It was 6.30 and the house was quiet. It isn’t too polite to go prowling through people’s homes that early, but what does the bladder know about manners? I went as quietly and directly as I could to the toilet-that is, I made a couple of wrong turnings and found an en suite bathroom off one of the bedrooms. It was a big house, fairly new and furnished in a plain style that harked back to an earlier period. I examined myself in the mirror and didn’t much like what I saw-stubble, scabs forming on half a dozen facial cuts. The iridologist who used to work in my building once looked at me professionally, clucked her tongue and shook her head. I don’t think she would’ve liked the look of my eyes this morning. When I came out of the toilet I could hear noises that suggested coffee and fruit juice, maybe even aspirin.
Horrie Jacobs, wearing navy blue pyjamas and a white silk dressing gown, was making tea in the kitchen. In my crumpled pants and one sock he made me feel like a tramp.
Nothing wrong with his hearing. He swung around before my bare foot squeaked on the lino tiles. ‘Cliff, I was going to see if you wanted anything. How’re you feeling?’
It wasn’t a comfortable situation. I was supposed to be the tough, capable professional and here was this old guy, and a client at that, nurse-maiding me. It made me surly. I sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m OK, Horrie. Any chance of some coffee?’
He nodded and included a cup of instant in his preparations. He didn’t speak. He put the coffee and a carton of milk in front of me and went off with the tea tray. When he came back he put my shirt, which had been washed, over a chair. ‘Guest bathroom’s at the back. Towels and a razor should be there. See you in half an hour.’
He did when I was showered, shaved and dressed and in a better mood. I had another cup of coffee and felt human again. Horrie was dressed in shorts, T shirt and sneakers. He looked a little like Harry Hopman. May didn’t emerge and Horrie said she liked to sleep in. ‘Got bugger all chance to when the kids were around and I was working.’
I nodded. ‘Are you planning on going fishing or what?’
He grinned. ‘Don’t know much about fishing do you?’
‘No.’
‘Too bright now. Have to get down early. Fish don’t like the sunlight. Anyway, I haven’t done much since Oscar died.’
There was a sad eagerness in him and I realised he expected to tag along with me at whatever I was going to do. That’d be all right for now, but not for long. I asked him about Oscar Bach’s estate and business.
‘Funny that,’ he said. ‘I didn’t find a will.’
‘You didn’t. Wasn’t there anyone handling his affairs? A solicitor or… ‘
‘Nope. It was bloody strange. You couldn’t really say he had any affairs. He just rented the house and ran his little business. There wasn’t anyone else to do it. I went through the house and collected up his stuff. Didn’t amount to much. Young bloke who worked for him part-time is sort of running the business while everything gets sorted out. There’s some office or other handling it. I forget what it is.’
‘The Public Trustee?’
‘Yeah. I got a letter. I wrote back and said I didn’t know anything about a solicitor or bank accounts or next of kin. They said they’d let me know what happened next. But I haven’t heard anything. Do you want to see the stuff?’
‘Yes. Did you really search the house thoroughly?’
‘Pretty well. ‘Course, I’m not an expert. You can do it yourself. Place’s still empty. The roof leaks and the bloody landlord hasn’t got around to fixing it.’ He gave a short laugh.
‘What?’ I said. -
‘Old Molly who lives next door tells everyone who comes to look at the house about the leak. She was born in the place and can’t bear seeing it go to rack and ruin. She reckons if she keeps people away the landlord’ll have to fix it. Worked so far and there’s a fair amount of pressure on rented houses around here.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Students from Newcastle, teachers, people wanting weekenders.’ He laughed again. ‘Dudley’s a go ahead place. You fit for a walk?’
Outside I saw what Horrie had got for some of his winnings. His house was at the end of the street with a forest in front of it and the ocean in front of that. There was a deck around three sides and the view would be slightly different from each side-here more bushy, there more water. The garden was mostly native trees and shrubs with some landscaping-all in keeping with the plain, good taste of the whole place.
Horrie seemed to gain an inch or two when he saw me admiring the set-up. ‘Not bad, eh?’
‘Bloody nice. You picked a great spot.’
‘Had my eye on it for years, just never had the money. Then I did. Come on, Oscar’s place’s just down Ocean Street.’
We walked past a selection of houses that varied from the bookmaker-special type to the plain fibro. Many of the bigger ones had had extra storeys built to take advantage of the view. There was water on both sides-enough for everyone, but as we got closer to the top of the street the land dipped and only the houses up on pillars would have the view. Horrie set a good pace and I found my head clearing and that I was feeling better with every step. The air was cool and clean, and breathing it in deeply seemed like a good thing to do. Three doors short of the pub on the right-hand side of the street, Horrie stopped outside a small, one-pitch cottage.
‘Miner’s cottage,’ he said. ‘ ‘Bout eighty years old. Jesus, what’s going on?’
A man, wearing overalls and swinging a hammer, came from the back of the house and walked down the narrow path towards us. The little cottage was tucked into its block with very little room to spare on either side. Looking past the man with the hammer, I could see that the land ran back a good way and rose. I wondered if there was a water view. Maybe from a few branches up in one of the big gums that grew in the yard. The man with the hammer was paying more attention to the condition of the weatherboards than to Horrie and me. After the experience of last night, that was a relief.
‘Mornin’, Horrie. Nice day’
An old woman had come out of the house next door. She was carrying the morning paper and obviously intended to sit down on her front porch. Her voice was strong and easily carried to the gate.
‘Morning, Molly,’ Horrie said. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Fixin’ the house. What d’you reckon? Morning, Jeff.’
Jeff tapped a weatherboard gently, searching for the stud. ‘Morning, Molly.’
There was a bit more of that country stuff- how’re the kids and how’s the wife? — before it became clear that Jeff and his mate, Neil, had been hired to fix the leak and do some other repairs in the cottage. They’d begun work yesterday and already had the floors up in two rooms and were working on the roof.
‘Real mess,’ Jeff said. ‘Like a lot of jobs, mostly fixing other peoples’… mistakes.’
I had the feeling that his language would have been saltier but for Molly. Jeff went on to say that they’d cleaned the cottage out and burned everything they found. Owner’s orders.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I might want to rent it. That’s why we’re here, right Mr Jacobs?’
Horrie nodded. All the good mornings and other solicitations apparently constituted an introduction. ‘Mind if we take a look around, Jeff?’
Jeff had no objection. We left him to the weatherboards and Molly to the paper, and went around to the back of the house. The yard was very long and the trees were as old as the building. Barbecue area, considerably overgrown; a flowerbed or two, likewise.