by Di Morrissey
Isabella was unperturbed, more concerned with making sure the journey with her new stock went well. To help, she had Langley find her two dogs well trained in handling stock.
While the return journey was more challenging with the barely broken-in horses, all went well. She smiled broadly and gave a bold cheer when her homestead came in sight, a shout that was taken up with a wave of hats by the two men working the horses. Smoke was rising from the detached cookhouse, bedding hanging to air along a fence next to the kitchen garden in which two of the women were working. All seemed quiet at the piggery and stables, but there was a movement of some cattle in a nearby stockyard. Probably branding, mused Isabella.
The shouts from the riders, a cracking of whips and the barking of the dogs brought the women servants and several men from the outbuildings to welcome them home. She smiled to herself at the sight before her.
Isabella’s house was certainly grand by local standards. The holdings in this part of the north coast were still pioneering ventures, so the big investment by Isabella in her house, and the vision she had, caused men to scratch their heads in amazement and envy. It had taken twenty-five thousand feet of milled timber to construct. The rooms were spacious and airy with eleven-foot ceilings and lined in rosewood, cedar and beech. They opened onto wide verandahs that ringed the house. She had brought out from England fine glassware and dining sets, good furniture, even a piano. She had big plans for Mount George, and for her new life.
Lara
Since her last visit was years ago, Lara drove slowly through Cedartown noting the changes, which she judged to be improvements. While the main street hadn’t changed nor had some of the shopfronts, she liked the style of the organic cafes, the little art gallery and health food store. She tried but couldn’t recall what had been on the far corner where a supermarket, garage and arcade of shops had been built. Maybe it had been the blacksmith’s with its wide wooden swing doors, roaring forge and clanging anvil inside, the railing outside for tethering horses, and a tree stump worn to a comfortable dip and polished smooth by many resting backsides.
On walks into town Poppy often stopped to yarn awhile with the old smithy. Her grandfather had told her the blacksmith had been a bullocky hauling logs from the hills and had a special way with horses and many stories to tell. Lara had always hung back, afraid when the forge was going. The flying sparks and noise from the solidly built man in the leather apron with goggles who swung his hammer onto the anvil with such force held her back.
The old brick slipper factory was still there, thankfully unchanged though it appeared deserted. Lara pulled the car into the kerb and stopped. The gold brick building looked very retro with its fifties facade and she tried to remember if she’d ever gone inside. She did remember the pompoms shipped in huge cardboard boxes to the factory to be stitched onto the front of plaid, satin and felt ladies’ slippers. She sometimes found the multi-coloured silky balls in the goods shed after they had been unloaded from the train. Rats would chew the corners of the cartons and it was like Christmas if she was playing in the goods shed – a favourite space – and found loose pompoms spilled from a box. And more occasionally silky tassels that went on the ends of men’s dressing gown cords.
Lara closed her eyes and was once again a little girl lost in the shadows of the huge wooden shed with its solid timber slabs weathered silver grey, chinks between them slicing bright light into golden slivers. Sometimes fairy dust danced in these narrow sunbeams and Lara would twirl, arms arched above her head as she practised her pirouettes. In dim corners bulky items freighted by train for a farm or factory waited to be collected. Under the iron roof a lazy carpet snake occasionally draped itself over the tree trunk beams, having had its fill of rats and mice, which had scampered around the sacks of grain and chicken feed.
She could vividly recall the indefinable smell of the shed, and remember with pleasure those hours of innocent pleasure on Poppy’s patch. Nana watched from the front verandah as Lara trotted from the house to deliver Poppy’s morning tea – the billycan of fresh brew, a home-baked cake or biscuit. She’d hop down from the passenger platform and cross the double railway tracks and go up the ramp to Poppy’s little office at the end of the goods shed where he kept meticulous records in neat handwriting.
Sometimes there were cattle trucks being unhitched from a freight train, which were filled with doe-eyed calves, fat cows and sleek steers. But best of all was going down the line with Poppy on his hand-pumped trolley as he checked the kerosene lamps in the signal boxes and dropped into the butter factory. Lara was allowed to climb the tiny ladder outside the big milk vat and look down into the rich swirling milk. Invariably they came home with the billycan full of the cream that Poppy would whip with the old handheld egg beater for one of his light-as-air sponge cakes.
So as Lara turned the car towards the railway station she felt a painful shock in her chest and caught her breath at the empty space where the huge goods shed once stood. There was only rough grassed ground littered with a few rusting train wheels, and a pile of rotting logs. It felt like part of her childhood had been ripped away. Even the old passenger platform opposite looked forlorn. The quaint waiting room and station master’s office had gone. The hanging baskets and ferns and old seats were gone, just like the steam age itself. Now streamlined diesel-powered trains thundered through, rarely stopping.
It was nothing like it had been, and Lara’s eyes filled with tears. How many years had it been? Fifty? That made her seem so old. And she wasn’t! She was still filled with curiosity, energy, a desire for adventure, still wondering what was yet to come in her life. She was still a little girl who wanted the gnarled, sure grip of her grandfather’s hand as their arms swung together walking back to Cricklewood.
Lara was dreading what might have happened to her grandparents’ home as she drove onto the bridge above the railway lines. It used to be a wooden bridge with loose planks that rattled each time a car crossed. It had been a comforting, familiar sound throughout her life at Cricklewood.
There were still a lot of the old-style homes in the streets close to town and she could visualise how they could be beautifully restored. She wished that the newer, expensive-looking homes were built in the classic style of latticed verandahs, peaked roofs, interesting windows.
Lara held her breath as she swung right and glanced from the embankment road down at Short Street. The familiar roofline was there and as she got level and swung into the intersection of roads by the station, she let out her breath in a rush of delight.
Cricklewood was almost unchanged. It even had a fresh coat of paint in its original colours – dark burgundy, the trim picked out in cream and green. What was different was the garden. Nana’s rose garden wasn’t there, though there were flowers around the lawn and in the brick boxes on either side of the entrance and the window box of the main bedroom at the front. As she parked opposite she couldn’t tell if the brass nameplate was by the main door. There was curb and guttering, and the road was bitumen, unlike the rough grassy verge and dirt road she remembered. Through the side gates and down the back where the fence once divided the chooks from the garden was a large garage painted to match the house.
Her grandparents never owned a car but the new garage fitted in nicely. The front door was open, as were the side gates where a motor home was parked. She hesitated, thinking the occupants might have visitors, but she was now so drawn to the old house that she walked through the gate, closing it behind her, and stepped onto the verandah.
As she stood by the door she ran her fingers over the old brass nameplate with a tingle of pleasure, delighted that it was still in place. She remembered exactly how her grandmother had furnished the verandah, the wicker lounge with small table that always had a fresh embroidered cloth on it, the pot plants in their wooden stands, the canvas blind on the far end that was dropped when a southerly blew in with rain and sometimes hail.
Lara called out and when no one answered she rang the doorbell. The
twang of the brass ringer took her straight back to being a small child inside the hallway, hearing the doorbell and seeing a figure distorted behind the frosted glass panels of the door.
‘Coming, one minute,’ a voice echoed from the back, the kitchen or laundry perhaps.
‘G’day. Can I help you?’ The woman was round, smiling, in sweater and stretch pants. She had an accent Lara couldn’t place.
Lara quickly explained the house had belonged to her grandparents and she was visiting the area after many years away.
‘Oh, the Williams family, I’ve heard about them from the real estate agent who sold us the house ages ago. Great citizens of the old days from all accounts. Please, would you like to come inside?’
‘I don’t want to inconvenience you, but, yes, I’d love to if I may. I’m Lara Langdon.’
‘It’s no trouble. I am Kristian Clerk. We’ve made some changes of course but I think you’ll find it nearly the same.’
Lara was instantly transported back to her childhood. But how much smaller it now seemed! She felt like Alice who’d grown tall while everything around her shrank. With Kristian’s permission Lara opened the double doors with the panes of frosted glass that led into the front lounge room. How had her grandmother fitted all the lounge furniture, big bookcase, writing desk and even a piano in here?
The Clerks seemed to live simply without all the Victoriana clutter loved by Lara’s grandmother. A gas heater stood in the open fireplace. Briefly Lara closed her eyes remembering the cosy winter nights after dinner with logs burning brightly in the fireplace, armchairs on either side, Nana knitting, Poppy with the newspaper, the big standing wireless tuned to the ABC. And vividly she recalled the wood box Poppy had made that sat to one side filled with kindling and chopped wood to add to the fire through the evening. What had happened to that old box? She used to sit on it, leaning against Poppy’s chair, her head in a book.
Out in the kitchen, while her grandmother might not have liked the pastel-hued paint choice, she would quite likely have made the same improvements – an electric stove in the space where the wood-burning stove had been, a sink under the windows, a washing machine in the laundry in place of the wood-fired copper, the back verandah sleep-out glassed in and turned into an office.
Mr Clerk came up the back steps and Lara was introduced.
‘Ah, so you are Lara. I always wondered if I would meet you one day. It is still there,’ he smiled and pointed to the cracked cement slab at the base of the steps next to the new water tank.
Lara’s baby footprint was still outlined in the cement where Poppy had pressed it and written her name.
The old tree with the swing had gone, the dunny down the back – the outhouse – appeared to be part of a large garden shed. She admired the vegetable bed and found the stumps where Poppy’s special shed had stood.
‘And what was this?’ asked Mr Clerk pointing to a small slab of cement beside a tree stump.
‘That was Nana’s favourite jacaranda tree. Our dog is buried there,’ said Lara quietly.
‘Ah, I understand.’
‘Would you like coffee, or tea?’ asked Mrs Clerk gently.
‘No, thank you, I really have to go. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘You’re welcome, any time. Are you staying up here for long?’
‘No . . . well, I’m not sure. My daughter has moved up to the valley. She’s staying at Chesterfield for a little while. To paint.’
‘Please, if she wishes to visit, she is welcome.’ Mrs Clerk threw a questioning look at her husband.
‘Thank you, Mrs Clerk. I’d like her to see where her great-grandparents settled. We’ll phone you ahead to check of course.’
Mr Clerk was having trouble reading the signal from his wife so she turned to Lara. ‘This might seem a little impromptu, but we are planning a trip in our motor home around Australia for several months. We have been looking for someone to rent this place . . . I don’t know, but if your daughter is interested . . . ’
Lara stared at her, her mind spinning. In her wildest imaginings she hadn’t considered this possibility. ‘Well, that’s kind of you to offer. It would certainly be . . . an interesting experience for her. I’ll suggest it.’ She felt quite flustered but knew in her heart a house in town was not what Dani was after for her artistic escape.
‘Please, think about it. There is no hurry. We have a friend coming in each week to keep things tidy and water the garden.’
Lara thanked them and said a hasty goodbye. She drove away, tears stinging her eyes. Suddenly the Clerks seemed to be intruders, she wished her grandparents were still alive, living in Cricklewood and there to offer her comfort and advice.
Lara was glad no one was around when she got back to the cottage at Chesterfield. She heard a boat on the river and the distant lowing of a cow. The tranquil scene of the river was soothing. But like the river there was a strong pull beneath the surface and Lara realised there was unfinished business here in the valley. She’d have to return.
Dani
There was no way Dani wanted to take up the Clerks’ offer to house-sit Cricklewood. ‘It’s suburbia, Mum! Where would I paint? I didn’t escape Sydney to stay in a country town backwater with neighbours watching my every move!’ She also thought the idea of being in her great-grandparents’ home a little creepy.
Lara shrugged easily. ‘Just passing it on. I guess it doesn’t have the same happy memories for you as it does for me.’
‘Mum, I have no memories of this place,’ Dani reminded her. ‘I could just as easily be settling to paint in any other scenic part of the country. It’s just coincidence I came here really. Besides, Helen says she knows of a place. More what I’m looking for even if it is a bit out of the way.’
‘That’s fine then, darling. Let me know how things work out.’
Dani shook her head. ‘It seems such a weird thing to offer. She’d met you for what? Five minutes? Bizarre.’
‘Not really, darling, when you think about it. It’s rather a typical country gesture. If you’re from a country town you always belong. People operate on trust and instinct more than in a city.’
‘Nice of them, but not for me. And I don’t want the responsibility of other people’s stuff.’
Lara didn’t answer, thinking how minimalist and simply furnished the Clerks’ home was in comparison to her grandmother’s knick-knacks, memorabilia and clutter.
‘We’d better be going. Tim and I will call you when we get home.’
Dani hugged her son tightly as he and Lara prepared to drive back to Sydney. ‘Have you had fun, sweetie?’ she asked him.
‘Yeah. Tab and Toby are nice. But when are you coming home, Mum?’ he asked, looking worried. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’
‘No, of course not. We’ve talked about this, Timmy. I have a different job now, I’m the boss and I have to spend time doing my paintings and I need space and quiet to do that. Next time Ma brings you up we can go fishing. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. The holidays aren’t far away. Now be good and help Ma. I love you. More than anything in the world.’
Tim hugged her back but still looked dubious.
Lara gave Dani a quick kiss. ‘He’ll be fine. He reads the map for me. Looking for places to stop and eat. Talk to you tonight.’
Helen and Dani left the car at the old gate where a carved wooden plaque announced the property as ‘The Vale’. They stepped over the cattle grid, walked across overgrown paddocks, through a windbreak of eucalypts, peppercorn and pine trees.
‘Now, as I said, it’s nothing special, but it’s secluded, lots of room and cheap,’ said Helen leaning on a stick she’d picked up and panting slightly as they reached the crest.
Dani stopped and drew a deep breath as she looked into the hidden dip where a cottage nestled in the embrace of the rolling hills. Two horses stood at the edge of a broad dam and a large creek fringed with willows and paperbarks meandered through paddocks.
‘It’s not the river view that
we have, but pretty. The stream would get quite full with a good rain,’ said Helen. ‘It comes down from Little Mountain and ends up in the main river. Not sure what condition the house is in. You don’t have to take it. I just thought –’
Dani cut in, ‘Oh Helen, you don’t have to make excuses, this place is stunning. Hard to believe we’re only two ks off the main road. How old is it?’
‘This house was built some years ago, I think the other farm cottages are falling down. It’s part of a very old family farm, not sure what happened to the original homestead. The Vale has been rented before, off and on. Daresay it hasn’t been cleaned or such. A solicitor in town handles the estate, which includes renting this place.’
‘So long as it has good light and a place to paint,’ said Dani. Now that she’d decided to stay awhile in the valley, finding a suitable place to rent had been her first priority. Lara had returned to Sydney with Tim who’d enjoyed the weekend enormously. Having playmates on a farm by the river had been great, but changing schools and living here might not be so appealing.
‘There’s a shed or old milk bails, I think. I only heard about it from people who rented here then came and stayed with us to be on the river.’ Helen decided not to tell Dani that the family who came for a farm holiday had left The Vale early convinced there was something creepy, even haunted, about it.
Helen handed Dani the key and they went inside the cottage, which was dusty, musty and had the unmistakable smell of mice. Jolly romped ahead, nose to the ground seeking the source of the smells.
‘Some of the verandah floorboards are a bit dodgy. But it’s got a lot of potential,’ commented Helen following Dani indoors. ‘Not that you should have to spend money on a rental.’
‘It’s so cheap. What’s a bit of white paint?’ Dani ran from room to room admiring the high ceilings, the exposed boards, the large windows, even a bay window with a window seat and French doors that opened from the bedrooms onto the verandah with sweeping views. There was a big open fire in a sitting room and while the kitchen had basic amenities there was a pot-bellied stove next to the old-style electric cooker. ‘Do you think they’d mind if I tarted it up? I just love the layout.’