Page 4 of The Side Road (Love Chronicles #3)

PASSBOOK

Three hours after the impromptu wake started, it ended. The guests had no staying power. Like children with a sugar rush, their excitement plummeted shortly after it peaked. Exhausted, they departed as abruptly as they had arrived.

With a sigh of relief, Oliver closed the front door. After turning the lock, he walked back down the hallway. It felt like midnight, but when he checked the time, it was only nine o’clock.

Restless, he walked into the empty living room and surveyed the decor.

It was an old house with minimal furniture.

The few pieces scattered about suggested discomfort.

Apart from the religious artworks, the walls were bare.

Still, the place was rich with pattern. The intricate brickwork around the fireplace.

The moulded plaster cornices mirrored waratah flowers and native bottlebrush plants.

Above the windows, small, decorative details enlivened the frames.

He liked the wide, carved entrance to the living room and the heavy, custom-made woodwork.

The place was stoic, like Elsie. An unhappy woman, she had taken to ageing as she did to most things, with abhorrence and disdain. Over the years, his relationship with Tash’s maternal grandmother had mellowed. Oliver was civil for Tash’s sake. Elsie didn’t care who she offended.

In the bathroom, her toiletries were gone.

He noticed someone had stripped the bed.

No glasses or books on her bedside table.

A basket of folded washing in the laundry.

Blanche and Leo were good people. He was lucky to have them.

But coming back was like being pulled in by a riptide. He felt like an island.

Five years ago, when the house had come onto the market, Elsie had suggested he buy it as an investment property. But he knew she wanted to live in it. Before he left for the Kimberley with Tash, he bought the place, and she had moved in. It was her house, even if his name was on the title.

As he headed for the kitchen, he passed Tash’s bedroom. Inside, he heard her crying; the sound tugged at his heart. After knocking on the door, he poked his head into the room. She was sitting on her bed, holding a pair of knitting needles, a mess of wool in her lap.

‘I didn’t realise you were still awake,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘No.’ With the back of her hand, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘I’ve taken to bed. It’s the grief.’

He sat down on the side of the bed. ‘Come here, bring me all your troubles.’

She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Me too. I am never leaving you again. If you need anything, let me know.’

She handed him her knitting. ‘Can you fix this? I have a class tomorrow morning. It’s a stupid mess.’

He took the knitting. ‘Sure. ’

‘We’re making socks. We’ll be turning the heel next week. I can’t fall behind.’

‘I’ll do my best. Right now, I need a coffee. Where’s it kept?’ Oliver asked.

‘We’re tea people. We don’t drink coffee.’

Oliver stifled a yawn. ‘Okay. What about the internet? My phone won’t connect. Has the passcode changed?’

‘Nan couldn’t afford the internet.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, she was very poor. None of her crockery matches. She has no money, and she can’t afford to buy anything.’

‘She has money. I send it to her every month.’

‘Nan says it’s the good lord who provides.’

‘It’s not the good lord, it’s me.’ He kissed her goodnight and left the room.

Something wasn’t right. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be.

Returning to the living room, he once again surveyed the interior.

The wallpaper was peeling, and the carpet was badly stained.

The curtains were frayed. Most of the roller blind cords had snapped.

Lights were missing shades, and only half the fittings had bulbs.

When Oliver bought the house, Elsie insisted it was fine, just as it was.

She didn’t want to waste money on a renovation.

He knew her generation was more frugal, and he didn’t fight her on this.

The parsonage was within walking distance of the Uniting Church, which suited her lifestyle.

Then, a year ago, Elsie suggested they upgrade the bathroom.

Oliver agreed. It was only twenty thousand, which he thought was reasonable.

He sent her the money. Then there was the hole in the roof that needed fixing.

The blocked drains – she said tree roots were the problem.

And last month, new electrical wiring. If the work was required, then it needed to be done.

The quotes kept coming and he kept paying .

Earlier this year, before Tash came back to start high school, Elsie said the house needed more work.

Nothing major, new floor coverings and a coat of paint.

The curtains she could make herself. Oliver thought it was a good idea.

Elsie sent him quotes from the contractors. He forwarded her the money.

Standing in the living room, he realised nothing had been done. The house was still in its original condition. He felt uneasy. Whatever upgrades Elsie had planned hadn’t happened.

In the kitchen, there was no sign of the evening’s impromptu party. Someone had washed the cups and glasses and returned them to the cupboards. Neatly stacked platters and plates sat on the bench; the recycling was gone. The guests lacked stamina, but they cleaned up before they left.

He opened the fridge and peered inside. There were a few staples: butter, eggs, cream, and oddly, a jar of golden syrup. No fresh produce. No fruit or vegetables.

The unkempt state of the house and the lack of food didn’t sit right with him.

He covered the bills and the internet costs.

Elsie could buy whatever she wanted. If she needed extra funds, she only had to ask.

And she did, regularly. Sometimes he thought her requests were excessive, but he always paid.

He walked back down the hallway to Tash’s room and creaked open the door. She was asleep.

He was relieved. She must be exhausted. Quietly, he stepped into the room and pulled the bedcovers over her. She stirred and opened her eyes. ‘I forgot to say my prayers.’

‘Say them twice tomorrow.’

She nodded.

‘Honey, where did Elsie keep her passbook?’

‘What’s a passbook? ’

‘Her banking.’

‘The drawer in the bureau.’

Oliver had shown Elsie how to use internet banking, but she preferred her passbook. She said it felt like having real money. Good with figures, she kept her financials in order. He had seen her hovering over her entries, adding and subtracting, always double-checking the totals.

Oliver found the passbook in the bureau drawer.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he opened the book and scanned the columns. The current account balance was one hundred and forty-five dollars. Oliver’s contributions went in on the first day of every month. On the second day, she withdrew all the money.

‘What the fuck?’ he mumbled.

He flicked through the monthly credits and debits. The pattern of withdrawals started a year ago. Every day after his money went into the account, Elsie made a withdrawal in cash.

He did a quick calculation, adding the withdrawals to the funds he had sent for the renovations. Almost two hundred thousand dollars was missing.

He felt sick. In pre-tax dollars, the figure was considerably more.

Reverend Rebecca’s words hung in the air. ‘We need to talk.’

He believed in charity, but it wasn’t Elsie’s money to give.

It was his. He sat back in his chair. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions.

Perhaps, after withdrawing the cash, she stashed it away in the house somewhere.

Old people hiding money under the bed was not uncommon.

He had heard stories. Occasionally, the occurrences had even made the news.

The alternative caused his head to spin.

Mounting a treasure hunt at this time of the night was physically beyond him. First, he needed to talk to Reverend Rebecca. If she knew nothing, then tomorrow he would search the house. Hopefully, he would find a substantial wad of cash.

Tash’s knitting was on the table. It was the one task he needed to complete before bed. Retrieving the needles, he studied the loops of wool. Knitting was an ancient craft; men and women had been knitting for thousands of years. How hard could it be?

‘It’s just knots,’ he said. ‘I can service a MINI Cooper engine. One of the most unforgiving, knuckle-scraping, sideways cars in the world. If I can do that, I can fix a few loose knots.’

He scratched his head. There must be a manual somewhere.

After looking around the room, he spotted a Knitters World magazine on the bench.

He flicked to the back page, hoping to find a troubleshooting table.

There was no troubleshooting section. Somewhere on the internet, there would be a video.

He opened his phone and searched for a solution.

An hour later, he had repaired the sampler and knitted another three rows. The task was contemplative and surprisingly relaxing. But it was now eleven o’clock. Exhaustion overwhelmed him.

The few times Oliver and Tash had returned to Eagle Nest, he took the third bedroom at the back of the parsonage.

Although small, the enclosed veranda section was a private space, and he enjoyed the garden view.

The room faced east, receiving the morning sun.

The bed was a single, and his feet hung over the edge, but tonight he would sleep like the dead.

He collected his bags from the entrance and headed to the little room at the back of the house. When he opened the door, his heart sank. There was no bed. The room was empty. Completely empty. Where was the bed? Where were the boxes of his belongings?

His shoulders dropped. ‘Why?’ was the only word he could muster.

It was between Elsie’s bed and the sofa. He decided on the sofa. As he lay down, the furniture groaned. A crocheted rug served as a blanket. A scatter cushion for a pillow. The fabric smelled faintly of Labrador.

As tired as he was, sleep didn’t come. Elsie’s death had made his future clear; his time in the Kimberley was over.

After five years of red dirt and hot dust, it was time to come home.

Tash had left six weeks ago, returning to live with Elsie so she could start the first term of high school.

He had planned to follow at the end of the month.

However, six weeks away from his daughter was already too long.

He would miss the hot northern landscape; the place had a way of getting under your skin.

The rust-coloured country framed by a steel-blue sky.

And there was nothing like a desert sunset, as the horizon blazed, the ground turned purple and crimson; the scene changing every few seconds.

A spectacular sight. Like a reward for putting up with the incessant heat.

The flies, he would happily leave those behind.

Shrub Valley Station, a cattle ranch in the Kimberley, covered nine hundred thousand hectares and handled fifty thousand cattle.

Owned by his friends Vickie and Allen, they also ran off-road adventure motorbike tours.

Oliver was their tour manager. Tash had loved the place.

She joined the remote School of the Air, along with a dozen other kids who lived on the station.

For a seven-year-old mourning the loss of her mother, it had been a remarkable place for her to grieve.

Oliver had left behind people he cared about.

For some, the word care didn’t do justice to his feelings.

The men and women who worked on the station were an eclectic mix of stockmen, station hands, cooks, mechanics, drivers, and nannies.

An assortment of nationalities – British and German backpackers – and indigenous kids who taught Tash about Aboriginal Country. The goodbyes had been tough.

Now he was back in his hometown. Long-forgotten memories pressed on him. Lizzy, Tash’s mother, was gone. Elsie was dead. Oliver was sleeping on a sofa in the living room of the old parsonage. Life was a mysterious journey.