Chapter 5
MARRIAGE AMONG THE FLOWERS
‘There is certainly great beauty in flower-marriage, where lover is carried to lover on the wings of the wind, and ceremonies of exquisite delicacy take place in scented canopies, under blue sunny skies . . .’
November 1904
Edith adjusts her motoring cap, swinging the short cape over her shoulders and snipping it tight under her chin. She slides the goggles over her head, ready to pull down over her eyes. It is the very latest in European motoring fashion. James brought it back from London for her. She straightens her dust-coat – checking that it is buttoned up tight and the scarf around her neck is snugly secured. All very businesslike and well equipped, but she still feels decidedly peculiar – a bit like ‘Mr Toad’, but without any of his complacence.
She climbs into her husband’s pride and joy, with its queer high tonneau, through the door in the middle of the back. There is no windscreen and the front seat is so high up that one receives the full force of the wind. James smiles up at her from the front of the car, waiting until she is seated – comfortably is not quite the word – on the upholstered bench seat, before he bends down to crank-start the car.
Edith holds her breath as he spins the crank handle, praying for that sweet compression point where the ignition spark will drive the piston downwards. The engine coughs, wheezes and falls silent. James tries again. And again. On the third try, the car backfires, flinging the crank handle viciously backwards.
‘Careful, James,’ calls Edith.
James waves reassuringly, his smile a little more strained this time. One more attempt and the car bursts into life, its single cylinder puttering as steadily as a galloping horse. All around them, the other cars start up – women rugged up like polar explorers, shouting and waving, checking the wicker baskets secured on the back and sides, men cursing and fiddling with oil-soaked fingers, heads down over intricate machinery as it splutters, roars and belches into thunderous motion. The noise in the narrow city street is deafening.
It is a good turnout for the newly formed Automobile Association’s expedition to Marysville – who knew there were so many new car owners in Melbourne? Well, James did, of course. After all, he’d sold many of the vehicles to their new owners, and he’d started the association with his friends: dear old Syd Day and the ever energetic Harry James, manager of the Dunlop Pneumatic Tyre Company. Known as the Tooradin Trio, for one of their first trips, they are all mad about cars.
James clambers into the seat beside her, his good humour restored. Edith slides her goggles on, grips the side of the car and prepares herself for the ride. They pull out with the other cars, heading east through the suburbs towards the hills. Leaving at 2.30 should get them the 40 miles to Healesville in time for dinner. The train would have been much quicker and more comfortable, but that is not the point, Edith supposes.
The car lurches forwards with a sudden jolt. Edith closes her eyes momentarily, and then they are off.
AT THE TURN of the century Marysville was a popular tourist destination. Visitors could take the train direct from Melbourne to Healesville, then a coach service over the famed Black Spur to Marysville, to stay at one of many scenic guesthouses that nestled within the great mountain forests. With the advent of cars, the journey became even more spectacular. The cascading Steavenson Falls, the rustic cottages at Tommy’s Bend and the monster trees at Cumberland Creek were all within easy reach of a motorised vehicle.
The RACV’s second outing to Marysville in 1904, which Edith and James attended
This was the second outing for the newly formed Automobile Club of Victoria and an enjoyable one for Edith and James, despite rutted roads strewn with discarded horseshoe nails. Edith’s parents had moved to Healesville from Burwood, building a sweet little house which they called ‘Walsham’. Edith loved the view of the hills, where the road slid out of Healesville, leaving behind the valley floor with its patchwork of farms and orchards, the picturesque towns and guesthouses, the willow-dappled meandering creek lines.
Edith, her brother Harry with his son Wilfred, and James Coleman (standing) in about 1905; Henry Harms with Dorothy, Gladys, Harry’s son Ivo and Lottie (seated)
‘The grassy flats were wound about by a wattle-fringed river, while on them lay little pools that gave back the blue of the sky,’ she later wrote. ‘Beyond rose the hills, fold on fold, the blue air filling each hollow.’
The convoy stayed the night at Healesville, lodging at the various guesthouses for which the region was famous. An early start gave them a full day for tackling the infamous Black Spur. Even today, this is a spectacular drive. The road slips up around the hillsides, the trees and bushes thickening and crowding the sides, opening occasionally to views of the northern ranges. As the pioneering motor cars struggled up the steady incline, overheating and breaking down, the forest would have increased in vitality. The trees grow taller as you climb, curving overhead, encompassing the road in an ever-narrowing gallery of arching green. On
