Tumbledown Manor

by Helen Brown

  Helen Brown grew up in New Zealand where she became an award-winning newspaper and magazine columnist as well as a popular scriptwriter. Helen’s memoirs Cleo and After Cleo became international bestsellers and are available in a vast array of countries and languages. A New York Times bestseller, Cleo is also currently being made into a film by the producers of The Whale Rider.

  Like the main character of Tumbledown Manor, Helen has ancestral ties with rural Victoria from back in the gold rush days. She lives in Melbourne with her husband Philip and temperamental cat, Jonah. She has three adult children and two granddaughters.

  Also by Helen Brown

  Cleo

  After Cleo: Came Jonah

  First published in 2014

  Copyright © Helen Brown 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Arena Books, an imprint of

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email:  info@allenandunwin.com

  Web:  www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 928 4

  eISBN 978 1 74343 879 4

  Internal design by Christa Moffitt

  Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To Louise Thurtell and Jude McGee

  For getting me started.

  A glass of prosecco at dawn is romantic. It fizzes with excitement while the morning yawns awake.

  As the day grows wiser, a flute of sparkling wine adds magic to a lazy afternoon.

  But when the sky turns red over the hills and the evening star winks at the possibility of a kiss nothing surpasses champagne.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 1

  A birthday ending in a zero was nothing to make a fuss about. There was enough to be grateful for—her health, a solid marriage, kids old enough to be off their hands (technically), a passable writing career. Why anyone would want to celebrate being another decade closer to filling a funeral urn was beyond Lisa Katz.

  Nevertheless, she felt a prick of disappointment when, over breakfast at a diner near their apartment, she realised Jake had forgotten. But no wonder. Poor Jake was working crazy hours at the bank. His once lustrous tide of curls had receded to a charcoal reef, and the dark circles under his eyes had puffed out into pouches.

  ‘You’re still my best girl,’ he said before draining his coffee and dabbing his lips with a paper napkin.

  Standing, he bent over the table and brushed his lips against hers. It was one of their less awkward kissing positions, apart from when they were in bed together lying side by side.

  As a teenager sprouting depressingly close to six feet, Lisa had imagined marrying someone as tall—if not taller than—herself. But while she was getting her head around the idea of wearing flats for the rest of her life, she began to notice that most tall men were obsessed with women the size of dolls. Lisa, on the other hand, was a magnet to pint-sized Napoleons.

  Still, what Jake lacked in stature he made up for with vigour. The height difference had only increased the inventiveness of their sex life in the early days. Back then, he’d stroked her large buttocks as if they were the foothills of heaven.

  Now, Lisa felt a ripple of fondness combined with relief as Jake slid into his overcoat and disappeared into the grey fall morning. Pulling on her hat, cape and fingerless gloves, she stepped outside into her own private birthday, a day of doing just what she wanted, for a change.

  After a couple of hours at MoMA, Lisa had a session of guilty gratification with Mark. It seemed vaguely immoral to pay for a stranger to rub oil into her back like that, but Jake was too tired these days—and Mark’s hands never wandered.

  Then, flushed and gleaming with oil, she headed home to their apartment building on the Upper East Side. Set several blocks back from the park and surely the ugliest building in the entire neighbourhood, it frowned down on a narrow, shaded street.

  At the door, Pedro greeted her with his eternal smile—a miracle, considering he held down three jobs to keep himself and his family alive. ‘Lucky you missed the rain, Mrs Trumperton,’ he beamed.

  She’d stopped asking him to call her Lisa. It was typical Pedro to use her professional name. To most people she was just Mrs Katz, Jake’s gangly appendage.

  As she opened the door to their apartment, Lisa stumbled backwards.

  Surprise!’

  Jake stepped towards her, his dark eyes glowing in triumph. What was he doing home this early? He took her hand and guided her to the living room.

  ‘Happy birthday, Mom!’ Ted encircled her in his arms, sending her hat tumbling to the floor.

  ‘Ted? You came all the way from Australia?’ Lisa was suddenly aware that she was shaking. ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘This morning,’ her son beamed, picking up her hat and dusting it off.

  ‘How did you get time off?’ She scraped her hands through her hair, hoping he wouldn’t notice how oily it was from the massage.

  ‘I’ve got a week before my next exam,’ he said.

  The genetic slot machine had been kind to Ted. Not only had he inherited his father’s Mediterranean colouring rather than her bloodshot watery-eyed Nordic genes, he was tall and well built. The shadow of a beard made his chin more pronounced and highlighted his eyes. Whatever he was up to besides architecture studies was doing him good.

  Lisa was about to tease him about his Australian accent when the pantry door burst open. ‘Surprise!’ Portia teetered towards her in shoes that would qualify as stilts.

  As her daughter bent to kiss her in a flurry of blonde hair and blue fingernails, Lisa noticed a new Care Bear tattoo on Portia’s neck. Had she lost weight? Either way, this wasn’t the time to cause frict
ion. Not when Portia had sacrificed hours of her glamorous Santa Monica lifestyle to show up.

  Lisa’s heart pounded in her ears. ‘How lovely,’ she quavered, wondering if they were expecting her to cook and, if so, what she could possibly feed them. Following her latest diet book’s instructions, she’d gutted the fridge. From memory, the only thing in there was a half-dead bottle of Coke Zero. ‘I really had no idea . . .’

  ‘Surprise!’

  A fresh surge of dread ran through her. Kerry, her weekly lunch buddy, emerged from the hallway. She relaxed a little. Armed with a potted peace lily, he was closely followed by Vanessa from the publishing house. Jake had chosen well. If he was going to startle her with anyone, these were the best possible . . .

  ‘Surprise!’

  Not another. Her system could take only so much. Lisa’s blood drained to her feet as her older sister Maxine emerged from the bedroom with husband Gordon in her wake.

  ‘We took the same flight as Ted,’ Maxine gushed, floating towards Lisa in a lurid caftan that made her resemble a psychedelic emu.

  Most women of a certain age fade into blonde. Maxine had opted for ginger, which had deepened to fiery purple. It was a shade that shouldn’t have suited anyone, but it glowed against Maxine’s pearly skin in a way that was strangely compelling. With intense emerald eyes beaming out from her round, freckled face, Maxine could’ve passed as an extra in Lord of the Rings. Smiling shyly over Maxine’s shoulder was Gordon, his broom of white hair and podgy pink face resembling the features of a man-sized koala.

  ‘But it’s such a long way to come just for me,’ Lisa said.

  ‘You always were the spoilt one,’ crooned Maxine, brushing her cheek with a kiss. ‘Just kidding.’ Maxine’s smile flickered with complication, and Lisa wondered if her sister would ever let go of the endless list of evidence that proved Lisa was their father’s favourite. High on the list, for example, was the time Lisa had allegedly tricked him into believing she needed to stay home from school because of a ‘tummy ache’ while Maxine, who was the one coming down with authentic measles, was forced to go. Maxine needed therapy. She had nothing to complain about, not when she’d clearly been the centre of their mother’s universe. The moment Maxine drew her first breath, their mother, Ruby, had recognised a mini replica of herself. Everything about Maxine—from the red hair and compact build to the terrifying presence on any sports field—screamed MacNally.

  In contrast, their father, William Trumperton, had been a sensitive man who avoided conflict. Lisa still clung to what he’d told her in a rare moment of unguardedness—that he found it hard to believe she and Maxine were from the same stable. Once or twice, she’d wondered if he’d been speaking literally and they had different fathers. She wouldn’t have put anything past Ruby.

  Now Maxine stood on tiptoe to help Lisa shed her cape. ‘Begging on the streets again, are we?’ she said, casting an eye over Lisa’s fingerless gloves.

  Under normal circumstances, Lisa would’ve cracked back about purple hair and caftans covered in hideous fake rubies. Maxine had been born with appalling taste that no amount of private schooling could cure. But the ambush of family affection had thrown Lisa.

  Maxine pulled a bottle out of the fridge and inspected the label. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You know it has to come from a special part of France to be the real thing.’

  Lisa assured her she was perfectly happy with sparkling wine from California. Jake had introduced it as part of their post Global Financial Crisis economy drive. It wasn’t too sweet and had the same effect, more or less.

  Corks popped. Glasses foamed and were passed around. As Jake lifted a mosaic of hors d’oeuvres from the fridge, Lisa was reminded why she’d fallen in love with him. Jake Katz the romantic, the magician . . . ‘You are organised!’ she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. She was amazed he even knew how to find a caterer.

  ‘Well my dear. It’s not every day you turn f—’

  ‘Hush!’ She gently covered his mouth. ‘But darling, it’s so thoughtful of you.’

  Jake cleared his throat and puffed his chest out, which was his way of making himself taller. The room settled expectantly. Poor darling—what hair he had left was greying at the temples. But he was ageing well. Not just in looks. Even though their sex life was intermittent these days, Lisa took silent pride in the fact he took no interest in advertisements for Viagra.

  ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming here today, some of you from a very long way,’ he said, raising a glass to Maxine and Gordon.

  ‘Well, it was a convenient stop-off before our Alaskan cruise,’ Maxine chimed in—unnecessarily, Lisa thought.

  ‘Those polar bears will be counting the days till they see you.’ Jake chortled.

  Lisa’s smile froze. Jake and Maxine were too alike. Neither could stand the other hogging the limelight. To Lisa’s relief, Maxine lowered her eyes and took a swig from her glass.

  ‘And we mustn’t forget Ted,’ Jake continued.

  Perched on the arm of the black leather sofa, Ted was engrossed in his phone. Hearing his name, he flipped out of whatever conversation he was having and aimed the gadget at his parents. Lisa hastily bent her knees so Jake could drape his arm over her shoulder and smile foolishly at the lens.

  Portia stood cross-armed in a corner. She rolled her eyes as Jake asked to see the photo. ‘And you too, of course, Portia,’ he said, nodding approval and handing the phone back to Ted. ‘Venice Beach isn’t exactly in the neighbourhood. Anyway, I just wanted to take this opportunity to thank my wonderful wife of twenty-four years.

  ‘Twenty-three!’ Maxine corrected.

  ‘Oh, is that right?’ Jake said, looking to Lisa for rescue.

  Lisa was hopeless at maths. She had no idea.

  ‘Yes,’ Maxine said, pointing a glittering talon at him. ‘You two were married exactly two years after Gordon and me. Of course we had a church wedding . . .’

  As if nobody knew Maxine and Gordon Frogget’s union had been sanctified by God and half the stockbrokers of Camberwell.

  With rare composure, Jake loosened his tie and slid some notes from his breast pocket. ‘When we first met in Fiji all those years ago, I had no idea how deeply I was going to fall for this Aussie girl,’ he read.

  ‘Oh, Jake,’ Lisa said, her eyes moistening.

  ‘Lisa, I can’t thank you enough for moving across oceans to make a life with me and raise our two kids here. You’re my rock, my inspiration . . .’

  Lisa felt guilty for all the times she’d yelled at him for coming home late and going to those interminable conferences.

  ‘You’re the artist to my knuckle-headed bean counting,’ he went on. ‘The sunflower-covered straw hat to my suit. You remind me of what really matters in life. You’re the—’

  ‘Wind beneath your wings?’ Portia said archly.

  Honestly, there were times Lisa could throttle her offspring. Temporarily, of course.

  Jake composed himself and glanced down at his notes. He always liked his speeches to have a serious core. Lisa could tell he was building up to a crescendo.

  ‘When you were struck with breast cancer last year we all faced the terrible prospect of losing you . . .’

  Oh god. She’d packed all that away in a mental filing box labelled Forget About It. She was fine now, just fine.

  There was a tap at the door. Ted moved silently across the room to open it while Jake continued. ‘And now, knowing you have the all-clear, we treasure you even more . . .’

  The room expelled a sigh of admiration as Ted reappeared with an enormous basket of red roses. Lisa had never seen anything like it. The arrangement was so huge it dwarfed her son.

  ‘Oh lord, Jake!’ She reached for the small white envelope dangling from one of the stalks.

  Jake suddenly turned pale. He lunged in front of her and tried to snatch the envelope. Smiling, she nudged him away.

  Lisa could feel her cheeks reddening as she tore open the envelope and pulled out a heart-
shaped card. Jake could be such a romantic devil. She blew him a kiss, but his eyes were blank, his mouth slightly open.

  ‘To my darling . . . Belle,’ she read aloud.

  There had to be a mistake. The handwriting was Jake’s. Her throat tightened. She tried to stop, but her voice kept reading the words aloud. ‘I cannot wait until we are together forever.’

  Lisa’s body slowly turned to stone. She knew Belle, the blonde from HR at the bank. Belle of the enormous boobs and pipe-cleaner legs, who said she’d read every book Lisa had ever written and was her biggest fan.

  ‘So I can bury my head in your thighs every night . . . All my love, Jake.’

  Silence.

  Jake’s face flushed with panic as the room’s gaze swivelled from Lisa to him. ‘This is outrageous!’ he declared, grappling for the phone in his suit pocket. Temples gleaming, he stabbed the numbers for Eva the florist.

  Usually when Jake turned purple, Lisa tried to calm him down, because he loved cheese and didn’t exercise enough. But the normal Lisa had vanished and been replaced by a hate-filled clone who was willing the arteries around his heart to explode.

  ‘What do you mean you sent them to the usual address?!’ Jake shouted at the plastic rectangle in his hand.

  He should’ve known not to trust Eva. Ever since her mother had died, she’d started talking to her carnations. Now Eva had sent the ridiculous arrangement to the usual address without thinking.

  Lisa watched as a crazed woman roared across the room and walloped Jake across the face. Who was she? Oh, that’s right. It was the other Lisa, the one so outraged and wounded she was about to commit murder. Or, on second thoughts, serious injury. Jake would be on life support for weeks. She’d enjoy the luxury of watching him suffer with tubes and probes sprouting from every orifice until she had the pleasure of switching off the machine.

  Then she noticed Portia and Ted clinging to each other in the corner, as if they were watching a 3D version of The Evil Dead. Nice Lisa, their mother, wanted to protect them from the ugliness of this scene. But evil Lisa required them to witness the rawness of her pain, to know who the victim was.