Last Day in the Dynamite Factory

by Annah Faulkner

  Hauled from gauzy sleep into searing morning light, Chris gropes for his glasses and peers at the clock: six am. He flips back the sheet and wanders out to the toilet on the landing.

  It’s quiet out here; cool, as far as anything can be cool in the rising steam of February. From the window he watches the sun drop translucent gold light across the fishpond and outline the pepper trees. Cicadas whirr in the shadows. Glimpses of the neighbours’ ivy-covered wall can be seen through a high hedge. The house is old but has new owners: a Dr and Mrs Burton. Diane told him that Dr Burton had been a country locum, but he and his wife grew tired of being constantly on the move and had decided to settle in Brisbane. Dr Burton was now with the new group medical practice at Ashgrove. Mrs Burton, Diane said, was keen to put down roots. Literally, Chris gathers. He’s seen her in the garden attacking weeds. She has biscuit-brown hair and an arse as wide as the driveway.

  Last night, Diane informed him that they will be dining this evening with the Burtons. ‘His name is Hugo, hers is Violet.’

  ‘Haemorrhoid Hugo and Shrinking Violet,’ Chris snorted, his words slurred from a third Scotch.

  ‘Don’t be so rude. You don’t even know them.’

  ‘I know,’ he tapped his nose, ‘that anyone called Hugo, with hair like a spaniel’s and small enough to—’

  ‘He’s not small!’

  ‘—small enough to get lost between the cheeks of his wife’s arse, if she accidentally – or purposely – sat on him – anyone like that clearly has no chutzpah.’

  ‘Oh, and what exactly is chutzpah, Chris?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, Diane, but you can bet he doesn’t have it.’

  She huffed in frustration. ‘Why are you being so toxic?’

  ‘It’s the real me emerging at last, hey-ho!’ He hoisted his glass and then drained it.

  ‘Don’t be silly. And there’s no need to shout.’

  ‘How do you know I don’t need to shout? How do you know I won’t go mad if I don’t shout?’

  Sometimes it feels like he might – continually shuffling between old fiction and new fact and confronting two Bens – the one he imagined and the one that is. And complicating the whole bloody mess is a love that refuses to die but doesn’t know what to do with itself. In the face of Ben’s feeble explanations, Chris’s heart blunders about bewildered; logic and love exquisitely unrelated and murderously uncooperative.

  A warm breeze puffs in through the toilet window and Chris is comforted by a fleeting impression of long dry grass beneath a railway line. Diane has been at him again to get rid of the dunny.

  ‘And do what?’ he said. ‘Piss in a bucket?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Ah, bugger it. Sorry.’

  He knows her argument is reasonable but he likes this small retreat. Besides, there’s nowhere to put another toilet without tearing the house to pieces.

  He wedges his hands under the tap in the minuscule hand basin, a ridiculously abbreviated contraption that Diane insisted he fit to the wall. He’d rather have shoved a hose through the window. She bought a ceramic hand towel ring too but Chris installed a thick wooden rail instead, sturdy enough to support a wardrobe of clothes. From it, a delicately embroidered Swiss hand towel dangles forlornly. Chris dries his hands down the sides of his shorts. Silence, apart from the soothing rustle of mango leaves. Such a peaceful spot. Why destroy it? To hell with being sensible. What does sensible mean, anyway? Being aware. Well, he is aware. Very aware of how nice a place the dunny is and how much he does not want it moved. And so he resolves – fully sensible, fully aware, fully conscious, whatever – that it will not go. He will not move it. Not now. Not ever.

  The unexpected relief of this decision enables him to contemplate an evening with the Burtons. He will curb his anger and allow his natural consideration for others to prevail.

  Natural …?

  Natural. Diane needn’t fret.

  Scotch fillet, marvellously marbled and slathered in a rich horseradish sauce, heavily buttered jacket potatoes, vegies in sour cream and cheese. Dessert, a wonder. Vesuvius, Violet calls it. A meringue cone filled with raspberries and a hole in the top oozing caramel, cream and chocolate.

  Food that explains Violet’s splendid rump.

  This morning it was a gigantic arse.

  That was this morning.

  Hugo leans back in his chair and places a hand on Violet’s great hip. ‘My dear wife is a wonderful cook.’ He smiles up at her, a gesture made goofy by one eyelid that droops. ‘Our son Dom and I find her food devilish hard to resist. Fortunately he’s out of danger at the moment; in Sydney, at uni.’

  Diane was right about Hugo; he’s not small but carries no perceptible fat. Chris wonders how he can stay fit on such fare. He wedges a thumb beneath the waistband of his trousers. Nothing like this at home. Diane and Archie both cook with a light touch.

  ‘A little more, Chris?’ Violet’s hand hovers over another Vesuvius and suddenly he’s seven again, at the school break-up party. Before him is a sea of treats: stacks of sausage rolls and party pies, bread with hundreds-and-thousands, buttered scones, lamingtons, brownies, cupcakes; bowls of cheerios, popcorn, lollies, nuts and – decisions. Decisions! Even at seven Chris knew he couldn’t have it all. But he gave it his best shot and after gorging himself senseless, retreated to a corner for half an hour or so until his guts sorted themselves out.

  He hesitates for a moment, then nods.

  Violet lifts a Vesuvius from its icing-sugar bed and brings it to his plate.

  Diane’s eyes widen.

  Chris raises a hesitant hand. ‘Ah – maybe,’ he touches his stomach, ‘maybe not after all, Violet, magnificent though it is.’

  She smiles guiltily. ‘A bribe. I’m hoping you’ll take a look at our house sometime. We want to fix it up.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Hugo pushes back his chair. ‘If we’re done here, can I bore you for ten minutes with my new Beethoven DVD?’

  Chris would prefer Joe Cocker or the Moody Blues. He knows where he is with them. Classical music confuses him – one minute sublime, the next tortured. Diane prefers classical. She tolerates his sixties and seventies rock music but, to his bewilderment, deems Les Misérables, Tramp and The Phantom of the Opera saccharine and superficial. Now, though, with Hugo syphoning 1991 St George shiraz liberally into his glass, Chris is up for watching anything.

  Hugo built much of the sound system himself: the amp, the power supply and all the cables. Connected to his new plasma screen TV, the sound is better than anything Chris has heard. He watches and listens with unexpected pleasure to Beethoven’s tenth quartet, seduced by the breathy murmur of the cello and the disconcertingly intimate sound of the viola. For a few moments they intertwine, then the violin, like their frisky offspring, bounces in. Chris looks at Diane and the wineglass on its way to his mouth stalls. She’s staring at the TV, transported, her gaze as hungry as a lover’s. Her eyes are large and liquid and filled with longing. As he watches, she leans so far forward on the sofa, one knee touches the floor.

  What the …?

  This – this Diane, exposed and unravelled – this is how she should be with him. He watches her, shocked and spellbound, recalling long years of trying to bring her to this state, years spent travelling the landscape of her body with the soft pads of his fingers, the dampness of his tongue and the ingenuity of his cock, all to find the right spot, the right word, the right touch that might spring her spirit from its hiding place. All with a longing in his heart so fierce and futile he’s come to doubt this Diane ever existed. But she does. She does … though not for him. For …

  Beethoven?

  For a moment when the music finishes she remains motionless, then slowly she reassembles herself. Sits upright, draws in her feet, tucks her hair behind her ears.

  ‘You obviously enjoyed that,’ Hugo says, looking surprised but pleased.

  She stands and smoothes down her dress. ‘Yes, I have a – I’m ra
ther fond of the viola.’

  Viola?

  Chris drains his glass and affects a yawn. ‘Yes, very nice. Well, it’s time we left you good people in peace.’

  ‘Already? I hope I didn’t bore you.’ Hugo glances at his watch.

  ‘No, no,’ says Chris. ‘Very, um, enlightening. Great sound, Hugo. Lovely evening. But I’ve an early start in the morning.’ He plants a kiss on one of Violet’s blooming cheeks. ‘A cracker of a meal, Violet. I’ll be in touch about the house.’

  Their walk home, all of two minutes, seems to Chris to be the longest they have ever taken. Diane is silent and he has no idea what to say. He has no grasp on her; a lifetime together and she’s still so much a stranger.

  ‘I hope I didn’t drag you away too soon,’ he says, unlocking the kitchen door. ‘I could see you were enjoying the music.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was that about the viola?’

  She turns on the light over the stove and fills the kettle. Her face is composed but her eyes are still luminous.

  ‘Oh. Yes – it’s such a – an overlooked instrument. There are concertos for violins and cellos and pianos but not many for violas. Yet it has a lovely sound.’ She reaches for a cup, her hand trembling a little. ‘Tea?’

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s hard to hear sometimes, among the other instruments. Tonight’s the first time I’ve really noticed it.’

  ‘You’d miss it if it wasn’t there. It gives substance. It has heart. It mightn’t be obvious but it’s necessary.’

  ‘Like insulation,’ Chris suggests. ‘A buffer between highs and lows, like batts against heat and cold.’

  ‘More than that.’ Diane leans on the counter, holding her cup protectively. ‘It has its own voice. If you hear it by itself, you never forget it. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I’ve never heard you talk like this. How do you know all that stuff?’

  ‘The friend I told you about – Jane – the one I used to stay with when my parents were away. Her grandfather lived with them; he had a viola and every night after dinner he’d play. One time, he handed it to me. Showed me how to hold it and draw the bow across the string.’ She smiles. ‘I couldn’t believe the sound I made. So pure. So warm. Years later I heard the word “heartstrings” and I thought – yes, that’s it – that’s what the viola sounds like.’

  ‘Why didn’t you learn to play?’

  ‘I – I did.’ She puts down her tea. ‘Not at the time; Mother wouldn’t endure the practice. It was, um, later. I took lessons later.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  She shrugs. ‘I … moved on.’

  Chris raises his eyebrows. ‘Not from what I saw tonight. You looked wedded to it.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘It’s not too late to have another go, Di.’

  She rinses her cup in the sink. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It is.’

  Shadows from the trees outside sway across their bedroom wall. Her body, long and soft, rests against his. He sighs. She has the lot. Brains, guts and perseverance. He longs to see her again as he saw her tonight – not with Beethoven, but with him. Close to his heart. He moves his hand down her silk-clad thighs, wanting to be inside her, and she will let him, but she won’t be there. He draws her towards him, feels her breasts and determines to go slowly. Maybe … maybe this time.

  But no, not this time, either. As he pulls her gently into his arms, he feels her withdraw – to the viola, perhaps, or to Beethoven. She doesn’t shift from him or shrink from his touch, yet he knows she doesn’t want him. He kisses her forehead and turns his back.

  The old wool store is a shell of dull red bricks, high timber beams and opaque clerestories. The upper-level flooring has been removed but the building is sound and dry. Chris knows he can create something that will provide the developer, Roger Noland, with real value from his investment.

  ‘I’m thinking mainly three-bedders,’ says Noland. ‘A few twos. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Other way about,’ says Chris.

  The area, in the back streets, is still mostly industrial. People wanting three-bedroom units would probably go closer to the river. High density, though he dislikes it, is the most efficient use of space and will provide the best return. He squints up at the rafters that have held the roof in place for the last hundred or so years. Those rafters, so briefly exposed, will soon disappear behind insulation and gyprock and probably not see daylight again for another fifty years, by which time Chris will, in all likelihood, be dead.

  ‘Chatty, aren’t you?’ says Noland.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Chris, forgetting that his silence can be unsettling, but reluctant to speak until a sentence is ready. He knows his client will smile when the construction is done, when the squabbles between the sparky and the chippy over where to put the power outlets are forgotten and the facade – still gracious – satisfies those who need to pretend things are as they’ve always been. And despite a new interior, in some ways they will be. Over a century, clothes and customs will change but human lusts, loves and despair will not.

  The project doesn’t interest him, but the project isn’t the problem. Neither is Noland. Ever since he found Jo’s diary Chris has been unable to engage in work. All he wants is to throw a knapsack on his back and go someplace where the only person who can find him is himself.

  Yeah. You’re shrivelling up like an old mummy.

  A troubling image forms of his corpse lying stiff and curled among the folds of an ancient paint-caked dust sheet in a room long forgotten.

  ‘Well?’ says Noland.

  ‘I’ll jot down some ideas and get them to you. A week; two at the most.’

  When the family gathers over a rare meal together the following Monday evening, Chris is up to his eyeballs in Roger Noland’s project. It’s not a difficult job but he’s been working on it all weekend and getting nowhere. Concentration has fled.

  Having Phoebe and Archie at the table is normally a pleasure but he has just told them their grandfather really is their grandfather and evoked a stunned silence. He feels guilty without knowing why.

  ‘Gross,’ says Archie, staring at his plate as if the food is contaminated. ‘What an arsehole.’

  Diane looks sharply at him. ‘Don’t speak about your grandfather like that.’

  ‘But he is, Mum. Pretending not to be Dad’s father or our grandfather – it’s a shithouse thing to do.’

  ‘One of these days, Archie, you’ll learn not to pass judgement without weighing all the facts.’

  Forlorn hope, Chris suspects. It’s verdict first, for Archie; trial later – maybe. His son pushes away his plate. Chris wonders how he has room for food, anyway. He spent half an hour before dinner sprawled in Chris’s armchair with a beer and a huge bag of potato crisps which he crammed into his mouth so forcefully they scattered down his clothes and onto the chair.

  Diane’s chicken paprika, Phoebe’s favourite, is as good as always but Phoebe isn’t eating hers either. ‘Why?’ she says. ‘Why didn’t they tell you, Dad?’

  ‘To protect him from the kind of gossip that would make his life hell,’ says Diane, resolutely forking rice into her mouth.

  ‘He’s forty-eight, Mum – he doesn’t need protecting. They should have told him thirty years ago.’ She folds her serviette, pushes away her plate and sighs. ‘You think you know somebody, and then they do something like this. I don’t get it.’

  A raggedy silence settles, which Archie eventually breaks with a burp, shaking Chris from his thoughts. ‘How’s work?’ he asks Phoebe.

  ‘Not bad. I’ve actually been let loose on an old Queenslander at New Farm. The owners are cool. I’ve talked them into keeping the tiles in the bathroom from the sixties – navy and white, in beautiful condition – and a massive four-door fridge from the fifties that still works perfectly.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘They want a second storey which will muck up the line but I’m setting it at the back so all you’ll see from the ro
ad is the timber fascia. I’ll take out the rear wall, keep the floorboards and the T & G and put French doors onto a new verandah.’

  Chris nods. ‘And life otherwise? James is … well?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine.’ Phoebe picks up her wine glass, then puts it down again. ‘We’ve been together six months now. Some kind of anniversary, I suppose.’

  ‘An excuse to celebrate?’ Archie says hopefully.

  ‘Could be.’ Phoebe glances at him. ‘If you cook.’

  ‘I’ll cook if you and Jim supply the wine.’

  ‘Don’t call him Jim. He doesn’t like it.’

  Archie smirks. ‘Jamie-Pooh.’

  ‘Shut up, Archie.’

  He turns to his mother. ‘Speaking of anniversaries, Mother dear, how are you and Dad going to celebrate a quarter of a century of wedded bliss?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not until August.’

  ‘What’s your plan, Father?’

  ‘Dunno. We haven’t discussed it.’

  ‘Let me do you a party. I’ll cater.’

  ‘That’s sweet, Archie,’ says Diane, ‘but no.’

  ‘Come on, Mum. At the very least a five-star meal with a few friends. Dad can source the best wine, foot the bill and buy you a cripplingly expensive anniversary present. Right, Father?’

  ‘Sounds fine to me,’ says Chris, touched, as he always is, by Archie’s tenderness towards his mother. ‘Would you to like to go away for a few days, Di?’

  ‘No,’ she says, rather too quickly. ‘Thanks, all the same.’

  Chris feels himself redden. The memory of the last time they went away for a wedding anniversary – their fifteenth – is still sharp and humiliating. Their trip to Fiji began promisingly enough. With no kids, no cooking, daily massages and the shush of waves on their doorstep, Diane seemed different – looser, more relaxed. On the wide, white-sheeted bed, caressed by a salty breeze, ripened by sweet fruit and tangy wine, he’d kissed every inch of her flesh. It rose to his touch and gently, gently he entered her and she moved with him and cried out and he whispered in her ear, ‘Yes, Di … yes …’