Tumbledown Manor

by Helen Brown

  ‘I hope he isn’t using that camera as an excuse to get out of heavy lifting,’ Ted muttered as they crept past splashes of yellow wattle.

  The house suddenly loomed over them against a steely sky. The boarded-up windows stared out like empty eye sockets. A cold ripple of dread washed over her. Trumperton was every bit as dishevelled and impractical as Maxine claimed. And what if it really was haunted?

  Dino rattled to a halt under the portico.

  ‘Tell me I’m not crazy,’ she whispered.

  Ted latched his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

  Lisa’s knees trembled as she climbed the front steps. She tore the envelope open and jiggled the key in the lock. It swivelled halfheartedly. She tensed her arm and employed brute force, but the key seized in the lock and refused to budge. Heat flared up on her neck. The girls offered to help. But it was her house, dammit.

  A gust of wind set gum trees quivering. Lisa heard a tentative squawk. Surfing the lowest branch of a bottlebrush was a white parrot. It gazed up at them.

  ‘Oh look!’ she said. ‘It’s the cockatoo Maxine and I nearly killed.’

  The others exchanged glances. Didn’t she know all cockatoos looked the same?

  Lisa stopped wrestling with the key and tried to remember what her yoga teacher always said: ‘Breathe . . .’

  ‘Good thing that agent didn’t get to Bunnings,’ James said, inspecting the doorknocker in his hand.

  Relaxing her wrist, Lisa applied gentle pressure to the lock. She felt arthritic movement inside the mechanism. The metal innards finally yielded. She wondered if this was the manor’s way of telling her that whatever she had in mind, the house would always be in charge.

  As the door creaked open, acrid air piqued her nostrils. She stepped into the entrance hall. A beam of sunlight played across the leadlights and filled the hall with soft pinks and greens.

  ‘Amazing!’ Stella exclaimed breathily. A serpent of vacuum cleaner hose was coiled over her shoulders.

  ‘Where’s the kitchen?’ Heidi’s voice echoed against the panelling and floorboards.

  Lisa reached for a light switch beside the door. Black and circular, it was set in a round of wood. She’d arranged to have the power connected, but most of the light sockets were bare. The switch was stiff. It’d be a miracle if . . . A naked bulb flickered to life above their heads. The group let out a cry of jubilation.

  They heaved up the few sash windows that would budge to set cross-breezes through the rooms. Ted and Stella unloaded the trailer while Lisa and Heidi attacked the kitchen’s mushroom-coloured matchboard walls with scrubbing brushes.

  After investigating a leak under the sink and tightening the taps, James laid the front page of the Herald Sun in front of the wood-burning stove.

  ‘How else are you going to cook?’ he asked, creating a volcano of ash on the floor.

  Lisa had been thinking microwave and takeaways.

  ‘You’re lucky the place hasn’t been done up,’ he said, tugging at a patch of old lino. ‘I reckon . . . hey!’

  Lisa emerged from the pantry.

  ‘You’ve got flagstones!’ James said, scraping away decades of grease. ‘We’ll have to pull this old flooring up. Not today, though.’

  Though the floor was uneven, it was soon mopped and semi-clean. While the girls unpacked crockery and pots, Lisa sorted cutlery into drawers. As she stood at the sink gulping a glass of water, the boys brought in the old oak table. Once the extension boards were slid into place, the table fitted in the kitchen as though it had always been there. Lisa brushed spiderwebs off Maxine’s chairs, which were mismatched enough to pass for vintage chic.

  The girls oohed and aahed as they unravelled Aunt Caroline’s dinner set from cocoons of bubble wrap. Its swirling floral design seemed more at home here than it ever had in New York.

  As they shared a picnic lunch around the table, Lisa conjured up images of the people who’d sat in that same spot more than a century ago—a cook resting her feet after rising before dawn to bake bread; a lady’s maid primping her bonnet; maybe a butler presiding over the spot where Zack was fiddling absentmindedly with his left nostril.

  She watched her son talking animatedly with Stella. As a little boy, Ted would refuse to be left at kindergarten. He’d grip her hand and bellow until she conceded to sit with him and build Lego castles. But the moment she thought he was absorbed enough for her to attempt escape, he’d grab her hand. The teacher would urge her to go, assuring her that Ted was always fine after she left. Lisa would creep around the side of the building and peer through a window. Ted would be sitting alone, weeping quietly into the coloured blocks, causing her heart to implode.

  At school Ted had been a loner with a talent for drawing cartoons. Lisa had kept some, but threw out the one of Jake dressed as Darth Vader with Lisa and the kids as his storm troopers. Ted had a better sense of the family dynamics than she did.

  Much to his father’s disappointment, the only sport Ted ever liked was swimming. Jake said it didn’t count because there was no team spirit. Instead, Ted preferred tinkering out tunes from Phantom of the Opera on the piano. Lisa had found him a teacher and he practised diligently. Soon he was in demand as an accompanist for the extroverts who wanted to prance around on stage in school musicals. That was typical Ted—to make others shine.

  Stella exploded with laughter and rustled Ted’s hair. Australia had been good for him. A sneaky maternal side of Lisa took a moment to observe Stella more closely. The fingernails were short and clean (tick). Teeth were even, though not alarmingly white (tick). Stella’s wavy brown hair had a natural lustre, undamaged by excessive experimentation with dye (tick). No visible tattoos. She exuded androgynous cologne (well, okay . . . tick).

  But from previous experience with Ted’s other girlfriends, Lisa had learnt to control herself. She avoided the temptation of asking how Stella’s parents earned their livings or what school she’d gone to. Lisa wondered what occupational therapists actually did, anyway.

  After lunch, Lisa and the girls set to work dusting, vacuuming and cleaning the master bedroom while the boys heaved the bed, wardrobe, bedside table and countless cardboard boxes upstairs.

  The carpet in the bedroom had faded to a colour that reminded Lisa of the time she’d thrown up in a doctor’s waiting room. The floor-to-ceiling curtains were crisp with mould, their floral pattern all but invisible. Still, she declined the girls’ offer to pull them down. Even in their disgusting state they might provide temporary protection against the early morning sun.

  Sixteen-foot high walls gave the room an airy feel, and light streamed through the French doors. Though the pressed metal ceiling was cracked, it had attractive edging that resembled piped icing. An empty light socket dangled from a cord in the centre.

  ‘Smells damp,’ Ted said. ‘Sure you want to sleep here?’

  Heidi and Stella brushed cobwebs off the fireplace while Lisa took a breadknife to her boxes. She was overjoyed to unearth her pillow.

  The boys exchanged looks as she patted it, cooing. She smoothed the sheets and tossed a red angora rug over the covers.

  Stella brought in a branch of fluorescent yellow wattle in a jar and set it on the mantelpiece. Such a thoughtful girl.

  Lisa’s New York clothes seemed to belong to another person. It was unlikely anyone in Castlemaine wore heels and a little black dress, or the floral dress from JC Penny’s that was Scarlet O’Hara on steroids. She snorted at the dark suit she’d bought for library talks and interviews. Out here, the only thing likely to ask questions about her modest literary pursuits was a wombat. Still, she had to put something in the wardrobe, so she hung up the suit, alongside the secondhand Japanese wedding kimono that doubled as a dressing gown and the dark tailored coat she wore to the theatre when it snowed.

  The rest of her New York clothes were shoved back in the box and kicked in a corner. Her new Aussie look consisted of things that didn’t need to be hung in wardrobes—check shirts, an assortme
nt of beanies, a polar-fleece jacket. She was particularly proud of the butch elastic-sided boots from Aussie Disposals. Then there was the old-fashioned flannelette winter nightie she’d bought at Target . . .

  The girls gathered up their buckets and moved on to the bathroom. The bedroom still smelt like a mushroom farm—Lisa would have to pick up a bottle of lavender oil next time she was in town. With her nightie stuffed under her pillow and the mouthguard tucked discreetly away in the bedside table, the room felt almost homely.

  Ted climbed a ladder to fix an energy-efficient light bulb into the socket.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Lisa asked, polishing the mirror above the fireplace. The specks of age refused to budge.

  ‘Right now my fingers are a little numb,’ he replied carefully. Her son could smell an interrogation a mile off. ‘That’s because the blood has flowed downwards because my hand is raised,’ he added.

  ‘I mean about Dad and me. It must be upsetting for you. I worry about Portia, too . . .’

  ‘She’s okay,’ he said. ‘We Skype a lot.’

  ‘Is she really? Don’t you think she’s lost weight?’

  ‘Yeah, but you know what girls are like these days,’ he said.

  Lisa couldn’t tell if Ted was trying to calm her down or disguise serious concern. Maybe both.

  ‘I just hope the divorce didn’t trigger something. It must’ve been a shock for you both.’

  Ted lowered his arm and looked down at her. His eyes were flat with sorrow. Sympathy, too. ‘We always knew it would happen,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘C’mon, Mom. Dad was away all the time. And when he came home he was a stranger.’

  The duster fell to her side. ‘I thought we were happy.’

  Ted fixed her with a gaze that made him look a thousand years old. ‘The only difference is, we always thought you’d leave him,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ The duster dropped to the floor. She scooped it up and attacked the mirror with renewed vigour. She needed fresh energy, something to lift her mood. ‘Is there someone special in your life?’ she asked, watching for his reaction in the mirror’s reflection.

  Ted froze.

  ‘You seemed so happy today, I was just thinking . . .’

  His brow settled in a line.

  ‘She’s a lovely girl,’ she said, applying a squirt of Windex.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Stella . . .’

  Ted studied the light bulb in his hand. ‘Yeah, she’s great.’

  ‘She adores you.’

  They listened to Zack tapping away with a hammer in the adjacent room. He’d been so fascinated by the Fijian fighting stick, she’d put him in charge of arranging it and the masks on her soon-to-be-study wall.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

  Typical of her son to be bashful in love. ‘I understand. It’s tricky these days, when you don’t have to make formal commitments.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said after a long silence.

  Lisa wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She’d overstepped the mother–son privacy line.

  Ted twisted the light bulb in place and climbed down the ladder. He seemed tired all of a sudden. Her energy was flagging, too. By the time they assailed the downstairs reception room she wasn’t up to anything more than wiping the crimson and blue tiles around the fireplace. Their condition was good. Not one was cracked.

  She picked at a bubble in the cream wallpaper near the mantelpiece. The hole revealed diagonal patterns of dark-blue fleur de lis that marched in criss-cross lines across an eggshell-coloured background. The original wall covering was beautiful, and she felt a prickle of excitement. This was the backdrop against which Alexander had acted out his life.

  Lisa lifted Alexander’s photo from one of the boxes and placed it on the mantelpiece. If only those mournful eyes would flicker to life and she could hear his voice. Handsome in his white tie, Alexander was finally home. And quite the gentleman.

  ‘It’s a beautiful sunset,’ Heidi said. ‘Do you mind if we take the sofa out onto the veranda?’

  ‘Go for it,’ Lisa said.

  The girls tried to lift the old rollback, but it was heavier than it looked. They called for Zack and Ted to help lug it outside and position it under the window.

  Lisa stood up and tore off her rubber gloves. Every joint ached. She hadn’t felt this tired since giving birth. But it was a satisfying weariness. The walls assumed a golden glow. Young people’s laughter drew her outside into the twilight. The sofa groaned as they sandwiched together to make room for her. She found the firm warmth of their bodies reassuring.

  Stella pointed out a white bird picking its way through the scruffy grass below them.

  ‘That’s our cockatoo,’ Lisa said. ‘He’s limping.’

  Nobody bothered arguing.

  Above the valley, the sky melted from gold to apricot. James said the high wisps of clouds usually meant rain. He had the rural person’s interest in that sort of thing.

  ‘Do you think this will be your happiest house?’ Zack asked, focusing his camera on her.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, scraping cobwebs from her hair.

  ‘If I could move back to the place my grandparents lived, I’d go there like a shot,’ he said.

  She glanced up at Zack. He was too young to be nostalgic. Maybe some other ache of the soul lingered under those pale eyelashes and baby-fresh skin.

  ‘I love it here.’

  ‘Reconnecting with your roots?’

  ‘Yes, but my sister hates the house . . .’

  Lisa was disturbed by the vehemence in her tone. The spectacle of a middle-aged woman fretting over her big sister’s opinion was undignified. ‘There’s beer in the fridge,’ she said, snapping out of it. ‘Any volunteers to get takeaway?’

  ‘No need for that,’ James was standing in the doorway wielding a large tray. ‘I finally got the better of that chimney.’

  ‘And I’ve brought something better than beer,’ Stella said, flourishing a bottle of prosecco.

  The aroma of wood-fired pizza inspired a whoop from the team. They fell upon the feast as an orange moon rose over the horizon.

  The wine tickled the back of Lisa’s throat, and her cheeks glowed with warmth. ‘What is it about sparkling wine?’ she asked.

  ‘The bubbles,’ Stella said. ‘They send alcohol into your system much faster.’

  As the alcohol surged through her veins, Lisa’s fears faded. She watched Ted ruffle Stella’s hair. The chemistry between them was palpable.

  The workers were anxious to get back to Melbourne for someone’s birthday. They hugged her and promised to be back the following weekend with buckets of paint.

  Ted pressed a packet into Lisa’s hand. ‘House-warming gift,’ he said.

  Lisa tore the wrapping to find a headband with a tiny light attached. It was the sort of thing people wore for exploring caves.

  ‘Gee, thanks!’ she said with mock enthusiasm.

  He adjusted the straps and showed her how to operate the torch. It had the beam of a small lighthouse. ‘The wiring can be dodgy in these old places,’ he said. ‘Keep it by your bed.’

  They piled into the Kombi and drove off down the driveway. Lisa suddenly felt catatonic, her face muscles locked in an unfamiliar shape. It took her a while to realise she was actually smiling. Trumperton Manor was much more than the house of her dreams. Her chromosomes were soaked into every brick and creaking floorboard. It was hers.

  On top of that, Ted and Stella were in love.

  Chapter 12

  A good hot bath was in order. Lisa staggered upstairs, filled the old claw-footed tub and immersed herself in its comforting depths. Her aquatic ballet was interrupted by a thump over her head. Something of considerable size had landed on the roof. She turned the taps off and listened.

  The steady beat of the cold tap dripping into the bathwater was all she could hear. Maybe a branch had fallen on the roof. Silly fool, she said aloud to he
rself. She was bound to be jumpy on her first night. The house was going to have all sorts of noises she’d have to get used to.

  Sighing, she reached for the hot tap. Suddenly, every muscle in her body went rigid—footsteps. Someone—or thing—was walking on the slate tiles above her.

  She leapt out of the bath and gathered up her clothes. Sprinting down the hall to her study, she flicked on the light. Mercifully, Zack had done a lousy job attaching the Fijian fighting stick to the wall. She pulled it down. She’d seen Fijian warriors wield the things with fearsome vigour, but in her hands it looked as intimidating as a toothpick.

  The steady thuds grew louder. Whoever was prowling on the roof wasn’t shy about announcing their presence. She ran to the bedroom and grabbed her phone. Ted would be halfway back to Melbourne. She was about to call 911, but then remembered that the emergency number for Australia was different. Triple 9? That was the UK, surely. She couldn’t remember . . .

  Lisa froze with dread. The thumping over her head had been joined by another set of feet. Two assailants! She didn’t stand a chance. They were moving faster now, sprinting towards the front of the house.

  Numb with adrenalin, she ran to her bedroom and tugged her nightie out from under her pillow. If she was about to meet her murderers she was going to do it with dignity. She pulled on the nightie and slipped Ted’s torch over her head. Reassured by the powerful white beam, she raised the fighting stick and nudged one of the French doors open a crack.

  The neighbours’ window glowed through the gum trees at the end of the drive. It looked like something out of a tale by the brothers Grimm. If she screamed they wouldn’t hear a thing. There was no option but to confront her foes. Heart pulsing in her throat, she clutched the stick and stepped outside. The icy mosaic floor made her bare feet tingle.

  There was no one on the balcony. She sensed she was being watched. Whirling the fighting stick over her shoulders, she spun around and looked up at the roof.