Book Read Free

A Grand Passion

Page 17

by Anne De Lisle


  I try to speak now, but I’m struggling. Ian shushes me. Was that a footstep? We both freeze, ears straining. Suddenly there is a deafening hammering. It’s the knocker on the front door being banged with awesome force.

  Ian strides to the stairs. I grab a torch and stagger after him. Adrenalin starts pumping, soon letting my body move freely, but my thoughts are too sluggish to realise or prevent what Ian is about to do.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs and am appalled to see him grab the front door and hurl it open. He stands, framed in the doorway, legs apart, all threatening in his little shortie pyjamas.

  Two men are outside with beanies on their heads and cans of rum and Coke in their hands.

  At this point Ian realises that perhaps he shouldn’t have flung the house wide open, but he’s not going to back down now. ‘Do you fellows realise what time it is?’ he demands of them, as though chastising a pair of schoolboys.

  Our visitors are confused by Ian’s methods. They hesitate, looking taken aback. I don’t think they are accustomed to being challenged by sober citizens in the middle of the night.

  ‘It’s after one o’clock in the morning,’ Ian continues.

  I’m standing behind him in my nightie, clutching the torch. It’d make a pretty good club. My hand tightens its grip.

  ‘We heard this place’s haunted,’ one of them says.

  ‘Yeah,’ joins in his accomplice. ‘We heard fifteen people got murdered here.’

  Ian laughs in a sort of matey way, as if they are all in on some sort of joke together. ‘Do you think we’d be living here if that was the case?’

  They hesitate, undecided. Already they seem less of a threat and I’m willing to believe them just a pair of idiots who’ve drunk too much and dared each other to brave the Ghost House. But I’m also willing to believe that if we hadn’t made our presence known, their next move would have been to start trying windows. I’m very relieved this is not one of my nights alone.

  ‘Come on guys,’ says Ian, ‘it’s late and we’re tired, off you go now.’

  They go. It’s a huge relief. I know Ian will say he could have knocked the pair of them down with one hand tied behind his back, but I’m pretty annoyed with him for his gung ho unlocking of the door.

  We listen to their vehicle drive away before I turn on him.

  ‘There could have been six of them, all with baseball bats in hand! We should have yelled at them through a window and threatened to call the police.’

  I see rare contrition on Ian’s face. He knows he’s upset me and deserves the rebuke. But I know he’d do the same again tomorrow night. Ian is the sort of man to fight home invaders to the death before submit. If submission means life, I think I can do submission. I tell him so.

  But I can see his thoughts are already elsewhere. ‘Where’s Topsy?’ he says.

  We call her.

  There’s no sign. We are both thinking the same thing. That rare bark wasn’t one of aggression but a cry of frightened surprise. Did they then silence her? We call and call again. It takes ages before, to our immense relief, a slithering, trembling creature emerges like Golum from a hole beneath the kitchen wall. Shuddering, it creeps toward us on its belly.

  We sit outside patting and soothing her. We decide to get a second dog. Perhaps a bit of back up will give Topsy more courage.

  CHAPTER 18

  PROGRESS, PETER AND THE POPE

  SUMMER APPROACHES, and slowly, surely, our verandah grows. Sarah returns and Topsy gets fatter on her McDonald’s diet. Sarah is still not supposed to drive, so is dropped off each day by her friend, Brenda. We never see Brenda get out of the car, but she’s an awesome presence in the little sedan. Her arms are like tattooed hams, her shoulders bulge broadly in her singlet top. She always gives us a friendly wave before roaring off in a tyre-spinning, rubber-burning cloud of dust.

  Verandah building is not the quiet, shut outside affair I’d optimistically imagined. The lawn is rendered bald and compacted by the dozens of trucks and utes that speed in and out and all over it every day. Workers come and go, deliverymen drop off materials, wives and girlfriends drop off lunchboxes, and the curious come to observe.

  Ian and I both go away for a couple of days; Ian on his usual weekly trip to Montville, me on a visit to my children in Brisbane. When we come home we find all of Ian’s power tools have disappeared, including a heavy duty chainsaw and brush cutter. None of these things were locked up. In fact they were left, by us, in an unlocked shed and lying about on an open porch. Still it’s a nasty shock to think that someone has been lurking around, thieving, in our absence.

  We glare at Topsy, the only eye-witness; useless, lovable, cowardly lump of lard that she is, and renew our determination to get a second dog. Clearly we’ve been too complacent. We’ve seen our recent night-time visitors as an aberration, and we’re treating Maryborough as a sleepy little country town, populated by good, honest, salt-of-the-earth types. Too late we realise that nowhere is like that any more, and hire a lockable shipping container to sit at the end of Queen Street with all of our replacement tools and shed gear safely stowed away until we can build a proper shed.

  The closest we’ve come so far in our quest for a second dog is a quick peek in the window of a local pet shop housing a fluffy litter of roly-poly puppies. But I don’t believe the sub-tropics and such fluffy creatures go together, and say to Ian that we should hold out for something more appropriate. Some big, black devil-dog, with a broad head and powerful shoulders. Something that barks loudly. Something that will teach and embolden Topsy.

  ‘They’ll be a formidable pair,’ I say.

  ‘Unless Topsy teaches the new dog.’

  I tell Ian to cut the pessimism and start scanning the local papers.

  Greg offers us one of his three-year-old, home-bred Maltese terriers. Being exceedingly fluffy, small and white, it is the complete antithesis of what we’re after. A tiny powder puff of yappiness.

  ‘They might be small, but they’re good barkers,’ says Greg. ‘Nothing’ll alert you faster if someone’s creepin’ around.’

  With huge reservations, Ian and I agree to trial the little puff, though I’m a bit scared that Topsy might eat her for breakfast.

  We tie her up on the half-built verandah, afraid she might try to flee to the sanctuary of Greg’s house, get lost in the process and end up looking like an Iced VoVo on the road.

  ‘I see what Greg means about the bark,’ I say after an hour or so.

  ‘She’ll settle soon,’ says Ian. ‘Let’s give her a bit of meat or a biscuit or something.’

  I discover the terrier only shuts her mouth if I’m stroking her. I sit and stroke and sit and stroke. The second I stop, she starts up again.

  An hour later I say, ‘do you think her throat will get sore?’

  Ian gives a helpless shrug. ‘It’ll have to. Or exhaustion will stop her.’

  We try to go about our business. I’m scared her throat will swell and close, or that she’ll break brittle bones with so much vigorous barking.

  Hours pass.

  Ian and I are shuffling around, wondering what to do when Rhys, who’s assisting Pud with the plastering of cracks on the exterior wall of the living room, strides up. Rhys is a well-spoken, well-mannered, likable young man.

  ‘If you don’t shut that fucking dog up, I’ll put a bullet in its skull,’ he says, and turns on his heel to return to his work.

  We are silent a minute, shocked and ashamed, but suddenly very clear and decisive.

  We gather up the exhausted bundle of yapping fluff and drive her back to her home.

  The weather is totally arid for weeks, which is wonderful for getting work done, but turns the bald garden into a dustbowl. Every time a vehicle drives in or out, dust clouds billow into the house through the windows we have to leave open for power cords. From seven o’clock every morning an orchestra of nail guns, drilling, screeching circular saws, hammering, shouting, swearing and the occasional awesome thud as
something is dropped from a great height, tunes into life.

  Bricklayers come to build the core of the solid columns that will surround the house. Soon our bear traps are filled with two-metre tall, ugly, grey, Besser Block columns. They are an eyesore but we know that later, when the coast is clear, Pud plans to work his magic on them.

  As the verandah gets taller, scaffolding goes up. Soon we are looking like a giant Meccano set. Large items are hauled up on ropes, swinging wildly. It’s a dangerous business to venture outside these days. When the men start work on the upstairs verandah, everyone has to troop through the house and up the stairs with great boots and armfuls of trailing power tools. I hadn’t anticipated this and regret having sanded and oiled the cedar staircase before the verandahs were finished.

  Through all of this chaos, we mutter daily prayers of thanks to Trojan John, whose good-humoured reliability is such a steadying influence on the project. He shows up every day, whatever the weather, solid and stable. No task fazes him, however great or however small. His singing starts at seven in the morning, and doesn’t finish until he goes home in the afternoon.

  His early morning solos serve as a handy alarm clock for Robert and Andrew when they stay. No amount of pillows and blankets clamped to outraged ears can keep out the operatic notes, and we get bleary eyed sons appearing for breakfast earlier than they have done in years.

  Though one morning Andrew still hasn’t emerged and it’s getting late. I’m at the point of going in to see if he is still alive, when he suddenly appears, looking slightly out of countenance. It seems John and Sarah have been working on verandah batons at his uncurtained bedroom window for the last two hours. Andrew, who sleeps naked, has been pinned beneath the sheets by their remorseless presence, only escaping when their work was done.

  We go to see Peter Olds, of Olds Engineering, about making the lacework and iron posts for the verandahs. Olds Engineering has been a Maryborough icon for almost one hundred years. This seems to be a regular thing in Maryborough: father teaching son, who in turn teaches his son, who in turn … Expertise spanning generations. It is the same with Brian White, the joiner who makes our replacement doors and windows, and with Graham Morrison, creator of our new gates. We are constantly astonished by the calibre of craftsmanship the town has to offer.

  Peter Olds has a rare track record. Most famously, he made a bed for Pope John Paul II. In 1994, Pope John Paul had a badly broken thigh bone. When Peter heard of the mishap, he offered to make and gift a special bed to the Pope that could tilt up vertically, thus allowing the injured Pontiff to get out without difficult and painful manoeuvring.

  His gift was accepted and, courtesy of Qantas, Peter travelled to Rome with the bed. He was granted an audience with the wounded Pope, who received his new bed with true papal gratitude and grace.

  The latest rumour in town is that Peter has received a ‘hush-hush’ commission to create wheels for the Queen’s new ceremonial carriage.

  We know our verandah balustrading will be safe in his hands.

  Armed with enlargements of old photos of Baddow House in the intact verandah days, we sit down with Peter. He looks like a craftsman of the old school. He has a kindly face, white hair, glasses on the end of his nose, smiling eyes. I think of Pinocchio’s Geppetto, who loved his work so much he gave life to it.

  ‘Do you think you can copy these?’ Ian asks, pointing to a close-up of the old balustrading.

  ‘No problem at all,’ Peter assures us. He goes on to explain how they will build a die and cast all the pieces of lacework separately. According to these plans, ‘We’re going to need almost four hundred separate pieces.’ He peers more closely at the photos, glasses defying gravity. ‘You know, I have a pile of odds and ends outside behind those sheds. There just could be something similar to these. Next time you’re in town, call in and have a sort through.’

  But being the do-it-right-now sort of man that he is, Ian is already on his feet, eyeing the said outbuildings. He and Peter go out to explore and return in about five minutes clutching a piece of very rusty iron lacework.

  Glasses are donned, photos re-examined and the lacework is declared to be not just similar, but an actual piece of the Baddow House balustrading. A piece has survived the meltdown, and we have found it. Just like that. Too easy, as Mike would say. The story headlines the front page of our local newspaper.

  I know we are meant to be here. I don’t think much happens by accident. We all have a journey and this inescapable journey is Ian’s and mine. Finding that panel of lacework is just another sign. There have been plenty of signs.

  Bills continue to roll in. Ian and I have a budget most carefully drawn up before our work commenced. Between us, we think we’ve been pretty canny. Estimating accurately. Overlooking nothing. But as anyone who’s ever renovated will understand, unexpected problems and additional expenses crop up time and again. Mike brings us a bill once a fortnight. We learn to read the signs in his approach. Is he calling in to inspect work, or will one of those ominous white envelopes be tucked into his hip pocket?

  Mike’s ute rounds the corner at the end of Queen Street and brakes hard on the compact dirt of our driveway. A great black shiny noisy beast of a vehicle. It is twice the size of everybody else’s utes. On the tray stands Mike’s dog, Wolf, an Alaskan malamute. For those who have never seen a malamute, picture a husky, then picture it bigger than a great dane.

  With all that fur, I imagine Wolf feels the sub-tropical heat. His massive jaws hang open, his tongue, the size of a human liver, lolls sideways. Topsy rushes out barking, biting at Mike’s tyres, but Wolf is unreachable in the tray of his master’s ute.

  Mike unfolds himself from the driver’s seat and strolls toward the house. He’s not in work clothes. We can see one corner of a white envelope sticking out of his pocket, and fight the urge to slam shut doors and windows, or hide behind the shed and pretend we’re out.

  The amounts vary hugely, John and Sarah’s labour being the only constant. Usually there are extras from the saw mill, from the bricklayer, the plasterer, amounts to make your blood run cold and keep you awake at night.

  The trouble is, we don’t want to take short cuts or compromise quality. Baddow deserves the right treatment, and we know, for all our shuddering dread of the bills, that Mike is giving us the job we wanted.

  For a long, long time the verandahs are full height and size, but a skeleton only. Mike doesn’t want the floorboards and lacework added until the very end, to protect their finish from possible damage and from being splattered when Pud and Benji repair and paint the exterior of the house. He thoughtfully gets his men to put sheets of plywood down on the bearers and joists so that the verandah can be walked on while things are being finished off.

  The day the men put the ply down on the upstairs bearers, Ian and I fling open the French doors the minute we are alone. For the first time we can step outside upstairs. It’s exhilarating. We are seven metres from the ground, up in the canopy of the jacaranda trees. ‘I’ll be able to pluck the blossoms,’ I say.

  ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane,’ says Ian.

  Ian hates to stop work before dusk but, today, I make him. This is a milestone not to be missed. We go downstairs, grab a bottle of champagne and two glasses and return to our tree house.

  I look at Ian and know that there is no place on earth that either of us would rather be than sitting together on the splintery plywood with our backs against the wall of the Babies’ Room; hot, dirty and tired, soaking up the wonder of this historic moment.

  Every atom of me is totally relaxed, totally happy. I’m not thinking of the labour and trials behind us, nor am I thinking of the hard work ahead. Right here, right now, I’m just filled to overflowing with the unadulterated pleasure of the moment. It might be the eye of the storm, a few snatched minutes of peace before it all starts again, but it’s a moment of absolute joy.

  From our new vantage point, we watch the sun dip over the trees on the river bank, turning the eucalyp
ts amber and the grass emerald. We see the familiar white egrets skimming their reflections on the water. The tide is high, so the river looks swollen and fresh. It’s easy to imagine the tall sailing ships coming into view, their tentative progress slowed by the need to drop lines and test depth. Amazing that such ships navigated so far up-river. We think about those first days before our house was built, when Edgar lived in his simple hut in the village of Wide Bay of a few hundred souls, and imagine the effect the sight of a ship’s mast would have on that little bunch of hopeful settlers. How the cry would go up, and everyone would cluster at the water’s edge. A ship meant supplies, new folk, and news from home that could bring joy, hope or grief. I feel so spoilt by my weekly letters and phone calls from my mother in England.

  How she would love this place. I close my eyes, sip my drink and listen to the orchestra of birds in our garden and surrounding park. I can hear the chatter of lorikeets, the call of the whip bird, plus a chorus of other indistinguishable sounds, punctuated occasionally by the raucous hysteria of the kookaburra. So many different voices, so many different songs. It’s almost deafening.

  I know I must press Mother to visit us, but not now, not until we’re finished. A rough and ready building site is no place for her. But one day, soon, when we have freed the angel from our marble, I will prise her out of the security of her Cotswold village and bring her here.

  I make the mistake of telling the EPA that we have found the original piece of balustrade. I’m excited about it. I think we’ll earn great favour from them for finding it.

 

‹ Prev