A little girl vanished 100 years ago. Her name was Sophie. Where did she go? An old house in Balmain. A portrait and perfume bottle hidden in a chimney. Unknown and untouched, while a century passed, their memory slowly fading. Glimpses of an eight year old girl and her school friend, missing, never found. The grief of those left behind, those who searched, those who yearned. Now a new search!
Prologue
It told about a little girl who lived here in a century past This child went off to school one day and never did come back It seemed to all who looked so hard she’d vanished through a crack For years and years her family searched, seeking her elusive soul Emptiness was all they found – she’d vanished and left a hole Loss carried on, down years and years, as generations passed The memory slowly dwindled, fading out of view at last We heard her voice call out one day seeking help for her return We joined the search; it drew us in, new people in this place.
Across a century of time and space a presence led us on At last we found a vital clue, lost story of her grandmother And as we walked on hidden steps her family became our own Now, at last, after all that’s passed, we’ve safely brought her home.
Chapter one
A New Old House and a Discovery We walked in and closed the door.
This house was ours. The agent’s brochure said it was built around 1870. We wondered about its story and how it had come to be here? We had lived in Balmain just over a year, coming here by accident. Arriving in Sydney, five years earlier, we were agog at the real estate prices in Australia’s biggest and busiest city. So, at first, we rented a house in Sydney's suburban south from owners away in Singapore. Their son was injured. Unexpectedly, they returned to Australia. We needed a new house to live in. Marie, my wife, worked in the city. My job would move there soon too. So a move to innercity Sydney made sense. With little time before we had to move we looked at houses to rent in the inner suburbs of Newtown, Camperdown and Glebe, just south of the city. Most were terrible; dirty bathrooms and kitchens, busy streets and little space. I saw a listing for a townhouse in nearby Annandale with four bedrooms. My inner-west Sydney internet search had also brought up a four-bedroom townhouse in Balmain, although it was $70 a week more than the Annandale one. Thus far I had left Balmain out of consideration. I thought it was too expensive
and only trendies lived there. However, with little time to find a house for three children, we added Balmain to the list. We visited both properties. The Annandale one was next to a park, along the local creek. It was one of three buildings in the small complex. We liked it. So I made an offer of $20 less than the advertised rate. The Balmain property was spacious, but in large complex and the extra $70 a week was real money. However, to cover ourselves, we decided to make an offer for this too, at $50 less than asked, to give us bargaining room. Next day the phone rang. It was the Annandale agent, saying they would rent us the house, but would not accept a reduced price. I said, “Sorry, that’s our offer.” A second later I wondered if I should have taken it. Five minutes later the phone rang again, this time the Balmain agent. They would rent us the house and our offer was fine. We agreed, headed off to sign the papers and pay the deposit. Five minutes later the house phone rang again. We were gone so it went to message. That night we heard this message from the Annandale agent saying their client reconsidered and agreed to rent us the house at our nominated price.
Too late; money paid and form signed for the Balmain rental. Two weeks later the move to Balmain was made. I hate moving more than almost anything else, but by the end of the day we were in, just; boxes everywhere, partially assembled furniture; our legs like jelly from endless trips up and down three flights of stairs. But the house was clean, seemed comfortable and gave us a pleasant home for now.
- After a minimal dinner we set out, with our children, to explore our new neighbourhood. It was dusk light of a spring day. By this time, in our previous suburban house, the streets were empty; everyone retired inside, settled in front of TVs for the night. Here streets were alive; others like us out on an evening walk, people from every second house spilling out onto the footpaths, chatting with neighbours, patting dogs, dodging kids or just taking in the night air. It did not feel like suburban Sydney but like a village where everyone was a part. For Marie, from an Irish village, she had found a place where she felt at home, a village of people who came together in public spaces, like tens of thousands of European villages. By the time we finished our walk it was decided. We loved this place. We would buy a house here. As the weeks passed and we settled into Balmain everything reinforced our desire to live in this place. It was a suburb full of history; one of the first parts of Sydney settled when the colony was founded, the next peninsula jutting into the harbour west of the city. It was a five minute ferry ride to the city, passing under towering Sydney Harbour Bridge. It was full of wonderful places to visit and explore, old stone houses built into hillside nooks looking out across the harbour, grand terrace houses and little workers cottages, wonderful shops and restaurants, lots of pubs with an authentic local feel and many older people who had lived here all their lives, people with their innumerable stories who kept alive a spoken history of this place. So we began to look for a house of our own. There was not much for sale, at least not much we could afford. Years of real estate boom did not buy a lot of house for your money in inner Sydney. We sold
another property we owned. That gave us a deposit, and the interest rates were rising, so perhaps, perhaps, that would help. Four months into the lease of our Balmain townhouse the agent rang to say that, unfortunately, the owner needed to sell. He was an over-geared victim of rising interest rates which kept going up. So we needed to find a new place to live. We had not found anything to buy but would not to be rushed; so another move was needed, but only within Balmain. This time we rented a grand terrace in East Balmain, looking out towards Sydney Harbour Bridge. Now, used to Balmain prices, it only cost us an extra $70 a week, which seemed fine. It had million dollar views of the boats on Sydney Harbour and Marie could catch the ferry to work. Then we found it, or actually Marie did. It was about the tenth house we looked at in three months, a shabby double fronted weatherboard cottage. It was built on a large level block, clad in the wide timber boards of a hundred years past. It had the feel of a well built house, well proportioned, though showing its age. It was painted a softened lemon yellow and had a twisted old frangipani tree in the front yard. Across the street, with ridge-top city and harbour views, were the grand terraces and other fine houses of the wealthy, all built around 1870-80. Our street side had houses of ordinary people, mostly two bedroom weatherboard cottages, some renovated and extended; others like ours standing almost unchanged for over 130 years. Marie rang the agent inquiring, who said, “Unfortunately an offer has been made and accepted, so it’s too late.” It seemed our search must continue.......
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