Chapter 23: Renewal in Sydney

I registered, thanked Cook and went for a walk across the bridge to the more fashionable side of Batemans Bay.

I walked back to the hotel, went to my room and took a long shower. I got dressed and went down for lunch on the terrace. I had a salad and a beer and went back to my room. I must have slept as it was 15:00 only a minute or two later. I washed my face and went back to the terrace. I took volume II of Sturt’s Narrative with me.

I was well into 1846 when a voice asked “How was the fishing?” It was my acquaintance from yesterday.

“Just fine. I caught a small snapper, which we released and a nice-sized yellowtail, which I gave to the boat’s captain.”

“Nice sized?”

“Fourteen kilo.”

“And you gave it away?”

“It would stink up the room.” She laughed prettily.

“May I join you again?”

“Of course, but there’s a price.”

“Oh?”

“I need to know your name.”

“That’s easy. Charlotte Smith, like the author. And your’s?”

“Gordy Hollister. But you don’t look over 250 years old.”

“I aged well. But I’m amazed that you know Mrs. Smith.”

“I read Emmeline decades ago. I began Old Manor House but admit to abandoning it.”

She sat down. “Are you a literature professor?”

“Far from it. When I was a student I dated a woman who was doing women’s studies and literature. Emmeline was a favourite as a Cinderella-story in which the heroine stands outside the traditional economic structures of English society and ends up wealthy and happy. And it criticizes traditional marriage. Do I pass the exam?”

“Full marks.”

“And what do you do?”

“English landscape painting. Wilson, Gainsborough, Girtin. So I read eighteenth and nineteenth century novels, too. I teach at ANU.”

“Really. That’s fascinating. My daughter-in-law wants to do a doctorate on the Australian landscape. She’s at Sydney and working at the Gallery.”

“Oh! I’ve met her. Rebecca. She works for Winnie.”

“Close, but no cigar. Rachel. What are you doing here?”

“I’m on a term’s leave. So, I’m free till February. And you?”

“I’m on leave, too. My boy, Rachel’s husband, says I’m on driveabout.”

“From... ?”

“The Australian Museum. I’m the Director.”

“Alone?” [I’d feared this.]

“I’m a widower.”

“Oh. Sorry. [pause] I’ve been happily divorced for over a decade. It was a demonstration of how right Congreve was.”

“I don’t get it.”

“In The Old Batchelour [1693], William Congreve wrote: ‘Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure: / Married in haste, we may repent at leisure’.”

“Well, you may repent quite suddenly. There’s a large bulldog near your right sandal.”

“Ooh!” She moved her foot. “Should I squash it?”

“I wouldn’t. Myrmecia are ubiquitous in Australia. There are dozens of species. Let’s just change locations.” We walked over to another two chairs. I waved at a waiter as we sat.

“What’s your area at the Museum?”

“Well, I’m a myrmecologist. I study ants. But I suppose I’m a biologist, though I’m far less into flora as opposed to fauna. I’m sure you’ve taught other parts of art history than British landscapists.” I turned to the waiter. “Two glasses of Roselea chardonnay, if the bar has any.”

“I’ll ask, sir.”

“Very efficient. Yes, I’ve taught a number of things. Pretty much everything flat from van Eyck to Ryder. Western Europe, the US. But no sculpture or architecture.”

“Etchings, drawings, watercolours, oils. On paper, parchment, cloth, canvas, wood panels. Frescoes, too?”

“Clever. Yes. They’re flat, though it’s hard to know where some things fit.”

“All taxonomies are that way. Mammals and fish get re-classified all the time. Are the early Netherlandish artists late mediaeval?”

“Tough question. I had a lit professor in Melbourne who said that Chaucer had lived during the reigns of Edward III, Richard II and Henry IV, Part 1.”

I laughed.

“Still reading White?”

“Yes. But nearly done. ‘Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.’ I may try something quite different.”

“Oh?”

“I just got McCaughey’s new book on Australian painting. You?”

“Sturt. I’ve been reading the early explorers sporadically for over forty years.”

“Your health.”

“And yours.” We drank and I opened Sturt. In the second chapter of volume II, the Party was suffering from lack of water. The horses were really suffering. I read:

I would gladly have given my poor horses a longer rest than prudence would have justified, but we had not time for rest. At 8 we again mounted, and went slowly on; and when darkness closed around us lit a small lamp, and one of us walking in front led the way for the others to follow; thus tracking our way over those dreary regions all night long, we neared our last remaining well, 36 miles distant from the creek, just as morning dawned. Objects were still obscure as we approached the spot where our hopes rested, for our horses could hardly drag one foot after the other. Mr. Stuart was in front, and called to me that he saw the little trees under whose shade we had slept; soon after he said he saw something glittering where the well was, and immediately after shouted out, “Water, water.” It is impossible for me to record all this without a feeling of more than thankfulness to the Almighty Power that guided us. At this place we were still 180 miles from Fort Grey; and if we had not found this supply, it is more than probable the fate of our horses would have sealed our own. As it was we joyfully unsaddled, and, after watering, turned them out to feed. Singular it was that the well on which we had least dependence, and from which we had been longest absent, should thus have held out--but so it was.

“Stuart” was, of course, a five times grand-uncle of Charles, and thus of Rachel. What a place to encounter him. Droughts and floods were still the Australian markers. I finished my wine. Charlotte seemed engrossed in the final chapters of Tree of Life -- the dressmaker, the concert with the Jewish violinist, Stan’s death; the boy with a piece of glass who would write a poem.

I thought of Finnegans Wake and of Mann’s Magic Mountain and the way modern novels end, begin, circle. Eddison, too. Ouroboros. In Antony and Cleopatra she’s wished ‘all the joy of the worm’. But worm might be dragon.

“Gordy! Are you OK?”

“What?”

“You were mumbling and I was worried.”

“I’m sorry. I was reading and thinking and dreaming.”

“Fine.”

“Is Stan dead?”

“Yes. I’m finished. It’s very sad.”

“Is it? I guess so. I would have said bleak.”

“Yes.”

“But think of ‘The Drover’s Wife.’ The story or the painting. That’s bleak. And lonely. But it’s quite imposing.”

“True. And you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes. And you?”

“I’m staying here for a few more days.”

“And then?”

“Sydney to ‘do’ the museums and see what’s on.”

“Phone me. Leave a message at the Museum and let me know where you are.”

“I’ve a friend who works at the Glebe Library and lives near there. I’ll be staying with her.”

“Please call me.”

“I will.”

I went to my room, put the Sturt away, and started toward the Vine and Olive, but went the other way to the Italian place I’d passed – Centrepoint Pizza. It was still early and the place was nearly empty. I took a table, ordered a simple Margherita and a bottle of mineral water, and enjoyed a solitary feast. I probably ‘should’ have asked Charlotte to dinner. But I’d spent hours with Rod and then nearly two with her. I wasn’t yet prepared for full socialization.

Centrepoint began to fill, so I paid the bill and left. I stopped for coffee and then went back to the Sebel Harbourside. I told the desk person that I’d be leaving after breakfast, went to my room, organized everything, showered and read a bit. In the morning, I went down and had a simple breakfast – I felt I’d been eating too much, though my belt wasn’t too tight, yet. I didn’t see Charlotte.

I took my stuff out to my car and realized that I should have had a bellhop do it. I wore my boots, as the trainers were still damp.

Half an hour later, near Lake Illawarra, I pulled into a Caltex and filled the diesel. I asked the man to check the oil, but he confirmed that it was OK. So I paid and got back on the A1, which soon changed to the M1. Going past Wollongong and Waterfall was no big deal, where the road magically changed back to the A1; but the traffic began to pick up as I neared Sydney. There was construction in Heathcote and more in Kirrawee.