Amongst weed-free lawns, faux-contemporary concrete slabs and a BMW SUV that only leaves its place on the side of the road to drop the kids off at school, lies a dilapidating cottage.
Everything about it is dying. Tiles litter the front yard, tatty lace curtains hang limply in their pitch black window frames. Thorny branches, having already sucked all signs of life out of the garden, now begin to encroach on the house.
Then something moves. The screen door opens with a crash and out stumbles a short gray-haired woman. She desperately slashes her way through masses of plants and branches, determined to get to her letterbox.
But before she reaches her destination, she pauses. A cat appears, and slinks around her legs. She smiles and reaches down to touch it. Watching her, you can almost feel her spine crack and snap. She doesn’t mind though; she seems to love her cat.
83-year-old Giuseppina (Pina as she prefers to be called) Trigacci has lived in Glengowrie for “around” 40 years. Her typical 50s style house is the last of its kind on a street now dominated by all things modern.
Local Glengowrie residents know Ms Trigacci by appearance, not by name.
“She’s been here since we moved in,” says Carol Smith, who lives opposite Ms Trigacci with her husband, Tony.
“In the whole time we’ve lived here, nothing’s changed. The house looks exactly the same as it did 20 years ago.
“At first we thought her house was a bit of an eyesore, but you get used to these things after a while,” she says.
John Elder, owner of local business, Elder Meats, says he often passes Ms Trigacci’s house, but has never spoken to her.
“She’s definitely not a people person…no one knows her,
“A lot of the kids around here call her a crazy cat lady, and to be honest, it’s doesn’t seem to be far from the truth,” he says.
However Kathy Mulders of Beadnall Terrace expresses concerns for Ms Trigacci’s health.
“I’ve never spoken to the woman, but still I worry about her. She’s getting on age wise, and she doesn’t really seem to have many friends or relatives. I hate to say it but what if she falls? Who will help her? Who will even know?
“I don’t know how long that house is going to stand for either. I’d find it difficult to get through her maze of a front garden at my age, let alone at hers,” says Mrs Mulders, half laughing, half grimacing.
But there is a charm about the house that is missing from the surrounding architecture, and a sense of mystery that comes with it.
Nursing student, Anika Souvratis, says was always been fascinated by Ms Trigacci and her house, especially as a young girl.
“I’ve lived two streets over since I was 11 and I’ve always found her house amazing.
“When I was younger, my sisters and I would make up stories about the place; we’d pretend a witch lived there and if we walked past while she was in her front yard, we’d be cursed,” she laughs.
Ms Souvratis stares at her cup of coffee for a while, smiling.
“Actually…I think most of the kids on our street had some kind of connection to the house. Hardly anyone saw ‘the witch’, but we all had our own stories about the place.
“I remember our next door neighbour, Josh, thought the lady who lived there was a vampire and that if you went near her garden after the street lights came on, you’d be captured and killed. We were idiots,” she adds, and continues to laugh.
Walking past Ms Trigacci’s house one Tuesday evening, I manage to catch her in her garden. I explain that I’m doing a profile piece for a journalism class and would like to interview her. She stares at me for an uncomfortably long time.
“I don’t know why you want to talk to me, but okay, what about Thursday after dinner?” she asks.
Getting to her door is no easy task. Vines, prickles, thorns and branches attack my legs, trying their hardest to keep me in the street, where I belong.
By the time I actually press the doorbell, I am out of breath and more than a little unnerved.
I hear the faint echo of footsteps, gradually getting closer and closer, then a lock being fumbled with, and finally unlocked. The door opens.
“Oh hello, come in,” mumbles Ms Trigacci in an offhand manner.
She is a sturdy woman, not overweight, but not thin either. Her salt and pepper hair is pulled back into a tight bun, forcing the wrinkles on her face to gather at her temples.
Her blue blouse hangs loosely and I can’t tell what material her black pants are made of; they look clean and comfortable though. I guess that’s all that matters when you’re 83…
She snaps me out of my pointless daydream and she tells me she remembers me. She’s prepared some coffee in the lounge and wants me to follow her through.
The interior of the house doesn’t match its exterior. In fact inside it’s quite unremarkable. Miscellaneous ornaments, meticulously dusted, sit on tables lining hallway, while paintings of the countryside adorn the walls.
I follow Ms Trigacci to the lounge room and take a seat on a floral patterned recliner. She sits opposite me. Two dim lamps on either side of the couch illuminate her face, accentuating every crack and line. I can’t read her expression.
“So what is it you want to talk to me about?” she asks.
I tell her that I’ve lived opposite her since I was five, and that I’ve always been curious about the lady who lived in the ‘witch house’.
“The witch house?” she asks, and frowns.
I back track but it’s no use. I give up and offer an apology. Her response surprises me.
“Well at least it amused you, and kept you out of trouble. I remember you actually. You and the kids across the street would always run around making noise outside. I didn’t mind though, it was nice to hear you young ones out there playing…
“By the way, I’m Pina, or Giuseppina, what was your name?” she asks.
Flustered, I realise I’ve forgotten to introduce myself, and proceed with the formalities. I keep the conversation flowing by asking her how long she’s lived in the house.
“I’ve been here too long. I’m 83 now so….it would be around 40 years. My husband left me 22 years ago and I’ve been here ever since. No kids,” she explains.
A cat catches me off guard and brushes against my leg. I feel a chill run down my spine, but I hide it. To mask my surprise, I ask her what initially attracted her to the house, and why she’s still here now.
“Oh don’t mind Harpo. He’s always getting in the way. My husband and I thought it was a nice quiet area, and we were planning on raising a family. Houses were cheap and…I suppose it’s just where we ended up,” she says, and sighs.
Feeling like I’ve entered a dangerous territory, I steer my questions back on track, and ask her what she does in her spare time.
“I look after the cats and keep to myself. I don’t have many hobbies, but I’m busy. I’m a member of the Glenelg church and I can still drive. I like to cook too,” she adds.
I ask her about her involvement in the church, her cats, and her garden, but her answers are basic and blunt. Finally, I ask her if she drives often, and if she finds it difficult at her age. Her response surprises me.
“My car? It’s Toyota Celica; a bit sporty for me. I keep it in the garage you see. Actually I don’t drive it very often at all. Would you like to see it?” she asks, a hint of a smile appearing on her face.
She takes me outside, and walks me down a path towards her garage. She lifts up the roller door and points with a slightly shaky hand.
“There she is. Oh it’s been a while since I’ve driven her. Gosh, look at the dust,” she mumbles, walking towards the Celica and running a hand over the bonnet.
Knowing nothing about cars myself, I feign understanding. It looks just like any car I’ve seen; nothing special. I begin to wonder if it would have been more impressive when it was new, but my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a spluttering engine.
“I’ll just get it started for you if you like. I know how you boys are with cars,” she laughs, now in the drivers’ seat, attempting to start the car.
She tries four times, but eventually gives up. The car doesn’t start. I suggest that the battery might be flat, but she just waves her hand at me in a dismissive way.
“It will be fine,” she assures me.
“After all, the Celica has been with me since I bought her new. I’ll fix her up eventually, but until then it’s nice just knowing she’s there in the garage.”
As I walk back through the house, I look at the trinkets in the hall, the cats slinking around the furniture and the dim yet inviting light cast by the living room lamps.
There’s something comforting about the unknown; the inner workings of the house that can’t be seen by outsiders.
To passersby, Ms Trigacci is a witch living in a haunted cottage, but in reality she’s a woman with a passion for cars, cats and cooking. I feel sad. Why does she let the world view her as something she’s not?
As I walk towards my house, I notice the BMW SUV. Even though the sun set an hour ago, it is still being fastidiously cleaned by its owner, no doubt to impress whoever has the honour of passing it on their way to work in morning. Then I notice the houses – front yards manicured to perfection, and I picture their cold interiors; clean and sterile.
I turn around to look at Ms Trigacci’s house, and I picture her tucked away in her garage, working on her Celica. “Actually…maybe she’s onto something,” I think to myself.
When you’ve really got something good – something that makes you happy – do you need to show it off to the world? What’s so bad about keeping the good stuff close to you, and letting the rest of the world think what they want?
Samuel Smith 