Thornwood House Read Online Free Page B

it.’
    ‘Well, you’re in for a treat,’ she said, drawing out a large colour photo and placing it on the desk before us. ‘That’s the homestead – gorgeous, isn’t it? It was built in 1936, a classic old Queenslander with four bedrooms. It’s fully furnished – I’m assuming Tony decided to keep the place intact for sentimental reasons. There’s a vegie garden, orchard, creek access . . . Also,hidden up in the hills surrounding the property, there’s a small dwelling that was probably the original settlers’ cabin, most likely built sometime in the late 1800s.’
    The photo showed a magnificent residence skirted by a shady wraparound verandah. Stained-glass panels curved out from twin bay windows, and iron lacework festooned the eaves. The garden surrounding it was a maze of hydrangeas and lavender hedges, with a brick path meandering up the grassy slope towards wide welcoming stairs. Dappled sunlight danced across the lawn, where a magnificent old rose arbour sat smothered in crimson blooms.
    ‘The house itself is quite a feature,’ Margot went on, ‘but as with any property, the true value is in the land. The total land size is 2500 acres – that’s just over a thousand hectares. The property adjoins two other large farms, but most of it backs onto the Gower National Park. You have 200 acres of grazing pasture, with rich dark soil, dams, fencing, a permanent creek . . . and according to the report, the views are stunning.’
    Bronwyn sighed. ‘Mum, it’s perfect.’
    ‘We’re not going to live there,’ I said hastily.
    ‘But Mum – ’
    ‘We’ll sell it and buy a place of our own here in Melbourne.’
    Bronwyn gave me a mournful look, but I ignored her and resumed my inspection of the photo. After Tony’s death I’d vowed to forget him . . . for Bronwyn’s sake as well as my own; how could I do that if we were living in his grandfather’s house? The old homestead looked huge and rambling and mysterious. Probably full of secrets, riddled with ghosts, haunted by other people’s memories.
    Tony’s memories.
    Margot drew out another photo: an aerial view that showed the property as heart-shaped and densely forested. A section of cleared grazing land rolled along the southernmost quarter, a verdant patchwork stitched with fences and dotted with browndams. Central to the photo was the homestead – a rectangular patch of iron roof, surrounded by sprawling gardens that rambled uphill and vanished into bushland. A ridge of hills swept to the north-west, mostly heavily treed, but there were curiously bald areas where stone formations pushed through the rust-red earth.
    ‘If you did change your mind and decide to live at Thornwood,’ Margot told us, ‘there’s really not a lot to do. The paddocks are mostly in agistment, which means you’ll have additional income from farmers grazing stock on your land. The rest is natural bushland, so aside from general maintenance near the house, it’s the sort of property you can simply sit back and enjoy.’
    She collected the photos and slid them back into the property file. ‘Now, I expect you’re keen to know how much it’s worth.’
    Shadows were creeping across the room; the light filtering through the window had taken on a grey tinge. My chair creaked as I shifted my weight. A rundown old house on a chunk of wilderness, miles from anywhere; a few grazing paddocks, some muddy dams. Nothing to get too keyed up about, surely?
    I nodded.
    Margot wrote on a notepad and tore off the top leaf, then placed it reverently on the desk in front of us.
    Bronwyn gasped.
    The lawyer smiled approvingly. ‘Certainly worth the trouble of a quick look, wouldn’t you say?’

2
    I n early October we disembarked at Brisbane airport. As we walked across the shimmering asphalt, the winter greyness thawed from my bones. Under my heavy cardigan, I began to sweat. Bronwyn was already peeling out of her tracksuit top, baring her lily arms to the sun. I knew that