‘Come,’ she ordered. ‘Take off your nightdresses and put them over your heads. Cover your mouths and noses, like this.’ Pain shafted through her like a knife, making her head spin and her breath catch. She had to hang on. Couldn’t give in to it, no matter how bad it was. The girls must be kept safe for Rose and Otto.
Muriel swayed as shadows of mortality drifted behind her eyes and into her head. She could feel the thread of life throbbing in her veins, could hear the thud of that aged heart as it struggled to keep her alive. ‘Come, girls,’ she whispered. ‘Hold my hands.’
They emerged from the underground cellar to find the grass already alight on the roof, and Muriel knew then she’d made the right decision. If it caved in, the wine cellar would have become their tomb.
She held tightly to the little hands as she led the naked children across the clearing, over the crisped lawn and towards the willows. Each step sent a knife of pain into her chest. Each breath had to be fought for and expelled in the drum of agony that was her heartbeat. She could see the glint of water through the smoke. Could see the shadowy figures crouched there in terror as the fire bore down across the terraces.
One more step, she begged silently. Just one more. And another. And another. Almost there. Almost there.
Muriel dragged the children down the steep, trampled slope and slid gratefully into the murky water. She pushed the twins on until they were standing up to their necks. ‘Keep your heads wet,’ she ordered, her breathing thready, the pain all-encompassing. ‘We’ll have a competition to see who can stay underwater the longest.’
She watched as the children ducked beneath the water – then cried out as the steel band in her chest tightened and cut off her breath. It was as if her heart was trying to burst through her ribs, and she could no longer fight it.
Lady Muriel Fitzallan sank to her knees and slowly collapsed. The water enveloped her and she gave herself up to it. Her last thoughts were for the children and their parents, and this place called Coolabah Crossing which had become her home.
*
It was six months later when Rose and the children climbed the hill that overlooked Coolabah Crossing. She stood with them in silence, one child clinging to each hand as they surveyed the remains of their home.
The red earth was scarred black, the trees charred and gaunt against the insolent orange and yellow of the dawning day. The nearest terraces were almost bare, the tattered remains of the cremated vines a sparse lace across the scorched earth. Yet in the distance beyond the smoke-damaged house there was the lush green of re-growth and new plantings – the tiny figures of the surviving men and women trawling up and down the terraces. Life went on. Rebirth amongst death.
The little cemetery looked so isolated and lonely. The new stones they had carved in memory of those who had died glimmered in the glow of the rising sun, the fresh paint on the picket fence gleaming against the pale green of the new grass that had already sprouted from the ashes. Rose sighed. She might be leaving behind those she loved, but she knew her heart would always remain in this silent, desolate place.
‘Why do we have to go, Mama?’ asked Muriel with the same imperious manner of her namesake.
Rose smiled and stroked back the fiery red hair that was so like poor Otto’s. ‘Because Granny M wanted us to have an adventure,’ she said simply.
The truth was, Lady Fitzallan had been an astute investor. Not only had she paid off Otto’s debts, she had left them the deeds free and clear for both land and house, but she’d also bought large packets of land throughout South Australia, some of which were leased for healthy rents. Her will had left instructions for a particular parcel of land to be handed down to Emily and Muriel when they were of age, and then through the female line of the family.
Rose felt the time was right for her to travel and see more of this vast country. The ghosts at Coolabah Crossing were still too new for her to stay, and she didn’t have the heart to begin here again, knowing Otto’s ashes remained in the soil.
Hans would take over as manager. The land was already being cleared and new shacks built for the families and ticket of leave men who had fought so bravely on that terrible day and won their freedom. Wyju’s sacred totem stones had been returned to their rightful place, the song lines of the legends restored, the Aborigine creation resung into being. Coolabah Wines would rise from the ashes.
The three of them stood on the hill, silhouetted by the rising sun, framed by the leafy branches of the delicate Coolabah trees as their skirts drifted in the dewed grass. Rose held her twins by the hand, as she thought of how things had changed since that night of Gilbert’s attack back in England.
She had come here as a maid, with not much more than the clothes she stood up in. Now she was a woman of substance, with land and houses and money in the bank. A sad smile played at the corners of her mouth. Fate had demanded a heavy toll for that wealth, and although she would have preferred to have Otto and Muriel by her side and remain poor, she was wise enough to know their spirit would live on through her and the children, and she would guard her fortune wisely.
With one last, lingering look over Coolabah Crossing, she turned away and headed for the over-loaded wagon. Once the twins were settled, she climbed up onto the worn wooden seat and took the reins. With a gentle slap of leather on their backs, the mules began to plod along the rough track, taking them away for the last time.
16
Sophie hadn’t seen Jay since the previous morning and she wondered if he was avoiding her. She couldn’t blame him, she’d been a bitch to behave the way she had, but she justified that by telling herself he deserved it.
She returned to the homestead, pulled on jeans and boots and took Jupiter for a ride. The great wide spaces and endless sky gave her a sense of peace, with room to breathe and the chance to collect her thoughts – for the shadows of past generations still haunted her.
As they plodded over the rich grasslands she thought of Rose and Otto. They had come here with little more than hope and a raw energy which seemed instilled in that generation of adventurers and squatters who battled the bush and the elements to hack out an existence in these primeval surroundings. How easy it was for the following generations to reap their harvest. How easy to forget the hardships that had made their present wealth possible.
The silence of the Hunter Valley surrounded her as they took the winding path up the hill. The heat shimmered, making the trees dance in the watery mirage that sprawled across the baked earth. The essence of pine and eucalyptus filled the still air and the sibilant throb of the crickets and tree bats enhanced the feeling that this ancient land still held the spirits of those who had come before. It was here, out in the heat and the dust of the bush, that she could feel the power of the native legends – the rhythm of the song lines that to the white man’s eye were invisible as they traversed the land. Yet their music could still be heard in the creatures that inhabited this earth, could still be felt in the waves of heat and energy coming from red soil and ghostly bark. The harmony of man and earth, of legend and the day-to-day struggle was such that the music of the song lines seemed to echo the pulse of her very being.
As they crested the hill, she slid from the saddle. With Jupiter cropping the grass beside her, she looked out over the valley and tried to imagine how Rose must have felt all those years ago when she had come to this hill for the last time. And as she stood there, she thought she heard the rustle of long skirts in the grass. Rose was with her.
It was in that moment she understood why it was so important to fight for her inheritance. The moment she finally realised this land, these sprawling terraces, were as much a part of herself as they had been for the generations that had come before – and she couldn’t betray their trust.
*
‘Reckon it’s time you had these, Cordy.’ Wal deposited the scrapbooks and photograph albums on her bedside table. ‘I kept ’em in me grandad’s old trunk. Seemed the most fitting place.’
Cordelia riff
led through the pages, remembering how she had done the same thing all those years ago when she’d come here with her mother. She breathed in the musty smell of old paper as she sifted through the box of mementos Wal had placed on the bed. Everything was as she remembered it but, like herself, older and more decrepit.
She pulled out the largest of the mementos and held it to the light. The silver was tarnished, the leather cracked with age. ‘I was always surprised they allowed him to keep it,’ she murmured as she stroked the ornately tooled leather. It was heavy – too heavy for her arthritic fingers, and she carefully returned it to the worn velvet pouch.
Wal grinned. ‘Didn’t have much choice. He shot through before they could catch him, but then he was always light on his feet.’
Cordelia smiled, and as Wal left the room, lay on the bed, her eyes closed, the cool green light filtering through the shutters. The journey out to the cemetery seemed to have taken the last of her strength, sapped the vital spirit that had kept her going this far – and yet she knew she couldn’t give in to this enticing drift of idleness, knew she must finish what she had started.
She opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling fan that spun air-conditioned coolness into the room. Her life was turning rather like the fan – but in ever-decreasing circles back to the beginning – where the sounds, the smells and the memories were sharper than ever, where her life’s pattern had been set.
Now she had almost come full circle, she felt the restless need to return to the Barossa where her life had been played out over the years, where her hopes and dreams had been forged in the rich black soil, to become withered in the furnace blast of Jock’s ambition. Yet those dreams had never died – they lived on as they had done for Rose and her children, and her children’s children. It was Cordelia’s one triumph, and she wouldn’t relinquish it for anyone.
Cordelia sighed. There was no point in wondering what her life might have been if she’d defied convention and married Wal – regrets only made a person sour – and there were so many things she was grateful for it would have been churlish to wish it otherwise. Her sons had been a gift that had been snatched from her too soon, but in their loss had come her daughters. Kate and Daisy had given her so much pleasure, so much love, and despite her failure with Mary, she had given her Sophie – the hope for the future.
Her gnarled fingers touched the scrapbooks that lay beside her. It was almost as if she could feel the power emanating from the man whose life was recorded in them. It was time for Sophie to learn why the family had been split apart.
*
Dinner was over and there was still no sign of Jay. ‘He’s flown down to Sydney with his father,’ explained Beatty as they sat on the verandah with their coffee and brandy. ‘There’s a couple of things they need to sort out.’
Sophie raised an eyebrow but there was no further explanation. She didn’t miss the warning look Cordelia shot at Beatty or the smile that hovered around the old woman’s mouth. Something was going on – but she knew it was useless to try and discover what it was for Cordelia was a practised hand at keeping secrets.
‘We begin vintage next week,’ said Beatty. ‘I hope you’re going to stay for it?’
‘Too right,’ said Cordelia, and struggled from her chair, the brandy beginning to have an effect. ‘I’ve got something for you Sophie,’ she said mysteriously. ‘It’s in my room.’
She followed her grandmother through the screen door and along the passage to the back of the house. Eyeing the tattered scrapbooks with their garish covers and the battered, highly decorated red lacquer box, she frowned. ‘What are they?’
Cordelia sank on to the bed with a groan. ‘Damn’ body,’ she muttered. ‘Lets me down every bloody time. Don’t reckon I’ll be much use at vintage.’
Sophie picked up a scrapbook, but before she could thumb through the pages, Cordelia stayed her hand. ‘Take them all with you,’ she said. ‘Read them when there’s silence, so you can hear the voices of the past, and feel them reach out to you – if you’re very still, and concentrate hard, they’ll come and tell you their story.’
*
John Tanner returned to London after his visit to Sussex, the fires within him stoked by the rage of knowing he’d been too late and by the hope his path would cross with Rose’s in the bustling, stinking streets of the city. For no one had been able to confirm the rumour she’d left England for the other side of the world and he clung to the possibility that she was still here, breathing the same fetid air, hearing the same street cries.
When he wasn’t fighting in the ring, he spent hours wandering the less crowded avenues of the wealthy, hoping he would see her emerge from one of the elegant houses that stood sedately behind their fine wrought-iron railings. These journeys into the cleaner, broader streets made him restless, for the reality of his own existence was a far cry from these wealthy corners of London, and when he returned to his room above the tavern, he would lie on the filthy bed and dream of the life he’d planned for them both with the guineas he was carefully hoarding from his fights.
Winter brought some relief from the stench of his lodgings, the cold winds ripping through the tenements, the frost riming the cobbles, making the horses’ hoofs spark and slither as they dashed along the avenues of the fashionable parts of the city, carriages bowling along behind them, their occupants snuggled in furs and blankets. The poor, fleetingly free from the fever that was rife in the hovels during summer, now died of hunger and cold. Ragged children shivered as they begged bare-foot amongst the rotting, discarded fruit and vegetables in Covent Garden market, and the elderly and the hopeless gave up, their pathetic corpses lying where they fell to be picked over by the gutter vultures.
It was John’s second winter in this Godforsaken city, and although he had spent some of his precious coins on a fur-lined coat, his breath still clouded the air as he strode along the frosted grass of Hyde Park. Gentlemen rode by on magnificent horses, doffing their hats to the ladies who perched side-saddle on high-stepping mares or sat swathed in furs in their carriages. Small children bowled hoops and scattered bread for the ducks as watchful nannies sat and gossiped on the benches or pushed baby carriages along the cinder paths.
John eyed each nanny, each maid who hurried past, but there was no sign of apple cheeks and rich black hair – no glimpse of the beloved little figure he so longed to see. He sighed and blew on his hands. Their knuckles were still bruised from his last fight and the cold had cracked the skin.
The snap of a whip made him turn and leap out of the way as a carriage came bowling down the track, a matching pair of greys in its traces foamed in sweat. John saw the face of the man who held the reins and then that of the woman in the carriage, so pale beneath the fur halo of her hood. His pulse jumped as recognition hit and was confirmed by the woman’s eyes widening for the split second they were abreast of one another. It was the Squire’s daughter, Isobel, and that bastard Gilbert Fairbrother.
Oblivious of the stares and exclamations of the strollers in the park, John began to run. The carriage was heading for the northern gates, and if he lost it in the bustle of the streets, it would be impossible to follow them. His boots crunched on the cinders as he tore after the carriage, his coat tails flapping, his long hair coming loose from its leather thong. His cousin had told him Rose was expected to move with Miss Isobel to London, and that the rumour she was off to Australia was just a story put about by servants’ gossip. If that was true – and he hoped with all his might it was – then perhaps at last he would find her.
The carriage turned up Tottenham Court Road, Gilbert cracking the whip to set the horses high-trotting past the gloom of St Giles’ rookery. Gilbert and Isobel’s sensibilities were obviously far too delicate to withstand the sight of such poverty and degradation, and John wondered if they even noticed there was another side to this city.
The ornate gates of Bedford Square were closed as usual, and John groaned as his ribs ached and his breath became ragged as he forced h
imself on. The carriage was going past the gate keeper and out into the open country of Paddington.
It finally turned left along Walsingham Lane and pulled up in front of number sixteen. The house was three storeys high, surrounded by pleasant gardens showing early snowdrops and primroses. John leaned against the wall of the Victoria Tavern, his sides heaving as he tried to catch his breath. All he had to do now was wait – for surely this was Miss Isobel’s new home – and if Rose was here, sooner or later she would have to come out.
He watched as Gilbert handed Isobel down from the carriage before climbing back into the driving seat and heading for the stables at the end of the lane. Isobel’s slight figure was bundled in a velvet cloak that swept over the sawdust and horse droppings in the road as she hurried away from the carriage and mounted the broad scrubbed steps to the front door. A maid appeared, the gleam of her white cap and apron almost startling against the gloomy interior. Yet even from this distance John knew it wasn’t Rose. Although he was disappointed, he still hoped it wouldn’t be long before he saw her again.
The chime of a church clock startled him. He’d let time slip away and now he was late. There was a fight tonight. Big Billy would be waiting. With one last, lingering look at the house, he turned away. He would find it again – and soon.
*
Sophie leaned back into the pillows, a slender paperback book in her hands. It was a reissue of a nineteenth-century pamphlet on a prize-winning bare-knuckle fighter. Big Billy Clarke had certainly known his boxer, for he seemed to have caught the essence of John Tanner even though the English was old-fashioned and the prose inclined to be purple in this biography of his most famous fighter. Yet it was the line drawing on the cover that said the most and she found herself returning repeatedly to that face which reminded her overwhelmingly of Jay’s.
Jacaranda Vines Page 27
