Aftertaste

By Jennifer Shapcott

Stories of love, kindness, desire and revenge. Frank sets off on his bike to help people in his coastal village and stumbles upon a scene that changes his life. A journalist reflects on his betrayal of a colleague in Korea and resolves to make amends. Two former lovers reunite unexpectedly in Japan and visit the place that holds the secret of th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debbie Lee
• Release date: Nov 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781760412371

Book preview

Aftertaste

Aftertaste

Jennifer Shapcott

Ginninderra Press

Contents

Acts of Kindness

Green Tea

Ghostwriter

Remembering Lucy

Farewell to the Orchid Lady

Aftertaste

Open House

Acknowledgements

Aftertaste

ISBN 978 1 76041 237 1

Copyright © text Jennifer Shapcott 2012

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All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. Requests for permission should be sent to the publisher at the address below.

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First published 2012

Reprinted 2016

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Ginninderra Press

PO Box 3461 Port Adelaide 5015

www.ginninderrapress.com.au

Acts of Kindness

It should have been paradise. We were drinking shiraz and sitting on a green lawn sloping down to the river while the sun splashed gold on the eucalyptus trees. But since I’d arrived, Matt and Monica had been squabbling like a pair of monkeys and now Matt was rehashing an ambulance case.

‘Poor bastard,’ said Matt, refilling his glass. ‘After everything that’d happened to him –’

‘Charles doesn’t know who you’re talking about,’ Monica cut in.

‘Frank was a local character round here,’ said Matt, taking a sip of wine. ‘First his wife left him –’

‘Because she couldn’t stand him yacking all day.’

‘No, there was more to it than that –’

‘Let’s face it, he was a bloody interfering old stick. On Sundays he’d pick up our newspaper off the lawn and fling it onto the veranda. No one asked him to. Woke me up every time, made me cranky as hell.’

‘You’re always cranky.’

‘What happened to Frank?’ I asked.

‘Tell him, Matt. But tell the story straight. Don’t go adding bits.’

‘I’ll tell the story how I want to, or not at all,’ Matt replied, glaring at her and lighting a cigarette. He shifted in his deckchair, then leaned back, as if settling in to tell the story. ‘Frank was one of those older blokes you see around town, white stubble, old-style work boots and trouser braces. He worked as a foreman at the sawmill, used to sort out blues in the timber yard and help the apprentices. Then he got retrenched and everything changed.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, first, his wife Dorothy got fed up with him being round the house all day. Her dream was to travel and take a cruise to Alaska –’

‘When all he wanted to do was to ride his bike round town and talk to anybody who’d listen,’ interrupted Monica.

‘What did he talk about?’ I asked.

‘Everything. He had an opinion on everything,’ said Monica. ‘One day he buttonholed me and rabbited on about the granite in the school hall, how it came from the quarry they used for the pylons on the Harbour Bridge. He reckoned I should be teaching more local history at school. When I told him I had to go but I’d Google it, he looked crestfallen, like a dog when you stop throwing a stick.’

‘In the end he realised people couldn’t be bothered listening to him. That’s why he let someone swing an axe at him,’ said Matt.

‘Someone swung an axe at him?’

‘Tell Charles what happened.’

‘He set off on his bike one morning –’ Matt began.

‘Like the local vicar doing his parish rounds.’

‘Monica, can I tell this story without you chipping in?’

‘OK,’ she replied, her eyes narrowing. ‘I promise not to interrupt, if you don’t go adding bits, like what people are thinking.’

Matt didn’t reply but from the fury in his eyes I knew he was going to tell the story exactly the way he wanted.

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As soon as Frank walked into the kitchen carrying a pile of wood, Dorothy swore at him for wearing boots in the house. She was tapping at a computer on the table where her friends Maud and Agnes sat drinking tea. Frank noticed that both Dorothy and Maude were wearing pink tracksuits, their bus tour outfits, but Agnes wasn’t.

‘Would ya like anythin’ from the shop, Dot?’ he asked, stacking the wood against the stove. ‘I thought I’d pop down the road now the weather’s cleared.’

Dorothy looked up from the computer with eyes as hard as stones on an empty river bed. ‘Fish fingers for tea tonight,’ she barked as Maude spluttered over her tea. ‘And don’t interrupt again. I’m doing me futures trading.’

‘Off to help the local citizens are we, Frank?’ asked Agnes.

‘Yeah, as only Frank knows how,’ sighed Dorothy.

‘Why don’t you call round at my place some time?’ asked Agnes with a wink. ‘The lock on my bedroom door’s broken.’

A warm breeze brushed against Frank’s face as he cycled down the street and tried to erase the memory of Agnes’s wink from his mind. He braked when he saw something hanging out of Mrs Applecross’s letter box, pulled out a parcel and left it on her front step. He hopped back on his bike and tried to brush away the image of a face at a window and a hand closing the curtains.

Next stop was Norm’s servo to help fill up petrol tanks. The old biddies needed to brush up on their driving skills, he reckoned, the way they hit the accelerator as soon as he tapped on the car window for a chat. They’d have to do without him soon. Norm was selling up. Everything would go, the marigolds in the white painted tyres, the bowsers, the workshop, all replaced by a billboard promising a lifestyle for the over-fifties.

He parked his bike outside the leagues club and bounded up the stairs, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark interior and the carpet with red and green swirls that greeted him along with the jingle jangle of the pokies.

‘How ya goin’,