Page 6 of The Side Road
‘Lovely frame. Might be worth something.’ She picked up a bright cupcake from a passing platter and joined the crowd in the living area, where she made a beeline for a small picture of the Virgin Mary hanging above the bookcase.
Someone tapped Oliver on the shoulder. When he turnedaround, Arthur Ferguson handed him a cup of tea. The octogenarian and ex-newsagent owner was a neatly built man with a sharp nose, a mop of silver-grey hair, and deep, pensive eyes.
‘Oliver, nice to see you again,’ Arthur said. ‘Terrible news about Elsie.’ The man looked genuinely upset. He forced a smile. ‘But it’s good to have you back. Very handy having a mechanic in the family.’
People used the word ‘family’ when they wanted their car serviced for free.
‘Remind me to talk to you about my car,’ Arthur continued. ‘There’s a rattle in the engine – it might be the carburettor. When you have a minute, would you mind having a look?’
‘You’re still driving the Ford Escape?’ Oliver asked.
‘Yes. The blue one.’
‘It’s electric. It doesn’t have a carburettor.’
‘Oh dear. Planning on staying long…this time?’
Oliver smiled.
Arthur spied a cheese platter wafting past. He followed it out of the room.
As word of the gathering spread, people continued to arrive. Clutching Tupperware containers filled with baked goods, they flooded into the house. It felt like half the town was there. Oliver wandered from room to room, the crowd swelling and parting around him. Most of the faces were a mystery, but he picked out Mrs White from the crowd, his sixth-grade teacher.
A short, elderly woman came up to him. With soft, fragile eyes, she had a mouth like a stubborn child. She looked like trouble, and he thought this might be Flora, Arthur’s offsider. The top of her head reached his chest. When she looked up at him, he smiled down at her.
‘I once met a woman whose mother’s mother held hands with the queen,’ she said.
‘Interesting,’ Oliver replied. It was all he could manage.
‘Do you think they’ll be serving dinner?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure, but if you’re hungry, I’ll get you something to eat.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I couldn’t eat a thing.’ She shuffled into the living room.
When the music started, Oliver wondered if this impromptu gathering was a celebration of Elsie’s death. There was certainly no evidence of mourning amongst the crowd. Every pair of eyes in the house was dry.
Elsie was a teetotaller, so it was also a dry gathering. Cups of weak tea and glasses of watered-down apple juice were being offered to the guests. In the kitchen, Leo manned the kettle. He told Oliver he couldn’t find the sugar, but there was golden syrup, so he was making do. Blanche piled platters with cakes and handed them around.
Oliver thought that if he sat down, he might fall asleep, so he continued to wander through the house. In the living room, Arthur was showing Tash a disappearing coin trick. Oliver smiled. Tash had seen Arthur do this before, but she humoured the old man, and to her credit, she looked genuinely surprised. From behind Arthur’s back, she made goggle eyes at her father.
Tash’s outfit now included a knitted headband with a flower stuck on the side. The accessory reminded him she was a girl. His daughter was now in high school. Soon, she would become a woman. Sometimes the future was beyond comprehension.
When the crowd vacated the kitchen, he searched the cupboards for coffee but came up empty-handed. He made do with a second cup of tea, declining the golden syrup.
He had never felt so utterly exhausted. If he could grab a few minutes of sleep standing up, he would. It was worth a try. In the kitchen, he wedged himself between the wall and the fridge. A conveniently placed shelf served as an armrest. He nestled his head against the door frame and closed his eyes. Sleep came easily.
A few minutes later, a clinking sound – like a bell – roused him.
3
GIN WITH GRAPEFRUIT
When Oliver opened his eyes,a woman was standing in the kitchen. She held a weighty cardboard box in her arms. As she placed it on the bench, the sound of clinking bottles resonated around the kitchen. Still half asleep, he wondered if he was dreaming.
Wedged between the wall and the refrigerator, she hadn’t seen him. He took a moment and looked her over. Long, sandy hair tumbled over her shoulders. She wore boots with a short skirt and an oversized, fluffy jumper.
Amongst the mid-twentieth-century style of the kitchen, complete with its original Formica countertops, yellow cabinets, and chequered floor, she appeared at ease. For a moment, he thought she might be Elsie’s ghost, fifty years younger, returned to haunt the kitchen. But Elsie was short with dark hair.
