Last Day in the Dynamite Factory

by Annah Faulkner

  ‘Hi,’ Diane says. ‘You’re late.’

  He nods. In the bedroom he hangs his jacket in the wardrobe with weak arms. His body is so relaxed, so unwound with sex and satisfaction he can hardly stand up. He catches sight of his face in the mirror. Treacherous. Triumphant. A flush spreads through his whole body. He splashes water on his face and brushes his hair, waiting for the heat to subside before going to the kitchen where Diane is draining vegetables into the sink. Watching her, so undisturbed and unsuspecting, the flush returns – hotter and sharper – with a flare of guilt. He tugs his ear. She pushed him to this. Somebody wanted him, somebody really wanted him.

  ‘Big day?’ She drops thinly sliced wafers of potato into a pan.

  ‘Been down at Cleveland on site. Traffic was constipated all the way back.’

  When Diane says nothing further he begins to elaborate. The traffic hold-up was caused by road-works. There were detours, lane merges, lights not operating properly, witches hats and speed restrictions and people doing silly things like he’s doing now – running off at the mouth with too many details – unnecessary, unbelievable details – too, too many words, and when she says, ‘Uh-huh,’ with a kind of grim triumph, he’s certain she knows.

  At dinner, she keeps her head turned away from him as if he reeks of female skunk. He swallows his guilt along with the perfectly grilled steak. She doesn’t interrogate him and it’s infuriating, as if she doesn’t need a trial to prove him guilty. He wants a chance to defend himself, to tell her he’s normal and someone wanted him. Someone told him he had the most beautiful balls in the world and cradled them like eggs. Someone had wanted him so much she’d even wanted to do it again.

  She had.

  They had.

  So.

  Maybe now Diane would admit they have problems and help him sort them out.

  She drops her dressing gown on the bedroom chair and reveals a silk chemise with shoestring straps. Slithery. Dressed for reclamation. In bed she moves close and trails her hand down his body, around the curve of his hip and across the hollow of his groin. He flinches. She takes hold of his penis, as spent as over-chewed gum, and strokes it. Nothing happens. She moves her hand away and he hears her fumble in the bedside drawer for gel. She brings a slippery hand back to his flabby cock and paints the underside.

  Nothing. It’s had it. Fucking worn out.

  For the first time in his life, he shrinks from her touch. Unable to respond and too embarrassed to pull away he suffers her pointless quest, the darkened room crowding with thoughts. Eventually, her hand falls away. They lie beside each other in silence. He waits for her to move, to turn over, to sigh or say something but she is utterly still. Slowly Chris drags the pillow under his ear; hears the dull, despairing thud of his pulse and the laboured tick of their old alarm clock measuring out each minute of the night.

  He rises early, shaves, showers and goes to his den. A sketch he made of Fletcher two days before looms up from his drawing board with a knowing, almost cynical expression. He brandishes an arrow.

  Go on.

  I know, but …

  Just do it. Now.

  Right now?

  Fletcher maintains his gaze. You can drag it out if you want, but now, or in ten years’ time, this day will come.

  Dishes of butter, marmalade and vegemite are arrayed before him. The butter is straight from the fridge, scored and twirled into jaunty curls. The toast is rack-dried and crunchy.

  Diane avoids his eyes.

  He reaches for a piece of toast and stops, suddenly ravenous for the prawns he shared with Tabi; the fleshiness of them, the tang of garlic and chilli, the hint of coconut. His hand hovers momentarily over the toast, then he takes it and a twirl of butter. If he doesn’t eat Diane will ask why and it will be out between them. It’s out anyway. Every drag of the knife, every glance avoided – the debacle of last night lies between them. But it has to be said. Betrayal must be exposed and picked over until its skeleton is fleshless. Then it must be labelled, priced and stored in a space which might have been used for better things. Diane may not want all of him, but she doesn’t want to lose what she has.

  ‘Diane.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says abruptly. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Diane.’

  ‘The laundry. I forgot the laundry. I left it out all night!’ She scrambles towards the door.

  Chris slides off the stool. ‘Diane.’

  She stops.

  He stands in the middle of the kitchen holding a tea towel for support. ‘I slept with someone.’

  She flinches.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I … I told you …’

  She closes her eyes.

  ‘Things are crap. No, not crap. Yeah, well, crap, but not crap like some people’s marriages. You know, not fighting or anything, but … lonely. You don’t want me. I can feel it and it makes me feel like shit.’ He stops. How can he explain so she’ll understand?

  How can you expect her to understand after what you’ve done?

  Her mouth moves silently. He doesn’t know what she’s trying to say but he does know how hard it is to find words.

  ‘I do want you,’ she says quietly.

  Shit. He’s really hurt her.

  ‘I wouldn’t have stayed married to you all these years if I didn’t want you. But you want to be wanted on your terms. You’re not satisfied with what I give you any more – the rock-solid things that make a marriage work. We have a life. We have children. They’re not enough. I’m not enough. Nothing’s enough. More, more, more. Always wanting more – you’re insatiable – like a spoiled brat. Where does it bloody end?’

  ‘It ends … I don’t know. I am grateful for what we have, Di, and for what you do for me, but I do want more. I always have. I told you months ago, years ago. I want a …’ he twists the tea towel, ‘an us, before it’s too late and we turn into fish passing each other in the night … Ships, I mean. Ah, shit. I want an us together.’

  She looks at him as if he’s crazy. ‘You have it. It’s called marriage and I’ve given it all I can, in and out of bed.’

  ‘Except what’s inside you.’

  ‘There is no “inside me”. You’ve got it all.’

  ‘No. No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I haven’t. You know I haven’t.’

  ‘I know nothing. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, or what you want, but I suppose you’re going to tell me you got it with Roberta.’

  ‘Huh …?’ His heart stops.

  ‘Is it the same Roberta we went to school with in Port Moresby?’

  ‘Yeah, but … no. What – how do you know about Roberta?’

  ‘I didn’t go snooping, if that’s what you mean. You left your little love note on the floor of the wardrobe.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Here, have the damn thing.’ She opens a kitchen drawer and flings a piece of paper on the bench.

  Chris recognises the note Bertie sent with his pen.

  ‘But it isn’t …’

  ‘Don’t, Christopher. Just – don’t.’

  ‘But –’

  Shut up. Keep Tabi’s name out of it.

  ‘Look,’ says Chris, putting down the tea towel and reaching for her. ‘It’s you and me who matter, not … Roberta.’

  ‘Don’t touch me.’ She jerks away. ‘She might be stupid enough to let you trample on her but I’m not. My father wiped his shoes on my need for affection; I’ll never let any man do that to me again.’

  ‘I’ve never done that.’

  ‘You don’t call having sex with another woman trampling on me? I trusted you.’

  ‘What you trusted was that I’d be satisfied with sex without emotion. I told you: I’m not your father. I’m not going to kick you in the teeth if you feel.’

  ‘No – only if I don’t. We have a marriage – twenty-five years of it – which I value and I thought you valued.’

  ‘I do value our marriage and I value you, and I’m very sorry I’ve hurt you.’

 
‘Do you love that woman?’

  ‘No.’

  She curls her lip. ‘Then you’re as bad as your father.’

  ‘I am not! I didn’t screw your sister.’

  ‘No, you screwed a woman old enough to know what she was doing and who she was hurting. She didn’t give a hoot about me. You keep bleating about what kind of woman sleeps with her sister’s husband. I’ll tell you.’ Diane pokes the air. ‘Your mother was young and foolish and she imagined Ben loved her. He didn’t, because if he had he wouldn’t have done what he did, to her or to Jo. He took what he wanted and your mother paid the price. And Jo paid the price.’ Diane screws up her face as if the day’s brightness is unbearable. ‘But Ben and Jo stayed together because they valued their marriage beyond passing infatuation. Emotions, romance – they come and go; they’re not what matter. There is an “us”, Christopher, we’re right under your nose.’ She turns and clatters downstairs.

  He gazes after her.

  She knows. He knows in his bones that despite her denials she understands exactly what’s missing and what he wants.

  Chris rolls up his drawings and takes them down to the car. He’d hoped to avoid rush hour by waiting until after nine but traffic is banked all the way up Waterworks Road. Near the lights the hold-up becomes obvious – a rear-end prang. He turns off the engine. Nobody’s going anywhere for a while. Ring the office and let them know? Nah. He’s done enough explaining for one day. What a cock-up, and what irony that Diane should think he’d been with Roberta.

  You have.

  A long time ago. Once. One day. One precious, perfect London day.

  Some cancellation or other, a client who didn’t turn up. Coffee became lunch and after lunch, a walk.

  ‘I have something to show you,’ Chris said to Bertie. ‘Back at my flat.’

  ‘Oh, no …’ She shook her head.

  ‘Those wooden pieces you gave me. I need your help with them – something I’m trying to make.’

  ‘No, Chris.’

  ‘Really, I’m serious. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  ‘I can’t …’

  He raised his hands. ‘I swear I won’t touch you unless you want me to.’ He took her hand and hailed a cab. He could feel her pulling against him and kept his grip firm. His flat, on the first floor of an old building, was shabby in a friendly sort of way, large and warmed by the afternoon sun. The pieces of wood she’d given him were arranged in two stacks on an old chest he used as a coffee table.

  ‘What’s it supposed to be?’ she asked.

  ‘This stack is you, and this stack is me.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘We can make anything we want out of these pieces, Bertie, if we build it together.’

  She glanced away – down at her feet, over towards the long bay window. She went to it and stood, arms folded, looking down at the streetscape. Sunlight silhouetted the gentle curves of her body, her long skirt and boots. She swayed a little, as if trying to measure the rhythm of some internal melody. Then she turned, came towards him and looked into his eyes. ‘I had a terrible crush on you at school, Christopher Bright.’

  ‘I hope you still do.’

  She took his face in her hands. ‘No … it’s more than a crush.’

  The kiss was a firecracker, a flare that ignited every cell of his being. He flapped his arms helplessly, desperate to touch her but determined to keep his promise. She pinned them down at last, and wrapped them around her. He rested his cheek on her hair, inhaled its fresh woody scent and moved his mouth slowly over her forehead … her eyelids … ears … neck.

  She pulled away and peeled off her red angora jumper.

  Chris removed his jacket.

  She unbuttoned her shirt and let it slide from her shoulders onto the floor.

  Chris did likewise.

  Bertie gazed at his blond-flecked chest, unhooked her bra and flicked it away.

  He gazed at her small, perfect breasts.

  She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it.

  He unzipped his jeans but when he tried to get them over his shoes he lurched off balance and collapsed onto the bed.

  She stood over him, laughing, and her eyes travelled down his sunlit body to linger on his groin. Then she sat beside him and removed the boot from her good foot.

  Chris removed the shoe from his left foot and flung away his jeans.

  Bertie unrolled her pantyhose.

  Chris peeled off a sock.

  Then she stalled. Sat on the bed hunched over, staring at the built-up boot on her crippled foot.

  He nuzzled her shoulder, then slid off the bed and knelt in front of her. With the ease of one long accustomed, he unlaced her boot. She put out a restraining hand but he moved it gently aside and took off the boot and pantyhose. She stiffened. He took her hands, kissed them with playful intensity and dropped another kiss on the landscape of her twisted, scarred foot. Then he pushed forward his own foot. She bent down and removed his remaining shoe and sock and then stood, listing a little to the right. She twined her fingers in his hair and gently drew him towards the smooth flesh of her stomach. He smiled into its warmth. I love you, he said.

  He lost himself in his Bertie. Surrendered to the unspoken bliss of belonging – not to each other, but with each other. He didn’t make love to Bertie, but with her he re-discovered something he’d always sensed was there. Nothing to do, only to be, pure awareness, beyond flesh and beyond time, fused in an ocean of joy.

  Someone behind him toots. Chris blinks, starts the motor and edges forward. Everyone is waiting. Waiting to go somewhere, towards something or someone. Maybe in this clot of cars someone like him has confessed to a liaison that will undoubtedly alter a relationship in a way yet to be measured. The lights turn green. Nothing happens. The bloke at the front doesn’t seem to register he’s free to go.

  Chris waited for Bertie the next day at their regular time in their regular booth. She didn’t appear. After two hours he returned to his office and phoned her at work to find out if she was sick. She wasn’t. He hung up before he was put through. The following Friday he went back to their booth again and waited. And waited. Two hours. The next week, another two. Bertie never showed. He never saw her again, until twenty-five years later on the cliff top at Coolum.

  Sure: Oliver. He understood she’d have hated to hurt him, but what he and Bertie had together was no mere fling. If she regretted it, couldn’t she tell him? Maybe she needed time. He wrote, promising he wouldn’t pursue her if she’d only explain her silence. She never replied. When he finally realised she wasn’t going to see him again he tried to escape the weight of her loss by dating other women. Other fish and all that. And there were other fish, but that’s all they were – other fish. Not his.

  Until Diane.

  Until marriage and kids and middle age and a fling with the office sweetie. A cliché. A nice cliché. He wonders how Tabi is feeling this morning, whether she’s still okay about what happened. He shouldn’t have let it … But it’s hard to regret. He told her she’d restored pieces of himself he’d thought lost. They weren’t. They were still where he left them – with Bertie. What Tabi did was remind him that there was more to be had, even at his age. The greedy snuffles and moans of her pleasure and the vortex that whirled them stood in heart-sinking contrast to sex with Diane. It’s obvious now that she, with her murmurs and grunts, has been faking it. Competently, of course. She’s earnestly and expertly active, as if sexual performance must be at least as good as a well-executed dinner party. But sex itself is not what he’s after. It’s the deeper connection, the surrender of self. Love. He no longer tells Diane during sex that he loves her. The words induce an insatiable longing bordering on desperation. ‘I love you’ is a message from heart to heart, an umbilical seeking to dock in a loved one’s soul. And that is what Diane avoids at all costs.

  The traffic finally starts to move. Chris puts the Rover in gear and heads for work.

  It’s ten before he gets into the office.


  Judge looks pointedly at his watch. ‘Where you been? It’s nearly lunchtime.’

  ‘Things to do at home. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Haven’t seen you for twenty-four hours. Where were you yesterday?’

  ‘Client meeting at Cleveland.’

  ‘All afternoon?’

  ‘Took longer than I expected. Traffic was stopped.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’

  ‘Flat battery.’ Chris scowls. ‘What is this, the third degree?’

  ‘I was waiting for you to take me home. I had to ring Karen.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘Just as well I’m back in the office, eh? This place could go to crap. Bloody Tabitha goes off sick and you disappear.’

  ‘Just one afternoon, Judge. I’m here now and so is Tabi.’

  ‘Yeah, I see that … both of you.’

  Tabi is breezy. No hint of any difference in their relationship, no sly glances or suggestive looks. She carries on as she always has and Chris is grateful. He wishes he could give her a raise. He wishes he was in love with her.

  Diane is tight-lipped that evening, but it might otherwise be a normal night. Chris is torn between wanting to apologise and the need to explain why it happened. But he has already – so many times, and in so many ways there’s nothing more to say. He tries to be useful: chills some wine, sets the table, puts out glasses.

  At dinner (neither withheld nor poisoned) Diane swallows a large mouthful of wine and replaces the glass precisely on the coaster. ‘How long have you been having your … affair?’

  Chris pushes his fork into a wedge of perfectly cooked salmon. ‘It only happened once. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Is she the reason you went to Coolum?’ Diane directs the question at his chest.

  Chris understands how difficult it is to meet the gaze of someone who has betrayed you. He wonders, now, if he’s betraying Roberta.

  ‘No. I met her there by accident.’

  ‘You recognised her from school after all those years?’

  ‘Not from school. I knew her in England, back when I was working there.’