by Janet Woods
His eyes crinkled into lines when he laughed. “It’s crude and unimaginative. Name any port in the world and I could show you better.” His expression became quizzical. “Do you really want to buy it?”
She nodded.
“Why, love? It’s going to take a heap of money to restore it?”
“It feels as though it’s been waiting for us.”
“You and your feelings.” Brad gazed through the French doors, saying almost absently. “The garden’s a mess.”
“When you’re away at sea I’ll have plenty of time to set the garden to rights and the money great-aunt Bessie left me will cover the repairs.”
“I thought you were keeping it for something special.”
“A home is something special.” She laid her head against his chest. “This one has some lovely features. Where else would we get a stained glass door and harbor view for the price?”
“It’s in a good position,” Brad conceded.
“I bet we’d pick it up cheap. It’s been on the market for some time, the owner is desperate to sell.”
“It won’t be cheap once the bills start coming in.” Brad suddenly grinned. “Okay, you win. Let’s put in our lowest offer and see what happens.”
Whilst the house was being built we lived in the shed, which was little more than a lean to with asbestos sheet walls and a tin roof to keep out the rain. My father laid the wooden floor in the house at night with the aid of a hurricane lamp. Each architrave took several days to complete and the saw constantly blunted on the hard timber. Mother cooked over an open fire but she never once complained about the heat or the noisy marauding magpies that came to keep her company. Finally, the house was finished. There was great excitement as we moved in. Mother set her rocking chair on the back verandah, and declared it was finer than the house near Croxley Woods, Hertfordshire, where she’d lived as a girl. On his next voyage to England father went there specially, bringing her back some bluebell bulbs.
At the end of the garden the almond tree, gnarled and twisted with age. Brad had pruned it before he rejoined his ship. Sensing the arrival of spring it now rained delicate pale pink blossoms on Claire as she wrestled with the prickly arms of a climbing rose.
“They shouldn’t have called you, Rose Marie,” she grumbled, surveying the scratches on her arms as she clipped back the last trailing tendril. “Jack the Ripper would be more appropriate.”
“That’ll be a mass of pink when it’s in season, missus,” the workman called from his perch on the ladder. “You can’t beat the old fashioned roses if they’re pruned right.”
Claire pushed her fair hair back from her face, looking up at him. “It sounds as if you know something about gardening, Tom.”
“Only what I’ve picked up over the years. Roses are a favourite of mine. I wouldn’t mind having a cutting or two from that one under the dining room window. It’s a, Hugo Rolla, and it’s rare. Descending from the ladder Tom inspected what she’d done. “If you don’t mind me saying, missus, you’ve been a bit timid. Taking the secateurs from her hand he ruthlessly attacked the rose, grunting as it yielded to his practiced hand. “You’ve got to take it back to the bud if you want a good showing.”
“Thanks.” Claire stretched the kinks from her back as she straightened up. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Tom grinned. “Call me when it’s ready. I’ll carry these clippings out to the skip.”
The golden shower tree on the right of the back door grew from seeds father brought back from Hawaii and raised in the green-house. Much to mother’s dismay it was the only one that survived. Father was excited when he brought home the Redwood. Supposedly it’s a rare Dawn Redwood, and grown from seeds taken to California from China by a botanist. The tree is now extinct in China. Mother smiled when father told her that. The leaves are brown when it’s dormant, and red in the summer, when it becomes very graceful. A very strange lily grows under the tree. It has a striped stem and black blossoms. Its odor is foul, but if you stick a spike through the base of the flower the smell soon dissipates.
The golden shower tree was no longer there, neither was the Redwood. The glass-house had become damaged in the Meckering earthquake and had been demolished, the letter had gone on to say.
Two magpies fluttered down when they were having tea. Their black and white feathers gleamed in the sun, their eyes were beady and curious as they inspected Claire, talking to each other in soft melodious voices.
“Nosy blighters, magpies,” Tom said with a grin. “They always stick their beaks into other folks business.”
Claire took the letter from her pocket. “Listen to this.”
Mother used to feed a group of Magpies that nested in the reserve. At six am, they’d come and sing under her window. They’d only eat minced beef, which they took from her hand. One became her favorite, and was so tame it used to follow her into the house. I continued the practice long after my parents died. I wonder how they’ll fare now I’m obliged to sell the house?”
“Who wrote that?”
“The daughter of the people who built the house. I found it hidden behind the wallpaper.”
Tom scratched his head. “I’ll be jiggered?”
“It’s rather touching, really. She describes the garden in detail. There used to be a green-house, and a pond with tropical fish.”
“About two thirds of the way down the garden, I reckon. You can see the indentation in the lawn from up on the roof. The pond’s probably still under there.”
Later, when Tom had gone, Claire wandered around the house. Brad would be surprised with what she’d achieved in his absence. Despite his dubiety the house had proved to be sound, and new life had been breathed into it. The floors had been sanded back and polished to a deep red glow by an expert. She’d painted the walls in soft glowing pastels. It had been a labor of love for her.
The bathroom had been the biggest expense, but worth it. No more dashing to the outhouse in the dark!
Brad would be home in a day or two, coming through the stained glass front door, his face eagerly expectant, his arms reaching out to give her a hug - like Captain Joseph Moffet used to come home to his wife and children.
Until one day, Joseph hadn’t come home at all.
In 1940,war raged in Europe. It hadn’t really affected us here, and life went on as usual. Mother stood at the end of the garden watching for father’s ship, which was due in port. She waited and waited. Eventually, a telegram boy propped his bicycle against the fence. He was whistling a tune as he knocked at the door. Mother sat in her rocking chair, white faced, staring at the yellow envelope in her lap. She didn’t open it for a long time. When she did she threw her apron over her faced and sobbed. Father’s ship had been caught up in the tail end of a cyclone coming down the coast and had been driven on to a reef. It sank with all hands. My sister Elsie went to fetch a neighbor. There was no funeral as father’s body was never recovered, just a service in the chapel at the Seafarers Centre. Mother was never the same after father died, and though Elsie and I were used to him being away, the house felt as though part of it was missing. We tried to persuade mother to move house but she refused to consider it. She said it was the home her husband had provided for her, and it was full of happy memories.
Tears prickled at Claire’s eyes, knowing how the woman had felt. Brad was first mate on a container vessel carrying cargo between Asia and Australia. She died a thousand deaths every time there was a storm warning. He’d been at sea since he was a boy, loved the life and always laughed off her fears.
“It’s less dangerous than driving a car. When I get my own command you can come with me and see for yourself.”
The sea held no romantic call for Claire - especially now. She gave a dreamy smile. Like other seafarers wives, she’d wait patiently for her man to come home, and even though he loved her, know she’d always take second place to his greater love. One day he’d be old and the sea would give him back to her. Or claim him - like it had Joseph Mo
ffet?
She put that thought from her mind as she read a bit more of Jessica’s letter.
Elsie married an American army officer towards the end of the war. The marriage took place in the small church up on the hill. She wore mother’s silk wedding dress, which was made of beaded lace over silk and quite loose and straight. To modernize it mother and I shortened it, gathered it in at the waist with elastic and added a wide belt and bolero jacket. Elsie looked very chic, and so in love. Shortly afterwards she joined her husband in America. It proved to be a very happy marriage, and I’ve always envied her fortune in having such a wonderful husband and children. My own life took a very different path.
“As mine could have done,” Claire murmured as the telephone rang.
“You’ll never guess what happened, darling?” her mother said. “Peter has proposed.”
Claire laughed. “It’s about time you made things legal? You’ve been living together for ten years.”
“Oh, I’m not going to accept.”
“Why not? You love Peter, don’t you?”
“You don’t understand, dear.” Her mother sighed. “Marriage is against my principles. Why should I tie myself down with a bit of paper?”
Claire gave a snort of disbelief. “Marriage is a commitment, not a piece of paper.”
“Don’t be so boringly domestic, Claire. You know how I feel. If I’d married your father I wouldn’t have got where I am today.”
“You mean, sorting out other people’s domestic problems?”
“Being a divorce lawyer pays well,” her mother pointed out. “How else could I have afforded private schooling or holidays abroad?”
“Perhaps I’d have preferred growing up with a father than being dumped in a stuffy boarding school. As for holidays, trips abroad with your feminist friends wasn’t my idea of fun.”
Her mother’s laugh was brittle. “Your father had no interest in seeing you grow up, my dear. If he had he’d have stuck around. And as for my ranting . . . a lot of good it did you. One glance from Brad’s big brown eyes and you abandoned your chosen career and ran off with him.”
“It was your chosen career I escaped from.”
“Don’t let’s quarrel, Claire. Motherhood doesn’t come equipped with hindsight. I just wanted what I thought was best for you.”
“I’ve got what’s best for me. I’m very happy with Brad.” Claire smiled. “Give Peter my love. Tell him he’s had a lucky escape.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He could do better than marry a grandmother,” Claire said, hanging up.
A few seconds later the phone rang again and a cautious voice said. “What did you mean by grandmother?”
“You know. One of those ladies who brag about how clever their grandchildren are all the time.”
“Oh my God! You’re pregnant?”
“Got it first time. There’s hope for you yet.”
“I’ll be over on the next plane, darling.”
“You most certainly will not! Brad’s due home and I haven’t told him yet.”
“When can I come?”
“Around about November.”
“That’s months away,” her mother wailed.
“I don’t need you until the baby’s due, and it will give you time to practice your grandmotherly duties. You can learn to knit or something.” Claire grinned when her mother snorted. “Besides, the house won’t be ready for guests until then.”
Ten months after Emily left for America my son, Ian, was born out of wedlock. I was nineteen. There was no question of marriage to Ian’s father. He was an American GI I’d fallen in love with. Unfortunately, he turned out to be married, and was transferred back home at short notice. Mother was so ashamed when I told her I was pregnant she sent me to a church home in the country. Ian was taken from me shortly after birth and I never saw him again. At the time I thought it for the best, but Ian was so beautiful and I loved him so much. I’ve often wondered how he fared in life, and hoped he’d been adopted into a good home. Somehow, I’ve always been convinced our parting wasn’t final, and held on to the family home as long as possible in case he tried to find me. If he turns up I’d like him to have this letter.
Tears stung Claire’s eyes as she held the letter against her cheek. Poor Jessica. It would be heartbreaking to give the baby you loved away and live in hope for all those years. But it wasn’t just hope, there was a quiet conviction contained in the words . . . as if Jessica knew? Claire tried to contain the quiver of excitement rising in her. It had to be more than coincidence.
When I returned from the country I started work as an organist at the Tivoli Theatre in Perth. I’d always wanted to go on the stage, so when the opportunity arose I auditioned for a small part in a musical show. Just as my career path seemed assured my mother contracted a serious illness. She became very bitter and demanding as her illness progressed, and I was forced to stay at home to look after her. The only thing that gave her joy was the magpies. I know they reminded her of happier time
The next morning four magpies had gathered on the back verandah. Claire was feeding them hamburger mince when Tom arrived.
“I see they’ve brought the relatives along to look at you. Magpies are funny birds. They’ve got a strong sense of family, and always come back to the same places to live.” He smiled as the four birds strutted and grumbled at each other. “Listen to them gossiping.”
“Tom,” she said. “If I wanted to find the woman who wrote that letter, how would I go about it?”
“Ask the magpies,” he said with a grin. “I bet they know where she is.”
Claire’s answering grin matched his. “I’ve already done that. And I’ve also checked in the telephone book.”
“What about the electoral rolls?”
Claire hadn’t considered the electoral rolls. If the letter had been written twenty years ago Jessica Webb wouldn’t be more seventy, and if she was still alive she should be on the rolls. Leaving Tom painting the gutters she took the train into Perth, made her way to the electoral office and signed for the appropriate file.
There she was! Jessica Florence Webb. (nee Moffet) The woman lived in retirement village.
Brad arrived home two days later. Dumping his case in the hall he swept her into his arms. “You’ll never know how much I’ve missed you.”
“I think I might have some inkling.”
“Anything happened whilst I’ve been away?”
“What do you mean - has anything happened? Are you blind of something?”
Brad grinned. “Apart from you turning this place into a palace, I mean. It doesn’t look as if there’s much left for me to do.”
“Don’t look so hopeful. I want you to dig out the pond.” Taking him by his tie she led him to the smallest bedroom. “I’ve also kept you this room to redecorate.”
“Painting beats digging any day. I’ll do it first. What color?”
“Pale blue with puffy white clouds on the ceiling.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“I also want a rainbow arching across the wall and a pond with ducks on.” She pointed to the corner by the window. “Over there, a tree with yellow blossom branching to the ground. Underneath, a magpie or two strutting in the grass.”
“Who do you think I am, a reincarnation of Michelangelo?”
She gave him a tiny, satisfied grin. “What color should the cot be, do you think?”
Brad’s eyes narrowed, then his arms came round her and he hugged her close. “You say the nicest things. Who have you told?”
“Only mum?”
“U-huh!” Brad rolled his eyes. “How did the chief Valkyrie take it?”
“She’s ecstatic, and rang back to tell me she’s decided to marry Peter. She doesn’t want the baby to have a de-facto grandmother.”
Brad raised an eyebrow. “I’ll believe that when it happens. I’d better ring my parents.”
“Before you do, there’s something I want to show y
ou.”
Brad’s eyes scanned the letter then slowly came up to meet hers. “Where did you get this?”
“It was hidden behind the wallpaper.” Claire’s eyes began to sparkle. “Jessica Webb lives in a retirement village not far from here.”
“You haven’t been to see her, have you?”
“Of course not. I thought I’d wait to see what you wanted to do about it. Your father’s sensitive about his past and I thought it might be just a coincidence.”
“Could be.” Brad’s mouth stretched into a cautious smile. “But somehow I doubt it. Dad had a hard upbringing in that orphanage. Perhaps we ought to send him the letter and let him decide if he wants to follow it up. What do your instincts tell you?”
“That everything’s happening as it was meant to. I was meant to fall in love with you, and we were meant to buy this house. That letter was intended for us, that’s why it wasn’t found before. And if our baby’s a girl I’d like to call her Jessica, whatever the outcome of the letter.”
“I guess the cot had better be pink then,” Brad said, his eyes reflecting his tender smile. “Have I told you how much I love you, lately?”
“I met Jack Webb when I was forty,” Jessica was saying, her dark eyes twinkling into a smile. “I was lonely. It wasn’t a very good marriage. Jack gambled and drank to excess. He died in a car accident, and I was forced to sell the house to pay off his debts.”
Brad’s father placed a cup of tea in her hands and she smiled lovingly at him. “You bear a marked resemblance to my father, Ian.”
“Tell me about him,” Ian Moffet said.
Brad took Claire’s hand, tugging her gently to her feet. “We’re going home now, Dad. You can make your own way back when you’re ready.”
“Before you go, Brad.” Jessica took a flat parcel from the table. “This belongs to the house. Your great grandfather made it.”
