The Property Manager: You'll never rent again... by NS Thompson Page B

silence, while we all digested that snippet of information.
    “Shit,” was Jill’s crass response.
    I can’t say I was really surprised. There are lots of Moorebank kids. I can never work out who are siblings and who are cousins. They are a tangled web of DNA - that lot!  Slopping about in a murky and very shallow gene pool.
    They are the most neglected, dirty and underfed bunch of mutts I have ever come into contact with.
    Jill told us that the girl was in her eldest daughter’s class at school and she had tears pooling in her eyes. 
    I was going to pitch in with a comment like – the only good Moorebank is a dead Moorebank – but bit my tongue knowing it would not be a politically correct thing to say. But I was only thinking what half the town was thinking. Those poor kids would all be better of dead because all they had ahead of them was a lifetime of substance abuse, violence, malnutrition and incarceration.
    Instead I muttered something like “How awful,” or something equally as insincere.   
    Jill invited you and your friend to join us for dinner. I was so thrilled that you accepted and I got up and took a chair from the table beside us and added it to the head of ours.
    The dinner went by in a bit of a blur as almost everyone in town came over to the table to put their five cents worth in about the “murder.” Conjecture was rife.
    I see that you’ve integrated yourself into the community well. Everyone seemed to greet you as their best friend.
    We ordered the same meal – roast lamb, although you oddly enough drowned your meat in mint sauce. My palate wouldn’t stand for that.
    What was your take on the evening?  I couldn’t help but notice that the whole place was gradually turning into a feeding frenzy over this drama. People got more and more excited by each new piece of information that was thrown into the sea. You were quite restrained and didn’t salivate over the details. I thought that was very sophisticated of you. Perhaps your own memories were re-surfacing.
    After finishing everything on your plate, you gave a wave into the lounge. A few seconds later, the Cox family walked through the door. They stopped at our table and gave me a nod and a ‘hi’ before turning to you.
    “Thanks for dinner, guys.” You said. “How about I return the favour on Friday night. I can’t promise it’ll be edible but….if I get you drunk first you won’t notice.”
    They laughed and accepted your invitation before taking a table on the other side of the room. They were the only people not to mention the “murder.”
     
    Over desert you and I managed to have a deep discussion on the frailty of human life. We discussed my mother’s accident. I confused myself a bit because I’d already broached that subject with you in this journal. You are an intelligent woman with some very unusual but valid philosophical points of view. I was surprised to find that your hobby is studying theology. You laughed and said you could have written “The Da Vinci Code” with your eyes shut.
    And I laughed back and said –“Why didn’t you?”
    “Because I’m the world’s greatest procrastinator.”
    I could see that you really meant it and you looked a little bit sad.
    “Someone once said I could be summed up by two words – wasted potential. That hurt but it is true”
    You changed the subject and we talked about how your children are settling into the schools. Your son, Dan, is now going steady with Karen’s daughter Sofia. And I learned that your middle son, Eli, is a brilliant but emotionally chaotic, artiste! Harry, I’ve met and found charming. 
    You are a funny lady. Very quick witted and so optimistic.
    Throughout the evening you drank five glasses of champagne, which probably made you more bubbly than usual if you’ll pardon the pun. I complimented your sapphire and you blushed a little and in a small voice admitted to Jenny and I that it was from a secret admirer. You looked pleased about that.