The Lemongrass Project

By Janet Richardson

Recently divorced, Julia Carter plans to sell her house on Sydney's north shore and start a new life in the city. But when her grandmother dies, she reluctantly agrees to move to Northport on the north coast of New South Wales with her beloved grandfather. Julia unexpectedly falls in love with a rural property and has just signed the sale contract

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Richardson
• Release date: Nov 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9780994184801

Book preview

The Lemongrass Project

Janet Richardson

Contents

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

Acknowledgements

Biography

Copyright Information

Dedication

In memory of my family’s faithful dog Guinness

CHAPTER 1

The Forrest Glen church was full of mourners, with people standing in the side aisles or at the back near the old arched-top doors, where two men in dark suits handed out programs for the order of service. Julia took one. Down the front, her grandmother’s coffin stood draped in a white cloth with blue and yellow flowers arranged along its top. Smells of mothballs and mustiness clouded the air, the same as two decades ago when it had been the remains of her parents in coffins at the front, shipped in the cargo hold of an aircraft from New Zealand.

Discreet coughs and muted exchanges accompanied Julia and her grandfather as they walked slowly to the empty pew at the front and sat down.

Adam straightened his suit coat and leaned into her side. ‘Your grandma had lots of friends,’ he said softly.

Julia squeezed his hand; she was too knotted up inside to speak. Tears blurred her vision as she tried to concentrate on the shards of light penetrating obliquely through the cobalt-blue leadlight windows behind the sanctuary. She wished her grandmother had chosen another church in which to say goodbye; this place held too many painful memories.

Charlotte Scott had not been a religious woman and the service was brief, the only hymn, ‘Great is Thy Faithfulness’, appropriate for a person so connected with the land. Following a prayer of thanks for Charlotte’s life, the congregation stood. As the organist played ‘Be Still My Soul’, pallbearers slowly lifted the casket from its stand and walked down the centre aisle.

Outside, mourners stepped carefully across the freshly mown grass to the graveside. Julia’s throat tightened and her tears flowed freely as the coffin was lowered into the orange- clay ground. Was it only two weeks ago that she had driven to her grandparents’ property, Glendale, for her forty-second birthday? Charlotte had baked a coffee and almond cake, and the three of them had sat under the old weeping willow tree on the front lawn and laughed when a sudden gust of autumn wind had showered them with small yellow leaves.

Now her grandfather clutched her hand and wheezed as he reached for a handful of earth. He straightened and stood very still, looking down, then leaned forward and opened his fingers. The dirt fell and scattered with a soft patter across the casket’s top. He stepped back, and Julia took his elbow as they made their way to the waiting car.

The small township of Forrest Glen to the west of Canberra had been gentrified from its bushranger beginnings to a prosperous sheep-farming area, although the drought of recent years had seen stock reduced and properties sold off. The grandeur of architecture a century earlier had been maintained in the town’s churches, the sandstone bank buildings lining the main street and the council chambers building near the park.

There were two pubs in town: the Railway Hotel, now derelict; and the Commercial, whose owners had recently begun to tart up the grand old dame. Outside, its timber walls had been painted a trendy deep grey and the lacework wrought iron along the balconies shone glossy white. Inside, the bar had been updated, but it was obvious the budget hadn’t stretched to the adjoining lounge and reception areas. There the carpets were threadbare, and the stairs up to the top-floor accommodation gave the impression they led to nowhere of significance. Unlike the welcoming atmosphere of the rowdy bar, here the place looked forlorn, as though emptied in readiness for painters and decorators to begin work. Julia had called in to the hotel on several occasions on her way to Glendale, to pick up wine or beer, but she had never been into the banquet room where Charlotte’s wake was to be held. She was not surprised that it too had a look of unfilled potential. The room was of vast proportions, and seemed more so with its dark timber floor and dull cream-coloured walls soaring up to an immensely high, patterned tin ceiling.

Several guests had already arrived and a waiter moved amongst them with a tray holding glasses of champagne, beer and orange juice. Julia was pleased to see the Country Women’s Association had been true to their promise of providing food. Platters of sandwiches, puff-pastry triangles, slices and cakes were laid out along a buffet table across the back of the room. Steam leaked from a shiny metal urn on a trolley, and cups, saucers, sugar bowls and milk jugs were set up on an adjoining table. As Julia and Adam made their way across the room an older man in a navy-blue suit joined them.

‘I was sorry to hear about Charlotte’s passing,’ he said to Adam. ‘She was an inspiration to us all, particularly with her charity work.’ His gentle smile showed yellow-stained teeth on stalks of bone. ‘It was a good idea to have the wake here in the pub,’ he added.

‘It was Charlotte’s wish,’ Adam replied. ‘Glendale’s too far out.’

The Scotts’ family home was a vast sheep station several kilometres out of town along a dusty and corrugated orange-gravel road.

‘Will you still go ahead and sell Glendale?’ the man asked. ‘It’s been in the family a long time.’

‘Since 1890,’ Julia offered.

‘Peter Jeffries is handling it,’ Adam said. He cleared the croak in his throat and indicated the stock and station agent across the room. ‘Once he finds a buyer I’ll move to Northport — that is, if I can talk my granddaughter here into coming along.’

Julia smiled but didn’t respond. She saw the agent making his way towards them. ‘I think someone has his antenna up,’ she whispered.

‘Hello, Julia; Adam — a lovely service,’ Peter Jeffries boomed. He nodded at the man in the navy-blue suit and turned his attention to Adam. The man excused himself and wandered off. ‘Those Sydney buyers are still sniffing around. They said they’ll put in an offer when things settle down after the funeral.’

‘You know me, Pete,’ Adam said. ‘I don’t hold with wasting time on ceremony.’

The agent pursed his lips. ‘If that’s the case, I’ll let them know. If they do go ahead they mentioned a quick settlement. Typical Sydney people.’ He rocked ever so slightly back and forth and glanced around the room as he spoke. ‘Always in a rush, no idea about life on the land.’ He shook his head. ‘All the machinery you’ll have to shift. Over a hundred and twenty years of stuff! Hell of a job.’

‘A quick settlement isn’t a problem,’ Adam said. He sounded resigned.

‘Good, good.’ The agent nodded. ‘You still heading off to Northport? I read somewhere that a resort developer’s been sniffing around up there.’ He puffed out his chest and rocked back and forth more vigorously. ‘Northport ticks all the boxes for a resort.’

Julia was alarmed. ‘Grandpa, do you want to move to a place where there are hordes of tourists?’

‘Tourists won’t bother me,’ Adam said without humour. ‘I won’t be there most days. I’ll be teaching you how to drive a tractor on your new place; we’ll be busy.’

Julia wanted to object, but wasn’t about to do so at her grandmother’s wake, especially in front of a real estate agent. Besides, the idea of them moving north together had given her grandfather a future, a purpose. She thought it odd though that he’d obviously known about the possibility of a resort in Northport but hadn’t mentioned it to her. Her grandparents had owned three cottages in the small fishing village for close to a year. They had intended living in one and renting out the other two. To her knowledge, her grandfather had only been to Northport once, maybe twice, and her grandmother had fallen ill within weeks of the cottages’ purchase so she hadn’t seen them at all.

The agent stopped rocking and ran his hands over the pockets of his black suit. ‘Will you sell your Killara place, Julia? I know a good agent up in Sydney. He’d be happy to do a valuation.’

‘I work for a real estate agent,’ Julia reminded him.

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘And anyway I’ve already sold the house,’ she said.

Adam gave a nod of acknowledgement to someone across the room. ‘We’d better go and talk to people, Pete. Push those Sydney folk along for me, will you?’

Julia stayed close to Adam’s side as they made their way around the room, thanking people for coming. She knew the gathering of friends would give comfort to her grandfather but she hoped the wake wouldn’t go on for too long. It was already late in the afternoon and many of the guests were elderly. Travelling over rough country roads at dusk was fraught with danger since the drought. Kangaroos and wallabies were forced to feed on grasses along the roadsides, and on her visits over the past months she’d had several close calls with the animals suddenly darting across her path, even in the middle of the day.

Following a toast to Charlotte’s life, the guests started leaving and the waiters began clearing up. Toby Parsons, Glendale’s manager, caught Julia’s eye. He pointed to the door and mouthed, ‘I’ll wait in the car.’

After the last guest had left, Julia steered her grandfather across to a chair near a window. His shoulders drooped and his skin was pale. Usually strong and tall, he looked incredibly frail.

‘Thanks, Jules, I’m done,’ he said, easing into the chair. ‘I wish you’d come back to Glendale. I don’t like the thought of you driving back to Sydney, not tonight; it’s been a big day.’

‘I’d love to stay, but I have to work tomorrow,’ Julia said, pulling up a chair beside him. His pallor worried her. ‘You know, I wouldn’t mind just sitting here quietly for a while.’ She took his hand; it felt like ice. ‘Would you like a brandy, Grandpa?’

He shook his head wearily. ‘No.’

‘What about a beer then?’ Julia turned and motioned to one of the waiters. ‘Any chance of a glass of water with ice, and a beer?’

‘Not a problem. Glass or stubby, Mr Scott?’

‘Stubby, mate.’ Adam’s strong voice belied his appearance.

The waiter brought the drinks. ‘There’s stacks of leftover food here, Mr Scott. Do you want to take any home?’

‘No, son, share it around with the staff.’

They settled back as the cleaning went on around them. ‘It all went well, Grandpa,’ Julia said. ‘I’m sure Grandma would have approved.’

‘Yes, your grandma would have approved,’ he repeated quietly. He took a long swig of beer, sucked his lips, then looked down and fidgeted with the stubby bottle, turning it around and around. ‘Seeing she left instructions and arranged it all before she died,’ he added with a hollow laugh.

Julia was surprised at the bitter tone. Adam and Charlotte Scott had been together for over sixty years and their marriage had been solid. Neither had been boss; they had worked as a team, each drawing on and respecting the strengths within the other, and consequently they hadn’t tried to outdo each other. Julia had never seen any sniping, competition or sulking between them.

She ran a finger through the beads of condensation forming on her glass. ‘I know you don’t like Killara, Grandpa, but why don’t you come and stay with me for a couple of days? We could spend time talking about Northport and future plans?’

She loved this old man with all her heart; he had a calm confidence that put people at ease. He had always been the strong one, but now she might have to take over that role and she wasn’t prepared for it, didn’t want it.

He took another swig of beer and glanced around the room before looking back at her. His eyes were watery and red-rimmed, and his irises had faded to a paler shade of blue over the last couple of years. ‘What would be the point if you’re at work?’

‘I’m sorry I can’t stay with you, but one of the staff is still on holidays so I have to go in tomorrow. Tell you what,’ she said, ‘why don’t I take some time off next week and we can drive up to Northport together. We can see the cottages and then go on to Harrowfield for a snoop around. You thought I’d be happy living there, didn’t you, and Harrowfield’s not that far from Northport. We could even overnight there if you like. What do you think?’

His face brightened. ‘I’d like that; and if you can spare the time, we could go from Harrowfield out to Wallydogan to visit my old mate Gerry McCain.’ He stopped and pulled a face. ‘Jules, I can’t do it. I just remembered those Sydney people, you know, the buyers interested in Glendale. There’ll be a lot of work to do after I accept their offer.’ He took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. ‘I’d better stick around here, dear.’

‘But their offer mightn’t be high enough.’

‘I intend accepting it anyway,’ he said, shoving the cloth back. ‘Toby and the boys can help with trucking out the remaining stock and the clearing sale, but I’ll have to be here.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘You go to Northport and drop in on the local real estate agent, Edward Glover, see what property values are doing up there. Take a look around Harrowfield too, and if you get the chance, go out and see Gerry; he’s a good bloke.’

•

On the long drive back to Sydney Julia wondered where her future lay. She’d had mixed feelings about selling the Killara place. She’d lived there all her life and it was like a well-worn cardigan; although uninspiring it felt comfortable. But her grandparents, Adam in particular, had loathed the place. In the distant past, it was because of their daughter-in-law, Julia’s mother. She had been a neurotic, selfish woman who sucked dry all those she came into contact with, and Julia’s father had been her favourite victim.

After her parents were killed in the accident, Julia had seen a lot of her grandparents initially. She often drove down to Glendale or they would come up to Killara, but that soon tapered off when she married Doug. Her grandparents had thought even less of her new husband than they had of her mother, and they’d been right. Doug had been a proper bastard and Julia wondered why she’d put up with him for so long. Twenty-three long years! God, how could she have been such a wimp? And even then, she hadn’t the courage to end it herself; Adam had.

Three months ago, she’d arrived at Glendale in the middle of the night, bashed and bleeding from Doug’s last violent, drunken attack. The three-hour drive from Killara to the Forrest Glen turn-off had been long and painful. The glare of headlights from oncoming traffic had knifed into her eyes, and the wound near her temple throbbed. A stabbing pain shot through her hip every time she changed gear, and the raw, bloody graze on her elbow opened afresh with each tiny movement. The night had been moonless and still, and she had driven slowly along the deeply rutted gravel road to Glendale, both to ease the pain each time she went over a bump and to avoid hitting wildlife should they suddenly run across her path.

The property’s old gate was left permanently open, and she had driven over the cattle grid and down the long drive knowing the noise of tyres over gravel would set the farm dogs barking. She had pulled up in the turning circle near the front steps under the blaze of security lights and seen Adam standing on the veranda, squinting into the glare. When she’d opened the car’s door, the interior lights had come on and the rips on her arms made by the sharp edges of the hearth bricks where Doug had thrown her were black with crusted blood. She had adjusted the rear-view mirror down and seen her cheek smudged with blood, the lump on her head from crashing into the wood box grown to the size of a golf ball.

‘It’s me, Grandpa, it’s Julia,’ she had called out painfully as she slammed the car door shut and he had rushed down the steps to help her.

Her grandmother had appeared in the doorway then, a thin, ghost-like figure shrouded in a pale-blue wool dressing gown. They had helped her into the house and sat at the kitchen table while she recounted this last violent episode. When she’d finished, her grandfather had gently squeezed her shoulder and left the room. His roar down the telephone line telling Doug to pack his things and leave Killara within twenty-four hours or face assault charges had penetrated the thick farmhouse walls.

Over the following weeks, Charlotte and Adam had talked about Julia selling the Killara house and the three of them moving north. Charlotte’s oncologist had been reasonably confident that her cancer was under control and he had no qualms about referring her to a colleague at a major regional hospital a short drive from Northport. Her grandparents had been so happy and Julia hadn’t wanted to muddy their plans by telling them she intended putting her house on the market, not because she wanted to go north but because she’d been thinking about moving to Potts Point, an inner Sydney suburb.

Now time was running out. She’d sold Killara and had just over a month to pack up and move — to where she had no idea. Adam was depending on her moving up the coast. She sighed; deep down she knew that Potts Point was off the radar.

The traffic along the Pacific Highway slowed to a crawl near Chatswood and she was relieved to slip through the last set of traffic lights in Lindfield as they switched from green to amber. Late next week she would check out the Northport cottages and look around Harrowfield as her grandfather wished.

CHAPTER 2

Julia drove down the main street of Northport, puzzled as to what had drawn her grandparents to the place. Adam and Charlotte Scott were people of the land, used to space and distant, grassy horizons. Northport was an uninspiring, small coastal village with tightly packed, tired-looking shops, and the few people she saw walked with purpose, as though to linger would be a waste of time. Ahead, where the road curved to the right past a park, a blue strip of ocean blinked now and then as the deep-green foliage of casuarinas parted in the light breeze. She pushed the car’s window buttons and breathed in the moist sea air. Further on, around the corner, stiff-leaved oleanders grew in clumps in sandy soil out the front of the Northport Motel. The run-down, pale-brick building brought back childhood memories of awkward summer holidays in similar coastal towns, when her parents would feign happy togetherness and Julia would secretly wish the holiday to end.

She parked in the driveway outside the reception office, and rang the buzzer. An overweight man in young middle age appeared, drying his hands on a grubby hand towel.

‘Sorry, luv, didn’t hear you. You must be Mrs Carter.’ He had a ready smile. ‘The name’s Sean.’

Julia filled in the registration form and organised for a nearby fish and chip shop to deliver a light meal after six. She opened the door to her room and recoiled at the smell of stale tobacco. When she turned on the bathroom light a fan clanged to life. A pink shower curtain hung stiffly from a blistered chrome rail and the toilet bowl glistened dirty brown below the water. She retrieved the room key and closed the door, thankful she was only staying one night.

Across the road, the park had a fenced enclosure around playground equipment. A father pushed his toddler on a yellow plastic swing. As Julia approached, the man looked up at her and smiled as the child demanded ‘higher, higher’. She grinned back and crossed the park’s sandy layer of thin, brown grass, then skirted the grove of casuarinas and walked down a sand-covered boardwalk to the beach.

Out to sea, surfboard riders in black wetsuits bobbed over a good-sized swell and Julia thought how nice it would be, sitting on a surfboard in the sunset with waves sliding underneath. She breathed in the salty mist and looked to the south where the beach stretched through the sea haze to a far-away headland. Nearby, to the north, waves washed into a wide-mouthed lagoon. Family groups sat dotted along the crescent of sand at the lagoon’s edge and a mother helped a toddler build a sandcastle, while nearby two small children, bodies gleaming gold in the late afternoon sun, splashed in the shallows.

The scenery was stunning. Julia could understand why the small village had beckoned developers. As Peter Jeffries, the real estate agent, had said: the place ticked all the boxes for a resort.

•

The motel’s shower took an age to get hot. When it did, steam billowed into the main room mostly undisturbed by the clattering fan. Julia washed and towel-dried her long, dark hair. The hot water had plumped out the few lines around her eyes and put colour in her cheeks. She checked the scar on her temple: the heat had made it flare pink and she doubted it would ever fade completely. It was her enduring reminder of the final chapter in her life with Doug Carter.

Julia was generally pleased with her looks but wondered how she’d cope when diminishing collagen turned tiny surface wrinkles into deep ruts, permanent reminders of the inevitability of ageing. Only a few weeks ago she’d seen an elderly woman dressed in a skimpy sundress more suited to a teenager; she had very heavily wrinkled, loose skin swaying from her arms and neck as she moved. Julia had been repulsed by the sight of her. She’d hated herself for having that reaction; in fact, she’d given herself a right royal ticking off about being superficial. Some women couldn’t care less what people thought; they marched unapologetically into old age, and even praised it as offering freedom from their own and others’ expectations. But Julia had always dressed carefully, mindful of others’ opinions, and she didn’t think it was from conceit. It was more about acceptance, blending in with the mob. She blamed that character flaw, if that’s what it was, on conflicting messages when she was a child. Her grandfather used to hold her at arm’s-length and shout happily, ‘You’re prettier every time I see you!’ It wasn’t what he said but his happiness that made Julia feel good. Charlotte too would cup her hand under Julia’s chin and good-humouredly wag it gently from side to side. ‘Your lovely face and big brown eyes will get you into trouble one day,’ she would say, laughing, before giving Julia a hug, and Julia would melt into her embrace and feel truly loved. Her mother had never complimented her as a child. ‘You’re so lucky to have a pretty daughter,’ she’d once sighed to the mother of one of Julia’s classmates. The women had laughed, but Julia had squirmed with embarrassment.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light knock on the door. She paid the fish and chip shop deliveryman and took her meal to the small desk. She would read about the history of Northport, which she had printed out the previous day.

The town had been settled in the 1800s, mainly because of the massive quantities of timber to the west around Harrowfield. Cedar had been barged down the Harrowfield River to small vessels docked at a long jetty built in Northport for that purpose, or to larger ships anchored off the coast. When the cedar was all but gone, fishing became the town’s main industry and remained so to the present day. Nowadays tourism played a minor role in Northport’s economy because the town was several kilometres off the main highway. Fewer tourists visited the area now than one hundred years ago, when holidaymakers would pitch tents where the park and motel now stood. Julia’s printout contained two maps of the town. One showed the village at the turn of the nineteenth century, with Lagoon View Crescent, where her grandparents’ cottages stood, marked as a dirt track. The other showed the village as it was today; apart from dirt tracks becoming sealed roads, it seemed little had changed – except the jetty had gone and the motel and park had replaced the old camping area.

Julia put the pages back into their folder and slipped it into her tote bag. She would check out the cottages tomorrow morning, prior to her appointment with the local real estate agent.

There was nothing much on television, and it was too early to go to bed, so she pulled on her sneakers and put the room key in her pocket. No lights were on in the manager’s apartment as she quietly walked down the driveway.

Moonlight shone a golden path across the sea as she stood in the sand and watched flashes of phosphorescence in the foam of breaking waves. Would she be able to start afresh up here, even with Grandpa close at hand? Much as she hated the thought, she doubted if Adam would survive for too much longer. Charlotte’s illness and death, the sale of Glendale and the move north, plus possible renovations to the Northport cottages would all take their toll on the frail old man. She could move up here and in a very short time find herself alone.

The cold, salty air was sharp in her throat. A light breeze chilled her cheeks where tears slipped unnoticed. She heard a bird fuss in a pine tree as she walked back up the boardwalk to the park.

•

Murals of green mould crept across the fibro walls of the house Adam Scott hoped to spend the rest of his life in. Peeling burgundy-coloured paint on the old fascia boards exposed slivers of silver-grey wood, and sticks and leaves jutted from the rusty gutters and broken downpipes. The other two houses were in a similar state of disrepair. Their saving grace was their excellent location: they backed onto the lagoon, with the beach a stone’s throw away. Across the road were the backyards of Northport’s retail shopping strip.

Julia pushed open the rusty wire gate and checked the letterbox. Sepia-coloured papers and junk mail had jammed the lid open and spilled onto the ground. There were no letters addressed to Adam or Charlotte Scott so she shoved the stuff back.

Tall grasses and willowy, yellow-flowering weeds lined the concrete path to the house and grew in clumps where there had once been lawn. The uneven stone steps to the enclosed veranda looked unsafe and one rocked as she stepped onto it. Soft tangles of thick, grey spider’s webs were draped across the veranda walls and ceiling and the exposed fuse box. Inside, the house smelled of damp and dust and the hall walls were mottled with mould. Two bedrooms and a bathroom were to the left, and the lounge, dining room and kitchen to the right. The house was tiny. Adam was used to large rooms with high ceilings at Glendale; Julia couldn’t see how he would cope here.

The back door opened to a small timber deck with a laundry and separate toilet at one end. Concrete steps led to a backyard of overgrown grasses and weeds and a lean-to clothesline. At the bottom of the yard, sedges spiked through the lapping waters of the lagoon. Julia sat down on the top step, pulled out her mobile and pressed her grandfather’s landline number.

‘Scott residence, Toby speaking.’

‘Toby, it’s Julia.’ Why was Glendale’s manager answering the phone? ‘Is Grandpa there?’

‘He had a bit of a turn. Sorry, I should have phoned, but he asked me not to; he said you were up north on an important fact-finding trip. Anyway, he’s okay now. Actually, I was just leaving — hang on a minute, I’ll put him on.’

Julia heard him walking into another room. ‘It’s Julia.’ His voice was muffled, as though he’d clasped the phone to his chest. She heard her grandfather cough.

‘Hello, Jules,’ Adam croaked.

‘Grandpa, what did Toby mean that you’ve had a bit of a turn?’

‘It was just a dizzy spell, nothing to worry about. Have you seen the Northport cottages yet?’

‘I’m sitting on the back step of the main one. They need a lot of work.’

‘Yes, I know, but we’ll get people in to do it — hire an architect or something. Isn’t it beaut up there? And, Jules, great news, Glendale has sold,’ he wheezed. ‘The Sydney people were as keen as mustard. Contracts were exchanged at ten o’clock. Talk about impatient.’ The force of his outburst started a coughing fit. ‘Sorry, dear, can’t talk,’ he gasped between coughs.

‘Hi, Julia, it’s me, Toby, again.’

‘I’ll come back — he sounds awful,’ Julia exclaimed as the coughing continued.

‘He’s pretty keen on you staying up there.’ He paused. ‘Hang on, he wants to talk to you again.’

‘Jules, I’m fine,’ Adam said. ‘Just a little cough, that’s all. I must’ve picked up a bug at the wake. Now promise me you’ll go and have a look around Harrowfield, and ask the Northport agent about the value of the cottages, will you?