The Cream Brick House: Elodea’S Dream

By Christine Ellen

This book is based on the lives of one family, dating from the early 1920s to the twenty-first century. The novel expands the lives of the family and their individual journeys but concentrates mainly on one character and her experiences. Elodea faces challenges, tragedies, and joys in her life as she struggles with all that besets her over her ninety-one years. There are moments of sadness, struggle, and joy. Elodeas life encounters many twists and desperate times, but the temerity and willpower she learned in her early years always fortify her throughout her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543400311

Christine Ellen

Christine Ellen is a pseudonym for an Australian writer residing in Melbourne, Australia. I enjoy writing, travelling and reading. This is the second book I have written; the first is nearing completion and is a murder mystery. I live near the beach with a view across the Bay and find inspiration from the water for my writing.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Christine Ellen.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017906450

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5434-0033-5

      Softcover      978-1-5434-0032-8

      eBook         978-1-5434-0031-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/02/2017

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

www.Xlibris.com.au

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Contents

1 The Family

2 Tragedy Strikes

3 A New Day, a New Life

4 A Year Passes

5 Winter’s Menace

6 A Return to Normality

7 Another Winter, More Illness for Elodea

8 The Great Depression

9 Another Marriage

10 Another Change as War Looms

11 The Shop and City Living

12 A Chance Meeting

13 The World Changes Forever

14 The Subterfuge: A Picnic Planned

15 A Luncheon Date

16 Life Settles Back Into Routine

17 Christmas and Happy Families

18 Elodea’s Nineteenth Birthday

19 Weddings

20 Elodea’s Six-Month Journey to Her Wedding Day

21 The Honeymoon and Married Life

22 The Family Expands

23 Elodea’s Dilemma

24 Shocks and Surprises

25 Daisy Weds

26 Christmas Is Celebrated

27 Grief and Pain

28 Naomi’s Joy

29 School Days, Changes, and Tragedy

30 A New Lifestyle: The Family Dynamics Change

31 The Family Gathers for Christmas

32 Alternatives Issued

33 Charles’s Offer

34 Life Changes

35 With Flora Unwell, Elodea Shoulders More Responsibility

36 Drew Organises Alternatives for the Family

37 Engagements and Life Changes

38 Life’s Twists and Turns

39 Shock and Threats

40 Rose Is Offered a Scholarship

41 Elodea’s World Changes Forever

42 Friends and Sympathy

43 The Wedding

44 Tragedy and Illness

45 Another Engagement

46 A New Birth

47 Rosen’s Wedding

48 Elodea’s New Abode

49 New Beginnings

50 Elodea’s New Residence

51 A Date with a Difference

52 The Wedding

53 A Blissful Life

54 An Invasion and Shock

55 A Goal Achieved

56 Family Disaster

57 Life’s Tragedies Take a Toll

58 An Unexpected Visitor and Death

59 A Friendly Stranger Visits

60 Family Celebrations

61 Elodea’s Health Concerns

62 Celebration and Changes

63 Celebrations and Tragedy

64 Elodea’s Car Accident

65 Another Wedding and Life’s Routines

66 Elodea’s Last Will and Testament

67 Elodea’s Health Deteriorates Further

68 A Surprise for Elodea

69 The Funeral: The Games Begin

70 The Final Curtain Falls

1

The Family

The wind blew ferociously, relentlessly roaring down the dusty street of the small country town. The trees bent, twisted, and groaned valiantly to withstand its force; and the old gums screeched as they vainly resisted the potency of the gale. Limbs snapped, sending branches, small and large, in all directions. The storm’s puissant anger unleashed its full intensity on the small township, all to the accompaniment of flashing lighting and supporting clapping thunder.

Menacing swirling black clouds gathered overhead as Flora bustled to collect firewood from the back shed. Her bedraggled hair that hung loosely slapped across her face. She concentrated on selecting suitably sized logs of wood to place in her flapping skirt, which she dragged into the front of her, where she made a hollow in the folds of the wildly billowing material. Here she placed the firewood. She logically reasoned one trip to be sufficient tonight if she got enough wood. Muttering angrily to herself as yet another twig hit her head, she had told Jack to put wood at that rear door a couple of nights ago, but he was more interested in his blasted animals, his horses and cats.

Flora’s fear of the storm, any storm for that matter, generally made her rush more; but the impending birth of yet another child impeded her haste. She shuffled back to the safety of the house; terrifying flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder alarmed her. She hated thunder and lightning, and once again, it was ready to pour its latent fury upon her whilst she fought the driving rain and swirling wind. She cussed to herself once more, ‘Those wretched cats are inside while I’m nine months pregnant gathering firewood.’

Upon reaching the safety of her home’s rear door, she unceremoniously dropped the bundle of gathered wood under the shelter of the wide veranda. The crashing racket of falling logs brought 4-year-old John to the door with a startled enquiring gaze. He silently and stoically watched his mother shake the intractable splinters from her skirt, bending awkwardly to collect a couple of pieces for their fire. ‘Get inside,’ she scowled at him. He scurried for safety near the cats, who also eerily eyed this woman of ill temper.

Flora allowed the door to bang noisily after giving it a mighty kick when she proceeded through the doorway. On reaching the combustion stove, she shoved the wood into the compartment of the stove where it joined glowing embers and red-hot burning cinders. Flora slammed the door shut with a satisfying grunt. Soon, there would be a roaring blaze; the compartment next to the firebox was warm. The aroma of Jack’s dinner wafted through her house.

Jack wouldn’t be long; the last of the cartons were to be delivered near their home, she recollected to herself. His habit was spending an hour or more unhitching the horses, grooming, feeding, and watering them before he entered the house. His cats were restless; impatiently they waited, knowing his routine. Eventually, they stood meowing to be let out of the warm closeted room, sensing his imminent arrival.

Flora glowered at them and flung the door wide open, allowing them to exit. She watched with a mean look gracing her features as they ran around the side of the house to the gateposts, where they sat waiting for Jack, one on each fence post. She smiled, glad to be rid of them from her house, wishing them farewell in their plight in the storm and swirling wind. The surge of air caused the only light in the room, given by the lantern on the kitchen table, to flicker. Flora glared menacingly at it, daring it to keep burning.

Night after night, the routine was the same. Jack always returned home at dusk, pulled his dray into the laneway, and travelled down to the barn with the cats, each having leapt from their sentinel gateposts to the dray and each one sitting on either side of him. Jack loved his animals, and his cats loved him, purring contentedly as they accompanied him to the barn each night.

The thunder struck louder, this time with an echoing, resounding crashing clatter; and the lighting lit the night sky. Jack reined the horses into the lane. The cats bounded onto the dray and scurried under Jack’s seat, seeking safety from the storm. Flora watched from the comfort of her house, peering through a sliver of her window’s blinds. She shook uncontrollably with awesome fear as she systematically pulled all the house’s blinds closed and dragged John under the kitchen table with her. She loathed and fiercely hated storms, which always had a disastrous effect on her psyche, her well-being.

It was all Peggy’s fault, she consoled herself. As children, they had lived in the bush—so far from everyone in an isolated and remote country region with few neighbours. Peggy’s habit was to sleepwalk at night, threading her way through the undergrowth of the nearby hill; and Flora, Peggy’s twin, was compelled by her parents to follow Peggy and to sit guardedly beside her, waiting until Peggy rose and returned home to her bed.

Flora tried everything to stop Peggy’s venture into the wild, including hiding the door’s key in an urn of water at the front door after she locked up for the evening. It was reported that sleepwalkers would not put their hand in water, but Peggy did put her hand in the ewer full of cold water, thereby retrieving the key. Hence, on a lonely treed hillside with eerie white tree trunks, animal sounds all around her, Flora sat terrified, waiting for Peggy to arise and return home.

Everyone said it was injurious to awaken a sleepwalker, but Flora contemplated that just once to wake her sister may be worth a try in order to discover what occurred! It was her father’s large frame that precluded her from trying that particular form of justice. He was a kind man, but if anything happened to Peggy, he might become otherwise, and Flora did not have the intestinal fortitude to attempt fate. She considered such action when she found the ordeal intolerable—when storms raged, thunder clapped and bellowed, and lightning flashed ominously around hill and dale. The bushes became weird shapes, the tall grasses played havoc with Flora’s vivid imagination, and she shivered with fear as the thunder echoed off the rolling hillside, proceeding down the valley with ominous, threatening clashes.

Flora shivered in the winter months with the light covering of snow on the ground and wondered why the barefooted Peggy did not awaken with the cold beneath her feet or why she did not get a chill so she was sick with fever, thereby needing to stay in bed, recuperating. During the summer months, Flora pulled her light shawl around her shoulders and attempted to count the stars in the bejewelled sky. How she hated and detested the ordeal! The beauty of the sparkling diamond-studded sky was lost on Flora; its splendour never compensated for the noises in the bushes around her, and she unwaveringly promised herself that she’d never live in the bush as an adult.

Flora and John were still hidden under the table when Jack materialised through the rear door, whistling a tune and holding a big, fat purring cat in each arm. He was tall, tanned, and lean, with a gentle and kind face. His worn trousers had seen better days, their new patches screaming resistance on the old fabric where they had been roughly sewn, thereby causing the patches to blister on the original cloth. His blue chambray shirt too was tattered and faded to a washed-out grey, his braces hugged each shoulder blade, and his leather boots showed signs of needing replacement. No fat clung on to this man’s bones; he worked from sunup to sundown. There was no time to eat and be merry, except when he had a drink or two with his mates on a Sunday afternoon for an hour at the river.

Chewing the cud and drinking away the blues of the week relaxed Jack, who spoke with a slow bushman’s drawl. His ready smile lit his tanned face framed with curly auburn hair. His face illuminated when he spoke, and laughter rippled, reflecting in his brown-amber eyes. His parents and grandparents migrated from Scotland and settled in horse-breeding territory in central Victoria near Creswick when he was a youth.

Jack moved to this small country town in the east of the state, making a life for himself. His parents were twelve hours west when travelling by the uncomfortable rattling train; and the mail was spasmodic with an occasional gratifying delivery. Jack’s father traversed the countryside, making the trip once a year to visit Jack and Flora; but Kirsten, Jack’s mother, found the long journey too much of a strain. She stayed at home looking after her beloved thoroughbred horses.

Jack attempted to enlist for the big war in 1914, but his carting business was essential to the small town; consequently, his application was denied. Supplies from the train needed to reach their destination, he was informed. At the age of 28 years, he married Flora and settled down to normality—a mundane lifestyle with his chosen jewel. His gentle humour and carefree lifestyle wooed the attractive Flora. But now after years of loss, hardship, and disappointment, it elicited a negative response from her; and her constant nagging chipped away at him.

Flora was fine boned with an attractive appearance—high cheekbones, shiny brown hair, and clear porcelain skin. Decades later, when rolling down her stocking to bare a leg to her granddaughters, she boasted that her skin had never been subjected to the sun—it was snow-white. She stood straight with a demure look that solicited both admiration and a certain wariness that she was not to be taken for a fool; her poise and natural beauty turned many an eye. She determined early in her life never to be a farmer’s wife, and she had waited until she was in her mid-twenties before Jack had appeared on her horizon. His natural charisma and quiet charms arrested her attention, and it was only a matter of months before he proposed marriage to ‘his Flora’, and she accepted.

Some years before, after the death of Flora’s beloved father, she had moved with her family from the high country to reside in this small country town of Bairnsdale in the state of Victoria, the southern region of Australia. Some decades before, her parents and grandparents also migrated from Scotland to the high Victorian Alps, where she had been born and had resided for the first twenty years of her life—a mundane, uneventful early life that provided her with schooling and domestic work in homes much grander than her own family home.

Within the first two years of her marriage, she conceived, producing a son whom Jack insisted on naming Graeme. He was a small, an underweight sickly babe who lived only a few days before death stole him away. Flora was inconsolable! She had endured the conjugal obligations of marriage, yearned for the result, and rejoiced. But now her son was dead!

Jack assured her there would be more. But do I want more? she questioned thoughtfully. The inescapable endurance she found unpleasant and repugnant just to obtain the end goal. Her mother had birthed eleven children; three died in the remote hill country, and their little graves were marked only with a crossed stick near where the creek ran past the small family house of three rooms. Her mother had endured, but Flora had no intention of enduring eleven times, even if there were a couple sets of twins.

The second son was born three years later, with Jack insisting he name him Donald after his uncle. Donald too was a weakly child, refusing to suck properly. Flora spent endless hours spoon-feeding him a few drops of milk at a time. He didn’t gain weight; his pallor said it all, and Flora was in a state of inexorable grief, even before he closed his eyes for the last time.

‘No more,’ she said to Jack, waving a surly, threatening finger. ‘Enough is enough,’ she threatened acridly, but marriage didn’t work that way in the early part of the twentieth century. Eventually, Jack persuaded Flora to allow him entry as her husband. A third child was conceived and born prematurely; he weighed three pounds and could be held in the palm of his mother’s hand. He was frail and sickly in appearance, and Flora was in a constant state of agitation and worry. She bathed him with a soft cloth dipped in olive oil with only one part of his small body bared to the summer air.

Flora worried that within three months, winter and all the ills that came with it would encroach upon them, and she affectionately smothered him with love and fondness. He sucked well, gradually gaining weight and strength. But Flora hardly dared breathe or hope that maybe this child may live. At his first birthday, she relaxed a little, but she was always vigilant, alert for his welfare. This precious child’s laughter brought her such joy; his smile warmed her heart and melted, to a degree, her propensity to bitterness.

She was now a mother, like her neighbours, and she revelled in motherhood. John proved to be both a tormenting and mischievous character as he grew and developed, but for his mother, this child who defied the odds brought her joy and defied death. He was past 3.5 years when Flora conceived again. Again, it was endurance at Jack’s insistence, which she did not consider pleasurable. Flora never found such an act a pleasure, rationalising that the animals agreed with her; she watched them—the chooks, the cats, the horses, and the dogs—on her property.

There was no pleasure, just endurance; then the agony of pregnancy and birth followed. It didn’t stop there—one had mouths to feed and had to set aside time to teach and discipline, which all took effort and adroit attention to detail.

The tragedies of the years were etched on her porcelain face, with lines marking her once-smooth translucent skin. Her curly brown hair was pulled tightly into a bun on the back of her head, making her look infinitely more severe than should have been necessary. Bitter lines crept around her mouth; her chin and the once-Grecian profile were sagging ever so slightly along the jawline, with the lined skin drooping slightly.

Flora never delighted in a cup being half full but bemoaned the negative before it became fact, and her jaded disposition was reflected in her slate grey eyes. The once-attractive young woman was now 38 years old, and she looked decidedly older. Prior to her fourth pregnancy, her slim defining shape was already looking a little plump, and the contours of her body were no longer sharply alluring. Middle age had commenced its march and was blossoming when the fourth child was conceived. Flora recognised she was bigger with this fourth pregnancy, larger than she had been with the previous three, even from the early days of conception. Whilst she hid under the table from the storm, she mused this boy would be strong. The rear door opened and shut, bringing Flora’s thoughts to an abrupt conclusion.

Jack’s boots nudged under the tablecloth, and he poked his head under the table, cloth offering to take Flora’s hand and assist her exit from under the table. ‘You really shouldn’t get under there,’ he gently scolded. ‘All the blinds are drawn. The storm is outside. It can’t hurt you in the house.’

Flora grunted, crawled out from beneath the table, and immediately stood straight, slicking her hair back tighter against her head with licked fingertips and scooping stray hairs that had worked their way loose when she gathered the firewood. ‘Lightning hit the tree outside Mrs Fisher’s kitchen and destroyed the water tank last week,’ Flora countered Jack’s comment, a frown forming quickly on her face; she considered Jack’s rebuke.

He shrugged his shoulders, turned up the lantern, and watched the shadows play on the yellow-stained walls of his home. ‘I’ll get dinner.’ Flora moved to the warm combustion stove; she did not like to be chided for what Jack seemed to consider illogical thinking; he’d remonstrated with her many times about storms, but she still hid under the table, much to his exasperation.

Jack lowered his long frame into his favourite chair, pulled John over to him, and encouraged him to pat the cats. John was a scrawny child, with thin limbs, a pinched face, and blue eyes. He loved his father dearly, always revelling in the attention he received. His unruly straight brown hair stood up on his head, looking none the worse after his father’s hand had ruffled through it.

Flora scolded both father and child, instructing them to wash up again before dinner after handling the cats. Jack just smiled at John, assuring him that they could do that together. ‘Big haul today,’ he shot back over his should. ‘It took me forever to offload the train. Devons General Store is buying up big, and everyone is saying the economy is doing well with the war now behind us.’ Flora grunted as she placed the food offering on the dinner plates with aplomb; time dictated if the predictions were true, she mused.

‘As long as they remember they owe us and pay their accounts!’ she remarked, always growling about money, and this time was no different; she spooned the brown stew onto the plates, next to the mashed potato. ‘You are too soft. You let them get away with too much. They have food on their table. We go without!’

‘We have enough,’ Jack returned with a calm assurance. ‘We eat well, and we don’t go without.’ He sat at the head of the table, which now had the cloth straightened squarely upon it. The bread, butter, condiments, and cutlery were placed on the table, along with their dinner plates, which had been added in the last couple of minutes. He reached for the loaf of bread and cut thick slices, lavishing butter on his bread, which he then employed to mop up excess juices from the stew floating on his plate. He breathed in the aroma, complimenting Flora on a good meal.

With a malevolent gleam in her eye, Flora shot back, ‘I know what we have, how much is owed us. If you can’t afford something, you don’t buy it! I have to budget, and so should those who owe us money. I watch them buying food. They don’t go without, Jack. Let me assure you of that fact.’

Jack shifted uneasily on his chair. ‘Flora, some of these people own very little or nothing. They either can’t pay, or they’re trying to build a business so that we will always have money coming from them when they are established.’ He understood their plight, but this was an endless argument that infuriatingly exasperated him, and he knew there was no consoling Flora.

‘There’s a drawer full of accounts to be paid, Jack. And I, for one, want to see them paid.’

‘They will be, Flora. Give them time.’ Jack did not look up from his meal. He was not going to deal with Flora on this subject yet again; his frustration showed as evidenced by his furrowed brow.

‘That’s what you say all the time, but I don’t see them paying!’ Flora retorted.

Jack poked at the potato on his plate and dropped his remaining slice of bread in the gravy, and little John watched intently; he’d heard this conversation many times. Jack caught his eye and winked, and the boy shot back a smile. Meanwhile, Flora’s head was bowed; she was chasing a ring of carrot on her plate.

*     *     *

The lightning continued flashing ominously across the sky, and the accompanying thunder reverberated through the small weatherboard home. Flora shuddered, but there was no way she could dive under the table with Jack home; she endured until the first stabbing pain in her belly caused her to move. She quickly collected the plates, glancing alarmingly at the clock. It was nearing seven; plates clattered as she washed and dried them at a furious pace.

‘Put the kettle on, Flora,’ Jack called. ‘I’m parched. I didn’t get much to drink today—too busy, I guess.’ Flora reached for the kettle, filling it; she was going to need more than one boiled kettle tonight. ‘Just enough for two cups, Flora,’ Jack muttered. He watched her energetically pumping water, but Flora ignored him with gay abandon; she considered she’d tell him when she was ready that she had commenced labour, not before.

‘I need more firewood,’ Flora issued the request compellingly, still pumping water into the second kettle. Jack unfurled his lengthy shape and disappeared through the rear door, reasoning that if he gathered it from the wood heap at the rear of the yard, it would fill in his time, make Flora happy, and give the kettle time to boil. He was still stacking wood near the rear door when Flora called that the tea was ready. He’d stacked enough wood for the next week or so, he thought reflectively; and with Flora due in a week, he promised himself to remember to do it again before the pile whittled away.

He entered the warm, soft glow of the kitchen, noticing John was in his nightwear, ready for bed. His son bid him goodnight, with Flora ushering the small boy to his room. Jack’s cup of tea was warm; he had taken too long, or was it poured for a time before he was called? At least it was wet, refreshing. Jack reached for his book, glancing in Flora’s direction as she sat down. He thought she looked worn, pale, weary with the pregnancy; and he wondered if she was also unwell. Flora moved awkwardly and winced; it didn’t miss his attention. ‘How was your day, Flora?’ he asked laconically with a slight smirk forming around his mouth.

‘Same as every other day,’ Flora issued the tight-lipped reply, sipping and savouring her tea.

‘Did you walk into town?’ Jack enquired breezily, attempting to bridge the chasm that seemed to be growing between them over the last few months. She was often silent; he found it hard to get her to talk about her day, John, her pregnancy, or anything else. She seemed content to remain distant and aloof, a taciturn lady who rarely mingled with her neighbours.

‘Why would I?’ Flora returned curtly, taking another sip of her tepid brew.

‘Just asking,’ Jack returned casually with a hint of reluctance. ‘I thought you may have called to visit your mother or maybe walked to the grocery store,’ he stated gently, attempting to encourage Flora to converse.

‘I’m nine months pregnant, Jack, in case it missed your notice. And you expect me to wander around town?’

Jack continued giving his interest to his book, with an occasional eye on Flora. The years had taught him that there was no winning with Flora; once she had made up her mind, there was no penetrating her thoughts. Jack furtively glanced in her direction, then towards the clock on the mantelpiece, which told him all he needed to know. Flora leaned back in her favourite lounge chair, her eyes closed, the apron now discarded, and the large pregnant mound bigger than ever.

Jack rechecked the clock, carefully considering his next move; he’d go for the nurse if this pattern continued, but what of John? The decision had been made some time ago when Flora’s twin sister, Peggy, offered to stay over at the end of the week for one week before and one week after the birth, helping with John and assisting Flora with the new babe. But now it appeared the baby was a week early and definitely on its way. Jack mentally calculated his options.

‘Going next door to ask Harry a favour,’ Jack muttered as he quickly rose, disappearing out the door into the storm before Flora could comment or ask why he needed to talk with Harry. She stayed motionless; perhaps if she didn’t move, the contractions would stop. She feared this birth because the baby was undoubtedly huge, which indicated a difficult labour.

Jack quietly reasoned Harry could fetch Peggy and saddle up the dray, ready to fetch the nurse; the whole thing could work beautifully. Harry complied with the request, hitched up his buggy, and arrived at the home of Flora’s mother and sister in record time. Jack returned home to find Flora doubled over, moaning. He quietly congratulated himself that he guessed correctly.

Flora screamed with stentorian anger as he re-entered the room. ‘When I need you, you visit friends.’ Jack let it pass but remonstrated he had organised for Harry to fetch Peggy. Flora glared. ‘Well, at least you thought of that,’ she groaned churlishly with the onset of another contraction.

‘It would have helped had you shared the news with me,’ Jack countered sardonically. Flora grimaced; it was her body, she contemplated. Why did he have to know before she was ready to share the news with him? After all, at 38 years of age, she had the right to make her own decisions, she cogitated. She made decisions all day long, so why not this one?

Peggy promptly arrived with a cheery smile and holding her overnight bag, which was packed a week ago. She looked lovely with her curly light brown hair pulled in a bun on the top of her head; her maroon skirt and cream blouse were draped with a black jacket, which she cast off in the warm room. A sparkling ornate clip graced the side of her head, and her leather boots clattered on the floor, especially the one on her left club foot.

Jack quickly excused himself, departing to fetch the nurse, and Flora’s mood only darkened. Her good-hearted, fun-loving twin could not draw or elicit a smile from her. Peggy had given birth to her own child sixteen years before, but Maisie was born out of wedlock. Peggy bore the stigma from the town, her own family, and especially her twin. ‘It’s much more fun putting it in than getting it out,’ Peggy chirped brightly.

‘Keep your filthy thoughts to yourself,’ chided Flora disgustedly. ‘And get those shoes off. I can’t stand the noise, and just for good measure’, Flora agonisingly retorted, ‘there won’t be another put in, that’s for sure.’

By now, the contractions were consistent and painful, and Jack arrived with the nurse and then departed to the stable to unharness his horse. It was hours before this bouncing breech baby made her appearance in the world, weighing nine pounds—three times the size of John! Flora was exhausted and badly torn, but the baby seemed well and hearty with a good set of lungs.

The nurse handed the baby girl with curly red hair to her mother. ‘A girl, it’s a girl,’ she assured Flora.

Flora stared in disbelief when the nurse announced the gender. ‘A girl! I thought I’d have another boy! I don’t have a girl’s name, only a boy’s name,’ she wailed pathetically.

The storm had finally abated, its fury spent; but in time, it was said it could be seen in the child born that night. She had all its willpower and determination, often with a fury just below her lively, dignified surface. The nurse looked kindly at the distraught mother, gently suggesting, ‘Why don’t you call her Elodea? She will never leave you. She will always be near you in the pond she has been placed—rooted to you.’

Flora contemplated the suggestion, which appealed to her narcissistic nature. Why not? she thought. Someone to look after me in my old age. Jack named the boys. I will name the girl.

Jack proudly entered the room to view his bonny daughter, and Flora announced compellingly, ‘I’m calling her Elodea.’

Jacked cradled his beautiful baby girl, smiling happily. ‘It’s fine by me,’ he said. ‘But it isn’t a family name, you know.’ Quietly, he adored the beautiful child in his arms, smiling with absolute pleasure. ‘But the red hair is—it’s from the highlands of Scotland!’ he added proudly.

‘It doesn’t have to be a family name.’ The baleful reply cut across his thoughts. ‘I like the name.’

‘Okay, sure thing. She is beautiful. You’ve done well birthing this one, Flora.’

The gratified mother smiled wanly. She had done well, but she was so weak right now; her eyes kept shutting as the morning sun peeked over the eastern horizon in the late autumn sky. Sleep would help; soon, she closed her eyes.

Jack beamed at the infant’s little fingers wrapped around his small right forefinger. ‘I love you, Elodea. But you have been named after a flowering waterweed. Maybe we’ll name you Elodea Rosen, after my friend Sam Rosen, who is a doctor. Some people will think your named Rosie, a prettier name than Elodea. I will nickname you Rosie. What do you think? I’ll work on it,’ he whispered to the baby while glancing at his sleeping wife.

A movement in the corner of the room caught his attention, and Peggy winked with her ineffable, good-hearted humour showing on her face. She’d heard, he thought. But she is smiling. She agrees with me. In time, we’ll conspire together and call this jewel Rosie until we move away from Elodea. Peggy collected the birthing linen that required washing, which now lay discarded on the floor. ‘I will drop the nurse home, Jack,’ Peggy offered gently. ‘You need to get to the station and load up. Besides, I need to tell them at work that I won’t be there for a week.’

‘No need. I’ll drop the nurse home. It’s on my way to the station. When Flora wakes, she’ll need you, not me. I’ll also call at the hotel for you.’ The lack of sleep showed on this man of 41 years; and the necessity of work without a day to play hooky or the ability to stay home and play with his beautiful daughter tore at his heart.

*     *     *

Jack’s business flourished through the 1920s; and while he still had many promissory notes outstanding, business was growing, people were stretching their resources, and life was good. It seemed that Flora had finally won—no more children would be conceived, and even the need for the marriage bed was only for sleeping.

Jack’s children were his pride and joy. He loved them dearly. He hoisted them onto the dray at the end of the day and took them for a ride around the block before he commenced his routine of tending his horses—unharnessing, watering, feeding, and brushing their coats. At 9 years old, John was a good helper who loved working with his father. Meanwhile, little Elodea stood watching, holding on to her wicker basket pram, with her rag doll propped up to see what was happening.

Her red hair now imitated the curls of her father, but her hair was a strawberry red compared with his dark auburn. Flora’s disposition was more difficult the older she got, or so it seemed to Jack. She lacked joy, exhibiting only asperity, and Jack’s easy-going, relaxed style exacerbated the atmosphere; he worked longer and spent more time with his mates down at the river on Sunday afternoons, which was always a bone of contention with Flora.

John’s tenth birthday, due in late February, encouraged Jack to buy him a bike—a new one all of his own. With Flora’s agreement, he organised for it to be shipped from Melbourne. It was a suitable present and guaranteed John could help his mother by running chores on his bike. He was still very small, wiry, and more so when he stood next to his sister; but he did have a lot of energy for his size. Flora thought that riding surpassed walking; it would also stop John from being distracted by his friends on his way home from school. Always playing, she cogitated bitterly. Does that boy not understand there are chores to be done? Besides, she ruminated, why should I have to walk when John could ride?

Elodea’s fifth birthday was in May; she’d commence school in eight months. Finally, Flora’s time awaited her; she happily consoled herself that she could then do whatever she wanted. How that time was to be spent, she didn’t know. She didn’t do needlework, painting, or reading; but she’d have time to herself after the household chores were accomplished. She smiled a wry smile; at least she could clean the house, assured it would remain that way with both children occupied throughout the day. What activity should I do? she pondered. Jack’s voice broke across her consciousness. ‘I’m going down to the river, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Is there anything you want or need?’ he asked kindly.

Flora shot back with her usual sarcasm for the obvious. ‘It’s Sunday. Everything is shut. You know that. I bet you got your grog yesterday. Nothing is open today!’

Jack didn’t bother answering; he always got his grog through the week and hid it in the shed in case she decided to empty the bottles. He let the door shut of its own accord and headed down the lane, whistling. The saying was true: a nagging wife wears away the hardest stone.

John was tormenting Elodea, grabbing her dolls and throwing them in the water tank when she wasn’t watching; he too liked playing with dolls, but she refused to share them or play with him. He tried to tell Flora, but he deemed he would incur his mother’s wrath. She was expert with the strap, and he’d seen it flying through the air at great speed; many a time he ducked too late. With the force from his mother’s hand, it stung where it landed, and he had bruises as proof. How many of those damned things does she have? John contemplated. He knew he had thrown at least six of them in the water tank, along with three or four dolls that Elodea was still looking for all over the house and shed. He sauntered off with eight marbles in his pocket, sulking—always a good thing to do when his mother was in one of her dark moods.

2

Tragedy Strikes

A couple of hours later, their neighbour Harry furiously and impatiently knocked on Flora’s rear door; he was accompanied by the local policeman. John heard his mother scream and started running in the direction of the blood-curdling shriek. By the time he made it to the kitchen, Elodea was bewilderingly hanging on to her mother’s apron, looking alarmed and frightened. Flora was shaking and cussing, her black dress matching the look on her shocked thin-lipped face; she was leaning against the kitchen table.

The two men stood helpless. Flora wailed, ‘The no-hoper, he always had to be the do-gooder! Why couldn’t someone else have gone to help? He could never leave well enough alone! He had to help! Lending money, not asking for bills to be paid, helping the down-and-out people of the town, and now this! Why did he attempt to rescue a drowning drunk who is no good to anyone? What happened to the drunk?’ She screamed vehemently.

The men shifted uneasily. Harry broke the silence. ‘He drowned, Flora. The river was running too fast with the heavy rains over the last couple of days up in the mountains.’

Flora glowered menacingly at the two men, caustically expectorated the words that were running through her mind. ‘So that two-bit drunk would have died no matter what. But Jack had to help, and he drowned too!’ A startled John was fastened to the spot where he stood. Elodea whimpered, holding her mother’s skirt.

Again, Harry moved uneasily and spoke softly. ‘Jack was a good man. He was trying to help. You know his nature, Flora.’ He added consolingly, ‘I’m so very sorry. You have my deepest sympathy.’

‘And now I’m all alone with two children to rear, bills not paid by customers, and others with loans owed to us and … and …’ Flora’s fury broke loose. ‘What about me? While he is so hell-bent on helping others, what about me?’ she roared mercilessly at Harry.

Harry spoke quietly. ‘They’ve taken Jack’s body to the undertaker. We were able to get it when it snagged downriver on a log. When the doctor has finished the autopsy, the morticians will bring Jack here until the funeral service,’ he added with a mournful sigh. He’d shared an enlightening, warm friendship with Jack, but he knew Flora’s astringent character; words escaped him for the distraught woman standing distressed in front of him.

‘And what if I don’t want him here?’ Flora growled impolitely. ‘He’s a stupid, unthinking, man!’ Her mind was whirling and spinning with so many thoughts; but her survival, and that of her children, was paramount in her blurred, irrational mind.

‘Tomorrow, Flora, we will telegraph Jack’s family,’ Harry confided, hoping to diffuse the brewing anger showing on Flora’s harried face.

‘More expense,’ Flora muttered distraughtly, struggling to think clearly about the future and what it held for her. ‘How much is a damned funeral anyway?’

Both men shrugged their shoulders hopelessly. ‘About t-ten or t-twenty quid, possibly a bit m-more all up, Flora,’ the dazed policeman standing sheepishly next to Harry stuttered. ‘There’s the plot, hearse, coffin, and the cost of the undertaker.’ He attempted to justify the cost; he was feeling very ill at ease.

‘Ten or twenty pounds, you say?’ Flora repeated breathlessly. Time ticked by slowly, and the realisation permeated her mind. ‘The stupid man, that’s a month’s income or more.’

The men shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, finally indicating their departure. Flora opened the rear door without a word, allowing them to pass through to the refreshing but hot, humid, and oppressive summer air.

Monday morning, Harry obligingly telegraphed Jack’s family. By mid-morning, two morticians arrived and went through the details for the service with Flora, seeking answers to when the best time to hold the service was and what form it was to take. Flora’s anger was white-hot, but controlled, which the family knew from experience was always a perilous sign. They knew to tread warily around the tempestuous relative sitting in her black skirt, white shirt, and black shawl, which she kept drawing around her due to the surprising cooler weather.

Peggy, still in yesterday’s attire from a picnic by the river, sat in a light blue skirt, paisley blue shirt, and laced-up high-heeled boots. She’d arrived from the picnic when news of the disaster reached her and stayed overnight. Merle, Flora’s mother—a demure petite figure—sat motionless, listening and observing. Her clear skin and beautiful soft grey eyes drew one’s attention to the unlined face, the slightly greying hair drawn into a bun at the back of her head.

The drab yellowing walls of Flora’s lounge with its brown blinds, brown leather couch, and cream lace curtains enveloped her as she sat quietly in her brown and green striped skirt that reached to her ankles. Her white shirt was all but hidden by the bottle green shawl wrapped around her thin body. Her legs were drawn tightly together, displaying her polished black shoes sitting side by side. She puzzled what she could possibly say to her distraught daughter, whom she’d embraced on arrival; her disconsolate, distressed offspring had stood limply, coldly enveloped in her own grief, and had not returned the embrace.

Peggy offered to make a cup of tea, anything to move from the oppressive, melancholy atmosphere in the room; and she held out her hand to Elodea. They walked to the kitchen. At least, Peggy thought, Flora had dressed Elodea in a cream dress and brown cardigan. But the child’s long tresses required brushing. They would wait for another day. Peggy reached for the tea caddy, mechanically and absently scooping tea leaves into the teapot. The kettle was boiling on the stove, and she slowly poured the steaming water into the pot, busying herself with cups and saucers.

Elodea spoke softly, her blue eyes searching Peggy’s face. ‘Mummy said Daddy’s not coming home anymore?’ Peggy shivered, thinking. Can Flora not do better than that? . She struggled for words. What on earth should she say to this child who was not yet 5 years old?

‘Sometimes bad things happen, like accidents,’ Peggy mumbled sadly. ‘But Daddy loved you very much. If he could have avoided being in an accident, he would’ve always come home to you,’ she reassuringly addressed the wide blue eyes concentrating on her every move.

Elodea moved her head to one side. ‘Why did the accident happen?’

Peggy was getting more and more uncomfortable re Flora’s reaction to her supplied answers for Elodea. ‘I don’t know, darling. Accidents happen. No one knows why.’ She poured the milk into the jug, setting it on the tray next to the cups and saucers.

‘Will an accident happen to me?’ Elodea quizzically enquired; unsatisfied with the answer she’d received. Peggy ducked the question, handing her a plate of home-made biscuits.

‘Do you think you could carry these into the lounge without dropping them?’

‘Sure,’ Elodea said, carrying the plate to the front room with Peggy following. Her tray was now resplendent with chinaware, a sugar bowl, a milk jug, and a teapot. She deposited the tray on the small table in the front room next to the biscuits and commenced pouring the tea and offering the adults refreshments. When she finished, she sat next to her mother, who was attentively listening to the mortician advising Flora about his considered opinion and the best arrangements for Jack’s burial and service.

‘Which church do you attend?’ he questioned Flora warily; his inclination was that there would not be one, but he had to ask. He unobtrusively estimated this woman’s worldly view; he dealt with so many people, and he had developed an inclination about character and beliefs that pertained to those he met.

Flora sat rigid on her chair, cleared her throat, and coldly remarked, ‘We are Methodists, but you don’t have to go to church to be one.’

The mortician had heard all sorts of replies to his question over the years. Another victim of death who chose not to attend church over the previous years now sat resolutely and vainly struggled to come to terms with death and its consequences. ‘Reverend Brown is a wonderful man, and I could contact him for you and arrange a time for him to visit,’ he proffered gently, continuing when he received a nod of Flora’s head. ‘We will bring Jack here tomorrow for a day so the loved ones can make their farewells. On the following day, we will collect Jack, you, and the family.’

He cast an eye in the direction of the other two women. ‘A service at the graveside usually takes twenty minutes all up. We take the body in the hearse. You and older members of the family follow in a horse-drawn carriage supplied by us. How suitable do you think that to be, Mrs Murray?’ he asked kindly.

‘I guess if that is what you do, then that will be fine,’ Flora muttered, absently resigning to the facts. She sat in a state of capitulation and stared distractedly out the window, vainly trying to make sense of the catastrophe that assailed and blindsided her and its consequences for her and her children.

‘Good. Well then, eleven thirty in the morning, we will deliver the body in the coffin. And I suggest we put it on this dining table for the duration. We will screw the lid down before departing for the cemetery,’ the mortician stated vainly, attempting to seek acknowledgement from Flora.

‘Whatever you say, I just want it all over and done with,’ Flora uttered wearily with a dispassionate sigh.

Merle and Peggy remained silent. The undertaker stood, and Peggy rose to her feet and walked to the door with the men. She opened the door gently, extending her hand in thanks. He glanced back at the widow and looked at Peggy, shaking his head with compassion. Peggy gently closed the front door and returned to the sitting room. She sipped her now-cold cup of tea.

‘What now?’ Flora screamed, her eyes blazing. ‘How do I support two children?’ Peggy moved uncomfortably and cleared her throat as she started speaking croakily.

‘There’s kitchen and dining work at the hotel. I’ll ask if the position is still vacant.’ Peggy had conferred with their mother earlier in the day, but she dared not tell Flora they had been discussing their distraught relative. She knew there was a vacancy, but she also knew this would cause her sister to have maudlin, morose behaviour and thoughts.

‘Kitchen work?’ Flora stared incredulously at Peggy with rancour. ‘What about my children? What do I do with them? I can’t just leave them alone at home!’ Deafening silence ensued for a few minutes before Merle spoke; she had allowed the silence to pervade, giving Flora long enough to grapple with Peggy’s suggestion and for reality to set in. Flora needed to provide for her children.

‘I can look after Elodea for the next twelve months until she goes to school. The children can come home to me until you finish work, Flora. Do you own this house, and can you afford the upkeep on this place?’ Merle asked, expressing genuine concern.

‘I own it, but as for the upkeep, I don’t know. I don’t even know how much money is in the bank. And will those scoundrels who owe us money honour their agreement now? I don’t think so!’ Flora continued in abject, brusque bitterness. ‘He thought he could recoup all that money sometime in the future, but I told him now, not later. But he never listened. Now look at the mess I’m in!’

A soft knock on the door beckoned Peggy over, and she opened the door to Harry. ‘Jack’s father is coming. He will be on tomorrow’s train,’ Harry announced, waving the telegram with a slight smile on his rugged, lined face. He was at a loss for words anytime he approached Flora, but now it was even harder to know what to say to her.

‘Oh, another do-gooder!’ Flora exclaimed. ‘Tell him to bring a gunny bag full of money with him,’ she added contemptuously.

‘Flora!’ Merle chided crossly. ‘The man is coming to mourn the loss of his son.’

Flora’s face defiantly grimaced. ‘Jack’s children are his grandchildren. Shouldn’t he provide for them? It’s his useless son who drowned doing a kindly act that any rational person considered futile!’

Merle looked pleadingly at her distressed daughter. ‘Flora’, she said softly, ‘Jack’s father is not responsible for what Jack did, nor is he responsible to provide money. They may not have that sort of money. Besides, Jack probably didn’t stop to consider the outcome but dived in to help a drowning man, no matter his circumstances. Jack was always helping those in trouble.’

‘Of course the Murrays have money,’ Flora replied bitingly. ‘They breed thoroughbred horses.’

‘Flora, please. I ask that you don’t talk about money when Jack’s father arrives,’ Merle cajoled gently. ‘We will get through this as best we can. But please be kind, gentle. This man is grieving too. We lost all our savings in the run on the bank in 1896, if you remember. You were only 12 years of age, but it didn’t make us bitter. We got up and went on. Money will not bring you peace or happiness,’ she added soothingly.

‘But he has money!’ retorted Flora distraughtly. ‘He could help, and I could have a better life and not have to go to work. I’m 43 years old next month, and I’ve got to work! I needed time to myself, time to rest. Now I have to work!’ Flora moaned bitterly.

Merle shrugged. ‘Tomorrow check the bank balance and assess your financial situation thoroughly. Jack will not be here until late in the day. You have time to go to the bank and, if necessary, the hotel. Kitchen/dining room work is better than no work at all.’

*     *     *

Merle took Elodea home with her on Monday evening while Flora went to the bank the following morning. She distraughtly made her way to the hotel where Peggy worked. Peggy had sent her a message that an appointment had been arranged for ten o’clock with her manager; she was now attempting to explain to the intractable Flora on the steps of the hotel that kitchen/dining work is a step above chamber work, but Flora was in no mood for pleasantries or platitudes.

The visit to the bank revealed she had enough to survive for the next three months, but that was all. How dare Jack loan out so much credit to strangers! Now she had to try and recoup it, but how?

Peggy had cheerily greeted Flora, linked arms with her, and guided her into the hotel. ‘I told the manager you were looking for work,’ she chirped, attempting to encourage her hapless sister. ‘And he is keen to meet you. I told him you were a good cook, clean and punctual.’

Flora climbed the steps of the Grand Hotel, walking into the resplendent foyer with plush dark red carpet, velvet navy chairs, and full-length gold damask drapes. They too have money, she discerned bitterly.

Peggy enquired at the reception desk, and the clerk smiled and dispatched a bellhop with the information that Flora and Peggy were at the front desk. Peggy was attired in her black dress, white apron, and a small white cap, her black hose showed her thin ankles and legs. Her skirt fell to a little above her shoes; the left shoe compensated for the club foot.

Flora shuddered; of course, she was punctual, but she didn’t want to work. ‘Put on your happiest face, Flora. He knows you are grieving, but no point making the whole world pay for your misfortune.’ Flora’s ill temper was growling just beneath the surface like a volcano ready to explode; she pulled her thin lips into a semblance of a smile when they were ushered into the manager’s office by his assistant.

A stern small man in a brown suit wearing horn-rimmed spectacles rose, greeting Flora with a smile. His thinning grey hair barely covered his head, and his nose was too big for his face. He stood holding out his hand in greeting to Flora, who held out her limp hand. He motioned for the sisters to sit on the two chairs in front of his desk. Flora remembered little of the interview; he muttered something about condolences for Jack, whom he knew, and she nodded her head in the affirmative, realising with alacrity that Jack regularly delivered food and baggage to the hotel.

The man continued in his droll voice about the work assigned to Flora, including the hours she was expected to complete in a day. It all blurred into one knotted mess in Flora’s brain as she stared at the blue velvet drapes, polished furniture, and hanging chandelier. She tried to concentrate, but the words ‘So this is what it has come to’ kept spinning in her head. She attempted concentrating on the man’s face; blinking and nodding her head occasionally, but to what she had no idea. After what seemed an eternity, the manager rose behind the desk. Flora met his eyes, expressing feebly her gratitude to him for work.

‘Next week then,’ he said brightly. ‘We shall look forward to having you on staff with us, Flora.’

Peggy grinned; she had done her sister a favour, or such was her perspective. All three shook hands; and the twins departed through the foyer, out into the strong, glaring summer sun. ‘Well!’ Peggy grinned. ‘You are fortunate, Flora, that went very well. You will be in the kitchen and dining room. That’s so good. It’s such a great position.’

Flora scowled at her twin. ‘Well, let me tell you I shouldn’t be in this position! Grateful for work! I have to rear two small children all on my own! Just what is well?’ Flora snapped. Peggy fell silent; there was no soothing Flora at the best of times, and this was the worst of times.

Flora walked off down the street without a backwards glance in Peggy’s direction, heading for her home. It was a twenty minutes after eleven o’clock. She would pull the blinds and remain there for a few hours in her own space. But as she rounded her street corner, there was the hearse and Mr—oh, what was that man’s name? Flora’s mind was a blur. Parsons. Yes, that’s it, she thought. ‘Good morning, Mr Parsons,’ she said crisply as she approached.

He greeted her with a tip of his brown bowler and bowed. ‘Morning, Mrs Murray. I’ve brought Jack home for you.’ Flora grimaced dispassionately, unlocking the front door and indicating that Parsons and his assistant placed the coffin on the oak dining table, where she had positioned a damask linen cloth. ‘Will there be anything else, Mrs Murray?’ Parsons asked politely, cautiously.

‘No, there won’t.’ Flora’s cool, distant reply reverberated around the room. She leaned against the door frame, waiting for the men to exit.

‘Well, we’ll return tomorrow at ten thirty, and we’ll make our way to the cemetery. Should only take us approximately twenty minutes from here. The reverend will do his service of twenty minutes or so. I believe he is visiting you at two this afternoon? Probably another ten or fifteen minutes before we are all finished. We usually put six white arum lilies and a bit of greenery on top of the coffin. Will that be okay with you, Mrs Murray?’

‘Whatever you think is best,’ Flora uttered, shutting the front door heavily behind the two men. She turned, eyed the coffin warily, and leaned against the wall, thinking how she would have liked to give the man laid out in the box a piece of her mind. But what was the use? He no longer heard her, and when he did, he took little notice. But Flora continued guardedly viewing the coffin.

Time ticked by slowly; finally, Flora let forth with a tirade of abuse directed towards the dead man. Time ticked by slowly yet again; the tirade had done little except allow the explosive steam to escape from a roiling, angry woman. She dropped into her favourite chair, circumspectly eyeing the coffin.

Humph! Now what, Jack Murray? You have forced me to go to work to support my children. There is little money in the bank, and how do I retrieve the money owed to us? Flora ruminated, but deafening silence pervaded the room.

Flora sighed. ‘I will sell the horses and dray,’ she murmured antagonistically. ‘And everything else in the shed.’ Still, the thought of disposing of all that belonged to Jack did not relieve the pain, the unrelenting anguish, the hurt, her uncertain future. She sat dejectedly, watching the side of the coffin once more.

‘And those cats can go too!’ she lashed out with intense malice. ‘They have caused me nothing but trouble. It wasn’t my fault one of them climbed into the oven on that freezing cold day. I only left the door ajar for a minute. I opened it the minute I smelt something burning! And I did bathe him with olive oil for six months so that his fur would grow again. I abhor them! They always ran after you, sitting on the gatepost of an evening. But one didn’t sit out there for months after his singeing—fixed that rot I did! Always meowing for food! Why couldn’t they work for their living, catching the mice in the barn? Instead, we bought food for them or gave them the scraps off our plate.

‘They are useless. Look at them sitting on each end of your coffin!’ Flora lifted herself from the chair and swiped her hand in the direction of the cats. ‘Shoo!’ She chased them to the rear door, swung it open and they fled to the sanctity of the rear yard. ‘Blasted cats!’ she slurred inaudibly, and walked back into the front room.

She passed the dining table, stood hesitant beside the coffin. Her thin lips drew to a straight line ever so slowly, and she looked over the side where Jack lay reposing in a white cotton gown, his curly auburn hair framing his soft, gentle face; he was at peace. ‘Half your luck, Jack—no more hard labour for you. Forty-five years, that’s all you got—nearly forty-six years! And your legacy is a mountain of bills that you were kind enough to allow people to accumulate. I bet any money you like they won’t be banging on my door to