The House At Salvation Creek

by Susan Duncan

  'Be there in ten minutes,' she yells down the phone, excitement trilling her voice.

  'We'll meet you at Commuter Dock!'

  It's a perfect day, which is the irony of the drought. The sun shines constantly and makes you forget there's a downside.

  'Good to see you!' Bob and I yell from the tinny. Katie and an English friend, Liz, are unpacking at the dock. 'How was the trip?'

  'Fantastic!' Katie calls back. 'Burned up the tarmac. Gonna go home more slowly and paint stuff. It was just fantastic.' Wind blows hair in her eyes. She flicks it back impatiently, laughing. Always in a rush. She looks so well, so strong. If anyone can beat the odds, she can.

  At home, the prints are unveiled one by one: a series of almost thirty Pittwater boatsheds. Glamorous, quirky, crumbling. Throbbing with light on water, shadows on walls, windows, trees. There are bigger prints of a deserted Morning Bay in the oily lustre of dusk. Woody Point seen through a web of skinny young spotted gums. And Tarrangaua. House Among the Trees, she calls it. Moody. Evocative. Home.

  'Technically,' she tells us, 'Tarrangaua is one of the best prints I've ever done.'

  'It's wonderful, Katie. They're all really wonderful,' Bob and I say. And she shrugs because she's smart enough to be suspicious of quick praise. But there's a small smile, too, because she knows she's caught the spirit of Pittwater.

  'Had a coffee in Mona Vale before coming over,' she adds. 'Saw a pair of pink Ugg boots in a shop. Funky as anything. If I cover my costs I'll buy a pair to celebrate.'

  We leap into setting up the exhibition. Our paintings come down from the walls. Barbara's pottery and family photographs are carefully put away. The house stripped bare looks forlorn and, for some reason, shambolic.

  'Now,' says Katie, picking up a long, thin print of Woody Point. 'How about here?'

  Bob looks at her in disbelief. 'There's no hook there.'

  'But there's no other place for it!'

  Hanging the pictures turns into a nightmare. Understandably, Bob doesn't want new holes in the walls. And where is there a space big enough to hang the massive boatshed series? He and Katie bicker. They are both tenacious about their points of view. Then Bob disappears into his shed. Katie, Liz and Fleury, who's dropped in to help, hover over mugs of tea on the verandah. The fire's gone out of us, even Katie. No-one's quite sure what to do next.

  'Think this will work,' Bob says a while later, holding a few bits of wood. 'Means we can layer the boatshed prints so they're all in one place.'

  We look at him standing in the kitchen doorway with long thin strips of timber in his hands. None of us has the faintest idea what he's talking about but he goes away humming off-key and we all decide we might as well have some more tea. And a bit of cake. 'To keep our strength up,' I say. The cake slips down easily. The fire brigade profits drop.

  Bob builds a light frame and anchors it on the benches in the hallway, tilting it until the overhead lights hit the prints at a perfect angle. It's a breakthrough and we're all revved again. Especially Katie, who wonders if it might be a good idea to move all the furniture. Then she sees Bob's face. 'Maybe not,' she adds hastily.

  By lunchtime on Good Friday, every work is polished and hung. Straight. Pia arrives to help with the fundraiser part of the weekend. She's elegant, gorgeous, spotless. Author Di Morrissey and her partner, Boris, lob in. Di will officially open the exhibition.

  A long time ago, Di was a wild Pittwater child who lived in a little white fibro shack with an enclosed verandah not far past where Lovett Bay spreads into Pittwater. She was a curious kid with secret hiding places in the bush and a vivid imagination. Once, she hunted for fairies with Dorothea Mackellar after the poet found her searching for them under bracken. 'May I help?' asked Mackellar. 'If you like,' shrugged young Di.

  On a cold winter afternoon when the water was choppy and the wind temperamental, Di's stepfather and baby half-brother drowned as they returned home from The Point. No-one really knows what happened, but it's generally believed her 18-month-old stepbrother fell overboard and her stepfather drowned trying to save him. 'A life given for his son,' says the tombstone where they are buried together. Di and her mother moved away from the fibro shack and Pittwater. How could they ever cross the water again without tears and rage at the senselessness of it?

  Now Di is back, for the first time in years. 'In a way,' she says when she arrives for the preview in a swirl of blonde coiffure and dainty high heels, 'this is a pilgrimage.'

  The first guests come up the pathway for the preview. Jeanne is amongst them. She waves from the lawn, her face jammed tight with smiles. Her clothes flow around her lightly, anchored by her black orthotics.

  'The moment of truth,' says Katie, taking a deep breath. She wears white cotton trousers and a navy and white striped top, like a sailor. Alex, who has flown in for the opening, smiles at her. Before long, little red stickers appear on frames. Slowly but surely.

  We pass around lush cheese, tomato and zucchini tarts made from one of Jeanne's recipes. A couple of garlicky chicken and pork terrines wrapped snugly in bacon slices. Little duck sausages. Michael, who took over the house I rented on Scotland Island before moving to Lovett Bay, and his friend Kal, a meat exporter, barbecue thick slabs of rump steak to pinkness, then slice it thinly in a way the Americans describe as 'London broil'. Some of us eat it with our fingers, others make little sandwiches with a slash of French mustard and a handful of rocket.

  'You Pittwater people know how to live,' says Jeanne, when she pokes her head into the kitchen. 'Is life always like this?'

  'Like what?' I ask.

  'Fun!'

  'Yep!'

  She wanders back to the sitting room where she's found a friend she hasn't seen for years. Alex picks up his mandolin, Katie grabs her guitar. In the middle of a Joan Baez tear-jerker, Michael casually picks up an armchair and carries it outside, high-stepping across the room like an eccentric character in a comedy skit. It's puzzling, but I soon forget about it.

  A while later, he sidles over and whispers in my ear. 'Jeanne's had a fall. She's outside lying on the lawn. No-one wanted to tell you.'

  I bolt out the door and find Bob kneeling near her, holding her hand. Her eyes are closed and her face is white. Damn. Bloody damn. A fall any time you're over fifty years old is a bugger. You never quite recapture your old mobility. I lift her head and rest it in my lap.

  'Ah, there you are,' she says. 'Wondered when you'd appear.'

  'No-one told me. Nearly had a fit when I heard. What hurts?'

  'My hip.'

  'The original one or the new one?'

  She smiles for a moment. 'Can't remember which is which anymore.' She closes her eyes again. I stroke her face, her arms, her head.

  'The water police are on the way, with the blokes from the ambulance. Just have to wait,' Bob says.

  The moon is high and bright. A giant yellow ball in a black sky, making midnight more like dusk. Six blokes with eager young faces come up the steps with a stretcher and a medical kit – none of them puffing. Three are water police in blue overalls, three are medicos dressed in navy pants and white shirts. They amble towards us, then surround Jeanne in a thick, handsome wall.

  'Jeanne?' I whisper. 'Help is here.'

  She opens her eyes. Blinks. 'Have I died and gone to heaven? Six gorgeous young men?' She tries to smile but can't pull it off.

  The bloke with the medical kit kneels beside her, asks what hurts. He moves her hip a fraction and she lets out a scream loud enough to break your heart.

  'Don't!' she says, gritting her teeth. 'Do. Not. Do. That. Again.'

  The medico stands up. 'Better get her on the stretcher and into hospital.' He looks around. The water police have disappeared.

  'Stewart's taken them on a tour,' Bob explains sheepishly. 'They've never been here before.'

  'Right, mate. Well, we better get 'em back. It's gonna take all of us to get her down to the boat.'

  'Use the ute if I could,' Bob says, 'but it d
oesn't have lights. Sorry. We carried her up in an armchair from where she fell. Do you want to try it?'

  'We're used to carrying stretchers down steps around here. Every house is the same. Steps up. Steps down.'

  He gives Jeanne a shot of painkiller. Bob's daughter, Kelly, who's a nurse and visiting from Melbourne for Easter, goes across the water with her and stays at the hospital until she's settled.

  Inside the house, the singing fades. The party's over. Torches are grabbed and the tinnies firing up sound like a rush of small explosions. Boats slink out slowly, their wakes spreading like silver-blue fantails in the moonlight.

  'Think she'll be there at least a week,' Kelly says when she returns, her face white and tired. It's almost three am. 'She's strong, though. Wasn't going to let anyone touch her without knowing what they were going to do.' She starts to help load the last of the dirty glasses into the dishwasher.

  'Go to bed,' I say, pushing her away. 'You've done enough.'

  Pia's taken Di and Boris down the hill to Stef and Bella's, where they're all staying while Stef and Bella are away.

  'What a bugger,' I sigh. 'Don't know how she'll manage when she goes home. She's got steps everywhere.'

  Walking down the hallway feels like wandering through a stranger's house. Bob turns out the lights and Katie's gorgeous boatsheds fade to black. Bob and I slide into bed. He grabs my hand.

  'She'll be fine,' he says. 'She's one of the toughest women I've ever met.'

  'Yeah. Maybe.'

  I wait until nine the next morning to call the hospital.

  'Jeanne who?' asks the receptionist.

  'Villani. V-i-l-l-a-n-i,' I spell out.

  'She's not listed. Oh, here it is. She was discharged early this morning.'

  I punch in Jeanne's number. 'What are you doing?' I ask crossly. 'You need looking after!'

  'Hate hospitals and I certainly wasn't going to spend Easter in one,' she says. 'Nothing's broken and I can move around with a crutch. I'm an expert with crutches. Learned to use them when I had my hip replaced.'

  'Jeanne, your bedroom is up a flight of stairs . . .'

  'I'm especially proficient with a crutch on stairs.' And there's nothing more to say. I want to be like her, I think to myself. As I grow older I want to find ways to grow stronger instead of weaker.

  On Saturday morning as the first guests arrive to see Katie's exhibition, Roy drives the Lovett Bay fire truck out of the shed and onto the lawn. He pulls on the handbrake and every shiny-eyed kid runs over to the glittering red and chrome vehicle. They stand and stare . . . with dreams in their eyes.

  The first lot of volunteer fireys appear at the top of the steps, resplendent in bright yellow. There's Dan, who has a beautiful tenor voice, the two Alans, who are fiercely protective of our environment, Nick and Ann, who wear away the weeds in the bush. Roger, who has an encyclopaedic knowledge of crustaceans, and Kylie, whose dad Stacky died and whom we all miss. And Lisa, of course, who keeps us laughing but never misses a detail. They whiz around like bees. Every kid thinks they're heroes.

  They take turns pouring endless cups of tea from large, speckled blue enamel teapots, safer than using Barbara's rare old Brown Betty. They slice cakes, replenish plates and look after old ladies who are a bit wobbly on their pins or in need of gentle resuscitation after the walk up eighty-eight steps.

  'This is a busy house,' says a woman with white hair and a walking stick, 'like houses used to be.'

  'Like I'm sure you are,' I reply, and she smiles.

  'You're dead a long time. Shame to waste a minute,' she adds. Then she wanders down the hallway, looking at Katie's boatsheds intently. 'Ah,' she says, turning back to see if I am still watching her. 'This is my son's boatshed. Thought it might be here.'

  'Guess you'll want to buy a print, then?'

  She nods. I run off to find Katie.

  Lisa and I work the lunch shift for the fireys and people who thought they'd come for half an hour and have decided, instead, to spend the day. Bob and the fireys, all armed with fact sheets about the house and the poet, answer questions. Alex washes mugs until the skin on his fingers begins to peel. A bosomy woman in a floral dress pushes him aside. None of us has a clue who she is.

  'Got a bit of time and this bloke looks like he needs a break,' she says, plunging her hands into a sink of hot, soapy water.

  'Are you up to it?' I ask.

  'Not like you need a degree or anything,' she says.

  Mackellar's old writing room becomes known as 'The Exchequer'. Caro, with Louie asleep at her feet, keeps a tally of art sales, tea sales, cake sales and any donations thrown in a blue plastic bucket at the top of the steps to the verandah with 'Fire Brigade' written on it. The kitty kicks along. The bay glitters like silver baubles. Blokes, women, kids, dogs, old people, youngies, singles and families, they keep trekking up the steps. Slowly, moderately, quickly or flat-out. Day after day. Spilling onto the lawn in red, pink, blue, green, like exotic flowers, eating cake and drinking tea. Staring at Lovett Bay, the boats, Matty's ferry, the Fruit Box – a rough, homemade houseboat that never leaves its mooring – the ancient escarpments and, for a moment, our two resident sea eagles returning to a nest high above the green water.

  'There's a whole lot of pink tulips arriving,' my mother calls from where we've stationed her in a cane chair on the lawn. It's a perfect spot. Nearly everyone asks her if she's ok and she gets to talk all day to an ever-changing audience.

  I look down from the verandah. About a dozen women in pink T-shirts are coming up the steps in single file. They are locals who paddle dragon boats as part of Dragon Boats Australia, raising awareness for breast cancer and supporting women – like themselves – who have been diagnosed with it.

  'Great to see you,' I yell.

  They wave, come up for tea and cake.

  'We paddle around Pittwater every second Sunday. Thought we'd check out Salvation Creek and stop in for a bit of culture,' says one of them.

  'You all look so fit!'

  'We are! Why don't you join us?'

  I laugh. 'Maybe.'

  By the end of Easter, red dots cover Katie's prints like confetti. The Woody Point edition sells out. The pink boots are a certainty. The fire brigade will get a couple of new pumps and still have money left in the kitty. Katie's got a hit on her hands. Cancer doesn't bear thinking about.

  When it is all over and the last mug has been packed away in a box and returned to Bob's loft for storage, we collapse into bed, so tired our voices are hoarse.

  'Houses have spirits, you know,' I mumble.

  'You're not talking about ghosts again, are you?'

  'No. I mean the way some houses can inspire you. Tarrangaua draws people. It has such . . . such presence. And history. It can be a tool to do good for the community, if we want it to be.'

  Bob sits bolt upright in bed, looks at me in shock. 'You haven't said we'll do another exhibition, have you?'

  'No, but there are so many wonderful artists living around here. If we need another fundraiser for the fire brigade, it would be good to keep it local, don't you think?'

  Bob slides under the covers. 'Why don't we recover from this one before thinking about anything else?'

  I lie there for a while, wide awake. An ancient saying spools through my mind: Noblesse oblige. Loosely, it means if you are fortunate, you have a responsibility to give back.

  ***

  A month later, Jeanne is recovered enough from her fall to plod her garden paths in her black orthotics. 'Can you come and help with my Open Garden weekend?' she asks.

  'What do you want me to do?'

  'Wash up, mostly.'

  'Should be ok. Will you be making those lemon and ginger muffins?'

  'Why?'

  'I wouldn't mind watching how you do it. I've made them a couple of times and they're dry.'

  'Come over on Monday in time for morning tea. We'll make them together.'

  ***

  Jeanne and I sit at the trestle table on
the verandah near the front door. It's a warm, sheltered and sunny spot overlooking layers of garden. The morning tea tray is set with a china milk jug, pretty blue sugar bowl, flowery mugs. Cakes and muffins are arranged on a handpainted plate and dusted with icing sugar. Enough for two each. Or three.

  'There's been a worldwide death of busy lizzies,' Jeanne comments, looking forlornly at the flopped flowerbeds in front of us. 'Not sure about South America or the Himalayas, but they've all died in England and Australia. No-one knows why.'

  'How bizarre. Do busy lizzies know something we don't?'

  'All plants know more than we do.'

  Near the front door, Jonnie the canary sings joyfully, his silky little throat pulsing frantically. A fearless young brush turkey fossicks under three bird-feeders hanging from the branch of a tree with wrinkled pale brown limbs reaching heavenwards. A couple of kookaburras zoom in like stinger missiles, fixating on our plates.

  'Greedy birds!' Jeanne admonishes them. 'I've fed you already this morning.' They are unabashed, their shiny eyes never wavering.

  'Can never get over all this wildlife. You've got eight cats!'

  'I have a secret weapon.'

  She reaches onto the bench beside her and brings up a plastic water gun. Mischief, a brown, wavy-haired Rex is stalking something hidden from our sight. Jeanne aims the gun and squirts. The cat yelps and leaps into the air, his coat sodden. Jeanne gets a filthy backwards look. Wilfred, a grey tabby, slides onto her lap and puts a paw up to her face affectionately. Jeanne scratches him behind the ears.

  'Poor old Wilfred, he's got dementia.'

  'Seems happy enough.'

  'Yeah, well, I suppose every moment's a new moment. Must make life pretty exciting.'

  'What made you buy the place? It was a little fibro shack, wasn't it? And you were an advertising bigwig. Drove a Porsche, lived in an apartment. Bit of a change, all this.'

  Jeanne laughs. 'Places find you sometimes.'

  I know, I think to myself. I know. That's how Barbara felt the day she and Bob stumbled on Tarrangaua when they were walking in the national park.