‘Oscar wasn’t much of a one for gardening,’ Horrie said.
Nor for house-keeping, according to Neil. He was wrestling an electric stove away from the kitchen wall when we went in. He got it clear and rolled a thin cigarette from a packet of Drum, glad of the break.
‘Bit of a shit-hole,’ he said. ‘Hasn’t been cleaned in years. Mind you, not much cooking ‘n’ that went on. Bathroom’s as clean as a whistle, but.’
There wasn’t any point in looking through the house; the floorboards were up in the hallway and two rooms and the place smelled of fresh sawdust and old damp. The bathroom was an outside building connected to the cottage by a galvanised iron roof. The bath was a big, old claw-footed job and the fittings were of similar vintage. Everything looked and smelled clean although a bit dusty. I wandered down to the end of the yard and confirmed the impression that to see the sea you’d have to climb one of the trees.
Walking back along Ocean Street, Horrie felt a need to justify himself. ‘I tried to help him. Offered to lend him money to expand his business, suggested he put a deposit on a house. Could’ve helped him there, too. My bank thinks I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread. But he wouldn’t be in it.’
‘Very private sort of person, was he?’
‘That’s it exactly. I saw a fair bit of him. Couple of times a week I suppose. We went fishing every other weekend. He was out of the area a few days a week doing jobs here and there. Up towards Cessnock, down to Lake Macquarie. All over the place. As I say, I never went past the kitchen in the house, but I knew it was no palace.’
There was some puzzlement in his voice and I pressed him. ‘But you were surprised at how little he had, eh? How little business there was.’
‘That’s right. I should’ve helped him more.’
‘Who owns the house, do you know?’
Horrie shook his head. ‘Oscar paid the rent to an agent in town. Bit of a coincidence. Them getting to work on it just as you come up to take a look.’
I agreed that it was and we walked in silence back to his house. May was up and working in the garden. She and Horrie kissed affectionately and he told her about the renovation of the cottage. May sniffed, ‘About time. That place was falling down. How are you feeling, Cliff?’
‘Pretty good,’ I said. ‘Thank you for everything.’
She clicked her secateurs. ‘For what? And now what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to show Cliff Oscar’s stuff,’ Horrie said.
She sniffed again and snipped through a rose stem. I followed Horrie into the house and through to a smallish room where there was a desk, a bookcase and several cardboard boxes and black plastic garbage bags. ‘They call this the study,’ Horrie said, ‘but the only thing I ever studied in here was the form guide. The stuffs in those boxes and bags. Take your time, Cliff. I’ll go and see if I can get back in May’s good books.’
‘I’m not doing you much good there.’
He pulled up a blind to give me more light. The ocean looked to be only a few metres away, as if you could throw a stone into it. ‘Can’t be helped,’ he said.
I lifted the plastic bags onto the desk and unwound their ties. I’ve sifted through the physical remains of a person’s life a good many times and the feelings have always been the same-is this all you really had to leave behind? Is this the way you meant it to look? Why didn’t you do something about that when you had the chance? The effects are always exactly what the word suggests-incomplete pieces, broken threads, interrupted business. It doesn’t matter who it is-friend or enemy, lover or stranger- the feeling is of something left unsaid.
The effects of Oscar Bach triggered none of these sensations.
I went through it all very carefully-the business papers, documents, books and magazines. I lifted the tools and fishing gear and shaving kit out of the boxes and examined the clothes and shoes and fountain pen. There were no photographs, no pictures to hang on a wall, no personal letters, nothing old and useless, kept because it was loved. I remember telling Harry Tickener that there was a time when I could fit everything I owned into an FJ Holden. Harry said he’d once been able to fit everything into a Volkswagen. Oscar Bach could’ve topped us both-the whole of his belongings would have fitted into a supermarket trolley.
Horrie Jacobs brought me in a cup of coffee. I remember thanking him but I couldn’t remember drinking the stuff later. I was thrown into that state which is half cerebral, half instinctive. Bach’s things had convinced me that he was truly a man of mystery. I was sure of only one thing-all these signs of the reclusive, anonymous bug sprayer and beach fisherman, did not point to the real man. He was someone else who did other things in other places.
There had to be a clue to the other man, but maybe it was in the cottage being gutted. Maybe I’d never find it. I went through all the stuff for a second time, as is my methodical way. I probed and rattled things and turned them upside down. An old leather jacket creaked and rustled as I felt in its torn pockets. I shook it and it rattled with more noise than the metal zip fastener should have made. I took the jacket across to the window for the light, turned it inside out and began to feel around the lining and stitching. There was something loose and metallic inside the lining near the waistband. I worked it around to a hole and poked it out. Two keys on a ring, one big and new, one small and old.
I put everything back the way I’d found it and took the keys and the empty coffee mug out to the kitchen. May was sitting at the table doing the cryptic crossword in the Sydney Morning Herald. She looked up. ‘What a beast to breathe on her,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
‘That’s the clue-what a beast to breathe on her.’
I rinsed the mug and put it on the sink. ‘How many letters?’
‘Seven.’
‘Panther,’ I said.
She wrote it in. ‘It fits. Do you do the crossword?’
‘No. It was just a guess. Can you tell me where Horrie is?’
‘He’s in the garden. Did you find anything interesting in his things?’
There was something so direct and honest about her that I didn’t consider lying. I noticed, though, that she didn’t use Oscar Bach’s name. I showed her the keys.
She shrugged. ‘Horrie might know what they are.’
‘Have you two made it up?’
‘Nothing to make up. I’ll love that man till the day they put me in the ground. I just wish he didn’t have all this trouble.’
‘I don’t understand. What trouble? You’re rich. He lost a friend but…’
She put down her ballpoint and turned her dark, slanting eyes on me. ‘You don’t look stupid but you say some dumb things. Like all Australian men, you think women don’t really know what’s going on. I know, believe me, I know.’
‘I’m sorry, May. You’ve lost me. What do you know?’
‘I know who attacked you the other night, or who ordered it. Horrie doesn’t know and you mustn’t tell him. It would make him too unhappy. Go and talk to him, Cliff, but be careful.’
‘What can you tell me about Oscar Bach?’
She shook her head and the fine, grey hair flew around her wise face. ‘Nothing. But when you find out some more come and talk to me. Talk to me before you talk to Horrie.’
‘What about Ralph?’
She picked up her pen and filled in an eight letter word.
9
I found Horrie weeding a garden bed. I’m no gardener, but the green things sticking up out of the ground looked like the tops of vegetables. He was on his hands and knees, bending forward and back easily. I wondered if I’d be able to move like that when I was his age. Maybe if I ate more vegetables? The sun was high and hot. Horrie wore a stylish wide-brimmed hat and, despite my thick head of hair, I felt the need for a hat, too. I showed him the keys.
‘That looks like a key to Oscar’s van,’ he said, fingering the larger key. ‘Don’t recognise the other one.’
‘There was no trunk in the house? Tool box, sea chest, nothing like that?’