The Artisan Heart

by Dean Mayes

  Isabelle straightened in her seat and blinked. “Oh, I don’t know. There have been consequences for those actions and I’ve racked up quite a few.”

  As a quiet descended between them, she shifted in her chair, searching for an out until her gaze fell across the van, just visible beyond the edge of the house. She cleared her throat. “Do you think it’ll be ready?”

  Hayden followed her gaze, her last observation repeating itself in his mind. He nodded. “Yes. I think so.”

  He glanced at Genevieve, who gulped down the last of her hot chocolate and gathered up her dolls.

  UNDER THE LIGHT FROM ISABELLE’S globe, Hayden tightened a locking clamp around the end of the new fuel line, while Isabelle waited impatiently in the driver’s seat, fingering the key in the ignition. Genevieve sat next to her, craning her neck over the dashboard, waiting for his signal.

  Hayden rose, giving the line one last jiggle to ensure it was secure. He gave a thumbs-up. “Turn the ignition, but don’t start it for a moment. Give the pump time to feed some fuel into the system.”

  Isabelle blew air through her teeth and pumped the accelerator pedal. Looking to Genevieve, she turned the key until the dashboard lights came on. A flurry of static issued from the car’s stereo system.

  “Okay!” Hayden called.

  The van’s engine gave a bone-jarring cough and splutter. Miraculously, it erupted to life.

  Isabelle gasped and her face lit up. Genevieve felt the van’s vibration and grinned brightly. Depressing the accelerator, Isabelle listened as the engine revved with a satisfying power. It was smooth and responsive—there was nothing so much as a hiccough. She clenched her tongue between her teeth. It was all she could do to prevent herself squealing with delight. Still, she bounced up and down in her seat victoriously. Genevieve joined in, tossing her toys into the air between them.

  Leaning over the engine, Hayden watched the fuel line, testing its purchase on the outlet. He clicked his tongue with satisfaction.

  Isabelle stepped out from the cabin, keeping the engine running as she joined Hayden in front of her van. “I can’t believe it! That was it?”

  Hayden nodded. “I’d still ask a mechanic to give it the once-over. Maybe give the full system a flush.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “This has seriously saved my skin.”

  Hayden wiped his hands on a nearby rag, returned the screwdriver to his father’s tool chest, and gathered up the remaining tools. Genevieve climbed down and set about helping him. “I’ll take that loaf whenever you’ve got one available,” he said with a small smile. “The cranberry and hazelnut sounded good.”

  “Of course. Of course!” Isabelle exclaimed.

  Hayden pursed his lips as he lifted his tool chest. “I should get home. If I let the fire go out, I’m going to freeze.”

  Isabelle stepped forward to lower the bonnet, snapping it closed over the now-humming engine.

  Then, she turned and regarded Hayden. Neither one could meet the other’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said, holding her hand out to him awkwardly.

  Hayden took it and shook it, feeling a jolt at the touch of her skin. He stepped back and gave a nod, then acknowledged Genevieve.

  “Good enough, then,” he said, addressing Isabelle.

  “Right,” Isabelle returned. She turned away, turned back, then away again. Hayden stepped out onto the road, and shuffled away towards the centre of the town.

  ~ Chapter 15 ~

  “MITCHELL CROWLEY!”THE VOICE CALLED OUT INTO A RECEPTION AREA POPULATED BY TWO ROWS OF CHAIRS, POSItioned back-to-back across from a barred window. At either end, two heavy steel doors were manned by silent prison guards watching over the single occupant.

  Mitch Crowley lifted his powerful frame to its full six feet, three inches. His hulking shoulders stretched the fabric of his prison-issue T-shirt as he reached his muscular arm down beside him to snatch up a blue shoulder bag.

  As he approached the barred window, a uniformed clerk set down a cardboard box on the metal counter between them. She opened a ledger and checked the page. Her hand disappeared inside the box and she took out an item from inside, setting it down on the counter.

  “One checked flannel shirt, washed, pressed, and folded,” she said, ticking a box on the ledger. “One brown leather wallet with $150 inside, Medicare card, heavy-vehicle driver’s license, standard driver’s license, VISA and MasterCard.”

  Placing each item beside the shirt and ticking the ledger in turn, she whittled down the box’s contents, arriving at a pair of denim jeans. “One pair of jeans, washed, pressed and…” Her voice trailed away and she set her pen down so she could hold the jeans up in both hands. Allowing them to unfold, she regarded Mitch’s waist and loosened a sardonic grin. “Might want to check if these still fit.”

  Mitch glared at her. His thumb tapped the metal counter. There was a flicker of the muscles at the corner of his mouth.

  The clerk fixed him with a saccharine smile that carried just a hint of warning.

  She folded the jeans, set them down, and marked them off.

  A leather belt. Underwear. A pair of Blundstone boots. A thick, navy jacket. A leather shoulder bag. The final item she revealed was a small square of card with a glossy sheen—a photograph of a child.

  A girl, about three years old.

  Her sanctimonious grin faded as she lingered on the photograph. Her pen hand hovered over the ledger. “This…will do you no good.”

  Mitch snatched the photograph from her. One of the guards stood alert, ready to act, but the clerk glanced in his direction and shook her head, warding him off.

  She checked off the final items. “That’s everything. Everything you came here with.”

  Shepherding his belongings into the shoulder bag, Mitch turned on his heel and marched towards the door. The guard turned, lifted a receiver from a handle, and mumbled something into it. A moment later, an audible click could be heard. The guard turned the handle and pulled, and Mitch stepped through.

  DRESSED IN HIS CIVILIAN CLOTHES, Mitch sat at a table before a bookish, suited administration officer whose suit appeared too big for his spidery little frame. He was studying a binder of documents, running the end of a pen down the page.

  The office here was brighter. A large window afforded a generous view outside. There was grass and trees. A car park. Beyond the fence, a highway. The highway that would take Mitch Crowley away from this place.

  A clock behind the little man ticked. It was the only sound in the room. It annoyed Mitch enough to make him grind his teeth.

  The officer appeared to be making a deliberate effort to take as much time as possible as he examined the paperwork, turning each sheet of paper over and carefully scanning each section. If he was intimidated by Mitch’s presence, he gave no indication.

  Finally, the officer spoke. “Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Crowley. Bank account, Medicare, and Centrelink are all up and running. Your accommodation checks out and you have gainful employment beginning next week.”

  Closing the binder, he slid it across the desk. “You’ll be required to check in with your probation officer at the appointed date and time, listed on page two of your release warrant.”

  Mitch took the binder and placed it into his bag. He was about to stand, when the officer cleared his throat. “One more thing, Mr. Crowley.”

  Mitch glared at the officer as he handed over an envelope. “This is a Family Violence Intervention Order, posted by your former spouse, Isabelle Sampi. It requires that you do not seek to make contact with Ms. Sampi or your daughter, Genevieve Sampi. Further, you are prohibited from knowing their current whereabouts. You are able to contest the order, but I am obliged to advise there are severe penalties for breaching the order as it currently stands.”

  Mitch took the envelope. His expression gave nothing away.

  “Do you have any questions?” the administration officer asked.

  Mitch got up, turned his back, a
nd left.

  A PAIR OF AUTOMATIC DOORS parted, and Mitch stepped through the exit of the Marngoneet Correctional Centre. He walked alone along the path. A breeze tugged at the treetops, carrying with it the scent of the sea. After four years, the world outside felt vast.

  Coming to the end of the path, Mitch lowered his bag to the pavement and scanned the car park in both directions. He pulled back the cuff of his shirt and examined his watch.

  11:05 a.m.

  Frustrated, he shook his head.

  As he stood there, shadows on the bitumen cast by a pair of birds caught his attention. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Mitch watched two seagulls flying overhead.

  The muscles around his mouth twitched, pulling his lips back in a fleeting smile.

  The sound of an engine caused Mitch to look back as a large, mud-spattered Toyota rolled up in front of him. It stopped abruptly, causing its tyres to screech. The driver wound down the window.

  Mitch bent down and peered inside.

  “Bonjour, mon ami,” came a voice from the cabin.

  HAND-IN-HAND WITH GENEVIEVE, ISABELLE APPROACHED the Luschcombe cottage and scanned it for signs of life. The sound of a motor echoed off the hillside behind it. Freeing her hand from Genevieve’s and balancing a tea-towel-covered mass in her other arm, Isabelle signed, “I hear a lawn mower.”

  Genevieve’s face lit up and she skipped towards the driveway.

  She rounded the fence line and passed by Hayden’s ute, then skipped ahead to the gate and pulled herself up. She spied Hayden, pushing an ancient lawn mower over the back lawn. He wasn’t so much pushing it as he was trying to wrangle the machine in the direction he wanted it to go. One of its front wheels slew sideways along its axle and fell off, forcing him to stop, pick it up, and wedge it back on before continuing.

  Genevieve’s eyes twinkled in wonderment.

  What had previously been an overgrown jungle now resembled a luxurious green carpet. The brick path flanking the lawn had been edged, while the beds along the fence had been transformed. The overgrown vines and weeds were gone, revealing a shabby but potentially pretty garden, bookended by a pair of fruit trees. The bed was populated by a rosebush, along with several lavender, the fat teardrops of fuschia buds, salvia, a crepe myrtle, a daisy bush—even a pride of Madeira. A frangipani leaned over a wrought-iron arbour that stood in the middle of it all. Beside it, a small stone birdbath, encircled by a ring of pretty natives, had been filled with water.

  Though most of the flowering specimens were dormant, there was enough colour there to bedazzle Genevieve. She beamed at her mother with delight.

  “It looks like a storybook,” she signed.

  “Come on, you,” Isabelle nudged her, and she climbed down so they could enter.

  Hayden turned at the far end of the property and looked up to see them. He thumbed the throttle and the mower’s engine chugged to a stop, to be replaced with the tinny sound of jazz music playing from a speaker over by the veranda. He peeled back a pair of earmuffs.

  Isabelle noted his appearance with amusement. A moth-eaten woollen jumper that had seen better days, dusty overalls, and a pair of steel-capped boots. A beanie was pulled down over his ears. The rugged garb marked a stark contrast with the man she thought she knew.

  She found the contrast appealing.

  Genevieve waved as he approached and Isabelle nodded. “I’m here to settle my account.”

  For a brief moment, Hayden appeared puzzled until she indicated to the mass in her arm. “Your loaves,” she clarified sardonically. “Freshly baked.”

  “Oh,” Hayden responded with an embarrassed smile. “Very good.”

  Isabelle felt a tug as Genevieve pointed out the old table.

  Passing in under the porch, Isabelle set the loaves down on the table and pulled back the tea towel, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam from within. Hayden leaned in, taking a deep inhale. A blissful smile crossed his face. “Mmm,” he murmured appreciatively.

  Isabelle smirked as he lingered there for several seconds.

  Realising they were both staring at him, Hayden stood and cleared his throat. Isabelle patted Genevieve’s hand and she wrapped the tea towel around the loaves.

  “Thank you,” he said. He hesitated, before turning towards the lawn mower.

  Detaching the grass catcher, Hayden prepared to push it towards the shed with one hand while holding the catcher in the other. The balancing act appeared impossible to manage, as the mower began to list to one side before the front wheel fell off, again.

  Isabelle shook her head and came over and took the catcher from him. “Let me help. You know, for a doctor, you’re kind of uncoordinated.”

  Hayden attempted an offended glare but it didn’t hold. “This machine has apparently been held together with good luck. I’ve been struggling with it all morning.”

  “It does look as though it’s seen better days.”

  “I’m willing to bet it has experienced at least one world war.”

  Isabelle smirked as he lifted the mower over the step of the work shed and pushed it into an empty space. Isabelle stepped in behind him and handed over the catcher.

  “So this is the infamous tearoom I’ve heard about,” she said, turning a circle.

  Hayden nodded. “It seems Genevieve had quite a profitable concern going on here,” he replied. “The local teddy bear population was raving about it. But, tenants must pay their rent and it was clear your Genevieve was in arrears.”

  Isabelle chuckled as she placed her hand on the workbench and appraised the dusty wood lathe.

  “Ah, the legendary nerve centre of Russell Luschcombe,” she remarked. “There are stories about this place. Most of Walhalla still talks about your father. There isn’t a building in this town that hasn’t been touched by his hand at one time or another.”

  She saw the black-and-white photograph pinned to the wall. “This is he? And you!”

  Hayden looked at his childhood self in front of the lathe, his father’s arms surrounding him as he held a chisel to a piece of timber. It was the same image he’d had in his own garage in Adelaide, the exception here being that Russell Luschcombe was in full view, rather than cut off as he was in Hayden’s copy.

  “Yes.” His response was deadpan.

  “You wood-turn as well?”

  “Occasionally. I’m not very good.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Isabelle challenged. “You would have had a great teacher. Your father did some work for my granny when she owned the bakery building.”

  “He was very talented,” Hayden said.

  Isabelle noticed his hesitation at talk of his father. She opened her mouth to speak, but Hayden turned towards the door.

  Isabelle blinked. “Okay,” she mouthed.

  As they emerged from the work shed, Isabelle looked across the lawn to see Genevieve kneeling by the garden bed, exploring the new shrubbery and picking some flowers for a posy.

  Isabelle noticed Hayden’s subtle smile, realising this was the first time she’d seen any affection in his expression.

  “She’s inquisitive. Curious,” he said. “She takes in everything.”

  “What she lacks in hearing, she makes up for with her other senses,” Isabelle said. “I’ve encouraged it. In many ways, it gives her an advantage. Because she’s so attentive, she sees things others don’t.”

  “Has she been deaf from birth?”

  Isabelle stiffened and seemed to struggle with how to answer.

  “No.” Her voice quivered. “It was an accident. I…”

  Though she felt an inexplicable urge to offer more, Isabelle caught herself and closed herself off abruptly—too abruptly. She was certain he’d sensed her discomfort.

  “You must be very proud,” he offered casually. “She is quite remarkable.”

  “Thank you.” Isabelle hooked him a sideways glance as she tried to restore her veneer.

  Genevieve rose from the garden bed and skipped across to them, holding
out her carefully constructed posy to Isabelle. Both she and Hayden grinned as she took the flowers from her daughter and Isabelle tousled her hair, relieved for the diversion.

  “Thank you.” She bowed her head.

  “I can see how beautiful this garden was,” Genevieve signed to Hayden.

  His gaze drifted over the lawn. “All credit goes to my mother. At least for what it was,” he said and signed simultaneously. “She was a landscape designer. Gardens were her passion. You could say this was her testing ground. She was forever changing it up, trying out new things, seeing what grew well and flourished.”

  “That sounds more like an artisan,” Isabelle remarked.

  “An artisan? Yes. I suppose she was,” Hayden said proudly. “People called on her services from far and wide. She was retained by a number of prominent Melbourne families to conceive and execute her designs, and maintain them. She even consulted to the Governor of Victoria.”

  Something akin to wonderment crossed Genevieve’s expression. “Your mum was deaf, like me, wasn’t she?” she signed.

  Hayden nodded. “Just like you.”

  Genevieve smiled and stood taller, causing a warm rush of pride to pass through Isabelle.

  Isabelle noted, too, the contrast in Hayden’s tone as he recalled his memories of his mother, how different it was from when he’d spoken about his father just moments ago.

  It intrigued her.

  The gate squeaked on its hinges and they turned to see Max, waving as he entered. “Good morning!”

  Genevieve squeaked aloud as she ran across to Max, leaping into his outstretched arms and wrapping her own around his neck in an enthusiastic squeeze.

  “Ho-ho! Good Lord, child!” Max exclaimed. “You sure have a powerful grip!”

  Max came over, bouncing Genevieve in his arms and taking in the scene before him. “Well, this is a sight for sore eyes. Lavinia’s garden lives again.”

  Hayden smiled. “I’m not sure it’s back from the grave just yet. Let’s call it life support for the time being.”