Morning in Melbourne Read online

  Morning in Melbourne

  Nicole Taylor

  Copyright 2016 Nicole Taylor

  Published by Brunette Publishing at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to every woman of a Certain Age who finds herself suddenly single, and at the start of a whole new, unimagined life.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance the characters may have to persons living or deceased

  is co-incidental and unintentional.

  ***

  “It is better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating.”

  Oscar Wilde

  ***

  Contents

  Chapter 1 – The house

  Chapter 2 – A new life

  Chapter 3 – Middle child

  Chapter 4 – New recruit

  Chapter 5 – Teacher’s pet

  Chapter 6 – Love interest

  Chapter 7 – Old flames

  Chapter 8 – Profiles

  Chapter 9 – Birthday girl

  Chapter 10 – Another mother

  Chapter 11 – Show me the money

  Chapter 12 – Memories

  Chapter 13 – Changes

  Chapter 14 – Loss

  Chapter 15 – Man talk

  Chapter 16 – Not a kid anymore

  Chapter 17 – The dress

  Chapter 18 – New strategies

  Chapter 19 – End of the renovation

  Chapter 20 – Transplants

  Chapter 21 – Inheritance

  Chapter 22 – Drinking problem

  Chapter 23 – What do you want?

  Chapter 24 – Use-by date

  Chapter 25 – Unassisted

  Chapter 26 – Jane

  Chapter 27 – A realisation

  Chapter 28 – Mature brides

  Chapter 29 – The big event

  Chapter 30 – New beginnings

  Chapter 1 – The house

  He might have been the tallest, baldest man Louise had ever seen. He looked a few years older than her, but roughly the same age bracket. Only much, much taller.

  Not spindly-tall, or chunky-tall; just tall.

  He was inspecting the “For Sale” sign attached to the brick wall which enclosed the front courtyard of an old, two-storey townhouse. He turned as Louise approached, inspected her, and smirked.

  “It’s already been sold,” he informed her regretfully.

  “I know,” Louise answered. “I bought it.

  *

  It was perfect. Louise had to double check the suburb, just in case there was a mistake. But no, it really was just down the road. How had she missed it? How could she not have known of such a perfect house, just three streets away?

  Lou switched off the computer and grabbed her bag, checking that her mobile phone, keys and wallet were all present and accounted for. Should she drive or walk? Drive – it would be faster and there was no time to lose. And, with any luck, she would be driving back to the realtor’s office. The house had just been listed and pretty soon everyone else who was trying to find a 4 bedroom home for under half a million dollars in a leafy Melbourne suburb - and within walking distance of the train station, the primary school, the high school and the shops - would be there too, throwing money at the estate agent. This was her house and she had to get there first.

  She drove the 90 seconds it took to get to the property from her home and parked in front of the enormous For Sale placard that hung on the high brick wall of the courtyard. The house was, in fact, an old-style townhouse; one of 12 on the site and built in 1966 – the first “medium density” dwellings constructed in this post-war suburb. The agent was already there and, having identified her as his prospective client, he walked towards her with his hand extended.

  “Louise Clark? I’m Jason Jones. Let’s go in and take a look, shall we?” He smilingly ushered Lou down the driveway and onto the front porch. “You must have seen our ad the minute it went online! You are the first caller on this property.”

  The townhouses were built in two long rows; mirrored sets of semi-detached buildings which faced each other across a narrow concrete driveway. This one was on the street end, and had its own driveway leading into the space behind the townhouse. Only the two end townhouses had street driveways. The other ten could only be accessed via the pipe-stem driveway which the led to the individual carports.

  At the bottom of this common driveway was a large, grassy area with tall, old, leafy trees. It was fenced and the railway line could be seen running directly beyond the fence, parallel to it.

  The townhouses were white painted brick, two-story A-frame dwellings with dormer windows upstairs. All the windows had colonial squares, and these were painted chocolate brown to match the front doors. Mature trees lining the driveway, and the individual gardens of each townhouse – lushly planted with camellias and azaleas of every hue – gave the overall impression of a grouping of fairy tale grandmother’s homes; somewhere a little girl might find pink patty cakes being baked for her afternoon tea by a smiling, plump woman in a floral apron. Louise sighed and allowed Jason to steer her into the house.

  It wasn’t a large place. The main living room was, in fact, the only living room – unless you wanted to count the good-sized formal dining room which Louise knew would become the much needed fourth bedroom. But what a room! In addition to the large picture window at the front of the house which gave a view of the townhouse across the driveway, on the adjacent external wall there were not one but two separate sets of French windows opening onto the courtyard. The wall enclosing the courtyard was about two and a half meters high – not that you could see it, obscured as it was by mature camellias and ivy. A huge, old maple tree growing on the footpath provided a leafy canopy high above the courtyard, and a wrought iron gate set into the wall gave access to the driveway and carport which were situated behind the unit.

  “How much?” The ad had said ‘Offers over $330,000’ but Louise knew that that was ridiculously low and that realtors often listed homes for much less than what they knew they would ultimately fetch as a marketing ploy, so she all but ignored this price.

  The kitchen was in its original 1966 condition; as were the bathrooms. The carpet was good, though, and so was the paint. The venetians were definitely 1966 though; the light-fittings, too.

  But each of her three kids could have their own bedroom; and it was in “their” neighbourhood.

  “Well,” Jason smiled even harder. “It is a silent auction.”

  “What does that mean?” Lou had attended fund-raising silent auctions run by her kids’ various schools over the years, but had never heard of a house being sold that way.

  “It means that prospective purchasers put in written bids for what they think the house is worth, and whoever offers the highest amount, gets it.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. That’s how the vendor wanted to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, some people don’t want to go through the usual auction process.”

  “So, why not just list it for a stated price? How am I supposed to guess the amount?”

  But Jason had an answer for that, too. “Just put in a bid and we wi
ll let you know if yours is the successful one at the end of the marketing period.”

  Jason clearly hadn’t understood that Louise was not looking for any house. This was the house. It was the only one she could move her family into in this neighbourhood because it was the only four bedroom home she could afford in this neighbourhood. Jason wasn’t worried because he was happy to sell her another house – any house. His commission was the same no matter who bought the property. In this suburb, he knew it would sell. And, once she lodged her bid, he would know her buying capacity.

  “No.” Louise had out her chequebook and was writing a cheque. When she had finished, she tore it off and gave it to Jason. “Here is a cheque for $10,000. This is my good faith money. I am going to make an offer on this townhouse.”

  “But we are not taking any deposits!” Jason raised his hands in the surrender motion and would not accept the cheque.

  “Oh, but you must!” insisted Louise. “You have offered this property for sale as of this morning. As the agent, you must by law tell the vendor of every offer made on it. I am making an offer of –“ here Louise rummaged around for a figure.

  She knew it was worth $400,000 and would happily pay that much for it. But she also knew that it may not attract the people who normally part with that sort of money in 2005 for a townhouse in this area because it required at least $50,000 expenditure immediately, and the time to do the necessary renovations. Not many people would be prepared to live in a place of this size while it was being renovated. Naturally, she didn’t want to spend any more than she had to, so she compromised.

  The recent sales records showed that, over the past few months, most places sold for at least 10% more than the “price indicator” suggested. So she took the plunge.

  “- $365,000. And as I am the first person to make an offer, and I have paid a substantial amount as proof of my good intention, you must inform the vendor now, and inform me of any higher offer, and give me the chance to better it. However, I’ll have my solicitor negotiate with you so that we can verify that any other offers are accompanied by actual deposits.”

  “I’m n-not sure –“ Jason stuttered, his smile waning.

  “That’s the law – check it out!” Louise knew she was being aggressive, and held the cheque out till he took it. Not for the first time, Louise was grateful for all those years of commercial law she had studied as part of her accounting degree.

  “There is an open house this Saturday,” said Jason. “We have to go ahead with that. All the advertising has already been arranged.”

  Louise understood. The estate agency had already organised – and charged the vendor for – the advertising. Her house would be inspected by all comers and there was nothing she could do about it. The realtors used these open houses as marketing nets for other possible home-buying clients and this one was too good to miss.

  “I’ll be here,” she said. “Thanks Jason. See you Saturday.”

  *

  After that, it had just been a matter of telling her husband that she had bought a small house nearby and would be moving into it before Christmas. His disbelief was difficult to deal with, because it brought home to Louise the enormity of her actions.

  While she had been arranging the purchase, another part of her brain had taken over – the practical, business part. Arranging the mortgage; releasing the cash from the investment account for the full 10% deposit (less the $10,000 good faith payment); obtaining quotes for removal of the furniture that would fit into the new home, and auction of the other pieces.

  “Wouldn’t you know it!” Lou complained over the phone to her sister, Jane, who lived interstate. “Only the things we got at Freedom Furniture fifteen years ago will fit into the townhouse. All the lovely valuable things we’ve collected over the years won’t fit at all.”

  “Won’t Jeff want them?” Jane had suggested.

  “I doubt it,” said Louise.

  But the fact was, she hadn’t asked him. He hadn’t spoken to her for so long that it seemed ridiculous to ask him about furniture, particularly when he didn't yet know she was leaving him. He’d locked her out of the bedroom months ago, so there were fewer and fewer opportunities to have a word with him about anything – let alone something as monumental as this. The only time they were together was at the dinner table.

  Perhaps he knew. Perhaps he avoided being alone with her so she couldn’t speak to him about the future.

  But there was more than one way to communicate. Actions speak louder than words.

  And then, like a bolt from heaven, came the message from their landlord. They were returning to Melbourne and were giving Jeff and Louise six weeks’ notice to vacate.

  In the fifteen years of their marriage, they had never lived anywhere for more than a few years. Jeff had received an enormous golden handshake as a redundancy package earlier in the year, and had been planning to return to his native United States ever since. He hadn’t discussed it with Louise; hadn’t raised it as a possibility, an option that they could consider together, or as a family. Jeff had decided that they should move to Texas, where the colleges were good and the houses affordable.

  But Louise, who was Australian, wasn’t prepared to make that mistake again. They had lived in the United States previously and despite enjoying that beautiful country, and all their wonderful American neighbours and relatives, it had been a most difficult time in their marriage. For one thing, Jeff had no job to go to; so how long would they be there anyway? And for another, the next time the family moved, Louise wanted to be consulted about the destination, not merely informed, like a minor employee who was being told that they were relocating to a new office, and to start packing.

  But it was more than that, too. There was something about not being a citizen in a foreign country that significantly impacted your ability to plan your future there. Louise hadn’t analysed it, but it was there, and she knew that she could only ever be Australian. She missed her own family ties and was jealous of her American friends at Thanksgiving. She wanted to play cricket with her brothers in her parent’s big backyard on Australia day and watch her mother tell her brother that the sausages were burning on the barbeque. She wanted to drive through country New South Wales to Brisbane on the Newell Highway and marvel that it had not changed one bit in the 25 years she had been driving it – same potholes, same broken signs. She wanted to call directories and be able to ask for any number in the country without having to first find the directories number of the particular state she wanted. She wanted to be with “her mob”.

  So, they had six weeks to find another home. That was exactly the same amount of time as the settlement period on the sale contract. Some things are meant to be.

  Louise told Jeff while he was changing after a visit to the gym. She stood in the hall outside the bedroom and spoke into the room, unable to see Jeff in the walk-in closet. The kids were in the next room and the door was wide open.

  “You did what?” Jeff emerged, still pulling on his T-shirt, red faced and angry, ready to change from disbelief to fury.

  “I bought a townhouse around the corner. It has four bedrooms so we will all fit.”

  “We are not buying a townhouse.”

  “I already bought it.”

  “How did you do that?” Jeff was ridiculing her now.

  “I got a mortgage on the strength of my income. I’m on pretty good money now, and I used the unit I bought before we got married as collateral.”

  “So you used my money for the deposit?”

  Louise took a deep breath. This was a sore point and Jeff was trying to divert the discussion. “If you are asking me if I used the money in our joint account, no I didn’t. I used the money I’ve saved since I’ve been back at work.”

  “How much is that?”

  “$30,000.”

  “You have given them $30,000?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it will cost you $30,000 to walk away from this?”

  “I’m not walking a
way from it Jeff. I want to buy this house and I have bought it.”

  “So, the money you save is your money, but the money I earn is our money?”

  “Come off it,” Louise rolled her eyes and shook her head. “If you mean the pittance you put into the joint cheque account – please! You earn ten times that, and I have no idea where you put it. Not into the joint account, that’s for sure.”

  “Just as well!”

  “Jeff, we have three school aged kids. They need a home. This is James’ tenth school and he is about to start the VCE exams. I’m not moving him from Melbourne High. Our kids don’t have a home town and Melbourne has been our home for the past two years. I want to stay here. We all do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, we have moved with you many times before. Now it is our turn to choose. And I have a good job here.”

  “And I don’t have a job, right?”

  “Well, -“

  “But we still live on my money, so I still get a say.” Jeff walked past her into the hall, preparing to go down to the lounge room. She sighed and followed him.

  But Jeff soon realised that his wife had made a financial decision without consulting him and executed it without reference to what he wanted. At first he refused to look at the townhouse; then finally he agreed to take the kids through it.

  He was both satisfied and horrified by it.

  “You can’t live in that,” he said. “The kitchen is uninhabitable. It will have to be replaced.”

  The kitchen was divided down the middle by a bench with cupboards both underneath and overhanging it. They were built of a dark brown synthetic made to appear like wood, but managing only to look like an ugly imitation. The walls were lined with cupboards made of the same stuff, and the floor was covered with an old, sturdy black lino with a white fleck through it. It was hideous and gloomy, but the upright stove and oven were new and the water ran clean.