Eggs on the Doorstep

A few years ago, when my youngest daughters were little girls, I discovered a box of eggs on our doorstep.

I told a friend about the eggs, and she said, “Where did they come from?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I have no idea.”

“Did you eat them?”

“Oh yes, we baked a cake with them.”

My friend raised her eyebrows and said, “That was very trusting of you. What if there had been something wrong with the eggs? What if they’d made you sick?”

What if they had been trouble in disguise?

“Surely no one would leave bad eggs on my doorstep?” I replied.

“I’ve heard stories…” said my friend.

“But we live in a friendly place. No one around here would do such a thing.”

We lived in an old run-down cottage, surrounded by paddocks, on the edge of town. Cow Cottage because we spent lots of time chasing cows out of our yard back through the sagging paddock fence.

Cow Cottage had old peeling paintwork, threadbare carpets, and the occasional mouldy wall. Its gutters leaked and its doors and floorboards creaked. It wasn’t exactly a palace, but that didn’t matter. We loved living in that house. My kids spent long days in its overgrown garden playing all kinds of imaginary games. They ran and shouted, and there was no reason to say, “Hey, keep the noise down! We don’t want the neighbours to complain.” We only had one neighbour. (She didn’t have egg-laying chooks.) Her cottage faced one direction. Ours faced another. It was easy to imagine that we were alone in the world apart from the cows.

The cows hadn’t always been there. Nor had their paddocks. Once, long ago, there was nothing but bush: indigenous land. And then the bush was cleared and our cottage was built, along with our neighbour’s house, and a few other buildings further down our street. Together, they formed a home for displaced children, orphans and wards of the state.

The children’s home operated for more than a hundred years and then, one day, it closed its doors. And then someone said:

The buildings should be preserved. We mustn’t forget the stories. (Some were good. Others were very sad.) They’re part of our local history. Let’s turn the home into a museum.

A plan was put into place, and the finances were worked out. Then the government sold out. The property with its many acres of land was sold to a developer.

This is where our family entered the story. For six years, we lived in Cow Cottage while the land was surveyed and the legal decisions were made. The cows moved in as well.  And then one day, a sign was erected: Land for sale!

We packed up our belongings and left. So did the cows. Not long after, our home was demolished along with our neighbour’s.

For the next few months, every time we drove along the road where we used to live, I’d glance over the fence at the place where our cottage had once stood. I’d look at our old garden and smile. In one of the trees, we could see an old handmade bow, which we’d left behind.

A housing estate now stretches over the land where the cows once roamed. House after house after house. Children play in their neat backyards. Do they know about the children without families who lived there before them? Do they remember the cows?

They certainly don’t know about us. They have no idea there used to be a rundown cottage close by where, one day, a box of eggs was left on the doorstep. A good box of eggs because it was a friendly place. At least it was when it was our turn to occupy that land.

We left our footprints on that soil. We added to its history. Together with the cows, we were part of its story.