Page 13 of A Home Among the Snow Gums
Alex seemed thrilled to have something to do. ‘Yes, sir.’
Tom scrolled through the contacts in his phone. The café. Perfect. Someone there would be bound to know. He hit the dial button and Graeme picked up first ring.
‘Mate, it’s Tom. You happen to know where Benjamin Dorley lives? He hasn’t fronted up to work this morning and there’s a work experience kid here in his office who’s—’ he was about to say freaking out, but Alex had his eye on him and his tie was so darn tight around his neck and his shirt so ironed, and his face still red and sweaty from taking angry phone calls that he reconsidered. ‘Er, the office intern is wondering if someone can go check on him.’
‘Dorley. Scrawny fellow, bow ties like a professor from a seventies sitcom, double shot on lactose free?’
Tom let out a chuckle. ‘If you say so.’
‘I’ll ask around. Want me to text you the address?’
‘Yep. I’m in town for a while, about to head over to the pub for a walk around and see what state the old girl’s in, so if you can find me an address I can go see where he’s at.’
‘No worries, mate.’
Duty done, Tom snagged the keys Alex had found and headed over to the pub.
The sandstone above the heavy wooden door said 1858. The door itself looked like it had been to battle, with more scratches than enamel paint and gouge marks around the deadlocks as though passing louts had had a crack at gaining entry.
A breeze off the lake tugged at Tom’s chambray shirt while he worked his way through the cluster of keys. He pushed the door open when he heard the bolt slide back.
‘Oh, good, I made it.’
He turned abruptly—too abruptly—and sucked in a breath as a lightning rod of pain shot down his leg. Marigold bloody Jones.
‘What,’ he managed, ‘are you doing here?’
Her eyes twinkled at him beneath the green eyeshadow she must have applied with a trowel, and her greying up-do must have had a similar amount of product assisting it, because it barely shifted in the blustery wind. ‘Now, don’t get all stiff-lipped, Tommy. It’s not my fault if I just happened to be sampling the hazelnut macarons when you rang The Billy Button Café.’ She brushed a crumb from the multicoloured muumuu-thing she had draped over her formidable bosom. ‘Graeme asked me if I knew where Benjamin Dorley lived. Of course I do. I asked him why, and he told me.’
‘So why aren’t you there, bulldozing your way through his front door?’ A bit snippy, yes, but he was still not sure he could move without falling over and he sure as Sherlock did not want to collapse to the floor in front of Hanrahan’s nosiest woman. He leant his shoulder against the sun-warmed stone and concentrated on breathing in and breathing out until the lightning rod dwindled to a dull ember.
‘Kev volunteered to pop along. I, of course, was far too excited to pass up a chance to gain entrée into the nooks and crannies of the Hanrahan Pub. You do know I’m president of the Hanrahan and District Community Association?’
Of course he knew. Everyone this side of the Victorian border must know.
‘So, here I am, giving you the benefit of my expert opinion. Now, chop chop. If we’re going to look the place over, let’s get it done. I’ve got a funeral to plan at eleven and the relatives of the dead value punctuality.’
‘I’m just here to—’ Too late. He was talking to himself.
A dull red carpet runner stretched from the entry foyer down a long corridor. Bar and restaurant area to the left, accommodation upstairs and a string of family rooms in the newer wing out the back. He wondered what had possessed his father to buy the place. When Tom had last lived in Hanrahan, the owners had been a middle-aged couple who’d been content with a three-star accommodation rating; a pie warmer on the bar had been as close as they’d come to employing a chef. The locals hadn’t minded so much. Nor had Tom. A few cold beers with friends followed by a hot pie wasn’t the worst night out a teenager barely old enough to buy booze could have.
Shutting the heavy old door acted like a muffler on the street noise. He breathed in dust and the air was stale, but there was an ambience to the place. Perhaps it was the age of it; the pub had survived generations of Hanrahan families, two world wars, bushfires and droughts.
There was something very reassuring about its solidity.
Marigold’s voice boomed from the old ladies’ lounge where she’d wafted in for a snoop. ‘The cockroaches have been holding bush dances in here and there’s some mould in the ceiling roses, but she’s not derelict, Tom.’
‘I hope not. Dorley’s supposed to be finding a publican to lease the place.’
‘In this state? I don’t think so. You want to restore this grand old lady now, Tom, while it’s empty. Paint the trim in heritage colours, spruce up the garden beds … we’ll get rid of those neon beer signs out front for starters and someone needs to paint out the apostrophe in “Meal’s” on this sign.’
Marigold’s use of the word ‘we’ was sweet (‘bossy’ might be the better word), but naive. ‘Bruno’s the one you need to persuade.’
‘Mmm,’ said Marigold. ‘He and I are having a little break from each other.’
‘Oh? What happened?’
‘A little disagreement about the need to future-proof Hanrahan history. Nothing for you to worry about, pet. Now … shall we start upstairs and work our way down?’
