And yet for many years, I only had one: a brief letter to Kate Baker stored in the archives of the National Library of Australia. Did any others survive, in the archives of their recipients? Possibly. Rica gave all of Edith’s letters to Lynette Young, a biographer who planned to write Edith’s story. The biography never appeared. When Young died her archives were sent to the Mitchell Library, but there is no record of any of Edith’s letters there. Lynette never married, had no children. I have no way of tracing her family but I periodically search the internet anyway, hoping for some clue. An article appears in The Age about Lynette’s bequest to the Royal Society of Victoria, mentioning her niece, Fran Church. I search the phone book for Fran Church and, finding one that looks promising, ring and leave a message but hear nothing in reply. I should call again, but I hate cold-calling so I write a letter instead, never expecting to hear back. Fran emails me promptly, apologising for misplacing my message, confirming that she is Lynette’s niece, but is unable to offer many other suggestions for the archives.
But Rica Erickson was a natural archivist. She kept everything, organised everything. Over the course of her long life, Rica compiled a massive collection of research for her books as well as personal material. Five and a half lineal metres of material are stored in the Western Australian State Library’s Battye Library. The catalogue is indexed in detail but there is no mention of Edith Coleman, no possibility of the letters being there. After all, I already know she gave them away.
Since I’m in Perth, I decide to check the archives anyway. Something else might crop up. I’m not sure what to order from the stacks. I can’t look at all of it. I order Rica’s notebooks, her diary of the year that Edith visited Western Australia, but they are entirely devoted to orchids. There is a gap for the month around the time Edith visited, but it does not tell me what Rica did or where she went.
There are two boxes of letters, ‘from historians’ and ‘from scientists’, from between 1961 and 1991. Long after Edith’s death. But I’m here now, so I may as well look. I open the letters from scientists and scan through the alphabetically organised loose-leaf letters. At C there is a fat white folder, labelled in pencil: ‘Edith Coleman’.
Rica’s notes explain where they come from. Irritated that her letters had neither been used for a biography nor returned to her, Rica had searched for them herself. Lynette had given them to the Field Naturalists Club of Victoria. I don’t know why I didn’t find them when I searched their archive years ago. Rica wrote and requested that copies be made and returned to her. The folder contains photocopies of 39 letters from 1931 to 1933, from Edith to Rica, as well as four from Dorothy and one to Rica’s neighbour, Mr Rowe. It’s a tiny sample of all the letters Edith must have written in her life, but a fascinating one and it completely changes the way I see her.
I’m assuming Edith went to Kings Park when she came to Perth, as well as the wildflower show at the town hall. Surely she would have. Everyone with an interest in plants goes to Kings Park – and a great many more who don’t. It’s twenty acres in the middle of the city, perched atop the Mount; I misjudge the route from the bus and find myself climbing Jacob’s Ladder to get there. A flurry of neatly trimmed, tanned runners pound nimbly up and down and back again, effortlessly lapping me on the stairs as I stagger to the top. The only pounding I can hear is that of my heart as I pretend to admire the view at the top while struggling to catch my breath.
There is a small garden in the middle of the park, close to the bus parking bay, where overseas visitors with only half an hour in their busy itinerary can tour and see Western Australia’s immense botanical charms compacted into one small space. With a flower clock. Those with more time can wander by themselves, or take a tour for an hour with a volunteer guide. I attach myself to one group, the only Australian in a mix of British, German, Canadian and Chinese visitors. Few of them will stray beyond the manicured native gardens, with green lawns, shady trees and sculpted ironworks, into the bush reserve beyond.
‘I like the real park better,’ confesses the guide. ‘The bush part. You can go there if you like, but be careful. The snakes are out.’
The international audience startles and gasps.
The guide tells us that the early history of the park was an unhappy one – rubbish dump for urban trash, shelter for the dispossessed, resource for exploitation for firewood, timber, flowers even. Another sign tells me that the park only became a botanic garden in the 1950s.
I wonder if Edith would have visited here in 1929? It is Rica’s daughter who answers my question. Dorothy Erickson, artist, jewellery-maker, historian and author, has also written a history of the park. In 1929, Kings Park was indeed a very fine metropolitan garden, renowned as much for its exotic plantings as for the native virtues of its indigenous flora. Edith would certainly have come here.
The Adelaide-born Sydney nature writer, Amy Mack, described her first impressions:
‘Just outside the gates was a sight worth going a long way to see; a long straight avenue a mile or so in length, bordered on either side by gum trees, just plain, every-day gum trees they were, but nowhere would you see a more lovely avenue . . . there they stand, two graceful rows, shedding cool shade for travellers . . . inside . . . the red gums border a smooth red-brown path, which wends its way
