Ian returns to his hedge-hole digging.
The Christmas break over, it’s back to real work. We’re getting closer to finishing the interior. Bit by bit the house is transforming. We love the mellow yellow of the living room so much, we carry it on up the stairs and into the bedrooms. All the rooms in the house not already painted are now going to be yellow. It brings out both the richness of the cedar joinery and the honey glow of the floorboards.
I decide to pretty up our bedroom. It’s a huge room, eight metres by six, with heavy, dark furniture including a massive walnut wardrobe we bought in an act of great extravagance when we first signed the contract on the house. There is also a cedar chest of drawers as tall as I am that once belonged to Ian’s father, as well as my dressing table and a second chest of drawers. The doors, windows and architraves are, of course, rich red cedar, as is the fireplace surround, although the ornate overmantel mirror (found by me on a fossicking trip to Brisbane, glass-less and in a dozen dismantled dirty pieces) is walnut like the wardrobe. It’s a room that can take a bit of prettying without looking too girly. I buy a damask cover and cushions for the king-size bed in the same creamy, buttery colour as the walls, and cover a chair and my dressing table stool in old-rose pink velvet. Then I toss a few odds and ends around the room in the same sort of antique pink: a cushion here and there, a few bits of china I’ve had for years, a couple of pink flowering cyclamens on the window sill. Finally I upholster two old seagrass chairs in pink and cream toile.
It’s all mangoes and crushed strawberries in our room now. In the warm afternoon light it looks good enough to eat.
But throughout the house, the newly painted walls look bare. Though we have enough furniture, cushions and objects to last us a lifetime, our pitiful art collection is lost on the hectares of wall space. My daughter, Elizabeth, suggests I explore eBay as a source of inexpensive art and prints.
I’ve never even heard of eBay, but over the phone she instructs me how to click on. Trillions of items for sale pop up before my startled eyes. Most are displayed with tempting glossy photos. All available from the comfort of your home. What an addictive danger to a shopaholic! Luckily both Ian and I have Self Control. There’s no way people like us will get sucked into this thing. Not at all. We’ll make a one or two swift, astute purchases, then hit the off button.
Within a few hours we’re both hooked.
Perhaps I should explain the mechanics of eBay for the benefit of anyone else who as yet hasn’t ventured there. You type in a description of your sought-after item, and up comes everything in the world that vaguely resembles it. Every sale is an auction; most have no reserve. Other buyers’ bids appear on the screen alongside the time left till each particular auction is over. It might be five days; it might be five minutes. As the clock ticks down, bidding can get frantic or, sometimes, amazingly little or no bidding occurs and you get your item for next to nothing.
This never seems to happen with the things Ian and I want.
Ian has no patience, so I’m the spotter, trawling through tens of thousands of possibilities and saving likely things in ‘Watch this item’ on our ‘My eBay’ page. Ian only joins me for the excitement of the bidding.
We’re supposed to be looking at art, but can’t help gravitating to the antiques. Our modus operandi is to decide what we think the value of each spotted item should be and vow not to bid a cent more. But with my ready fingers hovering over the mouse and Ian’s urging in my ears, it’s really hard not to hit the button again and again. Especially as Ian can’t bear to be beaten at anything by anyone.
We find old jugs, bowls, placemats and jardinieres. We find pieces of the dinner set I’ve been collecting for years: the Myott Chelsea Bird pattern, edged with dark red, a pheasant in the centre.
‘I can’t let that idiot beat us,’ says Ian. ‘Hit it again!’
Bingomichael bites the dust. The Myott plates are ours for ten dollars more than our maximum.
Bowls appear in the same set. So does Bingomichael’s bid.
‘Bloody hell,’ mutters Ian. ‘Hit it! Hit it!’
I do. Whoops. Twenty dollars over.
We begin to realise that my patient spotting and Ian’s killer instinct are a dangerous combination. Then we discover the postage cost. Cold turkey, we abandon eBay.
But it’s oh so exciting when those little parcels arrive on our doorstep. We gaze longingly at the computer. Temptation flickers.
‘Of course we haven’t bought any prints yet,’ I point out.
‘True.’
‘Prints only. No other sites.’
We dash to the computer.
We buy a bundle of old botanic prints for the bedrooms in reds and pinks and creamy, buttery colours. Then we buy a couple of fake ‘old masters’ from Hong Kong, avoiding known works, picking only from the obscure. We end up with a Monet and a Degas, which are surprisingly easy on the eye. The Monet is signed ‘Robert’ at the bottom. I wonder about the unknown, talented, underpaid Hong Kong artist called Robert, whose work now adorns our kitchen wall. Everyone thinks it’s a creation of my younger son.
The walls are beginning to look much, much happier.
I finally confess to Ian the rebirth of my need to write. He is over the moon, admits he’s been longing for the day.
‘We must finish the house first,’ I warn him, ‘otherwise it’ll never get done. You mightn’t like it much when I start,’ I add, ‘I’ll have to shut myself away. No interruptions.’
‘No problem,’ he says, flashing his famous smile.
But I know he’s going to require discipline when I need to be alone. Ian is at his happiest when we work together. If he’s pruning with his chain-saw, he likes me to gather up the bits for him. If he’s planting a tree, he likes me to hold the sapling trunk straight while he shovels in the dirt. When I snatch a minute to do the crossword, it’s impossible to get far before I sense a presence and see his face at the window, his person at the door. ‘Just thought I’d say Hi,’ he says.
‘Hello then,’ I say.
He disappears. Ten second pass. His head pops round the door again. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’
I grow cunning and do the crossword when he takes rubbish to the tip or runs errands in town. But if I’m to write another book, I’ll need more than a few snatched moments when Ian’s back is turned. He’s going to have to learn to respect my need for solitude and quiet.
Sharon Christiansen calls in to visit. Sharon is the thirty-something daughter of Jan and Barry, previous owners of the house. I wonder if she, like Esse, was reluctant to leave Baddow. We show her around, aware that it must feel very strange to see other people’s belongings in your old home and work being done and changes being made. She is very complimentary, and tells us we’re doing a great job.
She’s about to go when she says, ‘Have you seen them yet?’
‘Seen who?’ I ask.
‘Them. The ghosts.’
‘No,’ we both say, ‘nothing at all.’
‘You will,’ she says. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’
I know I shouldn’t, but can’t help asking. ‘So you saw things here, did you?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replies eagerly. ‘We’d see a woman on the stairs sometimes. Mostly I’d catch glimpses of how the rooms used to look, you know, furnished as they were in the old days, but only out of the corners of my eyes. I’d hear them, too. Hear them calling my name.’
Right. Can’t you just hear it? ‘Sharon … Sha … ron … Sha … a … ron …’
But Ian and I are cured of the ghost thing. We’ve both spent nights alone here now and have bigger things to worry about.
Between breaks for eBay, Christmas, and for visitors, I’m still on Cedar Duty. I have the Babies’ Room, the upstairs landing and passageways, and the downstairs corridors still to do. The quantity of woodwork in the house is immense. Thirty-three centimetre high skirting boards, wide architraves, all the internal windows, doors, transom windows abov
e doors, mantelpieces, the entire staircase. It goes on and on and on. But every inch I sand is a dollar saved and I’m determined to do it.
I don’t really mind sanding, especially when Ian’s away. I can get absolutely filthy and don’t have to worry about cleaning up for cups of tea or making dinner. I turn the CD player up extremely high and, depending on my mood, vibrate the house to either Charlotte Church, The Bangles or Queen. I sand away, lost in my thoughts.
The only thing I hate is the mess. The fine, penetrating dust, the nano-particles that infiltrate every crevice in the house, that sneak under closed doors, between window architraves, through dust sheets I’ve thrown over furniture, into my ears, my eyes, through my sensible face mask and into my nose, mouth and lungs. God knows what’s in it. I’m counting on my very healthy immune system to chuck out anything offensive.
At the end of the day I stand under the shower and scrub till I feel purged of the stuff. I have a glass of wine, some bread and cheese, then fall into bed, utterly whacked.
Over the years I’ve swum and walked on and off, made half-hearted, spasmodic attempts to keep fit, but renovating uses muscles that haven’t been used since the dreaded school gymnasium where Miss Adams, determined and despotic, forced my unwilling flesh to climb ropes and vault horses. I remember trying to lie low in that gym, trying not to be noticed, Please pick some other girl, cowering and thinking, When I’m a grown up, I’ll be able to choose. When I’m a grown up, no one will have the power to make me do such exhausting, difficult things again.
So now, when I’m inhaling filth, or teetering on a ladder, or sweeping and vacuuming for the fifth time that day, or sweating like an animal, dragging dead tree limbs up to Ian’s ute in the tropical heat, I am happy to know that it is all been my choice.
CHAPTER 15
ANDREW’S GHOST
MY ELDER SON, ANDREW, arrives home from Italy. It’s brilliant to have him back and, though we’ve been emailing and phoning regularly and he knows all about our Baddow adventures, he’s finally going to see it for himself.
Andrew has a love of art, architecture and history, so I’m hoping he will love Baddow House and Maryborough. Fresh from the delights of Venice, however, I fear Maryborough might seem a little tame, but he does love it all and explores the town thoroughly, identifying buildings as neo this and neo that.
Andrew doesn’t need the Babies’ Room. Even as a little boy, Andrew had no fear of the dark or the unknown. ‘What’s the matter with you two?’ he’d demand of his quivering younger brother and sister. ‘Just because it’s dark doesn’t mean anything’s different except that the sun has moved over the horizon.’
His words always fell on deaf ears.
Andrew never could get the subtlety of Night Fear. Why would there be wolves under a bed in Queensland, when the nearest living wolf is probably in Siberia? As long as you don’t count zoo escapees …
Why would aliens want to abduct a little boy or girl like you two, when there are far more interesting brains out there for the taking? If there are such things as aliens, which there aren’t, or everyone would have seen them by now. But perhaps they like little boys and girls with half-formed minds, easier to brainwash, easier to re-educate …
Ghosts? How can you believe in such garbage? With all the billions and billions of people who’ve died on this planet since the dawn of time, don’t you think the dead would be so thick on the ground by now, that we’d be totally surrounded by them? But perhaps they are only seen when they want to be seen …
No, Andrew just didn’t get it. He’s the sort of sceptic who could sleep dreamlessly in such places as Hampton Court, where Catherine Howard’s ghost is reputed to run headless and screaming down the gallery.
Andrew has taken the bedroom at the far end of the corridor. Elizabeth, who is visiting this same weekend, is in the Babies’ Room.
It’s Andrew’s second night. Ian has gone to Montville so it’s just the three of us. Elizabeth and I go to bed and leave Andrew tinkering on the computer downstairs.
Elizabeth always goes to bed when I do, never to be left downstairs without me. She closes all her windows and doors, as she has done all her life. When she was little, we had the routine of checking inside cupboards, closing doors tightly, looking under the bed and locking the windows. We no longer have the searching ritual, but she still sleeps better when she’s hermetically sealed.
The next morning at breakfast, Andrew is casting me shifty looks. When Elizabeth leaves the room, he says, ‘There’s something I should tell you, Mum. Last night I think I saw a ghost.’
This is Andrew. Andrew the Unafraid. He’s still unafraid, but he’s speaking a very strange language. I am appalled but fascinated. I have to know all.
Elizabeth wanders back into the kitchen. Andrew and I immediately fall silent. It’s an unspoken law that you do not discuss such things as ghosts when Elizabeth is present. I put on the kettle. Andrew goes to the fridge and starts shuffling food around, looking for satisfying breakfast ingredients.
Elizabeth and I sip our tea. Andrew is stirring a vast saucepan full of pasta, cheese, garden herbs and tuna. After twenty-four years, I’m still astonished at the quantity of food that fits inside my eldest son.
He joins us at the table. We’re trying to act casual, normal. I’m not finding it easy, and worry that Elizabeth’s perception will alert her to the fact that we’re hoping to engineer a moment alone. It’s really hard as Elizabeth and I tend to be together all of the time, unless her boyfriend, Simon, calls. Then she vanishes, and the office door is firmly shut.
Why won’t you call when we need you, Simon? I’m getting to the point of making some pathetic, desperate excuse to get rid of her when she drains her tea, stands up and announces she’s off to the shower.
‘Quick, out with it,’ I say, the second she’s gone.
Andrew is scraping the remnants of his protein-rich pasta dish. ‘When I was in the office last night, on the computer, I was typing away and I heard someone coming down the stairs,’ he says, and licks his spoon.
I am riveted. ‘Go on.’
When his bowl is clean enough to put away in the cupboard, he puts down his spoon, looks up at me and says, ‘I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed either you or Elizabeth had come down for a glass of water or something. I heard footsteps approach along the corridor and kept typing. The office door was open, the corridor light on and, out of the periphery of my vision, I saw someone walk past toward the kitchen and clearly heard footsteps. I still wasn’t really thinking about it, just assuming it was one of you, but vaguely aware that it was a bit odd, as the person passing was kind of without definition and a bit dark. Not you, Mum, for sure, and even darker than Elizabeth. Or maybe my eyes were bleary from long hours on the computer and I wasn’t focussing properly. Anyhow, I didn’t think much of it, just kept typing.
‘After a while, when no one came back from the kitchen, I thought it was strange and got up to investigate. But the kitchen light was off and no one was in there. At that point, I thought someone must have broken in – an intruder – and I started searching downstairs. You know, flinging doors open and all that. But there was no one here. That’s when I thought more about the odd appearance of what I’d seen, and began to think it had been something inexplicable.’
Perhaps there’s another totally logical explanation for this, perhaps we’ll reason it out one day. But for now, there is one thing I am a hundred per cent sure of: Andrew does not imagine things. ‘Don’t tell Elizabeth,’ I say.
He rolls his eyes in a tell me something I don’t know sort of way.
‘Okay, okay, stupid comment. But how did you feel?’ I ask.
‘I was scared when I thought an intruder was in the house, but when I found all the doors and windows were locked, I knew there couldn’t be.’
‘Did that scare you?’
‘Not much.’
‘Did you go straight to bed then?’
‘No, I did a bit more on the co
mputer first.’
I stare at this young man, my son, scarcely able to comprehend that any human being could think they see a ghost, then calmly continue tapping away on the keyboard.
‘Let’s keep this between just us,’ I say.
‘No problem.’
I tell Ian. I think I must be seeking sympathy. After all, I’m the one who has to stay here on my own one night a week, every week, and I want him to know what I have to deal with.
It’s obvious to us both that I have regressed hugely since Andrew told me what he thought he saw. ‘God,’ I say to Ian, ‘I even showed him photos of Esse and asked if the person he saw resembled her. He acknowledged it was a possibility.’
‘You’ve got to put this from your head,’ Ian tells me. ‘It was probably Elizabeth getting a glass of water, as Andrew originally thought. He just didn’t notice her returning.’
But I’d already thought of that. ‘I subtly questioned Elizabeth in the morning,’ I tell him. ‘I told her I’d found a glass of water upstairs on the sideboard in the corridor, though I hadn’t, and asked her whether it was she or Andrew who had left it there.’
Not me, Elizabeth had said. I was unconscious the minute my head hit the pillow. Must have been Anders.
It’s a week before Ian has to leave and I’ll be on my own again. But I grow stronger each day and by the time he goes am not too scared. ‘If they are here, they love us,’ I tell him.
CHAPTER 16
VERANDAHS
WE FIND A BUSINESS CARD on our doorstep: Mike Johns. J. Corp. Constructions. We ring him up. Mike Johns tells us he used to live near Baddow as a kid. He describes how he and his friends would play in the creek at the bottom of the garden and dare each other to run up and bang on the door of the Ghost House. They played in the bush around here, they caught yabbies in the creek. He loves the old house and is really keen to be involved.
A Grand Passion Page 14