The Whitest Flower

by Brendan Graham

  Ellen was taken aback – was there any group of people for whom Coombes had anything but contempt?

  She said nothing, and he continued: ‘Their priests – “pastors and elders” they call them – having come here fleeing tyranny, they now wish to impose their own tyranny on those who fled with them. Sheer hypocrisy, all this religion! Those in power serve neither God nor the people.’

  ‘All true people of God are not like that!’ Ellen challenged him.

  ‘Those I’ve seen are,’ said Coombes. ‘And the greatest example must be in your own blighted country.’

  Ellen was not going to stand for this. ‘My country is blighted not because of the priests, but because of union with the Crown. A Crown that took, and took, until the very marrow was sucked from the bones of the people.’ Ellen’s anger rose. ‘And what is more, Mr Coombes, I see the same bloodied hand of the Crown, here, in this new land. This time, supported by land-grabbers with grand ideas about estates and wine, but evicting people off lands which have been theirs for centuries past!’

  The others remained silent, aghast at Ellen’s attack. ‘Now, you listen here—’ Coombes had turned on her, fury in his face at her insult.

  ‘No, Mister Coombes, I will not!’ She wouldn’t have him talk her down. ‘It was a mistake I made ever to agree to come here! Even in my blackest grief I should have known better. You, Pakenham – you’re of the same ilk, and God help this South Australia if the likes of you ever get a grip on it. It will surely flounder.’

  The air between them rife with tension, Coombes looked at the woman. Pakenham had indeed done well to be rid of her. He drew a long, deep breath, keeping his fury in check.

  ‘Mrs O’Malley,’ he said, coldly but evenly, ‘being that you are recommended by a family long befriended by my own, and being that you are tired from your long journey, I will overlook your actions up to now, and these most intemperate remarks of yours, concerning my own personage, and that of our gracious Queen. However, I caution you to temper your tongue whilst you are in my employ. You will find in me a fair and even-minded employer, but I will brook no more of your insubordinate manners. Do you have me?’ Without waiting for Ellen’s reply, he turned to the others.

  ‘And, do you girls understand me clearly, as well?’ he said in the same tone.

  Kitty was the first to respond. Giving a disdainful, sidelong look at Ellen, she said, ‘Yes, Mr Coombes, sir, we do!’

  Sarah and Nora nudged each other nervously, looked at Ellen, looked at Coombes, looked back at each other, and then, in tandem, nodded their assent.

  Coombes looked then to Ellen, who met his gaze. She let him wait. She would let it rest, for now. She would not confront him further, but neither would she bend to him.

  Lavelle broke the silence. ‘Crockford’s is ahead!’

  Coombes, tired of waiting for Ellen to end the deadlock, turned to face forward and, as magnanimously as he could manage in the circumstances, announced: ‘Welcome to Crockford’s, my home – and yours.’

  32

  Jasper Coombes’ Crockford’s Estate was huge. One thousand acres. You could put all of the smallholdings in Maamtrasna together with all of those from across the mountain at Finny, and you still wouldn’t have the fill of a thousand acres, Ellen thought.

  As they drove under a large sign spanning the entrance which proudly proclaimed, THE CROCKFORD ESTATE – PROP. j. M. COOMBES ESQ., Ellen’s eyes widened even further. On one side, she saw paddocks of fine-looking horses, while on the other side were great pasturelands of cattle and sheep – ‘Merinos from Van Diemen’s Land,’ Coombes offered proudly. As they wound their way up the driveway, beautifully cultivated on either side with shrubbery, Ellen could see acre upon acre of well-husbanded fields that with the Australian spring would be brimming with crops of every kind – wheat, barley, rye and oats. Oh, if only the ravaged land she had left behind her had a tenth of this bounty, what a difference it would have made to all of their lives.

  Beyond those fields were the vineyards. In the gardens of Bethany, the vines had grown in small, straight rows running parallel to each other. Here, row after row of the ugly, little stunted trees stretched out before them on either side as far as the eye could see – each one of them individually staked.

  ‘This is the future!’ Coombes said excitedly. ‘The future for the Barossa, the future for the province and the future for Crockford’s and Jasper Coombes.’

  He went on: ‘It’s a gamble, but, then, so is life itself, and Jasper Coombes never faced away from a risk. The rest of them here only play at this grape-growing – it’s just another fruit to them. Maybe they make a few bottles to lay by – to remind them of back home in Prussia, or wherever it was they were run out of. They don’t see it – these Gottlobs, Gottliebs and Gottfrieds. They don’t see the potential at all – too busy bible-bashing and complaining to the Governor.’

  ‘Isn’t it that they don’t have the money? What with every penny they earn going back to pay interest on the high borrowings they made to buy the land in the first place?’ said Lavelle cuttingly.

  ‘Nonsense, Lavelle! Land values are rising all the time. It’s simple economics. More people are coming here, so demand increases and prices rise accordingly. The Lutherans paid market value, no more – no less.’

  ‘Certainly not less!’ Lavelle rejoined. ‘And it will be decades before they can pay off the debts they incurred.’

  Ellen admired Lavelle’s sponc in confronting Coombes.

  Coombes, however, decided not to pick up the gauntlet. ‘Well, either way, they’ll not make the investment necessary over the number of years which viticulture requires. I expect to be keeping this vineyard for many years yet, before it starts keeping me. It will be the British here, the pastoral-ists, who will develop all this into an industry and make wine-producing commercial. You just can’t grow grapes in your backyard and expect to make a success of it. It has to be a business.’

  ‘Oh, look! Sarah, Nora, will you look at that … that mansion!’ Kitty shrieked with delight.

  ‘And are we going to live there?’ Sarah shrieked back.

  ‘Yes, indeed you are, ladies.’ Jasper Coombes flashed his thin smile at them.

  What Ellen saw made Pakenham’s Tourmakeady Lodge pale into insignificance. It was how she imagined the lords and ladies of England lived on their big country estates.

  First there were the lawns. Big rolling lawns, furlongs of green turf dipping down from the elevation on which the house stood.

  ‘You could race a horse on that!’ said Kitty.

  ‘Indeed, and we do – this is the Great Ride of Crockford’s.’ Coombes spoke with obvious pride.

  Beyond the lawns were the front gardens, within which were enclosed a number of smaller lawns whose centrepieces were rockeries decked with the most exotic flower and plant life imaginable.

  ‘Crockford’s enjoys a good relationship with the Botanic Gardens in Sydney, and we import specimens, as well as vine cuttings, into the valley,’ Coombes continued his narrative. ‘The fruit gardens – run for commercial advantage, of course – are situated to the rear of the house. Also to the rear of the house, you will find the herb garden. Over to the far right is the maze, which, if you are fortunate enough to negotiate, you will be rewarded by arriving at the lily pond and the Chinese tea-house. To the left are the rose gardens, bower, and water grottoes. Again, to the rear of the house you will find the creamery. We churn every other day, and produce a thousand pounds of butter per week from a herd of four thousand cattle. We also produce a rather fine cheese. The butter and cheese we sell at the Adelaide market, as well as exporting it – there is demand from such a far-flung location as Mauritius in the Caribbean.’

  Ellen was stunned by the scale of operations at Crockford’s, but most of all by Coombes’ description of it. As if this sumptuous living were the norm.

  She was distracted by Sarah and Nora, in chorus again, shrieking with delight: ‘Oh, look at the house! Just look at it!
’

  ‘It has ten chimney stacks!’ Kitty chimed in.

  Ellen said nothing, and Coombes turned to her.

  ‘Well, Mrs O’Malley, what say you to Crockford’s?’

  ‘What I say, Mr Coombes, is what does any man need with ten chimney stacks when only the one fire at a time can warm him?’

  Coombes’ smile froze on his face. This was not the reply he had sought, nor expected, from her.

  ‘So,’ he said icily. ‘Mrs O’Malley is not afraid of the cold … Hmmm, we’ll see.’

  Ellen tried to bite back her reply but couldn’t. ‘I’d rather freeze to death in this life than be roasted on the coals of hell in the next!’

  Coombes’ face blanched even further as the true thrust of Ellen’s remark hit home.

  ‘Well, maybe after we teach you some manners here, Mrs O’Malley, you’ll experience both!’ he snapped back at her. Then he ordered Lavelle to stop the cart, and with that, Jasper Coombes, country squire, leapt from the spring-cart and headed towards the house.

  Kitty turned on Ellen. ‘Ellen Rua, what do you think you’re at? You haven’t stopped at Mr Coombes since we arrived. This is the best chance any of us has ever had, and your speechifying is going to ruin everything!’

  ‘Yes, Kitty’s right!’ the other two chorused.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Kitty. I’m sure all of you are right,’ Ellen said. ‘But don’t you see it’s all wrong, all of this. This land belonged to others. It’s no different to back home.’

  ‘Mrs O’Malley, ladies!’ Lavelle played peace-maker. ‘I think we should say no more about this now, only get you all settled in after the long journey here.’

  People had started to gather around the cart to gawk at the new arrivals. Mostly men, some young, some grizzled, but all staring at the new female arrivals with great intent, and not a few leers. It struck Ellen that there must not be too many women about here. Not too many at all.

  Then, a female voice rang out. ‘OK, boys – you’ve seen enough! Now, back to work the lot of you, or you’ll get no tucker this evening – lazy bastards!’

  And into view strode Mary Magdalen Baker, housekeeper at Crockford’s, known affectionately, but with some trepidation, as ‘Ma-Ma’.

  As the men scattered out of her way back to work, Ma-Ma Baker barrelled over to the new arrivals. Her big frame filled out a black-pleated pinafore, which was overlaid with a generous-size white apron with lace edging.

  ‘Why, look at the state of these poor wretches! Mr Lavelle, they look famished – skin and bone!’ she admonished.

  Ellen took in the woman. She was what, in the West of Ireland, they’d call ‘a ball of a woman’, with a big florid face, and two arms on her like rolling pins that could knock the head off you with one clatter. She had a sunny enough disposition now, but Ellen sensed that, if crossed, this woman would instantly change into something quite different.

  ‘And look at that poor child, too!’ the housekeeper said, pointing at Annie. ‘Why did you and Mr Coombes not look after them and give them aught to eat?

  ‘Ladies, welcome to Crockford’s – I am Mrs Baker, Mr Coombes’ housekeeper, which means I run the house …’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘Now, let’s get you inside and sitting down for a nice cup of tea and some hot bread – and a drop of fresh milk for that poor child. Come along, now.’ Then she commenced to herd them up the steps, through the pillared porch, and into the grand homestead that was Crockford’s.

  Once inside the house, as Ma-Ma Baker flurried on ahead of them, Ellen felt a tug at her sleeve. It was Lavelle. Catching her arm, he pulled her aside into the open doorway of a book-lined room. He put his finger to his lips, signifying for her to be quiet.

  ‘Look, I agree with everything you said back there – I’m on your side in this, but there’s more you should know. I need to talk to you, later, alone. Can you slip out for a half an hour when Annie’s asleep?’

  Ellen nodded.

  ‘Do you remember the maze?’ he asked her.

  Ellen did.

  ‘No one goes there after dark, so we’ll meet by the entrance at nine.’

  She agreed and he pressed her arm, and drew her back into the hallway just in time to hear Ma-Ma Baker’s voice call out: ‘Now, where have Lavelle and that other woman got to? I do hope she’s not going to be troublesome – a red-haired woman on a farmful of men – not a good idea!’

  Ma-Ma Baker could sense trouble when it came her way.

  Lavelle looked at Ellen, and they both laughed – quietly.

  Later, Ellen made sure that Annie was snuggled down comfortably for the night in their bedroom. A bedroom far bigger than the cabin she, Michael, and their four children had lived in. She was about to steal away to meet Lavelle, when a large upright clock in the hall began to chime the house. Quickly, she pulled the door behind her, for fear the noise would waken Annie. She’d have to be sure to be back before the clock struck ten.

  The realization that she was late, coupled with the sudden fright of the clock’s loud chimes, caused Ellen’s heart to beat faster. There, in the silence of the long wooden-panelled corridor, it seemed as if the pounding of her heart was so loud as to bounce off the walls, alerting the whole household to her mission. She was sure, too, that she was bound to bump into someone – there were so many doors leading on to the corridor. She didn’t care if she got caught, so long as it wasn’t by Coombes or that Mrs Baker.

  In the event, she managed to reach the front door without being accosted and, with a little sigh of relief, slipped outside. She left the door unlatched, thankful that there was nothing more than a slight breeze – not enough to blow it open.

  It took her a moment to get her bearings, coming from the well-lit house into the night gloom. She veered left, and knew if she kept a straight path she would, soon enough, strike the maze.

  She thought she heard talk, somewhere towards the side or back of the house – she couldn’t quite pinpoint it. So she proceeded cautiously, crouched and barefoot, testing the ground ahead of her, coiled for escape. The moon was low, misted over, and the four-starred Southern Cross, normally so prominent in the night sky, was likewise muted.

  After what seemed an age, Ellen saw the outline of the maze rise up ahead of her. Tall and still, its dense dark-green walls of foliage close-cropped, it was far more daunting by night than in daylight. A shiver ran over Ellen. A cockatoo shrieked, causing a sharp intake of breath into her tightening chest.

  Where was Lavelle? He was late … No, she was late! Maybe he’d left already? Maybe Coombes had collared him to do something or other? She didn’t like this place.

  The voices she had heard earlier seemed closer than ever. She would have to hide – steel herself, wait it out. Now the tightness had moved down from her chest into the pit of her stomach – pulsing out from there all over her body.

  She moved into the dark awning of the maze. What if she got lost? She might never get out again. And what about Annie and the loud upright clock? God, this was a bad idea, to agree to meet Lavelle out here! What was it that was so important that it couldn’t wait for another time?

  Ellen edged further into the maze, the voices seeming to trail after her. The path went left and right. She decided to keep to the left, that way it would be easy to remember. Left going in, right coming out. Yes, that was it. That was her plan.

  She hadn’t taken two steps when it happened. She felt the swish of air first, then a hand grabbed her arm, and another shot over her mouth, stifling her cry. She couldn’t see her assailant – but somewhere she still heard the voices. Whoever had hold of her had been hiding where she could have turned right. He was strong, and now dragged her back into the dark corner from whence he had sprung. Once there, he spun her round. Only then, their faces just inches apart, was his identity revealed: it was Lavelle!

  She was furious, but Lavelle pressed her tighter in against himself, knocking the breath out of her, so that she could neither speak nor resist him. Then she fe
lt his lips at her ear, his breath moistening its inner folds. She was angry at him, yet she did not fear him.

  ‘Ciúnas, Ellen! Tá siad ag teacht,’ he whispered to her: ‘Be quiet – someone’s coming.’

  Now, she could hear the voices more plainly. It was Coombes and another man.

  ‘You haven’t seen the maze?’ Coombes’ voice enquired of his companion.

  ‘No, but I’ve heard talk of it – that you have it designed around some card game?’ The other man raised the question in an accent which reminded Ellen of the young botanist she had met on the mountain. Only this voice was older.

  ‘Yes, George! The maze is designed, not in the usual circular or rectangular shape, but in the shape of a king-sized heart. Hearts, of course, being my favourite suit at the tables. There are twenty-one bluffs, or dummy paths, in the maze after—’

  ‘Of course, Coombes – I’ve got it!’ the older man interrupted. ‘After “vingt-et-un”: twenty-one – the prince of gambling games.’

  ‘Very good, George, very good,’ Coombes complimented his companion. ‘At twenty-one you must make quick and correct decisions. The flick of a card can make or break you. Likewise here – one wrong move and you are lost. A right move – many right moves – and you win the prize: the Queen of Hearts, who presides over the maze’s only exit.’

  Ellen was finding it difficult to follow Coombes’ explanation, but ‘George’, whoever he might be, was much amused by it.

  ‘Come, George – I’ll show you. I promise I won’t lose you, and we can talk – heart to heart – so to speak.’