The Crossing

The sun cast a glistening silver veneer over the white-capped waves breaking onto the sand bar of the river mouth, and black-back gulls swooped in endless pursuit after shoals of small fish that were stranded in shallow pools created by the ebbing tide.

Patti, holidaying in a quaint, whitewashed, fisherman’s cottage with scarlet geraniums growing near the door, opened the blinds and breathed deeply; a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Two days of persistent fog and cool winds had until now jeopardised her chances of crossing the wide expanse of sand to explore the island that was accessible at low tide for only a few days each year. Today the correct combination of sand bar, tides, and the welcome sight of the sun creeping above the horizon made an expedition feasible. After hurrying through breakfast she quickly packed a lunch, a water bottle and a muesli bar into a waterproof backpack, unchained Buster, her elderly golden retriever and together they ran down the narrow gravel path to the river’s edge. Beyond the vast expanse of wind rippled sand and tiny pools stood the island, a rocky sentinel guarding the river-mouth.

“Come on Buster”, Patti called. “If we are going to make this crossing today we had best hurry before the tide begins to turn. I suppose I should have told them at the shop where we were heading for the day. It’s too late now.”

Slipping of her sandals and buckling them together Patti began the trek towards the island. She knew great grandfather had manned a whaling station, last century, on the far side and she understood there were still signs of habitation from those bygone days. The island also housed an expanding colony of white herons, which Patti hoped to take a photo of, if time allowed. She looked back. The village appeared miles away, but she knew the island, at low tide, was about a mile from the mainland. Not far to go now, she thought. Buster raced ahead sending flocks of gulls and terns into the air. Patti strode onto the island, threw her bag and shoes onto the sand, and ran in decreasing circles yelling out “I’ve made it! I’ve reached the island!” She executed a full cartwheel; she ran towards an outcrop of jagged rocks, climbed to the top waving her hands wildly, and joined Buster in a crazy bird chase. An adrenalin rush fueled her sense of achievement making the trip worthwhile.

The noise of a huge wave crashing on the shore turned her attention to the tide. Not only was it on the turn, but it was also filling the pools. Patti was anxious. What to do? Should she camp on the island until the next tide, or risk the journey back? In the distance dark clouds were gathering behind the hills … a sure sign of rain. She grabbed her pack, whistled to Buster and hastily retraced her steps across the slowly filling passageway with the incoming waves crashing gently at her ankles. Buster splashed ahead, but Patti decided she would feel safer if he stayed at heel, and called him in. Together they headed homewards, Patti keeping up a running conversation with the dog in an attempt to calm her rising panic.

They had retreated half way. Patti did not like the sight, or feel, of the seaweed swaying on the tide and wished she had not been so foolhardy. Why hadn’t she checked the exact time of low tide? If they had left an hour earlier this would not have happened. Buster swam as he attempted to catch a piece of wood drifting by. The water was up to Patti’s knees, and there was still some distance to travel. A rogue number seven wave hurled seaweed onto Patti’s thighs and she felt a rising sense of terror. She couldn’t swim, and while Buster was an excellent swimmer, she knew it was beyond his capabilities to rescue her should she be swept off her feet. The water crept up and desperately she rolled her loose-fitting trousers even higher. No way did she want to have the weight of saturated clothes pulling her down. A waist high wave rolled in catching her unawares. Patti held in check a scream as fear threatened to completely overwhelm her. When the wave finally curved into debris-laden foam Patti spied dry sand, and safety, only meters away. She stumbled to the shore and ran up the beach collapsing onto the warm sand and whispered to Buster, “Shall we do this again tomorrow old boy?”

Buster looked at her, tail between his legs, as much to say, “You must be crazy”.

Across the Bridge

It has been many years since I last thought about the bridge. Recently, on a nostalgic journey to my childhood home, I wandered across the dew-laden grass in search of that bridge to another world. Sadly all traces have been obliterated; by time, and floods, and willows that grow and wither only to be replaced by others.

The bridge was narrow with rails on either side, rails that I thought were old railway lines until corrected. I have been informed they were constructed from timber, three by three inch lengths. No photos appear to have been taken, and while many of us remember the bridge, few of us have the same recollections.

The bridge was wooden with many gaping holes in its decking. I disliked walking across the bridge and resorted to crawling on hands and knees past the holes through which the dank dark waters of the lagoon beckoned with their livestock of slippery slimy eels lurking in the shadows. I did not relish the thought of falling through the holes and gashing my limbs on the way down as numerous cross branches of willows created a natural barrier through which it was possible to fall only to land in shallow water that barely moved over the muddy bottom.

While no one was able to accurately pinpoint the reason for the construction of this pathway to the other side it is generally presumed that my father and uncle had a hand in the enterprise. These men of a similar age combined their do-it-yourself talents several times over many years to build tracks and bridges and huts, none of which would find their way into the house of the year, or the bridge of the year competition, but all of which were solid and dependable in construction and eminently well suited for the task they were intended.

On a fine day the bridge emitted a golden ambience as dappled sunlight shone through willow leaves, and combined with the call of tuis and bellbirds and the occasional flash of a wood pigeon as it swished overhead, it oozed character. I am sad no remnants remain. I am sad that so few have memories of that wooden structure. On a cold day I never ventured near.

Life Support

Rose's clambering embrace gave life support to weathered and near crippled Fence.

Years ago Fence was erected to replace a more ancient structure. Families living on either side spent endless hours oiling Fence, and spraying weed-killer on his foundations in an earnest endeavour to preserve his aged facade. Mother Nature had another agenda. Slowly, relentlessly, lichens took up residence on Fence's silvered exterior, attaching themselves to exposed regions. That coat gave him an almost distinguished appearance.

Rose's lineage was impeccable. Sturdy White Briar with feet firmly planted in the ground suckered sweetly perfumed, blowsy, Blush Pink. When severe pruning of the thorn-encrusted limbs destroyed Blush Pink, White Briar flourished. Spreading her arms she smothered Fence and edged her way towards the delicate lemon and cream honeysuckle clinging nearby.

One cruel winter's night a storm brewed from the west; wild winds gathered strength and hurtled debris through the darkened sky. Rose and aged Fence clung together against the onslaught of the screaming intruder, battling to remain upright as branches of their taller neighbours, and errant plastic bags, whipped by.

The calmness of the dawn revealed the devastation, in the centre of which Rose and Fence lay together, entwined in death as in life.

The Spirit stone

Manilla folders, bursting at the seams with copies of birth and death certificates competed for space on the aged work-stained table where numerous scraps of paper covered in scribbled notes were stacked haphazardly. The three cousins endeavoured to piece together the trail of their forebears who had arrived in New Zealand before the influx of Pakeha settlers. Several months earlier in idle conversation about life in the olden days, the idea was hatched that a Family Tree should be tackled before the remaining elderly aunts and uncles departed this world. Maggie launched into the self-imposed task with vigour bulldozing Lily and Cathy, who were younger, into acting as gatherers and collators of information.

Cathy, who prided herself on her extensive computer skills, was assigned the task of assembling the information into chronological order. Lily, the proud possessor of several faded sepia-toned photographs from a bygone era and who was privy to many family stories, assumed the compilation role. Lily enjoyed her duties. She was well known amongst the family as the one who kept in touch with relatives near and far, and it was to her that family secrets and desires were divulged. Lily was curious by nature and should a whisper of a tale reach her ears she would sit and write a long chatty letter unobtrusively placing her query in the middle, thus not making her curiosity apparent. She didn’t consider it nosey, and consequently her knowledge of family stories was incredible. The folders and notes amassed to mammoth proportions until it became essential they take time out from everyday interruptions to concentrate on the proposed contents of ‘The Family Tree’. They resolved to spend three days at The Crib in the Catlins where they would be assured of relative peace and quiet.

Cathy and Maggie leaned over the table engrossed in their latest discussion. Had great-grandfather chosen his life as a whaler, or was it thrust upon him because his parents had been convicts deported to Botany Bay? Maggie had almost convinced them that he had chosen that way of life, but secretly Lily, who didn’t think it important, had some doubts. Who, in their right mind, would choose to sail across the Tasman Sea to distant, almost uninhabited New Zealand, to chase whales in a small boat? Lily, who preferred the comforts of home, failed to see how any ancestor of hers could possibly choose a life of hardship over that of living in a civilised country. She had to admit that perhaps Australia was not all that civilised in the mid 1800’s, but she was positive life must have been easier than harpooning migrating whales in the inhospitable Southern Ocean.

At this particular moment a deliciously tempting aroma rising from the battered black enamel pot on the coal range was of greater importance. She was hungry. Breakfast had been a hit and miss affair as they had hoped to catch a fish on the incoming tide. No fish had taken the bait. A slice of over-cooked toast spread with marmite, and a cup of tea was not the type of breakfast Lily was used to. At home on the dairy farm, breakfast consisted of porridge, eggs and toast, followed by at least two cups of strong, sweet, milky coffee.

Perched above the river estuary with an expansive view of beach and bush, the Crib had undergone extensive alternations and additions, which updated the old dull green tin shed that had occupied the site for over fifty years into a comfortable, if somewhat, isolated, holiday home. With the coal range for cooking and heating, and a generator for lighting, it provided the extended family a welcome escape from the hustle and bustle of daily living. Lily preferred city lights; the Art Gallery, the Museum or a shopping Mall, when in need of an escape, but had agreed to travel down the dusty highway and along the muddy potholed track as her contribution in hurrying along the completion of this historical document. Maggie and Cathy, convinced of the importance of a complete Family Tree to place in the archives of family history, were serious as to its final content.

Lily’s eyes roamed the room as Maggie and Cathy energetically debated the pros and cons of a convict’s life in Sydney. The range radiated warmth that enveloped the cousins. An elderly kettle, its marble rolling gently hissed steam as the lid jiggled, and the hand-knotted fabric mat fashioned by their grandmother covered a blotchy paint mark made by Maggie’s grandson when he accidentally knocked over an almost empty paint can with his fishing rod. Fleetingly she wondered who made the cushions on the rolled back sofa, but that thought became irrelevant when a glow in the distant cabinet captured her attention. The cabinet, which had originally been display shelves in the local chemist, had been consigned to the local tip after being replaced by a modern glass and chrome unit. Maggie, dumping garden rubbish noticed the cabinet and carted it home where she painted the exterior a deep teal and the interior pale sky blue. Not a colour scheme for a home in the town, but here in this remote Crib on the southern coast it fitted in perfectly.

Lily’s mind began to drift. That cabinet held an inexplicable attraction. She attempted to ignore it and tried concentrating on the conversation of her cousins, but to no avail. Botany Bay, Sydney, stolen handkerchiefs, deportation; none of these held her attention. Her gaze kept returning to the cabinet.

Lily wandered around the room, stirred the stew simmering on the stove and noted that it was ready for eating. She looked out the window at the cheeky seagull that was perched on the clothesline pole. “Fly away Peter, fly away Paul”, she intoned quietly to herself. The seagull fluttered its wings, twisted its head in a comical way and stayed on the pole.

“I’ll bet that seagull caught all our fish this morning,” Lily said to Maggie and Cathy.

“Mmmmm, pardon, what did you say?” asked Cathy.

“Nothing, nothing of importance,” replied Lily.

Their only interest at the moment was finishing the Family Tree. Lily moved the old earthenware crock that her mother had used for pickling onions, and pulled out some of the dead greenery that leaned haphazardly over its edge all the time trying to ignore the cabinet and the irresistible drawing force it held. Moving slowly around the room she edged closer to the cabinet.

Several stone adzes held pride of place on the two top shelves. Great-grandfather had married a local Maori woman whilst whaling at nearby Tautuku Peninsula and these adzes had been in the family since those early days. Lily barely noticed a dried sea horse lying in solitude near a fragment of ambergris that had washed onto the adjacent beach after a southerly storm. On the bottom shelf she could see a stone, and it was this grey stone that glistened, and glowed, and attracted her. Fancy a stone glistening! For a moment Lily imagined the stone spoke to her, but shook her head in disbelief. She must need food. She was becoming lightheaded.

Maggie and Cathy sat at either end of the table absorbed in their discussion, totally oblivious to the dense sea fog drifting into the Crib and forming a curtain between them and Lily.

Lily opened the cabinet and quietly removed the stone with the hole in the centre. The fog swallowed up the room leaving Lily alone. The stone felt warm in her grasp and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise. She shivered without feeling cold. A moving shadow to the left caused her to swing around. Uttering a muffled cry of amazement she glimpsed, through the haze, a young woman standing near the door.

"I never noticed you before," she murmured. “Where did you spring from?”

Lily stared! This woman was not dressed like anyone she had ever met. She was a young Maori woman wearing a traditional flax skirt with a feather in her hair. A huia feather! Lily wondered where she found the feather. The huia had been extinct for years. The Maori prized huia feathers and wore them as adornment, or for ceremonial occasions. Lily wondered why the woman was there. Why she was dressed as in days of old? What did she want in this off the beaten track part of the Catlins? Perhaps she should ask? So many questions crowded her mind, but foremost Lily wanted to know why was she dressed like that?

Lily smiled in a friendly way. The young woman nodded her head in acknowledgement. Suddenly her eyes clouded in pain and Lily, kind hearted and gentle, hurried over and laid a friendly arm around the woman’s shoulder. The woman looked startled and squatted on the floor near the couch. Staring in surprise Lily realised the nature of the young woman's pain. She was in the throes of childbirth! Lily felt panic rising and called urgently to Maggie and Cathy. No reply came. She could neither see, nor hear her cousins. She could not see beyond that misty screen that hid the rest of the room. The coal range was not visible. She could not smell the aroma of the stew pot. There were no droning voices of her cousins discussing the Family Tree. There was only this stranger and herself. What was happening?

Assessing the options available Lily knew she must assist in the imminent birth, and with that decision made a serene calmness descended upon her. The young woman's face grimaced in pain. Lily was unsure of the correct procedure. Shouldn’t she have boiling water available? No doctor or midwife were on hand; no nurse; no clothes for the baby; nothing, only this thick fog; and Lily and the mother to be. Gently she eased the labouring maiden onto the couch, placed a multi-coloured crochet cushion behind her head and taking the throw from the adjacent armchair laid it carefully over the pregnant form.

"What is your name?" Lily enquired.

Haltingly the young woman replied, "I am Te Haukawea."
Lily eyes flew open in astonishment. Her great-grandmother, Te Haukawea, had lived on this isolated coastline and was married to the whaler, of convict parentage, who emigrated from Australia. Lily’s Christian names were Lily Te Haukawea, as she had been christened in memory of her great-grandmother.

When another spasm of pain crossed Te Haukawea's face Lily rubbed her back slowly until the contraction passed. Te Haukawea looked grateful and smiled a tremulous smile.

“Is this your first birthing?” asked Lily.
“Yes,” replied Te Haukawea. “But I have helped family members to deliver their babies. I do know what happens.”

Lily smiled. She was glad someone knew what to do as she herself had given birth to her three children in the clinical environment of a hospital with nurses in attendance and the gas mask handy for when the labour grew stronger. Here they were miles from civilisation, and seemingly without assistance of any type.

"The baby is coming," Te Haukawea gasped as she gave a grunt.

Lily sprang into action. As the baby's head made its appearance Lily carefully eased it into the world. The baby was a little girl, with soft tendrils of black hair clinging damply to her brow. Lily felt a rush of emotion overwhelm her as she gazed upon the newborn.
"You have a daughter Te Haukawea. You have a beautiful baby girl."

Te Haukawea, a proud smile on her face, lay back exhausted by the effort. Lily reached into the tea chest beyond the couch, and searching deep to the bottom found a soft blanket, edged with white satin ribbon, that she wrapped the baby in. She carefully handed the infant over to Te Haukawea who placed her to the breast for her first milk. Lily looked on in wonderment.

This trip had been arranged for the sole purpose of making solid progress on the Family Tree, and here she was assisting in a birth. She had no idea of the whereabouts of Cathy and Maggie. They had been here in the room with her, but now the room was veiled in mist. Lily smiled to herself as a fleeting thought crossed her mind. Cathy and Maggie had missed the excitement of participating in this birthing; they would scarcely believe her when she told them what she had witnessed.

After Te Haukawea fed the child, and slept a time, she smiled at Lily and whispered shy thanks before rising to her feet, babe in her arms.
"I am naming this girl Mere," Te Haukawea told Lily. "I am grateful for your help, but I must go now."

Lily, reluctant to let her leave so hastily, handed Te Haukawea another blanket and embraced her, but before she could utter a word Te Haukawea and Mere disappeared into the mist. Lily was very close to tears. Her great-grandmother was named Te Haukawea and her first daughter, Lily's Grandmother, had been called Mere. Tears slid silently from Lily's eyes as the significance of what she had witnessed hit home. A trip back in time! Had she witnessed her own grandmother's birth?

Lily rubbed her eyes as the mist rolled back, and there at the table, still deeply involved in their discussion, sat Maggie and Cathy. The cushion on the couch showed a small indentation where Te Haukawea’s head had rested; the lid of the tea chest was open and the linen and blankets dishevelled as though disturbed.

Lily, holding the stone with the hollow centre, could sense it pulsating in time with her heartbeat.

“Maggie?”

“Yes Lily?” replied Maggie. “Lunch is almost ready. If you have nothing to do maybe you could set the table?”

“Maggie?” said Lily. “What is this stone?”

“Oh that,” shrugged Maggie, “that’s a spirit stone. It’s supposed to have supernatural powers; if you believe in that sort of thing.”

Mother Image

The image in the octagonal purple-framed mirror, a mirror smeared with spilt talcum powder from my recent voyage south, showed no similarity to that of my mother. I peered into the murky depths to further investigate. Who was that face looking over my shoulder? An older woman, a vaguely familiar older woman, stared beyond me into a distant space as though she had no connection with the view on offer.

I frowned. Two lines between my eyes added ten years onto my calendar age and consciously I smiled. Anything to restore the youthful appearance I coveted.

The green eyes, rheumy with advanced years, glanced towards the frowns and the other woman’s brow furrowed, in recognition, I fancied. A furrow is truly a strange word to describe a brow. Furrows occur in the field, where turnips or crops for animal fodder are sown. It would be surprising to see a turnip sprouting from a forehead, but the English language is mysterious; reading the dictionary provides an entertainment seldom found elsewhere. That is what my mother thought.

My mother loved crossword puzzles. She often needed the dictionary to aid her solving a puzzle, and a small pocket Oxford was reduced to shreds as she flicked from page to page looking for the solution. The day I refused to loan my new dictionary, a prize at school, a Concise Oxford, larger and emblazoned with the school crest in gold on the front cover, was a sad day. Today the psychologists would no doubt dub it with the tatty label of rejection. It was not a rejection of my mother, simply a method to keep my precious book intact. I had seen how dictionaries lives deteriorated when owned by a crossword addict. Of course I am not addicted to crosswords. My mother and I have few points of connection.

Since the advent of computers we seem to have less time to sit and write letters. It should be easier to type a letter and print it out, it should be, but time is of the essence. My mother wrote letters on Sunday afternoons. A ruled quarto pad that had its home in a kitchen drawer, the same drawer that held recipe books; hand written recipe books splattered with butter and sugar, and egg mixtures on the pages where her favourite cakes or biscuits had been meticulously copied in pen and ink; and string, for tying three layered greaseproof paper lids onto aluminum steamed pudding bowls before they were carefully dropped, by the string bow, into a white enamel pot with black side handles saved expressly for steamed puddings; and crinkled cellophane jam covers that became smooth when dipped in a saucer of water, and colouring in pencils hidden from children. A ballpoint pen held no fascination for her. She preferred pen and ink. Seldom did blots mar her correspondence.

I never read any of her letters. Believe me it was not for wont of trying. From the other side of the old wooden table that served as breakfast, dinner and tea table, that doubled as an ironing board covered with a thick grey blanket, as relic donated by her brother, my uncle, from his wartime possessions, and covered with a layer of white sheeting thin at the edges, the table on which sewing tissue patterns were laid carefully over a variety of fabrics before being cut carefully around the edges, and the same table on which homework was done, dolls dressed, books read, a cast-iron red painted tractor driven over a dangerous terrain of comics and pieces of kindling, the table that was home to exciting card games, I often peered in an effort to read the words on that quarto writing tablet. Always her hands came up to guard the secrets she shared with her cousin, or her brother, or sister-in-law. My mother never wrote to me.

Shortly after her demise the daughter of one of her regular correspondents wrote to me. In her letter she expressed the pleasure her mother gained from my mother’s letters. Like me, the daughter never read those letters, and if any survive until this day, then I have not read them.

I like to write letters, but I seldom indulge in crossword puzzles. I wonder if my mother would find pleasure in Code Cracker puzzles. I prefer them to crosswords. Both require knowledge of words, albeit at a different level. Today, while my dictionary is slightly dog-eared, it is still intact.

The woman looking over my shoulder in the mirror knows words. Perhaps we do have words in common?

School Swimming

The untidy crocodile from Room 11 straggled across town on their way to the Municipal pool. Sonia and Alice dawdled past the boarding house, a dilapidated sprawling villa, pausing momentarily to reach up for the cherry blossom hanging in pink clusters from drooping branches that provided welcome shade for passers-by, and secluded parking for clientele. Alice tried not to stare at the building with its discreet lighting, the place where her mother went to work each evening. She hated staying home alone with Daddy. Mummy always arrived home before Alice caught the school bus … in time to cook breakfast and kiss her goodbye. Sonia, a dreamer, wished she had some silver paper to create a posy to pin on her jacket lapel, using the candy floss blossom and incorporating the delicate ferns peeping from a damp corner near the side door. Alice recalled the day they arrived at the farm shortly after her grandparents lost their lives in a motor accident. It was traumatic moving from life in the city to a farm and Alice tried to settle into her new home, although she no longer rode on the tractor. Once the man she was instructed to call Daddy, in a foul mood, had thrown her onto the ground badly damaging her hand, declaring he had no use for brats. Her hand never healed, it was wizened and slack, and useless for fastening buttons. Daddy was cruel; he kicked animals and she often witnessed him throwing puppies over the fence because they were in his way. She was thankful to be friends with Sonia who was always happy and cheerful.

Once again it was time for school swimming and although neither Alice nor Sonia could swim, Sonia, tossing her long golden pony-tail, told everyone that as long as they liked water, bathed often enough to smell nice, loved the beach whether or not the waves broke over their ankles, and enjoyed watching ducks on the pond in the park, the fact you couldn’t swim was inconsequential. The children reached the pool, branching right or left to cold and draughty changing rooms with jagged holes in the walls through which curious boys tried to peer. Alice followed Sonia down the steps into the shallow end, dodging splashes from accomplished swimmers who had dived in. Sonia hurried to a corner, and holding onto the edges, immersed herself up to her neck, while Alice waited shivering. Mr Thomson, insisting that the only way to gain water confidence was to push your boundaries, instructed them to line up at poolside and jump in. Alice watched as two others, and then Sonia, jumped. Sonia thought it a huge joke and emerged dripping wet, a grin on her face, shaking the water from her hair.

“Jump Alice … hurry up please, you are holding the others up!” Alice hurried to obey as she heard Mr Thomson’s voice. She felt her feet slipping and desperately flung out her hands to regain balance. Her weakened hand flailed and failed to function. She felt her head bobbing under the water. After rising to the surface she sunk again and as darkness threatened to overcome her she recalled last weekend when Mummy was at work. Daddy had ordered her to take a bath and stood supervising, a strange wild-eyed look on his face. Alice instinctively felt uneasy. When he reached forward to soap her body she froze in fear. She was a big girl. She knew how to bathe herself.

“It’s OK Daddy,” Alice had said. “I can manage without any help”. Daddy angrily grabbed her arm and yanked her from the water, roughly towelled her down and carried her to the bedroom where he threw her across the bed, her crippled hand twisted behind her back.

Horrified Sonia watched as Mr Thomson, his rimless spectacles thrown swiftly to the ground, dived into the pool and hauled a choking Alice out. Sonia gasped as the water spewed from Alice’s mouth. Ashen she watched, as Alice her wizened hand twisted behind her back, screamed in terror, “No Daddy, no! Please no!”

Rural Ghost

While leaning on the lichen-covered gate my gaze strayed to the old stone cottage that was almost hidden by the gnarled apple tree whose heavily laden branches nearly touched the ground. Deserted for several years the cottage was rumoured to be haunted.

Once, when a harvest moon filled the heavens, a spectral white shape had been observed flitting across the shadowy unkempt garden. In the village store I had heard whispers that if one peered through the dusty windows, a woman garbed in a drab brown dress, covered by a calico apron, could be seen rocking gently in the chair, which stood next to the unlit fire. She seemed oblivious to the cobwebs and dust that gave the room a neglected air. I don’t know if there was a ghost. I had never seen her.

My finances had been shaky when I moved to the village, but by selling watercolours, and living frugally, I had managed to save enough for a deposit to buy the empty cottage. The countryside was an artist’s paradise. Barren hillsides rose above the green swift-flowing river, and apple and apricot orchards lent a rural atmosphere to what could have been a harsh environment. I rented the neighbouring property. Miners had erected both cottages during the gold rush of the 1860’s. They lay abandoned for over fifty years until an enterprising local farmer decided to refurbish them as farm-laborers’ homes. Slowly mechanization arrived, allowing one man and a tractor to do in a day what had taken two men a week to achieve. The cottages stood empty until the farmer’s entrepreneurial son modernised one and offered it up for rent.

I let my mind wander into the realms of home ownership … a small mortgage, and me painting well into the night to pay for the dream … and somehow found myself standing in the garden of the abandoned cottage. The window frames, which were once painted a deep, almost brick, red, would have complemented the grey stone exterior … schist taken from the nearby hills. The flagstone step of the cottage was covered in moss and dangerous when wet, and two casement windows stood to attention on either side of a solid wooden door. I pictured a brass knocker on the door and red-checkered curtains at the windows. In my mind’s eye I grew a garden … yellow roses clambering around the front porch, delicately scented stocks, wallflowers, Sweet William and pansies creating a colourful foreground against a backdrop of rusticity. The apple trees in the orchard I imagined severely pruned into fertile submission. In spring daffodils and tulips would vie for space alongside the lilac bushes, and hanging from the old walnut tree I envisaged a swing … a simple rope swing with a wooden seat.

I was sure that any occupant of a country cottage would simply make friends with a wandering spirit. Those who had encountered the ghost said it was a woman and wondered why she had chosen that cottage. I did not consider it haunted … there was neither sounds of rattling chains nor haunting cries in the night. I thought it strange that those aware of her presence were afraid of the house, calling it spooky, and keeping their distance.

Rain began to fall as I hurried back through the rickety gate with its creaking rusty hinges, and picking up the cane washing-basket perched on my doorstep, I quickly unpegged the laundry, and carried it into the kitchen. I carefully folded the old white sheet, my grandmother’s brown dress, and the faded calico apron that she wore over it, and as part of my preparations to move next door, returned them to the battered tin trunk where I stored all my treasures.