by an ethereal amber glow from a stained glass window above, was revealed.
Timidly, I had trod each step lightly, up towards a small landing with a door on either side. On the left, was a small dark grimy room lined with shelves. At first glance I was dismayed. I shoved aside the dark curtain. Mr Carmody had been damn keen on awful heavy old drapes. Natural light lit up the room. With some resistance, I opened the small attic window, and delighted in the breeze that instantly hit my face. At second glance, I could see that if I stripped the room bare, and painted it white, it really could be a lovely room, although somewhat small. For what purpose I was uncertain.
Next, I explored the room to the right. As I opened the door, magically I was greeted by a sizeable sunlit room filled with small lost planets of golden drifting dust motes. The side wall was dominated by a marble fireplace, much the same as the one in the formal area downstairs. Stroking the marble mantle, and feeling the thick caked dust I pulled my hand away. The room’s ceiling sloped towards the front of the house where, to my pleasure, a huge window overlooked the entire front garden.
The room had to be at least nine metres wide. By the time I had taken in the view from the back windows, my mind began to tick over and excitement was building. Already I could see it once completed. This was indeed the icing on the cake.
Glancing around, I had taken in the remnants of old newspapers and cardboard boxes, and realised that in recent years Mr Carmody must have used it as a storeroom. However, for me, it would make the perfect bedroom.
There were times I still had to pinch myself that this house and garden were mine. Lost in thought, standing at the back window in the kitchen, entranced by the view, the sound of a car on the gravel came to me.
From the front door, I saw the battered old EH Holden utility pull to a stop. I guessed the driver to be Wilbur’s recent carer, old Alex Smith. Sitting tall in the passenger seat, Wilbur had given a yelp and bounded from the car, running in circles, foraging around, sniffing.
Laughing with delight, I greeted Alex. ‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? I have a kettle and some tea bags but not much else. The truck comes tomorrow with my things.’
It was a hot day, and Alex was wearing well-worn navy stubbies. He was a weathered man, his face heavily wrinkled and craggy, the skin on his knees falling down a bit. Briefly, he lifted an Akubra that had definitely seen better days. ‘No thanks luv,’ his gravelly voice said.
His response surprised me as Alex had been a carpenter back in his day, and not only worked on the house but had forged a lifelong friendship with Mr Carmody. When I had called him about Wilbur returning home, we had spent ages talking about how the house had been in former years. Perhaps he wanted to keep his memories as he remembered them from the past. After all, the house was rather sad at the moment.
Leaning against the utility, he licked his dry bottom lip as he stuck a Tally-ho paper to it. He pulled out a pouch of tobacco and began to roll a scrawny cigarette. Taking his time, he put the cigarette to his lips, holding it between his index finger and thumb. I noticed his scrutiny of the house. A long plume of smoke escaped his lips.
‘A glass of water then perhaps?’ I offered.
‘Never have me water straight luv. I figure if it can rust iron, I don’t want to see what it’ll do to me insides.’ He must have missed the look of surprise on my face as he continued. ‘Got to get back up to Cooroy. Traffic’ll be heavy this time of day.’ He squinted at me through the haze of his cigarette smoke. ‘As I said on the phone luv, we’re ready to go to our little place at Donnybrook. Good spot for fishin’. Always saw meself finishin’ off me days there. We were just holding out ’til we had Wilbur sorted. Wasn’t really sure what we were going to do.’
Climbing back in the car, cigarette still in his mouth, he muttered through the open window, ‘I’ll miss the old mutt though, but he belongs here. Frank’d be happy.’ He lifted his hat once more. ‘You take care luv.’
I waved as Alex’s car disappeared around the curve of the gravel driveway. At the sound of Wilbur’s bark, I spun around in time to see the white cat I had seen on the very first day, bound across the yard, Wilbur hot on his heels, before the cat managed to scale the fence. Looking very happy with himself, Wilbur stood at the base of the fence and gave a few good natured woofs. I wondered if these two were old friends.
‘Haha, you’ll have your work cut out for you keeping Whitie out,’ I called to the dog. ‘I daresay he’s had complete run of this place while you were gone.’
In a frenzy of excitement, Wilbur began to dash around the garden. He went from one tree to another, from one place to another, madly sniffing, nearly turning himself inside out with excitement. I knew what he was doing. He was searching, searching for Frank Carmody. I wasn’t sure if he remembered me, as we’d only met briefly a couple of times at the shops. I stood on the front veranda and watched as the dog bounded through the house, exploring every room. A few times he dashed into the laundry, but then ran straight back out again.
With pride, I took the new, shiny stainless steel water bowl into the laundry and filled it. Next time Wilbur came in, he made for the laundry once again. This time he drank furiously from the cool bowl, the registration tag on his collar hitting against the metal with a ting. Like a proud mother, I stood watching his every move as if the dog was a genius. We were forging our lives together and these were firsts for us.
And then, back out the front door he went. With my one folding director’s chair pulled up at the window, I busied myself ringing the tradesmen I had lined up for the next few days. My wish was to retain the historic elements of the house, but put a contemporary spin on the place, like making over a glamorous old lady.
Not one moment had been wasted during settlement time. Once the documents were signed, I’d had a one month intensive shopping period sourcing antique doors to be used throughout the house, antique beams that would be installed in the main living area, and adding to my cache, six exquisite seventeenth century torchiers for lighting, and many more decorative objects.
Next, on the advice of John Scott, I engaged a draftsman who was well versed in the council requirements for a house of this genre, to draw up plans for the renovations. He put me in contact with a certifier who would do on-site approvals.
My first move was to change the proportions of the internal spaces, knocking out the walls of the smaller rooms, upsizing doorways and removing doors altogether in some areas to create open thresholds. The house pivoted around the great main room with a lovely high ceiling. Pushing the room out into a former chamfered bay window, extending the glass to the floor and adding a deck, would enable me to capture the view to connect the spectacular garden and river below.
Not surprisingly, the kitchen was, and would be the heart of the home.
John Scott, who I had originally thought formidable, had been quite different once the contract had been signed. His help and wealth of information regarding the property was invaluable, his interest and friendly, although always formal manner, endearing. He had gone to great lengths to supply me with a list of people who Mr Carmody had formerly relied upon.
Brownie who had maintained the garden a few years prior was starting in two days’ time, although I was certain one man would not be enough. On the phone he had explained that he would happily come out of retirement for Mr Carmody’s garden. I had the feeling he was more of a maintenance man, even though I envisioned the garden needed a complete makeover first.
A bevy of tradespeople were about to descend upon the property, turning the old house into a luxurious B&B. Anyway, that was my plan. In the last few months, I had researched B&Bs and knew exactly how I wanted Carmody House to be.
For me hospitality was about being generous - the magnificent surroundings, the food I would present, and the time and effort that would go into planning day trips. I wanted my guests to experience all the best things that New Farm had to offer – the cafes, the little local gourmet shops, the river walks, transport via the City Cat ferries, the spectacular New Farm Park, the local markets and more.
Running a cooking school,