The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart
: Chapter 6

Striped mintbush

Meaning: Love forsaken

Prostanthera striatiflora | Central Australia

Found in rocky gorges and near outcrops. Very strongly mint-scented. Narrow leathery leaves. The white flower is bell-shaped with purple stripes inside the bloom and yellow spots in the throat. Should not be ingested, as it can cause difficulty in sleeping. Vivid dreams are also symptomatic.

The drive was long, hot and filled with yellow dust. There was no hint of the sea on the breeze. The air from the truck’s vents was hot on Alice’s face, like Toby’s panting breath. At the thought of his face, his drooling, wolfish smile, she sucked on her bottom lip, staring hard out the window at the strange and unfamiliar surroundings. No silver seagrass or salt pans, no soldier crabs or sea tides to read, no seaweed necklaces to wear, and no skies filled with ghostly wisps of virga, warning of storms out at sea.

On either side of the flat highway the land was thirsty, dry as a cracked tongue. Somehow, though, the strange landscape teemed with life. It hummed in Alice’s ears, the clicking buzz of cicadas, the occasional wild cackle of kookaburras. There was the occasional blur of colour where wildflowers grew at the base of gum trees. Some had trunks as white as fairytale snow while others were an ochre colour, as glossy as if covered in a slick of wet paint.

Alice squeezed her eyes shut. Her mother. Her unborn brother or sister. All her books. The garden. Her desk. Toby. Her father. She rubbed the heel of her palm over the left side of her chest. Opened her eyes. In her peripheral vision June reached a hand out towards her but, seeming unsure of where to rest it, let it hover before eventually putting it back on the steering wheel. Alice pretended not to have seen. That seemed as good a way as any to manage the situation. She angled herself away from June, turning more directly towards her window. Stretching an arm behind her seat, she reached into her bag for her books, choosing to ignore that they’d come from June and focusing instead on them belonging to her. Alice tugged from the bag the first one her fingertips touched and almost smiled at the sight of it. A perfect comfort. Clutching it, Alice took solace from its solid, sturdy shape, its reliably straight edges, its papery smell, its beckoning story, and its hard cover bearing an image she’d spent countless hours studying, of a girl with her name, who fell into a strange and wonderful land but still found her way home.

June kept her eyes on the road and both hands firmly on the steering wheel for fear of what would happen if she glanced away or slackened her grip. She couldn’t stop the tremors in her limbs. Only a nip of whisky from the flask in her side pocket would do that. But she didn’t dare. Not today. Not with the child in the truck, sitting so close June could have reached out and touched her. Alice. Her granddaughter, who she’d never laid eyes on. Until today. In sidelong glances June observed the girl pressing her book to her chest like it was the very thing keeping her heart beating. She’d agreed to go along with the nurse’s suggestion that they tell Alice the box of books came from her grandmother. Apparently Alice loved them so much, it seemed the simplest way to establish a connection between them. The most important thing right now is that Alice is protected from any further stress, the nurse had said.

Looking across at Alice, June felt ridiculous for believing any untruth might help to alleviate the situation. She chided herself for her stupidity. She should have just bloody well sat down and talked no nonsense with the child. Hello, Alice, I’m June, your grandmother. Your father is – June shook her head – was my son, who I hadn’t seen for many, many years. I’m going to take you home, where you’ll never feel unsafe again. June blinked her tears away. Maybe it only would have taken a few words. I’m so sorry, Alice. I should have been a better mother. I’m so, so sorry.

When the local police knocked on the front door at Thornfield, June had hidden in the pantry to take a long guzzle of whisky from her flask before answering. She let them in, thinking they’d come about one of the Flowers. Instead they removed their hats and told her that her son had been killed in a house fire, along with his wife. They were survived by their children, a newborn son and a nine-year-old daughter. Both of June’s grandchildren were receiving medical care, and she was listed as their next of kin. She should know, it was clear Clem was responsible for the serious abuse of his wife and daughter. After they left, June barely made it to the toilet in time to vomit. Her deepest fear about her son, which she’d kept at bay for years, had become reality.

Taking another sidelong look at Alice, June was nauseous again. The girl was so much like Agnes. Wild hair, thick lashes, full lips, and big eyes, deep with curiosity and yearning. They both wore vulnerability like it was a vital organ, on the outside of their body. If Alice looked like her mother, did she take after her father in her personality? Was she like Clem? June couldn’t tell yet. Alice’s silence was deeply unsettling. Selective muteness is common in children processing deep trauma, Dr Harris had reassured her. Usually it’s not permanent. With proper counselling and support, Alice will speak again when she’s ready. Until then, we won’t know how much she remembers.

June gripped the steering wheel, her bracelets tinkling. She glanced at them. Five yellow petals set in silver charms, each dangling from one of five silver bracelets. Butterfly bush flowers all had the same slightly unequal five yellow petals. A red mark appeared on the upper petal of every bloom, and at the centre of each flower were three stamens, the largest of which was shaped like a little paddle boat. June had made the bracelets for today specially. Every time they chimed on her wrists, they repeated their meaning to her like a secret prayer. Second chances. Second chances. Second chances.

Alice gasped, twitching in her sleep. Her head was bent back at a painful-looking angle. June thought about reaching out to reposition her, but after a moment Alice coughed and shifted on her own.

June focused on the road. Pressed her foot harder to the accelerator. Hoped that whatever dreams the child was wading through, they were gentle.

Late afternoon sunlight poured into the cab. Alice started. She’d fallen asleep without realising; dried tears cracked in the corners of her eyes and there was a kink in her neck. She straightened up and stretched. Harry licked her hand. She let him; she was too tired to push him away again. No longer on the highway, they were bouncing noisily along a rough dirt track. A pink bruise had formed on her knee where it had knocked against the door handle as the truck jostled over bumps and dusty pockmarks. Alice craved salty sea air.

June had her window down, one tanned elbow resting on the open sill. Her greying curls moved gently in the wind. Alice studied her profile. June didn’t look anything like her father, but felt so familiar. When she tucked a curl behind her ear, the silver bracelets jangled on her wrists. From each one a small charm dangled, with a pressed yellow petal inside. She glanced at Alice, who was too slow at acting asleep.

‘You’re awake.’

Through the blur of her pretend-sleep eyelashes, Alice saw June smile and shake the bracelets on her wrist. ‘Like them? I made these myself. All the flowers, they come from my farm.’

Alice turned her head away to look out the window.

‘Each flower is a secret language. When I wear a combination of flowers together, it’s like I’m writing my own secret code that no one else can understand unless they know my language. Today I thought I’d wear just one flower.’

A muscle twitched in Alice’s cheek. June changed down gears, the bracelets chiming in response. ‘Want to know what they mean? I’ll tell you the secret.’

Alice ignored her, focusing hard on the tinder-dry bush streaming past the window. Her stomach lurched as they drove over a cattle grid. The noise of cicadas drowned out her thoughts. June was still talking. ‘I could teach you.’ Alice glared at the strange woman beside her. For a while, June didn’t speak. Alice closed her eyes. She wanted to be left alone.

‘You just missed town. Never mind. Plenty of time for exploring later.’ June worked the truck’s pedals and gears; the engine grumbled as it slowed. ‘Here we are.’

They turned off the dirt track onto a smaller, smoother driveway. The ruckus that had filled the truck while they were on graded dirt dissolved to a hum. The air changed; it was sweet and green. Flowering grevillea bushes appeared alongside the truck. Monarch butterflies hovered – flap, flap, swoop – over wild cotton. Alice couldn’t stop herself sitting up straighter. The droning of bees came from a cluster of white hives by twisted, silver-green gums that all pointed towards the biggest house Alice had ever seen. One she realised she’d seen before.

The house was more vivid than in the old photo she’d found in her father’s shed, the photo that had shared a hiding place with a lock of hair, blue-black, tied with a faded ribbon. Alice checked June’s hair. Though it was silvered it might have been that dark once.

When they reached the end of the driveway, June swung the truck around and parked it by a garage blanketed in thick vine. Harry sat to attention, his tail beating Alice’s side in unison with her heart. The trees were dense with birdsong. At home, this was close to Alice’s favourite time of day, when the world was dusted blue by the approaching dusk, and the air was pungent with whatever the tide brought in. Here, it was different. Drier and warmer. No hint of the sea. No pelicans drifting, no call of the currawongs. Alice dug her fingers into her thighs, steadying herself. A monarch butterfly tapped at her window. It hovered, almost as if it could hear all the things Alice couldn’t say, before it fluttered away.

‘Welcome, Alice.’ June had hopped out of the truck and was standing at the top of a short stack of wooden steps that led onto the verandah. She held one hand out.

Alice stayed in the truck. Harry kept to her side, and her fingers found their way to his ears and scratched the place Toby had loved most. He groaned in appreciation. No one else had come for her at the hospital. No one but June, a stranger she’d been given away to like a lost dog. June’s smile was starting to falter. Alice closed her eyes. She was tired, so tired she felt she could go to sleep and not wake up for a hundred years. She made a bargain with herself: she’d go inside just to get to bed.

Avoiding June’s eyes, Alice climbed down out of the truck with Harry. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and trudged up the steps.

The house had a wide wraparound timber verandah, strung with glowing kerosene lanterns. Birds and crickets sang the sun down. The wind rustled through the trees, releasing the cool scent of eucalyptus. Alice followed June across the verandah, stopping when she got to the front door. The screen opened and closed behind June, without Alice. Harry stayed by her side.

‘Alice?’ June walked back to the screen door. ‘I’ve made up a room for you. I know it’s not the one you’re used to but it’s a place you can make all your own,’ she said through the screen, gently pushing it open.

Alice’s nose was running. She wiped at it with the back of her hand.

‘Why don’t you come in, wash your face, and lie down. I’ll bring you something to eat.’

Alice’s vision swam.

‘Would you like a hot facecloth? The bathroom’s just here, at the end of this hall.’ June walked out to Alice.

Too tired to protest, Alice allowed herself to be guided through the front door. Her head bobbed like a drooping flower. Harry sauntered alongside them.

The sheer size of the house loosened Alice’s jaw. The long hallway, pale as a seashell, was lit with lamps, all different sizes, throwing shades of soft light. They followed a runner mat down the hall. Potted plants sat in every nook. Books lined the shelves, interrupted by jars of white stones, vases of feathers, and dried bouquets of flowers. Alice wanted to touch everything.

June led her into a spacious timber and white-tiled bathroom. She ran warm water in the hand basin. Opening a mirrored cabinet she took down a small brown glass bottle, unscrewed the cap, and shook a few droplets from it. A warm and calming scent rose from the water. Alice’s eyelids drooped. June doused a facecloth in the sink and offered it to Alice, who covered her face and inhaled deeply. The heat dismantled some of the aching behind her eyes. When she finished wiping her face, she saw June hadn’t moved.

‘I won’t leave you. I’m not going anywhere,’ June whispered.

After they were done in the bathroom, Alice and Harry followed June up a lamp-lit flight of winding stairs. At the top was a little door. Alice hung back as June opened it, then trailed in after her. As June flicked the light switch, the sharpness of the light made Alice gasp and cover her eyes. June quickly turned it off.

‘Here, I’ll help you,’ she offered. Alice stiffened as June put an arm around her and they crossed the room. She scurried away from June and climbed into the soft bed, pulling the sheet up in the dark. It settled like feathers on her skin. She waited for the sound of June’s departure. Instead, she felt the weight of her grandmother sitting on the edge of the bed.

‘We’ll just do this one step at a time, Alice,’ June said quietly. ‘Okay?’

She rolled away, silently willing June to leave. After a time she felt her rise; the door clicked softly as it closed behind her. Alice exhaled. The last thing she heard before sleep was the tapping of Harry’s nails as he turned in circles before thudding to the floor at the foot of her bed.

Downstairs in the hallway, June held a hand against the wall to steady herself. She hadn’t had a drink all day.

‘Is she here?’

She started at the sound of Twig’s voice behind her. She didn’t turn around. Nodded.

‘Is she okay?’

A pause.

‘I don’t know,’ June answered. Cricket song filled the pause between them.

‘June.’

She stayed as she was, hand pressed to the wall.

‘She deserves no less than any of the other Flowers. As you well know,’ Twig said, stern and resolute. ‘If anything, she deserves more. From you. From us. From this place. She’s your family.’

‘She’s his,’ June retorted. ‘She’s his, and I don’t want to care.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Twig said, her voice softening. Another pause. ‘You’re shaking.’

June nodded.

‘Well, are you all right?’

‘It’s been a big few days.’ June pinched the skin over the bridge of her nose. She sensed what was coming.

‘Where’s the baby?’

June sighed deeply.

‘You really didn’t bring him home?’ Twig’s voice shook.

‘Not now, Twig. Please. We can talk about it in the morning.’ She turned, only to replace the hallway empty and the screen door slamming shut. June let her go. She knew better than anybody that sometimes words did more damage than good.

She went around the house and switched off all the lights. At second thought, she retraced her steps and switched a lamp back on in case the child woke through the night. June paused at Candy’s closed bedroom door but there was no light beneath. Maybe she was across the field in the dorm with the Flowers. The scent of pouch tobacco wafted through the house; Twig was smoking on the verandah. June went back down the hall, into the lounge room. She reached through the open window and snapped a blossom from the bottlebrush tree. Back down the hallway, she slid it into the keyhole of Twig’s bedroom door. Acknowledgement.

Once June was in the privacy of her bedroom, she turned a lamp on and let herself fall onto her bed. She flung an arm over her eyes, pretending for just a little longer that the full flask in her pocket wasn’t growing heavier with temptation by the minute.

After eighteen-year-old Clem found out that June had excluded him from her will, he took Agnes and left Thornfield in a fury. June had only heard from him once since. Nine years ago, when June now guessed Alice was born, a package arrived at Thornfield, addressed to June in her son’s handwriting. She’d done the same thing then as she did now; retreat to her bedroom with her whisky flask.

June sat on her bed, took the flask from her pocket, unscrewed the top and took a deep swig. She drank until the whisky stopped the tremors in her limbs and numbed the tension in her neck. When her hands were steady, June reached under her bed for the tattered, over-handled package and drew it out. She unfolded the lid of the box and gingerly lifted out the hand-carved wooden ornament, cradling it in her hands. A new baby, with the same rosebud mouth and big eyes as the child asleep in the room above her, nestled in a bed of leathery leaves and bell-shaped flowers. There were stripes inside each bloom and yellow spots on the throat of each.

‘Love forsaken,’ she said tearfully.