by Di Morrissey
A nurse bustled in and stopped when she saw Odette standing there, gripping the green cotton drape hanging from the metal railing.
‘You’re looking for Mr Simpson?’
‘Yes,’ Odette replied softly as she turned.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘No . . . just a friend. What’s happened to him?’
‘He died three days ago. I’m terribly sorry.’
Tears came at once to Odette’s eyes. Tears of sadness, of loss and anger for not having come sooner and more often.
‘He was taken back to Bangalow for burial as he’d requested. The RSL organised everything. He had no relatives apparently.’
The nurse took the plant from her. ‘Come and have a cuppa. Yes, he wrote instructions about a week ago and gave them to Matron. They sort of know when they’re going. I see it happen a lot. Sit here. Milk and sugar?’
Odette was trying to bring her tears under control with a handkerchief when the matron came into the small waiting room.
‘I understand you came to see Mr Simpson. I’m sorry. He died peacefully. Had a good innings and was a lovely patient. Nurse says you’re not a relative. May I ask your name?’
‘Odette Barber.’
‘Ah, I thought you might be. He left you a note and a box. If you can show me some identification I’ll fetch it.’
Odette showed her press card.
‘Fine; thank you. I won’t be a minute.’
The nurse returned with a cup of tea and tried to make conversation. ‘Had you known him long?’
‘I first met him when I was young and we shared a common interest.’ She sipped her tea.
‘He was very old. Amazing man the way he kept going. Nice of you to bring him a rose. He loved roses. We’ve got some in the garden here, but he always said he’d seen better. Said he once worked in the finest rose garden in the world. They get some funny ideas when they’re that old.’
Odette forced a smile. ‘He did work in a wonderful rose garden. Yes . . . a very wonderful garden.’
The matron returned and handed Odette a brown paper parcel. ‘If you wouldn’t mind signing the receipt, please . . . thank you.’
Odette mumbled her thanks and walked slowly to the carpark. She was opening her car door when she heard her name called and the nurse came hurrying towards her. ‘You forgot this,’ she said and handed Odette the rose.
Odette looked at the dainty cluster of blooms which suddenly symbolised for her the frailty and ephemerality of life. She marvelled at the delicacy and beauty of the tiny flowers, the hardy strength of the plant. The flowers and leaves would fall but its cycle of life would start again. Odette had an overwhelming desire to take the rose to Zanana and plant it there.
She put it on the floor of the car and tore away the brown paper from the parcel. Inside the old shoe box were some photographs, letters and a bulky collection of notebooks. There was also a letter addressed to her. She carefully opened it and unfolded a page of writing pad upon which a shaky hand had written:
To Miss Odette Barber
Dear Odette
My old Glad (Gladys Butterworth to whom I was married these past years) kept a diary ever since she went to Zanana. It is here, along with some letters and photos she kept. She asked me to pass them onto someone who cared and who might be interested in the story of Zanana and the years all of us spent there.
I think you are the one, young lady, so I entrust them to you in the hope that you will find them of interest and keep them safe for her.
I suggest if you do not wish to keep them, that you pass it all onto the Kincaid historical society.
Thank you for coming to visit an old man and keep an eye on Zanana for me.
Kind regards
Wallace Simpson
Odette wiped away another tear, wishing that she’d spent more time with him. It would have been such an easy thing to do and probably would have cheered him up immeasurably. She glanced through the collection of photographs and letters neatly tied with ribbon. The notebooks were a diary. She began reading entries at random.
Half an hour later, with shaking hands, Odette put everything back in the box and drove home. She needed to read for a long time undisturbed.
At her apartment she took the phone off the hook, made a pot of coffee and settled into an armchair. She was relieved Elaine was away overnight and she could concentrate. She read for several hours, marking some pages with torn strips of paper for future reference.
When Odette finally put down the last diary she knew she had the key to unlock some of the mystery surrounding the old mansion. It was late in the evening when she put the phone back in its cradle and immediately it rang.
It was Zac. He spoke in a calm but serious voice. ‘I’ve been trying for hours to get you, Odette. What’s wrong?’
Odette didn’t question the fact that wherever he was, he’d known her heart was heavy. ‘An old friend has died . . . an old soldier who used to live at Zanana.’ She choked on her words a little and again felt tears run down her cheeks.
‘I’m sad for you, little bird. Do you want me to come to you?’
‘No thanks, Zac. It will be all right. Is this why you rang?’
‘Yes. I felt you needed someone to talk to.’ His caring tone changed to one of self-mockery. ‘Gypsy nonsense, of course.’
‘No it’s not. Zac, hearing your voice has done wonders for my spirit. It’s just been a very draining evening. Wally, the old soldier who died, gave me a set of diaries about Zanana. It’s all here, Zac. Everything. Well, almost.’
Zac felt her excitement. ‘Good, good. You’ll be pleased to know that the Zanana song is working well. Two images keep appearing in my consciousness — roses and the Indian House. I’m not having any trouble with the roses, but I don’t understand why I keep seeing the Indian House. It doesn’t fit in with the lyrics I’m writing.
‘I’ve got a rose with me that I was going to give to Wally. I’m going to take it to Zanana tomorrow and plant it. I just know I must do this. For Wally.’
‘What else are you going to do at Zanana?’ His question sounded concerned.
‘I’m going to talk to the old biddy. She might be able to help me solve the last few mysteries surrounding the house.’
‘Be very careful, Odette,’ he said softly.
‘It’s all right, Zac. I haven’t forgotten your warning. I’ll be careful though I’m not sure what I’m being careful about. I must go to bed before I collapse over this phone.’
Mick O’Toole phoned Odette at the office the next morning.
‘Stop the press!’ he commanded with a chuckle.
Odette put the phone at arm’s length and called out to a startled office, ‘Stop the press!’ then put it back to her ear. ‘This had better be good, Mick, it costs a fortune to stop the presses,’ she laughed.
‘Well-informed sources at the Empire Hotel tell me that Mr Beck was drinking there last night with a certain other councillor and was heard to say that the big house at Zanana was going to be demolished because the owner wanted it demolished, and all the protest rallies in the world wouldn’t save it. So put that in your press and roll.’ He sounded quite triumphant.
‘This is very confusing. But thanks, Mick.’ Odette glanced at her watch. ‘Heavens, lunch with Matt! Keep your ear to the ground, O’Toole, I’ll check in later.’
She grabbed her bag and ran from the office.
Matthew Tead was already at the table with a half-empty carafe of red wine.
‘Greetings, comrade,’ he grinned. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind I started without you. How goes the struggle?’
‘Great. Have you any more news?’
‘Indeed I have. First the bad news . . . I’m very hungry.’
Odette laughed. ‘Go for broke.’
‘Now the good news — there isn’t any. And as they say, no news is good news.’ Matt tried to keep a straight face and filled their glasses.
‘Very funny, Matt. I read those com
pany documents over and over and I can’t find anything that rings a bell. Not even a little coincidence,’ she said with frustration.
‘Wrong. A couple of the company setups were facilitated by a legal firm called Dashfords. It no longer exists. As a former cadet counsellor I am obliged to stress that young reporters should not overlook such detail. It is the basis of good investigative journalism. However, in this case it’s a meaningless coincidence. This is rather excellent plonk. I think we might get another carafe.’
‘Be my guest. Dashfords. The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t think why.’
Odette kept to moussaka, salad and sweet thick black coffee, but Matt worked his way steadily through most of the courses offered.
After lunch Odette drove to Paddington. She waited patiently in Eden Davenport’s outer office, running through in her mind what she planned to say to him. The uncluttered simplicity of the office, which on her previous visit she’d thought stark, now seemed calming.
‘Odette, what a lovely surprise.’ He came towards her with outstretched hand and a warm smile. His straight hair flopped over his forehead toward one eye, and his hazel eyes looked greener than ever, reflecting the pale sage shirt he was wearing beneath an olive and tan flecked tweed jacket. As always he was simply and casually dressed, but his clothes were beautifully cut.
‘Come into the inner sanctum. I’ve just concluded a very satisfactory deal. A most exciting project.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘You don’t sound too interested,’ he chided. ‘Or are you still suspicious of my motives?’
‘Not at all. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Tell me about it.’ Odette was conscious of how anxious she was to keep their exchange pleasant.
‘Basically, I’m going to design a recreational park up the coast near Coffs Harbour. I want to make it a place where people can enjoy the environment as well as the man-made attractions — a place in harmony with nature. The project people have agreed to a bushland setting and the site has a lot of undisturbed bush which I will be preserving. I must admit that I’m borrowing some of the philosophy of the master.’
‘Who is the master?’ Odette was genuinely interested.
‘Frank Lloyd Wright of course. His work is utterly inspirational. He did so many different things, he was far ahead of his time in working in harmony with the environment. Walter Burley Griffin worked with him and followed some of his principles too. But the other inspired genius I admire is Gaudi. He too worked his structures to blend with nature but was far more surreal. A man of great wit and fantasy. If I could combine the magic of Lloyd Wright and Gaudi in this project, it would fulfil every dream I’ve ever had about creating something wonderful. When you think these men were from the turn of the century you wonder what they might create today with our new materials and technology.’ He paused and gave her a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry . . . I tend to rave on a bit when I get started on architecture and design.’
‘That’s okay. It’s fascinating,’ she enthused.
‘Enough of this, tell me why you’re here. I suspect work.’ He led her to the leather lounge.
‘Yes, it is. You might not like what I’m about to tell you, but you have to know.’
‘Just as well I’m sitting down then. Give it to me.’ He spoke lightly but not flippantly.
‘I’ve found out that Hacienda has done a big financial deal with one of the councillors — Mr Beck. I have all the evidence. They have handed him a small fortune. And Mr Beck has just bought property where one of the councillors, a chemist, has his shop. The lease is up for renewal. I have it on good authority that the chemist is willing to change his vote to favour rezoning. Beck will obviously vote for rezoning too.’
She waited for his reaction. Eden had listened earnestly, his expression swiftly changing to dismay.
‘My God,’ he whispered. He stood up and paced the room for a few seconds, then stopped. ‘This changes everything. The inference of all this is quite clear. Even though the parties concerned will deny any wrongdoing, there is a clear conflict of interest. And, good Lord, no one will be fooled. It sticks out a mile what’s going on.’ His voice rose in anger.
‘There’s more bad news, I’m afraid,’ Odette went on. ‘Beck has been reported as saying that the owner of Zanana is insisting on having the mansion demolished as part of the development. It must be part of the deal with Hacienda to throw out your plan and do what they want.’
Eden’s jaw dropped. ‘I can’t believe this. It’s like a nightmare. Are you sure?’ He looked into her eyes. She said nothing. ‘Of course you are. Who is the owner anyway?’
Odette shrugged and shook her head.
‘So what are we going to do?’ he asked.
‘What are you going to do is the real question, Eden.’ It was a challenge as much as a question.
For almost a minute he paced silently up and down, then he sat down beside Odette. ‘Look, I have to confess that when I took on this job I knew that Hacienda had a mixed record in the business.’ Odette nodded, signalling that she too knew. He went on, ‘It was such a good offer and they sounded so sincere, I was prepared to overlook their past. People and companies do change . . . well, some do,’ he added sadly. ‘And Zanana is . . . unique.’
‘It’s hard to have any faith in anything Hacienda say now, Eden.’ Odette told him more details of the deal and of the planned rally. ‘The public will be outraged when it’s all revealed at the rally. It could be embarrassing for you.’ Impulsively she reached out and touched his arm. ‘What would your Mr Gaudi and Mr Lloyd Wright do?’
Eden looked down at her hand, then into her eyes. He spoke softly but firmly. ‘They would never compromise their principles. Nor will I. I will publicly announce the severing of my links with the company and explain why. I will donate all monies paid to me by Hacienda to the campaign to save Zanana.’
She flung her arms about him in an elated hug. ‘Oh, Eden!’ then drew back shyly. ‘Just wait till I tell Mrs Bramble.’
Odette left Eden’s office, glanced at the sky and decided to go on to Zanana. She knew the final answers were there — somewhere.
It was late and thundery clouds were closing in, darkening the sky and prophesying rain. Odette pulled the rented dinghy into a break in the mangroves and waded ashore carrying a small garden trowel and Wal’s rose.
The grounds were just as derelict as on her last visit with Eden. She wandered through the rose garden looking for an unobtrusive corner. Then she spotted the head and part of a wing of the marble angel in the top section of the grounds, well hidden by oak trees. Few leaves were left on the rose plants and through the thorny tangle she could see the metal lace edging, sectioning off several headstones.
Odette moved past the graves of Robert and Catherine Maclntyre to a corner where a discreet bronze plaque was inscribed with the name Gladys Butterworth Simpson. Pulling aside some weeds, Odette dug a small hole and planted Wal’s rose next to the plaque.
Wal was attached to Zanana, and she guessed there’d been few to mourn him in Bangalow. The petals from this rose would scatter over the plaque like gentle pink rain and Odette hoped this way the spirit of Wal and Gladys would rest happily at Zanana.
A clap of thunder caused her to leap to her feet in alarm. Brushing the dirt from her knees, she picked up the empty pot and trowel and headed towards the main house. She was unsure about how to approach the old lady, but figured she’d play it by ear. Odette had an impressive track record for prising open clams. A nonaggressive tack would be best.
The Indian House came into view, silhouetted against the lowering sky and racing storm clouds. At the same instant the door opened and the mysterious old woman came out, closed the door and walked away with purposeful strides.
Odette put down the pot and small spade, smoothed her hands nervously along her skirt, and hurried after her.
She caught up to her in the rose garden and called out, ‘Hello! Hello there, can I speak to you for a moment?’
The woman spun around in surprise and Odette saw that she was dressed in a beige Edwardian tea gown, the high lace collar caught with a cameo. Her grey hair was pulled so tightly on top of her head that it seemed to stretch the skin across the sharp bones of her face.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here? You are trespassing.’ There was an imperious thrust to her voice and she seemed more annoyed than intimidated at a stranger appearing in the grounds.
Odette stopped a short distance from the woman. ‘Remember me? I am a writer for a magazine. I’m doing a story about this place and I was wondering if you could give me some information.’
‘No. Why should I do that?’
Odette noted she didn’t say she didn’t know anything about the place. ‘I am trying to locate the owner of Zanana. I understand Hacienda Homes is buying the estate, and we would like to know what they and the owner plan to do with it.’
‘It’s no one’s business but mine,’ snapped the old woman.
‘Do you know the owner? Who is behind Beveridge Investments?’
The woman glared at Odette and didn’t answer, merely folding her hands in front of her like a schoolteacher waiting for a confession from an errant child.
Odette tried a small smile. ‘You might not be aware that they want to put buildings all over the estate and pull down the main house. Where will you go if that happens?’
The woman broke into a rusty laugh. ‘Oh, it will happen all right.’
Odette was taken aback. The woman took a step towards her, shaking a finger at her. ‘They tried and they failed. I am the mistress of Zanana now! And I will destroy it! I will show them. Show them all.’ Her eyes were glinting and she suddenly seemed a little unhinged.
‘Show who? What did they do?’ asked Odette.
The woman spun on her heel in a furious move, throwing out her arms and addressing the rose garden, her voice raised. ‘This is my home! I was here first.’
It was a childish outburst but uttered with such pain that Odette began to pity her. The old woman continued to ramble, her formerly restrained stance crumbling; her upright carriage slumped and her arms began to flail as if they had a life of their own.
