CHAPTER 1
"Reflection must be reserved for the solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections."
— Jane Austen
We all have our secrets; events that we have endured in our pasts, which have contributed to the who it is we are today.
Of late, I have taken to wondering about the stories behind the faces I have been forced to spend much of my days with.
Since being admitted to St Edmunds Home for the Old and Frail, a few months previously, I have begun to construct the pasts of the people here. There isn't much else to do to pass the long repetitive days - and the state that these poor dears are in, they aren't very forthcoming with sharing their pasts, let alone acknowledging their present. Not that I know they would share their histories if they were bodily and mentally able to do so. Personally, I know that if asked, I would find it challenging to bring myself to share the events in my past that are increasingly haunting me these long and lonesome days.
Perhaps that is why I have adopted this hobby of mine, to divert my own mind from dwelling on the events in my past, those that are all too painful to recall. As my time is nearing an end, I am increasingly struggling to keep these demons from my past at bay; visions of the terror, violence and near death I experienced have become unwelcome bedfellows over these past months. Memories I had so long fought to suppress, had convinced myself that they were over, dealt with, and thus could no longer cause myself or my family any further pain. If only this was true.
My inward meditations are distracted by a loud, desperate, almost fearful, call;
"Cooooeeeee"
That's Jean, like clockwork every day at 8am, she begins 'calling' for home. Jean doesn't say anything else, to anyone else, all day, just a repetitive 'Cooooeeeee', pacing the halls of St Edmunds Home for the Old and Frail until sunset. I assume at this time, Jean realises that they, whoever they may be, cannot find her in the dark, and thus she slips into restful slumber for the evening.
Jean would be in her late seventies, at a guess. She is still quite mobile, though her skin is very weathered, that of someone who has spent their time toiling on the land.
That's one thing, amongst many, that can be said for our 'lucky country', Australia. Living in the bush certainly takes its toll on one's complexion!
And poor dear that Jean is, with her weathered face and wiry body ... I wonder what her secrets are...what in her past drives her to call all day to her homeland? Perhaps she is recalling a time in her past when she was lost, or even had lost someone dear to her, to the harsh and unforgiving terrains that inland New South Wales is so adept in imposing on anyone who attempts to inhabit its vast land. Years of living with, and adjusting to, the harsh Australian climates have certainly taken its toll on us all.
Contemplating this, I catch a glimpse of myself in the window pane, and am jolted to my present reality. Every one of my eighty years is certainly showing on my frail face this early spring morning.
Silver hair swept up into a French roll, the trademark tanned and lined Australian complexion sit atop a skeletal body, encased in a white damask nightgown (I still attempt to impart some style on my worn body!), an image that reminds me of a deflated balloon, lingering too long after the celebrations of life have passed.
Looking around our 'common' room, I am reminded that we are all here on our last innings of our Australian over.
This reminds me of Ronald, who was once a household name for his accomplishments in and for Australian International Cricket.
I remember encountering Ronald at a garden party in Forbes, a town close to Marigold Farm, the property I have lived on for the better part of the last fifty four years of my life. This is one memory of my past that is innocent, and encapsulates the follies of youth. It brings a smile to my face as I remember the way the ladies and I gushed at the party as Ronald arrived, flashing his infamous smile around and imparting his jovial spirit to all. Charming, eloquent and with good looks to boot, Ronald was the quintessential Australian male.
Funny how time can change even the best of us.
I glance over to Ronald, now fervently searching the room, a hollow shell of the grand man he once was. The stock standard head of grey, paired with the tanned, lined face that acts like a stamp of 'Australianness', entwine with an air of discontent and bitterness.
Again, I am brought to question what events in his past have led Ronald to spend his remaining days in such violent discontent.
Indeed, I recall that since my arrival here, not one day has passed in which Ronald has not spent his days looking for his 'lost shoes'. I find it so sad that a true gentleman, who has achieved so much throughout his life, should be so very troubled by an event, or events, which obviously occurred in his youngest days.
It makes me question what kind of childhood this iconic Australian had, to be bitterly afraid that if he doesn't have his childhood shoes by night fall his mother will flog him when he gets home. Thus, he spends his days searching, we all know in vain, for his treasured shoes.
I recall one such day, when a new nurse was on her first shift with us motley lot. She tried giving Ronald a substitute pair of shoes. Try as the nurse may, she could not convince Ronald that the shoes she was offering were his, the encounter ending with Ronald striking out at the poor nurse, knocking her clean off her feet.
I could see the palpable dread dawn on Ronald's face as he realised what he had done, catching a glimpse of the gentleman I once knew, as he bent to help the nurse to her feet again.
Alas, it was not long though before Ronald was back to his old self, in fervent search of his 'lost shoes'. On and on every day the poor man searches, until come nightfall, he is trembling with fear at the thought of returning home to his punishment. It is no wonder the nurses have taken to restraining him to his bed after evening meal.
The nights are always the worst for all of us here; night wanderings, screaming nightmares, wet beds, longing sobbing; these are all the sounds that emanate from the walls of St Edmunds Home for the Old and Frail, come sundown.
Indeed, every evening, my heart pours out to dear Madge, as she packs her bags and positions herself on the sofa, ready for her beloved Charles to collect her.
"I mustn't leave from this chair" she demands, as the nurses attempt for the umpteenth time to coerce her back into her room, "I promised Charles that I'd meet him here on his return".
So that is what she does, sits on that sofa until 'Charles' comes to collect her. 'Charles' in this case happens to be one of the young male nurses, who Madge has taken a shine to, and one of the few who has the patience to 'play along' with our follies of old age.
Observing this nightly ritual, I wonder whatever happened to Charles; Was Madge waiting for him and he never returned? Was he one of the many taken too early by the War? Or did they indeed meet up, as arranged, and live a happy life together, with children and grandchildren to fill their hearts?
Whatever the outcome of that event may have been, when Madge was waiting for her beloved to return and collect his adored wife, it must have been a very significant time in Madge's life to be causing her such disquiet in her latter days. It almost seems like the past is tormenting Madge in her last days to resolve something which occurred long ago, now long forgotten, from times gone by. Poor dear, the past has an unbearable way of infringing on our present, especially in a place like this.
Lying here, bed bound, surrounded by my fellow detainees, knowing that the end is nearing closer for every one of us, the mind reverts to distant memories of the past, and one cannot but question how different life would have been if events had not occurred in the way that they did. Had I for instance not had to endure the horrendous acts of callous and brutal mental, physical and emotional abuse that I have lived through, would I have aged a different woman? Had fate not stepped in and 'saved' me when it did, would I indeed be here today, or would the repeated, systematic abuse have become too much for my torn and tortured body to bear.
CHAPTER 2
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
I wake early to the sounds of the Kookaburra welcoming in this glorious morning. The sun is shining and the grass is crisp, a perfect autumn morning in the Lachlan Valley.
I feel especially excited today, as today is the first day of Harvest, and my first time participating in the Harvest festivities that my Joseph has been filling our nights with tales of. I have been living here on Marigold Farm since my marriage to Joseph last spring, on the tenth of September nineteen hundred and ten, four days after my eighteenth birthday.
It was the summer of nineteen hundred and nine when I first laid eyes upon Joseph; nonchalantly leaning against a Wool Stores Cart, in George Street, Sydney. I was spending the day shopping with my older sister Emma, and her children, Constance, three and Henry, two. Emma and I were shopping for new dresses to wear to the Welcome Dinner that evening, which my Father was hosting, to welcome his newest clients to our beautiful Sydney.
My Father is the Bank Manager at the Bank of New South Wales, and he would often host such engagements. My Mother, sisters and I 'float' amongst the guests, assuring that the accompanying wives and daughters of Father's newly acquired clients are kept happy, entertained, and most of all, out of the way of their husbands' affairs for the evening.
It was on such an occasion that my Sister had met her husband, Patrick, and I am sure that a part of Father and Mothers plans were to find the most suitable future husband for myself and my younger sister, Charlotte.
With this knowledge in mind, I nudged Emma, as we passed the unfamiliar gentleman standing just so against the Wool Stores Cart, whispering;
"Oooh, do you think that he may be at tonight's dinner?"
"Don't be so pretentious", Emma chastised, ever the realist, "if you go around gaping and batting your eyelids at every unfamiliar gentleman on Sydney's street, you shall get yourself a most unsavoury name, not to mention the damage it may cause Father".
So, I left it at that. When Emma gets on her high haunches, there is no point trying to change her mind. I recall wondering to myself that maybe marriage is not all that it is cracked up to be - Emma has changed so since she met and married her Patrick.
Nonetheless, as the day progressed, I could not help but wonder about that mysterious gentleman I had glimpsed earlier in the day, and hoped a little that he may indeed be present at this evening's Welcome Dinner. Although I would never share such thoughts with Emma
I was to be proven correct though, as that very evening at the Welcome Dinner, on entering the Dining Room, I caught the eye of no other than that of the gentleman we had seen earlier today.
As my Father performed the formal introductions, I caught the eye of Emma, and gave her a knowing look; a look that only sisters can use to convey their 'I told you so' feelings of glee.
The gentleman was introduced to be Joseph Briggs, an Orchardist from the Lachlan Valley and Forbes regions in inland New South Wales.
"A pleasure to meet you, my dear Imogene. Your Father speaks very highly of your hostess skills; I hope I may have the opportunity to become acquainted with them this evening"
Oh how I remember these first words Joseph spoke to me; a husky voice to accompany his rugged good looks and manly physique. And what a physique it was; 6"6, muscular, and the size of his hands. Well I had to bite my tongue so as not to ask if picking apples was all that they were good for!
As the evening progressed, we exchanged pleasantries, talked of the weather, our guests' plans for the Christmas period, all the usual topics that were considered within the binds of etiquette for a table with ladies present. During the meal, I remember catching Joseph's eye upon me many times. When I caught his eye with a returning smile, a dark cloud seemed to cover his face, only for an instant though, before he returned the smile with warmth and a nodding of his head. As confused as this made me, I was filled with a thrill, and was enthralled as to what it was that laid behind that big, strong physique which could trouble him so.
Following a most pleasant dinner of mutton, roast potatoes, peas with fresh mint, the ladies retired to the piano, where we proceeded to display our talents in vocal accompaniment. I often wondered why we upheld this charade. The gentlemen whom, after all our display was set to please, always promptly retired to the Study for port and to discuss business at hand.
Nonetheless, we ladies had an enjoyable evening, singing rounds by the piano accompaniment of Mother. As the evening drew to a close, we bade our farewells to the guests, much as was the usual course for such dinners. I was taken aback when Joseph put his hand on my arm – what a strong, powerful hand – and expressed his wishes to see me again soon.
Thus began our courtship. Joseph was in town for a week following this dinner, during which time he dined with us nightly, fitting in nicely with our family, as peculiar as we may be. Joseph's quiet acceptance of such idiosyncrasies as Father leading us in evensong prior to supper ('so much better for the appetite', Father would always declare), to Mother being granted the typically male role of carving the meat for the proceeding evening meal. He even appeared to accept Father's rule that Emma's children Constance and Henry were permitted to dine at the family table with the adults (I did catch a glimpse of surprise, or maybe confusion, in Joseph's eye on this occasion!). Perhaps it was this quite acceptance of our family that prompted Father and Mother's pleasure at the growing interest Joseph was taking in me; even allowing us time to sit on the veranda without an escort on a number of evenings.
These times were precious, sitting amid the sounds and smells of the warm Australian evenings, hearing tales of how Joseph had come to own his apple orchard. Joseph spoke of the hard years he had spent developing his land, starting with a small commissioned 40 acre plot, to now owning over 400 acres of 'mixed farming'. Apple orchards and sheep grazing were his prime productions, if my understanding of his property was correct. His latest accomplishments, he proudly told me, was to now be the main supplier of the apples that we ate here in Sydney!
Although there was a void of twenty two years between us, one would never have guessed. It was like meeting up with an old acquaintance after many years absence. Our conversations flowed freely and openly, Joseph sharing many a comical recollection from his precious Marigold Farm. I think that it helped that I could sit and listen to Joseph's voice for hours. I had never heard such a deep, raspy, and thoroughly masculine voice. I was enthralled by the very sound; it was both hypnotic and haunting at the same time.
Alas, after our week together, Joseph had to return to his Marigold Farm. As he said, the apples and lambs would not tend to themselves in his absence. Before doing so though, Joseph asked for my hand in marriage (I am sure that he had received my Father's consent before doing so!).
It was one of those magical summer sunsets that Sydney does so well – pink, purple and orange hues spread across the horizon, the air warm, the smell thoroughly Australian.
We were sitting in our now accustomed positions, Joseph on the large wicker chair, I on the chaise, admiring the scenery in a moment of contemplation, when Joseph reached out and laid his hand on my arm;
"I've become very fond of you this past week Imogene dear. I feel we have a connection, like we've met before, have a shared empathy for this great vast land that is our Australia; I want to share my Australia with you too." Before I could reply, he was down on one knee, ring in hand.
"I'd be honoured if you'd take my hand in marriage, and be my wife and the Lady of Marigold Farm".
