The Stumper

Marian Gibson sighed as she read the email. She was the HR director for a chain of department stores. And now one of the company vice presidents had been caught in a scandal.

She heard a noise outside and looked down from her kitchen window. A pickup was coming up her driveway towards the carport. On the side it said “TONY’S RESTUMPERS”.

She hurried down to the carport, where she met her visitor.

He was perhaps a year or two younger than her. Late twenties she thought. Tall and blonde, and she noticed a sparkle in his bright blue eyes.

“Nice house” he said as he shook her hand. His hands were hard and calloused – unlike the hands of the corporate types she was familiar with.

“Do you know when it was built?”

“1881” she replied. “Jakob Gibersen, my great, great grandfather built it and it’s been in the family ever since”.

“I love these old Queenslanders” he said. “It’s the only exclusively Australian innovative house design – and it makes our state unique. Give me a Queenslander over an American ranch style or an English cottage any time. Putting the house up on stumps with all the open space underneath is perfect for our sub-tropical climate. And I love your wide verandah. Are the iron balustrades original?”

“I’m sure they are” she replied. “My grandmother was a stickler for authenticity. She passed away two months ago and left the house to me. It caused quite a stir in the family. My brothers have families and thought they should get it, and my parents assumed they would get it and were planning on selling to finance a condo on the Gold Coast. I love this house and Grandma knew it.”

“But why am I telling you personal stuff and I don’t even know your name!”

“Its Antony Alexander” he replied with a smile. “I own Tony’s Restumpers, and I assume that’s why you called me”.

“Yes” she replied. “The building inspector said the stumps only have a few more years at most. I need to know what it will take to replace them.”

“Well,” he said “hardwood stumps are authentic but there is no more hardwood harvesting in Queensland. The old growth forest is all protected. We could do treated pine, or concrete posts, or we could import redgum from Victoria, but it would be expensive.”

“That’s another reason Grandma left the house to me,” she said. “My brothers would always go for the cheapest solution, but being single, I have the freedom to be authentic.”

Was it her imagination or did his eyes light up a bit at her mention of being single?

“Let’s take a closer look” he said moving from the carport to the lower part of the house. She followed.

These are whole tree trunks of red ironbark” he said, gently caressing one of the stumps. “But even iron bark doesn’t last forever.”

They moved back to the carport.

“We could do redgum for these too,” he said “indicating the carport pillars. I could show you the redgum stumps at my house. It’s not such a large house – but you will get the idea”.

“What will your wife say, bringing home a strange woman,” she replied with a smile.

“She’s been gone a year,” he said. “She couldn’t stand the heat and humidity of Brisbane and went back to her mother in Melbourne.”

Marian felt a tingle run along her spine. This was moving a bit too fast and part of her was cautious. “We need to move along” she said, “my boyfriend is coming to pick me up later and I need to get ready”.

Antony looked disappointed. She wondered if she had been too harsh. He was cute, and she really admired his enthusiasm about the Queenslanders. It was so different from the weary cynicism of Brian, who lived in a high-rise penthouse. She fantasized for a moment about Antony’s strong arms around her.

“What about the interior,” he said, “is it in good condition?”

“Come and see,” she said, leading the way up the main entrance stairs to the verandah and the front door. Antony’s professional consciousness admired the classic features of the home, but most of his mind was concentrated on the figure in front of him. He could faintly smell her perfume.

The interior of the house was cool with fans spinning slowly on the twelve-foot-high ceilings.

On one wall was a large portrait in oils. “That’s Jakob Gibersen who built the house,” said Marian. “He owned a timber mill down at Lamington. Only the best would have gone into this house. The portrait is by William Dobell, done just before Jakob passed away.”

Antony examined the wooden walls. “It all looks in good shape” he said. “I will get back to you with a detailed quote. Meanwhile, here is my card with my phone number. Call me if anything else comes up. And now I will get out of your hair”.

He left by the door, and Marian felt a lost opportunity.

Marian went to get ready for the evening. In the shower she thought about Antony. He seemed so genuine compared to Brian, whose thoughts were mostly concentrated on his share portfolio and how to suck up to his boss. Tonight’s conversation would mostly be about his latest stock market pick or how he had outwitted some colleague in the office to get a prized assignment.

When she came back into the lounge, she paused by the portrait. It seemed to her that the lips were moving. “Give Antony a chance – he will love my house and you too,” said a voice.

She looked again and could see only an old man’s bearded face painted in oils. She must have imagined it, but even so, she reached for Antony’s card and her phone. Brian she could fend off with an excuse about a headache.