I hovered by the ice cream freezer and considered an orange ice block. No, a beer would be better.
The heat outside was becoming oppressive and the bar was a cool oasis. Ceiling fans skimmed cold air down onto my face and I received their blessing with gratitude. It took a few moments for my sun-blasted eyes to adjust. A few men were leaning on the counter at the other end of a long room and they tried to stare me down as I came in. I stared back and called down to them, ‘G’day, gentlemen,’ as I perched myself on a bar stool, plonked my boots on the ledge and ordered a Speights. The men continued to stare while the barmaid poured my drink. She then hovered at my end of the room, polishing a row of glasses.
‘Take no notice of them, love,’ she said. ‘They’ve never heard of women’s lib. Women have no business coming into pubs on their own. They think you should be home minding the kids.’
‘Where does that leave you then?’
‘Oh, I’m just a skirt. As long as I keep to my side of the bar there’s no problem.’ She looked about my age but more handy with the make-up and hair dye. Her mouth was full and soft and the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, which was most of the time. She wore a tight pink T-shirt that clashed,
gloriously, with her red curls. I knew I liked her straight away; you do with some people.
‘Would you be Maggie?’
‘Sure am. And you’re new round here.’
‘Sure am. My name’s Regan. I’m staying at the Sullivan place.’
Maggie stopped the polishing, her face flooding with questions. ‘He doesn’t often have visitors,’ she kept her voice on a tight rein. ‘In fact, you’re the first I’ve heard of.’
‘I’m staying in the cottage. It’s his son’s place really. Do you know the family?’
‘No more than anyone else. Old man Sullivan’s here most days. Been coming for more years than I can remember. But I can’t say I know him. Can’t think of anyone who does.’
The beer was ice cold and worked miracles on my throat. It was also hitting an empty stomach and rushing to my head. ‘You wouldn’t have a sandwich would you?’
‘Sure. Chicken? Ham?’
‘How about cheese or salad?’
‘I can do both.’ She started work on the ingredients, which kept her down my end of the bar. As she cut and sliced she glanced at me from the corners of her eyes, her curiosity rising like bubbles in a beer glass. Eventually one of them popped.
‘What’s it like, the house?’
‘Bit run down. No, very run down, what I saw of it. He seems to look after the rest of the place. Though there’s not much to look after, now I think about it. I’ve only seen a few sheep and cows, not what you’d call a herd. But then, what do I know about that sort of stuff? There’s the trees. I suppose he makes some money from them.’
‘No need, they’re sitting on a pile of money. The only thing he spends it on is beer. They say he let the house go since his wife…well, you know. Hasn’t touched the place for years. Though nobody knows why. He’s fanatical about the land, as you say,
but he doesn’t do anything with it. That’s the story, anyhow. Not that any of the locals have been there to find out. Keeps himself to himself, as the saying goes. Here’s your sandwich, cheese and salad. Mayonnaise?’
‘That’s great, thanks. He does seem rather vague. It’s as if he’s living somewhere else and has just bumbled into the real world by accident.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she laughed. ‘That’s exactly what he’s like. Another beer?’
‘Yeah, why not. You from round here?’
‘Yep. Tried getting away. I was living in Auckland. Then Mum got sick and Dad needed a hand around the place. It’s just till she gets back on her feet, then I’ll be off again.’
‘I gather the Sullivan family’s been here forever.’
‘Since the early days. Michael Sullivan came over in the eighteen hundreds and bought up acres of land. An old family, from Ireland apparently. Very wealthy. Not that it’s brought them much happiness.’
‘Was that his monument in the graveyard? Big marble thing? Looks like the obelisk out of Space
Odyssey?
’
‘That’s him. The old man himself. He’s quite a legend in these parts. Opened up a lot of this area for farming. There’s quite a few Sullivans up there with him.’
‘I gather a lot of the women died young.’
‘Yes, well I suppose they did in those days. Though they do seem to have had more than their share of bad luck. But you don’t want to believe everything—you know how people love to make a drama out of nothing. I suppose it was the way she died.’
‘The way who died?’
‘Anne Sullivan. That was his wife. He met her after he came here.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘One day she went out riding and never came back. Fell from
her horse apparently and struck her head. They say she bled to death. That’s all I know really. It was up in those hills around the lake. They say that bush area still has a strange feel about it. Haven’t been up there myself. But that land’s never brought them any luck in all this time.’
‘What, you mean it’s haunted or something?’
‘Not sure I believe in that sort of thing. Just a story hereabouts. I suppose every place has its ghosts and ghouls, you know, stories to frighten the kids. We were always told not to go near the Sullivan land or Anne would be after us. I guess it was just a way of stopping us young ‘uns from trespassing. You never knew how Old Man Sullivan would react.’
‘Really? Doesn’t seem the sort to go scaring kids.’
‘Oh, not him. I mean his father, Tom Sullivan. Died a few years back now. Grumpy old bugger he was, wouldn’t let anyone near the place.’
There was a burst of laughter from the other end of the bar. Then singing, one of the men making a poor imitation of Rod Stewart.
‘Hey, wake up Maggie, I think I’ve got something to say to you…
’
‘Don’t you think that joke’s wearing a bit thin, Jack?’ Maggie called back.
‘Don’t let me keep the men from their beer,’ I said, grabbing a handful of paper serviettes to wipe the mayonnaise off my sleeve.
‘Right now I think they’re more interested in you,’ she whispered. ‘Back in a mo.’
She moved away, swinging her hips and smiling dutifully. There was quite a bit of laughing and elbow nudging. Maggie pulled the beers and flirted and they rose to the bait, as those sort of men do. She was so good at it I almost felt sorry for them. I certainly felt sorry for anyone who dared put a hand out of place. They kept looking in my direction. I had finished my sandwich and
started on the second beer when she came back.
‘Idiots,’ she smiled indulgently. ‘I told them you were the new Avon lady and we were discussing the latest lip gloss. I think they actually believed me. I doubt they could raise a dozen brain cells between them. Now, what
were
we talking about?’
‘You were telling me about the Sullivan family.’
‘Not much to tell. There were just the three of them, old Tom, then his son John Sullivan and young Jason.’
‘What about Jason’s mother and the grandmother?’
‘Who knows? There’s always been rumours. But that’s more to do with them being so isolated. You know what people are like. And you won’t get much out of the Sullivan men.’ She hesitated, picking up another glass. ‘How is Jason, by the way? Haven’t heard from him for a while.’ It was the way she avoided looking at me that told it all.
‘He was fine the last time I saw him. And,’ I waited until she turned, then looked her straight in the eye, ‘I expect it will be a while before I see him again.’ With that out of the way we were free to be friends. ‘So who should I talk to? If I want to find out about local history I mean.’
‘I could always introduce you to some of the old boys round here. Not that lot,’ Maggie nodded at the lunchtime beer crew who were now re-enacting the salient moves of last Saturday’s rugby match. ‘They’re mostly hired workers, casuals. You won’t see the landowners here lunchtime. After tea’s when they drift in. Pity my mum’s not ready for visitors yet—needs to rest after her op. She’s lived here forever. Perhaps if you’re still around in a few days, depends how long you’ll be staying.’
‘I’m not sure. No definite plans.’
‘So what are you doing up there?’
‘Time out. Time to work. I sculpt. The cottage is an ideal retreat. Sullivan got one of the men to fix up a studio space for me.’
‘Ah, that would be Liam.’
‘Could be. He didn’t say who he was. I think Sullivan called him Connors. Big, hairy Irishman. Belligerent.’
‘Yes, that’s Liam Connors. There couldn’t be two of them. Though he’s not really as bad as he first seems. He’s a bit suspicious of people. One eye looking over his shoulder, if you know what I mean.’
‘Well, as long as he’s not looking in my direction.’ Noise rose from the men’s corner. ‘I think your fan club’s trying to catch your attention. I’d better get back or the afternoon will be gone. Thanks for the sandwich. And the company.’
‘Pleasure. See you again? I’m here most days.’
‘Sure will.’
T
HE
following night it rained.
Heat had burdened the day until the air felt as if it would curdle. The sun went down and evening draped itself around the cottage like a hot, damp towel. Vampire mosquitoes swarmed around the building, drawn by the promise of fresh blood. The deck, therefore, was out of bounds and the only option was to remain inside with the doors and windows wide and the screens firmly closed. There was nowhere to be comfortable and no amount of folded paper fans or cold, wet cloths brought relief. I took a cool shower, then, an hour later, showered again. Within minutes my skin was slicked with a salty sheen. It was pointless going to bed. I tried to read but couldn’t focus. The ceiling pressed down on my chest, making me labour for every drawn breath.
Then came the first echoes of thunder. It began as a sequence of gentle stirrings, distant and prolonged. Turn by turn, dry flashes of electricity followed each rumble, cracking whips of white light across the skies but bringing no relief. When the first drops tapped on the iron roof, building rapidly to a drum roll, it felt like a blessing. The next thunderclap exploded directly above the lake. Lightning followed instantly and this time the
flash tore the clouds apart and rain fell in torrents.
The storm rampaged for nearly an hour.
Forced, now, to close the doors and windows, I was held prisoner. Cataracts gushed in straight sheets from overloaded spouting, thrashing the dust below and churning it to pools of mud. One flash of lightning sounded like gunfire. It was followed by a creaking then a crash as a neighbouring tree was split by fire. The smell of burning hung on the air. I thought the cottage would be struck next, or a tree would land on it. I thought the roof wouldn’t hold up to the pounding rain, or the walls would cave in. I tried to glory in the power of unleashed primal forces charging through the forest like warring beasts. I did try. Then I thought, sod this, piled cushions over my head and prayed it would all go away.
Eventually the electrical storm did recede, taking the deluge with it. It left a steady, healthy rainfall to feed the streams and swell the lake. When I was sure it was over I opened the doors to let in the cooling air and leaned on the deck rail, offering my face up to the night sky. There’s nothing like the touch and the smell of fresh rain to wash the spirit clean.
The downpour had calmed but its rhythm was now made irregular by the tortuous zigzag journey through branches. All around me I could hear drips and splashes as droplets pooled their weight in leafy cups before spilling down to the level below. Each drop sounded its own note in the cascade, high or low, like the run of notes from a xylophone. I laughed and thought, yes, that’s exactly what it was. ‘Xylo’, meaning wood. Xylophone—wood sound: the trees were making their own music. I moved down the steps so I could better hear, from deep in the bush, the giants playing their own tune.
Then I heard a different note.
Not the sharp staccato of raindrops; this was a sustained keening, ending in a sob. Another followed. It was the tremulous weeping of a violin, the music I had heard before, only this time
the melody was slow and mournful. Each note hung upon the air as if it were falling with the rain, gliding softly from leaf to leaf. I reached out, trying to catch the sound, constructing note upon note to form the tune. Slow and sad, it was, as if the tears from the sky were of its own making.
Where was it coming from? It was impossible to see anything. The small clearing in which the cottage stood was illuminated by light flooding from the open door and window. Everything beyond was black, apart from the faintest shimmer on the surface of the lake, and even that was obscured in the mist of raindrops pattering the surface. You see, I did need that torch. And the boots and the raincoat, although I was already wet through.
The beam threw a yellow circle onto the mud. What had been pathways through the bush were now bubbling streams and I had to squelch along the edges to make any headway. Outside the music seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. I turned slowly to gain a bearing, slipped, struggled and grasped at slimy branches. This was all familiar, somehow. The dream—that’s what I had done in the dream. Only this time it was real, or was it? For a moment I faltered and the two worlds eclipsed each other until I was no longer certain of anything.
Then I started forward, following the bobbing disc thrown out by the torch. It slid along the ground ahead of me and made attempts to escape by shimmying up tree trunks. Then there was a glow through the trees. The light and the music seemed to converge and all at once I found myself heading for the woolshed. The tune grew louder as I reached the building and a wedge of yellow light jutted out across the mud with music flowing over it and filtering away into blackness. I switched off the torch and reached for the door.
Inside was a cocoon woven from the soft glow of a lantern. It was a golden aura that closed off the dark edges of the room and brought the tableau at the centre into sharp focus. He sat
on a wooden stool, his back toward the door. Even if I had been visible to him, he was so spellbound by his own creation that nothing from this earthly place could have touched him. With the fiddle tight between shoulder and jaw, the muscles of his left arm revealed the tension of his gliding fingers. The bow hovered, a note held poised upon the air and there was such sadness and such tenderness as string met fibre. Then his right shoulder rose and dipped, the bow sweeping back and forth to make a sweet sound in the stillness of the night.
I stood motionless until the last note dropped away and his arms lowered, carrying instrument and bow to their resting place on his knee. For a moment he did not breathe, and I dared not. When I did it was a gasp. Connors jumped from the stool and spun round, hunched, like an animal caught in a sprung trap. I found my voice in spite of his fear, or maybe because of it.
‘Oh, God,’ I whispered, ‘that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.’
For an endless moment he stared, his body poised for fight or flight. Then, slowly, he stretched upright and his shoulders relaxed.
‘Jesus, would you look at yourself. You’re like a drowned ferret.’
There was nothing to say, so I stood there, dripping a small circle onto the floor. He placed fiddle and bow in the centre of the table, then turned to flip the light switch. The room sprang to life around us.
‘I’ll get you something to dry yourself on. I was going to make some tea.’ He returned in a moment with a bundle of towels. I hadn’t moved. I think my mouth was still wide open. He flung one of the towels over my head then put a light under the kettle and rummaged on the draining board for a clean mug. I had obviously been rained on a lot more than I realised. My jacket was soaked through and the boots waterlogged and loaded with mud.
‘That was one hell of a storm,’ I said.
‘I’ve seen worse.’ He looked over his shoulder, his eyes fixing on me accusingly. ‘You weren’t afraid, were you?’
‘Me? No, of course not.’
‘Here, sit and get this down ye. And for God’s sake dry yourself. I won’t be responsible for you getting pneumonia.’ He placed the mug on the table.
Obediently I perched on the chair he had thrust behind me. I took a sip of the tea. It was hot and strong and brought me to my senses. I made some attempt to towel my hair. It was comfortable in here. A corner of the building had been partitioned off and fitted up as living quarters with sink and cooking stove, table and bed. There was another door through which he had gone to get the towels. I guessed it led to a bathroom.
‘Liam, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, Liam Connors.’
‘And I’m Regan.’ He nodded. ‘What was that you were playing?’
‘A slow air. “An Droighnean Donn”, in the Gaelic. It means “The Blackthorn”. It’s a love song. “My love is like the blossom of the sloe that grows upon the blackthorn.”’
‘Oh,’ was all I could think of to say, so I sipped the tea for something to do.
He started to put the instrument back in its case.
‘Oh, no. Please. Don’t stop. Play some more.’
‘I don’t play for the entertainment of others.’ He continued to loosen off his bow. ‘Music’s a personal thing.’
I placed my mug on the table. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause offence. If it’s that personal I’d better leave you alone with it.’
For the first time his eyes softened. ‘No, it’s me that should be apologising. It’s just that I’m used to being on my own. I’ll give you another tune if you drink your tea. But no more slow airs if that’s the effect it has on you.’ He nodded at my dripping fringe and mud-streaked legs.
Resetting the bow and adjusting the tuning, he lifted the instrument to his chin, tucking it beneath the fuzz of beard. This time he broke into a jig so fast the notes tripped over each other as they came tumbling from his fingers. I was forced to put the tea down in order to slap my legs in time with the dance. My feet beat out the rhythm, mud splattering the floorboards, until the last, drawn-out note brought the tune to an end. I clapped and cheered and told him it was wonderful. I’m not sure, but he may have smiled. It was hard to tell what went on underneath all that facial hair.
‘And what sort of a jig was that? Was it a jig?’
‘Yes, a pair of slip jigs, nine-eight time. The first is called “The Butterfly”, then “Hardiman”.’
‘And the first tune you were playing, that was an air?’
‘A slow air, it’s called. Played in free time.’
‘It was very sad.’
‘Yes, there’s many a sad tune come out of Erin. But then there’s much sadness born there.’ He finished putting his fiddle back in its case.
‘Is that where you’re from? Southern Ireland?’
He snapped the catches down firmly but gave no answer.
‘What brought you here?’ I asked.
‘I needed work. Sullivan needed a handyman. That’s all.’
I was beginning to get a feel for the boundaries of his conversation. Just steer clear of people in general, Ireland in particular and anything personal.
‘What’s he like to work for?’
‘He’s all right. Pays me what I’m due. Keeps himself to himself.’
Yes, I thought, you two would get on fine together.
‘He spends a lot of time in the pub,’ I said. ‘Or so Maggie was telling me. She’s the barmaid.’
‘Yes, I’ve met Maggie.’
‘She was telling me a bit about the family history. Strange
happenings up in these hills. You ever noticed anything strange up there?’
‘No, can’t say I have.’
‘Apparently one of them, Anne, who was married to the first Sullivan, she died up in the hills. Had an accident and bled to death.’
‘You don’t say?’ His gaze was firmly fixed on the instrument case, fingers still touching the clasps. But there was a slight shift in his shoulders as a wave of tension tightened the muscles of his arms.
‘Yeah, like the locals are still spooked about it. Maggie says that no one ever comes here. Is that right? Doesn’t he have any visitors?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m usually attending to my work.’
‘It is Ireland you’re from, isn’t it? The Sullivan family came from Ireland, or at least the first one did. Michael Sullivan, the one that was married to the woman who had the accident. Eighteen hundred and something he arrived. I guess that would make him a pioneer. He’s got this big monument in the local graveyard, in fact there’s quite a few of them there. Though not all—’
‘Is that so? Well, it’s getting late and I’ve got work to do first thing.’ He stood up. ‘Will you be finding your own way home or shall I walk you in that direction?’
‘No, it’s OK. I left all the lights blazing so it shouldn’t be hard to find. And I’ve got this torch. I bought it today in case of emergencies and impromptu concerts.’
‘Well, goodnight then.’
‘Yes, goodnight.’ And before I knew what was happening, I found myself once more outside in the rain.
There were no dreams that night, or if there were I had no memory of them. I woke late, feeling refreshed, hungry and ready for work. Sometime during the night the rain had stopped. The
sky was clear blue but the sun burned high and hot, turning the bush into a steam bath.
The urge to work had become a pressing need so I studied the pictures on the wall. Fortunately there was no sign of any leaking at the studio end of the deck, so the paperwork had survived without damage. A concept of form had emerged, as I had hoped and trusted it would. As the drawings were to scale with the actual wood, I could now consider what rhythms and proportions to apply to adapt the concept to the three-dimensional block.
I had already prepared the wood by removing some of the outer layer with an adze. Using the drawings as a reference, I marked where the first cuts and hollows would come. The next task was to manoeuvre the block down onto the floor again and carve into the first spaces using the adze and saw. This process would be repeated over and over. Place the block on the bench, draw the wood, develop the design on paper, then transfer the design back to the wood again, ready for the next layer to be removed—the design leading me to reveal the shape within the wood, the grain and texture of the wood dictating the next adaptation of the design.
The first stages are the most exhausting as there is so much lifting and lowering and the tools used for the first shaping are heavier. As the form emerges the work becomes refined, the cuts smaller and more delicate. I do a lot of thinking before each step. I need frequent pauses to consider and, often, redefine my motivation and perspective. Sometimes I spend hours agonising over my emotional relationship with the form before I’m ready to proceed. Whoever said art is a relaxing therapy was talking a load of crap. It is physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting.
It was during one of those periods of contemplation that it suddenly hit me. I was considering what it was like to be isolated within the fabric of the wood, when it dawned on me that I
was. Isolated, I mean. Alone with my block of wood. Apart from Connors and Sullivan, two dogs, a few thousand trees and some sheep. But no, really, I was cut off. No one I knew, friends, family, contacts in the art world, had any idea where I was. I had made no plans to go away, cancelled no appointments, told no one what I was doing. I had simply disappeared, literally, overnight.