Thorn box
Meaning: Girlhood
Bursaria spinosa | Eastern Australia
Small tree or shrub with furrowed dark grey bark. Smooth branches are armed with thorns. Leaves yield pine-like fragrance when bruised. Sweetly scented white flowers bloom in summer. Provides nectar to butterflies and safety to small birds. Intricate architecture of thorns is much sought after by spiders for constructing webs.
Alice shielded her eyes from the sun. Although autumn had cooled the nights, the days were still broiling. Candy lifted the vine, locked the workshop door behind them, and let the vine fall back over the doorway. On the back verandah the Flowers had finished morning tea and were ferrying their cups and plates from the tables into the kitchen. Candy called out to Myf, with the bluebird tattoo at her throat, to ask for the time. After Myf replied, Candy turned to Alice, her face filled with dismay. Alice’s heart sank.
‘Oh sweetpea, I’m sorry. It’s later than I’d realised. I have to get lunch ready I’m afraid, or else we’ll have neglected Flowers, in every sense. I’ll have to take you to the river another time.’
Alice searched her face.
‘No, don’t give me that look. Please. I just can’t let you go by yourself.’
Alice kept her eyes on Candy’s face.
‘Dammit,’ Candy muttered under her breath. ‘Listen, only as long as you promise to be more careful than you’ve ever been. In. Your. Life.’ Candy frowned. ‘And as long as you promise to come back as soon as you’ve had a quick look at the river. Straight back. I mean it.’
Alice nodded vigorously.
‘And one last thing: you cannot tell June or Twig I let you go off by yourself the very first time they left me to look after you.’
Alice raised her eyebrows.
‘Oh. Right. That won’t be a problem.’ Candy folded her arms. ‘Okay, Alice Blue,’ she surrendered, smiling despite herself. ‘You can go to the river by yourself and explore. But don’t let me down, okay? Second chances aren’t easy to come by around here.’
Alice ran to Candy and threw her arms around her waist. I trust you.
For the next ten minutes Candy repeated the directions to the river: go to the path at the end of the flower fields. Follow it through the bush to the river. Do not leave the path. Do not go into the river. Do not try to cross the river. Do nothing at all other than follow the path to the river.
After Alice had nodded along to every word three times, Candy was satisfied.
‘Okay, then,’ she said. ‘I’m going to prep lunch. See you soon, sweetpea.’
Alice hesitated, not quite believing that she was allowed to leave. At the back steps Candy turned. Go, she mouthed with a grin, shooing Alice away with her hands.
She took off around the flower field with Candy’s directions ringing in her ears. She didn’t stop, look back or falter. If her voice was working she would have thrown back her head and crowed. She didn’t let her eyes stray from the chalky path at the bottom of the garden that cut away into the forest. To the river, Alice sang to herself. To the river.
Once she was within the arms of the bush, Alice slowed to walking pace. Streams of light fell through the canopy and pooled at her feet. Crickets and bellbirds sang together, joined by the occasional whump-whump of a tree frog. She gazed at the gum trees overhead, their branches and leaves hushing each other in the wind. Monarch butterflies flap-flap-swooped over wild cotton bushes. She stopped to study lichen-covered rocks, the hairy curls of tree fern buds, and patches of sweet-smelling purple wildflowers. The air was rich with the smell of dry earth, vanilla and eucalyptus.
She’d almost forgotten why she’d come until she heard it. She stopped and listened. There it was, faint, but unmistakable; water called to her as vividly as if it were her mother’s voice. Alice bolted for the river, her hair streaming behind her.
The path came to an end at a clearing on the banks of a wide, green river. It didn’t curl, roar or crash like the ocean; it was calm, one flowing constant song. Alice was drawn to it the way everything else around her also seemed to be: tree roots reached into the river, as did long and wispy strands of moss that clung to half-submerged rocks.
Do not go into the river.
Alice made a silent apology to Candy as she kicked off her boots. She’d just peeled off her socks when she noticed a thin trail leading off along the riverbank.
She strained to see where it led. Candy had made no mention of another trail. Second chances aren’t easy to come by around here. Alice crept towards it. She’d just take a peek. But, to her disappointment, the trail didn’t lead anywhere. It ended abruptly, almost as soon as it began, at a tiny circular nook in the shade by the river, big enough for maybe two people. Alice scuffed her feet in the dust, sighing in disappointment. But as she turned to go back to the river, something caught her eye: the gilded edge of something big enough to block the sun. Her eyebrows shot up as she took in the size of the giant river red gum. Its trunk was wider than she was tall. Alice looked into the arms of the tree that reached so high she couldn’t see its top. The thought of climbing it made her hands clammy. Its branches were heavy with flowering blossoms and fragrant, crescent-shaped leaves. Its roots ran into the river, creating pockets that were filled with gum nuts, leaves and flowers. It was a king of trees. But more mesmerising to Alice than anything else was the spot on its trunk where a list of names was carved. Although they started above her eye level, when she stood on tiptoe with her head leant back, Alice could read them all. She recognised Ruth Stone’s name but didn’t know any others, until she got to the last two.
June Hart.
Beside June’s name was a deep cut, where Alice guessed another name was once carved. Below was Alice’s father’s name: Clem Hart. And next to it was a similar scar, where yet another name must have been. Alice tried to make sense of the list, as if it was maybe a secret language like the flowers, but she couldn’t. Ruth Stone, Jacob Wyld. Wattle Hart, Lucas Hart. June Hart. Clem Hart. Plus the two gouged from the wood.
The harsh screech of a cockatoo made her jump. Something about the missing names and the smallness of the cleared space made her nervous.
When the cockatoo shrieked again, Alice scurried back to the clearing by the river and stood panting, willing her heart to slow.
The smooth and even flow of the river calmed her. Heat and humidity pressed on her skin. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine. Promise to come back as soon as you’ve had a quick look at the river. Straight back.
Alice couldn’t stop herself. She whipped her T-shirt and shorts off, left them by her already discarded boots, and stepped down the bank onto the sandy shore. When the cool water lapped at her feet she shuddered from the familiar comfort of it. The last time she’d gone for a swim felt so far away and so long ago, she could barely remember the taste of salt water. She walked in up to her knees, lulled by the gentle current, then up to her waist, fanning the surface of the water with her open hands. Her shoulders loosened. The forest around her ticked and buzzed.
She glanced towards the gum tree, thinking about the names carved into its trunk. The river is another story altogether, June had said when they’d been in the flower field together. It’s belonged to my family for generations. Our family. Alice looked down through the water, at her feet on the sandy bottom. Was a river a thing that could ever be owned? Wouldn’t that be like someone trying to say they owned the sea? Alice knew that when you were in it, the sea owned you. Still, the thought that she was somehow a part of this place filled a small space inside her with warmth. Overhead a kookaburra burbled. Alice nodded. Enough thinking. She took a step forward and sank into the swirling green water, leaving all her unasked questions on the surface.
The sweet and absolute absence of salt shocked her. Her eyes didn’t sting. She exhaled bubbles and watched them rise and pop. The heart of the river beat in Alice’s ears. Her father told her once that all water eventually ran to the same source. A new question bloomed: could she swim down river, through time, all the way home?
Alice pondered the question for so long that she stayed underwater until her lungs were burning. She pressed her feet firmly on the riverbed and pushed herself to the surface, coming up spluttering. It hadn’t hurt so much to breathe since the fire. Suddenly the light in the bush didn’t seem as welcoming, nor did the water feel as soothing. She staggered out of the river, coughing hard as she scrambled up the bank and onto dry ground. She coughed and coughed, bent over, hands on her knees.
‘Are you all right?’
She spun towards the voice.
There he was. On the other side of the river. The boy from the car.
Alice doubled over coughing again, her nose and eyes running. She couldn’t stop. The more she tried the harder she coughed. When she started to cry, coughing turned into retching. Behind her, a loud splash was followed a few moments later by water dripping on her feet. The boy was at her side, sopping wet.
‘Breathe in, think “in”. Breathe out, think “out”.’ He rested his hand between her shoulder blades. She glanced at him and followed his instructions.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Slowly, her coughing receded.
When she stood, she realised too late that she was wearing nothing but her knickers. Her face burned as she grabbed her T-shirt and shorts and, before she could look at his face again, tore off down the path.
‘Hey!’ he called. Alice would not look back.
Only when the bush met the boundary of the flower farm did she stop to put her clothes on. It wasn’t until she noticed her bare feet that she realised she’d left her boots by the river.
As she ran along the edge of the flower fields towards the house, the early afternoon sun warmed her skin. Her face had cooled. She didn’t know what she would do about her boots other than try to sneak out later to get them.
Across the fields the workshop air conditioners hummed. The Flowers were inside, tending to their cuttings from the morning. Alice sprinted lightly up the steps of the back verandah. The tables were clean, the chairs all neatly pushed in. She didn’t know how long she had been gone. Had she missed lunch? Her stomach growled loudly in response. Alice tiptoed towards the screen door.
Inside, there didn’t seem to be anyone about. Maybe Twig and Candy were in the workshop too. Alice relaxed. She went into the kitchen looking for food and found bread, butter and Vegemite to make herself two sandwiches.
‘You must have an appetite the size of Harry’s today!’
Alice froze, then turned, forcing herself to smile calmly at Twig, who stood in the doorway.
‘Candy said you ate your lunch upstairs earlier, after such a tough morning. She said you polished off your plate.’
Unsure of what to do, Alice nodded. She’d missed lunch. She must have been gone for much longer than she thought, and was queasy at the idea of getting in trouble, or worse, getting Candy in trouble. But Candy had covered for her. The thought made her genuinely happy.
‘A good appetite is as important as a good attitude, I like to say,’ Twig said as she walked away, down the hall. ‘Listen, speaking of Harry, when you finish your sandwiches, come on into the lounge room, will you?’
Alice exhaled the breath she’d been holding; Twig didn’t seem to have noticed her dusty bare feet or damp hair.
As she stood in the kitchen, chewing her sandwiches, Alice couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She had one thing now, one thing at Thornfield that felt like it was her own. Her first visit to the river would always be hers alone. Except, of course, for the boy. At the thought of him, Alice’s cheeks burned anew. She put her sandwich down. It had suddenly lost all flavour.
The lounge room was airy and bright. Twig sat on the couch with Harry at her feet, who occasionally sighed as she scratched his ears. Alice joined them, sitting in the same spot as earlier that morning, after June carried her downstairs and disappeared. That felt like days ago. Outside, Alice noticed June’s truck was parked by the workshop. Would she be joining them? The thought made her nervous. She rubbed her eyes. They were suddenly very heavy.
‘I think June’s mentioned to you that our Harry here has special powers?’ Twig asked.
Alice nodded, yawning.
‘I thought I might teach you the ways we talk to Harry, whenever we need help.’
Hearing his name, Harry’s ears half-heartedly perked under Twig’s massaging fingers. He slouched against Twig’s legs, slack-jawed and occasionally drooling. Hardly a super-dog, Alice thought.
‘Harry’s what’s called an Assistance Dog. Have you heard of Assistance Dogs before, Alice?’
She shook her head. Before Harry, the only dog she’d ever known was Toby, and he wasn’t her assistant. He was her best friend.
‘Assistance Dogs are specially trained to help people when they’re afraid. Dogs like Harry can pick up on people’s emotions. They can comfort you and distract you when you’re sad or scared or upset.’ Twig smiled as Harry licked her hand. ‘Maybe Harry’s brought you a little bit of that comfort and distraction already, since you arrived?’ she asked, looking over at Alice.
Alice thought about Harry staying by her side in the truck after she and June pulled up at Thornfield. He’d been there when she’d woken from her bad dreams, and even managed to get her to come downstairs yesterday. She took in his big toothy smile, his black-tipped ears and golden face. He wasn’t Toby, but Twig was right; there was something about Harry that made her feel better.
‘Harry’s assistance is usually most needed when we have someone new join us here at Thornfield. So, any time you need him, Alice, anytime you’re upset, scared or panicked, remember Harry is here for you. As we all are.’ Twig smiled. She smoothed Harry’s ears down, gave his flanks a pat. ‘Most of Harry’s commands are spoken, but we use visual commands too. I’ll teach you those, okay?’
For the rest of the afternoon, Alice learned how to speak to Harry. She got the hang of it quickly. Clicking her fingers in front of her body directed Harry to stand before her, creating a barrier between Alice and anything else. Clicking her fingers behind her told Harry to position himself there. Clapping her hands told him to enter a room and turn the lights on, so that Alice didn’t have to go into the dark. That was her favourite command. Seeing Harry canter into the lounge room and press the button on the floor to switch on the standing lamp made her laugh.
‘He knows every room in the property, Alice, and where all the light switches are.’ Twig nodded seriously, but her eyes were smiling.
The last command, sweeping her open palm over her head from left to right, cued Harry to enter a space and search for people or intruders, barking if he found anyone. She didn’t like the thought of using that one.
‘Good, Alice. That’s great. You’re a quick learner. If you’re ever alone again and you feel faint, like this morning, remember you can call on Harry.’
By the time the workshop door opened and the sounds of the Flowers finishing up for the day drifted through the windows, Alice had the knack of Harry’s commands. She flopped on the couch, too tired to practise anymore.
‘June will be in soon for dinner,’ Twig said. ‘How about a bath beforehand, then early to bed? It’s been a big day.’
Alice nodded. She didn’t really want a bath, but Twig’s gentle voice made everything she said sound like perfect sense. As she followed Twig down the hallway towards the bathroom, Alice clicked her fingers behind her, though she didn’t need to. Harry was right at her heels.
Twig swung the screen door open and sat on the back verandah steps in the last light of the day. She rolled herself a smoke, lit it and took a deep drag, listening to the crackle of the burning tobacco, feeling the smoke fill her lungs. She blew a plume up to the first stars. Across the flower fields yellow light fell from the workshop windows. June had been in there ever since she’d come home earlier that afternoon. Twig had been doing paperwork in the office, waiting for Alice to return from the river, when June’s weary footsteps came up the front steps. She’d gone to greet her in the hall. June had held her hand up in protest.
‘Twig,’ she’d said, before Twig got the chance to speak. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Harry bounded between them, nearly knocking them over.
‘She’s at the river,’ Twig had said. ‘I’m going to teach her basic cues with him when she gets back.’ Twig patted Harry’s head. ‘She needs something to help her cope when she has another panic attack.’
‘If she has another panic attack.’ June had sighed. ‘I’ve enrolled her in school. She starts next week. I’ll tell her tonight.’
Twig clenched her fists. June wasn’t ever this stubborn raising Candy Baby. Twig knew the difference though: Candy was a blessing. Alice was blood.
‘And enrolment took all morning?’ Twig had looked out the front screen door, at June’s truck. The corner of a hand-carved hazelwood box poked out from under a tarpaulin on the tray. Twig raised an eyebrow. She knew exactly where June had been: digging up old ghosts in her storage shed in town.
‘Easy, Twig. It’s not what you think. It’s been one helluva day.’
‘Yes. Yes, it has been,’ Twig had hissed. ‘For your granddaughter most of all, but hey, who knows about your grandson? Since you cast him aside like some kind of weed.’
The words smashed to splinters at their feet. When she saw June’s face, Twig had wanted to sweep them up and swallow their serrated edges one by one. June had stomped out of the house, into the workshop, and slammed the door behind her. She hadn’t emerged since.
Twig lit another smoke. She was grateful June had the grace not to throw her own pain back in her face. Her anger wasn’t just about June separating Clem’s children. Of course it wasn’t. It was about her own babies. It was about the day thirty years ago when welfare officers pulled up in their shiny Holden and came into her home with a court order accusing her of child neglect. Because she didn’t have a husband. Because she often left Nina and Johnny with Eunice, her sister, while she went out looking for work. Because she was poor. Because the Child Welfare Department decided the only chance her children had of being proper Australians was if they grew up with a proper Australian family. A white Australian family. One of them had held Twig down while the other wrenched Nina and Johnny from her arms. They were screaming. Twig sang, trying to calm them, but they were inconsolable, tearing fistfuls from the daisy bush in the front yard, reaching for anything to hold onto as they were taken away. Twig had crumpled by the torn daisies browning and dying in the sun; the last things her children touched. She was still there, singing in the harsh northwesterly wind, tending the dead flowers as if she might be able to replant them, when Eunice came home after work. Twig had tried to carry on, believing Nina and Johnny would somehow find their way back to her, but after Eunice went missing a few years later, she had fled. Drifted up the coast, and then inland, hitchhiking from town to town. Until one day when, walking along the highway, she was lured down Thornfield’s driveway by curiosity, then the sound of a crying baby.
A peal of laughter from the dorm interrupted her memories. Twig wiped her eyes on her shirt. She’d asked Candy to serve dinner to the Flowers in the dorm; if June was going to explain to Alice that she was going to school, they needed privacy. That was, if June ever planned on coming out of the workshop.
As if on cue, the workshop door opened. Twig hid the lit end of her cigarette and sat perfectly still in the shadows as June made her way towards the front of the house. If she saw Twig, she didn’t let on. The front door opened and closed. The hinge of the crockery cabinet in the dining room squeaked open as June set the table. Further down the hall the bath gurgled as it emptied. The bathroom door opened. Light footsteps travelled down the hall into the kitchen. The sigh of the oven being turned off. The murmur of June’s voice. Chairs dragging on the dining room floorboards as June and Alice sat down. The clink and scrape of steel on china as they ate.
Alice must have been starving for a proper meal after her run to the river and back. Twig knew exactly where she’d been when she came upon Alice in the kitchen earlier that afternoon. Her shirt was buttoned up wrong, her wet hair was full of leaves, and her feet were sandy. But there was a light in her eyes and a colour in her cheeks that kept Twig silent. She knew as well as anyone that Thornfield found all sorts of ways to mend the broken souls that came to call it home. For now, it was the river that would hold Alice together. For Twig, ever since she came to Thornfield, the fix was always June.
Alice lay in bed, her head spinning from the news June had given her at dinner. She was enrolled in the local school. She started class next week.
‘I went and spoke to the principal myself today,’ June had said. ‘He suggested Harry goes to class with you so you have a friend right from the beginning.’
School. She’d read about it. Teachers and classrooms, desks, pencils and books. Children, playgrounds, cut sandwiches, reading, writing and homework. And she could take Harry with her.
Alice rolled onto her side. She turned her thoughts instead to the river. How it sounded below the surface, and the strange feeling she got when the boy put his hand on her back to help her breathe.
A breeze tickled under her chin. Alice sat up. One of the white curtains in her room twirled in the darkness. She didn’t remember opening a window. Alice reached over to switch on the lamp, squinting in the light.
There, sitting on the floor by her bed, were her baby-blue boots.
In one of them was a bunch of vanilla-scented wildflowers.
Twig was rolling a third smoke when she heard the thud at the side of the house. She held her breath to sharpen her hearing. Footsteps crunched down the dirt path to the flower fields until the young boy came into view. Twig narrowed her eyes. She exhaled slowly. Held her unlit rollie in one hand and her lighter in the other, waiting to see if he’d look back. Just before the path went into the forest, he turned, his face in full moonlight.
There he stood, Boryana’s boy. With his eyes so locked on Alice’s lamp-lit window, Twig doubted he’d have noticed her on the back steps even if she was lit up in flames.
When he turned back to the path and disappeared into the forest, Twig lit her smoke with shaky hands. She’d seen this all happen before. When Agnes Ivie was the child in the bell room. And Clem Hart was the one sneaking through her window to give her flowers.
