Zenna Dare Page 7
Emily and little George are darlings. With much embarrassment, Emily presented me with a fine straw hat. Even though we were all allowed only one trunk per family on the boat I was able to bring presents for them all. How large families managed I shall never know. I brought tea for Mary since it is so expensive here. Emily loves her new lace-up boots and George has started playing his tin whistle already. I remarked to Mary how much George resembles our brother Georgie and we both fell quiet. It was a terrible way to die, falling down the shaft like that. A thousand feet, Da said.
Dear Mary has not alluded to my previous life and nor shall I. It is now behind me. I am fortunate to be able to start afresh where no one knows me. Mary and Will have a cottage in North Kapunda, agreeably situated on rising ground. It has two rooms and is made of slabs of wood plastered over with mud and straw. Will says the thatched roof helps to lessen the heat and soon he will start work on another room made of stone.
Kapunda is much like a mining town at home with the noise and dust. No one has planted a garden, and even the trees are sparse after the cutting of them for the mine. Mary gets her water from a barrel submerged at the back of the cottage, but Will has to cart it from the lower dam where the bullock drays and carts stop. All the rooms are built on the ground floor; there is no upstairs as in Cornwall. Will says it is because there is enough land here for folk to spread out. He is the first man to own this land that the cottage is built upon. There are eighty acres; the Crown allowed him to buy it for one pound an acre. He has bought it with the help of another man, William Hawke. He and his wife Susan also have a cottage on it not far away. They are all fast friends. I have never seen so much land owned by two people before but Will assures me the land was unused when copper was found at Kapunda.
Will has whitewashed the cottage to keep it cooler. Even so, I find it difficult to sleep at night for the heat and mosquitoes. Not only mosquitoes but ants, fleas and all sorts of vermin abound, even snakes!
I have started a letter to Gladys to say I arrived safely, but perhaps it is best not to send it. Everyone was so cross when I left; I doubt if Gladys would even read it. Better they forget just as I shall endeavour to do.
Jenefer
I can hear this snuffy, muffled noise coming from Dad and Steffi’s room. It’s not either of the kids; Dad took them to Dutton Park to watch the cricket. Steffi must have thought I went too. I would have but I really do have too much study to do. I poke my head in.
‘Mum? What’s wrong?’ She sees me and tries to dry up her face. Tissues fly as she rips fresh ones out of the box.
‘It’s nothing, Jenefer.’ The mumble doesn’t fool me. ‘I’m fine.’ She’s nodding her head, trying to act like her face is not a squashed tomato.
‘No. Really — you can tell me.’ I sit down beside her, worried. I can’t remember seeing her cry, not gut-felt like this. A tingle starts up behind my nose in sympathy.
‘I can’t find a job.’
I make a suggestion even while I’m thinking this can’t be the real reason. ‘The library?’
‘Even the volunteers down there have degree in Information Studies. There’s an army of them.’ She’s trying to smile between shudders. ‘Everything’s either voluntary or filled to the brim all over town.’ I grin too as she makes the town sound as if it has more than 4000 people.
‘Why don’t you start the business you’ve wanted to?’
‘Takes money.’
‘What about Auntie Joy? She got a small business grant. You’re just as clever and creative. Steffi, you could do anything. Honest. And both the kids are at school now.’ With satisfaction, I see her eyes start to gleam with something more than tears.
‘I’ve always wanted to sell my own crafts, restore old things …’
‘Now you can.’
‘But I should pull my weight. Your father —’
‘You will be when you start selling. What about sheep farmers? They only make money when they sell the wool. They work for nothing the rest of the time. And writers, artists — they only make their money when something sells.’ Amazing how roles can get
suddenly skew-whiff. Usually Steffi is telling me the encouraging stuff.
Steffi tries another watery smile. ‘If even then.’ She sighs. ‘I suppose I should take a risk. Your father would respect that. It’s just that I’ve tried so hard to fit in. Your father is so happy here and I can’t tell him I’m not —’ She stops suddenly as if she’s said too much, and I’m quiet.
If it weren’t for my room and the box and for Caleb, I’d be feeling the same. I came here missing Cedar Rise, my friends, Ben, just knowing I’d hate it. Hoping Sokha or Amy would ask me for weekends. And now? There’s Caleb — nothing’s been said, but there’s that expectation of what may be around the corner. And the box. Its contents constantly fill my imagination. It sure seems to take the edge off feeling depressed about Cedar Rise. And suddenly I make another of my snap decisions.
‘You want to see something?’
And I lead her down to my room.
When she sees the box, she draws in breath and buckles suddenly onto my bed. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s like a time capsule. Though I don’t think it’s meant to be. It’s Gweniver Tremayne’s.’
Steffi raises wide eyes to mine. ‘You mean —?’ I nod. ‘Have you told your father?’
I hesitate. ‘Not yet. Mum —?’ But she seems to understand, just bends down to the box. Then she looks up again ‘Sometime though, he’ll need to know.’ Her eyebrows are curled like a question mark and I nod again.
‘I want to find out more first. I feel like I’m getting to know Gweniver. She’s written some things — letters, poems she’s copied out or written from memory. There are pages, out of a journal I think, but they’re all jumbled up and it’s hard to read. I can’t explain it. At the moment it’s personal to her and yet it’s still mine.’ I don’t mention the word sacred. ‘I just need to know more, before —’
‘Before the hungry sharks get in on the kill?’
I stop, amazed at the accurate assessment of Dad and Kate’s personalities. ‘You agree with me, then?’
She nods now. ‘For a while. Do you need any help?’
‘Not really. You know when I saw Aunt Dorie?’ Steffi just nods; she’s running her hand over the roof, like I did. And Caleb. ‘She basically warned me off the whole thing.’
‘She knows?’
‘Not about the box, but I showed her photos, one of Gweniver — it must have been taken in Cornwall. And of Zenna Dare.’ I try to say it lightly, don’t let on that every time I say her name it’s like I hear a phantom tune in my head, trying to make itself known.
Steffi looks up at that. ‘Zenna Dare? So that’s why you were asking all those questions. Did Dorie know anything?’
‘Not about Zenna Dare. Gweniver, of course, and she got all pensive about how early the photo was.’
‘What’s early?’
‘1845.’
Steffi almost whistles. ‘A daguerreotype.’ My face must be screwed up (I tend to do that when I don’t understand) for she explains, ‘It’s a sort of photo they did before the 1850s. Expensive.’
I get it out to show her. ‘That’s what Aunt Dorie said: expensive. And when I asked her about Zenna Dare, she basically told me to mind my own business. Mum, you do understand, don’t you? I’m afraid Dad will be like Aunt Dorie, or at the very least, take the box off me, or try and work it out himself. I can just imagine him carting it off to some library resource person and getting them to find out who Zenna Dare was. Where’s the fun in that?’ Even to Steffi I can’t explain how it’s more than fun, a quest almost — the ‘near sacredness’ of the box — that only someone like Caleb would understand.
Steffi’s quiet. Then, ‘I won’t tell. Yet. But I’ll ask you first if I think it’s necessary. Okay?’ That’s fair.
‘That’s quite a job.’ I can tell what Steffi’s thinking: when will I ever do any homework?
‘Don’t worry. I’m using it for my assignments.’ I don’t miss her approving grin. She’s totally forgotten about feeling rotten. ‘See, read this one. I just typed it up.’ She takes it from me and reads it aloud:
Kapunda, 1849
Have just met a man called Redvers Tremayne. Tall for a Cornishman. He came from Gwennap, as a child, with his parents in 1840. They have lived here in Kapunda since the mine opened five years ago. He doesn’t seem overly pretentious at all; he wore simple black trousers and a frock coat. Nor did he use a top hat, just a broad-brimmed hat. Sensible in this heat. Mary tells me he works in the mine, but he was the lay preacher today at chapel, and I must say the passion in his tone stirred me, and not only the part that was meant to be stirred, either. There is no hope for such as I, of course. A man like that will naturally be put off if he were to learn of my background.
‘Amazing. Imagine finding something like this.’ She’s glancing at the box, at me and back to the A4 paper in her hand, and I can tell what’s going through her mind: treasure. I have found a treasure. ‘What on earth does she mean by “background”?’
‘No idea.’
‘And the rose? You did that?’
‘She seems to like roses. Most of the poems I’ve seen so far are about them. Sad, though.’
‘And she mentions Zenna Dare?’
My spirits drop slightly. ‘Not that I know of yet. I’ve tried Zenna Dare on the web but nothing’s come up except Zenna’s Furnishings and a dentist who does crowns.’ Steffi laughs. It’s a great sound.
‘Have you tried an advanced search?’
A hope re-stirs in me.
‘You try it. And don’t forget to click on exact phrase in advanced search or you’ll end up with seventy thousand hits about daredevils —’
‘— or Zenna’s furnishings!’ I leave Steffi with the box and scoot across the slate floor to the twin underground room. I throw on the power, enter the password and connect to the ’net. So glad the kids are out. I do what Steffi suggested: I click on advanced search and select exact phrase. This time when I type in ‘Zenna Dare’, it should be different. It is. Five hits. A few about the same site, ‘Ross’s World of Photographs’. I click on one — and there she is. Zenna Dare 1847. She’s standing in a snow scene in a fur coat, hand muffs and hat, her head on one side, smiling at me. I click on another. There she is again. Zenna Dare 1848. This time she’s standing on the side, looking back at me. A long dress trails around her, her hair is long and dark, half done up, half hanging down. There’s nothing to say who she is, what she did. I try other pages on the site — nothing. There’s a space to buy the photographs for fifteen US dollars each. So much. Because they’re so old? I find Ross’s contact details and send an e-mail:
Dear Ross
I’ve seen the photos of Zenna Dare for sale on your site. I have one too that I found in my great-great-great-grandmother’s papers but I can’t seem to find any information about her. Do you have any information about Zenna Dare?
Thank you, Jenefer Tremayne.
I print out the photos. Then I click onto the next address. It’s a genealogy site — all full of Dares. Can’t find Zenna, though. In frustration I backtrack and click on another URL. This one’s about British Theatre. With excitement I click the activated address and I groan. ‘URL unavailable’.
I try another: ‘Nineteenth Century English Stage’. This one looks promising — maybe she was an actress. But soon I’m almost ready to pack it in. I can’t find Zenna’s name anywhere. In desperation I hit the ‘Find’ button and enter ‘Zenna Dare’, and yes! Here she is again. Her name highlighted, fifteen pages into the document. I would never have found it just by scrolling through. I start reading, but the early flush of excitement soon turns to disappointment. With Zenna Dare as the ugly sister. That’s it? I scroll back. Nothing else about her at all. Then I find the blue activated words, La Cenerentola. It has to be the name of the play. Ugly sister. Cinderella? I hit it but it takes its time. It’s like the computer is conspiring against me and I prepare myself for another ‘URL unavailable’.
Then colour flicks onto the screen and I know I’m on Zenna’s trail at last.
La Cenerentola
Theatre Royal, Covent Garden
Music by Rossini.
Adapted and Arranged by Rophino Lacy.
The first performance of Lacy’s pantomime, with its adaptation of Rossini’s music, took place on Tuesday, August 14, 1846, at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden.
The Director was Mr. Rophino Lacy. Stage Director, Mr. Farley. The cast included J. Wood as Prince Felix, Mr. Drew as the Baron, Miss Ginny Rivers as Cinderella, and Miss Dare and Miss Glynne as Clorinda and Thisbe, the ugly sisters.
The play opened with a faeries’ haunt, a romantic scene surrounded by bowers of roses in the midst of which rises a sparkling fountain. A broad lake is seen in the distance, shut in by mountains which stretch to the horizon, and over them the sun is rising. During the overture numerous Sylphs and Faeries enter, forming a dance around the fountain to the chorus, “While Sunbeams Are Glancing”. The Faery Queen enters in a swan car to announce her decision to marry the prince to Cinderella. He is the one she has been watching for so as to facilitate his meeting with Cinderella/Angelina, a woman of true virtue.
The play is indeed a statement on human values, an example of how persons of quality can treat the lower orders. The father, rather than a stepmother, is the villain. Mr. Drew shows an excellent performance as the wicked baron who disowns his daughter, and Miss Rivers is convincing as Cinderella. However, one’s attention is immediately drawn to the ugly sister, Clorinda, played by Miss Dare, a new face to theatre.
Cinderella, Clorinda and Thisbe sing the trio (“Once a King There Chanced to Be”), in the Gothic Room of the Baron’s Castle, where the sisters complain about their strenuous work, and mock Cinderella when she says she could dance for twenty-four hours without tiring. During the song, one can’t help feeling an unusual regard for Clorinda. By the time The Faery Queen enters to join in the song, one is convinced that Miss Dare as Clorinda, who is far from ugly, may have made a far superior Cinderella.
A magnificent scene occurs in the palace as the Faery Queen appears and transforms Cinderella into Sweet Angelina: “Thou hast been humble in adversity. Be modest in thy greatness”. A final chorus sings of sorrow’s clouds passing. Thus the play ends with an impressive tableau. Lacy’s adaptation of Rossini’s music was enthusiastically accepted by the first-night audience.
G.W.H
‘Who’s Zenna Dare?’ I jump. I’ve been so absorbed in reading the screen I didn’t even see Kate come in. She’s got the printout of Zenna Dare’s picture in her hand. ‘She looks pretty.’
‘Just someone I’m doing a History assignment on.’
‘What did she do?’
Without thinking I answer, ‘She was a singer.’ I think, I add to myself. That’s if Miss Dare on the playbill is the same as this Zenna Dare in the picture.
‘A singer?’
Then I wonder how on earth will I turn Zenna Dare into a South Australian History project? This is when I dare to think of combining the two women, Zenna Dare and Gweniver. Gweniver came out here, we know. Zenna I don’t know about yet. There’s still that faint hope slowly uncurling within me that I don’t
want to put a name to yet. It’s just too far-fetched.
Kate’s watching the screen now. ‘She was Cinderella?’
‘No. The ugly sister.’
‘Oh.’ The disappointment in her tone almost makes me laugh as she studies the printout. ‘She doesn’t look very ugly. She looks like the lady in the frame in your dr— room.’ She stops herself in time. The little monkey; so she has been snooping. She carries on, obviously hoping I haven’t noticed. ‘Our great-grandmother.’ There’s an emphasis on the ‘our’ that I don’t miss and I quickly save the part about Cinderella into Word and turn off the computer. When I skid across into my room, Kate close on my heels, the box is out of sight, the bookcase shut. I heave a sigh of relief. Steffi must have put it away. But on the bed is the letter case. A traveller’s writing compendium, Steffi had called it. Kate sees it the same time as me.
‘What’s that?’ she says, as I scoop it up.
‘Just something of mine.’ I’m not ready for Kate yet.
‘I’ve never seen it before.’ Accusing, as though she knows everything in my cupboard. The thought chills me; it’s not impossible.
‘I’ve got a lot of things you haven’t seen before, Kate. Just forget about it.’ The look on her face makes me feel as though I’m keeping her from the food she needs to survive. She’s halfway up the stairs before I can say anything to placate her.
‘Mu-um! Jenfa’s got a secret. It’s not fair.’ At least Steffi knows now and will be able to distract her. I turn the letter case over. Steffi’s glued the piece that was hanging; screwed in the loose brass screw. I smile. Steffi’s good at this sort of thing. I put it back in the wooden box with the same amount of care I’d use on a box of Haigh’s chocolates. In a way that’s just what it is like — I want the papers to last, yet I get this compulsion and I have to unravel another.
Gweniver
Cornwall, 1845
I met a lady in the meads,