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The early morning sun creeps slowly above the horizon and bestows its golden rays across the fields of shimmering grass. Out in the middle of this wilderness, in the gentle early morning breeze, the restless grass begins to stir with a barely audible swishing sound.
The only other sounds come from the clanging of an old windmill, the ticking of an inherited wind-up mantle clock and a solitary black crow, keeping vigil over the elderly resident who lives here alone. The mournful bird begins its ritual song, greeting yet another new day from its perch at the very top of the old tank stand.
Florence sits quietly in her trustworthy old rocking chair out on the verandah. Here she greets the first warming rays of each sunrise, just sipping the black tea from her treasured King George Coronation china cup. Today though, she is lost in her thoughts from times past; memories of her triumphs and of her many disappointments. This day appears to be no different from the thousands of past sunrises during her very isolated life, but yet this day is destined to end very differently.
She finishes her tea, collects her well-worn tailor’s scissors from the ancient treadle sewing machine and heads outside. The elderly gardener ambles towards the faithful old windmill, one of her life-time companions and pauses here for a moment. Florence allows some more memories from her 87 long years in the bush, to drift slowly back once again. She collects water in the old bucket and brushes more tears from her eyes. She then continues along the irrigation channel, past her life sustaining vegetables, to the rows of colourful flowers. These bring music to her very soul.
The lonely resident closes her eyes, absorbing the heavenly hotchpotch of scents from the many brightly coloured blooms. She just needs to soak up every bit of these unique floral perfumes one more time. Snip, snip, she selects only the very best flowers. Snip, snip, snip and she collects more flowers and some unique fernery and also adds these to the bucket.
Florence passes by the old chook yard. She knew all of her hens by name and had spoken to each of them every day. They have rewarded her with an adequate supply of eggs for her cooking. She is very grateful, but now the yard is completely empty. Sadly she closes the gate for the last time and continues her stroll towards the old mango tree. It has gifted its wholesome fruit for more than 40 years, with little care or attention. She turns and scans the other fruit trees; all have played their parts well.
Soon she reaches her destination. The single grave of George, her husband, lovingly cared for over many difficult years of pain, hardship and regret, rests neatly in front of that old mango tree. This top ringer had died in a mustering tragedy near Strathmore Station many years ago.
Trembling, wrinkled hands create a floral masterpiece from the red and white roses, pink gladioli and assorted gerberas. Some of the rare ferns are then added to complement the arrangement. George had always loved the blood red roses and to her, these are still a symbol of his love and commitment.
Close by are four symbolic white crosses. Two of these are for her twin stillborn sons, Matthew and Mark and the third much larger cross, is for her other son Adam. He was killed in the Korean War and now lies at rest in the United Nations War Cemetery at Tanggok in Korea, with 280 other young Australian heroes. The fourth cross is for Thomas, her father-in-law, who is also buried elsewhere. He died with a broken heart upon the death of his last surviving grandson.
She moves a little further back, bows her head for a moment, and then softly whispers The Lord’s Prayer. She again wonders about the real meaning of life, then concludes by saying her final goodbyes to each of them. This is the very last time she will attend to this task.
“At every sunrise...at every sunset... and at other times, I will remember each of you... until we meet again, my darlings,” she sobs aloud.
The appointed time is now fast approaching and yet there is still a few final preparations to be completed. Florence fills a ceramic water bottle and adds this to the first of two strong baskets.
Two sandwiches are made from the last of her home baked bread and roast chicken, garnished with slices of a succulent rosy red tomato and other salad vegetables. She also packs the remaining fruit cake, a batch of ANZAC Biscuits, pumpkin scones and some fresh fruit.
Items of cherished memorabilia are added, including her Coronation cup and saucer, a few of Adam’s treasured photos and the family Bible. That old book has been handed down from her great-great grandmother. It has been cared for with great respect and affection, but is now somewhat worn around the edges. The heritage clock is packed into a small cardboard box, then she wraps her old yard boots in newspaper and places them in a strong string bag. This is to be a memento of the many years of sweat and toil in her impressive garden. The final item is her small transistor radio with spare batteries. In the bush, radio waves only come to life after dark, just to tame the otherwise lonely nights.
It is a struggle to retrieve her old leather suitcase from the top of the wardrobe without a ladder. She eventually succeeds but is left slightly breathless. Only a few of her very best clothes, toiletries and other accessories have been carefully chosen for this journey.
Florence drags her luggage to the verandah and brings the rocking chair inside. She sobs a little at the thought of leaving this comforter behind and now waits for what seems like an eternity. She prays that the van will not be late on this momentous day.
Paul, the young postman, had inherited the delivery service from his older brother and had been her only visitor since his teen years. He treats her as family; he did the odd repairs, supplied chopped wood for her stove, and delivered her groceries, newspapers, Women’s Weekly magazines, toiletries and other personal supplies.
She remembers when he had experienced problems with his van and had stayed overnight. She offered her son’s bed, but he insisted on sleeping out on the verandah in his trusty old swag.
Eventually he would stay overnight regularly, always sleeping out on the verandah. They enjoyed each other’s company and interesting conversations for almost twenty years, during which they became very close friends. These fleeting moments together have become a lifetime of treasured memories. Paul is married with two young sons. The boys came with him one day, long ago, when he had a few odd jobs to do. “Dad loves your pumpkin scones, Aunty Flo.” They chirped gleefully.
She hoped that these friendships and memories would last for ever.
Now there is just one thing she has forgotten to do. She hurries back to her garden and picks the most beautiful, fully formed, red rose. As she returns towards the house, she looked up at the old windmill one more time and says goodbye to a trusted friend. It had been refurbished by Paul just two years ago and she thinks that it should now be able to keep her garden alive indefinitely. That beautiful rose is placed gently at the top of one of the baskets and covered with a moist cloth.
Florence again stands in the doorway, anxiously looking down that old dirt track for any signs of her transport.
Eventually a large cloud of red dust billows angrily over the horizon, soon the van will be at her front door. Florence nervously opens her handbag and takes out the rarely used front door key. She fondles it for a while but is so overcome with emotion that she has to sit down briefly on her treasured rocking chair. She soon calms down but God, how she wishes that this chair could go with her. Soon there is a noisy ‘toot toot’ out front.
Paul appears on the top step. “Ready to roll, Flo?
“I’m ready Paul,” she mumbles in a very deflated tone of voice.
“It’s not too late to change your mind, you know,” he says jokingly. There is no reply...‘Well that went down like a lead balloon,’ he thinks as he takes the luggage and loads it in the rear of the air-conditioned van. The solemn old lady locks the front door and walks slowly towards the van. She turns around, and steals a final hard look.
“Goodbye my darlings...my home, my garden, the windmill and old Joe,” she murmurs.
As the van pulls away, Florence holds on to her hat firmly as she pokes her head out of the window, trying to catch a final glimpse of the old homestead. This proves futile as her view is soon blocked by heavy clouds of red dust. The electric window winds slowly upwards and she begins to enjoy refrigerated air for just the second time in her life. She had previously travelled with Paul to Charters Towers for his doctor’s appointment. Florence used that journey to have her own medical check-up and to complete some other unfinished business. All attempts at small talk prove futile; her mind is in replay mode somewhere back in the past.
An hour or so later as they pass through Ravenswood, her birth place, Florence salutes the school building and says goodbye. Then she remembers Sammy Daniels; he loved telling probably exaggerated tales of Tom Coolan, a prospector who had shot several men out in the gold fields, further south of here, in cold blood and had then committed suicide. She also remembers a few of the many Halloween Dances and parties she had enjoyed as she navigated through adolescence. It was at one of these parties that she met George, the man destined to become her husband.
The weekends spent at the historic Imperial pub, the night in the haunted church, the camping and the bonfires at the showground and elsewhere...there are so many wonderful memories flashing back. It has been such a long time since she had even allowed herself to have these thoughts.
Twenty minutes later they are in Mingela, where Florence will soon board the coach to Townsville, the second capital city of Queensland. They park near the bus stop and it is obvious that Florence is somewhat distressed, so Paul decides to stay with her. He drools over his final pumpkin scone and runs to get couple of cold soft drinks from the store.
A short time later as the coach arrives; Florence hugs her friend tightly and clings to him for a long moment. Paul is her last connection to the bush.
“Flo, I’ll stop by the old homestead from time to time to check it out for you...I’ll also keep your garden healthy and keep the grave neat and tidy as well. I’ll forward your mail on to you as promised.”
“Thank you Paul, I’ve always enjoyed your company and our friendly conversations so much over the years...I’m really going to miss all that, young man. You’ve been a tremendous help to me, more than you probably realise” she said, holding back the tears. “Please feel free to help yourself to the fruit and veggies
Reaching into her basket she adds, “Paul, this rose is for you…please accept it as a small token of my deepest gratitude. I wish I could offer you something more substantial, but it’s the best I can do at the moment. Here is the door key, use it as you wish,” she concludes.
“Thank you Flo, I’m really going to miss you... I’m going to miss the smokos and the breakfasts with you, I really enjoyed our conversations, and this rose is as beautiful as you and your bubbling personality. I promise I will look after the old house for you and I will visit you real soon. Flo...I’ll bring your old rocking-chair with me.”
The coach driver sounds the horn somewhat impatiently. Florence hurries aboard with her trusty basket and politely offers the driver a pumpkin scone as an inducement for his forgiveness. She waves goodbye and blows another goodbye kiss as the coach accelerates away. It disappears down the highway, rounds a bend in the road and is soon completely out of sight.
A strange insane feeling of sadness and loss engulfs Paul unexpectedly. He inhales deeply to absorb the powerful scent of that beautiful rose and now notices the note wrapped around its stem.
It announces the fact that the dear old lady had willed the house and property to him. It was signed and witnessed, stating that official documents would arrive in due course. He just stands there in stunned silence for several minutes at the front of his van, with arms crossed as his eyes cloud over.
Tears begin to overflow his cheeks. “How in the heck did she do all that,” he says aloud. Tonight Florence will bed down in what will become her new home at the CWA Hostel in Townsville. Tomorrow she will witness a different style of sunrise and she hopes that she will be able to watch it from a front room with a view of the bay. This will be the first full day of her brand new life in the big city. She finally allows the excitement to build. Soon she will be in one of the heritage cars leading the ANZAC Parade, and for the very first time, she will get to see and feel her son's inscribed name on the War Memorial in ANZAC Park. A gentle smile sweeps across her face and lingers there for quite some time. Her eye-lids blink and she nods off into a peaceful, well-deserved nanny nap. |
