In May 2025, my Canberra neighbour, Pat, died. It was sudden. Heart failure. 

Pat lived on his own. He was forever single, a proud uncle, no kids of his own. Which might explain why he noticed small things. He had space to take an inquisitive interest. He was a veteran of Neighbourhood Watch. A retired public servant but never retired from public duty.

Several of his neighbours noticed indoor lights on, his car in the drive way. Newspapers lay in plastic wrap on the lawn. He wasn’t seen at his local cafe where he ritually went for a morning coffee. 

Police discovered where he fell, in the bathroom.

Pat was the first to tell you when your car lights were on. We knew each other for nearly two decades and yet he would text with a formal, Dear Toni and a signing off, Pat McNamara.

If he knew you needed something, a desk maybe, he would notice a free one, spotted on the verge in the neighbourhood on one of his late afternoon walks, and tell you with quiet urgency, some excitement.

Pat was frugal, loved a bargain, self-reliant. He gave to charities.

His house stands just as he bought in the 1980s, with a blue-tiled bathroom, floor-laminated kitchen, four bedrooms, bigger than he needed in the hope his parents, when they needed care, would come to stay. A warmer climate called them north.

My neighbour relished a chat. He was full of trivia and always ready with a story to share over our wooden, insect-burrowed fence.

He was an avid news consumer, old school, with multiple daily and weekly newspaper subscriptions, and regular dose of printed non-fiction, history and science mostly.

My family had Pat over every birthday, for a slice of cake and glass of red. A little neighbourhood gossip, some military history, something from The New Scientist. He was always punctual, reliable, clean shaven.

On hearing the news from one of Pat’s brothers, Kevin, I asked permission to walk through Pat’s house (which was always a mystery to me), to see what it may reveal and to take some images.

Kevin pointed out bags and bags of birdseed, for screechy cockatoos, that Pat would gather in his backyard every day.

Pat’s wardrobe had lost its purpose. Suits and trackpants were being moved into bags for St Vinnies.

An indoor plant I had asked him to care for was now out in the yard, frost bitten, unrevivable. 

Photographs:

Pat’s bathroom. Google Pixel 6a — ƒ/2.2 1/3003 2.35mm ISO54 (original and and with b&w filter)

Pat house. Google Pixel 6a — ƒ/2.2. 1/25. 2.35mm ISO295 (original and with b&w filter applied)

Pat’s wardrobe. Google Pixel 6a — ƒ/2.2 1/25. 2.35mm ISO948 (and with filter)