She smiled sadly, recalling how she had asked him why he’d sold his fiddle, his pride and joy. His face had lit up with one of those big, bright smiles he had.
‘It was for a selfish reason.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, cross with him for having done this thing without first discussing it with her.
‘Well …’ He had continued to smile at her, his eyes sparkling. ‘If I hadn’t sold the fiddle, then you would have had to sell your silver brush. And there’s more music in watching you stroke your hair of a morning with that brush, than all the jigs and reels that old fiddle could ever play!’ And then he had laughed.
She had laughed too, disarmed by the great joy of his love for her – unable to tell him, then, that she had already sold the very thing he spoke of, the thing which brought him so much joy. Sold it, so that he wouldn’t have to sell his fiddle.
When he found out, he was furious with her. They had both laughed, then cried, and finally consoled each other in deep, nurturing love-making.
‘Ellen …?’
Lavelle was standing in front of her. She hadn’t noticed that the music had stopped. She looked up from her thoughts.
‘You were so far away – are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine – the music just reminded me of … well …’
‘I know,’ he said, saving her from explaining.
‘Thanks, Lavelle.’ She smiled at him.
‘What do you think of the orchestra?’
‘Good. I thought I recognized some of the tunes, but they sound a bit different,’ she replied, glad to be on a different topic.
‘Yes, the music gets mixed up together a bit out here. It was mainly brought out by the Scots and Irish, with a few English tunes thrown in – though they don’t have much music,’ he laughed. ‘The Germans have their own music, a lot of it religious organ music – but beautiful. And their lieder, and their Deutsches marches – their “oompah music”, we call it. But they mainly keep that to themselves, thankfully!’
Ellen liked him. He knew things and could talk about them in an interesting way. And his humour perked her up.
‘It’s a good thing if people’s music is kept alive in a new country, even if it is watered down a bit,’ she said. ‘In Ireland now, it’s in the Famine graveyards that the best music is and the best Irish is spoken.’
‘Well, that should please both Church and Crown,’ he responded. ‘’Tis long enough the both of them have been trying to beat the music and the language, and the sporting, out of us!’
How much like herself he was, Ellen thought.
‘I’d ask you to dance if I wasn’t playing, but I suppose you couldn’t …?’ Lavelle was more tentative now.
‘No – I couldn’t. It’s too soon,’ she said politely, not wanting him to take offence.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But would you sing one of the old songs? I’ve heard you have a fine way with a song.’
Ellen started to refuse but, this time, Lavelle pressed her. ‘Go on, a slow air, something he liked.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll play for you – I’d like to!’
‘All right,’ she said, finding it hard to refuse him. ‘But just the one, mind!’
He was pleased at this and rejoined the band, announcing: ‘Ciúnas anois – one of our new South Australians – Ellen Rua O’Malley from the County Galway will now entertain us with a song.’ At which announcement, there was a polite burst of applause.
Ellen remained where she was, seated on one of the large casks which had been rolled back to make a centre clearing in the Great Cellar. There, half in the light of the overhanging lantern, she sang. She sang in the old tongue to the strange gathering – the colonists of English would-be gentry, Scots Presbyterians, a German Lutheran or two. But mainly she sang for her own people. ‘Ochón an Gorta Mór’ Lament the Great Hunger.
Ochón, ochón
Ochón, Aimsir an Drochshaoil Ochón, ochón
Ochón an Gorta Mór
Alas, alas
Lament the time of the Famine Alas, alas
Lament the Great Hunger
She sang to them all, her voice resounding off wine-filled casks, creating an eerie, polyphonic sound as it echoed and re-echoed. From the oaken barriques the notes sprang, running along the timber frames which supported them; the words ringing from the heavy wooden rafters, rebounding from the Bethany stone, surrounding and mesmerizing, all who listened.
Lavelle played with her, below her, underscoring her soaring voice. Following her, as she weaved in and out of her lament for their generation. The notes from his fiddle spun across the space of the Great Cellar, meeting her song in the air, twisting around it, melting down into one sound within her.
He was a fine player, though not so sweet on the bow as Michael. He was more aggressive, earthy – but a fine player nevertheless. So fine, she thought, that but for the once she was not aware of his playing, only that it was there, in a one-ness with her.
All were hushed as she sang. Some understood her Gaelic lament. Others, not understanding the language, were moved by the sound of the words and the cry of grief in her voice.
She hadn’t sung for an age, not since long before Michael had died and the bad times had come. Now she was torn with it all coming back to her: the stench of rotting potatoes, her people devoid of hope – death their only saviour.
When the song came to an end, it took her a moment to return from that place where she had been, back into her body.
Not a soul in the cellar stirred. They, too, were held suspended in the moment. What they had experienced was more than a song, beautifully, heart-rendingly sung; it was a transcendence, a going beyond the song to the thing of which the song spoke.
Only when Ellen exhaled did the moment break. Then there exploded a spontaneous release of tension from all present, glad to have been taken with her, glad to be back.
‘Ellen!’ Lavelle was in front of her again. ‘That was … I just forgot where I was … forgot what I was playing. You were beautiful, Ellen.’
‘Your playing was beautiful,’ she returned. ‘You were with me all the way.’
‘It was easy to follow – you have a voice like nothing on earth, nothing I’ve ever heard!’
As they talked, others approached to congratulate both singer and musician. Ellen caught sight of Coombes and Craigie – heads close together, talking – some distance off. More conspiracies, no doubt.
But it was of her they spoke.
‘By God, Coombes! That girl can sing. What’s her name again? Ah, yes, Ellen Rua – Ellen of the red hair. Where did you get her from?’ George Alderton Craigie was excited.
‘Pakenham sent her over – to get her out of his hair. She’s a bit of a rebel,’ Coombes replied.
‘Pakenham … yes, I remember: the Irish landlord, late of Boodles, Crockford’s and other gaming establishments. Like yourself, Coombes!’ The Scot poked an irritating finger into Coombes’ chest. ‘Well, Pakenham must have no ear for music, or he’d have held on to her!’
‘I’m not one bit surprised he didn’t,’ Coombes retorted. ‘Knowing her, if she had sung for Pakenham, she’d probably have sung something lampooning him straight to his face. Even that’ – he nodded back towards where Ellen was – ‘was probably advocating sedition against the Crown in that peasant language, and the fools here were applauding her! Well, was she, George? That’s your native language too, isn’t it – Gaelic?’ Coombes couldn’t resist the rub.
‘Well, Jasper, if she was indeed singing sedition against the Crown, then I have heard sedition no sweeter sung. She sang it like an angel!’
‘Or a she-devil!’ was Coombes’ riposte.
‘Quite. Angels I sometimes have trouble with, Jasper – unless they are the fallen kind! She-devils are much more fun!’ Damned if he wasn’t going to break this red-haired she-devil. ‘Stop dallying, Coombes! Get her over here – unless, of course, you want her for yourself?’ Craigie demanded, impatiently tapping the ce
llar floor with his walking cane.
‘Good God, no, man!’ Coombes spluttered. ‘I have enough problems without her, though I will say, she is of excellent application in her industry. Damn near knows more about vines and wines than I do. We’ll go to her – it will be better.’
They sauntered over to where Ellen and Lavelle remained, now with only Nora and Sarah in attendance, Kitty being nowhere to be seen. As Coombes and Craigie approached, Nora and Sarah made away. Lavelle, though, waited with her.
‘Well, well, Mrs O’Malley! What a talent we are fortunate enough to have in our midst,’ Coombes said loudly. ‘What a talent indeed – eh, George?’
‘Yes, indeed. My compliments to you, Mrs O’Malley, on such a fine instrument as you possess in your voice. And also for the skill you bring to bear in knowing how to use it! And you too, Mr Lavelle,’ Craigie added by the way.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Ellen said, not wanting all this attention.
‘No, no, Mrs O’Malley – you must call me George. This is Australia, not Ireland. May I call you Ellen, or do you prefer Ellen Rua?’
‘No, just Ellen,’ she said, slightly flustered by this man, who said everything right.
Coombes, with a word of apology to Craigie and Ellen for deserting them, turned to Lavelle and said, ‘You’d best come too, Lavelle. I’ll be requiring your assistance.’ And with that both men left.
‘If I’m not mistaken,’ the Scot continued, barely noticing their leaving, ‘that song of yours was a lament?’
‘Yes, a lament,’ confirmed Ellen.
‘About the Famine in Ireland?’ he asked again.
‘Yes, an Gorta Mór – the Great Hunger, we call it.’
‘And, dare I say it, being in the old style – the sean-nós style – it should really have been sung unaccompanied, to allow maximum freedom of expression?’
Ellen was intrigued by this George Alderton Craigie. She had not expected interest in the old songs from such as he. But then, he seemed to know a lot about everything, did this man.
‘Well, he is a fine fiddle player,’ she responded, on Lavelle’s behalf.
‘True, and a fine young man, too!’ Craigie’s eyes searched hers for any tell-tale signs. He smiled when he found none. ‘But your voice, Mrs O’Malley – Ellen – needs no embellishment of any kind – none whatsoever!’
Ellen had been a bit taken aback at the departure of Lavelle and Coombes. Now, as the last stragglers left, she discovered that she was alone in the cellar with Craigie. It would certainly not have been the thing in Ireland, but then, she was never much of a one for convention. Everything did seem much freer, more relaxed here, which was a good thing. And this Craigie, with his burr of a brogue, and charming manners, was behaving like a perfect gentleman towards her.
Still, she wouldn’t stay too long. Didn’t want the others talking. Didn’t want a repeat of the night she had almost encountered Craigie in the maze and got back to find Mrs Baker sitting up with Annie.
‘Could I ask a great favour of you, Ellen?’ Taking her silence for assent, Craigie continued: ‘Coombes was telling me you have the makings of a fine vigneron; that you possess remarkable aptitude for matters of the vine …’
‘Yes, I enjoy my position here very much. I have learned a lot, and Mr Coombes is a good teacher,’ Ellen responded, wondering where this was leading.
‘Good, good. I’m glad you like it out here,’ he replied warmly. ‘As well as a ball of malt from the Highlands – when we can get any – I have quite an interest in wine myself. Drinking it, mind – not growing it. I wondered if, perhaps, you might grant me a quick tour of Coombes’ cellar so I might be acquainted with what varieties he carries. Then, next time at his table, I shall astound him by calling for some of his Special Reserve, that he knows not I know of.’ Craigie’s enthusiasm had Ellen agreeing before she realized she had.
‘I know some of the smaller vignerons,’ he told her. ‘One, a friend near Moorooroo – or Jacob’s Creek, as it’s getting to be called – tells me he produces three thousand gallons annually out of twenty-five acres of the vine. That seems high. What does Coombes have planted here … two hundred acres? He must have eight to ten times as much under vine as at Jacob’s Creek …’
Ellen nodded, impressed at how well-informed Craigie was. ‘Just over two hundred acres – some vines younger than others, not yet mature enough to bear the grape.’ ‘Ah, so I was right – Coombes has done remarkably well. Remarkably well indeed. And how much wine does Crockford’s produce?’
‘Seventeen thousand gallons per year,’ Ellen volunteered, as warning bells began to sound in her head.
‘Seventeen thousand gallons!’ Craigie exclaimed. ‘But Crockford’s should be producing almost half as much again for the acreage here against my friend’s three thousand gallons out of a mere twenty-five acres!’
Ellen didn’t like the turn this conversation was taking. She wished Coombes would return.
‘Well, as I explained, Mr Craigie—’
‘George,’ he interrupted her.
‘Some of our plantation is of very young vintage, and grapes like the Shiraz, which is one of Crockford’s specialities, give a very low yield: barely a tonne per acre.’
‘I see,’ he said.
‘And,’ she added, ‘Mr Coombes sets his vines at a greater distance from each other than do the rest.’
Ellen could see that Craigie was not convinced by her reply, and she felt she was being walked into something which would backfire on her with Coombes. She wouldn’t have been worried at all by Craigie’s innocent-sounding questions if she hadn’t overheard Coombes and himself talking that night in the maze.
Was this what Craigie was getting at – illicit liquor? The Scot was trying to get something on Coombes. Maybe trying to even things up, for something which Coombes had on him. But where did Coombes keep the stuff? She had never come across it. It had to be here, in one of the hogsheads – unless there was a secret cellar somewhere else. She wondered if Chevalier knew. For all his chatter, he was secretive enough about some things.
Craigie didn’t have much to say as she showed him the large wooden storage casks, each dated, each with the wine type, each holding fifty gallons of maturing wine.
‘The reds are casked at this end of the cellar. The Grenache, Crockford’s Claret and the Shiraz – Crockford’s Gold, which will be held for some time yet. The whites – the Hock, the Blanche, the Rieslings, and the Verdelho—’ ‘Verdelho – what is that?’ Craigie appeared genuinely interested.
‘It’s a dessert wine – sweet and fortified,’ Ellen replied. ‘Fortified? Fortified with spirit?’
‘Yes,’ said Ellen, tapping the cask. ‘With brandy spirit.’ ‘I see,’ Craigie said slowly. ‘Interesting – very interesting, thank you. I see what Coombes means about you: in no time at all you’ll be a sommelier, I’m sure.’
Craigie moved closer, reaching over her shoulder to tap the cask behind her.
‘Verdelho, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘What an unusual sounding name it has, Ellen.’
Now he had moved in front of her and put his arm over her other shoulder and she smelled the staleness which rose from his coat. Ellen did not like his staleness, his closeness, this being caught between him and the cask of Verdelho.
All the while, Craigie continued to make polite conversation. But she was tense, her body alert for fight or flight. Then, still chatting to her in a friendly, non-threatening way, he suddenly dropped his right hand and caught a fistful of her hair.
‘Ellen Rua, how well named you are – and such a remarkable woman. Beautiful, talented, adaptable to new surroundings … a survivor,’ he said, his brogue caressing the words, his stale hand now moiling her red locks, soiling them.
She held her nerve. She would not fight him – yet. Calmly but forcefully she said, ‘Mr Craigie, I’d ask you not to do that – it’s time we were leaving.’
‘Och, we have no hurry! Coombes will be bac
k for us shortly … You don’t like him much do you?’
This surprised Ellen, but she said nothing. Still Craigie had not moved.
‘I don’t blame you,’ he continued, as if nothing had passed between them. ‘He’s a nasty sort – holds a grudge. Why don’t you come down to Adelaide and work for me? I’ll see you’re well looked-after, and paid decently. I bet you haven’t seen a penny out of Coombes yet – nor will you – and they say us Scots are mean-fisted!’ he said, his fist pulling down on her hair, forcing her face up to him.
Ellen was beginning to panic. In this corner of the Great Cellar it was quite dark. There was no one about, no sign of Coombes returning, and Craigie was strong – too strong for her. He was still talking with his honeyed tongue, smiling at her, the low rhythmic pattern of his speech seeking to entrance her until he was ready.
This was a dangerous man. The realization steeped her in fear. Craigie’s arm was now round her neck, the strong fingers drawing her head towards his great craggy face. She put her hands up against his chest to push him back, but he only laughed in her face. She could do nothing to prevent him as he pressed himself against her, whispering, mocking at her: ‘Ochón, Ellen Rua! Ochón! Ochón!’
She could feel his hot breath on her lips as, spread-eagled, he crushed her body. Escape was impossible – there was no way she could push him back or slip out from under his arms. Her protestations, her cries for help, which now rebounded off the cellar walls and oak casks as the strains of her song had earlier, only served to arouse him the more.
But Ellen Rua had not come twelve thousand miles to be debauched by a stale-smelling Scotsman, no matter how powerful he was. Or what he meant to Jasper Coombes. She summoned all the energy she could and, while Craigie pushed to find those flared lips he desired so much, she drove her knee up into his groin with such speed and ferocity that even she wasn’t prepared for the result, much less the Scot.
Craigie’s face, inches from her own, twisted into a paroxysm of pain as his body was driven backwards by the sheer force of the blow. His neck muscles bulged as he struggled to regain his breath. Then he let out a scream of pain that almost deafened her. Such was its intensity, she thought it must split asunder every cask in the cellar.
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