Tiger Men (35 page)

It was early spring, and the Powells were having a birthday party in the grounds of Quincy’s house overlooking the orchard. During the warmer months outdoor parties at the orchard were a favourite pastime for the brothers and their families, and had been for years. In the old days when his sons were little, George would row Emma and the boys across the river from his modest home and boat-building yard at Wattle Grove and up the Huon to Castle Forbes Bay, a distance of almost three miles. They would then walk the mile or so to the small cottage on the hill that overlooked the fledgling orchard, and there they would celebrate Christmas or New Year, or whoever’s birthday it was, with Quincy and Charlotte and their family, and then George would row back down the river.

Things were different these days. Powell Shipbuilding and Repairs, with a reputation for top-quality workmanship, was a thriving business. George no longer rowed his family up to Castle Forbes Bay. They sailed there in style aboard the
Lady Margaret
, a particularly pretty ketch which was kept for personal use and which Lincoln, the eldest son, had named after his wife. George, keen to father a dynasty, had promised twenty-three-year-old James that upon his marriage a vessel would be named after his wife too, but such an event appeared unlikely. James was very much a bachelor who enjoyed playing the field whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Quincy Powell and his wife Charlotte had also worked hard, their well-earned success born of sheer tenacity, and the family gatherings no longer took place at a small cottage overlooking a fledgling orchard. Charlotte Grove, as they had named their estate, had become one of the top fruit-producing properties in the Huon Valley, and where the cottage had once stood was now an elegant two-storey timber house with broad verandahs. A large upper balcony was complemented by ornate cast iron lacework and from the high, gabled roof of corrugated iron rose four chimneys for the all-important fireplaces that provided heat throughout the home during the bitter-cold winter months.

The circumstances of both families had changed dramatically over the two decades since they’d settled in the region, but one element remained constant – the parties at Quincy’s place. The surrounds were a little more spectacular, certainly, and the numbers present were greater, having burgeoned with each new arrival, but the Powell gatherings had always been a celebration of family, and today was no exception. Indeed today was a typical example of Powell solidarity, for with the Hobart contingent in attendance, the entire clan was there, including the matriarch herself, Doris.

Seventy-three-year-old Doris had travelled down from Hobart aboard the
SS Emma Jane
with her daughter, Martha, Martha’s husband, Simon Hawtrey, and their two almost-grown children. The journey had been no hardship for the indomitable Doris, who remained in fine physical health. She made the trip down the Derwent to the D’Entrecasteaux Channel and up the Huon River at least once a year – for Quincy’s Christmas party or for a special family occasion such as today – and she chose always to travel aboard her husband’s favourite vessel, the impressive
SS Emma Jane
, which did the regular run between Hobart and the Huon Valley, transporting both passengers and cargo.

Built of the finest Huon pine, the ninety-foot
Emma Jane
had been the first steamship commissioned by Powell Channel Transport. Jefferson Powell had converted several of his six barges to steam in the late seventies, but upon her completion in 1886, he had instantly declared the
SS Emma Jane
the pride of his fleet. Everyone in the family knew that Jefferson’s real pride had been in her creator, for the
Emma Jane
had also been the first steamer built by Powell Shipbuilding and Repairs and as such was a credit to the master shipwright who had designed her, George Brindsley Powell.

Jefferson and George had originally intended to name the vessel after the woman who had been an inspiration to them both. But Doris had flatly refused to accept the honour.

‘It is a tribute to you, my dear,’ Jefferson had urged.

‘The
SS Doris May
is a fine name, Mother,’ George had insisted.

‘Rubbish,’ she’d replied, ‘no ship should be called Doris. You must name her after your wife, George. Look to the future, not to the past.’ As always, Doris had had the last word, and the pride of the fleet had been named the
SS Emma Jane.
The solidarity of the Powells as a family had only served to strengthen their business alliance. Powell Channel Transport and Powell Shipbuilding and Repairs worked in close association – with, indeed, the orchard of Charlotte Grove as well, for it was Powell vessels that transported the crates of apples and pears to the jam factories of Hobart, and to the city wharves for shipment overseas.

Jefferson Powell had felt an inordinate sense of pride as he’d watched his sons prosper over the passing years. And as he’d watched the sons of his sons become men and take up their fathers’ mantle, he’d gained great satisfaction from the knowledge that he had founded a dynasty to be reckoned with.

Including the several infants, there were twenty gathered around the huge weathered table that George had built years before, specifically for Quincy’s outdoor parties, and either by blood or marriage seventeen of those gathered were Powells. The non-family members were the Müllers, Gustav and Heidi and their eleven-month-old daughter, Eugenia.

‘. . . Happy birthday David!’ Quincy declared.

It was baby David’s first birthday and everyone applauded boisterously as Charlotte arrived with the birthday cake, Quincy as always the loudest. Quincy had a robust tenor voice, played the piano accordion with gusto, and always led the troops when it came to a celebration. He was louder than ever today, and with just cause. The first birthday of a man’s first grandson was a momentous occasion.

The applause continued as, with great ceremony, Charlotte placed the giant cake on the table. The cake was large enough to amply feed all, with second serves for those of hearty appetite, making the one house candle that flickered in the middle particularly ludicrous, which was the intention.

Olivia Powell leant forward, her infant clutched to her breast, and as she blew out the candle a cheer went up.

Quincy winked at his daughter-in-law and started to sing. ‘
For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow
. . .’

They all joined in, singing at the tops of their voices while Quincy pumped away at his piano accordion.

‘Hip, hip . . .’ Then came the three cheers, by which time both babies, David and Eugenia, were crying from the sheer cacophony. Their discomfort did not halt the raucousness, however. Indeed the candle was re-lit and the whole process repeated for Eugenia’s sake.

It had been decided that as baby Jeanie would turn one in just four weeks, her first birthday would be celebrated along with David’s. The Müllers were like family to the Powells, and any family occasion called for celebration.

Finally, when the ‘hip hips’ were over and the last rousing cheer had died away, Olivia and Heidi were able to escape with their wailing infants to the grove of birch trees and the bench that overlooked the valley below.

Whether it was the reduction in noise or the distance from the crowd or simply the tranquillity of their surrounds no-one could say, but the babies quickly calmed down and within only minutes the women sat peacefully gazing out over the vast sea of blossom. It seemed the entire landscape was in flower. Below them, the main orchard was a blaze of white, while to the left stood the groves of cherry and plum trees in varying and vibrant shades of pink. Spring in the Huon was a colourful time.

Quincy Powell had only recently re-entered the berry and stone-fruit markets, the principal produce of Charlotte Grove being apples with a healthy sideline in pears. He had discovered in the early days that raspberries, strawberries, plums and cherries intended for jam production did not travel well. If the trip up the Channel proved rough, as it certainly could, the fruit was more often than not badly damaged and useless by the time it reached Hobart. But things had changed since H. Jones & Co. had built its new factory just up the road at Franklin. The fruit could now be processed in the valley and transported as pulp, making berries and stone fruit a viable business.

A half-mile away to the right, beside the orchard and with access to the nearby road, were the outbuildings: the tractor shed and the barn, the stables and harness room, and the sprawling all-important packing shed, which during harvest time was a hive of activity. But most impressive of all, from up on the hill where the house stood, was the view beyond the outbuildings and beyond the road, for there just one mile away lay the broad highway of the Huon River, ambling its way down to the D’Entrecasteaux Channel. The Huon was more than a waterway of great beauty. Given the treacherous road over the hills to Hobart, the Huon was an essential means of transportation for the timber merchants and orchardists, and a lifeline for all those who lived in the region.

The two young women sat gazing out over the vista for a full five minutes before Heidi spoke.

‘I love that I sit here,’ she said in her quaint way, ‘it is such beauty.’ Heidi’s English pronunciation was excellent, but her syntax dreadful. She’d been twelve years old when her parents had emigrated from Breisach in the Black Forest region of Germany. Her father had pursued his trade as a timberman, and the family had led a remote existence. The Knopfs senior had seen little reason to educate either themselves or their daughter in any more than the basic requirements of communication, which were exercised only when they left their log cabin to visit the timber mill or to buy supplies in the township. Heidi’s English had been virtually incomprehensible until she’d met Gustav Müller, who was the foreman at the timber mill in nearby Geeveston. It had improved immeasurably during the several years of their marriage, for Gus had been born in the colony and spoke like a local; indeed, despite his German heritage Gus Müller considered himself a true Tasmanian. His wife’s linguistic idiosyncrasies had, however, become so firmly entrenched that there was little Gus could do to change them, and he didn’t want to anyway. He liked the way Heidi simply could not put words in the right order.

‘Yes,’ Olivia agreed, ‘it is certainly very beautiful.’ She turned her attention from the orchard and the river to her friend. ‘You really are remarkable,’ she said, shaking her head with admiration. Heidi had admitted that she was once again pregnant, even as she now rocked an eleven-month-old baby in her arms. ‘I cannot believe you are going through that whole process all over again, and so
soon
!’

The bond between Olivia and Heidi had been forged during their pregnancies. Both of them young, not yet twenty at the time, each carrying her first child and fearful of what lay ahead, they had been a great strength to each other. As friends they appeared an unlikely pair, the dark-haired, precisely-spoken young Englishwoman and the blonde, square-faced German with the quaint way of talking, but the two were destined to remain a strength to each other throughout their lives.

‘So soon, yes, but this I wish.’ Heidi smiled. ‘Gus says I beg for punishing, but I think is best I get things done and over with soon more than late.’

Olivia did a quick mental translation. Heidi’s adaptation of Gus’s phrases could be obscure at times, but she’d become quite adept at working them out. ‘You’re a beggar for punishment all right,’ she said. ‘I intend to wait at least two years before I go through all that again.’ In response to her friend’s quizzically raised eyebrow, she hastily added, ‘Well, that is, if I can. Thomas wants at least three sons, but he’s happy to wait a couple of years between each. And there are
ways
you know.’ The women shared a smile. Olivia glanced down at the baby, who was now squirming restlessly in her arms. ‘They’ll need feeding soon. Shall we go up to the house?’

As they walked back up to the homestead, the party continued behind them.

The younger members of the family, having finished scoffing cake, were playing cricket, and Lincoln’s wife was overseeing her wayward son, Gordon. Eighteen-month-old Gordie was trying to ride Falstaff the pig. Falstaff had no objection, he was a most amiable animal, but Gordie kept slithering off his back so, grasping her son firmly by the shirt collar, Margaret held him on board and followed the pig around as it snuffled in the grass seeking the apples that had been especially strewn about for it. There were several pigs that roamed the orchard, eating the rotten apples and generally keeping the place clean, but Falstaff was special. Falstaff was as obedient as any dog and just as loving: he adored the family. The feeling was mutual.

Everyone else was still gathered around the table, George having refilled the women’s glasses with the Champagne he’d brought in from Hobart especially for the occasion. None of the men much cared for ‘the fancy French stuff’, as they called it, and were sticking to their preferred Cascade Ale.

‘To Jefferson.’ It was Doris who proposed the toast. Doris always proposed the toast at the larger family gatherings. When she was present, as a mark of respect, the others made a rule of waiting until Doris chose the moment before they embarked upon the inevitable round of toasts, which always started with Jefferson.

‘To Jefferson,’ they said, raising their glasses in a salute.

Doris sipped her champagne. She would not finish the glass: she did not enjoy the taste. The only time alcohol passed her lips was when she toasted her husband and family.

‘A second great-grandson,’ she gave a nod of satisfaction, ‘how very proud he would be.’

Jefferson had not lived to see the first of his great-grandsons. He had died two years before Gordon’s birth, succumbing to a heart attack at the age of seventy-one. Doris missed him sorely, but she was never maudlin about his passing. The strength of her faith convinced her that Jefferson was watching over his family anyway, just as the strength of her faith convinced her they would all one day be reunited.