The Last Rose of Summer

by Di Morrissey

  Mrs Butterworth was notified by telegram and she jumped on the train from Lismore the following evening. By the time she arrived at Zanana, Kate was settled comfortably back in the cottage with Ben, the wooden cradle with her son beside the bed in easy reach.

  Three weeks later, the baby was christened Alec, and Gladys marked the occasion by putting him in the highsprung pram which had been Kate’s and wheeling him through the gardens. She chatted as she went, telling the infant about his grandparents Robert and Catherine and about Zanana, until she reached the white marble angel. Lifting the baby up, she went and stood between the graves of Robert and Catherine.

  ‘Here, my loves. Here’s your grandson. Such a bonny baby, with Catherine’s blue eyes and your dark hair, Robert. He’s a Maclntyre, that’s for sure.’

  She stood there for a while longer, rocking the baby to and fro in her arms, wondering what his future might be. ‘You’ve come into the world when things aren’t looking the best, but one thing’s for sure, little man, you have a family that loves you — and no one more than your Granny Gladys.’

  Reluctantly, Gladys tore herself away from the little family and returned to Bangalow, extracting a promise from Ben and Kate that they would bring the baby up as soon as possible. Devoted as Ben and Kate had always been to each other, the birth of their son Alec had added a depth of contentment and maturity to their love, which gave Gladys a feeling of great joy.

  ‘Nettie is beside herself because I’ve held her grandson before she has. They are so anxious to see him. If it wasn’t for Nettie’s arthritis and Sid’s back, they’d be down here too,’ she said.

  Ben patted her arm. ‘I know. I promised Mum and Dad we’ll be up to stay within a month. And we’ll have a proper christening party then. I would have had him christened up there, but Kate wanted him baptised in the church closest to Zanana,’ he confided.

  So once Kate felt well enough, they packed suitcases and a large wicker basket of baby items, stowed them in the Model-T motorcar and headed north to Bangalow in easy stages.

  Sid and Nettie Johnson were anxiously awaiting the arrival of their son, grandson and Kate. Together with Gladys and Wally, they planned a family party to celebrate Alec’s birth.

  ‘They said they’d probably arrive Thursday or Friday, so I thought a good old baked Sunday lunch would be the thing to do. Leg of lamb or pork?’ wondered Nettie.

  ‘Lamb, I think. With mint sauce, spuds, pumpkin, and buttered parsnips. Oh, and Wal has a good batch of peas ready in the garden, too. And I’ll decorate a cake. With blue icing, of course,’ added Gladys.

  ‘I’ll bake a gramma pie as well, it’s Ben’s favourite, with whipped cream and plenty of raisins in it. We’ve got a mass of grammas running wild down the back of the outhouse.’

  By the time Wal had been to the butchers and Gladys and Nettie had been to the haberdashers to buy material to make a mosquito net and lining for the bassinet for the baby, the whole town knew about the impending visit. ‘You be sure and bring that baby in to show me,’ said the lady behind the counter as she wrapped up the lace, net, ribbon and soft lawn material in brown paper and handed them across the counter to Nettie.

  It was Friday morning when Nettie heard a car door slam outside. Quickly she rushed into the bedroom pulling off her apron and smoothed her hair, calling, ‘Sid, they’re here!’

  As the doorbell rang through the house Sid put his paper to one side. ‘Can’t be, they’d walk in the back door, not ring the front-door bell.’

  Nettie followed Sid down the hall, but disappointment welled inside her as she saw the bulky shape through the frosted glass panel, knowing it wasn’t her Ben.

  She turned back towards the kitchen as Sid opened the door but then froze as she heard his hesitant, ‘Morning, Sarge. What can I do for you?’

  One look at the agonised face of their burly local police sergeant, holding his hat and saying quietly, ‘Can I come in, Sid?’ and Nettie knew something was badly wrong. Her knees went weak as Sid quietly took her arm and led the sergeant into the parlour.

  He broke the news as gently as he could. A motor accident . . . just after dusk, the Model-T and a log truck had collided . . . Ben was killed instantly. Kate was critically injured and in hospital . . . The baby had been thrown clear and apart from a few bruises and scratches was all right.

  ‘I must get to Kate. Please, take me there,’ begged a distraught Gladys after the sergeant had left the sobbing Johnsons and gone over the details with Gladys and Wally.

  ‘Glad, it will take hours. Maybe it’s best to wait for news,’ said Wal gently. ‘Stay with Sid and Nettie and try to help them through this too.’

  ‘I want to be with Kate!’ Her eyes were dry and frantic and she tugged at the sergeant. ‘Can you take me? Or else I’ll get a taxi. What’s the quickest way?’

  Wal put his arm around her as she dropped her face into her hands and he nodded numb thanks to the police sergeant. ‘I’ll get you there, Glad, if that’s what you want. We’ll have a cup of tea and then get ready.’

  Gladys slumped in a chair and began crying uncontrollably.

  The sergeant motioned to Wally, who saw him to the door. Quietly the policeman said, ‘It might be best if you do go. I don’t know whether you want to take Sid with you too, but there will be arrangements to make . . . you know, with their son. The child is being cared for now but who knows how the mother will fare. Best you get down there, Wally. I’m real sorry. I understand the girl is like Glad’s daughter . . . Terrible thing . . . Those big new timber lorries take up too much room on these old dirt roads in the bush. Going downhill loaded they’re bloody hard to stop.’

  He put his hat on and trudged, head bowed, back to his police car with sagging shoulders.

  Sid and Nettie were so devastated they couldn’t face the journey, so Gladys and Wally said they would make the necessary arrangements for Ben’s body to be returned to Bangalow as they wished. Gladys just wanted to be by Kate’s side, as if her presence would pull her through.

  ‘That girl is a fighter, she’ll be right,’ said Wally comfortingly as he drove the two hundred miles to where the accident had happened.

  Gladys sat in red-eyed silence, her hands gripping the handle of her handbag, willing Kate to hang onto the sliver of life which kept her alive.

  It was a relief baby Alec was safe, but how could fate be so cruel to first Catherine and now her daughter Kate?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sydney 1971

  Odette walked through the sunshine of Hyde Park. The Archibald Fountain splashed onto the surrounding stones where pigeons puffed in the damp coolness. Couples, released from their desks and offices, stretched out on the grass, cuddling, reading, eating sandwiches from brown-paper bags.

  She turned into the manicured Remembrance garden and walked under the lattice of delicate wisteria. Odette sat on a wooden bench in the lavender-tinted shade and tried to sort out her jumbled thoughts.

  Lunch with Eden Davenport had not been what she had expected. For once, her ‘assessment antenna’ was on the blink. She didn’t know what to make of him. He was totally relaxed. One moment she thought he was trying to con her, the next she felt he was utterly genuine and sincere. She was charmed and flattered by him — which activated her defense system — then was interested and impressed by his plans and achievements. The lunch itself was almost overkill.

  The venue was up-market, a long way from Odette’s Greasy Spoon. The waterfront restaurant had style — linen tablecloths, silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses. Eden had ordered wine with a genuine knowledge of the wine list.

  ‘Yes,’ thought Odette as she slowly turned the glass of Lindemans white burgundy, ‘the man has style.’ And there was no denying he was very attractive, although he seemed unaware of his looks and charm. She tuned in again to what had become a one-sided conversation, almost a lecture on his personal philosophy of architecture.

  ‘. . . and so that’s how I see it. My approach to design
and building is rather like the way an artist approaches a canvas. But I rather like the design to grow organically out of the environment, to be sympathetic to it, harmonising, to grow from it, not be imposed on it . . .’ He paused and looked at Odette then apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I must be boring you. Got somewhat carried away. Put it down to the wine.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, it’s very interesting. How does all this translate into reality on the canvas of Zanana?’

  ‘I suppose you imagine something like a sea of red brick and red tiles.’

  Odette was caught off guard. ‘Ah, well . . .’

  ‘That’s reasonable enough. Australians are in love with red brick and red tile houses, but I was hoping you would have gathered that I’m trying to bring enlightenment to the heathens of suburbia.’

  Odette felt the lunch was deteriorating fast and that she might as well forget about the dessert. Before she could think of something to say, Eden made a surprise suggestion.

  ‘Would you like to see the plans and models of the Zanana project?’

  ‘Really?’ asked Odette suspiciously.

  ‘Yes, really. I have them at my office just down the road. Strictly off the record, for your eyes only. I was given a very vague brief by Hacienda, which frankly is how I like it. I’ve tried to be innovative, tried to introduce some very authentic Australian concepts — like all-round verandahs and low-rise ranch style homes. The proposed suburbs will be garden ones with lots of open space, bike paths, playgrounds and so on. If you can’t afford the time today, you’re welcome to see them some other day.’

  ‘Thanks, some other day will be fine. But do you appreciate just how much opposition there is to development? Now the local birdwatchers are up in arms. They’ve even got some Siberian birds on their side — migratory feathered birds that is,’ Odette grinned, making a contribution to getting the lunch back on an even keel.

  ‘Sure, I know. I told you before how the environment influences me a lot. The waterfront will not be spoiled, the mangroves don’t belong to the estate anyway, and I am trying to incorporate the gardens, grotto and Indian House into preserved public places.’

  ‘That’s great. What about the big house?’

  Eden was silent and fiddled with the last of his trout. ‘I’d like to save it, but whatever would you do with it? The developers are noncommittal.’

  ‘Why not a community centre?’ suggested Odette brightly, then wondered where the idea came from.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea. Could help sell the development. A unique attraction, particularly if the council takes it over. Thanks for that one.’ He raised his glass, smiled and proposed a toast. ‘To Zanana.’

  Odette was now feeling quite confused. The man was sweeping away all her defences and undermining her outrage. She sipped the wine to acknowledge the toast, then put down her glass. ‘Well, it would be nice if it came to pass,’ she said firmly. ‘But how do you know the developer will go along with your plans?’ The thrust, she thought, put her back into an attacking position, regaining the initiative.

  ‘I’ve never been ignored before by a client. They pay good money for my services. They’ve never given me any indication not to trust them.’

  Odette almost blurted out the intelligence passed on by Mr O’Toole at the council, but she kept quiet. ‘Of course, why shouldn’t you trust them? I’m sorry, but I must be getting back to the office.’ To heck with the desserts, she thought, this lunch is too exhausting. Time to make a strategic withdrawal and regroup.

  They had agreed to meet at Eden’s office later in the week.

  Walking back through the park, Odette inhaled the perfume of the wisteria. Slowly, she headed back towards her office at the Gazette. Her mind was buzzing with the various angles and directions of this story about Zanana. It was like a big buttercup and she wished she could pull apart the petals like she did as a child until she was left with one clear unambiguous answer.

  The receptionist raised an eyebrow as Odette got out of the lift. ‘You’re having quite a day. You have another visitor. He’s gone upstairs to see Mr Mendholssen, said he’d be back to find you later.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Evasive lot, your friends. Just said he was an old mate.’

  Odette shrugged. ‘Not making a complaint to the editor in chief, I hope.’

  She freshened up and began reviewing her notes. She was deep into reading some research when there was a discreet cough and a figure loomed over her desk. Odette looked up into the grinning face of her old Clarion editor.

  ‘Fitz! What a terrific surprise. How great to see you; why didn’t you tell me you were coming to town?’

  ‘What for? So you could make an excuse and skip out on me?’ he asked, returning her affectionate hug.

  ‘You know I’d never do that. So, tell me all. Pull up a chair and I’ll get the copy boy to get us some dreadful coffee.’

  Fitz explained he’d come down to the big smoke for a bit of a break and brought her best wishes from Aunt Harriet. ‘She gave me a couple of presents for you, they’re back at the hotel — I didn’t want to lug them around all day.’

  Odette was thrilled to see her old editor and realised how fond she was of him. ‘Listen, Fitz, do you have any plans right now? Do you have time for a bit of a yarn? I’m in the middle of a story which is a bit confusing. I’d love to chew it over with you.’

  ‘Might have known there’d be an ulterior motive. You don’t just want stimulating company, eh?’

  Over coffee Odette told Fitz all she knew of Zanana, Eden Davenport, Hacienda Homes, Mrs Bramble’s residents’ group and the two contacts she had ferreting away on her behalf in the council. As always Fitz made her take a dispassionate overview.

  ‘So what’s in it? Who’s to gain, who’s to lose, and how hard will they fight to win? It sounds like a big prize to me. I would say this isn’t some routine deal that a company has pounced on. I would say a lot of planning and scheming has gone into this one. It’s too big a deal.’

  ‘It is a big deal. There isn’t a waterfront property anywhere near the city like this one. It would take hundreds of houses. The mind boggles at how much money would be involved in the total project,’ said Odette.

  ‘A lot of houses . . . even more money and profit if some of it was turned over for apartments — tower blocks on the waterfront, for example,’ suggested Fitz quietly.

  ‘They wouldn’t!’ gasped Odette. ‘That’s impossible. Anyway, the rezoning application is for single-dwelling blocks.’

  ‘Not a bad way to start . . . then up the ante when the development is under way and the councillors are more sympathetic — or more easily got at.’

  ‘My God, you’re an old sceptic, Fitz,’ she teased.

  ‘And it might be a good thing if you were a little more sceptical, my girl. Best weapon any investigative reporter can have. Remember this — almost everyone has a price, and in local government, the price can be very cheap. We’re in boom times and there are a lot of shonky deals being done in the back rooms of council chambers all over the country, believe me. Keep digging, Odette, and don’t let the smooth young architect take the edge off your nose for news . . . although I think I’m mixing my metaphors there a bit.’

  ‘Fitz, you are a cynic. So what’s my next move?’

  ‘The thought occurred to me, Odette, you should make a trip out to Zanana. Walk over the estate, get the feel of the place again. I just think it might prove useful.’

  ‘You’re right. I haven’t been there for several years. Though last time I went it was a bit spooky. I felt there was someone there but there wasn’t, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘You mean you’re saying it’s haunted? Gawd, woman, you don’t believe in ghosts do you?’ exclaimed Fitz.

  ‘I suppose not,’ she replied sheepishly. ‘But I don’t disbelieve in them either.’

  ‘Woman’s logic,’ sighed Fitz. ‘Well, good luck, kid. I’ll buy you a beer before I leave town.’

  After
dinner that night Odette decided to run a leisurely bath. Soaking in its warm froth she lay back and thought about Zanana. She decided to go there the next day.

  ‘So it’s a complicated story, is it?’ the plump photographer wryly observed as they drove towards Kincaid. ‘That won’t go over well with Madam Editor. Don’t like nothing complicated. Can’t ask the reader to think too hard, y’know.’

  ‘Nonsense, Max,’ snapped Odette, having heard the line in a dozen variations. She went on outlining the confused story of a romantic old house surrounded by fabulous gardens, its role in Sydney society during Federation days, the tragedy that befell its first family, its subsequent role as a compassionate and caring home for World War I veterans, the mystery of its sudden closure and reversal of fortunes, and now the grasping hands of developers. ‘There are some beaut angles about it all which I’m still exploring and there are a lot of unanswered questions.’

  Max let out a low whistle. ‘You sure know how to pick ’em.’ The car was approaching the double gates of Zanana. ‘Now what?’

  Max stopped the car and Odette got out to check the huge ornate iron gates. They were solidly locked.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be a way into the estate,’ said Max.

  ‘Oh yes, there is. Come on,’ grinned Odette.

  Eveready stepped gingerly into the centre of the narrow rowing boat. Odette sat in the stern, his camera bag between her feet.

  ‘I don’t know whether this is such a great idea, Odette.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Max. It’s a piece of cake. I used to row to Zanana all the time. Do you want me to row?’

  ‘No, I can manage,’ he muttered as he pushed the oars into the water, adjusting the handles in his great paw-like hands.

  They set off in the bright sunshine and Odette began to feel the old familiar flutter of anticipation of a visit to Zanana. It was a feeling that transported her back to childhood and for several minutes she was lost in memories. Suddenly she was aware of the mangroves.