Spiny shrub with stunning yellow and red pea flowers. Blooms in summer. Easy propagation from seed, following scarification. Seed retains viability for many years. Unpopular with gardeners for its very prickly habit, but beneficial to small birds as a refuge from predators.
Alice stood on the back verandah watching the afternoon sky darken over the flower fields. She burrowed her face into the folds of her scarf. Storms frightened her at twenty-six as much as they had when she was nine.
February was a scatty month for everyone at Thornfield. Hot summer windstorms blew in from the northwest and caused havoc, threatening to tear up the flower fields and batter the hoop houses and vegetable garden. Days on end of dry heat and raging winds were almost unbearable; they stirred up the dust and ashes of things long forgotten, and roused old hurts and unspoken stories from where they slept in forgotten corners, dreams and unfinished books. On sweltering nights, nightmares were rife. By mid-February, no woman at Thornfield was left unshaken.
For Alice, the worst thing was the wind that howled through the flower fields calling her name. The erratic weather always brought back the fateful day she snuck into her father’s shed.
She lifted her locket from beneath her work shirt. Her mother’s eyes looked up at her in grainy black and white. Alice could still remember their colour: the way they changed in the light; the way they lit up when she told stories; how far away they were when she was in her garden, filling her pockets with flowers.
Alice kicked her boots together as she watched the flower fields shaken by the crosswinds. She told herself she could never have left Thornfield, the place where her mother found safety and solace, where she learned to speak in flowers. The place where her parents met and, Alice liked to believe, for a time loved each other the way she loved Oggi.
As had become instinct, Alice buried the thought of Oggi. She didn’t allow herself to think what if? What if she went after him when he didn’t show up at the river that night? What if she made her own way to the Valley of Roses? What if she found him, and what if they made completely new plans? What if she studied at university overseas, somewhere like Oxford — where she’d read the buildings were made of sandstone the colour of honey — rather than by correspondence at June’s kitchen table? What if she’d said no to June, back when she turned eighteen, and didn’t agree to take over Thornfield? What if she never went into her father’s shed? What if her mother had left her father and raised Alice at Thornfield, with Candy and Twig and June? With Alice’s younger sibling?
What if, what if, what if?
Alice checked her watch. June and some of the Flowers had gone to the city flower markets the day before and were due back that afternoon, but if Alice waited any longer to help them unload, she would miss the post office. Business was picking up again after Christmas, and there were crates of mail orders to send out; June’s jewellery was as popular as ever.
Alice went through the house and stopped by the front door to put her Akubra on. A funnel of ochre dust whirled at the bottom of the steps. She pushed the screen door open slowly.
‘Dust devil,’ she whispered.
It swayed for a moment, almost a man’s broad shape and stature, then dispersed and scattered. Alice exhaled roughly, reminding herself it was February, a time when the past blew in and ghosts were everywhere.
She climbed into her truck, relieved at the calm inside. She glanced at the passenger seat, wishing for Harry’s company. While Alice was still adjusting to the enormity of his absence, Harry’s death had driven June to the blatant comfort of her whisky bottle, without restraint or secrecy.
It was the latest tipping point. As June got older she grew increasingly agitated, set off by the smallest thing, whether it was the mail arriving, a westerly blowing or the Cootamundra wattle coming into flower. Occasionally Alice heard her muttering Clem’s name, and she’d taken to making jewellery only from flowers that told stories of loss and mourning. More and more often June’s eyes focused on something far away, something Alice couldn’t see. What was she remembering? Was she finally grieving Alice’s father? Every time Alice thought about asking June such things, silence was easier. Silence, and flowers. Sometimes she’d leave them on June’s workbench. A handful of mauve fairy flowers: I feel your kindness. June would always leave her reply on Alice’s pillow. A bunch of tinsel lilies: You please all.
Alice sat in the truck, looking at the spotted gums, the house, the vine-covered workshop, the wheaten grass, the wildflowers growing in the cracks between rocks. Thornfield had become her whole life. Speaking through flowers had become the language she most relied on.
She sighed heavily and turned the key in the ignition. The sky was darkening. As she drove off Alice watched Thornfield shrink in the distance in her rearview mirror.
Thunder rumbled as Alice pulled up and began unloading the mail order crates. She trolleyed them into the post office and collected her mail. When she came back out the afternoon light had turned eerily green. A flash of lightning sent Alice scurrying into the driver’s seat. She started the engine and distracted herself from the jitters in her stomach by shuffling through her stack of mail. Bank statements, phone bills, invoices, advertising junk. And a handwritten envelope. Addressed to her personally. Alice flicked it over. The return address was Bulgarian.
She tore the envelope open. Scanned the inky black scrawl too fast, taking in only every third or fourth word. At the bottom was his name, written by his hand. Oggi.
She started from the top, forcing herself to read slowly, to take in every word.
Zdravey Alice,
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried writing this letter to you. I could probably fill a box with my attempts, letters full of things I don’t have the courage to tell you. But the cliché is true: time does something to pain that nothing else can. Enough years seem to have passed now. This is the letter I’m going to write to you and actually send.
If I’m honest, ever since the night we were meant to meet at the river, you have always been on my mind. I’ve seen on the internet that you’ve taken the reins of Thornfield and under your care business is flourishing. I’ve seen your profile picture update over the years. I can see the girl I remember, in your eyes.
But that was a long time ago. We are different people now. We have different lives.
I live and work in Sofia with my wife, Lilia. Five years ago, we had a daughter. Her name is Iva. She’s a lot like you were when we were kids. She’s wild and adventurous, dreamy and sensitive, and she loves books. Especially fairytales. Her favourite is a famous Bulgarian story about a good, naïve wolf, and a cheeky, cunning fox. The moral is that tricky people will always try to abuse your weaknesses if you let them. Iva asks me to read it over and over. I read it as many times as I can stand to; Iva always cries for the wolf. She always asks me why the wolf can’t see how cunning the fox really is. I never know how to answer her.
After so many years, I’m writing to you now to close the wound. I want you to be happy. After everything that happened, I wish you a good life.
Take care of yourself. Take care at Thornfield.
Alice bit her bottom lip, hard. Dropped the letter and leant over the steering wheel to watch lightning ripple through the storm clouds. A flock of galahs screeched from the silver-green crown of a gum. The road ahead beckoned, leading out of town. How she longed to know where it might take her. What if she followed it right then and didn’t stop? The burden of her unrealised dreams hung heavily from her ribs, flattened by the weight of her sighs. She imagined them like pressed flowers, each one squashed while it was still blooming, a keepsake of what might have been. Kicking the door hard, she wiped her tears away and threw the truck into gear. The truth was she had only herself to blame. For not going after Oggi. For not leaving when she had the chance. Why had she stayed? This was the life she’d made, throwing herself into the tending of land that grew secrets and flowers alike. That she would own one day, that she didn’t want a square inch of.