Читать книгу Diaries - Mr Stuart Jackson Jackson - Страница 7

Gold.

Written on a single sheet of paper in big bold capitals and followed by exclamation marks. Then some notes in a smaller and neater hand.

Interesting, thought James Christie, as he passed the old man tidying up his desk in the Library. He noticed the books on Tasmania laid out in front of him, including Fish and Yaxley’s Geology and Landscape of Tasmania , a book Christie had used himself, only recently. What was it about Rolls Royces? You rarely saw one and then when you buy one everyone seems to have one. Maybe he should introduce himself and they could share insights? He smiled at the thought, and proceeded to the help desk.

On his return, with the DeWitt book, the old man was gone. All that was left of his visit was a closed Yearbook of the Australian Bureau of Statistics, for the year 1911. The old man had left a piece of paper in the book to mark a page, and Christie wondered why he would be looking in such a book. He placed the DeWitt book on the desk and opened the year book. The marker referenced an article called The Discovery of Gold in Australia. Christie quickly flicked through the pages – discovery in the various states, tables of production figures and methods of gold mining used – then returned to his own desk and made a note of the book. Unless he was mistaken, such data was available on-line and he could access it at home.

He worked for another two hours on the DeWitt book, making notes and writing verbatim extracts in the spiral bound notebook. He would address Nora’s e-mail tomorrow morning.

Amy had gone on a high fashion shoot with Robert Casey, at the Royal Exhibition Building in the city. Afterwards she was going to catch up with friends on the campus.

James Christie had their place to himself. He’d returned from his walk – recommended by the medical officer – and done twenty minutes of stretches. A quick shower. The dressing had come off the wound two weeks ago, but he still fingered the scar, stared at the angry coloured skin. He dressed and sat in front of the computer and waited while it booted up

It had been another hot Melbourne summer day - typical of those they'd been experiencing in the city for some time. They'd had a long stretch of these hot days, the air dry and still, and for the last two days the weather forecasters had been promising thunderstorms, but none had eventuated. Out above the bay some clouds seemed to be forming - perhaps tonight, he thought.

Grass was brown and flowers and shrubs wilted in the oppressive heat. It would take a lot of rain to change the colours now, but February was nearly ended and, by rights, the hot days should give way to cooler and wetter ones. On the northern outskirts of the city men and women of the Country Fire Authority were trying to contain a bush fire burning on a wide front. During his walk he’d seen the cloud of smoke on the horizon.

He’d walked into the city because the doctor had said the exercise was good for him. Any form of regular exercise is a good idea, Mr Christie. It doesn't have to be strenuous, just enough to get the heartbeats up for a while. Why don't you try walking? If you would normally get into the car to go to the shops or to see a friend, walk instead. Walk to and from work. Not just a stroll, mind you; a brisk walk. Something regular.

Exercise was good for the body, he couldn’t argue with that and he’d taken the words of the medical officer to heart. What had surprised him, though, was how long it had taken him to “mend” his thoughts. There was the obvious reaction to being seriously shot, but a large part of it had been about how close he had come to losing Amy.

The background image on the computer screen was a sketch of the figures at Abu Simbel, done by the Scottish artist David Roberts in the late 1830s. There was, to Christie, an awesome mystery in the image - noble figures carved out of rock towering over half a dozen locals, and half buried by drifting sand.

Christie scanned the e-mails in his In box and re-read the last one from his sister.

Dear James

Another delivery for you to look after. I've enclosed four files this time ...

He checked that the attachments were there.

... the writing is going really well and I seem to be churning out quite a workload. I will keep at it while the will and the ideas are still there. You know what it's like. Here one day, gone the next.

I must admit that this one is taking a little longer than I thought and is quite a bit more disjointed in its construction. I used to find it very easy - and convenient - to write from the first page through to the last without missing anything out and without jumping from one chapter to another. Write everything in sequence. You could develop with your characters, and ideas even used to emerge as the story progressed. "The Castlecrag Darkness" was like that. Straight through from page one to the end.

Oh, by the way, while we're talking about my last book I thought you might be interested to know that the story created quite a lot of correspondence from people all round the world. Some were critical. Some even said I shouldn't be bothering with the likes of Griffin. And what was wrong with Frank Lloyd Wright? BUT, I also got a lot of letters from people who were Griffinophyles. My new word for the week! You know, those people who are interested in good old Walter Burley Griffin. Nay, I would say not interested but OBSESSED. You know how it can be. Like you and jazz. A few people kept writing and I wrote back. And those letters and photos that you were able to procure about Griffin attracted quite a bit of attention. I had a number of letters from people in the States and - to cut a long story short, and you know how I hate short stories - I sold them. Wait a minute, wait a minute, don't go off the deep end!

.

Christie smiled. He enjoyed her letters, they were easy to read and he could imagine her talking to him, even though she was a long way away. He missed her.

I know you went to a lot of trouble to track down a lot of the stuff on Griffin - and I know I didn't end up using it all - but I couldn't refuse this offer. And I didn't really want to keep those bits. And .... and .... I didn't think you would be sentimentally attached to them either. So I sold them.

Five thousand dollars. American.

How about that?

He asked himself, who would pay that much for a few letters between Griffin and a couple of his friends, and some old photos?

Who would pay so much for this? I hear you say.

He smiled again.

Some Griffin collector. You know how collectors are - they'll scour the earth to add something new. This guy was an architect too, from Chicago. His cheque cleared okay and he wrote to me afterwards and said how happy he was.

So, five thousand American. For you.

For him?

Yes, for you. I put it into your company account. I don’t remember what it converted into, but it will be a bit more in Australian dollars. Some pocket money for you. Buy some bloody socks.

Socks. An old joke. He did miss her.

Where was I? Oh, yes, "The Grey Line". Like it? I don't know whether I'll stick with it, but it's the working title at least. Sarah Grey is my main character. The HEROINE!

Anyway, as I started to say, this one is progressing a little differently. Although I know where this one starts and I can visualise the last scene, the bits in the middle are still a little confusing. I know what's going in there, but not necessarily the order or the tense.

There are bits that have been filling my mind for a few weeks, so I got them out of my system and wrote them. I knew roughly what was coming before and after, but they weren't written. So it just sits there, waiting for the bits to go around it. And, so far, it's working.

He could see her twenty years ago, glued in front of the old typewriter. Sometimes she would gaze for long hours at the blank sheet of paper, agonising over what were to be the words that would break the pure white of the sheet. At other times she would type furiously, one page after the other in rapid succession, as if she was frightened that her thoughts would leave her before she had chance to commit them to paper.

I think it's the new technology. The same sort of thing which is writing this very letter to you. THE WORD PROCESSOR! Do you remember the agony of having to rewrite pages? I do.

He did too. She had had a sentimental attachment to the ROYAL typewriter and for ages shunned the thought of going to the “new” technology of computers and word processors and spell checkers (“that is way too lazy,” she’d said, “and does nothing to improve one’s use of English grammar.”). But she’d succumbed – even though the old typewriter had a pride of place in her study.

But this terrific little machine makes it all so easy. You can see what you write on the screen, you print it off, proof read it, correct it, add, delete. You can make the changes without having to re-do the whole bloody lot. You can actually see it cut and paste. I’m still fighting the spell and sense checker. I don’t like being told by the computer how I should construct my sentences or that the tense looks odd.

I know, I know – should have done it years ago. That was my romantic age – it didn’t have the same passion as being written by hand or on the trusty Royal. It’s more personal, somehow, but the past is past. I’m in the current century!!

So I can now write the bits and pieces - like they were jigsaw pieces. I know they go to making up the final picture, but because the picture doesn't have a border all round it just yet, then I'm not sure where it goes. Know what I mean?

Yes.

So I write a piece and put it aside. It can be because it's something that's been occupying my mind or just because I feel like writing in a particular way, or in a particular mood. I might feel happy, so I can go and write a happy piece. I thought about Mum a week or so ago, about the things that I miss most, now she's gone. And I went and wrote that down - as if Sarah Grey had those same thoughts about her own mum.

Their mother, he thought.

And if I feel sexy, then I can write better raunchy stuff.

Not that she ever needed much impetus in that direction.

Not that that's much of a problem, but you know what I mean!

So if you want to print these files off, they won't necessarily fit together, they may not follow in sequence. Some chapters have numbers on them, some don't. We can change those later. BUT ... the first two chapters are there!

And I need some help, please.

I've been doing some research on gold.

Gold?

There's quite a lot of good stuff here. I've gone into a lot of the geological background and done some research on mining techniques - especially around the middle of the last century - about the time of the Australian gold rushes. I've also been able to locate some interesting stuff on the California rush. I didn't realise that there were so many ways of getting gold out of the ground!

I met one particularly knowledgeable fellow by the name of Pollard. He works in Hobart, but spent his boyhood on the north coast and knows the place round there, and through the central Highlands, like the back of his hand. Apart from being an excellent fisherman - his words - he's also a bit of an expert on the early explorers. I spent a weekend with him and his wife. Including three hours sitting patiently on the bank of a river while he was after trout. How's that for dedication?

Nora fishing. What next?

Of course, I gave his name to one of the characters in the story. I think he'll be quite pleased. Anyway, he told me about a fellow called DeWitt. Augustus J DeWitt. Don't ask me what the "J" stands for. If Pollard doesn't know, I don't know who would.

Anyway, this DeWitt guy did quite a bit of exploring around the west coast of Tasmania. Like most men of the time he was anxious to find out more about the place, find the heads of rivers, new mountains - something that could bear his name. Actually he has a mountain peak in the north-west named after him (surname) and a small river (Christian name).

Excuse the ramble, I'm a writer!

Well, DeWitt was not only in it for the glory, but he was also a bit of a geologist and, as a consequence, a bit of a miner. Pollard seems to remember him having something to do with the tin industry in Cornwall before coming to Australia. Some of his travels took him close to some of the places where I have set part of this new book - around Strahan, Macquarie Harbour, Mt Lyell. And ... got there at last! - he was a great diarist.

BUT!!!!!!!

But the only known remaining diaries of DeWitt were donated to the Melbourne Library.

The sting in the tail, he thought.

Would you, James, my love, please see if you can track it down and extract some stuff out of it? I'm interested in his descriptions of the times, his impressions of the countryside. And, of course, if he found any gold!

You know the sort of stuff.

God bless these darling people who kept diaries. The one of Captain Abbotsley, the one I wrote to you about before, is a beauty. Did I ever tell you how we came by it? It was quite by accident.

Caroline and I were returning from a trip to the north-east corner of the State, coming back down the east coast. And we dropped into one of those little museums that seem to exist in every bloody country town. We'd stopped to get a drink and while we were stretching our legs, there was this little place tucked alongside the fast food place and we drifted inside. There was the usual range of bits and pieces. Old convict manacles, farm implements, some nice old paintings and old coins, original deeds and stuff like that. And hanging on the wall was this pen sketch of a quite magnificent looking soldier. It was his face that caught my eye and his bearing. Incredible, it was.

"Captain Abbotsley," the old lady who looked after the shop said. "He's a charming looking chap isn't he?"

"Quite remarkable. There's something about the way he looks."

"Oh, you're not the first to notice that." she said. "Many have commented on him. His descendants still live in the area. Well, the last remaining member of his family. Old Mrs. Franks donated this sketch. She's a funny old stick. She had some diaries of his. Kept when he first came to Tasmania. About ten volumes I think. But she wanted to keep them. Didn't want to let them out her sight."

Like a red rag to a bull, do I hear you say?

Anyway, I found out where she lived, a small property near Swansea and we dropped in to see her. A charming old dear with great stories of her family. She kept us talking for ages that first time and we had to stay overnight in Swansea. She buried her only son ten years before, following a car accident and her husband had died of cancer about five years ago. No one to talk to, so she bent our ears.

We talked about the history of the place and she mentioned the diaries. The man who had kept the diaries was her great great grandfather. They had, apparently, been handed down through the family from one generation to the next. She said that there had been quite a lot of them at one stage but over a period of time some had just been lost. She thought her sister had taken some with her when she had married.

And she brought them out, the ones she had. Nine volumes, all finished in leather. One or two were a little ragged, and a lot of loose pages, but all were readable. Immaculate! A small neat hand, not the sort of thing I would have expected from his sketch.

That first night she watched me as I flicked through one volume, page by page. James, they are magnificent! There's that word again. Bring out the thesaurus, Nora, and find something different!

In one or two of the volumes there were some loose pages and I had visions of them being lost in this old house of hers. Lost for all time! It got to me once – there were all these loose pages and I started putting them back into the diaries in their right places. But it was evident that many had been lost. I borrowed – no stole is probably a better and more accurate word – about twenty pages that I couldn’t find places for in the diaries. Some had small diagrams of trees and mountains and stretches of coastline. Magnificent. Extraordinary, splendid, and all those other synonyms. Reminded me of shoplifting when I was twelve. But I’m not keeping them - I’m looking after them for old Mrs Franks and making sure they don’t get lost.

The next time we took a tape recorder and recorded all her tales, all her anecdotes. And instead of writing down excerpts from the diaries, I spoke into the recorder. She sits nearby, drinking innumerable cups of tea, and chatters away, alternating between me and Caroline. Caroline tried to divert her once and give me some quiet time, but they walked in the garden for about ten minutes and then she was back there again. Still, the life of a writer is not an easy one and one must be thankful for these small treasures.

And that reminds me. Don't you bloody well get rid of these letters of mine. I know what you're like. Read it, carry out the instructions, then into the bin. Well don't! Some years from now, when my name is chipped in the marble of great Australian writers - no, great writers of the western world! - then these letters will be worth a small fortune. And someone will come along when we are both long gone and write the definitive life story of yours truly. Based on her diaries and her letters.

The making of a novel. Thoughts of the novelist. Student notes for university undergraduates. Pity I won't be here then, it sounds fantastic!

Well, don't you think so?

Talking of diaries, as we were, I came to the conclusion that I am NOT a diarist, but, at times, a writer of journals. I found some useful words by a French poet called Rombussiere about diaries. Might use them in my book.

He smiled.

That's it, James, my love. Now, how are you? Has that secret little organisation that you work for been looking after you? Taken from the scene of the crime on a stretcher – seriously wounded, the press said. Still healing well? I wish I knew all the gory details. Your secret little organisation didn’t keep it all that secret when they let the media get hold of it, did they? You will tell me one day, won't you? There's a book in it, I know.

He smiled again. She didn't stop.

Maybe we could co-author. Oh, no, it might be a bit awkward, using your proper name in such a public way.

And how is the lovely Amy? Give her my love, won’t you?

Anyway, keep well and follow those doctor's instructions. It's Mum's birthday on the fifteenth. Don't forget to put some flowers on her grave for me, please.

I love you. Will write again soon. Caroline also sends her love.

Your loving (and lovely) sister,

Nora.

P.S. I am well and in training for a bit of bush-walking. More of that later. Love Nora.

Lovely Nora, he thought. Yes he did miss her.

Outside the clouds were getting serious, gathering in the sky, and the slight breeze he had felt earlier was getting stronger.

Despite all the years that had gone by, neither he nor Nora had changed that much, he thought. He could see so much of her in her writing. In her books or in her letters - her madly tantalising, rambling, wonderful letters. She was right – her letters would make a charming addition to her slowly building library of fiction bestsellers.

He stared at the computer screen and the stone-faced gods changed to her face - and the other reflection, next to hers, was his. His hair was getting a few flecks of grey in it, maybe more than a few, but still the basic brown, and he was in need of a shave. He ran his hand around his chin, feeling the slight rasp of a day or two's growth. Eyes that were brown - the same colour as Nora's - stared back at him.

Nora forwarding copies of her work to Christie had started about eighteen months ago. Nora had had a bad crash early on, using a new machine, and managed to successfully lose a lot of her work. She had, James knew, always been somewhat impetuous, and she had gone onto the new machine without doing all her homework. It had been an expensive lesson.

So now she was fanatical about backup. She held all her files on hard disk, but each update of her manuscripts or her notes she backed-up to two separate USB sticks. The sticks were kept in a place different to her study and she copied all the files for sending to Christie, on a regular basis. Off-site backup, she’d said, if it's good enough for big companies and government departments, then it’s good enough for me – after all, my stuff is much more important, isn't it, brother? And any work he did for her went through the same process once she received it.

He called up the file that he had started last night and read a little of what he had put in. He'd called it DEWITT. There were more typographic errors than there should have been and as he read through it he corrected the errors.

Dear Nora …

Excerpt prior to one of his trips:

I have learnt from my previous excursions into this wilderness. I remember my first, early last year, when I had given little thought to how practical normal clothing would be. The tough, resilient undergrowth soon ripped the cloth trousers to shreds. Even the leggings ended up as ribbons.

Moleskins were exceptionally good and the heavier military leggings much stronger. I got the leggings and the knapsack from the quartermaster at the military outpost nearby. He has been most helpful, also lending me some maps he had found, from some early army scouting patrols. I have transcribed the routes and notes onto my main maps.

But my last trip was the most useful and I find leather or straight animal skins to be the most rugged and offer the most protection as leggings. I have taken some trouble with these for this trip and have even managed to include a spare pair in my pack. The extra space they take up is well worth it, but if the worst came to it, I could fold them into my blanket roll, which I strap across the top of the pack.

I am in two minds concerning the musket, shot and powder. The musket can be most obstructive. I had taken them on prior trips because of the need to protect myself from possible warlike aboriginals. But I have never seen any of these pathetic looking folk in this part of the country, let alone warlike ones. I have decided, too, that I can carry other items more profitably than the musket, as far as securing game is concerned. I have also thought back to my time in England and will take one of the dogs this time.

The rest are the usual stores - flour, tea, cured meat, salt and biscuits.

The entries immediately following this one covered a short, abortive trip of De Witt's in the area around the Pieman River. I know this is getting close to the area that you are interested in, but there is really nothing of any value. De Witt fell down a very rugged incline and ripped open his leg and he had to return home. The entries around the time of his accident are very sketchy; he showed great persistence in even keeping it up to date. Some of the following entries, looking back, are quite descriptive of both his injury, and how he managed to fix it himself until his return to his home, and his feelings on what was obviously a long, slow and painful trip. I don't know to what extent such descriptions may fit into your tale and your characters, but I can extract details if you wish.

Some entries some nine months later are probably the sort of thing you are after. He had arranged for his next trip to be sponsored by two brothers by the name of Greene. He states that they had something to do with the Van Diemen’s Land Company and were interested in getting a better feel for the land south of Macquarie Harbour. De Witt interpreted this 'better feel' as the brothers wanting to find something in the area that would be to their advantage. De Witt stated that he didn't really care what their motives were - they had provided him with monetary backing and that enabled him to pursue his own desires.

The entry starts at the end of June in 1848.

I have reached a small outpost on the banks of Macquarie Harbour, having been dropped here by the brig 'King Arthur'. The Greenes have provided me with a handsome boat and plenty of stores. With the boat to act as a means of covering a lot of ground - essentially up the Gordon - I can also use it to carry many more stores than ever before.

Entries for the following two or three days relate primarily to his preparations and some descriptions of the timber getters in the area. He has quite a descriptive style, with a fair share of sardonic wit!

I have reached Sarah Island, thankfully. Yesterday and last night the weather was suddenly horrendous. Fierce winds squalling straight in off the Southern Ocean, driving rain that was almost horizontal, bending trees and making progress, even along the western bank of the Harbour, most difficult.

Sarah Island is already in ruins and buildings have crumbled or become overgrown with dense weeds. It is just as well. I hope nature wreaks its vengeance on this place quickly and covers the shame of its existence. Even walking around the remains this afternoon, I am taken by a feeling of extreme desolation and isolation. One can very easily mistake the whispering of the wind through the trees for the screams of the poor wretches who were incarcerated here.

I have found a building near the remains of the launching slips, at the far south of the island. It has most of its roof still and its three remaining walls provide a welcome shelter from the winds. I shall sleep here tonight and perhaps the next while I regain my strength after the rowing of the past few days. The sail was a good idea, but I have not always been able to make the best use of it.

I fear the ghosts of many abused convicts may visit me tonight and I pray God will keep me protected!

The next week or so covers some general descriptions of the land surrounding the Harbour and his voyage up the Gordon. Then :

I am amazed at the dense scrub that borders both banks of this river. I have tried in many places to get ashore, but the myrtle, sassafras and laurel intermingle with one another, at times horizontally, and my path is often barred completely.

There are, however, numerous places where the piners have hacked access points along the banks. Some are obviously old, for already they are overgrown. Perhaps these are the ones the convicts first cut. Others are fresher and I have seen two or three which front on to huge clearings that perhaps once served as staging camps. Everywhere there is evidence of the piners and I sometimes doubt the ability of nature to cover over the great scars that man has made in this land.

I have not seen any piners for the last three days of my trip, although there are still stands of the magnificent Huon visible. Most are, naturally enough, well back from the river itself and are, I imagine, much harder for the piners to get to the river for floating out.

The air is still, cool and damp.

And today I made a most unusual discovery. I made camp in this clearing last night. It is well up river. Indeed, I had thought that I had seen the last of the piner clearings and that I was in country untouched by man. This morning I started to explore around the camp. It is already yielding under the regrowth of the vegetation, but movement around the area is still quite easy.

Two hundred yards further upstream I came across a deep cutting, where a fast, bubbling creek ran into the Gordon. This in itself was not unusual, for there had been others. This would certainly have been the biggest I have seen so far, though. Much of the original vegetation enclosing the creek had been cleared away and the ground showed signs of being dug over - or at least disturbed.

My immediate thought was of a vast grave for convicts who had died felling and carting the pine in this area. Perhaps even those who had died on Sarah Island. Of the many stories I had heard I was told that many of the poor dead souls had been carted this far away to avoid being discovered.

I started to dig myself and after an hour did, indeed, find the skeletal remains of a man. I must admit to a certain amount of revulsion at seeing this poor soul, with what appeared to be the remains of some material still wrapped around his bones. Although my curiosity demanded to know who this soul was and how he had died, I could dig no longer and covered him over again and marked the site with a crudely constructed wooden cross. I have no idea how many others - if there were others - were buried there too. I hoped he was but one. Perhaps a piner who had died and been buried by a friend.

It sits better with my mind to believe the latter. I must admit, too, that I could think of no better place to be buried myself. This country, though hard and weather-beaten, is most beautiful.

Well, that's it. I thought I'd let you know what I've found out so far. Let me know if you think it's enough, or if there are some things you want me to do some other follow-up on. If I remember correctly from an earlier note, you have your Abbotsley character in charge of a gang of convicts who are involved in felling trees and floating them back to the Sarah Island shipyards.

I am healing well, and am about to start full-time work after some graduated return to work. Amy is also well and finding a lot of work – and she is still doing her university course, so she’s keeping very busy. We had a long weekend up at a place called Daylesford a couple of weeks ago. Very relaxing.

What little of your book that I’ve read, it sounds quite intriguing – hope you work out where all the jigsaw pieces go. It’s a lot harder when you don’t have a border!! Love to you and Caroline – we might get down to see you soon – if that’s okay? Keep writing.

Love, James.

Christie included the photocopies and his notes as attachments to the reply mail, entered Nora’s address and hit send.

There was a bang of a door slamming shut, followed by a shout.

“Hallo!”

Christie smiled.

“Where’s my policeman?”

“In here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Study.”

He stood as she came through the door and they embraced and kissed.

“Thought we’d go for a swim before the cool change hits,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse.

“Sounds good.”

“Well get changed.”

Amy took off her bra.

He looked at her. Smiled. “Can it wait a while?”