Eucalyptus (10 page)

Naturally in the rural parts of Australia it was a matter of quiet satisfaction that something native was the world's best, or at least could not be beaten when it came to size. The anxieties of youth are displayed in the New World; phallic symbols, as they were once called, are seized upon, along with military defeats, to brandish in triumph.

For their part the Americans could not accept the verdict. As far as America was concerned the sequoia of California reigned over the world of trees. They didn't have to wait long for the position to be restored. In less than a generation the tallest
E. regnans
began losing their tops in storms or lightning strikes! Either that or one or two of the surveyors' original measurements were faulty. What is the reason—the underlying impulse—for exaggeration? It is most noticeable immediately before and after a person's death.

• 8 •
Signata

THERE ARE
five different Scribbly Gums, like five brothers in mythology, each bearing a significant name:
sclerophylla, signata, rossii, racemosa
and—see the red rim of its fruit—
haemastoma
.

The Scribbly Gum is concentrated in and around Sydney; only
E. signata
, for example, is found along a narrow coastal strip of northern New South Wales and—state boundaries having no meaning to trees and weeds—protrudes into southern Queensland.

Eventually all five had been transplanted on Holland's property, although the smallest,
E. rossii
, grew at an angle in juvenile protest.

The distinctive calligraphic markings on the trunks left by the tunnelling of insect larvae resemble scribbled words, hasty signatures. It is the almost human qualities of these ‘scribbles', idly composed, invariably elegant, that draw our eye: there may well be a secret message written on this tree.

E. signata
here can represent all five Scribbly Gums.

For a long time Ellen found herself staring in wonder whenever her father wrote his signature. It always began with the forefinger vibrating on the one spot, as if he was intent on squashing an insect, before suddenly breaking free with a circular flourish. Once she actually let out a laugh of horror as his pen tore a hole in the ruled writing paper. The signature itself was as knotted and twisted as a cluster of mallees—low-grade eucalypts with shallow roots. When he set about acquiring from all over Australia dozens of selected tubestock, as the seedlings are called, his cheques were often returned for verification.

As the tree-growing program spread around the property Holland found it necessary to compile an anthography.

The little black book went with him everywhere. He kept it under his pillow like a grubby Gideon. Each page recorded each eucalypt, its location and date of planting, special characteristics, supplier's name. After the butcher misquoted him, Holland was fond of referring to the catalogue as his ‘cattle-dog'; anything to be light-hearted about it.

It was not an ordinary catalogue. Trudging across paddocks encouraged rumination. Holland jotted down in pencil all kinds of things. Unfortunately just about all of them fall into the category of homilies;
rest is rust
, for example—it doesn't tell us very much.

But on another page he scribbled something altogether more interesting,
nothing is one
. There we have a multiple truth on offer, something to live by, or at least to believe in; an attempt at texture.
Nothing is one
is repeated on several pages, and by repeating it Holland appeared to endorse it, although aside from the multiplication of the eucalypts—his belief in variety—it hardly showed as his life-principle.

All this scribbling on Holland's property multiplied as Ellen reached marriage age.

At that time Ellen wrote many more words than she spoke. In her journal she described conversations with herself, and real and imaginary conversations with her father; there were descriptions of certain large birds, of the sea and the school gates in Sydney; also recorded were unusual dreams, and impressions of many of the visiting suitors, the latest being Mr Cave. The journal had a silver cover decorated with coloured stars. Within its pages she could discuss her feelings. It was her best friend. There she confided, she floated away. It was all softness in its privacy, a fluttering enfolding world. Ellen especially liked the moment she opened a clean page and the sunlight came in a white fold onto the bed. Then she felt curled up, warm and enclosed in her thoughts; and the dry strokes of the eucalypts and the undulating land outside no longer existed.

A few of the eliminated suitors made direct appeals to her. These Ellen read with interest and sympathy even. Some had used a stub of pencil; one, on butcher's paper. Their humorous misspellings! Sometimes she felt sorry for men. A large sheet of paper arrived from one called Thomas Leigh, who Ellen remembered had spent years somewhere in Italy. It was almost incomprehensible; it might well have been in a secret language. It was really a composition of scribbles, adjustments, half-starts, rubbing-outs and space; she was intrigued by its general delicacy though, and in the bottom corner he'd drawn what appeared to be a tree. As for the local schoolteacher, his elimination released a creek flow of gentle notes, eloquent, honest and resigned, as well as a couple of fruit bowls he'd carved out of Karri or Jarrah, just for her.

Until now Ellen believed her father knew all there was to know about a given subject. It was enough to look at the accumulation of years in his face, and his brevity when answering questions of a factual nature—for it too suggested stored-up knowledge. And importantly his voice was always there. Certainly she found it impossible to imagine another man on earth naming all the eucalypts; anyone succeeding would have to be like her father, only more so.

As for the marriage being more or less arranged by her father, her original shock had been hysterical, that was all. She now regarded it with curiosity, little more. Each and every suitor had fallen by the wayside. Only a few had managed to pass the halfway mark.

So far Mr Cave was the most impressive; the way he took his time, hands in pockets, should have been a warning. Instead of following his progress Ellen wondered to herself and in the pages of her journal why he avoided looking in her direction. ‘Does he like me?' Taking part in the contest may have been nothing more than a sort of intellectual exercise, a way to fill in his annual holidays.

Her father came into the house with a windswept, baffled look.

‘He's good, he's more than good. It's because his mother's gone soft in the head. She doesn't remember him. He's been cast adrift. He's got nothing else to live for. That's all I can think of.'

And he began nodding, ‘Mister Roy Cave is an interesting man in more ways than one.'

Poor man, a bachelor. Ellen tried imagining the mother.

‘Remember me pointing out—many times—that stunted-looking mallee at the back of the dam—the one I thought was finished but came good? Mount Imlay Mallee: it's one of the rarest eucalypts. It took me years to get hold of it, and even longer to get it to grow. Very few people except you and I have ever seen one with their own eyes. So, as we came towards it, I thought, This'll stop him in his tracks, and I'll have to find another good man for my daughter. But no, he reeled off the proper name,
imlayensis
, in the middle of talking about his mother's furniture. I felt like saying, “Hey, hold your horses!” He wasn't interested in examining the tree closely. I find that pretty strange. By the way, we could see you hanging out the washing. Guess what? Next he tells me—mentions in passing, if you know what I mean—that our Jarrah is a subspecies. It's called
marginata
—I knew that—but goes by the secondary name
thalassica
'.

Holland began laughing in admiration.

‘All these eucalypts in the one spot—this'd have to be paradise for him.'

But whenever the topic turned to eucalypts it went in one ear and out Ellen's other. And—besides—absorbed in her own thoughts and confusions just then she didn't understand what her father was implying.

The realisation that Mr Cave had well and truly passed the halfway mark struck her on the fifth day. From the tower she saw the two figures traversing a distant paddock. One tall, the other at his elbow untidily familiar.

And she saw—realised—the number of paddocks already accounted for, their combined acreage, containing
hundreds of eucalypts
. Even as she looked the man identified another one, then moved onto the next, and another one. This man was steadily advancing, not rushing. Nothing would stop him!

She couldn't think straight.

As she scrambled down the steps and reached the hall she bumped into the walls, and opened and closed doors.

She sat down and stood up.

In her bedroom she sat down again. She didn't know what to do, where to go.

How did this happen? she wanted to know. And why hadn't she seen it before? She kept asking, What can I do? None of the suitors had been taken seriously; as far as her father was concerned, they were all idiots. It would be like him to concoct such a test believing there wasn't a man on earth who could win.

In the bathroom she turned the taps on full blast, something her father never allowed. Already she saw him being friendly, more than friendly, with Mr Cave. It was mutual respect. Apparently they had a lot in common, the trees for one, and now her. And yet Mr Cave was nothing like her father, not at all.

There was no one else. Mr Cave was so sure of himself he took it easy. By two o'clock he was usually back at his hotel. And on the first weekend he was proposing to take a rest.

Ellen began scribbling letters to her father. Most she tore up, or pasted into her journal. Some Ellen
posted
, even when she could hear him moving about in his room. The first addressed to him she propped against his teacup at breakfast, when all the man wanted to do was read the paper.

‘What's this then?' Holland tried holding the pages at arm's length. ‘You used to have such good handwriting. I can't read a word of this.'

‘I want you to read it.'

This way he would have to come to terms with what she was feeling; though as she sat there all she felt was confusion.

‘I feel like moving away,' she said.

‘What good would that do?' He was squinting at her writing. ‘Anyway you wouldn't leave your poor old father alone in this dark old house—just me and the trees? Who would I talk to at night?'

‘I don't know what to do.'

After the third or fourth letter he pushed his chair back.

‘You're saying the same thing, over and over. Now listen to me. All right, so you don't like the way it's turning out. It's not 100 per cent perfect, I know that. But has it been a mistake? I don't know. I'm apologising. I don't want a girl moping around as if it's the end of the world. But what is it you want? I'd say you don't know yourself. Am I right? This Mr Cave—Roy—you hardly know the man—he's not so bad. Anyway, I thought you took to him. At least you didn't screw your nose up. Have you spoken to him? I have been—a lot. I think there's a lot going on there. For starters, he's a decent man; I think you would agree. He's a neat man, not a mess. He certainly knows a hell of a lot about trees.'

‘I've noticed.'

Her father put his hand on her shoulder. ‘All we can do is wait and see.'

Once outside she headed towards the river. ‘Where are you off to?'—her father's voice. She didn't know what was happening to her. As she walked quickly and entered the trees she stopped and in the stillness couldn't help touching, if only for a moment, the nearest of the evenly spaced trunks. Eucalypts which were the cause of it all also gave a moment's pause.

• 9 •
Maidenii

HERE IS
the tree Holland had given his daughter for her birthday. She was thirteen.

She'd come into his room early in undisguised anticipation; Holland couldn't help admiring her excitement. To extend the moment he did the cruel fatherly thing of frowning in feigned surprise, as if he didn't know what day it was. Then as doubts troubled Ellen's face he pointed to the wardrobe.

No amount of blue ribbon around the terracotta pot or explaining the exactness of the botanical name could disguise her disappointment. Instead of a gift she felt a loss. It was as if he was giving himself a present, and a very ordinary one. What could she do with a tree? Not even the ceremony of planting it together, on the northern slope facing the town, made her happier.

The years passed ordinarily enough. Gradually she had become less satisfied; she didn't know why. By the time the suitors began arriving in their trucks, cars, motorcycles, by train or on foot, Ellen returned to the lovely habit of wandering or simply being among the many different eucalypts. It was there one morning she remembered her tree,
E. maidenii
, and after several hours she located it at the far end of the property, where the soil was moist and rather heavy a long way from the house.

Standing back Ellen smiled at what she saw.

It had grown as she had: slender, straight, pale. It was subtle in its limb-parting beauty; Ellen considered it female.