Alice undid the latches on all the windows. The fragrant air that swept in to meet her was more pungent than the sea and stronger than burning sugar cane. She tried to identify the scents. Turned sod. Petrol. Eucalyptus leaves. Damp manure. And the unmistakable smell of roses. But it was the next moment that Alice would always remember, when she saw the Flowers for the first time.
They could have been mistaken for men, dressed in their thick cotton work shirts, trousers and heavy work boots, just like Alice’s father. Their hats were full-brimmed and their hands were gloved. They emerged from the work shed in a V formation, carrying buckets, clippers, bags of fertiliser, rakes, spades and watering cans, and dispersed among the flowers. Some cut and filled buckets with flowers, ferrying them back to the work shed before re-emerging with buckets ready to be filled again. Others were pushing wheelbarrows full of new soil along the rows between the flowers, pausing to shovel it onto the beds. A few more were spraying sections of the fields, checking leaves and stems. Occasionally one would laugh with another, the sound ringing out like a little bell. Alice used her fingers to count them. There were twelve in total. Then she heard the singing.
Off to the side, near a cluster of greenhouses, one woman sat alone, sorting through a box of bulbs and seed packets. When she paused to take her hat off and scratch her head, Alice gasped as her long, pastel blue hair fell down her back. She gathered it back up, tucked it into her hat and continued to sing.
Pressed to the window, Alice watched her intently. The blue-haired woman made thirteen.
Alice stayed up in her room that morning, watching the rhythms of the women working. The watering, the tending, the planting and cutting of flowers. The buckets of brightly coloured blooms that almost seemed bigger than the women who carried them from the field to the work shed.
Her mother could have been any one of them, any one of those women whose faces were obscured by big hats and their bodies protected by heavy work wear. Alice could see her mother’s profile, hat pulled low over her brow, wrists wearing bracelets of dirt, reaching for the bud of a flower. As long as she stayed in her room, that was possible.
Harry scratched at her door, crying. Toby used to do the same thing when he needed the toilet. Alice tried to ignore him. She wanted to sit by the windows all day. But when he started scratching with both paws she was worried someone might come up. And, she really didn’t want to make him wee himself. Alice opened the door and Harry galloped downstairs, barking. She watched from the window as he bolted outside, running up to each of the women, sniffing here and there. They all patted his flanks affectionately. He didn’t need to wee at all. Traitor.
Alice counted the women again. This time there were only nine working outside. She searched for the blue-haired woman but, unable to distinguish her from the others, she gave up and wandered away from the window. She sat on her bed. The sun was high and her room was hot. How lovely it must be downstairs, outside, running through the rows of flowers. Her legs twitched. She drummed her fingers on her thighs.
A sharp bark at her door interrupted her thoughts. Harry moseyed over to lick her hand. Though Alice ignored him, he sat close and stared at her. Not panting. Not wagging his tail. Just staring. After a while Alice shook her head. Harry stood and started barking. Gesturing with her hands, she tried to hush him, but he wouldn’t stop. When she got to her feet, Harry finally fell quiet. He went to the door and waited. As Alice followed, he went downstairs. She stopped at the top step in hesitation. A succession of barks came up the spiral stairwell. With a huff, she descended.
The hallway at the bottom of the stairs was empty. At one end, Alice saw the bathroom where she’d washed her face with June. She tiptoed in and stopped short. On a shelf in front of her, next to fresh towels, sat a stack of new clothes. Knickers, a pair of khaki trousers, and a work shirt just like the women outside were wearing. And a pair of baby-blue boots. Alice ran her fingers slowly over the shiny patent leather. She’d never owned such beautiful shoes. She held the shirt up to her body. It was her size. She pressed it to her face, inhaling the clean scent of the cotton. Hurriedly she closed the bathroom door, turned the shower on and peeled off her old clothes.
Back in the hallway, Alice brushed her wet hair with her fingers, shivering from the light and airy sensation of the new clothes, and the pleasure of being so clean; the shower water had run brown from dust. The scent of the soap lingered on her skin. She glanced up and down the hall. There was no one around. Self-conscious and unsure of what to do next, Alice was about to scurry back upstairs, when the sounds of cutlery and plates and women’s voices caught her attention. She pressed herself against the wall and followed the babble of conversation and the occasional squawk of laughter. At the end of the hallway, sprawling behind the house, a screen door opened onto the wide verandah. Safe in the shadows, Alice peeked through the screen.
Clusters of women sat around four large tables on the verandah. Some had their backs to Alice; the faces of others were blocked from her view. But several of them faced Alice’s direction. They were all ages. One had a delicate tattoo of bluebirds covering her throat. Another wore glamorous black-framed glasses. One had speckled feathers braided through her hair. Another wore perfect, bright red lipstick despite her face being filthy with sweat and dust.
The tables were covered in white cloths, laden with green salads, sweating jugs of iced water with sliced lemon and lime, plates of grilled vegetables, deep dishes of quiche and pie, pots of sliced avocado and small bowls of strawberries. Harry’s tail poked out between two chairs, wagging back and forth. Alice inched closer. In the middle of each table sat a vase bursting with flowers. How her mother would have loved them.
‘There you are.’
Alice jerked in fright.
‘New clothes look good,’ June said, behind her in the hallway. Alice didn’t know where to look so kept her eyes on her baby-blue boots. ‘Alice,’ June started, reaching out as if to touch her cheek. When Alice flinched, June snatched her hand back, bracelets tinkling.
Laughter rang out from the verandah.
‘Well.’ June looked through the screen door. ‘Let’s get some lunch. The Flowers are waiting to meet you.’
8. Vanilla lily
Meaning: Ambassador of love
Sowerbaea juncea | Eastern Australia
Perennial with edible roots found in eucalyptus forests, woodlands, heaths, and sub-alpine meadows. Grass-like leaves have a strong scent of vanilla. Flowers are pink-lilac to white, papery, with sweet vanilla perfume. Resprouts after fire.
June swung the screen door open. A hush fell over the seated women. She turned and gestured for Alice to follow.
‘Everyone, this is Alice. Alice, these are the Flowers.’
Their murmured greetings fluttered over Alice’s skin. She pinched her wrists, trying to distract herself from the uneasy feeling in her belly.
‘Alice is,’ June paused, ‘my granddaughter.’ A few cheers rose from the Flowers. June waited for a moment. ‘She’s come to join us here at Thornfield,’ she stated.
Alice was curious about whether the woman with blue hair was among them, but that wasn’t enough to make her look any of them in the eye. No one spoke. Harry sidled up and sat on her foot, leaning his bulk against her. She patted him gratefully.
‘Okay,’ June broke the silence. ‘Let’s eat then. Oh no, hang on, wait.’ She scanned the women. ‘Twig, where’s Candy?’