Little Lost Girl
Book 1 -Old Balmain House Series
Novel by
Graham Wilson
Copyright
Little Lost Girl
Graham Wilson
Imprint BeyondBeyond Books
Copyright Graham Wilson 2016
ISBN: 9780995431317
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank the members of my extended family for information on our family’s early history in Australia, particularly my Aunt Edith for passing on many stories compiled by others.
Many other people reviewed this novel in the four years since it was first published. Your advice, mostly positive, is greatly valued. Thank you all.
From readers’ reviews and a structural review by KJ Eyre, I have substantially revised this book and released a new edition It has many changes but keeps the main elements of the original story. Previously it was titled ‘The Old Balmain House’. In doing this rewrite I realised the central story element is about a little girl and her friend who went missing and were never found. So I have changed the title of this book to ‘Little Lost Girl’. The houses and other Sydney locations are important parts of the background, which give context and place the story. Hence the ‘Old Balmain House Series’ name keeps this sense of location within the story.
The new covers that accompany this second edition have been produced by Nada Backovic. I thank her for her creative flair in taking my descriptions of story elements and creating outstanding images which capture the story’s moods and places. Arcangel Images supplied background images of the covers of these books.
Part of the inspiration for this book came from reading Geraldine Brooks novel, ‘People of the Book’, which used small artefacts of history to carry people’s stories from the past into the present day. Geraldine also kindly gave me some suggestions about how to deal with historical accuracy for which I thank her.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction.
Balmain is a suburb of Sydney where our family lived for seven years. Our house was like the cottage described in the first chapter of this book. We bought it as told here. Our pleasure living in it and in Balmain were real.
However, while many locations and parts of the history of Balmain are true, some locations and most characters are fictitious. For those interested, the factual information behind this story is in the Appendices at the end of the book. More information on Balmain and adjacent parts of Sydney is available from sources such as the Balmain Public Library, the State Library of NSW and the Balmain Association.
The purpose of this novel is not to merge fiction and historical fact, but to use some historical facts from Sydney’s early development and a range of geographical locations around Sydney Harbour as a canvas onto which a work of imagination is painted.
Parts of the canvas are known facts from my early family history, or the history of the area. These are like occasional dots of paint giving reference points and shadowed outlines. All the intervening layered detail to make this word picture has been created within my mind. If some parts approximate but differ from history or current reality, this is entirely accidental. I apologise if it causes offense through appearing to misrepresent true facts.
The idea which became this novel began soon after we purchased our much loved Balmain cottage. When we bought the house the former owner gave us a sepia photo of a small girl who had lived in the house about 100 years ago. Later, in a writing class, I was shown an ornate perfume bottle, and asked to imagine a story based on it. I pictured it as the treasured possession of the girl whose photo we had found and so I jotted down headings for a series of scenes which told her story. Those points, imagined over five minutes, are now this novel. It is an imagining that I hope gives pleasure. This is the purpose of this book.
Family Tree – Main Characters
Rodgers Family
Archibald – Great Grandfather of Sophie – migrant to Australia from Scotland in 1841, builder of the first Balmain house, ‘Roisin’, in 1842
Hannah – first wife of Archibald – came to Australia with him in in 1841, died in 1849, her children are James, John (deceased before coming to Australia, Archibald (deceased 1849), Alison, Hannah and Alexander
Helen – second wife of Archibald, her children are Margaret (deceased 2 weeks after birth) Helen, (grandmother of Edith), Agnes and Anne
Alison – daughter of Archibald and Hannah, grandmother of Sophie
Maria – daughter of Alison and Charles Buller, mother of Sophie, wife of Jimmy Williams
Edith – (narrator’s aunt), great granddaughter of Archibald Rodgers, through second wife, Helen
McVey Family
Tom McVey– First Sydney employer of Archibald and a family friend. Builder of the second Balmain house, ‘Ocean View’, in 1843
Mary – Wife of Tom, close friend of Hannah and surrogate mother to Alison
Buller Family
John Buller – close friend of Archibald and joint business owner in Sydney
Charles Buller – son of John, husband of Alison Rodgers, father of Maria
Williams Family
Michael Williams –Welsh migrant, builder of 1870 Balmain house, Casa Ardwyn, father of Jimmy
Rosa –wife of Michael, daughter of Sophia, mother of Jimmy
Sophia –wife of ship’s captain, Edward Martin, of Spanish descent from Philippines, mother of Rosa, grandmother of Jimmy
Jimmy – father of Sophie and Rachel, husband of Maria
Sophie –central character to story, born 1900, missing since 1908
Rachel– younger sister of Sophie
Sarah – daughter of Rachel, half cousin to narrator’s Aunt Edith
Ruthie –aboriginal friend of Alison, a member of the Gadigal people, a clan of the Eora Nation.
Prologue
We bought ourselves a new old house – a magical timber cottage
It made us feel most welcome – gave a sense of a loving home
It seemed we belonged here – soon making it into our own
We glimpsed a hidden story – deep buried and held fast
It told about a little girl who lived here in a century past
This child went off to school one day and never did come back
It seemed to all who looked so hard she’d vanished through a crack
For years and years her family searched, seeking her elusive soul
Emptiness was all they found – she’d vanished and left a hole
Loss carried on, down years and years, as generations passed
The memory slowly dwindled, fading out of view at last
We heard her voice call out one day seeking help for her return
We joined the search; it drew us in, new people in this place
Across a century of time and space a presence led us on
At last we found a vital clue, lost story of her grandmother
And as we walked on hidden steps her family became our own
Now, at last, after all that’s passed, we’ve safely brought her home
Chapter 1- A New Old House and a Discovery
We walked in and closed the door. This house was ours. The agent’s brochure said it was built around 1870. We wondered about its story and how it had come to be here?
We had lived in Balmain just over a year, coming here by accident. Arriving in Sydney, five years earlier, we were agog at the real estate prices in Australia’s biggest and busiest city. So, at first, we rented a house in Sydney's suburban south from owners away in Singapore. Their son was injured. Unexpectedly, they returned to Australia. We needed a new house to live in. Marie, my wife, worked in the city. My job would move there soon too. So a move to inner-city Sydney made sense.
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nbsp; With little time before we had to move we looked at houses to rent in the inner suburbs of Newtown, Camperdown and Glebe, just south of the city. Most were terrible; dirty bathrooms and kitchens, busy streets and little space. I saw a listing for a townhouse in nearby Annandale with four bedrooms. My inner-west Sydney internet search had also brought up a four-bedroom townhouse in Balmain, although it was $70 a week more than the Annandale one. Thus far I had left Balmain out of consideration. I thought it was too expensive and only trendies lived there. However, with little time to find a house for three children, we added Balmain to the list.
We visited both properties. The Annandale one was next to a park, along the local creek. It was one of three buildings in the small complex. We liked it. So I made an offer of $20 less than the advertised rate. The Balmain property was spacious, but in large complex and the extra $70 a week was real money. However, to cover ourselves, we decided to make an offer for this too, at $50 less than asked, to give us bargaining room.
Next day the phone rang. It was the Annandale agent, saying they would rent us the house, but would not accept a reduced price.
I said, “Sorry, that’s our offer.”
A second later I wondered if I should have taken it.
Five minutes later the phone rang again, this time the Balmain agent. They would rent us the house and our offer was fine. We agreed, headed off to sign the papers and pay the deposit. Five minutes later the house phone rang again. We were gone so it went to message. That night we heard this message from the Annandale agent saying their client reconsidered and agreed to rent us the house at our nominated price. Too late; money paid and form signed for the Balmain rental.
Two weeks later the move to Balmain was made. I hate moving more than almost anything else, but by the end of the day we were in, just; boxes everywhere, partially assembled furniture; our legs like jelly from endless trips up and down three flights of stairs. But the house was clean, seemed comfortable and gave us a pleasant home for now.
After a minimal dinner we set out, with our children, to explore our new neighbourhood. It was dusk light of a spring day. By this time, in our previous suburban house, the streets were empty; everyone retired inside, settled in front of TVs for the night.
Here streets were alive; others like us out on an evening walk, people from every second house spilling out onto the footpaths, chatting with neighbours, patting dogs, dodging kids or just taking in the night air. It did not feel like suburban Sydney but like a village where everyone was a part. For Marie, from an Irish village, she had found a place where she felt at home, a village of people who came together in public spaces, like tens of thousands of European villages.
By the time we finished our walk it was decided. We loved this place. We would buy a house here. As the weeks passed and we settled into Balmain everything reinforced our desire to live in this place. It was a suburb full of history; one of the first parts of Sydney settled when the colony was founded, the next peninsula jutting into the harbour west of the city. It was a five minute ferry ride to the city, passing under towering Sydney Harbour Bridge. It was full of wonderful places to visit and explore, old stone houses built into hillside nooks looking out across the harbour, grand terrace houses and little workers cottages, wonderful shops and restaurants, lots of pubs with an authentic local feel and many older people who had lived here all their lives, people with their innumerable stories who kept alive a spoken history of this place.
So we began to look for a house of our own. There was not much for sale, at least not much we could afford. Years of real estate boom did not buy a lot of house for your money in inner Sydney. We sold another property we owned. That gave us a deposit, and the interest rates were rising, so perhaps, perhaps, that would help.
Four months into the lease of our Balmain townhouse the agent rang to say that, unfortunately, the owner needed to sell. He was an over-geared victim of rising interest rates which kept going up. So we needed to find a new place to live. We had not found anything to buy but would not to be rushed; so another move was needed, but only within Balmain. This time we rented a grand terrace in East Balmain, looking out towards Sydney Harbour Bridge. Now, used to Balmain prices, it only cost us an extra $70 a week, which seemed fine. It had million dollar views of the boats on Sydney Harbour and Marie could catch the ferry to work.
Then we found it, or actually Marie did. It was about the tenth house we looked at in three months, a shabby double fronted weatherboard cottage. It was built on a large level block, clad in the wide timber boards of a hundred years past. It had the feel of a well built house, well proportioned, though showing its age. It was painted a softened lemon yellow and had a twisted old frangipani tree in the front yard. Across the street, with ridge-top city and harbour views, were the grand terraces and other fine houses of the wealthy, all built around 1870-80. Our street side had houses of ordinary people, mostly two bedroom weatherboard cottages, some renovated and extended; others like ours standing almost unchanged for over 130 years.
Marie rang the agent inquiring, who said, “Unfortunately an offer has been made and accepted, so it’s too late.”
It seemed our search must continue.
Two days later we saw this same house advertised again.
Marie rang back. She was told the bidders had money problems so it was back on the market.
We rushed for an inspection. The house had great bones but a declining air; grand original fireplaces and ceilings; awful mouldy old brown carpet and a collapsing chipboard kitchen. However, the moment we stepped inside, it exuded a positive feeling, like a welcoming relative – come in, enjoy me, I am a good place to live; I like you and know you like me too!
Within five minutes we decided to make an offer, near the upper limit of what we could afford. The agent said there was already a conditional bid in from another party, but this person needed a few days to get their finance sorted out before they could confirm.
We placed our bid. The agency said they would put our bid to the owner, but thought we needed to go higher. They promised to ring us next day, once they had talked to the owner.
So we waited and hoped. Next day the agent rang back. The owner was keen to sell and, having been burnt once, was not inclined to wait for the other bidder. But the listing price was $30,000 above our offer, so we needed to close the gap to get favourable consideration. A deep breath; another ten thousand went onto the table for the agent to put to the owner. Five minutes later the phone call came – offer accepted, the house was ours.
***
It was February when we moved in. We collected the keys from the Balmain agent’s office and drove to the front door.
A balmy summer’s day wafted a fragrant scent from the ancient knurled frangipani tree in the front yard. A decrepit picket fence stood barely holding back an escaping garden. It sprawled over the path we followed to the front door. We walked under a rusty tin roofed verandah sheltering weathered floorboards. On the front door a tarnished old iron knocker sat above a small metal plate, aged and corroded, faintly inscribed ‘Casa Ardwyn’.
The key turned; we were inside. It really was ours. The house exuded shabby charm. Many people had lived here. Most felt good. But sad memories intruded too. What had it seen in 130 years of history?
We started to unpack and bring order to our new old house. The back garden was overgrown with straggly shrubs below a massive gum tree, it’s trunk a metre across. It must have lived here, shading the local aborigines, before the First Fleet came. Other big trees competed for space in a crowded canopy. A previous owner built a deck extending under the trees, giving filtered summer sun on balmy days. We sat out there for half an hour, soaking it in, while our resident magpies and kookaburra gave melodic voice.
Our daughter had the front bedroom across the passage from us. Our boys had the attic in the roof cavity above our head. We busied ourselves with organising our parts.
“Mum and Dad, look what I have found.” The voice drifted acro
ss the passage. Our daughter, Tara, aged eight, came into our room carrying a shiny glass thing in her hand.
“What is it?” we both asked together.
She shrugged and said, “Looks like an old bottle,” handing over her discovery. A small, blue-green glass bottle, covered with silver lace filigree in which a blue stone sat, and with a silver screw top, colour tarnished dark with age, perhaps a perfume bottle of another time.
“Show us where you found it,” I asked.
She led us into her room to where an old ornate fireplace was. “I was looking here and put my hand in here,” she said, pointing to the fireplace, and then, indicating to the bottle, “I felt this thing, it seemed to pull my hand to touch it. I wonder if I should put it back?”
However curiosity had the better of me. It was as if this bottle had called out to be discovered, this first find in our new house.
I took the bottle from my daughter’s hand. Despite being cold glass it felt warm to touch. I rolled it in my fingers to examine it, such delicate silver lacework, now tarnished with age, a patina of time toned to a soft lustre. One small blue stone was set into the silvered side, perhaps a piece of coloured glass, perhaps a valuable gem. The bottle glass was the colour of a milky summer tropical sea, as seen at the edge of the shoreline where colours of trees, sea and sky flow through each other; between opaque and translucent, a mixing of blues and greens.
I opened it, curiosity piqued. It appeared empty but I saw a faint residue, remains of 100 years past. I put it to my nose. The faintest perfume rose to meet me; apples, cinnamon and gum leaves, blended with summer breeze and frangipani. Unbidden, thoughts of other times and places flowed through my mind, as if hundreds of souls brushed past with the gentlest touch. I must have been smiling because Tara and Marie both asked why.
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