The Plantation Page 3

  ‘This was a beautiful suburb in Grandma’s day. And it’s even more so now,’ said her mother.’

  ‘No one builds houses like this any more, that’s for sure,’ added her father.

  ‘Have you talked to Adam? What did he say?’ asked Julie.

  ‘No, not yet. You know your brother, he’ll just say that we should wait and see, nothing may come of it,’ sighed Caroline.

  ‘Yes, I guess so,’ said Julie. ‘He’s never been one to make an instant decision. Well, we can’t take that chance. Have you talked to the neighbours?’

  ‘They’re obviously not happy either,’ said her father.

  ‘We need to get everyone together and make a plan to oppose this,’ said Julie firmly. ‘Let’s make some tea, Mum, sit down and start nutting out a few ideas.’

  ‘There, I told you Julie would come up with something,’ said Caroline, looking slightly cheered.

  Julie was still making notes on how to oppose the council’s plans, when David Cooper rang her the next day.

  ‘Hello, did you enjoy your great aunt’s book?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, I’ve been so busy. Mum’s had her head in it, though.’

  ‘I’ve found out a little more information, in case you and your mother are interested,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure Mum would be, but we’re a bit distracted at the moment. We’re fighting the local council’s plans to rip down our house,’ said Julie.

  ‘What! Your grandmother’s house? That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would they want to do that?’

  ‘Actually, it was my great grandmother’s house, too. They want to put in a bypass to ease traffic flow away from the CBD or something,’ said Julie. ‘It’s crazy.’

  David Cooper paused. ‘Er, run that by me again. Surely putting in such a road in your neighbourhood would mean pulling down a lot of historic homes?’

  ‘Obviously. The authorities must have some idea what these older homes are like. They must know that most were built over a hundred years ago. And they only have to look at them to know that they are not dilapidated old heaps with bad plumbing and peeling paint,’ said Julie. ‘Mum’s organising a committee to fight the bypass.’

  ‘Would she like some help? I’m pretty good at researching and I might be able to find enough information on the history and heritage value of the neighbourhood to stop the road. I’d hate to see such beautiful homes, indeed streets and suburbs, desecrated,’ said David.

  ‘That’s the word all right. Desecrated. Ripping up beautiful old houses is desecration. Look, any help would be appreciated. Could you come along to our neighbour-hood meeting tonight? It’s down the road from Mum’s place. Seven pm.’

  ‘Of course. Can I meet you at your mother’s so you can show me where to go?’

  ‘Yes, and thanks a lot. We really appreciate your help.’ An academic, good at research who could sift through relevant information, would be very useful, thought Julie, glad that they’d met David Cooper. ‘Thanks, Great Aunt Bette,’ she said to herself.

  The neighbourhood meeting was informal but passionate. Two dozen families gathered in the back garden of one of the threatened homes, that had also been in the same family for generations. Caroline and another resident were elected spokespersons and they directed their comments to the council representative, Fred Louden, who’d come along to hear their concerns. David Cooper sat in the background with a digital recorder and a notebook, which had prompted Fred Louden to ask, with some concern, if David was from the media. When David said he was a friend of the Reagans, Louden gave him an affable smile and took his seat.

  Caroline read aloud the letter they’d all received and, keeping her voice calm, said, ‘We all seem in agreement as to what this letter is saying: that the council is considering moving ahead with a plan to resume a section of our neighbourhood to create a road bypass to skirt this area, to facilitate traffic flow and allow for the easy implementation of future infrastructure.’ She paused before adding, ‘Whatever that actually means. Hopefully Mr Louden will be able to enlighten us.’

  But when Fred Louden rose to speak, he talked in such broad and general terms – about the growth of Brisbane and the need for residents to make sacrifices and of course there would be adequate compensation – that no one present was any clearer about the council’s plans. Caroline then asked for comments and questions from the floor and there was suddenly an outburst of grievances. David Cooper scribbled faster as the complaints grew louder.

  ‘Mr Louden, has anyone in council or the roads department walked around here and seen just where your proposed bypass will be?’ demanded one woman. ‘Have they seen the lovely homes and gardens that will be lost?’

  ‘Of course not!’ exclaimed another. ‘They’ve just looked at a map and seen how close we are to the city and they think that because these places were built a hundred years ago they’re falling down! Well, they’re not. These are people’s homes and we’re proud of them.’

  ‘What about our local shops and the school and the library?’ called another. ‘How are our kids going to get around a great bloody bypass to get to school?’

  ‘Are the school and library going to be moved, too?’ asked another.

  Fred Louden kept his head down, apparently making notes, and his answers were bland and soothing, telling the audience nothing.

  David caught Julie’s eye and she went and sat beside him.

  ‘You might want to ask about what reports and studies have been done or what they plan to do,’ David suggested. ‘Environmental impact studies, noise issues, visual impairment and so on.’

  ‘Those are all part of the feasibility study,’ replied Fred Louden smoothly as he closed his notebook. ‘Obviously there’s a lot more to be done before any definite decision is made and Council is committed to community consultation, so thank you for inviting me. I have another meeting to attend and I’m sure you have matters to discuss among yourselves.’

  After Louden left, the room was buzzing.

  ‘So, what did we make of that?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘Not a lot, it seems,’ said Julie. ‘We have to plan a response.’

  ‘Lets chain ourselves to our front gates with placards, “We’re Not Going Anywhere” and call in the media,’ was one suggestion.

  ‘What about the National Trust? Can these homes be classified heritage so they can’t be touched?’ asked someone else.

  Caroline looked at her husband. ‘We did talk about that once, but it put too many restrictions on what alterations and changes we could do to the house.’

  ‘Not that we’ve ever made any structural changes, or want to. No one would ever dream of altering such a classic building,’ said Paul.

  ‘Look, I think playing to the media might come in handy but I also think we have to have a more thorough plan of attack,’ said Julie. ‘We don’t want to sound like an elitist mob who don’t want our beautiful homes to be demolished. It’s not just the old houses, gardens and trees here, it’s hard to see just what we or anybody else will be gaining. Is a bypass really needed in this particular area?’

  ‘I think you need to get some professional advice from engineers, environmentalists and specialists in noise pollution and visual impact, and advice about the possible inconvenience to health and lifestyle this bypass is going to cause, as well as other practical aspects,’ said David. ‘And I’m sure the council cost estimates are ballpark, so you need to find out just what such an undertaking might cost, and what its cost to the ratepayers will be. That might give us some ammunition.’

  ‘That sort of research will be expensive. We need a fighting fund,’ said Caroline. There was an immediate enthusiastic burst of chatter. Raising money was an easier idea to grapple with than the proposed destruction of their homes.

  ‘Thanks for your suggestions, David,’ said Julie.

  ‘It’s my home town, too,’ said David. ‘I don’t live in this area but I’d hate to see a cement sw
athe cut through here. And I don’t think it would serve much purpose. Actually, it seems to me to be rather an odd place to put a bypass. Maybe you need someone to do a report on traffic projections, too. I can give you a few contacts if you like. We can keep in touch by email.’

  ‘Fantastic. I think a lot of people here think they just have to jump up and down on TV and get the local paper involved and Council will back down. But it’s not as simple as that,’ said Julie. ‘You need a few good arguments as well.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate people power. Getting attention is one thing, but you’re right, you have to be prepared to have a strong case. It could even go to court,’ said David. ‘It’s lucky that we live in a democracy. In some countries you’d have no say at all. The government would just start digging and building.’

  After the meeting the residents dispersed into the night, still angry about the proposed destruction of their houses, but at least optimistic that they could do something to prevent it.

  It was late, so Julie decided to stay the night at her parents’ house. She loved sleeping in her old turret bedroom at the top of the house, still filled with her childhood books and toys. She said goodnight and climbed the narrow stairs. From the dormer window she could see the moon shining over the sleeping suburb. All was still and quiet, save for the occasional swoop of a fruit bat in the backyard trees. In the distance glimmered the expanse of Moreton Bay, where her father had taught her to sail a small Flying Ant.

  She dropped her gaze to the front garden. The top of the poinciana tree was almost level with the roof, the lawn around it deep in shadow. She remembered the old swing that had once been there. The ropes had been replaced when Julie was a toddler, but she recalled its solid seat of smooth wood that her grandfather, or possibly her great grandfather, had made. This was a house and garden filled with nostalgia. Her earliest memories were of being in this house and she assumed that it was the same for her mother and grandmother.

  Julie closed her eyes, feeling the brush of the balmy warm air, and tried to imagine the sounds of children’s laughter, the gentle murmur of adults taking tea or drinks in the garden, the firm fall of footsteps along the broad verandah, the clatter and crunch of stones in the driveway where cars, maybe a horse-drawn cart, or carriages, had pulled up to the front entrance. The tall hedges and tropical shrubs shielded the house from the neighbours who had also surrounded themselves with lush green oases.

  Julie opened her eyes and smiled to herself as she felt a rush of emotion, and knew there was no way she could allow this house or any of the others to be clawed and chewed up by the steel jaws of machinery ripping along the wide, quiet sweep of the street atop the hill. She was about to turn away and go to bed when a flicker, a flutter of paleness, caught her eye. She leaned further out of the window, straining to see into the garden shadows.

  Was it a white cat? No, too big.

  Her imagination was playing tricks with her. Too much thinking about the past, she decided. For if she didn’t know better, the shadows beneath the poinciana seemed to hold the shape of a woman. Some instinct told Julie to just be still and absorb the scene. The sepia photo graphs in the albums that her mother had shown her sprang to her mind. The shadow looked like a woman from an era of drifting soft muslin, upswept hair, parasols and white buckled shoes. It was almost as though her great grandmother had reappeared in the garden she’d created and loved.

  Suddenly a breeze sprang up, the leaves of the tree shook and the shadow was gone. The lawn beneath the tree was dark and empty.

  Julie drew the curtain across the small window and lay on her bed, making a promise to herself that she would help fight to save this home, not just for herself, but for the others who came from an era when life was very different.

  In the morning, as her mother buttered toast, Julie said, ‘I had a sort of dream last night that Great Grandmother was on the lawn, under the tree. I’m sure that if we try really hard, we’ll be able to save the house.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’re right, darling. David seemed to have some good advice.’ Caroline put the toast beside Julie’s boiled egg.

  ‘Yes, we’ll have to pick his brains.’ Julie dipped a bit of toast into the soft yolk. ‘I was thinking about all the memories this house holds for us . . . my great grandmother, Gran, you, me . . . What are your special memories?’

  Caroline shrugged. ‘Oh, goodness. I remember how happy my grandparents were to have Mother and me living here. That’s after my parents separated. I’m not sure that Mother was all that happy then.’

  ‘But why? Gran loved this place so much,’ said Julie.

  ‘Yes, she did. She was very proud of the garden, too. But – it’s funny – occasionally Mother would say that her time in Malaya as a bride before the war was the happiest time of her life.’

  ‘So why did she live in Brisbane?’ asked Julie.

  ‘I’m not really sure. Sometimes I got the impression that the reason she left Malaya was as much to do with Bette as it was with Father.’

  Julie had a sudden thought and her eyes widened. ‘Mum! Your father didn’t have an affair with Bette did he?’

  Caroline vehemently shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘So why did she come back to Australia?’ asked Julie.

  ‘I really can’t tell you. That was a closed topic. But I did get snippets of Mother’s story and one day, when I was about fifteen, she actually decided to tell me the story of how she met my father and her early years with him,’ said Caroline. ‘It was a long time ago, but I’ll try to remember what she said if you’d like to hear it?’

  ‘I would,’ said Julie, helping herself to more toast and waiting expectantly.

  2

  The Mediterranean Sea, 1937

  THE YOUNG WOMAN CLUTCHED her large circular straw hat, the salty breeze causing the soft voile of her dress to cling to her legs and outline her trim figure. The older woman beside her, dressed in a sensible cotton skirt and cork-soled shoes with a large hat tied under her chin, pointed to several sheltered deck chairs.

  ‘Why don’t we sit down, out of the wind? We’ve walked around the deck at least three times.’

  The young woman glanced behind her. ‘I was hoping we might see that nice Mr Elliott again. I’ve heard that his father owns a plantation in Malaya. It sounds very interesting and romantic.’

  ‘Margaret Oldham, you’re impossible. I’m sure you’ll see him this evening since we’ve been invited to join the captain’s table and I believe he has, too. And we have weeks more at sea before we reach Brisbane. So I’m sure you’ll meet lots of other nice young men.’

  Adelaide Monkton sat on one of the vacant deck chairs, smoothed a light blanket over her skirt and opened the small book of poetry she’d been carrying. She’d had a very interesting tour of Europe and England these past several months, but accompanying the much younger Miss Oldham had been tiring.

  The twenty-one-year-old Margaret was energetic, overly so, Adelaide thought, and at times she could be a bit too forward, a bit too keen to look for the company of young men rather than learning about the culture of the Old World. While Margaret was a well-raised young lady, who’d been to one of Brisbane’s most prestigious schools, Adelaide Monkton had decided there was something of a rebellious streak in her youthful charge. Where Margaret’s friends and contemporaries were demure, Margaret was rather forthright. Perhaps it was her tall, straight-backed figure, no doubt learned in classes devoted to deportment, but Margaret could appear slightly imperious even for a twenty-one year old.

  Was her manner due to the subtle sense of entitlement that was bred into girls from well-to-do families in the small social sphere from where she came, wondered Adelaide? Certainly, she recalled that when they had been introduced into high society in London, Margaret had been unfazed and seemed to fit in perfectly well. Margaret had been seen as a good sport and referred to as that ‘rather fun Australian gel’. Adelaide also noted that Margaret’s vowels had now taken on what Br
isbane would consider to be a rather toffy accent. Yes, Adelaide would be glad to hand Margaret back to her parents so she could enjoy some leisurely pursuits.

  Margaret sat back in her deck chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun, completely unaware that her travelling companion had been analysing her. But soon Margaret, who was quickly bored, got up. ‘I think I’ll go and get ready for luncheon. Shall I see you in our cabin?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be down shortly. This is jolly pleasant.’ Adelaide folded her hands, one finger marking the page she was reading, and closed her eyes.

  Margaret took a circuitous route to the cabin she shared with her chaperone. Winifred, Margaret’s mother, had declined to take her elder daughter to England since she was not fond of travel. Moreover her younger daughter Bette was in her final year of school and so she had entrusted her elder daughter to an old family friend. The two of them had been away for more than nine months and were now on the final voyage home.

  Margaret went into the first class lounge on A deck and then through the music room and peeped into the closed glass doors of the smoke room, which was a reproduction of an old baronial hall complete with a huge fireplace with a large crest above it. Beside the fireplace was a suit of armour and a small museum of medallions and some artifacts that had belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie. Continuing down the swirl of the red carpeted staircase with its art deco design and fittings, she paused at the small birdcage French lift. It descended to the indoor swimming pool that designer Miss Elsie Mackay had modelled after Roman baths with marble pillars and elaborate mosaic tiles. Adelaide permitted Margaret to bathe there during the sessions set aside for lady swimmers. Adelaide said that it was a more discreet activity than the playful pool games and social activities of the outdoor pool on B Deck.

  Back outside on B deck, Margaret pulled off her hat and leaned against the railing, watching the wash of blue water foam away from the curve of the ship’s white hull. On the breeze she heard a burst of laughter, so she went around the corner of a lifeboat to the games deck and saw that there was an energetic game of deck quoits in progress. She recognised some of the younger set, especially the tall figure of Roland Elliott. She stopped to watch, clapping as the game came to an end.