by T M Creedy
On the Melbourne flight I am not so lucky and I have to share a row with two other people. They are both young and look Chinese and pretty much ignore me for the whole flight which suits me fine. It’s early morning in UK time and I haven’t slept properly in days. My eyes feel full of grit, making it impossible to concentrate on the movie screen in front of me so I pull the thin blanket over my head and try to nod off, acutely aware of every little fidgety movement of my neighbour. I must have got some sleep because it seems no time at all until the windows shades are being pulled up and harsh yellowy sunshine fills the cabin. I missed breakfast but I’m not bothered, I’m not hungry, but still, it was just the novelty of having a little plastic tray filled with inedible scrambled egg I missed out on. The plane dips and turns and through the oval window I can see the suburbs and green spaces of Melbourne and, despite the circumstances that led me here, a part of me is excited beyond belief at what I am about to do.
We land gracefully and taxi to the terminal gate. There are sniffer dogs all over the airport but they are more interested in sniffing out fruit or plant matter than finding the huge stash of money I have hidden all over me and my bags. I don’t even know if the dogs are trained to find money or not, but it seems to be a bigger crime here to smuggle in foodstuffs you haven’t declared on the landing card. I had to fill in my card in Sara’s name, making up a residential address in Melbourne and listing my occupation as a care assistant, I have no idea if anyone ever bothers to follow up on these details. I’m a bundle of nerves queueing up in the Australian passports section of the immigration hall and I think that surely these people have been trained to spot the signs of a suspicious traveller – the sheen of sweat on my face, the fact that I’m trying to look too casual and relaxed, I must scream ‘imposter!’ but no one gives me a second look. The officer calls me forward, checks through the passport and says ‘Welcome home’ before waving me through and I’ve done it, I’m in.
I am officially a citizen of Melbourne, Victoria.
CHAPTER SIX
I love Australia already. The bright sunshine, the clean spaces, and the food – God Almighty, the food! And I haven’t even left the airport yet. It is not even eight o’clock in the morning here and I haven’t slept in comfort for a week but there’s a charge in the air which invigorates me, and I feel confident I can pull this off. I will email Margie and Mac when I know how I’m getting to Ararat and when they need to pick me up, so first things first, where the hell is Ararat? The information desk is staffed by bright-eyed, energetic young people who are only too pleased to help me, which is a far cry from the miserable, hunched over grunters who work in London. Getting to Ararat is easy, it turns out. I just get the Skybus into the Southern Cross station in the city, then pick up a train all the way through, via Ballarat, which I have at least heard of. I’m looking at another three and a half hours travelling but after a cup of decent coffee and an amazing breakfast wrap (hot scrambled egg, crispy bacon and chilli jam – told you the food was good here) I’m full of stamina, or maybe I’ve just gone past the point of tiredness. The Skybus rumbles through the city and I’m in awe of the beauty of this place. The modern cityscape is balanced perfectly by the public spaces full of art and trees; a river winding through the centre provides a restful countenance, the clean, wide streets are full of people jogging, cycling and walking into work, and overhead the sun shines and shines and shines.
Southern Cross station is bustling busy and it takes me a while to figure out where I’m going but again, the staff on the desk are pleasant and helpful and I buy a one-way ticket to Ararat with my stash of Australian dollars, leaving on the outbound train at ten-thirty. With a bit of time to kill I wander into the nearest Vodaphone shop and come out again with a pay-as-you-go SIM card and a brand new mobile number for Sara’s phone. Sara’s email account questions my location but luckily believes me and doesn’t lock the account or deny me access. I have no idea what the answers to her security questions would be, nor do I know what secondary back-up email address she has. Had.
Firing off a quick message to Margie, I let them know what time my train gets in and I hope to God they can pick me up. At least I know what they look like from the photos on Sara’s laptop. The train is modern and clean, without the dubious, unidentifiable sticky patches on the seats which are unavoidable in England, and I roll silently through the back streets and suburbs, taking in every new detail. There is hardly anyone else on this train, I guess no one really needs to go such a small town so early in the morning on a weekday, and I’m content just to lean against the window and watch as the houses eventually begin to thin out and give way to more rural areas. There are small stations dotted here and there along the way but mostly there is just flat pasture, pale and scrubby, with clumps of Eucalyptus trees to break the monotony. Every time the train hisses to a stop at one of these tiny outposts and the doors swish open, there is a warm and welcoming smell of fresh air, dried grass and a minty, pine scent from leaves of the trees. It smells like all the best summers I’ve ever had, wrapped up in one glorious scent, and I take a great big gulping lungful of it, hoping to finally cleanse the stench of Sara’s death from my memory. Soothed by the gentle rocking motion of the train I relax into sleep only to be jolted awake seconds later when we reach Ararat.
Heaving my heavy backpack on my aching shoulders once more I stumble out of the train doors and take my first look at my new home. The train station is a squat series of buildings, half in red brick and half in painted wooden boards, but the town itself looks a reasonable size according to the map on the wall. I can only see a small part of the town from outside the station and it looks quite pretty. There are some well-kept historic buildings, dating from Victorian times by their gothic style and decorations, but I guess this counts for quite old in Australia. I can see one commercial street and I can’t get over how wide the road is, with room for cars to park on both sides, and how strange the shops look with their square frontages and overhanging awnings laced in iron filigree, but the town is busy which is a good sign. I might not be as isolated as I’d imagined. I sit on one of the wooden benches which face the centre of the town with my backpack at my feet, waiting for Margie and Mac to appear. I’m the only person waiting so they should realise who I am. I’m in desperate need of a shower and some proper rest but I hope my travel-worn appearance will cover up any lack of gloss and polish that Sara would have exuded in bucket loads.
The sun beats down and I’m thirsty for a cold drink but I daren’t move in case I miss them. They are very late in picking me up, the train was on time so they knew what time I would be here and I’m about to pick up my stuff and go in search of a local phone book to try and ring them when a rusty old truck shudders to a halt in front of me in a cloud of fine dust. I recognise Mac instantly from the photos although they didn’t do justice to the sheer vitality of this short, wiry man. He radiates a crackling energy like he can’t keep still for a single minute and he is out of the truck’s cab and swinging my pack into the back of it like it was a nothing more than a bag of feathers.
‘You must be Sara.’ His voice is gruff but friendly. ‘In you get. Margie’s at home having ten fits about leaving tomorrow but she’ll be glad to see you’re here safe.’ He wrenches open the passenger door for me and it screeches in protest. ‘Good trip?’ he asks but doesn’t give me time to answer as he continues to fire information at me like bullets. ‘Ararat’s your closest town if you need things like a bank or post office. We’re another thirty k’s from here and there’s not much at the Crowlands, you can’t even get a pint of milk so you might have to stock up at the supermarket here once a week or so.’ He starts the truck and we swing out into the road. He drives with one hand, the other busy rolling a cigarette, and I have to cling onto the broken door handle so I’m not thrown from one side of the cab to the other.
‘Crowlands?’ I frown. ‘I though you lived in Ararat. What’s Crowlands?’
‘It’s called THE Crowlands, and it�
�s a farming settlement with not much else.’ He pronounces it Crowlinds, like I’ve noticed other Aussie’s do. Melbourne becomes Melbin, Brisbane becomes Brisbin. ‘There’s a church and a community centre. School closed down a couple of years ago so there’s no bus service there anymore but you’ll be right. We’re leaving you the ute to use while we’re away.’ He patted the steering wheel fondly. ‘She’ll see you good, never let us down.’
I look at the manual gear stick which is fixed to the left of the steering wheel. Americans would call it a stick shift but here it’s called a column change and it looks like it takes a bit of practice getting used to. I’ve only ever driven my Gran's little automatic hatchback and this truck is so bulky, so masculine looking, I doubt I’ll even be able to reach the pedals on the floor. I guess I’m going to have to learn though if I want to buy food.
‘The house is still a bit of a mess, you can’t access the top floor safely so we’ve sealed it off until we get back and can start working on it again.’ Mac blows smoke around the cab, spitting bits of tobacco out the open window. ‘Coulda done without all this traipsing about to Arab land but the money’s too good to turn down. What I make in a year will be enough to finish the restoration completely.’ He pauses to pick another strand of tobacco from his teeth and I jump in.
‘Is the house old then? I mean, it looks quite old from the photos. Very Victorian Gothic.’
This tickles him for some reason and he wheezes out a laugh amid another lungful of smoke.
‘Victorian Gothic. Yeah I like that. Makes it sound like a house from a horror movie.’
We’re out of the township of Ararat now and on a small road that is barely more than a dirt track. ‘The house, Crowlands House it’s called, was built in 1874 as a family home by an English gentleman farmer who didn’t understand the climate out here. He went bankrupt pretty soon after the house was completed and it was bought up by the local government who turned it into a children’s home for kids who were a bit backward, ya know? Families used to ship their retards there to be looked after, no use keeping a kid who couldn’t work hard in them days.’ Mac is rolling his second cigarette now; it’s like he can’t keep his hands still and the truck bumps along the rough track hitting every pothole he can find. I can feel my teeth rattling loose and my head starts to pound from the constant jerking and braking. ‘Anyway, there was some kind of scandal there in the early 1900’s, no one knows what exactly, it was hushed up by the pollie’s of the day, and the house was closed up for years. It was used briefly during World War Two as a kind of retreat for injured returned servicemen but it wasn’t successful and they moved the RSA into Ararat itself. It’s still there, does a bonza fish’n’chips, got plenty of pokies if that’s your game.’
I’m only understanding half the words in this one-sided conversation. I don’t know what a ute is or a pollie, or what RSA stands for, or what a pokie means. It’s all new to me.
‘My old man bought the land around Crowlands House to run cattle and got the house for free. It’s only in the last couple of years, since I retired basically, that me and Margie thought it would make a good reno project.’ He slides a look at my blank face. ‘Reno. Renovation?’
‘Aah, I get it now. I thought you said Renault, like the car. It wasn’t making a lot of sense.’ I said apologetically. Mac grins at me, his teeth surprisingly white and good for his age. He must be in his sixties I think.
‘Do you and Margie have any kids?’
‘Yeah, got two girls. They both live up in the smoke.’ I’m wondering if this is some kind of Australian euphemism for being dead but Mac puts me straight. ‘Melbourne. They both live in Melbourne. No way would they up sticks and come back here to look after the place while we’re gone so that’s why we got hold of you.’ He ruffles my already mussed-up hair and I find that I like Mac enormously. ‘You got a good rep on the housesitting jobs you do, although you look a mite young to me. You sure you want to live in the middle of nowhere for a year?’ He is mildly concerned for me but I reassure him quickly.
‘It’s perfect. Just what I need. I like being on my own so it doesn’t bother me.’
‘Well, then.’ He is happy with that. ‘Margie’ll be glad of it. She’s a fusser, is my Margie, so watch out. She’ll be mother henning you from the word go.’
I take this to mean that Margie likes to mother people, particularly small, slight strays from the other side of the world. It feels right, being here, with Mac and even though he drives like he’s in a rally I feel safe with him.
‘That was the Crowlands.’ He remarks, speeding past a ramshackle collection of rusty corrugated iron shacks. He was right when he said there wasn’t much here. The only identifiable building is the white painted clapboard church up a small hill, everything else looks like falling-down outbuildings.
We drive on another ten minutes before he turns right onto another dirt track and my breath stops in my chest as the house comes into view. It’s even more imposing than the photographs and the huge gum tree in front of it is dwarfed by the three stories of red brick, the ironwork verandahs wrapping right around each floor. It’s so immense it’s hard to believe only two people live here; there must be fifty rooms inside at least. Mac pulls up to a sloping lean-to in the paddock on the right of the house. There are other outbuildings here and there but they are well away from the grounds of the house itself, as if it would allow nothing to spoil the aesthetics and symmetry of its imposing façade. I get out of the truck slowly, not taking my eyes off the house. The many windows stare blankly back but I can feel an undercurrent, as if the house is weighing me up somehow, issuing a silent challenge and finding me wanting. There is a noisy raucous chorus of birds coming from the gum tree, hundreds of large black crows fight to be heard amongst their neighbours and the unearthly cawing gets louder as we walk up the gravel path to the front door.
‘Bloody birds.’ Mac mutters under his breath. ‘They’re actually Australian ravens, native to this country, so we not allowed to shoot ‘em, but we’ve always call them crows. It’s how the area got its name. Crow Lands.’ There are concrete steps leading up to the front door in the centre of the verandah and Mac takes them two at a time, carrying my backpack and laptop bag easily in one hand. The white wooden door opens and Margie glides out, larger than life. She oozes kindness and love and immediately I want to run to her and feel those meaty arms wrap around me in a giant hug, bury my face in the folds of her boldly printed kaftan dress. I want her to look after me, to reassure me that nothing bad can hurt me, now that she’s here to make it all better.
‘Sara! Good to see ya, darl!’ Her voice is as loud as her clothing and she booms out a great big belly laugh. ‘Bet you thought you’d never get here, out in the boondocks like it is. Boy, am I glad to see youse two back. Mac, I can’t get the door to the laundry room open again. It keeps sticking in the frame. You’ll need to work your magic on it, love.’
‘Stick the jug on Margie, Sara’s bound to need a drink and I’m gasping for a cuppa.’ Mac skips lightly across the wooden boards of the verandah and disappears around the side of the house, leaving Margie to throw an arm around my shoulders and lead me inside. The hall is dark after the brightness of the sun and it takes a few minutes before my eyes adjust to the gloom. The passageway leads right through to the back of the house but there is a magnificent carved staircase leading up to the next floor on our right. The kitchen is at the back and I walk into a huge open plan space filled with light. Over-stuffed couches form cosy seating areas with carved wooden coffee tables placed in the middle. There is an absolutely ginormous TV screen on the wall above the fireplace and I can instantly imagine myself here on cold nights, curled up with the cats and watching some gritty Aussie drama series. Margie busies herself by running the cold tap and filling a gleaming stainless steel kettle, gracefully turning this way and that, finding cups and teapots and sugar bowls, all the while keeping up a steady stream of conversation.
‘…So I said to Mac, I said �
��How am I supposed to pack the right things for the Middle East. What kind of thing am I allowed to wear? Will I have to put one of those black veils over my face to go out?” I can tell you, Sara, I’m not looking forward to being somewhere so foreign even if we are being put up in a palace with servants and cooks to wait on me hand and foot. And he says “Margie. Just wear what you usually wear. It’ll be fine.” But it’s alright for him, isn’t it, he’ll be out on the site everyday wearing his overalls so he won’t need to worry about what to wear. Have some of these, sweetheart, you must be starving.’ She pushes a plate full of biscuits towards me. I don’t want food. I’m desperate for a glass of water but I’m too shy to ask. Margie is making me tea anyway which will have to do, at least it’s wet.
‘Let’s have a chinwag first, then I’ll give you the grand tour. Did you get any sleep on the flights, darl?’
‘Not much.’ I admit.
‘Hell! You must be bushwhacked, coming all that way. Never mind, darl, I’ve made up your room. Best not to give in to the tiredness yet though, see if you can last until tonight before you go to bed. That’s the best way of getting over the jetlag fast.’ Mac comes into the kitchen through another door beside the big American-style double door fridge that I didn’t see before.
‘Nothing wrong with the door Margie, I told you that before.’
‘There is! It keeps jamming like there’s someone pushing on it from the other side.’ Margie insists.