Flying the Coop (4 page)

Love, Chris.

PS Isn't it your anniversary tomorrow? What are you planning?

From:
Jenny Parker

Date:
Saturday, 15th July 2006. 10.16PM

To:
Chris Beggs

Subject:
Re: You're not going to believe this!

You'd have to be a total idiot, wouldn't you? This is one of your best efforts yet. I just told Lauren and she's in
hysterics. Oh well, look on the bright side – maybe you'll soon be able to answer that age-old question of what came first – the chicken or the egg.

Love from Jenny

PS Re my anniversary, it will have to wait as Stuart's just off to Bundaberg for this huge job that's going to keep him busy for a few months. I must admit I was feeling a bit depressed but now you've cheered me up.

PPS Still laughing . . .

S
unday morning found Chris driving down the Maroondah Highway towards Healesville once more. The main difference between today and yesterday was that Grace had barely stopped talking since they got in the car. And, of course, the fact that yesterday she didn't have a vested interest in a few rural acres covered with chooks. It was these few acres that they were now heading toward, having arranged to meet the real estate agent there at 11 am. Chris's plan was fairly simple. Do a tour of the property, pat a few hens politely, and then find some excuse to withdraw from the sale. Not that she really needed an excuse, but it would look better if she expressed disappointment with the house, or claimed to spot termites in the huge barn, or even discovered a sudden allergy to poultry.

That was also why Michael was not along for the ride. After finally convincing him last night that they were
not
moving, Chris thought it best not to show him exactly
what
they were not moving to. Accordingly she had called in a favour and deposited him at a friend's house for the day. Grace was a different matter. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she had simply taken it for granted that she was invited. In fact, when Chris exited the house the girl was already sitting in the car,
dressed in her version of farm gear. This amounted to black jeans, an old black windcheater, a black beanie, and the Doc Martens. She looked like a well-fed cat burglar.

Chris herself was dressed more tastefully. In fact, she'd put a lot of time into choosing her brown pinstriped slacks, camel coloured twin-set, and brown leather shoes with an ever-so-slight heel. She wanted to look conservative, businesslike and indisputably sane – definitely not the sort of person who might put an offer in for a piece of real estate that she (a) couldn't afford, (b) couldn't manage, and (c) didn't really want.

‘So look at this.' Grace held up a piece of paper covered with what appeared to be complicated algebra. ‘I've worked it all out. Judging on what we'd get for our joint, and then giving Dad his half – well, I'd say we'll get about forty grand more than what we need for the farm. Which'll cover real estate fees, stamp duty and other incidentals, and leave some over for moving costs.'

‘In a pig's ear,' said Chris shortly. ‘Forty thousand won't even cover the stamp duty.'

‘Not true,' Grace replied emphatically. ‘Stamp duty'll be under thirty grand.'

‘Really? Doesn't matter, you're exaggerating the value of our house anyway.'

‘Also not true.' Grace glanced down at her paper. ‘The average price for a property in Canterbury last year was just over one mill, and the median was eight forty smackeroos. And, yes, I know our house is a fair bit smaller than the average there, and it's got less land, but that gives you some idea.'

‘My god.' Chris fell silent for a moment as this sank in. ‘How do you know all this?'

‘Looked it up online last night,' Grace replied smugly. ‘So – any more objections?'

Chris did a few calculations in her head. ‘Are you taking into consideration our existing mortgage?'

‘Oh. Hmm . . .' Grace stuck the end of the pen in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘No, I didn't. But I've a plan B which can cover those sort of trifles.'

‘Only a person who's never had a mortgage could call it a trifle,' commented Chris wryly. Then she flicked a curious glance across at her daughter. ‘But, Grace, what I can't figure out is why you're so
into
this. I mean, you're a bit old to think a farm's all fun and games. It's a
lot
of work. And there probably
are
termites. Besides, there're no trains out there, or trams, or McDonald's – nothing you're used to. So why are you so keen?'

‘Just because.'

‘Well,
that
convinces me.'

‘Okay then.' Grace dug the pen into her paper furiously. ‘It's like this. I hate our area, and I hate Dad always saying we're only in the house coz he's such an all-round good guy. And I hate my school. I hate everything.'

‘But you go to one of the best –'

‘Schools in the state. I know, you're always telling me.'

‘Oh.' Chris flashed a glance across to where her daughter sat sullenly beside her. ‘Grace, are you
really
that unhappy?'

‘Yes.' Grace stopped digging holes in her piece of paper and stared at her lap silently for a few moments. Then, just as Chris opened her mouth to speak, she blurted: ‘I just don't
fit
there. It'd be better in a mixed school, because boys aren't so
bitchy
. And all the girls talk about
stupid
stuff, like whether you should buy your jeans already ripped or do it yourself, or whether Lindsay Lohan should lose more weight, or who should be evicted from the Big Brother house. They can spend an entire day discussing what Paris Hilton's frigging chihuahua wore on some movie set!'

‘Don't say frigging,' said Chris automatically – and then immediately castigated herself for interrupting. Because this was the most forthcoming her daughter had been for months and she didn't want her to clam up. But she needn't have worried, because Grace took absolutely no notice. After taking several short breaths, she continued unabated.

‘And I hate the uniform.
You
try wearing tights every day. And what's with not being allowed to wear pants? That's bloody sexist!' Grace paused, glancing down at her now less than pristine paper and making a visible effort to get back on track. ‘Besides, I want to be a druid and you can't really celebrate the summer solstice and all that sort of shit in the city. And a termite inspection'll only cost us about two hundred. I looked that up too. Now, do you want me to tell you about Plan B?'

‘No. And don't say shit. Anyway, I thought you wanted to take over the world. How can you do that if you're busy being a druid?'

‘You'll see,' replied Grace darkly.

‘But seriously, Grace, what makes you think you'd be happier anywhere else?' Chris spoke gently. ‘I mean, maybe it's something you need to work out
inside
. Moving might seem like an easy answer, but really it would just mean a fresh start with the same problems.'

‘Thank you, Ms Freud,' Grace said sarcastically. ‘Hey, didn't that real estate guy say we had to turn up Jumping Creek Road?'

‘That's right.'

‘You mean, that
was
right.' Grace pointed over her shoulder. ‘The one back there.'

‘What!' Chris pulled over to the side of the road in a spray of gravel and, after waiting for several cars to go past, executed a sharp u-turn. ‘Why didn't you say so?'

‘And interrupt your amateur psychology?'

‘Very funny. So right here?'

‘Actually left, to be precise. Now, according to your directions –' Grace read from the slip of paper inserted into the street directory – ‘continue for about three kilometres, then veer left at the roundabout and then take the third road on the right, which is Steiger Road, and go on for about eight kilometres or so. Do you want me to tell you the rest now?'

‘Not yet. Look, I can see the roundabout coming up.' Chris fell silent in order to concentrate as she veered left and then started to count the roads on the right. After they turned into Steiger Road, she relaxed and glanced across at her daughter again.

‘Look, going back to what we were talking about –'

‘Let's not,' said Grace firmly. ‘We're nearly there and I just want to look around.'

Chris opened her mouth and then closed it again. There was no point pursuing the conversation if Grace was unwilling. Nevertheless, this was something that couldn't just be pushed aside and Chris resolved to corner the girl at some point and try to discuss a few issues. Perhaps Garth could help? In the meantime, Chris relegated the problem to the back of her mind and began to take in their surroundings. It was lovely out here, with plenty of gum trees and an undulating landscape that saved it from the endless Australian
flatness
of some areas. Especially with the mountainous backdrop that she guessed was the Great Dividing Range. There were more houses than she had expected, though, and every so often three or four in a row would look exactly like those found on a normal residential street. Then there'd be some vacant land or a larger property, either a hobby farm or a full-scale holding.

‘What now?' Chris asked when they had done about eight kilometres.

Grace turned the directory to one side. ‘We need to turn left down Harrison, which should be coming up. It becomes a dirt road.'

‘Great.'

Harrison Road dutifully came up on the left. Just before it was an elaborate brick archway that fronted an estate of fairly modern houses and a spider-web of sealed roads, the tar still shoe-polish black and the concrete guttering snow-white. Across the curved apex of the archway, in curly black wrought iron lettering, were the words: ‘Lakeview Estate'. Given that there was no lake in sight, Chris thought this seemed a rather scurrilous promise, but perhaps new residents were automatically given a pair of binoculars free of charge.

Chris turned into Harrison Road, which also formed the boundary for Lakeview Estate. As she drove, she glanced curiously across at the houses. Most squatted over-large on their residential blocks, their manicured lawns contrasting oddly with the gum-treed expanse beyond. Obviously a farm had been sold off recently, and the land promptly subdivided by an enterprising builder.

‘Now it's the first left, which should be coming up about – now! Mum, turn here!'

Chris, who had been driving cautiously because Harrison Road had become a dirt road just past the estate, turned without difficulty into yet another dirt road. ‘Now what?'

‘This is it.' Grace peered out of the window. ‘This is Zoello Road.'

‘Hmm . . .' Chris slowed down even more. After the cheerful clustering of Lakeview Estate, with or without a lake, the emptiness of Zoello Road seemed almost unnerving. To their left, the rear of the estate could just be seen through a scattering of gum trees and to the right, sloping up a slight hill, a few paddocks containing clusters of grazing sheep.

‘Up there.' Grace pointed ahead to where Zoello Road curved slightly just past the last of the sheep-strewn paddocks. ‘I think I can see a house.'

Chris drove slowly around the curve and, sure enough, first the big willow came into view and then, as she kept coasting along, there was the house. Exactly as it had been in the real estate window. The same creamy-white weatherboards, the same brown trim, the same dormer windows, the same wraparound veranda. Just minus the poultry that, in the photo, had roamed the front yard. Chris coasted to a halt, folded her arms on top of the steering-wheel, and leant forward to stare. Although the house itself was identical, there were quite a few features that judicious photography had managed to omit. Such as the rather unattractive rusty sheet metal fencing that separated the front of the house from the back behind the willow tree. And the huge uneven gate next to it, obviously made from the leftover metal sheeting in various shades of corroded brown, and the tangle of greenery that grew around the house that, if you used a
lot
of imagination, you could see had once been a garden. And the proximity of the next-door neighbour.

This house, separated from the poultry farm by a crisp white fence seen in the photo, was on an extremely narrow piece of land. So narrow, in fact, that Chris suspected it had originally been part of the farm property itself and had simply been sliced off the side at some stage. But it certainly looked odd. With the exception of the estate houses still visible through the trees, these two houses were the only ones within view. And certainly the only two that occupied Zoello Road, which finished abruptly in a semi-circle of built-up gravel and dirt, just past the second house. So to have them so close, and one with so narrow a frontage, looked strange to say the least.

The neighbouring house, which was by necessity thin and long rather than wide and square like the farmhouse, had been
built as far away from the farmhouse as possible on such a slender piece of land – one wall almost nursed its far fence – and it looked like the two houses had argued fiercely at some point and the narrow one was currently sulking. It was built of well-oiled cedar sidings, with the window trims painted white and the neat, luxurious garden heavily into roses and rhododendrons.

‘Look, upstairs windows! It's got an upstairs! Mum, I
love
it!' Grace, who was concentrating on the farm rather than its odd neighbour, took a deep breath and then spoke softly, ‘I want it.
We
want it.'

‘No, we don't.' Chris accelerated and turned into the gravel driveway, coasting slowly up past the quaint milk tin cum letterbox proudly announcing that they had arrived at Lot 3 Zoello Road. She parked the car near the willow tree, just before a curve in the driveway that snaked up to the huge gate, and then sat for a few minutes to gather her thoughts.

‘We'll have to do something about that fence though.' Grace pointed at the metal monstrosity. ‘It's totally gross.'

‘Totally.'

‘I'll allow for an adjustment in the budget. Plan B'll cover it.'

‘Or it could just be painted,' said Chris absentmindedly, as she gazed over the fence at the top of what she guessed was the huge barn.

‘Excellent!
Now
you're getting on board!' Grace flashed her mother a lopsided grin and was out of the car before Chris could answer.

‘Bugger,' muttered Chris testily as she too opened her door and exited into the crisp but mild winter morning. And was immediately assailed by silence. Not just normal silence, in which you can still hear the hum of cars, and trams, and life in general, but a
quiet
sort of silence that lay across the countryside like a soft feather-light doona, blanketing it with calmness, and peace, and serenity.