They were like the lawns of the royal estates back in England, ideal for croquet or strolling upon, but almost too refined for noisy, rambling children or summertime games of family cricket. The green swathe that was mown to perfection by Edith herself was irrigated almost daily with water diverted from her husband’s farm dams. The lawns swept their way up to a grand homestead and seemed to announce to any who drove past the house that the Carters were from a very important dynasty of graziers. The two-storey homestead was grandly constructed of stone and timber. At the front of the house, Iceberg roses climbed the verandah posts and bloomed prolifically in summer in resplendent white. The flowers were as pretty and delicate as fine tasteful French lingerie. Then there were Edith’s box hedges, trimmed to perfection, curbing neatly around the white pebble driveway like miniature, elite show-jumping hedges for well-bred horses. The oasis of greenery, set in the heart of yellow fields of wheat stubble and dried pastures, was the focus of many garden club open days and country-style magazine feature articles and photo essays.
