Southern Ruby by Belinda Alexandra Page B

chandeliers?
    There was no air conditioning on that I could discern, yet the house was cool compared to the sticky atmosphere outside. One of the papers I’d written as an undergraduate had been on the poorly designed ‘Tuscan villas’ that were appearing all over Sydney, especially on its outskirts: oversized, energy-inefficient homes with eaveless roofs, poor orientations and treeless, paved gardens. The architect who had designed this home, with no computer programs or modern building materials to work with, had created an airy space with high ceilings and windows situated opposite each other for cross-ventilation. The inclusion of balconies and porches made it perfect for the climate, and the canopy provided by the live oak trees would prevent the hard surfaces from becoming such conductors of radiant heat that you could fry an egg on them.
    â€˜Would you like to see your parents’ room?’ Grandma Ruby asked. ‘I’ve hardly changed a thing about it since they stayed there — except for your cot. I couldn’t bear looking at that after you were taken away.’
    I touched Nan’s pendant. It was the first thing Grandma Ruby had said about that time and the bitterness in her tone was palpable. But I couldn’t be disloyal to Nan. It was an agreement I’d made with myself before I left Australia.
    Grandma Ruby met my gaze and regained her self-control, nodding as if she understood. She led me up the grand oak staircase to the second floor, then down a corridor with a door at the end of it. I followed her into the room, and thefirst thing I noticed was a wing-back chair and footstool in the part of the room where the turret created a curved space. Dusk had fallen and Grandma Ruby switched on the table lamps, casting a cosy glow on the walls. One side of the room was taken up with shelves stacked with books; the other by a four-poster double bed with a Renaissance-style crucifix on the wall above it. A saxophone and a clarinet were propped on stands near a desk.
    â€˜We usually keep Dale’s instruments in their cases,’ she said. ‘But Johnny took them out for you. He thought you’d like to see them.’
    I ran my finger over the smooth brass of the saxophone. The tranquillity of the room gave me a sense of my father’s personality. Although I’d grown up without my mother too, there’d been pictures of her in the house and Nan, Janet and Tony had told me things about her. Yet my father still felt evasive. I was trying to guess what kind of animal he’d been from the tracks he’d left behind.
    â€˜My father liked to read?’ I asked, moving to the bookshelves. There were collections of works by Charles Dickens, Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde and Edith Wharton. I noticed a copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas . It was one of my favourite books. My father had been eclectic in his tastes.
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ replied Grandma Ruby. ‘I don’t remember him ever being without a book. He even used to read between sets.’
    I ran my hand along the spines of the books, thrilled to know that my father had once touched them. On one shelf, next to a copy of The World According to Garp , I found a small portrait in a frame. It was of my parents with me; I was wearing a white christening dress. My mother looked angelic, her wild hair tamed and stylishly parted to one side. But it was my father who held my attention. He was gazing at me with pure love. My vision blurred with tears and I blinked them away.
    â€˜Why don’t you lie down for a while?’ Grandma Ruby suggested. ‘Then come down for dinner. I eat late. It’s a habit I’ve never been able to change. I believe Johnny put your bags in the cupboard there.’

    After Grandma Ruby left, I took off my boots and lay down on the bed. It was thoughtful of her to give me this room rather than one of the guest rooms. As my gaze travelled