Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

  Cordelia closed her eyes as the first rumble of thunder drifted overhead. The breeze had dropped and now, as the air thickened and the copper sharpness of an electric storm tainted the softer scents of eucalypt and wattle, she was taken back to those first years of her marriage. The past was catching up with her, dimming the present, coming alive with such clarity that it was almost as if the intervening decades had never been.

  Jock had been a patient, gentle lover in those early years, and she’d felt herself blossom as she explored her own sensuality and been surprised at the hidden depths he’d set free within her. Finally she had found an outlet for all those pent-up frustrations. Finally she had found someone who understood her need to run free and feel the earth between her toes and the wind in her hair. They shared the same dream, strove for the same goals, and when she gave birth to her precious twin boys, the future had never looked so bright.

  Then her father had died, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, the long dry arrived. Endless and exhausting, it drained the energy from the land and the people who tended the wilting vines, limping from one year into the next, and then the next. The sun was merciless, the winds hot, the sky scorched of colour as they trudged the long rows of vines with buckets of water. They might as well have spat into the wind for all the good it did.

  Cordelia had been torn between two loyalties during those terrible five years, and even now she wondered if perhaps it had been the drought that had caused the first cracks in her marriage. For just as it split the earth beneath the vines and blew dust spirals along the terraces, so it parched her dreams and laid bare the roots of her relationship with her husband.

  Jock’s Bundoran was a smaller vineyard than Jacaranda, and easily managed with the terraces occupying less than a couple of thousand acres. He’d set up a watering system of pipes from the bore holes and depleted rivers, and as long as there was some water in the underground springs, Bundoran would survive.

  Jacaranda Vines was another matter. It sprawled over thousands of acres, making it almost impossible to water on the same kind of system. The work was labour-intensive – hopeless against the onslaught of the drought.

  Jock had known Jacaranda would fail to bring in a harvest, and couldn’t understand why Cordelia insisted upon rising before dawn every day to cart water back and forth along the dying terraces of vines before returning, exhausted, to tend to Bundoran. His winery might be smaller than Jacaranda, with less history behind it, but it would come through the drought with minimal loss if he and Cordelia put their backs into it and didn’t give up. He resented her stubborn determination to fight for Jacaranda’s survival when his own vines needed just as much attention, and their arguments became more bitter as the heat increased.

  The drought had finally broken with torrential rains that flattened Jacaranda’s surviving vines and pounded them into the rich black earth. As Cordelia joined her brother Edward and her mother in that first, devastating walk through the terraces after the downpour, they knew they were finished. There would be no harvest this year, as there had been none for the five previous years. They had lost everything. Jacaranda Vines was dead.

  Cordelia had returned to Bundoran on that damp, bleak morning, her skirts muddy, her spirits low, to find Jock jubilant.

  ‘We’re safe, Cordy! The vines have survived despite the downpour. I knew that staking system would work.’

  He must have seen the lack of enthusiasm in her eyes for his joy was swiftly replaced with cold anger. ‘I told you Jacaranda wouldn’t come through. If you’d put as much energy into looking after our vines as you did over there, we might not have lost the Sauvignon.’

  ‘Jacaranda is more mine than Bundoran will ever be, Jock,’ she said quietly. ‘My family have worked that vineyard for four generations. Now it’s gone.’ She could feel the tears threaten but refused to let them fall. She wasn’t about to let him see how much the failure meant to her. ‘I’m just glad Father isn’t around to see it.’

  Jock had looked at her then, his expression kindly. She was bedraggled, her hair stuck damply to her face and dripped down her back as her muddy boots stained the polished floor, yet her chin was up, her mouth set in determination. He’d put his arm around her and held her close. ‘I know how much Jacaranda means to you, Cordy, and I’m sorry if I was insensitive. But this way of life we’ve chosen isn’t for the weak. Your father knew that, and wouldn’t condemn you.’

  ‘I know,’ she sniffed against his waistcoat. ‘But without a harvest for five years, Jacaranda has no money to buy in more seedlings. Mum has lost the will to fight since Dad’s death, and Edward’s still too young to take over. If I don’t do something, and quickly, Jacaranda will go under for the last time.’

  She could hear the beat of his heart against her ear. It was steady and comforting in the silence that followed her outburst, and she burrowed into his embrace.

  When he spoke some minutes later, his voice was thoughtful. ‘Our harvest will make enough this year to invest in new vines for Jacaranda. If you’re up for a challenge then so am I. Let’s see if we can salvage something from this disaster.’

  Drawing back from his embrace, she looked up into his eyes. ‘Do you mean it, Jock?’ She could hardly bear to hope, for this seemed like an answer to her prayer.

  He nodded. ‘I’m willing to invest in Jacaranda Vines, but that investment cannot be a gift, Cordy. I want something in exchange.’

  Her pulse hammered as dark suspicions tempered hope. ‘What?’

  ‘I want a fifty percent stake in the vineyard.’

  Cordelia sighed in the darkness as sleep finally descended. The vines Jock had planted all those years ago might have rescued Jacaranda, but in doing so, he had sown the wind. Now they were reaping the whirlwind.

  *

  The wooden swing-seat creaked as Daisy sat there in the darkness on the verandah. The air was still, as if poised for the coming storm, and scented by the night stock and jasmine that she’d planted many years ago. Ordinarily she would have been taking pleasure from the soft stillness of her garden, but tonight, as she gazed myopically out towards the ocean, she was barely aware of her surroundings, for her mind was elsewhere.

  She still missed her husband Martin, even though it had been almost five years since his death. She supposed it was the manner in which he went that hadn’t allowed her to get used to the idea. The cancer had gone undetected for years, and when it was finally diagnosed it was too late to operate. Three months later he was gone, and she still couldn’t accept the void he’d left behind. Still found things she wished she’d said to him. For theirs had been a truly happy marriage despite her father’s disapproval.

  She smiled as she remembered how furious he’d been when she’d stood her ground and refused to marry anyone else. It had been her one act of defiance, and she had never regretted it.

  With a long sigh, Daisy untied the cord of her cotton dressing gown and shrugged it off. It was too warm for even the lightest of clothes, and although she was normally shy, she knew no one could see her sitting there in her nightdress, for the verandah was shielded from the road by distance and a line of flowering red gums.

  She sat there in the darkness thinking about her life, wondering how it would have been if she and Martin had been able to have children. Maybe, if she had someone else to care for, she wouldn’t feel so isolated. Yet there were no guarantees in this life, and she couldn’t be sure that any children she might have had would have wanted to be bothered with her. Elderly lonely parents could become a burden.

  ‘But I’m not old,’ she whispered into the darkness. ‘I’m fifty-one. No age compared to Mum. No age at all.’

  She thought about that for a long movement, the realisation coming like a thunderbolt. It was time to face up to reality. Time to stop wasting her life in mourning and selfpity. Martin had always protected her from Jock and Mary. Had cocooned her against the harsh realities of the family corporation and the attendant business worries, even though she’d been pe
rfectly able to cope with such things. And she had willingly let him do it because it was easier to give in than fight to be heard.

  Her father had seen her natural reserve as a lack of intelligence and had instilled in her a crisis of confidence so that she was terrified of large gatherings and awkward with strangers. His bullying tactics had cowed her and she’d come to believe very early on that her looks were her one redeeming feature. Now, as the toll of Martin’s death was etched in every line of her face, she had come to believe she had lost even that saving grace, and like a timid mouse hidden herself away to become more grey than ever.

  She stood up, the forgotten dressing gown slithering to the wooden floor of the verandah. Her pulse was racing as she opened the screen door and walked into the lounge to look in the mirror. If she could believe in herself again then perhaps the years of Martin’s steady influence wouldn’t be wasted. If she could see in her reflection one glimpse of the young girl who had defied her terrifying father and married the man she loved, then she had a future less grey – less empty.

  Daisy’s hands were trembling as she switched on the lights. No negative thoughts must cloud her judgement, she decided, and after a deep breath dared to face the woman in the mirror.

  Of course there were lines on her face, but in her imagination they had been far worse than the reality. There was grey in the wavy dark-blonde hair, but that could easily be dealt with. Her eyes behind the steel-framed glasses were surprisingly clear and steady, the grey irises ringed with black, the lashes perhaps not as dark or as long as they once were. Contact lenses and mascara would help – she’d see about that tomorrow.

  Her fingers traced the high cheekbones and long, slender neck. She’d lost the youthful roundness from her face but the look suited her and her neck was still unlined. The mouth could do with a bit of lipstick and it had been years since she’d bothered to have a manicure. Her once long, perfect nails had been ruined by the frantic gardening she’d done to fill in the lonely hours since Martin’s passing.

  She blinked and blocked out the negative thought, lifting her chin defiantly at her reflection as she stepped away from the mirror to take stock of her figure. She had always been slender, even if she wasn’t very tall, and although she could do with putting on a few pounds, the silhouette through her thin nightdress was still shapely and untouched by stretch marks or scars.

  ‘It’s time you stood up to be counted, Daisy,’ she said firmly to her reflection. ‘No more dowdy clothes. No more second best. And no more being bullied.’

  They were brave words for one who had accepted long ago that her place in the family was at the end of the queue. The grey eyes looked into themselves for a long moment as if she was waiting for someone to deny this newly found courage. But there was only silence.

  ‘You still have a life, Daisy,’ she told herself. ‘Dad can’t hurt you any more – only you can do that by doing nothing. So go on, get out there and make yourself heard.’ She smiled at the silver-framed photograph that always stood on the mantel.

  Martin smiled back, and in the silence of that empty room – seemed to whisper encouragement. ‘You defied him once-so do it again.’

  Daisy nodded. Her husband’s loving spirit was alive within her. She had taken the first step towards self-belief and tomorrow she would begin her emergence from the shadows of her family to campaign against the destruction of Jacaranda Vines.

  *

  It was cool and pleasant in the first few hours after dawn and Sophie had returned from her swim refreshed and full of energy. She had slept well the night before, her dreams full of Rose.

  ‘You look chipper this morning, darling. Good night?’

  Sophie nodded as she towelled herself dry and changed into bikini top and shorts. ‘Haven’t slept so well in years. Must be the fresh air.’

  ‘So you’re not sorry you came along then?’ Her grandmother’s smile was sly.

  Sophie laughed. ‘Not at all. It was time I had a holiday.’ She paused, knife hovering over a tomato as she prepared breakfast. ‘Do you realise that barring the two weeks Crispin and I spent on honeymoon, this is the first holiday I’ve had since leaving uni?’

  ‘All work and no play,’ sniffed Cordelia. ‘Can I have two slices of bacon? I’m feeling peckish this morning.’

  ‘The doctor said you should go easy on the animal fats, Gran.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense. What does that old coot know about anything? Two rashers, and I’ll have a fried slice as well.’

  ‘Your funeral.’

  ‘At least I’ll die happy,’ she retorted, and they both laughed.

  Breakfast was eaten outside under the awning. It was still cool and the flies were not yet swarming so it was a leisurely, pleasant meal. As they ate they talked companionably of this and that and nothing in particular.

  ‘Why are we making this journey, Gran?’ Sophie asked finally. ‘Couldn’t you have told me the history behind Jacaranda without leaving Melbourne?’

  ‘I could have,’ she agreed. ‘But I’ve long had a wish to see a particular place once more before I die, and I could think of no one I’d like better to come with me than you.’

  ‘And what place is that exactly?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Cordelia said as she lathered butter on her toast.

  Sophie sighed and gave the old woman an impatient look. ‘Why’s it so important to keep our destination secret? What’s there that’s so special?’

  ‘People. Memories. Part of my youth,’ Cordelia murmured.

  ‘When was the last time you visited?’

  Cordelia’s smile was sad as she looked into the distance. ‘It was a long, long time ago, Sophie. Before I met your grandfather. I hope it hasn’t changed too much, it would break my heart not to recognise it.’

  She looked back at Sophie and must have seen the questions in her eyes for she patted her hand and smiled. ‘I’ll tell you more when we get there, darling. For now you will have to be satisfied with the story of how Rose came to Australia.’

  *

  Despite Amelia’s objections that it would seem unnecessarily rushed, the wedding was planned for late summer. Isobel and Gilbert would be married in Wilmington Church with the Bishop of Lewes performing the ceremony. The reception would be at the Manor.

  Outside in the grounds Rose tucked the latest of her mother’s infrequent letters into her apron pocket. It had been read many times over the past four weeks and she wondered when she would hear from Kathleen again. With a wistful sigh she stared out over the kitchen garden. The early-summer sunshine had brought warmth to the mellow brick walls that surrounded this peaceful haven and she lifted her face to the last of it, welcoming this moment of quiet after the bustle of the household. She could dream here, conjure up memories of her mother and brothers and the home life she still missed so terribly.

  There had been only two opportunities in the past five months to visit the Dame School in Jevington, and when she had, she’d found an awkwardness had grown between herself and her Mam. Not that she was unkind, just remote. Rose gave a tremulous sigh. The family ties had been broken since she had moved into the Manor. Davey was wary of her and there was never enough time on her hurried visits to rekindle his trust. Even the baby didn’t recognise her any more and would screech and struggle when she tried to hold him.

  Not that she didn’t like living in the Manor, she reminded herself. The food was plentiful, the beds comfortable, and when the long days of work were over, the company of the other servants made her forget her aching feet. To her relief, the Captain had kept his hands to himself recently when he made his frequent visits, and she’d only caught a glimpse of him now and again as he rode out over the Downs.

  Rose’s thoughts turned to John as the sun slowly sank. She’d heard nothing from him since Da’s funeral and wondered if the rumours of his success in the boxing ring were true. And yet she couldn’t believe he would go all the way to London without first coming to say goodbye.


  Her spirits ebbed as the sun disappeared. It was as if she’d been abandoned by everyone, and it was at times like these, when she had a few moments to herself, that the sense of loneliness seemed hardest to bear. She missed John’s company almost as much as she missed her own family, and hoped the rumours were untrue, or merely an exaggeration of the truth. Perhaps, now summer was here, he would return to the village for the horse fair the gypsies always held on the common before harvest.

  ‘Miss Isobel wants you, Rose.’

  She was startled from her thoughts by a fellow maid, Queenie’s, voice. She straightened her cap and smoothed her apron before hurrying indoors.

  Isobel Ade was flushed with excitement as she turned from the window in her room. ‘I have good news, Rose! Mama has agreed you may accompany me to London when I am married.’

  Rose’s spirits sank. ‘Thank you Miss Isobel,’ she murmured. ‘But I know Queenie was hoping to go with you. She’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘Queenie isn’t my personal maid,’ Isobel said with a frown. ‘Are you not pleased to be coming with me, Rose? I thought you would like the adventure of London and all it has to offer.’

  The girl bit her lip. London was an exciting prospect – it was just unfortunate that the Captain was to be part of the deal. ‘London sounds wonderful, Miss Isobel,’ she replied with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. ‘Will you be taking any of the other servants up with you?’ At least if there were several of them, it would be safety in numbers.