The Wasp and the Orchid

by Danielle Clode

  In the wilds of Gippsland, Edith would have been exposed to the prodigious grandeur of an Australian forest. Here the forest was unlike anything she could have imagined in ‘the home country’. These were not the dappled woodlands of Guildford, with grassy meadows speckled with bluebells and startled deer gazing wide-eyed from paths worn deep by endless generations. Here the trees grew taller and straighter than in any British forest, doubling the height of the tallest Scottish conifer. Long strips of bark shed from silky trunks, piled like discarded garments at their base. Antediluvian ferns grew tree-like in the undergrowth. In the darkness, possums screeched unearthly cries, eyes glowing demonic in reflected lamplight. Unearthly, unidentifiable shapes flung themselves across the bright-starred southern sky, landing with a thud and crash in the canopy. Rumours of native wolves, with bone-crushing jaws, still circulated in these forests. It seemed primeval, an untamed wilderness, so foreign as to be unrecognisable. For many this bush was a frightening place, a deadly place, particularly for children. Early settlers’ tales were filled with stories of dread, fear and tragedy: stories of lost children, weeping mothers and shattered fathers.

  ‘It came down close all around us, dark and stern,’ wrote Mary Fullerton of the Gippsland forests, ‘along the ranges, lighter-timbered toward the valley, where the fertile land followed the rambling creek. The massed foliage of the ranges flowed back and back; the sombre greens made by the alchemy of the atmosphere in the distance into a deep blue.’

  And from time to time, these forests subverted the common dark, damp trope of European folklore and erupted into the very fires of damnation. Much of the Gippsland forest had been burnt in the Black Thursday inferno of 1851, revealing Aboriginal stone axes long-lost beneath their tangled vegetation. Such fires would strike again in 1898, turning the Gippsland sky a ‘strange shade of purple, tinged with blood’ and leaving behind ‘a blackened waste’ with ‘nothing but want and misery’.

  The natural beauty of Stockyard Creek, Foster, near Edith’s first teaching post

  Such tragedies shaped the culture of the Gippsland farmers towards the native vegetation. But powerful though those factors must have been, I can’t imagine Edith being intimidated by such concerns. More likely she would have had more in common with Miss Elms of Jumbunna, who was enraptured by ‘the most beautiful mosses’. I fancy Edith travelling along the quiet tracks beneath the great towering arcs of mountain ash and manna gum, messmate and stringybark: her attention rapt by the ‘sweet-scented wattles, hazels, musk, cotton bush, lightwood and myrtles; prickly Moses, the “lace curtains of supplejack” (clematis), sassafras, raspberry, Christmas bush; the tree ferns, maidenhair, rock ferns, the wildflowers, lichens and mosses’.

  And the fungi. Surely she must have noticed the fungi in these cool damp forests: great bracts of orange growing in neat horizontal shelves from fallen timber, the lime green caps of Dermocybe austroveneta perched on bright yellow shafts, delicate fans, striped like microscopic tatting, or the yellow-fingered ‘corals’ of Ramariopsis crocea. To the observant, the forest floors were a colourful wonderland, more than enough to divert attention from their daunting height or legendary ferocity.

  ‘Orange twigs and ruby stems threaded the maze of leaves,’ Jean Galbraith observed after heavy rains, ‘and in a mystery of colour, yellow deepened into green and crimson paled through pink to orange and bright gold or darkened into ruddy brown. Tremulous globes of silver and spots of shrill white fire threw lances jewel bright across the air as sunbeams shattered their glory on the drops of rain.’

  In August, Edith was transferred out of Gippsland to the other side of Melbourne, to the tiny goldfields town of Timor (State School No. 1207), a far cry from the forested foothills of Gippsland. Here the land lay long and flat beneath the farmer’s plough, swept bare by armies of hopeful gold-diggers. The light woodlands had long been stripped back to remnant pockets on creek lines, a few left as sparse shade for thirsty livestock. The grasses grew long and lush in autumn and spring, drying pale and gold in the summer heat. Northerlies blasted down from desert country, desiccating all that lay before their gritty breath. In the township, the streets stretched wide and empty as the tide receded from frantic gold-rushed days, the pace so slow one might need a packed lunch to cross the road. Zigzagged roofs of corrugated iron stood in for hills, ranging themselves behind uneven silver-grey palings.

  In 1879, the school had 492 children enrolled. By the early 1890s, the entire town numbered little more than 400. Edith worked here through the spring. Just the season for a profusion of orchids, delicate long-legged spider orchids in white, red and pink (Caladenia cretacea, cruciformis and versicolor), shy green-hoods and upright leek orchids. Inspector Hamilton, who had also seen her work at Traralgon, reported that she was a good, capable teacher.

  In October Edith was promoted to head teacher at nearby Cochranes Creek. The school consisted of a portable wooden schoolhouse, suitable for around 30 children. A small two-roomed teacher’s residence was originally attached, but perhaps, as Ada Cambridge had found, it was not appropriate for a single young woman to live alone on school grounds. Edith found lodgings elsewhere, some distance from the school.

  Cochranes Creek presented its own challenges. Not only was Edith leading a school on her own for the first time, but it was also a school with significant difficulties: poor discipline, unhappy parents and struggling children.

  In early 1896, before Edith’s arrival, Mary Anne Mason, just five years old, told her Mama that ‘the teacher beat me . . . for not knowing my spellings. She beat me with a stick.’ The marks were still visible on her skin. In June, an Education Department enquiry found that the teacher Elizabeth Spence was ‘in the habit of punishing the children – both boys and girls – in the hand with small rods’. At the time, the corporal punishment of girls, particularly such young ones, was not permitted in schools.

  ‘A little girl should not be treated in this way,’ reported the inspector.

  Elizabeth Spence was cleared of striking children ‘in the head’, but fined one pound and counselled against the frequent and unnecessary use of punishment. She resigned in September, and Edith replaced her in October.

  ‘I find the children of this school in a very backward condition on my taking charge, most of them being too young for their respective classes, and the work very much neglected,’ Edith reported. Despite her working hard in the first seven weeks of her appointment, the percentage of children attending school still fell and the department agreed not to dock her pay as this was probably not her fault.

  Surely it was during these early postings in the little country schools of Victoria that Edith first encountered what might pass for wilderness in the rapidly changing landscape of the still newly settled state. Did she follow Frank Tate’s advice and take her young charges outdoors for nature study? Did she take the opportunity to learn from them the precious beauties they had known since birth? I don’t know. I can find no reminiscences of her teaching or training in any of her later writings – articles or letters. The only signs are the patiently educative tone of her writing and her deep-set belief in the importance of instilling a love of nature in a younger generation. She was a product of her times, I think, as well as her training.

  By 1897, Edith was finding the ‘long walk to my school extremely trying during this hot weather’. She applied for a job in the city and, this time, was successful. She was relieved of her post as head teacher at Cochranes Creek on Monday, 8 March 1897, left on Tuesday, and reported for duty at Burnley State School on Wednesday. Finding it closed for a picnic, she waited until Thursday to commence in the rather grand, newly constructed, three-storey Gothic Revival building, so different from the little wooden halls she had been teaching in. If Edith found this large and crowded urban school, built on a swamp, lacking in the open space she had previously enjoyed, she did not say so. According to Inspector Gamble, she had become ‘a capable young teacher’ with a promising career ahead of her.

&nb
sp; But all that changed when Edith returned to the city. She met, and soon became engaged to, the handsome and charming James G. Coleman. Within a year they were married and Edith’s promising teaching career came to an abrupt end.

  Edith and James, taken around the time of their marriage in 1848

  Forest orchids: Flowers of winter and spring

  By Edith Coleman

  Many of our most beautiful orchids challenge the keen winds and frosty nights of winter. Indeed, some of them are at their best only during the cold weeks, slipping away with the first warm days. But the heart of the enthusiast leaps at the mere thought of spring. It conjures up visions of the brighter orchids, which for some months have been conspicuously absent. With the coming of spring these will meet us with a rush. This, by the way, may be said to be characteristic of our terrestrial orchids. On today’s ramble our pulses may be stirred by the sight of leaves and buds only; yet almost tomorrow it seems the same places yield a rich harvest of blooms. They come in with a rush. All of them are interesting, many of them are of extraordinary beauty, while the quaintness of others makes their appeal to our interest. There is a special graciousness that sets them quite apart from other field flowers, and makes them easy of recognition without any special botanical knowledge . . .

  Everybody who has an orchid eye knows the nodding green-hood (P. nutans), if not by this, by one of its many vernacular names, and these are legion. It is common in most districts, coastal or inland. The shy, down-bent head and the reddish tinge of color on the tip of the hood are characteristic, and the tongue protrudes between the two lower sepals in a decidedly rakish manner.

  ‘Beery Noses’, one little fellow told me, he and his playmates call them. Not a pretty name, certainly, and I told him of others I like more.

  ‘But they all have red noses, and they can’t stand up straight’, he argued – a tribute surely to the keenness of his observation, for it embraced two of their characteristic features. ‘Elephants’ trunks’ is another of its popular names, and a glance at the downward curve of the hood is sufficient to justify it. ‘Pigs’ runs it close in popularity, and when next you come upon a patch of these numerous nodding greenhoods they will perhaps suggest to your fancy also, hordes of little green pigs grazing.

  Not all the greenhoods are green, however, though they are all hooded. Some of them are rust colored or reddish, while one handsome plant blooming at the present time is more often of a deep chocolate-brown, banded or striped with cream or green. This beautiful orchid (P. vittata) – the banded greenhood – favours coastal districts. Cheltenham, Black Rock or Mornington. Very fine deep red specimens carrying 8 or 10 flowers on each stem have been received from Point Lonsdale this season. In the fresh flowers the labellum is very sensitive, springing up at the lightest breath, and needs to be held down with paste, or must be chloroformed into a stationary position for the artist or photographer.

  Its very near relation (P. longifolia) – the tall greenhood – has commenced its season, and is common in most localities. It loves the shelter of light scrub or the base of trees where soft mounds of collected humus make ideal beds for the germination of windblown seeds. It, too, carries a number of flowers on each stem which, with the exception of a touch of rust on the tongue and the tips of the united lower sepals, are all green. The labellum is extremely sensitive. At the present time I am watching a plant which carries 13 flowers on its stem, and it is very interesting to see the canny little tongues fly up at a touch, disappearing like magic – dropping again later ‘when the coast is clear’.

  Roughly, all the greenhoods might be divided into two classes – these which have stem leaves at the time of flowering and those with a loose rosette of leaves lying at the base of the plant. The tall and the banded greenhoods have stem leaves while the nodding greenhood has basal leaves only. Some of the quaintest and most interesting of our winter and early spring flowers are the little helmet orchids.

  As they are the smallest of terrestrial orchids it is rather surprising how easily children discern distinctions between the four known Victorian species.

  ‘Granny’s bonnets’ is the delightfully apt name they have given to one of them – from the quaint fringed labellum that frames the little granny-face of their imagination.

  To fully appreciate the name ‘Squatters’ bestowed upon them by the children of an orchid enthusiast in a sister State, one must see the small greyish red flower squatting closely on its one green leaf. One needs the ‘orchid eye’ to locate these little ‘helmets’ for they love the cover of dead leaves or the shelter of fallen logs in moist, shady places. Some choose the trunks of tree ferns or the soft bark of decaying logs for their nurseries. Requiring a few of the rarest of these helmets for exhibition at a wild flower show, and being unable to visit their locality, the writer enlisted the aid of a friend, roughly describing them as reddish ‘slugs’, each one resting snugly on a single leaf which is red on the underside. The whole plant would barely cover the palm of a baby’s hand, yet the friend rang up that evening and triumphantly announced, ‘I’ve got your little red slugs’. She had not botanical knowledge, but she certainly possessed the ‘orchid eye’ . . .

  Chapter 5

  MARRIAGE AMONG THE FLOWERS

  ‘There is certainly great beauty in flower-marriage, where lover is carried to lover on the wings of the wind, and ceremonies of exquisite delicacy take place in scented canopies, under blue sunny skies . . .’

  November 1904

  Edith adjusts her motoring cap, swinging the short cape over her shoulders and snipping it tight under her chin. She slides the goggles over her head, ready to pull down over her eyes. It is the very latest in European motoring fashion. James brought it back from London for her. She straightens her dust-coat – checking that it is buttoned up tight and the scarf around her neck is snugly secured. All very businesslike and well equipped, but she still feels decidedly peculiar – a bit like ‘Mr Toad’, but without any of his complacence.

  She climbs into her husband’s pride and joy, with its queer high tonneau, through the door in the middle of the back. There is no windscreen and the front seat is so high up that one receives the full force of the wind. James smiles up at her from the front of the car, waiting until she is seated – comfortably is not quite the word – on the upholstered bench seat, before he bends down to crank-start the car.

  Edith holds her breath as he spins the crank handle, praying for that sweet compression point where the ignition spark will drive the piston downwards. The engine coughs, wheezes and falls silent. James tries again. And again. On the third try, the car backfires, flinging the crank handle viciously backwards.

  ‘Careful, James,’ calls Edith.

  James waves reassuringly, his smile a little more strained this time. One more attempt and the car bursts into life, its single cylinder puttering as steadily as a galloping horse. All around them, the other cars start up – women rugged up like polar explorers, shouting and waving, checking the wicker baskets secured on the back and sides, men cursing and fiddling with oil-soaked fingers, heads down over intricate machinery as it splutters, roars and belches into thunderous motion. The noise in the narrow city street is deafening.

  It is a good turnout for the newly formed Automobile Association’s expedition to Marysville – who knew there were so many new car owners in Melbourne? Well, James did, of course. After all, he’d sold many of the vehicles to their new owners, and he’d started the association with his friends: dear old Syd Day and the ever energetic Harry James, manager of the Dunlop Pneumatic Tyre Company. Known as the Tooradin Trio, for one of their first trips, they are all mad about cars.

  James clambers into the seat beside her, his good humour restored. Edith slides her goggles on, grips the side of the car and prepares herself for the ride. They pull out with the other cars, heading east through the suburbs towards the hills. Leaving at 2.30 should get them the 40 miles to Healesville in time for dinner. The train would have been much quicker and
more comfortable, but that is not the point, Edith supposes.

  The car lurches forwards with a sudden jolt. Edith closes her eyes momentarily, and then they are off.

  AT THE TURN of the century Marysville was a popular tourist destination. Visitors could take the train direct from Melbourne to Healesville, then a coach service over the famed Black Spur to Marysville, to stay at one of many scenic guesthouses that nestled within the great mountain forests. With the advent of cars, the journey became even more spectacular. The cascading Steavenson Falls, the rustic cottages at Tommy’s Bend and the monster trees at Cumberland Creek were all within easy reach of a motorised vehicle.

  The RACV’s second outing to Marysville in 1904, which Edith and James attended

  This was the second outing for the newly formed Automobile Club of Victoria and an enjoyable one for Edith and James, despite rutted roads strewn with discarded horseshoe nails. Edith’s parents had moved to Healesville from Burwood, building a sweet little house which they called ‘Walsham’. Edith loved the view of the hills, where the road slid out of Healesville, leaving behind the valley floor with its patchwork of farms and orchards, the picturesque towns and guesthouses, the willow-dappled meandering creek lines.

  Edith, her brother Harry with his son Wilfred, and James Coleman (standing) in about 1905; Henry Harms with Dorothy, Gladys, Harry’s son Ivo and Lottie (seated)

  ‘The grassy flats were wound about by a wattle-fringed river, while on them lay little pools that gave back the blue of the sky,’ she later wrote. ‘Beyond rose the hills, fold on fold, the blue air filling each hollow.’