robert creed

the hollow house

The lock

Clicked

The door

Stuck

Then ajar

With my shoulder to it

The door squeaked

flung open

falling

In a rush of air 

sending envelopes

gliding down

the empty

boarded corridor

following the echo

of the creaking door

into this hollow

deceased estate

flowers

still battled the long grass in the front yard

blooming

scented notes to old loves

it must have been recent

kneeling

scooping

collecting the letters

taped into piles

along the arm

all addressed

to the one

who is no longer

walking through to the kitchen

the letters arrayed on the kitchen bench

tombstones to the departed

the back door

shuttered then

Opened

In fits and starts

swollen in the recent rain

scouring the timber floor

the scented air

running through the house

disturbing the weight

the weight of a presence

the house had been cleared

the carpets stripped

the nails being the only testaments

of a past life

standing in the kitchen

I walked through each

Resonating room

The camera shutter

Clicks

resonates

marking each room in time

Sketching the layout as I went

I had already done the outside

The yards, the hills hoist, the shed

under the house

circling back to the kitchen

opening the cupboard doors

then the drawers

scattered in a drawer

a pile

of clean, crisp

black and white photographs

self-portraits

obviously

of a tall, aged

noble man

with a firm look

a broad smile

looking directly into the camera

conveying integrity

indeed love

compassion

with a black beret

rakishly

askance

stunned

in slow reverence

picking up the photograph with two hands

this is ME

in a future tense

fascinatingly saddened

but mesmerised

flicking through the mind’s images of each room

I crept back into the rear room

now realising

the streaked paint

then droplets on the floor

the ghosts of paintings on the wall

marking where the paintings were stacked

this was his studio

his life

in a hollow, reverberating, paint box

the parallels were too close

for my comfort

literally shaking myself

out of a fugue

I found the manhole to the ceiling

Aligned the ladder

Stepping up into the ceiling space

Speckled with light through the cracked

Disfigured tiles

I crouched

Walking

around the ceiling space

the camera flash sparking to life

a heavy

timber box

I dragged

Lifted it

to the manhole

Then staggered

Wobbled side to side

down the ladder

Dropping the box to the floor

Bouncing off the boards

Popping the lid open

Inside

Fastidiously

Neatly stacked

In precise rows

were coins

Wrapped in paper

Nearly all pennies

This noble man

Was a painter!

A collector!

I compiled the photographs

Put them in the box and took them to the office

Curiosity getting the better on me

I opened every paper coil

Each roll was monogrammed with the dates

Of all the pennies

Going from federation to the introduction of decimal currency

This collection

Could be worth a fortune

taking a punt

I rang the new owners

Asking the contact details for the executors of the deceased estate

Explained my find to the solicitor

Then to the daughter of the deceased man

The daughter

Arriving days later

With her husband

Sat opposite me at my desk

I respectfully placed the letters

Then laid out the photographs

one by one

Assuming their loss may be still raw

Ideally chatting

they thumbed through the photographs

obviously unconcerned

disinterested even

Then

Putting the box on the desk

Opening it

with an explanation of how I found it

They were both stunned

Eyes widening

As they looked at one another

Then

Clicking through the dates on each coil of pennies

starting to realise the possible value

not in any way

pausing to consider

what this collection may have meant to her father

seemingly unaware of my presence

they tumbled into an argument

over what to do with the collection

absent mindedly

leaving the photographs

the husband grabbed

lifted the box with a grunt

I meet them at my office door

With the photographs

You forgot these

They thanked me in an off-hand way

Walking down the stairs

Bickering

Saddened

Remembering the photographs

The precisely rolled

Dated

paper coils of pennies

a labour of love

a deliverance

from this hollow house

To these very hollow

little people

I wished I had just kept the collection?