Chapter 1 #2
that circulate around this region—about the mansion’s dark past, about spirits lingering on the land because of unfathomable
injustice and unresolved pain. There’s a terrible truth behind all of that—a few years before this house was built, something
unthinkable did happen right on the other side of the low concrete wall that bounds the existing property. Even so, I don’t
believe in ghosts, and that’s mostly because I lived right here for sixteen years and in all of that time, I never felt anything
but safe and loved.
I walk into the parlour first. It’s dark in here, the space illuminated only by scattered light through a series of alarming
vertical tears along the bottoms of the velvet curtains. It takes me only a moment or two to wonder about those tears, because
the air is so heavy with dust I can taste it with every breath, but there’s another scent, a faded hint of musk and decay.
Growing up in the country, this is a smell I know all too well. Rats and mice have thrived in this house over the years.
This realization has me walking quickly across to tug the curtains open, then unlocking all six sash windows.
I push the lower panes up to let fresh air in, and as light floods in I sweep my gaze over the space, sighing happily as I pick out the very best details.
I love the pressed-tin ceilings throughout this house, and here’s the second of six chandeliers—smaller than the one in the foyer, functional the last time I used it, but no less dusty.
The wall above the dark brown picture rail is a soft shade of cream, but below this is that same familiar crimson which echoes through most of the rest of the house.
The only room with a marked difference in color theme is Uncle Tad’s office, where the lower half of the walls is painted a stunning forest green.
The parlour is startlingly dramatic, made homey by familiar possessions. Hundreds of books, mostly mine and Mum’s, are still
stacked across the four tall built-in bookshelves. Mum was widowed before I was born, back in California, where she and Uncle
Tad grew up. He brought her here to his new home to recover from the shock, and she never went back—instead, we lived here
until she married Alan in 1976. We couldn’t help but become voracious readers living with Tad, and Alan’s place is tiny compared
to Wurimbirra, so when we moved we left most of our collection behind.
Antique furniture is scattered around the room—a circular table and matching wooden chairs, and armchairs, comfortable and
otherwise, some beside small coffee tables, some placed strategically near the enormous fireplace. I remember what these chairs
used to look like: an array of deep red to match the walls, some green and navy and beige to contrast, some patterned with
floral motifs. I run my finger over the top of a worn upholstered armchair and wince at the stain on my fingertip. The furniture
is all brown now because like just about everything else, it’s coated in dust.
I’d hoped that Jon would have thrown some covers over the upholstered furniture at least, especially given how bad the weather has been for the whole time the house was empty.
Like most homes of its era, this one is far from airtight—the wooden window frames have shrunk in places and are worn just about everywhere, and the ornate vents, originally designed to maximize ventilation, now funnel dust and pests right into each room.
The Millennium Drought started in 2001 and dragged on through ten agonizing years—it’s only broken in the past few months.
Rolling dust storms would have choked this house in dust for days on end at times over the years it was empty.
It’s all fixable. If the upholstery is stained, it can be replaced—the bones of the furniture will still be good. And if the
rest of the house is this dusty it’s going to be a pain to clean, but this enormous old house is always going to be a pain to clean, and I expected the first few months would be particularly challenging. I’ll relish the scrubbing
and sweeping and when it gets too much, I’ll bring in a cleaning crew.
I leave the parlour to walk through the hallway, across to push open the double ballroom doors. The curtains in here are in
much better shape than those in the parlour, but they’ve been left open so I can see the sweeping expanse of the backyard
all the way up to the small private cemetery in the back corner. The earliest occupants of the house, and some of their near
descendants, were laid to rest there around the turn of the last century.
What was once an extensive formal garden is now utter chaos—a jumbled mix of dead and overgrown trees and vines and shrubs
and weeds. It’s in even worse shape than the gardens out front. In time, I’ll find a way to restore beauty to the gardens,
but for now, it’s almost a relief that Tad isn’t here to see what has become of his beloved oasis.
The ballroom is mostly empty, except for the ever-present dust over the floors and the once-gleaming grand piano in the corner.
There used to be armchairs in here too but we cleared them out to squeeze in 180 plastic chairs for Tad’s wake. The rented
chairs went with the caterers at the end of the day, and it seems that Jon never set the room right afterwards.
I find the missing armchairs shoved into the formal dining room, around the twenty-four-seat table, which is lined with florist boxes and vases just as it was the day of the wake.
Back then, the table was awash with white-and-cream floral arrangements—sent by Tad’s many fans and publishing colleagues from around the globe, celebrating his long life and illustrious career.
Over the years, the boxes have decayed, and the vases are stained with dried brown scum around the bottom, the last remains of the decayed flower stems and wire sticking out of the florist’s foam.
I pick up a card that’s fallen from one of the largest vases onto the table.
Tad’s first ever agent, Elsie Rins, died the week before he did, so his other agent, her daughter Rita, was unable to make the funeral.
Dear Jon, Ginny and family,
What a man, and what a loss to the world. I wish so much I could have made it to be with you today to celebrate our brilliant
Tad’s life.
All my deepest love and sympathies,
Rita and the team at Rins Literary
My eyes prick with tears as I read Rita’s beautiful words about my uncle. The wake was a celebration of a man adored and revered
all around the world, and a reflection on a life well lived. My cousin might think he doesn’t want any keepsakes from this
house, but he might not remember cards like this one.
I knew Jon had a tough relationship with Wurimbirra.
Maybe over the years I underestimated just how tough it really was, especially after his dad died here, because I’m beginning to suspect he hasn’t set foot in this building since the day of the wake.
No wonder he dodged the question whenever I asked him about the house.
Until a few years ago, Aunt Daph lived just down the road and Jon and his wife, Ilona, visited her a few times a year.
I always assumed they were checking in on Wurimbirra at the same time.
I’d probably have realized otherwise except that I haven’t been in this area much either. Mum still lives nearby, but something
in our relationship changed when Tad died. He was like a magnetic force, dragging the whole family together a few times a
year, and once he was gone . . . it just became so much harder. Mum and Alan came to Waverly and spent Christmas with me and
my then-husband and our daughters for a few years after Tad’s death. But it’s a long trip, and it was always hard for them
to leave the farm for more than a day or two, especially over bushfire season. She’d sometimes suggest we come out to the
farm instead, but it was always a half-hearted request. Mum would say she didn’t want to put us out. She’d say she understood
we probably couldn’t make it. And the truth was, most of the time, it was easier to just lean into that. To say sorry, it
was too much, and we’d catch up with her soon. She came down to the city for my girls’ high school graduations, and again
for my fiftieth birthday party, but I think it’s been five or six years since we managed Christmas together.
My phone rings in my pocket and I almost jump out of my skin at the unexpected sound. I didn’t even have a mobile phone when
I was last here in 2000—I was refusing to give in to what I was convinced would be a passing trend. I recall that other guests’
phones had absolutely no service here that day and I had hoped the coverage improved in the decade since. But Australia’s
inland mobile coverage is still spotty at best, so it’s a relief that my phone will work while I wait for a land line to be
reconnected.
“Hi, Caitlin,” I greet my eldest daughter. “Guess where I am?”
“You’re there already? What time did you leave?” she asks, surprised.
“The electricians are coming to check the wiring at 2:00 p.m. so I had to make an early start.” Besides, I hardly slept a wink.
“Mum—I think I messed up,” Caitlin says suddenly. “Grandma called me this morning.”
“She did?” I say, heart sinking. “Why?”
“She knows I don’t have any lectures on Wednesday mornings so she often calls me for tech advice,” Caitlin muttered. My mother
has absolutely no clue about technology. I’m pretty sure she still does the bookkeeping for Alan’s farm in physical ledger