Maxine’s Golf hummed through Melbourne’s grey suburbs to the tones of Michael Bublé. Until recently, Lisa had despised him for being just another outlet for hormonally challenged women, but she’d changed her mind when she saw him in a television interview. Michael Bublé had worked pubs in his early days and had to put up with louts throwing beer at him. She respected him for surviving that. Humiliation was an essential ingredient for maturity. Besides, he had thick eyelashes.
McMansions huddled together behind high fences on land that had been covered with sheep the last time Lisa had been there. ‘If you’re going to live in a house like that, wouldn’t you want a garden?’ she said, yawning.
‘They’re maintenance free,’ Maxine replied. ‘Besides, who wants to be outside in forty-degree heat? They’re better off inside with aircon and flat-screen televisions.’
Lisa dropped into an abyss of sleep. When she woke the suburbs had made way for parched hills under a giant basin of sky. The dramas of recent weeks seemed to evaporate in endless space.
Maxine turned off the motorway. A flock of galahs rose in a pink cloud from the roadside. They approached a yellow road sign featuring the black shape of a kangaroo.
‘Isn’t that cute?’ Lisa said.
‘Not really.’ Maxine pointed to a furry mound lying on the side on the road.
‘Shouldn’t we stop?’
‘He’s long gone. Bloated,’ Maxine sighed. ‘Probably got hit a few nights ago.’
Two decades in New York had reduced Lisa’s ability to assess the condition of road kill.
The road narrowed and twisted through archways of eucalyptus trees. Lisa lowered her window and gulped air so crisp it made her lungs sting. It carried the mentholated tang she’d yearned for—eucalyptus, the smell of disinfectant, cough lollies and home.
They meandered past burnished oaks and poplars that blazed like roman candles. She felt a flush of childish excitement as they hurtled past old gold diggings and rows of miners’ cottages. A woman stood on a veranda fringed with elaborate ironwork. A man leant on a rake beside a pile of leaves and raised his hand.
‘When did the gold rush start?’ Lisa asked. Sometimes having a primary school teacher for a sister came in handy.
‘July 1851,’ Maxine replied. ‘A shepherd found gold in a creek near here. He showed it to his mates in the men’s quarters. They told him it was fool’s gold so he chucked it out.
‘Then his mates snuck off and started panning. They found humungous gold nuggets. Word got out, of course. Before long the area was swarming with hopefuls, 30,000 of them. Turned out to be the richest goldmine in the world.’
Castlemaine was prettier than Lisa remembered. Colonial houses were sprinkled across hills that yielded to the grid-like layout of the town centre. Shops peered out from under roofs that stretched across the pavements. As in all pioneering towns, God had continued his ongoing war with the devil, and there was a church for every pub. Lisa didn’t waste time wondering which side of the churchyard gates the Trumpertons would’ve been on. They were decent stock. The town had been built for an opulent future. Wide streets and grand buildings were designed to last centuries.
Maxine pointed out the Theatre Royal. ‘The oldest continuously running theatre in mainland Australia,’ she said with noticeable pride.
‘Why can’t you just say the oldest theatre in Australia?’ Lisa asked.
‘There’s an older one in Tasmania.’
‘People came here with big dreams,’ Lisa mused, as they turned into the main street.
‘Yes, and most of them turned to cactus.’
The Golf purred to a halt outside the town hall. Two storeys high, it was an Italianate confection of brick and stone. A tower and flagpole topped Renaissance arches with 1898 etched on the front.
‘Do you think our grandfather saw it built?’ asked Lisa.
‘No idea,’ Maxine said sliding into her fake-fur jacket and swooping into Togs café.
Lisa savoured the air—apple-crisp and colder than in Melbourne. The streets were empty apart from the occasional ute lumbering past. Time had decelerated to half its pace. Even Lisa’s heart seemed to have slowed to a leisurely plod. Her ears buzzed with an unfamiliar sensation. In New York there was always a taxi honking, a whistle blowing, the thrum of wheels over tarmac. On the streets of Castlemaine there was no background noise, apart from the breeze rippling a pile of yellow leaves.
A mother pushed a stroller of pink-cheeked twins towards her and said hello.
‘Did you see what those kids were wearing?’ Lisa said, as they hurried into the warmth of the café. ‘It was all hand-knitted—jackets, beanies, the lot.’
‘Not everyone puts their kids in sweatshop chic,’ Maxine said, settling herself into a seat at a corner table.
‘But that stuff would’ve taken hours to make,’ Lisa said. ‘And she’d have to hand-wash it. I haven’t seen anything like it since . . .’
‘Since we were kids?’ Maxine said. ‘Beware of nostalgia, little sister. There’s plenty of time for it when we’re dead.’
Logs crackled in a central fireplace, lacing the air with a tang of smoke and pine. Old wooden tables and bentwood chairs were scattered casually over rustic floorboards. The work of a local textile artist glowed against white brick walls.
‘Let’s see,’ Maxine said, running her eye down the menu. ‘Organic pumpkin soup . . .’
Three men, roughly shaven and dressed for the weather, sat at a nearby table and discussed the merits of farm machinery. Though each belonged to a different generation, they shared the same complexion and rugged jaw line—grandfather, son and grandson.
Lisa ordered quiche and salad.
A small group of thirty-something women in track pants and puffy vests chatted at another table, coats and scarves draped over their chairs. They were most likely a walking group taking time out from motherhood.
Lisa was surprised she could taste the individual ingredients in her quiche—eggs, cheese, onion. Each one seemed to have sprung fresh from the earth onto her plate. The café latte warmed her insides and sharpened the fuzziness in her brain.
After she’d settled the bill, Lisa examined advertisements on the cork noticeboard—seasonal organic vegetables delivered to your doorstep, singing for pleasure. ‘Oh look, there’s bush dancing in the town hall on Saturday,’ she said. ‘What is bush dancing?’
‘Sounds feral to me,’ Maxine replied. ‘Come on. There’s an antique shop round the corner.’
Maxine’s definition of ‘antique’ was different from anyone else’s. She liked her antiques fresh off a container ship—shiny and in good working order. Anything older than 1990 was written off as ‘old junk’. Maxine’s regal French tables invariably had ‘Made in Indonesia’ stamped on the underside. She preferred the craftwork of artisans like herself, who had been to night classes and learnt to fashion garden ornaments out of driftwood. Though Lisa tried to be tactful about their differences, Maxine made it clear it was just a matter of time before Lisa gave up her quirky interest in mixing old colonial furniture with ethnic pieces and bright minimalist art.
Letting Maxine loose among aisles of distressed coffee tables and bed ends was like setting a golden retriever free on a beach. Maxine salivated over reproduction fireplaces, a so-called oil lamp that ran on electricity and a family of faux Edwardian dolls dressed in cheap flashy fabrics.
Meanwhile, Lisa’s body clock was hovering like a ghost in the early hours of a New York morning. She collapsed on a bench under a heater and stared up at a faded print surrounded by a frame perforated with fake worm holes. It was a portrait of Lord Byron. The Brontë sisters had been crazy about the bad boy poet.
About an hour later Maxine was triumphantly carrying armfuls of booty back to the car. ‘You’d never think we’d find a foghorn this far from the sea,’ she beamed, wielding a large red tube. She’d always had a weakness for phallic symbols.
They climbed into the front seats. ‘Oh well, back to the city,’ Maxine sighed, resting her hands on the steering wheel.
Lisa grabbed her elbow. It was typical Maxine to trick her out of her end of a bargain. ‘Aren’t we going to see the old house?’
‘No idea how to get there,’ Maxine said, glancing at her watch.
Suddenly irrational, Lisa felt on the brink of tears. ‘There’s an Information Centre sign outside the old Market Building,’ she said. ‘Wait here.’
Another fine example of gold rush confidence, the Market Building was like a nineteenth-century Parthenon. Lisa climbed the steps to discover a vast hall inside. It was largely empty apart from a wall covered with brochures and postcards.
‘Do I detect an accent?’ the old man behind the counter enquired.
Lisa bottled her frustration. Having spent the past two decades being teased for her Australian accent, she was now accused of having an American one. If only she could be in a place where she had no accent.
When she mentioned Trumperton Manor the old man’s eyes clouded. ‘It’s seen better days,’ he said. ‘Some say it’s haunted.’
Lisa felt a chill run down her neck, though it was probably just a bug she’d picked up on the plane.
‘People say it hasn’t been the same since the scandal.’
‘What scandal?’ Lisa’s voice echoed off the marble columns.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What happened?’ her voice sharpened.
The old man smiled. ‘Oh, you know what small towns are like,’ he said, scribbling directions on a map.
Lisa nodded, not that she had any experience of small towns. She tried to probe him further.
‘How would you like some of our Castlemaine Rock?’ he asked, waving a red and yellow tin. ‘It’s world-famous.’
Tempted as she was by the retro rock candy, Lisa remembered her diet and declined. She tried to steer the conversation back to Trumperton Manor, but a German couple appeared, wanting to know about vineyards. The old man made it clear his interaction with Lisa was over.
She could hardly wait to get back to the car to share the gossip. A scandal and a ghost!
As she nestled into the passenger seat, she was about to tell all when she suddenly had a vision of Maxine at about eight years old, arms crossed in typical pose, announcing that the Easter Bunny didn’t exist. Maxine had delighted in watching six-year-old Lisa crumple into tears, so much so she added that the daisy Lisa was holding was poisonous and she would be dead by four o’clock. Maxine still took pleasure in snuffing out what she perceived to be Lisa’s fantasies. And for someone who was an expert in just about everything, she’d been unusually cagey about Trumperton Manor and the Trumperton family.
For once, Lisa shed the role of gullible baby sister. If Maxine could keep a secret, then so could she. ‘Second on the left, then over the railway line,’ she said, deciphering the old man’s scrawl.
They drove in silence up a hill and through a subdivision of newish houses. Castlemaine was getting its version of suburban sprawl. Beyond the subdivision the road undulated across pastureland before turning into a broad valley. A twinkling creek coiled along the roadside and disappeared behind a stand of wattle trees. Ancient hills were etched against limitless sky.
As the car rounded a bend, a flurry of white hurtled towards the windscreen. Maxine stamped on the brakes, but collision was inevitable. Powerful wings thudded against the glass, followed by the sound of claws scraping across the paintwork above their heads.
‘What was that?’ Lisa asked, swivelling to look out the rear window.
Maxine stopped and switched off the engine. A mess of feathers writhed on the road behind them. The poor creature had to be mortally wounded. But defying all logic, the bird clambered to its feet, ran its beak over its feathers and shook its wings. It waddled to the side of the road and stared at them from the shelter of the long grass.
‘Is he all right?’ Lisa asked.
‘He was just about cockatoo stew, but he’ll be fine.’
‘Oh my God, look!’ Lisa said, pointing out a pair of decrepit gateposts across the road. ‘They’re the ones in Dad’s old photo.’
One of the gateposts had lost its sphere and the ornate gates had disappeared. The gravel drive had reverted to weeds, but there was no mistaking the entrance to Trumperton Manor. It was exactly the spot Alexander Trumperton’s father had sat on his horse and posed for the photo.
Lisa strode across the road and peered into the shadows. The driveway curved and vanished frustratingly into a cavern of pines. Going by the old photo, the house would be just around that bend. She stepped forward.
‘No!’ called Maxine. ‘It’s private property.’
‘Let’s knock on the door and say who we are,’ Lisa said, sounding like a six-year-old again. ‘They might ask us in.’
‘Another time,’ Maxine said firmly. ‘I need to get home to put the tea on.’
As they were about to drive off, Lisa spotted a side road a few metres behind them near where the cockatoo had almost met his fate. ‘Let’s go down there,’ she pleaded. ‘We might be able to see the house.’
With the enthusiasm of Mata Hari being marched to the firing squad, Maxine turned onto the gravel road. Lisa craned her neck, but it seemed Trumperton Manor had been devoured by bush. Just as she was about to concede defeat, two elegantly shaped chimneys and a slate roof rose above the canopy.
‘There it is!’
They rounded a corner and the house suddenly appeared. Lisa made Maxine stop the car. Heart thumping, she climbed over a grass-filled gutter and stood at a wire fence.
Basking in the afternoon light, Trumperton Manor seemed larger and more imposing than in the photos. Two storeys high, it was the archetypal red-brick manor, worthy of a BBC costume drama. With its handsome portico and wraparound veranda, the proportions reflected the height of pure Georgian architecture. The decorated eaves and columns offered hints of grandeur. Large shuttered windows whispered of rustling gowns and gavottes. Lisa could almost hear horses clopping up the driveway and gliding to a halt outside the entrance, while the strains of a string quartet wafted from inside. Half-closing her eyes, she imagined the scent of honeysuckle mingled with freshly poured champagne on a warm summer’s evening.
‘Stunning!’ she breathed.
‘It’s a wreck,’ Maxine said. ‘Just look at that roof. It’s a sieve. And the brickwork’s wobbly. The place needs a demolition ball.’
The manor certainly had been neglected for years, if not decades. Paintwork blistered on window frames and eaves. In some places it was peeled back to the wood. On the upper level, two shutters hung at drunken angles, perilously close to plummeting to the ground. Large cracks glistened in the windowpanes. Curtains hung in rags. Two of the downstairs windows were boarded up with wood. A dilapidated wooden add-on slouched against the back of the main house.
Across a yard around the side of the house, Lisa could see another building. It was even more dishevelled than the main residence, and some of the slates in its pitched roof were missing. Lisa had spent enough time with her fictional heroines to know any establishment like Trumperton would have needed stables. These ones were larger than a modern family home.
The garden had reverted to scruffy paddock. Not even the pampas grass had survived. From where Lisa was standing, she could make out a tangle of overgrown fruit trees behind the house. Trumperton Manor was as unloved as Lisa had felt since Jake walked out.
A squawk pierced the autumn air. ‘Look who’s here!’ Lisa said.
A tiny white figure waddled down the driveway. With his crest waving like a yellow glove, the cockatoo looked like a small circus clown. When he saw Lisa, he stopped and put his head to one side, raised his wings and flapped furiously, affording a glimpse of the pastel yellow feathers on the underside of his wings. Lisa willed him to take flight. But for all his efforts the bird stayed earthbound.
‘He can’t fly!’ she cried. ‘Oh Maxine, did we do that to him?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Maxine answered. ‘He’s probably still in shock.’
The bird gave up flapping and hopped across the paddock to peck at the grass.
The house tugged Lisa’s attention back to the front door. She longed to climb the front steps, walk through the rooms and drink in the aromas that Alexander knew. She felt an immediate attachment to the crumbling ruin. Trumperton Manor needed healing as much as she did.
‘Don’t you feel a connection to this place?’ she asked her sister.
‘Not a bit,’ Maxine said, shooing a fly off her shoulder. ‘You always were the fanciful one.’
Maxine escorted Lisa back to the car and firmly shut her in the passenger seat.
They drove off in a plume of dust.