Isobel was thoughtful as she slowly walked away from the shack and sought shelter beneath the stand of trees on the northern side of the homestead. Their delicate purple fronds danced in the warm breeze, their scent almost a memory before it reached her.
‘What are these trees called?’ she asked the driver.
‘Them’s jacarandas, missus. Pretty ain’t they?’
‘Jacaranda,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, they are.’ She smiled for she knew that although life would be tough, the beauty of the jacaranda trees would always feed her soul.
*
‘How y’going, Gran?’
Cordelia opened her eyes and shaded them from the glare with her hand. ‘Good,’ she replied firmly.
Sophie plumped down on the seat beside her. She had brought the rest of the letters with her, hoping to finish them before tomorrow’s vintage. ‘You gave us a fright. The doc says you’re to stay here until you feel better. He doesn’t advise going back to Melbourne.’
‘Nonsense,’ she retorted. ‘I was just thinking about the apartment when you came along and interrupted me. I’d like to see it again before I die.’
‘We’ll see,’ Sophie said, not committing herself to a promise she knew she might not be able to keep.
‘And what about you? How are you feeling? It wasn’t fair to tell you such things without warning.’
Sophie took the frail hand and smiled. ‘I’ll always love you, Gran,’ she murmured. ‘That will never change.’ She quickly changed tack. Although the revelations had come as a shock, there was no point in causing the old lady more pain. ‘I’ve been reading Isobel’s letters. They’re interesting, and so full of detail it’s easy to imagine what life was like for her. It’s almost as if McCubbin’s Pioneers has come to life beneath her pen. But she must have been very lonely and frightened, stuck out in the bush with no one but that bastard of a husband for company.’
Cordelia eyed her for a long moment then nodded. ‘She was, but she also had plenty to occupy herself with besides Gilbert’s beatings. With the help of convict labour, they soon had repairs done to the shack. She planted a vegetable garden, taught the boys their lessons and earned money working for the other vintners during the day while clearing their own plot at night. Their land had reverted to scrub and she needed to know all she could before they began planting their own vines. Isobel had a mind like a sponge. She absorbed information from the other growers, and soon outstripped Gilbert in her knowledge of the grape business.’
‘Good for her,’ said Sophie grimly.
Cordelia smiled. ‘Yes, it’s good to see someone regain their confidence and self-esteem, but it had sad consequences. Gilbert didn’t like Isobel’s new independence and soon grew bored with life in the bush and went off in search of gold. There was a rush down in Ballarat and he thought he could make his fortune and return to England a rich man. Poor Isobel, she was left with a fledgeling vineyard and two small boys to rear. Money was desperately tight with precious few luxuries like a decent stove or even a nearby well. But the people coming into the Barossa at that time were instilled with a pioneering spirit. Most of them were German, escaping the religious tyranny back home, and they helped when they could, soon coming to admire the quietly spoken little English woman who worked so determinedly to succeed in what was really a man’s world.
Sophie looked down at the letters in her lap. ‘Isobel was a clever woman, I reckon. It’s only by reading between the lines that the truth comes out.’
Cordelia nodded. ‘Finish reading the letters, Sophie. They tell the story so much better.’ She leaned back into the cushions, knowing how the tale would unfold. Knowing how bitter were the tears that nourished the vines in those early years. Yet knowing that if Sophie was to understand the deep commitment she owed those early settlers, she must read it all.
*
Rose had been travelling for eighteen months. Her inheritance was widespread and, after visiting the outlying vineyards in the Hunter valley, she had gone south-west to Riverina, and then slowly made her way through Sunraysia which lay north of Melbourne, and across to the Murray River where she first saw the Barossa Valley.
Going bush had hardened her and the children. Living from hand to mouth, sleeping in humpies like the natives, they came to respect and understand this country of theirs. There were few changing seasons, just wet or dry – but sometimes the wind blew, howling like a dingo, with a bite reaching to the bone. Rain plummeted causing rivers to run a banker, bending the trees and turning the red earth to cloying mud. Then it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving the world of the outback steaming in the blazing sun.
They passed few other travellers. Just the occasional native or a swaggy with a bluey on his back and the wear of hundreds of miles on his shoe leather, and one or two drovers and ringers looking for work at the next sheep or cattle station. This was an excuse to climb down from the wagon and brew a billy over a make-shift fire. To share damper bread, hot from the cinders, and strong, sweet tea to wash down salted mutton or dried beef jerky.
The little girls snuggled up to their mother in the glow of the bush fire and listened, their faces alight with wonder, to the stories of the men who walked the wallaby tracks. They learned how to recognise dingo spoor and avoid snakes. Learned which berries to pick from the scrub and which would kill them. Learned where to find water in the middle of the wilderness, and which plants could heal sickness and fever. They slept without fear in the make-shift humpy of grass and twigs, their dreams full of that night’s story.
Rose became adept at shooting a gun and snaring a possum for the pot. Most of the stories could be taken with a pinch of salt, but she listened closely when the black fella talked of the different deadly snakes and spiders, and taught her the native trick of stealing honey from a hive high up in the trees. The young black jackaroo had travelled with them a while, fascinating them with his sing-song voice and his mystical tales of the Dreamtime, and they were sorry when he finally left to go walk-about and sing up his country.
The journey was an education, not only in survival but about this wonderful country, of the people and places that were slowly making their mark, and the treasures to be found deep beneath the rich red earth. The talk was of gold – and soon there was many a man tramping the tracks in search for the elusive fortunes to be had in Ballarat, Stawell and Bendigo.
Rose watched her little girls grow tougher by the day. Muriel, with her bright red hair and freckles, had to be guarded against the sun for her fair skin burned, the freckles becoming more prominent as the journey progressed. Emily reminded Rose of herself, dark-haired, with skin the colour of milky tea and eyes that took everything in and stored it in an enquiring, busy mind. Lessons were taken on the road, Rose making the girls recite their tables and their letters, until they could read the books she’d packed in the trunk.
Now the journey was almost at an end. As they followed the Murray River down into the Barossa Valley, Rose knew she had found their new home. The land swept away from them on all sides, disappearing over the horizon in a shimmer of heat-haze. Terraces of dark green vines laced the valley beneath the shade of delicate jacaranda trees, and the glitter of water meandered in a bright ribbon through lush grasslands.
Rose slapped the reins and the weary horses plodded towards the homestead she could see in the distance. Granny Mu had left her two adjacent plots in the Barossa. She was planning to visit the tenants of this one before moving on to the other and settling down for a few years. The previous tenants had given up and gone back to Adelaide and she was looking forward to the challenge of starting again. It would be pleasant to stay here after their long months of travelling. An opportunity to find out what life was like in this wide and pleasant valley that reminded her so much of the Hunter.
Smoke was drifting from the rusting stack and someone had painted the fence posts white around a burgeoning vegetable plot and seared the word ‘Jacaranda’ into a board above the gate. Rose smiled. The name was appropria
te. The new tenants seemed to have settled in nicely, but then they had been there for several years according to the paperwork Granny Mu had left with her solicitor.
Rose had been disconcerted to see the name Fairbrother on the lease, but had decided it could have no bearing on the Captain. For surely he and Isobel would have made their home in London’s high society rather than out here in the bush.
She looked around her as they travelled down the dirt road leading to the homestead. The land had been cleared, and there were a few cows and goats grazing in the home paddock. The shack was a typical bush dwelling, but someone had made an effort to repair the roof and paint the shutters. Fields of dark green tobacco waved in the warm breeze and Rose nodded approvingly. It would take between three and six years to produce enough good quality grapes to make a palatable wine; the Fairbrothers were wise to sow another crop to tide them over.
She drew up at the steps, taking in the neat lines of the vegetable garden and the healthy chooks pecking the dirt in their sturdy wire enclosure. Someone had planted roses and their perfume was heady in the heat, the blossoms trailing over the rusting shack in surprising profusion.
Rose was a little put out that someone hadn’t come to greet her. These far-flung homesteads were usually an oasis of welcome, for they had few visitors. She climbed down and, with the five-year-old twins scrambling after her, walked up the steps to the verandah.
As she was about to call out, the latch lifted and a woman stood framed in the doorway. A woman whose face she would have recognised anywhere. A woman she’d thought she would never see again, and whose small boys crowded her ragged skirts.
Rose took in the faded and much-patched cotton dress and white apron – the wisps of brown hair escaping the bun and the weary droop of the mouth beneath the dark circles that shadowed grey eyes. ‘Miss Isobel?’ she breathed.
‘Rose?’ The eyes widened. The hands hastily screwed her hair back into its bun before returning to her apron and discarding it. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ Isobel’s tone was almost rude, despite the hunted look in her eyes.
Rose felt the tug of the past tear away her newly found independence and was once again the lady’s maid. She dropped a curtsy, aware of her twins’ wide-eyed disbelief. This was a side to her they had never witnessed.
‘My apologies, Miss Isobel,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Lady Fitzallan told me this place was leased and I saw the name on the deeds when she left me my inheritance. But I didn’t for one minute think …’ Rose clamped her lips together. She was running off at the mouth, using mindless prattle against the shock of seeing Isobel Ade in such dire circumstances.
Isobel held the door wide, the bare-foot boys elbowing each other to get a better view of their visitors. ‘Seems as if you and I have a great deal to say to one another.’ she said quietly. ‘Come in and I’ll make us a cuppa.’
Rose followed her into the mean little shack. She still couldn’t believe this care-worn, sun-lined woman was the same delicate young society girl she’d helped to dress all those years ago back in Wilmington. Still couldn’t come to terms with seeing the poor sticks of furniture surrounding a woman who’d once lived in luxury.
And yet there was something stronger about Isobel, a certain self-awareness and confidence that hadn’t been in evidence before, and as they faced one another across the rough table and she listened to Isobel’s story, Rose realised that although their fortunes had turned, the barriers of class no longer existed between them. They were simply two women who shared a strength and purpose that this new life of theirs had demanded of them.
It was to be the start of a life-long friendship – one that saw them through drought and flood, through successful harvest and personal heartache. The two women were drawn together by their will to succeed and they found a support and companionship in each other that would never have been countenanced back in England.
Isobel had never forgiven her mother for the manipulative way she’d arranged her marriage, but still wrote to her sister Charlotte and her father. These letters became less frequent as time went on, for she had grown to love this wild and beautiful country, but when she did write, her letters were filled with hope for the future, despite, or perhaps because of the fact she’d had no word from Gilbert for years.
Rose had dreaded his return – it was the only shadow over her new life here in the Barossa – and although she had never spoken of his rape, she knew how Isobel regarded her erstwhile husband and could feel only relief when the news finally filtered through that he’d died following the riots at the Eureka Stockade.
The gold miners had refused to pay government licence fees and had barricaded themselves into the stockade at Ballarat. The redcoats suppressed the riot on 3 December 1854, leaving twenty-seven dead and many wounded, but the distances involved and the infrequent transmission of news meant they didn’t get to hear about it until almost two years later.
Jacaranda flourished and Rose used some of her inheritance to build a new house on the boundaries linking her two plots so they could all live together in comfort. The children learned their lessons in the tiny wooden school house the vintners of the Barossa had built in their fledgeling town. As the time passed the four of them became inseparable.
The years trickled away like dirt through their fingers as the two women battled the elements and the predators to increase their crop and improve their raw wine. They thought their lives were settled and the future mapped out for them all. But fate had another surprise. One that none of them could have foreseen.
*
Cordelia and Wal decided to take a sedate buggy ride once the sun was lower and the heat just a simmer instead of a scorch. Cordelia held the parasol high, the jolt and rattle of the wheels and the steady plod of the horse reminding her of the youthful days she would never see again.
‘See what I see?’ mumbled Wal.
Cordelia followed his pointing finger and smiled. John Jay and Beatty were emerging from a stand of trees, their horses led by their reins as they slowly walked into the sunlight. They seemed oblivious to everything but each other. ‘Good to see a long-standing marriage still working. Reckon the old place still has its uses,’ she murmured. ‘Remember how we used to sneak off for a little while alone?’
Wal grinned and nodded. ‘Reckon not much has changed, Cordy,’ he drawled. ‘Cept we never did nothing to frighten the horses – more’s the pity.’
She poked him with her parasol. ‘Watch what you say, you old larrikin,’ she teased. ‘I’ve got a reputation to think of.’
‘Ha,’ he barked. ‘Bit late for that.’ He turned and eyed her, his gaze bright with mischief. ‘Unless you wanna do something about it, old girl?’
‘Wal!’ she gasped through the laughter. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? We’re both ninety years old – it would finish us off.’
He grinned. ‘Yeah, but what a beaut way to go, eh?’
Cordelia chuckled. ‘Just you keep your mind on the horse and your hands on the reins,’ she scolded softly. ‘My word, anyone would think we were their age,’ she added nodding towards the two middle-aged silhouettes on the homestead skyline.
‘We are, in our hearts and minds, Cordy,’ he said as he flicked the reins and urged the horse into a gentle trot. ‘Under this decrepit old body beats the heart of a youngster, and I know it’s the same for you. Bloody old age – it’s a flamin’ nuisance.’
‘Too right,’ she agreed, ‘But old age brings a certain peace, Wal. We don’t have to prove ourselves any more – our life’s achievements have done that.’ She looked wistfully into the distance, knowing Wal understood she would have liked to consummate the love they’d shared for seventy years. Too late, she thought – how painful those words were – how many shadows they cast.
The echoes of Rose and John seemed to follow those shadows, and as she leaned against Wal, Cordelia’s thoughts drifted back to another time and place.
*
The ship had taken on water as it
ploughed through the titanic seas off Cape Horn, but John had not been one of those to take to his bed sick and feverish from the heaving of the timbers. He strode the decks, impatient to see the first glimpse of the land he would make his home, the salt wind lashing his face, ripping through his hair, tearing at his clothes. He laughed with the sheer joy of being alive and free as the sails slapped in the ratlines and the wooden deck shuddered beneath his feet.
A small hand crept into his and, startled, he turned to find himself looking into familiar dark eyes and a wan face. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘Trying not to be sick,’ Tina replied. ‘How much longer is it going to be like this?’
‘Until we round the Horn,’ he snapped, shaking off her clinging fingers. ‘I told you to go back to the family, Tina. Why are you here?’
‘I decided I wanted to see Australia for myself,’ she shouted, her words snatched by the wind. ‘There’s nothing for me back in England.’
John looked down at her, his anger so great he could barely speak. He turned away and, with his hands clenched around the rails, stared out over mountainous seas. ‘I left England to find Rose,’ he said eventually. ‘And, by God, when I do, I’m going to make her my wife. You’ve come all this way for nothing,’ he shouted above the wind. ‘You’d do better to get off at the next port and go home.’
‘Fine,’ she yelled back. ‘But until you find your precious Rose, I’m travelling with you. I’ve just as much right to a new life, and I’m staying put.’
John saw the gleam of determination in her eyes and couldn’t help but admire her courage. If the green tinge to her skin was anything to go by, she wasn’t finding the trip easy, but her slender figure swayed to the rhythm of the ship as she set her feet squarely on the deck, and her hands clutched the railings with a grip that showed her strength.
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