O, Fortuna

Chapter 3

The gradual ascent from the relatively gentle slopes of Brisbane and surrounding suburbs and into the Hinterland's sweeping mountain curves surprised Grace, who had not fully appreciated the geography of the area from the maps she had looked at back home in Fremantle. She had understood the area was far from flat but it was only now as she was driven up into it all that Grace began to understand the scale of the terrain and just how isolated the house was.

She was glad that John Campbell seemed far too pre-occupied in taking phone calls from his firm and his clients to speak to her much, giving her a chance to admire the landscape. The limitless spectrum of green to be found amongst the myriad of trees that lined the road, morning sunshine from the cloudless blue sky penetrating between trunks and through the canopy of the taller gum trees, palms and ferns. This chaotic dance of colour, light and shadow reflecting off Campbell's silver Audi occasionally gave way to the orderly rows of pineapple or macadamia plantations in the grounds of old colonial-style homesteads. All of it was overseen by the jagged array of ancient volcanic masses that formed the Glass House Mountains; the gentle haze that enveloped their peaks rendered their dark facades with a softening tint of lavender.

The car slowed and turned up onto an curving unmarked road, the canopy of the trees lining it all but obscuring the bright sun above, leaving only what light that could filter between the thick trunks to illuminate the way and eliminate the utterly consuming sense of foreboding one might have experienced. The road was far from welcoming, however, twisting sharply and narrowing at some points; large unforgiving rocks jutting out menacingly, eager to catch the inattentive. Campbell actually declined to answer his ringing mobile phone as he navigated it, admitting he had never been fond of the driveway and though it had been improved greatly since bitumen had been laid down, he had learned the hard way to always traverse it cautiously.

It was only then that the realisation dawned on Grace that they had reached their destination. The tree line thinned and the caretaker's house emerged into view on the left of a hairpin corner and then, around the bend, the great house loomed large above on the crest of the summit in all of its Victorian-era colonial splendour. Further realisation gripped Grace then - neither the paperwork nor an aerial view of it all had done the place any justice - June's description of the property as an oasis had been far more fitting.

Beyond six frangipani trees stood the broad cream-painted timber facade and high-pitched corrugated iron roof of the old house, which showed no signs of its 120 year-long life and was set above the landscape on stumps in the customary Queenslander style, giving the single storey dwelling an even more imposing scale and the appearance of floating above the crest. A broad timber staircase led up to the ample veranda that encircled the entire house, the balustrades and eaves decorated with iron lace work, all painted white, bougainvillea springing and twisting the length of the upright supports. Tall, narrow windows flanked the wide front door and the two French doors visible, a simple geometric stained-glass design decorating the centre of every pane. To the right of the main door was an elegantly engraved brass plaque that read Faridah.

Strains of music had become noticeable as Grace approached the house behind Campbell and when she recognised the tune, she had to smile, coming to a pause at the top of the stairs. Trini Lopez's Lemon Tree always had that effect on Grace and though never 100% sure as to why it amused her, it helped make the impending introduction to the housekeeper seem less daunting because now that she had arrived, Grace's nerve was beginning to fail her. She did not want to be despised for a choice she had not made and could only hope, not for the first time, that Rosa had insights into June that would help explain the change in the Will.

Far from being the bird-of-prey Grace had envisaged, Rosa McGovern was an olive-skinned, Rubenesque figure of a woman, whose long dark grey hair was caught up in a heavy bun behind her head and dark brown eyes peered through her spectacles intently up at Grace as Campbell made the introduction. She wiped her hands on the embroidered apron she wore before extending the right toward the younger woman, nodding politely and welcoming her, observing in her Italian-accented English