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For
a few days there last week we experienced the delightful side of spring – sun,
light breeze, mild temperatures. By Monday it began to look like we’d skipped
spring and launched into summer. Until Tuesday. And that’s why it’s called
spring, I guess; the weather leaps about wildly, unable to determine which way
is forward. Typical Adelaide to have Tuesday’s maximum temperature half that of
Monday’s! Ah, weather – what would we complain about if we didn’t have it?
Grandy’s House
Disappointment slammed into her like a
personal tsunami. This was the house she had inherited, this the setting
for her grandfather's stories? The hard, bare ground around the walls was
littered with pieces of the white stone that looked exactly like lumps of stale
bread. She wondered what kind of rats could chew out solid stone walls. Rhianna
felt like vomiting.
It
had been difficult saying goodbye to her beloved Grandy. His death was still a
raw wound, an aching emptiness. She longed for the hollowness to be filled, but
she never wanted to forget him. He was the one who had given Rhianna, his only
grandchild, a sense of family identity. She had thrived on the repetition of
his stories. She could picture his parents, his siblings, his daughter – Rhianna's
mother – as a child as if she'd been among them. But Grandy was the only one
she ever knew; only a few ragged photographs existed of the rest, including the
mother Rhianna had lost when only a baby. Grandy was her family.
There
was a photograph of the house Grandy's father had built south of the Coorong, with
massive sand dunes behind. Grandy had spent his childhood there until the
family had fallen on hard times – drought and debt had forced them to sell the
old house for a fraction of its worth.
She
could barely see the likeness of this shell to that early photograph. Then the
house had looked gracious with its wide stone steps leading up to a double
wooden front door, the wide verandah all around. The steps were gone now, and
the entrance looked secretive. There was no floor for the verandah, just rocky
dirt and weeds. Windows were filthy and several were cracked. The house was on
raised ground, facing east and overlooking a small salt lake. She had driven on
a causeway to cross the salt, the only road access to the property. Stretching
her imagination, she could picture it as an imposing but open refuge in the
lonely wilderness. As it stood, she was more inclined to escape from what it
had become.
Shadows
lengthened as Rhianna plodded around the house, trying to find the courage to
enter it. Night time would only make it worse, she thought, so she unlocked the
back door and stepped cautiously in. Feeling automatically for a light switch,
she remembered that there was no power or water to the house any more. She
backtracked and went to the car for a torch. No time for this messing around,
she told herself sternly. I don't want to pitch a tent in the dark.
There
was no way she was sleeping in this creepy hulk. She couldn't get rid of the
image of enormous stone-chewing rats, but even the ordinary kind gave her the
horrors.
A
quick look through the house confirmed her fears – the place was entirely
dilapidated. She couldn't imagine where she would begin to restore it, or
whether she would even try. Think about it in the morning, girl.
In
the welcoming light of dawn, Rhianna woke to the sound of snuffling. Whatever
it was sounded large, but the memory of giant rats seemed ludicrous in the new
day. She rolled over in her sleeping bag to unzip the tent. A wombat! She'd
never seen them in the wild before.
Waiting
until the animal had shuffled away, Rhianna dressed and went to the car for
food. It promised to be a warm day; the morning was already heating up. She
looked around at the open space, the low shrubby trees beyond the salt lake,
and felt the presence of the dunes behind the house. Once she had satisfied her
hunger, she took another look inside the house, this time noting the dark
timber of the floorboards and the plaster patterns on the ceiling of what must
have been a parlour or drawing room. The kitchen had an old wood stove – how
often that had featured in Grandy's tales! She liked the idea of learning to
use it.
She'd
known it would be a bigger job than she could handle when Grandy had told her
about his desire for her to take it on. He had been ecstatic when the house had
come back to him through a strange string of circumstances. He had fondly
believed she was capable of anything, including the restoration of the family
property. She was more realistic. Or perhaps he had not understood how run down
it had become. Nothing of value was free, she reminded herself; even a gift
costs the giver. This was a gift – how valuable it was to her she hadn't yet
decided – but it was going to cost her plenty if she accepted it.
The
call of the Southern Ocean on the other side of the dunes worked its way into
Rhianna's awareness. She grabbed her bathers, towel and hat, and headed up the
gentle slope behind the house. Huge burrows pocked the ground, and prickly
plants of various types caught at her socks. It was good she had not changed for
swimming yet – this was not your suburban beach walk. She wondered about the
holes until she remembered the wombat.
The
walk grew steeper and sandier, winding through stiff shrubs which blocked her
view. She simply worked her way uphill and seaward, hoping it was that easy. And
it was, although it took a good twenty minutes and a breath-challenging climb.
The views from the top of the dunes reinvigorated her.
At
the first high point, Rhianna looked back at the old house to see how it fitted
into its context. It was nestled at the bottom of a low, vegetated dune at its north-western
corner – that would be where the kitchen is, she thought – and watched over
cleared land to the north and south, as well as the stretch of pink, patchy
salt to the east. It was not arable land; she had read that somewhere, and
Grandy's stories had made it clear enough. Maybe she could keep a few sheep,
and build up a vegetable patch to supply her own needs. She grimaced at her
dreams, pulling back to remind herself that she had not decided to do it yet.
She could just sell it and leave it in the memory of Grandy's stories.
Rhianna
turned and walked over the cool white sand to the next peak. There were clumps
of reedy grasses growing in a few spots, and a groundcover clinging to other
patches. She marvelled that life could take root with so little to nourish it.
The sand was gently patterned with wind-sculpted ridges. Rhianna felt guilty
for smashing the design, making clumsy footprints as if it were any old beach.
And then she saw the ocean.
There
was something primeval about the feeling of standing alone in the breeze on top
of a mountain of sand, and facing the ocean which came all the way from
Antarctica. She felt as if she had been lifted out of historical time onto a
plane of the eternal moment. The wind floated her hair around her face,
twitching at the sand, inviting her to fly. A seagull dipped and wheeled on an air
current not far beyond her. Rhianna spread out her arms and launched herself
down the face of the dune, her feet running and spilling the cool sand until
her shoes filled, wadded with accumulated sand. She skidded down the rest of
the way, yanking off her shoes as she slowed. Dumping her gear, she ran,
swirling and dancing along the long, flat, empty beach as the southern rollers
roared in and out to meet her.
That's
done it, she thought, catching her breath. She dabbled in the icy water while
her eyes feasted on the length and the smoothness of the beach, first in one
direction and then the other. Sure she could see some litter here and there on
the loose sand at the back of the beach. Other people came here, then. But it
felt like hers. And it had invited her. She would stay.
Until next week…
Claire Belberg
I could really see myself there! I spent some years growing up in that region. I could feel the urge to stay!
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