Peter Corris - Aftershock

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.

‘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.