The Children of Frevallion

Chapter Two

Auckland City, North Island, New Zealand

An old beige and brown campervan trundled its way down our driveway, narrowly missing one of the topiaries that stood stoically in a white plaster urn at the front of the curved gravel parking bay. It came to a stop with a deep whine and a sigh. I sat on the faded sage green cushions of the alcove in my room, watching all this unfold from my second storey window. The view from the alcove was my favourite. It was framed with the chestnut-coloured panels that formed the walls and triangular arch ceiling. Below, I could see our gravel driveway, the white rose bushes that ran down the side of the house, the two topiaries at the entrance to the drive (one in very real danger now) and a meticulously clipped hedge which lined the fence line of the property. I picked at the crocheted pillow as I sought solace from the commotion below. The busyness had become a bit much and I had come upstairs to pack – which I had finished 20 minutes ago. I wasn't ready to go back down just yet.

Downstairs, the villa was engulfed in chaos. I could make out first Frida then Miles and Mum making frustrated noises or bickering because we were a family running late. A loud crash shook the villa. Great Aunt Hilda's voice could be heard breaking through the simmering tension. Somehow, no matter how many times Miles and Frida came close to an all-out argument, Great Aunt Hilda would step in, shooing them off to opposite sides of the house.

Footsteps trampled up and down the wooden stairs and along the hallway. The plank flooring was old, so everything echoed through the house and my family weren't exactly light of foot. It took time to collect the huge pile of stuff required for a camping trip. A camping trip that only my siblings and I would be going on – with our dad of course, but he didn't live here and wasn't part of the chaos until it was time to leave. This camping trip had become a tradition three years ago, after Mum and Dad had separated.

My dad sat inside the hideous vehicle idling in our driveway – the caravan which was putting Great Aunt Hilda's topiaries in danger - and I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to live in it for two weeks. The rusty panels merged with the brown vintage paintwork. Would it even reach 100 kilometres? Or would every frustrated driver desperately trying to leave Auckland city pass us by, honking, throwing up rude gestures or passive aggressively switch lanes, their engines roaring, to pass us? My parents were resourceful, always finding inspired solutions to financial problems. However, this time Dad might have taken things too far. Dad shut the engine off and climbed out. The door creaked in protest.

"Oh, no," I breathed; I thought he would just wait in the driveway were it was safe.

Dad was making his way to the door. As he walked to our front porch, his sandals crunched on the stones, and I could feel the tension in the air. Only then did I realise the danger and rushed out of my room, taking the stairs two at a time.

The doorbell rang, and I rushed to open it. Only a few more steps.

But Aunt Hilda got there first. "Landon," the tone of her voice was brusque, and she blocked the doorway with her body. Her cropped grey hair framed her face, and her button-down shirt was rolled up over her muscular arms. She wore a sunflower-patterned apron over her clothes. Wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on her nose as she assessed the situation.

"Morning, Hilda," he replied politely, his warm brown eyes meeting her gaze.

She studied him carefully, as if he were an errant child. Then, she shut the front door in his face and declared down the hall, "Sinéad, he's here!" She eyed me briefly before striding off. "Miles! Don't forget the fruit!" She shouted down to my twin brother, who I could see in the kitchen, packing the food.