Dragonfly

This is the story of a romance between Michael Farrell, a medical research scientist and Gwyneth McBride, an earth mother, who meet by chance at a Writer's Conference at Katoomba in the Blue Mountains, West of Sydney. Their mutual interest in writing soon leads them into an unlikely romance. Michael finds himself progressively drawn into the rural life of Gwyneth with all her passionate love of nature and spiritualism. Though their obvious social differences gives rise to a powerful attraction, forces outside of their control work to push them apart. Till finally Gwyneth's deep love of Nature and the environment is severely threatened. ‘The invitation,’ he thought, ‘now where did I put it?’ He searched the leather satchel while frantically probing his mind. ‘Ah, I did put there,’ he smiled remembrance. Unfolding the paper that read, Dear Mr Farrell, You are cordially invited to attend . . . His family had been convincing but was he actually ready to get back into the mainstream? No time for doubt now. His eagerness returning, he shuffled the neighbour’s cat out of the way of the lift, doors closed on its arching pfit pfit. Freshness accosted him as he stepped out onto the quiet North Sydney Street. Obsessed with thought, he halted on the front path and scanned the street for his car. He usually forgot where he had parked it. ‘Ah yes, there it is,’ he told himself as he crossed the street to his silver Camry. Wedged between neighbouring cars where it looked to fit, but getting out would take some skill. Traffic flowed nicely. It had been years since he visited the Blue Mountains in Sydney’s West. Not knowing the road took concentration. Oblivious to the rugged beauty flanking both sides of the highway he pressed on like a man with great purpose and a serious intention. Three hours later he pulled into the car park of the Carrington Hotel, Katoomba, to find it was chocked with cars. ‘Oh god,’ he muttered to nobody in particular. ‘Hope I get a space?’ Finally with relief he swung into the last place left. The Carrington was a grand old retreat first opened in the 1800’s; later sold in the early 1900’s. It had held its charm and elegance, doing Lord Carrington proud. The stained glass façade made an imposing entrance. It had become a destination for holiday makers and honeymooners for the past century. The gardens were in full bloom. The fragrance of flowers wafted into the open spaciousness of the foyer, a little missed by Michael. Standing at the side of the entrance, half in the shadow, was a country woman. ‘Excuse me,’ Michael began as he gazed into her face. ‘Can you tell me where the writer’s festival is to be held?’ She appeared a little uncomfortable as he looked at her closely, detecting a sadness in her eyes. Her skirt swept the floor and its deep earthy burnt oranges and rustic greens portrayed the turning of leaves. Her peasant style blouse which elongated her neckline suggested the figure of a swan; the idea of a swan maiden dance in his head as he waited for her reply. ‘It’s the first turn to the right, down the hall and the second conference room on the left.’ He was about to thank her, before he risked another question, ‘Are you going to this talk? ’ ‘Yes,’ she replied. Stepping in before him she led the way. She turned into a room where chandeliers hung and rows of people chatted. A low hum, like that of bees, pushed towards their ears. She moved towards some empty seats. Feeling a little self-conscious, he asked, as she moved along the row. ‘Would you mind if I sit next to you?’ She agreed. He was touched by her ready acceptance. They looked as if they came from different ends of town. The presentations were excellent. Accomplished authors spoke of their struggles to publish, their challenges in writing, their reasons for writing and their inspirations. One speaker in particular spoke about the way to enhance one’s writing by the use of metaphor and imagery. Michael’s interest was aroused, as he had largely ignored this aspect of writing during his years of study. He believed that logic was the touchstone to good writing, not the imaginative flights of fantasy. Yet his attention was captured by the woman seated next to him. She seemed strangely engaging in the half light of suspended chandeliers. ‘So,’ he stated whimsically. ‘What do you think of this idea of the power of metaphor?’ ‘Metaphor is the crucible of our imagination. I think it’s powerful for drawing the reader into the writer’s world,’ she stated. ‘Obviously, you liked the talk. I have my reservations’, and without waiting for a reply, he continued, ‘I think it extremely feminine to write like that. Clarity and brevity are the prime rules of good literature.’ ‘Prime rules,’ she mirrored. She worked hard to absorb his adamant assertions. ‘Yes of course,’ he continued. ‘Metaphor belongs to poetry, not life writing.’ ‘Oh, is that what you’re doing? Have you published?’ ‘Not yet,’ he breathed out hoping she had not published either. ‘No, neither have I,’ she replied. There was honesty in her voice. He felt equal to her somehow. She seemed so vulnerable and yet there was a strength in her and something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. As they moved out into the hall, Michael announced warmly, ‘My name’s Michael.’ ‘I’m Gwyneth. Gwyn for short,’ she returned with a smile. ‘I prefer to use full names, dislike nicknames,’ he added before asking, ‘Do you have to rush off, Gwyneth, or would you like a coffee? I don’t know my way around. Perhaps you know a good place where we can sit and chat?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ She spoke it so enthusiastically, her face lit up with a brightness, as she led him through a crowded mountain street to the Paragon.