by Steve Hawke
He’d started developing the concept on his first big commission here in Perth, the aquatic centre with its beautiful soaring roof that seemed to float over the building. That had got him noticed, and the Prof, who’d still had good contacts in Sydney back then, had put in the word that landed him the job at Hogarths.
Anne hadn’t been exactly happy about moving, with Claire still in nappies, but she didn’t try to hold him back. At first it had all gone brilliantly. They’d found a rental not too far from the water with a garden for Claire to roam and Anne to dig in, and he rapidly made his mark at Hogarths. Then the call went out for concept plans for the new stadium. There were sceptics inside the firm from the start as well as the enthusiasts, but he got the green light to work the concept up.
The secret was in the buttressing system he devised to strengthen the cantilever effect, and allow for the curvature he needed. That was about the simplest he could ever make it for the layman. The effect was astounding at stadium scale. A graceful, flowing structure with a roof of drooping semi-arches, meeting unsupported at the mid-point, inspired by the notion of a forest glade with a circle of light at its high centre, pierced by a midday sun.
It would have worked. He swears it still. There have been a couple of projects in Europe in the last decade that are on similar lines without taking the concept as far as he did, and with none of the inherent grace of his design. He’s never said it to anyone but Anne, but he believes it would’ve come to be seen as a counterpoint to the Opera House; a second marvel for the city.
It was in the days before computers had taken over the profession. The amount of work involved in getting it from concept to initial design nearly killed him and the two assistants. The pressure as deadline approached was insane. He has always blamed the engineering consultants. Word got out about the failed stress test on the scale model, and when the day came for the presentation to the Minister they refused to give a one hundred percent guarantee on the roof. The Minister wanted two hundred percent. ‘If that roof comes crashing down on grand final day …’
He felt the pregnant silence of the unfinished sentence like the falling of a guillotine. A minimal hand gesture from his boss cut off any attempt to elaborate before he could get started. His gut still twitches uneasily now, more than twenty years later, at the flicker of remembrance of the desolation that swept him as he began packing away the presentation while the bigwigs filed wordlessly out of the room.
For Hogarths, losing the preferred designer status, and then the whole gig, was a major embarrassment. A two-storey office block with an unambiguous order for ‘no frills’ was his next assignment. He never did the drawings. They were back in Perth for Claire’s third birthday. He still had dreams at that stage though.
‘Ficus fuckus. Majestic as ever, and supremely indifferent.’
Four startled eyes swivel in his direction; a pair of student lovers dawdling across the lawn entwined in each other before being disturbed by this strange interruption. The look on their faces causes him to erupt in laughter. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just old age. It’ll creep up on you too one day.’
THE WAKE
Joe hadn’t planned on communing with the Ficus, despite this being a day of ghosts and memories. But it had been on his mind. Sitting between Anne and Eric on the hard bench of the chapel pew at Karrakatta Cemetery, he’d let his mind drift back to his memories of the Prof. There are many, but the best are those first discussions and arguments about the Ficus, before it ever had that name. The sheer invigorating thrill when Prof responded so encouragingly to Joe’s first nervous attempts to explain his idea. Pacing around under the tree with the old bugger, searching for the words to flesh it out. Poring over those photos of the bleeding stump together. God it was exciting.
‘Did I see you drifting off during Beechcroft’s speech?’ Eric grinned as they made their way to the car after the service finally concluded.
‘How the hell did he get the gig?’ Joe spluttered.
‘He is the president of the Architects Institute.’
‘Pah!’ Joe pays his dues—it’s a professional requirement—but other than that he refuses to have anything to do with the Archaic Institute as he calls it. ‘He was a pompous bore with no imagination at uni, and nothing’s changed. The Prof deserves better.’
‘Easy,’ Anne murmured, giving his hand a squeeze.
They’d had to do two and a half laps of the campus before finding a parking space. Making their way to the Uni Club for the wake, they turned a corner, and there it was, the Ficus, filling his view. He stopped in his tracks. Anne and Eric had kept walking, chatting away. When Anne realised he had dropped behind she turned and saw him staring, put a hand on Eric’s arm to pause him, and hurried back.
‘You ok?’
‘Think so. You and Eric go ahead, I’ll join you in a few minutes.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
A glance at his watch reveals that it has been more than a few minutes.
Two hours later in the club’s courtyard, but it feels like six. Joe can’t get comfortable. The ‘long table’, where Prof used to hold court—spouting opinions, witticisms and general contrariness—is long gone, replaced by a crop of these tiny faux marble chest-high table-ettes strategically planted to maximise the numbers that can be crowded in.
His beer is nearly finished and his head is a jumble of memories and reflections. The clank of wires on masts in the river reminds him of the nights they used to take their pints down to the river beach to cool their feet in the Swan whilst the talk raged on. He decides to head back inside to brave the wake crowd, and lifts his glass, about to drain his beer just as Eric edges past the group at the next table and eases onto a stool.
‘The room’s abuzz. They’re all wondering where their favourite son has got to.’
‘Didn’t notice any of them come looking.’
‘Feeling neglected are we darling?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Did I see you at Beechcroft’s table?’ Eric asks.
‘Might’ve.’
Eric raises his eyebrows.
‘I was trying to grab Johnson—they just happened to be at the same table.’
‘Thought you hated Johnson as much as Beechcroft.’
‘Not with the same visceral distaste, Eric. He’s climbed the same greasy pole, but Johnson’s got half a brain.’
‘Tell me more.’
Joe taps his nose with a forefinger, then places it on his lips. He raises his glass high and looks around.
‘Come on, come on.’ Eric is intrigued now, but Joe’s attention is on the approaching waitress.
‘Another two if you please,’ he commands. ‘On the Beechcroft tab.’
‘They’ve already called last round on that.’
‘Says who?’
‘The gentleman who organised the function.’
‘The one with the bald spot and the sidies trying to be mutton-chops?’ She doesn’t try too hard to hide the grin. ‘That’s Beechcroft. See how you go hey. I’ll fix you up when you bring them if I have to.’
‘Whatever.’ She takes his glass and is on her way, supremely indifferent.
‘“Whatever”,’ Joe snorts. ‘The saying for our times isn’t it.’
‘Sure you want another beer?’
‘My oath I do.’ Joe tugs at his tie, but only succeeds in pulling the knot tight. There is a flurry of arms, wrenched collars and grunts as he wrestles it over his head and off. ‘God I hate funerals.’
‘It is a bit like the class reunion in there.’
‘With you and me stuck out here like the two sore thumbs. Nothing changes does it mate. The public servant and the has-been. Every one of them a partner in a firm or a property tycoon. Did we miss the boat, or choose not to board? Prof wouldn’t’ve given ’em the time of day.’
‘Settle Joe. You know and I know not one of them in there’s made a building that comes within a bull’s roar of your fifth best.’
‘And again the man speaks the truth. Reckon that’s why they all take such pleasure in my downfall?’
‘Utzon writ small hey. Poor Joe.’
‘A truth teller and a prick. I suppose the two aren’t mutually exclusive. Where’s that bloody barmaid got to?’ He scans the courtyard fruitlessly, pausing to exchange a glare with a fellow who seems to think he is talking too loudly. ‘Utzon hey. Remember the Prof raving about the Opera House? “A great public building for Australia to be proud of at last! Even if it was designed by a Dane. That is what you should aspire to!” He elevated us above being engineers. Or at least he tried to.’
‘You always were his favourite.’
‘He would’ve had my guts for garters yesterday. Would you believe I calculated a roof height wrong. Cos’d the pitch instead of tan’d it.’
Eric splutters his beer in shock. ‘Bit young for senior moments aren’t we?’
‘Freaked me out when I realised what I’d done.’
‘You still do that stuff by hand?’
‘Early stages, yeah. Don’t like to touch the computer till the basic idea’s there in my head. Don’t you remember Prof drumming it into us? “The mathematician must trail in the wake of the artist; the engineer should be the slave to the muse!”’
‘He wouldn’t go too well today would he.’ Eric raises his glass. ‘Here’s to a fine old man.’
‘I’ve got nothing to—Ah! What perfect timing!’
‘Definitely the last one he said,’ the barmaid tells him as she hands over their beers.
Joe takes them with a grin. ‘I can just hear him. Tighten his arse cheeks and stand up straight as he said it did he?’
She puts a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the laugh. ‘Something like that.’
Joe lets out a gleeful guffaw at the vindication. ‘For that, my dear, and for suffering old fools like Eric and myself here, you deserve a tip!’
He grapples with his wallet, fumbling through it for a stupidly long time, but she is not going anywhere after that line. Eventually he manages to extract a twenty-dollar bill, and hands it to her with a flourish and a mock bow.
‘Ooh, the suffering,’ she replies with a cheeky grin, and a straight-backed imitation of Beechcroft that becomes a parodied return of his bow. She tucks the note into a pocket, and is gone, with a bounce in her step.
MAUDLIN
‘You’re incorrigible, Joe.’
‘Only in me dreams mate … As you were saying, here’s to the Prof. Free at last!’
He drains half his beer then lets out a belch. ‘A fine man indeed. But not a fine old one. Gout. Arthritis. Emphysema that made every breath a struggle. And that mental agility of his—faded years ago mate. When’s the last time you saw him?’
Eric looks at his feet.
‘He became boring.’ Joe shakes his head. ‘Can you imagine that? Prof Thomas boring! He didn’t have anything much left to talk about except the pain. I wanted to stop going. But it became a ritual, second Saturday of the month. If I didn’t show, it felt like this great betrayal. The poor old bugger hardly saw anyone, stuck in that bloody home. Death’s waiting room.’
‘What about his family?’
‘Not if they could avoid it … You know what he started saying to me towards the end?’
‘What?’
Joe shivers at the memory. ‘“Why can’t I just die, Joe?” God knows how long it had been building up before he started saying it to me. I used to think about holding a pillow over his face. And you know, I reckon he would’ve wrapped his arms around me and held me closer while I did it. Die with your boots on, that’s what I say. A bloody great heart attack at seventy or thereabouts before the rot sets in.’
Eric gives him a look, and decides to go light rather than engage. ‘Reckon I’d go for boots off. Do a Snedden, in bed with a good-looking woman.’
Joe raises his glass in acknowledgement, but can’t help his retort. ‘Better find yourself a woman then.’
Eric raises a finger, and his smile is sour. ‘I’ve got to be getting home. I’ll just go in and pay my respects to the family.’
‘Oh fuck the family. They’re a bunch of wankers. They left the old man to rot, and all they’re talking about in there – or at least all they’re thinking about—is who’ll get what in the will. Bugger ’em.’
Eric shakes his head as he gets to his feet. ‘I’ll tell Anne to come out and get you.’
‘Annie. Abandoned her again haven’t I.’
‘Yep. You want to be careful. I was just noticing how good she’s looking these days.’
Joe chuckles. ‘Beauty and the beast hey,’ then frowns at Eric. ‘What’d’you mean these days?’
‘Maybe it’s that black dress.’ He holds up his hands, realising he might be crossing a line here. ‘I don’t know, she’s smiling more I think. She seems happy, Joe. That’s a good thing.’
‘It’s the afterglow. All that great sex.’
Heads are starting to turn as Joe gets louder. And this is the line Anne hears as she steps out into the courtyard. She freezes, then steps back into the shadows, listening.
Eric is blushing. This isn’t their usual territory. But he can’t help himself. He sits back down. He and Joe look sideways at each other.
‘What, you’ve found your mojo after all these years?’
Joe gives Eric the finger. ‘Not sure I can take all the credit. I reckon the HRT’s got a bit to do with it.’
Out of sight, Anne breathes a sigh of relief.
Eric shifts a little uneasily. ‘I read something about that.’
‘Yeah. Annie’s more … voracious these days. I tell you, it’s better than anything we did when we were youngsters. And it comes from her, not me.’
Eric has to hide his embarrassment behind a pull at his drink. All he can muster is ‘Er … That’s great, Joe.’
Joe could almost be talking to himself as he smiles dreamily. ‘I feel like I’m in a really good place with Annie these days. I shake my head in wonder, given all the shit I put her through that time.’
‘That time? Which time? The Sydney fiasco? Going bust?’
Joe cuts across him. ‘All right. Those times, plural; and all my general ongoing sins. And it never did get as far as bankruptcy if you don’t mind. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make. It’s good, that’s what I’m telling you. Better than I deserve. And I’m not only talking about the sex. But that’s the thing. It is better than I deserve, and that makes me feel uneasy.’
‘That’s the Joe we know and love. Find the unsunny side of any given situation won’t you, you silly bastard.’ Eric says it with more vehemence than he intended. They share another sideways look.
‘It’s hard won Eric, and I’m scared it could all slip away.’
‘You shouldn’t do funerals, Joe. You drink too much and you think too much. And you always finish up maudlin. Or worse.’
Anne steps out of the shadows. ‘Snuck out the back again, Joe Warton, and left me to the mercy of the chattering women. God, I haven’t seen some of them since we were at university.’
‘Have they improved with age?’
She ignores him, exchanging a look with Eric.
‘Take this miserable old coot home will you Anne. I’ll grab a cab.’
‘He says I’m maudlin!’ Joe spreads his arms wide, and has to apologise to a woman at the next table who gets caught in the gesture. ‘He says I’m maudlin! Why is it that when a man talks honestly—to his best friend mind you, to his best friend,’ he places a paw on Eric’s shoulder, ‘all of a sudden he’s “maudlin”!’
The last word is an exaggerated growl. The group at the woman’s table is starting to look distinctly cranky.
‘Come on you,’ Anne commands. ‘I’ve said our goodbyes, we can just slip out the gate here. See you, Eric.’ She is all abustle now, eager to get him on his way.
He pretends to resist, but is really more than happy to be guided out. ‘Give’s a call mate,’ he slurs to Eric
as they depart.
Once they are through the gate Anne puts out her hand, waits.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Joe fumbles for the car keys, and hands them over.
‘You just assumed I’d stay sober enough to drive?’
He scratches his head, bemused.
‘I s’pose so … It was the Prof’s funeral, darling.’
‘I know. I didn’t expect anything else you eejit. It’d just be nice if you asked sometimes.’
He bows his head in mock contrition.
She gives him a reasonably gentle clip behind the ear. ‘Come on you.’
SECOND SATURDAY
Anne wakes up with a smile. She often does the morning after making love, whether it has reached the heights or, like last night, not. The flickers of sensuality seem to linger in her bloodstream overnight.
Last night, once they were in bed, she’d confessed to eavesdropping. ‘I come out looking for you and hear you talking to Eric about great sex. I thought I better find out who with before I barged on in.’ The light was dimmed, but she could sense him turning bright red. She did not try to disguise her enjoyment of the moment, but was quick to let him off the hook by reaching out to touch his cheek. ‘It was pretty nice what you said about us. Better than nice actually. Very touching.’
‘I was in a funny mood.’
‘Are you saying you didn’t mean it?’
‘Every word of it. It’s just something I don’t talk to anyone about. Normally.’
‘Why don’t we say these things to each other?’
‘Well it’s a post-coital sort of feeling isn’t it.’
‘What?’
‘You know. That intense tenderness after the fucking. The emotion I mean, not the touchie-feelies. I never say anything then, do I. Sometimes I just get a wave of it come over me; that tender feeling.’
‘It’s not just the HRT you know.’
