you.’

‘You know something of me then, of my past?’

‘Of the child, and the officer, yes.’

For a long time then she is silent. ‘Yet still you come to visit me?’

At that moment I hear a sound. Mrs Blackstable is standing there.

‘Your brother wants you in the house,’ she says. Miss Winter gives her a look of hatred but Mrs Blackstable does not flinch.

Closing her portfolio Miss Winter rises to her feet.

‘You must excuse me,’ she says. ‘Perhaps we may resume this next time we meet.’

I nod, standing as she turns and walks away. She holds her head high, and will not bend.

‘Miss Winter,’ I say then, and she turns.

‘Yes?’

‘We are none of us without a past.’

She pauses for a moment, watching me, then she lowers her eyes and, turning, continues on. For a moment Mrs Blackstable lingers. I do not speak to her, nor do I need to inquire how much she heard for as she turns to go she looks back at me, and smiles.