The Shadow House(2)

The sense of peace was exaggerated by the shape of the valley – shallow and round, like a dish – and the flat stretch of water that lay at the bottom like an enormous blue puddle. The surrounding trees acted as natural soundproofing, muffling what little noise there was until the quiet felt almost artificial. The beauty of the village, too, seemed unreal. The Lego-spill of buildings from the top of the ridge to the valley floor reminded me of those European towns featured on jigsaw puzzles and postcards – Positano, Cinque Terre, Santorini – and their proximity to the dam made me think of the tranquil lakeside settlements I’d visited while backpacking in my late teens: Bled, Hallstatt, Seyeisfj?reur, San Marcos La Laguna.

Ollie, however, was unmoved.

I jangled my keys while I waited for his verdict. My adrenaline levels were still high from the quick exit, the fast drive. Both hands on the wheel, one eye on the rear-view mirror. Dry mouth, cracked lips, nailbeds bloody and stinging after weeks of nervous chewing.

I watched my son’s face, desperately wanting – needing – him to like it as much as I did. Driving down from the ridge just moments ago, I’d been so confident. How could you not love the seclusion, the sense of absolute safety? The road that wound away from the freeway and down into a lush tangle of eucalypts, the turquoise sparkle of the dam, and the way the land held the houses like a pair of cupped hands. It was perfect. But now, seeing the isolation through my son’s eyes, the colours of Pine Ridge took on a darker hue.

In some areas, the village was still under construction. The roads were powdery, marked with dirty tyre tracks and clumps of earth. Mud-spattered concrete mixers sat next to freshly poured slabs and elaborate timber frames, and dotted around the periphery was evidence of the old farm the village had been built over: abandoned trailers, coils of rusty wire, stacks of discarded piping. Rickety old sheds slouched in corners like sulky children.

But, judging by the pace at which the development had grown since I’d first seen it, that would all get cleared up soon enough. Thrown away or burned. Paved over, smoothed back, polished up and transformed into something better. Out with the old, in with the new. I liked that sentiment. Clearly, there was no room for the past in a place like Pine Ridge. Or that was my hope anyway.

‘I cannot believe,’ Ollie said eventually, in the disdainful tone of voice he reserved especially for me, ‘that you’re making me move to a hippie commune.’

‘It’s not a commune. It’s an ecovillage.’

‘Whatever.’ He went back to his phone. ‘It’s a dump.’

I sighed, deflated. ‘Why don’t we go on up and take a look around?’

We climbed the six wide steps that led up to the house. On either side, terraced retaining walls had been topped with grevillea, bottlebrush and other low-maintenance shrubs, giving the garden a slightly wild and unkempt feel.

‘Why couldn’t you just have grounded me or something?’ said Ollie behind me. ‘That’s what all the other parents have done. No one else is getting pulled out of school and shipped off to the middle of nowhere.’

At the top of the steps, I studied the windows, looking for signs of life. ‘This isn’t your punishment, Oliver. Try to think of it as an experiment. The lease is only three months. If after that we decide we don’t like it, we can leave.’

‘Like we always do.’

‘Not always.’

‘Yes, always.’

‘And you are grounded.’

‘What?’

‘Until further notice. That’s your punishment.’

His jaw fell open.

‘Sorry, mate,’ I said. ‘Your actions, your consequences.’

‘But I didn’t even do anything!’ He stared at me, outraged. ‘I already told you—’

‘I know what you told me, and I don’t want to hear it again, not right now. We can talk about it later.’

He scowled for a moment longer before returning to his phone, face blank, jaw set, neck bent forward at an alarming right angle.

I tried the front door, but it was locked. I knocked, but there was no answer. I took a step back, studying the first-floor windows. The house, like many of its neighbours, was built on a steeply raked block, and from what I could see, the two levels had separate access. The upper connected to the road behind while the lower – a smaller, self-contained version of the more spacious upstairs – opened onto the road in front.

‘Why only three months?’ Ollie’s sharp question came out of nowhere.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just seems random, that’s all. Like, isn’t it usually six months? Or twelve?’

‘This place works a little differently,’ I said. ‘They only want permanent residents, because they’re trying to grow the community, so you get three months to decide if you want to invest – like, try before you buy. And if you don’t want to commit by then, you have to move on.’

‘So, what happens if we want to stay?’

‘Well, we could build.’ I walked around the side of the house to where a paved patio had been set into the lawn. The wooden staircase I’d glimpsed from the road led up to a small balcony on the first floor. ‘They have a scheme here called “collaborative living”, where you put your name on a list, they match you with people you might like to live with, and then you all buy a block of land together.’