House of Dreams

By Christine Gardner

It was her dream house ... After ten years with Paul, Lena knows she no longer loves him. One day, at home alone and feeling unwell, she makes up her mind to leave. At the same moment her phone rings with news that she's won 55 million dollars. She packs a bag and locks the door behind her. Full of excitement as well as doubt, she drives to the highest point in Sutton Valley, and there, with the most incredible view, stands an old house. Dilapidated, just waiting for someone to make it a home again. And Lena is sure she's that person; the house calls to her and she's determined to make it her own. She has more than enough money to make the house beautiful again, but what else will it cost her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Gardner
• Release date: Oct 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215188927

Christine Gardner

Christine has had a fascination for history most of her life. When the youngest of her five sons started school Christine went back to school as well. After several years at TAFE, studying both visual arts and writing, she went to university and eventually graduated with a BA in History/Philosophy of Religion, with Honours. She's written all kinds of books since then, most with at least some history included.

Book preview

Prologue

The house stood on the very top of the highest point overlooking the valley below. Once, it was a grand mansion owned by one of the richest men in the state, but since he and most of his family had died it had deteriorated into a ruin—a complete eyesore and an embarrassment to its neighbours. 

An old woman lived there, alone for most of her life; a recluse who was rarely seen even by her neighbours. Even while she was still breathing she was dead on the inside and cared very little, if at all, about the state of her house. The neighbours felt some pity for her but there was no-one to grieve when she died and it was six weeks before her body was found, even more shrivelled than it had been when her heart beat within it. It was a shell and so was the house.

The neighbours stayed in their homes, even when the weeds completely took over the garden and the house looked in danger of collapsing into itself. Some thought they heard sounds that ought not to be coming from an empty house; most dismissed them as squatters but others thought there was something not quite right about Glescae Mansion.

CHAPTER ONE

I’ve always thought if I won Tattslotto I’d be on the first plane out of here. Isn’t that what everyone wants to do—see the world? The UK beckoned, for sure; I would get there one day, but I had no desire now to actually live anywhere but Sutton Valley. I’d been to a few places in Asia, America as well, and my feet were no longer all that itchy. This past year had seen some of the most extreme changes in my life and things would never be the same. I would never be the same.

When I was a teenager I was, according to my mother, somewhat of a handful. She was relieved when I met Paul. He was sensible and driven in his career at the bank, so he’d be a very good influence on me. In spite of all that I did love him, at least at first. Maybe he was something of a father figure, even though he was only four years older than me. My father had died when I was just five years old and I barely remembered him.

I liked being looked after when I was nineteen, even in my early twenties. I was working at a department store and it was okay; everything was okay. We rented an old cottage on the edge of town, near a bush reserve, which was peaceful—quiet. I was contented enough. Then one day Paul bought a house.

He surprised me. Just took me for a drive one Sunday afternoon and said, This is our new house, as he pulled up in front of a cream brick box with a well-manicured green lawn at the front bordered by a white picket fence. Yes, it actually had a white picket fence. I was horrified.

You bought a house? Without me?

I wanted to surprise you. He smiled, looking as if he expected me to say what a good boy he was. As if I ought to be thrilled to own a house I’d had no say in, hadn’t even seen before, and hated at first sight. It was never my house; it was Paul’s.

I did live there though, for two years. Life went on, as I assumed it always would. I wasn’t ecstatically happy, but who was? I wasn’t really unhappy either; we got along all right. Paul spent his weekends in the garden while I pottered around in the kitchen or curled up in a lounge chair with a book. I was nearly thirty and this was my life. Then one day it suddenly hit me.

This didn’t have to be my life. I had no children. We weren’t even married, even though we intended to be, one day. The more I thought about it the more I realised I didn’t even particularly like Paul any more.

Little things he did annoyed me; drove me crazy to the point I would leave the room. I was the one who left the cushions scrunched up on the couch. Paul would pick them up and put them in the right place, just so, even if I’d only left to go to the toilet! He insisted on calling me Selena, even though he knew I hated it—well, I don’t really hate it, but for some reason people, too many people, turn it into Slena, which I do hate, so I just call myself Lena. Every ad break he’d be channel surfing, which wouldn’t have bothered me, except I usually ended up missing half the program I was watching by the time he got back to the right channel.

I’ve never been fond of conflict—even at primary school when the other kids would torment me for wearing a tee-shirt with an image of last year’s trend, or bringing a sandwich for lunch on Friday when everyone else was buying pies or pasties for theirs. I’d just walk away to a quiet corner in the playground where I’d sit under the peppercorn tree with my sandwich and a book from the library.

I wasn’t unhappy as a child though. I liked being on my own, as long as I had a good book to read, and I made sure I always did. I played sport when I had to, but I was no good at it; what I dreaded, more than actually playing whatever horrible game we had for the day, was the selection process. The teacher would choose a girl to captain each team; depending on the girl’s enthusiasm for that particular game, she would choose either her best friends or the best players. Either way I was always one of the last to be chosen, which wasn’t a great incentive to even try to catch the ball, or whatever it was we were required to do. The best thing about graduation was that I would never be put in that position again.

Paul and I had an argument one morning—it was Monday. I had a headache that wouldn’t budge, in spite of both ibuprofen and paracetamol.

Can you ring Sharon for me? I asked Paul, who was hovering nearby, waiting to see if I was going to get dressed and go to work.

He frowned. Are you sure, love? Monday morning sickies are a bit suss, aren’t they?

My head was throbbing and I felt like throwing my mug full of coffee at him, just to wipe that stupid look off his face. That was when I knew it was over.

I stood up, went to my phone on the charger and rang work. My boss wasn’t thrilled I was unwell, but since I hadn’t ever taken a Monday sickie before she had no reason to doubt me. Then I took my phone, went into the bedroom and lay down. Paul followed me of course, his face now like a dog who’d been chastised for peeing on the carpet.

Sorry, love. I would’ve rung. Of course I would. He looked at his watch, then at me again. I should go—unless you need me to do anything ...?

Like what?

I have no idea. Mop your brow? He smiled. Make you chicken soup?

I just need to sleep.

He leant over and kissed my forehead. Okay darl. I’ll catch you later. I’ll pick up something for dinner.

After he left I stretched out on the bed, enjoying the freedom of having it all to myself—wishing I’d just walked away, years ago. I shut my eyes but my head was buzzing and when the phone rang with the news I was still awake.

I was sure it was a scam at first; either that or someone’s idea of a joke. It didn’t sound like a kid though—there was no giggling in the background like there would have been if my friends and I had done such a thing when we were kids.

Fifty-five million dollars! I still wasn’t sure I believed it until the man on the phone told me to check the numbers on my ticket. I kept him on hold while I found it, then studied it closely while he read the winning numbers out to me. My numbers were just random. I only bought a ticket maybe once a month, and didn’t want to use the same numbers all the time, in case they came up when I didn’t have a ticket. Not that I’d know—I never watched the draw anyway. Buying a Tattslotto ticket was just a thing I did, partly as a protest against Paul’s incessant savings plan. Saving for a wedding, or a better house, or a family. I hadn’t cared much about any of it, but I was beginning to wonder if it was actually Paul I didn’t care about.

I checked the numbers online as well and packed one bag. I looked around the house but there was nothing I wanted; it was all Paul’s really. Not that I hadn’t contributed, but he’d chosen pretty much everything because that’s how our relationship had always been. My first real decision was now. I knew he’d come looking for me so I left a note, told him not to bother. He would ring me of course and I’d answer the first time, maybe the second. Not the third.

The Pulsar was mine, bought second-hand with my tax return the year earlier. I could buy a Ferrari now, or a fleet of them, I supposed. I wouldn’t though. I’d told the voice on the phone I wanted to remain anonymous. Of course they’d prefer I was on the news—it was a huge win, especially for one lone winner. Usually it was a syndicate that won and then fought about who was actually entitled to a share. No problems like that for me. It was all mine. I’d look after Mum of course and there were one or two friends I might help out, but I would wait to see who stuck by me when they knew I’d left Paul. Maggie, for sure. She’d only actually met Paul once, because she lived in Sydney. We’d dropped in on her on a very rare holiday, but she hardly ever travelled herself and, as I now knew, had problems with her own relationship. We were friends from way back and she’d certainly be on my side, as she always was. As for the rest I was in no hurry to make any big decisions yet, although I might just pass a lazy mill on to the Salvos, I thought. They helped so many people.

I drove around aimlessly, just thinking, about money, about work, of course about Paul. Somehow I ended up at Mannes Lookout, where tourists who were in the know would take their photos of the valley and the hills surrounding it. I sat on the wooden seat staring at my home town—at the shiny new hospital that seemed almost all glass and the old churches made of brick that had stood already over a hundred years. They cost a fortune in upkeep of course. Maybe I could help with that. I much preferred them to any of the new buildings. There were brand new homes built beside old cottages scattered randomly throughout the town. Some of the areas where most of the buildings had been tiny miners’ cottages, built back in the nineteenth century and neglected in the twentieth, had become no-go parts of town. Cheap rents in rundown houses, dark streets overrun by drug dealers and their customers. The council had stepped up in the last year or two though; much had been gentrified, but it was still a no go area for many of the locals. The little miners’ cottages were now sought after for renovation, usually from city buyers who rented them out to other city dwellers who loved the idea of staying in an historical cottage in the countryside.

It was a beautiful day, early autumn. The landscape showed vivid crimson trees mixed in with the evergreens and native eucalypts. As I looked around, admiring the view, I noticed a house to the left of where I sat, old, rundown, but with the grace of a dignified queen. I stood up and walked over to it; there was a For Sale sign attached to the front fence, faded like the house itself, which was almost concealed by the out of control garden, with ivy climbing all over the walls and covering most of the windows. It had clearly been years since the house had been painted and I presumed there was some kind of local government protection over such an historical gem or it would have surely been demolished. There were only four houses in this spot, sharing that spectacular view; the land would be worth more without that old house. I somehow felt drawn to it though. It would be a nightmare fixer upper, but it called to me somehow.

Squinting to read the faded sign and wondering if I was crazy to even consider it, I rang the number, not really expecting an answer. I was unfamiliar with the name on the board but there seemed to be quite a few small agencies that came and went in the real estate business in Sutton Valley. A risky business, apparently. Surprisingly a man’s voice answered on the third ring.

Hello, Jim Harrison speaking.

Oh, hello. Um, I’m Lena Thomas. I wondered if I could have a look at the old house in Mannes Ave, 23? Is it still on the market?

Maccas, eh? Yes it certainly is and quite a bargain for the right buyer. I happen to be quite nearby right now, if that suits you, Lena.

Macca’s?

He laughed. I was brought up in this area and we always called that place Macca’s because it was built by a miner called McDonald. His family had it for donkeys’ years.

Quite a history I imagine.

Yes indeed. I can tell you some of it. Is now a good time or I can drop by later this evening?

I’m actually there now so that would be perfect, Jim.

I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

I went back to the seat, sat under the oak tree and admired the view of the valley below; the only sound was the chorus of magpies and the occasional laughter of young children somewhere nearby. I smiled as I looked out at the world—a different world for me now. Bringing this old house back to life seemed like the perfect start to my own new life.

I felt so at peace sitting there I wouldn’t have minded waiting an hour but Jim was there in ten minutes.

He held out his hand and I took it. Hopefully you’re Lena, he said with a smile. I’m Jim. He was dressed in a black suit that had seen better days, as he had himself. In his fifties, with a pot belly and scuffed shoes, he didn’t look like a typical real estate agent, or certainly not like a particularly successful one. Then again, I didn’t look much like a multi-millionaire.

I smiled. That’s me. The view is spectacular, isn’t it? I gather the house has been on the market for a while?

He nodded. Since the last of the family died, Moira McDonald, or Johnson, I think was her married name. She lived there on her own for years; widowed young, I don’t think she had children. If she did they got nothing. She left it to some distant relative in the UK, who doesn’t want to spend any money on it. Can’t say I blame him but it’s a bit sad really, to see such a home and such a family disappear altogether. Old Man McDonald was quite a powerhouse apparently.

We stood at the front of the house and Jim pushed open the gate, which leant to one side, hanging from one hinge.

You know you can’t demolish it? The council would never allow that; there’s a heritage overlay.

Of course. I assume that’s why it’s still empty.

Oh yes. I’d have sold it easily years ago without that. They’d have knocked it down by now and built a glass mansion with 360 degree views.

I nodded and followed him up the narrow path to the front door. There was a verandah which probably needed replacing; certainly the balustrade would.

Does the verandah go right around?

Jim nodded. Yes. It was a beautiful house in its prime—even a few years ago before the old lady became a bit of a recluse and let the place go.

I imagine most of this—I waved my hand in the direction of the balustrade—will need replacing.

Jim pulled a face. I’m afraid so, Lena. It’s quite a job.

I could see he was wondering what the hell I was thinking; probably thought I was just having a stickybeak, that even if I was interested I’d change my mind when I saw the rest of the house. The truth was I’d already decided I was going to buy this old house, even before I set foot inside through that huge old oak door.

It was dark inside, and cool. There was a musty smell so I left the door open as I followed Jim into the hallway. The floral carpet was faded, with bare patches showing the most used areas; the walls were dingy, with what little paint left peeling off in curls. All the doors were shut, the only light coming in from the open front door, until Jim opened the door to the lounge-room and stood back while I stepped in. The bay windows, even coated with grime, lit up the room—I was taken aback at how beautiful it was. A bare globe hung from a spectacular ceiling rose and the ornate cornices completed the image above my head.

The floor and the walls were a very different story; the carpet, again floral, was faded, the walls covered in the shabby remnants of wallpaper. I walked over to the window and smiled when I saw the view. The garden was ridiculously overgrown but I’d seen nothing to change my mind about the house. Jim didn’t say much as we walked through; I suspect he could tell from my reaction how much I loved the place, and if not there’d be no point in trying to persuade me to. It was not a reasonable proposition for an average buyer. It would cost a fortune to renovate, that was obvious. I just happened to have a fortune, so when I looked around me