Last Day in the Dynamite Factory

by Annah Faulkner

  As he draws on his beer, his phone rings. ‘Bright.’

  ‘It’s me,’ says Diane. ‘Are you having a nice holiday?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  He wedges the phone against his ear and takes another draught from his stubbie. ‘I’ve only been here three days.’

  ‘Did you see Ben before you left?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, Christopher! How can you can be so hard?’

  ‘Dunno. Must be genetic.’

  ‘You think that’s funny?’

  He says nothing.

  ‘Believe me, it’s not. Look, I’m going to hang up now. I only phoned to make sure you’re all right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Do yourself a favour and ring your father.’

  The phone goes dead.

  Chris stares at it for a moment, then reaches for a prawn.

  The rumble of high tide wakes him at five the next morning. He pulls on shorts, T-shirt and runners and heads for Point Perry to watch the sun come up. The path is a meandering, pandanus-lined track across the road from low-rise unit blocks and weather-beaten beach houses. Kombi vans, surfboards and towels litter sloping green yards, reminding Chris of teenage holidays with mates and the exhilarating freedom of youth. He one-finger salutes an old man sitting on the deck of his small shack set on a magnificent block of land overlooking the sandy bay. He has a mug and a cigarette in his hand, as he does every morning, and raises the mug in acknowledgement of Chris’s greeting. At the top of Point Perry the view takes in the beaches that stretch north and the rocky bays that dot the southern coastline. Below, waves surge and thunder over the rock pool where he and Liam played.

  The sun is a fiery fingernail on the ocean’s rim, silhouetting a few early souls: a man holding a child’s hand, another with a grizzled halo of hair and bony arms that hang like parentheses – a fisherman perhaps – and a woman in a loose dress with a walking stick.

  After a moment, the woman detaches herself from the tableau and walks around the headland towards him. She moves carefully, and as she nears, Chris can see she has a boot on one foot. His heart surges. She’s close enough now to see that her skin is the colour of maple syrup, her hair is black and thick and cut just below the ears. Even without seeing her eyes he knows their exact colour: blue; dark, luminous blue. She comes towards him like she used to in the cafe, leaning slightly to the right, stepping cautiously. He used to get there early just to see her arrive and scan the crowd looking for him.

  ‘Roberta,’ he says. Not loudly, but loud enough.

  She looks up and sees him. Her eyes widen. ‘Chris … ?’

  She’s still beautiful. But life has inscribed her face; there are lines around her mouth and eyes, and her cheekbones are sharper. As she stops in front of him the sun breaks free from the horizon. It hits her in the eyes and she puts a steadying hand on his arm. He looks at it, feeling the touch of each slim finger, and his mind goes blank.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you again,’ she says.

  ‘Is it?’ Her eyes – they haven’t changed. It feels like yesterday.

  ‘Yes …’

  He looks at her thoughtfully. ‘So, why did you leave me – without a word?’

  She removes her hand and shields her eyes from the sun. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘In London, Roberta. In our cafe. I waited. For weeks.’

  She shrugs slowly. ‘Um, I don’t … so long ago … I can’t remember.’

  ‘Oh, come on. It’s me you’re talking to. Not a word. Never even answered my letter. Never—’

  ‘Oh, Chris.’ She bats the air. ‘A lifetime ago. Tell me about you. What brings you here? Do you live up this way?’

  It’s tempting to walk away; to leave her as she left him, without a word. But his feet are cemented to the spot. ‘Brisbane.’

  ‘And you’re … married? Do you have a family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you still doing architecture?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re … on holiday?’

  He squints into the sun. ‘Not exactly.’

  She jabs her stick in the ground and swivels on it. ‘This is like pulling teeth. Should I go?’

  ‘No. You should not go – again.’ He steps back. ‘I’m not on holiday; more like R and R.’

  ‘Rest and – what’s the other R – recuperation?’

  ‘Regroup and resurrection.’

  ‘Resurrection?’

  ‘Ghosts.’

  ‘Really? Most people want to bury them.’ She’s over-bright, giddy; perhaps flustered by his unexpected appearance. He hopes so. ‘Yes, well, that’s most people. Mine continue to haunt.’ Even after twenty-five years, Roberta haunts. ‘You,’ he stammers, ‘you live here?’

  ‘Up there.’ She points to the hill behind them, then glances at her watch. ‘I’d better get going, I have an art class at nine.’

  ‘Nine? Where’s the class – Cairns? It’s just gone six o’clock.’

  ‘It’s here but I’ve got a tradesman coming at seven to extend my wardrobe.’

  ‘I can extend wardrobes.’

  ‘Well, thanks, but it’s a bit late to cancel. Look, would you like to catch up for a coffee sometime or are you busy?’ Her casual tone is betrayed by a fluttering eyelid.

  Chris remembers that tic: she is nervous. He should say no. ‘I’m not busy and I’m fine with having a coffee but I’m buggered if I’m going to sit in a cafe with egg on my face waiting for you – again.’

  Roberta sighs. ‘Well, if you’re convinced you’ll be left with egg on your face, why not wear it at my place? Come up and have breakfast.’

  He stands beneath the shower, letting it pummel his head.

  She told him not to bother changing but he had to get away, gather his wits and assume an air of nonchalance. She acted as if it never happened – or worse – that it happened but didn’t matter. It mattered. It still matters. Whenever he begins to doubt, even after all these years, he has only to remember Fridays.

  Seven months of Fridays, every one the sneaky, joyful highlight of his week, time stolen from everyday life, an hour or so that belonged to them alone. A platter of bread, cheese, pickles and half a pint of cider. Now and then, if time permitted, they visited an art gallery – Bertie’s world. Her world, beyond interior design, where a flower was not only colour, shape and texture, but a shadow cast by the past or a glimpse of the future. It might be life, or death, an intimation of life beyond death, or simply an imaginary prod for whatever you wanted it to be.

  Fridays and friendship. Chris wanted more than friendship but more was not on offer. Bertie lived with Oliver, the invisible third. Chris reluctantly accepted the limitations of their relationship; any time with Bertie was better than none at all. But Saturdays to Thursdays she rode in his mind – her lunatic giggle, her disregard for rules, her imaginative reach. He replayed their time together; her strong, slim hands … their hands – doodling on paper serviettes; playing their game. The game began when Chris drew a single line and declared he would sketch the perfect chair. Bertie grabbed the pencil and drew a wriggly line through his. ‘Bet I can stop you.’ She grinned fiendishly. Chris snatched his pencil back, thought for a moment, then drew a line to accommodate her damage. Again Bertie took the pencil, this time adding an obstructing crescent. Chris drew another to correct it and Bertie another to thwart him, and so it went, each taking turns: Chris determined to draw a chair, Bertie determined to stop him. After thirty lines, he triumphed. ‘You pay for lunch,’ he said. The following week Bertie produced paper, drew a curve and declared it a cat-to-be. Chris put a vertical line straight through it. Thirty lines was the limit. If by then the picture was clearly a cat, she would win. She did. He paid for lunch. Every week they took turns, with the loser paying. Once, Bertie brought him a bag of wooden offcuts from her design company – spruce, pine, oak and beech. They laid the pieces on the table and between bites of cheese and bread assembled doll-sized
furniture. On fine days they bought ice-creams and took them to eat in the park. They talked and laughed and talked, until …

  Chris turns off the shower and reaches for a towel.

  Why? Why, without even goodbye?

  He blows on his hot coffee and takes in the view. ‘You can actually see the curvature of the earth from here.’

  ‘Vanishing point,’ says Roberta. ‘Where parallel lines meet. Just an illusion, of course.’

  Harnessed, side by side, but never touching.

  He looks about him. The house is cantilevered over a steep gully with spectacular vistas north and east. Burnt orange, green and white furnishings convey a casual, colourful air in an otherwise uninspiring but practical, open-plan living area. ‘You’ve made this look nice,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks.’ She glances about her with a small frown. ‘Unfortunately, the house doesn’t work for me. The block’s too steep to garden and these ceramic tiles are hard on my foot. Worst of all – the light. Those overhangs keep it cool but dark. I can’t paint, except out on the deck and that’s tiled too, so I can’t stand for long.’

  ‘Polio still gives you trouble?’

  She nods. ‘I need a proper studio and a soft lino floor I can spill paint on.’

  ‘Still painting?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘What happened to interior design?’

  ‘I do that too. Keeps the wolf from the door.’

  The whine of a drill interrupts them. Something clatters to the floor and Roberta raises an eyebrow. ‘You wait a week for a tradesman to turn up and when he does he wrecks the place. I’d better check.’

  Chris follows her to a bedroom, a dim room made cheerful with white, teal and cherry striped blinds and matching lampshades. Lolling on a chair in the corner is an old brown teddy bear and a smiling rag doll. But it’s the painting above them that captures his attention – a woman lying on her stomach with her chin cupped in her hands, smiling. She has the same smile as the woman in his small painting at home.

  ‘What broke?’ Roberta peers up at a workman propped on a ladder beside the window.

  ‘Nothing. I keep dropping me drill.’ He holds a batten to the wall. Screws dangle from his mouth. He presses the drill to the wood.

  Chris watches for a moment, then his eyes move to the bed: wide and inviting with a white cover and bright plump cushions. Another bed slides into his mind – an old double creaking thing with a scratched timber-rail bedhead, a sagging mattress and faded quilt … And on the floor beside it, abandoned clothes, shoes and a memory … as clear as …

  ‘Bugger.’ The workman’s drill bites into the batten which begins to spin.

  ‘Can I give you a hand?’ Chris offers.

  ‘No, mate. I’m right, thanks.’

  Chris turns his attention to a group of photos on a tallboy. One of Roberta, aged about five or six, her gaze intense even at that age. Another as he remembers her at school in Port Moresby. Long black hair swirling in the wind, she stands astride her bike. ‘Freedom wheels’ she called them – her salvation from the limitations of polio.

  A mobile phone on the tallboy begins to ring. As the tradie reaches for it he drops his drill again. He clamps the phone to his ear. ‘What? I can’t help it; me mouth’s full of screws. No, not at the Barker’s. In a lady’s bedroom. What? No, I can’t. Thanks, love. No, not you; her. She’s holding me drill.’

  Chris and Roberta exchange sniggers. She hands over the drill and she and Chris retreat to the kitchen where she busies herself with bacon, tomatoes, eggs and toast.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks. Make yourself comfortable. This won’t be long.’

  Chris wanders over to her bookshelves. A large folder is lying on the top of a stack of books. He lifts the cover: Bertie’s sketches. He takes it to a lounge chair, sits, and begins to flick through. The first dozen or so are of children. Girls – laughing, crying, doubtful, mutinous, happy.

  ‘Beautiful drawings,’ he says.

  ‘Oh … where did you find that?’

  ‘On your shelves. Do you mind?’

  She shrugs.

  Some of the drawings are obviously years old and have yellowed but all are uniquely and lovingly rendered. Near the back of the folder, Chris turns a page and finds himself face to face with … himself. His heart knocks violently. A photo, frayed and faded, is glued to the bottom of a sketch. Him – aged eleven … or maybe twelve years old. He has no memory of it being taken but it was obviously at school – he can see the shelter shed in the background. His eyes stray from the photo to the sketch. Here, he’s more like twenty-three. He gazes at it with sad wonder. Not a single picture taken of him in the last twenty-five years – no family snap or studio portrait – has come close to capturing what Bertie has in her simple sketch.

  ‘Bertie,’ he says, his voice shaky.

  She turns.

  ‘There’s a photo of me here.’

  ‘Oh. I … that. Yes, I’d forgotten.’

  ‘And a sketch. When did you do it?’

  ‘Oh …’ She reddens. ‘Gosh. Don’t remember.’

  Bullshit.

  ‘When did you do it?’

  ‘Well, London, I suppose.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When …? Probably … one of those times you were playing with those bits of wood I gave you.’ That too-bright smile again. ‘Shows so much concentration, don’t you think?’

  Concentration be buggered. Anguish more like it. As if she’d snuck back to the pub after she stood him up and peered through the windows to watch him wait. And wait. And lose hope. Week after week, common sense telling him she wouldn’t come back but his heart insisting she would. It’s all in the sketch: the slump of his shoulders and the almost prescient sadness in his eyes. Of all the pictures in the book, this is the most melancholy, yet it’s the most tender and the most moving, as if his sorrow is hers too.

  Or is he being a twit – seeing what he remembers instead of what’s there?

  ‘Breakfast’s up,’ she says. ‘Come on, let’s eat outside.’

  He closes the folder and carries a tray of food out to the deck. She gathers up paint-splattered saucers, stacks them on the floor beside her easel and spreads a cloth on the table. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘Why do you live here if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘My husband’s choice. Come on, tuck in while it’s hot.’

  ‘You married Oliver?’

  ‘Yes, I married Ollie. But he died ten years ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ Chris puts down his fork. ‘I’m sorry, Bertie. Really.’

  ‘Losing Ollie was … dreadful.’ She smiles briefly at her plate. ‘I married again but it didn’t work. Patrick was okay but it was a mistake for both of us. I was lonelier with him than I was on my own. We’d moved here from Sydney for a sea-change but he moved back after three years. No hard feelings. I liked it here, so I stayed.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Stuart.’

  ‘Husband number three?’

  She smiles. ‘No. We just live together.’

  Chris looks around.

  ‘He’ll be out walking,’ Bertie says, following his eyes, ‘before it gets too hot. He might be back before you go. I’d like you to meet him – he’s a sweetie.’

  Chris fixes a smile on his face.

  She looks at him thoughtfully. ‘That’s the first time you’ve smiled since we met.’

  ‘We met—’ he says, ‘thirty-seven years ago, at school.’

  ‘I know,’ she says softly.

  That voice. That’s the voice of the Bertie he remembers. Warm and rich, not brittle like it was at the headland.

  ‘And I did smile in the bedroom just now,’ he says. ‘But before that, not since you stood me up in London.’ He’d meant to make her smile but she fills her mouth with food and studies the view. ‘Why?’

  Her eyes mist. ‘I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘More cof
fee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ He mops the remains of his meal with toast, trying to think of something to say to get past her reserve. They used to be such good friends, so easy with each other, talking or not.

  ‘Do you have kids?’ he asks.

  She nods. ‘Lily – she’s nearly twenty-three. My other daughter, Stephie, died when she was seven.’

  Chris’s heart stalls.

  ‘Leukaemia.’

  ‘God almighty. I … I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her eyes drift. ‘But you know, I don’t feel like she’s really gone. Sometimes I feel her so close, and somehow we seem to go on communicating.’

  ‘Stefi,’ Chris murmurs. ‘You named her after your friend at school?’

  ‘Sort of. My daughter was Stephanie, but yes, I had Stefi in mind.’

  ‘What happened to Stefi – do still you keep in touch?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and she’s still my best friend, but she lives in Sydney so I don’t see her as much as I’d like. But you. Tell me about your family, Chris. Do you have children?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Wife?’

  ‘I married Diane.’

  Bertie makes an odd sound, as if she’s been winded. She picks up her coffee and gulps it. ‘Of course … I should have guessed.’

  ‘Why should you?’

  ‘You were always … Diane’s Christopher.’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘Yes; at school.’

  ‘No, Bertie.’ I was your Christopher in London, he wants to say, but she waves her hand and smiles crisply.

  ‘Anyway, how is Diane?’

  ‘Fine, she’s … fine.’