Page 11 of The Side Road
‘Nan couldn’t afford the internet.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, she was very poor. None of her crockery matches. She has no money, and she can’t afford to buy anything.’
‘She has money. I send it to her every month.’
‘Nan says it’s the good lord who provides.’
‘It’s not the good lord, it’s me.’ He kissed her goodnight and left the room.
Something wasn’t right. But he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be. Returning to the living room, he once again surveyed the interior. The wallpaper was peeling, and the carpet was badly stained. The curtains were frayed. Most of the roller blind cords had snapped. Lights were missing shades, and only half the fittings had bulbs.
When Oliver bought the house, Elsie insisted it was fine, just as it was. She didn’t want to waste money on a renovation. He knew her generation was more frugal, and he didn’t fight her on this. The parsonage was within walking distance of the Uniting Church, which suited her lifestyle. Then, a year ago, Elsie suggested they upgrade the bathroom. Oliver agreed. It was only twenty thousand, which he thought was reasonable. He sent her the money. Then there was the hole in the roof that needed fixing. The blocked drains – she said tree roots were the problem. And last month, new electrical wiring. If the work was required, then it needed to be done. The quotes kept coming and he kept paying.
Earlier this year, before Tash came back to start high school, Elsie said the house needed more work. Nothing major, new floor coverings and a coat of paint. The curtains she could make herself. Oliver thought it was a good idea. Elsie sent him quotes from the contractors. He forwarded her the money.
Standing in the living room, he realised nothing had been done. The house was still in its original condition. He felt uneasy. Whatever upgrades Elsie had planned hadn’t happened.
In the kitchen, there was no sign of the evening’s impromptu party. Someone had washed the cups and glasses and returned them to the cupboards. Neatly stacked platters and plates sat on the bench; the recycling was gone. The guests lacked stamina, but they cleaned up before they left.
He opened the fridge and peered inside. There were a few staples: butter, eggs, cream, and oddly, a jar of golden syrup. No fresh produce. No fruit or vegetables.
The unkempt state of the house and the lack of food didn’t sit right with him. He covered the bills and the internet costs. Elsie could buy whatever she wanted. If she needed extra funds, she only had to ask. And she did, regularly. Sometimes he thought her requests were excessive, but he always paid.
He walked back down the hallway to Tash’s room and creaked open the door. She was asleep.
He was relieved. She must be exhausted. Quietly, he stepped into the room and pulled the bedcovers over her. She stirred and opened her eyes. ‘I forgot to say my prayers.’
‘Say them twice tomorrow.’
She nodded.
‘Honey, where did Elsie keep her passbook?’
‘What’s a passbook?’
‘Her banking.’
‘The drawer in the bureau.’
Oliver had shown Elsie how to use internet banking, but she preferred her passbook. She said it felt like having real money. Good with figures, she kept her financials in order. He had seen her hovering over her entries, adding and subtracting, always double-checking the totals.
Oliver found the passbook in the bureau drawer.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, he opened the book and scanned the columns. The current account balance was one hundred and forty-five dollars. Oliver’s contributions went in on the first day of every month. On the second day, she withdrew all the money.
‘What the fuck?’ he mumbled.
He flicked through the monthly credits and debits. The pattern of withdrawals started a year ago. Every day after his money went into the account, Elsie made a withdrawal in cash.
He did a quick calculation, adding the withdrawals to the funds he had sent for the renovations. Almost two hundred thousand dollars was missing.
He felt sick. In pre-tax dollars, the figure was considerably more.
Reverend Rebecca’s words hung in the air. ‘We need to talk.’
He believed in charity, but it wasn’t Elsie’s money to give. It was his. He sat back in his chair. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps, after withdrawing the cash, she stashed it away in the house somewhere. Old people hiding money under the bed was not uncommon. He had heard stories. Occasionally, the occurrences had even made the news. The alternative caused his head to spin.
