by Di Morrissey
‘Gee, I do hope the jetty is still standing,’ she said aloud.
One of the oars slipped in the water. ‘Cripes, Odette, I don’t feel like wading ashore.’
‘Stop worrying, Max. I know this river well. Grew up here.’
Odette’s thoughts again went back to the happy hours she had spent on the river alone and with her parents. She didn’t say anything to Max about Sheila and Ralph drowning on this river. It was a sad memory rarely recalled. Often she felt a pang about the loss of her parents, especially on occasions like her birthday and Christmas. But most of the time she tucked their memory into her heart like a warm and glowing coal that was always there, steady and solid. She felt they watched over her and knew how she was doing. She only held happy thoughts, remembering the good times.
They came round the bend in the river and Odette peered around Max’s bulky shape.
‘It’s still there, look!’
The perspiring photographer leaned on his oars and looked over his shoulder. The wharf lurched into the water, a suspicious dip in its centre. Sky could be seen through the skeleton of the boathouse.
‘Doesn’t look too safe.’
Odette considered Max’s weighty frame. ‘I’ll go first and test it, otherwise you’ll have to go in to the bank, roll up your duds and squelch through the mud.’
‘Oh, great!’ sighed Max.
But as they drew closer to the old jetty, Odette could see gaping holes along the wharf where planks had rotted.
‘I think we’d both better go through the mangroves, Max.’
They tied the dinghy to a tree and, with shoes off, pushed their way through the inky stench of mud and tangled mangrove roots, with Odette leading the way. She found the bamboo grove, though the path through it was almost obscured. However, they finally emerged onto the bottom terrace and Max gazed up at the stone balustrades and tiers of the old terraces leading up to the ring of trees which surrounded the mansion. The tower and roof of the house was just visible.
Max let out a low whistle. ‘Hey, this must have been something when it was all kept up, eh?’
They found a tap near the swimming pool and washed their feet, then sat on an ornamental sandstone seat to put on their shoes. The pool was full of weeds and even shrubs that had taken root in the accumulation of dirt and rubbish that littered its entire length.
‘Do you want a shot of this little lot?’ asked Max, waving his camera at the pool.
‘No. There’s much better than this to shoot. Come on,’ said Odette as she plunged into the lush foliage hiding Ben’s grotto. Max stooped down and began delving in his camera bag, pulling out film and loading it.
‘Hey, come and look at this. It’s wonderful,’ sang out Odette. ‘Hurry up will you, Eveready.’
When he reached her, Odette gently pulled away a trellis of vines to reveal small orchids in bloom tucked into crevices in the man-made tumble of caves. ‘Look inside, there are cute little carvings. Someone with a lovely imagination went to a lot of trouble to create this.’
Max crouched down and peered into the nooks and crannies of the twisting caves. ‘I think I’ll use my flash,’ he said, going to work with quiet efficiency.
Further along Odette studied what looked to be a tall tree stump with a massive fern growing from its severed trunk. In small broken branches nestled a tiny carved possum peeping round a bush orchid. Around its base was a ring of grey toadstools on which sat several delicate fairy figures. Odette reached out and touched the tree trunk and toadstool. It was all carved from stone, now covered in moss and the airborne roots of orchids and bromeliads. Gently Odette parted the leaves of the plants on the make-believe tree and saw carved into the stone a heart with the initials B and K entwined in it.
‘Another clue,’ she whispered as the flash from Max’s camera illuminated the dimness of the grotto.
She had difficulty dragging Max away from the sunken garden where the sundial still stood sentinel.
‘Look up there, Max,’ called Odette, a catch in her voice.
The roses were in bloom. The great survivors of time and neglect had won the battle of weeds and grasses, of indifferent water supply and no form of pruning. Fiercely they raged across the beds and arbours, thorny arms embracing, reaching for the heavens; yet like stars in a night sky, the messy thicket of growth was studded with the brilliance of perfect flowers.
Odette breathed deeply. ‘Smell them. I can never smell the perfume of a rose without being taken here, to Zanana.’
‘They’re glorious. Bloody amazing.’ For the moment Max had forgotten his camera. Then slowly he lifted it and began photographing the roses. He moved up to them, but found it impossible to get in amongst them. He decided to put on a zoom lens.
Odette found the rustic garden seat still there, and brushing away dead leaves and twigs from it, sat and watched the photographer work.
When Max had finished his roll of film, he sat beside Odette to reload.
‘Can you imagine anyone bulldozing all this?’ asked Odette.
‘Be a crime. This should be fixed up and opened up to the public. Boy, this must have been some place. What’s the house like?’
‘Oh, Zanana is magic. But there’s a little building even more special. Let’s move on.’
‘What does Zanana mean?’ asked Max as he lumbered along the path between the overgrown flowerbeds and knee-high grass that was once lawn.
‘Do you know, I’m embarrassed to admit all through the years since I first came here, it never occurred to me that it meant something. Then when I started researching this story in one of the historical papers it explained the name comes from India. It’s the private apartments in the palaces where the women were kept — the maharanis and concubines and their retinues. The mysterious veiled women who were guarded by eunuchs.’
Max stopped and turned around. ‘Good grief, you mean this place was like some private harem?’
Odette laughed at his pop-eyed expression. ‘I don’t think so, Max. It also means a place of sanctuary. The original owner, Robert Maclntyre, was from Scotland, went to India on his honeymoon and built this for his wife,’ explained Odette as they walked on.
Max was watching where he was walking on the broken pathway and didn’t see what was ahead of them until Odette said softly, ’He also built that for his wife’.
Max stopped and gaped at the tiny Indian palace in front of them. Its panes of coloured glass twinkled in the sunlight, the marble carved cupola and graceful pillars still looked smooth and ageless despite tinges of mould, small birds’ nests and a layer of garden debris across the tiles.
They walked up the steps and Odette hesitated before the door. ‘Can we go in?’ Max found he was whispering.
‘Yes. It’s just that last time I was here . . . I had a funny experience,’ answered Odette.
‘Like what?’ asked Max cautiously.
‘Oh, nothing. Just my overactive imagination, I suppose. But I just felt there was someone in there . . .’
‘Hiding you mean?’
‘No, a spirit of some kind. A woman . . .’
‘It’s haunted! Well, that’s all right then,’ laughed Max, stepping in front of her and giving the carved wooden door a firm shove.
With a creak of its rusty stiffened hinges it reluctantly opened. Max stepped inside and again whistled. ‘I don’t believe this. Strike a light, it’s fantastic!’
Odette stepped in beside him, expelling her breath in a relieved sigh. The Indian House was intact. Just as she remembered.
‘What’s that?’ Max began walking round the room.
‘It’s a bed. Get on it and look under the canopy.’
He threw her a bemused look but lay on the wooden frame and gazed upwards, his face breaking into a wide grin. ‘Ahh, how gorgeous. Cripes, are those gems real? The gold leaf must be real.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve always liked to think that jewelled sky is real.’
Max sat up and looked around. ‘You know, it�
�s a shame to let anyone know about this. Vandals might get in, especially if they think those stones are real jewels. Na, they couldn’t be real,’ he decided.
‘It’s always been my secret place,’ admitted Odette. ‘I can’t let it be destroyed. I just don’t trust Eden Davenport or Hacienda Homes. Take some shots and we’ll go up to the big house. I don’t think we can get inside it. I did once . . . a long time ago, but I had some help.’
While Max busied himself taking photographs of the interior and exterior of the Indian House, Odette sat in the dappled sunlight on one of the steps outside, deep in thought. The sensation of drifting in time, of being in another place in some other time came to her, and again she had the feeling of a presence. She closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to focus on what she was feeling, hoping some vision or sense might come into her mind.
But all she could see in her mind’s eye was a swirling sparkle of pinpoints of light, as if a handful of luminous fairy dust had been thrown into her eyes, blinding her momentarily. Odette felt a light touch on her shoulder.
‘What, Max?’ She turned around.
There was no one there.
Odette went cold and leapt to her feet. ‘Max!’
The photographer stuck his head out the door. ‘Yeah?’
Odette didn’t answer, then said weakly, ‘I think we’d better get up to the house’.
‘Right-o.’ The photographer swung his camera on his shoulder and picked up his camera bag.
In silence Odette led the way past the stables and stone gatehouse cottage to the main driveway leading to the mansion.
‘Well I’ll be . . .’ Max stopped as the full splendour of the house came into view. ‘I’m running out of adjectives. Crikey!’ He put down his camera bag and stood gazing at the grand mansion.
Odette smiled at him. ‘It’s something, isn’t it? The view of the river and the gardens is great from here. Over there are the dairy, orchard and farm.’
Max just shook his head in silent admiration. ‘How they must have lived in those days. Would have taken a lot to keep this place going.’
‘Well, I think it did get tough for them. The big house was used as a convalescent home for World War I veterans. A bit sad really. That’s how I remember the inside of the house — the remains of a glorious Edwardian home mixed up with a bunch of hospital stuff.’
‘I’d get over any illness in a place like this. So who lived here after the bloke who built it?’
‘That’s where it gets confusing. According to the newspapers, his wife died in childbirth, then he died not long after. A boating accident. But quite what happened, I’m still finding out. There was a picture of the old housekeeper and a Miss Kate Maclntyre during World War I, so that must have been the daughter, but what happened to her and the estate I don’t know. When I came here as a kid, the place had been empty for years and there was a caretaker, but he moved away some years back, I gather, and the place has been empty ever since.’
Max was studying the house as she talked. A strange expression flitted across his face. ‘You sure no one lives here now?’
‘Well . . . I’m not sure, why? asked Odette cautiously.
‘I thought I saw a shadow at that upstairs window and the curtain move. I hope we’re not going to get into trouble for trespassing.’
Odette glanced up swiftly, but all was motionless. ‘Maybe you’re seeing my ghost.’
They walked around the house and through the lavender tube of the conservatory. ‘Boy, this glass must be worth a fortune. Nice idea, makes plants grow well,’ admired Max.
‘This comes out near the rear courtyard by the kitchen,’ said Odette as they came back into the sunshine by the remains of the weed-choked herb garden.
They stepped back into the yellow light of morning where all was friendly, sunny and serene. They were at the rear of the mansion. The symmetry of the lattice which screened part of the courtyard was broken in patches.
Odette and Max had their backs to the house as they peered into the circular bed that still held some fragrant herbs amongst the matted weeds. What held their attention was evidence that someone had recently pulled out some of the weeds.
The stillness of that sunny moment was shattered as the kitchen door slammed open with a bang. As they spun around in shock it seemed to Odette that a huge black bird was swooping upon them.
A tall, gaunt, old woman, dressed all in black, strands of thin grey-white hair standing out untidily, brandished a stick at them and shrieked, ‘Go! Go away! Who are you? Sticky-beaks, trespassers, troublemakers!’
Max took a step backwards holding up his hands in a placatory gesture. Odette didn’t move, and it was to her the woman hobbled, leaning on her cane and shaking a bony fist.
‘You leave me! Leave me alone! You are not allowed here! This is my home.’
‘Look, we’re sorry, lady, we didn’t know there was anyone living here. We’re just looking around, no harm meant,’ apologised Max soothingly.
Odette hadn’t taken her eyes from the old lady. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Is this really your home?’
The woman turned her attention from Max to Odette, glaring at her with cold disdain. ‘Who am I?’ She drew herself up, both hands resting on the cane in front of her, and enunciated carefully, ‘I am the mistress of Zanana. This has always been my home. And my home it will always remain. So, clever young miss, that is who I am. It doesn’t matter who you are,’ she added. ‘Leave now please.’
Officiously she folded her arms, her cane swinging from gnarled hands. She reminded Max of a skinny Queen Victoria. And indeed, her dress was in keeping with that lady’s taste and fashion style. The heavy black taffeta silk dress buttoned at a high collar and swept to the ground in a half crinoline skirt. The bodice was nipped in with a bustle at the back and jet beads and buttons glittered in the sunlight.
Odette noticed that the black lace on the cuffs of the long sleeves was frayed and from the smell, she hadn’t washed the garment for some time. Toes of dusty black, high button boots were glimpsed beneath the hem of the long dress.
Odette matched her arrogant stare. ‘My name is Odette Barber, I’m a reporter, and you haven’t always lived here. This place was deserted for years. Just who are you?’
‘This is my home. I am the mistress of Zanana.’
‘Right. Well, nice to meet you.’ Max was trying to edge away, sending eye signals to Odette, who ignored him.
‘If you are the mistress of Zanana, why are you letting them chop up the estate and build here?’ persisted Odette.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘They do what I say. I control Zanana. This is my home. And you are on my property. Remove yourselves or I shall call the authorities.’
‘Odette, let’s leave.’
Odette had a lot more questions for this strange old lady. She watched her as she turned on her heel and marched back into the house. She stood framed in the gaping black tooth of the doorway, until, with another threatening shake of her walking stick, she slammed the door shut.
Max began hurrying back through the gardens. ‘Well, she’s a turn-up for your story. She looks like she’s been living in there since the last century. Probably mad as a meataxe.’
‘Eccentric perhaps, but not mad,’ replied Odette. ‘The question is, just who is this mistress of Zanana?’
Back at the office Odette worked late into the night pounding out the first part of her feature story of the suburban uprising against the developers who threatened to destroy part of the district’s heritage. The mystery mistress remained a mystery, the promise of a further instalment later on.
She left her copy on the editor’s desk, with a selection of magnificent photographs from Eveready, who had spent hours in the dark room, sharing her enthusiasm and urgency.
As she shared a cup of tea with Max before they went home, Odette had a warm, satisfied feeling. The first shot in her part of the battle to save Zanana had been fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The hospital corridor was deserted. Through the archway leading into Ward C came an occasional cough, the clank of movement in a metal bed, a brief flash of starched white as a nurse was glimpsed in passing.
For a hospital this was tranquil. But in Ward C it was not the silence of restful solitude, of gentle renewing and healing. It was the barren loneliness of numbed souls, steeped in pain, slipping from reality as their grasp on life weakened. Only a groan, a call for Nurse, a buzzer, the squeak and rattle of a meal trolley, or the crack and cackle of voices disturbed the stillness.
At the far end of Ward C the figure lying in the last bed was so frail, the cover and glaring white sheets seemed to have flattened the body beneath. Its shape was barely discernible. But the face on the pillow was deeply etched with pain, with an expression of defeat and a longing to be free of the chains of living.
Beside the bed, on a chair pulled as close as possible, sat Wal Simpson. He was desperate to get away from the antiseptic smell of chronic illness and get out in the air and light a cigarette. But he dare not leave. Any minute now, turtle eyelids would blink open and look for him.
There was a slight shudder from the figure beneath the bedcover and, as Wal leaned forward, Sid Johnson’s eyes flew open in consternation, but the grimness about his mouth relaxed as he saw Wally.
‘How’s it going, mate? Having a bit of a zizz, were you,’ smiled Wally.
‘All I bloody seem to do. Be plenty of time for that where I’m going. Sorry, mate. Why didn’t you wake me up?’ whispered Sid.
‘What! And have you knock my flaming head off? I’m not in any hurry to go anywhere. That dragon of a matron knows better than to try and turf me out. Told her I was going to stay and have a yarn with me old mate.’
Holding onto the sides of the bed, Sid tried to pull himself into a sitting position, but he didn’t have the strength and a spasm of pain showed on his face as he hunched his shoulders. Wal stood and put a hand in the hollow of Sid’s armpits and half dragged, half lifted him upright.
