The House At Salvation Creek

by Susan Duncan

  Kate finds the office of Sly & Son easily. So absurdly Dickensian, she thinks, wondering whether names go hand in hand with careers or vice versa. She wonders if Emily was attracted by the irony of hiring a firm with a title that accurately summed up the dodging and weaving that made up the fabric of her existence. Probably not. Emily was never a deep thinker. Devious, yes, but not deep. Kate swallows, clenches her fists and angrily wipes away another tear, appalled by the see-sawing going on between her head and heart, reminding herself of the pointlessness of regret. Death changes everything, she thinks, and nothing.

  She knocks lightly. Opens the door swiftly and decisively without waiting for an invitation. ‘Hello,’ she says brightly to the aged receptionist who points her index finger at a seat without a word of acknowledgement.

  After a while a tall man, probably in his early forties, wearing a well-cut charcoal suit – Armani or a good copy that’s lounge-lizard sleek – emerges from an office. Kate assumes he’s a client on the way out. More well-heeled than she would’ve expected given the location. An observation, she reassures herself, not one of Emily’s snap judgments.

  ‘Ms Jackson? Neville Sly. My father looked after your mother’s affairs until he retired a few months ago. On the face of it, it all seems pretty simple. Would you like tea? Coffee? No? OK, let’s proceed then.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘It’s not a complicated will,’ Mr Sly adds. ‘She’s left everything to you.’

  ‘No mention of anyone else?’

  He looks surprised. ‘No. It’s quite clear. Just you. As soon as outstanding debts are paid and probate is cleared, the estate will be settled.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kate gets up, holds out her hand politely.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask about the value of the estate?’

  Mr Sly sounds less smooth, more shocked, which makes Kate wonder how most of his clients respond to the news they’re sole beneficiaries. ‘There can’t be much. Enough to pay your fees, I hope, but if not, don’t worry, I’ll settle the account.’

  Mr Sly is thoughtful. ‘I see. Odd then. After everything is taken care of, our fees included, there should be a balance remaining of about $70,000.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ It’s got to be a cock-up, she thinks. He’s muddled her up with some other client. ‘Are you sure? We’re talking about Emily Jackson, right?’

  ‘We don’t make mistakes, Ms Jackson,’ he says tersely.

  ‘Sorry, I’m in shock.’

  The idea of Emily hoarding cash when she had a lifetime history of scatterbrain financial profligacy that consistently involved running up debts and then stepping back until first Kate’s father and then Kate bailed her out is baffling. Emily was a born squanderer. Unable to resist the sparkle of pretty trinkets, the lure of a silken fabric. Kate, who thought through the long-term ramifications of even the smallest purchase – an instinctive mechanism to counter her mother’s extremes, in all probability – frantically scrabbles back through Emily’s history, trying to find a possible source for this kind of windfall. As far as she is aware, the family fortune, such as it was (her father’s small country grocery shop wasn’t worth much in the days before they morphed into trendy bakeries serving exotic teas and a mind-boggling range of flavoured coffees), was frittered away in one failed Emily-inspired business venture after another. To put it mildly, money turned to dust in her hands. At least that’s what she’d thought until now.

  ‘As far as I knew, Emily never had two coins to rub together.’

  Mr Sly remains silent, uninvolved in family drama. He closes the file. Folds his hands on top of it, signalling there’s no more business to be done. Kate glances at her watch. The wrapping up of the final details of Emily’s life has barely taken ten minutes. Her mother would have been outraged by the lack of flourishes and rigmarole, the rigorous attention to details unembellished by colourful asides. She would have said yes to the coffee, refused a biscuit and requested cake. Chocolate was her preference. It made her feel happy, she said. She would have taken two small bites. Left the rest. Then she would have embarked on a long account of the deceased’s life, or more accurately, her role in the deceased’s life. The reading of Gerald’s will had turned into a circus, Emily giving an award-winning performance of a grieving widow, switching on tears as easily as a light. By the end of it, Kate, who never uttered a word throughout the whole shabby show, saw that the solicitor couldn’t work out whether to applaud or commiserate.

  ‘By the way, you don’t happen to know how Emily came to use this firm, do you?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re one of three recommended by the retirement village. Does it matter?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replies quickly. ‘It’s just … I was wondering … Well, if there’d been a long association. Whether she kept old documents here, you know, such as birth and wedding certificates. For safekeeping, I mean.’ She is tempted to tell him about Emily’s deathbed (as it turned out) confession. How somewhere deep in a past that Kate, and presumably Gerald, knew nothing about, Emily had given birth to a son and then – for all she knew – abandoned him. Her mother’s periodic disappearances, which she’d put down to illicit affairs, could have been about the boy. Maybe he’d been institutionalised for some reason. Perhaps if Mr Sly searched Emily’s file one more time, he might find a clue so Kate could nail the ghost and move on. Her thoughts remain unuttered.

  ‘This probably sounds odd, but there are huge gaps in my knowledge of my mother’s life. I’m trying to unravel a few, er, complications she left behind. You’re sure there’s not another file lurking out there in one of those huge stacks …’

  ‘We have the current will and a copy of her earlier will. Nothing else. Is it possible your mother used the services of two solicitors at some time?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Emily would resent paying one bill, forget two. How rude, she’d explode whenever one popped up in the mail. Queen Emily. Bestowing favours. Her fingers holding the request for money like a bag of dog poo before flicking it towards her husband.

  ‘Yeah, well, it was a long shot.’ Kate reaches for her handbag. ‘So it’s all a mystery then.’

  ‘Lawyers tend to be incurious. It’s often a mistake to know too much about your clients.’ He smiles to show it’s a joke. ‘Probate usually takes from one to three months, if anyone wants to challenge the will …’

  ‘Challenge?’ Kate asks, too quickly.

  ‘As a general rule, only children and grandchildren have grounds, although theoretically anyone can challenge. In your case, there shouldn’t be any problems. Expect a cheque around late April. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

  Kate turns back at the door, her hand already on the knob. Now is the time to mention a half-brother, she thinks. ‘I’m curious. When does time run out on challenging a will?’

  ‘Once probate is settled, it’s very difficult to revoke the terms.’

  On a street thick with exhaust fumes and rushing lunchtime crowds, the noonday heat hits Kate like a blow. She leans against the gaudy underwear shop window, her eyes adjusting to sharp sunlight. Feeling frazzled and confused, she ducks into a dimly lit and smelly basement pub next door, compelled by a force she can’t define. She orders a cognac for the first time in her life. A tired barmaid, either drug or alcohol affected, pours what Kate recognises as a cheap brandy into a shot glass and slams it on the counter.

  ‘Fifteen bucks, love, on the nose.’ The woman sways slightly. Kate fishes in her bag, looking around the room. Furtive men in raincoats – or the equivalent.

  ‘Oh hell.’ She pushes a twenty over the counter, sculls the drink and flees. Outside on the street, she puts together the lingerie shop and the bar. If it’s not a front for a brothel, her name’s not Kate Jackson. Her stomach feels like it’s on fire. Her mouth is raw. Too late, she realises she’s just done exactly what her mother would have done in the same circumstances. Feel good? Order a brandy? Feel bad? Order a brandy. Feel hot, cold, happy, sad – order a brandy. Does anyon
e ever travel a long way from their original DNA?

  She thinks: Seventy thousand dollars? There’s got to be a catch. Nothing to do with Emily is ever clear-cut. There’ll be a debt somewhere. An Emily-created catastrophe that will emerge one day – probably quite soon – and take every penny, and probably more, to put right. She grabs hold of anger like a lifeline, burying what she doesn’t even realise is grief and loss under a blanket of rage and confusion.

  APPENDIX

  HOWARD TANNER, WROTE THIS report after his visit to Tarrangaua in 2008.

  TARRANGAUA, LOVETT BAY, PITTWATER

  Tarrangaua is arguably the most poetically sited and most architecturally distinguished house on Pittwater, an expansive salt-water estuary to the north of Sydney. Commissioned by the wealthy poetess Dorothea Mackellar (1885–1968) on land she acquired in 1925, the design of the house is attributed to the well-known architectural practice of Wilson, Neave and Berry. The firm's founder William Hardy Wilson (1881–1955) actively promoted the Colonial Revival style of architecture in Australia. His friend and contemporary, Arthur Stacey Neave, and John L. Berry, a partner from 1920, were both excellent architects in their own right, as their role in the practice in the 1920s (when Wilson was sometimes abroad) and their work together in the 1930s (after Wilson had gone to live in Tasmania) reveals. The attribution derives from three specific sources:

  • Kath Strang, Dorothea Mackellar's cousin, stated to (DM's biographer) that the house was designed by WH Wilson.

  • John Pearman, closely associated with WH Wilson's famous Eryldene, Gordon, and its owner, Professor Eben Gowrie Waterhouse, recalled EB Waterhouse telling him that WH Wilson had designed a house for Dorothea Mackellar on Pittwater.

  • A drawing from the (Wilson), Neave and Berry archive held by the Mitchell Library, Sydney, for a freestanding EC (Earth Closet, as opposed to Water Closet) for Miss Dorothea Mackellar at Pittwater.

  While I have observed the house from the water many times from 1956 onwards, and appreciated its formal architectural qualities, and its splendid setting on a promontory amongst tall-shafted spotted gums, my first detailed inspection of Tarrangaua occurred on 28/01/2008. Having studied Wilson's work closely over many years and visited many, and provided architectural advice on a number of the practice's buildings, it is interesting to note the elements which most closely relate to Wilson's other houses from the 1920s:

  • The simple, formal massing, with a strongly pitched hipped tile roof, with a pair of secondary wings to the rear.

  • The primary architectural elevation, symmetrical about centrally placed stairs and entry, and with columns edging a wide verandah, the latter enabling healthy outdoor living. The proportions of the verandah and its railing details are found in other Wilson houses.

  • The primary elevation received most of the architect's attention, with side and rear elevations being simple, rational and unadorned.

  • The formal planning, with a major room at the front, and a cross hall separating the secondary rooms to the rear, all about a central rear courtyard (faintly reminiscent of Eryldene, Gordon).

  • The refined beading to architraves and bookcases (though this was typical of all quality joinery of the period).

  • The use of narrow hardwood flooring boards.

  • The pre-cast concrete window sills (as at Struan Lodge,Woollahra).

  • The chimney with its 'gothic' capping, derived from Colonial examples (as at Macquarie Cottage).

  However, Tarrangaua has elements which I have not seen on other Wilson, Neave and Berry buildings. These include:

  • The use of verandah columns which are neither slender, finely detailed timber Colonial columns (as at Eryldene) nor major tapered masonry columns, somewhat 'Old South' or Antebellum in character (as in projects at Burwood and Killara). Here at Tarrangaua, the columns are substantial cylindrical drums, with no entasis, capital or base; simply bagged like the rest of the house.

  • The non-alignment of the door and window heads – Wilson usually resolved this by providing a finely patterned fanlight above the doors.

  • The provision of one large room for sitting and dining across the full width of the main block of the house.

  • The use of beamed ceilings with little or no detailing.

  • The use of joinery with minor or no detailing. The main chimney mantelpiece offers a degree of Georgian-derived elaboration in painted timber, reasonably close to other Wilson models, but is not undercut on the projecting lip, as occurs in his better work.

  • The heavy-duty ledged doors and the use of simple iron latches, all rather in the c.1900/1910 Arts and Crafts tradition – I have not seen these details in other Wilson buildings.

  Reflecting on the house, and an architect's experience with a headstrong client, and realisation by a good, standard builder conveniently away from any easy viewing by the discerning members of the architectural team, I surmise:

  • The plans were prepared by Wilson, Neave and Berry, probably with all their usual attention to detail, especially in the joinery of fanlights and chimney pieces.

  • Perhaps Dorothea Mackellar emphasized to the architect that this was to be a secluded retreat, and more informal than his usual architecture.

  • The site was then remote from Sydney, making easy inspection by the architect difficult.

  • The house, designed of full brick and tile, perhaps with little regard for the problems and expense of water access by barge and motor boat, was realised by a competent local builder.

  • The builder formed a close working association with the owner, and simplified the house's detailing to ensure easier realisation, probably with the owner's agreement, and possibly causing alienation of the architect.

  In the past I wondered if Tarrangaua could be by Brisbane architect Robin Dods (1868–1920), who later practised in Sydney. This idea grew out of the robust columns (relatively uncharacteristic of Wilson) and the more gutsy qualities of Dods' work, as seen in formal residential designs such as Clayfield, Brisbane for Mrs J. Reid (Plate XLVI in Domestic Architecture in Australia produced by Art in Australia and published by Angus and Robertson in 1919). Espie Dods has confirmed that Robin Dods and Dorothea Mackellar were friends, but alas Dods died in 1920, and Tarrangaua was erected in 1925 or shortly thereafter, and is unlikely to be based on plans prepared in 1919.

  Tarrangaua as part of the formal, Georgian-derived architecture advocated during the 1910s and 1920s, was bound to have been known to individuals such as Sydney Ure Smith, publisher of Art in Australia (1916–) and The Home (1920–c.1940), and his wealthy friend and backer Charles Lloyd Jones. The Home had its favoured circle of fashionable and tasteful architects, which included Wilson, Neave and Berry, Professor Leslie Wilkinson, John D Moore, and occasionally BJ Waterhouse. All were extremely competent architects who, from time-to-time, built houses with some characteristics similar to Tarrangaua – its concept and character derived from primary ideals evident in the better domestic designs of the period.

  As the above text is largely based on memory, key dates and facts (such as the EC drawing in the State Library) deserve checking.

  Howard Tanner

  Architect

  28/01/2008

  THANKS

  I would like to thank the people of Pittwater for letting me write about them once again. And for being part of what I like to think of as my 'chosen family'. I am extraordinarily privileged to live in this quite magical part of the world amongst a community that is kind, caring, creative and never, ever dull.

  Thanks to Jeanne Villani and Ann Reeve, who never cease to inspire and who demonstrate each day, how to live a useful and fulfilling life at any age.

  My thanks to my mother, too, for her incredible generosity of spirit in once again letting me write about the ups and downs of our lives. She didn't flinch. She never does. She has the most amazing heart and, I have finally learned, would make any sacrifice for her rather flawed daughter. Thank you, Esther.

 
Thanks too, to my agent, Caroline Adams, a good friend and fellow dog walker, who guided, shaped and influenced this book with all her usual subtlety, humour and wisdom. Caro, every suggestion was gold and this would have been a much lesser book without your input.

  Thanks too, to publisher Nikki Christer, for her invaluable advice, support and insight, and to lovely Katie Stackhouse, who eased all the hard moments with her gentleness and compassion. Jo Jarrah, who edited the manuscript, is that wondrous rarity – an editor who saves you from yourself and makes you a better writer than you are. Thank you, Jo. And of course, Margie Seale, whose confidence gave me confidence.

  Then there is Bob, without whom I would never have found the courage to begin.

  Also by Susan Duncan

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  After a 25-year career spanning radio, newspaper and magazine journalism, including editing two of Australia's top selling women's magazines, The Australian Women's Weekly and New Idea, Susan Duncan woke up one morning and chucked in her job. The decision followed the deaths of her husband and brother. After struggling to begin again, she finally found her own patch of paradise on earth only to discover it might already be too late when she was diagnosed with cancer herself. Today Susan lives with her second husband, Bob, on the shores of Pittwater at Tarrangaua, the beautiful home built for poet Dorothea Mackellar in 1925. Susan's bestselling memoir, Salvation Creek, won the Nielsen BookData 2007 Booksellers Choice Award and was shortlisted for the prestigious Dobbie Award, part of the Nita B. Kibble awards for women writers.