Rifling Paradise Page 4

  ‘But you provided for them?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. I don’t mind telling you, Charles, I felt betrayed. I’d given Vane my friendship and assistance, introducing him into circles that would otherwise have remained closed to him, and it seemed to me he’d proved himself unworthy of my attentions. For a while I refused to have anything to do with him. But as time went on, I began to realise that I might have been unduly hard on him. And one morning I met him in the street, very pale and downcast, with his wife on his arm, and for the first and perhaps the only time in my life I was moved to an act of charity. There and then I told him that I would put a sum of money at his disposal so that he might make a fresh start elsewhere. That sum of money was the cornerstone of his fortune, and though he repaid it long ago, I know for a fact that he still considers himself in debt to me. When do you propose to leave?’

  The question, characteristically incisive and practical, caught me completely off my guard. ‘As soon as I’ve made the necessary arrangements,’ I answered evasively.

  ‘Two months? Three?’

  I was suddenly and acutely aware of my own unpreparedness for the venture. Twenty-four hours earlier I had no notion of going anywhere; now I was poised to embark on a voyage to the far side of the world. I felt my innards tighten, tasted the tea’s bitterness at the back of my tongue.

  ‘Longer,’ I said. ‘I shall need longer.’

  ‘Well, let me know when matters become clearer and I’ll write to Vane, informing him of your plans. I’ve no doubt that you’ll benefit both from his hospitality and his connections.’ He leaned back in his chair as though to suggest that our business was at an end.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle.’ I glanced through the window at the darkening sky. ‘It’s time I left,’ I said, rising to my feet. He rose with me, moving beside me through the gloom, but stopped at the door as though loath to let me go.

  ‘I’m sorry we’ve become such strangers to one another,’ he said.

  ‘That can be remedied in time.’

  ‘Perhaps, though time isn’t a commodity I’d care to speculate on these days. You’re no longer so very young yourself, Charles, if I may say so. I take it you’re still a bachelor.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve thought now and then that a wife and family would give direction to my life, but I’ve never met a woman I felt I might be able to love. Over the years, I’ve come to regard myself as temperamentally unsuited to marriage.’

  ‘Love,’ he said with a dismissive little gesture, ‘is neither here nor there. A man is not obliged to love his wife. He provides for her, and she for him. And those of us who resist marriage – because they can’t love, because they value their liberty, because they consider themselves unsuited – would do well to think carefully about the alternative while they’re still in a position to make choices. Companionless old age, Charles – I don’t recommend it. Naturally, I try to convince myself that I chose wisely, but if I could turn back the clock, knowing what I know now, I believe I should choose differently.’

  ‘It may be that in matters of that kind the choice isn’t ours to make.’

  He seemed to consider this for a moment, his head drooping on his thin neck. I felt the grief and loneliness coming off him like the stink from a street-beggar, and I shifted uncomfortably to and fro until he raised his eyes again.

  ‘You may stay here if you wish,’ he said. ‘The guestroom’s not much used nowadays but I could have it made ready in no time.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle, but I’ve left my belongings at the hotel. I shall call again on Friday, if I may, before I leave town.’

  It struck me, as we walked down to the hallway, that my refusal might have offended him; but as we reached the door his face broke into a weary smile, and he ushered me out with a gesture as delicately solicitous as if the linnet’s egg still nestled there in the hollow of his upturned palm.

  II

  4

  A little over an hour’s ride from the harbour and set in spacious, well-managed grounds, Tresillian Villa amply confirmed my uncle’s claim that Edward Vane was a man of substance. Meeting me on the quayside, he had seemed awkward and unimpressive, and our conversation as we journeyed out of Sydney had been strained, but as the carriage entered the drive and approached the house he seemed to puff up like a courting pigeon, suddenly amiable and expansive, his broad features animated by a boyish eagerness. He barely gave the horses time to come to a standstill before flinging back the door and leaping out, appreciably nimbler on his feet than, considering his bulk, one might have expected.

  Standing on the quayside earlier, in the shadow of the rust-coloured warehouses, I had hardly been aware of the heat and we had travelled, rather to my disappointment, with the blinds half down; now, stepping from the carriage on to the shimmering drive, I felt the full force of the December sun. I stood blinking, a little unsteady, the perspiration breaking out on my face and body.

  Vane turned to give instructions to a pair of servants and then took me by the elbow and walked me down the sloping lawn. ‘This is the finest view of the villa,’ he said, turning me so that we looked back up the slope towards the front entrance, ‘and for my money the finest view in the colony.’ The remark was accompanied by a sidelong smile in my direction, but I sensed that it would be unwise to treat it simply as a joke.

  Certainly the villa was imposing, though not entirely to my taste. It was an odd hybrid, the house itself brickbuilt along essentially modern lines, but fronted by an incongruous stucco portico in the Palladian style. The effect of structural incoherence was heightened by the stable-block, which had been tacked on to the side of the house in such a way as to unbalance the whole of the front elevation. Even so, the building had its attractions: I was particularly taken by the generous proportions of the windows and by the railed verandah, raised a couple of feet above the level of the terrace and festooned with swags of mauve wisteria flowers.

  I sensed that my host was waiting for my response.

  ‘What a house,’ I said, ‘and what a prospect. You’re a fortunate man, Vane.’

  He turned to face me, beaming broadly. ‘Well, Redbourne,’ he said, ‘we’re a long way from England but I think we can offer you something of what you’re accustomed to.’

  There was, in fact, all the difference in the world between this luminous panorama – the wide lawns washed in sunlight, the little grove of citrus trees, the elegant eucalypts shimmering beyond – and my own shadowy wilderness of an estate, but I saw no reason to say so.

  ‘I’m sure I shall be very comfortable here. If your men have finished attending to my luggage, I wonder if you’d be good enough to show me to my room? I’m in need of a wash and a change of clothing.’

  ‘I’ve asked Mrs Denman to prepare a bath. If you’ll follow me …’ He led the way towards the house and was about to usher me up the front steps when the door was flung back and a girl stepped out and stood in front of us, staring down, her eyes narrowed against the sunlight.

  If it hadn’t been for the assurance of her stance and her unabashed gaze, I might have taken her for one of the servants. Her face was tanned, and her thick brown hair had been pinned back with a carelessness that, if not exactly slatternly, hardly suggested good breeding. Her clothing, though clean and reasonably neat, had evidently been chosen for comfort rather than elegance, and as she came down the steps towards us, I was struck by the natural fluency of her movements. Although she seemed, to judge from her face and figure, to stand on the threshold of womanhood, she moved with the ease of a child, swaying a little from the waist, her feet light and quick on the hot steps.

  ‘My daughter, Eleanor,’ said Vane.

  Eleanor came to a halt on the bottom step and placed her hand fleetingly in mine. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Redbourne,’ she said. ‘I hope you’ve had a good journey.’ And then, barely waiting for my answer and with the air of having discharged a slightly tiresome duty, she made off across the lawn towards the citrus grove.

  ‘Yo
u’ll find Eleanor somewhat lacking in the social graces,’ said Vane apologetically as he ushered me into the house, ‘but I hope you’ll make allowances.’ He guided me up the staircase and along a dim corridor, stopping outside the last of four identical doors and pushing it open. ‘This is your room,’ he said. ‘Mrs Denham will let you know when your bath is ready. I need hardly say that I should like you to be as easy here as if you were in your own home. If there’s anything you need, you’ve only to ask. I shall look forward to continuing our conversation in due course.’

  I could see at once that my new quarters were remarkably spacious, and not merely by comparison with the cramped and dingy cabin I had grown accustomed to over the preceding weeks. The room was, in fact, considerably larger than my bedroom at home, and far more pleasingly appointed. The bed was high and wide, the coverlet printed with a bold, modern design. Between the two large windows stood a writingdesk, equipped with ink, blotter and an array of pens; against the opposite wall, a heavy washstand, topped with a thick slab of pale, veined marble. The lower sashes of the windows had been raised, and the scent of flowers, sweet and faintly peppery, wafted in on the warm air, mingling with the smell of the polished furniture and floorboards. I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing deeply and waiting, without impatience, for Mrs Denham to call me.

  I took my time over my bath, and then shaved with particular care, leaning close to the wall-mirror and persisting with the task until I was satisfied that my skin was as smooth as the razor could make it. And as I stepped away, wiping the blade on my towel, I was struck by something unexpected in my own reflected image, something that drew me back to examine it more carefully.

  It had been a long time since I had looked at my face with any pleasure. As a schoolboy I had considered myself tolerably handsome, but my appearance had not, by and large, improved with age. True, I had been blessed with the Redbourne brow – an ample forehead which, still clear and unfurrowed in middle life, had continued to give my face some semblance of nobility; but my jawline, never a strong feature, had grown increasingly fleshy and indeterminate with the passing years, while my eyes had lost the gleam of youth without acquiring any of the compensatory qualities usually associated with maturity. Now, however, no doubt as a result of the abstemious regimen I had adopted during the voyage – a sparer diet, enforced at first by seasickness and continued by choice, the daily bottle or two of claret reduced to a single glass – my features had become leaner and more resolute, my gaze clear and steady. My hair, untrimmed since my departure, had thickened into a leonine mane, the streaks of grey at the temples barely discernible among the mass of darker curls; and looking into the mirror in the sharp white light of that uncluttered bathroom I felt a surge of elation as though I were re-encountering, after long separation, a well-loved but half-forgotten companion.

  There was more to it than this, of course. Although I had come to realise, during the months of planning and preparation following my visit to my uncle, that I was in no further danger from Blaney and his mob, there were signs that my standing in the village had been seriously undermined. Sitting in my pew on a Sunday morning or strolling through the lanes around the Hall, I had noticed how reluctantly the villagers’ eyes met mine, how hollowly their greetings rang in my ears. Imagination? In part, perhaps; but little by little I had become obsessed by the notion that I should need to refashion myself, heart and soul, if I were ever to regain any degree of authority in the one corner of the world I could call my own. Australia was to be the crucible in which I should be made new. My arrival there was an event of extraordinary personal significance and my elation a natural response to the beguiling suggestion that, after years of inertia, I was once more in command of my own destiny.

  I dressed with what I imagined was appropriate informality but, emerging on to the veranda, I discovered that Vane had divested himself of his jacket and necktie and was sitting at ease with his waistcoat unbuttoned.

  He raised his eyes from his newspaper as I approached and looked me up and down as though appraising the cut of my suit.

  ‘I’m not a man who stands on ceremony,’ he said simply, giving me leave, as I took it, to remove my own jacket. I did so, and sat down beside him.

  He was, I guessed, a little above my own age, though his face was scarcely lined and his lightly oiled hair almost untouched with grey. He might have been described as distinguished but there was a certain brutality in the set of his mouth and chin, noticeably at odds with the lively intelligence of his eyes. Almost a gentleman, as my father used to say of certain acquaintances: the double-edged phrase came back to me as my host wiped his shirt-sleeve across his brow and drew a monogrammed cigarette case from his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Will you have one?’ he asked, flipping open the case and holding it out to me.

  I shook my head. ‘I haven’t touched tobacco since leaving England,’ I said, ‘and I feel much the better for it.’

  ‘My daughter would approve.’ He glanced down the garden to where the girl reclined in the shade of a lemon tree, propped on one elbow, her book open on the grass before her. ‘A filthy habit, she says, and one I should have had the strength of will to abandon years ago.’ He lit up and drew deeply on his cigarette before resuming.

  ‘Eleanor is an outspoken young lady, Redbourne, and I must warn you now not to expect genteel conversation from her. She’s quick and clever – some might say too clever for her own good – but she presumes on the privileges of an indulged childhood. In the aftermath of her mother’s death she seemed to need those privileges, but I’ve had cause in recent years to regret what I now see to have been a damaging lack of firmness in her upbringing. To put it bluntly, she appears to have no idea how to conduct herself in polite society, and no intention of learning.’

  ‘There’s plenty of time, Vane. She’s still very young.’

  ‘She’s twenty years old.’

  ‘Twenty? I must say, that surprises me. I’d have taken her to be three or four years younger.’

  ‘You’re not the first to be misled. And if she’d learn to bear herself more like a lady—’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Or not that alone. There’s something about her features – some brightness or clarity of a kind that rarely persists far beyond childhood.’

  ‘She has her mother’s looks. I mean she’s the very image. Sometimes, when I glance up suddenly from my work and she’s there, reading perhaps, or just gazing into the air the way she does, it’s my wife I see. That’s really how it feels – as though I’d slipped back into the past and found her there waiting for me, just as she used to be.’ He stubbed his cigarette savagely against the leg of his chair and flicked it away over the veranda rail. ‘Believe me, Redbourne, it’s no easy matter sharing the house with a girl who might be the walking spirit of her dead mother.’

  ‘Even so,’ I said, sensing his agitation and anxious to steer our conversation into calmer waters, ‘you must be thankful that she has inherited those looks. Beauty isn’t everything, but it’s not a negligible gift.’

  He shot me a swift glance. ‘Joshua gave me to understand,’ he said sharply, ‘that you’re not a ladies’ man.’

  It had not occurred to me either that my well-intentioned remark could have been construed as indicative of an unseemly interest in the girl, or that my uncle might have discussed my character in his correspondence with Vane. Caught off balance, I mumbled and stammered until my host, doubtless regretting both his rudeness and his indiscretion, came to my rescue. ‘He also told me,’ he said, tacking neatly about, ‘that I should benefit greatly from your company and conversation, and I can see already that we shall hit it off together. Let me tell you, Redbourne, I consider myself extremely fortunate to have you here as my guest.’ And at that moment, as if on cue, one of the maidservants stepped up behind us and announced that luncheon was served.

  5

  Luncheon was a protracted affair. Eleanor stayed only long enough to satisfy her hunger before returning to her
reading in the shade of the citrus trees, but Vane clearly wanted to make an occasion of the meal, toasting my arrival in good wine and maintaining a constant and eventually exhausting flow of conversation. I sensed something of the emigrant’s homesickness in his insistent questions about the country he had last seen more than twenty years earlier, and though I was naturally disposed to respond fully to his enquiries, I was relieved when he pushed away his coffee-cup and rose to his feet.

  ‘I have business to attend to,’ he said. ‘It might wait until tomorrow but procrastination, as your uncle was fond of telling me, is the thief of time. It’s a maxim I’ve lived by for many years, and I’ve found no reason’ – he spread his hands in a gesture I understood to embrace the villa, the gardens and a good deal more besides – ‘to doubt its essential wisdom.’

  ‘Of course. Please don’t disturb your routines on my account. I’m used to fending for myself, and I have business of my own. Assuming that my rifle is in reasonable order, I may as well begin this afternoon.’

  ‘I wish you luck, but I’m afraid you’ll find nothing remarkable hereabouts. Tomorrow I shall introduce you to Bullen. He’ll take you further afield and show you what’s what.’ He chuckled softly, as if at some private joke. ‘Quite a character, our Mr Bullen.’

  ‘A local naturalist?’

  ‘I don’t know whether you’d call him a naturalist. He’s not a particularly well educated man – not, by any stretch of the imagination, a scientist – but he has an eye for a rarity, and I know for a fact that several of the big collectors in Sydney regularly buy from him. He has made something of a name for himself in the region, though the Grail, as he calls it, has so far eluded him.’

  ‘The Grail?’

  ‘He wants to discover a new species of bird or mammal – thinks they’ll name it after him. I can’t understand it myself, but for him it’s an obsession.’