Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

  *

  The vintners of the Barossa knew how to celebrate. Jacob’s Creek glittered in the sun as blankets and baskets were spread over the lush green grass beneath the drooping trees. A section had been fenced off for the wood-cutting competition, and in the distance a rough race course was set out through the bush and up the lower slopes of Mount Kaiserstuhl. Tables groaned with food and wine, and casks of beer had been set up in a canvas marquee. The celebrations would last well into the dawn of the next morning, the night lit by braziers of hot coals and lanterns hanging from the trees.

  Rose and Isobel rolled up their sleeves and were soon hard pressed to serve the food and wine, but when Rose paused to catch her breath, she noticed Emily and Max sitting too close together on the grass, dark heads almost touching like conspirators.

  She frowned as her gaze swept over them. This was a complication she had not foreseen. Perhaps she should say something – but what? As she stood there in an agony of indecision, they were joined by Muriel and Henry and Clive, who seemed equally interested in Teresa as Emily obviously was in Max. She eyed them all and bit her lip. What a pretty mess of things, she thought crossly.

  She took a deep breath and told herself she was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. They were just youngsters having fun after the long summer’s work – not so different from her younger days when a little harmless flirting just added to the excitement. Besides, she thought, John wouldn’t be staying in the Barossa. He had business in Adelaide, and that wife of his wouldn’t let him hang around a minute longer than necessary.

  The blast of a trumpet made her jump. It was a signal for the wood-cutters to take their places for the competition. She pulled off her apron and rolled down her sleeves. Henry and Clive were competing again this year and both hoped to bring back yet another trophy.

  Isobel joined her. They stood behind the rope boundary and watched the men prepare for battle. A cheer went up as the six competitors for the first trial entered the ring. The dark good looks of the long-haired stranger caused a murmur of approval amongst the young girls and Rose watched wide-eyed as he stripped off his shirt and flexed the muscles in his back and shoulders. Max was the image of his father, the sight of him almost too much for her to bear.

  She glanced across at Emily. Her daughter was standing on the far side of the enclosure, her gaze fixed on Max as he tied his hair in the same way his father used to, her lips parted, the colour high in her cheeks. Muriel stood by her side, her expression inscrutable to all but her mother. Rose felt a twinge of fear. She’d seen that look before, and she knew it heralded trouble.

  Unable to get to them through the press of bystanders, Rose had to be content. She was imagining things, she told herself firmly. Of course both girls were watching Max so keenly, so were most of the others – much to the disgust of the young men around them.

  The selected trees had been marked with chalk. As the six men approached them, the sun glinted on the blades of the sharp axes they carried. At the blast of the trumpet, each man swung his axe and it thudded into the trunk, the vibration of that strike trembling through muscled arms. With a pull of strong shoulders and a gleam of sweat, the axes were plunged at speed into the thick wood, splintering bark, making it fly. When the deep triangular cut had been made on one side of the trunk, the men ran to the other side and began again.

  The axes rang out. The chips of wood flew past naked shoulders and glistening arms and the crowd roared them on.

  Max and Henry were neck and neck, their trees already groaning as they swayed on severed trunks. One last cut each and they stepped back. The crowd held its breath. The trees rocked, the leaves shuffling and falling. Then with a ponderous, almost graceful bow, they leaned towards the earth. Gathering speed, and with a rush of dust and debris, they hit the ground with a thud, and Max and Henry danced nimbly out of the way of snaring branches and the whiplash of leaves. The crowd waited. The judge took the two young men by the hand and raised them both. It was a tie.

  Isobel laughed as Max was swamped by his admirers, but Rose saw the way Emily was pushing through them, sharp elbows digging into ribs, feet trampling to get to his side. Noticed how Max laughed down at her and planted a kiss on her cheek as his arm encircled her waist.

  ‘Looks like Emily’s got an admirer,’ said Isobel quietly.

  Rose glowered. ‘She’s behaving outrageously,’ she muttered. ‘I’m going to have strong words to say to that young lady when I get her home.’

  Isobel raised an eyebrow. ‘Taking after her sister,’ she murmured, her frown drawing her brows together. Her glance was sharp. ‘You’re not still in love with John, are you? This isn’t bringing it all back, is it?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she snapped, aware Isobel was probably right. The years had rolled back and she could remember all too well how she’d felt about John – now it seemed her daughter was going down the same road and seeing them together was just too painful.

  Rose’s voice was tight. ‘Muriel’s behaviour’s bad enough and now Emily’s making an exhibition of herself. You know what these German Lutherans are like – we’ll never hear the end of it.’

  The trumpet blast sounded again and the crowd left the enclosure to the competitors. The great trunks lay on their sides now, the branches hacked off for ease of cutting. Once again Max and Isobel’s two sons stepped into the ring to join the others, the long serrated saws dangling from their hands. Wagers flew and money changed hands. Max was favourite after his previous display. Both women could see how Clive and Henry glowered at the newcomer. This was their competition and he was stealing their glory.

  The crowd hushed as the men rested their saws on the rough bark and waited. The trumpet blew and the first rasp filled the clearing. Arms pumped and hair fell over sweaty brows as the lightning flash of steel ripped through wood. Henry’s face was dark with determination, his brows coming together in a line of concentration. Clive worked beside him on another log, his mouth grim, his fair hair slicked on his brow. Max wielded the saw with an almost effortless, smooth motion that cut through the wood like a hot knife through butter.

  The crowd groaned as Henry’s saw became stuck and he fought to release it. Max and Clive speeded up, and the two men stepped back. But it was Max who’d finished first. Max who would collect the trophy.

  Rose turned away as the girls once again stormed the arena. She could no longer bear to watch.

  It was peaceful away from the arena. Rose ambled down to the creek, her long skirts swishing in the lush grass. When she was far enough from the others, she found a cool, shady spot beneath a pepper tree, discarded her bonnet and sat down. Pulling off her boots and stockings she paddled her feet in the water, watching how the ripples caught the sunlight and startled the tiny fish that swam over the rounded stones.

  ‘I remember you doing that back at Alfriston,’ John said softly as he came to sit beside her. ‘Seems strange having the past come alive in the present. It’s as if there’ve been no intervening years at all.’

  Rose looked at him. His presence hadn’t startled her. She knew he’d been watching her and would find a way to be with her. ‘The past is another country, John,’ she said sadly. ‘A country where we were young and society had different rules. It won’t do either of us any good to try and revisit it.’

  There was a long silence as they both stared into the shimmering water. ‘I should have come for you earlier,’ he finally murmured. ‘I had the money. But I was greedy. I wanted more. Wanted to have enough to give you all the things you never had.’

  She blinked away the tears. ‘The sun on the water’s blinding, isn’t it?’ she said hastily, wiping her eyes.

  John’s warm hand rested on her fingers. ‘Why did you run away, Rose? Why, when you knew I’d come back for you?’

  She snatched her hand away. ‘I didn’t know,’ she retorted. ‘You never told me how you felt. Never said you’d be off to London for months without a word. How was I supposed to know your mind?’
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br />   He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I thought you’d know by the way I was with you,’ he said finally. ‘I was never much for soft talk, Rose. I didn’t think we needed words when we were so close.’

  She pulled on her boots and stuffed her stockings into her pocket. She stood up and brushed grass from her skirt. ‘You’ve always been in my thoughts,’ she said softly. ‘Tucked away in the deepest, most secret part of me. But we’re different now, grown up, mature, with families of our own who are ready to spread their wings. Don’t destroy that, John.’

  He stood and rammed the soft felt hat on his head. His eyes were fathomless in that strong brown face as he looked down at her. ‘Destroy? I have no wish to destroy anything,’ he said softly. ‘I love you, Rose. I have always loved you.’

  Rose closed her eyes as she swayed towards him. The heat of the earth, the whisper of the pale green fronds of the pepper tree and the lazy hum of the flies all seemed to come together in an enticing serenade. She felt his arms enfold her. It was as if she’d stepped into an enclosed magic world.

  His lips brushed her cheek. She could smell the tang of his soap and the oils in his hair. Familiar scents she’d carried with her on the long, frightening journey to these distant shores. Familiar memories she’d tried so hard to banish.

  She tore away from his embrace, stumbling in the long grass, the horror of what she was doing draining the colour from her face. ‘We mustn’t do this,’ she gasped. ‘It’s wrong.’

  He grasped her arms. ‘How can it be wrong, Rose, when we both know we were meant for one another?’

  She wrenched away from him. ‘You have a wife, children, a business,’ she gasped. ‘Of course it’s wrong. It’s too late, John. Much too late.’

  His eyes were bright with unshed tears as he turned abruptly away. ‘Too late,’ he repeated, his voice cracked with emotion. ‘They have to be the saddest words known to man.’

  Rose took a step back, and another. Then, not wanting to prolong the agony, she turned and ran back to the picnic field. She needed to have people around her – needed the distraction of noise and colour to blot out the sadness. Needed time to gather her wits.

  *

  The hours and days moved on once the festival was over and the people of the Barossa settled back into the timeless round of clearing, planting, hoeing and watering. Wine from previous vintages was sold in the cities and sent by ship to Europe to make way for the new. The storage tanks were drained, the wax burned off and cleaned in preparation for the next year, and, to Rose’s consternation, John Tanner and his family rented rooms in Langmeil’s one and only hotel and looked like staying for a while.

  Max was a regular visitor to Jacaranda, and although there had been a certain amount of animosity between him and Isobel’s sons at first, they soon came to accept him and the interest he took in the vineyard and the wine-making. Day after day he followed them along the terraces, helping to erect wind breaks, learning of the different grapes and the wines they made. He wandered for hours in the cellars, sniffing the sour, rich scent of the fermenting grapes as the process was explained, testing the quality of the wine, checking for too much acidity or too little – looking for the aftertaste that would declare the wine too raw for the cellars of the rich settlers and the European palate.

  Rose watched the burgeoning friendship between Isobel’s sons and Max and was pleased to see what a quick study the young man was. One day he would make a fine vintner, she realised, for he had an innate talent for knowing the right time to bottle the wine.

  Yet she was disturbed by Emily’s interest in him. Disturbed to discover the number of times the girl would slip away to the terraces and fields on the pretence of taking the boys their lunch. Max would soon move back to Adelaide with his parents and his sister, and although he and Emily seemed happy in each other’s company, she fretted that her daughter was seeing more in the relationship than he did.

  Two months passed and Rose received word from John. They would soon be returning to Adelaide. Although she had done her best to avoid further contact, she felt relieved at the thought of not bumping into him unexpectedly again. They had said all they needed to one another. She would have appreciated his friendship but she knew it would have been impossible. Their feelings were still too strong.

  The morning of his departure dawned and Rose climbed out of bed and drew back the curtains. The sky was overcast, heavily laden with the promise of rain. Not a good day to travel. She washed and dressed and hurried along the landing to the girls’ bedroom. There was a great deal to do in the fields today, and she wanted to make an early start so she wouldn’t have too much time to think about John’s leaving.

  With a sharp rap to announce her entry, she opened the door. Emily stirred, her dark hair spread over the pillows, her eyes bleary from sleep. Rose eyed the other bed. ‘Where’s Muriel?’ she asked sharply. It was most unlike the girl to get up so early – and she’d made her own bed too. A real first.

  Emily yawned and eyed her sister’s bed as she scraped her hair back from her face. She grimaced. ‘Must have gone out early with Henry,’ she mumbled. ‘They were planning to finish those windbreaks today before the rain set in.’

  Rose felt uneasy, but said nothing. ‘Hurry up, Emily. Breakfast will be getting cold.’ She closed the door behind her, and after a moment’s thought, crossed the landing and stood outside the boys’ bedroom. With a tentative knock, she opened the door a crack and called through it. ‘Henry? Are you there?’

  ‘Yeah?’ came the sleepy response. ‘Whassamatter?’

  ‘Henry?’ Rose pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

  His tousled head appeared over the sheet as Clive carried on snoring in the other bed. ‘Have we slept late, Aunt Rose?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘But breakfast’s ready. And there’s a lot to do today – looks like rain.’ There was no point in worrying him, she was just being silly to think he might have a reason to. She shut the door firmly and hurried downstairs.

  The cook was the wife of a free settler who worked his own land in the evening after a day in the fields on Jacaranda. She slammed the metal plate back on the range and hoisted the kettle of water over the heat, her round face already sweating from the heat in the kitchen.

  ‘Have you seen Muriel, this morning, Agnes?’

  ‘No. But I’m missing a side of mutton, some cheese and bread and half of that fruit cake I baked yesterday,’ she grumbled as she broke eggs into a vast iron pan. ‘And I reckon even Clive and Henry ain’t got an appetite big enough for that lot. Looks like we’ve had a visitor wot don’t like making hisself heard or seen.’

  Rose touched her shoulder as she passed on the way to the back door. A rapid search of the barns revealed the absence of Muriel’s horse, but there was no sign of her on the terraces or out in the pastures.

  She returned to the house, suspicions clamouring as she again climbed the stairs to the twins’ bedroom. Ignoring Emily’s protests and questions, she flung open the drawers. Then in bitter silence she drew back the curtain that hung in front of the girls’ dresses. Every stitch of clothing Muriel possessed was gone. Rose slumped down on the bed and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘What is it, Mama?’ Emily asked tremulously.

  Rose scrubbed her face and looked at her beautiful, dark-haired daughter. ‘I don’t know, Emily,’ she replied honestly. ‘But I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Perhaps she and Henry have run off together,’ said the girl hopefully. ‘Muriel always thought elopement such a romantic thing to do.’

  Rose’s expression was as grim as her thoughts. ‘Henry’s still in his bed. Wherever your sister’s gone, it isn’t with him.’

  Emily sank on to the bed, the colour drained from her face. ‘You don’t think …?’

  She didn’t finish the sentence – didn’t have to – Rose was way ahead of her.

  ‘But she wouldn’t,’ Emily breathed. ‘Not even Muriel would do that. Would she?’ The
dark eyes were wide, the shadows of fear already noticeable.

  Rose stood up. ‘I don’t know,’ she said firmly. ‘But I am going to find out.’

  She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the thudding approach of hoofs on the dirt track outside. Hurrying to the door, her spirits plunged. For there was John astride a foaming gelding, waving a sheaf of paper in his hand.

  ‘I found this,’ he panted as he leaped from the saddle. ‘I came as soon as I could.’

  Rose scanned the hastily written note, then crumpled it in her hand. ‘How dare they?’ she breathed. ‘How dare they do this to Emily?’ Anger surged and she threw the crumpled note in John’s face. ‘You should have stopped him,’ she yelled. ‘Should have taught him better than to run off with my daughter. She’s engaged to be married. It was Emily who was in love with him.’ The tears of rage ran down her cheeks unchecked.

  ‘We didn’t know,’ he said helplessly. ‘How could we? We thought he was just visiting here so he could learn the wine business. Besides, I thought it was Emily he was courting, not her sister.’ He fell silent, his hands awkwardly at his sides as he tried to think of a way of appeasing Rose.

  Isobel came out on to the verandah. ‘He was,’ she hissed. ‘Making eyes at her, leading her on to think he felt something for her, even though I did everything I could to break it up.’

  John frowned as he looked into her furious face. ‘Break it up? Why? I was delighted to think our children might find happiness together. It’s too late for me and Rose but the next generation would have brought us all closer.’ He was uneasy at the sheer venom of her attack. He hadn’t realised Isobel disliked his son.

  ‘Isobel?’ Rose’s voice was hesitant. ‘Why are you so against Max? I know he and Muriel have done wrong to run away like this and leave Emily and Henry heartbroken, but…’

  ‘Don’t spout all that romantic nonsense to me,’ she shouted. ‘It was always too late for you and Rose – it was never possible.’