And 19 Johnston Street makes 20

I’ve never liked old houses. I’ve always associated them with cold, dark interiors; an old-fashioned sense of style; and expensive maintenance (that last one as a homeowner).

Welcome to The Card House.

So to find myself living happily in one of Featherston’s (and possibly the Wairarapa’s) most historic homes is something of a personal revelation.

I recently added up the number of different houses I’ve lived in throughout my life (strictly speaking, Vic House was a hostel rather than a house but still ….). This place, 19 Johnston Street, makes number 20.

Of all the houses I’ve lived in, this one feels more like home than just about any other, with the exception of our family home in Ōtaki. Why is that?

Firstly, and most obviously, Barnard is here. He and his son, Robert, had been living in Featherston for about two years before I came on the scene. And with three people, five cats and a dog to accommodate, it was obvious that my cosy three-bedroom Johnsonville townhouse wasn’t going to work as our combined family home.

By contrast, 19 Johnston Street offers four bedrooms (one we use as a study), separate lounge and dining rooms, two bathrooms, a spacious kitchen, a swimming pool, and a large section (we call it the park) where the terrorist, Arki, can run around and I can sit under a tree and read.

If the house sounds a bit grand, you’re right. Officially known as The Card House, it was built in 1912 for Featherston’s first mayor and lawyer, John Card MBE. Born in Greymouth and brought to the Wairarapa by his parents in the 1880s, John Card was elected to the Town Board in 1896 and became Featherston’s first Mayor in 1917, when the town became a borough. He remained its Mayor from 1917 to 1947, being elected unopposed at each election, so you can assume he was well-liked around these parts.

Part of the sportsground near our place is named the Card Recreation Reserve and Card Crescent was also named after him. Unfortunately Card Crescent is renowned for a different reason these days; due to the town’s lack of a decent drainage system the corner of Card Crescent and Wakefield Street is one of the places where a swimming pool-sized pond of water – only a slight exaggeration! – develops after a big rain (the other place is outside our house).

The Card House's front entrance.

I met a long-time Featherston resident recently who, when I told him where I lived, remarked, “That place has had a lot of money spent on it.” In fact, it’s been so well renovated that in many cases it’s hard to tell which features are original and which are more recent additions. The dishwasher and central heating system are obvious exceptions.

But what you can’t hide is that this used to be a house where the hired help took care of all the family's domestic needs. The three-car garage used to be the coach house for the horses and carriages, with a grain store above. The laundry is housed in a separate building outside. And the very grand front entrance lies in stark contrast to the plain back door which opens directly into the kitchen. (Ironically, most of our visitors use the back entrance as it’s adjacent to the car parking area.)

There’s also a closed-off hallway running parallel to the dining room, which was probably used by servants to remove dirty dishes and avoid colliding with those carrying the next course into the dining room. At the kitchen end of the hallway is a large floor-to-ceiling mirror, which the same servants may have used to check their uniforms were tidy.

With a little imagination, you can imagine the dining room hosting many a lavish dinner party in the past. It has a large semi-circular bay window, a decorative fireplace and even a purpose-built space for a piano (it’s on my “to buy” list). Opposite the window, there’s a floor-to-ceiling, built-in sideboard covering the entire wall. It’s centred on a spacious area for storing and serving drinks, with large shelved cupboards to either side and below. The cupboard doors have lead-lined decorative glass panels, similar to the stained glass windows that surround the front door.

Summer time and the living is easy.

It’s ironic that the dining room is probably the grandest room in the house. We mostly eat dinner in front of the TV, so the dining room just acts as a storage area for washing that needs to be folded, the iron and ironing board, and my photo albums and knick knacks.

I mentioned the fireplace. The house has five of them, each surrounded by decorative wood panelling and brightly coloured tiles which, although they have a “period” appearance, I suspect were part of the renovation. It’s a pity the previous owner decided to block up the fireplaces; the central heating works reasonably well but it’s nowhere near as romantic.

Just past the dining room is the lounge. The first time I saw it, it was the one room in the house I didn’t like. Its walls are painted mint green and, unlike the rest of the house, the warm brown wood panelling has been overpainted in white. It felt cold, garish, out of place. But that was then and this is now. We filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side of the fireplace with books; moved the furniture to face outwards to the verandah and garden; and added a selection of art works that, while randomly acquired, each somehow manage to subtly match the wall colour at a particular point in their vistas. The room really comes into its own on a hot day when we open the French doors on to the verandah and let the warmth, sounds and smells of summer enter the room.

My other favourite room, the study, is similarly warm and sunny. Its walls are appropriately painted two-tone yellow, and it's where I spend a lot of time these days, being an at-home writer. The window in front of my desk looks out on to the pool and barbeque area where, in summer, Barnard fires up the braai (“Real men use charcoal”) several nights a week, and we eat outside and drink and chat until the sun goes down.

The park, outdoor laundry, main house and garage.

I haven’t yet mentioned the copious wood panelling on the doors, walls and ceilings; the polished wooden floors; the spacious kitchen with the marble-covered centre island and benches; the renovated bathroom complete with old-style tub; and the decorative little touches that pop up everywhere like the original brass doorsteps and the “Card House” plaque by the front door. To go on and on just feels like bragging, and I'm not writing about the house to evoke envy.

For one thing, we don’t own it and chances are, like all renters, one day we’ll be asked to leave. It’s very reasonably priced compared to what we’d pay for a similar rental in the city, and the fact we live here mostly comes down to serendipity. It happened to be available when Barnard needed a new place to live two and a half years ago, and our meeting on FindSomeone last March was probably pure chance, even if we like to think it was fate.

No, my real reason for writing about The Card House is because I want to create a permanent record of this special time; living in a special house with a special person (and six special animals!) while I live the dream of writing full-time. It’s to register my gratitude at the wonderful twists and turns life can take amidst the failures, the disappointments, the sometimes bitter sadness and outright despair. It’s to acknowledge how lucky I am.

I don’t know much about John Card except his name, occupation and a few important dates. But I hope he would like us.