The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

Gorse bitter pea

Meaning: Ill-natured beauty

Daviesia ulicifolia | All states

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.

Vsichko nai-hubavo, Alice. All the best.

Oggi

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.

She picked up his letter again, groaning in distress as she skimmed over the lines.

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.

Before she fully understood what she was doing, Alice flattened her foot on the accelerator, her tyres spitting up stones. On a whim, instead of turning home, she went in the opposite direction, down Main Street. Pulled sharp left onto the dirt track almost obscured by bushes. Pushed through the dense overgrowth down the avenue of gums until she reached Oggi’s old house. She hadn’t been back for eight years.

When she drove into the clearing Alice gasped. She swung out of her truck, into the brewing storm. Ognian roses had consumed the house. They crept up the sides, covering the walls and the roof. Everywhere Alice looked, the wild bushes were in full bloom, a house smothered by a fire of roses. The fragrance was overpowering.

Alice shouted his name, to no one. The wind stung her face. She paced back and forth. For eight years he’d known where she was and what she was doing with her life. Eight years it had taken him to write to her. But still he didn’t give her answers. Why didn’t he come to meet her that night by the river? What happened to him? Why did he wait so long to contact her? What didn’t he have the courage to tell her? How could he bear living the life they’d planned together with a different woman? Why did he use so much of his letter to tell Alice about his daughter’s favourite fairytale? He’d known where she was, all of this time, while she’d known nothing of him, not even if he was okay; over the years she had searched for his name on the internet but found nothing. For Alice, it was as if Oggi was something she had dreamed.

The wind tore roses from their stems, scattering them at Alice’s feet. She scooped up a handful of petals and ripped them to pieces. She lunged at the rose-covered house, tearing at the vines, cutting herself on thorns. She tore and grabbed and cried, swept into a rampage of rage and grief and humiliation.

A sudden downpour of cold rain broke her trance. Alice stood stunned as she came back into her senses. Ran to her truck, drenched. The rain splattered heavily on her windscreen. She sat catching her breath. Watched the house through the wipers.

A spear of lightning struck the bush nearby, followed by a huge crack as a gum bough crashed to the ground. Alice shrieked and spun her truck around. She drove off, rose petals clinging to her wet skin.

When Alice got back to Thornfield, everyone was in a frenzy, securing the house, dorm and workshop, tying things down and ferrying anything untethered inside. The rain had eased but the gale was cutting. She pushed through the wind, up the front steps to the verandah.

‘What’s going on?’ Alice asked June, shielding her puffy eyes.

‘The storm,’ June yelled. ‘We raced it the whole way back from the city. Weather report says cyclonic floods.’

‘Floods?’ Alice looked in dread at the flower fields.

‘That’s what they’re saying. We need to move, Alice. Now.’

The rain didn’t let up. They worked hard to secure the farm, but there was only so much they could do to protect the garden beds from the whim of the wind and rain sobbing down. The power cut out not long after sunset. The dorm windows were filled with the light of lanterns and candles, as was the dining room in the house. Candy, Twig, June and Alice sat at the table eating leftover cassava curry Candy reheated on the gas camping stove.

‘You all right, sweetpea?’ Candy asked, offering Alice a bowl of chopped coriander. ‘You’re very quiet.’

Alice declined with a wave of her fork. ‘Just the storm.’ Oggi’s words circled in her thoughts. Something about the fairytale his daughter loved niggled her. She threw her cutlery on the table in frustration, its clatter louder than she intended. ‘Sorry,’ she said, pressing her fingers to her temples. The wind sucked under the doors and rattled the glass in the windows. The storm was strengthening. Was Thornfield in danger? ‘God, I feel like I can’t breathe.’ Alice pushed her chair back. She stood and paced the floor.

‘Alice?’ June’s face was lined with worry. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Alice said sharply, waving June’s concern away. She squeezed her eyes shut before tears could well. Tried to push the image of fire roses smothering Oggi’s house away.

‘It’s not just the storm, and it’s not nothing, Alice. What’s the matter?’ Twig asked.

Alice recalled the falling bough crashing to earth at Oggi’s house. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’ she blurted. ‘What don’t I know?’

‘What?’ June’s face paled.

‘I don’t know. I just, I don’t …’ Alice shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ She exhaled and closed her eyes briefly. ‘I got a letter out of the blue from Oggi today and I’m upset.’ She glanced up. Candy’s eyes darted between Twig and June. Twig’s stayed calmly on Alice. June’s face was unreadable.

‘What did he say?’ Twig put her fork down.

‘Not a lot.’ Alice shook her head. ‘Just that he wanted to close “old wounds” with me. He’s married and a father. He wants me to “have a good life”.’ Alice’s voice cracked. ‘But he didn’t say why he left me here, or what happened to make him go. And I just don’t understand … I don’t know how I got here, how my life has come to this.’ She took a deep, ragged breath. ‘I don’t know who I’m meant to be or where I’m meant to belong …’ she trailed off. ‘And now there’s fucking cyclonic floods coming, and I’m scared. I don’t know who I am without this place. What’s going to happen if we lose the flowers? Why don’t we talk more? About anything? I’m so sick of everything we don’t say to each other. I want to know stuff. I want to have an actual conversation rather than get a bouquet of flowers every time I get too close to the bone. I want to know, June,’ she begged, turning to face her grandmother. ‘I want to hear it from you. All of it. About my parents. And where I come from. I just have this enormous sense of, of …’ she trailed off in frustration, making empty circles in the air with her hands. ‘Of waiting, for something that’s just never going to come. You said that if I found my voice, June, you’d find your answers …’ Her shoulders sagged in despair.

Shadows hung from June’s cheekbones. ‘Alice,’ she said, standing to take a step towards her. Alice searched her eyes, hopefully. The rain howled outside.

‘I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me,’ June said in a small voice.

Alice’s disappointment was stinging. ‘That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it,’ she said bitterly. ‘Sweep it all away, because I’ve got you.’ Watching the sharp edges of her words cut into her grandmother, Alice winced. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘I’m sorry, June.’

‘No,’ June mumbled. ‘No, you’re quite right to be angry.’ She folded her napkin and left the room. After a moment Twig slid back her chair and followed.

Alice put her head in her hands. June only ever tried to look after her. Why couldn’t she just let her and leave it be? But another question rose. Why couldn’t June just tell her what she wanted to know? For that matter, why couldn’t Oggi? If he was going to go to the effort of writing her a letter after eight years, with a well-established life and family of his own, why would he hold anything back from her?

Candy started to clear the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ Alice said again.

Candy nodded. ‘It’s no one’s fault, sweetpea. Everyone’s got their sad stories. Sure is the case here, always has been. It’s what our flowers grow from.’ She fidgeted with the cutlery. ‘June’s got so many stories tangled up inside her, I believe she doesn’t know where to start.’

Alice groaned. ‘With the simplest things? With, “Alice, this is how your parents met”, or “Alice, this is why your father left”, or “Alice, this is who your grandfather was”.’

‘I get that. But she probably thinks that if she tells one story, she’s got to tell ten that are connected. Pull one root up and the whole plant is at risk. The thought must terrify her. Can you imagine? Being faced with those odds, when you’re someone who loves control as much as June?’ Candy paused at the doorway with the bouquet of forks in one hand and a kerosene lantern in the other. ‘It must be awful carrying around the burden of wanting so much to tell someone something, something they should know, but that frightens the pants off you because you have to go somewhere inside you don’t want to go, to find that story you damn well know you can’t rewrite.’

‘But where does that leave me? The one person I have left in my family won’t tell me about our family. I’ve only got secondhand stories, and as much as I cherish anything you, or Twig, or even Oggi told me about this place and my parents, it’s not the same as hearing it from June. You don’t have the same stories she does.’

‘No, we don’t,’ Candy said. ‘But like I’ve always said to you, at least you have a story, sweetpea. At least you can know where you come from. Don’t overlook what a gift –’

‘I don’t,’ Alice interrupted, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘I know you mean well, Candy, but I’m getting pretty sick of being palmed off with advice to be grateful for the story I have, as a way of avoiding the stories I don’t. Stories that June promised when I was a kid that she’d tell me. And never has.’

The room filled with the sound of heavy rain. After a while Candy cleared her throat.

‘I’m really sorry about Oggi.’

Alice didn’t respond.

As she walked out of the room, Candy took most of the light with her.

That night, Alice tossed and turned in a fiery sea of dreams. Over and over again, she tried to scream for her mother who’d left her clothes on shore. Over and over again, the sea of fire would not yield her. On the scorched beach a wolf and fox chased each other through the dunes, their tails on fire. In the shallows a boy sailed a paper boat, its edges charred and burning. After starting awake in a cold sweat, Alice got up. Her temples pounded from anxious exhaustion. She clicked on her torch and went downstairs to make a cup of tea.

In the hallway she came to a halt. Voices drifted from the kitchen and the air was thick with whisky. Alice inched closer.

‘You are this close to losing her, June,’ Twig hissed. ‘Is that what you want? You have to tell her the truth. You have to tell her.’

‘Shufth up, Twig,’ June slurred.

Alice crept along the wall.

‘You think you know iss all buts you don’t know shit. You’re juss another one who knows all the stories and think you know erryfink.’

‘I can’t talk to you like this. You need to go to bed.’

‘I see how much you love her, you think I don’t? You thinks I dunno she’s one of the chil’ren you couldn’t raise?’

‘Be careful, June.’

‘Oooooh, “be careful, June”.’ June hiccupped.

Alice stood at the doorway.

‘I saved that girl,’ June hissed, drawing herself together. ‘I saved her. Oggi would only have stolen her future, and broken her heart. We’ve seen it all before, Twig. Don’t say we haven’t. That day I called Immigration was the best thing I’ve ever done for her.’

The shock of June’s betrayal went through Alice as though she’d been physically struck. She would remember that night as if she had been watching through the windows rather than embodied in the moment. The way she flew into the kitchen, her eyes aflame and her hands shaking. The horror and regret in Twig’s eyes when she realised Alice had overheard them. June’s drunken smile as she tried to keep her composure. Alice’s shouting. Twig’s attempts to comfort her. June’s crying. The deep sorrow in Twig’s eyes as she told Alice the truth.

‘He was deported.’ Twig’s voice wavered. ‘He and Boryana were sent back to Bulgaria.’

Seething, Alice turned to look at June. ‘You reported them?’ she shrieked. June squared her chin, her eyes unable to focus.

‘What’s going on?’ Candy asked as she hurried into the kitchen, her face creased with sleep.

A surge of adrenalin jolted Alice into action. She fled from the kitchen, up the stairs and into her room. She lunged for her backpack and stuffed it with anything she laid eyes on that she cared about. Ran down the stairs, pushed past the women in the hallway and wrenched her keys and hat off their hooks. Alice threw open the front door and was knocked back by the force of the wind and rain. She stumbled to regain her balance. Twig and Candy pleaded with her not to leave. The next scene always played out in her mind the same way, slow and distorted: she turned to see their faces, so full of worry. Behind them, June swayed in the shadows.

Alice glowered at the three women. After a moment she turned and pushed herself into the storm, slamming the door behind her.

The windscreen wipers couldn’t keep up with the torrential rain. Alice gripped the steering wheel as her truck aquaplaned on the muddy, flooded road, her arms shaking from the strain. She kept her foot down on the accelerator, fearful that if she let up she might get stuck or, worse, lose her nerve and turn around.

She planned to go straight through town. Past the town limits sign and into the bushland, heading east. But only a few kilometres down the road she slammed her foot on the brake: in the beam of her headlights a low-lying dip in the highway was lost under rising floodwater. The river had burst. Alice hung her head. The flower fields would be destroyed; the seeds washed clean out of the beds.

She studied the blackness of her rearview mirror. What if she didn’t go east towards the coast, but went inland? Away from water. She revved the engine. Another moment passed. Alice wrenched on the steering wheel and sped back the way she’d come. At the turn-off to Thornfield her foot faltered on the accelerator. She pressed it to the floor, tightening her hold on the steering wheel, racing west into the darkness.

No matter how much Twig and Candy cried and begged, June refused to come back inside. She swayed on the spot, in the dark, lashed by the weather. Alice would come back. June kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, so she’d be right there the minute she saw Alice’s headlights. Alice would come back. And then June could explain.

The whisky in her blood was thinning; she was beginning to feel the needling cold. When the next gust hit, June fell to her knees. The front door swung open and Twig rushed out with a coat.

‘Get up, June,’ she yelled over the wind. ‘Get up and get your sorry arse inside.’ Twig threw the coat around her and helped her to her feet.

‘No. She’s coming back, and I’ll be right here when she does.’ June trembled. ‘Alice will come home, and then I’ll explain everything.’

Twig glared at her. June braced for a scathing reply.

They stood that way for a while, close but separate from each other, until Twig put her arm around June. And, as the sky sobbed down on them, turned with her to face the driving rain.