CHAPTER
11
The Clarence Museum and Historical Society, when Kirsty found it after a long (and glorious) sleep in a real bed, was on the ground floor of a stucco and brick, pre-Federation building that dwarfed the short main street. An oval plaque up on its second storey announced the building was home to the municipal council, incorporated 1879.
Beside the clay-red door was a more recent sign bearing a thick wavy line: WEFLOODED TOHERE IN1948.
A woman, mid-eighties at a guess and clutching a faded grey walking stick that matched her faded grey hair, greeted her from beside a large table covered in maps.
‘Hello, pet,’ said the woman. ‘Are you our new volunteer? Lanyards are in the top drawer of the filing cabinet, and there’s a thingummy-whatsit you’ll need to read and sign. One of those freaking Workplace Health and Safety requirements.’
‘Er, hi,’ said Kirsty, a little nonplussed at hearing an octogenarian dropping the word ‘freaking’ into a sentence. ‘And no, I’m not thenew volunteer. My name’s Kirsty. I was hoping I might get a little help tracing an old newspaper article.’
The woman peered at her over neat, pink-rimmed glasses. ‘Oh! Well, hello then. I’m Carol Wallace. I’m one of the custodians of this collection.’
The room was a testament to the age of the collection it held, its walls dedicated to old sepia photography and newspaper articles … draught horses hauling logs, dairy farmers from the 1930s carting their milk to the Nimbin Butter Factory in wagon-wheeled sulkies, a Bundjalung story of a sleeping lizard. A glass case held a beaded wedding gown and another held a collection of stuffed birds.
Timber shelves were stacked with thick old books, olive ceramic light fittings dangled low from the fancy plasterwork ceiling, even the teacup—in use judging from the half-moon of tangerine lipstick planted on it—was an old-fashioned floral number, resting neatly on a frilly doily.
Seriously … adoily! She was definitely in the right place.
‘I’m not sure how this works,’ she said. ‘Do I become a member? Do you offer a research service I can pay for?’
Carol took a sip from the teacup, then set it back in its saucer with a clatter. ‘Heavens, don’t start waving a credit card around at me. There’s a machine here that knows what to do with those things, but don’t ask me to work it. I leave that to the young ones. Why don’t we go settle ourselves on the sofa and you can tell me what you’re looking for.’
Carol’s progress across the room was slow but dogged, the rubber end of her stick making a deep thump each time it connected with the floorboards. ‘Here we go,’ she said, dropping into the sofa with a sigh. ‘Now, pet, don’t leave without helping me up. Us old chooks can sit down easy as pie, but I’d still be here come Christmas if you left me to my own devices.’
Kirsty smiled. ‘Surely there’s a thingummy-whatsit in your Workplace Health and Safety file to prevent that happening.’
‘Ha!’ barked Carol. ‘You’re a cocky one; I knew we were going to get along. Now, pass it over, lovey. What have you got?’
Kirsty pulled out the newsprint and waited while Carol gave it the once-over, front and back.
‘Well,’ said the old woman. ‘Bluett is a name I’ve heard, and this header—you see the fancy scroll in the upper margin?—tells me this article was published inThe Clarence Daily. Where did you find this?’
‘In a suitcase. The thing is, Carol, this scrap isn’t all I’ve found. You see this photograph?’ She scrabbled through her backpack and pulled the old card out. ‘I’ve found theplane.’
‘Get me a biscuit, lovey. The big jar on the counter. Wait! No! Tell me everything first—we’ll have sustenance after. I know the Bluetts had a farm here back in the day; there was a son, too, as I recall, but he must have gone to school in Lismore. I’d remember the family better if he’d been one of mine, but a plane! Did you take any photos?’
‘Only a thousand or so. What do you mean, if he’d been one of yours?’
‘History teacher, pet. Long retired, but I don’t forget the ones who sat in my class.’
‘I’d love to read the rest of the article.’
‘The Clarence Dailyhas been closed down for decades since the dairy industry dried up and a lot of the locals moved out of the district. You’re not a local, then.’
‘Nope. But I, er, well, I recently found out that the Bill mentioned in the article is my great-grandfather and I’d like to learn more about him.’
‘Well that, young lady, I can help you with.’
It was that easy? ‘Oh, Carol, you think so?’
‘Help me to my feet, pet.’
She levered Carol back up and handed her the cane.
‘I may not be much chop at those EFTPOS machines, but I can scroll through microfiche with my eyes closed. The 1948 floods wiped out everything in town stored below knee height, but your scrap says 1974, doesn’t it? Back wall, I think, for newspaper archives,’ muttered Carol, making her unsteady way across the floor.