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
