‘This is where our parents found each other, for better or worse.’ Her voice shook. ‘This place is why we have each other. It’s as much your story as it is mine.’
Charlie studied the engraved tree trunk. Held his hand to the scar beside their father’s name. Though his chin wobbled, he grinned at Alice; when he reached into his back pocket for his knife, eyebrow raised in question, she nodded, grinning. They walked home from the river arm in arm, smelling of tree bark and sap, his and their mother’s names freshly carved into the gum.
On the morning they left Thornfield, Alice brought some papers with her to the breakfast table. She slid them across to Charlie. He looked at her, puzzled. Twig and Candy, who Alice had spoken to about her intentions, watched on, smiling. For the rest of her life, one of Alice’s most treasured memories would be Charlie’s face the moment he unfolded the statutory declaration she’d signed, giving her third of Thornfield to him.
Alice put the fire flowers aside, and took the first book from the top of the pile. Her eyes ran over her grandmother’s handwriting in the Thornfield Dictionary. She thumbed through the stories she’d read dozens of times already, of Ruth Stone, Wattle Hart and June herself. Of Clem and Agnes. Of Candy and Twig. Alice twirled the stem of a fire flower between her fingers, considering their meaning. The colour of my fate. Steeling herself, she put the dictionary a safe distance away on a garden chair.
Next, she went through the folder of papers; printed copies of every email Dylan had sent her since she’d left the desert, daily, weekly, and still, monthly. Her eyes snagged on lines she knew by heart, from one of the first.
You’ve left, yet you’re still here, appearing and disappearing from me. The last coffee cup you used. Your dresses amongst my clothes. Your toothbrush by mine. It rained yesterday. I haven’t been able to go outside today; I don’t want to see your footprints gone from the red dirt.
Alice scrunched the page in her fist, breathing through the pain behind her ribs. Held her face to the sea breeze, letting it cool her skin. She glanced sidelong at the Thornfield Dictionary. Pay attention now, Alice, she heard June’s voice, speaking her written words. These are the ways we’ve survived. She smoothed the page out, placed it back in the folder, and put it aside.
Finally, she turned to her notebooks, full of the story she’d been writing in flowers since Agnes Bluff, during her months in the desert, and over the last year at Sally’s; the story that had become her application for the writing residency. You’ve written a book, Charlie had stated in awe when Alice showed him and Sally the first printout of her manuscript. When she read the title, Sally had shaken her head. You’ve spun seeds into gold, she’d said softly, grinning through tears.
Alice took a notebook from the pile and ran her hands over its cover. When she lifted it, a wisp of red sand trickled from the pages onto her lap, glinting in the light, otherworldly. Alice balanced the notebook between her palms and let it fall open. Ran her fingertips over the red granules caught in the stitching of its exposed centre. Life and other people’s stories had always told her she was blue. Her father’s eyes. The sea. Alice Blue. The colour of orchids. Of her boots. Of fairytale queens. Of loss. But Alice’s centre was red. It always was. The colour of fire. Of earth. Of heart, and courage.
She pored over the books. Paused to name every sketched and pressed flower aloud, and speak its meaning; an incantation to end the burden of carrying an untold story inside her.
Black fire orchid Desire to possess
Flannel flower What is lost is found
Sticky everlasting My love will not leave you
Blue pincushion I mourn your absence
Painted feather flower Tears
Striped mintbush Love forsaken
Yellow bells Welcome to a stranger
Vanilla lily Ambassador of love
Violet nightshade Fascination, witchcraft
Thorn box Girlhood
River lily Love concealed
Cootamundra wattle I wound to heal
Copper-cups My surrender
River red gum Enchantment
Blue lady orchid Consumed by love
Gorse bitter pea Ill-natured beauty
Showy banksia I am your captive
Orange Immortelle Written in the stars
Pearl saltbush My hidden worth
Honey grevillea Foresight
Sturt’s desert pea Have courage, take heart
Spinifex Dangerous pleasures
Desert heath-myrtle Flame, I burn
Broad-leaved parakeelya By your love, I live and die
Desert oak Resurrection
Lantern bush Hope may blind me
Bat’s wing coral tree Cure for heartache
Green birdflower My heart flees
Foxtails Blood of my blood
Wheel of fire The colour of my fate
When she was ready, Alice uncapped her pen and scrawled the title of her manuscript across the cover of every notebook, amid her flower illustrations. She piled them in her lap and bound them with string. Gathered them together with the folder of emails and put the bundle on the bonfire. As she reached for the fire flowers and then, the matches in her pocket, Alice faltered. Took a moment to collect herself. Breathe. She slid a match from its box, steadied her hand, and struck it against the flint. A quick intake of oxygen, the smell of sulphur, and a quiet hiss and crackle; the bonfire came to life.
The blaze rose against the backdrop of the ocean. Alice watched the flowers catch alight and burn; the corners of Dylan’s emails blacken and char; all her notebooks turn incandescent. She watched the words she’d written on the covers until they were no longer legible.
The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart
After a while she went to the garden chair and sat, cradling the Thornfield Dictionary in her arms. Pip lolled against her legs. Alice took a deep breath full of salt, smoke and flowers, gazing at the flames. Their changing colours. Their transformations. Her beautiful mother, forever in her garden. Alice pressed a hand over her desert pea locket and ininti seed necklace. Trust your story. All you can do is tell it true.
The memory came clear and unfettered: in the weatherboard house at the end of the lane, she sat at her desk by the window, dreaming of ways to set her father on fire.
Her heart beat slow.
I’m–here.
I’m–here.
I’m–here.
Author’s Note
There are stories and characters from varying cultures in this novel. I’d like to acknowledge the generous friends, experiences, and resources I consulted, drew from and used to write them.
In the opening chapter the line, life is lived forward, but only understood backward, was inspired by the work of Danish philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard.
Candy’s favourite fairytale, about a queen who waits for so long for her lover to return to her that she turns into the orchid on her gown, was inspired by the Filipino fairytale, The Legend of Waling-Waling.
The Indian stories of Sita and Draupadi that one of the Flowers shares with Alice were shared with me by Tanmay Barhale.
The story of the king’s daughter who always wore the same shade of blue was inspired by Alice Roosevelt Longworth, daughter of Theodore Roosevelt, who always wore the same pale tint of azure, and was known for never abiding by the rules of her society.
The Bulgarian fairytale Oggi refers to in his letter to Alice, about the wolf and fox, was inspired by a version of the Bulgarian folktale, The Sick and the Healthy, which was translated and shared with me by Iva Boneva.
Lulu’s stories of monarch butterflies, fire warriors and daughters of the sun were inspired by Mexican tales shared with me by Viridiana Alfonso-Lara.
It was important to me that I fictionalised the central Australian settings Alice visits, lives and works in because to set those parts of this novel in existing places would be telling stories that aren’t mine to tell. I consulted Ali Cobby Eckermann, Yankunytjatjara woman and internationally acclaimed poet, about creating su
ch settings. She agreed that it was a wise thing to do.
Kililpitjara, or Earnshaw Crater, and everything to do with it – its name, its story, its landscape – is fictional. The place name Kililpitjara is fictional in the sense that I made it up, but the Pitjantjatjara I used to create it, and that is used throughout the novel, is the language spoken by Anangu. Kililpi (noun), means star. Tjara (noun), means some or part of a larger group or thing. Basic translation of the combination in English is belonging to stars. The main reference text I used was the IAD Press Pitjantjatjara/Yankunytjatjara to English Dictionary.
To create a sense of Kililpitjara’s geological structure I was inspired by images of Kandimalal (Wolfe Creek Crater) and Tnorala (Gosse Bluff) but its enormity, energy, and presence has been informed by my experience living in the central desert.
In 2016 I met with Dr John Goldsmith in Perth, who talked me through his first-hand experiences of Kandimalal and photographing western desert stars. Dr Goldsmith was also a great help in enlightening me to the concentric circles of stars and craters, and the very likelihood of a patch of desert peas growing in the formation I have described.
Kililpitjara’s creation story was inspired by the public Arrernte creation story of Tnorala, the crater where a baby fell from its wooden carrier in the stars to the earth, and its parents in the sky who search for it eternally.
The returned sorry flowers and accompanying letters from tourists that Ruby shows Alice are inspired by the ‘sorry rocks’ received by park staff every day at Uluru, sent by guilty tourists around the world.
Ruby’s poem, Seeds, is written by Ali Cobby Eckermann, who gave me full permission to use it in this context. While I lived in the desert I had the pleasure of meeting and knowing many women like Ruby. They shared their stories and their spirits with me, which taught me lessons I hadn’t learned anywhere else. Australia has a black history. It always was and always will be Aboriginal land.
If you have been or are affected by family violence,
please know that the
1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) hotline
is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
It’s a free, confidential telephone and online service
for any Australian who is experiencing or has experienced
domestic or family violence and/or sexual assault.
In Gratitude
As a reader, I love reading the acknowledgements section of novels. It’s always felt a little like being able to slip into an after party while it’s in full swing and see the people in the wings of an author’s story step into light. It is an immeasurable thrill to be able to now write my own for my first novel.
My respect and gratitude to Yugambeh people on whose land many drafts of this novel were crafted; to Bundjalung people on whose saltwater country I grew up; to Butchulla people on whose land my grandmother lives, where the sugar cane fields grow that have long enchanted my mind. My respect and gratitude to Arrernte people, and Anangu on whose Ngaanyatjarra Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (NPY) Lands I worked and travelled through during the time I lived in the Northern Territory. I would especially like to acknowledge with gratitude the NPY women who shared culture and stories from their ancestors with me.
To my extraordinary team at HarperCollins Publishers Australia, thank you for completely exceeding my wildest childhood dreams. Alice ‘Whizzy’ Wood and Sarah Barrett, thank you for your tireless energy, hard work, and our out-of-hours chats and giggles. Hazel Lam, thank you for creating one of the most beautiful book covers I have ever seen for Alice Hart’s story. Mark Campbell, Tom Wilson, Karen-Maree Griffiths, Erin Dunk, Essie Orchard and Andrea Johnson, thank you for your passion and belief in this novel, and me. Nicola Robinson, thank you for your deft and intuitive edits, knowing where I could be and do better, and seeing me through. Catherine Milne, story sister, you have made me and Alice the best we can be. Thank you for imploring and teaching me to trust in the novel I had written, to trust in myself. I am indebted to you.
To Zeitgeist Agency: Benython Oldfield, Sharon Galant, and Thomasin Chinnery, my agents, thank you for believing in me, and Alice, and being the dream team of near-mythical wonders you are. There is no one else I would rather be in a war room with than you three.
Thank you Stéphanie Abou of Massie & McQuilkin Literary Agents for your hard word and tireless dedication.
To my incredible team of international publishers and translators for bringing Alice to readers around the world, deepest thanks to you for making dreams I didn’t even know I had come true.
My love, respect and heartfelt thanks to Ali Cobby Eckermann, desert-and-sea-bracelet-twin and tjanpi-T-shirt-giving ininti-sister. Thank you for appearing in my life when you did, and for your permission to include Seeds as Ruby’s own poem. Thank you for sharing your powerful words and big heart with me, malpa.
Alice Hoffman, thank you for replying to my first letter in 2009, and for your generosity of spirit sharing letters with me ever since. Thank you for your unwavering encouragement, magic, and the permission to quote from one of your letters in this novel. Thank you for writing the books that I have carried with me around the world, they have shown me the way to be brave and to believe.
To Anne Carson, thank you for honouring me with permission to quote your translation of Sappho’s poetry. Thank you Gracie Dietshe and Nicole Aragi of Aragi agency for your wonderful assistance in facilitating my request.
To Julianne Schultz, John Tague, Jane Hunterland and the team at Griffith Review in 2015, thank you for all you do and have done for Australian readers and writers. Thank you for being home to my first paid publication, and for giving the first chapter of this novel your annual writer award. Your investment in me changed the course of my life.
Thank you to Varuna the Writers’ House, for the perfect amount of eeriness, beauty, and solitude I didn’t know I needed so much to begin editing this book. To the women I wrote through the dark with on my residency: Biff Ward, Jackie Yowell, Helen Loughlin, and Bec Butterworth, you are always in my heart, around a banquet table of Sheila’s cooking. With wine.
To David Jayet-Laraffe of Frog Flowers, Giulia Zonza of On Love & Photography, and Nancy Spencer of Nancy Spencer Makeup, thank you for your alchemy, conjuring a tropical garden fairytale within a Manchester winter snow globe and placing me in the centre. Thank you for creating a once-in-a-lifetime author photo, and a joyous love-filled experience I will never forget.
To Edith Rewa, flower queen and enchanting botanical artist, thank you for flower illustrations that cast such powerful spells they don’t let go.
To the booksellers who supported Alice Hart, and me, in the lead up to publication: thank you for all the book magic you bring into the world, and for sharing some of that with me and this novel. To the booksellers who will read this novel, give it a place on a bookstore shelf, and share it with readers, thank you for being a light in every city and town, and making my childhood dream as a booklover and aspiring writer come true.
Thank you to Kate Forsyth and Carol Crennan for offering me a sponsored place on the History Mystery and Magic writing retreat in Oxford, 2015, an experience that had a profound effect on my writing and me as a writer. To my fellow retreat writers Sarah Guise, Kellie Watson, and Bec Smedley, thank you for sharing your hearts and stories with me. Thank you, Kate, for your friendship and for reminding me Alice was an ember that fear and anxiety could not extinguish.
To those who lit the way for me while I was in the dark woods writing this novel, thank you for your steadfast friendship, love, empowerment and encouragement: Favel Parrett, Courtney Collins, Nicole Hayes, Alys Conran, Meredith Whitfield, Anni Sartorio, Nick Benson and the Benson family, Simone Gingras-Fox and the Gerlinger family, Dimi Venkov, Ashley Hay, Khela Hutchinson, Gregoreen and PD, Eva de Vries, Olga Van Der Kooi (and Rogier and Louise), Helen Weston and JP, Sarah Rakich, Vanessa Radnidge, Lilia Krasteva, Jesse Blackadder, Andi Davey, Philippa Moore, Jenn Ashworth, Jane Bradley, Chris and Debbie Macintosh (
and Beth and Lil), Cerys Jones, Helen Fulcher, Fraser How, Derek Henderson, Vicki Henderson, Stephen Ashworth, Lorena Fernandez Sanchez, Alex D’Netto, Linda Teo, Ian Henderson, Jenn Ashworth, Rachael Clegg (and Roberto, Joe, Francis, and Ruben), Susan Fernley and Brian Fox, Kate Gray, Cheryl Hollatz-Wisely, Jackie Bailey (Yen Yang and Ellie Belly), Jeremy Lachlan, Josie and James McSkimming, Sani Van der Spek, Dervla McTiernan, and Andy Stevenson (and Lou, Sam and Gina).
Particular heartfelt thanks to Kate Forsyth, Brooke Davis, Favel Parrett, Ashley Hay, Jenn Ashworth, Myf Jones, and Ali Cobby Eckermann for reading early proofs and endorsing this novel with such warmth, love, and generosity of spirit.
Thank you to Dr John Goldsmith for taking the time to meet with me, answer my relentless questions and share stories of stars and craters.
To the women I met at Singing Over the Bones training with Dr Clarissa Pinkola Estés in 2015, thank you for sharing your love and stories with me. Thank you for howling me along the way ever since.
To the men and women I studied and practised alongside at Mindfulness Self Compassion training with Christopher Germer and Kristin Neff in 2017. The timeliness of your work, empathy, support, and friendship carried me over the line, for which I am deeply grateful.
I had a public school education and some of my teachers throughout primary and high school remain standing examples of the power encouragement can have on shaping a life. Mrs Smart, Ms Pearce, Mr Chandler, Mrs Reynolds, and Mr Ham, thank you for seeing something in me I couldn’t see in myself and for teaching me how to believe in what might be possible with hard work and courage.
To the International Society, an independent charity that has been promoting diversity and providing a haven for international students, refugees, asylum seekers and locals in Greater Manchester for the last fifty years, thank you for being a place of warmth and welcome, safety and imagination, for so many thousands of us. Thank you to my International 16s around the world, I wouldn’t be the storyteller I am without you and the stories you shared with me.
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