Keeper of the Way

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sydney, 1879

The grounds of the Botanical Gardens, in the corner between the governor’s stables and Macquarie Street, was cleared for construction in January. A short nine months later, the pleasant aspect of nature with a view to the harbour beyond had become a brash edifice of archways, towers, cavernous halls, and a grand dome. The noise and business of the place could be endured; the electric lights used so that work could continue all night long, less so. The residents of Macquarie Street had complained long and bitterly at the destruction of their peace and quiet, and of course, their views. The Garden Arms and Travellers Rest Hotel, the last of its type along this stretch of road, had welcomed the new business. Residents had complained about that as well.

And now it was September. The Garden Palace was all but complete and the international exhibition due to open the next morning.

Rosalie observed the construction and consequent arrival of crates full of exhibit items with avid interest. Many of the curators and supervisors were guests at the hotel. She and her husband, James, kept them entertained and well fed, making many useful business and personal contacts in the process.

Being the proprietor of the closest hotel to the Palace had many advantages and, on behalf of his wife, James Ponsonby did take advantage.

Which is why Rosalie was given access to the exhibition a week before its opening and several times thereafter as well. Rosalie had made her own friends and was able to enter the building from a side door long after most of the curators had gone home or to the Garden Arms for the night.

The morning was a few short hours away. After this night, the vaulted spaces of the ceilings would echo with the voices of the thousands of visitors sure to pass beneath throughout the day. Voices and smells would impregnate the wood, form a sheen over the exhibits that could not be cleaned away. The dust sprites in the air would carry the memory of people from one day to the next. This night, the air held only the fading recall of workers unpacking exhibits, placing, cleaning, labelling. The faint sense of the museum director and colleagues making their final inspection, harrumphs of approval, last orders, and pats on the back for a job well done hung around the various glass cases, marble statues, and examples of industry and culture.

Rosalie cared only for the giant statue she now stood in front of. Since its installation, the stout bronze figure atop its rock of granite had fascinated her. At times it appeared to be the embodiment of something else. She circled the statue, composed, hands clasped in front of her, eyes looking upward searching for a sign, anything really that could shore her confidence. On reaching the front-facing aspect, she paused. The metallic face was stern and unforgiving. She stood upon her pedestal, mistress of all she surveyed. A mere representation all that was needed to exert her influence across the seas to a landscape thousands of miles away.

Rosalie dipped her fingers into the purse that hung from her waist and pulled out a bob of dried heather and wattle held together with a strip of fabric cut from her grandmother’s arisaid. She placed the gift on the bannister that surrounded the statue and fountain below it.

‘Caud Mile Failte.’

Footsteps in the distance warned of the night watchman returning to the nave that ran from the north entrance to the south. His footsteps were unhurried, occasionally pausing. Time to leave. Rosalie stepped away and toward the southern entrance and the side door, which the guard left off the catch on the nights she visited.

A brush of sound and she half-turned, suddenly anxious; the statue shimmered and a ghostly figure of an old woman with long white hair appeared. She leant down and reached out for the flowers. Their eyes met as the apparition held the bob to her nose. Her face was tinged blue, her lips an earthy tone, eyes sparkling green and blue.

‘So formal, Daughter?’ She bowed, holding the flowers out in one hand, her staff in the other. ‘I thank and bless thee, child.’

The old woman straightened and tapped her staff once upon the bannister. In the spot that Rosalie had left the spring of flowers sat an egg-shaped stone. Rosalie returned to the statue, trembling and excited. ‘Thank you, Grandmother.’ She took the gift and placed it in her purse. Its weight settled against her skirts with welcome warmth.

A cough warned that the night watchman was much closer now.

Rosalie bowed her head, whispered ‘Thank you’, and left. A last glimpse as she reached the exit door showed that the old woman who wore the night around her shoulders like a cloak was gone. The cold statue of Queen Victoria only remained; a silent sentinel over her garlanded domain.