Mrs. M by Luke Slattery

Author:Luke Slattery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-09-23T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

How swiftly memories fade when distance conspires with time to dull them. Forms dissolve into chimeras, voices hush, colours fade. Already the Hyde Park Barrack seems half forgotten. Hard to believe that I — that we — fixed our dreams on such a plain structure when London could boast the colonnaded glories designed by Nash for Regent Street. But then it makes as much sense to compare the young colony’s best efforts with those of the mother country’s as it would to judge Windsor by the standards of Versailles.

In that distant colony, there was something valiant in the ambition to build for the betterment of the male convicts a three-storey structure of some heft, in warm local brick, trimmings of stone, and most elegantly proportioned despite its lowly purpose. Much like its architect, this was no shy building; it demanded attention! All of this for men who had not long ago mouldered on the hulks and fought for their very lives on the transports.

The Architect maintained his own firm views on the barrack. I had seen it emerge from his hand as a draft; had, in fact, approved its final articulation one afternoon in the Governor’s absence — though with his express authority. My main contribution to this perfectly simple design was to suggest that its centre point align with the pinnacle of the Church of St James opposite so that these two buildings might establish a dialogue: reformation of character on one side of the street, salvation of the soul on the other.

Our interview took place not in the Governor’s study but in the dining room with the lovely vista of Farm Cove; beyond it lay a blue ribbon of harbour, and beyond that the forested ramparts of Middle Head. The Architect’s bearing, I remember, was a little stiff that afternoon. How excruciatingly painful was the situation we found ourselves in! We were both, I am sure, beset by confusion and guilt — the briefest of exchanges betraying our feelings had, unwittingly, inflamed them. I was sure Macquarie could sense it. How to douse — or quench — what could not even be acknowledged?

* * *

I sit at the round table in the white-walled dining room. With his back turned and his hands clasped behind him, the Architect stands before me at the bay window. He looks out, as if I were a portraitist with an easel and he the subject of my painting. He speaks to me without really speaking to me. From this indirect manner of address I catch only fragments of phrases: ‘Exact impression . . . strong proportions . . . clear . . .’

I am compelled to insist that he come join me.

And as he turns, I notice for the first time a few streaks of grey in his wavy hair. He apologises for his manner of address. ‘Sometimes I lose even myself in my work . . . I was saying . . . saying that the instructions I have from the Governor have always been clear.

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