15

Cobalt water flows, toward the future.

‘Breathe in, now out. In again. Hold. Now out. Good.’ George pulled the stethoscope from his ears and nodded encouragingly to Rosalind seated before him. She pulled her shawl back over her thin shoulders and waited. George turned to Edward. ‘Shall we step next door?’ he invited his friend, as was customary.

Edward frowned, ‘Speak freely, George. We are both keen to hear your analysis.’ He stepped across the room, placing himself at Rosalind’s side, hand on her shoulder in solidarity. She smiled at George, an invite to continue.

‘Well, erm…’ George began awkwardly, unused to consulting to an audience, ‘I am amazed at the improvement. Her lungs are nearly healed. Though there is still weakness, some of which I doubt will ever repair, and some more time is needed, she is well out of danger and, I feel, set for a full and happy life.’

Edward clapped his hands together and let out a hoot. Rosalind lowered her head demurely, but her smile of relief was clear to see.

‘But…’ George cautioned. ’She still needs time. At least another summer here before she can return to England for any length of time.’

He felt Edward wince. Unsure why he hurried on to the next point, ‘And, I am sorry to say, no children. Not yet anyway. Her body is not yet strong enough. But within the year I feel it will be.’

He stopped, sensing the mood in the room shift.

‘Yes,’ he said, eyes flicking between the two lovers, ‘She will be able to try for children, just not yet.’

Rosalind seemed to physically relax. Edward gripped her in a tight embrace.

‘Oh,’ Rosalind let out the long sob of a lifetime of failure and buried her head in Edward’s chest. George turned away to hide the emotion that played across his own face.

After a moment Rosalind pulled herself up, ‘Well, I must go see to Mary. I think a special dinner is only fitting for this evening.’ She pushed up onto her tip toes and kissed Edward’s cheek before turning and walking out, a lightness in her step George had never before seen.

Edward came to George and enfolded him in a huge hug. Unsure of what to do, George stood still, arms at his side. ‘Thank you my friend. Thank you,’ Edward whispered.

‘It is yourself you should thank,‘ George said, pulling out of Edward’s grip. ‘It was your decision to bring her here that made the difference. The hot, the dry, it keeps the rot at bay.’

Edward turned to him sharply. ‘At bay? Meaning it is still there.’

‘Yes, consumpt…’ he caught himself, ‘illness of the lungs is rarely fully healed. The cold and damp will bring it out again in the weakened tissues. It is a good thing you have decided to stay.’

‘Who told you that?’ Edward shot him a look of alarm.

‘Why, Harbinger said you had discussed the possibility of purchasing this land. I was speaking with him last week, I am thinking of opening up a practice here and wondered if he would be interested in sponsoring me. At first, I didn’t believe him. I remember how you and Rosalind talked of England on our trip here. But now, seeing you here… Well, it quite becomes you.’

Edward shifted uncomfortably. ’It is a possibility. But by no means decided. George, I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Rosalind. Her health, it can be fragile. Though she is so much better. But I rather prefer not to burden her with financial details unnecessarily. You understand?’

He didn’t, but he smiled amiably and nodded anyway, ‘Of course Edward. Your business is your business. But I am sure she will be delighted when you tell her. This is the place that saved her life, after all.’

‘Indeed,‘ Edward said, but he seemed distracted. ‘It’s sometime before dinner, shall we take a ride before the sun is down?’

‘Yes, that sounds very agreeable,’ George said, smiling through his confusion, soon forgotten in the joy of riding with his friend across the sands of South Australia.

The sun was high overhead. Edward rolled up his sleeves and plunged the shovel back into the earth. His hands, now hardened and accustomed to farming, no longer complained as they rubbed the rough wood, little calluses protected his once aristocratic flesh. His browned face, burnt often enough by the sun to have developed a protective shade, creased with the effort of the work. His body stretched and groaned and the earth gave way as he expertly moved it to the side. Toiling beside him were the ever present Balun and Allambee. Merryweather had been right, the two were ardent workers, always keen to please.

Now as sweat gleamed from their bare skin, Allambee caught Edward’s eye and flashed him a broad grin, Edward nodded, they both loved to work the soil. Edward had decided to plant a new crop here, some orange trees to match with the lemons by the house. It was a new venture he had been planning for some months now, alongside other ideas. The traditional crops of the farm, corn and wheat, were profitable and effective, especially in this climate, and the sheep had added a whole new dimension, but Edward was looking for more self-sufficiency, for everyday foods, hardy and reliable. These thoughts teased his waking moments. A new challenge. An exciting one.

Satisfied with the hole they had dug, Edward paused to observe his new field. Bringing a small notebook from his pocket, he scrawled a few plant varieties in a list of plans. He would need extra fertiliser to make this venture work, he decided. His elegant writing caressed the page, his hands, for a moment their old selves, writing beautifully, gracefully, before he plunged the book back deep in his pocket and resumed the manual labour of his task. Hands transformed into the instruments of action.

Rosalind appeared on the balcony, a broad smile on her lips. So many joys had come to them of late, she had too much to be happy for. Resting her hands on her stomach, she watched her husband toil, amusement brightening her face. Working with the natives! What would his father have thought? She could not understand his love of farm work, but it gave him joy and kept him happy. She would not contend it, after all it was only a symptom of this place; Hathrone would soon right any impropriety when they returned home to England.

Edward stood tall and stretched his back. Spying Rosalind, he raised a hand to wave before wiping his dusty face, dismissing Allambee and Balun for the day and heading up for lunch. Washing in the tough by the out houses, he mused to himself over the beauty of this moment, this day. The sun was hard, but a gentle breeze made its way from the cooling river. The earth was rich and ready for crops, the air smelt of the coming rains. It was the time for planting. He splashed the cold water over his face and savoured its texture as it coursed down his neck and spilled onto his chest. Breathing deeply, he dried his hands on his shirt, pausing to watch the bush around him quiver in the heavy air. Contentment swelled within him, the scent of food wafting from Mary’s kitchen adding to his calm. How good those oranges would taste. How succulent. The thought reminded him of his parched throat and drew him from his reverie, back to his wife who waited, smiling their joy, at the verandah table.

They would lunch together and then Edward could use the afternoon to plan his farming acquisitions at the coming Saturday market. Rosalind liked to listen to his ideas and the afternoon would pass nicely together this way, before an evening of quiet reading. The cool verandah was their favourite haunt in this season. Maybe he would take Rosalind out in the rowboat? It now sported a freshly painted sheen, she seemed to enjoy bobbing with him on the river. No need to decide, Edward could allow the afternoon to take them as it wished. He felt calm, not having to actively plan the order of events, but knowing subconsciously how his day would play out, with nothing to distract or stress him, only the surrounding nature and his wife’s lilting voice to enjoy.

And so it came to be that Rosalind remained on the farm one morning, content to water the roses and help Mary with the dinner herbs, not wishing to see the ladies in Goolwa, while Edward ventured in. He traveled past the town, stopping only once he had reached the oceanside.

Sitting atop a vast sand dune, fingers sifting white sand and pulling at spinifex, Edward gazed out to sea. This place has taken me over, he thought to himself. It’s all I can see, all I can feel. Here I can be me. Edward had been transformed by this remote continent. It had gifted him Rosalind’s health. But it had not brought all he had thought he wanted; it had not returned his passion for poetry. In its place was something new. For the first time in his life, Edward did not need words, books or poems. There was nothing in his world to escape from, no role to be played, no expectations. The pain of his childhood, from which he had been running for so long, had dissolved under the high Australian sun. Here Edward Barrington was free.

The bright sunlight shined on the white sand bottomed ocean, reflecting back to Edward’s eyes a turquoise so rich he had to blink to ensure it was real. Like the colour of thick blown glass, it swam through his mind. He wanted to take the colour and wrap it around Rosalind; her deep brown hair cascading beside it would bring out the full richness of her new glowing beauty. Edward leaned back into the sand, the sun kissed ocean calm beneath him. Everywhere I look there is Rosalind: her eyes, her skin, her voice, all a part of this landscape. Edward realised it had never been England that made him feel safe, it had been his wife. Hathrone was just a house, she made it their home. Open windows, vases of roses. A place of love, until the warning echo of her coughing stole it all away. And now, the farm that had been just a tool to save her, had through her health become a sanctuary. Where she was safe and well, was where he himself needed to be. This is her place, he realised, this is our place. And George’s warning… He would not risk losing her. Could not go back to being alone. A decision cemented itself in his mind.

Edward rose to his feet, collected his black steed and rode into town. There he sat, alone at Mr Harbinger’s desk and signed over ownership of his father’s estate in Derbyshire to Alistair, as the older man signed over ownership of the small farm by the waterside to Edward; there after to be known as Hathrone Farm, Australia.

Six months later, he would be dead.