Note: Issy Jinarmo is the pen name for Jill Baggett, Narelle Noppert and Maureen Kelly OAM
Angela looked around the small lounge room and gave a sigh of contentment. Living in a busy city all her life she’d promised herself a self-indulgent retirement lifestyle.
She’d moved to the south coast and into a small holiday cottage overlooking the ocean. “On holiday for the rest of my life,” she’d told her workmates and neighbours when they’d queried the wisdom of moving so far away from her familiar environment.
Angela had no family, well, none that she ever spoke about. When queried she’d flippantly say, “Oh, I’ve never had time for all that,” and changed the subject.
Managing the art department of a large department store wouldn’t be everyone’s idea of a fulfilling career but Angela revelled in it. She ran art classes on Saturday mornings and enjoyed the successes of many of her protégées as if the works were her own. All forms of artistic expression inspired her, and she was good at it, successful exhibitions and commissions supplemented her income and funded travels to places like Florence and Paris to admire the works of the masters.
Painting, pencil and crayon, sculpture, mosaics, lead-lighting, anything that required creativity was her obsession. The shed in her new back garden had formerly housed a boat, but was now home to her large collection of works, new and old, finished and works in progress.
Finally finishing unpacking she felt she’d settled in and was intending to spend the morning looking around her new environment hoping for new inspirations to start a major work, a landscape painting to hang above the fireplace she envisaged. She collected her bag from the table and headed off along the track winding through the bush-land at the back of her cottage. She’d walked the few hundred yards to the beach many times but had yet to explore the bush-land behind the house. Revelling in the peace and remoteness of her new home she set off, humming to herself and admiring the abundance of wildflowers and birdsong. She came to a fork in the path.
“Left or right?” she said aloud. A rabbit scuttled across the path to her right before stopping and looking back at her. “Right it is,” she chuckled and turned onto the narrow stony path. She followed it for a few hundred yards and came upon a cottage, a cottage painted bright pink and blue with a swing on the wooden verandah.
Sitting on the swing was a tiny woman, no bigger than a child. She had a rabbit sitting on her lap and a parrot sitting on her shoulder. She was sound asleep.
‘I’ve walked into a fairy tale. I must be dreaming,’ Angela thought, trying to take in the beauty of the scene before her.
“Margarette! Margs!” A shrill voice called from the house, “where’s the cinnamon?”
When there was no answer the door opened and an equally small man came out onto the verandah, a black kitten on his shoulder and a wooden ladle in his hand.
He stopped in amazement when he saw Angela.
“I think I’ve found my subject. Who cares if I’m dreaming?” Angela whispered to herself as she moved forward to introduce herself.
Angela smiled, but before she could get a word out the man walked toward her, the black kitten jumping to the ground, the ladle wafting a beautiful aroma of mixed spices. ‘ Hmmmm……Gingerbread.’ Sensed Angela.
“The Art Trail is not on till the first Saturday of the month, come back then please. We are not curios!”
“Oh my goodness. I am here by accident. I simply followed the track and was mesmerised by your beautiful house. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sorry. I’ll come back on the first Saturday. Thank you.” The little man headed back inside and mumbled something waking the lady from her snooze. She jumped in fright.
Angela backed off apologetically, gesturing a slight bow as she left. It was then she noticed the Art Trail signs on the fence and noted the date.
‘No reason why little people aren’t creative, I can’t wait to look at the house and see what they do.’ Smiling, she retreated.
The village mixed business had a notice board plus all sorts of flyers and handouts on the goings-on around town. As she reached for the change from her bread and milk, she took the opportunity to ask the shop keeper about the little folk.
“Oh Zeth and Margarette, they are our wonderful dwarf family, come from Gypsy heritage they tell us. Some of their designs and creations are from their forebears, colour and design with family significance that carries history and meaning.”
“Oh thank you, I’m Angela and new to the village.”
“Nice to meet you, Angela, I’m Molly, shop keeper and local historian. Welcome, I know you’ll love it here.”
“I am already, Molly, can’t wait for the Art Trail morning.” Angela replied excitedly as she bundled her groceries and flyers into her macramé shopping bag. She stepped aside to see a line of customers waiting behind her, nodding her head apologetically as she left.
Angela put the milk in the fridge and the bread on the counter top and slumped into her comfortable chair, the colourful flyers spread across her knees. ‘It seems this community has everything well and truly covered. I’m so glad I decided to settle here,’ she thought, dropping into a contented snooze but it seemed like no time at all before a heavy knock at the door woke her.
Angela jumped out of her chair and peered through the window. Standing on the path was a young man wearing a brightly coloured bandana holding back a mass of dreadlocks. Slung across his back was an artist’s easel and protruding from his knapsack were paint brushes.
Angela slowly opened the door.
“Hi, sorry for the intrusion. My name is Lucas Loveridge. I heard you talking in the general store about the Art Trail. Thought I’d pop in and welcome you to our village. My friends, Zeth and Margarette organise the Art Trail.”
“Thank you, that is very kind of you. Yes, I stumbled upon their cottage by accident the other day and did fleetingly meet them. Would you like a cuppa?”
Lucas nodded and followed Angela inside. A few minutes later they were both enjoying a cup of Peppermint tea together.
“My family way back were Travellers coming over here from England and Wales. I’m not the wandering kind though, I prefer to stay put. I rent a cottage here and paint. The bush and the ocean really inspire me and that is how I met Zeth and Margarette. They have gypsy heritage as well and I guess that is our link. Zeth may be pint-size in stature, but he is a giant in the art world around here.”
“I feel the same about the area,” Angela replied and feeling Lucas was a kindred spirit, she gave him a quick rundown on her working life and art successes.
“Wow, Angela, that’s quite a CV.”
“I guess it is when you spell it out. Like you, I find everything around here quite inspiring – the bush, the birds and, of course, the ocean. I paint in watercolour mostly.”
“If you like, I’ll call Saturday and we can go together to the Art Trail which always begins at Zeth and Margarette Boswell’s, another good old gypsy name.”
“That would be fantastic, Lucas. In the meantime, I will gather up a few of my paintings to show them.”
Angela spent a pleasurable few days going through her work and by the end of the week had a diverse collection to present to Zeth and Margarette at the weekend. It gave her time also to think about why she had moved to, what she described to her old workmates, as her little ‘piece of Paradise.’ After years of working this was just what she needed – solitude, time to think and to be at peace with the world.
Saturday morning she and Lucas arrived at the Boswell’s bright pink and blue home. She followed Lucas to the rear of the house where there was a large wooden pavilion. Quite a few people were already making their way inside. Stepping inside, Angela was astonished by what she saw – a vaulted ceiling with a mezzanine floor beneath, large arched windows through which the sun’s rays were highlighting the brightly coloured ceramic floor tiles floor. The interior walls were painted purple and yellow on which hung a multitude of acrylic, oil, watercolour and pastille paintings.
Angela stood for a moment to absorb the atmosphere. She felt she was ‘at home’ in the building. Suddenly, her reverie was disturbed.
“Oh, you’re back,” the voice was loud and strident.
Angela spun round. Zeth was looking up at her.
“Hello again, I came along with Lucas, I’m Angela. We did meet briefly the other day.”
“Angela, ah yes, Angela Cooper, I believe?”
“I haven’t mentioned my surname to anyone here,” Angela’s smile disappeared from her face. “How do you know that?”
“My dear lady, I know exactly who you are. I recognised you the other day. I’ve seen a painting of you as a young woman. It was painted by a Traveller friend of mine.”
Angela gasped. Her world suddenly stood still, then her past, a past she had always denied, came rushing back. She knew she was of gypsy stock. Her life had turned full circle. Some power had brought her to this place – to Zeth, Margarette and Lucas. Should she deny her heritage or should she acknowledge it?
She’d been teased at school when she had proudly stated she was a gypsy. She’d been devastated to find people didn’t admire her ancestors, her parents had told her they were special people with special gifts. She had always had a sixth sense and ability to foresee things but had suppressed these gifts for many years. Would she finally be able to talk freely and revel in her talents, explore her capabilities and embrace the culture of her forbears.
Yes, she realised, looking at Zeth and the knowing expression in his eyes. He was looking into her soul, she knew he’d be able to help her unleash hidden talents, vague feelings, almost forgotten memories, stories her parents had told her but which she’d put to the back of her mind as she convinced herself to live in the more widely accepted world, but the blood of her ancestors had been persistent in it’s dominance.
She saw Lucas studying a painting hanging prominently on the adjacent wall, she realised it was the one the Traveller had painted years before, before she’d left her parents’ home and put her Romany past behind. She moved over to him and said, “I think fate led me here, that’s me you know.”
He winked at her, “I know, do you think I don’t have second sight as well? I was led here to meet you. Together I think we should work on artworks celebrating Romany, our forbears, and bring the ancient culture into focus. Zeth and Margarette are ideal subjects to make a start.”
Angela looked through the door at the tiny couple. They were just starting down the trail, leading visitors through the artworks, the parrot on Margarette’s shoulder whistling cheerfully, the rabbit peeping from behind a log on the side of the path, and the kitten chasing a dandelion flower the breeze was whirling along the verandah.
‘Surely I have walked into a fairy tale,’ she thought, ‘a fairy tale I am going to turn into a book, a book of ancient stories, preserved in words and paintings and,’ she glanced at Lucas, ‘I have a creative to help … maybe in time he will be more than an art mentor…’ her thoughts drifted to hopes of what the stars held for her.
DoubleSpeak 