First visit to Mayfield, July 1901
I never had a madman for a client until I met Mr Edward Fonçeca at his country property. As the driver guided his horse up the long, winding entrance, I kept craning my neck out the window to see more of the half-wild grounds protected by an honour guard of tree ferns and stands of different types of eucalypts I could not name. Their scent was strong in the cold of that late winter morning.
At the base of the gums, hardy plants flowered. Further on, a strange towering tree was crowned with huge nut pods. A flock of galahs circled round as if annoyed by our intrusion. The cabman stopped suddenly and pointed with his whip. On a low branch a koala sat munching leaves. Judicial in his disinterest, he made me smile and my unease dissolved.
We came to a substantial two-storey brick house, double fronted with bay windows. Brilliant orange and red orchids grew in enormous porcelain pots on the veranda, lending the house an exotic, otherworldly air.
Mr Henry Kenny answered my knock. He was a tall man, nearly six feet, with blacksmith arms and a fighter’s fists, but his face was kind as he spoke in a calm, deliberate manner.
‘Welcome, Mr Smithson. We don’t get many visitors. Eddie is looking forward to meeting you.’ He led me into a dusty sitting room to the sound of heavy footsteps racing down the staircase.
With his arms swinging like pistons, Mr Edward Fonçeca powered into the room and sat down next to Kenny in one enormous harrumph. Then, as if remembering his manners, he jumped up saying, ‘Hello. Hello. So glad you’ve come, sir,’ and Kenny nodded approvingly.
It was strange to see a man of nearly forty who reeked of cheap tobacco behaving like an exuberant child. Although properly dressed, there was a spot of egg left from breakfast on his shirtfront; his trousers hung on his scarecrow frame while his skin had an indoor pallor; and his thick brown hair hung in a halo of unruly curls reaching almost to his shoulders. He needed a haircut…
Leave a Reply