Zenna Dare Page 14

  To: Jenefer Tremayne

  Subject: Cornish Resource

  Dear Ms Tremayne

  The National Library has shown that the resource you mentioned is available from the Baillieu Library at Melbourne University. It will cost $15 for an inter-library loan, and you will be able to use it here for two weeks. Please notify us if you would like to proceed.

  Yours sincerely

  Lee Hutchinson

  Reference Librarian

  From: Jenefer Tremayne

  To: State Library

  Subject: Cornish resource

  Dear Mr Hutchinson

  Yes, please order the book re Cornish music in 19th century for me.

  Thank you

  Jenefer Tremayne

  It’s late — I’m sitting in front of the computer, waiting for my web browser to manifest itself. Honestly, I feel like there are tunnels and tunnels, with twists and turns, all connected, like an underground mine, a whole universe of knowledge on the ‘net. It’s aptly named. I could find anything, if I only had the time and knew how to access it properly. Every time I log on there’s something new, or something I didn’t try before. This time is no exception. This time, I find someone’s personal theatre site — with old reviews scanned in.

  Illustrated London News

  La Sonnambula

  Her Majesty’s Theatre,

  London, 1847

  “The Somnambulist” is the name of Bellini’s new opera this season. Bellini’s music has delighted the crowds as has the light-hearted love story with its wronged heroine, Amina, played by Miss Zenna Dare.

  Miss Dare’s singing and acting are of a high order in the opera, but far more compelling is her aura on the boards. It is beyond an audience’s loftiest expectations. Never has this writer seen a portrayal of a virginal character such as Amina performed so truly and to such perfection. Miss Dare’s other-worldly rendering of the sleep-walking scene high above the stage held the whole audience spellbound as indeed, dare I say, the actors below as well.

  Such angelic features, clothed in Amina’s vestal white, are upheld, it is said, by an equally charming goodness off the boards. Her voice has a quality which sets her apart, suggesting woodland freshness, undefiled. When one is listening to Miss Dare and closes one’s eyes for a moment, one is instantly transported to the moors and fields with the wind sweeping one’s hair and the scent of forest flowers in one’s nostrils.

  The spiteful Elvino, played by Miss Ginny Rivers, was excellently cast, but unfortunately comparison with Miss Dare in the leading role will always throw a shadow over other worthy players. Miss Rivers is another of Mr Richard Drew’s students and will no doubt make a profitable living if given leading roles away from singers of the calibre of Miss Dare.

  You’d think Steffi wouldn’t have approved of me starting a relationship in Year 12, with all this work to do. Erin reckons her mum is onto her all the time about spending too much time with Tim. But Steffi doesn’t seem to mind at all — says at least Caleb gets me out of the house. My problem was not with getting my work done, but whether I’d get too worried over it. Now, of course, it’s Zenna Dare Steffi’s concerned about. She thinks I’m obsessing. Can’t think why.

  ‘Do you think you’re spending too much time on it, Jenefer?’ This is her latest, and I can tell when it’s coming. She starts first on how my assignments are going et cetera, et cetera. The conversation gets around to Zenna Dare sooner or later, because half my work this semester is based on her. I just hope she doesn’t say anything to Dad. I can placate Steffi, but if Dad comes down like a wooden beam, I’ve had it. So has Zenna Dare.

  Caleb came with me for a drive after school today. Dad was home early so we took the twin cab. I don’t get in half the trouble driving with Caleb as I do with Dad. It always feels like Dad’s sitting there (hanging on, his right foot forever jerking towards an imaginary brake pedal) brooding, waiting for me to stuff up. Don’t get me wrong — Dad’s okay, and we have lots of fun times together — but driving lessons turn him into a troll.

  When we drive past the cemetery, I stop. It’s so cool when you’re the one driving — you get to say where you want to go without feeling like you’re putting people out. Caleb’s always so accommodating, but I get guilty sometimes. The cemetery is wild. Another thing I can tell Caleb’s not so keen on, so I don’t take too long. It would take days to comb through the whole place but I do find Mary and Will’s plot. A little girl is next to them, Anne Marie, three years, died 1853. Her little grave has this ironwork fence around it — it looks like the sides of her cot, as though she’ll feel safe, just sleeping in her bed. It stops me short, for I know she must have been Mary’s new baby that Gweniver wrote about. Tombstones take on a new meaning when you know something about the people. They wouldn’t have been much different from us, living, loving; just doing their best.

  In some ways our journeys are the same, Gweniver’s and mine; we both came to Kapunda from a different place, both must have felt the anger and sadness at having to come, and if Mary’s letter is anything to go by, Gweniver had no more choice than I did. Except it would have been so much worse for her. This is still my country, I was born here and I can visit where I came from if I want. How cut off she must have felt. How dark in the beginning until she made friends, got used to things. When would she ever have called herself Australian? Maybe never — Federation didn’t happen for another fifty years. I wonder how I would have coped in such a ‘new’ and alien land like this must have seemed to her.

  And then I see Rebekah Tremayne, five-month-old daughter of Gweniver and Redvers, died 1860. The angels have taken you home, but we shall meet again.

  Caleb comes up behind me, stands there. His shadow falls on the stone. I can’t move; there’s so much grief in this place. So much Gweniver had to deal with. Was this why she was so sad? I’m blinking, trying to get rid of the blurriness before I turn around but Caleb pretends not to notice. Some guys would tease, or try to make a joke of it. I don’t feel up to that right now and it’s like he knows. I think that’s the part of Caleb I enjoy the most — the way he tries to understand.

  Gweniver

  North Kapunda, 1851

  Wilt thou forgive that sinne where I begunne,

  Which was my sin, though it were done

  before?

  Wilt thou forgive those sinnes, through which I

  runne,

  And do run still: though still I do deplore?

  When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

  For, I have more.

  ‘A Hymne to God the Father’,

  John Donne 1572–1631

  True to his word, Mr. Tremayne has not mentioned that subject again. He still helps at Sabbath School and even at Mrs. Orchard’s if many children have been left at the weekend. Nothing has changed and he has not tried to keep away from me. He is pleasant to me at chapel and I am sure everyone assumes he is courting me. And I grow fonder of him every time I see him. Is this his resolve? That he will become indispensable to me? That I will change my mind? If only it was just a change of mind that was needed. Perhaps if I write it all down (and burn it later, of course), I could see it in perspective. Mr. Tremayne cannot possibly understand what is at stake, could he? What if it does not matter to him?

  After that terrible night at Anlaby when I was supposed to be so happy, I tried to tell him again. But of course, I could not spell it out. There is no way something so hideous can be discussed politely. Why was he so obtuse? It was as if he refused to understand, kept saying nothing would make a difference. He said my name, my first name, so gently: ‘Gweniver. Let it go. Whatever it is. It is forgiven.’ And I said he would not forgive me if he knew. He was quiet, regarding me, then I think he gave me one of his sermons. ‘Who am I, Miss Gweniver, not to forgive you something that God has already forgiven? Why did Jesus Christ die on that cross if ou
r society is forever going to keep accounts and hold others in judgement? He died for love — love of us so we don’t have to live with shocking guilt, don’t have to carry burdens he has said he’d willingly take.’

  He was meaning my guilt. Yes, I am guilty. I did not even say that aloud. It was as though he heard me though. ‘Gweniver. Let this go. Give it to God. Do not concern yourself with what I will think.’

  It all sounded very well, and Mr. Tremayne was passionate in his plea, but how can I be sure he would hold to his faith if he knew about me? Men are very loving and gracious when they think all one has done is disobey one’s parents or make some simple mistake.

  And what if my mistake does matter to him? I cannot think of any man I know who would not be affected by it. Why should he be any different? And I need to know. But if I told him I might even lose this friendship which I am beginning to enjoy and rely on. If I lost that as well, and his respect, which is now mine, I do not think I could endure it at all.

  Jenefer

  It’s Caleb’s idea. He has to babysit Nancy, one of his cousins, so we take Kate and Hamilton as well and drive out to The Pines. Caleb has the drinks and chips and I’ve brought homemade pizza. I just felt like showing off my pizza. Dad reckons it’s better than Pizza Hut. I’ve never been here before and Caleb’s happy showing me around. It’s really a reserve, used to be called Taylor’s Gap once upon a time.

  ‘All these pine trees were planted in the 1880s, I think. Before that this place was a sheep run. Taylor’s most probably.’ He grins as he says the last bit. ‘They had a school here, houses. A little settlement.’

  ‘How come you know so much?’

  Kate bursts his bubble. ‘It’s on the sign outside the fence.’

  Caleb just spreads his hands as if to say, ‘Hey, I try’ while I belt him with the rug.

  ‘Come on. Let’s follow the trail.’

  It’s a lot of fun. The track is really narrow; we pass under this squeaky branch, rubbing on its neighbour in the breeze. A kookaburra shouts out hello and other birds answer.

  ‘Hey. What’s this?’ Kate’s found a derelict building, half buried. Nancy’s been here before, obviously. ‘It’s an old pumping house.’

  I stare at all the half-submerged underground pipes; marvel at what the early settlers had to go through to get water to their land.

  Then there are squeals as we come to the reservoir and the kids splash each other. Brrr. I feel chilly just watching them. Kate and Nancy look cute playing together, black and red pony tails flopping in unison as they run in and out of the shallows.

  ‘So big,’ I murmur. I only expected a lake like Davidson Reserve in the town. Caleb and I put the rug down and watch the kids. No point getting the lunch out until they ask. It’s one of those lazy, sunny, but not too warm autumn days. It doesn’t take the kids long to remember the pizza.

  Hamilton seems happier than usual. Caleb notices. We’re watching him scoffing his pizza like any kid would, not in the careful way he usually does everything. We should bring him here more often. Though it’s most probably not just The Pines that’s doing it. Kate has been nicer to him ever since last Tuesday. It was nearly tea time; he was calling for Sher Khan in the house. The rabbit actually comes when he calls now. Hamilton’s spent a lot of time training him. Kate had taken Sher Khan to the computer room while she was searching for stuff on the ’net. But she not only hadn’t put him back, she had deliberately shut the door so he couldn’t get out when Hamilton called. When Hamilton finally found him he just burst — no other way to describe it. One moment he was this usual kid in pyjamas, the next moment he was like one of those Monty Python segments where the top of the guy’s balloon head blows off, spewing volcano ash all over the room. Kate has treated him much more carefully ever since.

  ‘How’s Zenna?’ Caleb breaks in on my thoughts. He’s not making fun of me; he most probably thought that’s what I’d be thinking about. I usually am. Steffi’s had a few more talks with me lately about my ‘obsessing’. But at least I still do things with Caleb. Trying to include Kate as well, like Dad said. Things like that seem to pay off; Kate sticks up for me more now. The kids run off again and I produce a piece of paper.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ Caleb’s looking at me as he takes it. Whether he’s interested or not, at least he seems committed to making an effort because of me. He reads it through:

  North Kapunda, 1852

  I have missed Mr. Tremayne’s presence so much. I had not thought he would be the sort to chase gold like other men and Mrs. Orchard cannot imagine why he went while he had so much here. I suppose she meant our relationship. What a jest. I have never given him any indication that there will be a life for us to share, so he had nothing to stay here for. Many of the single men are not returning. Some have found gold, I hear, and they are staying in Bendigo, even to marry. This place is so forlorn. Shops are deserted, buildings unfinished, farms abandoned. Only four miners stayed to work the pumps to prevent the flooding in the shafts.

  Ever since Redvers Tremayne has gone I have been searching my soul. What would be worse? Living without him? Or living with him and he finds out what happened? I cannot stand this anymore. What if he does not return? Then I have wasted my life yet again. If he does return, I am going over to his house myself, the instant he gets back and have it out properly.

  Caleb purses his lips. ‘She was certainly screwed up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I can feel the hackles rise on the back of my neck.

  ‘Wasted my life again …’ Is she referring to this other problem you can’t work out?’

  I nod. ‘She sounds like Tess in our English novel. It’s so weird. If I didn’t know better …’

  Caleb cuts in quicker than he normally does. ‘What happened to this Tess?’

  ‘She got seduced. Nice girl, didn’t know what he was doing at first and then it was too late. Couldn’t stop him.’

  ‘Date rape?’

  ‘Guess so, but she thought she was the guilty one, not him. He was the sleaze but she took the whole rap for it. When she realised she was pregnant she wished she was dead because no one in those days would understand she hadn’t invited it. People would only look at the evidence. She was a “fallen woman” even though she felt the remorse that a good girl of that time would feel …’ My voice trails away. Caleb’s staring at me. He has a totally weird expression on his face, and the words from his mum’s story suddenly come back to me: they were the palest of that whole mob … Oh Caleb, so much sadness in people’s lives and we never know.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tess lost the baby. Met another guy but when she told him she’d been seduced, he wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Said she was a different person now from what he thought.’

  ‘What crap. Everyone thought like that then? This is the nineteenth century, right?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And Gweniver was alive then too?’

  ‘She was earlier.’

  ‘So it would be worse for her.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting —’

  ‘It fits. What could be more terrible in those days than moral shame, as you say?’

  ‘But I’ve read most of her papers — she isn’t the type. She won’t even marry Redvers because she thinks she’s not good enough. She’s humble, good; strong too. She survived whatever the crisis was.’ Listen to me, now I’m talking about Gweniver as though she’s still alive, like Caleb does.

  ‘And what do you think the crisis was?’ I’m silent.

  Caleb’s insistent. ‘Why would she think she wasn’t good enough?’

  ‘She was from a poor family?’ It sounds lame, even to me, nor do I believe it.

  ‘What was Redvers?’

  ‘A miner.’

  Caleb grins, ‘They weren’t too far above the Nungas, eh?’

  ‘Maybe bec
ause he was in the church.’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Why would a woman think she’s not good enough for a guy in the church?’

  And I force myself to say it. ‘Because she thinks she’s a sinner? She’s done something unforgivable.’

  ‘And what would that be, pray?’ Caleb exaggerates, making it sound like something out of Sense and Sensibility. I feel like crying and I don’t know why. Guess I don’t want something so horrible to have happened to Gweniver. In those days it would have been dreadful. People looking at her in more disgust than those people looked at me on the train that day. From what I know of her she’d have to have been seduced like Tess. She would never have slept with someone willingly. Not the way she was brought up, not the way she wrote. And suddenly all these bits from my Tess essay come flooding into my mind: Tess did avoid Angel Clare, just like Gweniver tried to avoid Redvers. Tess thought she was unworthy too. ‘Never could she conscientiously allow any man to marry her now’. You were one person, now you are another, Angel Clare had said. Is that what Gweniver felt like too?

  ‘Jenefer, if you’ve read a book like this in English, didn’t you ever think of it?’

  I shook my head. ‘I didn’t want to. I thought it might be because she was on the stage. That was a big enough no-no in those days. For all we know she never even told her family she got to sing in London.’

  ‘Providing she was Zenna Dare, right?’

  I try not to let his comment upset me; I’m determined to hang onto Zenna Dare. I remember some of the comments Gweniver made about Richard Drew. She was wary of him. Even in the beginning. It all fits. I still hope she and not Ginny Rivers was Zenna Dare.

  But I have no more time to think about it for just then the girls run up crying out for hide-and-seek. ‘Nancy says you play with her. Can we play?’

  ‘Please, Caleb,’ Nancy presses. Even Hamilton turns up, a step behind, looking hopeful, and pleased at being included.

  On the way home, with Hamilton nodding off in the back, and the girls quiet at last, Caleb says another of his astounding comments about the land around us. ‘Just look at it undulating. The shape of the mounds, the little valleys.’ His hands show me what he means. ‘There’s something so feminine about it. Don’t you think?’