Book Review – Mrs M by Luke Slattery

RICH PATTERN

A walk down Recipe Lane

Like most people, I’ve collected some recipe favourites over time, all faithfully jammed into a plastic slide-in folder, spine broken and entombed with sticky tape. By Liz Foster.

Recently I was struck at how much of my life it reflected. But I’m not talking about the recipes. It’s the other details that yank me back. My favourite handout from the Easy Asian Cookery course I did is in there (July 1997), back when I thought learning to cook might make me like it more. It’s the general rule regarding proportions of rice and liquid for a perfect cook each time. I now have a rice cooker, but can’t part with the sheet. Hand-written notes can’t be disposed of either. The handwriting of a much beloved friend lost to cancer some years back is preserved forever between the plastic pages. Her recipe for Chicken Liver Pate includes the bracketed line ‘I soak the livers in brandy just before I start’. I’m watching her pottering in her kitchen when I read this. My mum’s favourite staples recycled over and over are also captured – not discovered until after her death, bless her, but typed neatly in Word with a front page titled ‘Recipes from Mum to the Girls with my love xx’. I’ll never cook them, but clearly they’re staying. There’s my schoolfriend Rosie’s distinctive writing detailing her banana cake, taking me back to laborious note-taking during interminable history lessons. My long passed elderly neighbour’s spidery cursive script, immortalised for all time on yellowing paper via her ‘Simplicity Chocolate Cake.’ My sister’s handwritten Chilli recipe (Chilli à la Pete), all the way from England and still a family favourite. It’s not just the recipes. On one page I’ve used an old kindergarten homework sheet from my daughter, which makes my heart swell. Another is printed on scrap I’ve brought home from work, picturing a now defunct product campaign I was working on. There’s stuff in there by my husband as well, scribbled out after calls to his mother for that Greek classic he grew up on (and which his wife is unable to deliver). His version of Pastitsio is preserved in pink biro on the Kris Kringle Shopping List pad I got one year from the weird guy in Accounts. There are also emails I’ve printed from friends with personal notations – ‘let me know how you go! Hope to see you in the New Year! The girls are growing up fast!’ The folder’s been full for years, but when something new catches my eye I still squeeze it in somewhere. I might never cook half of what’s in there, but I’ll never part with it.  It was during Governor Macquarie’s term, and under his auspices, that the iconic buildings and parks of Sydney were designed and built including Hyde Park Barracks; St James Church; the Botanical Gardens and The Domain; and, of course, Mrs Macquarie’s Chair. Mrs M elucidates this fascinating period in Australia’s history while providing the reader with an ‘imagined history’ of their life together. The novel opens as Elizabeth, back in her husband’s home on the Island of Mull, struggles through the night to write an epitaph for her husband that transcends the ‘calamity’ and ‘indignity’ of their return from Sydney after Macquarie is dismissed as Governor. Elizabeth tells the story of their work to transform Sydney from a dumping ground for Britain’s criminal outcasts to a grand city based on the ideals of equality and freedom. Elizabeth is a fascinating character: strong, purposeful and idealist but dignified and intelligent. Governor Macquarie is quite a revolutionary for his time – his dream is to build a civilisation through beautiful architecture, streetscapes, parks and gardens, and to create a society with the opportunity for freedom and social mobility. Macquarie recognised the potential and skills of many of the convicts such as builders, artisans and farmers and provided emancipation and a new life to hundreds of prisoners left to rot in the penal colony. It is through the reforming zeal of Macquarie that we meet The Architect, convicted and transported for forgery. His brilliant mind and architectural talent is soon recognised by Governor Macquarie and so begins a partnership to transform the face of Sydney. Here Luke Slattery weaves his fiction through the history as the romance develops between Elizabeth and The Architect. Slattery never names The Architect as Francis Greenway and in this way, manages to portray an invented, but convincing relationship which grows between a passionate young woman married to a man 20 years her senior and a young, brilliant man as all three work together. Slattery shows how shared passion for an idea can transcend the boundaries of the project to become a romantic obsession. I loved the way the relationships were drawn between the three central characters. Slattery portrays the complexity of the romantic triangle with sensitivity and depth. Like many Australians, I knew about the Macquaries and Francis Greenway, but the sympathetic depictions of their characters - their dreams and their disgrace - touched me deeply. The fictionalised romance added depth to the characters and piquancy to the story against a backdrop of beautifully drawn Australian landscapes. But it is the legacy of the Macquaries – their architectural vision and egalitarian ideals - which is an integral part of Australia’s history and is at the heart of this book. Luke Slattery is a world-renowned Sydney-based journalist. Mrs M is his fifth book, and his first novel. 

A BOOK LOVER’S REVIEW

Mrs M

BY LUKE SLATTERY

Mrs M is a compelling historical novel about the lives and dreams of Governor Macquarie and his wife, Elizabeth. Review by Jacqui Serafim.

ONE HUNDRED WORDS...

It was a quiet morning and I decided on a quick swim. I eased myself off the pontoon, slipped underwater then began making my way towards a group of yachts nearby. All I could see ahead was mud with a few starfish. I came up at the stern of a yacht and was face-to-face with an old man who had been watching my bubbles. “G'day mate. Having a look around?” I nodded. “While you’re down there, can you have a look for my false teef?” I quickly went down, but nothing. “When did you drop them?” “Oh, about two years ago”. Grahame Wilson, Riverview

My grandmother, Anne, never forgot her ex fiancé and she made sure to remind my grandfather, Henry, of it anytime she wanted his attention. ‘Rod Crowley’ was the name of her former flame, an Irishman who showered her with expensive gifts like the diamond and sapphire watch hidden away in an antique box. But in my heart, I knew that what she had was priceless; a devoted husband who was compassionate, generous, handsome and funny. Deep down, I think she knew it too. When he unexpectedly left this world, she realised she loved him unconditionally and he was her soulmate. Perihan Bozkurt, Lane Cove

“I’ve got chills, they’re multiplying, and I’m looooosin’ control…” sang Danny. The blonde woman standing opposite him looked at him for a moment, staring deeply into his eyes. “Would she reply,” he wondered. “What was she even thinking?” His heart was racing and he began to sweat profusely. He could hardly wait to hear her response, so when her lips parted he leaned forward so as not to miss a word. “You have influenza,” said the doctor. “The singing is a sign of delirium. the chills, sweats and loss of control are pretty standard. Go home and get some rest.” Troy Graham, Lane Cove

TO ENTER Email your story with your name, address and phone number to editor@thevillageobserver.com.au CONDITIONS Stories must be exactly 100 words about any subject and in any writing style. They must be original and unpublished. There is no limit to the number of stories that you contribute during the year. Each month, selected entries will be published in TVO. At the end of the year, all entries will be judged based on their originality and creativity. THREE WINNERS WILL RECEIVE A $50 BURNS BAY BOOKERY VOUCHER.

Kat watched the dawn light up the Sydney skyline. On the balcony all seemed peaceful, and a fine haze veiled the sky after the night’s revelry. The penthouse party had petered out after 3am. She looked at the students scattered over chairs, lounge and floor with disgust. Tim wasn’t there. Probably on the bed next door with another conquest. Why had I been so stupid? Kat’s phone pinged – a Happy New Year message. She thought she had no more tears until she saw the familiar profile. "Mum..." Kat suppressed a sob, "I'm coming home... first plane I can get..." Anne Tavares, Lane Cove

Ermine stumbled into the hallway. Streaks of light peeking through the boarded windows. Her lips trembled and her eyes burned as she tried to hold her tears. The residence had been the site of the accident and her recurring nightmares. Her fingers ran across the old photographs bursting with smiles and laughter. Clutching each other like it was their last day on earth. "Look at me", she whimpered "It's time to get over them". The flame flickered over the old pages, mocking them. The remnants of her past collapsed. She destroyed memories of her old companions as she walked away. Indigo Devlin Mum loved to surf. At 90 and a little wobbly on her feet, I took her elbow. Beachgoers watched as the little old lady tottered to the shore. Imagine their surprise when Mum took a couple of tentative steps into the water then dived like an arrow through the first breaker. Catching the first wave, she body-surfed like a pro. After a wave, Mum preferred to float face down a for a moment until the water stilled. But precisely then a young boy knocked her with his boogie board. Thinking he’d killed her, the lad ran screaming from the water. Trish Sara, Lane Cove

I wake up in fright as I look over at my alarm clock. It reads 8:16am. My flight’s at 9am and I have barely even started packing. I pack my things and race out the door, Missy’s leash in my grasp. I arrive at the airport feeling tense and grab my bags in a hurry. I run into the building with seven minutes to spare. I drop Missy off in her little cage to be loaded onto the plane. I get held up with luggage, now I’m running to my flight. I arrive but it’s gone, along with my dog. Sofia Jury

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirtyone, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirtyfour, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight. You might have thought that this story would have ended with the words ‘one hundred’. However, with ‘one hundred’ being two words that would have made it ‘one hundred and one’ words. So now, if I have counted correctly, the total of the words that I have already written and the ones I am still writing should be exactly: ‘One Hundred Words…’ Geoff Lyons, Lane Cove