Two
‘Kuranda’, Hornsby, New South Wales, 24 December 1901
The sun beat down on the red roof of Kuranda in brilliant Sydney fashion but the clever design of the modern bungalow and her shadowed verandah wings kept the house cool, even on such a day. The house on Rosemead Road was built for summer comfort, as well as for warmth in the chilly winters, with numerous fireplaces throughout. However, as much as her mother loved the artistically styled new home they’d built after moving from their previous, rather uninteresting, house around the corner, her father loved the gardens more, Ivy knew.
After much cultivation, the extensive grounds were now filled with fruit trees and roses among the native bushland, and it also boasted a brand-new tennis court, which the girls enjoyed immensely, especially Frankie. But it was the ponds and the dragonflies that hovered around them that Professor Albert Merriweather enjoyed the most since he’d retired from full-time teaching. They always followed water, he’d reminded his daughters often enough when they were children.
‘If ever you find yourself lost in the bush, look for the dragonflies,’ he’d say. ‘They’ll show you the way to the nearest creek, the lifeblood of the Australian bush – not just for the insects and the animals, mind, for we humans too – and you can follow it down to a river and passing boats. It’s instinctual with these creatures, you see,’ he’d add fondly, his voice always infectiously warm when he spoke of his beloved dragonflies. ‘Most species spend the first few years as water nymphs; the majority of their life cycle, in fact.’
Ivy loved water and she loved that fact. It always made her feel safe and connected to Mother Nature, who would send these ethereal creatures to guide her should she ever need them, like they were tiny fairies, made just for her rescue should such a thing ever occur. This was a lovely thought to a child raised with a healthy fear of being lost in the Australian wilderness. Unfortunately her intellectual father liked to stick to the facts and tended to interrupt such whimsical ponderings with less beatific scientific reality. ‘Once they emerge, they metamorphose from larvae by splitting their heads to shed their exoskeleton,’ she remembered him adding once. ‘Fascinating moulting process, the ecdysis.’
Her mother had teased him for turning something comforting into a horror story at the time, and indeed Ivy had been rather repulsed by the image, but now she smiled at the recollection, looking over at him fondly.
‘What a beauty,’ Albert was mumbling as he squinted at a waterfall redspot hovering above the main pool. He’d been pleased to see their numbers increasing this season after the installation of a small fountain, and Ivy studied the iridescent imprints and red spots on its wings, trying to ascertain the exact colours so she could capture them for him accurately. She’d been enjoying her art immensely this past year and her father had encouraged her, especially since she’d begun painting these whimsical, delicate creatures, the subject of his life’s work.
‘Ah, the fates have been kind today, Ivy girl,’ he observed with contentment as he took out his spectacles and made notes in his pocket book. ‘A marvellous turnout.’
‘Have you decided on a name yet?’
Albert had retired from lecturing and was now a full-time entomologist and scholar. He was soon to release yet another book, but so far the titles he’d entertained were yawningly dreary, from her point of view. Then again they usually were. The study of insectivorous Odonata was hardly a poetic theme. However Albert found great joy in his dragonfly world and the fact that there was room for these life-giving pools scattered across Kuranda made their new home his very own paradise on earth. His wife and daughters didn’t share in his enthusiasm for the actual recorded science but Ivy enjoyed watching them hover about in the sunshine nevertheless.
‘How about South Eastern Dragonflies: a Biological Classification and Seasonal Recorded Study.’ Ivy harrumphed and the professor’s bushy eyebrows rose up to his wide-brimmed hat in surprise. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s boring, that’s what.’
‘Boring?’ he said, as if considering the word for the first time. ‘Well, what would you suggest then?’ he asked as he followed the dragonfly across the lawn at a stroll, notebook at the ready.
‘I don’t know, maybe something a little more romantic,’ she said, following him.
‘Romantic?’ he said with a wry chuckle. ‘I hardly think a scientific study falls into that category.’
‘It could work. You could make it about their colours or their behaviour. Or something about the ponds perhaps.’ She paused to stare out at the sky as she considered it. ‘How about To Follow Water. You’ve often mentioned them doing that.’
‘Have I?’ Albert said as he looked across at her, amused. ‘Well, it’s a lovely name but more suited to a book filled with your artwork, my dear. Most dusty old scientists such as myself lack a fondness for romanticism, I’m afraid.’
‘And ditzy young women like me are silly enough to look at the pretty pictures and learn little else, I suppose.’
She was miffed now and Albert’s keen blue eyes recognised it at once.
‘Truly seeing the beauty in nature surpasses mere observation,’ he said, coming to a standstill to face her fully. ‘Those who deeply appreciate it practise the highest form of intelligence, in my humble opinion. Never underestimate that about yourself, Ivy,’ he added gently. ‘I know I certainly don’t.’
A lump began to form in her throat at his words, and she was surprised how deeply they affected her. Ivy was accustomed to being complimented on her appearance or her charm but rarely for her intelligence.
‘I … I just like to soak it all in, especially since I’ve spent more time on my painting and sketching. Details have become, well, more detailed to me, I suppose …’ She faltered, wishing she’d left things at ‘intelligent’.
Albert seemed unperturbed. ‘Precisely,’ he said, turning back to study the dragonfly. ‘It’s become your purpose, I think. The water you follow, if you’ll forgive my own clumsy attempt at romanticism.’
Ivy considered the concept as the dragonfly hovered. ‘I’ve never thought of it that way. I suppose it is developing into more than just a habit or a hobby, perhaps even a purpose, as you say. I … I was thinking I might take classes and develop it somewhat. Maybe even teach the children at the orphanage, if the nuns would allow it.’
‘Your mother always enjoys art,’ the professor said, squinting at the insect and scribbling in his book. ‘Why not discuss it with her and see what you two can come up with?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ivy said, frowning now. ‘I don’t think she would take it very seriously. I mean it’s not like politics or journalism or something, you know, important.’
Her father merely smiled as he worked. ‘Human beings are complicated creatures, Ivy girl, flying along so fast,’ he added as the dragonfly came to rest on a reed, its wings in gentle pause. ‘Without the humanities how would we ever remember to stop and enjoy it?’ Ivy looked at him and he met her gaze over his spectacles. ‘Seems rather an important thing to me.’
He said it with such understanding Ivy felt the lump in her throat return but then Frankie’s strong voice sailed from the balcony window above, interrupting the moment.
Daughters of freedom, the truth marches on,
Yield not the battle till ye have won!
Albert and Ivy both began to laugh. ‘And what form of intelligence do you suppose that is?’ Ivy was prompted to ask.
‘That, my dear, is pure enthusiasm coupled with determination, something all of my daughters possess in spades. Although I don’t suppose I could have expected anything less when I married your mother.’
‘Yes, I guess you knew what you were getting into,’ Ivy said with a giggle as Frankie’s voice continued to ring out and they made their way back to the house.
‘I’d like to say that was true, Ivy girl, but nothing and no-one could have prepared me for the three of you.’
His smile was indulgent as H
arriet’s voice carried across the lawn, instructing them to pick some lemons on their way in. The request only further emphasised just how different her parents were, aside from a shared love of the sciences.
Harriet loved lemon in her tea whereas Albert preferred milk and sugar. She also loved brass bands, modern architecture, full-blown roses and her pet talking parrot Pretty Boy. Albert preferred orchestra music, hadn’t the foggiest idea about architecture, got the sneezes around roses and as for Pretty Boy, well, he was prone to pecking Albert’s fingers on occasion, especially when he clipped the poor chap’s wings.
The clipping was a recent necessity and seemed a cruel thing to do but Ivy had made her peace with it. She’d hated that he was confined to the house and never able to fly, so much so that last year she’d let him out, thinking he’d have a lovely time then head back home. Instead, the big pink cockatoo had flown up a gum tree and sat there for three days, at a loss how to survive on his own after a lifetime of being in captivity – firstly in an aviary on their Uncle Frank’s farm and then in the Merriweather’s living room.
When he grew weak and fell out and had to be nursed back to health the vet had advised that Albert clip him regularly to prevent such a drama occurring again but the professor hated doing it. He’d dedicated his life to observing wildlife in flight and the simple freedom that afforded and besides, he’d developed a soft spot for the funny fellow. They all had. Still, on the positive side of things, Pretty Boy was allowed outside now that he couldn’t fly away and Harriet rather outrageously enjoyed parading about town with the bird on her shoulder. It wasn’t just his startling and unexpected appearance as an accessory that appealed either, Ivy knew. His lack of censorship wickedly amused her mother too.
Albert and Ivy paused at the lemon tree to grab a few pieces of fruit before retiring inside to find Harriet serving tea and scones, Pretty Boy watching with interest from his perch on her shoulder.
‘Watcha doin’, lovey?’ the bird enquired in his comical way.
‘Be a dear and put him on his tree, Bertie,’ Harriet instructed. Albert did as she asked, although Pretty Boy looked at him warily as he was transferred to the ‘tree’. It was really just an old branch Albert had anchored in a tin when the bird had arrived one day as a gift from Harriet’s uncle. The story went that the cockatoo had fallen out of his nest as a chick but Albert said he’d always suspected that Uncle Frank had climbed up and robbed him from his nest. At seventy-two, old Frank was still a daredevil and not entirely on the straight and narrow. Maybe that was why Pretty Boy was such a character himself – he was literally stolen property. The branch had a seed box attached and Albert added some to it, which seemed to mollify him.
‘Pretty Boy,’ the bird cooed. He was fond of saying his own name, and he really was pretty, being a rare Major Mitchell cockatoo, mostly pink and white with glorious orange, yellow and red markings above his beak and in his crest. That he seemed aware of this fact simply added to his overall charm.
‘Well, it’s official, I can’t find my damnable hat,’ Frankie declared as she clambered down the double oak staircase. It was a graceful centrepiece to the home, polished in deep honeyed hues with a rich velvet-red carpet runner and lit by a large leadlight window that caught the gold in Frankie’s hair. The beauty of the setting was somewhat spoilt by her chaotic descent, however, and the colourful ranting as she continued. ‘Flippin’ flamin’ blasted hell.’
‘An interesting expression, dearest, but do take a break from swearing and stomping about like an old farmer and sit down for tea,’ her mother said between pours. ‘Old farmer’ was actually about right. Frankie’s penchant for country slang and swearing had long been laid at her great-uncle Frank’s door. She’d adored him when they’d lived near him as a small child. Country Queensland had never quite left Frankie’s blood.
‘No time for it today,’ Frankie informed them as she searched the room, messing up cushions and peering under furniture. ‘I’ve got a deadline to meet down at the paper. Where’s the stupid bugger of a thing?’
‘Language again, Frankie,’ her mother warned offhandedly.
‘Just wear one of mine,’ Ivy suggested.
‘One of yours?’ Frankie said, looking momentarily and comically incredulous.
‘I do have quite a few,’ Ivy said, with a shrug and a nod at the hatstand, ‘amazingly hanging on hooks over there and not lost on the floor of your bedroom.’
Both their parents glanced over at Ivy’s outlandish array of headwear with amusement then back at Frankie. ‘I doubt you’ve something less colourful than Pretty Boy, which won’t exactly impress that pelican of a man.’ The ‘pelican’ in question was Mr Forsyth, head editor of the district paper, an individual fast becoming Frankie’s nemesis.
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Ivy sang, feeling rather entertained as Frankie glared, her exasperation evident, before hurrying over to peruse the hats.
‘Blimey, don’t tell me you wear this in public?’ she said, screwing up her nose at a brilliant red hat decorated with holly.
‘Wore it this morning, actually,’ Ivy enjoyed telling her, ‘when I delivered my invitations.’ Patrick had complimented her on it, saying red was his favourite colour, but her family didn’t need to know that much.
‘You must have sent half the neighbourhood blind,’ Frankie remarked, squinting at it.
‘God coloured me brightly so I may as well …’
‘Yes, yes, join the ruddy party,’ Frankie muttered, tossing the red one aside and choosing a bright purple bonnet instead. ‘I suppose this is less ghastly but I’m still going to look like a god-awful peacock,’ she bemoaned as she tied it over her tightly bound blonde hair.
‘I think it looks stylish,’ Ivy said, partly in defence of her bonnet and partly because Frankie truly did appear rather fetching in it.
‘Oh well, perhaps he’ll actually look at me today. Usually all I get is grunts.’
‘Must be something wrong with the man,’ Albert observed and Frankie’s purple-framed face broke into a smile.
‘You’re just biased, Daddy,’ she said, blowing him a kiss then waving at the others. ‘See you a bit later on.’
‘Why don’t you take Shadow?’ Harriet called. Shadow was their horse and was usually fought over for transport but Frankie was in too much of a rush.
‘No time to saddle him. See you tonight!’
‘Don’t be late for carols,’ her father reminded her as she left. Frankie always heartily enjoyed the traditional neighbourhood carol singing on Christmas Eve.
‘I won’t.’
‘Good luck,’ Harriet called after her as the door slammed shut. ‘She shouldn’t need it but still.’ The Sydney Morning Herald had published several of Frankie’s articles by now but the local paper was less enthused by her feminist themes, severely censoring her writing if publishing it at all. With the Herald and the women’s bulletins openly accepting of her work Ivy didn’t really understand why she persisted with ‘the local rag’, as Albert termed it.
‘She should focus on the Herald,’ he said, voicing Ivy’s thoughts.
‘She wants local awareness raised and I quite agree,’ Harriet said as she settled down with her tea. ‘I just wish they’d do something about that Father Brown. Aggie told me he turned away another girl – not yet fifteen years old. That’s a child and with no parents or kin. Where’s the Christian charity?’ she added angrily. ‘Hypocrite. And at Christmas time too, as Aggie pointed out. How can he possibly call himself a man of God?’
‘In the family way, I take it?’ Albert said.
‘Yes, but hardly her fault. Some low-life attacked her.’
Ivy shifted, uncomfortable now, and Albert cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps not a topic for young ears.’
But Harriet stirred her tea angrily. ‘What of that child’s young ears? What will she be hearing out on the streets while she and the baby starve? I’m telling you, Albert, they need to hurry up and give we women the vote so we can make la
ws to protect each other. It’s about time.’
‘The vote for women will pass soon, I’m sure,’ Albert tried to placate her. ‘With all the work you’ve done the new parliament is already moving on it and South Australia and the west have passed the state vote so it surely can’t be far off,’ he reminded her. ‘1902 will be your year – and a world first, let’s not forget, if they let you ladies actually stand for election.’
‘Humph. If the men can stop patting each other on the back long enough over Federation. Nine months later and we’re still hearing them carry on.’
‘We’re not entirely a nation though, are we?’ Ivy said tentatively. ‘I mean, we are still bound to England.’
‘True, Ivy girl, true,’ Albert said, obviously pleased to see her joining in, ‘but we are a nation and that’s a start, although I agree with your mother about all the backslapping. This should amuse you, my dears,’ he added, reaching for the paper to read aloud. ‘Saw this one this morning:
Ah! See, now the sun uprises with a glow like firelit gold,
With glory flooding a country where never a slave was sold.
With her new-born flag saluting, Australia greets the sun—
The bright sun of Federation, whose day at last hath begun.’
‘“Never a slave was sold”? We’re a nation based on convicts whose very flesh was sold as they built the place! Never a slave …’ Harriet tutted, tapping her spoon furiously. ‘Besides, every woman is a slave when she has no right to vote nor protect herself from injustice and tyranny! I mean, here we are, living in an age where a man can take a woman to court to enforce her bedroom duties and yet …’
Albert cleared his throat once more as Ivy looked uneasily down at the floor.
‘Yes, well,’ Harriet said, slowing a bit now, ‘I suppose enough said for today, but you have to know these facts, Ivy. The truth may be unpleasant sometimes but it’s still the truth,’ she continued. ‘I didn’t spend all those years fighting for my right to an education only to raise you a … a protected ignoramus.’
Ivy flinched at the word, ashamed to not want what her mother had so desired and was still denied. Raised in London, Harriet had completed her studies in natural science at Cambridge University with second-class honours, no less, but the university wouldn’t grant a degree to a woman. She was still campaigning to have her work recognised via correspondence and the ramifications of that ongoing injustice these past twenty years echoed in her parenting. A woman’s worth was measured largely in intellect and passion, in Harriet’s books, and Ivy felt well below par in both. Especially when compared to her sisters.
Sisters of Freedom Page 2
