It might surprise you that I did not enter my lamington cakes this year, but then, it may not. I told Mother I certainly would. I shall simply tell her I did not place, though she will not believe it. The only thing I have ever done to make her proud is winning that ribbon every year.
The entire town is trying so hard to continue as usual, and I wonder how many of our neighbours are pretending their lives are happy and normal. I doubt many can see through my own facade. Except Lucy. We share our unhappy bond wordlessly, but I know we understand each other’s pain.
There are still days, I am ashamed to admit, that I do not rise until midday and days I do not leave the house at all. Not even to venture in to the garden. You would be disappointed with how I am wallowing so. I am not proud.
These days are less and less frequent, however, and I have decided I will make the garden my focus. I will tend the plants and flowers as you always did, in preparation for your return.
I will leave you now, my darling. I think of you each passing moment.
Forever yours,
Ivy
PS The talk of the fair was Bernie Telford’s proposal to split from Woodville Football Club once the war is over. He apparently had a fight with the President of the club. I thought of you when I heard the whispers and knew you would like to know.
Nicole re-read last night’s letter. She wondered if anyone remembered how the rivalry with Woodville began. Or was it one of those tales that got bent and twisted with time until no one knew exactly how it started, but they were all adamant it was for a good reason?
She knew she was delaying the start to her day. She was meant to be tackling the next job on her renovation list. The kitchen. Over the last week she’d finished sourcing reclaimed cabinetry and the new kitchen would be arriving tomorrow. Today she had to strip the old cabinetry out.
She pushed up the sleeves of her plaster-splatted tracksuit jumper and checked her list for the fourth time to make sure she had the order of tasks straight in her head. Danny would be around soon to help, but she wanted to get as much done as she could on her own.
With her trusty old sledgehammer she broke up the laminate benchtop into manageable-sized pieces and lay the sections in the corner of the room. She lifted the last piece of bench up but buckled under the weight of it.
‘Shit,’ she shouted as she fell to the floor.
‘You okay in there?’ Danny came rushing into the kitchen. ‘What the hell are you trying to do?’
He lifted the piece of bench off her easily and placed it on the floor with the others. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Nicole felt her vital extremities.
Danny helped her to her feet.
‘I was about to knock on the door when I heard you scream. Were you seriously trying to do this on your own?’
Nicole looked at the floor.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t afford to pay someone to do it.’ Her voice cracked.
‘I meant why not wait till I got here?’ He rubbed her shoulder. ‘Did you forget I was coming?’
Nicole shrugged. ‘No. I … just … well, you’ve done so much to help already. I don’t want to take advantage of you.’
‘Haven’t you figured it out yet? We’re pretty good at chipping in around here, helping out our mates.’ Danny shook his head. ‘Let’s knock this over together.’
Three hours of hard work later, Nicole and Danny sat on the verandah, looking out at the front garden, which was now dressed with top soil thanks to Jack and ready for the next stage. Turf. Nicole poured them each a glass of icy cold lemonade.
‘Thank you for your help today,’ she said.
‘Any time. Next time though, wait for backup. Save us both on Deep Heat in the long run.’ He rubbed his back.
Nicole laughed. ‘Sorry.’
‘Nah. I’m the one who’s sorry. That’s why I came over early. I was a bit rude to you after trivia.’ He stared out into the yard.
‘You obviously had something on your mind.’
‘Yeah. Something.’ He nodded, his gaze distant.
The writer in Nicole wanted to ask questions. Was he in love with Jacqui? That didn’t seem right. Jason? No, she hadn’t picked up that vibe. Not that that meant anything. The way he sat now, staring into the distance, told her there was something more to his late-night abruptness.
She fought back the urge to ask more questions and stayed quiet.
‘So, is this what you thought you were signing up for when you took on this place?’ Danny indicated the cottage behind them.
‘Not quite.’
‘Well, as I said before, you’re doing an amazing job.’ Danny smiled as he looked into her eyes, holding her gaze. ‘Anyway.’ He coughed and shook his head. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your day.’ He stood. ‘I should head before you kick me out.’
‘Are you kidding? I owe you big-time after today.’
Nicole stood and walked him to the step.
‘What time are the boys from Woodville coming over to install the new kitchen?’
Nicole averted her gaze.
Danny grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘You’re kidding me. Do you honestly think you can do a job like that on your own? No one can.’
‘Not the electrical stuff. I’ve got someone coming to do that.’ A quote for five grand just for labour would have chewed up most of what was left of the money from the lawyers for the renovation and that meant she had no choice but to install the cupboards herself. She had no idea what she was going to do about the tiles for the splashback, though.
Danny dropped his grip and shook his head. ‘Give me a minute.’ He pulled out his phone.
‘Danny, please. Don’t. I can’t let you do this for me.’
He tapped away on the screen. ‘Then don’t think of it as for you.’ He turned and looked her in the eye. ‘This place means a lot to a lot of people around here. We all just want to see it back at its best.’
Danny’s phone pinged. Three times. ‘There you go. Tomorrow you’ll have a crew of burly footballers here to help you install your kitchen.’ He turned abruptly and strode down the front garden path.
‘Wait. Where are you going?’
But he didn’t turn back.
Nicole watched him head out the gate. Then she saw that further down the path, Charlie was struggling with his grocery bag. In a few bounding steps Danny was beside him, taking his load. Together they walked towards the boatshed. Danny turned around and waved goodbye to Nicole, who was both miffed by his sudden departure and touched by his kindness.
Charlie took his bags off Danny and pushed open the old door to the boatshed. It creaked loudly, as it had done for years. He would oil the hinges again, but it would make little difference.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly as Danny headed back up the path. He was a good boy, the Temple kid.
The row of daddy-long-legs guarding the entry were momentarily disturbed by the rush of fresh air as Charlie closed the door quickly behind him. He manoeuvred round the boxes piled awkwardly on top of each other, careful not to touch their dusty surfaces. He removed his shoes at the inner line of busted plastic milk crates that sat just beyond the barrier of cardboard.
His fingers lightly trailed along the bookshelf that separated the entrance from the rest of the room, rising and falling over the bumpy spines of the books – some near vertical, most at varying angles of horizontal. He paused briefly, reached to the shelf above his shoulder and pulled out the only dust-free novel, gently caressing its front and back to ensure it remained clean and then carefully returned it to its place.
He lowered his tired aching body in his armchair in the far corner of the room, surrounded by dust sheets that hid long-forgotten treasures. He cursed the pain that invaded his every bone and muscle. He knew he was old, he didn’t need constant reminding.
His simple wooden bed lay to his left against a clean white wall, and in the corner next to that stood a small fridge, a sink, a simple hob and a
few shelves stacked with tins. His basic bathroom, a toilet and tiny shower, was behind him.
A picture of a barefoot woman in a flowing gypsy skirt mid-twirl in a patch of grass hung above his bed, the only sign of life in his little corner of order among the decaying chaos that surrounded him. He smiled at Ivy in greeting as he did every time he came inside.
Charlie looked out the portal window at his small view of the perfect blue ocean, framed by dirt and salt that clouded the edges of the round glass. The bus trip to Woodville and back had taken its toll, but he couldn’t do what needed to be done here. He couldn’t give idle tongues any fodder.
He wasn’t sure how the first part of his plan was going to work out, but at least something was happening with the cottage. And now that the next part of his plan was in motion, he only hoped there would be some redemption, even it wasn’t for him.
Twelve
The first day of the kitchen installation was going well. As far as Nicole could tell anyway. Danny had turned up early in the morning with a Matt and Greg from the football team and they got stuck straight in.
Nicole tried to be of use to them – she handed them tools, helped hold pieces of wood in place – but in the end she was just in the way. They didn’t say anything to that effect, but she could tell.
The best thing she could do for them was make herself scarce.
She wandered around the garden, perhaps there was something there she could do. No. Jack had that completely under control. Section by section he was turning the mess of shrubs and grass and weeds into something that looked presentable. He would have some good photos for his TAFE portfolio soon. Not having to pay for the kitchen installation meant Nicole could use the stipend to buy the turf, and it wouldn’t be long now till that could be laid and Jack could start putting in some plants.
She went out to the front gate to look at the cottage in its entirety. The inside might well be coming along nicely, and the yard, but there was still the exterior. How on earth was she going to tackle that? Would she even have enough time? Her first couple of months at the cove had gone by so fast. It wouldn’t be long now till her lease was up. She wondered if there was any option to extend it. Probably not, if they wanted it sold.
Nicole’s stomach tightened at the thought of having to move on after her time here. She’d have to start looking for a house-sit soon, she guessed. Line something up so she had somewhere to go.
Staring at the cottage was not exactly doing wonders for her mood, so she turned around and headed down the peninsula.
As she passed the boatshed she saw Charlie sitting on one of the deckchairs, looking out at the sea.
‘Morning,’ she called.
He turned around and nodded in greeting.
‘I’ve been kicked out while they do the kitchen.’ She laughed.
‘So you thought you’d come and annoy me?’
Nicole shrugged. ‘Or go for a walk.’
‘You do that a lot. Walk.’ Charlie got up and pulled out the other deckchair, motioning for her to sit, then went into the boatshed.
He returned a few seconds later with his Scrabble board, and lifted it up to show her, raising an eyebrow.
‘Why not?’ Nicole smiled.
The morning passed in gentle silence. Every now and then Charlie would sprout a fact prompted by a word played – shrew, eleven points, eat eighty per cent of their own body weight a day – and Nicole would try to counter with the next move. Wattle, thirteen points, genus acacia.
As they packed up the game, Nicole tripped on the deckchair.
‘Stumble, thirteen points, you lose.’ The hint of a smile touched Charlie’s lips.
‘Ha, ha.’ Nicole smiled. ‘You think you’re very funny, don’t you?’
He shrugged.
By the time Nicole got home, the guys were gone and Danny had left her a note. They’d be back ‘each day for the rest of the week to finish the job. Leave the electrician to me. There’s a temporary stovetop set up in the living room.’
Nicole would have to find a way to thank Danny and his friends. This old cottage really must have meant an awful lot to the people of the cove for everyone to give their time and energy so freely. Another question for her notebook. Another letter to read to bring Nicole one step closer to uncovering this story.
10th June, 1943
My Dearest Tom,
It would appear that I must continue going to church. Father Anthony’s scrutiny is proving more than troublesome to shake and when he is not watching me, his wife is. Between the two of them, they are as bad as having Mother here herself! Father Anthony is over every second day and Peggy every other.
I can now say with absolute authority that he did not marry her for her culinary skill. If she continues to so generously ply me with her sour casseroles and dry, hard roasts, I may be forced to commit a quite unchristian act. At least the goannas just beyond the tree line along the path to the boatshed do not seem to mind her cooking. I keep expecting to find one lying in the sun with its rigid claws reaching helplessly towards heaven. But they are as tough as they look, I suppose.
Oh, but I am being most wicked. She is only trying to do her wifely and Godly duty. I am too ungrateful. If Father Anthony knew my thoughts, he would no longer be so welcoming of my presence in church. You were always the better of the two of us, my darling. I fear my innate flaws show more easily without you here to temper them.
I am loath to admit, but it has crossed my mind, that perhaps Father Anthony has done a deal with the devil herself. In exchange for his spying, she loosens her notoriously tight purse strings. It would not be the first time Mother has used her money to get what she wants.
Listen to me once again. Is my soul irrevocably lost?
So, to Sunday service I must dutifully trudge each week. If Mother were to hear anything negative, she would no doubt return, and I fear how much worse she would be should that come to pass.
Lucy sat beside me last Sunday, and I must confess it did lift my miserable spirits somewhat to have her there. I hope she joins me next week and I have told her so.
We are developing quite a strong friendship, which I do find rather strange. Though I should not, given our shared circumstance. Do you remember when she and her Henry, God rest, first came to town? She was quite reluctant to join our community. Mind you, I was not as welcoming as I perhaps should have been. I am sure you would tell me I made no greater effort as I was threatened by her beauty, and you might be right. None of that now matters. Events have conspired to bring us together.
She is now the only person in town I can be honest with. Be myself with. Lucy and I have lunched with Colonel Bridges’ wife as the three war victims of the cove, but she is so much older than Lucy and me, and that creates some distance.
I am ever thankful for Lucy’s friendship. It is a most lonely existence I lead now waiting for news of your fate, my dear, and Lucy is fast becoming my one tether to this cold world.
It is, again, late. I write at night as I often feel crippled with sadness when I sign off and this way I am able to head straight to bed. I must to bed now, my darling.
Forever yours,
Ivy
Over the week the new kitchen slowly took shape and Nicole busied herself with smaller jobs around the cottage – stripping back and replacing skirting boards, starting the undercoat on the walls.
When the last tile of the kitchen splashback went in on Wednesday morning she stood in the middle of the room and took it all in. The reclaimed whitewashed wooden cupboards looked so pretty beneath the stripped and varnished oak benchtop, and the black subway tiles a friend of Trevor’s had saved for her from a pub renovation in Woodville set just the right tone.
‘Thank you.’ Her voice was barely a whisper as she looked at Danny and Matt and Greg, standing with their hands in their pockets, waiting for her validation. ‘It’s … perfect.’ She excused herself quickly.
Hiding in the living room, she tried to compose herself by going over h
er lists, which she’d stuck on the wall. The kitchen was perfect, and the cottage was now starting to feel like a home. Except it never could be home. Not for her. Once the renovations were done, she’d be kicked out. She’d never get to truly enjoy the beautiful kitchen the footy boys had made for her. Not for very long, anyway. She wiped away her tears.
‘Excuse me, Nicole,’ Danny said as he came into the living room. ‘We’re all packed up in there and the boys have headed off.’
Nicole turned. ‘How will I ever thank them? Thank you?’
‘They didn’t do it for the thanks.’ Danny shrugged. ‘It’s just mates helping mates.’
He noticed the lists behind her.
‘Creating your own wallpaper?’
Nicole cringed. There were a lot of lists.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this before.’ He whistled. ‘You’re either the most organised person in the world, or borderline crazy.’
‘Take your pick.’ Nicole smiled.
‘Everything categorised and prioritised. Man, do you need a hobby, or a job, or a dog, or something.’
‘This is my hobby.’ She grinned. ‘And I’m allergic to dogs. And I have a job, sort of.’
Danny raised an eyebrow.
‘I do a little freelance editing. Speaking of jobs, how is it you’re able to be here picking me to pieces? Don’t you have other jobs around town to work on?’
He shrugged. ‘They come and go.’
It was Nicole’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
‘It’s not really my job-job. I just help out a bit here and there.’
‘So do you have a job-job?’
‘I can’t believe the local grapevine hasn’t filled you in on that already.’ He put his hands on his hips and studied her lists. ‘I can help with this. And this. And these.’ He pointed to a number of tasks.
‘I try not to get involved in gossip,’ Nicole said.
‘In a town like this involvement isn’t really optional. I’ll have to speak to the powers that be and let them know their system is failing.’
The Cottage at Rosella Cove Page 12
