by Di Morrissey
‘I do. But you’ve got additional responsibilities as a journalist . . . however, let’s not go into that or we might start shouting at each other again. Let’s call a truce as you suggested. Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see. It’s a bit . . . er . . . tricky.’
She was taking him to Zanana, a place he knew on paper. He needed to appreciate the sweeping vistas from the top terrace looking across the river, to see the mansion and smell the roses, then he surely would understand the value of this unique estate. There was the problem of the old lady. Odette just hoped she kept indoors and out of the way. She could hardly be the owner since she had discovered that Zanana was owned by a front company known as Beveridge.
‘You’re very quiet. I don’t want to distract you from your driving or whatever plan you’re hatching, but tell me a bit about yourself,’ said Eden conversationally. ‘How long have you been with the Gazette and Telegraph?’
‘A few years now. I had a break and went overseas for a few years. It was an interesting time and served its purpose.’
‘Served its purpose?’ Eden grinned at her shrewdly. ‘Getting over a broken heart?’
‘No! Just for the experience and adventure,’ she snapped. Then, seeing him recoil slightly at her snippy answer, she relented, ‘And yes, to get over someone. I wouldn’t call it a broken heart exactly. We’re still close friends. That’s all it could ever be. But at the time I thought he could be more.’
‘A good close friend is not settling for less.’
‘True.’
Eden changed the subject. ‘And you trained as a journalist at the Gazette?’
‘No. At the Clarion.’ She paused to take in his puzzled smile. ‘In the mighty city of Amberville, district population fifteen thousand. But it was a good training ground, the paper was run by a first-class city newsman who had decided to escape the rat race. Where did you train — you’re more than an architect, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m a bit of a hybrid, a designer-builder, though more of a designer. I was living in a small town and it was a struggle to get through university financially. But I also did some technical college courses there and met an old man who was very wise and a very talented worker in wood. A lot more than a carpenter. He could touch a piece of wood and have this wonderful image of what it had once been as a living tree. He believed that every bit of wood had to be respected, just as all of nature had to be respected. A regular bush philosopher, but he had a huge impact on me. Taught me what I call the philosophy of environment.’
‘What’s that mean in simple language?’
‘That we are not only a product of our upbringing, the influences of family, friends and circumstances, but also of our immediate and surrounding environment. That means the house in which we live, the shape and colour of its rooms, the furniture, the light. And then, when we step outside the door, do we see beauty or ugliness? Is there a tree, something green and growing — even a tiny garden bed — or is there total urban surroundings, something unnatural?’
Odette responded with passion in her voice. ‘And can you hear a bird sing, or only traffic? That’s interesting. I know there have been studies done in gaols about the effect of space and colour on our psyche. That’s just what I mean about Zanana! Something that is beautiful and unique brings harmony to one’s soul. So if you destroy it, you silence its music’
‘Odette, please, let’s not rehash this. I’m not trying to destroy Zanana. Just blend into it the opportunity for more people to enjoy the beauty of the area.’
‘But it will never be the same again. It’s a treasure. If you have a beautiful jewel and cut it up into lots of little gems, its intrinsic value and beauty is gone. Anyway, we’re here.’
She pulled in to a parking lot beside the newly renovated Kincaid boatshed. ‘Wait a tick.’
Eden waited with good-natured patience, an indulgent expression playing around his mouth. Odette emerged from the office and headed down the jetty, waving to him to follow, and untied the rope of a dinghy.
‘We’re going boating?’
‘We are. Get in and sit in the seat at the stern. I’ll row.’ As soon as they were settled Odette pushed off from the wharf but before putting the oars in the water, she pulled a scarf from her skirt pocket. ‘I’m going to blindfold you, for maximum effect later.’
He grinned as she knotted the bandana around his eyes. ‘Anything to please.’
They went down the river in silence and when the jetty and bamboo came into view she said to Eden, ‘Take off your shoes and socks. We have to wade ashore. The jetty is in bad shape.’
He obeyed and rolled up his trousers, allowing her to help him out of the boat which she had tied to a mangrove tree.
She took his hand and led him to the grove of bamboo and then out onto the bottom terrace. The gardens tiered up the hill and the roof of the mansion, now almost obscured by huge stately trees, was in the distance. Odette reached up and untied the scarf. Eden rubbed his eyes and blinked.
‘Zanana,’ he said softly, then turned to Odette. ‘Bringing me here won’t change anything, Odette.’
‘But you said you hadn’t been here to see it for yourself. Come and look. Just look. Don’t say anything, please.’
She seemed almost close to tears so he said nothing and quietly walked beside her as they made their way up the terraces, through the sunken garden, past the mossy sundial towards the rose garden. Here they paused briefly then spontaneously both walked to the wooden seat, sat down and looked about them, inhaling the perfume of the tangled rose bushes.
‘This is only part of the rose garden,’ Odette explained. ‘It goes up there to an arbour and further up to the top terrace.’
‘I know.’
‘But don’t you agree this is better than seeing it only on a map or plan?’
‘Absolutely. But I have been here before, you know. I wasn’t working blind. Surely you don’t believe I would create a total concept without ever walking over the land, smelling the air, seeing where the wind and shadows fall, where the trees are?’
‘But you told me you hadn’t been to look at Zanana before doing your garden plan.’
‘I didn’t need to. You see, there’s a lot about this place I know which you probably don’t know.’
Odette was puzzled. ‘Like what?’
‘Like the jewelled sky above the bed in the Indian House.’
Odette stared at him. He did know Zanana. ‘When . . . how . . . ?’ She was stunned by his words.
Eden suddenly reached out and took her hand. ‘Odette, I don’t want to appear deceitful, but I must tell you something.’ He paused for a second.
‘I grew up here. My father was the caretaker here for a number of years. I know Zanana, believe me.’
Odette was speechless. She stared at him, thoughts and feelings tumbling in confusion. Eden said nothing but he felt tension in the hand he was holding.
Then suddenly her eyes lit up. ‘Dean . . . you’re Dean!’
His jaw dropped. ‘That was my nickname as a kid . . . How did you know that . . . ?’ and it was his turn to be lost for words. He looked about him, then back to her and their eyes met as realisation dawned on him.
‘Detty? Odette . . . Detty. You!’
They stared at each other in confusion and shock with the sudden knowledge that they had shared a brief part of their childhood.
‘I wondered what happened to you. I knew your parents drowned and I wondered if you’d ever come back. Then my father moved us back to the country. I never thought I’d see you again. I should have guessed when you were rowing us here. I knew you were bringing me here, but thought I’d go along with it just to please you. But I didn’t know . . . Detty — it’s the diminutive of Odette.’
‘Yes. And Dean, instead of Eden. Odd name, isn’t it?’
He looked embarrassed. ‘I had a rough time with it at school so told everyone my name was really Dean, and they soon forgot Eden.’
Odette tried desperately to sort
out her feelings. She was excited and happy about the amazing coincidence, and the memories of those days were both joyful and sad. But it was what she saw as a contradiction in Eden that was ultimately the focus of her attention.
‘Eden, how could you be involved with developing this place, possibly ruining all of this,’ she swept her hand around, ‘this place where you lived? Didn’t you love Zanana?’
‘No . . . and yes. Sure, I thought it was special and beautiful. But my father hated this place and I guess that influence gave me a different outlook to you. For you this was a place of magic to come and enjoy, and we had some fun times. But my father and I lived in a small house at the back of the property and you know he had forbidden me to go to the big house. He drummed into me that it was an evil place, that there was something sinister there. He blamed Zanana somehow for all the things that never went right in our lives. It seems so irrational now.’
‘Of course it is. You shouldn’t let what happened then influence you today.’
‘Maybe you were right when you called me a socialist,’ he said with a grin. ‘I really do believe Zanana should be shared with the community, it should serve some purpose. When it was built times were different, society accepted such a big difference in the classes. Dad came to hate it, always arguing that the rich and powerful ruthlessly exploited the rest. Greed ruled, according to Dad.’
‘He must have been bitter about the world.’
Eden sighed. ‘Yes, he was. I wish I’d asked him more about his family, but you don’t take that much interest as a kid. All I knew was that he was adopted, he married my mother who was called Sally and she ran off with an American serviceman leaving me, a toddler, with Dad. It must have been hard for him.’ He took a long look around the estate. ‘Yes, there is no doubt that this place was built with great love.’
‘I’ve read as much history on it as I can find. The Maclntyres were quite extraordinary, but apparently came from humble beginnings. They became rich but were great philanthropists,’ said Odette.
‘So our view is the same — Zanana should be for people.’
‘But much of it kept as it is. I mean restored,’ shot back Odette.
Eden threw up his hands. ‘Truce. Why don’t we see if we can get into the Indian House without alerting the old lady?’
He grinned at her, and once again they were two children sharing an adventure. They took the circuitous route around the big house but found the Indian House locked. So they peered through its stained glass windows where coloured lights danced inside on the marble floor.
‘The bed is still there. I wonder if the jewelled sky inlay is still there?’ said Odette.
‘You always believed they were real gems and real gold. We could sneak and get the key . . . if it is still in the same place. Remember the keys hanging on those hooks in the old kitchen? Remember the first time we went into the big house?’
‘Up through that spooky cellar. And your father nearly catching us!’
They went to another window and looked in. They could see a tin trunk and an untidy pile of cardboard boxes with books, papers and clothes spilling out of them. Nearby was a small stool and on it a wax-encrusted candle in an old-fashioned white enamelled holder littered with matches.
‘Looks like the old lady has been using the Indian House for storage,’ observed Odette.
‘Maybe we’d better leave now while our luck holds,’ Eden suggested, taking Odette’s hand to help her over some broken steps.
They said little as they rowed back to the boatshed. Odette dropped him outside his office in a Paddington terrace.
‘Well, thanks for coming. I don’t know if I achieved anything, but it has been worthwhile just discovering that you’re a remnant of my past,’ she smiled.
‘I had a lovely afternoon, Odette. Thanks. Why don’t we just look on today as a minor turning point in our lives? We share a link in our childhood, and we’ve followed different paths, but now we’ve met up again. We might continue our lives on our own paths, but that’s not to say we can’t be friends. Frankly, I think all this was meant to happen.’
‘Maybe you’re right. We’ll have to wait and see what fate means by this. I’ve got a friend who’s really big on this sort of thing . . . destiny and all of that. I’ll get his advice and let you know what he says. Goodbye, Eden.’
He stood in the street and watched until her car was out of sight. ‘Fate?’ he muttered to himself and turned to walk inside. In his mind he could see a head of wild red curls, aquamarine eyes, determined chin in a heart-shaped face and the youthful tomboy announcing with confidence, ‘I’m Detty’.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sydney 1972
A copy boy zipped through the editorial room of the Gazette and whacked a big envelope on Odette’s desk.
‘World shattering information from impeccable sources at the centre of international finance,’ he announced in a loud voice.
Odette smiled. ‘Thanks, buster. Such style and service will, I’m sure, be noticed by management and you will be rewarded with an early grading without having to serve a cadetship. Keep it up.’
‘I’ll settle for an introduction to Zac at the big rally you’re involved with. How about it BO?’ he grinned, reversing her initials — a much admired attempt at humour among the junior messengers.
‘So long as you bring a large mob with you. Now let me concentrate please. Back to your cell.’
Inside the envelope was a note from finance writer Matthew Tead and a thick pile of copies of documents. Matt had made a mark by turning some of his financial reporting into high humour, so much so, that some said it was more entertaining than the showbiz page. His note was brief and to the point.
Dear Odette
Unless you’re prepared to buy me a huge lunch with fine wine read no further.
Thanks. Make it Friday at the Greek’s.
Your mystery buyer of Zanana is still a mystery. No, you can’t renege on lunch.
However, there is something fishy about it.
As far as I can find out it is not owned by an individual, but by a complex web of companies under the umbrella Beveridge Investments. All sorts of stooged-up shelf companies are involved and it will take some digging to get to the bottom of them all. In the washup, though, there will be a person, or several, but so far no names that mean anything.
More luck on the councillor. Most trustworthy colleagues at the Stock Exchange have found that he recently sold a large swag of shares in an earth-moving company at a highly inflated price. No one else got a piece of the action — one seller and one buyer for one bundle of scrip. The buyer — wait for it — Hacienda Homes Development Company Pty Ltd. See some of the documents attached for details. Hacienda now has a controlling shareholding. (No prizes for guessing which company will get the contract for the work at Zanana!)
The question that has to be asked is what did Councillor Beck do to deserve such great good fortune on the share market? Or what is he committed to do?
The documentation doesn’t say his vote has been bought, but the inference is big enough to sink the Titanic. And who knows how many votes he’s buying.
You’ve got yourself quite a story there, BO. It smells . . .
Good hunting. Cheers; see you Friday!
Matt
‘Yippee!’ shrieked Odette with delight as she reached for the telephone, dialling Mick O’Toole’s number as fast as she could.
‘Mick . . . we’ve hit the jackpot. Your hunch was right. Councillor Beck has been up to some hanky-panky and had the most extraordinary luck on the share market. More details later, but we’ve got enough to nail him. Now, it may all tie in with the rumour you’ve heard of someone changing their vote.’
‘That’s fantastic, Odette. Mum’s the word. I’d better do some more checking on the rumour.’
‘That’s the way to go . . . and Mick . . . think money and what it can buy. That seems to be Mr Beck’s way of winning friends and influencing people.’
> ‘When do we hit the press with this?’ O’Toole’s newly acquired enthusiasm for newspaper jargon amused Odette.
‘No banner headlines until the rally.’
‘Right, Scoop. I’ll get cracking. And I’ll get young Bramble to do some digging as well.’
The company documents from Matt Tead provided little assistance to Odette. She mulled over the intricate maze of companies but after going through the papers several times she was no wiser than before about who really owned Zanana. There was no obvious connection to anything or anyone in the estate’s past.
She made a cup of instant coffee and sought inspiration between sips. Maybe the old lady at the house knew something. She was an unlikely tenant, but then she was also an unlikely owner. No, someone like Mr Beck would be hiding behind the network of front companies. Still, there was no harm in fronting up to the old girl, Odette decided. She might have some clue from the recent past that would throw light on the subject. That was the problem — not enough people around connected to the place to throw light on anything.
No, that’s wrong. Odette drained the mug and smiled. There’s Wal. Old Wally Simpson, the war veteran. She decided to visit him at the home at once.
On the way to Bondi she wondered what to take as a small gift — some cigarettes, some chocolates, fruit or magazines. Then she had a better idea. She stopped at a nursery and bought a potted miniature China rose. It might not be from Zanana’s gardens, but she hoped its delicate fragrance would bring back some happy memories for the old man and lead to some remark, some recollection that might give her the clue she needed.
She walked into the reception area and waved to the girl behind the desk. ‘I know where to go. I’m visiting Mr Simpson.’
As she reached the entrance to his ward Odette heard hurrying footsteps behind her. Wal’s roommate still lay on his back snoring. A green curtain was drawn around Wal’s bed.
‘Wal? Are you asleep? It’s me — Odette.’
She hesitated, then gently pulled the curtain aside. The bed was empty. There were no personal effects on the bedside table.
