Chapter 9 #2
“And . . . Trevor?” Jack says. He’s frowning at the final grave. The bulk of the cemetery is an orderly, cohesive collection,
each grave sporting some kind of ornate decoration, most with a little corner border around the site, some with thick concrete
caps.
Trevor Fowler’s grave sits a little apart from the others. There’s no border. No concrete cap. The headstone is a plain concrete
cross that reads Trevor Fowler 1881–1916.
“This is where the story turns dark,” I sigh, and I motion towards a concrete bench beneath a towering red gum tree. Jack and I sit.
“As soon as Trevor took possession of the land, he tried to evict and ban a group of Wiradjuri people who camped by the waterholes
there from time to time. They refused to leave—and why would they? The ancestors of that very same group had been camping
on that precise patch of land for tens of thousands of years.”
I can tell from Jack’s wince that he knows exactly where this story is going.
“Shit.”
“Trevor took some strychnine from the general store and poisoned the waterhole.”
“How many people did he murder?”
“It’s impossible to know for sure. There were no survivors from the group. One account suggests as many as fifty or sixty
people died over the course of a week.”
Jack shakes his head in dismay. “I know the history of this country is littered with stories like this. But we’re only talking—what—one
hundred twenty years ago?”
“Give or take, yeah.”
“Just a few generations ago.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m guessing Trevor was never charged.”
“The murder of Aboriginal people was a crime under the relevant laws at the time, and it was punishable by death too, but this was rarely enforced and when it was, there was usually an uproar—many settlers more offended by the punishment of one of their own than the massacre of large groups of First Nations people. And no, there were no legal consequences for Trevor, but there were at least social consequences. Eileen left him—she moved away to live with her parents. And when Charles found out what had been happened, he and Flora banished Trevor from the family. Charles was beloved in the region—he was even mayor of the Forbes Shire for a few years—so people took notice. By the early 1900s the entire town had shunned Trevor. He died young, at just thirty-five years old, virtually destitute and all alone on the very farm where he murdered dozens of innocent people.”
“So how on earth did he come to be buried here?”
“A combination of grace and spite,” I say wryly. “Flora felt strongly that her son had sullied the family name. This property
had always been known as Fowler Estate, so that’s what was on the original stained glass transom over the front door.” I had
seen photos of it in the archives—just a handful of black-and-white images taken during the construction of the house. “Once
the full truth came out Flora was so incensed by Trevor’s behavior that she insisted that they change the name of the property
to Wurimbirra.”
“It’s a Wiradjuri word?”
“It means to care for. To protect, or to restore.”
“It’s hard to imagine this house with any other name.”
“Trevor died estranged from everyone. He should have had a pauper’s burial at the town cemetery, but Charles and Flora buried
him here. Was that because of some sense of enduring love for a son who had grown to be a mass murderer? Or did they just
get a kick out of knowing that this property would be known as Wurimbirra, and it might have driven the racist bastard crazy
if he knew he’d have to rest here forever?”
“A cemetery in your backyard is one thing, but to have an evil man like that right here . . .” Jack murmurs.
“And you know how close the waterhole is,” I add, pointing to the concrete wall. “No one knows for sure what Trevor did with
those bodies, but there’s every possibility that the remains of several generations of innocent people, all murdered in cold
blood, are scattered or buried not far from here.”
“Do you think that’s where the rumors about this house started?” Jack asks me.
“Keep in mind everything I know about Trevor and Charles I learned from a handful of oral histories taken over the last few
decades—stories people heard from their grandparents before they passed. There’s not much in the archives about Trevor Fowler,
which tells me this is a story our town would rather forget. And it’s often the case that the detail of historical events—particularly
shameful events—fades with time. People know something terrible happened, and they try to make sense of it in their own way.”
“What do you do with a property like this when there’s a history like that hidden somewhere behind it?”
“You said something last night about the person we are being the culmination of everything we’ve been through—the good, bad
and ugly,” I say. Jack nods. “It’s exactly like that for historic buildings. Trevor’s grave—the murder of those innocent people—that
is a part of the story of this house. In restoring a place like this, we aim to uncover it all so that it can be known and understood
by this generation and future generations. There are stories most would rather forget all over this country. Until we expose them, we can’t confront them, and until we confront them, we can’t learn from them.” I’m
suddenly self-conscious and I look away, feeling my face heat. “I’ve been rambling, I know. I’m just so passionate about this
whole subject. Obviously.”
“I’ve loved hearing you ramble,” he says. “Thanks for sharing the story with me. How did you learn all of that?”
“After we graduated high school, before we moved to Sydney? I spent that whole summer at the historical society, digging through
their archives,” I admit. “I’ve always been obsessed with this house.”
The truth of that hits me hard. Even as a kid, all I wanted to do was unearth every mystery here—to know and understand every secret buried in every nook and cranny of Wurimbirra.
This is my chance to do just that, even if it means I uncover uncomfortable truths in the process. Maybe that’s how I have to think
about things like pens scattered across the floor and doors that slam themselves. Not something to fear or run from, but rather
something to run towards, to investigate and understand.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I blurt. “But there’s something going on here. Something I can’t explain.”
Jack gives me an alarmed look. “What on earth—”
“There’s just something . . . not menacing . . . but . . .” I wince and shake my head. I don’t even know how to explain what’s
been happening without sounding a little paranoid or maybe even deluded. “It’s okay. I’m okay. But people have always said there’s more to this house than meets the eye, and I don’t think I really believed that
until this week.”
“As long as you’re safe . . . ?”
I think about the door slamming and finding myself trapped in that room this morning—except that I wasn’t trapped. Not really.
The door handle turned just fine once Erin intervened. I was scared at the time but with the perspective even a few hours
have given me, I can see that I was never really in danger. If enough time had passed and I couldn’t open the door, I could have climbed out the window, onto the verandah, then maybe used the cast iron filigree lace to swing myself down close enough
to the ground that I could jump without injuring myself. Doors that close themselves and broken glasses and random objects
that move from tables to the floor are hardly menacing.
“I am okay,” I say again. “I guess I just wanted someone to know. That’s all.”
Jack scans my face, then the tension in his expression eases.
“I’m right next door,” he says. “Promise me you’ll reach out if you ever need anything. Even if you’re just feeling lonely.”
“I will,” I promise, and maybe I actually mean it.
Just after Jack leaves, there’s thumping on the door again. Assuming he’s left something behind, I hurry to open the door,
only to find a woman in a boxy pantsuit standing there. She’s scowling as she scrawls something on a clipboard. When she looks
up at me, her expression is grave.
“Fiona Winslow?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Demelza Winters,” she says. “From the council.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“You don’t have any planning approvals in place. I’m here to inspect and confirm that you’re not undertaking unauthorized
work to this property given it’s a listed home of heritage significance.”
I’m so shocked it renders me speechless. Demelza raises an eyebrow at me, as if my outrage is about her visit, not her preposterous
accusation.
“I’ve done nothing to the house as yet,” I say flatly. “I haven’t even finished moving in, and I don’t have planning approvals
in place because I haven’t planned any works as yet. Can you tell me what this is about?”
“We’ve had a call from a concerned member of the community. That’s all I can tell you.”
“That’s not something—I would never—” I draw in a breath and regroup. It will do me no favors to be defensive and to get this
woman offside. “Why don’t you come in and we can have a chat?”
We get chatting as I lead her through the house.
Demelza tells me she’s relatively new to town, having worked in Melbourne until just a few months ago.
We take a seat at the table in the kitchen and when I give her a quick rundown on my career and qualifications, she offers me a somewhat embarrassed smile.
“Ah,” she says, glancing down her clipboard. “So that’s why your name was familiar. I did a walk-through at Monteray House
on an open house day last year.” That’s a heritage home my firm worked on in Sydney, a major project that took several years
to complete. I won an international award for it.
“So I’m sure you understand, the last thing I would ever want to do is to make unauthorized changes to this property. I understand
the law, the requirements, the historic significance. Maybe better than just about anyone,” I say. “But I understand you need
to confirm that, so let’s walk through the house and—”
“No,” she interrupts me. “No, the complainant had quite a specific concern regarding the cemetery.”