Cordelia smiled and nodded her head. ‘If the spark’s still there, why not give in to it? Life’s too short, Sophie. We all deserve a little happiness.’ Good grief, she thought. I’m beginning to sound like one of those dreadful agony aunts. She glanced across at her granddaughter and realised the same thought had crossed her mind too.
‘Fair go, Gran. The man dumped me. He can’t just pick up where he left off because I happen to be the only convenient female around the place.’
Cordelia ignored the bitterness. ‘What exactly happened between you two all those years ago, Sophie? You never really explained.’
She took a long, trembling breath then the words spilled out, tumbling over one another as the pain returned and memories flooded back.
Cordelia listened, her hand resting lightly on her granddaughter’s. When the tirade was over, she nodded. ‘I think it’s time you two had a long talk.’
‘I have nothing to say to him,’ muttered Sophie.
Cordelia tutted. ‘Nonsense. You’re still in love with him despite having married that idiot Crispin – and I think that if you both sit down and try and talk this through, you’ll find things aren’t quite as black and white as you think.’
Sophie’s eyes were haunted as she turned to her, but in their depths Cordelia could see the first spark of hope. ‘What do you mean, Gran?’
‘You haven’t thought this through,’ she said firmly. ‘There is a reason for everything, and I have no doubt you and Jay got your wires crossed.’ She thought for a moment, her gaze roaming over the paddocks out to the distant hills. Something about Sophie’s story didn’t add up but her suspicions could never be voiced for their implications were too cruel. There was enough angst in the family already.
‘Jay is obviously in love with you – I can see it in the way he looks at you, the way his eyes follow your every move. He might not say much, but that’s the way with men out here in the bush. Give him a chance, Sophie. For your own sake, if not for his.’
Sophie rose from the chair and stood at the verandah railings for a long moment. Then, without a word, she slammed through the screen door and headed for her bedroom.
Cordelia sighed. It was up to them now – but it wouldn’t do any harm to nudge them along a little. She smiled as she waved back to Beatty who was approaching the house from the home paddock. With the rift slowly mending between the two sides of her warring family there was hope for the future of Jacaranda Vines. All she had to do now was persuade Wal and his family to see things the same way.
15
Sophie showered and changed and, with her wet hair cooling her neck, sat at the window enjoying the light breeze that wafted down from the hills. It was pleasant here in the shade of the back verandah, but although she found it soothing to watch the distant figures as they moved up and down the terraces, she couldn’t dismiss her own troubled thoughts. What had Gran meant by her enigmatic advice?
She shook out her hair and roughly towelled it dry. Her thoughts were getting her nowhere, but if the opportunity arose she would certainly ask Jay for an explanation. It was the least he could do after his behaviour that morning.
With her hair in a tangle, Sophie ran the brush through it as she looked out over Coolabah Crossing. The lay-out was similar to that of Jacaranda, but the ugly stainless steel storage tanks and bottling plant were out of sight of the house whereas at home they were the first thing visitors saw as they drove down the long drive to the château.
She was dreaming of how things must have looked when Otto and Rose first came here when there was a tap on the door and her grandmother came in.
‘I thought it was time you learned a bit more about the family,’ she said unceremoniously. ‘Come on.’
‘Where are we going?’ Sophie wound her long hair into a knot and tethered it with a scrunchy. ‘I’ll need to change again if it means going for a walk.’
‘You’ll see. Hurry up. Wal’s waiting in the trap.’ She eyed Sophie’s shirt and shorts. ‘You’re right as you are.’
She pulled on her sneakers and socks and by the time she’d tied the laces, Gran was already out on the front verandah, Wal helping her down the steps. She stood in the doorway and watched as the scruffy old man handed her grandmother up into the brightly painted pony-trap as if she was a queen. Wal might appear rough and ready but under that gruff exterior beat the heart of a true gentleman, she realised. Pity it didn’t apply to his eldest grandson.
Cordelia was almost prim beneath the parasol as she sat on one side of the trap and waited for Sophie. But her granddaughter noticed that her colour was high and there was a sparkle in her eyes. Wal slapped the reins gently over the pony’s back and they pulled away. The gentle sway of the old-fashioned trap, the creak of its wheels and the jingle of harness combined with the steady clip-clop of the pony’s hoofs as they headed east. Sophie leaned back against the varnished wood, the sun on her face, the wooden trap warm beneath her fingers. She had never before known such contentment.
‘Rose had a lot to learn when she first came to Coolabah Crossing,’ began Cordelia. ‘Otto was a good man but his chief passion was his vines and Rose knew that to understand her husband, she had first to master this strange new way of life.’ She tilted the parasol against the glare of the sun. ‘But everything has its price, as you will see in a minute.’
Sophie looked past Wal’s shoulder out into the distance where a stand of wilgas drooped, their trunks lost in the shimmer of heat that rose from the earth. The white picket fence that marked the boundaries of the family graveyard were a familiar sight throughout the outback. She knew that here at last were the true roots of this family – her family.
They clambered down and, with Cordelia leaning heavily on Wal’s arm, waded through the long grass into the shade of the wilgas and the peace of the little country graveyard. Butterflies of incredible blue darted between the headstones, crickets chirruped and flies hummed, but these small sounds merely enhanced the surrounding silence.
Sophie followed the two old people to the far side where the grave markers were crudely carved, their epitaphs faded by the elements and covered with lichen.
‘Rose had four stillbirths before she had the twins,’ said Cordelia softly. ‘There were no more children after that. Just hard work, poverty and an endless struggle against the elements. But her daughters grew strong and healthy, with the same love for the vines as their father.’
Sophie dug her hands into her pockets as she slowly walked along the line. The mounds had all but disappeared back into the soil, but they’d been kept neat, the grass cut, the weeds pulled, the encroaching bush held back with judicious pruning and hacking.
They stopped by an old-fashioned table tomb with a marble inlay. ‘Muriel Fitzallan never did return to England,’ said Cordelia. ‘She came to visit Rose and Otto after the Mission was taken over by another worthy young man, and never left.’
Sophie read the epitaph. Lady Muriel Fitzallan had certainly found a loving home here, and a final resting place that looked right over the great sweep of Coolabah Crossing. She wondered if the bustling, fussy little woman still surveyed her adopted kingdom with pride.
She moved on, frowned as she read the next epitaph, checked to see she was not mistaken and turned to Cordelia. ‘Surely that can’t be right, Gran?’
Cordelia settled down on the rustic seat which had been built beneath the weeping fronds of the Wilga. ‘Unfortunately it is,’ she sighed. ‘Who knows how things would have turned out if it had been different?’
‘So what happened?’ Sophie sat beside her as Wal wandered off to smoke his pipe and stare into the distance.
‘Rose and Otto settled down to raise their family and improve their harvests. Lady Muriel became mother and grandmother, even making them a gift of enough money to build an extension to the house so they could live in relative comfort. Otto employed a couple of girls to help in the house, and several ticket of leave men to help clear the scrub and till the earth for his new seed
ing. These men lived in a series of shacks well away from the house. Rose could sometimes hear them howling like dogs when they got into the cellars and drank the raw wine after the harvest.’
Cordelia shivered. ‘She said that sound lived with her right through her life, and she never forgot it was those men’s labour that paved the way to future success.’
‘It can’t have been easy to live amongst men who’d been forced to come all this way,’ muttered Sophie.
‘It wasn’t, but these men had almost finished their sentences, and some of them even stayed on afterwards, got married to local girls and made good lives for themselves. Towards the end there was quite a community here at Coolabah Crossing.’
Sophie frowned. ‘The end? But it’s still here.’
Cordelia mopped her brow. ‘Don’t rush me,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll tell it all to you in time.’
Sophie watched the expressions flit across her face as she began to speak, and as the silent gravestones shimmered in the afternoon heat, felt herself drawn back to the days when this little corner of Coolabah Crossing was Rose and Otto’s world.
*
With her babies to look after, Rose was tied to the house. Lady Muriel was a doting grandmother, with endless stories to tell and songs to sing, and would spend hours pushing them about in their baby carriage across the fledgeling lawn Rose watered so carefully.
The three housemaids Otto hired were the daughters of free settlers from Paramatta. They reminded Rose of herself when she’d worked at the Manor, but their lot was much harder for the heat was relentless, the work never-ending. She tried to be fair and made sure they had enough time to make the long journey back to Paramatta to visit their families, but the sheer distances involved meant their visits were rare.
She was pleased to have help in the house for there was always something to be done now they had Lady Muriel’s fine furniture to polish as well as the stout German furniture Otto had brought with him. Because of the heat, the windows had to be kept open, and with the circulation of hot air came the dust. Fine, clinging and red, it whirled into spirals that whipped across the baked earth and covered everything: gritting the tongue, irritating the eyes, impossible to brush out of their hair. Yet she knew the dust would disappear with the autumn rains. It was all a part of the excitement heralding the ripening grapes and the next vintage.
Otto would rise before dawn, kiss her and the babies, and leave for the terraces. He ate his meals in the fields with the ticket of leave men and returned long after sundown, sweaty and covered in dust, to fall asleep at the dinner table Rose had taken such pains to make attractive. His skin reddened and peeled, his bright hair became dull with the dust, but his enthusiasm never waned. Although she rarely saw him, she understood his need to watch over their investment. Every penny they had was sunk into the earth and the vines, and in this house that was palatial compared to most outback stations.
Sundays were different. No one worked on Sundays, and Rose looked forward to leaving the house and travelling in the buggy with Otto to the tiny church five miles away that had been built to serve the newly settled area. It was like a holiday. Otto would wash the dust from his hair, clean the dirt from his nails and put on his suit. Rose and Lady Muriel took the opportunity to dress in their best hats and clothes, for this was their only social outing, and they would be meeting other vintners and their wives. The two-year-old twins, who were now quite a handful, were washed and primped and given strict instructions to keep clean and sit still.
They made quite a procession down that long, bumpy road, Rose thought as she looked back at the cart where the three house servants perched, clinging to their gaily flowered straw hats as the overseer Hans held the reins loosely over the quiet pony’s back. Her gaze fell on the ticket of leave men who trudged far behind them, the dust rising from their rough boots, settling on the poor clothes that served as their Sunday best.
She felt the unfairness of making them walk so far – they had other carts. But Otto had insisted this was the way things should be done, and as time had gone on, she’d realised it was so, and although she still didn’t like it, learned to keep her objections to herself.
It was the law for these poor wretches to attend church, regardless of their beliefs, and although their lusty singing was good to hear, she sometimes wondered if it was just an excuse to release some of the pent-up anger they must surely feel – for although they worked in the open and had comfortable quarters to return to at night, these sad-eyed, skinny men still bore the scars of their long internments and knew they would never really be free – would never see the misty damp of home again.
Rose looked away and thought about tomorrow. She had longed for the day when she too could return to the open fields and escape the restrictions of the house, for since the twins’ arrival she too had felt like a prisoner. Not that she didn’t adore her babies, but she missed those days in the sun, striding along the terraces, bending her back to hoe and cut and trim, with the endless sky above her, the earth warm beneath her feet. The restlessness had grown, and now, as her daughters began to take on personalities of their own, and learned to walk and talk, she felt she could leave them in the care of Bessy, the newest housemaid, under the watchful eye of Lady Muriel.
They were woken before dawn the next morning by a shout from below. Otto leaped from the big double bed and threw open the screens on the window. ‘Vat is it?’ he called.
‘’Roos. Bloody great mob up the north end,’ came the reply.
Rose dashed out of bed, pulled on trousers and shirt, boots and socks. Otto glanced across at her as he tore off his nightshirt and pulled on moleskins and boots. ‘Go back to bed. I deal with this,’ he said shortly.
She ignored him, finished lacing her boots and reached for a belt to hitch up her trousers. ‘They’re my vines just as much as yours,’ she said quietly. ‘And I know what a marauding mob can do.’
Otto grinned, his eyes very blue in his sunburned face. ‘Too right,’ he said. ‘Come on then, ve do battle.’
They hurried downstairs to find the house in uproar. The twins were crying, the maids were crashing pots and Lady Muriel was issuing orders. Rose and Otto hurried out and went to fetch their horses from home paddock. There was no one in sight, the light of a new day barely over the horizon. There was a terrible stillness in the air. A stifling weight that seemed to hang over everything.
‘Ve haf storm soon, I think,’ Otto said gravely as he looked up at the sky. ‘Not good for grapes if too heavy.’
Rose clung grimly to the reins. She knew heavy rain could destroy the harvest, but she still hadn’t fully mastered the art of sitting on the back of a half-wild horse and was fully occupied with staying put.
As they approached the northern part of the property, they were met by a devastating sight. The mob had trampled line after line of precious ripening grapes, their great feet and tails sweeping aside the year’s work as they gorged on the fruit. The ticket of leave men were running between the terraces, flapping their jackets, shouting, waving pitchforks and hoes in an effort to scare them off.
Rose and Otto swung down from their saddles and joined in the fray. The great grey beasts eyed them laconically, hopped just out of reach and resumed their meal.
Otto ran back to his horse and took his shot-gun from the saddle. Hans did the same, and as the shots echoed round the valley and animals fell in the dirt, the others got the message and bounded off. ‘Get up there and mend the fences,’ shouted Otto. ‘Make them stronger, higher, or they vill be back.’
‘But we’ll never keep them out, Otto. They jump too high, and they’re too strong.’
He looked down at her, his hair dark red with sweat, his eyes cold with fury. ‘I haf here a year’s work and all my money in this harvest, Rose. If this fails we vill haf nothing. Nothing. I can’t let the ’roos just trample me into the ground.’
Rose nodded, knowing there were no words to console him. The grapes were easy pickings for the wombats and
possums, the bandicoots and echidnas – it seemed as if every living thing for miles around depended upon those vines. ‘Let’s go and see how much damage there is,’ she said softly. ‘Perhaps it won’t be as bad as you think.’
He shook his head and looked up at the lowering sky. ‘If the storm comes in the next few days ve vill have lost it all anyway,’ he said sadly. ‘One cold night and all our work vill be for nothing.’
Rose saw the slump of his shoulders and knew he was right. All they could do now was pray the rain held off and the frost didn’t hit. The grapes were ripening well, it promised to be a good harvest, despite the damage – but it was still six weeks or more away, and anything could happen before then. Not enough rain, and the grapes wouldn’t ripen and grow sweet. Too much and they would rot on the vine. Frost would kill them, humidity would leave them mouldy and useless. Blight could wipe them out.
Perhaps Otto should have taken the other vintners’ advice, and invested in a mob of sheep, or planted corn and wheat as back-up, she thought. But she knew he was not a man to put his money in sheep or corn. He was a vigneron, a grower of grapes and producer of wine. He had no time and precious little money to spend on anything else, preferring to leave it to fate and Mother Nature to decide their future.
*
Two weeks later they were standing on the verandah, looking up at the sky. There was a slight wind and a drift of clouds sailing over the face of the moon on that clear, late-spring night. ‘It vill be no colder than usual,’ declared Otto thankfully. ‘We can go to bed no worrying.’
They were fast asleep when the heavy tread of feet thundered up the stairs and their bedroom door was flung open.
Hans was breathing hard, his face ashen. ‘It is freezing hard, Otto. I haf already got the men to light the pots.’
‘Get them out on the terraces quick, Hans. I come mitt you.’
Once again Rose and Otto threw on their clothes and hurried outside. They had been alert all through the winter for frost. The slightest downturn of the barometer in the hall had Otto sniffing the air. He would even leave their bed at night to walk around the vineyard, testing the stillness, studying the stars for some clue as to what the weather would bring. A severe late frost could be deadly to the blooming vines.
Jacaranda Vines Page 24