Gate No. 6

Disclaimer: my retelling of this family's story is based on publicly available information. The Newman Family has not been consulted in the drafting of this article.

Let's begin: The sun beat down on our shoulders as we made our way up the dusty track from gate number 6. I was relieved we'd taken the time to apply sunscreen and couldn't believe we'd been complaining mere days before about how cold it was this summer. I rubbed at my arms as the dust stuck to the greasy cream, already dreaming of a cold brew at the nearby pub.

"I won't tell you anything," I said to my sister as we climbed the steady ascent. "I've researched everything I could find, but I want you to tell me what you think before I blab it all." My sister had always been sensitive. Haunted or not, if there were memories lingering in this place then she'd be the one to pick up on them.

My sister laughed and rolled her eyes as she often did. There was no mirth in her laughter, but a good-humoured scoff. She had a lot less faith in her talents than I did. As we walked, I caught a glimpse of dark stone through the grass on the creek's bank. "Look!" I puffed, taking the chance to stop and catch my breath. "Is that a wall?"

"It is..." my sister answered, hands on hips, squinting as she surveyed the hillside. "It looks like it goes all the way up the creek." She was right. While hidden in many places - crumbled away or taken over by the bush - the old wall was still trying to cling to the same path it had for almost 200 years.

We kept our eyes peeled for any way to cross the creek to inspect the other side. My sister spotted the wombat trail first. As we scrambled to the bottom of one side of the creek bank, we realised it wasn't just walls left behind. Rusted and broken pipework ran along the creek, hidden from site from the path by overgrown brush. "Irrigation?" I wondered out loud.

I placed my hand on the cool, rusted metal, sighing happily as the water of the creek tinkled by me and the wind rustled the reeds. How long had it been since anyone else had been here? How long since anyone had inspected the long broken pipework? Connecting to history like this always buoyed me.

We spent several minutes inspecting the broken wall, swatting at bugs and weeds that stung our exposed legs off the beaten path. Inspecting the fruit of an heirloom apricot tree took at least twenty minutes, as we marvelled at how much human intervention had changed the colour, shape and texture of the fruit in such a short space of time.

Finally returned to the path, it wasn't long before we reached our destination. Newman's Nursery. Founded in the 1850s, it had since become a local legend for the purported sound of ghost children laughing amongst its empty walls. What those who spun these tales probably didn't know, was this was not a nursery for children, but for plants. 

Many of the plants were obtained as seeds and cuttings from the new colony, but the Newmans also brought dozens more specimens from England and Germany by ship, in sealed-up miniature glasshouses to protect them from the batting waves and salty sea air. By the 1880s, the nursery was a showpiece for the colony, housing rare and exotic plants from all around the world, over an astounding 500 acres.

The remains before us were those of Charles and Mary Newman's family homestead: the stables, cold frames, hot houses with boilers and furnaces, offices, and various other out-buildings.

My sister was immediately drawn to a window in the office, where she sat for several minutes staring down the road. "I feel like there was often someone waiting here," she said after a while. "Waiting for someone to come home..."

"That's interesting," I said softly, not wanting to break the moment, and already knowing why it might be that she was picking up on these emotions.

"They were bored too, I think..." she added.

"Who do you think they were?" I asked after a drawn pause, wondering if she would answer 'a young girl'. This would make the most sense - if this site was indeed haunted - knowing what I knew.

"A woman..." my sister said thoughtfully. She cocked her head before adding "wait, maybe not a woman. She's younger. A child...I think... There could be more than one person staring out of this window." A smile beamed on my face before I could catch it. "What?" my sister asked. I could feel another scoff coming.

I began to fill my sister in on all that I knew. About the fierce Mary Newman, pioneer extraordinaire, who raised SEVENTEEN children in this place, while helping to run the family business. It was her hard labour at local markets, and in the gardens, which helped to pay for the stone that would eventually form the foundations and walls of the nursery. This was a woman who danced into her ninth decade and who never lost her love for tending her garden. Stubborn to a fault, she lived to the ripe old age of 94.

I then began to fill my sister in on the tragedies that struck this place - the most likely source of any haunting. First, Mary and Charles' 14th child - also named Mary - tripped and fell into a pot of boiling water as she ran to greet her father, passing away from her injuries. Next, fierce storms and floods damaged much of the nursery in 1913. Charles had long since passed by then - dying in 1899 - and the family bickered viciously after the floods, finally selling the nursery in 1925. The Ash Wednesday bushfires of the early 1980s finished off what remained of the nursery for good.
Was it young Mary who looked out this window, waiting for her father?

"The daughter - and perhaps the other children - would wait in this room, because they could see their father returning up the road..." my sister thought out loud. "And because they felt close to him in his office. They loved him very much."

"Yes," I agreed, not feeling the same degree of connection as my sister but believing this was right. "And Charles did travel very frequently for work," I added. "Especially while the nursery was being established and money was scarce. He would work as a builder, in the Tea Tree Gully area. He also drove a bullock team and wagon over the tricky roads from the Burra Copper Mines to Port Adelaide."

"But aside from the waiting..." my sister began again. "I don't get a sense of sadness here. In fact, it feels... Almost happy." We both sat by the window, a light breeze blowing, and looked about us. It didn't feel like any spirits were lingering here.

"It does feel happy," I agreed, picturing Mary Newman dancing in her rose gardens. "Despite everything - and all of their adversity - I believe there was a lot of joy here over the years, and that this story is one of perseverance not defeat."

A member of my family later told me the origins of the surname 'Newman', which literally strings together the two words 'new' and 'man'. A name which indicates opportunities for new beginnings.

The Newman Nursery still operates today. Charles and Mary's son, Frederick, revived the business in a nearby property. It is perhaps smaller, but still a thriving family enterprise, now in its fifth generation.

Not all spirits linger. Not all memories that remain are troubled. Perhaps if there are laughing children, this is merely the echoes of happy memories - of Mary's 17 offspring playing amongst the trees. Us humans like to find the spooky - to tell tales to raise the hairs on our necks. But often, the reality is more beautiful, and touches us more deeply.

If you'd like to honour Mary's memory, you can find her grave in Houghton Cemetery, South Australia.