said, as he bolted for safety through the door marked ACCOMMODATION .
The old man scratched his chest. ‘See ya later, Finn.’ By the time Cocky had swilled a few more beers, everyone spoke of the newcomer as Finn. It was a christening of sorts.
Finn had rung ahead and booked a room but it soon became obvious that booking was unnecessary.
The landlady said her name was Marlene. ‘Don’t get many strangers here,’ she said as he filled in the required details. ‘We get a few sales reps, of course . . .’
Finn chose to ignore the query in her voice and went up to his room, which was clean if sparsely furnished. Not so different from his little room at the monastery, when he came to think of it. His appointment with the real estate agent was not until five, so he had a quick shower and then went over to the window. In the hour he sat there he saw Cocky and his dog; two women, one with a shopping jeep; and a man who got out of a ute and unloaded some pipes. No more than half a dozen cars drove down the street in that time. When the school bus came in there was a little flurry of activity as three women arrived to collect the eight children who spilled out, one waving a painting, another clutching a drink bottle.
The signs were good, thought Finn. Opportunity appeared to be a very quiet town. All that remained was to find some permanent accommodation.
The agent had five vacancies. Three were too large for his needs and the fourth was in Main Street. The fifth, a forlorn little weatherboard cottage on the far side of the football ground, had only one neighbour.
‘She’s a funny old bird,’ said the smartly dressed agent, indicating an elderly woman who, upon seeing them, tucked down her head and scuttled back into her house. ‘You’re lucky if she gives you the time of day.’
‘I’ll take the house,’ said Finn. ‘I want a long-term lease.’
6
Finn, Moss and Mrs Pargetter
O N THE SECOND MORNING OF M oss’s stay, she and Finn were sitting down to breakfast. Relating the story of Amber-Lee’s death had clearly been painful for him, and she wanted to return their conversation to something more general.
‘How did you come to live here?’ Moss asked.
Finn, happy enough to be diverted, responded with a much-abridged version of his life in the monastery. ‘After the accident, I had a bit of a breakdown and some Benedictine monks took me in. Taught me a few things. That was ten years ago now. I still practise the Silence twice a day from six to eight, morning and evening. I try to avoid unnecessary conversation at other times. People used to be one of my strong points, but now . . . You know, it was lucky the bus was late the night you came. It usually gets in at seven fifteen.’
‘What would you have done if I’d arrived on time?’
‘I never make exceptions to the Silence. I wouldn’t have answered the door. I was in that night because it was too wet to go outside, where I prefer to be.’
They both pondered this fortunate confluence of events.
‘What do you do when you’re not . . . being silent?’ Moss 93 asked.
‘I work, and I try to do a little good here and there. I still haven’t quite got the hang of that.’
‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘Bits and pieces. I do some hack work for the Bureau of Statistics and some interesting number-crunching for the Commission for the Future. Most of our communication is online. I have to go to Melbourne a couple of times a year for meetings, but I get back here as quickly as I can. It’s a living, as they say. And there’s my vegie patch, although the drought has pretty much buggered that up.’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your research?’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your singing?’
‘Touché.’
Finn said he had to go out, and Moss decided to walk along the river.
‘There’s a path that goes about five kilometres,’ he told her. ‘Starts near the bridge.’
That night at dinner, Finn seemed distracted and not inclined to
The old man scratched his chest. ‘See ya later, Finn.’ By the time Cocky had swilled a few more beers, everyone spoke of the newcomer as Finn. It was a christening of sorts.
Finn had rung ahead and booked a room but it soon became obvious that booking was unnecessary.
The landlady said her name was Marlene. ‘Don’t get many strangers here,’ she said as he filled in the required details. ‘We get a few sales reps, of course . . .’
Finn chose to ignore the query in her voice and went up to his room, which was clean if sparsely furnished. Not so different from his little room at the monastery, when he came to think of it. His appointment with the real estate agent was not until five, so he had a quick shower and then went over to the window. In the hour he sat there he saw Cocky and his dog; two women, one with a shopping jeep; and a man who got out of a ute and unloaded some pipes. No more than half a dozen cars drove down the street in that time. When the school bus came in there was a little flurry of activity as three women arrived to collect the eight children who spilled out, one waving a painting, another clutching a drink bottle.
The signs were good, thought Finn. Opportunity appeared to be a very quiet town. All that remained was to find some permanent accommodation.
The agent had five vacancies. Three were too large for his needs and the fourth was in Main Street. The fifth, a forlorn little weatherboard cottage on the far side of the football ground, had only one neighbour.
‘She’s a funny old bird,’ said the smartly dressed agent, indicating an elderly woman who, upon seeing them, tucked down her head and scuttled back into her house. ‘You’re lucky if she gives you the time of day.’
‘I’ll take the house,’ said Finn. ‘I want a long-term lease.’
6
Finn, Moss and Mrs Pargetter
O N THE SECOND MORNING OF M oss’s stay, she and Finn were sitting down to breakfast. Relating the story of Amber-Lee’s death had clearly been painful for him, and she wanted to return their conversation to something more general.
‘How did you come to live here?’ Moss asked.
Finn, happy enough to be diverted, responded with a much-abridged version of his life in the monastery. ‘After the accident, I had a bit of a breakdown and some Benedictine monks took me in. Taught me a few things. That was ten years ago now. I still practise the Silence twice a day from six to eight, morning and evening. I try to avoid unnecessary conversation at other times. People used to be one of my strong points, but now . . . You know, it was lucky the bus was late the night you came. It usually gets in at seven fifteen.’
‘What would you have done if I’d arrived on time?’
‘I never make exceptions to the Silence. I wouldn’t have answered the door. I was in that night because it was too wet to go outside, where I prefer to be.’
They both pondered this fortunate confluence of events.
‘What do you do when you’re not . . . being silent?’ Moss 93 asked.
‘I work, and I try to do a little good here and there. I still haven’t quite got the hang of that.’
‘What kind of work do you do?’
‘Bits and pieces. I do some hack work for the Bureau of Statistics and some interesting number-crunching for the Commission for the Future. Most of our communication is online. I have to go to Melbourne a couple of times a year for meetings, but I get back here as quickly as I can. It’s a living, as they say. And there’s my vegie patch, although the drought has pretty much buggered that up.’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your research?’
‘You wouldn’t go back to your singing?’
‘Touché.’
Finn said he had to go out, and Moss decided to walk along the river.
‘There’s a path that goes about five kilometres,’ he told her. ‘Starts near the bridge.’
That night at dinner, Finn seemed distracted and not inclined to
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