by Steve Hawke
‘Mr Warton–’
‘It’s ok, I just need to look in on George.’
George’s dinner is sitting untouched. The TV is on but muted. The day-night game from the Gabba. ‘Never watched cricket in your life, did you Unc. You were in Anne’s corner on that one.’ He sits beside the bed.
George does not respond. His gaze may or may not be on the television, it’s hard to tell. He is propped up against the pillows, sucking his gums noisily every few seconds, his hands picking, picking, picking at the hem of the blanket across his chest.
‘Betty’s … gone, George.’
No response.
The tears are streaming as he delves into the bag and pulls out the longneck, an opener and a glass. When he uses the back of his sleeve to wipe his eyes clear, his tears mix with Betty’s blood.
Joe places the glass on the table beside the cold meal. Something in the movement attracts George’s attention. He drops the blanket hem and takes the glass in both hands. Drains it.
Is that a smile?
Joe raises the bottle. ‘Here’s to her.’ He takes a long draught, then tops up the glass.
George ignores it this time. Pick, pick, picking at the blanket hem. Sucking his gums.
Joe takes out the white envelope, extracts the second-last page. Folds it at the right spot. Carefully tears along the fold.
George releases one hand from the blanket. Without looking he feels around until he finds Joe’s hand and seizes his fingers. The grip is frail, tremulous, yet fierce.
With his free hand holding the torn-off slip of paper, Joe once again wipes away the tears with the back of his sleeve, then reads.
‘Tell him I’m sorry, I should have listened. I didn’t realise it was going to be this awful.’
He hears the noises of the dinner being cleared from the next room. As gently as he can he prises his fingers free.
He leaves Betty’s message on the bed table, held down by the full glass. Puts the half-empty longneck beside it, and leaves the room.
‘I’ll let myself out,’ he tells the carer as he passes her in the corridor.
RAGE
Wearier in spirit than he can remember, Joe unlocks the front door, operating on autopilot. A note wedged under the door gets dislodged. He thinks of ignoring it, then realises as he stoops down what it will be. Sure enough: What the hell? E. He drops it back on the floor. His next thought is the bolognese sauce.
Please no. A burnt saucepan catastrophe would be the last straw.
There’s not much juice left in the sauce, but disaster is averted. The makings of Betty’s fish and salad treat are consigned to the kitchen bin. After a long shower he balls up the clothes of the day into a garbage bag and takes it straight to the outside bin; that way he will never have to contemplate the red stains again. He forks down the warmish sauce straight from the saucepan, bugger the pasta.
Eventually he is able to head out to the old sofa on the back verandah. Fragments of the day skitter through his mind incoherently.
I wasn’t expecting he’d actually drink the beer!
He touches the hollow between his neck and collarbone, remembering this morning’s kiss, aching for her. He will say nothing of today until she gets back, he decides. Nothing is going to spoil this fortnight for Anne if he can help it.
Whisky time.
But as he reaches for the bottle he draws back. Not in the mood. After traipsing upstairs he realises that lying in bed stewing is the last thing he should do. A rummage through the bathroom cabinet and he finds Anne’s stash of sleeping pills, and washes two down with water gulped straight from the tap. A stumble back down the stairs to sprawl on the sofa, remote in hand. A swing through the channels with the mute button on, and he settles as always on Rage. He prefers it muted.
FAVOURITE NEPHEW
When the insistent pounding on the front door finally penetrates his drug-fuddled sleep, he is somehow aware that it has been going on for a good while. The clock tells him it’s quarter to eleven. He leans against the doorjamb, squinting into the daylight as he swings the door open to see two policemen. The eyes of the older one flick up and down, taking in his rumpled, unready state.
‘Mr Warton?’ He glances down at his notebook. ‘Joseph Angus Warton?’
‘Mm.’
‘I’m Senior Sergeant Griffiths, and this is Constable Green. We need to interview you in relation to certain events at the Arcadia Glen Retirement Village yesterday.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Yes, now, Mr Warton.’
He staggers to the kitchen, assuming they will follow. ‘Any chance you’d give me five minutes to have a shower? You’ll get more sense out of me.’
The young copper clears his throat dubiously. Joe picks up Betty’s letter and hands it to him. ‘Read that while I’m gone, Constable. Might save some time. Help yourselves to tea or coffee.’ He escapes before they have a chance to object.
He comes down to find them at the kitchen table, each with a mug and a page of Betty’s letter. The old one looks up. ‘You’ve got a visitor. We suggested he come back later, but he said he’d wait.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Front door. Wasn’t our place to let him in.’
He heads for the door, only to be pulled up by, ‘We haven’t got all day, Mr Warton.’
He gestures sorry, please wait, and keeps going, to find a near-frantic Eric. ‘What’s going–’
‘Not now, not now.’ He waves Eric in.
There is a confusion of introductions, unanswered questions from Eric, impatient drumming of fingers by the young cop. Joe can feel his heart racing, and their annoyance when he insists on Eric sitting down.
‘He’s my best mate,’ he explains, and tries to joke, ‘Next best thing to a lawyer in the circumstances if you try to fit me up. Besides, it’ll save me having to tell him the story all over again.’
‘Do you feel like you may be in need of a lawyer?’ Green asks grimly.
Eric looks alarmed.
Griffiths clears his throat, indicating it is time for business, and nods to his colleague.
‘Our sympathies for your loss, sir.’ Green’s formulaic tone puts him further on edge. ‘We understand you were close to the deceased. Could you please take us through the events of yesterday morning from the time you arrived at Arcadia Glen.’
And so he does, keeping his eyes away from Eric. Eventually, ‘There was nothing else left to do. I kissed her forehead, I picked up the flathead fillets, and I left.’
His interrogator is not satisfied. ‘Can you explain why you removed the deceased from the site of death?’
‘What?’
‘Interfering with a potential crime scene is a serious offence, sir.’
‘Is suicide a crime?’ Genuinely incredulous, he looks to Eric, but gets only a shrug.
‘I did say a potential crime scene.’
‘Potential fucken crime scene! What the fuck are you talking about!’ He can hardly get the words out as he gesticulates at the suicide note. ‘Have you talked to whatsername. Zoe. The carer. Have you talked to her?’
The sergeant steps in. ‘Yes we have, Mr Warton. Where did you go after you left Arcadia Glen?’
Joe sags. ‘You know?’
‘Please answer the question.’
‘Wanslea.’
Green makes a show of consulting his notebook. ‘I rang Wanslea Advanced Care Centre at nine thirty-five a.m. to inform Mr Warton—the other Mr Warton, your uncle—of the circumstances relating to his wife Mrs Warton.’
Joe can’t help himself. ‘How’d he take the news?’
The young cop looks at him with contempt. ‘An empty bottle of beer!’
‘Did you say empty?’
‘Yes.’
Joe shakes his head in amazement, unable to suppress a laugh. ‘She was probably exaggerating, but fuck I hope she’s right. I hope you drained it Georgie boy. You must’ve been quick.’
‘So you acknowledge that you supplied alc
ohol against strict regulations to a bereaved gentleman in a condition of advanced dementia?’
‘He didn’t know he was bereaved sonny. Don’t you get it? He didn’t fucken know.’ Joe chokes back a sob.
‘It would seem from the deceased’s letter that you are a beneficiary of these circumstances. “The shack”?’
Joe looks as if he is about to explode, but the copper ploughs on. ‘What about the other nephews?’
That stops him in his tracks. Completely bewildered, he emits a question noise. The policeman picks up the letter, reads. ‘“You always were my favourite nephew.” What will the others think of you being the one to get this shack?’
‘Does your family do jokes?’ he asks his interrogator.
‘Please answer the question sir.’
He puts a hand out to silence Eric, who looks like he is about to interject. ‘There are no other nephews mate. Or nieces. It was one of our little jokes. It’s what she used to say when she kissed me goodnight. Up at the shack. “You’re my favourite, favourite nephew Joey boy.”’ He fixes the constable with a narrow stare and says icily, ‘Any more questions?’
The sergeant takes over. ‘Take it easy buddy. What you did at Wanslea’s down to them. Private facility and all. I kinda get it, even if my young partner here doesn’t. We’re here about your aunt, and prior to you arriving on the scene it seems to be a pretty cut and dried situation.’ He immediately recognises his unfortunate choice of words, and holds up a hand in apology. ‘But we’ve got to write it up. And so far that has you interfering with a corpse, tampering with evidence—Wanslea’s sending us the missing bit from the note—and generally causing a ruckus. You won’t be doing yourself any favours if you fly off the handle at Constable Green here. Savvy?’
Joe subsides.
‘We’re going to have to take Mrs Warton’s note with us I’m afraid.’
‘I need that!’
‘Constable Green will post you a copy. All being well, the original will be returned to you when the investigation is complete.’
‘All being well?’
‘It’s not for me to say, Mr Warton, but speaking off the record, odds are this is the last you’ll hear from us, unless something unexpected crops up.’ He ignores the sharp look from his young partner as he gets to his feet.
FORGIVEN
After seeing them out, Joe slumps back down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m craving a fag. Can’t remember the last time for that.’
Eric puts a hand on his. ‘You wouldn’t believe how cranky I was at you last night, until I started getting worried. But as far as excuses for being stood up go, that story wins by a country mile, my friend. Consider yourself forgiven.’
The pair exchange a look.
‘More coffee?’ Eric asks. ‘Breakfast?’
‘Tea. Ta.’
‘D’you want company, or not?’
‘Not sure yet. Let’s have a cuppa, and then I’ll let you know. I’m supposed to be working today. Big presentation to Johnson and his team on Friday. Full detailed drawings. If it goes well we move on to CAD design and engineering.’
Eric can’t help a chuckle. He’d given the Warton Johnson alliance no chance of getting off the ground. He takes the chance to shift the conversation to easier ground. ‘And he’s letting you run with the buttressed arch?’
‘So far. So far, but Friday’ll tell. It’s not the full monty, Eric. Only two or three steps on from the aquatic centre I did all those years ago really. There’ll be no dramas with the engineering.’
‘You’ll be ready for Friday?’
‘I’ll be ready.’
‘It’s the first time you’ve touched it since Sydney isn’t it? The arch?’
‘Yep.’
‘Anything I can do to help? I’m free nights except Wednesday.’
‘I’ll let you know. Thanks. But probably not.’
Joe can feel his juices starting to flow, and Eric can see his despondent mood starting to lift.
‘Tell you what though,’ Joe suggests. ‘If I’m not still working on it, come over Thursday night and I’ll give you a preview.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘I’ll let you know.’
OLD SCHOOL
Once he has assured Eric that he is ok, and seen him on his way, Joe has a shave, a proper shower, and a big cookup breakfast, then psychs himself up for the call to Anne. He has never been good at pulling the wool over her eyes on matters large or small, but he manages a bland lie without betraying himself when she asks how yesterday went with Betty and George. He suspects it is because she is not really focussed on his answer. She and Claire are both bubbling with gossip and expectation, absorbed in the countdown. He tells them he is expecting a call if Claire goes into labour, otherwise he’ll ring again on Friday after the meeting.
Then it is off to the office in the Sunday afternoon desolation of the light industrial area to begin a week of work as intense as he has put in since his Sydney days. He has already done the groundwork, but every drawing is reinspected and refined, some redone. The technical specifications and explanatory notes are checked, tweaked and rechecked. His presentation is honed and rehearsed. At the last minute he decides to adjust the orientation of the library building and the angles of its roof slightly, to better align with the neighbouring recreation centre and the sweeping arch of the super roof.
In some ways it has increased his workload, but he has made a decision—both strategic and intrinsic—to go old-school. No PowerPoint. No bloody computer-aided design—the CAD can come later. No glossy cover image or artist’s impression. He realises that subconsciously he is imagining himself presenting to the Prof. He smiles wryly in anticipation of the puzzled reactions he is expecting from most of the project team at JKH. But he knows that in reality it is only Johnson he has to convince, and he has been keeping Johnson in the loop.
Weird how that’s worked out. I wonder if it’s him that’s mellowed, or me.
Setting up the initial deal had been easier than Joe anticipated: a JKH project, lead architect Joe Warton, and a fee better than he’d thought he could negotiate. And the crusty bugger was genuinely enthusiastic; about the design on what he’d seen so far, and, to Joe’s astonishment, about the public benefit side of the facility. They’d even got as far as cracking the odd joke during their catch-ups, and mostly finding the other man’s funny. But he’s going to have to deliver the goods on Friday if it’s to go any further.
By Wednesday evening he is happy with where it is sitting, with just the finishing touches to go. He texts Eric to confirm a Thursday night spag bol.
BACK ON THE HORSE
The folio is on the bench, waiting for the preview when Eric rocks up. It is the first time he has slowed down all week. Stirring the sauce has him fighting off flashbacks of Saturday, heading to Betty’s once the sauce was done. Sometimes Joe wishes his culinary expertise extended beyond battered fish and spag bol.
Anne would probably call it denial, but Joe prefers to think of it as self-discipline. He rang Arcadia Glen on Monday morning and talked them into a week’s grace before he has to clear out Betty’s unit. Other than that, in the frenzy of work he has been able to more or less shut the image of Betty out of his mind apart from the odd shiver. Get through tomorrow and then I’ll start dealing with it, he tells himself, and with an effort of will gets back to running through his presentation again.
Soon he is doing it for real, with Eric as his audience, and Eric’s reaction is all that he had hoped for. As he thought, he has got something good. Eric is no pushover. He asks some probing questions, but is satisfied with the answers he gets; he is careful not to go overboard, but there is an undercurrent of excitement fizzing between them as Joe puts the drawings away. Neither of them is going to come out and say so yet, but they are both thinking it; Joe might finally be about to get back up on the horse. It is both thrilling and terrifying.
‘You haven’t noticed have you.’
Joe is folding the spaghet
ti into the saucepan, and answers without looking. ‘Noticed what?’
Eric waits for Joe to turn around then does a deliberately bad impersonation of a model, running his fingers down his torso, opening his arms wide, and doing a half turn. Joe just looks puzzled.
‘Why do I bother! Is that what Anne says to you?’
‘Sometimes. What am I supposed to do here?’
‘My shirt.’
Joe looks for the first time. Raises his eyebrows. ‘Whooh.’
‘Whooh what?’
‘Loud, now you mention it.’
‘All right though?’
‘I dunno, I suppose. You’re not asking me for fashion advice are you?’
‘Sad indictment hey, but who else am I going to turn to with Annie away. First new duds I’ve bought since … since ever. Lil always bought my clothes. The salesgirl reckoned it’s cool.’
‘What else would she say.’
‘Electric blue she called it. You don’t like it?’
‘I didn’t say that. What’s all this about?’
‘I’ve got a big day tomorrow too buddy. Hang on, I’m just gunna go and change out of this before I deal with spag bol. Got to keep it nice for the big night.’
‘Now you’ve got me intrigued.’
When he returns in his usual tee-shirt Eric fumbles his way through the story. Embarrassed to reveal that he has entered the world of online dating. More embarrassed to admit it has taken four months to get to this point, a real live date tomorrow night.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Carol. And no, I’m not going to show you the picture.’
‘Wasn’t going to ask. Where?’
Eric looks at his feet. ‘The casino.’
Joe has been scrupulously sympathetic to this point, avoiding any number of opportunities for wisecracks, but he can’t help his grimace on hearing this.
‘Not the betting part. One of the restaurants there. Her choice.’
In the look they exchange there is an unspoken, shared assumption that this might not be a good omen. They hold each other’s eyes longer than this though, longer than normal. I know this is big for you, Joe manages to convey with his eyes, and I wish you well.
