Zenna Dare Page 13

  Later, when I check my mail, there’s an answer from the Cornish library. They were quicker than I expected.

  From: Royal Cornish Library

  To: Jenefer Tremayne

  Subject: Zenna Dare

  Dear Jenefer Tremayne

  There were a number of theatres in Cornwall in the early 19th century. Here in Truro we had the Assembly Rooms. This building survives and was the venue for social events such as balls as well as theatre. Contemporary newspapers would have some information although we have no index for this subject as yet.

  There is a good book, Music in Cornwall by R. Hammat, Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1992. It’s not an e-book but you may be able to access it through a library.

  I hope the above details will be of some help.

  Sincerely yours

  Lisa Rowse

  From: Jenefer Tremayne

  To: State Library, South Australia

  Subject: Cornish Resource

  Dear Information Manager

  I see that you do not have the following title available on your catalogue:

  Music in Cornwall by R. Hammat, Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1992.

  Is there some way of getting it from another library?

  Thank you, Jenefer Tremayne

  Gweniver

  January 1849

  North Kapunda, South Australia

  Dearest Gweniver

  I hope this letter finds you well enough. Clarice wrote immediately of your misfortune and I am writing by return ship. My dear Gweniver, all is not lost. Not if you come as soon as you can, immediately you receive this. Will and I have been able to build a cottage. I think you would like life out here. You always did take more risks; I would never have been brave enough to go all the way to Penzance for those singing lessons, though look at me coming to the colonies with Will. Who would have thought I would be brave enough to do something like this?

  Life here has its compensations, even excitements, apart from the lack of art and history and refined society. But who cares about all that? Did we when we were young? Perhaps you did. But you would be surprised how we still have social gatherings here. There is even a theatre in Adelaide, though we have never been.

  Will and I are making a good life. He earns much more than he ever did in Wheal South Crofty and now that there is copper here in Kapunda and in Burra Burra too, the colony is much more prosperous. There are no taxes like at home; many things are expensive but meat is only threepence a pound. Can you imagine? Though I keep a lock on the tea tin.

  There is quite a Cornish community here now, even a Bible Christian Chapel (though we meet in a home at present) and many fine folk attend. In that respect life is much as it was at home. Some English folk call us the howling Methodists, but they are not vindictive. There are opportunities, some jobs even. Many fine single men have come with their parents. There are not enough single ladies as most come married.

  We would be very happy for you to come and live with us. Since the birth of George I have not been so well. Oh, Gweniver, I miss the way we talked and helped at all the chores when we were younger. I have no one to help me here. We have not had butter for so long as I do not have the strength, and there is no woman to lend a hand.

  Will is very busy. He is saving his tribute to buy more land. There is no shortage of land here. It seems the natives never used it.

  Oh, I do pray you will come.

  Your ever loving sister

  Mary

  Jenefer

  Everyone at school has been hyped about the Celtic Festival. Erin and Tim, Caleb and I are going together. Tim is Caleb’s mate so since Erin’s been going out with him we’ve been on a few doubles down at the footy clubrooms. The cinema at Gawler too, with tea at an Italian cafe first. Last week we went up to Tea Tree Gully. Sometimes we just hang around the cafes down the street. What Kapunda needs is a cinema complex.

  There are still a few doors Erin hasn’t let me through. It’s weird because she’ll tell me stuff about her and Tim but I sense a slight disapproval when I mention Caleb. Tim isn’t snobby like Ben Walker and he’s nicer in some ways to me than Erin is, when you consider what Erin doesn’t talk to me about. Like yesterday, she and I saw Caleb down the street with his three smallest cousins, buying them ice-creams. Guess Amy would pronounce that as so uncool, but even though Erin’s not like Amy or Alicia, I could tell she still noticed but pretended not to. Can’t work out what her problem is. Caleb’s got something even different from Tim — wish Erin could see it — soul, I think musicians call it.

  This weekend because of the festival all the kids are staying in the town. Big-name music groups are coming from Europe even. I’d never been into country music much and I always thought Celtic music was much the same but it’s not at all. And Caleb let out a big secret of his own. Actually it was Tim.

  ‘So, getting your guitar out for the festival?’

  Caleb looks sheepish as I say, ‘What?’ How can you miss something like that about someone when you’ve known them over three months?

  Tim’s not embarrassed, however. ‘Yeah. Caleb’s a cool dude on the strings. Aren’t you, mate?’ While Caleb’s telling him to bloody well shove it.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I’m saying. ‘Playing the guitar is cool, isn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I’m not that good,’ Caleb mutters.

  ‘Not that good’ turns out to be better than some. It’s Saturday of the festival and we’re at the Clare Castle Hotel at a jam session for Celtic musicians. Caleb’s joined in as well as a few others I remember seeing at school. There’re these really old guys too who belong to a Celtic music club in Adelaide. One’s so cute — he’s even made his own concertina. Some play tin whistles, violins, flutes; there’s a woman with a brilliant voice who sounds like she’s come off a mermaid’s rock. Sometimes a few of the guys sing too. I even hear Caleb join in on some of the old ballads.

  The Castle Hotel is so old — rock walls and red velvet curtains — and the happy, beery atmosphere makes me feel like we’re in the nineteenth century. Already I’m clapping, Caleb’s stamping if he’s not playing. Between songs I lean over. It must be the feeling of goodwill in the air, why I can joke with him. ‘How come you’re playing white-fella music, Caleb?’

  He takes it as the joke it’s intended to be, but I’m not ready for his answer. He grins. ‘Dad was Irish.’

  ‘Irish?’ For a second I’m floored, then I catch on. Irish like my dad’s Cornish. Me too, now I think about it.

  ‘He loved music. It’s not often I get into it like this, but when I do I wonder why I don’t do it more often.’

  I must be still staring at him.

  ‘What? You think I’d only be playing didgeridoos?’

  I wouldn’t have put it exactly like that, but it is a thought. Why doesn’t he do music at school? The next song starts and he leans closer so I can hear. ‘Only black fellas up north play them.’ Then he grins again. ‘This one plays guitar.’

  He’s gentle with me but it’s a lesson I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Stereotyping, underestimating. There must be so many words for it. Even I had begun to put Caleb in a box. And Caleb is one person who doesn’t fit well in a box of anyone’s making.

  Caleb’s singing again, grinning at me. It’s a Celtic love song about a witchy girl called Maggie May. With a voice like an angel’s lay. Incredible. All that music on his CDs in the ute, his singing along. And I never guessed that he played himself. His voice isn’t bad either. The things you find out about people. I laugh and try to join in.

  It’s Caleb who puts the seed in my head the next day. ‘If your grandmother could sing and she lived here in Kapunda, wouldn’t people have known about it?’ He always refers to Gweniver as my grandmother, as if the greats don’t matter. As though the dead and alive are all part of the one li
ving family.

  I’m thinking of how it took me three months to find out he could play guitar. ‘Bet they didn’t have Celtic Festivals. How would anyone know?’

  ‘Come with me. I’ll show you something.’ He takes me to the window of the antique shop. ‘Look at that.’

  There’s a whole display of musical artefacts from the nineteenth century. Put out for the Festival obviously.

  ‘This is excellent.’ I’m looking at the instruments: tin whistles, a concertina just like the one the musician played last night at the Castle Hotel, ancient, though. A small organ. Then I see it. A playbill. Not unlike the one in Gweniver’s box.

  I wonder what ‘mimical’ meant. Was it a real concert or a pretend one? Impersonators, like Elvis Presley and Tina Turner lookalikes? Some people make a whole living out of it. ‘Maybe if they had such things in 1865, Gweniver might have sung in them.’

  Caleb’s walking inside.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘If anyone knows, the lady here will. She helps all the kids on their History projects.’ He doesn’t make History projects sound like a bad thing anymore and I follow him willingly through a forest of restored furniture to the desk. I must tell Steffi; she could sell her pieces here.

  ‘Hi, Caleb.’ The lady knows him well. She looks at me with her forehead all crinkled and Caleb introduces me. ‘This is Jenefer Tremayne.’ Then her eyes flicker with interest. ‘You’re the Tremayne family that’s moved back?’ It’s an interesting way of putting it. She’s the first person who has. Not, ‘You’re the new family that’s moved in’, but moved back, like we belonged here in the first place. It’s the first time I dare to think I might actually learn to fit in here. Maybe Dad was right about us and Kapunda. When you think about it, it was Gweniver and Redvers who set it up for me. Who knows, the Tremaynes may have been here longer than Erin’s family. It’s a new thought and it almost makes me grin as I return the woman’s look with her same amount of warmth. ‘Are you interested in history, like Caleb, Jenefer?’

  I look back at Caleb. Caleb? History? Maybe she means his mother. He’s grinning as usual. So I nod at her. ‘Then you’ll know all about the house your family built?’ I nod again. ‘And your great-grandfather Albert who went to the Boer War?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And World War One — he’s on our war memorial. You haven’t seen it?’

  I shake my head. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s my business.’

  ‘She’s a historian,’ Caleb cuts in with a grin at the woman. She’s not so old either; what’s more, I can tell she’s fond of Caleb.

  ‘Actually, another side of your family made enquiries and I had to do research for them. The Davies.’

  ‘Davies?’

  ‘Honour Davies married Albert Tremayne.’

  ‘Um, I’m more interested in Redvers and Gweniver Tremayne. He was the first —’

  ‘Ah, the one who built the Manse.’

  ‘Yes. Do you know anything about them? Like if she sang or anything? There’s a playbill in your window. Is there more stuff like that?’

  ‘I haven’t researched them at all.’ For a second I’m disappointed; in the next second, glad. Glad that I’m breaking new ground. It’s fun finding things out for yourself, even more fun that no one else knows yet.

  ‘But you can easily find out.’

  ‘How?’ I cut in before she can draw breath.

  ‘The library has the Kapunda Herald on CD.’

  ‘That’s the newspaper,’ Caleb whispers.

  ‘Thanks.’ I can’t get out of there quickly enough. Not before the lady says she’d like a copy of what I write up in case other family members ask in the future. Other family members? She makes it sound like there’re a thousand of us. And besides, how much will be suitable for the public eye?

  Caleb leaves me in the library while he goes to find Tim and Erin. Right now, I don’t even care about the band from Europe that’s playing in the street. I can hear them anyway with their high-powered PA system that makes my heart thump. Good thing the information office, museum and library are open. They must know people come on days like today to check up on family history. Fortunately, no one’s thought of The Herald and I insert the disk in the drive. Amazing not having stuff like this available online but it would take ages to key it in, I guess. I take my iPad from my bag for writing notes and wait for the old newspaper to load. This is going to be one huge job. The Herald started way back in 1864. Each issue had four pages but they’re so big. The columns are unending. Such tiny print. How on earth did they read it? All the ads are on the first page. Really boring ones about boots and Holloway’s pills — the best thing for all ailments from weakness to asthma. Latest news from England (ha, bet that was four months old), murder on the road, housewife’s corner. I skip through a lot of it until I get to May and see another playbill.

  Mrs Tremayne. It has to be Gweniver. She said she wouldn’t be able to stop singing. But what if Redvers’ mother sang? Does ‘Mrs Tremayne’ prove anything? They had big families; it could be anyone. I keep searching. Then in November of the same year I see the following: an article so small I almost miss it, in tiny print that’s hard to read. I print a copy.

  Kapunda Herald

  1864, November 17th

  Two hundred pounds were raised at last week’s charity function at Crase’s Assembly Room. Mrs. Redvers Tremayne delighted the audience with her rendition of ballads from the old country. Her daughters, Miss Emmelene Tremayne and Miss Mary Jayne Tremayne sang a duet while nine-year-old twins, Masters Percy and Nathan Tremayne played fiddles to accompany them. It is obvious that even the younger Tremaynes have musical gifts. Usually, Mrs. Tremayne and the children have confined their talents to Sunday Worship at the Bible Christian Chapel and Sabbath School. All have agreed on what a treasure-trove Mr. Tremayne has been hiding in his home. We hope Mrs. Tremayne will consent to sing at another community function, of which we have many here in Kapunda.

  If Gweniver was trying to hide her secret, I reckon I’ve caught her out. If only the people knew they had the real thing. She obviously never told anyone she’d been on the stage in London. That’s if I’m right and she was Zenna Dare. Wish I could prove it, but how?

  Suddenly Caleb’s here, hanging over my shoulder. ‘You finished?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Would this ever be finished? There must be clues everywhere. Most probably her name is mentioned more times in the paper, but I wouldn’t know where to look since it’s not indexed. Caleb’s breathing heavily and I look up at him, worried.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Then he gives this slow grin. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Something else I want to show you. Can you come now?’

  He’s not usually so pushy. But it is the Festival after all. I should go out and enjoy it with him. I give back the CD with thanks to the volunteer and Caleb’s fairly pulling me out of the door and leading me down the street, past stalls that have been set up for the festivities. There are quite a few of them: Celtic stalls with DVDs and CDs, Celtic crosses.

  Another artist is singing now in the street, Jeanette Wormald. Caleb has said he likes her Australian sound. ‘She understands the land,’ he’d said that time. ‘She walks gently on it.’ And I stand to listen, but I get pulled further along. Camels, led by an old guy in long baggy clothes, taking kids for rides. That must be Caleb’s boss. An actor dressed as a woman, squirting water on everyone from a briefcase; a town crier; a Scottish pipe band tuning up; archers in green straight from Sherwood Forest; an organ grinder. Organ grinder? I stop short a second. I wonder if Gweniver’s friendly organ grinder was like this one: a man in European breeches and white shirt, turning the handle on this huge wooden organ with little brass pipes on the front, beating out ‘De Camptown Ladies Sing Dis Song’. He looks cheery too, as though I could go up and he’d give me a turn on the handle. But
my hand gets tugged until we’re standing in front of a long trestle full of antique crystal glasses, old china, clocks and photographs. Photographs. I’ve never seen so many before — all in folders, some for varying amounts of money. Some of famous people, another box of ordinary ones. I flick through the folders, glancing at Caleb. He’s got this weird look on his face, like he’s set up a treasure hunt, knows where the chocolate is and can’t wait until I sniff it out. Can’t imagine him wasting his time looking at European antiques. And photos that have nothing to do with him.

  ‘How come? You’re not interested in this sort of thing?’

  ‘You are.’ You’re special to me, Jenefer. I hear it in his tone. He couldn’t have been plainer.

  I keep flitting, Caleb even helps, the slow grin still on his face; gives me another folder to look through. He must have known, seen it himself and then come to get me. I’m halfway through the folder when I freeze. A beautiful face, framed by a hat with flowers, looks out at me. She’s in white, an off-the-shoulder neckline with lace all around it; smiling. She’s ravishing, and she’s Zenna Dare. It has an inscription: ‘Miss Zenna Dare as Amina in La Sonnambula’. Talk about serendipity, as Dad would say! Steffi would call it divine intervention. Another opera — it has to be. I look at the cover of the folder: All five dollars in this folder, and I’m fumbling as I get my money out of my jeans pocket. Five dollars for another clue; it’s cheap.

  I’m holding my breath as the lady behind the stall wraps it in purple tissue paper and hands it over. Then I turn excited eyes onto Caleb. ‘You are going to have an ice-cream. What would you like? Five scoops? Chocolate sauce?’

  ‘Whew. I should find you photos every day, eh?’ Then he leans closer. ‘A double sounds great.’ I grin; Caleb has this way of saying stuff indirectly, so it doesn’t hurt your feelings. Erin calls it beating about the bush. I call it being tactful. I order two double ice-creams, chocolate and vanilla.

  From: State Library South Australia