The Last Rose of Summer

by Di Morrissey

  He nodded and Sheila put her hands on one of his, stepped gingerly in the centre of the boat and squeezed beside him on the narrow seat. Together, as they had always faced life, they began pulling against the heaving water and the wind.

  Odette paused and looked up from her notebook, listening to the crash of thunder. Her small desk light burned like an island in the now dark room. She’d been lost in her story about the old soldier and hadn’t noticed night fall, or the arrival of the storm. She looked at her watch. It was after seven. She hurried downstairs, wondering where her parents were. The storm must have delayed them. As the thunder rumbled again she hoped they weren’t still on the river.

  The windows of the house were rattling in the wind, and the rain drummed on the roof. Odette shivered and, after lighting the lounge room fire, went to the kitchen to start preparations for dinner.

  An hour later, her worry was turning to fear. ‘What if . . . ? What if . . . ?’ kept running through her brain. Should she rush out; if so, where? Whom could she call? She was afraid to call the police and make a fool of herself. How bad was the storm? Once again she went to the window and peered into the darkness. Rain ran in fierce little rivers down the pane of glass and the garden was briefly lit by a flash of lightning.

  ‘Oh, dear . . . oh, dear . . .’ she could hear herself echoing her mother’s litany in times of stress. ‘Oh, dear . . .’

  She lifted the phone. Its familiar hum didn’t sound. Maybe that was good news. The phones were out, power lines must be down. That meant they couldn’t call her. They were sheltering somewhere waiting for it to ease.

  By nine o’clock she was pacing through the house, wringing her hands, tears biting at her eyes, a claw dragging at her throat and chest, forcing her breath out in rasping gulping gasps. The storm was at its height. The lights flickered and the house went black. Sobbing, Odette fumbled in the kitchen for a torch, ran to her bedroom, pulled on a raincoat and hurried from the house.

  She ran through the pelting rain, the hood of her raincoat blown back on her shoulders. Rain plastered her hair to her head and ran coldly down her neck, chilling her skin. She ran down the blacked-out streets, where dimly lit houses crouched with hollow eyes, mere shapes of darkness outlined against a blacker sky. The pencil beam of torchlight lit a step ahead, but she made no effort to avoid the puddles and overflowing gutters.

  She knew she was nearing the boatshed. Above the howl of wind she could hear the wild clanking of rigging on the swaying yachts, the straining groan of anchor chains and the flapping of torn canvas as the wind ripped sail covers and awnings from boats. The light from a lamp shone through a wet window of the boatshed office. Odette banged nervously at the door.

  A man in an oilskin coat opened the door and quickly stepped aside to let the bedraggled girl inside. ‘This is no night for you to be out. You come to check on a boat?’

  Another man, in a navy sweater with the letters MSB embroidered on it, smiled at her. He was standing with his back to a kerosene heater, sipping a mug of tea.

  Odette struggled to speak. ‘No, I’m a bit worried about my mum and dad; they went out fishing this afternoon and haven’t come back yet.’

  ‘Maybe they’re sheltering somewhere. What kind of boat have they got?’

  ‘It’s just a dinghy. Just big enough for two people.’

  The two men exchanged a swift look.

  ‘Tell us where they went, anywhere they might have gone. Do they have friends around here?’

  Odette shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. They don’t know many people. They said they’d be back by sunset. Though Dad said if the fish were biting they’d stay longer.’

  ‘Not in this,’ said the man from the Maritime Services Board.

  ‘What’s your name, young lady, and where do you live?’

  The men were businesslike, one pulling on his jacket, the other putting on a hat with flaps that covered his neck.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I ran.’

  ‘Anybody at home?’

  Odette shook her head.

  ‘You wait here, love. There’s tea in the pot. Try not to worry.’

  The men hurried into the night, hunched over as they headed down the wharf to the powerful MSB motorboat.

  ‘Let’s hope they pulled into shore somewhere. I don’t like their chances in this.’

  ‘I’m not too happy going out in this myself.’

  At the boatshed window, Odette heard the motor roar to life, the beam of its searchlight making little impression on the wall of rain and the spray from the tossing waves.

  She turned away, a stillness, a state of suspended animation, settling on her. She sat stiffly on a chair, staring at an emptiness before her.

  Three hours later the storm had eased, the wind dropped and the rain diminished to a soft curtain.

  The probing spotlight from a police launch crossed the path of wavering light from the Maritime Services boat. Both boats bobbed in the turbulent shallows of the river. Figures were briefly silhouetted as they moved about the boats, directing two men in rubber diving gear who were tying a rope around a fallen tree.

  Amidst the debris washed against the trunk, the pale light shone on a partially submerged, bright yellow raincoat.

  Odette was still in the chair, eyes closed and head bowed, when the office door opened.

  The young constable stood dripping in the doorway, his heart heavy. He hated this part of his job and felt he would never get used to it. God, she was so young. His mouth tightened as he saw Odette’s hands, clasped together, fingers tightly crossed.

  The young man, thinking of his own small sister, went and crouched before her, lifted her hands and slowly unlocked the interlaced fingers. He looked up at her sadly and shook his head.

  Odette bit her lip, and the constable gathered the quivering figure in his arms and stroked her hair. There was nothing to say. She had known all along what news he brought.

  It soon became obvious how little Sheila and Ralph had moved outside their own tiny circle. Neighbours who had only exchanged greetings across a fence or shared an occasional cup of tea came forward, but they knew little about Odette or the Barbers’ life.

  Mrs Bramble from two doors up took Odette to stay with her while the child’s only living relative was contacted. Ralph’s sister, Harriet Poole, lived in Amberville, a country town in northern New South Wales, and had agreed to travel to Sydney immediately to take over the funeral arrangements. She would, of course, take Odette back to live with her.

  ‘She sounds a very efficient sort of woman, your Aunt Harriet,’ said Mrs Bramble.

  ‘I don’t remember her very well. I only saw her a few times some years ago,’ said Odette.

  ‘She’ll look after you, don’t you worry. Think how nice it will be to live in the country.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave here.’

  ‘It’s hard, I know. Leaving your school and friends. But . . . well, there isn’t any choice really, is there, dear?’

  It wasn’t school or friends or her day-to-day existence Odette was going to miss. The gaping hole left by the loss of her parents would never be filled. She couldn’t even think about it. That they were not there was inconceivable; she wouldn’t allow the fact entry to her mind. If it crept like some smothering creature to the fringes of her consciousness, she attacked it, and sent it away.

  Wildly she clung to, and focused on, the fact she would no longer be near Zanana. The house on the river suddenly, if irrationally, represented sanctuary and security. It screamed to her from the silence of its locked gates and gardens. Odette knew that if she could just be there, in that lost and lovely world, all would be well. The nightmare would disappear.

  Instead, a small town, a country school and Aunt Harriet loomed.

  Mrs Bramble, a matronly and good-hearted woman, pushed her own family to the background and tried her best to comfort and distract Odette. After years of merely exchanging neighbourly pleasantries, they sat at
the kitchen table and talked at length, though Mrs Bramble encouraged Odette to do most of the talking, about school, her friends, her love of reading and writing her own stories. Odette talked and talked as she had never done before, finding some release in telling this kindly soul about the happy life she’d had with her parents. She even shocked herself at finding she could relate funny anecdotes about them and smile with Mrs Bramble. It made Ralph and Sheila seem still with her, real and lifelike, as though they were just away on a holiday somewhere.

  Mrs Bramble let the girl chatter, realising how she needed to talk out part of her grief. She also realised with a pang what a sheltered, loving and protected life Odette had led and what a jolt her new life would be.

  Aunt Harriet arrived for the funeral while her niece was at school. Odette had preferred to go to school as usual, rather than drift about the shell of her former life, but she kept to herself, hating being the object of sympathy. Whispers ceased as she walked past and garrulous friends suddenly shifted awkwardly in their shoes and had little to say.

  Odette decided against catching the school bus home and instead went to the public bus stop where she sat and waited for the local bus. A woman, surrounded by bulging string bags of shopping, welcomed the company.

  ‘Missed the school bus, did you, dear? How far are you going?’

  ‘River Street.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pretty part of town. I’m up on the hill. Too many steps to my place I’m afraid. Specially with all this shopping. Still, a nice view of the river. Why we bought really. For the view. It’s lovely looking down on the river.’ The lady paused. ‘Terrible thing that accident on the river the other night. Poor couple drowned. Had a girl too, I believe. Did you know her, dear?’

  Odette shook her head, trying to appear nonchalant, but terrified she would be identified as the poor little girl. ‘Yes indeed. I said to my George, silly thing really. Going fishing on a day like that. You can never trust that river. Very dicey in parts.’

  Odette managed to stand. ‘It wasn’t raining when they set out,’ she said in a small tight voice. ‘I have to go.’ She turned and walked away as the woman called after her.

  ‘Aren’t you going to wait for the bus? Should be along any tick now . . .’

  ‘How is the child coping, Mrs Bramble?’ asked Aunt Harriet as the two women stood waiting for the school bus.

  ‘Quite well really. Though I don’t think it’s all sunk in yet,’ sighed Mrs Bramble. ‘Ah, there she is now,’ she added as she spotted Odette down the street, scuffing her feet, her eyes on the ground.

  As Odette approached, Mrs Bramble called, ‘Odette, we wondered where you’d got to. Your aunty is here.’

  Odette looked from Mrs Bramble to the tall angular woman dressed in a grey suit, her grey flecked hair turned into a neat French roll beneath a small grey felt hat. The stranger opened her arms and descended on Odette.

  ‘My poor, poor child.’ Her arms wrapped about Odette who went rigid, staring over her aunt’s shoulder.

  Aunt Harriet held her at arm’s length. ‘Yes, yes, I can see a bit of Ralph in you. The eyes I think. That same pale blue.’ Odette didn’t make a move or utter a sound. Undaunted, Aunt Harriet continued. ‘Now first, my dear child, we must give thanks to God, to bless and keep your dear parents and to give us both the strength to soldier on.’ Aunt Harriet clasped Odette’s hands in hers and, bowing her head, closed her eyes. ‘Our Father which art in heaven . . .’

  In ringing tones, outside Hahn’s General Store, Aunt Harriet recited the entire prayer. Passers-by shuffled around them, their gaze averted; and two girls in school uniforms kept a hand to their mouths, stifling giggles as they scurried past. Odette stood frozen to the spot, gazing at her aunt with a mixed expression of horror and amusement.

  Aunt Harriet finished and lifted her head. ‘Amen. Now, don’t we feel better? Mrs Bramble kindly has made scones for afternoon tea. We have a lot to talk about. Come along, Odette.’

  Odette and Mrs Bramble looked blankly at each other, then fell into step behind Aunt Harriet who was striding confidently along the footpath with her handbag looped over her arm and her head held high.

  Odette could tell life with Aunt Harriet would not be easy. For the first time, a chink appeared in the wall around her feelings and she longed for the embrace of her soft and gentle mother. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  Mrs Bramble noticed, but said nothing. ‘Thank God for that at least. She’s shed a tear at last,’ she thought.

  Aunt Harriet, two steps ahead, didn’t notice, for which Mrs Bramble was very thankful.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Zanana 1899

  Sitting in the peace of her rose garden, Catherine drifted into a reverie, thinking back over the past two years since her arrival in Australia.

  Her first glimpse of her new country had brought tears to her eyes. In the pearly dawn light the north and south headlands enfolding the calm reaches of Sydney Cove seemed to reach out, drawing the ship into a protective and welcoming embrace.

  After the heat and harshness of India, the routine of their days at sea with its uniformity of surroundings and colours, the already brilliant blue sky, golden light and lush greenness of the harbour foreshores was like a dreamy painting come to life.

  Robert draped his arm about her shoulders as they stood at the railing. ‘No regrets, my love? Do you think you will be happy in your new home?’

  ‘I’d be happy anywhere with you, Robert darling. But his . . . it’s like a picture in a storybook.’

  Robert smiled contentedly and squeezed her shoulder, thinking, as he did so often, how lucky they were to have found each other.

  Once they docked, they were swiftly scooped from the excited crowds milling about the decks by Hock Lee. Robert’s old friend welcomed Catherine with hugs and laughter, and swept the pair off to his parents’ beautiful home overlooking Mosman Bay. They would stay there for a few days before heading to Robert’s estate on the river next to the small town of Kincaid.

  Catherine soon came to realise how respected and successful her husband was in this thriving city. Everyone congratulated Robert on his choice of such a gracious, charming and beautiful wife. Escorted by a beaming Hock Lee, the newlyweds were feted by the social elite at lavish receptions and dinners. In between the social events, Robert and Hock Lee spent days together going through the books, discussing the details of their business ventures. Hock Lee had managed their affairs well in Robert’s absence and they now began exploring plans to develop and expand their commercial empire.

  In addition to shipping chilled meat and dairy products to Europe and England, they imported tea, spices and silks. They acquired a fleet of fishing trawlers and sold fresh seafood in the city markets and exported smoked and dried fish. Robert was keen to build special water tanks in their ships so they could export the exotic fish species which abounded in the rivers, estuaries and off the Australian coast.

  Hock Lee also had several boats plying the Torres Straits with island-born divers collecting bêche-de-mer, the fat sea cucumbers which were in great demand in Hong Kong. While visiting the northern tip of Australia he had learned of the existence of the pearling grounds in Warrior Reef and he suggested to Robert they investigate the possibility of adding several pearling luggers to their fleet.

  To add weight to his argument, Hock Lee took from his safe a small cloth bag and carefully poured its contents onto his desk. Perfect spheres of near luminescent creams and whites, from small beads to fat marbles, shone against the green blotting pad.

  ‘If this is an example of the crop, then I say it’s certainly worth the investment,’ laughed Robert.

  ‘The pearl shell is what they dive for — the pearls are a bonus.’

  Robert rolled a pearl between his fingers. ‘And what plans had you for these little beauties?’

  ‘I thought a gift for your lovely wife might be appropriate.’

  Robert smiled. ‘Indeed. I assume you have a friend in the jewell
ery business in the East?’

  ‘I believe so,’ grinned Hock Lee. His network of Chinese business acquaintances, far-flung relatives and contacts, never ceased to amaze Robert.

  After the whirlwind introduction to Sydney, Catherine was glad finally to be heading to their home. She was anxious to see where they would settle. Robert had taken up over a hundred lush acres along a quiet stretch of the Parramatta River. Some of the land was undeveloped, the rest had been small farms. It was some distance from the city but its remote rural beauty entranced Catherine.

  She assured Robert she did not mind the isolation. ‘Compared to what I’ve read and heard about the pioneers and settlers in the bush, to be away from Sydney is no hardship. And to be honest with you, my darling, city life is fun on occasion, but I am not a social butterfly. I prefer to be here and see our home come to life.’

  While their mansion was being built by a team of workmen, they lived on the estate in one of the disused cosy farmers’ cottages, lavish by most farmers’ standards, but exceedingly modest in terms of the home Robert envisioned.

  Catherine studied the detailed plans and artist’s rendering of their estate and paced it out on the ground. She stopped, slightly out of breath, and stood where the front entrance would be, gazing at the vista of undulating countryside. She turned to Robert. ‘You are building a palace, a fairy-tale mansion. Do we need such a grand house?’

  ‘Need? No, in all honesty, I suppose not. Our needs are simple — shelter, warmth, shade and a place to raise children. But why not include beauty, harmony, space, privacy and imagination? I have worked hard all my life, Catherine. I had no home to speak of, and this house has been a dream that I have clung to and which has seen me through lonely and dark hours. That dream was to one day find a lovely wife and have about me the laughter and love of a family. And while I would be equally happy with you in a hovel, my darling, I can afford to give us something special. I want to create a place that will stand for generations as a testament to our love.’