The French had come up with the idea of coating the vines with smoke, and in the early years, Otto had used brush and straw with green leaves to make a smoky fire – and as the frosts hadn’t been too severe, the vines had survived. Now he was better equipped with hundreds of frost pots filled with oil. As they hurried out of doors, Rose prayed this new method would save them.
She stepped out into the yard and knew they were in trouble. The cold goosed her flesh, bit deep into her bones. The housemaids came out shivering in their night clothes to join them, and Lady Muriel hovered in the doorway, her nightcap askew on the grey curls, the little girls peeking out from behind her voluminous nightgown.
‘Stay with the children, Muriel,’ Rose ordered. ‘You girls put some clothes on and come with me.’
They joined the procession of men, each carrying the flaming, smoking frost pots up and down the terraces, dousing the grapes in a tarry film. Rose was soon black from head to foot, eyes stinging, choking from the smoke. It was a silent, desperate trudge in that glittering cold, no one daring to voice their fear.
The night dragged on and one of the maids stumbled in her weariness and Rose rushed to pick up the sticky, burning pot. A fire now would finish them.
Otto strode up and down, encouraging the exhausted men, bringing them water, relighting pots that had run out of fuel, trying desperately to reach all his vines before it was too late.
Rose watched him as she trudged back and forth coating the grapes with the smoke. He strode like a great bear along the terraces, a man still in charge, a man with hope, but she was afraid for him for she understood what it would mean if they failed.
Three hours later the darkness began to lift and in the faint glow on the horizon the yellow flames of the pots seemed to pale.
Otto called out, ‘Sun is coming. Now ve vill see.’ His voice was cracked with weariness and emotion and Rose went and put her hand in his to comfort him.
The smoke-blackened figures stood in exhausted silence as they watched the sky lighten. There was nothing more they could do. Rose and Otto stood side by side as the light on the horizon deepened to gold. He held her hand in his big paw, his eyes fixed on the lines of vines. Rose could feel the rapid thread of his pulse and knew how hard it was for him to disguise his anguish, his dread – the hope they’d done enough.
The mist dissolved in a burst of light from the rising sun and the people of Coolabah Crossing were finally faced with the night’s outcome. Rose felt Otto flinch as they stared out over their hundreds of acres where frost rime glittered on the rows of blackened vines which drooped, defeated and dead, on their supporting wires.
Silence engulfed them as the sun rose in majestic splendour above the scene of devastation. Then one of the housemaids began to wail, and Otto took a deep, shuddering breath as the sound echoed round the blackened, dead valley.
Rose was galvanised into action. She strode across the ruined terrace and slapped the girl’s face. ‘Stop that,’ she shouted. ‘We haven’t been beaten – not yet. Some of the vines might have survived. Go and look.’
She returned to the silent Otto. His shoulders drooped as if the weight of the world was on them. His face was haggard beneath its coating of oily soot, tell-tale streaks of white evidence of the tears he’d shed. Her heart lurched and she threw her arms around him, holding him as she would one of her daughters. ‘Come,’ she whispered finally. ‘Let’s walk. Let’s see if we can find something to keep us going until the next planting.’
They walked for over an hour as Rose counted the vines that had survived. A few acres on the lower slopes, and one or two patches amongst the older, more established vines. But the new planting had been entirely lost, as well as a large area of Sauternes.
She stood there with her husband surveying their loss. Her hard-earned knowledge had taught her to estimate how good a harvest would be, and judging by what she saw now, there would only be a quarter of their crop harvested this year. That was if the grapes didn’t get too much rain or humidity or were eaten by caterpillars or locusts first.
‘I vill not be able to repay the debts, Rose,’ Otto said sadly. ‘Nor vill I be able to replant unless the bank gives me the money.’
‘So go to the bank and ask for more,’ she said firmly. ‘We have all this land and the house to put up as collateral. We aren’t beaten yet.’
He smiled down at her, his spirits already rising. ‘You are so small and yet today you are stronger than I, Rose. So much determination in that little body.’ He took a deep breath that shuddered through his large frame, then squared his shoulders, his chin raised defiantly as he looked over the blackened remains of many years’ labour.
‘I am not defeated, Rose. I vill send to Germany for another consignment of vine cuttings immediately. I vill also go to the other vintners in the Hunter and see vat they vill sell me. I vill replant. I vill be patient. My plans are set back three years, Rose, but ve are young. There is plenty time.’
Neither of them voiced their fears. What if next year’s crop failed too?
Otto rounded up the men and gave an order to Hans to issue them with rum. Rose could scarcely bear the sight of the vanquished vineyard. Now Otto seemed to have recouped his energy, she could return to the house with the other women and help with the food that would be needed. There would be time to mourn later, when she was alone and Otto couldn’t see her.
Her skirts trailed in the dirt, her shoulders ached, and there were blisters on her fingers where she’d burned herself on one of the pots – yet she smiled as she saw the other women, for only the whites of their eyes were visible in the blackened faces. They looked at one another in shocked silence, then despite their weariness and the terrible loss they had all suffered, they burst out laughing. Rose finally knew at that moment why she loved this wild, untamed country. She was free here, equal to those around her regardless of their birth, bound to them in the endless struggle to survive in these lonely open spaces. Otto was right. They would not be defeated.
*
Cordelia’s eyelids grew heavy and she fell into a doze. The breeze was warm, the sunlight dappled and dancing through the wilgas, but her dreams were dark, populated with people from the past who paraded before her in a cavalcade of memories. There had been frost at Jacaranda and they had spent all night out with the smoking pots, their hopes and fears all directed to that moment of dawn when all would be revealed. Modern methods had improved their chances against the deadly enemy of frost, but there were still so many other predators on the vines and their own lives seemed bound to the survival of those delicate grapes.
Then there was Jock, his face browned by the sun and wind, striding along the terraces issuing orders, lashing out with his whip at some poor soul whose work was too slow or careless for his liking. Labour laws might have changed the way he dealt with his employees in the later years, but she could still hear his raging voice as he bullied poor Edward, saw again the humiliation her brother had suffered at his hands. The light had gone from Jacaranda during those years. Now perhaps there was a glimmer of hope – a chance to begin again.
Her eyelids fluttered open and it took a moment to realise where she was. She sat there, unwilling to break the spell of her dream. The years had fled, taking with them her youth and her strength but never her memories. She had lived in a time that would not come again. A time of exploration and adventure in which she and Jock had made their mark. Strange how that seemed more real than now. Strange how the past was full of colour whereas the present appeared to have lost its substance.
‘Cordy? How y’goin?’
She looked up at Wal whose face was creased with concern. ‘Just wondering if it was all worth it,’ she said quietly.
‘Too bloody right it is,’ he growled, pipe clamped between his remaining teeth. ‘You and me worked hard, Cordy. This is our children’s inheritance – got to be worth something.’
She shaded her eyes and looked out over the land. ‘It’s time I went back to Jacaranda,�
� she murmured. ‘Back to where I really belong.’
‘Not feeling crook, are yer?’ He frowned, his calloused hand light on her shoulder.
She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m just like an old clock, Wal. Ticking away, slowly winding down. It won’t be long before I stop altogether.’
‘You and me both, girl,’ he said with a sigh as he inspected the cold dottle in his pipe. ‘But it ain’t time yet,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s unfinished business.’
*
The line of graves marked the final resting place of the ticket of leave men who’d lived out their lives in this distant corner of the world never to see the coast of home again. Most of them had been so young, Sophie realised. Too young to have been torn from their families and all they knew for this untamed land. They had come from London and Liverpool, from Ireland and Scotland and Wales, and she could almost feel their poor lost spirits in the earth that covered them. No wonder so many of the towns and cities in Australia bore the familiar names of their mother country.
She watched as Wal put his hand on Cordelia’s shoulder, saw the concern in his face turn to a smile. They had been cheated of the life they could have led together, she realised – cheated by circumstances and the stiff regulations of their times – just as the ticket of leave men had been cheated of their futures. Yet their feelings for one another had survived the years and the distance, and although there must be bitterness for what they had lost, they both hid it well in the joy of seeing one another again. It was good that Gran could make this journey before it was too late – just a pity she hadn’t lived in a time when she could have packed her bags and chased her dreams.
Sophie jammed her hands in her pockets. Wasn’t she doing the same, she wondered. By turning her back on Jay, by accepting his rejection without question, she was about to make the same mistake. But this wasn’t the first half of the century, it was the last decade of the millennium – there were fewer restrictions – fewer barriers for them to breach.
She knew then she would have to face him. Have to ask why – for her own sake, and peace of mind. If things were as hopeless as she thought, then it couldn’t hurt more than it already did. She would have to pick up the pieces and start over – but she had done it before, and although it had ended in disaster, she could do it again. Lessons had been learned – she wouldn’t rush into another relationship.
Putting all thoughts of Jay to the back of her mind, she returned eagerly to her grandmother. ‘Ready to tell me the rest?’ she asked. ‘Or are you too tired?’
‘I’m always tired, darling – but that’s what happens when you get to my age.’ She patted Sophie’s knee. ‘Now, where was I?’
Sophie leaned back on the bench and closed her eyes. She could hear the crickets and the flies and the rustling of the grass and the leaves. Could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin and smell the earth and the sweetness of the ripening grapes. And as Cordelia once more took up the threads of her story, Sophie felt herself slip into Rose’s world.
*
Coolabah Crossing was within the tribal lands of the Wiradjuric, and as the vineyard was cleared and settled, the curious natives came out of the bush and set up humpies. They had learned quickly that the coming of the white man meant food and baccy and the strange fruit drink that let them commune with their Ancestors. Otto tolerated them for he’d heard about the troubles on other stations when the owners had tried to force them away. As long as they stayed out of the terraces and did a bit of work now and again, he let them stay.
Rose was fascinated by them. Their skins were so dark it was as if the sun had sucked away all reflection, the eyes almost ochre in the broad faces. Yet it was their tribal markings, so different from those of the Wandjuwalku at the Mission, that really made her wish she knew more about these silent, watchful people with their earth-bound philosophy.
As the years had rolled past, she’d got to know them and some of their legends. She even learned a few words of their language and would often sit with Wyju and listen to his stories about the Dreamtime.
He was a tribal elder, a tall, slender man with whorls and slashes etched into his flesh and daubed with clay and ash. He wore a thin leather thong around his waist and another around his head. Yet his nakedness did not disturb her for it seemed natural in a proud man of the Never Never.
It was three days after the frost attack and Wyju had just returned from walkabout. Otto and Rose were sitting on the verandah watching the last of the sun disappear behind the hills.
‘Where you been, you lazy bugger? We could haf done with you these last few days.’
‘Been walkabout, Boss.’ Wyju came and squatted at the bottom of the verandah steps.
‘Vat is this, Wyju? You got another wife out there, I bet.’ Otto laughed at his own joke but the native frowned.
‘I been singin’ up the country, Boss. Walkabout means treading in footprints of Ancestor, singin’ his songs, making creation again.’
Rose had heard about these invisible song lines. ‘How do you know what to sing, Wyju? And if you can’t see them, how do you know where the lines are?’
The old man slowly shook his head. ‘Dreamtime tracks, Missus. Ancestor walk over land scattering words and music in his footprints. A song is map given to baby by mother when first kicks in belly. Mother marks place and then it is totem for baby. Baby has dreaming with song lines, and he will meet brothers of the same totem if he does not stray from them.’
‘It all sounds very complicated,’ grumbled Otto. ‘If you can’t see the lines or hear the music how vill you know if you haf kept to your path?’
The smile was wide in Wyju’s dark face. ‘Australia like big music, Boss. Song lines along you all over from sacred site to sacred site. Only black fella know sacred sites.’
‘So dreaming and song lines and totems are all a part of the same thing?’ Rose was confused now. ‘What happens if a man crosses from one line to another without knowing? Will he be in danger?’
‘Dreaming is story. Every site has a dreaming. Black fella ask, Who’s that? Whose story? A rock could be liver of speared kangaroo that Ancestor ate on his journey. A billabong the hiding place of fish totem.’
‘So we could be walking over these sacred places without even knowing?’ Rose felt a chill as the man’s gaze turned to her.
‘Bad thing happen if you destroy totem, Missus. Legend say man alonga here move sacred stones and fire dreaming come with spear to kill him.’
‘Don’t frighten the Missus, Wyju,’ warned Otto. ‘She’s got enough imagination as it is, without you putting ideas into her head.’
‘You have big trouble with farm, yes?’
Otto and Rose nodded.
‘It is because you take away rainbow serpent’s eggs.’ Rose frowned and Otto laughed. ‘Snake eggs, my eye!’ Rose saw the look of scorn in the black face and put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. ‘I think we should take him seriously, Otto,’ she murmured. ‘There’s a lot of truth in legend – I should know with the Irish in me.’
She turned back to Wyju. ‘Where are these eggs? Can they be returned?’
‘Come alonga me, Missus. I show you.’
Rose nodded to Otto and they followed the graceful naked figure out into the far eastern corner of the terraces. The land had been cleared several months back and new plantings sown. Now, because of the frost, there were only stunted black roots.
‘Serpent dreaming here, Boss. Lay eggs. You take them away, away. Serpent angry along you. Song line broken.’
‘It was just a pile of sandstone boulders, no use to anyone,’ said Otto in exasperation. ‘How the hell vas I supposed to know it was a totem or a song or a bloody dreaming?’ He glared at Wyju before grasping Rose’s arm and leading her back to the house. ‘Take no notice of savages. They tell stories to frighten you. If we replaced every rock and tree, there would be no land for us, no home, no harvest.’
She could see his point but there was enough superstition in
her to believe that perhaps there was magic in those song lines and discarded boulders, and Otto shouldn’t treat Wyju’s threat lightly.
Time moved on and Rose forgot about the strange story as they prepared for their harvest. Vintage after the frost was poor that year, a thin, mediocre wine they sold quickly to the less salubrious outlets in Paramatta and Botany Bay. Then they set to and cleared the terraces, turning the earth and digging the furrows in preparation for the new cuttings Otto had promised. Most of the furniture had been sold, the house mortgaged and the loan from the bank increased. Otto had travelled for days throughout the Hunter Valley, buying up stock from other vintners who were in financial straits. Now he was on his way back, his pockets empty, the precious vines carefully wrapped in damp sacking on the back of the wagon.
Rose was almost asleep on her feet as she stood on the verandah and watched the plume of dust approach the house. She had been up all night with Lady Muriel, heartsick to realise her old friend might not be with them for much longer.
Muriel had been unwell for weeks, the colour fading from her cheeks, the bustling figure slower now, the comforting curves whittled away as she lost her appetite. The doctor’s round was enormous, spread over hundreds of miles, and they were lucky he happened to be visiting a nearby property – but it had still taken him a week to get here. He’d examined Lady Muriel, pronounced it was her heart and that she should rest, then left in his pony and trap for his next case.
Rose anxiously waited for Otto to climb down from the wagon. As he swept her up in his arms, she leaned into him with thankfulness. He was her rock – the one certainty she had in her life – without him she didn’t know what she would do.
His blue eyes dimmed as she told him about Lady Muriel, and without bothering to wash the dust and dirt from his clothes and hair, he took the stairs two at a time and went into the old woman’s bedroom. She had become a mother to him, as she had to Rose. She was experienced and wise in the way of the world, and had supported them whole-heartedly in their enterprise, both financially and spiritually. They owed her much more than the guineas she had lent them to enlarge the house.
Jacaranda Vines Page 25
