Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

  Henry frowned. ‘I had planned to have it finished before your arrival,’ he explained. ‘But the natives are impossible to train and have no skills. The convict labour only arrived a couple of months before I left for Sydney.’

  He seemed unaware of the horror on his mother’s face and carried on blithely. ‘Good bunch of men. They seem to enjoy working with their hands after so many months on those terrible ships, and the carpenters are skilled artisans who take a real pride in their work. They also know how to get the natives working. Lazy lot the Aborigines. Prefer sitting under a bottle tree to earning their bread and baccy.’ He pointed towards a strange-looking tree that did indeed resemble an upturned grey bottle. There in the sparse shade lounged a group of men and women with skin so dark they almost looked like shadows.

  Lady Fitzallan was clutching her throat, her eyes wide with horror. ‘You’re employing convicts and savages? I won’t feel safe in my bed, Henry.’ Her jowls trembled. ‘If I had known, I would never have come.’

  ‘I tried to warn you, Mother.’ His tone was exasperated as he twisted his soft felt hat in his hands. ‘The natives are quite friendly, I can assure you. Not at all war-like until they get into the liquor store, then they only fight amongst themselves.’

  Lady Fitzallan was close to tears. ‘I didn’t think anything could be this awful. When I think of my lovely home in London, of the country house in Berkshire and my tea parties on the lawn, I could weep.’

  She proceeded to do just this and Rose put a comforting arm around her. ‘I’ll make the shack as comfortable as I can, Lady Fitzallan,’ she said as brightly as she could in the circumstances. Those black men looked awfully sinister with their white clay markings, wild hair and naked bodies. ‘We have furniture and food, and look – there’s a well so at least we’ll have fresh water.’

  Lady Fitzallan sniffed and permitted her son to lead her through the broken picket fence into the yard, but she kept a fearful eye on the group of curious native faces that watched their progress.

  The door to the hovel was so old and broken it slumped drunkenly against the frame. The roof and walls were sheets of rusting corrugated iron nailed to a frame of rough timber, the windows without glass but screened with mesh to keep out the flies which swarmed over the rubbish in the yard.

  As Rose picked her way over the rubble and debris strewn across the tough, spiny grass, the spirits that had been so high during their passage along the main street plunged. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have expected this.

  The interior of the one-roomed shack was even more depressing, and furnace hot. There was a rough wooden truckle bed, a table with three legs propped up by a pile of stones, one chair that had seen better days and a range that hadn’t been scrubbed for years. Washing facilities consisted of a stained butler’s sink which balanced on a precarious wooden frame that looked as if a puff of wind might bring it down. It was filled with dishes that were hairy with mould and her entrance startled a large-eyed creature which scuttled away through a hole in the window mesh, its long fluffy tail waving behind it. Vermin had already made a start on the bed linen, and the dirt floor was littered with rat droppings and gnawed bones.

  Rose took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh and began to roll up her sleeves. She turned back to the old woman and her son who stood woefully in the yard, a cheerful smile plastered on her face to give them courage. ‘I’ve seen better, but it won’t take long to clean up,’ she said with forced cheerfulness. ‘And with the things we brought with us, we’ll soon have this looking like home.’

  Six months later the tin shack in the bush still looked as if it was falling down, but the door had been fixed along with the screen mesh and Rose had persuaded Henry to get one of the convicts to patch up the roof and repair the chimney. The range had taken hours to clean, but as the layers of dirt and grease were removed, they revealed a fine, sturdy black piece of engineering that looked wonderful after she’d given it a good polish. It was hell to cook on, though, because the fire had to be alight most of the time for her to provide three large meals a day for the convicts and native workmen – and combined with the heat of the sun, the single-room shack became a sweat box.

  The dirt floor had been swept and rolled flat, then covered with tightly fitting boards to discourage burrowing possums and curious snakes. Curtains fluttered at the windows, and clean sheets flapped on the clothes rope which stretched between trees. The contents of the bullock cart had been carefully stored under a thick tarpaulin at the back of the shack, for there was simply not enough space for a four-poster bed, heavy chests of drawers and a complete set of dining-room furniture.

  Lady Fitzallan had been tearful at the idea of her expensive furniture rotting away where the termites and heat would destroy it but had had little choice until the house was finished. Her relationship with Rose had become even closer, and now she almost looked upon her as the daughter she’d never had.

  Rose was fond of the old woman, but there were times when she wished she could see her own mother again. Kathleen might not have been the best Mam in the world, but she was the only one she knew, and despite the way she’d been treated, she would have given anything to have talked to her again.

  Waves of home-sickness often swept over her at the least expected times – like when the heat bounced off the tin roof making her swelter as she worked – when spiders, as big as your hand and twice as furry, scuttled out of the dark corners, and when, in a moment of respite, she stared out at the endless wilderness that surrounded them. This was such a lonely place. So empty compared to the sheltering High and Over hills and leafy lanes of Sussex.

  Rose stood in the doorway that afternoon to catch the breath of cool air that swept across the grasslands and empty wastes. She had been cooking since early morning and was taking this moment to rest before she had to prepare for the next day. Sweat soaked her dress and plastered her hair to her face and neck, for the kitchen was broiling, with swarms of flies settling on the merest morsel of food not stored in the wire-mesh meat safe suspended from the roof joist.

  She’d kicked off her shoes some time ago. Now her feet were stained with the red earth, the soles hardened by walking bare-foot around the vegetable plot and back and forth to the wash tub and clothes line. Her hair fell in a tangled mass over her shoulders, damp with sweat and gritty from the dust which seemed to hang permanently over everything. How shocked Cook would be if she could see me now, she thought with a grin. Well, I might be barefooted and poor – but at least I’m free. And that’s got to be worth more than gold.

  Leaning against the door jamb, she looked out over the cleared pastures to the stand of gum trees where Henry’s few cattle sought shelter. The light had a quality so clear and bright that each feature stood out in stark silhouette against the cloudless sky. The pale shifting grass was silver against the harsh red of the earth. Lime green leaves of the pepper trees were startling against the dark olive of the scrub bushes, clashing with the impudent scarlet of the bottle brush and yellow wattle. Ghost-white bark trailed in shreds down the tree trunks to reveal scars of black and red, and in the branches between the sweet-smelling eucalyptus leaves flitted parakeets and budgerigars of every colour imaginable. A flock of galahs swirled overhead, their pink underbellies a glorious sunset sweep against the sky as they gathered to drink at the water-hole.

  Rose sighed with pleasure. She might long for the cool damp days of England, but there was a beauty about this place that enticed her. Something primal that echoed within herself and would not be denied.

  She looked away and turned towards the sound of hammering and sawing. The fine new house was almost finished and reminded her of the grand residences she’d seen in London on her short stay before setting out with Lady Muriel. Built of wood, it stood two storeys high, with an elegant balcony and verandah fringed with wrought-iron lace. There were neat green shutters on the big windows, with fly screens fixed firmly over the glass, and a sturdy oak door to the front of the house whi
ch opened into a large square hall. The amber-coloured stone chimney took up most of the north-facing wall and would bring them warmth in the winter and draw the smoke. There were five bedrooms, a drawing room and dining room, a kitchen and pantry and a study for Henry.

  Life had settled into an unending round of work for all of them – but it was work that made them stronger, fitter, and at the end of the day they were snoring as soon as their heads hit the pillow. Rose was in charge of the shack, the food and all household chores. Lady Fitzallan took over the convicts and natives with a panache that had startled her son after her initial repugnance and got them all working far more efficiently than he ever could. She had a way with the men that commanded respect, and although her manner was sometimes a little domineering, she had the sense to counteract it with downright straight talking and a no-nonsense attitude. The black fellas, as they called themselves, were taught hygiene and made to wear Western clothes to hide their nakedness. Unfortunately this wasn’t always successful. Lady Muriel would sigh in despair as shirts were worn as head covers and petticoats used as slings for the babies.

  When Henry remarked upon her amazing success, she merely shrugged and told him she’d been in charge of servants all her life, why should convicts and Aborigines be any different?

  He did all the heavy work as well as run his Mission. The Aborigines loved stories and Henry used to try and convert people to Christianity, but soon realised they preferred Rose’s cooking. He’d thought about it for a while and then set them working on the garden: digging, planting a new vegetable plot, clearing and burning the scrub and laying a cinder path up to the new front door. As they worked, he told them the Bible stories and just hoped they were learning something. He saw them as a simple people, used to living off the land, hunting and fishing for their food, searching for berries and wild honey in the bush. They wore few clothes, despite his mother’s efforts to civilise them, and jabbered away in their own strange language that so far had proved unintelligible to him. He knew they laughed at him. Knew they came only because of the promise of food and tobacco. Yet he persevered. For he was called to do God’s work in this wilderness, and nothing must stand in his way.

  The evening was drawing in, the sun dipping low on the horizon, gilding the grasslands that stretched further than any eye could see. Cattle roamed contentedly now the flies had gone, rooks cawed and the smell of warm earth and cooking damper bread wafted on the cooling breeze. The fronds of the pepper tree hummed with bees, casting deep shadows across the cleared yard and carefully watered vegetable patch. A few dusty chickens scratched and fussed in the dirt and the cockerel strutted self-importantly back and forth amongst his harem, making sure they left him a few scraps for his supper. One of the convicts had erected a water pump and windmill, and this primitive wheel of rusty iron squeaked as it turned in the late breeze and drew water from the bore. It was a comforting sound, one she almost didn’t hear any more – yet if it stopped, it was noticeable by its absence.

  Rose yawned. This was the best time of day, when the heat was gone and the breeze came from the distant mountains to rustle the pepper tree and send the dust into drifting spirals across the dry earth. Work was almost over for the day, and tomorrow they would be moving the rest of the furniture into the new house. She looked over her shoulder at the gloom of the little shack. In a way she would be sorry to leave it for it had become home, and despite the heat, the dust and the flies, it reminded her of the cottage in Wilmington, for no matter how vigilant she was, the dust could never be banished, and cobwebs appeared overnight.

  The thud of horse’s hoofs on the dirt road made her look up, her hand shielding her eyes from the glare. The rider seemed to float in the watery mirage of the dying sun. He rode tall in the saddle, his broad shoulders and wide-brimmed hat silhouetted against the orange sky. There was something about him which seemed familiar, and yet she couldn’t quite think what it could be.

  He slowed his horse to a walk, the harness jingling as the animal snorted and tossed its head. ‘Miss Rose,’ he called. ‘I haf found you at last.’

  ‘Otto?’ she murmured. ‘Otto Fischer?’ She pulled away from the door jamb where she’d been leaning and hastily tried to tame her hair. She must look a right sight. Her apron was filthy, her dress almost see-through with sweat, and she couldn’t find her boots.

  He swung down from the saddle, dropped the reins and strode towards her, his arms stretched as widely as his smile. ‘Rose. My Rose. I haf come to rescue you.’ He swept her up in a bear hug and spun her around until she was giddy.

  ‘Put me down,’ she gasped, out of breath because he held her so tightly to his vast chest.

  He gently set her back on her feet, his whole demeanour reminding her of a playful oversized puppy. Rose backed off. He was too big, too loud, too overpowering. ‘I don’t need rescuing,’ she stammered, desperately trying to find her shoes and her dignity.

  ‘I think so,’ he murmured looking over her shoulder at the gloomy hovel. ‘You come mitt me, Rose. I have fine house. Not shack in desert.’

  Rose put up her hands to ward off further boisterous attack, and was met with a wall of chest that seemed to block out the sun and any hope of escape. She looked up into the cheerful freckled face and friendly blue eyes. He had good teeth, she noticed distractedly.

  ‘You can’t just come round ’ere and expect me to drop everything and run off with yer,’ she said stoutly, her confusion making her Sussex accent return with a vengeance. ‘I got an ’ouse already.’ She pointed proudly to the magnificent new building.

  His arms dropped as did his smile. ‘This is your house? You marry Minister?’

  Not for the want of his trying, Rose thought. Henry had been making sheep’s eyes at her ever since she and his mam had moved into the shack, and she’d been dreading the proposal she knew he was about to make. Lady Fitzallan had dropped enough hints and Rose already worried about how to reject him without giving offence.

  She laughed, but even to her it sounded too high and brittle to be genuine. ‘Gawd, no. It’s her ladyship’s house. But I got me own room,’ she added defiantly. ‘I’m like one of the family.’

  He let out a great sigh. ‘Thank Gott,’ he breathed. ‘I thought I had lost you, Rose.’ His expression became serious, and although it was obvious he wanted to, he no longer attempted to touch her. ‘I haf come from a long way to ask you to marry me. I think of no one but you since I am leaving Botany Bay.’

  Rose looked up at him – she had to, he seemed at least twice her height. She could see he was serious and his intentions honourable, but had a sudden, painful memory of John. His dark eyes and hair, his laughing mouth and gentle voice. So different from this flame-haired giant with the strange accent and boisterous character.

  She blinked as if to shut him away in the deepest, darkest part of her past. There was no use thinking of John. They would never see one another again. They had no future together.

  If she went with Otto, it would mean a new start all over again – a chance to explore a different part of Australia with a man who made her laugh and who would protect her. She liked Otto well enough but although there was a spark of something between them, she knew she didn’t really love him. Not with a passion – not in the way she’d felt for John.

  ‘I don’t know you, Otto,’ she said finally. ‘We’ve only met a few times. How do you know you want to spend the rest of your life with me?’

  The big man put his hands over his chest. ‘I feel it – here,’ he said. ‘Every day I see your face as I work in my vineyard. Every day I say, “Otto, you must find her”.’ He smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. ‘Now I have come. Please vill you do me the honour of becoming my vife?’

  Rose smiled up into that homely, open face. He was a good man with a good heart and it mattered to her that she couldn’t love him with the passion he deserved. He was too honest to be cheated like that. ‘I like you, Otto,’ she said softly. ‘I like your smile and the co
lour of your hair. I enjoy your company, you make me laugh.’

  ‘But?’ His broad smile was gone and his eyes were troubled.

  ‘I don’t love you,’ she said gently. ‘I hardly know you. How can I come with you?’

  He nodded, his bright head ablaze like the sunset. ‘It is gut, Rose. I vill stay here in Mission until you know me. Then you vill see I am gut man. You will marry me and come to my vineyard.’

  She was beginning to feel her resolve weaken against such a determined onslaught. ‘But won’t you be needed back at the vineyard?’

  ‘Not as much as I need to be here vit you,’ he said firmly. ‘You more important.’

  *

  Otto remained in Yantabulla for almost six months. He missed his harvest, hoping the man he had left in charge would see it through. He was lucky, for his manager was another German who shared the same passion for the vines as he did, and that year’s vintage was to be the best they’d had for a long time.’

  ‘A good omen for the future, then,’ murmured Sophie. ‘Did Rose marry him or did she decide to stick with the Minister?’

  Cordelia winked. ‘What do you think? Of course she married Otto. Muriel Fitzallan was a bit put out, but in the end she realised her son was too quiet and set in his ways for Rose, and wished them both well. She knew, I think, that Rose needed the freedom to go her own way, and she wouldn’t have had that, tied to Henry and his Mission. She even gave them a present of her four-poster bed as a wedding gift, and they had a hell of a job getting it back to the Hunter Valley for this time there were no oxen to pull it and they had to strap it to the back of Otto’s wagon.’

  Cordelia smiled. She could still remember how her great-grandmother Rose had laughed as she recalled that journey – and how she’d blushed when she recounted their first night together.

  ‘The road was rough as it had been on their previous journey,’ Cordelia continued. ‘Now, instead of a team of oxen and Bullocky Bob, there was just Rose and her new husband and a team of mules to carry the supplies and pull the wagon. The marriage ceremony had taken place in the little wooden church on the edge of town.’