by Di Morrissey
‘I’ll be in the studio with the children’s art class,’ Ruth called as Odette got back in the taxi. ‘Hey, what brings you back — love or a story?’
‘Both,’ shouted Odette as the car drove away.
She walked up the wooden steps to the verandah, calling out ‘Zac?’, and stepped into the spacious room.
‘In here, Odette,’ came Zac’s calm voice.
She dropped her canvas bag and hurried into the bedroom.
‘Zac? You knew it was me?’
He was sitting on the floor with clothes and sheets of music and books about him. Packing. ‘I heard a car so looked out the window.’ He folded a jumper and pushed it into his duffle bag. ‘Come and give me a kiss, little bird. It’s been a long time.’
Odette sighed, she was over her longing to be the only person in his life but why couldn’t he have rushed out the door to hug and welcome her? ‘So you do know the news?’
‘And what news is that?’ She sat beside him hugging her knees and he leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.
‘You know very well. Where are you going?’
‘England first. I’m recording my songs for a couple of albums. Then there’s talk of touring America, starting with the college campus circuit.’
Odette shook her head in amazement. ‘You’re even talking like a celebrity. How can you so calmly sit here — here of all places — and chat about making records and doing concerts and being a star?’
Zac dropped the shirt he was folding and took Odette’s hands and looked deep into her eyes, his casual manner discarded. ‘Because, Odette, I have told you since we first met, that my music would carry me far and away, to help people. It’s another reason why we can never be together.’
‘You want to try and change the world with a song, Zac, and I don’t think you can.’
‘But sometimes, for a brief moment, you can give people hope and joy. And if they can carry away the memory of that moment, and try to create more such moments — even if only minutes long — where people think good thoughts, think good of others and want to make a difference to their lives and the world about them, then all those fragments of moments start to join up. It becomes like an intangible chain that links people and forms ties and bonds about us all, no matter where we are. Then that is helping and healing.’
He continued to hold Odette’s hands. ‘I haven’t changed, this is my destiny; I have known it would happen, so I am not surprised. I will travel and sing and try to reach out and touch people wherever I can. I’ve tried to tell you this all along, sweet bird. I cannot belong to one person, I cannot stay in one place.’
Odette felt her eyes fill with tears. A great sadness welled up in her, but also an awareness that she had always known this day would come. She reached up and held him, rubbing her face in the soft strength of the curve of his neck. In a muffled voice she murmured. ‘I know, Zac. I suppose I’ve always known, but us girls do keep hoping we can change the man we love.’
She lifted her face to his and managed a wistful smile. ‘At this moment I feel really special; it sounds corny, but I feel very honoured, because you have given me part of yourself and shown me such love and taught me so much. I feel like you’ve been slowly growing wings with me and now you’re going to soar high and free. I have to let you go and be glad for what we had and what I’ll always have.’
He wiped away the last of her tears with his finger. ‘If I have given you such wisdom, I’m glad. You know I’ll always carry you with me in my heart, Odette.’
She nodded and felt as if some great weight had been lifted from her body. It seemed as if some yearning for what could never be, floated away, leaving her light and open, ready to embrace life and follow wherever her path might lead.
She ran her hands through her tangled curls. ‘Anyway I didn’t come rushing up here to cry on your shoulder. I came to write a story about Australia’s gift to the world — you!’
He laughed. ‘Always the little reporter!’ He knew, despite her bantering tone, there was still sadness in her heart. But it would settle soon. He kissed the palm of her hand. ‘No, you came so we can set each other free.’ He closed her fingers over the kiss in her hand and gently drew her to her feet. ‘Come, let’s find the others and plan a celebration for tonight — and for the future!’
They lit a big campfire that night and gathered round its warmth and light to share thoughts and dreams and the knowledge that the friendship they shared this night would be one of the bright gems of memory that would sparkle through all of their lives.
As it grew late and the fire burned low, Zac asked everyone to take hands and he lifted his guitar saying simply, ‘This is my gift to you, Odette’. Sweetly he sang the song he’d written for her called, ‘Without Love’. Listening to his silvery voice, his eyes closed, as the passion of his words rang out, the answer to all questions, all the problems of people and the world came down to one simple solution — that without love, of each other and the world, then there was no hope.
The story Odette wrote expounded Zac’s views on topics from the need to preserve and protect our land and oceans to harmony among races and the need for good and honest men and women to safeguard our future. ‘These might be considered fringe issues at this moment in time, but in twenty years’ time they will be vital and confronting matters to be considered,’ he was quoted as saying at the end of the article. The sub-editor had headlined the story VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS, OR VOICE OF THE FUTURE?
‘Seems a bit of an idealist but what he says makes sense,’ the news editor grudgingly commented to Odette, adding ‘Good piece.’
Odette resumed delving into the background of Zanana. Somehow it now had some urgency, more importance — she had more passion for the story. And she knew why. Saving Zanana was no different really from saving a rainforest. She and Zac shared the same passion.
She had little luck with getting any response from Hacienda Homes, the development company, so decided to try their consultant designer, Mr Eden Davenport.
He returned her call and did not seem suspicious or anxious about her enquiry. He had a pleasant well-modulated voice that was warm and friendly. Momentarily caught off guard, Odette fumbled for a plausible reason as to why the Women’s Gazette was interested in his plans for Zanana.
‘It’s an historical feature on grand old homes and I understand you know Zanana quite well and you’re doing some sort of design work?’ She let the question hang in the air.
There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. ‘I’m not sure if the company employing me want details of their plans revealed at this stage,’ he answered cautiously.
Odette knew the game was on. ‘I bet not,’ she thought angrily, but in a pleasant tone asked, ‘Is it restoration work to the house?’
‘My job concerns the estate grounds, not the actual house. I believe that is in reasonable condition and is not part of the concept.’
‘You haven’t seen it?’
‘Er . . . no, I’ve been working off plans and drawings.’
Odette wanted to shout at him but quietly asked, ‘Could you tell me a bit about this concept?’
‘Look, Miss Barber, like I said, I don’t know that I am at liberty to discuss this. Hacienda employ a public relations company if you’d care to speak to them.’
‘I see.’ She took down the details, but knew already that the company wasn’t letting anything out.
Odette realised she wasn’t getting anywhere with this ploy. ‘Mr Davenport, let me be frank with you. Are you aware there is a citizens’ lobby group who are against any development of the Zanana estate?’
He sounded genuinely surprised. ‘No, I didn’t. What are their objections?’
‘Numerous. But basically they don’t want an historic and beautiful landmark to be carved up, particularly into junky low-income houses,’ she replied swiftly.
‘Oh, poppycock! Is that what they think? Look, it’s the old story. Conservative, old guard do-gooders in a co
mmunity always object to any kind of change. How can anyone condemn something they haven’t seen? It’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it really?’ said Odette, with the raised eyebrow clearly evident in the tone of her voice.
‘I apologise, Miss Barber, I don’t know what sort of a story you’re after, but I can’t help you. I work for all kinds of individuals and companies who give me a basic brief. They know my style and employ me on that basis. If the residents of Kincaid have objections to any changes being made to Zanana, tell them to take it up with the council, Hacienda Homes or the owners. My job is basically done. Goodbye.’
The line went dead and Odette replaced the handset, reflecting that the tirade had raised more questions than had been answered.
Odette decided it was time to make some enquiries at the Kincaid Council. Rather than run up against a bureaucratic stone wall at the other end of a phone line, Odette went in person.
She asked for a planning officer. She smiled brightly at the enquiry desk assistant. ‘Someone who is patient and can explain things to me so I can understand,’ she said.
The woman rolled her eyes and marched away, thinking Odette was another silly female without a clue about planning procedure and development application process. People just marched in as if planning permissions and approvals were sprayed about like confetti without any effort.
‘Mr O’Toole, doddery old codger, let him straighten out the young woman if he can,’ she thought with a smirk.
The portly clerk escorted Odette to his office. As they walked along the corridor lined with stern photographs of past mayors, Odette felt a little sorry for the old man. He was short and slightly stooped; his creased white shirt was partly out of his trousers, which were shining on the seat from long use. Like him they were ready for retirement. He affected old-fashioned braces to hold up his trousers, as well as a worn leather belt.
Mr O’Toole’s office matched the man. It was small and ill lit, crowded with filing cabinets and littered with rolled-up maps and plans. Files spilled all over his desk. But when they got down to conversation Odette found a warm personality and a sense of Irish fun in the old man.
They hit it off at once with some good-natured exchanges about the inconveniences of council offices and editorial rooms. Then Odette began probing, hoping to find not only information, but also a sense of working-class justice in Mr O’Toole.
‘Marvellous place Zanana. Known a few people who worked on the estate in the old days. Fabulous rose garden. I’m a bit of a rose fancier,’ he confided. ‘Pity it’s all closed up and neglected. Those roses need a bit of love.’
‘Be a terrible thing to lose a place like that — tear it down, raze the gardens and so on, wouldn’t it?’ said Odette.
Mr O’Toole tugged at his silver goatee in shock. ‘My dear girl, don’t even say such a thing. They’d never let that happen surely. It’s a treasure, a veritable treasure, that place.’
‘But, Mr O’Toole, there are plans before Council to do just that. Hacienda Homes want to subdivide the whole estate.’
‘But it hasn’t been sold, has it? There’s only a rezoning application before Council. I don’t think the development company has made details of its development public yet. Not obliged to. Of course, subdivision is the only way for the developer to go. A great shame really but there’s so much change and progress now. Can’t stop it, you know. But one would rather hope that Council will insist on preserving some of Zanana’s outstanding features.’
‘Those are fine hopes, Mr O’Toole, but there’s not much precedent for optimism, is there?’
‘Well, Council must listen to the people as well as the developers; and the locals are really up in arms. Never seen anything quite like it before. Good thing too,’ enthused the veteran council clerk.
Sensing that she’d found an important comrade in arms, Odette pressed on to consolidate the opening. ‘It would be wonderful if you could do a bit to make sure that the right thing is done.’
The old clerk fiddled with the files on his desk and contemplated Odette’s request. He had spent three decades of his working life shuffling pieces of paper containing utterly boring trivia associated with the administration of local government in a community where nothing of consequence had ever happened. Now sharing confidences with him was a reporter from the big city press. Kincaid was about to make headlines. Something was actually happening in Kincaid and he had the chance of playing a role that had the promise of being important.
Odette watched him, and said nothing.
He finished fussing with the files, clasped his hands on the desk, leaned forward and looked her in the eye . . . and winked. ‘Well, you just count me in, dear.’ Mr O’Toole lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘I’ll do a little snooping and see what I can find out. I just seem to recall the Hacienda Homes group tried something a bit shady a few years back. I’ll go through the files.’
Odette shook his hand. ‘Good for you. By the way, you said you knew some people who had worked on the estate — who were they, are they still around? There used to be a caretaker but he seems to have moved on.’
‘Don’t know about that. A friend of my dad’s said he stayed there for a bit before it was closed up. It was a war vets’ convalescent home for a number of years.’
‘Yes, I knew that. I met one of the vets a few years back. Is your father’s friend still alive? Did he keep in touch with anyone?’
‘My dad’s passed on, but George is still around. I’ll ask him what he remembers. And in the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out for you about Hacienda Homes.’
Odette thanked him and left. She now had two moles working for her in the council — Mr O’Toole and Mrs Bramble’s son. Surely between the two of them, they’d be able to unearth some information.
A few days later her desk phone rang. ‘It’s reception, Odette, there’s someone here to see you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘He won’t give a name.’ The girl on the desk was obviously smiling at whoever it was, for her voice sounded flirtatious.
Odette hurried down the corridor and was taken aback at the stranger who stood there. He thanked the receptionist and came towards her with a hesitant smile and outstretched hand.
He was in his mid-twenties, tall, good-looking in a fresh open-faced way with light brown hair, tanned skin and clear hazel eyes. He was dressed smartly but casually in well cut tan slacks, a white shirt and deeper brown jacket with a muted olive tone striped through it. He looked wholesome, friendly, and at ease with himself.
‘I’m Odette Barber. I’m sorry, have we met?’ She shook his hand.
‘Not exactly. Well, not in person. I’m Eden Davenport. I didn’t tell the receptionist who I was in case you wouldn’t see me.’ He grinned disarmingly.
‘Oh.’ Odette withdrew her hand and didn’t move. ‘I don’t know that we have any more to discuss — have we?’
‘Well, I thought about our conversation and it worried me a bit. I mean about the local residents in Kincaid getting upset about the plans for Zanana. You said there was some lobby group. I was wondering if you put me on to them and I talked to them, if that might put their minds at rest.’
‘Is this your idea or the public relations company’s?’ He’s very smooth, Odette thought to herself.
‘Miss Barber, please, this isn’t what you think.’ Typical cynical journalist, he thought to himself.
‘Then what is it? How can talking to the Kincaid citizens’ group save Zanana?’
‘Because it’s not going to be destroyed. At least let me explain my design concept to them. Before it all gets out of hand. This has nothing to do with Hacienda Homes, I might add. They certainly didn’t put me up to this. I confess my own ego was piqued a little. I don’t like the idea of people thinking what I do for a living would be so callous and insensitive as totally destroying the heritage of a place like Zanana.’
Odette studied him. He seemed most sincere. Or he was a very good talker. Why wa
s he doing this? Well, there was only one way to find out.
‘All right. Come on down to my office.’
‘I have a better idea.’ He looked at his watch. ‘How about lunch?’
‘I bet you’ve already got a table booked somewhere,’ she said loftily.
He looked sheepish. ‘I do actually. Just on the off-chance I could persuade you to listen to me. You know how hard it is to get a decent table somewhere nice.’
I wonder if he ever puts a foot wrong, mused Odette. She shrugged. ‘No, I don’t know. You can always get a table at The Greasy Spoon. Excuse me a minute while I get my handbag.’
At her desk she flipped her jacket off the back of her chair and quickly pulled her compact from her bag and touched up her lipstick. Then her phone rang again.
‘Miss Barber? It’s Mr O’Toole here, 007 and three-quarters,’ he chuckled.
‘Hi, Mr Bond, have you had any luck?’ she laughed.
‘Well, yes and no. I found out that Hacienda Homes do not have a reputation for exquisite taste in building, shall we say. Several years ago there was quite a case against them for shoddy work, breaching building regulations and development provisions. Curiously, it was all settled out of court. When I went to look for their current application, the file was missing. And it shouldn’t have been, if you get my drift. Most peculiar.’
‘What about your dad’s old friend?’
‘Yes, I went and saw old George. Lucky he was having a good day. Said he remembered the housekeeper, Mrs Butterworth. Said she was a terrific lady.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘All he remembers was someone in the town telling him she’d moved away when Zanana was closed up.’
Mrs Butterworth. The newspaper clipping. Had to be the same lady. ‘I don’t suppose he remembers where she went?’
‘He did actually. Up north. To a little place called Bangalow.’
‘Mr O’Toole, you’re a gem! I have someone waiting for me. Many thanks. I’ll get back in touch with you — I think we make a great team, O’Toole!’
CHAPTER TWENTY