ENJOY: A HINT OF DARKNESS CHAPTERS 1 & 2

Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved.’

William Jennings Bryant

A HINT OF DARKNESS

chapter 1

From the journals of Emmaline Gidley-King

Cooktown, North Qld Australia,  11^th February 1879

Mama: will I never be free of her malevolent presence? It has taken the most commonplace, yet startling of events, to prompt me to begin my writing. Last night, exhausted by Lilli’s constant demands, I fell into bed without performing my hair-braiding ritual. This morning confronted by a wild tangle of curls, and bemoaning my lack of discipline, I attempted to drag a brush through the knotted black mass. Through tear-starred eyes I surveyed my image in the mirror. My breath escaped in a hiss. Mama’s dark almond eyes stared back at me. That despised face. I recoiled in horror as if my own features had somehow changed, betrayed me. The brush clattered to the floor. I searched my reflected image, desperate to distinguish a difference; any disparity between us.  Eventually common sense prevailed. I am not and never will be like my mother.

Papa’s adoration of Mama still pains me so. She had only to affect her pretty pout to bend him to her will. Perhaps his indulgence helped create the monster within and yet few people saw beneath the veneer. The suspicion clings to me, burns like acid, was her spitefulness for me alone? In the end her conduct went far beyond jealousy, an act of hatred, nothing short of monstrous. I want to destroy her world as she destroyed mine. With no compassion, she tore from me everything I held dear. 

Rage trembles my hand, and ink, black as her heart, defiles the page. The spectre of revenge is a constant shadow always beyond my reach. No, for Lilli’s sake, I must put aside thoughts of retribution there are no means by which I may gain justice. I will not feed my daughter hatred along with her mother’s milk. I must exorcise the demons and free myself from the past. I don’t have any real expectation the simple act of recording my memories past and present will assuage my soul, but perhaps it will act as a panacea, a salve for my wounds.

chapter 2

Rain taps with gentle fingers on the iron roof, a respite from the deafening tattoo of the past hour. Through the open window, guffaws of male laughter drift up from the street below. Travelers emerging from the Cobb & Co coach curse as they pick their way through the squelching quagmire of Charlotte Street. A man struggling with his valise staggers and falls. He waves an angry fist, an unwilling source of amusement for the onlookers. 

I cannot refrain from smiling. Not at his ill fortune but because I’ve found happiness, albeit, in questionable surroundings. My haven is of dubious standing, my social level equates to the lowest rung, and my respite is in all probability temporary, all seems of little consequence. This is my reality and I accept it with utmost gratitude. My contentment, though somewhat apart from, stems from the same sources that have brought me to this point in my life and though I’m a far cry from the grand existence I once knew, for the moment I am safe and for now that must be enough. There is naught to define who I am, in these austere surroundings. At the foot of the bed lie a digging stick and a woven bag, little enough to remind me of what has gone before.

An iron bedstead and a duchess, its surface pitted and stained, stand in ludicrous contrast to the pristine wicker crib. Putting my writing aside, I rose and walked across to the crib where Lilli lay sleeping; her baby face as yet unstamped. The embryo of the woman to come lies curled within her. My finger caressed her delicate features. At my touch her eyelashes fluttered against her dark, velvety skin. My beautiful child is an apodosis, the melding of two races, two cultures. In a society where anything other than white is considered inferior, she will be ostracized, judged, and condemned. Though blameless, Lilli will pay the price. Emotionally, I am in constant turmoil, I can go neither back nor forward. My beloved Papa will never hold his grandchild; she will never know the wonder of his love. That of course is a paradox. If Papa had lived Lilli would not have been born.

Lilli’s hiccoughing sobs have at last subsided. It has taken me nearly an hour to settle her, poor little mite. I must learn to be more circumspect. Yet how can I ignore the gross injustice between white and black? I was nursing Lilli, marvelling at the perfection of her tiny features, when a child’s cries echoing up from the street below, drew me to the window. A black woman clutched a wailing infant to her chest as she fended off the advances of two drunken miners. No, that is incorrect. The woman huddled against the wall made no attempt to ward off her tormentors.  I pulled Lilli from my breast and thrust her into her crib. Fumbling to button my gown, I rushed down the stairs and out into the street. By this time the howls of the woman and her infant had attracted a small crowd of onlookers. With no thought to propriety, I grabbed the smaller man’s arm and shoved him away. He landed in a drunken heap on the roadway.  I positioned myself in front of the wailing woman. The other drunk, a burly red-faced fellow, belched in my face and made to push me away. Though I badly wanted to move out of range of his sour breath and meaty fist I lifted my chin and fixed him with a haughty stare, almost daring him to hit me.

‘There’s nothing to be gained here, in making sport of a poor defenceless woman, leave her alone and go about your business.’  There was little chance of help from the onlookers or from the two black men across the street silently watching.  The drunk raised his fist and I steeled myself for the blow to come.  He spat on the muddied wooden footpath, barely six inches from my feet, muttering ‘Nigger lover.’  Then to my relief he turned and stumbled away. A few of the men standing nearby guffawed and a wizened old fellow limped over to me. ‘Good on ya missus. Nasty bastard that.’

The blacks, shadows of this white man’s world, were gone.  I walked inside on trembling legs and Maggie grabbed my arm and swung me around to face her.

‘You stupid girl, what do you think you’re playing at? This isn’t Collins Street society.’ She gave me no opportunity to defend my actions as she dragged me up the stairs. Annie was rocking and murmuring to an outraged Lilli.

The encounter has left me confused and troubled. Was my early life a mere façade, a privileged existence, with no connection to reality? No, that would be too cruel to bear.  I will not allow an isolated incident to taint my judgment; to sully Papa’s memory. We are all actors in life’s story. Though we cannot choose the part we will play, we can decide how we will play it. As I cherish my daughter, so I have known pure and unconditional love.

15^th February 1879

Are we just the sum of our memories? If we had the choice to remember only the good things, would life be any easier, any happier. I have only to close my eyes to feel the warmth of Papa’s embrace; hear his deep rich laughter mingling with my high-pitched squeals of excitement as Mephistopheles pranced around the carriageway while I tugged at his silky mane. Aptly named the huge black stallion cast the fear of the devil in all who dared come near, yet in that silent communication that exists between horse and human my childish antics were tolerated.

On my fourth birthday, Mrs Ferguson, our housekeeper, led me to our front entrance.  By nature, a dour Scotswoman, on that day a little smile played about her thin lips. ‘Now Miss Emmaline, your Papa said you were to close your eyes tightly. No peeking.’

Hopping from one foot to the other I waited. But at the clip clop of hooves, no longer able to contain myself, I pulled away from her and with a squeal bounded down the stairs. Papa’s face lit with pleasure as he nodded towards the pony he was leading. ‘Emmie this is Benjamin. You remember Eddie Whitley?  Well his family has gone back to the old country and he wanted someone to love and take special care of this fellow.’  His mouth was spread wide in a big Papa smile.  ‘Benjamin, this little monkey is Emmaline, your new mistress.’

Benjamin was a chestnut pony with a cream swishy tail. ‘Oh, Papa he’s just adorable. Thank you, thank you.’ Smothering my father’s face with kisses, I breathed in the scent of his cologne, and giggled. ‘It tickles. Your moustache tickles.’

Perched on the pony’s back and with Papa holding the lead rein we set off along the carriageway. From my elevated position the world was mine.  I grasped the miniature reins, breathing in the familiar horsey smell and leaned forward to wrap my arms around the pony’s neck.

‘Hey. Hold on tight young lady. We can’t have you falling off or Mama will be very cross with me.’

Just then Mama’s shrill voice cut through the morning air. ‘Will, she is not to be on zat ’orse in her best dress, and zat is no way for a young lady to ride.’ My legs were straddled wide over the pony’s ample girth and my green velvet skirt already crumpled. But what was that compared to the absolute bliss of having my own pony.

Papa waved to her and began to lead the horse back to the front entrance. I glared at Mama and tears slid down my cheeks.  ‘No Papa, please, it’s my birthday, not hers. Mama always gets her own way.’

‘Shush now Emmie. You mustn’t speak that way of your Mama.’

A little smile danced around her red lips and she tossed her head. ‘You can see what your overindulgence is doing to ze child. Your daughter is becoming a leetle ’oyden.’

All these years later her words come back to me, Papa’s daughter not hers. Papa kissed my cheek. ‘Sweetheart, there’ll be plenty of times to ride when you’re not wearing your best dress. Come on now dry those tears.’

The pony nudged me, I was sure I saw the light of sympathy in his soft brown eyes. I gave him one last hug. ‘I love you Marigold, we’re going to be best friends.’

‘What’s this Marigold, Emmie?  I told you his name is Benjamin, and besides Marigold is a girl’s name.’ I giggled, but from then on my pony was Marigold. Four years later he died from a snake bite. As we laid him to rest beneath a huge gum tree, sobbing, I promised I would bring flowers to him every day and no other horse would ever replace him.

A few days later Papa sought me out in my room. Taking my hand, he led me to the stables. ‘I don’t want another horse Papa. It’s no use trying to change my mind. I only want Marigold back.’ I hung my head struggling to hold back my tears.

Papa didn’t argue with me when I clung to the stable door refusing to go any further. He emerged a few minutes later leading Jacques.  It was love at first sight.  For the next six years the big chestnut gelding was my best friend and confidant. Right up to the end when my world collapsed around me.

My brother Thomas was older by a year and when we were small we laughed and played together but later we seemed to have little in common. Thomas was Mama’s boy. I was forever on the fringe, always outside looking in. Still as long as I had Papa I didn’t care. Up until the age of six or seven I spent a good deal of time in the company of Moira, who served as nanny and upstairs maid. She was a well enough intentioned soul and cared for my needs as best she could.  Thin to the point of emaciation her size was not in proportion to her appetite and much of our time together was spent at the kitchen table in the company of the stern Mrs Ferguson. There was a strict order of protocol within the household and the other servants were rarely involved in these intimate conversations.

Moira loved to gossip as much as she loved food.  Sipping on my sweet milky tea and keeping up with her one for one as she consumed a plate of freshly baked biscuits I enjoyed the warmth and familiarity of the two women.  Mrs Ferguson tut-tutted a lot and shook her head, professing to be shocked at the goings on of the nobs, her way of describing the upper class. To my chagrin, if a story was too risqué for my young ears, Moira would lean close to her and whisper. This sent Mrs Ferguson into a heightened spate of tut-tutting.

It was on one such occasion that Moira full of her own importance informed me that I had almost killed Mama when I was born. Mrs Ferguson frowned.

‘Now Moira don’t be upsetting the wee gel.’

‘I’m not telling her anything that’s not common knowledge.’

Wide-eyed and rigid I waited for her to go on.

‘Your Mama was only seven months along when young master Thomas was born. A tiny little mite he was and the birth was all over in no time. Mind you it was touch and go with him for a while and madam was off her head with worry. She slept with the crib beside her bed every night. So scared she was that something would happen to the little lad.’

She sighed dramatically. ‘Such a shame that she got in the family way again so soon. But then that’s men for you.’ She said this with a little simper which was beyond my childish comprehension.

‘Not that I’m saying a word against the master mind you. I’m just saying it as it is. Anyway it was different with you Miss Emmaline. You were a big healthy babe and she went on all night and most of the next day. You could hear her screams all over the house. She was that ill and exhausted she wouldn’t even have you near her for the best part of a fortnight. It was your Papa who cared for you. Right from the start you were his girl.’

Though Moira patted my curls, still I felt sick and guilty, no wonder Mama didn’t love me; I had done this terrible thing to her. Moira’s tale evoked a memory of when I was small and climbed onto Mama’s lap. I wanted to cuddle her, breathe in her delicate fragrance. For a few minutes she tolerated my attentions and then handed me to Moira and smoothed out her dress. As young as I was, I clearly recalled my feelings of anger and rejection.  Wriggling free of Moira’s skinny arms, I grabbed at Mama’s gown tearing at the fabric until her screaming brought Papa running.

‘Will, make her stop. She is an ’orrible little beast. Take ’er away right now.’

Papa didn’t answer her, as he carried me red-faced and howling out onto the terrace. Hugging me, gentle as always, he wiped my eyes.

‘Sweetheart try not to upset Mama, she’s very delicate, not like you and me.’

Thomas and Mama were both delicate and both in fear of the horses Papa and I so loved. Papa would scold me for feeding Jacques too many oats. He said it made him frisky and hard to handle. But Jacques adored his oats. He’d nuzzle me, nipping my shoulder if I made him wait too long. They were playful nips; his love for me was unconditional. I brushed him until his silky coat gleamed.

Breakfast was a morning ritual for Papa and me. In that respect he was very English. There was always at least half a dozen covered silver platters on the sideboard. Mostly we had crisp little sausages and ham and eggs, accompanied by mushrooms freshly picked and swimming in butter. Often we would go straight from the stables to the dining room, ravenous from our early morning ride. Like Papa I had a hearty appetite while Mama who seldom rose before ten o’clock only picked at the light meal she had served in her room. On the rare occasions when Papa was not about I ate in the kitchen with the servants, much to Mama’s annoyance. Which was partly the reason for my doing so. Papa and I rode most mornings. It was our special time together and sometimes we ended in a race, pulling up breathless and laughing. On occasion I would give Jacques his head. We would fly down the valley the wind tearing at my hair, his hooves thundering over the turf, joined as one magical being.  Papa, a skilled horseman, scolded me for my reckless behaviour and in the way of children, I shrugged off his concern, certain that bad things could never happen to me.

17^th February 1879

My own wilfulness was instrumental in creating the first tears in the fabric of my world.  In retrospect, I can see deep inside Thomas yearned to ride, to show Papa what a brave boy he was. Over the years Papa and I both coaxed, begged and on my part bullied Thomas, but all our attempts to overcome his mistrust of horses failed. Instead his confidence was undermined by mama’s pampering, and he continually refused our attempts to overcome his mistrust of horses.

My motives for begging Thomas to ride with me on that chilly winter’s afternoon had nothing to do with his welfare. Papa was busy and I longed for someone to share the exhilaration of the icy wind on my face.

I saddled up the quietest mount in the stables, a tired old grey, but even though I pleaded with him, Thomas, his jaw thrust forward, refused to even go near the horse. He scuffed at the mat of fallen leaves, squashing them into the oozing mud. Exasperated, I stamped my foot, raising a spray of muddy water.

‘I cannot believe you’re such a sissy, old Darcy is just about ready for the glue factory. He’d fall down dead if he tried to buck you off.’ I swung effortlessly up onto Jacques’ back.

‘I’m not scared. I could ride him if I wanted to. I just hate horses. They’re ugly smelly things. And you stink too when you’ve been out riding.’ He punched Jacques on the flank making him skitter sideways.

‘Don’t you dare hit Jacques, you big bully, you’re too scared to do anything, you’re just a Mama’s boy.’

Thomas was fourteen and almost fully grown, like Papa he was not overly tall but solidly built. He gave me a hate-filled look and ran off towards the stables.  I quieted Jacques, soothing him, telling him what a mean boy Thomas was as I rode off.  As the minutes ticked by my anger cooled and I regretted my nasty, childish behaviour.

Perhaps it was guilt that made me go back that day instead of riding off as I intended.  I cantered over to the stables and dismounted, throwing the reins over the wooden rail where Darcy was tethered. It was quite dark inside and I hesitated, adjusting my vision. The young mare nearest the door snickered and tossed her head.  As I reached out to stroke her quivering neck an enraged scream sent me running towards the end box. Mephistopheles wild-eyed, nostrils flaring, quivering with outrage, reared striking the front of the stall with such force I thought it must surely give way beneath the impact. As soon as those lethal hooves were back on the ground Thomas leapt forward flailing a leather girth strap. He brought it down again and again across Mephistopheles’ neck. Bright blood spurted where the buckle bit into the flesh. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and fear. I was right behind my brother then, so close I could hear him grunting with the exertion of his efforts.

Thomas, his face streaked with tears and blood, jerked back almost knocking me over, as the stallion, head tossing in murderous rage; smashed into the side of the confining stall. Thomas raised the strap to strike again and I screamed. ‘Stop it, you’re killing him. You’re killing him.’ I fastened my arms around my brother’s neck, slick with sweat. He tore at my hands cursing me, twisting and turning, trying to break my choking hold. We crashed onto the slate floor. Crushed beneath the weight of his body, the breath forced from my lungs, I gasped, moaning and fighting for air. Pain seared through my face and neck. Then he was standing over me, wild-eyed, spittle dripping from his chin.  I uttered a small cry and covered my face with my hands as Thomas raised the strap. I heard Papa’s roar of rage, then he was dragging Thomas outside. Doubled over, I staggered after them, still gasping, tears streaming down my face. That day I bore witness to emotions I never dreamed existed.  My gentle father, whom I had never heard raise his voice in anger stood over his son, his face contorted in fury. I watched in horror as he raised the girth strap above his head.

I gave a strangled cry. ‘Papa! No, Papa!’

He shuddered, looking at me with bare recognition before staggering away, the leather strap still grasped in his hand. Mama as pale as her ivory dress was running to Thomas, screaming at Papa’s retreating back. She knelt in the mud and held her sobbing son.

Even now the memory of that ugly scene brings a bitter taste to my mouth. Later my brother and I maintained an uneasy truce but the gap between Thomas and Papa was beyond repair. Like a ripple on a pond the effects of that one act had repercussions that would change my life forever.

 18^th February 1879

Though I cannot change the past, my present cannot consist of only good memories. I must accept I am the sum of both. In revisiting my childhood, I feel closer to my beloved father.

Papa was born in the year of 1821. In a class-conscious society, the Gidley-Kings had both breeding and money with which to do as they chose.  After reading law at Oxford Papa informed his father he was off to see the world and had no intention of becoming involved in the elitist world of conservative politics.

On one of our early morning rides we crested a steep hill and sat resting our mounts. Clusters of sheep patterned the green tapestry below. This was our world. My world.   ‘I’m never ever going to leave here Papa.’

His voice was light, teasing. ‘Nor will you, if I have anything to say about it. I will build a house for you and your ten children, and your husband too of course.’

‘But you did Papa, you left everything. How could you bear to leave England, and never go home again?’

‘I was young Emmie, and your grandfather was a hard man. He had no patience with feelings of humility, compassion or affection. He was adamant that if I left, I would forfeit my inheritance. I think his very words were ‘Leave if you must but never darken my doorway again.’

Papa emphasized the last with a furrowed brow and a wave of his fist.

We shared a smile. Still I felt a surge of anger against this grandfather whom I would never know. I judged him a monstrous man.

Papa shrugged. ‘Life is for living Emmaline, there’s no gain in looking back. I had no qualms about leaving the family home. All life and laughter died and were buried along with my mother. Damned mausoleum it was and my brother was welcome to it. He was far more suited to the life of a London gentleman. I made the decision to move on to a new life.’

As I must do now Papa.

He leaned across and touched my cheek. ‘Your Grandmother was a remarkable woman and you’re very like her.’  Reverting to his teasing he went on. ‘Anyway if I hadn’t left I would never have met your mother and then where would you be?’

I was not so easily put off.  It was inconceivable to me I might someday leave my home and my beloved Papa and be faced with the unfamiliar.  The very idea filled me with alarm. ‘I think you were very brave, even though your father was horrid, but don’t you miss England? In all the books it seems so different to Australia.’

He nodded. ‘You never really forget your birthplace. Deep down I’ll always be an Englishman.’

We turned the horses for home and Papa continued.  ‘I love this country; this is my home. But, I could just as easily have settled in New Zealand or America. At twenty-one, I was ripe for adventure, and took a berth on the first available ship.  I’d let fate decide my future. Fortunately, along with his name my grandfather bequeathed me five thousand pounds and a goodly amount of business sense. By the time I found myself on these fair shores I was thirty-five and could count myself a rich man.’

Papa not only accrued capital, as he traveled, he accumulated a wealth of knowledge. He told me once patience and acceptance are the goals every man should seek and it was wise to leave vengeance to the gods. To emphasise his point, he told me this little story.

‘One afternoon,’ Papa said, ‘I was walking along a dusty road and I came across an old Chinese man sitting in the shade. I was footsore and weary and disgruntled with life. The old man nodded for me to sit with him and asked what was troubling me. He sat motionless as I poured out my tale of woe. I had been duped out of a large sum of money by a wealthy merchant. I was angry at being cheated and at myself for getting into such a situation. Yet the worst part was I had no means of retaliating against the charlatan.  The old man gave no answer and I thought he’d forgotten my presence.  As I rose to my feet he spoke. I had to lean close to hear the words.’

‘What did he say Papa?’

‘He said, “If you sit by the river long enough, you will see the bodies of your enemies go floating by.”’

Perhaps if I am patient, one-day Mama’s body will go floating by. 

Papa’s decision to settle in Australia was influenced in part by journals passed down from his great-uncle. Lieutenant Phillip Gidley King had been involved with the early settlement of Norfolk Island and later served as Governor of New South Wales. And then as if fate had decreed it, Papa came across a book written by James Busby extolling the virtues of winemaking in the colonies. Busby had travelled to Italy and France extensively researching all facets of viticulture, the dimensions of cellars, grape variety and soil type, and most importantly climate.

I have a vivid recollection of a miserable wet afternoon, when I was eight or nine years old, and Papa joining Thomas and me in the library for tea and scones. Although we had heard the story before, I begged Papa to tell us of his arrival in Melbourne. As he talked I pictured him standing against the ship’s rail, the sea breeze ruffling his coppery hair.

He said wryly, ‘Somehow Melbourne didn’t look quite as I had envisioned it. By some peculiarity the development of Port Phillip only allowed for the landing of small boats, large steamers must remain at Port Williams. And what a sight met my eyes. All along the banks were sheep, sheep and more sheep. Slaughterhouses for sheep, tanneries for their hides, factories for the fat and tallow, and the piles of bones rose up forty feet high in places.’

I asked if it smelled unpleasant. Papa replied with a shudder. ‘Take my word for it Emmie, it stank to high heaven.’

I wrinkled my nose and he laughed. ‘But that was no matter for concern. I could scarcely contain my excitement at the masses of houses, and streets filled with people from all corners of the globe. It was 1856 and Melbourne had a population of half a million people by then including large Jewish and Chinese communities.’ He paused in his musings and tousled Thomas’ hair. I think to make him pay attention. He went on ‘In my experience the Chinese and the Jews have a nose for sniffing out opportunity. This appeared a good sign to me.

‘And I was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with Charles La Trobe. It was years since I’d last seen him. Charles called upon my father on the eve of his departure from London to take up the position of superintendent in Melbourne. It’s hard to imagine now, but back then Melbourne boasted a population of a mere 2000 people.’

I had gazed at Papa in disbelief, trying to visualize a Melbourne with streets bare of the beautiful maple and oak trees that shaded people dining at sidewalk cafes, without its bustling traffic and emporiums displaying the latest in fashion.  Visits to the city were a special treat for Thomas and me. There was a particular sweet shop in Collins Street, the name of which escapes me. Away from Mama’s strict gaze, we would press our noses against the glass, enticed by glossy humbugs, red striped bull’s eyes, chocolates in frilly paper skirts and my favourite, tiny, perfectly formed pink sugar pigs.

Like a miser I hoard those happy days and fond recollections.

Looking back, I realize Papa was musing more than talking to Thomas and me. ‘The Charles I remembered was full of plans for the future, declaring it a singular honour to take part in laying the foundations of a new nation. The Charles before me was still heavily involved in politics but that sort of dedication takes its toll.’ Papa rubbed his own smooth chin.  ‘I would scarcely have recognized him.

Though a beard covered half his face, it couldn’t conceal his weariness.  Charles wasn’t alone in thinking that as long as Australia is so rigidly controlled by the powers that be, back in England, it will never come of age. Certainly, it has growing pains but, like a child it needs to be nurtured not disciplined.  Over tea I expressed an interest in their small vineyard and was soon walking with the two of them amongst the flourishing vines.’ 

Papa placed his cup on the table and smiled ‘Well have you two had enough of my reminiscing and sermonizing? It seems to have fined up, if you want to get some fresh air.’

Thomas made a move but I pushed him back into the chair.  ‘No Papa please tell us more. We want to hear, don’t we Thomas?’

Thomas went back to picking at a hole he’d created in the arm of a brocade chair. He’d be in for it when Mrs Ferguson found it. Though he’d probably deny it. ‘How large was Mr La Trobe’s vineyard Papa?’

‘Not very big at all Emmie. Melbourne has an ideal climate for growing wine grapes, but most of the vineyards, including Charles’s were confined to a few acres in the suburbs. Thirty acres at Toorak was the largest.’

Papa’s voice rose a little. ‘But that wasn’t what I had in mind. I wanted to settle here and I needed a lot more than thirty acres to support me in the lifestyle I anticipated. Over a glass of Charles’s fine wine, he advised me that I’d have to overcome a few prejudices, re-educate some of the local hooligans, as he put it, to look beyond their beer and rum. But I would not be put off and holding up the glass of ruby liquid, I reminded him wine is as old as civilization.’

Within days of arriving in Victoria, Papa accompanied by Charles set out to find a suitable site for Papa’s vineyard. Finally, after weeks of travelling they came upon some likely sites around Lilydale and Coldstream. Papa explained Charles looked all done in, so he had ridden off early the next morning eager to explore as much of the area as possible. He paused for effect and I waited smiling, knowing what was coming next.

‘I urged my mount to the top of a grassy slope, and there before me, waiting in the pale morning light, lay a basin of some twenty thousand acres of lush pastureland.’

Thomas and I sat quietly waiting for him to go on. ‘Velvety green hills reached almost to the waters of the Yarra River.  The Dandenong Ranges, so often harsh and imposing, still cast in shadow, appeared soft and blue in the distance. As if it were preordained, I knew with absolute certainty here lay my home.’ In my heart I carry an image of Papa getting down from his horse, and kneeling to scoop up a handful of dark red soil. Papa’s words, spoken a lifetime ago, or so it seems, will remain with me always.

Now he lies sleeping in the valley he loved so well