Of wildflowers, sadness and voices accross time

A short story based on actual events.

A visit to the country

It was the holiday weekend of November 2021 and I was returning through familiar territory in central Victoria, visiting the town where my parents had started a new life in their mid-sixties. They had severed their very deep roots in Melbourne to start a new business in a country town. That was over fifty years ago, so my visit today involved a walk to their graveside and murmuring a few words to them and remembering their life's struggles and achievements.

Their graveside was looking neglected, so I wandered off to a roadside grassland and picked a generous bunch of Sticky Everlasting Daisies, their beautiful orange flowers guaranteed to chase away my feelings of sadness, and hold their colour for a few months.

It was on my return that I noticed some children’s graves. They were in an old and forgotten part of the cemetery that now looked more like a native grassland, with a cheerful display of white (Creamy Candles), Yellow (Bulbine Lilies) and mauve flowers (Chocolate Lilies). In over 30 years of exploring Victorian grasslands, I had never seen so many Chocolate Lilies in one condensed location, the moist morning air imbibed with their delicious scent.
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One child’s grave was covered with Chocolate Lilies and it drew my attention. Though very weathered, its inscription was still readable, free of the pale green lichen that seemed to be consuming the other headstones around it.

I had never seen so many Chocolate Lilies in one condensed location

James Dillon (1905 -1910) 
​‘A life tragically cut short but forever in our hearts’

This unfortunate boy had been born in the same year as my father, who had lived to the ripe old age of 93. The tragedy of this boy’s untimely death unsettled me, sending a shiver up my spine. I became acutely aware of the fragility of life, particularly in those early colonial years, and how 'fluky' it was that I was alive today.

I thought; what if my father had had his life tragically cut short, and what had happened all those years ago to young James?
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It was 1910...

The voice of a young girl

Mummy told me never to go there on my own, but little Jamie was calling. He was lying there all alone and the morning was so cold and foggy. My heart was pounding in my chest, but I said out loud, “you ghosts don’t scare me! I’m Maggie and I’m very brave!” Jamie always said I was the brave one.

Jamie and me were playing hopscotch outside our house on the dusty street. We had the squares all marked out with a stick like I know, and we had our special shiny, flat stones in our hands. I was throwing my lucky stone into square 4, so I didn’t see the man on his cart. I heard him though, yelling like he was crazy, “Oh God!!! Get out of the bloody way,” but that was too late for Jamie.

Now he’s lying there and he needs me to be brave. Some of the headstones along the path are taller than me, but headstones don’t scare me. I know I’m safe when I see the archangel Gabriel looking down with his pretty smile. Mummy always said god’s angels look after us, but they must have been looking the other way when that man lost control of his horse and cart and hit Jamie.
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“Hi Jamie, I picked some beautiful wild flowers from the field for you. They’re white and yellow, your favourite colours, and I found these star shaped purple ones that smell like chocolate. I know you love these ones, cos they make you think of Christmas.
I miss you so much Jamie.”

The Doggett family, Footscray, Melbourne. Circa 1910. (See below). Museums Victoria collection

The voice of a middle-age man

When I rounded the corner and saw those kids playing on the road, I screamed out to warn them. My damnation of a horse had got spooked by a swooping magpie, and it took off so fast I almost fell backwards off my cart. Oh, I’ll never, ever forget that sickening thud and the deafening silence that followed, until the small girl started crying, whimpering like an injured animal.

I try to be a good man and I love kids; I have four children of my own. Now I look at them as they sleep and I cry; I cry because I’ve done such a terrible thing to another family, I cry because I can imagine their loss and their pain, I cry because I can’t sleep at night. When I’m alone I cry, because I constantly relive that unspeakable moment. I crave some blessed relief.

It’s a year after the accident. I passed the girl at the cemetery gate and she smiled at me. Her kind smile felt like a lifeline, a bright welcoming light at the end of my dark tunnel. Every week I would see her when I brought wild flowers to the grave and every week she would look away, her loss too fresh, her painful memories too vivid. Today she seemed to understand my deep sadness for her and her family.
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I’ve always believed that children possess a simple, honest wisdom. So, if she has found it in her heart to forgive me, perhaps it’s time that I began to forgive myself. The sad, regretful person that I’ve become can soon begin to smile again and be grateful for all the joy in my life. Wonderfully, the wild flowers in my hands were brighter and more beautiful after her moment of absolution.

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Some background on the Doggett family in the Museums Victoria photo above. Written by Suzette Hartwell

The father holding the reins is Thomas Doggett and his wife is Helen Doggett (known as Nell). They were my paternal great-great grandparents and Helen lived until I was a young teenager, still in the family home in Nicolson street Footscray. We all called her Granny Doggett, a beautiful woman who knew all the family history. Her and Thomas eventually had ten children. 

The little girl standing with the coat is Ada, known as Peenie, born 1904. The little girl that Thomas is holding is Florence (Tootsie) born 1906. The baby that Helen is holding is my paternal grandmother Nellie, born 1909. Sadly she only lived till I was five years old and she was a stunningly beautiful woman who could have been a model. Her son was Jimmy Hartwell, my father. 

The family history tells us the little girls standing by the fence would not get out of the way for the photographer!

Tom Doggett started the successful ‘Wagga’ bike shop in the Footscray shopping area. He and his brother Albert designed and made the bikes. My great Uncle Tom, who never married, taught himself Italian so that he could better converse with the majority of customers of that linage who lived in Footscray at the time.

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