A Nice House

Part IV. THE AUSTRALIAN VENTURE

19

A Nice House

    Brad O’Donnell, who had introduced himself as such, and had looked taken aback when Peter addressed him as “Mr O’Donnell”, was young, fit, in fact the word “spry” came to mind, and horribly, horribly eager. This was largely because, there was no doubt whatsoever, some MORON at QSA had rung his up-market real estate firm and asked if someone could show Sir Peter Sale some suitable houses, rather than “Mr Sale”, which Peter had been under the impression the entire staff had been told to use. Mr O’Donnell had eagerly addressed him by the bloody handle, showing his beautifully even white teeth in an eager smile, but had then been flattened by Lalla, though she hadn’t meant to flatten him, bless her, merely to correct him with the information that they weren’t using the silly title in Australia and it was just Mr and Mrs Sale here, but call them Peter and Lalla, of course, Brad! Beaming smile. And in case someone silly had told him money was no object—he brightened horribly—that wasn’t right: they didn’t believe in conspicuous consumption, only they would like a nice house with a sea view if possible.

    Peter had croaked feebly—the poor young chap was now looking totally bewildered—something to the effect that he thought between, say, two mill’ and ten. Brightening again, Brad O’Donnell had produced some giant shiny brochures, assuring them they’d like these…

    Oh, dear.

    “They’re terrible,” sad Lalla limply, looking at Peter in dismay. “All that plate glass… And the ones with all that smooth plaster stuff, sort of squared off, they’re even worse!”

    “Yes. My wife prefers an older style of house,” he said to the young real estate agent. “Er—two-storeyed, with gables, that sort of thing. Or, um, well, possibly a large old bungalow. But we will need a granny flat, or at least room to put one in.”

    “And a garage,” added Lalla helpfully.

    “Uh—yes, naturally a garage, Lady—I mean Lalla,” replied Brad O’Donnell weakly.

    “See, if it was a nice sturdy one maybe it could have a flat over it.”

    “For your chauffeur: of course!” he beamed.

    “Sort of. It’s not for a granny, though we have got one, but she lives in Paris: it’s for Peter’s cook and her husband. He does drive him in London.”

    “I see. Married accommodation, then,” he agreed—not precisely as a drowning man seizing the proverbial, but close. “Many of our choicer homes of course do provide that, Mrs, um, Lalla, but, ah… Well, they do tend to be more modern, of course. I really think if you’d look over them you’d see how comfortable and commodious they are: Sydney has many such homes which provide every comfort for those in your income bracket.”

    Peter swallowed a sigh. Obviously the chap wasn’t going to be convinced until he’d shown them some of these excrescences—they were excrescences, Lalla’s horror had been justified: large, flashy and ostentatious were the mildest epithets that could be applied.

    “Well, show us a couple, would you, Brad? Then perhaps you’ll get a better idea of what would suit.”

    “Of course, sir!” he agreed in thrilled tones. “Now, would you care to follow me? Or of course I’d be happy to drive you if you prefer.”

    Peter looked at Lalla. “What do you think, darling?”

    “Did you hire Troy for the day?”

    “Er—it wasn’t me, darling, someone at QSA arranged it. Um, from their usual firm, I gather.”

    “In that case we’d better keep him on, or the poor man won’t be paid for the rest of the day,” she said firmly.

    “We’ll follow you, then, Brad,” said Peter on a weak note.

    “No worries!” beamed Brad, forgetting the smooth professional bit, for the nonce.

    And off they went. Brad in a fawn Mercedes for which he undoubtedly got a petrol allowance, and Troy, Peter and Lalla in the chaste black BMW which presumably someone at QSA had deemed suitable to their socio-economic status—or possibly to the firm’s, given that, it being a drippingly humid day, Peter was in lightweight grey cotton slacks and the Hawaiian shirt which had been a Christmas present from Palmyra Polynesia’s waiting staff—and which the misguided Davey Sale had bet him he’d never have the guts to wear. Red background, white and mauve hibiscuses. By comparison, Lalla in a skimpy white shoe-string-strapped cotton-knit top and a wrap-around pareu in a soft shade of jade green, scattered with white blooms and leaves of a slightly deeper green, looked positively restrained.

    Having been pleasedly informed by Brad that this one was older, Peter and Lalla looked at it blankly. Had he brought them to the right place? It was horrifyingly modern, in the worst of taste, a giant pinkish-peach arrangement of enormous slabs, all decorated, not the word, with huge, chunky archways of which the, er, holes, er, holes, really, or openings, were indeed arches, nicely rounded, but of which the tops were squared off. The roofs, plural, appeared to be made of Mediterranean-style terracotta curved tiles, but this was rather hard to see, because they were definitely not gabled. Um, slightly sloping? The steep front drive was very wide but not very long, though it was certainly curved. It was composed of paving stones which were several shades lighter than the pinkish-peach mansion. Brad explained in an apologetic tone that of course these terracotta shades had been very popular, but these days many of their clients preferred cream. Was this why the thing was on the market? Hanging fire? Peter didn’t bother to ask what the Hell the walls were coated with and if it could be painted and/or replaced, the house was too frightful. Added to which, it didn’t appear to have a garden, though over the tops of its high pinkish-peach garden walls its neighbours’ trees seemed to be flourishing. It did have two sad cypresses in pots, not precisely flanking its unspeakable heavy panelled door, but off to each side of it on the sweep. Or top of the drive, actually. Brad was pointing out the advantage of the automatic gates: security, you see! Though they did have some very choice living units in a charming monitored complex, completely sec— Definitely not a flat? A house with a garden, then, Mrs—Lalla. Yes, of course! This way!

    They tottered after him.

    The spacious front hall, lobby according to Brad, featured a white marble floor which appeared to have bits of glitter in it but Peter for one was trying not to look. And lots of pillars. Mm, the sweeping lines of the staircase, yes, Brad. This artefact was… well, effete, really. It was sweeping, all right: a giant double staircase, curving up to a balcony—oh, balcony floor, eh, Brad? Its handrail was of narrow gold metal, topping not banisters, but a tracery of gold curlicues. Doubtless the same hand that had chosen it had also picked out the stair carpet: a pale apricot. Lalla was goggling, poor darling.

    Peter put his arm round her. “The chandelier’s good,” he murmured.

    She looked up, and gasped. High, high above them there depended from an enormous glass dome a monster Thing in the traditional style, dripping with layer upon layer of crystal prisms. The whole weighing in, at a rough estimate, at something like four stone. The word “earthquake” did come to mind, yes. Likewise the words: “How strong are Sydney chandelier chains?”

    Brad was happily leading the way to “the main lounge-room.”

    “Peter,” said Lalla in a low voice as they prepared to follow him: “don’t dare to go into a joking mood, or we’ll never manage to get him to show us what we want.”

    Peter raised his eyebrows slightly. “I never joke.”

    “That’s what I mean,” she warned.

    His shoulders shook, but he prepared to be firm with Brad.

    It was a considerable hike from the front door to the main lounge-room, but possibly the view when one got there was worth it. It was certainly spectacular: the room was gigantic and the whole end wall was glass. A stretch of white marble terrace was visible, and then the blue harbour and blue sky. Brad was looking very pleased with himself.

    “It’s a lovely view, Brad,” said Lalla weakly. “But—but where’s the garden?”

    “Uh—well, it’s terraced,” he fumbled.

    “Can we go out?” she asked before Peter could point out that they didn’t want it and in fact wouldn't have it if it was given away with a bar of soap. Good question, he reflected wryly: that immense acreage of glass certainly didn’t include a door.

    There was a door at the side; then one stepped out into a sort of, um, alcove, and thence the terrace and—

    Lalla gave a gasp of horror. “It’s a sheer drop!”

    “Um, but the pool’s just down—”

    “No,” said Peter very firmly. “Sorry, but to us a garden includes grass, flowers and trees. Not terraces and swimming-pools.”

    “It’s worse than Palmyra Polynesia’s roof-top terrace!” gasped Lalla. “I didn’t think anything could be!”

    Put it well.

    So that was that for the giant pinkish-peach horror, and they went on to the next…

    The next appeared to be made entirely of tinted glass. Big and low, but yards and yards of it. It had a terraced garden, too. And a view. And a huge oblong pool. Too modern? Something more traditional in style, then!

    … An enormous white wedding-cake. Very possibly by the same misguided designer who’d perpetrated Palmyra Polynesia itself.

    “Don’t get out, darling,” said Peter grimly as they peered up at it from the car.

    “No,” agreed Lalla faintly. “Was that an actual gate-house?”

    “Very probably, after Brad’s babbling about security.”

    “What are people afraid of?” she groped. “Burglars?”

    “Ah… judging by the style of the offerings we’ve seen so far, attacks by fellow mafiosi. Or quite possibly tongs.”

    “Tongs? Oh! Yes. Or yakusa.”

    “Exactly.”

    They didn’t get out.

    … This time the actual house was terraced. About half an acre of it. Leaving about two feet of space on each side of its section, which appeared to be filled in with black grass. From the top floor you got a marvellous view. And many of their clients rather enjoyed having the living area upstairs—of course you had the benefit of the view. Okay, they went and looked. Yes, that was a view, all right. Over there was the Opera House and… Mm. The place’s entire interior was very pale oatmeal except for the kitchen, which featured what they had by now come to realise were the obligatory steel-blue slate floor, dark grey granite bench tops and white everything else—except, in this instance, the giant steel fridge-freezer and the giant steel industrial stove. Which Peter had a feeling would cause poor Mrs Beattie to faint. Now, he’d appreciate this, sir! A large cupboard filled with empty shelves. “Er, yes?” Peter groped. The cellar!

    “I think he means the wine cellar, Peter,” said Lalla faintly.

    Of course! Temperature-controlled, naturally!

    The really good thing about this wine cellar and its adjoining huge kitchen—mm, indoor grill with spit as well—and the separate larder, was that they were on the level below the dining-room. Jesus! Presumably one’s slaves traipsed up and down with the meals. Charming. Or was there a dumbwaiter? he wondered.

    This query flummoxed Brad so much that he forgot himself and croaked: “Eh?”

    “I know!” said Lalla eagerly. “I’ve read about it in a book, and they had one in an old-fashioned TV series—I can’t remember which it was, now. It’s like a wee lift that you put the dishes in and it goes up and down! Did they have to pull on a rope or just press a button? –I can’t remember. That’s right, though, isn’t it, Peter?”

    “Yes.” He looked expectantly at Brad.

    “Um, no,” he admitted.

    That was that for the upside-down huge terraced house. It and its fifteen bedrooms, was the man mad?

    … Yes. The next abortion had twenty bedrooms, separate “married accommodation,” a gate-house, a chauffeur’s flat over the triple garage, a temperature-controlled wine cellar that was actually below ground next to a gigantic “den”, duly done out in Masculine ’Orrible, five “reception rooms” (were they out of “lounge-room” territory, or had Brad suddenly remembered the terminology he was supposed to use when showing these desirable residences?), a cold room that would have done credit to the Savoy, and a gi-normous kitchen that ditto. Plus an indoor Olympic-size pool, a patio pool, a paddling pool, an outdoor spa pool, and an immense outdoor swimming-pool that took up most of the terraced back garden, what little was left being occupied by marble terraces, pale grey stones about the size of mangoes, and black grass. Mondo grass? Lalla was looking as blank as Peter felt. Brad could offer them a very good price, only a trifle above your— Mm. Twelve mill’. Well, Australian dollars, true, but really! The bloody place was soulless, and so big you could get lost in it! For two adults and a child, plus two servants who wouldn’t be living in the house itself? Added to which it didn’t even look like a house! Not only pale oatmeal inside, but outside as well! With tinted glass windows, all into the bargain adorned with striped awnings that were first cousins to Palmyra Polynesia’s.

    Too big? Of course, sir. Undeterred, Brad led them on to the next…

    It would be offered at auction this weekend, sir. Expected to go for at least ten. Wonderful view, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. The house was perched up on a rise and the panoramic view of Sydney and its harbour was spectacular. Unfortunately there its attraction ended. Hideously modern, all angles, acres of plate glass, again, acres of marble underfoot, inside and out, sheer drop to the swimming-pool, again, and—great feature, this! It was another upside-down effort, and on the lower level—swish! as the bedroom curtains magically retreated from a wall of glass—you looked straight into the pool!

    “Omigod,” said Peter numbly.

    “A wall of water in your bedroom? How could anybody live like that?” gasped Lalla.

    Well put. “We certainly couldn’t. I’m sorry, Brad, but we don’t want a modern mansion with all the bells and whistles, we want a traditional house that a small family could be comfortable in.”

    “With a granny flat,” added Lalla faintly.

    Any fellow of sense at this stage would have admitted that they didn’t have anything like that on their books. Brad O’Donnell didn’t. Well, presumably the poor chap sold on commission, but hadn’t it dawned he was simply wasting his time?

    He actually brightened at the words “small family”, and informed them that as it happened, they had a very pleasant home on their books, custom-designed for a lady who was very well known in the fashion scene here, and her husband and their two little kiddies! Um, selling because a large overseas company had bought out her design firm, as it happened, and they were upgrading to something larger.

    Neither Peter nor Lalla believed for a moment that this house would suit them: the words “custom-designed” had a very ominous ring, not to say the words “fashion scene,” but they duly let him lead on.

    Gosh. It was a long, excruciatingly narrow house on a long, narrow section—a very desirable part of Sydney, was it, Brad? Mm. Be that as it might, the house certainly had nothing in common with the pleasant old two-storeyed clapboard Edwardian-looking places on either side of it at which Lalla was gazing admiringly. Had it been in perhaps natural wood or painted in some pleasant shade, or— It was a very dark grey. Very dark grey rough weatherboards. The only windows visible from the street were small and square. No architraves? Peter peered. No architraves.

    The interest was all at the back—very private. Okay, they followed Brad in. The front hall was, unsurprisingly, very narrow and rather dark. At the back it opened out into what the owners called the family room but as they could see, it was a very charming reception (dropping, not for the first time, the word “room”: was that normal in Australia or just real-estate speak?). It was a plain modern space with the now obligatory back wall of plate glass. Tinted, yes. But to your left— Yes. So there was. A strange triangular window, rather like an elongated slice of cake in shape. The whole room could be opened up for indoor-outdoor entertaining—seizing an electronic gizzmo and pressing buttons. There! Lalla gasped and backed off as the plate glass lifted up into regions unseen, and to their left a large section of wall slid back behind the strange cake-slice window, to reveal—

    “My God,” said Peter numbly. A twenty-foot oblong stretch of deep, pitch-black water, something under a yard wide, at floor level. Between the house and the garden wall. Where a normal person might have put a little side path or, um, planted petunias or something.

    Helpfully Brad explained that the section of course was very narrow—the area was extremely desirable—and this “feature pool” was the husband’s own design, in fact he’d helped put it in!

    Lalla had clapped her hand over her mouth. “Peter! It hasn’t got any handrails or—or anything! Petey’d drown!”

    “Quite. How deep is it?” he asked grimly.

    “Well, I— Um…” Brad consulted his giant ring-binder. “Um, well, it says here, just under two metres.”

    “Which means any adult would drown, too.”

    “It’s purely decorative, sir,” he offered.

    “Purely rubbish!” cried Lalla. “What could they have been thinking of? With two little kiddies?”

    Brad stuttered. He was sure Mrs Sale would like the other rooms and you could see there was a pleasant back garden, nicely planted up, they’d conserved the original eucalypts, and the husband’s studio down there could easily be converted into a nice flat for a married couple—

    “Given that the section’s precipitous and we’d have to drain the pool and there appears to be no way we could see what our little boy’s up to in that garden down there,” said Peter grimly: “no. This modern look doesn’t appeal, either.”

    “No,” Lalla agreed shakily. “I—I think it’s lunchtime, Peter. Poor Troy must be starving. I think we’d better pack it in for today.”

    “Yes,” he said heavily. “I can see this place might suit some small families, Brad, provided they got rid of the damned death-trap out there, but we don’t admire modern architecture.”

    “We did say something more traditional. Like those houses next-door!” added Lalla.

    “Um, yes?” Brad looked frantically through his folder. This apparently yielded zilch, as he then got out his mobile phone and began frantically tapping at it.

    “Lunch,” said Peter firmly. “Perhaps you could check back at the office, Brad, and contact us again tomorrow if you think you’ve got anything suitable.”

    “Um, yeah! Hang on!” he gasped. “There is somethink… Blow.”

    “Tomorrow,” said Peter firmly. “Come on, Lalla, darling.” He led her out.

    “Thank you, Brad!” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t forget to get yourself some lunch!”

    Back in the car Peter said on a grim note: “Personally I don’t care if the bloody fellow starves to death. Did he take in one word we said to him?”

    “They don’t,” noted Troy in a friendly way. “Had enough, have ya?”

    “Yes,” Lalla agreed. “Let’s all get some lunch. Do you know of a nice ordinary place, Troy? We don’t like fancy places.”

    Troy Adams, who was perhaps a couple of years younger than Brad O’Donnell, but without the cloth ears, replied immediately: “Yes, sure, there’s a real nice place Mum likes. You’ll like it, Mrs Sale, it has nice quiches and great sandwich fillings. Like lepinja rolls? It always has those, and wraps, of course.”

   These last two sentences were Greek to Peter but he agreed thankfully: “That sounds fine.”

    So Troy drove them away from the highly desirable areas of Sydney to a pleasant little suburban street which featured a cluster of small shops and a nice little café. It was called Kaffee Klatch, which Troy pronounced “Kaffy Clutch”, and it did actually provide really decent coffee. Peter had a lepinja roll, which turned out to be a plump yeasty white flatbread, though flat was perhaps a misnomer in this instance, with the filling which the woman at the counter recommended: chicken, avocado, cream cheese and lettuce. The helpings of all of these were generous: in fact the chicken pieces were falling out of the split roll and there was half a large avocado in there. Yum! Lalla had asparagus quiche and a side salad which included a selection of fancy lettuce leaves, sliced tomato, olives, and chunks of fetta cheese. And Troy had a lepinja roll with a filling of sliced roast beef—very juicy-looking—crunchy mustard, tomato and lettuce, with a giant helping of potato salad on the side. They made their own, he explained. It had little bits of sweet gherkin in it.

    “Ooh! Yummy!” beamed Lalla. “We must come here again, Peter!”

    “Absolutely, darling! Best food I’ve eaten since Palmyra Polynesia!”

    “Me, too!” she agreed. “This quiche is wonderful, good as Jan’s, and my salad’s lovely and fresh! And did you notice there’s a lovely little interior design shop just next-door? I’m sure it’d give us some good ideas for the house!”

    “Mm, it looked very nice. And an interesting antique shop on the other side, too.”

    “It’s a junk shop, really, only Mum says the new owners, they’ve done it up,” explained Troy. “That Vietnamese restaurant’s good, too. Even Dad likes it, and he hates Thai!”

    “That sounds good,” Lalla approved. “It looks like a nice area, Troy.”

    “Yeah. Well, it’s gone up-market over the last ten years or so, Mum and Dad couldn’t afford to buy here these days. Lot of the old villas, they been done up, y’know? Place down the road from them, it belongs to the chemist from their mall, he’s kept the frontage only he’s extended out the back, gone all open-plan, made a real big lounge-room, and the bedrooms and ensuite, they’re in the new wing out the back. Wall of glass looking onto the patio, y’know? Well, Mum reckons it’s soulless, but it’s quite smart. Set him back a packet. But that shop of his, it does a roaring trade.”

    “I see,” she said faintly, trying not to envisage the chemist’s ruined old house.

    “Only further over, it hasn’t changed that much; I mean, Bells Road Primary’s same as what it was in my day.”—Peter and Lalla exchanged glances and swallowed smiles: that couldn’t have been all that long ago!—“They got a new gym at the high school but the rest hasn’t changed.”

    “It’s just a state school, is it?” asked Peter.

    “Not private, he means,” said Lalla.

    “Aw! Nah, ’course not! All the local kids go there. Those schools been going for yonks: the primary school had a big reunion not long back—seventy-fifth, think it was. I couldn’t go, I was doing night shifts on Nick Karakoulis’s taxi—well, one of them, don’ ask me how he done it but the bugger’s got two, the licenses cost a bomb. Me sister Erin, she went. Said almost everybody that still lives in Sydney turned up.” He sniffed slightly. “Well, not Chris Hahn, of course. Prolly thinks ’e’s too good for Bells Road these days, with what he’s pulling in every time ’e appears in court or on a flamin’ Royal Commission—now that’s a rort, if ya like!”

    “Is he a judge, Troy?” asked Lalla.

    “Nah. Q.C. Me brother-in-law, Bob, well, he reckons ’e pulls down more than a judge’d make. Private clients, see? Charges like a wounded bull. Mind you, he got Danny Caruso off on that wounding with intent charge—whole of Sydney knows ’e done it, but.” Another sniff. “So I s’pose ’e knows ’is stuff. Hasn’t set foot round the place ever since ’e started at uni, Bob reckons. Well, he was a few years ahead of Bob, s’pose ’e’d be in ’is forties, now, but he remembers ’im, all right. Done ’is degree at Sydney, ya see, then ’e went to… Where was it?” he asked himself. “Somewhere in England… Same place as what Paul Keating went, Bob said, thass right, only I dunno what that was.”

    “Oh!” cried Lalla: “I know! Paul Keating was a Rhodes Scholar! He went to Oxford University, Troy!”

    “That was it, was it?” replied Troy without marked interest. “Fancy place, eh?”

    “Very,” she agreed tranquilly.

    Peter had also attended the fancy place in question. He just laid low and said nuffin’, like Br’er Rabbit.

    “So, what time we gotta pick your little boy up?” asked Troy, finishing his tall glass of orange juice.

    Petey had been consigned for the day to the care of Bernie Carpenter’s sister Sharon, aka Mrs Shaw. She had volunteered, they wouldn’t have dreamed of asking her. She was several years older than Bernie, so presumably it was the grandma hormones striking. She did have grown-up kids, but no grandchildren as yet. Not unnaturally Petey had been keen to see a kangaroo, so they’d gone to the zoo.

    “Around three-thirty, Troy,” Peter replied. “She’ll ring me when they get home.”

    “Right.”

    “Um, are you sure that phone will pick up Sydney phone calls, though?” asked Lalla uneasily.

    “Yes,” Peter replied firmly. “It’s been picking them up all along: why would it suddenly stop?”

    “You couldn’t get it to work on Palmyra.”

    “I think that was something to do with the Cook Islands infrastructure, Lalla.”

    She looked unconvinced.

    “Tell ya what, I’ll ring it!” decided Troy. “What’s the number?”

    Peter gave him the number, perforce. Heretofore it had been vouchsafed only to such persons as his PA, his mother, the Beatties, the CEO of Vibart’s— Never mind.

    Troy rang it. Peter answered. “Hullo, Troy.”

    “It’s working, eh?” Troy replied into his phone.

    “Yes,” Peter agreed into his.

    They looked at each other and suddenly burst out laughing.

    “Yes, very funny,” said Lalla with a weak smile. “At least that proves it.”

    “Stop—it—darling!” gasped Peter helplessly. He wiped his eyes, hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. “She does own a mobile phone,” he explained to their driver. “My mother bought her one. But she doesn’t really use it.”

    “Yes, I do, Troy: his mum rings me up on it.”

    Troy grinned weakly. “Right.”

    Peter looked at his watch. “Oh. Well, uh, bit of sightseeing?”

    “Why not?” Troy agreed placidly. “You been over the Harbour Bridge yet? It’s a nice day for it.”

    It was, indeed. So that was what they did. A few hideous mansions hove into view, true, but they ignored them. Lalla fell asleep on the way to Sharon’s place. Worn out by all that house hunting, Peter and his driver agreed.

    Peter and Lalla had both felt they couldn’t inflict Petey on Mrs Shaw two days running, though she’d have been perfectly happy to have him, so he had to come house hunting with them. Brad was sure he’d found some lovely homes that would suit them.

    “Is that a house?” was Petey’s reaction to the first one. As it was another Palmyra Polynesia clone, this was a fair question. They looked round it, more from an intention on Peter’s part to rub Brad’s nose in it than anything.

    “What do you think?” he asked his son, after they’d all stared down from the large marble terrace at the pool occupying the terrace below it, the further marble terracing below that, and the—nice touch, this—marble tubs of what Lalla swore was New Zealand flax, dotted here and there within circlets filled with round white stones the size of mangoes and edged with what they were now beginning to realise was indeed, black “mondo” grass. Whatever that was: precisely.

    “Nah. Where ’ud my dog go? There’s no grass. The swimming-pool’s cool, though.”

    That summed it up, really, and they moved on.

    … Acres of very dark tinted glass, interspersed with the odd huge beam of natural timber and the even odder huge steel girder. Or twenty. The floors, for once, not marble but highly polished wood. Ceiling heights various: six-foot-six to twenty feet. Windows likewise: the tallest one rose up from ground level into a weird sort of tower arrangement that didn’t appear to be walled off from the floor below, so presumably the heat would rise straight up there all summer, not to mention the heating all winter. The smallest windows were about fifteen inches square. No architraves. The tower turned out to be an adjunct to the master bedroom. Petey lost interest.

    But it was a designer home, sir! It had won— They were sure it had. It and its terraced garden put in by [insert well-known Australian landscape designer’s name].

    “Where’s the washing-line?” asked Lalla, with, it must be admitted, malice aforethought.

    Uh—naturally there were excellent laundry facilities, Mrs—Lalla. In the basement area. They let him show them the basement area, why not?

    It was composed of a huge space which might be a games room or a gym—quick reference to the power points already installed—and a large laundry, fully lined in white tiling with a blue-grey slate floor, an inbuilt “tank” which turned out to be a laundry tub, two giant washing-machines and a giant drier, all of which accessories, Brad announced proudly, came with the house. Had the whole thing been created by its award-winning genius on spec, then? No previous owner?

    “I thought most people would take their washing-machine and drier,” said Lalla, genuinely puzzled.

    Not in this income bracket, Brad explained kindly.

    “So when you bought your London flat,” she said to Peter, “did it have all this stuff?”

    “And Mrs Beattie’s stove!” added Petey.

    “Mm,” she agreed, looking expectant.

    “Uh—no. The place was entirely empty.”

    “You know all your bookcases?” said Petey.

    “Mm?”

    “Didja haveta put them in, too?”

    “Oh, Hell, yes. Nobody reads, these days.”

    “Ken said that, too. C’n I have a bookcase?”

    “Of course, Petey. We’ll make sure you have a nice one.”

    “Good. Roger, he says their garage is quite dry, my books’ll be fine there.”

    “I’m sure they will,” Peter replied firmly. “And over the years we’ll buy you more, and when you’re a bit older you’ll have schoolbooks, too.”

    “Yes, you’ll definitely need a bookcase, Petey,” Lalla agreed. “But we might have to have one built specially: Roger was saying they’re like hen’s teeth in New Zealand these days, so I bet they are in Australia, too. I mean, some of those horrible houses have had big shelves, haven’t they, Peter? But you couldn’t call them bookcases.”

    “Horrible big shelves, yes. Definitely not bookcases, except perhaps if one collected First Folios.”

    “Yes!” she agreed with a gurgle of laughter. “Very tall old books, Petey. But we don’t want a house with shelves like that.”

    “Nah,” he agreed. Suddenly fixing the unfortunate Brad with the steely eye that was so like his grandmother’s, he demanded: “Say we bought this house: where would my dog’s kennel go?”

    Mr O’Donnell was observed to stutter.

    “We better not buy it, Peter,” he advised.

    “I’m with you, old chap. In any case, it doesn’t look comfortable, does it? I mean, you compare it with your flat or Grandpa’s hut on Palmyra.”

    “Yeah. Or Ken’s hut. –May we see the next?” he suddenly asked the hapless agent in his father’s very accents.

     They proceeded to the next.

    … Pinkish-peach slabs. ’Nuff said.

    … And to the next. Very dark brown rough weatherboarding, tiny square windows without architraves, all in a configuration of small boxes, some up, some down. The minuscule back garden held a swimming-pool with a marble surround and a papyrus in a pot. Though, true, at the front (and, in view of the narrowness of the section, half obscuring the house) there was a commodious three-car garage with a loft which would be a convenient flat for a married coup— No garden, exactly, Petey. We do require a garden, thanks, Brad.

    Seemingly undeterred, he led on.

     Ooh! Over the Bridge! Look, Mum, we’re going over the Bridge!
    Three mansions were viewed over the Bridge. All modern, all hideous. One exhibit very pale cream “render” as to the outer integument, very pale oatmeal as to the interior walls, with very pale yellowish “floating” bamboo floors. Petey bent over and scrutinised them earnestly. “They look like wood.” So they did. Very, very pale and very, very, very shiny wood. Eight bedrooms, three receptions, Brad was obviously deaf. Oh, plus a very pleasant family-room? It was large, bare and indistinguishable from the “receptions.” Their family looked at it blankly. With a view! Yes, it sort of had a view. Though the receptions had a better view: the harbour. Looking towards the CBD, that was a change. It did have a lawn. In front. Very steep. It didn’t look like grass, but it was green. Petey bent and examined it narrowly, determining: “It’s a plant. Funny, eh? A dog wouldn’t like it.” Since Lalla didn’t like, either, the thought of him and the dog rolling down this steep slope right onto the road, that was it, I,T. Not that they wanted it anyway.

    The next was a mock Art Deco pile that very clearly dated from the benighted 1980s: every corner rounded. It had been freshly painted pale cream but the three graduated horizontal strips moulded in a sort of ziggurat configuration over every window and door were a tasty shade of reddish-brown. The giant panelled front door looked as if had been freshly stripped and revarnished for the occasion. Extremely shiny. The giant brass knocker in the shape of a Gorgon-like head was impressive. At least, it impressed Petey; Lalla winced. The front hall was different: black and white square marble tiles! The staircase, very block-like and Art-Deco-ish, was black. Shiny. Very possibly marble throughout. The words “death trap” sprang forcibly to mind.

    “Peter,” faltered Lalla, “can you see Petey on those stairs?”

    “Yeah! They’re not steep, Mum!”

    “Come back!” Peter grabbed him by the tee-shirt just as he was about to immolate himself. “I’m sorry, Brad, we loathe imitation Art Deco, and that staircase looks like a danger to humanity. We won’t look round it, thanks.”

    “But it is an excellent situation, sir, and a wonderful view—”

    “Yes. I’d consider buying the site and pulling the thing down, but we want to move into a permanent home within the next month.”

    “Yes; Petey has to go to school, we need to be settled,” added Lalla anxiously.

    “I could have a holiday, Mum!”

    Peter got him in a neck-hold. “Over my dead body, Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft!”

    This apparently appealed: he squirmed and laughed delightedly.

    So they moved on to number three.

    Number three had everything. “A new build.” One approached it from the landward side. (Er, one would have to, wouldn’t one? Oh, well.) It appeared to be built over its three giant garages. Oh, games room and den as well as the laundry facilities and a sauna on the ground floor? Really? It was possibly wooden but very possibly not, the words “completely termite-proof throughout” were not encouraging. Put it like this: its pale grey outer integument looked like weatherboards until one got close. “It’s grey,” said Lalla numbly. Of course: this was a favourite look! Of whom? Those in the last, suicidal stages of a deep depression? Peter and Lalla exchanged a desperate glance. Its landward side featured an automatic gate in its high, plain white wrought-iron fence, the uprights very close together and topped with sharp points. Put it like this: the burglars or, of course, tong members, yakusa or mafiosi, would be unable to squeeze between the bars and there were no footholds, so they would have to hoist one another up, first having thrown a thick coat or blanket over the— Yeah. The windows on this side were approximately eighteen inches square without architraves, though their inset sills did appear to be painted a darker grey. The front door was also dark grey. It didn’t have a key, it had a keypad. Lalla was goggling at it in horror, and frankly Peter shared dem sentiments. Petey declared it “Neato!”—which proved it, really, didn’t it?

    Inside it was extremely reminiscent of that custom-designed horror with the death pool. Even to the cake-slice windows here and there, admittedly a change from the small square ones. Floor once again bamboo and floating. Interior walls very pale grey. Guaranteed, if you weren’t suicidal already, to render you so. Beams in the ceilings slightly darker grey. The industrial look: very suited to the executive home. Oh, really? Due to the limitations of the site, unquote, it had five bedrooms only.

    Petey did the calculations, no-one else had to bother. “Me; you an’ Peter, Mum, that’s two; Mémé, that’s three; Mr and Mrs Beattie, that’s four. Say Davey or Bernice come to stay, they said they would, they could have one: that makes five!”

    Peter managed to agree nicely, did not point out to Brad that they required separate accommodation for their domestic staff, and let him proudly lead them into the very fine reception space—

    Lalla gave a shriek and stepped backwards.

    “Heck! Look at the pool!” cried Petey. “Why doesn’t the water run away?”

    “It’s a horizon pool. The very latest thing,” said the unfortunate Brad lamely.

    It was, indeed, a horizon pool—or possibly, Peter thought dubiously, an “infinity” pool? (Flight literature.) That was, the view from the large, bare room destined to be the sitting-room of whatever misguided fools took the place was of a long stretch of blue water and then nothing but the wide reaches of the harbour. The surface of the water was level with the ground. After a while the senses stopped reeling sufficiently for it to dawn that there were white marble terraces at either side of this extraordinary product of the crazed minds of the pool designers of the twenty-first century.

    “I don’t know why the water doesn’t run away, Petey,” said Peter feebly, putting a comforting arm round Lalla. “Don’t worry, darling, that spells instant death, I’m not even going to try to guess what lies beyond it. –My dear Brad, please listen carefully. We want a real old-fashioned two-storeyed house with an ordinary garden. A large garden.”

    “With grass, and room for a kennel for my dog,” put in Petey. He went over to the wall of plate glass and affixed his nose to it. “I can’t see why it doesn’t spill over.”

    “Um, I s’pose it is silly, really,” the crestfallen Brad admitted. “Sorry. Only it’s what sells nowadays, ya see, and my bosses—” He broke off.

    “We understand,” said Lalla kindly. “You sell on commission, do you?”

    He nodded numbly.

    “Yes. Well, that’s really mean, it’s not your fault if the market isn’t supplying what people want. Tell you what, you come and have lunch with us, eh? We’ll go to that nice place Troy showed us yesterday.”

    “Is it good?” asked Petey suspiciously before the stunned Brad could gather his wits and reply.

    Peter picked him up bodily and slung him over his shoulder. “Yes, of course it’s good, you daft ’a’porth! Come along, everyone!”

    “Come on, Brad,” said Lalla kindly. “Peter will pay, don’t worry.”

    Looking numb, Brad followed them out. One could only conclude that none of his well-off clients had ever offered him so much as a cup of coffee before. So much for Australia, the land of mateship.

    “Hullo, Mum!” said Troy in surprise as they entered the Kaffee Klatch. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

    “Hullo, dear!” she beamed. “Yeah—no, it’s not my usual day, of course, but I just thought blow it, your father’s down the bowling club as usual, I’ll give myself a treat for once!”

    “Good on yer,” he acknowledged. “These here are me clients, Mr and Mrs Sale, and this guy’s Brad, he’s their land agent. This is my mum, Mrs Adams!”

    Mrs Adams—call me Helen, dears—was very pleased to meet them: Troy had told her all about them! Managing to take this without a blink, Peter explained that they were Peter and Lalla. And who was this? she beamed, pre-empting him.

    “Petey. I’m named after Peter, he’s my dad. My full name’s Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft,” the offspring replied before he could be leapt upon and forcibly silenced. Fortunately the cosy-looking Mrs Adams seemed unshaken, merely nodding and smiling. “See, we’re looking for a house. I’m gonna have a Scottie dog, so we need a house with a proper garden with grass. We seen a funny one today, it didn’t have grass, just, like, a funny little plant.”

    “Oh, dear! That doesn’t sound too good, Petey. I expect it was what they call Mercury Bay weed. Did it have little round leaves?”

    “Yeah. Green.”

    “That’ll be it! Well, it’s low maintenance—that means you don’t have to mow it like grass, Petey—but if you ask me, it never looks like a real lawn.”

    “Nah,” he agreed with satisfaction. “Have you got a real lawn?”

    “Yes, a very nice lawn out the front with two frangipanis—”

    “Hey! I know them!” he cried. “We know them, eh, Mum?”

    “Yes: we’ve been living in the Cook Islands, Helen: they grow very well there.”

    “Yeah, an’ see, there was some outside our block, only Mrs Ledbetter, she wouldn’t let them pick the pink ones no more, she’s fierce.”

    “Is that right, dear? Well, that’s a pity. But they look lovely on the tree, too, I always think.”

    “Yeah, nobbad,” he allowed. “Have you got a dog?”

    “No, I’ve got a cat, a big black and white one. His name’s Bertie.”

    “That’s quite a good name for a cat. Mrs Tangianau’s cat, well, she had kittens, see, and the male cat, he was a ginger tom, she reckoned, and Jimmy Tangianau, he said his name was Pest, but it wasn’t really. Do you think Fergus is a good name for a Scottie dog?”

    “A very good name, Petey: it’s a Scottish name.”

    “Yeah: Fergus, he lives in Scotland.”

    Peter at this point grasped his hand firmly. “Yes, but talking of pests, stop pestering Mrs Adams and come and choose your lunch, Petey.”

    “That’s all right, Peter!” said Mrs Adams with a laugh. “He wasn’t pestering!”

    “No, I was just talking!” Petey informed his father crossly.

    “Mm, but remember what Mémé says? Let the grown-ups talk first. –Come on.” He hauled him off.

    “Sorry,” said Lalla to Mrs Adams with a smile. “We’ve been living in a very small community, where everyone knows everyone else. Everybody’s used to him, you see.”

    “Good Heavens, don’t apologise for him, Lalla! Now, why don’t you choose your lunch— Troy! Get us some more chairs, dear!”

    They were obviously fated to have lunch with Mrs Adams. Smiling, Lalla went off to join her belongings in the lunch queue. Was there any hope Petey wouldn’t ask for Coke? …Hah, hah.

    “Orange juice would do you lot more good.”

    “But I don’t like Aussie orange juice, Mum!” he reminded her in a hoarse hiss.

    “Oh. No. Um, he really only has Coke for a treat, Peter; it has far too much caffeine and refined sugar in it,” she said uneasily. “I mean, it gives him a real high.”

    “Thought he was on one continuously? No, okay, sweetheart. –No Coke,” he informed his offspring sternly. “What about a pineapple juice? Or—uh—a smoothie?” he suggested, looking up at the board.

    “It won’t be the same as in the Cooks!” Lalla warned hurriedly.

    “What do they put in theirs?” murmured Peter, as Petey laboriously read out the smoothie choices.

    “The best ones have soursops.”

    “Oops.”

    “Mm. –All right, Petey, but it’ll taste different,” she warned as he chose one.

    “I know! Um, what do you like to eat, Troy?”

    Okay, Petey would have Troy’s favourite: lepinja roll with roast beef, tomato and lettuce, but not the crunchy mustard, just some mayo on the lettuce. It was soy-based, organic, the woman at the counter assured them.

    Master Holcroft’s meal being finally chosen, his parents were able to order theirs. They were both very hungry after the morning’s trials, so they both plumped for ham quiche with, since they were on offer, both the potato salad and the Greek-style salad with the fetta and olives which Lalla had had before.

    Both Troy and Brad had his favourite, crunchy mustard all complete, and the accompanying huge pile of potato salad. Plus giant smoothies, banana-based.

    “Honestly, Troy, will you get through that?” his mother greeted his return to the table.

    “Yeah, ’course,” he replied on a tolerant note—good Lord, registered Peter with amusement, the boy was humouring her! How old would he be? Twenty-two? Would they have to wait that long for Petey to stop taking offence at the least sign of criticism? Oh, lawks!

    Helen Adams was very sympathetic over their abortive house hunt and informed Brad he’d shown them the wrong places entirely. What made him think Peter and Lalla would want one of those flashy dumps? “All money and no taste, some of these people,” she added to the Sales.

    “One house, it had a horizon pool, Mrs Adams,” Petey offered earnestly.

    “Oh, good grief! I’ve seen those on— What was it? Getaway? No-o… One of the home shows, anyway. Ridiculous! No rails or steps: how would you get in and out of it? And I’m quite sure if anyone did get in, the water would overflow and run down your terrace wall, and probably create a nuisance in your neighbour’s place.”

    “Archimedes would agree with you, Helen,” said Peter solemnly. “Basic physics. A submerged body displaces an amount of water equal to its own volume.”

    “Stop that, Peter!” Lalla ordered. “He was the Eureka man, Helen.”

    “Of course, dear: in his bath,” she agreed complacently.

    “Eh?” said her son, staring.

    “They don’t learn anything at school these days,” she sighed. “Never mind, Troy. Now, what you need to find for them, Brad, is a nice older house—it might need a bit of doing up but I’m sure that’d be no problem—a real family home.”

    “With a proper garden,” put in Petey anxiously.

    “Of course, Petey. Lots of lawn and some nice trees. Well, I’m not talking about anything on the scale of Vaucluse House, of course!” she added with a laugh, “and it wouldn’t need to be that early, but maybe a nice Federation home? There are some lovely ones in the older suburbs,” she added with a smothered sigh.

    “Yeah, but they hardly ever come on the market, Mrs Adams!” Brad explained in anguished tones.

    “No-o… Let me think. We-ell… I’m not saying there may not be drawbacks, of course—just leave that bit of bread, Petey, if it’s too much for you, those lepinja rolls are too big, I always think, but the filling’s lovely, isn’t it?—but now, I wonder if the Hahn house might suit.”

    “Mum, Chris Hahn, he sold that to a developer back when his dad died and he put his mum in a home, they pulled it down and built home units, don’tcha remember?” protested Troy.

    “Not Chris’s parents’ place, dear: his grandfather’s old house,” replied his mother on an airy note.

    Troy’s jaw dropped. “But heck!”

    “It might be possible,” she said serenely.

    “Er—we do want to move in fairly soon, Helen,” said Peter cautiously. “If it’s falling apart—well, we could rent for a while, I suppose, if the house appealed, but we really want to get Petey settled in at school.”

    “Yes, well, Bells Road Primary is only ten minutes’ walk or so from She-Oak Rise. But the house is in very good condition, Peter: Chris Hahn had it reroofed about three years back and it’s inspected regularly.”

    “But Mum—”

    “That’ll do, Troy, dear. –Do you know it, Brad?” she asked, as he was now feverishly consulting his smart phone and punching in numbers.

    “Yeah, I think so!” he gasped. “Hang on! –Is that you, Joy? Well, where’s Grant? –Oh. Listen, can ya check if we got anythink on She-Oak Rise on the books? –What? …Yeah, that is the Chris Hahn, who else? –I know that, Joy! …What? …Oh. Um, look, text me the details, I’ll give it a go. Sounds like the right sort of place. Didja say four or five bedrooms? –Good. But I haven’t got the keys. –Who? Mrs Simpson at Number 3,” he said slowly. “Goddit.” The phone quacked agitatedly. “Nah, but ya never know,” he said firmly. “Thanks, Joy. –Leddim laugh, what if I bring it off?” He hung up, and then, as the phone beeped, reconsulted it.

    “We do have Number 5 She-Oak Rise on our books, Mr Sale, and I can promise you it’s a very desirable family residence, with five bedrooms, standing in five acres with plenty of room for a detached granny flat, wide lawns, a tree-lined back garden, not overlooked and giving onto a small nature reserve at the rear. Its elevated position on the Rise means it has a very pleasant view.”

    “Why on earth didn’t you show it to us before?” said Lalla in amazement. –Peter bit his lip: it was pretty plain to him that the unseen Joy had imparted some very large drawback to Brad. That Troy, by the look of him, knew all about.

    “It wasn’t on my list, Lalla,” he replied smoothly.

    “But heck, Brad, don’tcha know—”

    “That’ll do, Troy,” said his mother firmly. “Just let Peter and Lalla see what they think of it. It would be ideal for Petey!”

    “Yeah. My dog’ll need a lawn. And five bedrooms is good. See, this other house, it had five bedrooms but we didn’t like it. Was that the one with the horizon pool, Peter?”

    “Yes, that’s right. –Not only silly and impossible, Helen, we thought, but sudden death,” he said with a shudder. “And the house itself was hideously modern.”

    “No garden,” added Petey.

    “Then I can’t imagine why you showed it to them, Brad,” she said briskly. “Now, are you going to finish your drink, Petey? Had enough? That’s all right, dear, they’re very generous with their drinks here, just leave it. –Troy can show you the way to She-Oak Rise, Brad. It’s on the outskirts of the suburb, really, but as I say, nice and close to the primary school!”

    And that was that. With fervent thanks to Helen and in return her adjuration to come round to her place afterwards for a cuppa and a comfort break, they took their departure for She-Oak Rise.

    On the curbside Troy revealed to Lalla’s query, just before Peter actually burst from frustrated curiosity, that it was an Aussie tree. Nah, he didn’t think it was anything to do with English oaks. Immediately Brad contacted Joy. “She’s looking it up. Won’t take a sec. …Cripes. Yeah, all right, spell it. …Cas—oo— Aw! I geddit! They mean cazh-yoo-reen-a!” he yodelled happily. “’Course!”

    “That’d be right,” Troy agreed. “Plenny of casuarinas in NSW.”

    “Er—how do you spell it?” croaked Peter. Looking pleased, Brad checked with Joy. Carefully he repeated what she said.

    “Oh: I see. Casuarinaceae, that would be the plant family,” Peter agreed.

    “That right? –Yeah, thanks, Joy. See ya! –Um, yeah, um, well, she said somethink about including casuarinas, ya see.” On this note, Brad pocketed his phone, got into his car, wound his window down and yelled unnecessarily to Troy: “I’ll follow you!” And they were off.

    She-Oak Rise proved not to be very much of a rise, the whole suburb being distinctly flat, but it was a little higher than the streets they’d driven through, and you could see that behind the houses on its upper side the ground rose a little more to a belt of foliage. The lower side of the street was distinguished by nothing but a scraggy line of trees edging a wide strip of very dry grass which might perhaps have started out as an effort at a small park. Beyond that the suburb proper spread out with its neat houses and gardens. “Them?” replied Troy to Peter’s query, looking at this stand of trees. “Nah: eucalypts. –Gum trees,” he clarified kindly.

    There were not very many houses at all along She-Oak Rise, and this was because the sections were very large. And because at each end of the street there were well-sized stands of trees. Nah: more eucalypts.

    Number 1, set well back on its slight rise, was a hideous flat-roofed modern thing, long oblong plate glass windows on both storeys, scant white woodwork. The owners were presumably not interested in gardening: their front garden consisted of a lawn encircled by a tall white railed fence of the sort they’d seen keeping out the rival mafiosi in a very desirable area. The place gave the strong impression it was sneering at its neighbours, the stand of eucalypts and Number 3.

    Number 3, the house of Mrs Simpson with the keys, was positively normal by comparison. A rather cheery-looking house, also two storeys, though the lower seemed to be composed of giant garages and a front door. It was cream woodwork, quite large, but an ordinary suburban sort of style as far as Peter had been able to see from the suburbs glimpsed thus far, with a balcony upstairs, lots of windows of an ordinary, human-suited sort, plus a set of French doors leading onto the balcony. The front door, the windowsills and the balcony railing were a nice bright blue. Its front garden was very different from Number 1’s: a low white picket fence and matching gate, the latter picked out in bright blue, gave onto a lawn and bright flower beds which included a large central circular one featuring a possible Cupid blowing a horn. Er—perhaps originally intended as a fountain? Though it wasn’t spouting anything. It was, at a guess, something under five feet tall and grey in colour. Concrete, not stonemasonry, would have been Peter’s bet, but nevertheless Mrs Simpson was awarded an A for effort. –They had plenty of time to admire the effect and determine that many of the flowers were petunias, as Brad appeared to be having quite a conversation with the presumed Mrs Simpson.

    Eventually she came down to the gate with him, beaming: a tanned, round-faced, cheery woman of about fifty. “So you’re interested in Number 5? Isn’t that nice! It’d be lovely to have nice neighbours! It’s been standing empty for so long; but of course Mr Hahn”—the first person so far not to have referred to the Q.C. by his given name, yes—“does see to it that it’s properly maintained. Now, just pop the keys back when you’ve finished! –And remember what I said,” she added to Brad.

    “Um, yeah. Thanks, Mrs Simpson,” he replied on an oddly glum note, getting back into his car.

    And they proceeded to Number 5.

    Number 5 was not immediately visible, apart from the tops of its gabled roofs, nicely tiled—terracotta, but certainly not Mediterranean. Its frontage was entirely occupied by a stand of dark but oddly wispy trees.

    “Aw, yeah, those’ll be she-oaks, all right,” discerned Troy.

    “Can you see a drive?” asked Peter faintly.

    “Um… Sort of. Try taking ’er up, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer he swung the car up a wide but definitely dirt track. Ugh. How long would your average Australian firm take to pave or possibly concrete a large if not terribly long driveway, and how on earth could Petey be kept off it while they were doing it?

    “Oh, look!” cried Lalla ecstatically as the house was revealed. “Green Gables!”

    That was that, then. Peter mentally girded his loins. Never mind the reputed Mr Hahn, Q.C.’s reputed care of it, a house of this vintage was going to need a lot of intensive upkeep. Forever.

    It was a very good-sized, handsome two-storeyed wooden house featuring two large gables, the whole indeed painted a not unattractive dark green. It was the kind of traditional house that Peter was very used to seeing in Britain, and had they been there he might have dated it to about the 1920s, but he had no idea of the norms here.

    On passing through the she-oak forest—part of it: there was a great deal more growth at either side of the section, featuring what were possibly more she-oaks, amongst others—the front lawn was revealed as well maintained, nicely green, but intensely boring. No flowerbeds at all.

    “That’ll be Sir Walter,” discerned Troy arcanely, getting out and looking at it critically. “Come on, Lalla,”—holding her door for her.

    “Thanks, Troy,” she smiled, getting out. “Isn’t it lovely! We’ll have to call it Green Gables, Peter, it can’t possibly be anything else!”

    “Er—of course, if you want to keep the green.”

    “Yes! It can’t be Green Gables otherwise!”

    Uh… “I think I’m missing a nuance or two here, darling.”

    “Anne of Green Gables,” she replied arcanely.

    Okay, he’d definitely fallen down the rabbit hole. “Um, something to do with this Sir Walter of Troy’s, is it?” he groped.

    “No!” she cried; what time Troy croaked: “‘Nah! The grass! Ya musta heard of it!”

    Petey, meanwhile, was on it, inspecting it narrowly. “Real grass,” he reported, straightening. “My dog’ll like it.”

    “Yeah. Sir Walter,” repeated Troy. “Real hard-wearing: doesn’t mind the drought, doesn’t mind a fair bit of rain. Think they might use it on the SCG,” he noted.

     Peter seized on this reference as a drowning man. “You a cricket fan, Troy?”

    “Sure. You?”

    “Mm. When I’m in London I usually try to watch the first and last Ashes matches at Lord’s and the Oval, at least.”

    “Right. You’ll miss out this year, then. Well, England done good in the Tests last year, eh? Ya might be in with a chance,” the Australian noted kindly.

    “After losing the Ashes how many times in a row? Well, hope springs eternal. And you’re right, we have had a good year. –Er, sorry, Lalla, darling: yes, the house!” he agreed hurriedly as he was recalled to the present. Who was going to clean the multiplicity of charming small panes in all of those charmingly traditional windows? Mrs Beattie was certainly going to need help in the house.

    “Mm? Oh, the little, er, whatsits over the bay windows: charming, yes,” he agreed as he was urged to admire the “orange” tiles.

    Lalla looked up at the house and sighed deeply. “I think we ought to paint the window frames white.”

    “Mm.”

    “I do like the black front door, though: isn’t it shiny? Do you think hollyhocks would grow here?”

    Uh… “We might have to install an irrigation system.”

    “Yeah,” Troy agreed. “That’ll set ya back a fair whack. Send yer water rates sky-high, too.”

    “Well, at least that’d mean that Peter’s money was doing some good!” replied Lalla forcefully. “It’s just like a lovely house from the Thirties, Peter: in an Agatha Christie or something! I mean, it wouldn’t really be as old as Green Gables, of course.”

    “Lalla, darling, before I run barking mad, please tell me what this Green Gables is!”

    “The house in Anne of Green Gables, of course. Surely your sister must have had it? If she had White Boots?”

    “Oh! It’s a book! No, don’t recall it, darling.”

    “It’s a pity she couldn’t have come to the wedding.”

    Peter’s potty sister and her even pottier husband, Jacques-Yves Dulac, were, of course, currently uncontactable, deep in the jungles of Central America—Guatemala, he thought. Maman was still very, very annoyed with Anne-Marie, but this was par for the course. Additionally, Anne-Marie, who was now forty-five, had refused firmly to produce grandkids for her, declaring that the world was full enough. Additionally, they were both mad-keen vegetarians. Unimpressed by the full lecture on the body’s need for iron from red meat: exactly.

    “They may possibly resurface around April Fools’ Day,” he said with a sigh. “Or the jungle will have swallered them up and all Maman’s predictions will have come true.”

    Lalla bit her lip. “Mm.”

    He put his arm round her. “It was more or less the last straw when Jacques-Yves accepted that post with an American university.”

    “Mm.”

    “Never mind them, let’s have a look at the house! –Come on, Brad!”—He was staring around at their surroundings.—“If you’re looking for a garage there definitely isn’t one. We’ll have to see about paving the drive, broadening the sweep and putting in a decent one.”

    “Um, yes!” he gasped, casting a hunted look over his shoulder before advancing to unlock the front door.

    The key turned smoothly: that was a promising sign.

    Oops. A smallish lobby area and a very dark panelled passage were revealed. Peter just had time to shake in his sandals before Lalla cried: “Ooh, it’s all panelling! Isn’t it lovely! And look at the staircase! It’s gorgeous! Do you think we could have one of those lovely Persian-patterned carpets on it, Peter?”

    “Yes, of course, darling,” he croaked.

    “And, um, maybe a grandfather clock?” she breathed.

    Peter staggered inside and managed to get his arm round her again. “Definitely.”

    “That’d be lovely! And a little table that’d always have a bowl of flowers on it!” she sighed.

    “Mm-hm,” he said, dropping a kiss on her head. “The perfect English front hall, in fact.”

    “I suppose it would be,” she said dreamily.

    “Uh—shit, where’s Petey?” he realised, more or less coming to.

    “He’ll be all right. Probably sussing out the best place for a kennel.”

    Ignoring this, Peter rushed outside. “PETEY! –Oh, there you are,” he said limply as he appeared from the side of the house. “What the Hell were you up to?”

    “Looking at the tower, of course. Could that be my room?”

    Peter would have said “Over my dead body”, but the thing was scarcely a “tower”. A shortish vertical protrusion, yes. With a witch’s hat roof, very typical of this style of house. “I don’t think there’d be space for a bed up there, Petey. It’s a bit small. We might make it into a study for you.”

    “Yeah! Like your study in London! Then you could have a study an’ I could have a study, Peter!”

    “That’s right. Come on, let’s have a look at the inside.”

    “What about my dog, though?”

    “We’ll look for a suitable spot for his kennel a bit later.”

    They went inside. No sign of the others. Cautious exploration discovered an ecstatic Lalla in the spacious sitting-room. “Look at the fireplace, Peter!”

    It had a pleasant wooden surround. “Mm, very attractive. Perhaps we could have it revarnished?”

    “Yes: stripped and revarnished, it’d be just like those lovely old kauri fireplaces in New Zealand! You just can’t get them, these days!”

    The keyword was unknown to him, but he got the gist. “Right. Er—maybe strip these floors, too, darling. I don’t think mere polishing is going to improve them.”

    “Polished wooden floors are noisy, though.”

    Er—was that a yeah or a nay? “Well, um, nice Persian carpets in here, too?”

    “Lovely! We’ll have an old-fashioned look, shall we? But with comfy furniture!” she beamed. “And lots of vases of flowers!”

    Peter agreed. In fact he agreed with everything. Fortunately there was no question about which was the master bedroom: one was clearly larger than the others, with a lovely outlook, according to Lalla, over the she-oaks and the wide reaches of the suburbs, right out as far as the CBD and the harbour beyond. Well, a glimpse of the harbour, but she was happy.

    “We’ll have to put in an ensuite, darling. Um—well, there seems to be a huge amount of wardrobe and cupboard space: I think some of that could be converted for us. And the next room’s quite big: take a bit of it, too: that should do it.”

    “What about me?” demanded Petey at this point. He had chosen his room: it was across the hall from theirs and looked out into the back garden. Presumably to where his dog’s kennel would be. The back garden at the moment was more like an area of native forest, heavily overgrown with shrubs, though there was a patch of neatly mown lawn. The whole was thickly ringed with trees, possibly mainly eucalypts, according to Troy. Ya didn’t wanna be looking into the neighbours’ places, he’d leave some of them. But ya wanted a decent garden! There was room for a veggie garden: Mum could give them some tips! Her sweetcorn had gone mad this year.

    “Let’s see…” They all inspected Petey’s room and at his insistence the room adjoining it, which he’d declared would be Mémé’s. Peter was silently of the opinion that the third front one, on the far side of the stairs from theirs, would be more suitable: it wasn’t large but of course it had a much better view, but he hadn’t raised any objections. “I really think you and Mémé could share that great big bathroom on the other side of your room: how’s that?”

    That was apparently ace; Peter sagged slightly.

    “Who’s Mémé?” asked Troy with interest. No-one else had to explain: Petey was doing that.

    Then they had to find the tower!

    Er… The upstairs passage led nowhere, except to some very large cupboards at either end. Troy thought there might be a sliding panel hiding a secret staircase inside one of these, but there wasn’t, funnily enough. Petey rushed into the end room next to the master bedroom and hung out of the window. “There’s more! It must be over there!”

    They went downstairs again. Dim memories of houses he had known in his childhood were filtering through to Peter, so he penetrated to the back regions—they would have to do something about getting more light into that hallway, it was far too dark. Panelling or not. Er—and install a new stove for Mrs Beattie: the present one must be as old as the house. There were no back stairs. He retreated, scratching his head.

    “It’s on that side,” Lalla pointed out. “Um, let’s try that room with all the bookcases that you said was the library.”

    They did that, and a door which had been presumed to be a cupboard opened onto another passage, revealing a room which had undoubtedly been a billiards room, there was still a scoreboard on the wall, and another flight of stairs. Petey was up there like a shot.

    “It’s here!” he screamed.

    “I think there must be another bedroom, too,” Peter realised. “Brad’s firm must have missed it, or else it was used a study, perhaps. And with luck a lavatory.”

    They investigated. There were.

    “It’s here! Come up!”

    Taking a deep breath, Peter mounted the very, very narrow and very steep little staircase…

    Right. It was probably what in its day would have been called a boxroom. An adult could stand upright in the centre of it, provided he was under six feet. Which cut out both young men.

    “Don’t come up,” said Peter with a grin as Troy’s head appeared at the top of the stairs. “It’s not as tall as you are.”

    “Crikey. What would they of used it for?”

    “Storage, I think. Old trunks. Er—luggage, Troy.”

    “Aw! Right! –Eh?” he said to someone behind him. “Nah, it’s a sort of a little room. Hang on, I’ll come down. Just mind ya head.”

    After a moment Lalla’s head appeared. “Yikes. It can’t have been convenient.”

    “Well, perhaps not, but if one had come out from the Mother Country complete with one’s steamer trunk and a multiplicity of hatboxes, it would be convenient to be able to dump them somewhere out of the way until one’s eldest offspring was of a suitable age for the trip Home.”

    “If that ‘Home’ had a capital H, I warn you now, Peter Sale, it’s the last one you’ll use in the Antipodes—if ya wanna stay married, that is!”

    “It is—I mean, I do!” he gasped, collapsing in sniggers. “But admit I’m right.”

    “Get choked. –What, Petey? Yes, of course it can be your study, you’re the only one that doesn’t risk knocking yourself out on the ceiling.”

    “What if I grow?”

    “You will undoubtedly grow,” Peter conceded. “You’ll just have to remember to bend your head.”

    “Jan was telling me—” Lalla broke off.

    “Yes, sweetheart?” said Peter.

    “Um, it was a very fancy modern holiday home down in Taupo—on the good side of the lake, not their side.”

    “Yes?” he said with foreboding.

    “Um, une petite chambre, comme celle-ci, avec un matelas sur le—um—tapis, pour les enfants. Leur porte était ronde.”

    “Ronde?” he groped.

    She swallowed. “Like a porthole.”

    “God!”

    “Yes, that was Jan’s reaction. They, um, had to crawl in.”

    “I could crawl in when I’m tall!” Petey beamed.

    “Sufficient unto the day,” Lalla decided. “Well, it’s all yours, Petey.”

    “Mighty!”

    And with that they went downstairs again and, with a passing reference from Troy to the effect that that ole air conditioner in the kitchen wasn’t gonna do much for them—which solved the mystery of the brown metal box in one of the kitchen windows—the adults proceeded to gloat over the possible furnishings they might have in the main rooms (Lalla and Peter), to give helpful suggestions (Troy), and to fiddle with his phone (Brad). What time Petey rushed outside, presumably in search of the ideal kennel site.

    Having issued warnings, to which Lalla clearly paid no heed, about surveyors, having the cellar checked out—there must be one: the house was set on a fairly high foundation of bricks—the closely linked concept of rising damp and the need for a damp-proof course and, yes, Troy, checking for white ants, definitely, Peter led the way outside, where Lalla promptly began to gloat over the green-gabled effect again, though regretting that the only verandah was at the side, outside what Peter had said was “a room for silly billiards”, it might be better to have a ping-pong table in there. He'd have called the structure a loggia rather than a verandah, but as Troy and Brad both agreed it was a nice little verandah and yeah (tolerantly kind), you could have afternoon tea out there, he concluded he was wrong.

    To the right as you looked at the house from the front sweep a narrow once-gravelled path led round to the rear. He strolled along it and looked round in vain for Petey.

    “PETEY! PETEY! –Oh, there you are,” he said as he appeared, rather dishevelled and grubby—that was quick—and panting.

    “Hey! There’s an ole lady back there, she’s got a neato little house!”

    “Er—I thought the garden backed directly onto that little park up on the rise.”

    “Nah!” he gasped. He panted. “It’s like, in it.”

    A dreadful sinking feeling overtook Peter. “In what?” he croaked.

    “In our garden, of course! Look what she gimme!” He opened his fist.

    “A fig,” said Peter limply.

    “Yeah, she’s got loads, she’s got a tree. Can I eat it?”

    “Er—yes, Petey, it looks ripe— Look, are you sure her house is in our garden?”

    He nodded round the fig.

    Oh, God. This, then, was the huge drawback to Number 5 She-Oak Rise which had been haunting Brad—and which, there was no doubt at all, not only Mrs Adams and Troy knew about, but also Mrs Simpson next-door. Presumably a sitting tenant? No wonder the house had been hanging fire. Peter had no idea what the regulations about such were in Australia, but clearly the eminent Q.C. had not been able to get rid of her, so… Oh, God!

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/green-gables.html