by Di Morrissey
Odette went to her bedroom and returned with the diaries and photographs. She spread them out on the coffee table and together they brought the dim and distant past into sharp focus. The first photograph she showed him was a faded sepia-coloured picture of Gladys Butterworth holding a baby outside what looked like the back door of a house. On the back was written a date and one word — Alec.
‘It’s your dad, and that’s the back door of Zanana, the kitchen door. That’s Mrs Butterworth. Kate must have taken the photograph.’
For hours they pored over the diary entries and looked at the photographs Gladys Butterworth had saved over the years — some very old oval portraits of Robert and Catherine Maclntyre, and a photograph of them both in a studio setting of potted palms, velvet drapes and Roman columns; Catherine seated on an ornate chair, hands clasped in her lap, and Robert looking stern and stiff to one side, his hand on her shoulder. There were also some shots of Zanana’s gardens with Kate and Ben working in them. In one shot there was a woven cane pram with curved hood standing on a pathway near Kate.
Eden looked at the photograph intently, taking in the detail. ‘To think that I was almost a party to destroying all this.’
‘I suspect that’s your dad in the pram in the rose garden,’ said Odette with a smile. ‘I’d rather like to use it in the feature story on Zanana for the Gazette . . . if you’ll let me.’
‘The Gazette?’ replied Eden as if he really didn’t understand what she had said.
‘It’s a great story, Eden, it has to be told.’ Odette was almost pleading with him.
He looked at her thoughtfully then smiled. ‘Yes, it should be told. I guess there’s going to be a lot of press about this now, so I had better get used to the idea. Hell, what a night.’
He sat beside Odette and took her hands in his. ‘What can I say to you? Are there any words that can possibly explain just what all this means to me? I don’t think there are.’ He squeezed her hands and whispered, ‘Thanks’.
Odette smiled. ‘No speeches, please. Go home and call me tomorrow and we’ll go over to Zanana. We need to get a picture of you there for the article.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, then led him to the door. From her window she watched him drive off and knew that he would not be sleeping tonight.
She was lost in thought staring at an empty street when the telephone rang, startling her. It was Mac Jeffreys, the police roundsman from the Telegraph.
‘Sorry to bother you so late at night, Odette, but I thought you’d be interested in this little item. The cops tonight fished a body out of the river downstream from Zanana. They reckon its the weird old lady who lived there.’
Odette was stunned. ‘When did it happen . . . I mean, any idea what time?’
‘The water police found the body about three hours ago. They reckon she’s been in the river for a couple of days. They did a check around the jetty and found a section had collapsed. Part of her dress was found in the deck planking. Cut and dried case, if you’ll excuse the pun. Accidental death by drowning, I’d say.’
‘Thanks, Mac. Good of you to ring. Sad, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I s’pose it is. Night, Odette.’
Odette put down the telephone and stood holding the handset. She suddenly felt terribly exhausted. It had been an incredible day but emotionally draining.
It took a while to comprehend the full consequences of the call. She vaguely recognised that the death of Mary Dashford would have an impact on the sorting out of the whole Zanana affair, but her thoughts were not about Zanana, they were with Mary.
She felt an overwhelming sadness and sympathy for the child Mary once was, the child who had very little, was given a tantalising glimpse of having everything, then cast out with nothing. Then into her mind flashed images of the people Mary had hurt — Kate, Ben, Alec and Eden. It was all too much. A tear rolled out of the corner of her eye. Odette wiped it away and walked to her bedroom in a daze. She kicked off her shoes and fell on the bed into an exhausted sleep.
The next day, Eden, Odette and Max met at the gates to Zanana. A police constable was on duty at the gates, one of which was swung open.
‘The sergeant is expecting you. Go up to the big house,’ he told them when Odette showed her press pass.
Odette turned to Eveready. ‘You drive up. Eden and I will walk.’
She hopped out of the car and Eden followed. ‘It just doesn’t seem right going in by car, does it — not this time.’
They walked slowly up the curving tree-lined driveway, their feet crunching in the gravel and a thick layer of accumulated mulch from the trees. At the caretaker’s cottage they paused.
‘That’s it, that was our home,’ Eden said with feeling. ‘Home?’ he repeated softly. It was a one-word statement of what had been and what might have been.
Odette took his hand. ‘I think you’d better get used to the idea that all of it is home now. Or at least will be.’
He smiled at her. ‘It’s still sad to see the cottage . . . so many memories.’
They continued up the driveway, looking through the trees to vistas of garden, terraces, river and paddocks — all terribly neglected but still beautiful.
Zanana came into view and they saw Eveready talking to a policeman on the steps. They turned and walked towards Eden and Odette.
‘Good morning. I’m Sergeant O’Neil. Good of you to have called us this morning about this case, Miss Barber. Sure helps clear up a lot of questions that had us worried. I’ll get a statement from you tomorrow at the station for the coroner’s inquiry. Just a formality.’
He shook hands with Eden. ‘From what I hear, Mr Davenport, Zanana is pretty certain to end up yours. Lucky man. It’s quite a place. I suppose you’ll want to look over it.’
‘Yes, it would be nice. Odette wants to get a few photographs.’
The sergeant rubbed his chin. ‘Look. Have a look around. Go inside, but don’t touch anything. Keep the photographs to exteriors. Okay?’
‘That’s fine,’ said Eden. Odette nodded in agreement.
‘The front door’s open. I’m going down to the jetty. We’re doing some work there. See you later.’ The officer headed down the terraces. ‘Very lovely out here, isn’t it?’ he added over his shoulder.
For a moment they stood there not talking, all looking at the ornate entrance. Eden took Odette’s hand. ‘Come on. The grand entry.’
With Eveready trailing, they walked up the steps and into the magnificent lobby of Zanana. As they stood under the huge chandelier, looking around in silence, the photographer let out a long, low whistle.
The house was very much as they remembered it as children. Most of the rooms had been closed for years and were thick with dust. Others were littered with Mary’s clothes, and there were more boxes of records from the Dashfords’ old legal office.
They went to the kitchen and then, laughing together, led the photographer through the secret route they had originally used in their first exploration of the house as children so many years ago.
Outside again they went back to the front of the house where Eden posed at the doorway for a photograph, then they went down to the rose garden. It had taken a battering from the heavy rain and wind on the Friday night and most of the blooms were ruined. Max posed Eden against a background of the house, and crouched low to give the picture a foreground of rose bushes. ‘Lovely shot,’ he said, clicking away.
‘Finished?’ asked Eden.
‘Yep. That’s fine. Anything else, Odette?’
‘No thanks. See you at the office tomorrow.’
As the photographer headed up to his car, Eden walked over to Odette with one hand behind his back. He stood close to her and without saying anything handed her a single perfect cream rose.
Odette took the rose, looked at it for a few seconds, then raised it to her lips and kissed the fragrant blossom. She looked up into his eyes and suddenly they were in each other’s arms. As they kissed, Odette was conscious of more than the
wonderful surge of emotion . . . she had an overwhelming feeling that they were not alone in the garden. She sensed someone was with them, but she knew there was no one there.
And she knew, too, that their coming together, here in the rose garden at Zanana, was right and inevitable — and forever.
EPILOGUE
The Last Rose
Zanana 1973
Twelve months had slid away as steadily and as unnoticed as the flow of the Parramatta River. Another summer was almost over but on this day the river sparkled as if a collection of jewels had been scattered over its velvety surface.
Above the river the sun washed over the clipped and lush green lawns and terraces of Zanana. The mansion, freshly painted, gleamed. Striped marquees were dotted about the upper terrace. Leading to the sunken garden was a long red carpet lined with tubs of flowers embraced by ribbons. In the pond, waterlilies bloomed; the nearby fountain sparkled, and the brass plate of the old sundial had been polished to mark this special occasion.
A white archway was entwined with coloured roses and on one side was a small lace-covered table. Facing the table and arch were rows of chairs, which were beginning to fill with guests. A pianist, cellist and guitarist played discreetly in the shade of a sprawling gum tree.
Soft laughter and easy chatter drifted across the gardens. Aunt Harriet escorted Mr Fitzpatrick down the path after a tour of the house, and they settled themselves in the front row of chairs, alongside Mr and Mrs Bramble with whom they were staying.
‘A magnificent day, Harriet,’ Mrs Bramble enthused. ‘Eden and Odette are so lucky. I was saying to my Fred only a while ago that someone must have influence with powers on high to have such ideal weather for the occasion.’
‘Quite possible, Flora, quite possible,’ Aunt Harriet agreed. ‘Odette frequently told me that she felt there were special spirits associated with Zanana.’
‘Well, if she’s right, they’re in for a treat today. Have you ever seen anything like this?’ She waved her arm, indicating the setting.
‘It’s more than just a wedding, you know.’ Harriet leaned towards them as if to emphasise her words. ‘It marks the rebirth of Zanana.’
‘A wedding and a christening,’ gushed Flora, and they all laughed.
‘The mansion is a mighty contrast to the cottage Odette’s been living in at Peace Valley, from all accounts,’ her former editor observed. ‘A bit over the top for these days with those chandeliers and so on.’
‘Oh where’s your sense of romance and heritage?’ chided Harriet.
‘Well, I think the cottage at Peace Valley is probably a better place for writing a book.’ Zac had bought it and given it to her as a wedding gift, said she’d find more inspiration there. ‘Rather adventurous of the publishers to back her on the strength of her magazine work,’ he added.
‘How do you think she’ll go?’ asked Fred Bramble.
‘No worries. She’s got a good eye for detail, listens and thinks. Knows what to do with words.’
‘Well, I reckon you can take some of the credit for that,’ said Fred, and there was a duet of agreement from the women.
The friendship and intense attraction between Eden and Odette had, over the past year, steadily grown into a constant and devoted love. They spent much of their spare time assisting lawyers with the Zanana papers, rewarded by court recognition of Eden’s claim on the property.
When Odette had been commissioned to write a novel, Zac had offered her his cottage at Peace Valley as he was seldom there these days. Odette made regular trips back to the city to be with Eden and to share in the excitement of seeing his plans for Zanana take shape on paper. His new concept embraced the wishes of the community . . . a garden village would be developed, but the mansion would be preserved and restored, hopefully for use as a children’s home run by a charitable organisation, and the main gardens would eventually become council property open to the public. The foreshore would also be a park.
It was while showing Odette over the site and explaining his idea to her that Eden had asked her to marry him.
They were standing in the rose garden in its full flush of summer roses. They stopped for a moment and sat on his grandmother’s wooden seat in the dappled sunlight.
‘What a special place this is,’ said Odette, leaning back and tilting her face to the warmth of the sun. Her woven straw hat dropped from her head and her curls, which had been crammed under the hat, tumbled about her face. She closed her eyes in contentment.
Eden studied her. How dear that sweet face had become to him. Theirs had developed into a loving and caring relationship punctuated by times of passionate lovemaking, fierce but friendly discussion and much laughter. But above all, there was an ease, a companionship and a sense of such support, that he suddenly realised the inevitability of their being together. The thought that she wouldn’t always be a part of his life was like the sun being switched off.
He was overcome by an engulfing panic and swallowed hard. Odette hadn’t moved, unaware of the emotions swamping Eden as he sat motionless beside her.
He went to speak but uttered no sound. Instead he leaned over and planted a tender kiss on her smiling mouth. She opened her eyes.
‘That was nice. What was that for?’
‘Because I love you.’
‘Do you? Really?’
‘You know I do.’
She grinned at him. ‘I like to hear you say it. Say it again.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Odette, I love you . . . and I want you to marry me . . . Will you? Marry me?’
‘I wasn’t expecting the last bit. You know I love you, Eden. Really love you.’ She smiled at his earnest face, the same realisation dawning on her — that this was the love she had waited for, the love Zac had meant her to find — steady and true and right.
‘Odette . . . ?’
Happiness radiated from the depths of her aquamarine eyes. ‘Of course I will. I think I decided that when I was eleven years old.’
‘Took us long enough. Are you sure?’
Odette laughed gently. She wrapped her arms about him and started to kiss his lopsided grin. ‘I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Stop talking and kiss me, Eden.’
They’d clung together in the rose garden, the wonder and the joy of it making their hearts beat faster. And around them the summer roses nodded in the breeze as if in agreement.
They both knew Zanana was the only place for their wedding, so Eden accelerated plans for its restoration.
Now, on this Indian summer’s day, Odette and Eden were to be married.
Zac was on hand to give away the bride, which Aunt Harriet had thought a little unorthodox, but which Zac and Odette knew was right and meaningful.
Zac waited for her in the vestibule of the mansion, turning as he heard her call.
‘I’m ready but we have oodles of time.’
‘Come down, Odette, we still have one more rite of passage.’
Slowly she came down the sweeping stairs. Zac caught his breath. Elaine followed her from the room and watched in admiration as Odette seemed to glide down to Zac. It was all so beautiful she was sure she would cry, but she forced back the emotion to save it up for the wedding ceremony itself.
Odette was wearing Catherine’s wedding dress and Kate’s wedding pearls from Hock Lee. They had been found beautifully preserved in a Chinese camphor-wood chest in the attic. The milky antique lace and silk gown had been slightly altered so it skimmed her slim body and fell in a circle about her feet. The back was caught in a silk rose and loosely sashed bow. Her hair was coiled high on her head, revealing her long creamy throat and the magnificent pearls. A few loose tendrils of russet golden curls sprang loose about her heart-shaped face. A small coronet of tiny rosebuds caught the long Brussels lace veil. She carried a small bouquet of mixed cream and white flowers.
‘You look exquisite, little bird. There is much happiness in store for you. But first I want you to come with me.’
Zac took her
hand and Odette handed her bouquet to Elaine. ‘I’ll see you at the sunken garden. Now, what are you being so mysterious about, Zac?’
‘Never question a gypsy when he says he has all the answers,’ he replied. He began leading her through the gardens behind the mansion. ‘I had this image, this vision, call it what you will. I don’t know what it means exactly, but I know we must do this.’
‘I know where we’re going,’ said Odette softly, not questioning Zac further. She didn’t understand it but had learned to trust the gift he possessed.
The Indian House came into view and they walked to it, Odette slipping off her satin slippers and following Zac inside. The sweet familiar smell of sandalwood, the slivered shadows of coloured glass reflected on the marble floor and the cool calmness of this special place enveloped them.
‘I’ve never been here before but it’s just as I saw it,’ he said quietly. Glancing around he saw what he wanted and went towards the vast canopied bed and lifted up the small footstool.
He turned to Odette. ‘Do you remember anything about this?’ Without waiting for an answer, he pressed the large pearl inlay and the lid flew open.
Gently Zac took out the blue glass perfume bottle and handed it to Odette. She unscrewed its chased silver top and inhaled deeply. ‘Attar of roses.’
‘But this is what you must take,’ said Zac, taking out the small velvet drawstring pouch.
Puzzled, Odette opened it and lifted out the egg-shaped grey stone. As soon as her fingers curled around it she knew exactly what it was. ‘It’s the stone the guru gave Catherine in India. It’s exactly as Mrs Butterworth described in her diary.
‘I think Catherine would want you to have it,’ replied Zac. ‘Come, it’s time.’
She followed him back into the brilliant sunlight but as she went to slip on her shoes she said, ‘Oh, Zac, go ahead. I left the perfume bottle on the bed.’
Odette hurried back into the dimness of the Indian House to retrieve the little blue bottle. She stopped by the bed and clutched the pouch holding the precious lingam and stared in shock at the bed.
