The Whitest Flower

by Brendan Graham

  At this, both men laughed, and Ellen heard them enter the maze opening, where she had been just a few moments ago.

  Lavelle now released her, only to grab her hand and pull her deeper into the maze in an effort to escape Coombes. She followed him blindly. He must have some idea of the path through this horrible place, she thought, as they tumbled on, as silently as they could. Suddenly, they came to an abrupt halt. Lavelle leaned closer to her, and she saw his face tight and drawn.

  ‘We’re trapped,’ he whispered. ‘There’s no way out.’

  They were in a dead end – the high hedge of the maze ahead of them, and on either side of them too. One of the twenty-one bluffs of Coombes’ maze had ensnared them.

  ‘We have to go back!’ Ellen said anxiously.

  ‘No, wait!’ Lavelle whispered back. ‘If we go back, we’ll meet them and be caught. Let’s stay here – Coombes knows the way through, he won’t come into one of these dead ends. Let’s just sit tight and wait.’

  Ellen agreed that this seemed the best plan, so they both fell silent and waited, pressed into a corner of the impenetrable maze wall. If Coombes did take a wrong turn, then they were finished. They would be discovered.

  Ellen and Lavelle barely breathed as they heard the two voices move unerringly closer to where they hid. At one stage the two men were so close – in the next section right behind their backs – that she could hear the inhalation and exhalation of breath as they spoke.

  ‘But, George, dear chap – it is imperative you talk to the Governor. And if he won’t deign to listen, you must do it via London!’ Coombes sounded concerned. ‘It is essential, if the industry is to flourish here in the province. I mean, either way, it will have no material effect on my business, but the smaller growers need the benefit of it, and it will impact strongly on the business of the South Australia Company – your company. If viticulture flourishes, then more people of means will be tempted to migrate here. More land will be sold – and at better prices. More development will take place, more goods and services will be required. All our ships will rise, George.’

  Ellen and Lavelle were intrigued, but both held their breath in panic when they realized that the two men had stopped walking and now stood within a few feet of them. If they could hear the breathing of Coombes and the Scot, then so, too, could their own breathing be heard.

  ‘Well, Jasper, I’ll do what I can, you know that. My word will carry weight. But – and it is a big but – there is a strong mood abroad among the legislators to repeal Governor Grey’s Distillation Act of 1842. And you know rightly why that is, Jasper?’

  Ellen, intrigued, listened for Coombes’ reply.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes! Of course, George, of course.’ Coombes was attempting to be dismissive. ‘I know that the Act has been abused by some, that they are flooding the market with illicitly distilled spirits and brandy made from vineyard refuse, and unhealthy wines. But, nevertheless, George, the Act achieved its primary objective. It staved off the need for the industry to import the brandy and spirit necessary to prevent fermentation. We are not yet ready for sulphur, and these new-fangled methods which Dr Kelly is promoting.’

  ‘Yes, Jasper, I—’ the other man tried to intervene, but Coombes would not be stopped.

  ‘Furthermore – and you know this, George, only too well – we need the spirit for sterilization purposes: the casks, vats … even the corks.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all that, Coombes,’ the Scot said, sounding a little impatient.

  Ellen wondered what Coombes was after. She sensed that he wasn’t telling his companion the whole story – something in his voice struck a false note.

  Coombes continued: ‘You have to understand, George, that us colonial wine-makers are a new breed of pioneer. We need the support of Government, we need the right to distil. This Act must not be repealed, George. No repeal – else there will be trouble. And how will that sit with the image the South Australia Company is trying to promote back home of everything in the Garden of Eden being rosy? Eh?’

  Lavelle looked at Ellen – Coombes was running true to form.

  ‘All right, Coombes, don’t over-labour it. I’ve got the point. I’ll do what I can,’ the other man said, traces of exasperation in his voice.

  ‘Good, George! Well, let me show you the way home – the way to the Queen of Hearts.’

  The voices trailed off for a while, then Ellen heard a roar of laughter, followed by the Scot exclaiming: ‘By gosh, Coombes, I see her – the Queen of Hearts! Well, there she is, the royal lady. Oh, it’s a rub, right enough. You’re a damnable rogue, Coombes – a damnable rogue! Wait till I tell them in London! When Crockford’s hear of it, the tables will be closed for a month!’

  More guffaws of laughter split the night air, this time led by Coombes.

  ‘Jasper, you know this is the only place on earth fit for you – you scoundrel. This Southland needs villains like you!’

  Then more laughter.

  Ellen and Lavelle waited until the laughter faded into the distance.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Lavelle said, still in hushed tones.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, if we can,’ Ellen replied.

  Lavelle nodded in assent.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

  ‘Illicit brandy and spirit. Coombes distils hundreds of hogsheads of it here, then exports it to the Swan River Colony and the other provinces. Makes a right killing out of it. He doesn’t want the Act changed. It would ruin him before he gets on his feet with his own premium wines. So he’s been lobbying like hell. I’m not sure who the Scotsman is, but he’s obviously powerful enough to try and prevent any move to repeal the Act.’

  ‘But why should he do anything for Coombes?’

  Lavelle laughed. ‘Coombes has probably done some deal with him: land, labour – whatever. It’s called blackmail. You’ll learn, Ellen Rua O’Malley. You’ll learn all about Jasper Coombes and the way he works.’

  But Ellen didn’t have time to learn anything more just then. Clear as a thunderclap it rang out. Ten times in all, each ‘dong’ sounding progressively heavier in her heart.

  ‘Oh, my God, Lavelle! It’s ten o’clock, and that racket will surely wake Annie. We’ve got to get out of here! I’ve got to get back to her!’

  With Ellen leading, they tried to find their way back. Every route seemed to be the right one, the way they had come. But every route they took was wrong. One after the other, finding them in a dead end.

  Ellen was frantic by now. ‘There must be some way, some trick for getting out of here, Lavelle – there has to be!’ she pleaded.

  ‘I have it!’ he said. ‘We’ve been going about it the wrong way. We’ve been trying to find our way around this blasted puzzle, instead of finding our way over it.’

  Ellen looked up at the high hedge of the maze. Was Lavelle mad?

  ‘Come here,’ he instructed her, ‘and climb on to my shoulders. From there, you should be able to pull yourself on to the top and crawl along it. That way, you can guide me through and we’ll be out of here in no time.’

  They weren’t. But Lavelle’s idea did work – albeit more slowly and painfully than she would have wished. First Ellen had to crawl on her stomach along the top, identify the exit from the maze, and then follow the route of the path all the way back from the exit to Lavelle. By the time she had done this, her dress was in ribbons, her body cut and torn by the hedge-top branches, which were too far apart to allow her to walk. She could kneel, from time to time, to get her bearings, but she could only make progress by inching forward while stretched out flat, the hedge-tops punishing her breasts and lower body at every move.

  Eventually, they made it. Ellen let herself down into Lavelle’s arms. He was shocked at the damage her urgency to get back to Annie had inflicted on her.

  After she had taken a moment to recover, she and Lavelle left Crockford’s maze, passing under the large and incongruous effigy of a laughing Queen of Hearts which straddled the exi
t. This required those who successfully negotiated the maze to get down on their hands and knees, and crawl out from underneath the Queen’s gaily painted dress. One final indignity.

  When Ellen, half running, half stumbling, got back to the front door – it was closed against her. She raised the heavy black Jack-of-Spades knocker, but, thinking better of it, gently lowered it again.

  It seemed to take her forever to make her way round to the back of the house. Thank God! She found a rear door was only closed – not locked. Quickly, she let herself in, and raced into the kitchen, half-expecting to find Mrs Baker awaiting her.

  Her luck was in. Nobody was there.

  She dashed along the hallway to her room. There was no sound from Annie, she must have slept through. It looked as though Ellen had gotten back just in time – it was nearly eleven, and the next set of chimes must surely awaken Annie. Her guardian angel, Michael, Cáit or the Máistir – somebody was looking down on her. She would clean herself up, creep into bed, and sleep, sleep, sleep until morning.

  Tomorrow, she would get hold of Lavelle and make him tell her whatever it was he had intended to tell her tonight.

  Careful not to make a sound, Ellen turned the knob, pushed the door in gently, then slipped inside, turning quickly again to close it. When she faced back into the room, she got the shock of her life. There, silhouetted in the dark, sat the large frame of Ma-Ma Baker, an empty food bowl on her lap and, in her arms, being rocked to sleep, a drowsy Annie.

  Without saying a word, the housekeeper arose, put the bowl on the bed, and walked towards Ellen, handing the child to her.

  Ellen was so stunned by this turn of events she could only whisper, ‘Thank you!’

  The housekeeper looked at Ellen – her hair entangled with twigs and leaves, her face and hands bloodied, her dress torn, almost shredded from her body.

  ‘Well, Mrs O’Malley!’ Ma-Ma Baker started. ‘You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards by a team of horses all going different ways. Though, I daresay, two-legged animals have more to do with your state than four-legged ones.’

  Ellen remained silent.

  ‘I knew you was trouble the moment I clapped eyes on you. I said to myself, I did: “Ma-Ma Baker, watch this one closely. Watch this red-headed Irish!”’

  The woman drew her face back from Ellen’s, and made her way to the door. Ellen watched her go, cradling Annie against her cut and bruised breasts.

  On reaching the door, Ma-Ma Baker turned and raised a warning finger to Ellen.

  ‘I knew you was trouble, Irish!’

  33

  If Ellen expected some retribution from Coombes or Mrs Baker for her night escapade, there was none from either. Coombes seemed not to be about much – probably off somewhere up to his shenanigans, Ellen thought. And the housekeeper, while she was civil enough to her, appeared to be biting her tongue, biding her time. Lavelle wasn’t much to be seen either – probably off with Coombes.

  A week at Crockford’s had made a big improvement in Ellen. Her injuries from both the mangroves and the maze, even if they hadn’t disappeared, had all but healed – aided by various lotions, ointments and poultices from Ma-Ma Baker’s medicine chest.

  Best of all, she had time to herself. Time for herself and Annie, who was flourishing in the new environment. The child was going to be very beautiful, Ellen thought. The early promise of this at birth, stunted by the deprivations of the Famine, was now beginning to show through again. She had grown dark, like Michael, with black-as-the-night ringlets of hair hanging down from her head like strings of black pearls. Her eyelashes were the longest Ellen had ever seen – even longer than her own – and sat curving heavenwards above a pair of blue-green sparkling eyes.

  Yes, Annie would be beautiful.

  Kitty, Sarah and Nora had also responded well to their new surroundings. Ellen was amazed at how pretty they were now Ma-Ma’s cooking had put a little flesh on their bones, and how lively. She was glad that things had been patched up between them all since the journey to the Barossa and her attacks on Coombes. After all, they had more in common than they had differences. And the girls were great with Annie, each of them wanting to take her for a while, help with her walking, even feed and change her. Annie, in turn, proved quite happy to be the centre of attention, and the smile never left her bright little face when in their company.

  The four women were happy to have time to recuperate from their travels, and to indulge in the luxury of Crockford’s, but they knew this life of leisure could not last. As yet, though, they had no idea what kind of work Coombes had in mind for them. Attempts to elicit information from Mrs Baker proved fruitless, and were met with: ‘Well, Mister Coombes wants you all to be at your best before you start work. Told me I wasn’t to let any of you so much as lift a hand, he did. I’m sure he has something in mind for you all, and no doubt he’ll tell you, in his own good time.’ Then Ma-Ma would wipe her hands as if to say, ‘That’s that’ – signifying the end of all conversation on the matter.

  The others seemed to accept this explanation, but something about it didn’t ring quite true to Ellen. Coombes was no lover of humankind, and it was costing him good money to keep them there, for no return – as yet. Unless she was mistaken, Jasper Coombes had some plot afoot concerning the women.

  On his return to Crockford’s, Coombes summoned the four of them to his study. Lavelle was not in attendance, though Ellen had earlier seen him riding up the long driveway with Coombes.

  ‘Well, now … let me see,’ he began, eyeing them up and down. ‘Ladies, you have, in my absence, been transformed, or should I say, restored to your former glories. What a picture you all look! Yes, Mrs Baker, you’ve done well with your charges, very well indeed!’ Coombes continued, pleased at what he saw.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Ma-Ma Baker slightly raised the edges of her apron and curtsied, somehow managing to put one hefty ankle behind the other.

  ‘Now, it’s time we placed all you young ladies in profitable employment. It’s a busy time for us here at Crockford’s, what with the grape harvest,’ said Coombes. ‘Mrs Baker, I believe you require some assistance in the kitchen?’

  Ma-Ma nodded.

  ‘Well, how about young Sarah here? She looks as if she could find her way about a kitchen – couldn’t you, Sarah?’ he prompted, his mind already made up.

  Sarah blushed at being singled out and gave a nervous, ‘Yes, sir, Mister Coombes.’

  ‘Capital! Now you, Nora – how would you like to work in the dairy, making the cheese and the butter and all that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you, sir. I’d like that very much.’ Nora, like Sarah, was blushing – but more from the excitement of it all than from embarrassment.

  Kitty could scarcely contain herself as Coombes turned to address her.

  ‘Kitty, what I originally had in mind for you was to work in the dairy. But, as we have acquired Nora, who will now fill that need, I thought that working in the vineyard might be agreeable to you?’

  Ellen could see that the girl was filled with anticipation at this; delighted, no doubt, to have something that was different from the kitchen, or working with the cows. She wondered what surprise Coombes would have in store for her. She would soon find out. He turned to her, hand to his chin, index-finger rubbing his nether lip.

  ‘Now, Mrs O’Malley – our Irish rebel – I’ve put some thought into finding something appropriate for your particular talents. Can you read and write the Queen’s English?’ He couldn’t resist the rub.

  ‘Yes, I can, Mr Coombes, and the Queen’s Irish too!’ Ellen replied, tongue in cheek. The others found it hard to keep straight faces.

  ‘Such insolence, Mrs O’Malley – tut-tut … Coombes feigned offence. ‘And such disrespect for our Sovereign! I think I shall need to keep you close at hand. I have therefore decided that you will assist me in the vineyards. Mrs Baker and Sarah will tend to the child during the day, when you are otherwise occupied.’

  Ellen w
as dumbfounded at this. She was not one bit happy at having to work so closely with Coombes, whom she increasingly despised. Why couldn’t he have put her with Kitty, or placed her somewhere else altogether? Preferably somewhere away from himself.

  Coombes saw the consternation on Ellen’s face.

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty head one whit – I personally shall teach you everything you need to know about the job. There, it’s all settled then – everybody gainfully employed.’

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Sarah enthused.

  ‘Sure, we’re going to have such a time of it here, I just know it! Who could have imagined it?’ chirped Kitty.

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Coombes is a grandly man – a real gentleman. What fortune he found us, and that Mrs Hopskitch in Adelaide had no need of us!’ exclaimed Nora.

  As one, they turned to Ellen, sensing she did not share their excitement.

  ‘Yes, of course it is all good news, and I’m very happy for all of you, but we should be cautious. We are strangers in a strange land – a very strange land!’ she said, watching them listen without hearing her.

  For the second time since she had come to Australia, Ellen hoisted her skirts. Kitty did the same. Beneath their bare feet the pulp of Crockford’s harvest of white grapes kept them cool while they worked. ‘Green grapes’, Ellen had called them on her first day. ‘We prefer the term “white”, Mrs O’Malley,’ Coombes had corrected her, ‘after the wine.’

  To begin with, he had put them with the pickers. They worked between the long straight rows, carefully cutting the fruit from the vine. The grapes, luscious and full after the hot summer, were placed into wicker baskets which were then emptied into a dray and transported for wine-making. Ellen marvelled at how heavy the bunches were, and how strong and hardy the little vine trees must be to bear them. Yet the grapes were soft to the touch and rolled pleasurably over your palm. Ellen tried the various varieties as they worked. They were both sweet and sour to the taste and everything in between.