4

But black returns. Always returns.
Dark waters swirling.

After checking in at my accommodation at the Marine Cove Resort on the lakeside in Goolwa, I took a walk along the water, enjoying the sweeping views of Hindmarsh Island floating in the centre of the lagoon. Fresh ocean air blew over the sand dunes that separated the town from the beach; the ocean’s roar clearly audible on the wind. Overhead a pelican flew, so elegant in the skies, in complete contrast to their cumbersome waddle on land. As I breathed in the salt tinged air, my hair whipped back from my face in the breeze and a sense of resolve started to settle in my stomach.

I was here, where Edward Barrington had lived the happiest years of his life, where he wrote The Fall. This sleepy town, filled with more weekend holidaymakers than locals, was beautiful. And it was peaceful, surrounded by water. ‘Dad, you would have loved it here.’ I breathed to the winds.

Something had awoken inside me. Despite my reluctance to come, now I felt invigorated. The determination to know was flaring. I would find out more about Barrington’s life here. Surely there would be information to discover.

After a quick lunch at the local fish and chip shop on the corner of the main street (schnitzel sandwich and a coke, I was treating myself) I walked down Cadell Street, heading for the library. It was a surprisingly modern space. Automatic doors whispered open in greeting as I walked into a high ceilinged open area, lined on all sides with shelves of books. I made my way straight to the large central space, populated by a circular shaped desk and an array of librarians of various ages over 50. I chose a lady with hair dyed deep auburn, cropped close to her head, her oversized red fingernails clicking audibly on the keyboard as she typed. Large golden hoop earrings caught the sun from the skylight above us as she turned to me and smiled. ‘Beverly,’ her name badge read.

‘Can I help you?’ Beverly asked.

‘I think so. Um, I am here researching about the poet Edward Barrington. He lived here in the 1880s. A friend told me that newspaper articles and other data from that period had been recently digitally archived? Is that something I can access?’

‘You most certainly can love. Just take any free terminal over by the windows and follow the search prompts. Anything in the system will come up. I hope you find lots of information.’

‘Thank you,’ I said and she turned back to her screen.

I picked a terminal as far as possible from the other users and settled down. The wall went up higher here, meaning the window was above my head, keeping the light down for the screens I supposed, but still offering a glimpse of the clear pale blue sky outside.

I opened the browser and typed in my search, keeping it simple: Edward Barrington. The browser chugged, loading line appearing in a small circle in the centre of my screen. Then a list popped up. It was arranged by title, with a sub-note beside each for its source: newspaper article, council letter, magazine, book.

The third listing down caught my eye: ‘Local poet visits Point McLeay Mission in education coop for administrator Phillip Merryweather.’

I clicked. A black and white scan of an old newspaper article flicked up. And there he was, Edward Barrington, posing for a photo, face solemn, eyes forward, surrounded by a group of smiling aboriginal children dressed in white shirts, trousers or dresses. He stood stiff, hands clasped behind his back, dark curls ringing a gentle face; the very picture of an English gentleman. The children looked relaxed and happy, all toothy grins and wind blown hair.

‘Edward Barrington, esteemed poet from England, made the trek to the McLeay Mission orphanage this week to talk with the children about words and meanings.’ I read.

‘In what can only be seen as a master stroke, current administrator, Phillip Merryweather, asked the poet if he would spare some time with the class and he readily agreed. By all accounts his lessons were well received, the children polite and engaged. Barrington showed no nerves around the natives, despite their obviously rudimentary manners and social skills. Another testament to the teachings of the Mission and the wonderful volunteers who govern there…’

I read on, more praise for the Mission and staff, but little information on Barrington and his classes. I moved on to the next article: Barrington and Rosalind attending a writing society meeting, and sharing a reading of his famous poem Of earth and wind. This time the picture was of Barrington in a fine cut suit, top hat perched upon his brow. Rosalind stood beside him in a long, lace trimmed dress that flowed to the floor. Despite the grainy image, her beauty leapt from the screen, dark flowing curls, open round eyes, full lips. She must have been in her mid-forties when this photo was taken, but she looked younger than Barrington. Such a beautiful woman.

I adjusted my search, specifically looking for information on the Mission and Barrington’s involvement. Turned out he had strong connections to the place, even taking on two young boys as farm hands.

On I scanned, newspaper clippings, magazine extracts, and then, the mystery: ‘Esteemed poet and local man. Missing’. They hadn’t even needed to use his name in the title. The article was brief, but to the point, detailing his disappearance and the efforts of police and local men to search and rescue. I already knew that they never succeeded. It was one of the most famous disappearances in South Australian history. And this was a state of some horrid crimes…

Light footfall behind me turned my head.

‘Sorry to interrupt love,’ my red-haired librarian stood before me. ‘My daughter is part of a local online group here, through Facebook. I was thinking, if you are after local knowledge about Edward Barrington, perhaps I could ask her to post if anyone has any information? Might get you a different angle. What do you think?’

‘Oh, thank you, I would appreciate that greatly. If that’s ok? Not too much trouble?’

‘Not at all, it may take a while though. Can I take a number?’

I scratched it down on a scrap of paper and Beverly promised to contact me should she hear anything. I thanked her and then found myself at a bit of a loss. The newspaper clippings had been interesting, especially those about the Mission. The Barringtons had never been gifted the child they longed for. I hoped he found some joy being around the orphans. More to look into there for sure, but for now, the sky above was darkening. I had been out and about all day, fatigue from my early flight from Sydney was starting to seep into my bones. As was the need for a cigarette.

I had intended to walk back to my motel, but the route took me past a beautiful sandstone hotel, the Corio. It sat on the corner of the main street of the town, old and proud, rimmed with a green painted balcony. Deciding I should eat, I headed in and ordered a prawn stuffed chicken breast and Imperial pint of beer. Taking my table number on a stick, I headed to the outside seating area at the front of the hotel and claimed a seat in the smoking section. Table secured, I lit a cigarette and leaned against one of the green balcony supports, watching the dusk colours paint the sky. The wind was chilly; only myself and another group of smokers braved the outside. But I didn’t mind. The quiet was welcome. I watched the darkening silhouette of a cluster of pine trees across the way and breathed the warmth of smoke into my lungs.

‘Been on the water yet?’ a smooth, deep voice cut into my daydreaming. I snapped my head around. Standing off to the side, calmly watching my face, was Taj. He was still dressed in his brown shirt and shorts, but it looked as though he had tidied his hair, maybe just with his hands as a brush. He held out a pint glass, half empty, towards me. ‘Cheers,’ he smiled.

‘Cheers,’ I returned, clinking my glass to his. He stepped up beside me, closer.

‘So, how did your first day of research go?’ he asked. I sucked in the last of my cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground to stub it out.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I always pick them up after.’ Taj only nodded, waiting silently. ‘It went well, I think. I checked out the library. Found some interesting articles about Barrington working with orphans at a local Mission. It’s not something I’d read about before, so that was cool. And Beverly, a librarian, said she would ask the locals, see if anyone has any information. Could be something, probably nothing. That tends to be how these things go.’

‘If Bev is looking into it, you will have all there is to know,’ Taj paused. ‘Do you know where Raukkan is?’

‘Raukkan?’

‘That’s the Mission’s name.’

‘I read Point McLeay…’

‘Was renamed when the Ngarrindjeri took charge. Raukkan means Meeting place.’

‘Oh. No, I’d never heard of it before today.’

‘It was up on Lake Alexandrina, near Narrung, round the river bend. Intended to be self sustaining for the aboriginal community, but the land was too barren. The State gave it to the Ngarrindjeri people to run themselves, back in the 70s. Now it’s really just a small township.’

‘How do you know so much? Local knowledge?’

‘Nah, my grandma was there as a kid, before the orphanage part was shut down.’

‘Your grandma…?’

‘Prawn stuffed chicken breast,’ I turned. A diminutive waitress stood by my table with my dinner.

‘That’s me, thanks.’ I headed over to my meal. Taj followed, relaxed and at ease, slipping into the seat opposite me. Mildly surprised, I took up my cutlery. ‘You don’t mind if I eat?’

‘Not at all, go ahead. So, any plans for tomorrow?’

I bit into my chicken, covered in a garlicky creamy sauce. ‘Oh, that’s good! Um, yes, well, sort of. I guess I will head back to the library…’

‘Don’t want to spend too much time inside. I have tomorrow off, how about I take you down the Coorong, show you the dunes and the Murray Mouth? I reckon everyone needs a break from work, from time to time. And you are in a holiday town.’

I chewed my mouthful thoroughly, giving myself time to think. Truth was I really didn’t need a break from researching, I had been doing bugger-all for months and had only just started to feel it’s lure again… Across the table Taj’s dark eyes watched me as he drained his pint. I decided.

‘You know what? I’d love that. If you are sure you have the time?’

Taj grinned. ‘It would be my honour. I’m getting another, can I grab you one too? Pale Ale was it?’

I looked at my empty glass. ‘Yes please, thank you.’

And so we talked, and drank and talked, the evening turning to night around us. When the hotel switched off it’s lights at 9 p.m., Taj and I walked slowly along the water front to my accommodation, the stars sparkling above our heads and dancing over the gentle ripples on the water. At my door Taj pecked me on the cheek and grinned. ‘Home safe. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.’

‘Seven?’ I exclaimed.

‘You gotta see the water early, it’ll be like glass tomorrow. Bring a warm jacket. I’ll see you then.’ And with that he turned and ambled away, leaving me to my apartment. I crashed into bed, and for the first time in a long time sleep found me, and kept me right through until my alarm blazed at 6 a.m. the next morning.

Next Chapter: Chapter Five: Coorong calm