A buff coloured envelope arrived from the solicitor in the morning post. It was addressed to Mr Kevin Taggart.
Kevin ripped the envelope open. With wild eyes he scanned the letter from Martin Bartholomew and after reading the contents, he let the A4 page fall from his hands, watching it as it landed gently on the kitchen table. He bent over and picked up the envelope which had fallen onto the floor, looked inside and pulled out the cheque, studying it closely. The texture and the amount written on the cheque made his heart beat faster and his hands tremble. He held it tightly, close to his face and breathed deeply as if he could smell his newly acquired wealth. When he released his breath which he had been holding, he extended his arms in front of him and screamed a jubilant scream at the top of his voice. After regaining his composure, his breathing returned to normal and he found himself looking at the cheque. He studied it for some time and became entranced by the thick dollar sign and the sturdy strokes of Mr Bartholomew’s handwriting. He was captivated by the roundness of the three and the symmetry of the five zeros which followed it. The comma separating the digits resembled a tadpole - its tail casually dropping below the thin printed line, the punctuation mark delineated the numbers and emphasized the cheque’s value. Then the spell was broken. Kevin scavenged through the cutlery drawer in search of a fridge magnet; a souvenir from a day trip to a Reptile Park on the Central Coast. He attached the magnet to the cheque and placed it on the fridge. Then he took a step back from it and admired it in the same way he would a piece of art.
‘Good old Rose, I knew she would come through for me. After all, that’s what good neighbours are for,’ he laughed hysterically.
Kevin decided a celebration was called for, but there was no one he could think of that he wanted to share his good fortune with. He opened the fridge door and grabbed a bottle of full strength beer. ‘Here’s to you Mother dear, what a shame you aren’t here to share in my good fortune.’ Kevin twisted the screw cap, lifted it to his lips and threw back a large mouthful of the icy cold brew. He swallowed hard. With the bottle of beer still in his hand, Kevin returned to his studio and tuned into his favourite station. He listened to the classical music playing. The uplifting music settled him and he reached into his paint box and selected a tube of red acrylic paint and immediately concentrated on the blank canvas sitting on the easel before him. He circled the easel slowly, just as a predator would who was studying its prey before pouncing, looking at it from different angles, deciding where he should place the first stroke. The starkness of the white canvas beckoned him and finally he found the courage to begin. He took a deep breath, dabbed at the paint on the palette and made the first brush stroke. The sable brush glided over the canvas. A narrow, soft ray of autumn sunshine hit the window and Kevin realised how happy and how extremely grateful he was for the bounties which had been bestowed upon him.
He recited Cicero. ‘A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all the other virtues.’
The weather was deteriorating. Kevin stood at the window with his paint brush in his hand and looked up at the darkening sky. A line of heavy clouds filed in from the west and extinguished the remaining light. To continue painting was impossible.
A torn Chesty Bonds singlet splattered with a kaleidoscope of colours lay draped on the table where Kevin stored his brushes, crayons and lead pencils. He dipped his brush in a jar of clean water and wiped it dry. Time for lunch. His stomach demanded food and he walked up the hall into the kitchen.
Lunch was a slice of wholemeal toast on a stark white round dinner plate swamped with a can of cold baked beans. Kevin looked down at his plate and imagined a more sumptuous fare. Perhaps grilled Tasmanian salmon with a light salad and polenta chips on the side. Kevin Taggart had a feeling that things were about to change in his life, he had a feeling in his bones. He devoured the baked beans and the soggy toast and began to make a mental list of the things he wanted do with his windfall. A holiday first he thought, an extended tour of the Tuscan hill towns and then perhaps a side trip to Florence to paint the clay roofs and of course, a visit to the Uffizi Gallery. He might even take a Mediterranean cruise.
The house was quiet. Seated on a vinyl chair at his kitchen table he began to daydream. He looked critically at the outdated kitchen. It had never bothered him before, but now that he had some money to spend, he realised how drab and out of fashion it had become. It needed renovating; the once white paint on the kitchen cupboards and drawers had yellowed with age. The paint was peeling. The small rectangular ‘mission brown’ tiles on the splashbacks were a mistake of the seventies. They looked dull and dirty after years of accumulated grime. The open timber shelves on the kitchen wall displayed his late mother’s best crockery set or at least the pieces that had survived the service of the years. A rusty nail on the side of the shelves held his house and car keys. A handy location when he was in a hurry to leave the house.
A loud thump and the sound of metal scraping against concrete brought Kevin to his feet. He walked towards the front of the house and entered his bedroom. Dirty, grey crumpled sheets lay at the foot of his bed. A pile of art books lay scattered on the floor under the window. He stepped over them and looked out between the slats of the rusty venetian blinds. He opened a row with his thumb and index finger and roughly wiped away years of accumulated dust as he looked out at the scene across the street.
Three solidly built Maoris were loading the contents of the house into a beaten-up, bottle green removalist truck which was parked in front of the Blake house. ‘Three Men and a Green Truck’ was spray painted in white lettering on the side of the truck and a tall, slim, middle aged man stood beside it, calling instructions to the three men. He was wearing a pair of beige cotton chinos and a yellow polo shirt. A New York Yankees baseball cap was perched on the top of his head to shade his eyes from the sun. A relative, a nephew perhaps? He was too well dressed to be from the removalist company, Kevin thought.
A procession of furniture trailed out from the house. Rhoda’s prized carved timber sideboard was rolled down the front steps on a trolley and came to rest on the footpath along with the fridge, the microwave oven and the boxes of household items. Kevin recognised his painting, North Coast Summers. It was leaning up against the gum tree in front of the house and he decided he would contact Mr Martin Bartholomew, the executor of the sisters’ estates, and ask for it back. The youngest and fittest looking of the trio, scratched his head as he considered how best to pack the truck.
Kevin looked at the women’s possessions parked on the footpath and a rush of sentiment descended upon him. He watched two of the men carry out the red, lumpy lounge by its ends, and walk it up the metal plank at the rear of the truck. He remembered the afternoons and evenings he had spent sitting on the lounge and the smell and taste of cheap sherry sprang to mind. The matching red chairs were loaded next and carried by the shortest of the three men, whose thick biceps were covered in dark blue traditional Maori tattoos.
Kevin stood behind the Venetian slats observing the scene for some time before deciding a better view was to be had outside. He walked down the hallway past the kitchen and out through the back door, down the concrete steps to where he kept his gardening equipment in a galvanized steel tool box. He picked out a pair of garden clippers and walked up the driveway to the front fence. As the blades chomped into the overgrown Moraya hedge, he looked across at the men who had now stopped work for lunch. They were sitting under the gum tree, with a large eski propped open, they were drinking beer from cans, eating home made sandwiches made from thick bread and laughing, obviously relaxed in each other’s company. The well dressed man had left and Kevin observed that his painting was nowhere to be seen. It had already been loaded onto the truck.
After lunch was eaten and the last of the cardboard boxes was loaded, Kevin watched the three men as they packed themselves into the front seat of the truck. The blare of country and western music from the local radio station, and the gratin
g of the gears as they changed from first to second and then to third, trailed behind the truck as it lumbered up Eden Street. He wondered where the sisters’ possessions were being taken and what was to become of them. He hoped his painting wouldn’t end up in a charity store or on a rubbish tip. He would explain to Mr Bartholomew that the painting was his and that he would like it returned. He would ask him who he should speak to.
Kevin assumed that the house had been sold even though a ‘For Sale’ sign had not appeared at the front of the house. After the interest which had been shown in Rose’s house, he wouldn’t be surprised if a disappointed potential buyer had been rewarded for their patience by the sudden listing of the brick bungalow across the street.
Kevin returned inside, sat down at the kitchen table and contemplated the value of the Blake sisters’ estate. He took a deep and satisfied breath and tried to control his excitement as he looked forward to the arrival of another letter, and another cheque, from Mr Martin Bartholomew.