The Last Rose of Summer Page 6

  She tiptoed along the rattling wharf, stepped into the boat, placed the roses on the seat, and began to row as carefully and quietly as she could back up the river, keeping close to the bank, cursing the oars which squeaked in the rowlocks.

  Odette visited Zanana several times over the following weeks. Sometimes she met the caretaker’s son, other times she played alone in the grounds, memorising every inch of the estate. She was too nervous to venture inside any of the buildings alone — all except the Indian House. Stretched out on the strange canopied bed, she experienced a sense of tranquillity and familiarity. It was a place where time paused while she dreamed dreams, and all dreams seemed possible.

  If she did run into the boy, together they would go into the house, the stables, gatehouse and carriage house. This was his favourite place, for several antique cars, in dusty but good condition, were up on blocks and well preserved. Gingerly they clambered into a Daimler convertible, taking turns behind the wheel.

  Their meetings were spontaneous for Odette didn’t dare venture near the caretaker’s cottage in case his father spotted her. Nor could they plan to meet for Odette never knew when she was going to be allowed to use the dinghy.

  During the times they played together, they talked little of their lives outside Zanana. This was their special place where they explored and adventured, sharing a secret world. The times when she visited Zanana without seeing Dean, Odette played alone, lost in make believe and fantasies which whirled through her vivid imagination.

  Odette straightened up and stretched. She’d been hunched at her desk bent over an old exercise book where she had been writing about Zanana for an English essay. The memory of the beautiful rooms with touches of past grandeur haunted her. She mooched down to the kitchen where her father and mother were sitting at the kitchen table sorting through fishing lines and tackle.

  ‘Want a Monte Carlo biscuit and a cuppa, Detty?’

  ‘I s’pose so. If the tea’s made. What are you doing?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon your mum and I are going fishing.’

  ‘You’re not taking the dinghy, are you?’

  ‘Of course we are. Where did you think we were going to fish? You know we have some favourite little possies down the river. Why, luv, did you want to use it?’

  ‘Well . . . sort of . . . I’m so tired of being cooped up indoors.’

  ‘Ride your bike somewhere,’ suggested her father. ‘We’d love to take you with us, but you know how small that boat is, and you get a bit bored with fishing after an hour or two.’

  ‘Only when I’m not catching anything. I can’t just sit like you do.’ But Odette brightened. Maybe she could ride to Zanana and find a way into the grounds. She knew the main gates were locked but, well, she could at least try.

  ‘You sure the rain isn’t coming back, Dad? The clouds are building up.’

  ‘The weather men say not. Though they aren’t always right, But your mum and I are feeling like you — cooped up. I’m taking the afternoon off: time owed to me.’

  Her parents smiled at each other and for once Odette felt suddenly excluded. She had come along as a gift late in life to Ralph and Sheila Barber when they had resigned themselves to never having children. They adored Odette, but the bond between them was so strong, she sometimes felt like an intruder. Her parents were different to those of her friends. They did everything together and didn’t seem to need other people.

  Sheila had been an amateur artist who supplemented her mundane job at the council by painting delicate watercolours of Australian wildflowers on small cards and notepaper which she sold locally. Not pretty, not plain, with soft brown hair touched with auburn lights, she was shy and kept to herself.

  It was while collecting specimens to paint in the bush one day that she met Ralph who was working as a volunteer ranger with the National Park in his spare time. He had chided her gently for picking the protected flower species.

  Sheila was embarrassed and apologetic and explained she’d been unaware of the new law. Ralph had suggested she bring her sketchbook into the bush and told her he would show her unusual varieties of plants, hidden flowers and a special creek where platypus could sometimes be seen.

  A little afraid at first, but reassured by his badge and official hat, Sheila agreed to meet him the next day. Gradually their expeditions became weekly outings. Ralph maintained he had no artistic skills but Sheila told him he had an artist’s eye, for he saw beauty in the ruggedness of the bush. He delighted in showing her ferns growing by a creek, mossy rocks and tiny caves, along with the hidden habitats of the local fauna. He pointed out birds’ nests, a possum sleeping in the hollow of a tree, and once they had spotted a lyrebird displaying its beautiful harp-shaped tail as it danced for its mate.

  Their friendship soon blossomed into a serious courtship and they married a year later. They moved into their small house in suburban Kincaid. Sheila continued her job with the council and Ralph with the Electricity Commission. Their spare time was spent working in their tiny garden, trips to the bush, the Blue Mountains or the marshy lagoons near the coast. Their favourite and most familiar haunt was the mangrove swamp along the Parramatta River in Kincaid. Here they studied the birds and wildlife for hours at a time, not speaking, but content in each other’s company, watching the minutiae of life in the murky, shadowy world of roots, mud and reeds.

  The years passed happily and peacefully. Then, unexpectedly and to their joy. Sheila discovered she was pregnant. She left her job and devoted the rest of her life to Odette and Ralph.

  Odette sat and sipped her tea, watching her parents deftly untangle nylon line and tie on small lead weights, a length of metal trace and a shiny barbed hook.

  ‘Might try for some whiting and flathead on the sandbank, Ralphie.’

  ‘Tide will be right. You got your bait mixture made, Sheil?’

  ‘It’s in the fridge. I’ll get some prawns in the morning. Maybe a bit of mullet too.’

  Odette finished her tea and took another biscuit. ‘Well, I’ll be looking forward to a fish dinner tomorrow night then.’

  Her parents beamed at her as she returned to the monotony of her schoolbooks.

  Sheila and Ralph set out on their fishing expedition when Odette returned from school. It was overcast but rain seemed a remote possibility. Odette kissed them goodbye as they gathered up their bucket, tackle basket and hand net.

  ‘You be careful if you go out, Detty. We’ll see you a bit after dusk.’

  ‘Unless they’re biting like mad,’ grinned her father.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have the peas and spuds ready . . . and the eggs in case you don’t catch anything,’ she laughed.

  ‘No fear of that. The buggers don’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Ralph! Watch your tongue!’ Sheila laughed.

  Carrying their gear, yet still managing to hold hands, the two called goodbye to Odette as they headed for the car. They drove to the local boatshed where the dinghy was moored, and rowed down river to their favourite fishing haunt.

  Odette sprinted to her room, pulled off her school tunic, white shirt and jumper, and slipped into comfortable pants and top. She checked the air in the tyres on her old bicycle and, flicking her curls behind her ears, pedalled away. She kept to the footpath, nervous of the main road winding through Kincaid, but in minutes she was in the broad tree-lined avenue that led to the turn-off to Zanana.

  The tall iron gates were securely locked with a rusty chain and padlock. She looked through the ornamental grille at the parkland setting where the driveway of pale pink river stones curved out of sight, the old boxwood trees and palms meeting above it. Slowly wheeling her bike, Odette walked along the iron fence almost hidden by overgrown shrubbery. It appeared impenetrable. The fence bordered the estate for a mile before the grounds swept down to the river. Sighing, Odette rode her bike back the way she had come to traverse the other side of the front gates.

  Approaching the entrance again, she was surprised to see figures
standing there, looking into the grounds. She slowed and got off her bike, watching them shyly.

  A young woman stood beside an older man who was supporting himself on crutches as one ankle was in plaster. He was peering intently into the grounds. His hair was grey, tufting from beneath a cloth cap.

  The girl turned and smiled at Odette. ‘Hello, we’re just looking. Aren’t the gardens lovely?’

  ‘Not half as lovely as inside,’ said the man. ‘That grotto place and the roses were really something.’

  ‘And the sunken garden, Wal. You always said you liked that too.’

  ‘You know the garden? You’ve been inside?’ asked Odette.

  ‘Oh, not me. But Wally here . . . he used to live in there, so he tells me.’ The girl winked at Odette, hinting she was indulging the man’s whim.

  He turned around and looked at Odette for the first time. ‘Hello, girl. What’s your name?’

  ‘Odette. Did you really live at Zanana?’ The man didn’t look very old though his face was lined from the sun.

  ‘Zanana. That’s it. I’ve been trying to remember that name. It was written above the front door. Beautiful house . . . such a shame about it being closed up.’

  The girl nodded. ‘Apparently it’s been closed for years. Wal lives over at the war vets’ home in Bondi. I’m a nursing aide there. He’s been after me for months to bring him here. I might have known we wouldn’t be able to get in. So, I still don’t know about all those places you’ve been having me on about, eh?’ chided the nurse good-naturedly.

  ‘Oh, they’re there all right,’ said Odette. ‘The grotto and the sunken garden . . .’

  ‘Had a sundial . . .’ interjected the old man.

  ‘Yes . . . and the conservatory with all the purple glass . . .’

  ‘Ah yes . . .’ He leaned back closing his eyes, a smile spreading over his face.

  The girl turned to Odette in amazement. ‘You’ve been in there? It’s really like that?’

  ‘Better. It’s like a fairy-tale place.’

  ‘Cripes, Wally, I always thought you had an overactive imagination.’

  Wally beckoned Odette to lean close. ‘I’ll whisper you my favourite place. Wasn’t supposed to go in there, but I did.’

  Odette put her ear close to the man’s face, knowing what he was going to say.

  ‘The Indian House,’ he hissed.

  ‘Mine too,’ she whispered back. ‘I wasn’t supposed to go there either. I sneaked in one day.’

  ‘Well we’re not going to get in today either. My feet are killing me, let’s sit over there and get you off your bad leg,’ retorted the girl, turning towards a bench in the park opposite the gates.

  Odette leaned her bike against the bench and sat on the seat next to the man. ‘When did you live there? Were you part of the family who built it?’

  ‘Part of the family . . . yeah I was . . .’ His voice trailed off momentarily. ‘But things happened, times changed and, well, I guess it was never the same after that. But then, after the war, Zanana was heaven for us vets.’

  ‘World War I, that is,’ said the nurse. She’d obviously heard the story before.

  ‘Vets? Like animal vets?’

  ‘No, no, girl . . .’ laughed the old man. ‘Veterans. The poor buggers who managed to get back. By God, we were a sorry mess most of us. Mustard gas, TB . . . They came here to . . . convalesce. Some stayed for a long time. This became our home. Especially for me.’

  ‘Oh, that explains it. I wondered why those beds and things were in the rooms,’ exclaimed Odette. ‘It was like a hospital.’

  ‘Funny thing. Even though they had all that sickroom paraphernalia ’bout the place, all mixed in with the good antiques and old stuff, it never seemed anything but real grand. Oh, it was posh all right. And you know, love, every bloke thought he was bloody lucky to be there. Even the scoundrels shaped up and minded their manners as best they could. Just looking at the rose gardens was a tonic. Oh, we had it good. Grew vegies right there and we had our own milk and even a few sheep which they’d kill occasionally for meat. Lived like kings. Just as well, nobody else cared about us. ’Cept on Anzac Day when we got spruced up and wheeled out for the big parade. Most of the fellows had lost touch with their families or weren’t ready to go back to their old lives and life here was good and the people very kind to them.’

  ‘How long were you at Zanana?’ asked Odette, who found his story fascinating.

  ‘I was one of the last to leave. A lot of sad things happened. It was Depression time so they had to close the place up. I went back up north, we were all right. A lot of the younger blokes went on the wallaby to get out of the city, looking for work, trying to get a feed. Bloody dreadful times. Would’ve starved if it hadn’t been for the soup kitchens and the Sallies.’

  ‘That’s really interesting. About the house and everything. I’ve often wondered who lived there. I’d love to talk to you more about it.’

  The man looked wistful. ‘They were special times, wonderful people. I could tell you some stories, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Not today,’ the girl interjected. ‘We have to get back to catch our bus. You come and visit him. Just ask for Wally at the Bondi War Veterans’ Home.’

  ‘Could I?’

  The man grinned. ‘Do us good, believe me. We love visitors.’

  Odette smiled. ‘All right I will. In a couple of weeks then.’

  ‘I’ll tell you some stories, Miss Odette,’ he winked.

  ‘He will too, the old devil,’ laughed the nurse.

  Wal reached out and took Odette’s hand. ‘Don’t you forget, girl. It does me good to meet a young person who doesn’t treat you like a sack of stupid potatoes. Y’know . . . we fellows who went away . . . we were the best. We did our best too, don’t you forget that.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’ Odette smiled warmly at him. She sensed he was lonely. He mustn’t have had family, or anyone who cared about him, to be in a home at his age.

  The nurse stood, helping Wal to his feet. ‘Now, we’re not getting started on your old digger stories, Wal . . . Goodbye. Nice chatting to you.’

  Odette waved as Wal, helped by the young woman, made awkward progress with his broken ankle towards the bus stop. Odette suspected the nurse doubted she would ever make the journey to Bondi to see him. But Odette was not about to disappoint him. He could colour in some of the shadows of Zanana for her. She got on her bike and headed thoughtfully towards home, writing in her head a story she planned to call, ‘The Last Old Soldier’.

  Where the river meandered through the suburb of Kincaid, it was broad and exposed, hiding no secrets. Around one bend, a branch of the river ran for cover, ducking into channels and tributaries, swinging tipsily to the left and sweeping back to the right in catch-me-if-you-can coils.

  Here there was no sign of the neat banks of Kincaid gardens, or of the park with its ornamental lake dotted with overfed ducks. Instead, mangrove swamps and mud flats flanked the shoreline, a deep tidal channel carved through its centre, flowing swiftly and unfettered. The shifting shoals of mud and sand beneath its surface made it a dangerous stretch for motorised boats, the fast-running channel often too strong for rowing boats.

  But Ralph and Sheila knew this section of the river well. Pulling steadily, they rowed close to the shore, safe from the main current, to a sandbank that dropped away to a deep hole that was a favourite feeding spot for fish, particularly flathead.

  The afternoon passed in a procession of grey clouds, watery sunbursts and gusts of wind followed by breathless calm. Sheila leaned over the side of their little dinghy, staring into the depths of the murky water. All was still. A dying fish gave a feeble flick of its tail, disturbing the oily water in the bucket of fish by Ralph’s feet.

  Her hand rested on the side of the boat, palm up, fingers curved as gracefully as a ballet dancer, the whisper-fine thread of line connecting her pointed index finger to the unseen world below the mirrored surface. For a few inches she could
see the pale green thread beneath the water, then it angled away into nothingness. But no sharp shake, no tug, no sly inching away, no movement, trembled from the drifting morsel along to that expectant hand.

  ‘No more bites, Ralph?’

  ‘Nope. They’ve gone off the bite. Maybe we should pack it in. I don’t like the look of those clouds. Bit of a storm brewing, I reckon.’

  ‘Whatever you say, love.’

  They wound in their lines and stowed them and Ralph slipped the oars into the rowlocks and began rowing back towards the main river.

  Sheila buttoned her yellow raincoat and looked up at the sky. ‘It’s getting dark early, or is it the rain clouds?’

  ‘Could be a bad storm coming. Should have noticed it earlier.’ Sheila smiled at him. ‘You were too busy watching your line.’

  ‘We did all right, didn’t we Sheil?’ He smiled back at her and for a brief moment she wondered if he meant this particular afternoon or the happy years they’d spent together.

  Ralph tugged steadily at the oars, dipping them deep into the water, pulling as strongly as he could, making the little boat skim forward with each stroke. He didn’t want to alarm Sheila, but he was worried about the gathering mass of dark clouds and faint rumble of thunder.

  The southerly wind suddenly snapped at the river and began to whip at its surface. Ralph dragged at the oars, breathing deeply.

  ‘It’s a southerly buster, Ralph, and you’re rowing against the wind. Maybe we should tack across,’ suggested Sheila, looking anxious.

  ‘There’s a bit of swell building up,’ Ralph shouted against the wind. ‘We don’t want to take it beam on, we’re very low to the water.’ Ralph was panting from the strain of stroking faster and faster, struggling to make progress against wind and waves. The choppy swell often made him miss a stroke and lose control of the little boat which was instantly swung broadside by the wind.

  With a suddenness that made Sheila catch her breath, rain exploded from the sky. Ralph strained at the oars, a knot forming in his belly. The wind began whipping up white caps on the waves and Sheila leaned forward, cupping her hands around her mouth, stopping the words being snatched by the wind before they reached him. ‘Move over and let me take an oar. It will be easier with both of us rowing.’