The Dandelion House and surrounds grew bigger on approach. Silhouetted by a dusty sky, the odd-shaped parcel of land looked like a giant digger’s tin hat—it always had—the house perched at the very top of the land that sloped away into a brim of bright yellow flowers. After a cautious check that she’d remembered the hatchback’s handbrake, Poppy leaned against the car, lifting her face to the soon to be setting sun. The slow drift of the punt was the slowest she’d moved in ages and gliding across water had an almost hypnotic effect. She sniffed the air, a heaviness pressing down on her chest as she noticed it was smoke smearing the sun—not dust—turning the normally blinding ball into a tangerine-coloured smudge.
The familiar bump and groan of the punt bottoming out signalled the end of the trip.
Or is it the beginning? Poppy thought as she steered the car away, scraping the vehicle’s underbelly on the ramp before accelerating up the rough track that had seen few vehicles.
Tyres vibrated over the last cattle grid just before the driveway levelled out. A raised garden bed ran the length of the long, low homestead veranda, epitomising the Australian rural tradition, except for the somewhat spooky charm provided by an unusually high-pitched slate roof with parapets and gothic adornments.
‘Here we are, Rocky. Home sweet home for the next whatever.’ With the fishbowl tucked under one arm, Poppy trod carefully, testing the boards along the veranda just in case, admiring the rusticity of the exposed pine rafters and a post and rail balustrade with a decade-long stranglehold of tangled vines. ‘Lucky one of us is used to roughing it. Come on, I’ll show you around.’
By the front door, poking out from under a small, weather-beaten table, was the boot scraper shaped like a big bug. Poppy instinctively wedged the heel of her Blundstone boots between the V-shaped metal antennae and pressed back to lift her foot out. Then she kicked the boot aside and repeated the manoeuvre with the remaining shoe. After placing Rocky’s tank on the table, she took a minute to tuck the neck of one boot inside the other, a trick she’d learned from one of the soldiers assigned to look after her and her crew in Afghanistan. ‘Best way to keep the sneaky bastards outta your boots,’ he’d said without elaborating on which sneaky bastards in particular. Poppy didn’t ask, either, acknowledging that occasionally, very occasionally, ignorance was bliss.
Her first step inside the house, onto the first creaking floorboard, detonated a series of mini memory explosions, peppering her mind with a potpourri of scents, sounds and sensations and transporting her back in time. It wasn’t the sight of the place, or the smell; Poppy doubted she’d noticed such things as decor, panelling and peeling paintwork as a teenager. She’d been far too self-absorbed. The reaction tonight was a physical one, the urgency of her life in the city stripped away, leaving an almost euphoric feeling.
‘Then again, maybe I’m tired and about to fall asleep on my feet.’
From the entry hall, she first glanced left then right, down each of the two corridors. They created the bedroom wings; each of the four rooms had a small window and a set of glass doors that opened out onto the front veranda. Straight ahead of her, through the broad archway, the central hall opened up into a massive kitchen. Behind the sink, a picture window overlooked the back paddocks. From where she stood inside the front door, Poppy could just about see all the way to the river and floodplains at the rear of the property. But it was the dining table and chairs sitting centre stage in the kitchen that pierced the euphoric bubble. The chunky wooden table was the kind normally found in country homesteads. The heart of the house that came alive at birthdays and Christmas and looked its best piled high with home-cooked food, ample wine and echoing with happy banter. Not that there’d been too many celebrations around this table in Poppy’s time, and she doubted Gypsy had celebrated much in later years.
The house smelled surprisingly sweet, more like warm cinnamon doughnuts and vanilla than the expected mildew and mothballs—probably the years of incense burning, the ritual that had made Gypsy smell like sugar and spice.
‘Mmm, food! You must be hungry too, Rocky. Are you?’ She headed back out to the car to retrieve the last of her luggage.
The sight of a man heading across the driveway stopped her in her tracks.
Her hand clutched her chest in fright. ‘Oh shit!’
The man moved slowly. One leg had a limp. His other leg had a dog stuck to it—the scruffy mutt’s slow saunter beside his master synchronisation at its best. The rather unremarkable looking animal was mostly black, except for white patches on its chest and doggy eyebrows, and four brilliant white socks, three long and one fallen down. As the man neared, Poppy saw he was old and wore his hair in a strange kind of balding mullet. The gumboots, dirty old dungarees and a red-chequered flannelette shirt buttoned lopsidedly all seemed bigger than they needed to be on his slight frame. He was short, but then most people were to an extra-tall Poppy.
‘G’day to ya,’ he said.
‘Hello.’ This had to be the caretaker mentioned in her instructions. ‘You’re expecting me.’
‘I believe you was expected earlier.’
‘I’m sorry, I was—’ She stopped short, bristled. Why was she apologising? ‘Well, I’m here now.’
‘Name’s Elias. I answer to Eli. Nice to meet ya.’
He extended a hand stained nicotine yellow, callused and crusted with dirt, two fingers—the distal and intermediate phalanges of both the ring and middle finger—missing. Poppy’s mind automatically came up with the medical names, having seen all manner of war-related injuries while filming reports in Afghan hospitals.
‘We generally take time to introduce ourselves round these parts,’ the old man continued.
Trying to ignore an annoying nicotine craving, Poppy said, ‘Right. Yes. Hello. I’m Poppy, Poppy Hamilton.’ She’d wanted to return his chastisement with a Don’t you know who I am? She refrained, retrieved her hand from his, and subtly swiped her palm across her bum before jamming it into the back pocket of her jeans.
‘I do know who you are.’ He gave her a partially toothless smirk, as if he’d just read her mind. ‘Welcome back. Thought you might need a bit of help.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, glancing again at his dirt-crusted hands. ‘I can manage fine by myself.’
‘Independent woman, eh? Don’t need no help from nobody.’
‘I’m used to looking after myself, if that’s what you mean,’ she said politely, although wanting to say what an annoying little man he was.
Eli stood there, squinting, his dog watching every move.
‘Do you live around here?’ she asked to break the uncomfortable silence.
Where had he come from? And how had she not noticed him when she arrived? It’s not as if a lame old man and his equally lame old dog could just sneak around like ghosts. Had she been pondering her surroundings for that long?
‘Been bunkered in the old caretaker cottage for a while now. Through them trees down there. Was bringing these over.’ He produced a small bunch of wild flannel flowers from his back pocket.
‘How nice. My favourite.’
‘Thought they might make the place feel more like home.’
Home?
Maybe that was what she’d experienced earlier, a sense of coming home. Why not? She’d spent so much time in this house, especially after the fire when Johnno couldn’t bear to look at his daughter and her grandfather didn’t know what to do with her.
‘Your room’s ready for ya. First one. On the left. Got your name on the door. Just goin’ to put the chooks to bed. G’night.’
She watched the man and his dog disappear around the side of the veranda before carrying the last of her gear from the car.
*
Poppy knew which room was hers without looking. It was her old room. The one she stayed in, played in, cried in, took refuge in, as her childhood grew gloomier with each passing year. Before taking her bags to her room, however, Poppy turned down the opposite hallway, examining the plaques tha
t identified Sara’s and Amber’s rooms. She tried the handle on one, then the other.
Locked.
‘Oh well.’ She walked back towards the other wing.
Poppy’s room was first and Caitlin had Gypsy’s old room next door. Four locked bedrooms. Four hand-painted nameplates, each one with the same child’s drawing—a little square house with five stick figures holding hands and wearing triangle-shaped dresses, each one a different colour.
After a jiggle of the old key in the lock, she kneed the door open and gasped.
Pink!
The pink paradise of frilly curtains and sparkly wall decals was a six-year-old’s dream. Poppy’s room as a child had been all blue. Even her baby clothes had been blue. Her parents had expected a boy first. They’d hoped for a boy for years afterwards. There was always the promise of pink one day for Poppy, but other things had kept her parents distracted. So for twelve years she grew up amid the blue walls of a room meant for a boy, even after the eventual birth of the treasured son.
This room, small and pretty with lace curtains, pale pink walls and glittery butterfly stickers, was just what she used to wish for. Books cluttered the white hand-painted dressing table and, wedged behind the mirror, strapped to a bamboo stick by rubber bands, was the kewpie doll dressed in a pink tulle tutu that she’d won on the laughing clowns at the Calingarry Crossing Fair one year. Poppy traced each book spine with her finger: May Gibbs’ Snugglepot and Cuddlepie, Dorothea Mackellar, Banjo Paterson. The Wizard of Oz caught her attention, and as she thumbed the pages Poppy remembered how she’d read all these books aloud as the cataracts had slowly stopped Gypsy doing the things she loved. Poppy loved to read. She loved books. She loved getting away from home, and even more so after the fire.
‘Remember you were always going to be the next F. Scott Fitzgerald?’ Poppy reminded herself.
*
‘Let me read this one,’ Poppy would ask Gypsy, grabbing The Great Gatsby from the bulging bookshelf that spilled over into boxes in the corner of the living room. Even though most of the story was over her head, a scandalous and gluttonous 1920s America was about as far away as Poppy could get from her small town existence, so that’s what she wanted to read.
Gypsy’s reply, always the same, was, ‘And what would your father think of me letting you read rubbish like that? You’re not old enough for such a book.’
‘He wouldn’t care. Besides, you say reading enriches a mind.’
‘And rubbish turns it into a wasteland.’
‘You don’t really think this is rubbish, Gyps. I know you don’t.’ The book had that well-fingered, distinctly dog-eared look that told Poppy old Gyps had read it over and over. She even quoted lines from time to time. Even more reason for Poppy to want to delve into the classic herself. ‘And I wouldn’t be reading it. I’d be reading it to you.’
Gypsy would laugh, tell Poppy she would one day make a great lobbyist, and the pair would launch into a debate, endlessly examining the tiniest nuances of her argument, by which time Poppy would have forgotten all about The Great Gatsby.
Poppy realised she was smiling, despite feeling the effects of her long drive today. She was tired, her stomach empty, but her heart surprisingly satisfied. Coming back to the country suddenly felt very right. She sighed, dropped heavily onto the bed and laughed both at the idea of herself as a political lobbyist and the squeak of the old metal springs.
The bed was the same, its tubular chrome head now pitted with rust. Fitting her lanky frame into a single bed was going to be interesting. A small mauve-coloured envelope with the words In Madgick We Trust in one corner poked out from under a pillow, the wonky lettering on the front suggesting someone with failing health had written her name.
‘Gypsy?’ She whispered, paused, her hands trembling as she unfolded the note.
My dearest Poppy,
The way your passionate storytelling once filled this house with such energy, I knew you would go on to tell your stories.
And what a life you’ve made for yourself. You had a dream to chase, something to prove, just like your Jay Gatsby who you loved so much. You wanted to make a difference, make your mark in the world. More than that, you needed to belong in the world, a trait you shared with Willow. You didn’t realise it then, but you’d already made a difference—to my life and to my daughter’s.
I saw so much of her in you. She desperately wanted her father to acknowledge her too. I knew you could relate to that. But I say to you now what I used to tell Willow. Your father ran away from his life, not from you. Remember that, and remember to slow down, breathe, look around, appreciate life.
You’re a good girl, Poppy. Let yourself be loved and live the life Willow could not. And don’t blame yourself for what happened that day. If anyone is to blame, it was those of us who loved Willow too much. We were the grownups and if we’d been honest, Willow’s life might have been different. All our lives might have been different. By then it was too late. There were too many lives and too much at stake. Things left for too long are harder to undo. Don’t you leave things too late. Listen to your heart. Most of all let your stories make a difference. Remember that was your wish.
Find peace here, Poppy, and know I am all around you, at the place you first called the Dandelion House—the place of wishes. I know you are probably wondering about Mr Madgick. You were always so inquisitive. I have asked him to ensure someone is there at the house to look after you during your stay, even though I’m certain you are saying you don’t need anyone.
Everyone needs someone.
As for the inheritance and the house, I have no expectations. I simply want you all back where you belong. What happens to the house when I’m gone is up to the four of you. I ask only one thing. You must bring the group back together. My final wish is that all four of you come back to the house together, in November, on Willow’s anniversary. You’ll know what to do.
Love always …
Gypsy
xxx
Poppy’s hand landed heavily in her lap, as though the note she held was suddenly a burden. A river of tears wound their way down her cheeks, raining on her pale blue shirt as she imagined a happy Gypsy humming Elvis tunes and padding barefoot along the hallway, past her door. Outside the bedroom window, through the tears and trees, the lights from the small cottage down the hill were like yellow smudges against the darkening sky. Very soon it would be pitch black. She’d almost forgotten the dense blackness of the country at night. Back in Balmain, with streetlights everywhere, she could just about read in her room at night, not that she’d done much reading of late.
Why not? When was the last time you lost yourself in a good book?
Maybe she’d find that copy of The Great Gatsby.
For the second time in as many minutes, Poppy cried—a teenager again, propped on the edge of the bed. If Gypsy were here, she’d make her a cuppa and they’d talk. Then she’d tuck Poppy in and tell her she’d call and let Johnno know his daughter was safe and staying the night.
Like he cared. Poppy huffed and slipped Gypsy’s letter between the covers of a book.
With the heaviness of sleep and years of disappointment tempting her to curl into a ball right there and then, she knew the car still needed locking and light switches had to be located before the sun dropped below the horizon. Besides which, bawling her eyes out was not how she’d seen her homecoming. Poppy hadn’t thought the place would stir so much sentiment after all this time. It was just an old house, which she hoped now had electricity. Judging by the number of candles adorning every sideboard and table in every room, she wondered. Gypsy was always saying, Electricity is for the lazy and The only power we need is the power to shine on others.
‘Well, Gyps—’ Poppy blinked away the remnant of tears. ‘If there is no power, you best shine a little of your light on me until I get myself organised.’
*
The refrigerator was cold. That was a good sign. Poppy emptied the contents of the big, blue esky, poure
d herself a glass of red wine, put some chips and peanuts in a bowl and settled into the swing seat on the veranda. Slipping on a lightweight shirt, protection from mozzies mostly, she soaked up the fiery sunset, a change from her usual happy hour view—the two-storey brick wall of the adjoining Victorian terrace. Other than the birds—dark indiscernible shapes darting from tree to tree, squawking as they filled up on bugs and nectar in preparation for night—the surroundings were eerily quiet, the sounds of the country strangely comforting for this city girl. And yes, she did qualify for that tag after twenty years in Sydney.
‘Here you are then, Poppy.’ She raised a glass in a toast before gulping a mouthful of shiraz. ‘You really thought this through, didn’t you? Now what?’
As the birds finally bedded down, the menacing buzz of mozzies big enough to intimidate a Black Hawk helicopter increased. Time to shift back indoors.
‘I think I might even hit the hay early, Rocky,’ she said as she passed the kitchen table where the axolotl’s tank shared the centre with the glass of flannel flowers and an empty fruit bowl. ‘Tell me I didn’t just say “hit the hay”.’
Must be the country air.
After sprinkling the axolotl’s favourite dried salmon pellets in his tank, she watched one piece spiral to the bottom, mimicking the downward spiral of her own body after a day of driving and the unexpected pull of the house on her emotions. She yawned just as Rocky opened his large, wide mouth, the vacuum action letting a rush of water in, along with a single pellet.
Dinner done.
Everything else could wait.
Her dinner could wait.
Exploring could wait.
Life could wait.
20
The old roller blind on the small window above the bed slipped from her fingers, flapping noisily through several revolutions, the shock of morning sun like a finger poke in the eyes. Poppy untangled herself from the sheet, stood, stretched, and took the first suitable outfit from her duffle bag on the floor—signature khaki pants and a taupe T-shirt.
House for All Seasons Page 17