“I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.”

– Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

When I was ten, I remember remarking that Aunt Jo’s house looked like something out of ‘Anne of Green Gables’ by Lucy Maud Montgomery. It was the kind of building where a poor orphan found a home or a young girl found her strength. It probably didn’t look anything like the true appearance of the houses in the books, but the ‘House of Figs’ captured my attention and imagination all the same.

Now I was older and my education had filled out to include the identity of heritage styles and how to avoid faux modern take offs and ignorant replications, I knew the style was Queen Anne Victorian…as much as Australian heritage would allow, in off white stone, grey tiles and heritage red trim. There was a staircase that led to the front door across a six foot wide balcony that took a three point turn to get around to the side of the building. This ended halfway down where the edge of the house crept out and a veranda covered all of it completely. To the left of the staircase the building was straight for a few feet before it crept out into larger square windows framed with gabled detail set in the middle of each side. On the right was a covered archway that led to the back of the property. Lawn blanketed the front of the yard except where stone pavers lay, leading the way to the stairs and down the right hand side to the archway.

It dominated a cul de sac on the edge of town, the dead end road leading up a slight incline. There were a few houses along either side yet when you reached the mouth of the cul de sac, it was hard to see anything else other than ‘House of Figs’.

The stone wall, only two feet high with heritage red cast iron spear fencing filling the space between pillars, did little to obstruct the view of the house…

…and even if it could have diminished the house, only a fence from Jurassic Park could have belittled the tree upon which the house and café was named.

It sat at the lefthand side of the property, eating up an enormous corner for itself, its roots spread out like someone had overturned a large tureen of spaghetti. Some of them were twisted over the top of each other, diving into the earth as if they were worms escaping the harsh sunlight. The trunk was made up of even more strands of tree, twisting and wrapping themselves around its enormous width. Its branches far outstretched the border of the property, depositing much fig fruit onto the next door neighbour’s rooftop. The leaves were as large as taco shells and a deep, rich green with smooth edges, veins of lighter green marking their centres.

The head of the tree was so tangled, so large and far outreaching that I wouldn’t have been surprised if, should the tree be uprooted by a giant, its top would mirror the tangle of roots at the bottom. And on every branch, there were figs.

There was a sign on the gate saying ‘closed’. It wasn’t locked so I just unlatched it, closing it behind me. I noted the thick wad of mail trying to wrestle its way out of the back of the letter box and made a note to come back for it. I walked up the path to the stairs, past bushes, hedges and shrubs. And as if there wasn’t enough flora planted in the earth, Aunt Jo had large pots with even more plants in them around the veranda.

“Mad plant lady…” I shook my head and approached the front door.

Though I’d been looking forward to being anywhere other than on my feet, I felt a tremble of nervousness as I drew the key out, reluctant to open the door.

“Oh…just do it already.” I muttered and slid the key into the lock.

The door opened and I stepped into the darkness.

For a moment I fumbled, searching for a light switch. When I finally found it, the front half of the first storey burst into life with illumination.

When I had lived in Glenwilde, Aunt Jo’s dream of creating a café was still in the pipeline. Since I’d moved with my family, some changes had been made. Most notably was the counter that ran down the right hand side from the front wall upon walking in, stretching out ten feet. The counter also followed the front wall, beneath the angled window and down the side. From the corner window, Aunt Jo had served ‘walk through’ coffee. The patrons would come up the stairs, go across the veranda, order and pay for their coffee then enjoy a few minutes in the garden before receiving their caffeinated beverage and heading out.

On the inside, there were a half dozen tables and chairs scattered about for anyone who wanted something more than just coffee. And scattered was the right word for the eclectic tables and chairs gathered. Nothing matched. In the square base to the left of the house, there was a pair of wingback chairs and a coffee table. There was a large table that looked like it had been cobbled together from beams of a demolished church and the chairs were pews, probably from the same church. There were a couple of dainty tables and chairs and then there were stools along the counter, each one with a cushion in different patterns of fabric. Along the right side wall were large cabinets, some with glass doors and others open with cups hanging from hooks, plates resting on their sides in slots and a big coffee machine rested quietly near the window.

The sight of the empty, lonely café made my heart ache.

I could still smell the scent of coffee and almost taste it. Just as a ship of the sea became saturated with water and soaked with salt, so too was the air in ‘House of Figs’ with the unmistakable smell of coffee.

For a moment…I was ten again and waiting eagerly for her to make me my own ‘coffee’ which was warm milk, froth and chocolate sprinkled on top.

I knew coming back wouldn’t be easy…but I didn’t realise just how much I would feel.

I moved through the space to the staircase with a sign of ‘no admittance’ strung across it. I unhooked it and let it fall, heaving my bag upstairs.

Aunt Jo’s living arrangements were upstairs, separate to the rest of the café. Her room was directly over the right hand corner and had its own little balcony.

“Feels weird to go in without knocking…” I murmured and then, out of ingrained habit, rapped on the door before opening it.

A large double bed faced the windows of the balcony. It was not spartan but the room wasn’t cluttered. I supposed that was because she’d managed to fill the rest of the building with all the things she loved and so, her bedroom was a cosy, separate place to be.

I spied her handbag and picked it up. Inside was her purse and her medi database card. I left them there and dragged my feet to the spare bedroom.

It was in the left front corner. I took a deep breath and pushed it open…then choked back a sob.

The room had been mine when I stayed with her.

I’d picked the wallpaper and the double bed was still made up with the bright teal doona cover with the large purple heart splashed across the middle of it. There was a bookshelf full of children’s books and a beanbag planted in front of it. Heavens, it still had an indent in it from when I’d last curled up in its embrace to read one or several books. On a wall was a pinboard littered with photos with corners curling and little slips of paper with lines of poetry on them, each one containing a memory.

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She’d changed nothing.

It was a time capsule filled with the precious essence of my childhood. There was even a cane bassinet on the floor with a plastic doll in it from my ‘mother’ play days.

My bottom lip quivered and I felt a tear escape my resolve.

“Crying won’t change anything.” I scolded myself. “Just…unpack.”

Unpacking helped to calm my emotions. They were like toddlers high on sugar and were determined to run amuck. But I couldn’t fall apart.

I heard a scratching noise and looked at the window. The fig tree was outside. Even though it was in the corner of the property, its branches easily reached the house. I opened a window, feeling a chilly breeze bite me as I did so.

“Hello old friend.” I said to the branch. “Remember me? I nearly broke my neck climbing from this window to the trunk using you as my bridge.”

The branch said nothing but the leaves rustled softly.

“I haven’t heard that sound in a long time.” I whispered. “Feels like yesterday though.”

I stroked the branch of the tree, the surface rough beneath my fingers, changing into an even richer hue as the sun began to set. It lit the tree up as though it was made of gold, highlights shining like precious metal and the shadows, deepening to secret holding deliciousness.

I felt like I was a young girl again.

Interrupting my melancholia came a cheerful whistle. I leaned out of the window to see a figure walking across the lawn without hesitation.

My heart charged with protectiveness and I headed out of my room and downstairs. It was only when I was outside that I realised I didn’t have anything with which to defend ‘House of Figs’. Sticking out of one of the pots was a trowel. I grabbed it and peered around the corner to see someone messing about with the building. I crept up behind, still not even sure what I was going to say or do.

The man saved me from coming up with anything at all.

He turned around and cried out, clutching at his chest, his aged face contorted in shock.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“G…Gary Ian Dunn…I’m a neighbour…”

“What are you doing?”

He said nothing but held up the hose as a limp, pathetic explanation.

I looked at it, the meaning dawning on me.

“I know how much Jo loves her plants and wanted to water the ones I could reach out the front…you’re not going to attack me with that, are you?”

His eyes, pale with age but probably were blue once, looked at the trowel I had raised above my head as if I were a knight about to slay a dragon. I realised just how ridiculous I looked and dropped my arm, hiding the trowel behind my back.

“Sorry.” I blurted. “I didn’t know who you were…”

“I still don’t know who you are.”

He had a point.

“I’m Bethany St James. This is my aunt’s place.”

“Bethany…no…” His eyes widened. “Not Little Bet?” I paused, unsure of how to take that. He put his hand down to his hip. “The last time I saw you, you were about this big!”

“Uh…” I floundered.

He chuckled, not surprised at my dismay. He dug his hand in the pocket of his baggy trackpants and pulled out a tin of fisherman’s mints. “I’ll wager you remember these though. You insisted you would like them despite me and your aunt telling you otherwise.”

I stared at the tin, the scent of spearmint still able to turn my stomach after all these years.

“I remember!” I exclaimed. “I was nearly sick from it…”

“But you swallowed it just the same.” Gary chuckled. “You were a stubborn kid.”

“I’m sorry I don’t remember more.”

“What little girl remembers an old man who used to pop over for company and coffee once in a while?” He turned the tap on which was what he had been attempting to do when I’d ambushed him and aimed the hose at the hedge along the front stone wall. “I know it’s winter but it hasn’t rained in days and the jasmine was looking thirsty.”

“That’s very kind of you.” I said sincerely.

Gary smiled and sprayed the garden. “I take it you’re here because of your aunt?” I nodded. “How is she?”

I felt a little reluctant talking about Aunt Jo’s condition but it was hardly a big secret.

“She’s in a coma.”

Gary’s face was pained. “A cruel fate to befall one so kind. But she may yet pull through.”

It was chilly now as the sun sank fully beyond the horizon. Gary finished watering the garden. I poked around uselessly, trying to look like I was helping. Gary wound up the hose and hung it neatly on its hook.

“I’d invite you in for coffee,” I explained, “but I haven’t even looked in the fridge to see what needs throwing out.”

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account.” Gary smiled, pushing his baker’s cap firmly over his thinning grey hair. “You’ve got enough to look after.” He went to the gate. I followed him, scooping up all the mail. He turned and looked at me. “I’m sure you’re an accomplished young lady…but if you need anything…well…I’m not much good to you.” I giggled at his shrug. “However, my bodily fit and rather useless and lazy grandson is staying with me at the moment. I’m more than willing to send him over.”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble him.” I stammered, imagining the ire of the third party committed grandson.

“Please, anything to get him away from those foolish screens and those online pseudonym titled yahoos he calls friends.” Gary snorted. “You can see my house from here, the one with the blue roof. Goodness knows what they were thinking when they picked that colour!” I had to agree. It was quite a bright hue. “Take care of yourself, Little Bet, and if you need anything, please ask.”

“Thanks.” I made sure I saw him walk to the door of his house and then, because I couldn’t stand the cool breeze anymore, I headed inside as fast as I could go. I hadn’t really thought of what I was going to eat in a house that had been abandoned for three days. I didn’t touch the café’s fridge, deeming that to be way out of my league but I had a look through Aunt Jo’s personal kitchen. It was a tiny thing tucked into a back corner with a view of the top of the pergola, covered in grape vines. Looming in the darkness was the Observatory. I’d have to check on it in the morning.

Dinner consisted of some crackers, cheese and I was able to make myself a cup of tea with long life milk. It wasn’t pleasant but it was hot.

I had a shower, fluffing my hair up with a towel and looked at my reflection, shaking my head.

“Dries so fast when it’s so short, even in winter.” I murmured.

Getting into bed was like being in a time machine.

It was hard not to fall apart.

I distracted myself by making a list of all the things I needed to do to look after the place. When my phone’s battery began to flash I plugged it in next to my lamp which had a swirly pattern on it not unlike my doona cover.

I had to push a book out of the way for the charge cable to reach my phone. After I made sure it was happily sucking up juice, I looked at the book in my hands.

“‘Alice in Wonderland’.” I huffed softly. “Was this the last book I read when here?” I looked around the time capsule room and nodded. “I suppose, if she hadn’t changed anything else…” My fingers stroked the hard cover. It was a beautifully illustrated copy and had captured so many moments of the young girl’s flight of fancy into a bizarre world. “Alice…what a funny heroine you were.” I opened the cover, almost able to smell the chocolate chip biscuits and cup of milk I used to insist on having when delving into a chapter book. On the inside of the cover, written with her usual flare, was a message. “For Bethany, a bookworm after my own heart.” I bit my bottom lip. “This was the last book she bought me…it was for my birthday.”

If I looked in the bin, I’d probably find remnants of the wrapping paper decorated with cats wearing birthday hats that the book had been secreted within.

I shook my head and went to put the book on the floor when I saw something sticking out of the pages. Concerned I’d folded one of the pages over my accident I opened it up and a slip of paper fell out.

“What’s this? A bookmark?” I scooped it up off the carpet and saw Aunt Jo’s writing on the slip.

‘Forever I thirst

Scarlet ribbons, pulsing…warm

Thaw deathless winter’

“A haiku?” I frowned. “Why would there be a haiku in between the pages? Did Aunt Jo leave it in here?” I looked at the pinboard where there were more haikus pinned. “It’s not the same paper as the rest. This is new. How strange…” I looked at the words and then at the book. I was compelled to hold it up by the front and back covers and gave it a shake. Four more little slips fluttered down. Intrigued now, the prospect of an early night forgotten, I set the book aside and studied the haikus.

‘Meridian moon

I sing a song without words

My Queen, your servant’

"Meridian moon? This doesn’t make any sense…” I read the next one.

‘Without taint or flaw

Far removed in holy rite

Hearts as dark as sin’

“Okay, that’s kind of creepy…”

‘Deep in bejewelled tombs

Remnants of empires forgot

I sleep…wake me not’

“Wake who up?” I shook my head and put it aside, reading the final haiku.

‘Made in man’s image

If I only had a heart…

Query; What is love?’

“Query…what does any of this mean?” I was tired, emotionally and physically exhausted. The haikus presented a problem far out of my reach. I gathered them into a tiny pile and put them in between the cover of ‘Alice in Wonderland’, closing it firmly. Feeling as though I’d somehow missed the point yet unable to rally myself to do anything else other than turn off the light and fall asleep, I did just that.