Dragonfly

By Patrick G. Lewis

This is the story of a romance between Michael Farrell, a medical research scientist, and Gwyneth McBride, an earth mother, who meet by chance at a writers conference at Katoomba in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney. Their mutual interest in writing soon leads them into an unlikely romance.
Michael finds himself progressively drawn into the rural life of Gwyneth and all her passionate love of nature and spiritualism.

Though their obvious social differences give rise to a powerful attraction, forces outside of their control work to push them apart. And finally, Gwyneths deep love of nature and the environment is severely threatened.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524518226

Patrick G. Lewis

Patrick Lewis has always enjoyed a fascination with the beauty and charm of the natural world. He is aware how often our logical and scientific thinking has tended to limit our perception of nature. After being educated at St Ignatius College, Sydney, Patrick entered the Jesuit Order and was later ordained and taught at his former school. After twenty years, he requested permission to leave the religious order as he desired to have his own family and enjoy the companionship of married life. This brought about a major change to his life as he became exposed to a more varied lifestyle. Moving to America, Patrick completed a master’s degree in social work and then returned to South Australia and married in 1973. He then worked as a social worker in a variety of settings—with migrant families in Whyalla, with Indo-Chinese refugees in Pennington Hostel, and with the mentally ill at Glenside Hospital in Adelaide and at the Mercy Family Life Centre in Sydney. This variety of experiences as well as his marriage and raising three children have enabled him to give depth to the story of the romance in his newest work. Dragonfly is his first romance. His earlier three books were real-life stories of family relatives and have sold well.

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Copyright © 2016 by Patrick G. Lewis.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016916751

ISBN:      Hardcover         978-1-5245-1821-9

                Softcover          978-1-5245-1823-3

                eBook               978-1-5245-1822-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The story is historically based, set in the Blue Mountains during the time of the terrible fires of October 2013

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/13/2016

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

Introduction

1 Writers’ Festival

2 Returning Home

3 Beth’s Visit

4 Katoomba Again

5 Cottage

6 Govett’s Leap

7 Meeting Fr Joe

8 Shopping With Beth

9 Faulconbridge

10 Michael At Home And At Work

11 The Cascades

12 His Confusion And Guilt

13 Megalong Valley

14 Gwyn’s Disclosure To Beth

15 Her Home

16 Rose Cottage

17 Michael With Ben

18 Michael At Work

19 The Lake

20 Fr Joe’s Warning

21 Together Again: Blackheath

22 Research Offer

23 The Celtic Ring

24 Departure

25 Gwyneth’s Laments

26 Years Apart

27 The Bush Fire

28 News Of The Fires

29 Their Meeting After The Fire

30 The Tweed Valley

Acknowledgements

The Author

INTRODUCTION

‘At one level of my being I have dwelt in obscurity’, Gwyneth said to Michael, ‘Even if your book is one of fiction I will feel that this mad existence of mine was worth it. Some part of my soul will have its recognition.’ Gwyneth’s reflection reminded Michael of another woman, Lucy, whom Wordsworth so poignantly depicts in his poem, ‘She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways’. He cautions the reader that people who may have a profound effect upon others can often have grown up in the most simple and unlikely of places.

THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

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1

Writers’ Festival

Her honey brown hair formed a nest on the pillow, and the sunlight not only revealed tone upon tone, her hair shone where the light touched it.

Sometimes friend, sometimes foe, the rooster in her clock crowed. ‘Damn that alarm,’ she muttered.

She awoke to inner stirrings, cravings that had remained resolutely inconsolable for a decade, womanly yearnings that, in the moments before becoming fully awake, she supposed might be met. She turned and reached her arms – into empty space.

Had Ken McBride not vacated the matrimonial bed hours before, Gwyn’s body might have been raptured. Her curvaceous energy might have exerted itself in the depths of the splendour of lovemaking, had he been so disposed, had their marital bliss not been so endowed with constant absences. Her tears had dried up, and heartsickness prevailed. For Gwyn, emotional warmth now came in the form of her youngest child, Erin.

Today, an alteration to Gwyn McBride’s tailor-made existence would plummet her into something unfathomable. Today, events would propel her into a place she would never have dared dreamed of – a place away from her husband’s impetuosity and drive for recognition, somewhere that would offer refreshment for her dry exasperated soul. She rose, aware of the mist that blanketed the window as cool air fell like a cloak on her naked body. She moved toward the bathroom.

In the mirror, her honey-coloured hair spilled over her shoulders. Years hadn’t dulled it, but the difference in her looks startled her. When had the loveliness of youth vanished? When had mirrors reflected the truth of age? They too depended on light and shadow, just like the landscape that had taught her intimacy.

Her leather-bound journal was filled to the brim with things she had intended to follow through on over the years but had never quite ventured into. It was inscribed with poetic beauty, etchings of summits and declines and rough imprints of a perfect world, all sketched in words that described impossible imaginings. The pages held the stuff of her dreams, profound thoughts outlining images of strangeness, animals, leaves, bark, trees, flowers, rocks, and rivers, and everything that dwelt in and had touched her heart. In the pages of her journal, she was a writer – a real writer.

She had wondered about authors and about the foolishness of spending money on a writers’ festival. Brushing her non-alignment with that purchase aside, she stepped out of her mountain home. The lavender she had planted four springs after her arrival was now buzzing with cross-pollinating bees. The occasional butterfly or honeyeater made its presence felt as she moved towards her gate to wait for the morning bus to Katoomba. Her mind fixed itself on doing something for herself and by herself.

*     *     *

Kilometres away, Michael scraped at the lather on his face with quick sweeping strokes. From beneath a sea of foam, smooth skin appeared. Without stubble, he was handsome again. The crown of pepper-and-salt hair reached the top of his reflection, and the bathroom cabinet door reflected an unmade bed behind him. An array of pyjamas, shirts, ties, trousers, and a leather belt – seemingly flung from afar – lay strewn on bed and chair. He had searched for winter warmth in the wardrobe. The mountain air would be cooler even though summer had fallen on city pavement for over a month. October winds keened in from the south. A strong wind pressed against the H-shaped apartment building where he and his wife, Angela, had built a life together.

He paraded Full Monty-style before the mirror. He still had it – athletic thighs, a muscular torso, and a broadened chest. His well-proportioned male member hung low. Enough to make women weep, he thought with a self-satisfied smile. He pondered the idea egotistically. Secretly, he knew it had been quite a while since activity in that region had awakened him in the night. But he was beginning to feel alive again.

The invitation, he thought. Now where did I put it?

He searched the leather satchel, frantically probing his mind.

Ah, there it is. He smiled in remembrance. He unfolded the paper and read the note again:

Dear Mr Farrell,

You are cordially invited to attend …

His family had been convincing enough, but was he actually ready to get back into the mainstream? To take this adventure outside work and the monotony of daily routine?

No time for doubt now. His eagerness returning, he shuffled the neighbour’s cat out of the way of the lift just as the doors threatened to close on its arching body. It hissed in defiance and scampered away.

Freshness accosted him as he stepped out onto the quiet North Sydney street. Distracted by his thoughts, he halted on the front path and scanned the street for his car. He often forgot where he had parked it.

‘Ah yes. There it is,’ he muttered as he crossed the street to his silver Camry and clicked to unlock it before reaching it. Wedged between neighbouring cars, it seemed to fit, but getting out of there would take some skill, he realised.

Traffic flowed nicely. It had been years since Michael had visited the Blue Mountains in Sydney’s western region. He didn’t know the road, so staying safely focused took concentration. Oblivious to the rugged beauty flanking both sides of the highway, he pressed on like a man with both great purpose and serious intention. Three hours later, he pulled into the car park of the Carrington Hotel in Katoomba, to find it was chocked with cars.

‘Oh, God,’ he muttered to nobody in particular. ‘Hope I get a space.’

Finally, and with relief, he swung into the last place left.

The Carrington was a grand old retreat, first opened in the 1800s. In the early 1900s, it had been sold. It had held its charm and elegance over the years, doing Lord Carrington proud. The stained-glass facade made for an imposing entrance. The Carrington had become a destination for holidaymakers and honeymooners for the past century. Today, the gardens were in full bloom, and the fragrance of flowers wafted into the open spaciousness of the foyer. This was a detail that Michael missed.

He noticed a countrywoman standing at the side of the entrance, half in the shadow.

‘Excuse me,’ Michael began as he gazed into her face. ‘Can you tell me where the writers’ festival is to be held?’

She appeared a little uncomfortable. As he looked at her closely, he detected sadness in her eyes. Her skirt swept the floor, and in its deep earthy burnt oranges and rustic greens, he saw the turning of leaves. Her peasant-style blouse elongated her neckline, suggesting the figure of a swan; the idea of a swan maiden danced in his head as he waited for her reply.

‘It’s the first turn to the right,’ she said, ‘down the hall, in the second conference room on the left.’

He was about to thank her but decided instead to risk another question. ‘Are you going to this talk?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

Stepping in before him, she led the way. She turned into a room, and he noted the chandeliers above the rows of chairs where people chatted. A low hum, like that of bees, pushed towards their ears. The woman moved towards some empty seats.

A little self-consciously, he asked his next questions as she moved along the row. ‘Would you mind if I sat next to you?’

She agreed.

He was touched by her ready acceptance. They looked as if they had come from different ends of town.

*     *     *

The presentations were excellent. Accomplished authors spoke of their struggles to publish, their challenges in writing, their reasons for writing, and their inspirations.

One speaker in particular spoke about using metaphor and imagery to enhance one’s writing. Michael’s interest was aroused; he had largely ignored this aspect of writing during his years of study. He believed that logic – not imaginative flights of fantasy – was the touchstone to good writing.

Yet his attention was captured by the woman seated next to him. She seemed strangely engaging in the half-light of suspended chandeliers.

‘So,’ he said whimsically, ‘what do you think of this idea of the power of metaphor?’

‘Metaphor is the crucible of our imagination. I think it’s a powerful way to draw the reader’s mind into the writer’s world,’ she stated confidently.

‘Obviously you liked the talk,’ he said. ‘But I have my reservations.’ Without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘I think it extremely feminine to write like that. Clarity and brevity are the prime rules of good literature.’

‘Prime rules?’ she mirrored. She appeared to work hard to absorb his adamant assertions.

‘Yes, of course,’ he continued. ‘Metaphor belongs to poetry, not life writing.’

‘Oh, is that what you’re doing? Have you published?’

‘Not yet.’ He breathed this out, hoping she had not published either.

‘No. Neither have I,’ she replied. There was honesty in her voice; he felt equal to her somehow. She seemed so vulnerable, and yet there was a strength in her – and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

As they moved out into the hall, Michael announced warmly, ‘My name’s Michael.’

‘I’m Gwyneth,’ she returned with a smile, ‘Gwyn for short.’

‘I prefer to use full names; I dislike nicknames,’ he said. ‘Do you have to rush off, Gwyneth, or would you like a coffee? I don’t know my way around. Perhaps you know a good place where we can sit and chat?’

‘Yes, I do.’ She spoke so enthusiastically that her face lit up with brightness. As she led him through a crowded mountain street to the Paragon, he was utterly amazed. She was a mature woman, and he many years her senior. Yet he felt like a young man who was experiencing his first date.

*     *     *

Gwyn led her new friend into a classically simplistic art deco-style cafe in its original 1925 presentation. The aromas of handmade chocolate and freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.

They sat. Gwyn removed her cardigan and got comfortable. Music and the soft whispers of the clientele filled the air, complementing the soft lighting and decor of the place. The music caught her ear.

‘What is that? Do you know, Michael?’

‘It’s Chopin,’ he replied, obviously confident in his knowledge of the classics. ‘It’s called Raindrop Prelude.’

‘Oh, it’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she responded in wonder. ‘I’m not so fussed on piano, but when music is being played on a harpsichord, it sounds like it’s from another century.’

As the soft tones infiltrated their space and fell upon her ears, it touched something inside Gwyn. It was subtle and clear and pure, and she hadn’t listened to anything before that sounded quite so much like rain – and so much like her life.

She felt close to tears. The beautiful melody, which Michael may have heard hundreds of times before, aroused her more than she would have imagined possible. ‘It’s like some force that could lift the wings of a strange mythical bird and give it flight,’ she said.

‘Yes. It’s lovely, stirring feelings of solitude,’ he said casually.

‘Oh, that’s why it feels real, like being embraced from within by something unimaginable. I love it, Michael.’ Her eyes sparkled.

Michael noted to himself that this woman was strangely attractive. Her cleavage, just visible, was white and soft and inviting.

‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, distracting himself.

She ordered a pot of orange blossom tea in which flowers danced. He ordered a flat white.

Boring, she thought. I must get him to drink spiced tea.

Hippy beverage. The thought trailed through his mind like a shooting star. Must get her to try a latte.

Both relaxed into their neat cubicle with its polished wooden table and soft vinyl cushioned seats. Around them were statues of Greek gods and goddesses. Michael turned the conversation back to the use of metaphor in writing. At first, she didn’t reply. He presumed that she may have lost interest. Or was it shyness or caution, lest her ideas be rejected or dismissed?

But when she spoke, her tone was full of strength and conviction. ‘I love metaphors and symbols!’ she declared.

Michael was taken aback by her enthusiasm. On recovering his thoughts, he decided to soften his views on femininity and prime rules of literature.

‘I loved the way the speaker encouraged us to bring all our imaginative powers to illustrate our thoughts and feelings,’ Gwyneth was saying. ‘The speaker obviously loves rainbows,’ she added with a smile.

‘Rainbows!’ Michael could not see what rainbows had to do with what they were talking about. He feared that the thrill of his cold neat logic may be swamped by cascades of images and pictures all reflecting the diverse colours of the rainbow. Her ideas were so different from his own. He was about to point out this contrast, but he politely resisted.

He looked again at this woman dressed in a lace blouse and a long flowing skirt. Her brown hair had been softly combed and fell down to her shoulders. Her smooth skin and round face radiated warmth and peace. There was a maturity in her manner that he found attractive. He wondered about her strange ideas. He thought the hippy counterculture of the ’60s and ’70’s must have been the background to her formative years.

His reverie was quickly interrupted.

‘Your life, no doubt, contrasts strongly with mine,’ she remarked. ‘Would you share a little of yours?’

Michael accepted the invitation but with caution. He spoke about his conservative Catholic upbringing, far removed from the freedom and earthy celebrations of the flower people he imagined danced through her life, though he didn’t say this bit out loud. He touched on his studies and first career as a pharmacist and then his move to medical research. He guessed that this had moved him into a world that was vastly different from hers. He was trying to be open-minded, hoping his prejudices were not too obvious. He resisted any adverse remark about a generation he knew so little about.

Michael would later be unable to remember many details about this meeting – except the feeling of puzzlement she aroused in him. She didn’t challenge him. Nor did she argue strongly in defence of metaphors. Rather, she remarked on the beauty and surroundings of the cafe.

At some point, she asked him if he had a love of nature and whether he was interested in Celtic mythology.

‘I’m a bit sceptical about all those myths and legends. They do seem to have been fearsome warriors – the ones who invaded Ireland and the south-west counties of England,’ he remarked. ‘As to nature, I’m very interested, only if viewed through the eyes of a scientist.’

‘Oh,’ she said. And the conversation lapsed.

Both of their masks were tough resin. Yet he managed to relax, finding her easy to talk to. And he encouraged her to speak to her own interest in the Celtic myths. He was astonished at her grasp of Celtic mythology and writing, and he wondered if her religious beliefs were starkly opposed to his own. He marvelled at her ability to communicate so intelligently and strongly. And before long, they had talked for two hours.

Though throughout the discussion, he had leaned in and listened to her descriptions, he’d nevertheless remained privately aloof; in truth, he was caught up in his own thoughts and not fully aware of the impact the conversation was having on his companion.

Gwyneth relished Michael’s attentive presence. She felt herself strangely attracted to him. It had been a long time since she had sat with a person of the opposite sex. She savoured his strength, tuned in to the smell of his manliness. She felt her blood warm, her pulse quickening, her senses turn to desire. She longed for him to kiss her and fondle her.

But all these feelings suddenly collapsed when he calmly rose and bade her goodbye.

As an afterthought, he turned and asked, ‘Would you like to exchange email addresses so we could share further ideas or useful readings?’

Gwyneth readily agreed but wondered if she would ever hear from him again.

2

Returning Home

The door felt heavy as it swung open. Or was it just Gwyn’s heart? She struggled alone with a basket of vegetables. Erin came running.

‘Mummy, look what I found.’ Erin’s eyes were gleaming as she thrust the prize into her mother’s hand.

Forgetting the cold in her fingertips, Gwyn clutched the small feathery object and raised it to the faint light coming through the glass. It was small, woven together with cobwebs and down.

‘It’s a bird nest,’ Erin exclaimed.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Gwyn responded with wonder.

Erin’s spontaneity had warmed her mother’s heart. ‘Tell me about your nest,’ Gwyn said, placing her basket near the door and leading the way to the old blue sofa in the lounge room.

Erin narrated her experiences on the common and the creek bed and how she had discovered the nest hiding among the reeds and grasses.

Ken was at the kitchen table tinkering with bits of metal and screws.

‘Hello, love,’ he greeted.

‘Hi,’ Gwyn returned.

Gwyn turned back to Erin. ‘You know what?’ She cupped her daughter’s small hands gently around the nest. ‘If you close your eyes and let your thoughts flow, you might just feel the warm energy of the tiny bird’s eggs that use to live in the nest. Little hatchlings came out of the eggs. From inside, they pecked their way through and out into the sunlight.’

‘Was it cold in there?’ The child’s robust curiosity and sense of adventure compelled her to ask an endless stream of questions that only Gwyn knew how to keep up with.

‘No, Erin. Mother birds sit on the eggs to warm them.’

‘Oh.’ Erin’s long blonde hair bounced as she ran with the nest to place it on her dresser.

Gwyn allowed herself a moment to sit, to look around her at the few scattered paintings tastefully hung on the walls of their home. Afternoon sun crept in among the dust particles that danced on a bridge of light. The old sofa, covered in hand-knit shawls to hide the worn bits, felt cosy and welcoming. The shrine she and Erin had constructed of an old fallen tree stump stood cold in its dark corner. The candles, unlit, seemed filled with longing for a flame to ignite them. A few pinecones, dried leaves, seashells, and pebbles and a small clay vase with the season’s wildflowers made the house seem less lonely. Bringing in the outdoors always did that; it made Gwyn feel less disconnected with all that she held dear.

The cotton mats had shrunk with washing. Their colours had faded somewhat, but they brightened up the all-purpose family room. She had placed an old wooden box next to the sofa to create a side table for her books and a reading lamp that was handcrafted in the shape of a dragonfly. When turned on, its emerald green eyes were illuminated and its burnt orange wings were made alive by the light beneath them. Old kettles, some copper and shining from polishing, had found their places on top of kitchen cupboards. A glass washing board made a decorative splashback for her stove. When visitors came, her hayride crockery and blue willow patterned cups and saucers were always a talking point.

Ken’s old army radio collection was stacked on a bookshelf along the wall of this living room, together with his postmaster general’s desk with leather inlay and banker’s lamp. This was Ken’s corner.

Her place was really by the gas heater with its flame that was not big enough to warm the whole house. Here she sat with her candles and a scruffy dog, rescued from the pound. Its innocent eyes were closed as the animal dozed in the warmth, while Erin sat beside him, dreams filling her head.

Gwyn’s attention turned to Ken as she forced herself up and over to the kitchen sink. ‘Coffee?’ he called, holding up the kettle.

He nodded. His silence rendered her mute. She wanted him to ask about the writers’ festival. Interest in her adventures was not an unreasonable expectation; he could easily show some, even if just a little, had he really wanted to. But no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t draw him in.

Still, she wouldn’t give up on him. She would try all her life if that’s what it took. She wouldn’t let his inertia solidify her spirit. She determined to remain as fluid as the river whose voice could be heard though the echoes of time. Like a dragonfly nymph who must fly upon birth, lest its wings become weighted down by water and drown, she would struggle and fight.

While she waited for the whistle to sound, she reminisced over her babies’ births. She had wanted a home filled with the laughter of children and a man who would care for her and love her as much as life itself. And then there was Ken. Somehow, she sensed their arrangement only worked for her man. Ken was always chasing recognition; he was a high achiever with a need for approval. His thoughts steeped in logic, Ken was a quarrelsome angel who was driven to succeed. All this