by M. J. Kelly
“He made a few average beers in the early years, and quite a lot of bad ones. It wasn’t until he spent some time researching the craft on travels through Europe and Asia that he developed the knowledge, and found the right ingredients, to create a beer that wasn’t just good, but absolutely world class. The new brewery that you see behind you is testament to his skill and hard work. Buckley’s Chance is fast becoming Australia’s most applauded and awarded craft beer, and will soon be sold in every state. I hope every time we drink a Buckley’s Chance in the years to come, we stop and remember who Shaun was, and what he left behind.” He turned to Dig’s mother and smiled weakly. She raised her bottle up at him with her lips pressed thin.
“If everyone could please lift their drinks, I’d like to raise a toast.” He held his bottle up. “To Shaun,” he said. “We’ll miss him like hell.”
“To Shaun,” the crowd answered.
Dig’s grandfather returned to the crowd.
Frank Lincroft, the family accountant, appeared at Dig’s side. A sheen of sweat covered his bald head and his glasses had slipped down his nose. “How’re you holding up Dig?”
Dig shrugged. “Okay I think. It’s a lot to take in.”
“Well, we’re all here for you if you need anything.”
“Cheers, Frank.”
Frank bit at his lip. “Do you have a second to talk?”
Dig nodded.
Frank grabbed Dig’s arm and pulled him away from the crowd. “I hate to bring this up now,” Frank said. “But have you had any thoughts on what will happen to the brewery from here on in?”
Dig glanced over to where his brother was standing against the railing. He held a glowing cigarette and leaned against a post; his eyelids were heavy with whisky. “I guess we’ll try to pick it up next week. Don’t know how we’ll organise it yet though.”
Frank nodded. “Good.” He took a sip of beer. “If you don’t mind me asking, how are you with the brewing side of things? I know your father kept that pretty close to his chest.”
Dig shrugged. “I’ve helped him out enough to know how to do it.”
Frank leaned in close and whispered. “And what about these secret ingredients he imported from India? You got a handle on that? He wouldn't even tell me what they were...”
“Yeah, we know about them.”
Frank nodded again. “Great,” he said. “Because, well, I don’t want to alarm you, but your father built the new brewery on the promise of some pretty large contracts, and the building itself is mortgaged heavily against the house.” Frank met Dig’s gaze. “It would be a good idea to get the brewery moving again as soon as possible, or your mother might just lose the family business and the family home.”
Dig looked across to his mother as she spoke to his grandfather by the kitchen door. Her shoulders were stooped and a smear of mascara ran away from the corner of her eye.
“I hope I haven’t said anything out of place,” Frank said. “But, well, out of you and your brother, I think you’re the one with the best chance of getting things back on track.”
Dig took a deep breath. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem.”
“Everyone!” Dig's brother slurred from the step above the crowd. He lifted a tumbler of whisky into the air, and a slosh of liquid spilled over the side. “Get yer’ drinks up again.”
The crowd hushed and sporadically raised their drinks.
“To a great man, my dad.” Jake lifted his glass to his mouth and tipped it back.
“Hear hear,” a deep voice answered from the rear of the group. The crowd murmured in agreement.
Jake swallowed and his lips thinned. “Just wish I could’ve been there that day. I wouldn’t have let you die.”
Silence filled the air, and Dig frowned. A flush rose into his cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.
Dig’s mother stepped forward. “It doesn’t mean anything. He’s just a little upset.” She hooked her arm around Jake’s shoulders and herded him back toward his position on the railing.
Jake shrugged her away and caught his balance against a table. “Of course I meant it!” he mumbled. “Dad was allergic to wasps. Why the hell didn’t he—”
“Shut it!” his mother snapped, and Jake’s mouth hung open.
Dig clenched his teeth and glanced around him. His neighbour dropped his eyes as he met Dig’s gaze. Someone coughed at the back of the group.
Dig’s shoulders tensed as he turned back to his mother. “No. Let him speak,” he said. “I’d like to hear his opinion.”
His mother shook her head. “I really don’t think—”
“Are you saying Dad’s death could have been avoided?”
Jake pushed a hand into his pocket. He suddenly seemed very interested in the cubes of ice in his empty glass, swirling them around in a circular rhythm.
Dig’s forehead creased. “What are you saying Jake?”
Jake blinked, then finally lifted his head and gave a shrug. “You should’ve told Dad to take the needle,” he said. “He’d be alive if you had.” He reached behind him for the bottle of whisky and poured himself another helping, then replaced the bottle firmly on the wooden balustrade with a thunk. The cousins whispered to each other beside him.
Dig stared at his brother, breathing heavily. His vision doubled as tears welled in his eyes. His hands balled into fists and his nails dug into his palms. He wanted to shout. He wanted to fight. He wanted to punch his brother’s nose so hard it bent halfway across his face.
But most of all, he wanted to get away.
The crowd parted as he stumbled toward the back steps. A tear tracked down his cheek and he wiped at it roughly with the back of his hand.
“Dig, wait!” his mother called after him.
He dropped down the steps into the backyard and cut around the corner of the house, then stopped abruptly as he nearly walked headlong into a standing ladder.
His heart sank as he recognised it. It was the same ladder his father had set up the week before, unmoved since the accident. Dig looked up to the gutter line, then stepped onto the first rung and began to climb. The ladder wobbled in his grasp.
When he reached the top he hoisted himself to the roof. The tiles were hard and jagged against his knees through the thin fabric of his suit pants. He crawled toward the chimney, then stopped beside the patch of fresh tiles that he and his father had placed the week before. He sat on the apex of the roof, and pulled his knees close to his body.
On the horizon, grey clouds tracked above the blanket of green trees. His gaze fixed on the waterhole.
Man I love the view up here, his father had said the week before. Dig pursed his lips and wiped the tears from his cheeks. An emptiness hung in his chest like a heavy weight.
His thoughts turned to his brother, and he slowly shook his head. Jake had always been an arsehole, but his words on the deck were inexcusable. How could he even bring himself to look at Jake again, let alone work with him to rebuild the family business?
A fluttering sound filled the air, and he turned to see a small multicoloured bird land on the top of the chimney beside a partially concealed nest. It lowered a grub into the twittering beak of a new hatchling, before preening itself and gliding away toward the deck.
A buzzing hum followed, and an insect rose over the line of the gutter toward him, dancing circles in the prevailing wind. It paused above him. Dig’s breath caught in his throat.
It was a wasp.
The creature’s dark eyes were ringed with a sick yellow. A blur of wings supported a bloated abdomen of black and yellow stripes, hanging heavily from its upper body.
Dig glared at the wasp. The insect represented everything that had gone wrong over the past week—the catalyst that had set the chain of bad events into action. Blood pounded in his ears.
“Piss off,” Dig shouted, and swatted his hand at it. It ducked away in the breeze before darting back, shrill and angry. The buzzing was louder now, a
nd it zigzagged through the air toward him.
“I said piss off! It’s all your bloody fault!” He leaned forward with the action of an overhand tennis smash, concentrating all his energy into the strike.
He hit it hard, a satisfying thump against the centre of his palm. The wasp buffeted downward, bounced off a roof tile and disappeared over the line of the gutter.
“That’s right.” Dig lifted his chin. “And don’t come back.” He dropped back to his rear, pulled his knees toward him, and took a few deep breaths.
A burning spear of pain shot through his right elbow. He turned to see the wasp perched on his suit, its stinger piercing the fabric.
Dig frantically swiped at the insect with the back of his hand—throwing it into the air. He dropped to his knees and crawled quickly to the gutter. When he reached the ladder he hoisted his body over the edge and climbed down, two rungs at a time.
He hit the ground and jogged across the driveway—heading for the office located in the corner of the brewery. He pulled opened the door, jumped inside, and swung it firmly shut behind him.
After flicking a switch on the wall, an overhead bank of fluorescent lights flashed once, twice, then powered into a bright glow. Dig searched the stale air around him, sure that the wasp would be circling there, tormenting him. But there was nothing.
The office was a small room, dominated by a timber desk wedged tight against the wall. Papers and folders were strewn across the surface, and an old desktop computer sat in one corner. A faded calendar hung above the desk, marked up in blue pen with stock delivery dates and meetings. A black roller chair with cracked padding sat in the middle of the room. This space was his father’s domain, and as Dig dropped into the seat it squealed in protest.
He peeled off his suit jacket and placed it on the desk, then rolled up his shirt sleeve and studied his arm. The sting mark was clearly visible, a throbbing pink volcano just below the point of his elbow. Now he’d seen it, he became more aware of the pain—a hot pulsing needle of discomfort.
“What next?” he said to the room, and leaned back in the seat, nursing his elbow, waiting for the pain to subside.
A strange flush of heat rose through his upper body and into his neck. Goose bumps broke out across his arms—making his hairs stand on end.
He released the top two buttons on his shirt, and flapped the collar. His midriff suddenly itched, and he scratched at it through the fabric. When that brought little relief, he pulled the tail of his shirt out from his pants, and found his stomach was covered in blotchy patches of pink.
“No.”
The flush of heat was in his head now, a constricting squeeze between his temples. He took a deep breath, but it caught it his lungs and he bent forward into a bout of coughing. He was alarmed that his lungs felt like they were at half capacity.
He looked back to his elbow, and saw that it had swollen further, a wide throbbing Michelin man arm from elbow to wrist.
“Crap!”
He stood up, and his vision began to swim. He reached down for the arm of the chair and held on until the room returned to focus.
After a moment, he pushed through the door, back out into the light. The sun seemed extraordinarily bright, and he shielded his eyes as he shuffled across the driveway to the main house. He turned the corner using the brickwork for support, and lumbered up the back steps to the deck.
Two elderly women stopped their conversation and watched him as he climbed the steps, before Dig’s mother spotted him and marched over. “Dig!” she said. “Where’d you go?”
“Mum,” he said, panting. “Did Dad...have any more of those needles?” He pulled up his shirt to reveal his arm, now a swollen pink mass from wrist to elbow. “I think...I’m allergic too.”
His mother raised her hand to her mouth, and her eyes widened. “A wasp?”
Dig nodded.
“Quickly.” She grabbed his good arm and dragged him through the crowd; eyes followed them as they passed through. When they entered the house she pushed him onto the couch. “Wait.” She disappeared into the hallway and returned a short time later holding an Epinephrine needle. “Here,” she said. “In the—”
“Thigh,” Dig finished for her, and grabbed the needle. He fumbled with the catch, placed it over his leg, and pressed it down.
He felt a brief twinge as it pierced his skin and entered the muscle. Soon after, a burning sensation spread through the flesh. He wanted to pull away, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to leave it in place. His heart rate and breathing increased, and a tingling sensation washed up through his body and took seat in his scalp.
His mother stared at him, open mouthed. “You okay?”
Dig struggled to think. The tingling dissolved away, but the throbbing in his arm remained. His breathing dropped back to a normal level. He nodded. “I think so.”
“I’m calling an ambulance anyway.” She disappeared into the kitchen. People crowded the doorway behind him, watching. Jake stood amongst them, a tumbler of whisky back in his grasp. As he met Dig’s gaze he scowled and shook his head, then pushed his way back out to the deck.
Dig let his head fall back against the couch. The lounge room fan revolved in the ceiling above, throwing down a welcome wall of air. He closed his eyes.
The ambulance arrived shortly after, and as the paramedics walked through the front door, Dig recognised them as the same pair that had treated his father the week before.
“This is him?” said the bald man with the beer gut. His mother nodded. He stopped beside Dig and gave him a quizzical look. “We met last week, right?”
“Yeah.”
The paramedic moved in close and studied his face, revealing a forest of dark hair up his nose. His deodorant smelled like leather.
“How’re you feeling?”
Dig shrugged. “Better than twenty minutes ago.”
The man lifted Dig’s shirt and examined his arm, then placed a stethoscope on his chest. “A few deep breaths please.” Dig did as he was told.
The man shuffled through his medical bag and came up with a new needle. “You’ve had an aggressive anaphylactic reaction to the wasp sting. This needle contains an antihistamine and something that will reduce the swelling.” He grabbed hold of Dig’s good arm and injected it into the shoulder muscle.
“You’re the son?”
Dig nodded.
“Susceptibility to allergic reactions is hereditary,” he said. “If you had left it much longer, well...I don’t think I need to tell you what would have happened. But it looks like that Epinephrine needle saved your life.”
Dig’s mother pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest. “Two stings,” she said. “What are the odds.”
Quite low, Dig thought. If you chase the wasp down and try to kill it with your bare hands that is.
“Yeah, crazy odds,” he said instead.
4
DIG SPENT A NIGHT IN HOSPITAL under observation, but when the anaphylaxis didn’t return, he was released early the next morning. His mother drove him back to the house.
As they arrived home, Dig stepped out of the car into an overcast morning. A plane droned somewhere behind the clouds. He stretched and yawned.
“Thanks for picking me up,” he said.
“No problem,” said his mother, smiling weakly. “You want some lunch?”
Dig’s eyes fixed on the brewery. The roller door was cranked open. His brow furrowed. “Maybe later. I might head next door for a bit.”
He walked across the drive and stopped at the entrance to the warehouse. The air was cool inside, and his footfalls on the concrete echoed softly in the open space. Tall shelves flanked either side of the doorway, packed with orange pallets of beer, ready for delivery.
The storage area opened into the heart of the brewery, the cluster of shiny metal structures that were used in the beer making process itself—triangular roller mills, circular mash tuns, brew kettles, fermentation tanks, and at the back, tallest of all, wa
s the large cylindrical silo that held the fermented barley. This was the area where his father had spent most of his time—and Dig half expected him to walk around a corner with a tub of hops balanced over his shoulder, flick a few switches and fire the equipment up for a new batch.
But he didn’t appear, and the equipment lay silent, taunting him—for every day it wasn’t in use was another day the brewery would fall deeper behind in their orders, and another step closer to bankruptcy.
Dig kept walking, past the brewing equipment and storage silos to the rear of the warehouse, and stopped in front of a low rectangular room set in the far corner. This room was concrete lined, and the only access door was sealed and locked.
A keypad was fixed on the wall beside the doorway, and Dig reached up to type in a six digit code. The device emitted a high pitched beep and the door popped open. A wall of cold air rushed out at him, triggering a carpet of goosebumps on his arms. He stepped inside.
The room was capped by a low concrete ceiling and lit by ranks of bright fluorescent lights. Metal shelving covered the walls, packed from floor to ceiling with white plastic tubs.
Dig pulled out the nearest tub from the shelf to find it empty. The tub beside it was empty too, but the third was half full of pale orange flower buds. These were the hops, the ingredient in beer that offers antibacterial and preservative benefits, balances out the sweetness of the malt with bitterness, and adds floral aromas that are the major contributor to a beer’s flavour.
Dig grabbed a handful of petals and held them up to his nose. The fragrance was bitter and yet sweetly citrus. His father’s words came back to him.
These are the best hops in the world, without a doubt.
“Checking out the magic ingredient are we?” said his brother from behind him. Dig’s shoulders tensed, and he dropped the petals to the ground.
