The Making of Christina

by Meredith Jaffe

  Christina knows her mother spoke without thinking, it’s a habit of a lifetime, but it stings. And now she must share the other news. ‘There’s something else, Mama.’

  Rosa worries the gravel path with her toe, refusing to look up.

  Christina sits back down. ‘Mama. This is important.’

  Rosa shrugs.

  ‘There was another letter today, from the DPP.’

  Rosa drops her head, as if in prayer.

  ‘A date’s been set for the appeal. For early February.’

  Rosa continues worrying the gravel with her toe. Christina can’t blame her, the news left her speechless too. ‘I rang Katie Sommers.’

  At the mention of the Crown Prosecutor’s name, Rosa stills.

  ‘She says Jackson is appealing on several grounds, most of it technical legal stuff, which we expected.’

  Rosa purses her lips, ‘So we have to go back to court?’

  Christina shakes her head. ‘No.’

  Jackson’s sentence was fourteen years, eight years non-parole, out of a possible maximum of twenty-five. Katie Sommers said it was an excellent outcome. Anne Rushmore said it was longer than she’d hoped. Christina thinks they are playing games with numbers. In her eyes, every year less than twenty-five is a failure.

  Whatever the case, Bianca left Australia buoyed by the verdict, vindicated after the years of suffering she endured at Jackson’s hands and again at the hands of an uncompromising legal system. She has already served her time, but if the appeal overturns Jackson’s conviction, he’ll secure an immediate release. Everything will change. Bianca might be better off staying in Costa Rica.

  Christina keeps these thoughts to herself, saying instead, ‘Knowing her evidence is being disputed, that Jackson may be released, could be the undoing of her.’

  ‘Her, or you?’

  Christina sinks into the stone bench. A fly crawls up her bare arm searching out a bloody pool or a weeping sore on which to feast. Smacking down hard, she winces at the pain, watches the fly fall backwards onto the gravel. Like her faith in her instincts, it’s dead.

  Knowing Jackson has the right to appeal is one thing. It’s another thing entirely to have a concrete date. Christina finds herself standing at her chest of drawers; the growing detritus of her life camouflages the transcript. There’s a tube of ointment for her rash that she has cut in half to reach the last of the lotion. Elastics with strands of copper hair balled around them. A value pack of sunscreen. The untidiness is out of character but she finds the growing ensemble appealing. She’s added a sweet-smelling rose from Mama’s garden, using an old spice jar for a vase, and much to her delight, a bagworm cocoon. When Bianca was little, they used to hunt for the slender tubes in the garden. They’d find them glued to the eaves of the apartment or stuck to the garage’s brick wall. Covered in tiny twigs, like little timber shingles, the cocoons are works of art.

  Geography makes it easy to shield Bianca from news of the appeal. For once, their one-way communication is to Christina’s advantage. If Bianca does return for Christmas, Christina’s joy at seeing her will be tempered by the news, but what will be Bianca’s reaction? Fly off the handle, collapse in a sobbing heap or stride defiantly back into battle? Christina doesn’t know any more.

  The stress of the appeal has brought the rash flaring across her body in a riot of red blisters. Christina runs a bath and pours in oatmeal, watching the water turn milky. She tests the temperature against the inside of her wrist before sinking into the tepid water, shivering despite the heat.

  As she lies in the bath sponging her sores, Christina’s thoughts return to Sarah’s visit. Is it possible Sarah came not seeking absolution but as a forward scout? She dabs at the blistered track along her thigh. Sarah must know of Jackson’s impending appeal. Sarah might still visit him in gaol and Jackson was always one to press an advantage. Christina can imagine him ordering Sarah to come down here and check the lie of the land, search for weaknesses in their defences. But no – if what Sarah said about Josh is true, that seems unlikely. Either way, though, she never told Sarah where Bianca was. Christina smiles and sinks under the water.

  Imagine if Jackson knew she was on the other side of the world in a South American jungle with no email and very, very poor telephone services. Christina breaks through the surface, picking oatmeal off her skin. This time being in the middle of nowhere might play to their advantage. Unlike their days at Bartholomews Run where isolation had been Jackson’s trump card.

  chapter nine

  The Range Rover sped along the Bells Line of Road past the fruit stalls selling apples, pies and juices and the turnoff to the botanic gardens. Christina studied the map spread across her lap whilst Jackson drummed along with Fleetwood Mac on the steering wheel. Looking up she took in the blue-green bush and flaming orange cliffs plummeting into hidden valleys. She never grew tired of this view.

  Almost too late Christina yelled, ‘Left here! Left here!’ and in a hail of gravel and dust, Jackson accelerated the car through the curve. They settled onto a narrow road that snaked along the valley floor. Dirt turned to asphalt as they followed the road up into the mountains where bush gave way to sharp drops of wind-ravaged pasture.

  ‘It’s steep country.’ Doubt seeped into Jackson’s tone.

  Christina said nothing. It was a rare day when she held all the cards and she had no intention of letting Jackson ruin her surprise. He had charged her with finding them a place to live and as far as she was concerned she had excelled in her assignment.

  The land flattened out at the top of the ridge and they soon passed a road sign marking their arrival at the hamlet of Bartholomews Run. Since her first visit, the showground was recovering from the ravages of the annual rodeo. Patches of green spread across the dirt, although she wondered for how long given the faded sign advertising next month’s pony club rally. Alongside them, the railway track appeared and road and rail ran parallel until they converged on the town.

  Although town was perhaps too big a word for two buildings. On her first visit, Christina picked up a pamphlet from the general store. In the early 1800s, Bartholomews Run was a thriving village at the end of the railway line. Here travellers rested after their alarming train journey up the mountains from the Cumberland Plains before continuing via horse-drawn coaches on to Kitchener and beyond. Once eight hotels had graced the hillside; now only one remained, sitting in solitary splendour on the high side of the road. Even the church was just a collection of crumbling brick footings and the odd headstone poking out of long grass. Nothing had survived the loss of the railway.

  They turned over a causeway and followed the dirt road through a stand of towering eucalypts.

  Jackson flicked off the stereo. ‘Where is this place?’

  Christina could tell that Jackson, impatient at the best of times, was nearing the end of his tether. ‘Keep going, we’re nearly there,’ she coaxed, smiling to herself. If only he knew they were already on the property and had been since they crossed the causeway.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Jackson slammed on the brakes. ‘Will you look at that?’

  He reacted exactly the way she had hoped. Around the curve of a dry-stone wall Dutch irises in every shade of purple imaginable carpeted the hillside. Dense golden thickets of daffodils drifted underneath mature English park trees and cascaded into the valley below.

  ‘This is sensational!’ Jackson rolled the car past rusty wrought-iron gates. New sounds came to them through the quiet: the crunch of tyres on gravel and the lonesome calls of whipbirds.

  Without warning, the house reared up before them. It reminded Christina of a stone lion squatting on its sandstone plinth. The house curved along the crest of the hill, its impassive facade broken by enormous windows staring out over the valley.

  Jackson swore under his breath and peered up at the majestic sight. ‘It’s spectacular! You’d never even know it wa
s here.’ He leapt from the car, spinning on his heels, slack-mouthed with admiration. ‘Get a load of that view.’

  Christina joined him, picking a daisy from the garden spilling over the driveway.

  ‘Are we able to see inside?’ Jackson shuffled on the spot, eager as a puppy.

  She was enjoying this. Gesturing to Jackson to follow her, she retrieved the keys from behind one of the waist-high sandstone pots of gardenias guarding the front entrance. The real estate agent, Michael Spalding, had apologised for his absence this morning and given them a free run of the place.

  She fiddled with the cantankerous brass lock until the heavy door groaned on its hinges, releasing a musty odour into the fresh mountain air. Jackson strode past her and stood in the middle of the room. He turned in slow circles, taking in the fifteen-foot ceilings, the oversized picture windows and the enormous fireplace dominating the far wall. The marble mantelpiece was cracked and chipped but Christina saw beyond the faults to the virtue within. She was already debating the merits of leaving it in this semi-parlous state versus trying to restore it. A question she could easily apply to the whole house.

  Jackson squatted and rubbed decades of dust from the parquetry flooring. ‘Look at this timber, will you? Is it oak?’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘I bet you it is.’ He glanced up to admire the ceiling and noticed the archway on the far side of the room.

  Doors lined either side of a hallway wide enough to fit a grand piano. On the eastern side, the morning sun poured into rooms of generous proportions, illuminating the thick eddies of dust that swirled in their wake. But on the opposite side of the passage, camellias and rhododendrons crushed up against the glass, obscuring all light. Damp plasterwork made some of the ceilings sag and the air was heavy with the stench of mould. These failings barely detained Jackson who was drawn by a set of French doors at the end of the passage and the promise of something delightful beyond.

  The doors opened onto a deep sandstone verandah heavy with a wisteria vine that framed a view over steep paddocks to a far tree line. Jackson ran down the broad staircase to the swimming pool. Thick unkempt hedges sheltered the pool from the prevailing winds and once-white marble statues of naked nymphs and cupids frolicked in the spring sunshine. Any moment Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire would exit the cabana and dance cheek to cheek poolside.

  Jackson spread his arms trying to capture the scope of the house. ‘This is brilliant.’

  His obvious joy swelled Christina’s heart. She knew how he felt. On her first visit she had been flabbergasted that such a house could have gone untouched for so long. The second time she came here, her veins fizzed with its potential. Stumbling across Bartholomews Run expanded her vision beyond the humble quest to find a family nest befitting Jackson’s status. This property, restored to its former grandeur, could be the centrepiece of her portfolio. A career-defining, reputation-building work of art. The marriage of Jackson’s money and her expertise meant that together they could achieve something bigger than both of them, far outstripping the achievements of the house at Forty Baskets.

  ‘What’s that up there?’ Jackson pointed to a timber barn looming behind them.

  Christina started, his voice loud in the peace. Here the garden crowded around them, not a single house visible on the surrounding hills. There was something meditative about the quiet. Right now they could be the only two people in the world. She realised Jackson was staring at her, waiting for an answer. Christina struggled to remember the question but then it came to her.

  ‘The studio.’

  Jackson bounded ahead, tackling the overgrown path leading off from the patio. ‘How do you get into this place?’ she heard from deep within the thickets of camellia. When she caught up with him on the other side, Jackson was pulling sticky strands of spider web from his face.

  ‘Round this way.’ Christina squeezed past him, stopping at two barn doors. Jackson popped blisters of peeling paint as Christina fitted first one key then another into the rusty padlock. Inside was a disappointing dark space that smelled of wet concrete, but tucked away in the far corner was a rickety staircase curling towards a beckoning spill of light. Up here, amongst the mouse droppings and dust, old paintbrushes and scraps of rags littered the floor. She picked up a brush and held it to her nose, convinced she could smell the faint odour of turpentine. Jackson used a rag to erase years of grime from a set of windowpanes. Revealed was a view that extended over the lichen-encrusted slate of the main house and down into the valley on three sides. Behind them, out of the fourth set of windows, a brooding forest smothered the hilltops. There were brick stables, sheds, rows of neglected fruit trees and the outline of a potager garden.

  ‘All of it is rundown or running wild but the bones are magnificent.’ Christina felt pride weigh warm in her chest, as if she had created rather than discovered the magnificent old home.

  ‘Who owns this joint?’ Jackson circled the room, absorbing the scale of the property.

  She rested against the windowsill. ‘You won’t have heard of him.’

  Jackson paused and she enjoyed the small surge of excitement this tiny piece of information afforded her. ‘Try me,’ he said.

  A smile danced across Christina’s lips. How long could she keep Jackson in suspense?

  ‘Well?’

  Christina relented. ‘Bartholomew Rivers.’ Not so long then. Although, it took a moment for the name to register.

  ‘What? You’re kidding me!’ Jackson pulled a face worthy of a winner on a game show.

  ‘I kid you not.’ It was amazing. Who would have thought that Bartholomew Rivers had once stood in this very spot.

  Jackson elbowed her in the ribs. ‘Only joking. Who’s Bartholomew Rivers?’

  Christina shook her head in disbelief. ‘Only a famous, or should I say, notorious Australian painter from between the wars.’

  Jackson looked none the wiser. ‘So how come this joint has been left to rot?’

  At last she had his undivided attention. ‘Well the story goes that Rivers bought the place in the early 1920s when it was still a coaching inn. He spent a not inconsiderable sum in those days expanding the main building and adding the studio. Rumour has it that a protégée of Edna Walling did all the gardens.

  ‘After moving up here with his wife Mary, Rivers began drinking heavily. The more he drank, the less he painted; the less he painted, the less money there was. Mary left him in disgust and took everything of value – including almost all of his paintings. He died penniless, pitied and eventually forgotten. With no children, the house went to a cousin in Canada who never bothered to see the place and neither did his kids when they inherited it. According to the real estate agent, they’ve been trying to offload the place for years. In the meantime, the public have forgotten about Bartholomew Rivers and no one will take on the property because it’s under local heritage restrictions and, given its condition, it’s a money pit.’

  Jackson’s grin shot from ear to ear. ‘It’s like something out of a movie. We are going to live in the house of Bartholomew Rivers. It’s amazing.’

  ‘So you like it then?’ she teased.

  ‘Honey,’ Jackson embraced her, ‘I love it! It’s got history, it’s got a heart. You’re such a clever girl for finding it. We can convert the stables into a garage for my cars. You can renovate the house. We’ll live like Lord and Lady Muck!’

  ‘Cars! What about horses? We back right onto that fabulous forest. You’d ride for hours before you saw another living soul.’

  ‘All right. We’ll have horses too. One for each of us.’

  ‘But you can’t ride,’ Christina said, pointing out the obvious flaw in his argument.

  ‘Well you’ll have to teach me. In fact,’ Jackson peeled the sweater over his head and started unbuckling his belt, ‘you can start right away.’

  ‘Jackson! It’s not ours yet. Anywa
y, the floor’s filthy.’

  Jackson paused and took her face in his hands. ‘Do you want it, CC? Isn’t this place the stuff of dreams?’

  ‘God, I’d love to live here, Jackson, but it’s a hell of a lot of work.’

  Jackson rubbed her cheek with his thumb. ‘This is it. We’ve found our castle, Lady Muck.’ He grinned and pulled her to him. Dust swirled in the sunlight as they celebrated their good fortune.

  In his usual manner, Jackson left the details to her. ‘Somebody’s got to wear the hard hat,’ he said, tapping his knuckles against his skull to illustrate the point. She’d roll her eyes at that but secretly she loved the novelty of them being a single unit.

  And she was besotted with the property. Christina knew that the moment Jackson bought Bartholomews Run she’d be running around too busy to think, but she didn’t care. Although Jackson was yet to part with a single cent, she purchased a notebook and labelled it Bartholomews Run Restoration Project so she could capture ideas as they came to her. She dreamed of a time when the restoration was completed. A few minor Rivers would hang throughout the house, or at least some of his sketches. They’d open their home to the public so people could see the artist’s works in situ. Sketching a floor plan, Christina decided that the southern wing of the house with its quirky hexagonal room would make an ideal artists’ retreat. Perhaps local artisans could run workshops. The terrace would be perfect for alfresco dining. Plus Jackson would be thrilled to see the house making a return on his investment instead of just being an extravagant, not to mention ridiculously large, home for three people. Giving the local community the opportunity to explore Bartholomew Rivers’ artistic legacy would also showcase Jackson’s philanthropic endeavours. For a man who placed such a high value on his reputation, Christina thought it was an easy sell.

  However, Jackson had no love of flights of fancy. More than once, Christina was sure they’d lost the deal.

  For starters, the real estate agent, Michael Spalding, tried to jack up the price.