The Haven

Sitting on her front porch, Della sighed in contentment at where her life had come to.

For many years her life had seemed a struggle. A daily battle to push her optimism above her depression. It was not that she had had a neglected childhood, to the contrary, she had grown up in a loving family. They had not been rich, but she had never truly felt denied. Well apart from the cat, the horse, the monkey, or the ferret she had persistently asked her parents for. She smiled softly at the memory. The excuses they gave as to why she could not have these pets were ingenious.

A purr came from the fur ball curled up on her lap.

Well, she had gotten her cat. About forty years later, but he was here.

She gazed lovingly at her front garden. The theme had never been thought out. She had planted here and there with whatever she liked. The result was a wild disarray of blooms all throughout the year, against an ever-changing background of lush green shrubs or autumn leaves.

She had stumbled across this house three decades ago. Arriving in the town with barely more than her suitcase. No family. No friends. No work. A nasty divorce had left her reeling many years before, a downward spiral that had catapulted her into a frenzy of trying to prove she was worthwhile. All it did was speed her into continual bad life decisions; that had brought her here, to a small town in Tasmania. She had received a brochure of all things, advertising a quiet life in a peaceful town. So here she was, lured by a much-needed promise of serenity.

Having arrived in mid-afternoon, Della had walked the streets of the small coastal town in search of somewhere to rent. Calling into the only real estate agent, he had told her there were no vacancies available.

“Not many people come to stay here,” he offered as an apology.

Della understood then what the brochure meant by quiet and peaceful.

George was his name. He had taken pity on her and suggested she stay in the only hotel of the town for a couple of days and he would see what he could do.

She had not realised then that George was to be her true saviour.

It had only taken him two days before he caught up with her.

“Della,” he had smiled. “If you’re not too fussy, I have a great offer for you.”

Della shook her head agreeing she wasn’t too fussy. “As long as it has hot water and out of the cold of winter, it will be fine.”

George had grinned at her. “Come along then lass.”

Lass. Della smiled inwardly at the memory. George had to have been only ten years older than her fifty. She had thought him cheeky.

All laughter left her when they stopped outside a tilted gate. It was hanging off a hinge. George said nothing, simply lifted the gate and set it right.

Only once inside the gateway and standing on the overgrown path did he turn to face her.

“Now, I know this is going to need quite a bit of work,” he started.

Della remembered the rise of shame. He was going to let her stay if she fixed it up. She didn’t have money for that. She remembered turning away to hide the tears that were building.

“Della? Did you hear me?” he had asked peering around to see her face. “What’s wrong? Not what you were thinking? I know it is rough, but I thought since the Estate was willing to pay for the repairs and garden costs, all you had to do was supervise, well I thought you’d be excited.”

Hearing his words, Della had almost leapt on him as he made to depart.

She’d begged him to repeat the offer and screamed a very loud YES in response.

Realising her daydreaming had been longer than she thought, she lifted the cat from her lap and stretched her aching body. Slowly she headed indoors. The day was almost at an end.

“Come Gingerbread,” she called to the displaced cat, “we best get a move on.”

She had been very lucky she mused. The past thirty years working on this property had been her true salvation. She had toiled in the garden herself, letting the experienced handymen restore the house to its former glory.

The restoration had taken five years, but it had been well worth the wait. It was magnificent.

Della had thought the agent would have put the house on the market then.

“No point Della. The Estate are happy for you to keep on gardening.”

“What of rent?” she had asked.

“Nope,” George had answered. “Same deal. You fix it and look after it, you stay on.”

Years on, she and George actually married. They had been happy. Content. But George had passed on some seven years back now. Della would smile whenever she felt his presence as she pottered about. Walking through the kitchen towards the back porch, Della paused to pick up a small plastic bag. Inside that small plastic bag was a small black notebook wrapped in very soft worn leather. She held it to her chest, then kissed the package and continued outside.

Ever so slowly stepped off the back porch, onto the cobblestone footpath. She wandered along until it reached the original old tool-shed. Walking around the side she sat on one of the rustic tractor seats George had made, to catch her breath. One for him and one for her. The small package rested securely beneath her hands on her lap. From here she could see across the mountain tops to the ocean in the distance.

This was her most favourite place of all. Where her and George would talk long into the evening.

It was actually here that she had found the small black notebook. She had been scrapping at the weeds that had refused to come out by their roots. In the end she had got a pitchfork out to try and break up the soil. When she spotted the plastic, she had thought it was rubbish that had been stuck underground. But as she lifted beneath with the pitchfork, she had seen there was something in it.

Because the plastic was brittle, she knew it had been there quite a while, so she was not expecting the contents to have survived.

But survive it had. She had carefully pulled off the brittle plastic to uncover a leather wrapping that was a little hard. She knew she could oil it up to soften it again. She had been more intrigued in the small black notebook that was revealed once she unwrapped it.

From here she had learnt her fate.

She would be allowed to live her life out on this property for the remainder of her life. There was a catch, as there always is. The house could never be sold. She would never own the house. And on her eightieth birthday, she was to re-bury the small black notebook in the garden.

She had thought even then that that was the easiest and best decision she would ever make.

She had shown the book to George who had merely smiled and said, “I knew you would find it.”

“You knew about it?” she asked in astonishment.

George told her the story of the matriarch that had lived here her whole life. “She had a knack for taking in wounded folk,” he started. “Then when World War 2 ended, they shipped many distressed, wounded soldiers down to us to take care of. Tasmania was a safe distance from the mainland so these soldiers could recuperate in peace. Even as the old dear was struggling herself, she looked after those soldiers until the last left her doors.” He sent her a look. “That was when her own offspring started to bully her into selling the house.” He nodded at the notebook. “that’s her Last Will. There’s a copy in the Solicitors, just in case no-one finds it; then the family can’t claim it doesn’t exist.”

Della closed her eyes and smiled to herself. She could see his smile as he looked at her.

“We sent you the brochure. Old Mrs Mahoney knew about you. Somehow. But her Estate has a record of all those deemed eligible to stay here. Those they don’t think suitable are turned away.” George had thumbed back at the house. “Going by the derelict state of the house, it wasn’t until you were chosen to champion it that the small black notebook came into play.”

“But what of when I’m gone?” Della sighed. “If no-one else is picked and if they don’t find the small black notebook; what happens to the house then. It’s such a waste.”

George had simply smiled and said – “You need to read it.”

Della read the whole notebook. Secretly Della thought Mrs Mahoney had a wicked side and just wanted to see her kids dig up the property looking for it.

Slowly she unwrapped the parcel for the last time and opened the small black notebook.

The writing in it was old and in script as was the era. It was beautiful and flowed along in easy to read though faded ink. She turned again to the last few pages and read;

Though all must come to pass at some time, it is with regret that I must leave my home. For it has truly been my home. A place of heart where it has been my honour to help out those who have fought so valiantly for our countries. Their gratitude at this salvation whilst in great suffering was truly humbling. It was then that I decided to retain this home, not house, this home, as a refuge and a retreat for those in need.

For every soldier that has respited here, I hold now and forever dearly as part of my family as are their families. My Estate will continue to offer care and a place of quiet and serenity for my family and this extended family.

I ask only that this house never be sold; should it fall into disrepair, my Estate seek someone from my extended family to restore and return it to a home for those seeking a place of peace, quiet and serenity.

I know that whoever holds this book has managed to do exactly so and it was meant to be. Thankyou. To have found this small black notebook shows you have truly worked this property. I hope you will keep my wish and on your eightieth birthday, the age I have just reached, though I doubt I will see another come to pass; you too will find a ‘secret’ place to bury the small black notebook and may another find the solace we have. God Bless.

Rising to her feet, Della had pondered long and hard about where to bury the small package. Mrs. Mahoney had told her to find her own hiding place.

At first Della was going to put it in the statue on the garden pond but realised quickly that if someone dismantled it and sold the statue, the book would be gone. She asked for a large ground sundial to be put in. The workmen would be arriving tomorrow to pour the concrete. At the North point of the sundial she slowly she sat down on the grass, hoping she would get up easily enough again. She kissed the package and buried it in the bottom of the hole.

Della caught a sob in her throat. “Mrs. Mahoney, thankyou. This was better than winning a lottery. Tomorrow our first group of battered wives arrive. Not your soldiers but wounded certainly. I hope I do you proud for the time I have left. God Bless.”

She turned to make her way back into the house. “C’mon cat. Goodnight George.”

End