Ambre doré

by Annette Whitehorn

The road was the type of slippery that comes with dusk. Not wet, but not dry either. Canopies of eucalyptus and Huon pine partially blocked the sky on both sides, the light fading quickly. Esmé Queen had taken a wrong turn. Maybe more if she was honest. She was sure a familiar landmark would appear soon through the pockets of mist and she’d then know immediately how to get home to Ambre doré. Taking one hand off the steering wheel, she felt for her lighter and looked down for a second to light up; veering off the road, the hatchback plunged down a deep gully not visible from Poatina Scenic Road.

***

Esmé sat in her favourite vintage rattan wicker chair with carved swan arms. Her left leg was propped up on a cushioned footstool, her toes poking out of a purple cast plastered just below the knee. Her husband’s heavy silver watch hung loosely around her bony wrist, with the inscription on the back just visible: “To Mickey, love your Queenie.”

She drank black coffee as the remnants of a deep magenta sunrise quickly faded to pink, blushing the vast vineyards of Ambre doré with rose filtered light. An emerald flash of colour caught Esmé’s eye - a solitary swift parrot alighting briefly on a knotted woody grapevine. It was the same female from yesterday, and still no sign of its mate. Esmé felt sorrow for the patient little bird and wondered if it would ever nest again, or if her man was lost during the migration South from the mainland.

Esmé couldn’t face breakfast, annoyed that her stomach felt tight and her body had the jitters. The whole lot of them were coming today and she suspected it would be a typical Queen family ambush - an intervention, disguised as a promise of food, wine and good old family togetherness. Mark and Isabelle had even coaxed Travis to come, which wasn’t his thing at all. I bet they’ll bring brochures. She knew the ones. With glossy pages full of beautiful people, with their perfect silver hair, playing bowls with their perfect shiny balls.

She didn’t remember the accident, except for the nice paramedic who kept talking to her. Her white Ford Fiesta had been pinged by a patrol car - whatever a ping was - near Launceston, an hour and a half’s drive from Ambre doré estate. She sighed. I loved that car.

She reached into a pocket of her purple velvet dressing gown, lit a cigarillo, exhaling through her nose, tasting cedar, cinnamon and clove. Mr. Mistoffelees appeared at the gazebo door, jumping through the cat-flap. “Hello, my Misty. I’ve got a few more lives left, don’t you think?” The cat responded with a series of impatient yowls. “Okay, okay.” She managed to hop, half limp, to the large country kitchen, emptying a can of sardines into his bowl.

Enough, she thought. I won’t let them get to me. She chose smooth jazz, turned the volume up and took her time pulling on floral tights, one leg cut off to fit over the cast. She dressed in a mustard jersey dress that seemed to have stretched since she wore it last, and a chunky teal woollen cardigan with patches on the elbows - a bargain from the vintage second-hand shop. She applied bold lipstick, drew new eyebrows as best she could, adding a long stringed purple agate necklace and a jewelled ladybird brooch to her ensemble. She topped the whole look with a green velvet beret with large floppy daisies that covered her wispy grey curls. Then, standing on one leg and holding the back of a chair, she looked at herself in the gold-framed cheval mirror. That’ll do.

The thwack of the metal knocker startled her. She popped a peppermint in her mouth, conjured up a smile and limped to the aged oak door. Her entire family stood on the doorstep. Isabelle was dressed for an Antarctic blast and had brought enough food to feed a football team; Mark clutched a zipped satchel as if he was attending a meeting, and Travis – a large pumpkin. She grimaced. “Ahh the cavalry arrives!”

“I’ll get firewood,” said Travis. He placed the pumpkin on a little vintage table, pulled his black beanie down further over long dreadlocks and made a quick exit back down the stone steps.

Mark stooped to hug her. “Hi, Mum, how are you doing?” His voice was unnaturally high, full of patronising concern. Her eldest son was born concerned. She remembered him as a little boy being worried about the level of the bath water, whether it was too hot – you could burn us, Mum, or too cold – we’re gonna get pneumonia, Mum. Worried if his toys had germs, and even measured out portions of dirt for mud pies - as if the world would run out of dirt. Sometimes she wondered how they had created such a child.

Esmé was relieved to see Mark’s wife – a delight of a woman who shared her love for shiny beautiful things. Men often married their mothers and this certainly was the case with Mark. Esmé smelled lavender as they embraced, her daughter-in-law’s name promptly evading her.

“Hello, darling. You smell nice; is that a new blend?”

“Hello, darling to you too!” she laughed. “It’s called ‘Happiness’ - bergamot, grapefruit, clary sage and lavender of course.” She handed her a large bunch of ornamental kale wrapped in brown paper. “How’s the foot?”

“Can’t feel it really. It’s just a pain hobbling around like an old woman.”

“You are eighty-two,” said Mark.

“Thanks for the reminder, darling. I certainly don’t feel anywhere near that number.” Mark pursed his lips. 

“Why is it always so cold in here?” said Isabelle finding the sunniest French window, clasping her hands behind her back, treating it like an open fire.

“Ahh, Brett,” said Esmé. “Would you be a darling and grab some wine goblets?”

“Brent.”

“Brent, yes of course. My brain isn’t working this morning… silly really.”

Brent rubbed an ear. “Easy mistake.”

“I’m just off to the bathroom,” said Esmé. “Just set the table how you like it.”

She walked to her bedroom as quickly as her plaster cast would allow, shutting the ensuite door.  Breathing heavily, she lifted the lid off a large white pottery jar, retrieved a little gold notebook, sat on the toilet and put her reading glasses on.

Your name is Esmé Queen. Your husband was Michael Queen. Mickey went missing on a fishing trip, presumed dead five years ago.

Esmé’s heart fluttered and she clutched herself with renewed distress. She pressed Mickey’s name with her finger and whispered, “My head might forget, but my heart will never forget you, my love.”

Isabelle is your daughter. Isabelle is married to Brent. Isabelle and Brent own a landscaping business called “Pretty Rock Landscaping.” Mark is your eldest son. He’s the boss of this place. Mark is married to Tiffany.

Esmé exhaled. “Of course! How could I forget Tiffany. Tiffany with a ‘T.’”

They have twins, Sam and Charlie. Travis is your younger son. He is a stonemason like his father.

She returned the notebook to its hiding place, wondering how long the window would stay open. Would she soon forget a jar exists? She needed to write more notes and leave them in more places.

There was low murmuring coming from a huddle around the family table. Esmé leaned against the hallway wall, catching pieces of a hushed conversation. “She’s lost so much weight and you know she’s smoking those dreadful cigars again.” Then, “I honestly don’t know what she’s been living on.” Isabelle never could keep her voice down. “Are you going to tell her today?”

“Tell me what?” Esmé said, attempting her best one-legged strut across the room. “What are you all plotting about now?”

The huddle dispersed, everyone awkwardly leaning back in their chairs. Brent stood quickly, pulling a chair out for her. “Pinot anyone?”

“Mineral water for me,” said Tiffany.

“And me,” Mark said.

“It’s never too early for Pinot,” said Esmé. Mickey’s watch clunked as she placed her fists on the table. Mark shifted in his chair. “Have some food, Mum. You asked what we were talking about and yes, we were discussing your situation. But only because we’re all concerned about you.”

That word again. The jitters had come back but Esmé lifted her chin, refusing to show them any sort of weakness. “What situation?” 

Travis was still tinkering around the fireplace, tending the roaring fire and he dropped the heavy brass tongs. “Sorry.”

“It’s just all the mishaps and accidents; we thought it would be best for your health to re-think your living situation,” said Isabelle.

Esmé tutted loudly. “We all make mistakes. And yes, I’ve had a bit of bad luck lately. I just have to be a bit more careful.”

“You know it’s more than that, Mum,” said Mark. Esmé put her hands to her temples bracing for one of Mark’s lectures.

“You’re too… fragile to just go off on adventures anymore, especially when vehicles are involved. It’s dangerous, not just for you but for others. Imagine if you hit someone, one of the twins?”

“That’s not fair! How could you even say such a thing?” 

“It’s only six months since you went missing in the bush and thank goodness we have neighbours like Brian, otherwise you would still be stuck in that stinging nettle. And don’t even mention the Alpacas.”

“You just did.” Esmé couldn’t help it. She hated the way Mark berated her like a child, as if she was sitting in a principal’s office.

“It wasn’t my fault they got into the dam.”

Mark huffed. “The surveillance cameras don’t lie.”

Tiffany nudged him. “Mark don’t.”

“It won’t happen again.” She cursed herself. Now who’s talking like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar?

“The car’s already gone but I’ve also confiscated the scooter.”

Tiffany looked at her husband sideways.

Esmé’s forehead tingled with perspiration. “Did you just say confiscated?”

“Someone has to be the parent in the room.”

“Ouch, that’s a bit harsh,” said Brent.

“It’s my scooter and I will ride it where and when I want to, thank you very much.”

“Okay. Look, I’m sorry.” Mark held his hand out flat imploring her to calm down. “Maybe I’m using the wrong words.”

Brent raised his eyebrows. 

“The problem isn’t just you, Mum.” Mark paused, his eyes looking up, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “It is sort of, but we have another more pressing problem. The truth is, Ambre doré is in trouble.”

Esmé opened, then closed her mouth. “What sort of trouble?”

“We’re losing money at a rate where we’re going to have to scale back production and lay off workers. Our equipment is old and we can’t afford the outlay to replace it now that China won’t take our wine. And the profit from the honey and Alpaca wool just isn’t enough.” Mark pulled out a wad of paper held with a tiny bulldog clip and placed it in front of his Mother. “That’s why I have a proposition for you, Mum.”

She didn’t touch the neat pile, clasping her hands tightly together.

“Look around,” said Mark. “All of you.”

They dutifully gazed at the raked ceilings, tapestries and stonework.

“Look how old-world Ambre doré is, with all its history back to the 1800’s. People love this sort of thing, and they’ll pay good money to stay in an original, convict-built building, visit the cellar door and of course, Queens lookout would be a great tourist attraction.”

Esmé sniffed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Imagine this area as a huge reception room, dining in front of the fire. You could even host weddings,” said Isabelle.

“So you and Travis agree?” Esmé looked at Travis who leaned on the back of the sofa.

“Maybe.”

“There’s a lot to think about,” said Isabelle. “But yes, I think it’s a good concept – also a chance for you to start afresh, Mum, somewhere new away from all the memories.”

“Start afresh you say. Away from everything I’ve ever known for nearly sixty years?” She glared at Mark. “I think you all should leave.”

*** 

Esmé drove furiously, her plastered leg propped up on the front of the ride-on. She’d mown a crooked strip almost five hundred metres long before finding the lever that raised the blades, then took the red mud track that led to Queens Look-out. A stand of cypress and Oyster Bay pine now dwarfed the little stone tower her husband had built.

Exhausted, she leaned on her good leg, placing her hands on the cool granite wall and calmed herself. This was her and Mickey’s sacred place. Managing the steps, she entered through the sandstone archway into a space modelled like a medieval chamber where two thrones cobbled from round granite rocks stood proud. One for King Michael - the smaller for his Queen. She ran her fingers over the words carved on the back of her throne: “Queenie my Queenie, forever my ladybird Queen.” Above the words, a polished oval piece of amber was set solid, containing a ladybird fossil, preserved for millions of years.

She sat on her throne smelling salt in the air, running her hands over arms worn smooth by hands over more than fifty years. Mickey and Esmé would sit on warm summer evenings, laughing, drinking Ambre doré pinot and surveying their ‘kingdom.’ In later years, Isabelle, Mark and Travis played for hours in their private castle. The view from her seat stretched as far as the Tasman Sea crowned by the mountain crags of Freycinet Peninsula. She could just make out Isabelle Island in the distance that offered up vivid memories Esmé feared would soon be gone. She remembered the countless excavation trips to the island where she and Mickey, with a bunch of fellow stonemasons, sourced the granite, sandstone and course-grained dolerite needed to build the look-out. When the hard work was done, just the two of them would hike the coastal mountain range visiting beautiful patterned limestone cliffs carved and moulded by the sea, then camp for the night on their special white sandy beach, where Isabelle was conceived.

Esmé heard a scuffling of feet on the steps, Travis calling out as he got to the top, “It’s just me.”

“I thought they’d send you. How did you know I was here?” 

He grinned. “I followed the mown grass.”

She rolled her eyes. 

Travis motioned to the other throne. “Can I sit?”

“Of course. Do you remember that huge storm? When we all sheltered here overnight?”

“Who could forget. Mark was hysterical.”

They both chuckled.

“So many memories, Travis. I can’t bear to leave this place.”

“I miss him too.” Esmé reached over and took his hand. “Maybe it’s time, Mum - for both of us to let go. Just a bit. We won’t be losing Ambre doré - we’ll just be sharing the joy with others. Giving them the chance to know how special it is. You didn’t read the plans did you?”

“No.”

“Mark has made provision for you - a cottage still on the estate with modern facilities.”

“For old people, you mean?”

“Well yes, if you want to put it like that. You can live there as long as you want. You’ll still be on the estate.” There was quiet between them. The wind had come up, a strong gust buffeting the trees. Esmé looked out, spotting a pair of swift parrots together again, perching close on a swaying branch.

“As long as I want, you say?”

“As long as you want.”