Chapter 18
18
Hamish
Hamish spent the weekend packing up his apartment. If he took all the books out of the equation, there wasn’t a huge amount. Settlement was mid-February but he wasn’t the type to leave the packing until the last minute. He’d been debating what to do with all the furniture when Brooke called late Tuesday afternoon.
‘The buyers have asked if any of your furniture is for sale,’ she said, straight to the point, as was her style. ‘They love it.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ Hamish said, hardly believing his luck. He pivoted slowly and took in the expensive leather sofa and lounge chairs, the flat screen TV, the empty bookshelves, glass-topped coffee table, dining table and chairs … and couldn’t imagine where else they might belong other than an apartment such as this.
‘Hamish? Are you still there?’
‘Yep, and it’s all for sale,’ he said.
‘Excellent. Work out how much you want for each item and give me a few dates and times and I’ll arrange for them to have another look.’
‘The place is a bit of a mess right now. I’m in the process of packing up.’
‘I’m sure they’ll understand.’
There and then he decided to take another load to Cutlers Bay first thing the following morning. ‘What about tomorrow or Thursday? I’ll tidy up the place and make myself scarce for a couple of days.’ There’d been nothing from Nat about when she and Pete might travel across to Cutlers Bay so he might as well carry on with his own plans.
‘Done. If that doesn’t suit the buyers, I’ll get back to you soonest.’
Hamish breathed deeply and slowly. This was all becoming very real. With a pang of something that felt a lot like guilt, he scrolled to Nat’s number. There were two of them in this tango; he’d at least tell her he was travelling to Cutlers Bay in the morning.
But she didn’t answer and he didn’t leave a message.
Hamish paced through each room of the apartment. It didn’t take long and there wasn’t an overabundance of furniture. He thought back to when he’d bought it all, not much more than a year ago. The wife of one of his golfing mates was an interior decorator and she’d helped him pick it all out. Truthfully, she’d picked it out and he’d agreed with whatever she’d chosen. Minimalist, she’d called the style. It was perfect for the apartment but, as it turned out, not for him.
The contents of the kitchen cupboards reflected that Hamish wasn’t a cook. He could scramble eggs, open a tin of beans and throw a steak on the barbecue. As a result, there were only the most basic of utensils, crockery, coffee mugs, half-a-dozen wine glasses and a few other odds and ends. He’d had plans of entertaining when he’d moved in, had even considered cooking classes to improve his sadly lacking skills. He laughed at that now, the ridiculousness of it, the sound loud and grating. Takeaway pizza with the boys from golf had been about as good as it got. Maybe he’d throw the kitchen stuff in with the furniture, see if they wanted it all. They could have it for nothing.
Using a borrowed trolley, he took the last few boxes of books and the like down to the ute and stacked them in the back. The car parking was secure and he had no qualms about leaving them loaded overnight.
On his way back to the apartment, he bumped into a woman he’d seen several times over the months he’d lived there. They’d never moved past the nodding and saying hello stage of acquaintance. She was a decade or so younger than him and drove a late-model silver Audi. No wedding band; corporate attire.
Today she stopped and said, ‘I see you’ve sold your apartment … I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been loading up your ute.’
He pulled up and propped a foot on the trolley. ‘Went way quicker than I thought, for a lot more than I expected. But how did you know it was for sale? There wasn’t a sign.’
She smiled and he noticed it was an attractive smile. ‘I’m in the business,’ she said. ‘This is a very sought-after area. And I’m not surprised it sold as fast as it did.’
‘If I’d known, I would have come to you,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But I don’t even know your name …’
She hesitated. For a split-second, he thought she was going to tell him. Then she shrugged and said, ‘Never mind. Good luck with the move.’
‘Thanks.’
She headed off in the direction of her car and he steered the trolley across to the lift and pressed the up button. While he waited, he watched her drive off. That banal exchange had been the longest conversation he’d ever had with anyone who lived in the apartment block. And it had come right when he was moving out.
* * *
Hamish got away the following morning before the sun had topped the ranges. A night of fitful sleep had left him feeling grumpy and gritty-eyed. He stood at the kitchen sink and drank coffee as the eastern sky lightened into a palette of pastel pinks and powder blues streaked with gold. Outside it was cool, the air fresher than most mornings, and the traffic light. It was barely after eight when he drove through the gate of his parents’ place. He climbed out of the ute, stretched and sucked in a lungful of tangy sea air. He’d unpack the ute and then take himself to Rosie’s for breakfast. His stomach rumbled in agreement.
The front door key was in its usual spot under the plant pot. When Hamish opened the screen door something dropped onto the verandah. He bent and picked it up: a realtor’s business card and not the local bloke. Odd, but then he supposed word got around in small country towns. Or perhaps now that probate had been granted the solicitors were finally getting their act together. He flipped the card into the pot with the dead geranium and let himself into the house. Thirty minutes later, he’d locked up again and was on his way to the cafe and breakfast.
When he pushed through the front door, Ruth was busy at the coffee machine, chatting to two women waiting at the counter. They wore office garb and sneakers. He reckoned he’d seen them in here before. Several tables were occupied and customers sipped on their morning brews. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked muffins made him salivate. He perused the menu board. The two women, clutching insulated cups, nodded with vague recognition on their way out.
‘Good morning,’ Ruth said. ‘Back again and so soon.’
‘Couldn’t keep away,’ he said. ‘Coffee, please, and the smashed avocado on sourdough with poached eggs. And one of those muffins.’ He jerked a thumb at this morning’s offering: apple and cinnamon.
‘Done,’ she said. ‘Coffee first?’
‘Please. Long black, thanks.’ He paid and wound his way to the table where he’d sat on every other occasion, except the day the family had come here to eat after the cemetery. Two more people came in after him and Hamish wondered where Ruth’s sidekick was.
When she brought his coffee, she put it down and said, ‘This is the table where your dad always sat.’
‘I didn’t know that. Did he just sit here on his own and stare out the window? Like I’m doing now?’
‘He’d read the paper, eat his raisin toast and yes, he’d stare out the window for a bit.’
‘No helpers today?’
‘Allie. She’ll be here shortly. The regulars know I’m on my own until nine thirty and they’re usually patient. That said, I’d better get moving.’
Hamish watched her wend her way back to the counter. She scooped up empty coffee cups on the way. He liked the way she moved. The job kept her in shape. He couldn’t imagine she’d have time for much else. The more he considered it, the more he realised he wanted to know more about her, like what she did in her free time. Why she’d ended up in Cutlers Bay in the first place.
Disappointingly, it was Allie who delivered his food, not Ruth. ‘Sorry about the wait,’ she said.
The meal was delicious, the poached eggs firm on the outside but runny in the middle and well worth the wait. Ruth hadn’t emerged from the kitchen when he left.
Back at his parents’ place there was an unfamiliar sporty-looking cherry-red hatchback in the driveway. Hamish frowned and parked alongside the kerb. He peered up the pathway and saw the front door was open. His frown deepened. When he went inside, the passage light was on. The musty staleness he’d become accustomed to when the house had been closed up for days had dissipated. Whoever it was had been here for a while.
‘Hello?’ he called.
Footsteps and then a slight woman with big hair emerged from the main bedroom.
‘Who are you? And what are doing in here?’ he said.
She was holding a tablet, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. ‘I could ask the same of you,’ she said.
‘This is my parents’ house. I have every right to be here.’
‘Oh,’ she said, drawing out the syllable. ‘You must be Hamish.’ She extended her hand and stepped towards him. ‘Terri Longbottom, Longbottom Realtors, Kadina and Wallaroo.’
The card he’d thrown into the geranium pot. He shook her hand. ‘You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. Today isn’t your first visit.’
‘Natalie requested an appraisal on the property. She wants the place sold as soon as possible. I’m taking photos today. Didn’t she mention that to you?’
‘No, funnily enough, she didn’t and it’s not hers to sell. It’s part of our parents’ estate and it’s in the hands of the solicitors appointed to act as executors.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes widened. She licked her lips. ‘My apologies, I must have misunderstood your sister.’ She tucked the tablet under her arm. ‘I’ll make myself scarce.’
‘It’s okay, Terri. Probably not all your fault.’ He moved to one side so Terri could pass. ‘The key?’ he said.
‘On the kitchen table.’ She paused when she reached the front door, swivelled around to face him. ‘It is a solid old home. Good bones. Plenty of potential. No salt damp. Needs a bit of TLC before it goes on the market, if you want the best price. If the opportunity arises, I’d be more than happy to work with the executors.’
Hamish stood on the verandah until she’d driven away. He pulled out his phone and hit his sister’s number. Sure enough, it was busy. What’s the bet Terri pulled over as soon as she was out of sight and rang her client? Former client, maybe? He wandered around the outside of the house looking for what the realtor had seen but he’d never taken the time to notice. She was correct, it was sound and free of salt damp. He surveyed the generous backyard. Plenty of room to extend the house. A new kitchen, living area, wet areas … He was envisaging such a renovation when his phone rang.
‘Nat,’ he said. ‘Is there something you wanted to tell me?’
‘All I wanted was a rough idea of what the house was worth.’
‘So you gave a complete stranger permission to fossick around when no-one was here. Take photos.’
‘Not exactly. And you’re there now.’
‘You didn’t know that I would be here. And you must have told her where the key was.’
Nat sighed. ‘We need the money, Hamish. We still have a mortgage on the house and it needs a new roof and we want to install solar panels and batteries at the same time. The cost of electricity is crippling us—’
‘Yeah, but what would you have done if Dad hadn’t died? He could have gone on for a few more years yet.’
‘But he didn’t,’ she said, ‘and I want what I’m entitled to.’
‘And you’ll get it, in due course. We’re only talking weeks, maybe a month to two, not years, until it’s all sorted.’
‘So what are you doing there again?’ she said.
Now was his chance to come clean. ‘I’ve started packing up my books for when the apartment sells. I’m storing them here until I have somewhere else to put them.’
Nat surprised him by not having a go because he hadn’t run it by her first. He just never knew with her.
‘So do you think your apartment will sell quickly?’
‘I’m optimistic. There’s been interest.’ Why couldn’t he just tell her it was under contract?
‘Maybe when it sells and you’re flush you can give us a loan,’ she said in a jokey sort of way, but they both knew she wasn’t really joking. And then it struck him: There was the reason he hadn’t told her his apartment was as good as sold and for more than the asking price.