by T M Creedy
‘Prob’ly just you being a bit rough with it.’ Mac washes his hands at the kitchen sink and takes a seat next to me at the dining table, his ever busy hands playing with the edge of a cork coaster, turning it round and round and tapping it on the polished surface. Margie brings us all tea and I have to stop myself from gulping it down, I’m so thirsty. The tea is weak and watery but to my dry mouth it is better than anything else I’ve ever tasted.
There is no such thing as an awkward conversation with Margie around and she launches into telling me all about the house and the work they’ve done on it so far, along with lists of instructions for what needs to be looked after while they’re gone.
‘The cats mostly keep to themselves, although Bendi will quite often sleep on the bed in your room but kick him out if you don’t want to share. Bali’s the timid one; she’ll be a bit afraid of you at first so don’t be too offended if she doesn’t come too close to you. I’ve left a list of everything you need to know about them, their food and the address and phone number of the vets. We’ve left money in the ceramic cat jar on the top shelf in the pantry which should be enough to see them right for the year, but anything extra, like a vet’s bill, you just tell us and we’ll wire you the money OK?’ I nod, and open my mouth to ask how old the cats are but Margie is still talking at full speed. ‘Everything you need to know about the house is in this folder here.’ She holds up a buff Manilla folder. ‘We’ve arranged direct debits for all the bills but the phone bill will be your responsibility while you’re living here.’ This is fine with me, it’s not as if I’ve got anyone to call anyway.
‘What about things like post and deliveries?’ I ask timidly.
‘Any post just keep it to one side, if there’s anything important looking let us know and I’ll get you to either send it on to us or to one of our daughters. Rubbish collection is on a Tuesday morning and you’ll need to get the wheelie bin down to the end of the track – can you manage that?’
‘I guess so; I don’t imagine I’ll be generating much rubbish. Do you have any recycling collections – glass or plastics?’
‘Yeah.’ Margie nods, impressed by my thoughtfulness. ‘Glass is first Monday of every month, plastics and paper is the last Wednesday. I’ve put all the dates on the calendar in the kitchen for you.’
‘The easiest way to get it all down the track is to pile it all up in the back of the ute and drive it down there.’ Mac breaks in. It did make sense and I know I’m going to have to overcome my fear of driving the truck, which they call a ute. I’m glad there will be no one around to witness my first attempt.
‘What about things like the garden, and the rest of the land?’ I suddenly remember Mac telling me that they owned the land around the house as well, and something about cattle. Oh God I’m not going to have to milk cows am I? I can’t imagine Sara signing up to do rough farm work.
‘We’ve got a stockman; he’ll do everything for the farm. You won’t see him, most likely, but you might hear him tinkering about in the sheds or when he takes the tractor out. I leave him a note to mow the lawns but if you’ve a fancy for gardening I’m sure a bit of weeding wouldn’t go amiss. Just watch for the snakes.’ I must have gone pale because he barked a laugh and patted me heavily on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. They’re more afraid of you than you are of them and will be outta your way before you even see them.’
‘Mac, don’t tease her.’ Margie coos. ‘We’re so lucky to have someone like Sara to help us out. You could have had your pick of places, couldn’t you darl?’
They have a car coming for them tomorrow lunchtime to take them to the train station in Ararat and I was glad I wasn’t expected to drive them. I needed time to practise on these quiet country roads before braving the unfamiliar town. Mac suddenly jumps up as if that was more than enough sitting down for one day.
‘I’ll leave Margie to show you around Sara. See you at dinner time.’ He let himself out of one of the sliding doors which lead onto the shady verandah at the back of the house. Margie heaves herself to her feet and I get up too, gathering up the tea cups and carrying them over to the granite topped kitchen island.
‘Thanks love. May as well start here eh?’ Margie walks me round the kitchen, pointing out the dishwasher, the six-burner professional chef’s range and opens yet another door which concertinas into itself. This is the pantry. A huge walk-in cupboard with wooden shelving lining every inch of the walls. All of Margie’s kitchen equipment is kept in here too, her mixers and juicers, cake tins of all sizes along with rows and rows of every kind of spice and herb known to man.
‘I used to like cooking, back when the girls were small. They loved to help me bake. Not that I do much now it’s just me and Mac. I occasionally rustle up a cake if there’s a community bake sale for the church or something. Feel free to use up what you want, won’t do any good sitting here untouched for a year.’ Margie moves to the door next to the fridge, the one Mac had come through earlier. ‘This here’s the laundry room, if I can just……’ She leans onto the door with one shoulder and puts all her considerable weight behind it to give it an almighty shove. The door crashes open, slamming against the wall on the other side and bouncing back to almost hit Margie in the face. ‘Looks like Mac fixed it. I dunno what was wrong with it before but I couldn’t get this door to budge an inch.’ The laundry room is by far the gloomiest room I have seen in this house so far. It opens out onto the verandah through another glass panelled door but for some reason the light outside refuses to penetrate the small, square space. Painted a dull pale green it reminds me of a hospital side room and despite the heat of the day outside I shiver. Margie has a state of the art washing machine and all the modern fittings but there is something about this room which makes me not want to spend much time in here.
‘Yeah, I know.’ Margie gives me a knowing look. ‘Gives you the shakes eh? This room is one of the original rooms of the house; we haven’t touched it yet. I’m not sure if I want to open it up, knock through the wall into the kitchen, or what. Bit grim though, I think it’s the colour, looks a bit institutional.’ I’m relieved when we close the door and move away further into the cosy part of the downstairs living rooms.
‘It’s been a long, hard slog getting the downstairs done and to be honest with you, I’ll be glad to take a break from it for a while.’ Margie leads me back down the main hallway and starts up the carved staircase.
‘This is beautiful.’ I said, running my hands over the polished wood. ‘It looks old.’
‘This was one of the first things put in when the place was built. Originally it was part of one of the early government buildings down in Adelaide but the bloke who built this house bought it lock, stock and had it shipped over here in pieces.’ There is an attractive runner carpeting the stairs in muted blues and dusky reds. It goes perfectly with the dark wood and I tell Margie she has great taste and an eye for interior design. She blushes like a little girl but looks thrilled at the praise.
‘Yeah, well, it’s hard sometimes, living out in the sticks like we do, hard to find nice textiles and decent furniture. I rely on online stores most of the time.’ She stops suddenly and I nearly run into her. ‘That reminds me! I saw you have a laptop with you so you’ll need to know about the broadband. It covers the television as well as the internet and, well, I don’t know how these things work exactly, but I’m sure a bright young thing like you can work it out.’ We carry on up the stairs to the first floor which opens up onto another wide, airy hallway.
‘How many rooms are there?’ I ask, there seems an endless amount of doors and passageways on this floor.
‘Six bedrooms on this floor, two are ensuite and there’s another living room and Mac’s office. Study, he likes to call it. There’s also plenty of storage cupboards and I keep a second vacuum cleaner up here, saves dragging the downstairs one up and down all the time. The linen cupboard is here.’ She indicates a closed door. ‘And the master bathroom is on this floor too. There’s a shower and to
ilet downstairs and Mac tends to use that when he comes in from the farm and he’s all mucky.’ She opens one door on the left and I’m dumbstruck by the sheer size and beauty of the bedroom inside. ‘This is mine and Mac’s bedroom and ensuite. We’ll be keeping this one locked if you don’t mind, only I’ve left a lot of personal items and papers in here. You’re along here.’ She strides down the hallway and opens another door, this time on the right hand side. It is another beautiful room and has three big double windows on two sides, allowing light to flood in at all times of the day. There is a large double sleigh-style bed with simple white bed linen and masses of pillows and cushions, and it has fine, gauzy, gossamer-sheer material draped from two carved upright columns, flowing down over the head of the bed. ‘Mozzies.’ Margie announces. ‘You’ll be needing that net most nights or you’ll be bitten from here to next week.’ Someone, Mac I assume, has already brought my backpack and bags up and they sit on the low armchair waiting to be unpacked.
‘It’s wonderful.’ I say, with genuine feeling. ‘A beautiful room. I’ll be very happy here.’ Margie looks pleased as punch.
‘I’ll show you up to the second floor, but we’ve sealed it off for now. It hasn’t been touched in years and the room layout is exactly how it was when the house was built. It’s the final part of our project and I’m thinking of making it just one huge entertaining space.’ At the base of the second set of stairs she puts her hand on the newel post and pauses. ‘I’d appreciate if you didn’t come up here on your own.’ She tells me. ‘There’s rot in some of the floorboards and it’s quite dangerous in some places. I’d hate for you to fall through the floor. Especially as you’re here alone.’ The carpet on these stairs stops at the first landing and the surface becomes dingy scuffed linoleum tiles. They have sealed the floor with plastic sheeting which has been fixed to both side of the hallway with industrial grey tape. Margie pulls the plastic aside just enough for me to peek through. It’s another long hallway, dark and dusty, with closed doors lining both sides like sentry soldiers. There’s nothing much else to see and Margie fusses with the sheeting, tweaking and tugging it back into place.
‘There’s another eight bedrooms up here, smaller than the ones below so we think they were for the children who lived here in the late eighteen hundreds, and there were probably a few servants up here as well. I’ve never even looked at most of the rooms on this floor, Mac didn’t want me walking about and weakening the boards even more, but he’s had a good look around. Some of the rooms still have the metal bedsteads in them from the olden days.’ We start to descend both sets of stairs and Margie shows me the outside spaces, including her rose garden which she asks me to keep an eye on. It’s huge, and laid out in the formal style – all square beds with a maze of lawned paths weaving their way around them.
‘It’s been here since the house was built.’ She says proudly. ‘You should have seen the mess it was in when we moved here, but once I got stuck in I found all sorts of rare varieties – proper Victorian tea roses which you just can’t get anymore.’
I can see I’m going to have to do some research on the care and maintenance of roses as I know nothing about plants at all. She points out the various outbuildings and their uses.
‘Tractor shed, cattle feed shed, hay barn, and that one’s where we keep the wood for the fire, not that you’ll need it in summer but the winter nights get well below freezing here.’ The tour seems to be over and Margie asks me if I’d like another cup of tea, but I tell her I’m fine for now and what I could really do with is a shower. It’s been at least three days since I washed properly and I must be smelling like a pole cat by now.
‘Oh of course, you poor girl, what was I thinking?’ Margie fusses about, making sure I have enough shower gel and shampoo before pressing a large, fluffy towel in my hands. ‘You have your own bathroom ensuite but you can use the shower in the main bathroom if you want, it’s a power shower and much stronger than the one in your room.’ I opt for my own bathroom though, feeling self-conscious about walking around half clothed in a stranger’s house.
Back upstairs I close the door to my bedroom and breathe a sigh of relief. Lovely as they are, both Margie and Mac are a bit daunting and the relentless talking has worn me out, which along with the travel tiredness is threatening to be my undoing and I am perilously close to tears. Margie has thoughtfully left a little ‘welcome pack’ on the dresser underneath one of my windows. It has a little set of bubble baths and moisture creams, all done up in a fancy bow, a mini bottle of Australian wine and a little box of artisan chocolates along with some gift cards for the supermarket in Ararat. This simple act of kindness tips me over the edge and I can’t stop myself from having a little weep. The nightmare left behind in London has caught up with me and I cry for Sara for having her life so cruelly cut short and for the way in which she died. I cry for the mess I left behind and I cry for myself for having this extreme life change thrust upon me. I mean, I’m sure it will all work out great, me living in the amazing house and not having to worry about rent and bills. Even if I did, I have plenty of money now, and it occurs to me that I should enquire about opening a bank account to pay some of the cash into, keep it safe. Or would it be suspicious to a bank if I paid in a large amount of cash? I would think about it for a while, and find a good hiding place for the money in my room for now, not that there was likely to be anyone else around to find it.
After my tears slow and I’m just left with the hiccups, I step into the pristine bathroom adjacent to my bedroom. It’s small but perfectly adequate, much better than my bathroom back home. The shower is hot and the spray of the water is welcome as it eases my aching muscles and runs down my back, relaxing me. I wash my hair and enjoy the feeling of being cleansed both inside and out. The release of pent-up emotion has left me drained but I feel much better and it’s good to finally feel that I’m safe. I stay in that shower for a long time, the hot water is endless, and by the time I finally turn the taps off my skin is bright pink and starting to wrinkle on my fingers. Changing into fresh clothes completes the transformation and I feel reborn as I walk back down to the kitchen, where good smells of roasting meat are wafting from the oven. Margie is busy peeling potatoes and singing along to an old love song on the radio.
‘Feeling better darl?’ She looks up from the vegetables and takes in my improved appearance. ‘You look better, that’s for sure. Not too tired?’
‘I feel great, thanks Margie. And thank you for the lovely presents, you didn’t need to go to so much trouble.’
‘Oh it’s no trouble darling. We’re pleased to have you here.’
‘Can I help with something? I’m not bad at peeling.’ Margie passes me the mound of spuds, and some parsnips and carrots as well. There is another vegetable I can’t identify, big squares of firm yellow flesh and when I ask her what it is Margie laughs in disbelief.
‘Don’t you have pumpkins in England?’
‘We do, but we don’t eat them. We make lanterns out of them at Halloween and that’s about it. I’ve never eaten pumpkin before.’
‘Well, you’re in for a treat – nothing beats roast pumpkin when you serve it up with a saddle of lamb. You do eat lamb don’t you? I’m sorry, I should have checked.’ She is upset at the thought of offending me in any way and I’m quick to reassure her.
‘I love lamb. I don’t get to eat it very often as it’s so expensive at home, and yours smells wonderful.’ It is the right thing to say and Margie’s beaming smile is back. We work side by side, chatting companionably, and by the time Mac comes in to wash his hands for dinner we have established a firm friendship, a surrogate mother-and-daughter relationship. I set the table, brushing aside Margie’s protests.
‘I have to start finding my way around.’ I say, searching through drawers and cupboards for table cloths and cutlery.
The meal is delicious, my plate piled high with choice slices of lamb and a mountain of vegetables, all flooded with rosemary-scented gravy. It’s easily the b
est home-cooked food I’ve had in forever and I tell Margie so. She laps up every scrap of praise, I’ve noticed, whereas Mac is more reserved and likes to talk about facts, not feelings.
‘Everything’s arranged for the farm, so don’t worry about the cows, they’ll be looked after.’
I finish chewing through a mouthful of meat, not wanting to point out that I hadn’t given the cows a second thought. There is a clatter from a cat flap in one of the doors and a small, sleek tortoiseshell cat trots up to the table, jumping gracefully onto the vacant chair next to me and placing two paws on my lap. It mews for a scrap of lamb and I raise my eyebrows at Margie but she just laughs.
‘That’s Bendigo, Bendi for short. You see where his priorities lie!’ She snaps her fingers and makes a kissy noise at the cat and he quickly abandons me for Margie, settling on her ample lap and purring as she feeds him pieces of lamb fat and potato soaked in gravy. ‘Bali’s probably watching us from one of her hiding places. I’ll see she has a few scraps in with her tea tonight.’
I am full from dinner and tiredness hits me like a sledgehammer. Seeing my eyes struggling to remain open Margie shoos me upstairs and to bed. It’s only just past eight o’clock but I will crash out for a good twelve hours I reckon, making me fully refreshed and ready for the day by eight tomorrow morning. I brush my teeth in my little bathroom and pull on an oversized t-shirt to wear as a nightie. When I turn off the light I realise just how dark and quiet the country is – no streetlights to colour the curtains orange, no car headlights to catch the top of the mirror like they did in my old bedroom. There is just the moonlight, pale and strange, and the stars in the sky are like a ribbon of diamonds. I have never seen proper stars before, just the odd one above London which usually turned out to be a satellite anyway. The quiet is something else though. I’m used to knowing I’m surrounded by other people, separated only by flimsy partition walls, and being out here in this wide open space with only Mac and Margie close by makes me feel incredibly small and vulnerable. I’m going to have to get used to being by myself from tomorrow night and I’m glad of the cats now, and the unseen cattle in the paddocks behind the house, they make me feel I’m not totally alone. My bed is comfortable and creaks slightly as I move about, trying out different pillow combinations, and duvet on versus duvet off. There is no sound from the rest of the house and I don’t even hear Margie and Mac come up the stairs to their own bedroom later on. I drift off, relishing the space in my big bed and having room to stretch out. The hard, cramped seats of the airplane seem very far away now.
