Charlotte Brontë was eight years old when her father sent her to the world’s worst boarding school. Charlotte later exacted revenge by recording, in the early chapters of Jane Eyre, the cruelties she and her sisters suffered. As well as starvation and physical punishment, the Brontë girls had been expected to survive on very little sleep.
Now, having woken painfully just after dawn, Lisa wondered how long a person could stay awake without going insane. She couldn’t have dozed off for more than twenty minutes through the night.
The air was still and silent. She pulled out her earplugs. The rain must’ve stopped. She wandered through the quagmire that was her bedroom in the direction of the French doors. Stepping onto the balcony, she was startled by the scene before her. Overnight, the valley had become a vast, serene lake. Trees admired their reflections in the water. A mob of kangaroos preened themselves on a hillock as galahs squawked across a pale-blue sky. This unpredictable country with its outlandish animals hardly belonged to humans.
Lisa straightened her beanie, zipped her polar fleece over her nightie and went downstairs to the kitchen. She stepped through the doorway and was ankle deep in water. The table, where she and the kids had sat so happily yesterday, resembled Noah’s Ark, floating in a brown sea.
A weight settled in her stomach. She tried to think what a Brontë heroine would do. A minor flood would be nothing compared to their deprivations. They would dig into their reserves and deal with it. Emboldened, she strode down the entrance hall and grabbed a broom. When she returned, she was astonished to see a pair of muscular brown legs wading towards her.
The legs rose into a pair of khaki shorts, above which was the sort of rustic jacket favoured by Portia’s hipster friends. Except this particular jacket wasn’t an ironic nod in the direction of classic masculinity. Lisa could tell from the shape of the shoulders, the large sun-bronzed hands, that this was the genuine article. Some kind of outdoor god had wandered into her kitchen. She raised the broom.
‘Welcome to the district,’ the bronzed deity said, raising his hands in mock surrender.
Lisa was suddenly aware that she was dressed like an escapee from a home for the bewildered. ‘How’d you get in?’ she snapped. Her words came out thick and clunky. She’d developed a lisp. Blushing, she turned her head, spat the mouthguard into her hand and buried it in her pocket.
‘Back door,’ the man said with a twinkle of amusement. ‘It was jammed.’
She flicked the broom. His eyes widened. Either he was telling the truth or he was one of those insane outback killers movies are made of.
‘It was locked!’
‘Oh, was it?’ He seemed apologetic. ‘I didn’t realise . . . I gave it a shove. Get your husband to take a look at the lock.’ He seemed genuinely upset by her alarm. Serial killers probably did the same with their victims—cajoled them into a state of trust. With his height and strength, there was no doubt who’d win if she tried to force him out.
‘You can put your teeth back in if you like,’ he said, eager to be helpful.
‘It’s not my teeth!’ She excavated the mouthguard and flashed it at him.
‘Oh. A sportswoman. I used to wear one of those when I played footie.’
His age was difficult to assess—somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. Probably older than the average testosterone-crazed sex criminal, though Lisa realised she was flattering herself to imagine her beanie–nightie ensemble could inflame anyone. On the other hand, he could have escaped prison after years of deprivation . . . His dark hair was cropped, but not convict-short. Boots of sideburns dug their heels into the day or two’s growth shadowing his jaw. A scar meandered over his left eyebrow. One of his eye teeth was crooked. He had the air of an action hero who’d yet to develop full confidence in his jet pack. Yet behind the boyish grin was a kind of sadness. She couldn’t work out if it was resignation, disappointment or something more complicated. Whatever, the man had no right to be there.
‘Scott Green,’ he said, sloshing towards her with a dazzling smile. ‘Scottie to you. Creek’s up. Been a fair bit of flooding overnight. Just checking up on the neighbourhood.’
The name was familiar. ‘The gardener with special rates for pensioners?’ she asked.
‘Why, you up for a senior’s concession? Matter of fact I’m a landscape designer. But I do pretty much anything these days. What part of the States are you from?’
Damn. The accent again.
‘I was born in Melbourne.’
‘So what possessed you to buy Tumbledown Manor?’ he asked.
‘It’s Trumperton Manor, actually.’
The intruder grinned. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing.
‘My grandfather lived in this house,’ she added defensively. ‘I’m Lisa Trumperton.’
Scott seemed to look at her for the first time. He ran an amused eye over her beanie, polar fleece and nightie. She felt ridiculous. ‘So you’re an Aussie after all?’
They stared at each other across the shallow ocean at their feet.
‘I’ve got another one of those things in the ute,’ he said, nodding at her broom. ‘Want a hand?’
Lisa wanted to weep with gratitude. Instead, she waded across the pond and flung open the back door with its now broken lock. Side by side, they worked with broad even strokes, sloshing the torrent out of the kitchen and down the back steps. Scott moved with animal ease, achieving more in a single swoop than Lisa could with three.
He assured her she was better off than her neighbours, who were thigh-deep in water. He’d had to lend them his pump. ‘Lucky the sky’s cleared,’ he said, opening the windows. ‘It might pong in here for a couple of days. The forecast’s good, though. Should dry out pretty fast.’ His optimism was impressive.
After tossing the broom in the back of his ute, he asked if there was anything else she needed. She told him about the power cut. He reached for a toolbox and assailed the fuse box in the back porch. Ten minutes later the lights flickered and the fridge grumbled back to life.
Scott achieved so much with so little apparent effort she wanted to hug him. But it wasn’t proper behaviour for a woman in a nightie and a beanie. Instead, she went to find her purse. He shook his head, embarrassed. Instant coffee with milk and three sugars was all the payment he wanted.
‘How’s the roof?’ he asked, slurping from his mug.
‘Are you psychic?’
‘No.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ve known this house since I was a kid. Those slates have always been fun and games.’
She took him upstairs to inspect the bedroom.
He stared glumly at the saturated bedding. ‘So there’s no Mr Trumperton?’
Lisa flushed with annoyance. He was a nosey creep. She should never have let him upstairs.
‘The slates’ll need shifting around,’ he said, diverting his attention away from her bed. ‘You’ll need someone to fix the shutters and windows, too.’
‘Actually, I have an adult son,’ she said, sounding snooty.
‘You do?’ he said with a disarming smile. ‘Maybe he could give you a hand.’
She bit her lip. Ted and his friends were wonderful, but they were up to their necks in their city lives. She was clearly going to need more help than the odd weekend visit.
‘Or you could get hold of the Grey Army,’ he added. ‘Real craftsmen. Ron wouldn’t rip you off. I’ll text you his number.’
As he pressed her digits into his machine, she could hear Maxine wailing: ‘You gave your phone number to a strange man?! Why don’t you just go ahead and offer your services in the sex offenders’ wing?’
He helped her heave the bed onto the balcony. She spread the blankets over the balcony rails while he laid the mattress in a patch of sun.
‘Should be dry by this afternoon,’ he said, gazing across the valley. ‘Water’s down already.’
The lake did seem to be shrinking. She’d never known a landscape that could change so quickly.
She sent him downstairs so she could change into jeans and a sweatshirt. While she was at it she flung on some foundation and neutral lipstick.
When she returned, Scott was crouching on the floor, investigating the place where James had unearthed flagstones. She offered him a slice of cold pizza. He devoured it in seconds. She placed two more slices on a plate and watched them meet the same fate.
‘Never seen the creek so high,’ he said, repressing a burp.
‘And they call it a drought.’
‘We’ve just had the hottest summer on record. Not that it means much. Ron only bought a weather gauge last year.’
She giggled. Oh God, surely he wouldn’t mistake it for flirting? She straightened her mouth and poured two more mugs of coffee.
‘Have you always lived here?’ she asked.
‘Grew up down the road. Wasn’t too flash at school. I liked being outside so I did a course in architectural landscaping at Burnley. Set up my own business. It went gangbusters for a while. Some Sheila from Vogue Living did a story about me.’
‘So why did you come back?’ Her mug seared her hand. She poured extra milk in to cool it down.
‘To see more of my boy,’ he said after a silence.
She hadn’t thought of him as a father. ‘Oh, how old is he?’
‘Sixteen. My ex dragged him here when she shacked up with the real estate dude.’
‘Hogan the younger?’
He put his hands in his lap and studied his thumbs. ‘She reckons I’m a useless dad.’
Lisa nudged the sugar bowl towards him. He shovelled spoonfuls into his mug.
‘I bet you’re not. What’s his name?’
‘Todd. He’s just a regular kid. You know what they’re like at that age.’
‘Fast cars and girls . . .’
His gaze lowered to the floor. Maybe the boy was in trouble.
‘They don’t have drugs out here, do they?’ she asked.
‘Nothing serious.’
‘How long have you been back?’
‘Nearly two years. I love the area. It’s part of me.’
Lisa felt a jab of envy. She longed to claim the land was in her blood, too.
Scott ran his hand over the table.
‘Nice old oak. I’ve gone for Australian hardwoods at my place.’
‘Did you get flooded?’
‘No way. I’m on a ridge up the valley.’
‘A house?’ she didn’t mean to sound rude, but he seemed the sort of bloke who’d live up a tree.
‘Man cave,’ he said, grinning. ‘Open fire, Keith Jarrett on the sound system and a glass of Australian red. Simple pleasures.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Lisa said, meaning perfect for him—not necessarily for anyone else.
‘So what brought you to the land of Oz?’ he asked, assaulting his fourth slice of pizza.
He was a good listener. As she unravelled her story (minus the mastectomy and the pathetic aspects of her divorce), he nodded encouragement and was serious in the right places.
‘You’re one gutsy lady,’ he said, standing up and rubbing the back of his neck.
‘Why, because the house is haunted?’ she asked.
‘You don’t believe that stuff, do you?’ he said. ‘If you’re going to believe in fairytales you might as well get it right. The house isn’t haunted.’
‘I knew that,’ she said, crossing her arms with satisfaction.
‘But the stables are.’
The hair on Lisa’s arms prickled. She felt a sudden chill. ‘What do you mean? Did something bad happen there?’
‘So they say,’ Scott said, examining his fingernails.
‘What was it, a suicide?’
‘Something like that,’ he said breezily. ‘I wouldn’t worry. It probably never happened.’
He stood to go. She’d forgotten how it felt to walk beside a man taller than herself—he was almost overbearing. Outside, they blinked in the sunlight. The gum trees gleamed silver.
He swung his equipment into the back of his ute. ‘I’ll be back first thing in the morning to take a look at that roof,’ he said.
They hadn’t discussed payment. Besides, he had yet to prove he wasn’t a murderer. Just as she was about to say no, her phone buzzed with a text message from Ted. He and his friends were going to a music festival and wouldn’t be able to make it to Castlemaine the following weekend after all.
‘That’d be great, thanks,’ she said.
Scott drove off, leaving a trail of pheromones in his wake.