Australia had no concept of winter. The thermometer had barely dropped before buds started sprouting on bare branches. A magnolia burst into a flurry of pink and white near the front gates.
While the outside of Trumperton Manor was hardly grand, the interior was responding to attention with heart-warming speed. Several rooms were now sparkling with new paint (after her marigold binge, Lisa restrained herself to bisque, not that Ron liked that colour much, either). The entire house instantly smelt fresher when the mouldy curtains were replaced. And after the Grey Army finished sanding and polishing the floorboards, the manor took on new life. Lisa had inherited her father’s love of Persian carpets, but the real deal was out of her budget. Second-hand rugs of dubious heritage did the job, providing splashes of colour on top of the bare boards.
Her ramblings through the countryside unearthed treasure troves of colonial furniture, which she loaded into Dino’s hatch and ferried back to the house. The chunky armchairs she bought from a retired farmer for Alexander’s room were delivered on the back of a truck. She was grateful the old boys were on hand to help her unload them. Covered in maroon linen, each chair was large enough for a tiger to curl up in—though they were a little firm on the backside.
An old travelling chest made an ideal coffee table. The Edwardian clock with its hands frozen at 3.30 seemed at home on the mantelpiece alongside Alexander’s photo. Standard lamps and bookshelves made the room inviting.
Stacking pyramids of logs in the fireplace and watching them flare to life became a meditation. As the flames crackled and released musky aroma through the room, Lisa could hardly resent the prospect of cleaning up next morning. Other women went to the gym. She swept cinders.
The bedrooms were still stark, but at least the upstairs bathroom was no longer spooky. The only time she’d come close to having a real argument with the Grey Army was over the bath. Ron and Ken shook their heads when she’d announced she wanted the old one resurfaced. Ken told her she’d be better off with a new plastic bath from Bunnings. She argued some people would kill for a genuine claw-foot. He walked away muttering ‘crazy Yank’.
Now even Ken had to admit the revamped bath looked good. She’d emitted a yip of delight when the shiny new taps gushed instead of dribbled. A new mirror gleamed against fresh white tiles. The heated towel rail was the ultimate luxury.
The wood-burning stove still lurked in the kitchen like a medieval weapon. It sprang to life at weekends when James set it alight and produced delicious meals from its belly. His efforts to teach her how to feed the fire while keeping an even temperature all ended in failure. To Lisa, the relationship between the firebox and the vents was advanced physics, with the added risk of burning the house down, so she was still eating Skinnymeals.
Lisa continued to steer clear of the stables. She was almost disappointed by the ghost’s refusal to show up. Every time a curtain fluttered or a door creaked there was always a logical cause.
Her jaw clicked the morning Maxine called to say she and Aunt Caroline were on their way. Maxine warned her again that the old girl was losing her marbles. She was keeping the nursing home in stitches with more invented stories about her past, including horse riding with Princess Elizabeth and having an affair with a duke. But no matter how nutty Aunt Caroline might become, Lisa knew egg sandwiches wouldn’t cut it. The duchess of Camberwell would expect home baking.
She creaked the wood stove’s door open and peered into its belly. How James produced melt-in-the-mouth lamb fillets from the thing was a mystery. Still, if she didn’t try . . . She snapped a few kindling sticks and set them ablaze in the firebox. Once they were crackling away, she added a block of wood. To her surprise, it actually caught fire. She added another, closed the door and wondered what to bake. Her collection of recipe books was risible. Scones from the yellowing pages of the Camberwell High Cook Book were too plain; Julia Child’s Queen of Sheba cake too ambitious.
She mixed the batter for an old carrot cake recipe. Once she’d grated the carrots and beaten in the eggs, she folded the mixture into a tin. According to the temperature dial, the oven was about right. With a silent prayer, she slid the cake tin inside and sealed the door shut.
As she was melting butter for the icing on the stove top, she was startled by the appearance of a video camera at her elbow.
‘We let ourselves in,’ Maxine said. ‘Zack wanted to come too.’
‘Hello, Zack.’
‘Hi, Mrs Trumperton. I need another trans-generational scene.’
What was he making, Gone with the Wind?
‘It certainly is bright in here,’ Maxine said, surveying the walls. ‘I’d never have picked you as a bright-yellow person.’
‘Marigold,’ Lisa corrected.
Aunt Caroline’s walking stick tapped across the lino. A stately woman with white hair and the Trumperton nose, she resembled a Roman emperor in drag.
‘Never liked the old dump,’ she said, sweeping a lilac shawl over her shoulder and offering a corrugated cheek to kiss.
Lisa resisted the temptation to suggest, if that was the case, she could have stayed away. ‘Did you visit here as a little girl?’ she asked instead, as she took the pan off the stove top.
‘Your grandfather wouldn’t come near the place. Not as long as I knew him,’ she replied.
‘Didn’t he live here as a young man?’ Lisa asked.
‘That doesn’t mean he liked it.’
Lisa was getting nowhere. She’d have to tackle her aunt head-on. ‘What do you know about the ghost story, Aunt Caroline?’
The old woman turned her walking stick in her hand. ‘Where’s the lavatory?’ she snapped.
Lisa pointed at the door to the servants’ quarters.
‘Oh, still there, is it?’ Aunt Caroline said before toddling out of the kitchen.
Lisa set up a tray with Aunt Caroline’s teacups. She shook her head. The old woman was incorrigible.
‘I think we can safely say that subject’s closed,’ Maxine said, casting an appraising eye over her surroundings. ‘Why did you paint everything else brown?’
‘Bisque,’ Lisa said, drawing a breath.
‘Oh, those silly people in the paint factory dreaming up names. I’d call it Cow Poo,’ Maxine said under her breath so Aunt Caroline wouldn’t hear her saying a naughty word.
It went without saying that Aunt Caroline would die of horror if afternoon tea was served at the kitchen table. So Lisa escorted the old lady to Alexander’s room and settled her in a maroon chair, while Zack filmed. Hoping to dislodge an avalanche of memories, Lisa pointed out the photo of Alexander on the mantelpiece.
‘Who’s that?’ Aunt Caroline asked, squeezing her eyes to the size of raisins.
‘Your father.’
‘Is it?’ she said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I suppose he was young once.’
Encouraged by the presence of Zack’s camera, Maxine recited a list of her offspring’s latest accomplishments. Andrew was on the brink of selling some kind of app to a company in Silicon Valley; she’d just found out her grandchildren were in the genius percentile; and Dan was likely to win a Nobel Prize for his services to colons.
An alarming spiral of smoke meandered through the hallway. Lisa leapt to her feet and bustled back to the kitchen. Black clouds billowed from the wood stove.
Lisa fought her way through until she reached the oven door. Pulling the cake pan out, she dumped it on the bench before filling a pot with water and dousing the flames in the firebox.
‘Everything all right?’ Maxine asked from the doorway.
Lisa opened the windows and examined the cake. The top was blackened. ‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘You take the tray through. I’ll sort this out.’
Lisa emptied the cake on a wire tray, let it cool for a bit, then sawed the top off with a bread knife. She smothered what was left with icing, which immediately dribbled down the sides.
Back in Alexander’s room, Aunt Caroline was delivering a monologue at Zack’s camera about the time she danced with Charles de Gaulle in the glory days after World War II. She really was away with the pixies.
‘Tea?’ Lisa said, kneeling at her aunt’s elbow.
‘No need to shout.’ Aunt Caroline watched warily as Lisa remembered to pour tea first and then the milk. The old woman peered at the slice of cake on her plate. ‘Is that a scone or a biscuit?’
‘Carrot cake.’
‘It remains a mystery to me how anyone can make cake from anything as humble as a carrot,’ Aunt Caroline said, prodding the cake with a fork. The delicacy snapped under pressure and lumps of charred carrot flew across the room.
‘Don’t you remember you gave us this lovely dinner service for a wedding present?’ Diversion tactics were all Lisa had left.
Aunt Caroline snorted. ‘Fat lot of good it did you.’ The old girl was sane enough when it suited her.
Maxine announced she and Zack were keen to do the grand tour. Lisa assured her the house wasn’t as big as it looked from the outside.
‘Hardly a budgie cage, though, is it?’ Maxine said as she sailed up the stairs. ‘Remember that townhouse you nearly bought? Eugene Drummond, the magistrate, and his wife, Madeline, snapped it up. She says it’s perfect for two people to downsize into.’
Zack zoomed in on each of their faces. Lisa wished he wasn’t so keen on close-ups.
Though Maxine approved of the new bathroom, she appeared underwhelmed by everything else. Lisa tried not to react when Maxine said it was pretentious to sleep in a ballroom, no matter how shabby. The inspection was interrupted by the thud of the doorknocker echoing up the stairs.
Lisa hurried downstairs, but Aunt Caroline’s arthritic hips had miraculously flown her across the hall to open the door. ‘You have a visitor,’ she decreed.
Standing in a halo of sunlight was the unmistakable silhouette of Scott Green. Tanned and as well-defined as a Rodin sculpture, he nodded at Lisa before beaming at Maxine and Aunt Caroline, who responded by blushing and fawning like a pair of Geishas.
‘Just thought I’d drop by to see how things are going,’ he said, sliding his boots off as if the invitation to come inside had already been issued. He introduced himself to Maxine and Aunt Caroline, who then bustled him into Alexander’s Room.
Sighing, Lisa collected another cup from the kitchen. She returned to find Aunt Caroline insisting Maxine cut a large slice of cake for Scott to ‘fill up those legs’. Maxine asked if anyone had a chainsaw.
‘Things have certainly picked up round here,’ Scott said.
Zack adjusted a standard lamp to throw light on Scott’s face.
‘So you’re the gardener?’ Maxine asked, pouring lukewarm liquid into his cup.
‘More of a consultant,’ Scott said with a grin as wide as the Nullarbor Plain.
‘Aren’t you the land agent’s husband?’ Maxine would qualify as a terrier if she had a tail.
‘Ex,’ Scott replied, crunching through the cake. The teacup resembled a toy in the paw of his hand. His huge grey socks were spread out in front of the fireplace in a way that was far too familiar.
‘Looks like the boys have done a passable job,’ he said. ‘Floors have come up good.’
Lisa fought the urge to correct his grammar.
‘His tea’s gone cold!’ Aunt Caroline gushed. ‘Run along and put the kettle on.’
Relieved to have an excuse, Lisa grabbed the teapot and scurried to the kitchen.
Maxine suddenly appeared at her side. ‘A bit of rough trade?’
Lisa’s cheeks sizzled. ‘No way. He’s only been here a couple of times.’
‘What did Shakespeare say about the lady protesting too much?’
Water bubbled furiously into the teapot. Lisa pushed past Maxine and swept back into Alexander’s room to drown their cups.
Silence settled over them.
‘How’s the family?’ Maxine asked.
‘Fine,’ Lisa replied. ‘Portia’s borderline anorexic, possibly bulimic, but you knew that.’
Maxine’s mouth dropped.
‘Oh, and did I tell you Ted’s gay?’
‘What?’
Suddenly aware Zack was doing another of his dreaded closeups, Lisa felt her face redden.
‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with that,’ Aunt Caroline mused. ‘People are far too dismal these days. When I think of what our generation went through in the wars . . . Night raids, those poor boys who never came home . . .’
Scott seemed to have discovered a thistle in his sock that required a great deal of attention.
‘Not that sort of gay!’ Maxine hissed. ‘She means homosexual.’
Aunt Caroline’s mouth formed the shape of a gothic arch. ‘You don’t mean Artistic?’
Maxine nodded.
Aunt Caroline turned purple. She gasped for breath and her eyes bulged. Lisa tried to remember what she’d seen on posters about the choking hold.
Aunt Caroline seized her walking stick and propelled herself to her feet. Scott towered over her and took her hand.
‘Thank you, young man,’ she snapped. I’m quite all right.’ Her skin reverted to its normal waxy colour. ‘Is that the time?’ Aunt Caroline pointed her stick at the broken clock. ‘Come along, Maxine. I’ll be late for bridge.’
With uncharacteristic tact, Scott decided to see if the apple tree needed pruning while Lisa packed Aunt Caroline, Zack and Maxine into the Golf.
As Lisa waved them goodbye, she felt a watershed of relief. She turned to go back inside. At that moment, Scott appeared around the side of the house.
‘That wasn’t my fault, was it?’ he asked.
He’d had no right to barge in on a family occasion. The man had the sensitivity of a termite mound. And to think the whole thing had been recorded for future generations to chortle over.
‘Anything I can do?’ he asked.
‘Just go.’