Читать книгу Love Is the Answer - Tracy Madden - Страница 8

From the passenger seat I glanced across at Marty. ‘Apparently the house is hidden from the road. Turn right at the roundabout. It still doesn’t make sense why the lawyer called me.’

‘Tell me what he said again?’ he asked, his tone as intrigued as mine.

‘His name is John Scott. He said poor old Mr Carmody had passed away. There doesn’t appear to be any children. Mr Carmody had a recent will drawn up where it was stated that I must have first option on the house. It’s totally baffled me. Anyway, I explained that although I had been in the real estate industry for some years, I was taking a break from it for now. However, John Scott said that he had strict instructions I was to look at it first and then get back to him.’ Pointing, I indicated for Marty to turn left. ‘To be honest, my curiosity has gotten the better of me. So thanks for coming with me.’

‘Thanks for thinking of me. I’m keen to list it.’ He looked sideways at me. ‘Davis will be on the warpath when he knows you gave the listing to me.’

‘He would have to be bloody kidding wouldn’t he?’ The anger was strong in my voice. My face turned to the window. I tucked a long dark curl behind one ear.

I felt Marty’s glance. ‘Who would have thought?’ was all he said, his tone full of irony.

I gave a wry smile. Who would have thought indeed? The three musketeers no longer existed. Three months before Davis and I had separated, Davis had come home one evening, thrown his keys on the stainless steel kitchen bench, and with his hands on his hips, told me Marty was out.

‘Out of what?’ I asked. Apron clad, I proudly lifted from the oven the large stainless steel baking dish heavy with my latest culinary creation, beef wellington.

‘The business! We’re on our own now.’ He didn’t look at me, but I knew his face looked like thunder. ‘I’ve been on the phone to the lawyers all afternoon. The papers are being drawn up. He wants to open his own agency.’ His voice filled with rage. ‘He’s gotten too big for his boots.’ His fist came down and slammed the kitchen bench. ‘If he wants war, I’ll give him war.’

To say I was shocked was an understatement. I stood rooted to the spot, oven mitts on my hands. ‘Davis? What are you talking about? You must be joking?’ However, I could tell by the anger he wore on his face it was no joke. Baffled, I asked, ‘How long has this been going on for?’

‘For God’s sake Peach, he’s been trying to undermine us for years.’ Loosening his tie, he stalked off towards the bedroom, his long legs like a giraffe. Without turning, he shot over his shoulder, ‘Look I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s done.’ From behind, I saw his hands cut the air like a knife.

Throwing the oven mitts on the bench, I hurried after him. He was standing in the robe taking off his trousers. In frustration, he flung them on the bed. They slipped to the floor.

I hovered in the doorway. ‘Davis… I don’t understand… he is your best friend… our best friend.’

‘Not anymore.’ He brushed past me and went back to the kitchen, snatching a Corona from the fridge. He opened it roughly, spilling some on the floor. He left it. His behaviour was so out of character I didn’t know what to make of it. He took a lime from the fruit bowl, slammed it down on the stainless steel bench, pulled the largest knife from the block, and angrily hacked a slice, pushing it into the neck of the bottle, before retreating to the terrace. I watched as he stood with his back to me, one hand on the railing, the other throwing back the beer. He looked as if any moment he might hurl the entire bottle at the wall opposite. I could not think of a time when I’d seen him like this.

Davis was such a perfectionist. Ever since we had moved into the warehouse, he’d been over the top about the housekeeping. Anal, might be a better word. Everything had a place. The newly laid light-coloured timber flooring was incredibly soft, and rather than offend our guests, Davis bought six pairs of white towelling slippers to keep just inside the front door, so our female visitors wouldn’t mark the floor with their heels. He kept bringing home different mops for the cleaners to use. Trialling them first, giving them a ranking out of ten. It drove me crazy. It annoyed me more, when I turned the tap on in the evening to get a drink of water, and he’d comment that he’d already wiped the sink down and now there were water marks.

‘Davis, it’s a sink,’ I’d say, and shake my head in frustration at his analness, if there was such a word.

Marty broke into my thoughts. ‘So tell me again how you know this Mr Carmody?’

I shrugged. ‘I really didn’t know him that well. Sometimes I’d see him when I shopped at New Farm. Poor old guy was in a wheel chair. He’d had one leg removed from the knee down.’ I glanced across at Marty and caught his grimace. ‘He used to sit outside The Deli most afternoons, having a coffee, watching the world go by, and attempting to have a bit of a chat with anyone with a keen ear. Occasionally, I’d see him struggling to roll himself up the ramp, so I’d give him a hand. To be honest, at first I always thought he looked a bit cranky, but surprisingly, when he spoke he had a wonderfully melodious voice. The more I got to know him, I realised he was extremely articulate. Apparently, he’d been a notable landscape architect in his former years.’ And then I smiled to myself. ‘And, after a while, I realised he was a bit of a joker as well.’

Marty glanced at me. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I remember once asking how he was. Instantly, he grabbed at his heart, looking concerned. Startled, I leant closer and asked if something was wrong. “No, the day could not be any more perfect now that I have set eyes upon the beauty of you,” he said.’ I shook my head in mirth. ‘Another time, he said that his doctor had only given him a short time to live. Obviously I was shocked and when he saw my face he said best not to waste any time, we should have coffee immediately, and then he laughed.’

‘Sounds like a flirt to me.’ Marty chuckled. ‘How old do you think he was?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps in his late eighties, early nineties.’

‘Cheeky old codger. Sounds like he did a good job of staying in his own house for as long as he did.’

‘No, he didn’t. The house has been closed up for a couple of years now. Mr Carmody was in one of the aged care facilities in the area, although he never gave up hope that one day he would be able to return. He told me the hardest thing of all was giving away his dog Wilbur, when he went into the facility. I met Wilbur a couple of times, tied to his master’s wheelchair. He was a beautiful blonde labrador with huge dark eyes that appeared to say so much. He looked as if he understood what was going to happen to him and was scared and sad. When Mr Carmody told me, it really bothered me and I cried. I told him I would try to find a way to take Wilbur for him, but when he knew we lived in a warehouse, he said that it would be unfair to Wilbur, that he was used to a large garden. Apparently, Wilbur went up the coast to a friend of his. So although it was good the dog had a home, it meant Mr Carmody couldn’t see him. You could tell he was heartbroken. In fact, it was as if he went downhill after that.’

‘So has it been a few years since you’ve seen the old guy?’

‘No… I continued to see him at the shops, up until about six months ago.’ I laughed lightly. ‘He’d tell me that he’d escaped from the facility. Truth be known, they were probably glad to have a reprieve from him for a short time. I gathered he was a demanding patient.’ I smiled and shook my head. ‘Anyway, he’d wheel himself up to the shops and wheel himself home. One afternoon after work when I had raced over to pick up some of that Italian ham that Davis used to like, Mr Carmody told me that it was Happy Hour back at the facility, but no one was ever bloody happy, so he preferred to chat to his friends at the shops.’ I laughed again.

‘How come you shopped over at New Farm so much when you lived at West End?’

I glanced over at him and indicated with my hand to turn right at the roundabout. ‘In the beginning it was almost quicker for me to come across to do my shopping, than to stop and talk to every man and his dog at West End. As delightful as our clientele was, being so well known in the area meant the smallest tasks took forever. And then in the last year, it was simply because I could not face those very same people.’ My face blushed at the way I had felt.

Marty gave me a fleeting look. ‘I understand. Speaking of dogs, you’ve always loved them, why haven’t you had one of your own?’

I rolled my eyes to the heavens with frustration. ‘Because Davis said no, that’s bloody why.’ Neither of us spoke for a minute and then I continued. ‘Also with the hours we worked, it wouldn’t have been fair.’ I thought for a few seconds. ‘Funny, but I have always wanted a dog. I remember begging Bea and Johnny. All we ended up with was a guinea pig called Harriet. Johnny said it would teach us the responsibility of taking on a pet. Harriet was such a lovely little thing, with funny little teeth that munched noisily on celery. Quite clever really, she reacted to my voice, and to the sound of the fridge door. For a while I even pretended she was a small dog.’ I paused. ‘Funny thing was though, when Bea left us and moved to New Farm, the first thing she did was get a pug. I never could work that one out.’

I was quiet for few minutes thinking of one of the “dates” Emerald Green had insisted I take myself on. Fifty kilometres north of Brisbane was Marcoola Beach, a secluded broad expanse of white sand that I had not visited in over 20 years. It bought back fond memories of childhood holidays with our Uncle Terry. It reminded me that some things never change. However, on that particular “date” day, as I walked along, I’d caught sight of a pretty little redhead in the distance, running after two French bull dogs, one black, and one white with a black face. The dogs dodged and weaved the waves one minute, and the next they tore up the beach. The curvy redhead took off after them and the closer she got the faster they ran from her. The little dogs reminded me of circus clowns. However, what I loved most was the joy they appeared to bring to their owner. The look on her face was priceless, and the way she laughingly called to them delightful. I decided then and there that no matter what my future held, I would have dogs. Maybe I’d become a crazy dog lady and have a whole heap. Perhaps that was my destiny. Denied as a child, and later by Davis, I would one day make up for it.

Shaking my head to clear it, I changed the subject. ‘I’m not sure why Mr Carmody wanted me to see his house. He once told me he had seen an article about Address in the local paper, and after that he was always asking about the property market. I did try to explain to John Scott that I was taking a break from the industry, however he said he must proceed as instructed. Anyway, it’ll probably be a good listing for you. Sounds like a fairly large property.’ I pointed. ‘It’s down here on the right. It must be the one that’s hidden from the road by the trees.’

Tucked away in a quiet tree-lined street, and only minutes from the city centre, Marty’s black BMW, a twin to mine and a triplet to Davis’s, slowed to a halt near the end. A large blossoming poinciana in front of an ivy covered imposing stone fence shielded the house from the road. Climbing from the car, I was aware of something I had not experienced in a long time, and briefly had trouble putting my finger on. I glanced around. And then I recognized it. It was silence. Fleetingly, it was punctuated by birdsong. Immediately it registered to me as a sound of tranquillity.

A feeling of awe crept upon me. I handed Marty the key to the wrought iron gate. The back of the gate had been boarded up, so we were unable to see through. Marty fiddled with the key for a while, before it finally turned in the rusty lock. He then had to lift up one side of the heavy gate so he could push it open far enough for us to slip through, as it had dropped through age and lack of use. It was just as well he was with me, as I wasn’t sure if I would have managed on my own.

Once inside, I was able to see that although many years of neglect had taken its toll, there was something mysterious and beautiful about this property.

Stepping with care, my eyes swept from side to side, taking it all in, relishing the solitude and peace. Aside from two late flowering jacarandas, magenta coloured bougainvillea had taken hold of nearly the entire front garden. Trust bougainvillea, I thought. It always liked a good neglect. My eyes travelled up, following a couple of stately palms which shot skywards like elegant umbrellas.

We crunched our way up the weed infested, curved, gravelled driveway. The call of a whipbird snapped through the tallest branches. A butterfly fluttered over to me, escorting me as if in welcome. Perfuming the breeze, a row of unruly crepe myrtles stood like untidy soldiers either side of the drive. A few metres further along an old stone fountain of substantial proportions came into view. I could almost hear the faint sound of water trickling. Our footsteps disturbed pigeons drinking rainwater from the fountain, and in a flurry they flew away, giving us a fright at the same time.

Gravel crunched underfoot. A few more paces and the wonderful perfume of star jasmine added to the superb fragrance this garden had so far produced. Birdsong was loud in our ears. Surveying my surroundings, it was difficult to believe that I was merely a half dozen blocks or so from the bustling cosmopolitan heart of New Farm, and only minutes by car from the city centre. Instead, it felt like we had been whisked off to some far away fantasy country garden.

Already I felt drawn in. Mesmerised, I wanted to see more. The path divided. To the right, the wide driveway led to a garage, with some sort of storeroom behind. To the left, the path edged by agapanthuses, narrowed and curved around towards the house. Two broad plinths with oversized antique urns welcomed us to a gravelled forecourt, giving the first glimpse of the house. My first thoughts upon seeing the sandstone house nestled amid this fairy-tale-like garden, were that the house might easily be made from gingerbread. Up until then, both of us had been quiet with our own thoughts. However, right at that moment I made a little ‘Oooh,’ sound.

‘Wow!’ said Marty in a hushed tone, as if to speak any louder would be irreverent.

I nodded my head, too busy examining the front of the house to speak. From there it appeared square in shape, but with a bay window projecting slightly at the front, and a sweeping wrap around veranda. To my knowledgeable eye, I believed the house to be built around the end of the nineteenth century. Original decorative cast iron balustrades, posts and valances were still in place, but were in need of much work to return to their former glory. The hipped roofline and detailed fretwork still very evident, as well as three stone chimneys and a wrought iron roof feature. The silver corrugated iron roof, possibly newer than the house, was covered in mould and grime and in desperate need of a high powered hose to reveal what condition lay beneath.

Climbing high on the front wall of the house was a rose vine covered in wonderful clusters of rosy pink blooms. Entwined with it was an orange scented rose whose flowers were so dark to be almost magenta. Neither rose appeared to have thorns. They trailed and bobbed and threw a halo of blooms around the front door as they clambered up the stone walls. Instantly, I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with Mr Carmody, about how I missed a garden at the warehouse and would one day be keen to see how green my thumb was. I smiled at the thought.

However, it was only as we ascended the six stone steps to the veranda that the full magnificence of the house’s river view was revealed through a window to the side.

While Marty fiddled with the rigid lock on the front door, I turned and surveyed the garden directly in front. A generous space had been devoted to this part of the property. I glimpsed through the overgrowth, the relics of a large ornamental pond was on a direct axis from the front door. A nineteenth century cast iron bench graced one end. Even with the neglect, I was able to see the formality of the front garden. Further ahead, following the same line of axis, I noticed a sundial and the remnants of a rose garden. Shafts of sunlight magically appeared like spotlights showcasing certain key pieces of the garden and once again I noted my butterfly escort, or its twin, fluttering around me.

Everyone has their own idea of heaven. Some see it as a place of spiritual reward. However, for me, right at that moment, it was this garden.

‘Coming?’ Marty asked, interrupting my thoughts.

Turning, I nodded and followed him. I placed a hand to my nose, to cover the smell of old and neglect. A wide entrance hallway greeted us, with sizable rooms off to either side, but with dubious décor and old-fashioned fittings, all rather sadly neglected. However, most of the rooms were filled with light and well proportioned. I was immediately taken with the house, along with its solid walls, high ceilings and ideal layout, although, the dark kitchen at the back of the house left a lot to be desired.

An aged lace curtain hung ethereally and silent in front of a small window. There was a tiny tear in the bottom right hand corner, the light spilling through, illuminating an otherwise dim space. I stared mesmerised. The hole in the curtain was in the loose shape of a heart.

I walked towards it and peered through the heart shaped hole to the garden below. The view from the window was spectacular, overlooking the entire back garden. Impatient to see more, I swept the curtain back, and noticed that through a corridor of trees, a perfect snapshot of the Brisbane River was revealed. I watched as a lone kayaker headed for shore after crossing the wake left behind by a jet ski. Just then one of the iconic City Cat ferries came into view.

Brisbane River was the heart of Brisbane and the ferries made it an inexpensive and fun way to access the city and riverside suburbs, from Breakfast Creek right up to the Queensland University at St Lucia, where I had studied. Recently on one of my weekly dates with myself, I had ridden one of the Cats from one end to the other, marvelling at a city I had grown up in, but had never taken the time to explore.

Marty’s low whistle brought my thoughts back to the present. ‘What a find.’ He came and stood beside me, he too mesmerised by the river view, the trees framing the vision of bobbing yachts. ‘If only some of those trees were lopped, that view would be opened right up.’

He began to explore further, assessing the house with a professional eye. He turned to me, arms folded across his chest. ‘What are your thoughts Peach?’

‘I’m not sure what to say. Something like this doesn’t become available often.’ How well I knew. In all of my experience in real estate in the inner city, I had never seen anything come onto the market such as this. In fact, the entire time Davis and I had been trying to have a family, I had kept my eye out for a house like this, something to raise a family in. Heck, I would have settled for something a quarter as good as this and still been deliriously happy.

I was at the window. From out the front I had realised that the land dropped away behind, however I had no idea the house did as well. It was huge.

I began wandering and found a door at the end of a minor passageway off the kitchen. With some difficulty, I wrenched it open to find a courtyard. It was an extremely large, walled courtyard - sun filled, ventilated and watered by the recent rain. Large stone pavers had been laid in a grid pattern and in between, pretty native violets grew rampant. It was only as I stepped into it, I was able to see how big it actually was.

‘Come look,’ I called to Marty, my voice excited. ‘This must have been the herb and vegetable garden for the kitchen. Isn’t it wonderful? You never see anything like this in the city.’ There was nothing left of the herbs, but the citrus trees were abundant - lemons, Tahitian limes, cumquats, dwarf oranges and mandarins. The dwarf orange tree hung heavily with fruit, giving such a lovely burst of colour and fragrance. Mostly the pumpkins had taken over, smothering other plants and even escaping over the fence.

As we went deeper into the house I noticed that every downstairs room opened onto its own garden terrace. The ornate extravagance of the garden was key to every bedroom in the house.

Fleetingly, I wondered what had happened to Mr Carmody’s furniture, as the house was completely bare.

At that moment though, the garden seemed to take precedence. We wandered down to the terraced back garden to explore further. With every step, more surprising plants, shapes and colours came into view. The most eye catching display of cascading purple wisteria flowers tumbled down the face of a stone retaining wall, rendering me breathless in awe. Wisteria blossoms for only such a short time that I knew we were in luck to see such a show, as it is one of those plants that are mostly bare vines for the better part of the year.

The garden seemed to consist of a series of rooms unfolding one after another, linked by paths and stepping stones, making it a joy to explore.

Something was stirring in me as we wandered about. We followed a flagstone pathway where shadows and light danced about on the ground. I imagined little heart shapes among them.

We arrived at a set of stairs. On either side sat two huge urns. We took the steps and found ourselves at the pool. The large turquoise tiled rectangular swimming pool was derelict, the bottom full of green slimy water, with one large palm frond floating lost at sea. At one end was a sandstone fountain in the shape of a classical head that in its day would have spurted water into the pool, but now looked dry and lonely. Behind, a row of eight pencil pines awkwardly reached skyward.

We wandered further into the back garden where lilly pillys, gardenias, azaleas, flowering oleanders and overgrown bougainvillea grew rampantly. In the far left hand corner we found a small olive grove. I picked one of the deep green-grey lance shaped leaves with the silvery white underside, a smile forming on my lips.

‘What?’ Marty asked.

‘Olive trees are a symbol of peace.’

Marty nodded with interest. Silently we both continued on our discovery.

Finally, Marty spoke. ‘Your Mr Carmody had a spectacular garden in its time.’

Nodding, I began to wonder about Mr Carmody and what he must have left behind. But why me? Why did he think I should have first look at the house. Not much more than an acquaintance really. He had told me he liked my smile. That was good, because in the last year there were days when I thought my life had turned to utter shit, and I didn’t think I would ever smile again.

However, already I knew. This house and garden needed me. Or if I was truthful… I needed it.

Serendipity can play a large part in the real estate game, something I knew first hand. The house had found me. But what was I going to do with it? Yesterday when I received the call from the lawyer, if you had asked me if I would be interested in buying this house, or any other house today, the answer would have been an emphatic ‘No.’

With my arms folded across my chest, I turned and looked up at the house once again. Surprisingly, I noticed an upstairs window above the kitchen area. I wondered what was up there. I was sure I hadn’t seen a staircase. But what I did see was, beyond the house’s derelict state, was the house of my dreams.

If I put my real estate hat on, I would have had to admit that this property covered three important criterions: privacy, peace and quiet, plus an intimate connection to the river. It was the perfect mix of city and country.

‘What are you thinking?’ Marty asked.

I looked at him. ‘I’m thinking I want it!’

He blinked. ‘What?’ He stared at me in disbelief.

I exhaled heavily. ‘I want it. It’s as simple as that.’

‘But we haven’t even looked at the rest of the house yet,’ he spluttered.

‘I know. I’ve just noticed there’s an attic. But what does it matter? It’s not as if I’m going to change my mind because it doesn’t have enough wardrobe space, or not enough bathrooms. I think I’m meant to have it.’

Marty scratched his head and let out a low whistle. ‘Phew Peach, what the heck are you going to do with a house like this?’

‘I don’t know, but I am going to find out…’