‘No, it’s just an itch. Come on, I’ve promised Polly we’ll both take her for a walk. Or do you want to finish your chapter?’
‘No,’ Edith said, smiling. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
He wheeled her chair to the small lift, and they descended to the ground floor. Mrs Forbes came to ask if they’d take tea, but Edith said it could wait until they returned, then they’d have it in the library. Harry fitted a shawl around her shoulders, and put a rug across her knees. He told the dog to settle down or she’d be left behind, and attached her lead.
Mrs Forbes stood and watched the boy, as he guided the wheelchair down the driveway. Every afternoon, unless it was wet. Ever since he was old enough to push the chair. And now he was beginning to sprout, and was already inches taller than some of his friends.
Seven years he’d been with them now. Seven years since he’d arrived as a tot with Miss Lizzie, as a child named Heinrich Muller, who had stayed here and become Henry, and then begun prep school and all of a sudden it was Harry. Harry Patterson. The Senator had told them it would be easier — and simpler.
Mrs Forbes sometimes wondered if his parents knew about this.
TWENTY ONE
There had never been such a harvest. The vines across the hillside were heavy, the grapes ready to burst. On the land her father had bought them, the soil was even richer, and the vines, laden with shiraz grapes, had matured in surprisingly swift time. With money carefully saved, they had also purchased additional acres of land, cut by a meandering stream. In these fields they had planted muscatel. Their vineyard was now one of the few that was self-supporting. Last year they had bottled over a thousand litres and even put money in the bank; while this year Stefan predicted the yield would be twice that.
‘You know something?’ he said to Elizabeth, as they sat in the shade to eat a picnic lunch, a habit begun when they had first come here and which they still enjoyed. ‘There’s a secret — but I’m not supposed to tell you.’
‘So tell me.’
‘I mustn’t.’
‘But you’re dying to.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Now I’m dying to hear it.’
After a moment he said, ‘At the SchutzenJest, after the harvest, everyone votes that you be the Festival Princess.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she laughed. ‘I was the princess ages ago, in our second year here. Now I’m an old lady. Princess? More like a grand duchess.’
‘Who’s being ridiculous? Old lady? A grand duchess? Please don’t talk such shit.’
‘Stefan!’
‘Excuse the French,’ he said, and she laughed so loudly that Carl and Maria, home from school on their summer holidays, and fishing for yabbies in the creek, heard her and looked towards them.
‘Old? How can you be old? You’re twenty-nine.’
‘I’ll soon be thirty.’
‘When you were seventeen, you were quite pretty. Now you’re soon to be thirty, you’re much more beautiful.’
‘Nonsense.’ But she was pleased. ‘When was this great secret decided?’
‘They had a meeting in town. Gerhardt said 1909 would be a special vintage, a wonderful year, so they must have the best princess. They all voted for you. Everyone. Even the young girls.’
‘That’s nice,’ she said, feeling warmed and happy.
Carl and his sister came from the creek to join them.
‘Don’t tell the children,’ she said, as they approached.
‘Did you tell her, Papa?’ Carl asked.
Before Stefan could reply, Maria hugged her mother and said, ‘Did you know you were voted the SchutzenJest princess, because you’re the prettiest person in the valley?’
‘Goodness me,’ Elizabeth said, ‘they need their eyes tested.’
‘No, it’s true, Mama. You are. I know you are,’ nine-year-old Maria said proudly. ‘And everyone says I look just like you.’
After supper was over, and Carl and Maria had gone to bed, they took the lantern and a glass of wine each, and went out to sit on the verandah. It had been significantly enlarged since the first porch that Stefan had built.just as the house had grown, and bottling sheds and storage for casks had been added. A great deal had happened, Elizabeth reflected, since they first came here with her father, across the bridge that spanned the creek, and saw the weeds and untended vines and small shabby house.
Nearly eleven years ago.
Sigrid was now married, living in town. She had finally acquiesced to the pleas of the assistant to the chemist, and was Mrs Oscar Schmidt. Elizabeth had been her matron-of-honour, and Gerhardt was chosen as father of the bride, and Oscar, whom they liked but thought the dullest man in town, had surprised everyone by making a very witty speech at his wedding, and then announcing he had bought the chemist shop from his employer, and would be open for business the following morning at eight o’clock — immediately after his honeymoon.
Carl attended the village school, and so he learned his lessons in German and switched from one language to the other with fluent ease. He was an amiable, likable boy, who enjoyed helping his father in the fields, and was extremely protective of his younger sister, who adored him. They were as close as Carl and his elder brother were distant, when, on increasingly rare occasions, Heinrich came home for the holidays.
As for Maria, Elizabeth had her own ideas for her daughter.
She wanted her to attend the private school in Tanunda where they taught in English, rather than remain in the village school and graduate from there to the Lutheran Girls Academy. It would mean fees and the added expense of being a weekly boarder. She had not yet proposed it to Stefan, but she felt strongly about it, and thought that this year they could afford it. If the fees were beyond them, then she was prepared to ask her father.
It was something she would have liked to talk about tonight to Stefan, but the letter was like a weight on her conscience. Reluctantly she took it from the pocket of her dress and handed it to him. She had already read it herself several times.
‘When did this come?’ he asked, glancing at the signature. ‘This morning. Mr Carson left it with our groceries.’
The Carsons were a couple who had recently acquired a dairy farm further along the valley. It was small and run down, and while they set about making it viable they supplemented their meagre income by a delivery service that collected stores and mail from town. Although Stefan and Elizabeth had no real need of it, they had agreed, to help their new neighbours get started.
She watched Stefan as he bent his head, and in the lantern light began to read it.
Dear Mama and Papa,
I’m sorry I missed last Christmas with you, but we had a nice month in a holiday cottage at Collaroy with my friend David Brahm and his family. The house was right on the beach, and we spent all the time in the surf. His parents are really nice — his father is something to do with banking, and his mother used to be a musician before they were married, and she played the cello in an orchestra. He has a sister who is called Katherine, and she is two years younger than us. David says she is a pest, but I like her. She also plays the cello.
‘He has a girlfriend.’
‘Keep reading, Stefan.’
About the mid-winter holidays. Mr and Mrs Brahm have asked me to accompany them to Melbourne, where Katherine is to give a solo in a concert. Grandfather said no, but Gran said the best thing to do was to write and ask you. I will come to the Barossa if you wish, but I really would like to see Kate on stage with her cello.
With love, Heinrich
P.S. Mama, please tell Maria that I got her last letter, and I think what she says is true — she does look like you.
‘He sounds like a stranger,’ Stefan said later, when they were in bed. ‘Like someone from the east coast who I no longer know.’
‘I think he’s in love,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Aged thirteen years old? Please, Elizabeth.’
‘I married you when I was seventeen.’
; ‘That was different. Besides, he has four years to go. At thirteen, do you fall in love with the girl or the cello?’
She laughed, and kissed him.
‘Let’s write and tell him he can go. Do you mind, darling?’
‘Yes,’ Stefan said, after a considerable time. ‘I mind.’
‘You want him to come home. Why? To argue with Carl? Be surly with us? Is that what you want?’
‘I don’t want to lose him, liebchen.’
‘I never wanted him to go,’ she said softly, ‘remember?’
‘I remember you made me choose. And your father was too clever for me. So many promises made, but not always kept. One year he comes home, the next he has friends asking him to spend the holidays.’
‘With school, and growing up, that was bound to happen.’
‘You know how long it is now?’
‘Of course. Two years,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Two years. Soon he forgets what we look like. Already he prefers his new life to ours.’
‘I’ll write and say he can go to see his Kate play the cello. But he must come home at Christmas.’
‘No. Don’t say he must come. Say we’d like him to come. We would be happy if he comes. If in the meantime he meets some pretty girl who plays the violin or the mouth organ, we won’t expect miracles. But we would feel privileged if he came to spend the Yuletide with us.’
She kissed him, knowing that below his flippancy was a deep disappointment and concern. Heinrich was the first born, the one they had nurtured through the terrible times in the shed at Hahndorf. He had a special place in their lives. Now he wrote bright and lively letters from across the country, the main object of which was to be released from the chore of travelling to the Barossa twice a year to spend school holidays with them. Elizabeth had read between the lines these past few years, but until tonight had not realised that Stefan had also interpreted it so accurately.
‘A cello,’ Stefan said. ‘My Uncle Uhlrich played one, but not well. It’s a big instrument for a small girl to carry. So she needs someone to help her.’
I love you, Elizabeth thought. I just wish your son could be here when you say things like that.
Edith read Harry’s letter sent from Melbourne, and had the same thought as her daughter, although neither would ever know it.
‘He’s in love,’ she told William.
‘For God’s sake. He’s a kid,’ William replied, lowering the Herald, which had just predicted his political demise.
‘Then listen to this,’ she said, and read to him.
The hall was crowded, and the orchestra kept tuning up, and if it was me I would have been so frightened. When the curtain rose there was just an empty stage, and then Kate came on with her cello. It looked large and heavy, and made her seem so tiny carrying it, that the audience started to politely applaud, and then it grew louder, and somehow or other they started to cheer. She stood there and bowed her head, and they all went quiet. Then she began to play.
I honestly didn’t know strings could sound like that. I never knew she could play so beautifully — so that everyone was silent and you wanted it to go on and not stop — never, ever stop. When she played the Mendelssohn I thought I saw people crying. I wanted to cry myself, only I thought I’d look stupid. At the end they all stood up and clapped and shouted, and made her play an encore, and Kate just stood there and smiled; as if she never expected anything less. I think she will go to London or Vienna and become famous, and we’ll never see her again.
We go to Portsea tomorrow, and then start for home in a week. David and Kate and Mr and Mrs Brahm send their regards.
My fondest love,
Harry
In 1910 the old King died, and the Duke of York, who had opened the first Federal Parliament, was in June of 1911 crowned George V.
In London, it was a glorious summer.
In Sydney, Harry Patterson and David Brahm were due to sit for their Intermediate Certificate, and had two further years of school before their matriculation. Neither of them had any idea yet what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives, although David’s parents hoped he would study medicine.
In the Barossa they looked forward to another abundant crop, but in late November a savage hailstorm ruined the harvest. Stefan and Elizabeth were able to survive it as they had the previous year’s shiraz stored in vats and enough cash in the bank to see them through, but it meant economies, and Elizabeth wondered if they could afford to keep Maria at her new school in Tanunda. It would be a pity, because her instinct had been correct and Maria had thrived in the English college, whereas she had not adapted well to the German lessons and Lutheran teaching at the village school. Elizabeth thought about writing to seek her father’s help, but was aware he had his own problems, and resolved that they would try to manage on their own.
For William Patterson’s political fortunes had fluctuated. In his tenth year in the Senate, the tide of fortune that had charted his career seemed to have deserted him. He had been a member of the Cabinet, one of few Senators to achieve a position of such eminence. When Edmund Barton retired from politics to a place on the bench of the High Court, William was one who helped organise the succession of Alfred Deakin. It was Deakin — with William’s encouragement — who believed British paternalism towards Australia must not be allowed to dominate foreign relations, and invited the American fleet to visit. It was no more than a tentative step towards a more independent policy and future alliance, but it infuriated the London colonial office, who still considered themselves in charge of Australia’s foreign policy. Senator Patterson encouraged his friend the Prime Minister to write and advise them otherwise.
William was also one of a select few who knew of Deakin’s extraordinary secret life. Although qualified as a barrister, he had earned his living as a journalist before entering politics. And as an anonymous freelance correspondent for the, London Morning Post, he wrote about Australia and its politics during his time as its leader. At times the unnamed journalist approved of the performance of the Prime Minister. Occasionally he was critical. Had his political opponents known, they would have had the ammunition for his destruction. The fact that William Patterson was instrumental in keeping the secret meant he remained close to Deakin, and to the centre of power.
Deakin introduced reforms, including old age pensions, but was able to govern only with the support of the Labor Party. When the fragile coalition split, and Labor took office under Andrew Fisher, the shifts in political allegiances were such that James North, once a conservative, allied himself to Fisher and the Labor Party, and became a minister. He had a long memory, and saw to it no such affiliation was extended to William, whose decline was swift, and by the end of the year he was no longer a shadow minister. Relegated to the back bench, it was rumoured he was unlikely to be preselected again, once his term was served.
At the age of fifty-three, it seemed his public career was over. It was a difficult fact for him to accept. So much of his life, since his entry into the New South Wales parliament, had been in the public arena. He was an outstanding orator, who loved the cut and thrust of debate and the collusion of politics. He felt he had made his mark, not only in support of Federation, but the equally important achievement of votes for women, and he never tired of pointing out that Australia was the second country in the world to introduce universal suffrage, and the right to vote had still — despite all the efforts of the suffragettes — not been granted to women in Great Britain and most of Europe.
He had also been on the committee that had toured the country in the quest for a national capital, trying to balance interstate rivalry by finding a site convenient to Sydney and Melbourne, but not too close to either to cause resentment. After forty towns were inspected, they had finally chosen a location in the Molonglo Valley — and officially named it Canberra. The public was told it was an Aboriginal word denoting ‘meeting place’, and the newspapers all expressed approval.
‘Thank God I had no part in t
hat,’ William said, when it was soon divulged that Canberra also meant ‘women’s breasts’. The disclosure amused him immensely, and he told Edith and Harry at dinner. Since Lady Denman, the wife of the new governor-general, had been invited to name the proposed city, it was too embarrassing and too late to change it.
The story made Harry laugh for the first time in days. He had been deeply despondent, for Katherine Brahm had won a scholarship, and was to study in London. She would leave the following year, when she was fifteen, travel with a family friend as chaperone, then lodge with an aunt in Hampstead. She would study at the Guildhall of Music for four years, by which time he would be twenty-one and no more than a distant memory to her.
Edith, who was the only person who knew how badly he felt, thought the story rather risque, but it made Harry laugh, and therefore she laughed, too. Which pleased and surprised WilIiam. In years past she would certainly not have done so.
‘We’re going to take the same house, at Collaroy,’ David Brahm said as they left the school grounds.
Harry’s heart sank. He would never be allowed to go, even if he was invited.
‘Mother and Dad are going to write officially. They’d love you to join us. Sister Kate seems to like the idea,’ David said slyly.
‘I don’t think I can.’
Harry felt miserable, but after managing to miss last Christmas, which meant he had been to the Barossa only two out of the past four summers, he dare not disappoint them again.
Although, would it be such a disappointment? His mother would miss him, and so would Maria, but all he had done the last time was quarrel incessantly with Carl, who was a year younger but almost the same size, and who after school each day worked in the vineyard, seeming to regard it as his private domain and his brother as an interloper to be resented.
As for his father, Harry always seemed unable to relax and feel at ease. They had so little in common. Stefan Muller was like a stranger with him. Stiff and formal. He was not like that with others. Certainly not with his other children, nor with Gerhardt and Eva-Maria, nor Oscar the chemist who married Sigrid.
A Bitter Harvest Page 21