A Grand Passion Page 2

  ‘I know some people,’ says Trevor, ‘who might get you in.’

  CHAPTER 2

  GETTING IN

  I SLEEP REALLY BADLY, like a child waiting for Santa. I toss and turn, and spin in the sheets, willing my brain to flick the ‘off’ switch. If only I can sleep, it will be morning all the sooner. But I can’t, and the more I urge myself the more impossible it becomes.

  The motel pillows are thin and hard, and require regular pummelling for even a suspicion of plumpness. The room stinks of carpet deodoriser, and we’re breathing recycled air from the ancient throbbing machine mounted on the wall. I imagine pools of filthy water in condensation troughs and dust-clogged vents.

  Ian is having similar trouble, huffing and puffing and turning from side to side. But we don’t speak. Acknowledging we’re awake will be the end of hope for both of us. Finally, close to dawn, I achieve thin, weak dozing, then we’re up, swigging tea and running for the shower.

  Though neither of us has said it, there’s a distinct feeling that this could be the first day of the rest of our lives. A day of decision, of selecting the path we intend to stay on forever. Having been pathless for so long, the idea is momentous, the possibility exhilarating. Not that either of us have faltered in our desire to make Maryborough home. It’s an appealing town, rich with history and it’s the right distance from Montville. It even has connections to Ian’s mother who, as a girl on Delubra cattle station near Mundubbera, used to travel to Pialba, adjacent to present day Hervey Bay, for her annual holidays. In their horse-drawn buggy, her family would pass through Maryborough, and she never forgot the beautiful buildings she saw there, years later telling Ian, you must go to the town of Maryborough, there are so many lovely old houses. Today, there’s a feeling we might discover something that we can’t step back from, a feeling that our hearts are going to be committed.

  We’re both aware that some people might define what we’re doing as running away. Perhaps we are, but we don’t see the wrong in it. The overwhelming majority of our friends and family have been supportive, encouraging us from the beginning of our relationship, and encouraging still in our quest to make a new start, find a new home, build a new future. But there have been one or two not quite so generous.

  Ian is better at ignoring this than me. I find it hurtful and hard to understand. We are two survivors of difficult and sad times. It confuses me that anyone might not rejoice to see a happy ending for such a traumatised pair. I wonder whether my Divorced Status is an issue for more conservative souls, or whether there is a feeling in some quarters that Ian moved on too quickly from his first marriage. It must be stated that Ian’s finding someone else with apparent ease and speed is in no way a reflection of how he felt about his first marriage. On the contrary, he and Jenny were very happily married, and it was terrible for him to watch her suffer a long terminal illness. But there are those just not designed to be on their own, and Ian is top of the list.

  He is fun-loving, gregarious and easily bored. He can’t stand it if I so much as fall asleep on the sofa or in front of the TV, leaving him awake on his own. Ian needs a lover, a soul mate, a companion at his side at all times. He doesn’t like me reading books or doing the crossword, he wants me forever awake, alert and participating in his work, rest and play. I must – and do – rap him over the knuckles when I need a moment’s peace. It’s unimaginable for a creature like Ian to live out his life alone.

  I’ve a suspicion that those one or two raising their righteous eyebrows are all in safe, stable situations themselves. They have no inkling of how it feels to be grabbed by fate and thrown to the wolves. Perhaps, for some, it stretches their imagination to believe that Ian or I could spend so many years of our lives with one person, yet go on to find happiness with another. I have some difficulty getting my head around this. Do they also believe that the loss of a first baby leaves you incapable of loving your second child? Your third? Your fourth?

  I try not to think uncharitable thoughts, but it’s hard not to be stilted and reserved in the presence of disapprovers. And it’s hard not to be impatient to find and follow our dream.

  We show up on Trevor’s doorstep indecently early.

  Trevor takes us to meet Patrick and Elizabeth MacKenzie who, he is fairly sure, know the owners of Baddow House.

  The MacKenzies are long time residents of Maryborough and slight acquaintances of Trevor’s. They live at Mavisbank, one of Maryborough’s oldest houses. It’s a classic Queenslander: wooden walls, fretwork, tongue and groove ceilings, charming verandahs, a warren of fascinating little rooms crammed with more treasures than I’ve ever seen in such a confined space. They’ve been working on this amazing collection for years and Mavisbank is open to the public as a museum.

  Patrick and Elizabeth look the part in their home of yesteryear. Patrick puts me in mind of a nineteenth century preacher from the Wild West: tall and broad, with shoulder-length grey hair and a full beard. He looks strong, but is gentle, quiet and very well-mannered. I can imagine him in a black frock coat, leading his straggling flock in Abide with Me on a windswept prairie. We learn later that Patrick likes to do things the ‘old way’, including the digging of his own well.

  Elizabeth wanted a supply of fresh water for the garden, and divined a suitable spot with her willow stick before, shovel in hand, Patrick began to dig. And dig, and dig. When the shaft grew too deep and narrow to manoeuvre his shovel, he attached two empty peach cans to lengths of string. The shaft was only the width of his shoulders, no degree of bending was possible, so he manipulated the cans with his bare feet, scooping them full of moist dirt which was then hauled to the surface.

  As the shaft sank deeper, the air grew poorer. But, with ingenious bending of the ‘old way’ rules, Patrick lowered the vacuum cleaner down to suck out the foul air, thereby displacing fresh air to his level. He dug to a depth of seven metres and was rewarded with a bore so plentiful he was knocked off his feet by the jet of water.

  Elizabeth is gentle, gracious and dreamy. She wears her long hair either loose down her back or swept up carelessly to the top of her head when it’s hot. Elizabeth always favours long, floaty dresses. She is plagued by the Queensland heat, as I imagine those ladies of yesteryear must have been in their layered clothing and high-necked gowns. Her love of her home and collection is a pleasure to behold.

  Patrick agrees to take us down to meet the owners of Baddow House, but first he shows us around Mavisbank. Their collection is a wonder, and Patrick’s big paws handle each and every item with reverence as we wander from room to room. It’s fascinating, but I don’t want to do this now, I want to come back another day, a different time. Selfishly, guiltily, I am driven by the desire to get out of Mavisbank and into Baddow House. I want to shout at Patrick to hurry up.

  At last Ian, Patrick and I arrive at Baddow House. My heart is thudding as we walk from the car toward the house. I’ve never felt this way about a building before and am a bit confused as to why it matters so much.

  There’s a mature poinciana tree over our heads as we enter the property, and several jacarandas deeper into the garden. I glimpse a familiar leaf here and there in the tangled shrubbery and grow excited when I spot a rondeletia, then a bird of paradise. Neither are in flower so early in autumn, but I recognise their leaves. So many of my favourites. I take it as a sign.

  Inevitably, my attention is drawn to the house. The wall facing the street is appalling. We can see that the house was once painted white, but is so black and discoloured we wonder if there has been a fire. Could it really get that way from grime and mildew alone?

  The back door is open; relief surges through me. Someone is home. We have a chance of getting in.

  A dog barks and a white bull terrier lumbers toward us. It’s old and fat, but I still get Ian between it and my calves. A woman materialises at the open door. She is unsmiling, suspicious. I don’t think she is used to strangers calling. But she recognises Patrick.

  Introductions are performed a
nd Ian, in his element, flashes his legendary smile and says, ‘We hear you might be interested in selling.’

  Jan Christiansen, the owner, doesn’t reply. I get a sense that she hates our intrusion.

  He asks again.

  ‘We might.’ She’s looking from one to the other of us, even Patrick, like we’ve come to steal her children. Ian, still smiling, apologises for the intrusion and asks, given that the place might be for sale, if we might not take a short look around.

  There’s a moment of hostile silence. It’s obvious she doesn’t want us there, but she’s hesitating, thinking. I guess prospective buyers are thin on the ground when it comes to houses where outside walls are moving away from inside walls. I hold my breath.

  ‘You’ll have to take it as you find it,’ she says at last. This is delivered like an accusation. We should have phoned, booked an appointment. I do understand. Anybody would prefer to spruce their place up a bit before potential purchasers take a look inside. What baffles me is how much notice she would have liked us to give, for this crumbling edifice to be brought into an inspectable state. ‘You can look round the outside first,’ she tells us, ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’ Then she turns on her heel and vanishes into the dark and mysterious interior.

  ‘There are some rather awful cracks in the walls,’ Patrick warns in a low aside as we set off.

  Up close, the house looks even more fascinating. There are huge windows filled with rusty iron louvres in the first section we pass. It’s a ten-metre-tall, square construction, looking very un-Australian. The flat roof has a parapet with castellated corners. Later, Ian and I christen this ‘the Keep’.

  We move on. The doors and windows are enormous, everything on such a grand scale. The windows have great stone slab sills. I see cracks here and there; some hairline, some that could be described as rather more than hairline. They fracture the rendered mouldings and snake out from corners of windows and doors, branching in patterns like bronchial tubes. But I’m beginning to inwardly smile. The structural problems of the house have been grossly exaggerated. What brick and render home wouldn’t have a few fine cracks here and there?

  We pass the pillared portico over the front door. It’s ugly: square, flat-roofed and quite out of place. ‘That’s not original is it?’ Ian asks.

  ‘No, a later addition,’ Patrick explains. ‘There used to be verandahs all around, upstairs and down, but they were pulled down years ago. The porch was added as a new main entrance.’

  We nod as we listen to his commentary. The porch will have to go, I’m thinking and, all the while, trying to soak in as much as I can in the short time we’re going to be allowed. In my stomach there’s a tight knot of excitement and fear. It’s amazing that something this wonderful might fall into our hands, but I’m terrified that life could be cruel enough to dangle so desirable a fruit then pull it away.

  We round the northern corner of the house and my jaw hits my chest. I reel back, dizzy with shock and disappointment. When I finally tear my eyes from the gaping chasm that almost severs the house in half from roof to ground, I look at Ian and see my reaction mirrored on his face.

  ‘This is probably the worst of the cracks,’ says Patrick dryly.

  There’s a short silence. I’m thinking, well, I guess that’s that then, we may as well go home. I might be a maniac who lets her heart overrule her head, but Ian has far more sense.

  Ian, however, is strolling toward the western corner of the house, looking again, eyes running up and down the ten-metre walls. I scamper after him, fresh hope daring to dawn. Ian hasn’t given up.

  ‘People in England repair all sorts of ruins,’ I say, seizing his moment of madness. ‘Think about all those houses that are hundreds of years old, remember Aunty Dorothy’s house – that’s five hundred years old if it’s a day. People renovate roofless barns, they fix up old keeps in Scotland that are just a few crumbling walls without a suspicion of a roof …’ I jabber on in this vein until proximity to the owner, Jan, shuts me up. We are about to go inside.

  It’s cool but cluttered, dark and filthy. Jan and her husband, Barry, have been living upstairs while downstairs housed their museum. The museum collection is still in evidence, but the public hasn’t seen it for a very long time. The place has been closed up for years.

  We find a room crammed with a thousand dusty dolls. It’s so packed we can’t get past the open doorway and have to stand in the corridor peering in. We see a ‘pub’ lined with shelves filled with old bottles and canisters. We see antiques to boggle our eyes, but there’s a real Marie Celeste feeling to it all. I’m very sure that Jan and Barry never enter these rooms, that the only things left to disturb the dust and breathe the stale air are spiders and cockroaches.

  The windows are all nailed shut and shrouded with heavy curtains. Kept closed, Jan tells us, to keep the light from damaging her valuable antiques.

  Jan is thawing, giving a little commentary. As our eyes adjust to the dark, we see that the ceilings are very high. ‘Fourteen feet,’ she tells us with pride. We are suitably impressed, and we are very excited to see that the doors, architraves, window frames and skirting boards are all made of mature red cedar. But everything is draped in a grey, silken mantle of webs, dust and mildew: an asthmatic’s hell, I’m thinking, but luckily neither Ian nor I are sufferers.

  We wander from room to room in the sort of hush that overcomes you in the State Library or the British Museum. I think we are overwhelmed by the house, but also much too afraid to discuss anything in front of Jan in case we give our enthusiasm away.

  We find ourselves in a vast dining room with a magnificent hearth and deep mantelpiece of carved red cedar. Again the curtains are closed, it’s hard to see the details.

  ‘Do you have any ghosts?’ I ask. I’m kidding, of course. Who believes in ghosts these days? Ian flicks an oh my God, I can’t believe you just said that sort of a look at me, but Jan just smiles tightly and says ‘No, there are no ghosts at Baddow House.’

  I, too, can’t believe I’ve asked such a stupid, immature question and feel slightly embarrassed. Ian continues to cast me penetrating looks; worried, no doubt, that I’m going to put Jan’s back up. But I’ve learned my lesson. My lips are now sealed.

  We move on to the living room, location of the Big Crack. Though the walls are a foot thick, you can stand in this room and admire the garden through the gaping chasm. I can also see daylight where the floorboards meet the walls, and realise that the floor slopes downhill in a somewhat alarming fashion. I decide not to mention this to Ian.

  Happily Ian has spotted the red cedar staircase and I feel a wave of confidence return, as I know Ian goes demented with excitement over mature red cedar and is going to have trouble resisting this. The four of us mount the stairs, which are half-covered by an ancient, stained, frayed and moth-eaten carpet runner. That’ll have to go, I’m thinking, what a travesty to cover the cedar.

  Upstairs is lighter, the windows less shrouded. This is where Jan and Barry have been living. We discover French doors that open to a sheer, spine-chilling, seven-metre drop to the ground.

  ‘There used to be verandahs upstairs and down,’ explains Jan. ‘They were removed in 1940, so that the iron could be donated to the war effort.’ I’m shocked by the thought of stripping verandahs off this beautiful building to make bullets and missiles. No wonder the place looks so unhappy. No wonder the air of heavy sadness. It’s a house in mourning. I think of young men’s breasts pierced by bullet-shaped bits of Baddow’s verandahs and want to weep.

  We move on to the bedrooms. Two are large enough to host a game of football. There are six altogether, but used to be five. One room has been divided into two with a makeshift wall that doesn’t even reach the ceiling. Another mental demolition note. There are fireplaces everywhere.

  The lone bathroom occupies the top floor of the Keep. I’m expecting a horror but it’s brighter, cleaner and more recently painted than any other part of the house. ‘There used to be backstairs
from here, running down the exterior wall of the house,’ Jan tells us, ‘the maids’ stairs.’ Built in a day when master and mistress did not want to be forever encountering servants in their path.

  All the while Ian and I are touching doors, examining floorboards, running our hands over the flaking paintwork. The wood is parched from years of neglect. Some of the floorboards are almost grey. Jan tells us that the house stood empty through much of the 1950s, and was badly vandalised. Windows were smashed, letting rain pour through to soak the floor.

  We go back downstairs. Our tour has finished. I am certain I want this place more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. In my euphoria, I couldn’t care less about cracks, chasms and sinking floors. I’m not a hundred per cent sure why. Yes, it’s an amazing, grand old home that could be made just so again, with enough money, enthusiasm and effort. But my yearning goes beyond that. There’s a feeling here that just grabs me and won’t let go. The house needs me and I need the house. It’s the start of a love affair I never want to end.

  But I want Ian to love it too. We are a team. I wonder if I’m greedy, wanting the house as well as Ian.

  We farewell Patrick with heartfelt thanks, then we are off.

  ‘Well?’ I say, the minute the car moves forward.

  ‘Well what?’ says Ian, tormenting me.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  One of Ian’s favourite games is teasing me. I’d hit him if he weren’t driving.

  ‘What did you think of the house?’ I bite out.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I asked first.’

  ‘Ladies first.’

  Another favourite game is to make me spill my guts about something before he’ll utter a word of his own opinion, so that I’m committed to a confessed sentiment before he has had to expose an iota of his own feelings. I want to tease him back, but I’m too excited to prolong the game. I’m silent a minute, we both know I’ll give in.