by Di Morrissey
He sold the cottage, packed two trunks and two suitcases and sent them ahead, then caught the bus to Lismore to board the southbound night train. The bus left him in the centre of town and he strolled down Keen Street before heading to the railway station.
He passed the town hall and stopped for a moment to watch a young couple having their photograph taken outside. They had just been married in the registry office.
How young they were, thought Wally, looking at the girlish bride dressed in a pink suit with a large flower corsage pinned to her lapel, a deeper pink hat perched atop her hair which was swept back in two large waves from her face.
The fresh-faced young man was in army uniform, slouch hat at a jaunty angle. They smiled brightly at the photographer.
Although Wally couldn’t hear what they were saying, the boy nudged his youthful bride. ‘Hold your stomach in, Sal’.
‘Too late for that, Alec. I’m too far gone,’ she giggled, clinging to his arm and laughing into his blue eyes.
Two of their friends standing by the photographer signalled a taxi cab. They opened the doors and waited for the final click of the shutter. Taking a card from his top pocket the photographer scribbled on it and handed it to the boy. ‘There you go. Be ready when you get back from the honeymoon.’
The girl tugged her new husband, pulling him towards the taxi.
‘Come on, Alec, we’ll miss the train.’
With a shriek of laughter the four piled into the car and it pulled away.
Wally walked on, his heart heavy, recalling how carefree he and his mates had been going off to what they thought was the great adventure of war.
Surely this generation knew better. What had all their sacrifices been for? Here was history repeating itself. Would that young man come home to his child bride? He would be changed from boy to bitter man if he did, thought Wally.
Settled in his corner seat of a second-class compartment on the Sydney-bound train, Wally heard the whistle sound, the hiss of compressed air from the brakes, then a great gushing of steam and watched the station slide by as the train began its journey south. It soon picked up speed and settled into a comforting clicketty clack and sway.
He was gazing out of the window looking at nothing but the middle distance when he was suddenly reminded of a favourite saying of Gladys. ‘You have to go forward, Wal. No matter what, always forward.’
Up front the big 36-class locomotive sounded its whistle long and loud as the train rolled on into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sydney 1971
Eden carefully folded the centre-page spread of the Daily Telegraph and propped it up against the empty vase on the breakfast table. Although he seemed to be concentrating on pouring another cup of coffee, his thoughts were dominated by Odette’s article. While it said nothing derogatory about his plans for developing Zanana — in fact, Eden was barely mentioned — he was irritated by the feature story. Between distracted bites on a slice of toast and sips of coffee he went through the article again, checking the details, looking for mistakes, trying to source his irritation.
Despite the years of neglect, the photographs captured the architectural glory of the mansion and the once carefully cultivated beauty of the gardens. The summary of the history of the estate was fascinating, but there were huge gaps in the story which gave Odette the opportunity to hint at mystery and intrigue. He read this part of the story several times before moving on to the details of the contemporary controversy.
It reported that the forgotten estate by the river, occupied by an elderly recluse but seemingly neglected and occupying valuable riverfront acres, was now the subject of a battle between two forces. On one side, the Hacienda Homes development company which had taken out an option and applied for rezoning, its plans to be unveiled later. On the other side, a group of citizens of Kincaid led by Mrs Flora Bramble. A ‘Save Zanana’ committee of concerned residents was fighting not only for the preservation of the historic house and gardens, but felt they reflected a growing awareness among ordinary people of the need to hold onto heritage sites.
Mrs Bramble was quoted as saying that the decade of the fifties had been one of rebuilding and modernisation at all costs. In the sixties there had grown a new awareness of alternative ways of doing things and the concept of a new age dawning. In this decade of the seventies she hoped that the voice of the people would be raised and heeded by politicians and those in positions of power. She added there was a need to respect the past and maintain those symbols of bygone days. This did not only include former buildings of grandeur but also the humble dwellings that signified our rise to maturity — pioneer cottages, classic shearing sheds, homesteads, shops and official buildings.
This thinking was considered somewhat novel by authorities, but was being embraced by local communities who were realising they too had a voice. Eden thought Mrs Bramble sounded a bit over the top and wondered if Odette Barber had put words into the suburban housewife’s mouth.
Eden didn’t disagree with their sentiments, but wished they understood a little better what he planned and designed for Zanana. He decided that the article was unfair to Hacienda.
The telephone on Odette’s desk rang constantly that morning. The Kincaid campaigners were ecstatic and wanted Odette to know just how much they appreciated the high profile she had given their cause. A couple of radio stations wanted her for interviews and some journalists she knew on other papers wanted contact phone numbers in Kincaid.
There were several reasons for the interest by other media — the little battlers against the big developer, the novelty of ordinary people wanting to save an old building and its gardens, and the traditional summer silly season which had been unduly long this year. The Zanana story was perhaps signalling the end of the silly season even though most editors believed the ‘heritage fad’ really didn’t have a future. However, it was a welcome change from the anti-Vietnam debate.
The phone rang again. ‘Odette Barber speaking.’
‘Eden Davenport.’
‘Oh.’ Odette had expected him to call, but even so his voice came over the line like an electric shock. ‘Hi,’ she added in a neutral voice, stunned at just how difficult it was to get words out.
‘Quite a story you turned in, but I rather think you could have had the courtesy to first take up my offer to look at what we’re planning for the estate. I don’t think you’ve been very fair to Hacienda . . . or to me.’
‘Mr Davenport, I wrote . . .’
Eden interrupted. ‘Oh stop the formal nonsense, Odette. One lunch isn’t quite a lifelong friendship, but I rather thought we had established a rational approach to this business — two reasonable people from opposite camps prepared to listen to each other.’
Once again, as at lunch, his forthright approach caught her off guard. ‘I’m sorry . . . Eden.’ She found it difficult to say his name — it felt almost like a capitulation. ‘I’m still prepared to listen. What was wrong with the story? I was very careful to get the facts right. Please tell me exactly what was incorrect.’
‘Well, there really wasn’t anything incorrect . . . it was just what you didn’t say. You dismissed the proposed development in a couple of paragraphs. Made it sound just like one of those horrible housing commission estates. Why didn’t you look at the plans and give a proper description?’
‘I didn’t have time. The deadline was brought forward,’ she lied. ‘In any case, it wouldn’t have helped much as I was broad-brushing the story, not delving into the fine detail. And I didn’t make it sound like a housing commission development. You’re just reading that into it.’
‘Rubbish!’ exploded Eden.
‘Read the words to me,’ Odette snapped back. ‘Read them!’
There was a silence at the other end, apart from a rustling of paper.
‘Well?’ asked Odette quietly.
‘Look, it’s what you didn’t say.’ His tone was conciliatory. ‘Shouting at each other like this isn’t going to
help much, is it?’
Odette relaxed and leaned back in her chair. ‘No, I agree. The conversation is starting to go round in circles.’
‘Will you come and look at the plans before the next article?’
‘Yes. I always intended to look at them. It was a matter of timing.’
‘Then how about tomorrow? Say ten o’clock?’
‘You’re in a hurry.’
‘Maybe I’m just trying to keep up with you.’
‘Ten o’clock then.’ But before she put down the phone Odette was surprised to find herself adding, ‘And no throwing things at each other, right?’
Eden laughed. ‘No throwing things. Promise.’
Odette was fussing with her hair, irritated that it wouldn’t behave and was having an ‘unruly’ day. She splashed on some of her favourite Rosejoy perfume, wished she had worn something different and suddenly wondered why she was so concerned about how she looked.
‘All right, Mr Eden Davenport, let’s see what you want to do with my Zanana,’ she said to herself as she marched out of the office and hailed a taxi.
Eden greeted her with a warm smile and friendly handshake. She refused his offer of a cup of coffee. He spread his hands in mock dismay. ‘Come on, I have a very fancy espresso coffeemaker that makes real Italian coffee.’
‘Very well then,’ she sighed, and settled herself on the soft tan leather sofa and looked about his office. It was uncluttered, streamlined and decorated in muted shades of cream and beige. Several potted plants stood about in shiny aluminium bases, and large framed close-up photographs of a flower, fern and tree trunk were the only other soft colours in the room. A selection of overseas landscape and architectural magazines were neatly aligned over the top of a metal and glass coffee table.
‘His taste definitely runs to the modern,’ she thought. ‘No room for sentiment and the past here. Still, it really is attractive. He certainly has style.’
Eden handed her a tall white mug of aromatic coffee and sat beside her. ‘Now let me explain the basic brief I was given by Hacienda. They are applying for rezoning, and have taken out an option to buy Zanana subject to rezoning being approved.’
‘And if it’s not?’ she interrupted.
‘Then it’s of no use to the developer and the option automatically lapses.’
‘Go on. This is nice coffee by the way.’
‘Hacienda told me this would be a, shall we say, sensitive job. They wanted me to create a community dwelling environment that was pleasing to the eye, practical, affordable — for them and for prospective buyers — and would suit the setting. It was unusual in that they asked for a development concept before the council met. They felt it might help their case.’
‘You’re being modest. You’re saying that when the council see the models and designs you’ve done, they would be so pleased and impressed, they’d pass the rezoning application.’
Eden studied Odette carefully, trying to decide if she was being facetious. Her expression remained noncommittal. ‘Maybe that was their intent. They came to me knowing the sort of work I do. It’s considered rather innovative, even if that sounds immodest. Perhaps we’d better look at what we’re talking about.’
Odette put her mug on the coffee table and followed Eden into his inner office. This was a similar style to the reception area with a large white desk with piles of papers and rolls of plans across its surface. An angular silver lamp stood on his desk. A leather framed photograph of a man in an army uniform, a slouch hat with rising sun badge and serious face gazed out at them. It was the only hint of anything personal in the whole office.
In a corner of the room was another simple white desk, its surface covered with a scale model of Zanana Gardens. Odette’s first reaction was that it looked like a doll’s house setting.
Eden’s voice assumed a professional tone. ‘Here is the river, and the overall configuration of the grounds. As you can see, the cottages are low-rise, ranch style homes but rather Australian in mood with their verandahs and simple bullnose roofs. I have left as many trees and shrubs as possible to utilise the existing growth. I don’t believe in shaving the land clean and starting landscaping all over again. Judicious planning can combine the best of what was there with the best of the new. This is a rather new concept along with building into the plans open areas, recreational sections with bike paths and playgrounds and so forth.’
‘Well, I suppose if one has to have a suburban development, this is nicer and more innovative than most,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘It’s just a shame it has to be at Zanana.’ Suddenly she leaned forward, scanning the model carefully. ‘None of the original buildings are here. You didn’t do a model of those?’
Eden looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t believe they are part of the overall plan now.’
‘You’re not pulling down the house and all the old buildings are you?’ She glared at him in anger.
‘Frankly, Odette, I don’t know what Hacienda plans to do about those. The old farm buildings will make way for homes. Pure economics. The rest of the estate on the upper terraces is not part of the area for which my houses are planned. I think the old mansion must be in a pretty bad state of repair now. And besides, that old lady is still living there.’
‘What happens when she dies? How do we know Hacienda won’t bulldoze it?’
Eden shrugged.
Odette turned on him angrily. ‘And you obviously don’t care. You’ve done your bit, haven’t you? Later I suppose you’re expecting to be called in when the old lady dies or they knock down the house and you can put up some modern monstrosity!’ She spat out the word ‘modern’.
‘Now you’re being unreasonable again. Not all modern buildings are ugly, you know,’ retorted Eden.
‘They are if they replace something that is classic and beautiful and special and historic.’
‘And falling down.’
‘How do you know, you said you haven’t been there.’
‘I have an inspection report.’
‘Done by Hacienda, I suppose. They’d say anything to get this through.’
‘Odette, you’re being unfair. We all have to sometimes compromise in life, you know . . .’ began Eden in placating tones.
‘Not me. Not at the cost of losing something special.’ Odette was furious and suddenly felt close to tears. How could she explain to this man the magic of Zanana, the spell that it cast over her. It held a special place in her memories, it had been her childhood sanctuary. She’d imagined it going on, unchanged, forever.
Eden’s face was cold. ‘What’s special to some might not be to others. Do you think it right today that one rich person should hang onto so much, let it rot away serving no purpose, when it could be used for the wider community?’
‘Oh, really,’ said Odette with ill-disguised scorn. ‘Now you’re starting to sound like a socialist. Anyway, that’s what the people of Kincaid are on about . . . something for the wider community.’
‘But can’t you see that they aren’t being practical? It’s all about economics . . . not history,’ argued Eden in frustration. ‘And there’s no money in this heritage stuff. You’re letting a dream distort the reality you should be reporting.’ He clenched his fists, trying to control his anger. ‘Damn it . . . you’re one-eyed!’
Odette glared at him for a few seconds, her anger now matching his. Eden watched speechless as she furiously stuffed her pencil and notebook into her handbag and stood up. ‘I think you have a very confused sense of values. I’m going. Thank you for the coffee. Goodbye.’ She spun around, strode out and slammed the door.
‘Where’s your journalistic objectivity?’ he shouted after her.
Even though the door was closed and she was already on the steps, she heard, and the barb hurt. She wished she had thrown something.
The day was salvaged by a phone call from Mick O’Toole. They exchanged news and Odette filled him in on the Davenport concept.
‘I’ve seen the models and the development c
oncept — or at least part of it. I rather exploded when I saw there are no provisions at this stage for keeping the original buildings. Eden Davenport’s community garden concept is all right, I suppose — if it was somewhere else.’
Odette was conscious of a nagging ambivalence about her thoughts on Eden’s plans. O’Toole’s response snapped her into sharp focus.
‘Well that’s just a PR exercise, I reckon. Doesn’t mean anything.’
‘What do you mean, Mick?’
‘Development plans like that aren’t generally submitted until after zoning approval is given. This is just a gesture to give the impression that Hacienda is considering an attractive concept. But it means nothing, there’s nothing legally binding in it. The developers can throw it out after they’ve got rezoning approval and come up with something very different.’
‘Really? Do you think Davenport knows that?’
‘Well, he must know it’s always a possibility, but generally speaking, you wouldn’t go to the bother of hiring someone to do all that work if you didn’t want it.’
‘Unless you wanted to make a good impression and influence the council.’
‘Correct. Furthermore, if rezoning is approved. Hacienda could sell off their option to someone else who could do anything they wanted with the place.’
Odette let out a low whistle. ‘What do you think the council is going to do when the application comes up for debate?’
‘Hard to say. The Save Zanana committee has been lobbying pretty hard, and they have clearly swung a few councillors over to their side. It will be an interesting meeting, that’s for sure. It’s on the agenda for next Thursday.’
Odette knew that would be an event she must cover. Following her initial story, she planned a series of follow-up articles for the morning newspaper. Because the issue was now arousing interest from television and radio it meant that the weekly Women’s Gazette would be following rather than leading with the news. But somehow Odette felt at the end of the day there would be a good behind-the-scenes story for the Gazette.
