βI want to buy this house?β Jo yelled at a real-estate agent standing in the doorway of a weatherboard house.
He cupped his hands to shield his eyes from the sunβs glare.
βWhat did you say?β
βYou heard me.β Jo said.
Sunlight licked the square lawn which dazzled like a neon postage stamp. White graced the hoary federation house with its white lace iron, white picket fence, white cottage roses spilling from the flowerbed onto the cobblestone path.
βHello, Iβm Colin. Youβre welcome to take a look.β
She joined him on the front porch.
βNo. I canβt, Iβm in a rush. But please, put my name down. Iβll bid for it at the auction.β
βItβll take five minutes to check inside.β
βIβve a long drive.β
βCome on, donβt saddle yourself with a house youβve never seen.β A raffish glint danced in Colinβs eyes.
βThe dog will have to come in.β Jo said.
βSorry, you canβtβ¦β
βHeβs a Schnauzer-Maltese cross and unlikely to do any damage.β
Her cream terrier would blend perfectly with the propertyβs snowy look and the thought amused her.
Colin made her jump when he suddenly slapped the sheath of glossy rolled up fliers onto his open hand like an auctioneer about to launch the speedy spun garble on the day of a sale. He looked to his left and to the right. Was it such a breach of protocol to let a viewer bring a dog inside? She followed his eyes and saw for the first time the ugly block of 70βs brown-bricked apartments on her right and yet on the other side, her cottageβs charming twin also championed an ivory palette but was topped and tailed with green trim.
βYep, bring him in. But on the leash. Please.β
Jo stepped into the light-streamed hallway and inhaled the scent of freshly painted walls. An aroma of hope, she told herself. Curled timber shavings littered the recently stripped floor, no doubt imprinted with footsteps from a century before and yet a paeon to the future. Standing inside an empty dwelling with proud high ceilings where last centuryβs ornate cornices colluded with the brighter paintwork of the present was a comfort. How she longed for a blank canvas on which to paint new dreams.
βWhen did the occupants move out?β
βThe owner left six weeks ago.β
Colin undid the top button of his shirt, loosened his dark green tie and fanned his face with the fliers.
βSheβs in her late thirties. She wants a quick sale. Sheβs getting a divorce.β
βI see.β
βCheck out the bedrooms, the living room and bathroom then join me in the kitchen.β
Jo checked her phone. Surely, another ten minutes wouldnβt hurt. As the house looked onto a park, the disadvantages of the master bedroomβs modest proportions were outweighed by a deluxe outlook. She watched a young man walk his black and white greyhound along the tree-framed pathway which sliced the parkβs green expanse in two.
Meanwhile, the busy traffic hum from the nearby arterial was a riff to the houseβs sonic theatreβa carolling butcherbird, talk back radio, a mewling cat, the shrieks of children, the cadence of a motorbike spluttering to a stop.
She peered into the masterβs built-in cupboard and was startled. Startled because it only contained a riding crop, a safety hat, a driza-bone knee-length coat and worn polished boots. It was odd because she had the same items in her own bedroom closet. A sudden blast of wind gusted down the hallway. Her dog barked at the open window and when she turned to look, the peaceful parkland a moment before was a wild conflation of jiving boughs which scraped and shimmied and tickled the air shedding a storm of fluttering leaves.
βIs something wrong?β Colin asked. βYouβve been looking in that cupboard for quite a while. The colorβs drained from your face.β
βNo, but the riding gearβ¦β
βAre you into horses too?β
βYes.β
βYouβre kidding right?β
βNo.β
She lifted her head, walked each shoulder back. βIβm at my happiest riding a horse.β
Colin shook his head, bunched his lips, βCome through into the kitchen.β
She followed him down the hallway. Stood at the kitchenβs threshold.
βOh no, it just isnβt possible. How creepy.β
She stood by the kitchen sink, looked into the weedy garden, harboring discarded fridges and a dilapidated shed.
βWhatβs the matter Jo?β Colin stood arms crossed.
βYou see these Delft tiles,β she ran a finger over one, βthese miniatures patterned into the blue splash back?β
βYes, but the eye isnβt drawn to them,β Colin said. βNo one would notice unless theyβre from Holland.β
Joβs fingers clawed at the chunky red beads of her necklace.
βWell, my Dutch in-laws, soon to be exes, gave us a selection of these very tiles as a wedding present.β
βWow. Another serendipity.β
βOnly ours arenβt tiny,β Jo continued, βtheyβre more the span of my outstretched fingers in width and height.β
Colinβs eyes widened.
βWe hung them on the structural beam where the dividing wall between the kitchen and dining room had been knocked out. Colin, did you know each tile has a narrative?β
The agent tapped his iPhone. βJo, are you keeping track? Donβt want you to be late.β
βNever mind, I canβt go now Iβve taken far too long.β
βWell, first up. Whatβs the verdict?β A gleeful Colin rubbed his palms together.
βPlease, let me finish.β
βRight.β The agentβs foot pressed on and off the skirting board.
βIβve a couple of months before I have to move. Ironically, your real-estate company sold our house a month ago, itβs merely a three-minute walk from here.β
βWell, thatβs handy. You wonβt have far to shift.β The agent grinned.
βEvery evening, I pack storage boxes for our inevitable move,β Jo said.
βDuring the day, I sleepwalk through work.β
Colin rubbed his eye vigorously.
βGo on.β
βA few weeks back, I was acutely anxious. Revved up. Iβm convinced my intensity was to blame.β
βForβ¦?β Jo had his full attention now. βMy children were downstairs with Fiona, my sister. The sound of them fooling around filtered upstairs. Iβd asked Fiona to give me a thirty-minute window to recover from a tough day. Nothing bad had happened except I was edgy, dogged by despair.β
She paused.
Colin gestured for her to continue.
βAt work, a long-winded colleague and several letters of complaint had made me snap. I had a bad headache like someone drilling for oil behind my eyes. When the day ended, I sprinted to the tram stop.β
βFair enough.β Colin turned his phone on silent.
βI was angry, super angry. Jack gave me two weeksβ warning before he left Australia to start a new position in London.β
βYou had no inkling?β
βNone. Clearly the children and I werenβt invited, and weβd just sold our house.β
Colin dabbed his forehead with a cotton handkerchief.
βI was livid. How could he abandon us?β Jo brushed a fly off her arm.
βWould you like a glass of water?β
Jo shook her head.
βAngerβs better than brooding. When I got home, I sat on the floor and hugged my son and daughter. Then, I lay on my bed upstairs wrecked by rage. My spirit fizzed like a shaken can of coke. My chest so tight I thought Iβd explode. Sweat sluiced off me, I hauled myself up, clenched my fists and yelled hard until my throat was ragged. Afterwards, the agony had gone.β
βDid they hear you?β Colin adjusted the knot in his tie.
βNo. Because my scream coincided with an explosive bang downstairs, an ear-splitter. Fiona cried out. I bolted downstairs and found her staring at six of the Delft tiles which had shattered on the floor.
I asked what had happened.β
βMum, those tiles jumped off the wall,β said my five-year-old, a half-peeled banana in his grubby fist.
βI made Fiona sit down, she was trembling. I whipped a throw off the sofa, wrapped it around her and put the kettle on.β
βHow could six tiles fall simultaneously?β I asked.
βFiona pulled the rug tighter around her shoulders.β
βActually, it was seven. Take a look at this.β
βShe showed me two triangular pieces. When she pieced them together, I saw how the split had separated a man and a woman who shared a yoke to ferry milk pails.β
βWow. Presumably, you donβt want to…?β
βShe was comfortable here.β
βI suppose.β Colin scrolled through his messages.
βIf she can move on then so can I.β
Colin frowned, arched his back and knuckled his hip.
βBut that freaky tile thingβ¦?β
βIs irrelevant. The tile which divided the couple isnβt here.β
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