Renovation at Old Bar

At the reading of Uncle Peter’s will, Michael and Kate were shocked but delighted to learn he’d left Michael his two-bedroom villa one street back from the beach at Old Bar. The generous gift resulted in a suite of quick, profound changes in their lives.

Kate had said to Michael, “Maybe now’s the time to retire and get out of Sydney. You always loved it at Old Bar, and I’ve had a gutful of the Education Department.” She added, perhaps thinking it would clinch the matter, “And you’ve got a dicky ticker; I don’t want to be a fifty-five-year-old widow.”

Michael had nodded. It surprised him because Kate loved having money and he assumed she’d work for years yet in the school admin office—putting up with the stupid bureaucracy, rude parents, teachers and students—if it meant she could continue to enjoy her pedicures, facials, massages, sports car and new clothes. She was a good person, otherwise he wouldn’t still be married to her, but she was definitely materialistic.

There were other reasons for her suggestion. Both sets of parents had years ago retired to Port Macquarie and now were in little units in retirement villages. They’d be a lot closer. And Michael and Kate’s only child, Craig, had settled in Newcastle, and that would be an easy drive down the Pacific Highway. In addition, both Michael and Kate had friends who’d retired and afterwards they seemed changed people: more relaxed, at ease with themselves and their spouses, and with time to enjoy life. Some were a little fatter, some a whole lot fitter. Of course, Michael and Kate had discussed what they might do in the years ahead as they moved through their fifties but hadn’t arrived at any conclusion. Now Uncle Peter had given them a benefaction that awaited a decision.

As a young man, Uncle Peter had trained as an accountant, but after only a year working for a Strathfield accountancy firm, he left that vocation and began another: he entered a seminary and trained for the priesthood. He took his final vows and then served in various Sydney parishes. At North Parramatta, fourteen years into the priesthood, he met Mary, a childless middle-aged widow. After much soul-searching, he left the priesthood and they married. By then in their early forties, they did not have children. They both worked: she was a legal secretary and he got a job in the finance department of Baulkham Hills Shire Council. They lived in her home at North Rocks, and in their mid-forties they bought the villa at Old Bar where they loved to holiday.

Aunty Mary succumbed to breast cancer eight years ago, and soon after her funeral Uncle Peter rented out the North Rocks house and moved to Old Bar. He already knew his neighbours there; some had become close friends. He went beach fishing almost every day and gave away most of his catch, always keeping one fish for himself on Fridays. He joined the finance committee of Old Bar parish, and each night said Compline at his kitchen table. One morning his next-door neighbour found him dead on the kitchen floor. He’d had a stroke. He was eighty-two.

His will stipulated that considerable amounts of money be donated to various church charities. But family members had all been left something significant, and they were pleased enough with the unexpected generosity. They divided the spoils and went their ways.

Kate had commented at the time, “I’m shocked at how much money he had stashed away! He lived so simply I’d never have guessed.”

Michael replied, “They had double income for nearly three decades, and Uncle Peter was prudent.”

“There could’ve been a lot more. I bet he gave away a fortune over the years!”

“It was his money to do as he wanted. He didn’t have to give anyone anything. Be grateful we got the villa.”

In his teenage years, Michael had spent many long weekends and school holidays in Uncle Peter’s villa, his mum and dad and him all sleeping in the second bedroom. On Sunday mornings, they all went to Mass at Fatima’s and then headed to a cafe for breakfast. Michael didn’t mind going to church because he enjoyed the vanilla milkshake and muffin afterwards. In more recent years, Michael and Kate always had lunch with Uncle Peter when they travelled north to see their parents at Port Macquarie. When asked, he gave them sensible financial advice and sound advice on other matters. His years as a priest and then his years married had given him some shrewd perspectives, if you were patient enough to ask the right questions. More than once Michael had confided his marriage difficulties, and Uncle Peter’s advice had been crucial to Michael’s successful management of his problems with Kate. Michael appreciated that anything he said would remain private. Uncle Peter treated confidences as if they’d been uttered at Confession.

The changes were quickly decided. Kate resigned, finishing work at the end of the term and Michael, like Uncle Peter an accountant, gave a month’s notice at his firm. They decided, as Uncle Peter had done, to rent out their house rather than sell it. They told their agent: select tenants with care. They approved a Japanese family: mum, dad, one doll-like little girl. Michael joked to friends that the Japanese family would probably live in only two rooms, not being used to a large house. And if there was any trouble with them, he’d complain to the Emperor and the tenants would be quickly and deeply shamed into rectitude. More realistically, they anticipated the Sydney house market would continue to march upward in prices. They’d clean up big-time in the years ahead.

They moved to Old Bar. Michael invited Uncle Peter’s friends to come to the villa and take something as a memento. Friends chose a framed photograph of Peter and Mary, a painting they liked, a small side table. Kate contacted Saint Vinnies and they sent a truck around and took nearly everything. Michael kept Uncle Peter’s old cane fishing basket and long beach-rod. He also kept Uncle Peter’s books; there were intriguing titles among them and Michael hoped to spend more time reading in the years ahead.

Kate insisted on a total renovation of the villa. Michael said he was happy as it was; he had great memories of the place.

Kate sighed. “Left to themselves, men would live like billy goats.” She explained, “I want it to be our place, not Uncle Peter and Aunty Mary’s place. It’s not a museum. You go fishing; I’ll deal with the tradies.”

Michael went fishing. He pitied the tradies; Kate would be pleasant enough but finicky and demanding. And woe unto them if they didn’t turn up to work when they’d made a commitment. But only three weeks later the place was transformed; it was modern and stylish. Neighbours were stunned at the change, especially the elderly wives who stood looking at the kitchen with mouth open and one hand on a cheek. Kate beamed. When they left, Michael hugged her. He was proud of her good taste and organising ability.

Kate said to him, “Shows what can be done when there’s no bureaucracy to stuff things up: projects can be completed on time and within the budget.”

Michael was surprised to learn there’d been a budget, but he didn’t say so. Instead he went into the garage to collect the rod and fishing basket. He paused to look at Uncle Peter’s books.

During the renovations, when Michael was fishing, Kate had moved a bookcase against the garage wall and put the books on it. They were too old and dusty to stay inside. As she’d knelt to shelve them she’d glanced through a few. On some pages Uncle Peter had pencilled notes. One read: The spirit of a man may have to hurt him badly to make its presence felt. She read another: A man invents new evasions to obscure previous evasions. She didn’t like the tone. And the books seemed to use complicated language to discuss the issues of a bygone age. But at least they were out of the house and in the garage.

Now, fishing rod in hand, Michael looked over them: Chesterton, Pascal, Augustine, Maritain, Nouwen. The only names known to him were Graham Greene and Morris West—there was a shelf full of novels by those two. Michael was glad he kept the books; he thought he could trust Uncle Peter’s taste and interests. He stood still for moment, staring at the shelves, and frowning.

Kate walked in. “Craig’s coming up on the weekend.”

“Ah, that’s good.”

“What’s wrong?” Kate said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“A thought, out of nowhere, just came to me about this place: ‘Behold, I was standing on holy ground, and I knew it not.’ Where did that come from?”

“Sounds like Shakespeare.”

Michael said to her, “I might see if Fatima’s want help with their accounting. It’ll be good for the mind and soul.”

It was Kate’s turn to frown. “Okay, but don’t start giving money away like Uncle Peter did.”

Another thought, unbidden, came into Michael’s mind: “Get thee behind me, Satan!” He was shocked at his own unkindness and severity of judgment. He smiled nervously at Kate, picked up the fishing basket and walked, disturbed, squinting against the sun, towards the sandy lane leading to the beach.

Kate watched him trudging away, and then she looked at the old books. The next stop for them would be the tip.

Gary Furnell, a frequent contributor of fiction and non-fiction, lives in country New South Wales. His most recent story in Quadrant was “Conversation in the Hearse” in the April issue.