And yet for many years, I only had one: a brief letter to Kate Baker stored in the archives of the National Library of Australia. Did any others survive, in the archives of their recipients? Possibly. Rica gave all of Edith’s letters to Lynette Young, a biographer who planned to write Edith’s story. The biography never appeared. When Young died her archives were sent to the Mitchell Library, but there is no record of any of Edith’s letters there. Lynette never married, had no children. I have no way of tracing her family but I periodically search the internet anyway, hoping for some clue. An article appears in The Age about Lynette’s bequest to the Royal Society of Victoria, mentioning her niece, Fran Church. I search the phone book for Fran Church and, finding one that looks promising, ring and leave a message but hear nothing in reply. I should call again, but I hate cold-calling so I write a letter instead, never expecting to hear back. Fran emails me promptly, apologising for misplacing my message, confirming that she is Lynette’s niece, but is unable to offer many other suggestions for the archives.
But Rica Erickson was a natural archivist. She kept everything, organised everything. Over the course of her long life, Rica compiled a massive collection of research for her books as well as personal material. Five and a half lineal metres of material are stored in the Western Australian State Library’s Battye Library. The catalogue is indexed in detail but there is no mention of Edith Coleman, no possibility of the letters being there. After all, I already know she gave them away.
Since I’m in Perth, I decide to check the archives anyway. Something else might crop up. I’m not sure what to order from the stacks. I can’t look at all of it. I order Rica’s notebooks, her diary of the year that Edith visited Western Australia, but they are entirely devoted to orchids. There is a gap for the month around the time Edith visited, but it does not tell me what Rica did or where she went.
There are two boxes of letters, ‘from historians’ and ‘from scientists’, from between 1961 and 1991. Long after Edith’s death. But I’m here now, so I may as well look. I open the letters from scientists and scan through the alphabetically organised loose-leaf letters. At C there is a fat white folder, labelled in pencil: ‘Edith Coleman’.
Rica’s notes explain where they come from. Irritated that her letters had neither been used for a biography nor returned to her, Rica had searched for them herself. Lynette had given them to the Field Naturalists Club of Victoria. I don’t know why I didn’t find them when I searched their archive years ago. Rica wrote and requested that copies be made and returned to her. The folder contains photocopies of 39 letters from 1931 to 1933, from Edith to Rica, as well as four from Dorothy and one to Rica’s neighbour, Mr Rowe. It’s a tiny sample of all the letters Edith must have written in her life, but a fascinating one and it completely changes the way I see her.
I’m assuming Edith went to Kings Park when she came to Perth, as well as the wildflower show at the town hall. Surely she would have. Everyone with an interest in plants goes to Kings Park – and a great many more who don’t. It’s twenty acres in the middle of the city, perched atop the Mount; I misjudge the route from the bus and find myself climbing Jacob’s Ladder to get there. A flurry of neatly trimmed, tanned runners pound nimbly up and down and back again, effortlessly lapping me on the stairs as I stagger to the top. The only pounding I can hear is that of my heart as I pretend to admire the view at the top while struggling to catch my breath.
There is a small garden in the middle of the park, close to the bus parking bay, where overseas visitors with only half an hour in their busy itinerary can tour and see Western Australia’s immense botanical charms compacted into one small space. With a flower clock. Those with more time can wander by themselves, or take a tour for an hour with a volunteer guide. I attach myself to one group, the only Australian in a mix of British, German, Canadian and Chinese visitors. Few of them will stray beyond the manicured native gardens, with green lawns, shady trees and sculpted ironworks, into the bush reserve beyond.
‘I like the real park better,’ confesses the guide. ‘The bush part. You can go there if you like, but be careful. The snakes are out.’
The international audience startles and gasps.
The guide tells us that the early history of the park was an unhappy one – rubbish dump for urban trash, shelter for the dispossessed, resource for exploitation for firewood, timber, flowers even. Another sign tells me that the park only became a botanic garden in the 1950s.
I wonder if Edith would have visited here in 1929? It is Rica’s daughter who answers my question. Dorothy Erickson, artist, jewellery-maker, historian and author, has also written a history of the park. In 1929, Kings Park was indeed a very fine metropolitan garden, renowned as much for its exotic plantings as for the native virtues of its indigenous flora. Edith would certainly have come here.
The Adelaide-born Sydney nature writer, Amy Mack, described her first impressions:
‘Just outside the gates was a sight worth going a long way to see; a long straight avenue a mile or so in length, bordered on either side by gum trees, just plain, every-day gum trees they were, but nowhere would you see a more lovely avenue . . . there they stand, two graceful rows, shedding cool shade for travellers . . . inside . . . the red gums border a smooth red-brown path, which wends its way between stretches of smooth green grass; beyond the grass are clumps of banksia and other native shrubs, and splashes of colour beckoned temptingly to go and explore. But the path led on to the end . . . where, we were told, we should see the finest view in the west. Glimpses of the blue river between the trees had prepared us for something worth seeing, but when we reached the point the outlook was lovelier than anything we had imagined . . . In that part of the park reserved for native things the air was pungent with the odour of wattle and leucopogon . . . and the landscape blazed with gold and pink, blue and purple of many a well-known flower – or rather sisters of our well-known flowers.’
Emily Pelloe described the park in equally glowing terms in 1934.
‘Cool green shade predominates on the lower lawn beside Mount Bay road, a delightful picnic-ground or resting place. In the shelter of the cliff-face there is a long pond where the goldfish and carp dart out after insects from beneath water-lily leaves and jilgies sidle and shuffle along on the muddy bottom of the pool. Mounds of maidenhair and sword fern rise for the water, overhung by date palms, a coral tree, Moreton Bay figs, an ancient olive, peppermints, ginger plant, and a tall cotton palm with the bunched debris of dead leaves at the top of the truck forming a safe home for dozens of opossums. Tails of asparagus fern tangle in a shrub-like mass beside arum lilies, and pussy-willows thrive in near-by beds with their roots always wet from the seepage of the spring that flows through the lily-pond. From the same stream cool clear water gushes continuously out of a quaint stone fountain at the side of the road bearing the date 1861 and a carved swan.’
It sounds just like the kind of garden wilderness that Edith loved, although the superintendent of the time was also renowned for his impeccably manicured displays of carpet bedding around the lodge and memorials: ‘tall clumps of magnificent sweet peas, and a massed ribbon border of daisy-like blue phycelia, blue nemesis . . . giant candytuft, sweet-scented carnations, Iceland and scarlet poppies, nasturtiums with their wondrously tinted flowers flirting brazenly among quaint disc-like leaves of great size, clambering tendrils of “Lady’s leg” creeper, and huge yellow marigolds.’
Today, the flowerbeds are just as colourful and vibrant: filled with the pink, white, red and yellow of the paperdaisies, the tall reds, greens and oranges of the kangaroo paws, sprawling golden pea flowers, bold orange candles of banksias and the many shapes and colours of the lacy grevilleas. The exotic European, Asian and American garden plants are still in evidence among the longer-lived varieties and trees, but they are no longer replaced when they die.
In a land which is one of 34 biodiversity hotspots in the world, with more than 13,000 plant species, and with some of the greatest natur
al wildflower shows on earth, surely the native flora is exotic enough.
There are three photos of Edith in Rica’s archive. I am sure she must have sent them in 1931. She mentions them in a letter, when she asks Rica to send her a photo.
‘I’m hoping Mr Rowe will send me a snap of you so that I can visualise the person to whom I write,’ she says. ‘And in case you are curious too, here am I with the usual luck of the victim of home photography.’
The three photos offer three windows into entirely different parts of Edith’s life – everyday snapshots. They are unlike any other photos I had of her earlier, the formal images from her early married years or the professional portrait taken in later years. One photo shows her standing at the gates at Goongarrie. Another is the photo of her sitting in the driver’s seat of ‘the Lugger’. And the third is of her in a rock pool at Sorrento. John can hardly believe they are of his grandmother. The photos date from before his birth.
I have a palette of Edith photos now, cropped head shots in various states of resolution and detail. I have become familiar with the shape of her mouth, her nose, her eyes and eyebrows. Her eyes are large and wide when young, becoming slightly hooded with age, exacerbated by a tendency to tilt her chin, or the need for glasses, removed for a photo. The photo in the Lugger is just like one taken in the garden at Walsham about ten years later, from Kate Baker’s archives. Her chin is raised and slightly defiant, her lips pressed firm but her expression pleased.
The photo at Sorrento is quite different. She is lying in the shallow pool, her hair loosely tied back. She’s smiling, just slightly.
‘I don’t remember her ever swimming,’ John says. ‘That could be my mother.’
But I know this photo is of Edith. Her handwriting inscribes the back: ‘The loveliest pool you ever swam in. Sorrento. We wished I had kept my cap on to cover the untidy hair.’
Edith at the Sorrento rock pool, 1931
For the first time, I can imagine Edith sitting under the fruit trees at Busselton with Mrs Bryant, relaxing and laughing. Her other photos tend to be formal, staged, sometimes even a bit cross-looking. Her voice in her articles is always friendly and warm, but the voice in her letters is also fragile, revealing and human. Not only interesting, but fun as well. And now I have an image to go with that voice. I feel like I have finally caught a glimpse of Edith away from her desk, not Edith the writer or Edith the naturalist or Edith the wife and mother, but Edith just as herself.
A silent sentinel of the coast: Cape Leeuwin lighthouse
By Edith Coleman
Compared with some other countries, Australia has few lighthouses, but they are exceptionally well placed, and they give fine service.
The Cape Leeuwin lighthouse, in the extreme south-west – the ‘toe’ of Australia – is picturesquely situated on an easily accessible cape which juts well out into the Indian Ocean. It may be seen without the aid of glasses for many miles. In summer it is visited by hundreds of holiday-makers. The distance from Perth by rail is 220 miles. It is possible to enjoy a wonderful holiday by making headquarters at Augusta, at the mouth of the beautiful Blackwood River, and exploring the many delightful little coves which lie between Augusta and the Leeuwin. Fishing from the rocks just beyond Flinders Bay provides excellent sport.
When we visited this delightful playground we found our time all too short. A run of five miles from Augusta, along a winding road dappled with shadow, brought us within a short distance of the Leeuwin lighthouse. Great grass-trees – ‘blackboys’ – and blossoming banksias, bearing huge ‘bottle-washers’ as well as the fantastic fruits of last year, appealed to the botanists in our party. We stopped occasionally for closer inspection. The green ‘kangaroo-tails’ of the grasstrees were breaking into bloom, and long lines of tiny white flowers showed on the eastern sides of the tall green scapes like streaks of light. In a week or two the whole of the top part of the ‘tail’ would be white.
There are four keepers’ cottages on Cape Leeuwin. Only three are occupied, two by married men and their families, the third by a single man. When the winds of winter beat against our doors and we snuggle more closely around our cosy fires we may sometimes give a thought to the men who keep lonely vigil on our bleak coast. But on dreamy summer days, when the sea sighs gently on the shore and lazy waves but tardily efface our footprints in the sands, it is easy to forget the lonely watchers in their tall towers. The lot of the lighthouse-keepers of Cape Leeuwin lighthouse compares very favourably with that of their comrades in other parts of the world or with that of some keepers in more isolated positions on the Australian coast. The children have for their playground some of the finest sands I have seen. Lovely shells – large, many-coloured cowries among them – are washed ashore in great numbers. A quaint old wheel, driven by water from a swamp, is employed to convey water to the keepers’ quarters, about 40 chains away. The water runs along a trough. Some of the water falls into a chamber on one side. The rest flows over the wheel, driving it and the force pump, which feeds the pipe leading to the quarter.
Climbing to the top of the lighthouse – the Leeuwin light is 130ft. high – we obtained splendid views of the land towards Hamelin and Flinders Bay. We did not need to be told that life on the cape was not always as calm and fair as we found it. There are days when huge waves buffet the tall tower and wild seas surge endlessly about its base; days when salt spray deluges its shining parts so that they must be polished and repolished again and again. The life of the keepers is not all smooth sailing. There are sometimes black hours, when terrible fogs blot out land and sea alike.
We experienced a curious sensation as stepping on to a platform within the tower, we slowly turned with the great light on a bath of mercury, which, we were told, cost £5,000. The light revolves once in 15 seconds, giving a regular flash in every seven and a half seconds, and it is visible for 40 miles. No two lights on the Australian coast have the same timing, so that a mariner, taking the time of the flashes, knows at once what light he has picked up. To the lay mind the apparatus appeared to consist of a very powerful lamp of the bullseye type, with a circular lattice of glass slats so arranged that they refracted the beams of light in the right direction. It is a wonderful piece of mechanism: a beautiful work of art. Every two hours the keeper on duty must go down the 159 steps in the spiral stairway, with the aid of only an ordinary hurricane lantern, and take the reading of the thermometer bulbs. At 8 o’clock every morning reports are sent to the Perth Observatory.
The watches of eight hours become tedious, even to men who have done the work all their lives, and the keepers know how to appreciate a holiday. Our bachelor guide told us of one merry trip to Perth which culminated in a big win at the races. The holiday, however, necessitated a visit to the doctor, who diagnosed the aftermath as a nervous breakdown, and prescribed complete rest. Not knowing the occupation of his patient, the doctor advised him to give up his job and go to some quiet little place along the coast. The eye of the keeper twinkled as he assured us that he did not need to give up his job to procure quiet. Some of us fancied that we had heard the tale before in similar circumstances on another part of the coast, but we did not spoil his story by telling the keeper so.
The keeper begged us as we bade him good-bye to examine the path of shells he had made to his cottage door and to peep at his tiny garden. We admired them both and we fancied that we read signs that someone would soon enter his cottage and end his loneliness. We were loath to leave the Leeuwin, where we had spent so many happy hours. We shall remember for many a day the imposing picture of the lighthouse on its isolated bit of the continent.
Chapter 10
FAIRY TALES FROM NATURE
‘Except in a few old cottage gardens, in the gardens of botanists and lovers of literature, these plants of long tradition are now rarely seen. Desirable as they are, it is easier to gather a representative collection of orchids, lilies or irises than of the poets’ herbs.’
December 1931
Edith pulls
back the canvas flap on the tent and peers out into crisp morning light. She can hear the sea’s distant sigh, as if waking from peaceful slumber. No movement from the girls’ tent but the campfire crackles bright in the greyness. Someone is up – probably Dorothy. She has likely headed down to the rocks for some early morning fishing.
They are camped under some big banksias, just back from the coast at Blairgowrie, surely one of the most beautiful places on earth. Edith had lain awake last night, listening to the sounds of the bush. It reminded her of the first time she took the girls camping, in a little bell tent near the Yarra, and they made beds of crushed bracken which filled the tent with its unforgettable fragrance. In the night they were woken by a crash when a possum landed on the tent, and watched, giggling, as its moon-shadowed silhouette slid down the canvas side, scrabbling for a foothold.
The birds are already active in the banksias, in full song and full plumage. They seem larger and finer here than in Blackburn – and far greater in abundance: blue wrens, yellow-tailed tits, greenfinches, scarlet robins, golden whistlers and red wattlebirds. They ascend like clouds of butterflies from the tea-trees. As Edith watches from the tent, a wren hops around the campfire, head tilted, keeping an eye on her as it scouts for food. Another, larger, visitor is emboldened by the wren’s confidence and stalks in stage left, clad in its black and white tuxedo. The young magpie startles theatrically as it notices Edith, before fluffing its feathers and warbling in a fine tenor.
Later, Edith thinks, she’ll go down to the beach and see what the tide has swept in. The sea never fails to offer fascinating treasures from the deep – a baby cuttlefish, a giant hermit crab or thousands of thin-ribbed cockles swept up in piles of exquisite colour, before fading to monotony beneath the sun. But for now she has to remember her doctor’s instructions – complete rest and no work – as if she could stop her eyes from seeing and her mind from thinking. Despite three weeks of illness, there was nothing wrong, the doctors had said, but what slackening off work would remedy. Camping was always the perfect cure for life’s woes: air like wine and food that tastes as it always does in the open air, food for the gods.
The Wasp and the Orchid Page 18
