They met at the river whenever Ruth could get away. He brought her flower seeds and she brought him whatever meagre food scraps she could sneak from the house.
Soon Ruth had enough seeds to till a small, shaded corner of dirt near the house, where a nearly dead, lone wattle tree stood. The dirt was so dry it took her a month to soften it with whatever water she could carry from the river. Eventually, the wattle tree exploded into flower, a winter blaze of sweet yellow. Ruth fell to her knees at the sight. The scent floated all the way into town. Bees droned around the tree, drunk on its nectar. Beneath the wattle were circles of green shoots. Ruth sketched each one in her small notebook. As they bloomed, so different to the foxgloves and snowdrops of her mother’s songs, Ruth noted down what they meant to her, adapting the Victorian language of flowers. The strange and beautiful native flowers, able to flourish in the harshest conditions, enchanted Ruth; none more so than the deep scarlet flowers with red centres the colour of the darkest blood. Meaning, Ruth wrote in her notebook, have courage, take heart.
In the grip of an extreme drought, farms were dying, farming families were going bankrupt and nothing would grow from the earth; when the town looked set to be scorched off the map forever, Ruth Stone started a native flower farm.
News spread quickly. People came to see for themselves the shock of colour among the dust and cow bones. Soon they returned bringing cuttings from their dying gardens. Ruth planted them and under her care, they grew rampant. Wade Thornton stopped drinking. He opened the doors to Thornfield and let people in. They brought their hoes, their water drums, their precious seeds. Ruth told them where to go and what to plant. They constructed greenhouses. They worked from sunup to sundown, tending new shoots. The air was heavy with the green smell of expectation. When Thornfield bloomed, people came together with Ruth to harvest the flowers, make bouquets, and drive through the night to the biggest fresh flower markets in the country; every bunch was tied with a handwritten card explaining Ruth’s meaning for each flower. They’d sold out before lunch. And took orders back to Thornfield for more of the native flowers that spoke the language of Ruth’s heart. The townspeople began to hope.
Days passed. Winter flowers bloomed. Plans were made for more flower market trips. As Wade Thornton stood sober in the shadows of his house and watched Ruth’s flushed and smiling face among the locals, something bitter grew inside him.
One night, not long after Ruth’s first successful harvest, Wade drank enough rum to convince Ruth he’d passed out, then waited until he heard her footsteps fade on the dirt outside. Under the cold and starry sky he followed her along the path he’d long ago hand-cleared to the river. There, behind the bushes, he waited. When a man rose from the riverbed to take Ruth in his embrace, Wade’s vision was blurred by rage. Every time he forced himself upon Ruth he had to spit on his fingers just to get inside her, and she turned her face away, her eyes empty, her body lifeless. But in this man’s arms Ruth was alive, silver and luminous. In the pale winter moonlight, Ruth took the man’s hand and pressed it to her stomach. She smiled. Her eyes glittered. With a roar Wade Thornton lunged from the bushes and knocked Jacob Wyld unconscious with a river stone. He gagged and tied Ruth to a tree and made her watch as he drowned her lover with his bare hands.
June shuddered, rubbing her arms against the damp air of the seedling house. The weight of Thornfield’s legacy pressed as heavily upon her as when she was a teenager, when she’d been devastated by the story of what happened to her grandmother. Pay attention now, Junie, her mother would say when she was teaching her about the flowers. These are Ruth’s gifts. These are the ways we’ve survived.
What would her mother tell her now, June wondered as she set about scarifying new seedlings so they could grow. Wattle Stone would say to her daughter, Junie, Thornfield is Alice’s birthright. Which she should learn about from you.
‘Alice, let’s get this show on the road.’ June’s voice spiralled up the stairs.
Alice sat on her bed in her stiff and starched uniform. Harry licked her knee. Alice sighed. She hauled her new schoolbag off her bed, and dragged her feet downstairs.
‘Now, don’t be like that,’ June snorted as she crossed the kitchen, holding Alice’s lunchbox out to her. ‘You’re going to have a great time. You’ll make new friends.’
Outside, June opened the farm truck. Harry leapt inside. Alice stood at the top of the verandah. Her feet wouldn’t work. June held a hand out to her.
‘Harry’s going to be with you.’ June gestured for her to join him. Alice stomped down the front steps, just to be clear. June helped her up into the truck. Harry yapped. Alice huffed. June shut the door, her bracelets chiming.
‘Off we go,’ she said, jogging around the truck to get in. As she drove away from the house a chorus of squawks and hoots erupted behind them. Alice turned to look through the back window. The Flowers ran after them, crowing and catcalling, throwing spools of streamers, and popping confetti bonbons.
‘You’ll be great, Alice!’
‘Go Alice!’
‘Have a great first day at school, Alice!’
Alice leant out of the truck, waving madly. June pressed on the horn as they drove away. Alice saw her wipe her eyes.
When they reached the road into town, June put her foot down. Alice hung on to Harry’s collar so tightly her fingers ached.
The town primary school was a cluster of small weatherboard cottages, canopied by gum trees. Leaves and gum nuts crunched under June and Alice’s feet, releasing their lemony scent. Harry strained against his lead, sniffing everything, nearly pulling Alice over. Outside the main building June squatted down to straighten Alice’s collar. Her breath smelled minty. Alice studied her face, so close. June’s eyes were just like her father’s. June stood and squared her shoulders.
‘Come on, now. You can do this.’
Walking into reception, Alice wasn’t sure which one of them June was talking to.
Alice sat waiting with June and Harry. The receptionist said Alice’s new teacher would come and meet her soon, at little lunch. June chewed on her peppermint gum like a cow with its cud. Her leg jiggled nonstop. Alice held Harry’s lead, stroking his smooth flanks. June checked her watch.
A bell shrilled.
‘Any minute now, Alice,’ June muttered. Harry reached forward to lick her hand reassuringly. June rubbed his ears. He arched his back to stretch, and released a long, loud fart. June coughed but kept her expression deadpan. Alice’s cheeks flamed. The receptionist cleared her throat. When the smell hit them, June got the giggles. Her eyes watering, she coughed again as if she might mask the smell with sound, and stood, hurriedly fumbling for the window latches. While Alice tried to help her, Harry sat panting, smiling.
‘I’m so sorry,’ June croaked at the receptionist. ‘So sorry.’ The woman nodded, holding a handkerchief to her nose. They got the windows open and sagged in relief. Alice peered at children of all ages pouring from the school rooms. She turned and sat back in her seat. Imagined Harry farting beside her in class. After a moment she leant forward and gave him a big hug, then handed June his lead. June looked at it and then at Alice, her eyes softening.
‘You can do this on your own, Alice,’ she said, smiling. Alice nodded.
The door opened. A young man with a streak of white chalk on his cheek walked in.
‘Alice Hart?’
As he approached, his nose twitched. He sniffed a couple of times, then glanced at Harry. June stood to meet him. Alice hung back. One of the man’s knee socks was falling down. His legs were covered in fine blonde hairs, not dark coarse ones like her father’s.