Farnham : Bindy Saige
Bindy Saige
“They’ve stolen the Taj Mahal!”.
This mysterious phone message left us at the Ballina Files both intrigued and puzzled, but paying a visit would give us the chance to interview the new Farnham Mayor, and that was an opportunity too interesting to miss.
Bindy Saige, niece to that unforgettable grand dame Edwina Saige, had stormed to victory in the ensuing election, after the notable lady, forty years the Mayor, had passed away in a fit of apoplexy brought on by a dispute with an overcharging window cleaner. Apparently the deceased Saige Senior was still clinging to the soapy bucket as the medics stretchered her away.
We know little about Bindy's early life, apart from the information in her web profile, which states she gained a degree via a postal correspondence course with the Hawaiian Institute for Modern Farming, and that her ambition is to ‘own a lot of horses’. Maybe our trip to Farnham would allow us to learn more?
Farnham
After a long trek on bumpy country roads, at last we saw the sign for Farnham.
Finally reaching the Saige ancestral home, we were greeted at the door by a domestic servant wearing a torn apron and carrying a duster, which she used to usher us into a comfortable sitting room. Ms Saige, sat at an overpiled antique desk, spun around to greet us, the well used office chair squealing in protest as she did so.
Saige Mayoral Mansion in Farnham
Seeing nowhere else to sit, my sound recordist Myrtle and I pushed some of the document folders from a previously elegant sofa, and tried to find a spot to sit where the springs hadn’t yet broken through the fabric.
From this lower angle we could see more signs of neglect in this once beautiful room, missing chunks of plaster and obvious damp patches were mixed with peeling wallpaper and chipped paintwork. The empty fireplace competed with a taped up window to see which could produce the coldest draft. We shivered in our city clothes.
‘That’s where they broke in’.
Ms Saige used a chewed pencil to indicate the broken pane of glass.
‘Levered open the window. The only thing stolen was this.’
We had to jump backwards suddenly, to avoid the young Mayoress swooping to grab at a mouse nibbled cushion from behind our backs. She proceeded to fight with the zip, setting off great clouds of dust as she did so. Eventually Ms Saige found what she was looking for, a crumpled photograph hidden in the upholstery.
She leaned over to show us the image. A group of pink-faced women gathered around an incomplete model of the Taj Mahal. They were in the process of sticking paper pieces to the exterior.
‘That’s the Rural Ladies Events committee, creating the centre-piece for the international themed harvest festival supper. The whole thing was made from papier-mache. ‘Why would anyone want to steal that?’
We shook our heads dumbly, and took the chance to wriggle about to get a softer spot amongst the hazardous upholstery.
‘We burned most of it, you see.’
‘Burned what?’, we asked, through chattering teeth, and wondering whatever it was whether she could set fire to some more and warm the place up a bit.
‘Of course Mrs Diddingcot saved some of the larger pieces, she said we might as well use them for something, that’s how we ended up making the Taj Mahal.’
‘Saved larger bits of what??’, we asked.
‘The paper for the papier-mache! We got it from those stupid tin-tack houses they tried to build at the edge of the village. They were made of paper would you believe?, Of course they fell to bits in the first bit of wind.’
Myrtle had been studying the photo,
‘The Taj Mahal, there’s writing on it’.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Bindy, ‘we noticed that. We were going to paint over it, it spoils the look really. I was cross with Mrs Diddingcot for showing that photo round. The break-in happened the day after that. Some idiot obviously saw it and was trying to ruin our Harvest Festival. Maybe if you get the word out, someone might know something, and we’ll get it back?’
We promised to share her dilemma from our pages, and wished her luck with the upcoming event, before scurrying out as fast as our frozen limbs would allow.
My sound recordist was very thoughtful on the drive back.
‘I can’t see anyone wanting to steal that monstrosity of a model’, she said.
I tried to agree but my jaw was so busy rattling over the potholes due to the unkempt roads I could hardly speak.
‘Maybe’, she continued, ‘it wasn’t the model they were after, but the writing on the paper?’
I wasn’t sure, but everything about our visit to Farnham had been either puzzling or uncomfortable. I needed to get back to our warm office and get my brain cells working again with a hot cup of Ovaltine.
Site of the destroyed construction site, this recent satellite image shows no trace of the previous buildings..
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