“I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. We only have your application for your extension and a copy of your aunt’s purchase that you gave us when the title was transferred to you.”
Scott gets his reading glasses out and studies the content of the file.
“That can’t be all. The house must be over a hundred years old. There must be many more documents.”
“I wish I could help you. A fire in 1992 that destroyed most of our archives. It’s only in the last ten years that we started saving documents as hard copy and electronically. I’m so sorry.”
My heart sinks. Another dead end. I had put all my hopes in finding information that could shed light on our situation. It’s as if someone is pulling the carpet out from under my feet. Scott must have noticed my state. He’s putting his arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward him.
“Oh, that is really bad. Ms. Seagar expected to find plans that document the changes over time such as building permits, architectural drawings, this kind of information.”
“I can’t help you there. I’m sure there are folks around who still remember who lived in the place but I wouldn’t know where to start … except maybe … yes, that could work.”
“Yes?”
“I just had an idea. If you could find which builder has done work at the homestead, you might get lucky. They often keep a plan for their work.”
I like the idea, but how do we find out who the builder was? Scott and I only recently moved here. Besides Tony at the garage, we don’t know anybody. Oh, I forgot Freddy the gallery owner. Another dead end.
“Do you suggest we knock on all doors?”
Colored with disappointment, the tone of my voice came out sharper than I wanted it to be.
Donald Houghton’s face pulls into a friendly grin.
“Na. Unnecessary. This is a small place. There are only three builders who’ve worked in the region in the last forty years. If you inquire with them, you might find something. That’s how I would go about finding plans.”
Scott looks at me. “Three builders. That’s doable.”
We take a slip of paper with the addresses of the builders in question and return to the car. This time we don’t have to make a run for it. The rain has stopped for now. I take that as a good sign and check on Scott how he’s keeping up. He’s looking energized as if meeting the building inspector has given him a boost.
“Do you want to go home or visit one of the builders on our list?”
He winks at me and his cheeky smile turns my heart to mush. How can I not love this man? My hero. Before I can respond, he takes the lead.
“There is no better time than now. Let’s visit the people on our list. I don’t feel even the slightest bit tired, thanks to my beautiful nurse.” He smacks a kiss on my hand. “I’m just as curious as you are. It’s about time we got some answers.”
His enthusiasm is contagious and saying ‘no’ doesn’t seem to be an option. We are on a high as we drive away from the city council.
The first address is a total miss. The son took over his father’s business a while ago, but he was sure they never worked on Wright’s Homestead.
The second on the list threatens to set his dogs on us. He shouts a barrage of insults at us that boils down to “nobody in their right mind would have worked for those Wright-weirdos.”
Shaken, I drive away and stop once we are out of sight. Scott tries to comfort me, but I push his hand aside. It’s been a long time since I felt humiliated like that. Inside my head, I hear a singsong going run, run, run. Never had running away felt more attractive; more like the right thing to do.
“I’ve had enough. I want to go home.”
There is only so much a person can take, and I have reached my limit. Tomorrow is another day, perhaps. I put the car into first gear and start driving when Scott pulls the hand brake on.
“Don’t let one jerk get under your skin. We’ll call in at the last one, Mark Brewer Builder, he’s on our way home.”
“Don’t ever do that again, or you walk home. I’m done.”
“Perfect, then you can’t be disappointed. Let’s go. Do you want me to drive?”
I should’ve known Scott wouldn’t give up that easily. I hate to admit it, but I like that about him. When we knock on the door at the last address a woman my age opens the door. I didn’t expect a woman answering and my mind flips into a tangle. Scott nudges me while I’m looking for the right words. Then, as if from nowhere, they appear.
“We wondered whether you could help us. My aunt had an extension built in the late 1970s or early 1980s and we wonder whether Mark Brewer Building did the building work. Would it be possible to talk to Mr. Brewer?”
With a friendly smile, she invited us inside. What a difference to the previous builder who wanted to set his dogs on us.
“My father’s in the office. He might be able to help you.”
The builder is a wiry, tall man in his late sixties. I’m afraid to ask direct questions but I shouldn’t be. He appears excited about meeting Mandy Wright’s niece.
“Mandy Wright, yes I did the extension. You wouldn’t believe how lovely it was to work with Mandy. She always had a decent mug of coffee ready for us. It took us all of what … probably a week to do the work. Is anything wrong with it?”
“No, no, nothing is wrong with it, we just wondered if you held on to notes or plans. The fire of 1992 destroyed the plans at the council. We are planning an extension and getting plans
