The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

Violet night shade

Meaning: Fascination, witchcraft

Solanum brownii | New South Wales

A member of the nightshade family, often toxic. Commonly associated with death and ghosts in folklore. Latin name comes from ‘solamen’ meaning to quieten or comfort, and refers to the narcotic properties of some species. Used as food plants by the larvae of some butterflies and moths.

Alice bolted upright in bed, dry retching. Her skin was covered in cold sweat. In her dreams ropes of fire were choking her. As the heat began to fade from her face, she lay back on her damp pillow, squinting in the glare of the morning light. Candy’s letter lay crumpled beside her. Alice picked it up and traced a fingertip over the curls of the handwriting. The dream fire had been different this time. It was blue. The colour of her name, of Candy’s hair, and a woman’s gown turned into an orchid by grief.

She tried to stop the tears, but they came anyway, signalling Harry like a whistle. He padded into her bedroom, his collar tinkling, and nudged her bare knee with his wet nose. His vast size made her feel safe.

Alice closed her eyes and pressed her fingers over them, hard, until it hurt. When she opened them her vision was full of black stars. As they cleared, she noticed someone had been into her room and set out clothes and a tray of breakfast on her desk. Harry licked the side of her face. Alice half-smiled at him and got up.

Laid over the back of the chair was a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Socks and knickers were folded on her desk, and her boots sat neatly on the floor. There was also a broad-brimmed hat, and a little apron just like the one the Flowers wore. Someone had embroidered her name in azure thread on the pocket. Alice ran her fingertips over the stitched lettering. It was the colour she imagined the queen’s gown in Candy’s favourite story. The thought of waiting so long for love to return that you could turn into something else made Alice’s head hurt.

She reached for a slice of peach from the tray and popped it in her mouth. Her cheeks ached from its sweet juice. After another slice, she wiped her hands on her pyjama bottoms and picked the T-shirt up. It was the kind of cotton that felt like it had been worn a thousand times already. Her mother used to have one just like it. Alice loved to wear it to bed after Agnes had worn it long enough for it to smell of her.

‘Morning.’

June stood at the door. Harry snuffled happily. Alice’s hair hung over her face. She made no move to push it behind her ears as June stripped the bed again and left the room wordlessly. She came back up the stairs moments later, slightly out of breath, carrying a clean set of sheets. Shame burned Alice’s cheeks. Leaning against her, Harry licked the tears from her face. June’s knees popped as she crouched next to Alice.

‘It won’t always feel this strange, Alice,’ she said. ‘I promise. I know you’re hurting, and I know everything is new and frightening. But this place will look after you, if you’ll give it half a chance.’

Alice lifted her head to look at June. For the first time, her eyes weren’t far away, on the horizon. They were right there, close and full, focused on Alice.

‘I know everything seems pretty awful now, but it will get better. You’re safe here. Okay? No more bad things are going to happen.’

The longer Alice looked at June, the faster her heart beat in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut. It grew hard to breathe.

‘Alice? Are you okay?’ June’s voice started to sound like she was far, far away. Harry paced around them, barking.

Alice shook her head. Memories broke apart inside her. Before Thornfield, before the hospital, before the smoke and ash. Back further, before.

Inside her father’s shed.

The carved wooden figures of a woman and a girl with flowers.

June’s lips were moving but Alice couldn’t hear her properly. Everything sounded as if she was underwater, sinking and floating at the same time, looking up at June through the filter of the sea. Her face swam in Alice’s vision, except for a fleeting moment when she was perfectly clear.

Finally, Alice recognised her.

June: her expressions, her hair, her posture, her smile. Alice had seen them before.

She struggled to breathe.

June was the woman her father carved over and over again in his shed.

June whipped her Akubra off the hook by the front door, jammed it onto her head, and grabbed her keys from the sideboard. She raced outside and down the front verandah steps, squinting against the glare of the morning as she strode to her truck. Yanking the door open, she yelped in surprise to see Harry inside. He’d just been upstairs with Alice, but there he was sitting to attention with his tail curled around his feet, staring at her.

‘You bloody escape artist,’ June muttered. ‘You never fail to amaze me.’ She ruffled his big ears. As she climbed into the truck, she broke out in a cold sweat recalling the look on Alice’s face upstairs; the recognition deep in her eyes. June tried to settle her shaking hands, having to make three attempts before she got her key into the ignition. She patted down her pocket and pulled out her flask for a quick swig.

‘June,’ Twig called from the front door.

She quickly slipped her flask back into her pocket. The whisky burned as it went down.

Twig hurried to the truck and stood at June’s window, waiting. They hadn’t exchanged more than clipped sentences since Alice arrived. June braced herself for another flare-up in their ongoing argument, which was becoming the kind that either ends old friendships or makes them stronger. They’d had some doozies over the decades, but here they were in the middle of another, still pulling together. As family was meant to do.

When June rolled her window down, Twig took a pointed step backwards and she cursed herself for not having any breath mints.

‘She’s okay,’ Twig said after a moment, keeping her voice even. ‘She’s resting in the lounge room with Candy.’

June nodded.

‘I rang the hospital –’

‘Of course you did,’ June scoffed.

Twig ignored her. ‘The nurse, Brooke, said it sounded like a panic attack. Alice needs rest, company and a close eye. She also needs counselling, June.’ Twig stepped forward and put both her hands on the windowsill. ‘She needs to see someone.’

June shook her head.

‘Everyone needs someplace and someone to belong to.’ Twig’s voice was barely audible over the truck’s engine.

June smirked; Twig knew what she was doing, repeating the very words June herself had said, years ago when Twig first came to Thornfield. June threw the truck into gear. She would not be manipulated.

‘I’m going to enrol her in school. Where she belongs,’ she snapped. Twig leapt back, stung.

As June drove away, her skin crawled as the full weight of Twig’s words settled. What the hell was she thinking, taking responsibility for her son’s daughter? Who was she, other than Next of Kin on a form? The flicker of recognition in Alice’s eyes that morning played over and over in her mind. The same question nagged at her: how did Alice know her face?

Alice lay on the couch by the windows and listened to the rumble of June’s truck fade into the distance. She was trying to connect pieces of information. The statues in her father’s shed were of June. June was her grandmother, but was also her father’s mother. Why hadn’t Alice ever met her before? It couldn’t be that her father didn’t love June; why else would he spend so much time carving statues of her? Alice sighed, snuggling deeper into the couch. A magpie’s song drifted through the window. She closed her eyes and listened. The ticktock of the grandfather clock. The slow beat of her heart. The evenness of her breath.

After June had carried her downstairs into Twig’s care, she’d disappeared out of the house and hadn’t come back again. Twig had made Alice a cup of something sweet, which made her body feel like chocolate left in the sun. Her eyes drifted closed and when she opened them again Twig was gone. But sitting in front of her was Candy Baby, her long blue hair like waves of unspooled fairy floss.

‘Hey, sweetpea,’ Candy said, grinning.

Alice drank in the sight of her hair, the sparkling gloss on her lips, her chipped mint-coloured nail polish and the enamel cupcake studs in her ears.

‘Good to see colour in your face, little flower.’ Candy took Alice’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Unsure of how to respond, Alice just continued to stare. ‘I’m baking biscuits,’ Candy went on. ‘They’re for morning tea, but I need someone to taste them before I give them out. Wondered if you might help me out?’

Alice nodded so vigorously that Candy laughed, suddenly and deeply from her belly.

‘Well, would you look at that?’ Candy tucked a piece of Alice’s hair behind her ear. ‘Loveliest smile I’ve seen at Thornfield,’ she said. Only her mother had ever told Alice her smile was lovely.

While she waited for the biscuits, Alice drummed her fingers on her belly. Sunlight fell in thick, bright beams through the patchwork of giant tropical leaves at the window. The scent of tobacco mixed with sugary wafts from the kitchen. Every now and then Candy’s humming floated into the lounge room.

Eventually, footsteps approached from the kitchen, bringing a gust of syrup-scented air with them. Alice struggled to sit up.

‘No, sweetpea. Rest.’ Candy dragged a little side table to the couch and set a plate of Anzac biscuits and a chilled glass of milk on top of it. ‘Rest. With a treat.’ Alice took an Anzac biscuit warm from the oven. She pressed its edges between her thumb and index finger. Firm. She pressed its middle the same way. Doughy. Alice looked at Candy in astonishment.

‘Oh, totally. Crunchy edges, chewy middle. Only way they should ever be eaten,’ Candy said with a firm nod. In that moment, Alice loved her. She took as big a bite as possible.

‘Your cheeks are bulging like a possum’s,’ Candy snorted.

The screen door swept open and the sounds of someone stomping and scuffing their boots on the welcome mat filled the hall. A moment later Twig came into the lounge room, her brow knotted in worry. When she saw Alice and Candy, her face relaxed.

‘Perfect timing, Twiggy Daisy.’ Candy offered the plate. Twig looked at Alice with an eyebrow raised in question. Alice nodded with a shy smile.

‘Who am I to say no, if Alice says so?’ Twig took a biscuit from the plate and groaned as she bit into it. ‘You’re an alchemist, Candy.’

Alchemist. Alice promised herself she’d look it up in the dictionary later.

‘Reckon that chamomile and honey tea worked a treat, Alice. Feeling a bit better?’ Twig smiled warmly at Alice. Alice nodded. ‘Good. That’s really good.’

‘Where’s June gone?’ Candy asked, immediately looking like she wished she hadn’t.

‘June’s, uh, had to run a few errands in town.’ Twig shot Candy a pointed look and briskly changed the subject. ‘Ready for the Flowers to come up for morning tea?’

Candy nodded. ‘Coffee and tea urns and biscuits are out on the back verandah ready to go.’

‘Great. I’ll –’ Twig was interrupted by the beep of a car horn as tyres crunched up the driveway. She craned her neck to look out the window.

‘Boryana’s here to get her pay. Can I take her a biscuit?’ Twig pinched two biscuits from the plate, then took a third, which she held between her teeth, smiling. She disappeared into the hallway, only to come back a moment later with her boots on. ‘God, they’re sinfully good, Candy.’ Twig turned to leave then stopped. ‘Why don’t you show Alice around the workshop if she’s up to it? Good chance while the Flowers aren’t in there. I’ll see you ladies later.’ Twig waved and walked outside.

‘Boryana’s a Flower too, the only one who doesn’t live here,’ Candy explained. ‘She and her son live on the other side of town. Bory comes every week and keeps Thornfield clean and tidy. She’s Bulgarian and totally lovely.’

Alice wondered what ‘Bulgarian’ was. A type of flower, maybe?

‘So listen, I’m going to run up and get your boots and stuff, and maybe once you’re dressed we’ll check out the workshop?’ Candy asked. ‘If you’re up to it I’ll introduce you to Boryana.’

Alice nodded. She would have been up for anything as long as it was with Candy Baby.

While Candy was upstairs, Alice went to the window to see what a Bulgarian looked like. Outside, talking to Twig by an old and battered car, was a woman with strong, tanned arms, long black hair and bright red lipstick. They laughed heartily together. But it wasn’t the women that captured Alice’s attention. It was the boy sitting in the front seat of the car.

Alice had never been so close to a boy.

She could only see his profile, most of which was hidden by shaggy wheat-coloured hair. It hung over his face, just like hers did. He was looking down, at something in his hands. She wondered what his eyes were like. He shifted his weight and lifted the book he was reading to rest it on the window. A book!

As if he could hear her heart drumming, the boy looked up and straight at her. Something strange shot through her body. Her limbs wouldn’t work, as if she was frozen to the spot. Alice stared back at him from behind the window. Slowly, he raised his hand. Waving. He was waving. Bewildered, Alice lifted her hand and returned the wave.

‘Ready?’

Alice spun around. Candy had her farm clothes under one arm, and was dangling her blue boots by the shoelaces. She shook her head. Her insides felt all wrong, like they’d been taken out of her body and put back in different places.

‘What is it?’ Candy asked, coming to her side. Alice turned back to the window, pointing, but Boryana had driven off in a dust cloud with the boy.

‘Oh, don’t worry sweetpea, you’ll meet her another time, soon.’

Alice pressed her hands to the glass, watching where the dust settled.

Alice followed Candy past the dormitory where the Flowers lived. When they reached the workshop, they stopped at a doorway covered in thick vines. Candy held the vines aside, took keys from her pocket and slid one into the keyhole.

‘Ready?’ she asked, grinning. The door swung open.

They stood at the entrance of the workshop together. The morning sun warmed their backs, but the air conditioning inside gave Alice a sudden chill. She rubbed her arms, recalling the boy raising his hand to wave.

‘That was a big sigh.’ Candy raised an eyebrow at Alice. ‘You okay?’

Alice wanted so much to speak, but all that came out was another sigh.

‘Words can be totally overrated sometimes,’ Candy said, taking Alice’s hand in her hers. ‘Don’t you think so?’

Alice nodded. Candy gave her hand a squeeze before letting go.

‘C’mon.’ She held the door open. ‘Let’s take a look around.’

They walked inside. The first half of the workshop was filled with benches, stacks of buckets, a row of sinks and a line of fridges set against the wall. Shelves held tools, rolls of shade cloth, and all sorts of bottles and sprays. From hooks on the wall hung broad-brimmed hats, aprons and gardening gloves, below which stood pairs of gumboots lined up, like a row of invisible flower soldiers standing to attention. Alice turned towards the benches. Each had more shelving underneath, filled with tubs and containers. The workshop smelled like rich soil.

‘This is where we bring flowers after they’ve been cut from the fields. Every single flower is checked before it goes out. They have to be perfect. We get orders from buyers all over the place; our flowers are shipped near and far, to florists and supermarkets and petrol stations and market sellers. They’re carried by brides and widows and –’ Candy’s voice wavered, ‘new mothers.’ She smoothed her hands over one of the benches. ‘Isn’t it a magical thing, Alice? The flowers we grow here speak for people when words can’t, on pretty much every occasion you can think of.’

Alice mimicked Candy’s movements, running her hands over the worktop. Who were the people that sent flowers instead of words? How could a flower possibly say the same things as words? What would one of her books, made of thousands of words, look like in flowers? No one had ever sent her mother flowers.

She crouched to inspect the tubs of cutting tools, balls of string, and small buckets of markers and pens in all colours under the bench. She took the lid off a blue marker and sniffed it. On the back of her hand she drew a straight vertical line, an I. After a moment, she wrote next to it, ’m h-e-r-e. As Candy came towards her, Alice rubbed the words off.

‘Pssst. Alice Blue.’ Candy popped her head over the bench Alice was squatting beside. ‘Follow me.’

They wove between the benches, past the sinks and fridges, into the other half of the workshop, which was set up as an art studio. There were desks covered in blank canvases, dotted with tins of paint and jars of brushes. In one corner stood easels, stools and a box filled with tubes of paint. At another desk sat coils of copper foiling, pieces of coloured glass and jars of tools. By the time Alice reached the closed-off area at the back of the studio, she’d forgotten about the boy. She’d forgotten about June and her father’s statues. She was too absorbed by what was right in front of her.

‘X marks the spot.’ Candy chuckled.

From a frame overhead hung dozens of flowers in various stages of drying. One long bench ran alongside the makeshift wall. Sat upon it were tools and cloths, all blackened from use, and dried flower petals, scattered, discarded like clothes left on shore. Alice pressed her hands to the wooden surface, remembering her mother’s hands floating over the heads of the flowers in her garden.

At one end of the bench a velvet sheet was laid out, adorned with bracelets, necklaces, earrings and rings, all decorated with pressed flowers in resin.

‘This is June’s place,’ Candy said. ‘This is where she makes magic out of the stories Thornfield was built on.’

Magic. Alice stood in front of the jewellery, each piece catching the light.

‘June grows every flower here.’ Candy picked up a bangle; the pendant hanging from it contained a pale peach-coloured petal. ‘She presses every one and casts it in clear resin, then seals it in silver.’ Candy returned the bangle to its place on the bench. Alice inspected the rainbow of other flowers pressed in necklace pendants, earrings and rings. Each one was sealed forever, frozen in time while still coloured with life. They would never turn brown or waste away. They would never decay, or die.

Candy came to stand beside her. ‘In Queen Victoria’s time, people in Europe talked in flowers. It’s true. June’s ancestors – your ancestors, Alice – women who lived a long time ago, they brought that language of flowers all the way over the ocean from England, down the generations, until Ruth Stone brought it right here to Thornfield. People say that for a long time she didn’t use it. It wasn’t until she fell in love that she started talking in flowers. Except, unlike the flower language she’d brought from England, she only used flowers that her lover brought her.’ Candy stopped, her face flushed. ‘Anyway …’ she trailed off.

Ruth Stone. Her ancestor. Alice’s cheeks tingled with curiosity. She wanted to slide a ring onto every finger, press the cool silver pendants against her warm skin, slip the bracelets onto her wrists and hold the earrings up to her unpierced ears. She wanted to wear this secret language of flowers, to say for her all the things her voice wouldn’t.

At the other end of the bench sat a small handmade book. Alice inched towards it. The cracked spine had been repaired many times, bound together with multiple red ribbons. The cover was hand-lettered in faded gold calligraphy, with an illustration of red flowers that looked like spinning wheels. The Thornfield Language of Australian Native Flowers.

‘Ruth Stone was your great-great-grandmother,’ Candy said. ‘This was her dictionary. Over the years, women who descended from Ruth have grown the language as they’ve grown the flowers here.’ She ran a hand down the edges of the musty pages. ‘It’s been in June’s family for generations. Your family, actually,’ she corrected herself.

Alice hovered a fingertip over the cover. She so wanted to open it, but wasn’t sure if she was allowed. Its pages were yellowing and stuck out at odd angles. Snippets of handwritten words were visible on the outer margins. Alice turned her head to the side. She could only read a few complete words. Dark. Branches. Bruised. Fragrant. Butterflies. Haven. It was the best book Alice had ever seen.

‘Alice.’ Candy bent down so she was at eye level with Alice. ‘Have you ever heard this story before? About Ruth Stone?’

Alice shook her head.

‘Do you know much about your family yet, sweetpea?’ Candy asked gently.

A sense of shame Alice didn’t understand made her look away. She shook her head again.

‘Oh, what a lucky girl.’ Candy smiled sadly.

Alice looked at her, confused. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

‘You know Alice Blue, the woman I told you about in my letter, the daughter of a king?’

Alice nodded.

‘Her mother died when she was young, too.’ Candy took her hand. ‘She was heartbroken and sent away to live with her aunty in her book-filled palace. Later, when she was all grown up, Alice Blue said it was the stories her aunt told her and those she read in her books that saved her.’

Alice imagined Alice Blue, a maiden in her signature-coloured gown, reading in pale light falling from a window onto the pages of her book.

‘What a lucky girl you are to have found this place, and with it your story, Alice. What a lucky girl you are to get the chance to learn and know where you come from and who you belong to.’ Candy turned her face away. After a moment, she wiped her cheeks. The air conditioners clicked and hummed in the background. Alice studied the old book, daydreaming of women who might have bent over it through time, maybe holding a bunch of native flowers in their fist as they added a new entry in their secret language.

Alice’s legs started to twitch from idleness. Candy turned back to her and asked a question that flooded Alice’s body with longing.

‘Want me to show you the way to the river?’