A Story of Seven Summers

by Hilary Burden

  Barney and I were several months into our relationship when the house across the road came up for sale. He’d been looking for a new home for nearly six months without much luck, and I rang him with the details. He viewed the house that day and decided it had what he needed. Within the month, he’d moved in and was celebrating his first Christmas alone with his three children, Rachael, James and Billy. I knew the sense of space I’d been mindful to create would be altered and that a new space must somehow work itself out. Barn was concerned how he and his family would impact on me but it was a question neither of us could answer.

  ‘If it’s the right house for you, you should buy it,’ I told him. ‘We’re big kids, we’ll work it out.’

  I knew that living across the road from the man I was seeing, in a place that I thought of as my own private corner, was going to be a balancing act. It was through keeping my own company that I had awoken to new pleasures in this place, and they were still fresh shoots. But the newer shoots of an unexpected relationship seemed welcome too. Leigh advised me not to push Barney away. ‘Give it at least four seasons,’ she said. ‘He obviously adores you.’

  After six weeks Leigh returned to Sydney. We both remained hopeful that the produce hall might happen but didn’t want to push it; it would find its time. Barney had been patient and I suspected he was relieved to see Leigh leave because his love rushed in like a king tide. One day I came home to find a huge heart made of freshly picked rose petals arranged at my back door. I left it there for days to watch the petals dry and scatter on the wind.

  ‘You are perfect,’ he said. ‘No, I am not perfect,’ I replied. I know that I’m not. ‘But you are perfect for me,’ he decided. And that’s how we grew.

  Audrey saw the remains of the petal heart on the deck and said it was an unusual thing for a man to do. I wasn’t sure if there was a warning in her words but thought he was just primed for love.

  On the outside, Barney seemed on top of the separation, but the proud man and father was also dealing with the unravelling of his life and that could not have been easy. Some days he stayed with me, or I with him. And then there were days when his children were with him and I had space. On these days, he waved from his paddock at ‘my sweet lady writer in the window’. Or we met on a seat in the paddock in between our homes and shared a glass of wine. Or caught each other late at night when the children were in bed; a hug goodnight, words whispered, assurances made that we were in each other’s hearts. Some days it was harder to leave than others and on these occasions, I walked Barney home and he turned straight around and walked me back. Between us we made a path across the paddock which became well trodden as it threaded itself around the apple trees like an alpaca track.

  By this time it was late summer, Dave Pinner had baled the paddock again and I needed to drop in the cash I owed him. The price had gone up from one dollar a bale to a dollar fifty and there were only thirty-five bales this year because the smaller front paddock had been turned into lawn by Barney’s mowing. It hardly seemed worth Dave’s effort but he came anyway, regular as the season. Dave was a man whose old barns were all in use. He’d been an organic farmer for fifteen years, making a living on 200 acres growing tomatoes, spelt, oats, corn, peas and beans for the seed market. His farm was certified organic through a rigorous accreditation program developed by the Tasmanian Organic-Dynamic Producers association. Dave was working at the cutting edge of sustainable agriculture but hadn’t moved here with dreams from elsewhere. In fact, he said he was born in the house right across the road from where he now lived.

  Dave wasn’t at home when I called in but a woman with a warm and friendly face and bright intelligent eyes greeted me at the front door.

  ‘Hi, I’m Lyndy. I’m working . . . well, living here now.’

  Lyndy went on to explain that she was helping Dave with his seed business until one day she looked at him across the paddock and realised, in a lightbulb moment, what fantastic legs he had. She blamed the heifers that were carrying on in the background. When Dave explained to her that the heifer was noisy because she was somewhat frustrated, Lyndy replied, ‘I know how she feels!’ And, apparently, that was that . . .N ow she and Dave shared the same room and woke up every morning with a hug.

  Lyndy loved to chat; in fact, most country people enjoyed a conversation over tea and a plate. Although always busy, they were never busy in the way city people were—where lunch was often skipped, or eaten at the computer, and care and conversations were both truncated. You needed time in the country, time enough to discuss the weather and ask, ‘How are you going?’ or ‘How’s the family?’

  Before I knew it, it was shearing season again and still the corral had not been built. This time I recruited Annie’s experienced handling. It was baking hot at 9 am, but somehow we succeeded in wrangling the alpacas and Annie’s natural courage helped. It’s got to be easier than this, I thought. We each secured a rope around an alpaca’s neck, and were both lying, chatting, in the long grass of the paddock under the hot sun, Annie with her leg over Jack and me with Kerouac frothing at the tautness of the rope, when Ian the shearer drove up the driveway.

  ‘You need to get them used to the lead,’ he said. ‘Practise putting it on and walking them once a week so they get used to it.’

  I knew that alpaca would do this because there was a man who turned up in the Launceston mall with his perfectly tamed alpaca. Taming was not for me, though. I preferred to admire them from a distance and to know that they were happy. I told myself that at least this only had to happen once a year and hopefully they wouldn’t hate me for it.

  When his children were with their mother, Barney and I were always busy, although never with ready-made plans, and I found that our love grew by doing things together. Barn would throw a chainsaw in the back of the ute, followed by his dog Harry, and off we’d go to collect and split firewood from the bush. Or we’d get in the car, find a gravel road we hadn’t been up, slide around the corners, stop to pick wildflowers or forage for wild blackberries and breathe in the day. After I’d interviewed one of Australia’s top rosarians for the radio, we decided to visit her garden in Elizabeth Town.

  We arrived at Forest Hall to find Susan Irvine under a wide-brimmed hat, casting sharp shadows as she made busy tracks on her ride-on mower. With the grace and courtesy of a bygone era, Susan took time out in the heat of the day to walk us—not in a meandering way—through her magnificent garden. Among its many virtues I loved the way it rambled, although in an organised way, and how she left many roses deliberately unpruned. The pergola and crabapple walks fringed with mauve-flowering catmint were architectural delights—you could tell she loved to share them, no matter how often.

  ‘My mother would love your garden,’ I told Susan.

  It was midday-hot and not a day for lingering, so Susan encouraged us to travel further afield, twenty minutes’ drive away, to Wychwood, where she said her friends Peter and Karen had created a magical garden and nursery. She was sure they’d be happy for us to take a picnic and sit in the shade by the river to enjoy the day. As we were leaving, Susan asked if we’d like to dig up one or two small trees that had self-seeded under the graceful oak that shaded the driveway. We looked at each other and shared the answer with our eyes. ‘No, thank you,’ Barn said, ‘not today, we’ll come again if that’s okay.’

  ‘Come back, and bring your mother next time!’ Susan urged as we waved goodbye.

  We made our way to Wychwood in Mole Creek and did exactly as Susan suggested. Peter met us at the front gate and asked if we’d like a tour or to find our own way around. We decided to wander through the colourful arching beds, a labyrinth made of mown grass, and silver birch copses shading families of red-and-white toadstools. We continued down to the river where frogs and river birds played, and took off our shoes and socks to feel the sun on our feet and the fresh mountain water between our toes.

  Wychwood charmed us. We left with a few nursery plants and a gift we asked Peter to choose fo
r us that we could leave with Susan on our way home by way of thanks. He chose a rare variety of clematis that he knew she didn’t have, and refused to let us pay him for it. ‘No, it’s a gift for Susan,’ he said. As we left, Barney shook Peter’s hand and asked him, ‘How do you make a garden like this?’

  ‘Mulch and water,’ Peter replied simply. ‘And no digging— it stirs up the weeds.’

  When I got home that day, I sat with Susan Irvine’s book Rosehips & Crabapples, and found this diary entry:

  Following the paperback edition of The Garden at Forest Hall, we get an increasing number of uninvited visitors. This is not always convenient but then I am reminded of the admonition found over the doorway of a Paris bookshop to ‘be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise’.

  I felt that it was us collecting angels along the way.

  Barney and I continued to visit a variety of Tasmanian gardens for inspiration, but none had quite the effect of Forest Hall or Wychwood. We returned home encouraged in our own ways—me to continue the tender loving care of the Nuns’ House and Barney to turn his paddock across the road into a park. In March, my first birthday present to Barney was a red maple chosen from a local nursery. It was the first tree in the park-to-be and we planted it together, right in the middle of the paddock, so that I could see and appreciate Miss Maple, as we named her, from my front veranda.

  It was more like we were seeping in love rather than falling, and I thought because of this it might last. Meeting a possible life partner in your forties is not like meeting them in your twenties, when love can sweep you off your feet like a tornado because you haven’t lived that long, or at least long enough to ground you. You don’t have to close your eyes and pretend that your destiny is marriage and mortgages either. You’re not making the sort of calculations that people make about parenting abilities, social status or earning potential. You’re not even having to please your own family or friends, because they gave up trying to influence your destiny a long time ago. I certainly had no intention of sharing the Nuns’ House with a man, or of leaving it for one either. So, without a job title to our names, and undiverted by the instinct to procreate, we were free to meet each other, unadorned. Strictly speaking, as ourselves.

  I was conscious that I didn’t feel everything I was accustomed to feeling on rushing headlong into romance. There was no heightened expectation of the phone ringing (is that him?) or that appetite-suppressing gnawing in the bottom of your stomach that seemed to go hand in hand with new love. None of that will I call, is he into me shuffle that went on, or flirtation that kept you guessing. I wasn’t looking for a knight in shining armour because I knew I could look after myself better than anyone else.

  Those first four seasons together passed quickly, and although we couldn’t recall the exact date we got together we celebrated anyway on the first of July with a bottle of bubbles by the river, promising each other another four seasons at least. Barn’s scruffy paddock across the road was fast turning into that park he wanted, and the more I let down my defences, the more the Nuns’ House lawns were mown. Annie teased she felt she was trespassing as she drove along Pipers River Road between us and that, despite their separation by road, our gardens were growing together in their beauty.

  Richard Crabtree still dropped in for a cup of tea on his way to or from the vineyard. Audrey pottered out from time to time, holding up the traffic around the bends, she said, but I told her not to worry about that. Jillian sent Ian around to collect rosehips for her homemade foraged jams. ‘Help yourself, there’s plenty there,’ I said. And every now and then Barn’s dog found his way across the double white lines. I hoped that Harry wouldn’t be run over while doing this because there’d be nothing fair in that. I could tell it was him by the sound of his nails clip-clipping on the polished floorboards, hurrying towards me, clamouring for a pat.

  Jilly’s rosehip & hawthorn jelly

  This is a late-season recipe using ingredients

  commonly found in hedgerows around fields in the

  Tasmanian countryside.

  Equal quantities of rosehips (halved) and haws (the plump

  red berries of the hawthorn tree)

  2 Granny Smith apples per kilo of berries, roughly chopped

  with peel and pips included.

  1 tsp citric acid per kilo of fruit

  Put all fruit in a large pan with just enough water

  to cover, bring to the boil then simmer for about

  30 minutes, using a potato masher occasionally to

  release more juice from the haws.

  When fruit has softened, transfer to a jelly bag, or

  double muslin cloth, taking care not to allow any

  fruit to escape.

  Suspend this over a large, non-reactive bowl to drip

  through overnight or at least 6 hours.

  Next, measure the amount of liquid you have and

  transfer to a jam pan.

  Add sugar warmed in a low oven, cup for cup of

  liquid, and stir until sugar is dissolved.

  Bring to the boil and boil vigorously until setting

  point is reached.

  Bottle immediately into sterilised jars and cover

  while still hot.

  The resulting jelly will be a beautiful ruby colour

  and the medicinal properties of both rosehips (very

  high in vitamin C) and haws (a renowned heart

  tonic) will guarantee you good health through

  the winter months.

  CHAPTER 14

  Spring, Karoola

  Let no man say, and say it to your shame,

  That all was beauty here until you came.

  Couplet commonly found in parks around the world

  Now that Wilf’s garden was cleared, the light was making surprising things grow. A small oak tree seemed to have seeded itself (I recognised its distinctive leaf from Susan’s garden) and a row of glossy green-leaved shrubs that I didn’t recall being there last year had appeared at the top of the higgledy-piggledy dry-stone wall. Audrey had tried to remember the name and thought they began with A, so we went through one of the Stirling Macoboys and found them: Acanthus mollis or oyster plant. I never got the chance to find out what Wilf had in mind for the part of the garden he’d reserved, but at least it was less dishevelled now and, if he was anywhere, maybe he would make things grow the way he wanted them. Barney helped me to plant two boxes of daffodil bulbs we’d rescued from an old vineyard garden being demolished in Pipers River. And with Wilf’s garden gnomes dotted underneath the trees I hoped he might feel more at home.

  Aside from gardening, I visited Audrey for home-cooked suppers that usually involved sherry poured from a decanter and sipped from a certain glass. Ma, who would soon be eighty, was accustomed to living on her own and fending for herself, so meals tended to be on a tray for one. Every now and then, when she knew you might be visiting, she’d bring out one of her standards, a simple recipe cooked from her black-covered bible, The Good Housekeeping Cookbook, published in 1950. She’d taught herself to cook from it before she was married and now it was falling apart at the seams. ‘Oh, this old thing,’ she’d say, irritated at its stray pages that had come unstitched. But the precious black book still came out. I don’t think Audrey ever approached cooking as a pleasure in itself. I imagined that as for many stay-at-home wives and mothers, it was more something she knew she had to do. I admired how she still made the effort to cook, although really, she couldn’t be fussed.

  I wasn’t sure I would have got to know Audrey like this if I’d stayed in London. Whenever I visited from the UK we seemed to get under each other’s skin. I think it was because I couldn’t relax in her company, and I would return to London feeling guilty and relieved in equal measure. When you’re consciously trying to parent yourself, a parent still parenting is suffocating. Whatever it was, we ironed it out and we had made it to friendship. I could sit with her in the middle of the day watching Ellen
on the TV turned up way too loud, her cigarette smoke clouding the air, and not want to leave immediately. We’d come a long way.

  One day I came home from Audrey’s to find a jar of fresh blackberries on the front doorstep. It was a recycled jar, stuffed with plump fruit, sat on a berry-patterned napkin in the middle of the top step. There was no card but I knew it was a hello from my friend Rose and the wilder boundaries of her garden. Nothing tricked up or fancy, just an expression of friendship in a jar. I unscrewed the lid and popped the first berry into my mouth, savouring it. The rest I’d save for an apple and blackberry tart, already imagining the swirl of dark liquid as it seeped into the apple amid dollops of thickened cream. I loved how, with a little thought, someone else’s surplus could become a precious gift. And, just like the peace and beauty I aimed to preserve at the Nuns’ House, I never wanted to take the generosity of others for granted, and returned Rose’s offering with a tart.

  The local tip opened on Sundays at 11 am but Malcolm usually got there at ten so I headed off early with some garden rubbish not destined for the compost. Sure enough, there he was, organising the old washing machines and sheets of corrugated iron. He said he liked to arrive early so he could get things ‘cleaned up’ before the rush. For Malcolm, there was a place for everything, and everything in its place: old farm equipment and water tanks, furniture and bicycles, a bin for cardboard boxes, another for vegetation, and a total of eight numbered skips. Rubbish disposal cost two dollars per trailer and it was one dollar per carload, until the council increased its pricing, much to the dismay of the locals.

  A small hut sat just inside the tip entrance. At first sight, it looked like a lean-to, done up for a tip man to while away a chilly day undercover. A frayed armchair appeared welcoming in one corner, a bookcase with magazines lined the back wall, and there was a heater for cold winter days. Malcolm’s self-styled retreat was actually a tip shop, and everything was for sale.