Page 8 of The Side Road (Love Chronicles #3)

‘On the side of the road. She couldn’t remember where she parked. Leo said he saw it on the other side of the bridge near Short Street.’

‘Okay, that’s our first stop.’

‘The bus stops on River Street. Or we could get a taxi.’

‘We’ll be walking.’

She raised her head. ‘Why?’

‘Because we have legs.’

Thirty minutes later, they found the Citroen parked two streets north of Short Street under a fig tree. The vehicle looked abandoned. Dirt and bird droppings covered the roof and windscreen. Leaves and twigs filled the grills .

With a shake of his head, Oliver gazed at the sky. ‘Why?’

‘Dad, it’s just a car,’ Tash said.

‘It’s not just a car . It’s one of the most beautiful cars ever made.’

‘Whatever.’ As she tried the door handle, Tash rolled her eyes.

The car was locked with the keys still in the ignition.

Oliver pulled a spare set from his pocket and unlocked the doors.

They climbed inside and slid across the bench seat.

When Oliver started the engine, gracefully, the car ascended, the rear rising first, followed by the front end – the vehicle had levitating suspension.

‘Happy days,’ he said, checking the petrol gauge; half a tank.

It was a smooth ride into town; the car glided over every pothole and bump in the unmaintained road. They parked at the far end of the main street, beside the Thyme Out community garden and rotunda, which commemorated the soldiers who lost their lives at Gallipoli during the First World War.

On the footpath, Tash tugged on her father’s arm. ‘I’m going to change my book at the mobile library. Meet me at the craft shop at eleven.’

After crossing the road, Tash headed for the bridge that would take her over the river. With no designated pedestrian path, Oliver watched until she reached the far side, then he turned and surveyed the main street.

It was the discovery of gold in the 1850s that marked the beginning of Eagle Nest. The rapid growth and prosperity that followed shaped the town’s unique layout.

Narrow laneways, once tracks used by horses and bullocks, still meandered through the charming riverside settlement of timber and stone buildings.

As the boom faded, Eagle Nest, like many gold rush towns, had to reinvent itself.

Now, its main source of income was tourism, but with a declining population, limited services, and poor infrastructure, the township struggled.

As Oliver made his way down the street, he was curious to see how the buildings and shopkeepers were holding up. Would he meet anyone he knew? Would a local recognise him? Sometimes that happened.

The semi-famous Second-Hand Emporium was still open, selling the contents of deceased property estates – kitchenware on one side of the shop and garage items on the other.

How many times had he sat on the bench outside the store waiting for his mother?

Pleading for money to buy an ice cream? Once he had left his football under the seat.

He came back later to find it gone. Another time, it was his skateboard.

The following day, it was still there. Once, his mother forgot to collect him.

Outside the local Rural Supply Store was a life-sized model of a horse and cart that Oliver had not seen before.

An obvious prop for photographs, he wondered if it had any use beyond its vintage appeal.

The Horse Trough Hotel, an 1800s two-storey building with a dressed sandstone facade and panels of sash windows, was now a cafe.

Groups of people were playing Scrabble at tables in the courtyard.

The old Grain Store had received a new life as a FoodWorks franchise.

Making aesthetic contributions to the main street, large pots housing ornamental trees heralded the entrance to several new gift shops.

The only structure on the other side of the road and close to the river was the original blacksmith’s house.

A simple weatherboard dwelling with a pitched roof and two small windows.

One hundred and fifty years ago, the smithy had called the place Riverview.

The river that coursed through the centre of town was something Oliver knew about.

Swimming every day in the summer months with his mates.

Fishing and hunting for freshwater crayfish.

Spending endless days searching for platypuses – they never found any.

Makeshift rafts and cruising down the river on inflatable mattresses.

Camping out overnight. A life lived beside a brown river.

A wild teenager, he ignored curfews. But god, it was fun.

He had walked down this street thousands of times as he made his way home from the school bus stop.

Now his brain, like a sieve, leaked fragmented memories in random sequences.

It felt like a telescopic path to sadness.

He had no intention of gazing into all the tunnels and corners of his past. Turning left, he headed up the hill.

On the peak, he found the Uniting Church.

Reverend Rebecca, dressed in a long cardigan that reached her knees, was standing on the footpath and staring up at the church roof. In her hand, she held a manila folder.

Oliver joined her. ‘Problem with the roof?’ he asked. It seemed like the obvious question.

‘I expect it’s a broken tile. Maintenance is a bitch.’

Oliver couldn’t disagree. The church was a modest building. Made from irregular-shaped cream bricks, it had north-facing, gothic stained-glass windows.

‘It looks sturdy,’ Oliver said.

‘Yes, not too showy. Erected 1861. We have a wonderful pipe organ.’ She pointed to a nearby bench seat that was shaded by a massive Norfolk pine. ‘It’s too nice a day to be inside. Shall we sit over there?’

After they sat down, she handed him the folder. ‘I wanted to give you a heads-up about the will. Not sure if you’re aware, but Elsie asked me to be the executor, and I agreed. All the documents are in there.’ She pointed at the folder in Oliver’s hand .

He kept a straight face, but his stomach turned. Had Elsie already donated the money to the church? Were the funds mentioned in the will? Sensing some apprehension on Reverend Rebecca’s part, he asked, ‘Any surprises?’

‘She left the house to the church.’

‘What?’

‘To the church. Yes, that’s what I said. The house and its contents, including all the furniture, fixtures and fittings and any additional items found on the premises, go to the Eagle Nest Uniting Church.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘But the house doesn’t belong to her.’

‘The bank details and the title deeds are in there.’ Again, Reverend Rebecca indicated the folder in Oliver’s hands.

Oliver opened the file and shuffled through the documents. He found the deed to the house and an accompanying document that signed the house over to Elsie. The name on the title said, Elsie Elizabeth Buchanan. There was a valuation form from the bank.

He frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It helps if you hold it up to the light,’ Reverend Rebecca suggested.

‘Is that a religious metaphor, because I’m not?—’

‘Just hold it up.’

Oliver did as she suggested and held up the title deed.

‘You need to get the sun behind it,’ Reverend Rebecca instructed.

Unconvinced she wasn’t seeking religious validation for Elsie’s actions, Oliver gave her a sideways glance. Then he moved the page until the morning sun was directly behind the document. Several lines of text were darker.

‘Is that…liquid paper?’ he asked .

‘Yes. I think you’ll find it’s forged.’

‘Elsie Buchanan forged legal documents?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Oliver rubbed his forehead. ‘I wasn’t her favourite person, but I thought over the years we’d made some headway, recovered some lost ground in the son-in-law stakes. But this is…it’s extreme.’

‘You’re in good company. She didn’t like anyone.’

‘Was she losing her mind? Do you think she had dementia?’

Reverend Rebecca shook her head. ‘No. Sometimes she was forgetful, but this takes planning. She was a cunning old thing.’

‘I underestimated her.’ He returned the documents to the folder. ‘What do we do now?’

‘She’s filed the deed and the transfer papers with the Land Titles Office. Legally, none of this will stand up in court. I suggest you find the original documents and get some legal advice. The matter will go to probate, which takes months – sometimes years – to resolve.’

Oliver understood the consequences of probate, but there was also the problem of the missing money.

‘I opened Elsie’s passbook last night,’ he confessed.

‘Find any moths?’

He smiled. ‘No, but a few things don’t add up. I was wondering…has she been particularly generous to the church?’

‘Elsie! No.’ The reverend shook her head. ‘A few coins every week was the depth of her generosity. If there’s money missing, it didn’t come my way.’

The money might still be in circulation. This was good news .

‘The funeral,’ he asked. ‘Do I need to do anything?’

‘Pre-paid, it’s all arranged.’

‘Right. Flowers?’

‘Gladioli and lilies. Already ordered.’

‘Music?’

‘She went for the classics: “I Will Rise” followed by “Amazing Grace”.’

‘I thought Tash could do a reading.’

‘Of course. Send it through to me. I’ll add it to the service. She wants to be buried in her navy suit. No need to drop it off. She gave it to me last week.’

‘Jesus!’

‘That’s what I said. The funeral is on Tuesday.’

‘That’s quick.’

‘It’s the gravedigger, Marty – he operates the digging machine – he’s about to go on paternity leave. Elsie is being buried at the old cemetery. The one on the Bells Line of Road.’

He caught the reverend’s eye. ‘But she…she has a plot in town. Next to her husband.’

‘She was very clear about it, the old cemetery.’

‘If that’s what she wanted. And afterwards?’

‘Light refreshments in the church hall.’

‘Light refresh?—’

‘Sandwiches with the crusts cut off.’ The reverend got to her feet. ‘Are you planning on sticking around?’

Oliver hesitated. ‘For the funeral, yes. I’ll be there.’

When she reached for the folder in Oliver’s lap, he raised a finger, indicating she would need to wait. After slipping his phone from his pocket, he took several photos of Elsie’s will and the accompanying documents, then, along with a brief message, he emailed his lawyer .

‘Equity and Associates, they’re in Sydney. They’ll be in touch.’ Oliver handed her the folder. ‘The Death Certificate?’

‘Should be here next week. Unless you want to pay for priority post.’

‘Forward it to me when it arrives.’