Part 4 (1/2)

Lily sat in the hotel garden sipping a gla.s.s of wine with her back to the crush of jovial tourists, locals and a Perth convention group in the bar and on the verandah terrace. When she'd finished her wine she walked to the edge of the garden to peer at the skeleton of a boat in the mangroves, its hollow ribs filling with the tide.

'Can I offer you another gla.s.s of wine?'

Lily turned at the friendly voice to see an attractive man smiling at her.

'Ken Fitzgerald. I'm the manager. You staying with us? Haven't seen you around.'

They chatted briefly and it didn't surprise Lily to discover he was a former grazier. He had an open and affable country manner.

'Bit of a change coming from the land to the hospitality industry,' remarked Lily.

'Not really, people or cattle, they all have to be fed and watered,' he chuckled. 'Was hard to leave our property but this is a big challenge; my wife, Lola, is in the office side of things. But Broome is going to go through the roof with tourism in the next few years.'

He told her of his own plans and those of the town. Lily listened with some sadness.

'I hope the town hangs on to its heritage as much as it can,' she said.

'Don't worry about that. Broome is still a bit wild and woolly, the past is close on your heels here.'

Lily arrived at the Cable Beach Club with Deidre and her handsome young husband. There, she found little that recalled the old days. Walking through the lush landscaped grounds and over tiny bridges they pa.s.sed oriental-inspired bungalows containing suites decorated with fine antiques and objets d'art objets d'art. The main building maintained a tasteful style despite its brilliant lacquer red and gold tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Soft lights, citronella flame torches, candles and a caressing breeze that carried the sweetness of flowers followed her echoing steps along the wide wooden verandah to the reception room and art show.

Early arrivals from Broome's eclectic social set milled about the s.p.a.cious room, sipping champagne and talking to each other. While Deidre saw to selling catalogues and introducing invited hotel guests to local ident.i.ties, Lily strolled about the room. Spectacular framed prints, painted canvases, cloth and bark hangings of contemporary Aboriginal art were well displayed. Lily thought the work wonderful, full of energy and mystery.

Deidre was suddenly beside her, tapping her arm and saying, 'Lily, meet our artist, Rosie Wallangou.'

Lily reluctantly dragged her gaze away from the paintings to congratulate the artist, expecting to meet some wise old lady, but was taken aback to see an attractive Aboriginal woman about her own age. She was dressed in a dramatic Aboriginal print silk long dress and wore unusual wood and stone jewellery. Her wild curly hair tumbled about her shoulders, and was caught to one side by a sh.e.l.l comb. The impact of her looks, her wide smile, deep eyes and charismatic presence was stunning.

'I really love your work, I don't know what to say. It's just magic,' said Lily, trying to find the right words to convey the impact the pictures had on her.

'Magic,' repeated Rosie thoughtfully, looking Lily in the eye, then added softly, 'Yes, there's magic in them all right.'

'They're not easily understood, even after reading the notes you've put with each painting,' said Lily. 'But there's something about them that keeps me looking, even if I'm not sure what they mean.'

Rosie chuckled. 'Well, maybe that's part of the magic. You've got to study them a bit ... sort of discover things for yourself. They're not all Dreamtime stories you know.'

'Rosie has just had a big show in New York. They're wild about her work over there,' broke in Deidre.

'That's wonderful,' said Lily, who was impressed but not surprised. The work was powerful and she knew how collectible high quality Aboriginal art had become.

Rosie shrugged. 'New York is a faddy place. What's hot today can be cold tomorrow.' She gave a hearty laugh and Lily couldn't tell if Rosie wasn't bothered about being a big deal in New York or was confident she'd remain 'hot'. There was no doubt her work-drawn from her own roots and knowledge and interpreted with artistic skill-would last.

Deidre excused herself to greet the former premier and Rosie took Lily by the arm. 'Come and I'll give you a conducted tour of my favourite pieces in this show.'

Lily was absorbed and fascinated as she listened to Rosie explain the inspiration behind each painting. Slowly, as if a curtain had lifted, she began to see something of the story and message in each painting. She tried to explain this awakening to Rosie but ended up by saying shyly, 'I feel so clumsy trying to express myself.'

'No, you're just starting to learn the language,' laughed Rosie. 'The more you look at them, you either start to ”read” them and go into them or they just stay pictures on a wall.'

Deidre plucked Rosie away for official introductions and Lily thanked her for taking the time to talk to her.

Rosie gave her a friendly smile. 'I'm sure we'll meet again. By the way, there's a couple of works over there you might be interested in,' she said, nodding towards the far corner of the room.

Lily lifted a fresh gla.s.s of champagne off a tray and wandered over to the last few pictures she hadn't seen. But as she approached, the largest one caught her eye and her legs began to tremble. In a beautiful, subtle rendering of the burning colours of the earth around the north-west, Rosie had painted in traditional style a pattern that Lily instantly recognised-small white circles within a large white circle surrounded by the parallel lines and large X. She spun around, her hand shaking so much she spilled her champagne. But the official launch of the art show was now in progress. Lily edged around the back of the crowd to the small table where a girl was selling catalogues and taking sales orders.

Lily leaned down and whispered, 'Please put a red sticker on number nineteen, I must have it.'

The girl checked the catalogue and shook her head. 'I'm sorry, that's not for sale.'

Lily swallowed, mumbled her thanks and waited impatiently for the speeches to end.

There was no opportunity to speak to Rosie alone, so she excused herself and intruded on the small group cl.u.s.tered around the artist. 'Rosie, I so wanted to buy one of your paintings, but the one I want isn't for sale. I was hoping I could change your mind.'

Rosie heard the note of urgency in Lily's voice and the group fell silent. 'Which one do you want?'

Lily pointed and saw the swift expression pa.s.s across Rosie's face before she said,' I include that picture in every exhibition. I will never part with it. It's special.'

'What does it mean?' Lily persisted. 'It's very important to me to know.'

Rosie looked directly at Lily for a few seconds without speaking. 'Well, it's one of those paintings where you must discover its meaning for yourself.' The cl.u.s.ter of people looked at Lily expectantly. To soften her words Rosie added kindly, 'Perhaps one day you'll come to read its true meaning. Here's my card.'

As Lily turned away feeling close to tears, fumbling to put the small white card in her handbag, Rosie called after her, 'I can tell you this much-remember that the picture is called ”Tears of the Moon”.'

At ten the next morning Lily stepped into the air-conditioned Historical Society building. A bustling lady, casually dressed in slacks and a blouse, her permed brown hair in perfect order, gla.s.ses hanging on a beaded gold chain, was carrying a pile of labelled binders of photos, letters and newspaper cuttings, which she placed in order on a shelf beside the others she'd completed. She spotted Lily and went to the little reception desk to take her entrance fee.

'Just looking in general are you, dear?' She put her gla.s.ses on her nose.

'Yes and no,' began Lily.

The lady gave her a quizzical look.

'Yes I'm here to look at everything, and I also want to do some research. My name is Lily Barton. Oh, and by the way, I visited Beagle Bay and Brother William suggested you might like to keep this here for safekeeping.' She took the old journal from her bag. 'However, I would like to read it first if that's all right.'

'Goodness, yes. Well that was nice of him. I'd heard about this.' She thumbed through it and handed it back to Lily. 'I'm Muriel McGrath. How can I help?'

'I'm not sure, perhaps I should just look around firstand when you've got a minute I'll ask you some questions.'

'Righto, dear. I'll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee? Only instant, I'm afraid.'

'Coffee would be fine, thank you.'

'This is the main room-there's some memorabilia in here and in those shelves are files, books, newspapers, letters, photos, you name it. We have a lot from the old families, rescued in the nick of time most of it was too.' She waved towards the rear of the room, which opened on to a small garden. 'Back there are two other rooms, a display and exhibition room and along the back verandah is a general history area and bigger pieces on show. Decompression chamber, stuff like that.' Muriel disappeared to a small area that served as kitchen and private office.

Lily looked around the main room first, dipping into files, flipping through cutting books, studying photos which gave an immediate picture of life in the early days. There was the story of the j.a.panese cemetery where so many divers ended their days, pictures of Chinatown with its dim shops and seedy opium dens, a famous Indian pearl cleaner who was known for his precise skill in stripping away the rough outer layers of valuable pearls, the horse-drawn train that ran along the wharf, the shanty towns.h.i.+p with beached luggers on the foresh.o.r.e at Dampier Creek. A photo by the sorting sheds in 1914 showed small mountains of pearl sh.e.l.l harvested that year-sixteen hundred tons according to the caption.

Lily moved into the first exhibit room. It was divided into two sections, one dominated by a fullscale diving suit, an iron lung used for decompression for the deadly bends, and a variety of tools and instruments used in pearling and sailing, a Chinese abacus, j.a.panese paper models used in festivals and some household artifacts.

She walked around an ornate Chinese screen and found herself in the display room-a mock-up of an Edwardian living room complete with a life-size family of wax figures. It was meant to represent a well-off European household with its heavy pieces of Victorian furniture. The lady of the house, in bustle and beaded dress with a rope of pearls, held the hand of a small boy with long curls, lace collar and starched sailor suit. Placed modestly behind was the figure of an Aboriginal woman domestic in uniform of white starched ap.r.o.n over black dress.