Those who didn’t believe in ghosts found plenty else to be disgusted about.
‘A fete? Who do they think they are? The royal family?’
The puzzling thing was that that no one Nina knew, or even friends of people she knew, had actually talked to any of the Templetons. Someone said they’d seen the mother in the supermarket early one morning, her trolley filled with food, but she’d paid and left before anyone spoke to her. None of the children had joined any of the local sports clubs. Mr Templeton had apparently been seen in a Castlemaine pub one Friday night, but it turned out to be a false alarm. He was always referred to as Mr Templeton. It felt somehow wrong to call him by his first name, believed to be Henry.
On the morning of the fete, Nina wasn’t surprised to hear far more traffic on the nearby roads. She glanced at her watch. Nine thirty. The fete was due to start at ten. It was a fine, sunny day. It wouldn’t hurt for her and Tom to take a look.
Her first thought as she walked up the driveway, with the then ten-year-old Tom cycling beside her, was that perhaps the kids in the school had been right about the supernatural forces. The last time she was here with the real estate agent, the driveway had been overgrown with weeds and dry grass, rutted with potholes. The trees lining the road had badly needed pruning, the fences running beside in need of repair. Now, the fence lines were straight and new. The trees had been cut back expertly, to form a cool and attractive natural arch over the road. The driveway itself was still dirt, but it had been graded, and a path for pedestrians constructed along the right side.
If the driveway was impressive, the house itself was a miracle. There were already forty or more people milling on the front lawn when she reached it, and their talk was a hub-bub of amazement. Not only was the garden immaculate, but the sandstone of the house looked polished, the window shutters freshly painted, the glass gleaming. It must have cost a fortune. How did they get it done so quickly? And one other question: what on earth were they doing here?
She heard a chime of a clock, from where she didn’t know. Ten o’clock. The front door opened. There, standing beaming at them all, was Henry Templeton. He strode out, enthusiastically shaking people’s hands, touching shoulders, leaning down and kissing babies. ‘Welcome! Welcome, all of you. Welcome to Templeton Hall.’
His accent was upper-class English, his bearing was – yes – regal. He was in his late forties, perhaps early fifties. He had a thin face, tanned, creased. Dark hair, with a long fringe that he flicked away now and again. Above-average height. He was dressed in a dark frockcoat, a cravat and shining black shoes with buckles, more suited to a ballroom than a dusty lawn.
‘Oh my God,’ Nina heard someone mutter beside her. ‘He’s a madman.’
‘What is this, some kind of film set?’ someone else said.
That was it, Nina thought. That was the whole effect. It felt manufactured, as though it had appeared overnight and would disappear just as quickly. Henry Templeton himself was like an actor, playing the part of an English country-house gent under a bright Australian sun, surrounded by broad yellow paddocks instead of sweeping green fields.
After Henry Templeton introduced himself to everyone waiting on the front lawn, he returned to the front steps, shaded his eyes and invited everyone into the house.
‘Make yourselves at home. Look around. See what we’ve been doing. And then I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves in the side garden where all the fun of the fete awaits.’
It was then that Nina noticed bunting adorning a row of trees to the east of the house. Music was just audible now too, a tinkling fairground sound, like a glockenspiel.
Henry Templeton spoke again. ‘Before you set forth, though, may I introduce my family. My wife, Eleanor.’ A petite dark-haired woman, easily his junior by ten years, stepped out of the house. ‘My oldest daughter, Charlotte.’ A plump girl aged fifteen or so, her thick brown hair tied back, a defiant expression on her face. ‘My middle daughter, Audrey.’ A pretty younger girl, tall and thin, with a dark-red bob. ‘Gracie, my youngest daughter.’ A smiling little girl, nine or ten, with a halo of white-blonde hair that made Nina think of a dandelion. ‘And my one and only son, Spencer.’ A cross-looking little boy with a head of blond curls, perhaps seven or eight years old, stepped forward, scowled, then stepped back. ‘And, of course, my sister-in-law, Hope.’ An elegant brunette woman in her early thirties standing at the back of the group gave a small nod. She didn’t smile or step forward.
The gathering crowd looked at the Templetons and the Templetons all looked back. There was silence for a moment as each took in the other. All five females were dressed in full colonial costume. Henry may have got away with it, his look formal but somehow in keeping with the house. There was no mistaking the women’s clothing for daily dress. Eleanor was wearing a long, pale-blue gown and matching bonnet. Hope had a similar dress in bright-red satin. The three girls looked very pretty in their long dresses, gloves and satin pumps, Nina thought. Even the little boy was dressed in old-fashioned clothing, breeches, braces and a hat, which from his tugging seemed to be the cause of his scowls.
‘Come now, don’t be shy.’ Henry Templeton smiled at them all again, before throwing out his arms once more. ‘Welcome, all of you, to Templeton Hall!’
‘What did he call it?’ the man beside Nina said, too loudly.
‘Templeton Hall,’ Henry Templeton repeated, beaming at them all once more. ‘Officially renamed today in honour of ourselves, but also, most fortuitously, in honour of William Templeton, one of the finest surveyors in Australian history and architect of many local settlements. His name already graces several of your streets, of course, but this is our additional personal tribute. I’ll officially unveil the plaque this afternoon, but if you can’t stay until then, please do take a peek in the meantime. In fact, why don’t I read it out?’
He strode towards a velvet curtain covering a square of brass on the wall beside the front door and pulled it back with a flourish. Templeton Hall, officially opened May 1860, it read.
‘Typo there, mate,’ someone called out. ‘It’s 1991, not 1860.’
‘Oh no, it’s not,’ Henry Templeton said with a warm smile. ‘The moment you drove past our gates you went back in time, didn’t you realise? You think we would wear these clothes otherwise? Templeton Hall officially opens today as a perfect time capsule of life in the 1860s. I am honoured and touched that so many of you are here to mark this special day with us. So please, come inside and make yourself at home with the Templetons with our compliments today, and for a nominal charge on all other weekends. And be sure to tell your family, your friends – even your enemies – about us.’ He laughed cheerily, then turned and went inside, followed by the rest of his family.
There was initial hesitation, then almost a stampede to the front door. Within minutes the house was filled with chatter, as people practically ran from room to room, exclaiming at the renovations, the furniture, the work that had been done, how authentic it looked, how much it must have cost, then, in more whispered tones, the strangeness of it all.
Henry Templeton was constantly on the move, smiling, pointing out this painting or that table, giving potted histories of the goldrush days, answering questions, no matter how rude or invasive, with charm, grace and humour. The five costumed Templeton females seemed to drift rather than walk – that ghostly feeling again, Nina thought – into different rooms, smiling at guests, each of them talking in confident, beautiful English accents.
‘They’ll go bust in a month,’ she heard people saying more than once.
‘This will all get stolen within a month.’
‘He’s nuts.’
‘The whole family is nuts.’
Nina and Tom stayed for half an hour. They walked through each of the rooms, Nina marvelling as much as the others milling around them, but keeping her thoughts to herself. She knew nothing about the interiors of grand homes during the goldrush era of the 1860s, but she’d have bet anything this was a faithful rep
roduction, with its gleaming wooden furniture, richly patterned floral wallpaper, thick rugs on polished floorboards, all the walls covered in portraits, landscapes and still lifes. Throughout the house everyday items like vases, lamps, hardback books, even an elegant hairbrush and mirror set, were arranged on top of chests of drawers and sideboards, as though they had just that moment been used. The kitchen had cutlery, china bowls, wooden utensils and what looked like freshly picked vegetables on the long table, old-fashioned jars and bottles on the shelves, even an apron and a flour-covered rolling pin lying waiting. It all looked right. It felt right. And somehow, despite the whole oddness of the situation, the Templeton family members were making her feel as though she’d just casually wandered into a day in their life.
As she toured the house, sometimes one of the costumed women would be in the room, playing the piano or sitting quietly, embroidering, looking up at her with a smile. In one of the front rooms – the morning room, she heard someone call it – the littlest girl was playing with a spinning top toy that also looked as though it was from the previous century.
It was in the dining room that the spell was broken. Nina thought at first it was Eleanor, Henry Templeton’s wife, but she remembered the red dress, and realised it was the sister-in-law. Hope, was that her name? Another visitor, clearly throwing herself into the spirit of the occasion, had asked where all the servants were.
Hope looked a little bored by the question, but answered it all the same, in a languid, refined voice. ‘We had one maid, a young Irish woman, but she wasn’t to be trusted. That’s been the trouble with life here in the colonies, all sorts of riffraff made it here and of all of them the Irish are the least trustworthy. Quite dishonest, in fact. It’s in their blood. The Italians are as bad.’
Perhaps the woman was trying to be funny. Perhaps it was an authentic replica of the thinking of the time. But it burst a bubble for Nina. In that minute, the setting, the whole pantomime aspect of the house ceased to be entertainment for her. She wanted to object. My name is Nina Therese Donovan, nee Kelly, and I find your comments offensive. She could imagine her father urging her to speak up. He was proud of his Irish heritage.
Hope was still talking. ‘The Chinese are just as dishonest. Thieves, most of them.’
Two women beside Nina, both of Asian appearance, looked as angry as she was feeling.
‘If it was up to me, I’d bring all our staff out from England. Though that’s as bad as anywhere else now. Immigration laws too lax. They let anyone in, more Indians around my house than in India these days. As for the blacks —’
Glancing around, Nina could see the group was a multicultural one.
‘You might think I’m exaggerating,’ Hope was saying, ‘but you should see some of the streets in London near where I used to live. You wouldn’t think you were in Engla—’
‘That’s enough.’ Nina spoke up then, conscious of the red flush flooding into her cheeks. ‘I don’t care if you’re playing a role here, but what you’re saying is racist and offensive.’
‘I’m telling the truth and if you don’t like it, then leave.’
A man entered the dining room behind her. ‘You’re asking one of our guests to leave? My dear Hope, what is happening here?’ It was Henry Templeton.
‘I’m just explaining the situation here and back home and this woman seems to be taking offence,’ Hope said, her voice sulky.
Henry turned his full attention to Nina. ‘My dear, I’m so sorry! Tell me, what’s your name?’
‘It doesn’t matter what my name is,’ Nina said.
‘Her name’s Nina Donovan,’ Tom said beside her.
‘Donovan? A fine Irish name.’
‘Don’t you start, she was bad enough,’ a woman beside her said. Nina knew her. Carmel O’Leary from the library.
‘Would you please tell me what happened?’
Nina told him, as Hope stood sullenly and other people in the group nodded in agreement.
‘I do apologise,’ Henry Templeton said. ‘Hope, haven’t I asked you to keep your thoughts to yourself?’
‘My thoughts? My honesty, you mean.’
‘Eleanor,’ Henry called then, leaning out the door. ‘Could I see you here for a moment?’ As he waited for his wife to appear, Henry turned his full attention back to Nina.
‘My dear Anna —’
‘Nina.’
‘My dear Nina, I do apologise. Sadly, that is how some people thought in the 1860s.’
‘I’m sure they did. What bothered me more is it’s clearly how she feels in the 1990s.’
‘Please, don’t be upset. Now, why don’t you have a sit-down and we’ll get you a cup of tea. I’m sure you’ll calm down soon.’
That was the last straw for Nina. ‘No, I won’t actually. We’re leaving and we won’t be back. She’s racist and you’re condescending.’
She and Tom had just collected his bike from beside the garden path when she heard a voice behind her. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me.’
It was the woman from the dining room. Hope.
Nina stopped, waiting for the apology. Beside her, Tom watched quietly, pushing his bike back and forth.
Hope was staring at her with something like hatred in her eyes. ‘How dare you,’ she said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘How dare you humiliate me like that, in my house? Who do you think you are, coming into a family house like this and grub-bying it with your rudeness.’
‘Excuse me. You were the one who was rude. I found what you had to say offensive.’
‘Offensive? You have difficulties with the truth, do you?’ Hope was shouting now.
‘Mum —’ Tom said beside her.
Nina put her hand on Tom’s shoulder to comfort him, still staring in disbelief at the other woman. She tried to be reasonable. ‘Look, I know this is all a joke, fun and games for tourists and to make money —’
Hope lifted her chin. ‘This is not a joke. This is living history. Something we all take very seriously. And I meant every word of what I said in there, and I mean every word of what I’m about to say to you. Get off this property this minute, you and your son, and never come back. You’re not welcome. Do you hear me? Get out of here or I’ll call the police.’
Tom was now staring wide-eyed at Hope, pressing even closer to his mother. People around the garden were starting to look across. Nina was tempted to call them over to listen. This place was supposed to be a tourist attraction?
The woman took a step closer. ‘Do I have to make myself any clearer? Leave. Go.’
The walk back down the drive wasn’t nearly as pleasant as the walk up had been. Despite Hope’s ranting, Tom told her he hadn’t wanted to leave yet.
‘We had to. They’re not nice people, Tom.’
‘But I wanted to see the fete.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, but we’re leaving.’
‘Are you mad at me now?’
‘Of course not. I’m mad at them, not you.’
‘Because their house is bigger than ours?’
That made her laugh. By the time they were home, ten minutes along the dry and dusty road, her son was back in good spirits again.
Nina wasn’t, however. If anything, she was more upset. The unsettled feeling stayed with her all afternoon. She went to bed early that night, not long after Tom, and tried to distract herself with a book, then a magazine, before tossing them both aside. She turned the bedside lamp off, then on, then off again, moving restlessly in her bed, unable to sleep, annoyed at herself.
She sat up, switched on the full bedroom light, looking across at the photo on the wall opposite her bed. It was her wedding photo, taken eleven years before. She looked so young – she had been young, only twenty-two. So happy, too. Her hair had been completely black then, no grey hairs like now, her blue eyes so optimistic. Beside her, easily a foot taller, her husband, Nick, was looking down into her eyes and laughing, the camera catching the moment beautifully, his face full of love, his eyes cr
inkled, his tanned, open face proof of his happiness that day. Not just that day, either. Nick had been the most cheerful, most optimistic man she’d ever met. The perfect antidote to her own often anxious nature, constantly reassuring her. ‘Everything will turn out for the best, sweetheart, you just wait and see.’ In appearance, Tom was a perfect mix of them both – he had her olive skin, Nick’s tall, lanky build, her black hair and Nick’s dark eyes. Even though he was still only a child, not even thirteen yet, she could tell Tom had also inherited his father’s determination, his calm nature, his gentle humour …
Back it came again, that yearning need for Nick to be there beside her, the longing to be able to turn to him in their bed, talk through her worries, take pride in their son together. The empty side of the bed seemed to mock her, as it always did. There was no telling when the grief might descend, even this many years later. The most ordinary of things could set it off: an unused pillow, an advertisement for family holidays on TV, or times like today, when she knew that if he had been here, Nick would have had her laughing in seconds about the crazy things that woman Hope had said; would have made everything all right again.
At Home with the Templetons Page 5
