Photo Ru Huntley.
Graceful, swirling woodwork adorns the oldest house in the village.
The oldest house in the Village is very hard to find. You could live here your whole life and not even notice it, unless you paid attention.
I first spotted it on a walk with my boys several years ago. It was set back from the road and seemed to float in the distant branches like an apparition: an impossibly pretty tree house embellished with the most fanciful wooden veranda I had ever seen.
Years passed and I found myself renting a bungalow not far from the house. Sometimes on walks I would feel led to stroll towards it. It was small but exquisite, with its porch made up of swirls, spheres, diamonds, and curlicues like the ones I remember doodling on my notebooks in school. It was as if a master builder had asked a child to design a house and then constructed it to their dreamy specifications in meticulous detail. But the real origin of the house is a Millbrook mystery. Although thought to be our first, it does not appear on early surveys or maps. No one knows for sure who built it, or exactly when. It just seems to have kind of … shown up. It is believed a soldier may have obtained the land by Crown grant, let go of his warfaring past and journeyed here by way of the creek to start again in the sweet little cottage above its bank. If that’s true, the officer’s affection for his new beginning showed: if a love story could be a house, it would be this one. I often thought to leave a note for the owners to contact me if they ever wished to sell, but I never took the time.
The bungalow we were renting was very good to us. Still, I eventually received a fateful notice from the landlord: she had decided to list the property. Buying it didn’t feel right, so we would have to look for a new home. With a sigh of resignation, I counted that it would be our eleventh address in three years.
I was determined not to panic. If the past few years had taught me anything, it was that nothing good comes to an end unless something even better is on the horizon. I resolved not to immediately pour over the classifieds or search for real estate listings online. Instead, I would do my best to stay patient and see what opportunity might be trying to present itself.
I cringed, though, to break the news to my children. I need not have worried. They took the news with all of the insecurity and attachment that you would expect of young nomads. “Hmmm,” said my youngest pensively. “Can we have popsicles?”
He had bigger things to be excited about because he was going to a birthday sleep-over party that night. And shortly after he scampered through the doorway of his friend’s house to join his partying companions, the evening took an even more exciting turn: the entire Village’s power went out, as if in solidarity with my own bleak situation.
It was still out the following morning when I went to pick up my son, and although I had been concerned about the festivities being hampered by the darkness, it turned out that the hostess of the night had things very well in hand. With a level of intuitive resourcefulness that I have come to expect from Millbrook mothers, she had prepared a gift bag in advance for every party guest containing a flashlight – transforming the boys into their own disaster recovery squad and making her house the best-equipped in the Village to handle the blackout.
As I caught up with her on the porch, I decided to let her know about our need for a new home. She was sympathetic, but didn’t have any leads. Strike one. I tried not to feel disheartened.
Next door to the party, another friend of mine was outside gardening in her flower beds and I decided to stroll over and tell her, too. We talked briefly about things going on in the Village until the following words snapped me to attention: “I think she may want someone to stay in the house.”
“I – I’m sorry,” I stammered. “What house?”
“Oh,” my friend said dismissively, “you probably haven’t seen it. It’s very hard to find.” I could feel the hairs on my arms stand on end. Then she added wistfully, “It has the most beautiful verandah…”
I thought my heart would slam through my chest. Home run! “Do you think the owner would mind if I went over to introduce myself?” I asked breathlessly.
“I think that would be alright,” my friend replied slowly. “Just be sure to tell her I sent you.”
I don’t think two feet have ever flown as fast as I raced to the little house that day. When I knocked on the door, the owner answered almost immediately. “Oh,” she greeted with a smile, “you must be here about the ad.”
“No,” I corrected, “I haven’t seen any ad. A good friend of yours has sent me.”
She welcomed me in for a tour and I was struck by how perfectly appointed the cottage was with lovely artwork and antiques, although I confess I did not focus on the details. My mind was too fully occupied repeating a single refrain: I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe this is happening. I signed a lease on the spot. No one would ever see the ad that had been intended for publication that morning, but prevented by the blackout. My boys would go on to describe the entire episode like this: “When we found out we were homeless, the lights went out. When the lights came on, we had a home.”
The cottage came complete with everything our small family would need, from furniture to linens and a fully-stocked kitchen. There was room for little else. What baggage we still carried, we had to shed. Only our clothes, my children’s artwork and a few items of sentimental attachment – musical instruments, a rock collection and some treasured toys – could make the move.
Time seemed to stand still in the little house, which was appropriate, considering that every clock but one had stopped. Our sole working time piece was a plate fashioned into a clock, and I liked telling the boys that the only time in our new home was dinner time. Not long after our move, however, I was stealing a nap by the fireplace when I almost jumped out of my skin: the dormant clock on the mantel had awoken with a rousing rendition of Westminster Quarters, the same tune chimed by Big Ben. It was time for our fresh start.
Babble by Anita Odessa
