Saturday, July 11th

The weather is awful this morning: cold and bleak.  Jamie and Nera have gone to Hobart for the weekend to celebrate their 6th wedding anniversary but, of course, when they announced to their friends that this was their plan, everybody wanted to get in on the action.  So now there are 24 of them, staying at the one hotel and desperately looking for restaurants which can cater for such a big crowd.

Marilyn and I are going out for lunch today, to friends in Deloraine.  It will be nice, of course, but there's also an attraction in staying home, with the heater on, catching up with a good movie on TV. 

Yesterday's topic for my writing group was The Bungalow and here's my effort.  It's intended to be the introductory chapter for a much longer story if I ever feel the urge to write it.

Charles checked his mail box every morning although he rarely received anything more than advertising circulars, or reminders of bills due, or hopeful missives from charities about the continuing need for fortunate individuals like him to share their clearly undeserved wealth. Even birthday cards now came by email.  Each morning, though, he wondered, “Will there be something exciting in the box today?”  And, this morning, surprisingly, there was a real letter.  As he took it from the box, Charles thought “and an answer came directed, in a writing unexpected”.  How extraordinary, he mused, I haven’t read Banjo Patterson since I was at school and, yet, the famous words just popped into my head.  The letter was unexpected, though not hand-written, in fact, quite official looking but with an unfamiliar stamp.  

Giving himself a shake, Charles turned the letter over and noted it was from a firm of solicitors in Delhi, of all places.  Immediately, he wondered if it could be about his mother’s sister, Eloise, who had followed in the footsteps of The Beatles and vanished into India all those years ago.   She was the only possible connection he might have with India. His mother was long gone so he must now be Eloise’s only living relative.  He hadn’t thought about Aunt Eloise for years; better open the letter and see what it was about!

Dear Sir, it read, it is our sad duty to inform you that our client, your relative Eloise Parker has recently passed away and the purpose of this letter is to inform you that she has left you the entirety of her estate, in particular a small dwelling in Kashmir.  Enclosed is a cheque representing the balance of her available funds less the amount of our fees.  It would be appreciated if you could contact us at your earliest convenience to inform us of your wishes in regard to the Kashmir property.

Well, that’s the last thing I expected this morning, thought Charles.  I thought Eloise had died years ago.  I suppose I’ll just write to these solicitors, tell them to sell the house and send me the money.  What do I want with a house in Kashmir, for goodness sake?  A bit of extra cash will be useful. On second thoughts, though, I could use this cheque to fly to Kashmir, see the house and have a bit of a holiday at the same time.

Three weeks later, Charles arrived in Delhi, and met the solicitors who had arranged onward travel for him to Kashmir, and a guide to make sure he arrived there safely.  India was a shock to his senses: the noise, and the crowds of people and, above all, the smells, but Kashmir was heaven on earth.

The town where Eloise had ended her days was on a lake.  The air was cool and scented with exotic flowers.  There were houseboats on the lake and the guide explained they were a popular tourist attraction.  After his long journey, though, Charles was anxious to see his newly acquired house.  It stood in a clearing surrounded by tall trees.  From the depths of his memory, Charles dredged up the recognition that this was, in fact, a traditional bungalow, a house built in the Bengali style: it was one-storey, squarish, with verandahs on two sides.  The roof was thatched.  There was a feeling of tranquillity about it and some words came, unbidden, to his mind:

“There is sweet music here, that softer falls,

Than petals from blown roses on the grass.”

Poetry again, thought Charles, but Tennyson this time.  He realised that his plan to sell the house was not as cut and dried as he had thought.  This house … this ‘bungalow’ … had an attraction which Charles could already feel working on him.  How was he going to deal with it?