Emily Pelloe described the park in equally glowing terms in 1934.
‘Cool green shade predominates on the lower lawn beside Mount Bay road, a delightful picnic-ground or resting place. In the shelter of the cliff-face there is a long pond where the goldfish and carp dart out after insects from beneath water-lily leaves and jilgies sidle and shuffle along on the muddy bottom of the pool. Mounds of maidenhair and sword fern rise for the water, overhung by date palms, a coral tree, Moreton Bay figs, an ancient olive, peppermints, ginger plant, and a tall cotton palm with the bunched debris of dead leaves at the top of the truck forming a safe home for dozens of opossums. Tails of asparagus fern tangle in a shrub-like mass beside arum lilies, and pussy-willows thrive in near-by beds with their roots always wet from the seepage of the spring that flows through the lily-pond. From the same stream cool clear water gushes continuously out of a quaint stone fountain at the side of the road bearing the date 1861 and a carved swan.’
It sounds just like the kind of garden wilderness that Edith loved, although the superintendent of the time was also renowned for his impeccably manicured displays of carpet bedding around the lodge and memorials: ‘tall clumps of magnificent sweet peas, and a massed ribbon border of daisy-like blue phycelia, blue nemesis . . . giant candytuft, sweet-scented carnations, Iceland and scarlet poppies, nasturtiums with their wondrously tinted flowers flirting brazenly among quaint disc-like leaves of great size, clambering tendrils of “Lady’s leg” creeper, and huge yellow marigolds.’
Today, the flowerbeds are just as colourful and vibrant: filled with the pink, white, red and yellow of the paperdaisies, the tall reds, greens and oranges of the kangaroo paws, sprawling golden pea flowers, bold orange candles of banksias and the many shapes and colours of the lacy grevilleas. The exotic European, Asian and American garden plants are still in evidence among the longer-lived varieties and trees, but they are no longer replaced when they die.
In a land which is one of 34 biodiversity hotspots in the world, with more than 13,000 plant species, and with some of the greatest natural wildflower shows on earth, surely the native flora is exotic enough.
There are three photos of Edith in Rica’s archive. I am sure she must have sent them in 1931. She mentions them in a letter, when she asks Rica to send her a photo.
‘I’m hoping Mr Rowe will send me a snap of you so that I can visualise the person to whom I write,’ she says. ‘And in case you are curious too, here am I with the usual luck of the victim of home photography.’
The three photos offer three windows into entirely different parts of Edith’s life – everyday snapshots. They are unlike any other photos I had of her earlier, the formal images from her early married years or the professional portrait taken in later years. One photo shows her standing at the gates at Goongarrie. Another is the photo of her sitting in the driver’s seat of ‘the Lugger’. And the third is of her in a rock pool at Sorrento. John can hardly believe they are of his grandmother. The photos date from before his birth.
I have a palette of Edith photos now, cropped head shots in various states of resolution and detail. I have become familiar with the shape of her mouth, her nose, her eyes and eyebrows. Her eyes are large and wide when young, becoming slightly hooded with age, exacerbated by a tendency to tilt her chin, or the need for glasses, removed for a photo. The photo in the Lugger is just like one taken in the garden at Walsham about ten years later, from Kate Baker’s archives. Her chin is raised and slightly defiant, her lips pressed firm but her expression pleased.
The photo at Sorrento is quite different. She is lying in the shallow pool, her hair loosely tied back. She’s smiling, just slightly.
‘I don’t remember her ever swimming,’ John says. ‘That could be my mother.’
But I know this photo is of Edith. Her handwriting inscribes the back: ‘The loveliest pool you ever swam in. Sorrento. We wished I had kept my cap on to cover the untidy hair.’
Edith at the Sorrento rock pool, 1931
For the first time, I can imagine Edith sitting under the fruit trees at Busselton with Mrs Bryant, relaxing and laughing. Her other photos tend to be formal, staged, sometimes even a bit cross-looking. Her voice in her articles is always friendly and warm, but the voice in her letters is also fragile, revealing and human. Not only interesting, but fun as well. And now I have an image to go with that voice. I feel like I have finally caught a glimpse of Edith away from her desk, not Edith the writer or Edith the naturalist or Edith the wife and mother, but Edith just as herself.
A silent sentinel of the coast: Cape Leeuwin lighthouse
By Edith Coleman
Compared with some other countries, Australia has few lighthouses, but they are exceptionally well placed, and they give fine service.
The Cape Leeuwin lighthouse, in
