The studio, closed up all morning, was stifling. Finn opened the windows and reluctantly pulled on his stiff overalls. Art had never been pressured before, but Edmund was going to stay on his back. He’d been alarmed but pragmatic when he learned of Finn’s lack of progress. Suggested that Finn assemble a freestanding clockwork creature that opened and closed a small gate. Audiences could walk through it as part of the outdoor sculpture experience. When the show was done, it could be adapted and reassembled for the first commission. It would deliver just what the customer wanted: an opening device mounted inside their wrought-iron gate, visible from the street but out of reach, triggered remotely once the person inside the house had ascertained they wanted to let the visitors in. Which in itself signified a lifestyle outside Finn’s imagining.
Sweat trickled down from his armpits. No welding, he decided. That was for early morning when it was still cool, or nighttime. He’d spread out the components on the floor, see what else he needed and hope to God he could replicate the creation of Owl and Dragon.
Would he ever get used to the heat? Finn’s beloved leather jacket was turning mouldy in the cupboard, barely needed in what passed for winter so far north. It wasn’t even summer yet. They’d timed their arrival nicely nine months ago in February for the start of the school year, just catching the last of the heat, and it had nearly wiped him out then. Winter had been superb – cool nights, warm days; he’d have been happy if it stayed just like that.
He heard voices drifting in from the pool: splashing, Toby’s high-pitched squeals of delight, Jarrah’s voice, barely raised, Bridget’s laughter. Whatever happened with the artworks didn’t really matter, he reminded himself. Look what he had.
He wouldn’t forget it again. He’d taken his family for granted, back in Tasmania. Hadn’t thought what he was risking. Hadn’t meant to risk it at all. Sandra Neumann was Bridget’s best friend and the two families hung out. Finn liked her professor husband Hans well enough, though they didn’t have much in common. Jarrah played with their son Oliver. It had been that way for years, and Finn had no idea why, in the course of a long, drunken evening at the Neumanns’, something shifted between him and Sandra. He’d followed her into the kitchen to help clear up, and they’d both giggled when their hips bumped at the sink, and the next thing they’d been kissing like crazy.
He’d pulled apart from her – faster than he wanted to, slower than he should have – and shook his head like a dog coming out of water. His groin ached. His wife and her husband were in the next room. All their kids were sleeping upstairs.
Sandra stared at him, guilty and rumpled and suddenly very sexy. ‘That can’t ever happen again.’
But it did. Twice. Each time hotter and more dangerous. More fumbling, more grinding, more exploration.
The thing was, it took him by surprise. Sure, their sex life had been quiet after Toby was born – but he was sure it would come back once they started sleeping normally again, just like it had with Jarrah. He didn’t know why Sandra was suddenly so attractive, until he thought back and realised Bridget hadn’t looked at him in that hungry way for a long time.
Finn picked up a cog and ran his hands around its rim. Tasmania was his old life. The long days and long nights of high latitudes, the dusks that lingered for hours, the cold. Woodwork. Leather jackets. Open fires. And family – brother, sisters, father. It was their Irish blood, he reckoned. The Brennans and Tasmania were a natural fit.
Metalwork, it seemed, was his new life. Instead of living in sight of those tall Tasmanian forests, he now resided in a landscape shaped by molten heat and pressure, an extinct volcano, whose crooked core loomed over the town, visible for miles. Now he was a welder, not a carver, and the digital world wanted his machines, wanted cogs and gears, wanted a fitter and turner-turned-artist to remind them how things worked mechanically.
So be it. He’d have been happy in Tasmania forever, and he hated being away from the rest of his family. But after Bridget found out about Sandra and him, she demanded they leave Hobart. Having felt the possibility of losing her, he’d have gone anywhere she wanted.
JARRAH
Didn’t really want to go to the beach, but Mum insisted. She wanted to take Toby and me to visit Nan on the way home too. So I got my stuff, chucked some things in a bag for Toby, buckled him into his car seat. Normally I’d recite The Monster Kings from the front while he turned the pages on his lap in the back, but today I turned on the radio and pulled down my sunglasses.
‘I should have asked if you wanted to bring a friend,’ Mum said when we pulled into the car park at Kingscliff.
‘Doesn’t matter. Billy’s busy with homework today.’ Billy’s few visits to our place meant he was now my ‘friend’ when one was mentioned or needed.
I carried Toby over the tarmac, the hot wind biting into us, Mum coming up behind with the bags. It wasn’t even worth bringing the beach umbrella, not in that wind.
I’d never told her, but I hated the beach. I could swim all right in still water, but that beach was scary. Waves smashed down on the shore as far as you could see. I’d grown up in Tasmania, fair-skinned, swimming only occasionally. Running was what I’d been good at, not water sports. Too late to catch up now.
In front of the surf club the water was full of confident boys – and a scatter of girls – carving up the waves on sharp little surfboards, running up the sand afterwards to shake the water out of their bleached surfie hair and lie down in rows, all flat stomachs and fluorescent swimmers.
Not exactly my scene. And with Mum and Toby, I was horribly visible.
A gust of wind swept down the beach, chucking sand at us as we laid down our towels. Toby screwed up his eyes, ready to howl. Normally I’d have picked him up, wiped his eyes, sorted it. But not any more. I had to be careful. Even with the wind, the beach was full of people. For sure there’d be kids from school here, the ones who were too cool to play weekend sport. Turned away and started plastering disgusting sunscreen on my arms.
‘Jawwa!’
Pretended I didn’t hear. Stared at the waves, rubbing the muck into my pale skin. Let Toby go from a little howl to a big one, until finally Mum picked him up, patted him, brushed the sand from his eyes. She shot me a look.
‘Can you put some of that on your brother when you’ve finished?’
‘I’m hot. Can’t I swim first?’
Didn’t wait for an answer, just shoved the sunscreen bottle at Toby and left them standing there. Walked down the beach feeling pasty and wrong. Splashed into the waves like I was going out there, and hid in the crowds when the water got to my thighs.
I flopped around for a while, keeping a low profile, ducking my head under the whitewash. Wishing we could just go back home where I didn’t feel so exposed. When I reckoned enough time had gone by, I headed back up the beach, past boys and girls with gleaming tans and big sunglasses. Back to Mum and Toby, who was grizzling.
‘He’s still got sand in his eyes. I’ll have a quick dip then we might go for an ice-cream,’ Mum said.
I nodded and sat down. Mum strode off in a spray of sand. Toby banged the shovel on the plastic bucket to indicate that I should help with the sandcastle. I knew that game. I’d make one and he’d smash it. For as long as I was willing to keep going.
‘Not today.’ I put my sunnies on and draped a towel over my shoulders.
Toby hit the bucket harder and I turned my head away from him. A full-scale tantrum was just what I needed.
‘Jawwa!’
‘Shut up, Toby!’ I hissed at him.
His lip trembled and he started to cry. I knew if I took him onto my lap I could comfort him. I forced myself to sit still, ignoring him. It took everything I had.
He was still crying when Mum came up the beach. ‘Jesus, Jarr,’ she said, picking him up. ‘Wanna come for a dip, Toby boy?’
He stopped crying, gave me a disgusted look and clung to her. ‘No. Ice-cweam.’
‘Yeah, I’m with you on that,’ she said.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
I just about broke into a run to get away from the beach. We crossed over to the ice-cream parlour. Figured it was high-risk, like the pizza place and the beach, so I stood at the other end of the counter from Mum and Toby. Kept my eyes on the ice-cream, didn’t look around. Mum didn’t want Toby dribbling his all over the seats, so we perched on those stupid white metal chairs ice-cream parlours always have, and I watched Toby dribble chocolate down his bare belly, before dropping the last of it on the ground and launching into a screaming fit.
I let Mum carry him back to the car and wrestle him into the booster seat. He threw himself around, red in the face, roaring. I sat in the front saying nothing. She finally got the seatbelt buckled and slid into the driver’s seat. We pulled out, with the sound of Toby’s shrieks blocking all conversation.
The nursing home was on the road out of town. Toby fell silent about halfway there. It was all right for him. No matter how forgetful Nan was, she always loved Toby.
Mum parked the car and turned her head. ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said softly.
I looked over my shoulder. Toby had fallen asleep, his head slumped to one side.
‘I’ll stay here with him if you want to go in,’ I said. ‘She never remembers me anyway.’
Mum hesitated. ‘Let’s just go home,’ she said at last. ‘I saw her yesterday. We can come another time, hey?’
‘Sure.’
She got the car out on the road and turned inland and I knew what was coming.
‘Is everything OK?’ She always asked that kind of thing when we were driving.
‘Yeah, good.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep.’
‘You know you can always talk to your dad and me about anything.’
‘I know.’
Up ahead Mount Warning came into view. It gave me something to look at.
‘We’ll have to pull together to help Dad,’ Mum went on. ‘I need you to help me with Toby, especially till we get a new routine organised. Can I count on you?’
‘Sure. Can we put the radio on?’
I was happy for Dad; it wasn’t that. But I was planning to do less with Toby, not more. I chose my station, the one loud enough so we couldn’t talk any more, though she made me turn it down so Toby didn’t wake up. I felt sticky and sandy and sunburned, in spite of all that stuff I’d rubbed on my skin.
Little Mummy.
It was late by the time we pulled up. Mum parked outside the gate and looked over her shoulder. ‘Look at him,’ she said softly.
I turned. Toby’s head drooped. His belly was sticky with ice-cream and sand crusted his eyelashes and hair and feet. His lower lip stuck out.
‘I’ll get all the stuff,’ Mum murmured. ‘Can you bring him in? You’re good at waking him without drama.’
She gathered the damp, sandy piles of stuff out of the boot and headed through the gate and across the lawn. I opened Toby’s door quietly and looked down at him.
People love seeing a kid asleep but he made my chest hurt just as much when he was asleep as awake. I couldn’t help it. I loved him way too much.
I glanced around, just to make sure I was alone, then put my hand on his head.
‘Toby? Wakey-wakey? Home-again-home-again-jiggedy-jig.’
He stirred, blinked, opened his eyes. Looked at me.
For a minute it was like he knew exactly what I’d done. But maybe I’d imagined it, because he blinked again, stretched, then smiled and held out his arms. ‘Jawwa.’
There was no one to see me unbuckle him, lift him out, hold him close, ignoring the sticky ice-cream gluing us together. No one saw me kiss the top of his head and the moment of sweetness that came over him when he put his arms around my neck and squeezed me as hard as he could.
‘Sorry, Toby.’ I whispered. ‘Sorry.’
Took my time to carry him across the lawn. I didn’t want Mum or Dad wondering why my eyes were red.
BRIDGET
Toby seems to know something’s different, come Monday morning. You hear him galloping towards your bedroom even earlier than normal, at the first hint of daylight. He explodes through the door, pulls himself up on the bed and throws himself on you, forcing out your breath with a sudden ‘OOF’ and poking you in the eye as he tries to peel back the lid. He demands his book and you murmur a recitation, eyes closed, as he lies beside you turning the pages.
‘Gain! Gain!’
‘Go ask your brother.’
As Toby thunders out of the room Finn rolls over with a sleepy sigh and tries to draw you close. You twist your head to look at the bedside clock. ‘Don’t go all soft and cuddly. It’s time to get up.’
‘I’m a steampunk, remember,’ he murmurs in your neck. ‘Our best time is night. Like vampires.’
He’s been a hobby artist too long. You wonder if he knows what he’s in for, having to work to a deadline. Like you’ve had to for years. Has he really got it in him? Tough love is the way to go, you reckon.
‘Oh no you don’t, mister. Four days, remember? So get up, get the coffee on and get going.’
You shove him. It has no measurable impact on his bulk, but he sighs and rolls the other way.
‘Cruel,’ he says, stretching. ‘Cruel and unusual punishment.’
‘Yeah, well this is the price of success, mate. Your wife has to get up an hour earlier and get the household organised and take Toby to some unknown babysitter and go to work late, and she’s not used to it. Did you hear me say “coffee”?’
‘OK, OK!’ He swings his legs over the side and swivels into a sitting position. ‘I’ll remember this moment in my prize acceptance speech. I’d like to thank my wife for her utterly stinting support.’
The sound of Toby’s raised voice echoes down the hallway and you judge that Jarrah too has run out of reading patience. You throw back the sheet and get up. In truth, it isn’t much earlier than usual for you, but Finn’s been making the family breakfast and packing lunches since forever. All you’ve had to do is eat and walk out the door.
Today it’s you who’ll do breakfast and lunches and drop Toby off at the one child-care provider in Murwillumbah who can squeeze him in for three days until you find something more permanent. You’ll take the fourth day off and stay home to make sure Finn finishes by Thursday, and then you’ll make longer term plans. You check the time and decide you can trade off a hot shower for a quick dip to wake you up.
The pool is limpid and cool in the early morning, the air melodic with butcherbird song. You step into the water, gasping, dive under, and swim a couple of laps. Rinse off under the outdoor shower, throw on pants and shirt, and make your way to the kitchen. Finn has coaxed the coffee from his beloved Atomic and he hands you a cup, short and strong and dark, and heads upstairs for a shower. Jarrah, dressed for school, is playing with Toby on the floor. They both look up at you expectantly, and for a weird moment you don’t know what to do. You’ve come to rely almost completely on Finn for household matters. A kind of domestic uselessness, more typical in men than women, has crept up on you.
‘Earthlings, for breakfast, eat what do you?’
‘It’s not rocket science, Mum.’ Jarrah stands, lifts Toby into the highchair, heads to the cupboard. He pulls out Weet-Bix, brown sugar, bowls; grabs a banana. ‘I’ll make his cereal. Then he likes toast soldiers with Vegemite. Can you do that?’
‘Manage it, I can. You, what about?’
‘Same as Toby. Without the soldiers. Just a straight cut across the middle. No diagonals.’
Is Jarrah teasing? You smile and try to relax a little. ‘And lunch?’
‘Dad normally makes me a sandwich. Cheese and ham or something.’
‘Right. It’s not just me who’s getting spoiled.’ You open the fridge. ‘And the bread is where?’
‘In the freezer, Mum. Keeps it fresh.’
‘Cut me some slack, Jarr.’
He rewards you with a little smile, for which you are grateful. As you construct a sandwi
ch and the boys start eating – Toby spreading most of his food around the corners of the highchair – you realise you’re not exactly sure how Jarrah gets to school. You, the early starter, always leave the house first. Does Finn drive him? Does he get a bus? Perhaps he rides his bike. Perhaps it’s a mix of all three depending on the day, such as if he has sport on. He used to do athletics in Hobart but for some reason he didn’t take it up after the move. He plays soccer at school, you know that, or at least he did earlier in the year. Is the season still going?
Do you qualify as a neglectful mother for not knowing these things?
Finn clomps through the kitchen, kisses you goodbye, and heads outside. ‘Work hard, Steampunk,’ you call after him.
‘Need a lift?’ you ask casually as Jarrah puts his bowl in the dishwasher.
‘Nup.’ He heads towards the door, slinging his pack over his shoulder. ‘Bye.’
You turn. ‘Kiss?’
He comes back for a quick peck on the cheek. He smells teenage – something sweet like hair gel, and underneath it rank growing boy. Has he even showered?
‘Might want some deodorant.’ You smile to take the sting out.
‘Thanks a million, Mum.’
‘Better to hear it from me. Just duck back in and slap it on. Take you a second.’
He trudges back towards the bathroom and you bustle with the plates and Toby’s toast, feeling you’ve passed some kind of test. Proper mothers don’t let their sons go to school reeking, do they? You’ll get the hang of this. It’s not too hard.
You hear the bathroom door slam and he is through the kitchen and clomping down the steps into the garden. You hear the faint click-click-click of the bike as he wheels it out of the shed, then the clang of the garden gate. One mystery down.
‘Weed it,’ Toby says from the highchair.
You turn to him. ‘Not till you’ve eaten more toast, buster. And let’s get that cereal out of your hair, eh?’
Sixty Seconds Page 3
