by Di Morrissey
‘I’m back, I’ve changed, and I’m off. Have a nice evening,’ she sang out.
‘You too!’ called Odette.
‘I see you decided on candles . . . you can play my Nat King Cole albums if you want . . . See you!’
‘Elaine, please! Not Nat King Cole,’ shrieked Odette, pulling out the plug and reaching for her towel.
Odette pulled on a pair of taupe linen slacks and a cream silk blouse and tied her hair back in a long hand-painted chiffon scarf looped like a snood. Her Kate Hepburn outfit, she called it. But before she had on her shoes or her make-up, the doorbell rang. Odette glanced at her watch. Eden was very early.
She went to the door and found Zac standing there, his arms full of roses. ‘I’m off again, little bird. After all those paper roses today I thought you might like these.’
‘Zac, how lovely! Do you want to stay and have dinner with us?’
‘Can’t. On my way to the airport.’ He put the roses on a chair and hugged Odette. ‘You did splendidly.’ He pulled away and held her by the shoulders looking into her eyes. ‘You are very much your own person, sweet Odette. You are strong and capable and independent and lovable. It’s time to unwrap your little heart.’
‘You mean I’ve grown up at last. I can fly all by myself?’ she said gently, smiling at her dearest friend.
‘Indeed you can. But you know I’ll always be watching out for you.’
‘You’re my spirit guide in person,’ replied Odette.
Zac laughed. ‘Cerina told me our fates were linked. And the gypsy queen is never wrong.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Be happy, little bird.’
He stepped through the door, tall and dashing, his long curls falling to his shoulders, his deep brown eyes full of love and understanding.
‘Zac . . .’ she called to him and he paused, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Just . . . thank you.’
He blew her a kiss and flung his long knitted scarf over his shoulder and was gone.
Eden was a few minutes late and he came in apologising profusely. ‘I lost track of time with Zac. We had a marvellous afternoon. He’s a special person, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is.’
Eden gave her a penetrating look then smiled cheerfully. ‘I brought some good claret and a bottle of champagne to celebrate the success of the rally. You know, Odette, I realise I am mightily relieved to be out of that Hacienda deal.’
He followed her out to the kitchen where she handed him two glasses. ‘Pour the champagne, I’ll just finish doing this salad.’
‘I’ve been thinking more about Zanana. About other ways to go. To try to keep the gardens and the old buildings, but bring in some money.’
‘Cheers, Eden,’ said Odette lifting her glass.
‘Here’s to you. And Zanana,’ he answered following her back to the sitting room and making himself comfortable on the sofa. ‘I still think my garden cottages are harmonious, attractive and practical. But rather than sell them all off to individuals, I think some of the estate could be taken up and worked as a funded institution. I know getting government money isn’t easy, maybe some corporate funding could be assembled.’
‘What sort of an institution did you have in mind?’
He took a sip of his champagne and grinned at her. ‘I know this is all hypothetical — I don’t know what the ownership situation is — but in the past it has served as a convalescent home. Do you remember how creepy those hospital rooms were in the big house that time we went exploring?’
‘I always thought it rather forlorn. Zanana has some rather sad chapters in its history,’ said Odette slowly.
‘Now maybe it’s time for all that to change.’ Eden’s face was alight with enthusiasm as he leaned forward, his sandy hair flopping over one eye. He flicked it back and went on, ‘I think Zanana should be a place for children. Think what it meant to you and, despite my father, I always thought it a magical place. So, what if the garden cottages were used to house groups of children with special needs?’
‘What about the main house?’
‘That could hold the recreational, administrative and dining areas, and perhaps a schoolroom as well as staff quarters.’ Eden began to warm even more to his idea. ‘The farm and dairy could be brought back in a small way, enough to supply their own needs and teach and involve the children in the process.’
Odette stood and went to fetch the champagne from the fridge to refill their glasses. ‘Eden, slow down. I think it all sounds great, but there are other matters you should know about . . .’ Odette paused, looking at the bottle, which had a knife sticking out of it. ‘What’s that for?’
‘Stops it going flat,’ grinned Eden. ‘Here let me.’ He took out the knife, topped up their glasses and sniffed. ‘Gee something smells good.’
‘Then let’s eat. And after dinner, I’ll explain why I asked you here.’
Eden peered at her serious face. ‘Am I going to like what you have to say? I mean, is it good news or bad news?’ He leaned close, staring into her face in mock alarm. He could smell the citrus tang of her perfume and he suddenly wanted to kiss her.
Odette pushed the salad bowl and pepper grinder into his hands and tried not to laugh. ‘Here, put these on the table. Light the candles and find some nice music while I dish up.’
Odette carried the first course of pasta to the table as the strains of Nat King Cole filled the room — ‘When I fall in love, it will be forever . . .’
‘That’s Elaine’s record. Her teenage music. There’s better and more up-to-date stuff,’ laughed Odette, putting the pasta on the table.
‘I agree with his sentiments. Want to dance?’ Without waiting for an answer Eden swept her into his arms and held her close as the cloying romantic ballad filled the room.
For a moment she melted into him and she smelled the soapy clean fragrance of his hair and skin, and he felt familiar and appealing. Then she pulled away. ‘Let’s eat, I’ve slaved over a hot stove for hours to prepare this! It’s no good cold.’
He pulled out her chair, sat opposite her and lifted his glass to her across the candles. ‘Here’s to old friends and new friendships. I won’t say more than that.’
She smiled at him and clinked her glass against his. ‘That’s sweet, Eden. I’ll drink to that. Buon appetito.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Zanana 1972
The candles became lopsided dribbly wax castles. Tia Maria was poured, plates pushed to one side and the strong aroma of brewing coffee filled the room. Several hours had sped by as Odette and Eden shared experiences, anecdotes, laughter and reflections.
There came one of those comfortable pauses in the conversation and Eden folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. ‘It’s time. Now tell me what you had planned. Or was it just a ruse to get me here?’ he grinned.
Odette laughed. ‘I’ll pour the coffee and then confess all. Let’s move to the lounge.’
‘Shall we do the dishes?’
‘No way. I’ll rinse them later. They’ll still be here in the morning.’
As they settled down in the old but comfortable lounge with heavy ceramic mugs of coffee, Odette began the story of Zanana.
‘When Mrs Bramble first asked me to help save Zanana I wanted to do it because the place was special to me and because it’s unique. And, yes, it was a good story and I am a reporter. Then something happened on a visit to the Indian House — nothing specific and it could have been just my imagination — but I truly believe there is a ghost there. A spirit, a lost soul, call it what you will. A woman’s presence seemed to reach out to me for help. She seemed so sad. Looking back, I remember when we went there as kids I sensed some strange presence, but in those days I didn’t know what to make of it.’
Eden sat gazing at her steadily, his face giving no reaction. He was determined to hear her out.
‘There were so many mysterious questions about Zanana that I began researching in the library and historical society and then had the good luck to ta
lk to an old war vet who’d lived there. The pieces really started to come together when the old vet, Wally Simpson, bequeathed me some diaries, letters and photographs. He’d married Zanana’s housekeeper, Mrs Butterworth, and he worked there as well.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Eden with interest.
‘I have them here. Now I know the entire story of Zanana, and it goes like this.’ Odette sipped her coffee and Tia Maria. ‘Robert Maclntyre came out from Scotland and made a fortune on the goldfields and in business with his Chinese partner, Hock Lee. He went back to Scotland and married Catherine Garrison. They went to India on their honeymoon and she apparently became infatuated with the place. Robert had promised to build her one of the grandest homes in Sydney, so he also promised to build her . . . ’
Eden broke in. ‘The Indian House.’
‘Right. According to Mrs Butterworth’s diary, Catherine told her she’d also met some guru who’d given her a charm which meant good health and fertility, but in moving house she misplaced it. She believed that this was the reason why she couldn’t conceive.’ Odette smiled. ‘I know it sounds a bit far-fetched. Anyway, several years later when she was involved in work for a city orphanage she adopted a little girl called Mary. A year later she became pregnant but she died in childbirth, though the baby girl survived.
‘Robert Maclntyre was apparently heartbroken and wanted nothing to do with either of the girls. He even went so far as to suggest sending Mary back to the orphanage.’
‘Poor little kid,’ murmured Eden.
‘Yes. The only happy home and real mother she’d known were taken away from her. She blamed the new baby and made some wild attempt to hurt the infant. So Mary was sent away to boarding school. Mrs Butterworth and her first husband, Harold, were now virtually running the estate. They tried to keep close to Mary but she spurned them.’
‘What happened to Robert?’
‘He was drinking, neglected the business and finally he shot himself down by the river. It was hushed up at the time, the papers called it an accident. Hock Lee was executor and took Zanana under his wing, including the baby christened Katherine — Kate — after her mother. She was his godchild.’
‘This Hock Lee seems a bit odd.’
‘Unusual would be a better word, Eden. Amazingly successful. He straddled two cultures. Unusual enough now, let alone then. Strangely, he never married. He was close to his parents and seemed to devote his life to business — and Kate.’
‘Kate grew up at Zanana?’
‘Yes, and had her parents lived, she would have led a very grand life — high society and all that. But the Butterworths were simple country folk, salt of the earth types, a world away from social Sydney. But they loved Catherine and became Kate’s guardians. Their influence on her must have been immense.’
‘So she grew up an unaffected country lass almost cloistered at Zanana. Wasn’t she ever tempted to break out?’ Eden finished his coffee.
‘It seems she tried the social scene and disliked it. She preferred her commitment and involvement with Zanana and its postwar role. She turned it into a convalescent home for war veterans.’
‘I like the sound of the girl. She was thinking like me.’
‘Well, she was courted by the son of the family solicitor, but chose to marry Ben Johnson, the son of a couple who helped work the Zanana farm. Ben seems to have become some sort of horticulturalist and landscape gardener. He did quite a bit of work at Zanana.
‘Anyway, things started to go downhill. Hock Lee died, the money set aside to run the estate drained away and it seems there was a total financial collapse. Mrs Butterworth lost her husband in the war, and the Johnsons left to go back to their hometown, Bangalow. Wally Simpson left too and eventually married Mrs Butterworth. Kate and Ben stayed on trying to make a go of it and had a baby son.’
Eden sighed. ‘Quite a saga. I can’t imagine Kate abandoning Zanana.’
‘The decision was taken away from her. Driving to Bangalow she and Ben were killed in a car crash. The child survived.’
‘So the grandparents brought him up?’
‘They tried for a while but they suffered ill health and it was all too much. They knew it was unfair to the child to carry on, so they arranged to have the child adopted.’
‘So what happened to Zanana?’
‘Well, it was empty for a while, then sold off to a company, and it seems the funds were siphoned off over the years.’
‘The Dashfords don’t seem to have been the smartest managers. Well, who owns Zanana now, have you worked that out?’ Eden was fascinated by the intricacy of the story.
‘Yes . . . and no . . . the recluse living there claims to own it.’
‘Good grief . . . and she’s insisting that it be demolished?’ Eden asked in astonishment.
‘That’s right.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I confronted her and she told me. It was all quite amazing really. And a bit frightening.’ Odette poured another coffee.
‘Why is she doing this? Who is she?’
Odette looked over the mug raised to her lips. ‘Mary Dashford.’
‘The solicitors!’ exclaimed Eden.
‘The solicitor’s wife actually. She was his secretary, but apparently a very powerful, devious and scheming woman. And a very sad woman.’
‘How did it all come about?’
‘Not sure exactly, but I suspect that she fiddled the books when looking after the trust funds. Lawyers and accountants will have to work it out.’ Odette wasn’t rushing the story.
Eden sipped his coffee and thought deeply, then turned to Odette, obviously puzzled. ‘It doesn’t make sense, why destroy something she had schemed so long and hard to get? Is she mad or something?’
‘Too many questions to answer at once, Eden. But it all starts to make some sense when you know that Mrs Dashford is none other than Mary — the child long ago taken in by the Maclntyres, then rejected by Robert Maclntyre.’ Odette paused to let Eden absorb this startling information.
Odette went on. ‘Mary obviously kept her identity a secret, became a very competent secretary at the law firm and schemed to get increasing control of the affairs of Zanana. God knows how Hector let her get away with it. Maybe he never knew. He died years ago. As for wanting to destroy Zanana, well, that’s where the hint of madness seems to come into it all, and in a way I can understand how she feels.’
‘You understand?’ Eden reacted with raised eyebrows.
‘Yes. Imagine how it must have felt being taken into that home from an orphanage, and then literally thrown out, denied the promise of a good life and family love. She must have loved the place very much. The diaries indicate that she did, and she loved Catherine. She probably became obsessed with getting it back.’
‘The tragedy is that the love turned to hate and that seems to have affected her mind and she now wants Zanana destroyed by the developers. Astonishing business, isn’t it?’
‘I can see it all now,’ said Eden as Odette went to the sideboard and poured them both another drink. ‘She was cheated out of the only happiness she had ever known and for that she blamed Robert Maclntyre and his daughter Kate. Zanana was his dream, now her revenge is to destroy his dream. It’s quite a story.’
Odette handed him a glass. ‘There’s another chapter, and now, believe it or not, the story gets even more interesting.’
‘Impossible.’
‘According to notes made by Mary that I found in the files, Kate’s son eventually tried to make a claim on the estate, but learned from the Dashfords that he was legally entitled to nothing. There was nothing left.’
Odette put down her glass and took Eden’s glass and put it down on the coffee table. She took his hands in hers and went on with the story. ‘Instead they made him caretaker of Zanana. His name was Alec . . .’
Eden gasped. ‘Oh, my God!’
She felt his hands tighten on hers and he closed his eyes. He opened them as small tears began to run do
wn his cheeks.
Odette spoke softly. ‘Yes, Alec Davenport was born Alec Johnson. Ben and Kate were your grandparents.’
She lifted his left hand and touched the gold ring on his index finger. ‘That ring I assume came from your father. Hock Lee gave it to Ben as a wedding gift. Mrs Butterworth described it in the diary.’
Eden raised his hand until the ring was right in front of his eyes and looked at it through a screen of tears. ‘Yes, I was told that it came from my grandfather, but Dad never said anything else about it. In fact, he never talked about Zanana’s past at all. He was terribly bitter, and now I know why.’ He paled as he twisted the gold rose nugget, unable to break his gaze from the link to his father and to Zanana.
Odette got some tissues from a drawer in the sideboard and gave them to Eden.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
She crouched down on her heels in front of him and looked into his eyes. ‘I think Zanana belongs to you, Eden.’
For a while neither of them said anything. Odette broke the silence. ‘I think a little bit of brandy might help.’ She passed him his glass from the table.
He took a long, slow drink then looked at Odette. ‘Zanana . . . mine. It sounds impossible. How do you know?’
‘Matt Tead, a journo mate of mine, has been running his eyes over a bundle of documents and deeds I found in the Indian House. He says there was undoubtedly some illegal hanky-panky years ago, but it will take lawyers some time to work it out.’
Eden rose and began pacing the room in an agitated state. ‘It’s all a bit much to take in. Poor Dad. Now I understand his bitterness. All those years living as a caretaker to a house he knew should have been his. How powerless he must have felt. How cheated.’ Eden shook both his hands in front of him as if reflecting the frustration his father must have lived with.
‘We left Zanana when I was fourteen and he died five years later. I don’t think that in those five years he mentioned the place once. He never talked about his adopted parents, and I was never curious as a kid. You know what kids are like.’
