The Last Rose of Summer

by Di Morrissey

  Holding the egg cosies Odette remembered how Sheila had always opened her father’s egg for him, slicing the top off neatly, sprinkling in pepper and salt and pushing it towards him with a smile and, ‘There you are, Ralphie, done just the way you like it. Now don’t let it get cold.’

  And as her father folded the newspaper he would always peer at the egg and marvel, ‘Your mother cooks eggs to perfection within a second — and she never times them. She must have a built-in clock, eh, Detty?’ And with a smile for his wife, lift the spoon and dip into the egg.

  Odette secreted the memorabilia in an old cardboard suitcase under her bed, along with other items she had saved — a cut-glass bowl which had sat on her mother’s dressing table and held seldom-used face powder, and, from the top of the piano, a plaster figure of a ballerina in a pale green and pink tutu.

  Odette didn’t know where the ballerina had come from. As long as she could remember, it had stood, frozen en pointe, on top of the piano; one arm arched above her head, the other curved across the front of the rigid tutu, fingers delicately placed, the tapering index finger pointing to her dainty toes. Dust had long settled into the tiny holes between each stiffened net square of the skirt, and the colours had faded, but it gave the figure a translucency which made the tiny dancer seem even more delicate.

  These were not valuable, but their familiarity, and knowing how her mother liked them, made them special, and so she kept them a secret from Aunt Harriet.

  ‘Odette? You’re late home from school, dear. You shouldn’t dawdle in this heat.’ Harriet’s voice sliced through Odette’s memories. ‘Afternoon tea is set out, dear,’ said Harriet, holding open the porch door. ‘Wash your hands and then start your homework. But before it gets too late, I’d like you to go down to the butter factory. I need some fresh cream. I’ve made a sponge cake.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Odette dutifully. She eyed the Sao biscuits topped with Vegemite and slices of cheese and the jug of cold lemonade. She wished Aunt Harriet wouldn’t fuss so much. Left alone Odette would have enjoyed the snack, but with her aunt standing over her, smiling in that self-satisfied way, she found it hard to swallow.

  It seemed to Odette that in Harriet’s house one had to be constantly thankful. She was always being reminded to ‘give thanks for our blessings, Odette. There are a lot of people far worse off than we are.’ Once the evening meal was set on the table, Harriet clasped her hands and uttered a fervent grace in ringing tones. Odette never truly felt grateful or thankful, but guilty, as though she was a constant drain on Aunt Harriet’s resources.

  Finishing her lemonade, Odette escaped the confines of the house, her ugly school uniform and Aunt Harriet’s questioning about her day. She hopped, skipped and jumped along the railway line, enjoying her freedom. She walked carefully, as if on a tightrope, along a steel track, then ran down its centre, leaping across alternate ironbark sleepers. The train only came into Amberville twice a day — in the early hours of the morning going north, and seven o’clock at night going south. The railway line passed by the old butter factory where local milk was turned into butter, cream and pasteurised milk to go on the train to Sydney for the city’s breakfast.

  Harriet had befriended the wife of the manager and was invited to free samples each week or so. Harriet didn’t like to ‘take advantage’ as she put it, but nonetheless Odette was dispatched each fortnight to the butter factory to have the billycan filled with thick yellow cream.

  If they weren’t busy at the factory, one of the men would let Odette clamber up the narrow metal ladder on the outside of the big vats and peer into the swirling oceans of milk. It was a sweet rich smell which still lingered when their daily milk was delivered. In the early hours of the morning the milkman carried milk from the factory in a horse-drawn cart, then in metal cans to the letter box or front doorstep where an empty jug or billycan waited to be filled.

  Odette didn’t linger at the factory — the day was fading. With the tin lid clamped firmly on the billycan she took the bush track back along the river bank which swung behind the butter factory. Coming around a bend in the path, she stopped in astonishment, clutching the cream protectively to her chest.

  Spread along the bank among the trees was an impromptu camp. But what a camp! A dilapidated bus, three old American cars, two wooden caravans painted many colours and several horses all formed a rough circle. Figures moved around the bright campfire, and all seemed colour and light and cheerful noise. Odette stepped back, frightened to be seen by these peculiarly dressed people for they were unlike anyone else she had ever seen. But at the same time she was fascinated by the almost circus-like atmosphere and the sheer strangeness of it all.

  The women wore long sparkly skirts and velvet jackets with scarves knotted over their thick dark hair. The men wore bright, multicoloured clothes and funny hats and scarves tied at their necks. They all seemed to be made of moving lights and flashes of gold, and laughter rang from one to another. Several children, dressed like the adults, romped with noisy dogs.

  Odette watched for a few moments, quite enchanted by this strange tribe. She was standing in the shadow of the trees when suddenly a voice from nowhere spoke to her. She started so violently that the cream slopped from under the billycan lid.

  ‘You needn’t hide there. We’re quite harmless, you know.’

  It was a gentle male voice, with a slight accent, which, as Odette thought later, sounded smiley.

  ‘Who’s there? Where are you?’

  ‘Look up, girl, look up.’

  She tilted her head and stared into the tree.

  ‘Hello.’ A young man grinned back at her.

  ‘Oh. Hello. What are you doing up there?’

  ‘I like trees. You hear music in trees.’

  ‘You do?’

  He swung from the tree with an agile leap, landing in front of Odette, who gazed at him in silence. He was only a few years older than Odette, a tall slim boy with a crop of long black curls, deep brown eyes and startling white teeth. His skin was tanned and he too wore the same colourful clothes as the people by the fire. She was fascinated to see a small gold hoop earring in one ear.

  ‘Do you want to hear the music?’

  Odette blinked. ‘What music?’

  ‘Here. Put that down.’ He took the billycan from her and put it on the ground; taking her hands, he wrapped her arms about the slim trunk of the tree so she was hugging it. He gently pressed her cheek against the smooth new bark. ‘Listen, listen to the tree singing to you.’

  Obediently Odette closed her eyes and concentrated. The tree seemed to vibrate with life, it felt warm and growing and she imagined she could hear, deep inside its tall trunk, a faint hum. Then she really did hear a soft song in a language she didn’t understand. She opened her eyes to see the boy whispering the song close to her ear. Odette dropped her arms from the tree and stood back. ‘You’re teasing me.’

  ‘Not at all. Trees sing, I sing too.’ He sang more of the lilting song to her. He had a soft melodious voice.

  ‘What language is that? I don’t understand the words.’

  ‘It’s Romany. We’re gypsies. Don’t you know?’

  Odette shook her head.

  ‘You don’t know much, do you? Fancy never listening to a tree sing. Come on, come and meet my family.’ He picked up her billycan.

  ‘Oh no, I have to get home.’

  ‘Don’t be shy. If you haven’t heard of gypsies, you haven’t heard what wicked mischievous people we are. Come along then.’

  She followed behind the boy as he stepped out in a long swinging stride, whistling as he walked.

  No one seemed surprised to see Odette; they smiled and greeted her, exclaiming at her pretty name. Several of the women touched her burnished head of red-gold curls in delight.

  ‘Lucky girl. You’ve been touched by the spirits!’

  A bit taken aback, Odette glanced at the boy beside her.

  ‘Good spirits, don’t worry,’ the boy grinned.
‘Now. You’re Odette and I’m Zachary and we are all one big family here.’ He waved his arm about the circle of people.

  ‘You all belong to one family?’ asked Odette in surprise.

  An old man spoke up. ‘No one person belongs to another, my child. We are all of one family. We share and care for what we have — children, horses, possessions. All belong to the family group, not the individual.’

  ‘There is my mother and my father, and these are my uncles and aunts and cousins,’ said Zachary, making a sweeping gesture round the group. He pointed to the old man. ‘Edwin is our tribal chief, designated by our queen. She is in another place,’ he added, seeing Odette’s swift glance around the women for the one who might be queen.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In the moment, dear child,’ answered Edwin. Then, looking at the sky, he continued, ‘We travel the road of life. We are the children of Bohemia, the eternal wanderers.’ He paused, about to say more, but stopped. ‘So, you live in the town here?’

  Odette nodded unenthusiastically.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  Odette shook her head.

  One of the women shrugged and spread her arms in a broad gesture. ‘Then come with us! Be as free as the birds and follow the weaving road and wandering river.’ She was wearing lots of bangles, necklaces, rings and earrings. Odette had never seen so much jewellery on one person. She had several skirts on top of each other of different colours and material. A handkerchief was knotted over her hair, which fell in two thick braids down her back, the ends tied together with coloured wool.

  ‘I have to go to school,’ said Odette.

  They laughed and Zachary pulled one of her ringlets. ‘And what do they teach you there? How to be happy? How to listen to trees singing and understand the song of the birds? To enjoy life’s great adventure?’

  Odette couldn’t help smiling back at him. ‘No such luck . . . it’s reading and history and arithmetic. Don’t you go to school?’

  ‘I go to the school of life and the world.’ He started singing once more. One of the men produced a small violin, another a squeeze box, while one of the girls began beating on a tambourine decorated with bells and ribbons.

  A beautiful young woman with a flashing smile and sparkling eyes snapped her fingers and stamped her feet, and began to dance. Everyone joined in, the women’s long skirts swirling about them as their bare feet scissored in an intricate pattern. The men, graceful, controlled and with sensual arrogance, danced towards them. All were completely absorbed in the passion and flow of the music.

  The children laughingly ran and joined them. Before she knew it, Zachary had caught Odette and was twirling her about.

  ‘Stay and have supper with us, girl,’ said one of the women as the merry dance ended.

  ‘I can’t. My aunt will be worried about me. Gosh it’s getting dark. I must go.’

  ‘Zac, see her back safely. Farewell, little one. Come again if you can.’

  The boy Zac took her hand and began walking her back towards town. Odette waved to them and asked, ‘What did she mean, if I can?’

  ‘We have a habit of moving on,’ he laughed. ‘Now tell me your story. Real or not, I don’t mind.

  Odette tossed her head. ‘I live in a tree. And every week a magic kingdom drifts to the top of my tree on a cloud and I have adventures in all these strange and wonderful lands.’ She doubted he would have read one of her favourite childhood stories.

  He listened with his head cocked, his expression thoughtful. ‘What happens if the land moves on and you are still in it?’

  ‘Oh, you must never do that! You have to hurry down the ladder from the cloud to the tree before the land moves on, or be lost forever!’

  ‘Ahh, I see. I must climb to the top of my trees and see if I can find such a wonderful place. In the meantime, I think this must be your house.’

  He winked at her at the front gate of Aunt Harriet’s house, squeezed her hand briefly, blew her a kiss and, singing, danced away. In a daze Odette watched him go, then hurried indoors.

  ‘Where have you been?’ demanded Aunt Harriet. ‘I was just about to set out and look for you. You are a dreamer, Odette, you never pay attention to what you’re doing. It’s all very well and good you making up stories and mooning about the place all of the time, but life goes on. You will never get on in this world if you spend half your time daydreaming. Now, where’s the cream? Dinner is ready.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t have it, Aunt Harriet.’

  Her aunt stopped what she was doing and turned and faced Odette. ‘And why not? Where is the billycan? Don’t tell me they refused you?’

  ‘No, no . . . I . . .’ Instinct warned her not to mention the band of gypsies. Indeed Zac and his family were beginning to seem like a dream. ‘I think I left it down by the river. I walked back that way.’

  ‘There, what did I just tell you — you live in another world, Odette. Really, you are hopeless, how you are going to manage out in the big wide world, I can’t imagine. You’ll be losing your handbag and walking into a bus or getting lost.’ Harriet sighed in exasperation. ‘Well, it’s too dark to go back for it now. And just what I’m going to do with that cake for the Red Cross tea tomorrow morning, I don’t know. I am very annoyed with you.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it in the morning before school.’

  ‘Oh, it will probably be off by then. Just go and get ready for dinner,’ she snapped.

  Meekly Odette left the room. Dinner was eaten in silence and, after washing up the dishes, Odette fled to her room on the pretext she had homework to do. Harriet sat listening to the radio, knitting another tea cosy for a charity fundraiser. The fast snapping of her needles and tight set of her mouth indicated she was still bothered by the loss of the cream.

  Outside Odette’s window a bird called. She lifted her head in surprise at the sudden burst of song in the night. She went to the window and peered into the dark street, but the song had stopped. She went back to her desk and the story she was writing about her meeting with the gypsies, then suddenly she paused and laughed aloud.

  Hurrying as quietly as she could, she crept from the house and ran to the front gate. The billycan of cream was hanging on the gate, a single rose stuck under the lid handle. Odette recognised the rose from a garden up the street and, smiling to herself, she knew where that bird call had come from.

  She hid the rose in the folds of her cardigan and took the cream inside. ‘Aunt Harriet, I just remembered where I left the cream! Up the road at Eileen’s.’

  Odette was humming as she skittered back to her room, the sweet-smelling bud lifted to her lips. She hoped the gypsies would still be by the river tomorrow.

  After school she hurried to the river, paused to compose herself, and swung around the bend in the track. She stopped, disappointment surging through her. The camp site where the gypsies had danced was empty. The wanderers had moved on, following the pull of centuries of searching.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Zanana 1901

  A summer of roses had blossomed and died. The wound in Robert’s heart was as raw as the day Catherine had been taken from him six months before.

  He had retreated to his study, neglected his business and cared nothing for his own wellbeing. He avoided the Butterworths, asking that meals be sent to his study on a tray, and more often than not the tempting dishes were returned barely touched. He cared little about the activities around Zanana, although Harold Butterworth had quietly seen to it that the produce kept going to the markets and, together with Sid Johnson, had ensured the estate continued to run as normal.

  A haunted shadow, the slight figure of young Mary was glimpsed about Zanana like an elusive butterfly. She kept away from Robert as he had demanded, and obediently appeared at meal times where she ate a subdued dinner with the Butterworths in the annexe off the kitchen. Her schoolwork was neglected and Mrs Butterworth, distracted with caring for the baby as well as her normal duties, had little time to spend with Mary. The
girl suffered her grief and loss in lonely bewilderment, wondering what she had ever done in her seven years for God to punish her so cruelly. She kept to herself and ignored the baby.

  Catherine’s daughter was a placid infant and gave little trouble. Harold worried that Gladys was getting too attached to the child, but for the time being it made her happy and suited Robert MacIntyre, who had not set eyes on his daughter since the night she was born. Doctor Hampson called regularly and, despite medication and long talks with Robert, was unable to repair the broken heart and troubled mind of the man who had lost what he treasured most in life.

  Capable as she was in every other way, Gladys Butterworth sometimes found the challenge of caring for a small baby daunting, and she occasionally sought the advice of Sid Johnson’s wife, Nettie. She was grateful for the companionship of her old friend and when they had a few spare moments, they would spread a rug on the grass under a shady tree and enjoy a glass of home-made barley water as they watched Nettie’s young son Ben tickle the gurgling baby.

  ‘Don’t you think she should stay in the pram, rather than on the ground?’ asked Nettie. ‘After all, she is the mistress of the house.’ They both laughed at the mistress in her thick white nappy, kicking a leg and opening and closing her tiny fists in delight.

  ‘I read they are supposed to be kept wrapped up with a bonnet on when wheeled about outside. But what nonsense, Nettie. It’s too hot. Look how happy she is.’ They smiled indulgently at the contented baby.

  ‘What will become of her, Gladys? He’s got to take to her at some stage.’