by David Cohen
PIONEER
Picture a man holding a large adjustable spanner. The man: late fifties, grey hair, blue tracksuit, a cap that says OSAKA, JAPAN on the front. The spanner: a Stanley, chrome vanadium. It’s a satisfyingly weighty implement, which he’s using to dismantle part of a fence made of machine-cut pine logs. He grunts as the spanner grapples with a recalcitrant bolt. At last it loosens. ‘Nice one,’ he says under his breath. The man’s name is Dennis.
Squatting, Dennis eases one of the logs away from its vertical supports. He presses it to his chest with both arms and struggles to his feet, tottering slightly, like a weightlifter. Having conveyed the log to the tray of his HiLux utility, he removes his cap, rests it on the vehicle’s roof and wipes his brow. Dennis is one of those self-conscious balding men who wear caps even at night. But he keeps losing them. This one being his favourite, Dennis’s wife has sewn his contact details into the lining. An extreme measure, Dennis thinks. On the other hand, should he lose this cap, he can’t very well just go back to Osaka and get another one.
Dennis, a property and conveyancing lawyer living in Aden Lake, had taken up carpentry after watching a man on a lifestyle show demonstrate how to make a bookcase. Once Dennis had completed his own modest bookcase, the DIY bug bit hard. He built benches, tables, cabinets, sideboards, wall units. Then he turned his attention outdoors. It wasn’t so very long before he’d transformed the backyard with multi-levelled timber decking and rustic-looking patio furniture. Now he sought a new backyard project: something more ambitious, more radical, more expressive of Dennis the man.
The answer came in a dream. He dreamed of a cabin: a small, single-roomed log edifice. Dennis’s dream self sat in the cabin, listening to the wind outside. For some reason he was smoking a pipe.
As a young student Dennis had developed a fascination with the American West, about which he so loved to read in between Trusts and Estate Taxation and Law of Stamp Duties in Victoria. Many a time he’d pictured the wide open plains and the crude wooden dwellings of the frontiersmen – homes they’d built with their own hands. Maybe Dennis’s dream contained a faint echo of these youthful imaginings, because when he awoke, the cabin – dimensions and all – was still vivid in his mind. He went into his study and made a quick sketch. It won’t be out on the plain, he thought, but you can’t have everything.
Dennis was still thinking about the cabin as he and his wife Wendy took their Sunday-morning walk around the Gavin A L Cream Memorial Reserve. He was thinking that, even if he couldn’t build his cabin in the wilderness, a modicum of authenticity would be desirable. The frontiersmen procured their materials from the world around them. They felled trees, stripped the bark, cured the logs. But you couldn’t really do that in Aden Lake.
He noticed that the reserve’s perimeter fence comprised hundreds of pine logs, each one bolted at right angles to two posts, which were themselves shorter lengths of the same kind of log. He let Wendy walk ahead, telling her he wanted to take a brief rest, and then wandered over to examine one of the crosspieces. It was low-grade pine, but thoroughly dried out and most likely treated with some kind of termite-resistant chemical. The log had a diameter of seventeen centimetres (the man on the lifestyles show said you should always carry a tape measure) and a pleasingly dark-reddish hue. He bent over and tugged at it, as if it were the handle of a giant door in the earth. The bolts were a bit loose and the log shifted slightly.
That’s it! he thought. My cabin will be authentic, because the true pioneer forges his own path!
*
‘I’m off to my class,’ Wendy said. ‘Don’t forget tomorrow night we’re going to the movies with the Turners.’
‘Those people from your book club? Didn’t we go to the movies with them last week?’
‘Yes. This is what people do, Dennis. It’s called socialising. And maybe you could make more of an effort to communicate this time.’
‘I can’t very well communicate while I’m watching a film, can I?’
‘Don’t be clever, Dennis.’
She kissed him goodbye. It was 7.45 p.m. He waited until 8.15 before setting off.
He’d already done some secret reconnaissance, counting the number of horizontal logs in the Gavin A L Cream Memorial Reserve’s perimeter fence. There were eight hundred and he required only fifty, a mere one-sixteenth of the total. He mapped, in his memory, the secluded stretches opposite the Aden Lake Medical Centre and, further around, the rear of Crockett Drive Shopping Village. There was also that quiet strip of road, terminating at the cricket pavilion car park, which separated the reserve from the adjoining sporting fields. Dennis calculated that five logs per night over ten non-consecutive nights, rotating between these three locations, would be a realistic approach. He refamiliarised himself with Wendy’s timetable: Monday nights, French class; Wednesday nights, bridge class; Thursday nights, book club. He’d have to work fast and be on his guard.
The stillness of the reserve at night unnerved him at first. The outer edges were dimly illuminated by streetlights, but the interior of that grassy expanse seemed dark and mysterious. Shivering slightly, he grabbed his spanner and set to work. The feel of steel on steel, that gratifying resistance, eased his mind, and as the time passed, his ears became attuned to the sounds of the park. The night breeze ruffled the leaves of the gum trees and whistled between the bone-white goalposts on the football oval. Dennis could hear the comforting thwack… thwack coming from the illuminated tennis courts at the far side of the reserve. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined that it was someone chopping down a tree in the distance.
Trevor Cream, the son of the man after whom the Gavin A L Cream Memorial Reserve was named, lived alone in the house his late father had occupied. Trevor took a proprietorial interest in the reserve, walking around it once a week to check that it was being properly maintained. More often than not, he felt that it wasn’t, and phoned the council to complain in his dry, flinty voice.
One day as he made his rounds, he noticed a gap in the fence, a gap which, he was certain, hadn’t existed a week ago. The two short posts, bereft of their bridging log, stood isolated and powerless. As he walked on, he was astonished to see more of these unexplained intervals. Cream returned to his starting point and circumnavigated the entire reserve again, this time with notebook in hand, recording the precise location of every gap. When he’d finished, he rang the council on his mobile, demanding to be put in touch with the Parks and Reserves Senior Landscape Architect.
‘Hello, Mr Cream. Everything all right?’
‘No. Everything is not all right.’ Cream’s voice sounded drier and flintier than usual. ‘Somebody’s been taking logs from the fence.’
‘Which fence might that be?’
A pained and yet somehow dry and flinty sigh came from the other end of the line. ‘The perimeter fence of the Gavin A L Cream Reserve. I’ve been right around and counted fifty missing logs. Fifty! I can tell you the exact position of each gap if you like. It’s all in my notebook.’
‘Your log book, you might say.’
‘Do you think this is funny?’ snapped Cream.
‘No. Sorry.’
‘It’s your job to protect the reserve. If people are allowed to get away with this kind of thing, who knows what they’ll take next? It’s a bloody disgrace!’
The landscape architect knew there was no point arguing.
‘All right, I’ll send an inspector to look into it.’
The landscape architect hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and looked around for someone else to tell his log book joke to.
Dennis laboured early mornings and weekends. He’d always intended to build the cabin single-handed, and that’s exactly what he did, erecting a simple scaffolding and using a block and tackle to haul the logs into place. He stuck to basic implements wherever possible: an axe to hew the wood, a mallet and chisel to refine the saddle notches, a club hammer to drive in the spikes. He stopped any gaps between the logs with earth and moss f
rom the garden. Assorted bits of timber, including pickets from Dennis’s old back fence, served as roof shingles. Following the example of the American frontiersmen, he cut the opening for the cabin’s single door – an assemblage of planks, bolted together – after the structure was complete. The frontiersmen built their cabins without windows; so did Dennis.
The finished cabin, barely larger than a standard garden shed, was in Dennis’s eyes a palace, and he felt a bond with those self-reliant spirits of yesteryear. At some personal risk, he’d taken locally available materials and arranged them into something greater than the sum of its parts.
The Parks and Reserves Senior Landscape Architect picked up the phone and dialled Field Supervisor Rod Munro’s extension.
‘Listen, Rod, Cream’s on the warpath again. He claims that one-sixteenth of the fence is missing at the you-know-what. Would you mind checking it out?’
After nearly a decade spent inspecting parks and reserves, Rod felt that it had all become a bit routine. With his eye for detail and nose for human psychology, he was more suited to fighting crime. Didn’t his mother always say that he should have been a detective? Still, investigating the disappearance of a fence was something. Maybe he’d uncover more than he bargained for.
Rod grabbed the keys to his truck.
‘I’m on my way.’
Dennis leaned back in his chair, breathing in sawdust and flattened earth. Over the last week he’d spent most of his free time in the cabin, enhancing the interior with a few simple, practical touches: a workbench, a wooden chair, a slightly rusty kerosene lantern. For ornamentation, his father’s old hunting rifle, which hadn’t worked since 1972, hung on the wall.
‘Dennis!’ It was Wendy calling from the house. ‘We’re meeting the Turners at the cinema at seven! Can you get a move on?’
Dennis really didn’t care for the Turners. Far more pleasant to sit here alone by the lamplight, listening to the crickets chirp outside.
‘Coming!’
*
Rod Munro made his way around the perimeter fence of the Gavin A L Cream Memorial Reserve, taking photographs of the gaps: wide-angle shots to place the gaps in what he liked to call a meaningful context. The number remained at fifty, but the offender could strike again at any time.
He checked for clues: footprints, tools. Examining the lonely pine stumps, he noted there had been no violence in the removal of the logs; the bolts had been carefully withdrawn and then reinserted after the logs were taken. It was the work of a professional. But a professional what?
Coming to the cricket pavilion, he paced around the car park, eyes glued to the ground. He endeavoured to enter the mind of the offender. Why would I steal logs? he asked himself. They have no monetary value. True, I might be using the wood for my own purposes, but how does that explain my seemingly arbitrary selection of the logs? Rod tried to think laterally. What if it wasn’t arbitrary at all? And suppose, just for a moment, that the logs were irrelevant? What if this person, or these persons, wasn’t taking away logs so much as putting in gaps, for reasons known only to this person, or these persons? A tantalising hypothesis, one that demanded further exploration. Rod turned it over in his head as he walked back to the truck. Then he noticed something sitting on top of a nearby rubbish bin.
Dennis sat in the warm yellow glow of his kerosene lantern, whittling a chunk of pine with his jackknife. This will make a fine weathervane for my roof, he thought, listening to the car horns on the main road. He imagined a prairie outside, the lowing of distant cattle.
He looked at the wooden shape in his hands, puffed meditatively on his homemade pipe. Wood must be worked with, he said to himself, not dictated to. Lately he’d spent hours on end fashioning simple objects such as this. Maybe, he thought, I could quit my job and be an artisan. He was fed up with property and conveyancing law – with any law. You couldn’t make a weathervane out of codes and statutes.
‘Dennis!’ Wendy’s voice came from somewhere outside. ‘We have to leave soon. The Turners are always very punctual.’
He blew lightly on the weathervane to remove some shavings.
‘Actually,’ he called back, ‘I think I might stay here.’
The words surprised Dennis, as if they’d issued from the very walls of the cabin.
‘Pardon me?’
‘I’m just not up to it. I’d only be a spare wheel.’
Wendy approached the cabin door. ‘What am I going to tell them, though?’
‘Tell them whatever you like,’ Dennis replied. ‘I’m not fussed.’
‘Dennis, I want you to come out and talk to me. You spend far too much time in that cabin, and … well, I have to say that it’s really no way for a man your age to behave.’
The door opened just enough for Dennis to poke his head out. He hadn’t shaved in a while and his face was covered with white stubble. He wore a fur-lined hunting jacket.
‘I’m tired of being a man my age.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Enjoy the film, dear.’
The door closed.
‘Dennis! Open up at once!’
But the door remained shut. She waited a while, then returned to the house. She picked up the phone to tell the Turners that Dennis was sick and they couldn’t make it. Maybe he really was sick. Maybe he was losing his mind. She stood there holding the phone. Then a knock at the front door made her jump.
Rod Munro stood on the step, idly contemplating a wind chime dangling from the eaves. The front door opened to reveal a woman clutching a cordless phone.
‘Is Dennis about?’ he said. ‘I, er, think I’ve found his cap.’
Without a word, she led Rod through to the backyard, where he was startled to see, at the far end of the yard, a log cabin. My instincts have proved correct once again, he thought. As they drew closer, he was in no doubt; even though the bolt holes in the logs had been caulked, he recognised the dark pine. Inspecting the exterior of the cabin, he couldn’t help but be impressed by its neatly interlocking components, its simple elegance. Mixed emotions followed: triumph at having cracked the case; outrage at such flagrant disregard for council property; grudging admiration for the sheer audacity of the undertaking.
Wendy knocked on the little front door. ‘Dennis?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Dennis, Mr Munro from the council is here. He’s a park inspector.’
Silence from inside the cabin.
‘Do you hear me, Dennis?’
Still no response.
Rod stepped forward and stood at her side. ‘Hi,’ he said, as if addressing the cabin itself. ‘Just wanted a word, if you don’t mind. Got your cap here.’
Inside, Dennis fingered the crown of his head. ‘Idiot!’ he whispered. But deep down he’d known this day would come. Well, he thought, maybe I did steal a few logs. But so what? It’s just a fence.
‘Dennis, Mr Munro says some logs have gone missing from the Gavin Cream Reserve. Please tell me you didn’t take them. You know I support your DIY projects, but that’s going too far.’
Rod wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Tracking down log thieves was one thing; coaxing them out of their hide-outs called for a different set of skills. He wondered if he was in over his head.
‘Dennis, I advise you to … er … Look, if you’ll just accompany me back to, er … I’ll tell them to go easy on you – you have my word.’ This guy could be unhinged, he thought. Maybe I should call for backup.
‘Dennis?’ Wendy said. ‘Are you okay?’ She pulled at the door, but it had been bolted shut. She rapped on the planks. ‘Dennis!’
Dennis remained seated, wondering if he should capitulate before this went any further, come out quietly and throw himself on the mercy of the Aden Lake Council. What, he asked himself, would a frontiersman do in this situation? That’s the key question. Would a frontiersman give up his home just like that? Hell, no! This is my cabin, on my land, and I’ll be buggered if anyone’s going to take it away!
Dennis rose from the chair, thrust out his chest and bellowed, ‘If you want me, you’re gonna have to come in and get me!’
He took the ornamental firearm down from its hook on the wall. Even though the weapon didn’t actually work, just holding it gave him strength. Feet planted firmly on the earth floor, eyes fixed on the door, fingers caressing the gun, Dennis waited. He was ready to fight.
TONY’S FAREWELL
It made no difference to me that Tony was leaving. I’d only been with the organisation a short time, and anyway, he and I had barely exchanged two words. So I was surprised when the boss asked me to organise the farewell, and to get it happening as soon as possible.
‘Why me, though?’ I said. ‘I hardly know the guy.’
‘That’s why you,’ he said. I didn’t know what he meant, but of course I understood later.
‘I want to make this clear,’ he said. ‘You may be some gen-Y hot shot’ – the boss always called me that – ‘but you haven’t proved yourself until you’ve organised and overseen the proceedings of Tony’s farewell.’
The boss could be quite intimidating at times, scary in fact, especially when he lost it – and he tended to lose it a lot. But I never showed fear and I think he respected that, and maybe that’s partly why he gave me the project. I knew I had to show him I could organise a farewell with as much skill and efficiency as anyone else in the organisation, especially since he’d stressed that this farewell not only had to go smoothly, but it had to be special, too.
‘This farewell,’ he said, ‘must uniquely recognise and celebrate Tony’s contributions to the organisation over the years. Normally when it comes to send-offs, it’s strictly no-frills. In this business, frills are a luxury we can’t afford. But for Tony I want frills, lots of them. All right? Whatever else you might think about Tony, he was one of the best we had.’
