His mother’s hands. That’s what she did in her plain serge smock and ringless fingers.
‘By the end of the day your thumbs would be very sore from folding and the nitroglycerine gave … terrible headaches.’
‘The girls’ gowns were caked in geli and had to be removed before they could have a cigarette.’
Did she smoke?
‘At the end of the day everything had to be scrubbed with soda ash to neutralise the gelignite-soaked tables and floors.’
‘We … sang while we worked.’
‘… if the girls worked Saturdays they could earn up to six pounds a week, twice as much as they might expect to earn elsewhere.’
A more recent account from a worker who spent his war years in the Maribyrnong Factory noted:
‘Almost every day someone was hurt. Some were blown to pieces, building and all. I was sent to the detonator section, the heavy explosives depot about a mile away from the rest of the factory. Everything was painted red to remind us that the work was dangerous. I was a filler and … worked in a big room by myself. It was hot – around 90 degrees – to keep the powder dry, so we sweltered in summer. The powder I held in my hands was enough to blow up … the QE2.’
More than enough to blow up a twenty-one year old woman.
Chris goes out into the drizzle and starts walking back to his hotel. A train glides past.
Coolum, on a train.
Not Coolum. Box Hill.
Streets of the dead; homes for the unencumbered. A plot for each, some for a family. Fenced, unfenced, proud, humble, ornate, broken, loved and unloved, each with a name and a number and if not a doorbell, at least a bed.
As Chris walks through the cemetery, rain trickles through his hair. Thirty-nine years since he was here with Jo. She’d sat beside her sister’s grave on a day just like this, apparently immune to the icy wind and hard ground. Chris hovered by the headstone, scratching off lichen with a fingernail and feeling superfluous. He wondered what Jo was thinking, but even wondering felt like an intrusion. He leaned his cheek on the headstone, hungering for information about his mother but unable to think of questions that might draw Jo out. When she finally stood to go Chris looked at her in the hope she might offer some insight or story he could add to his meagre knowledge. But she dusted off her hands, pulled her coat more tightly around her and turned away. She never looked back.
After all these years Chris’s radar is sufficiently strong to lead him towards a clump of pine trees near the northern boundary. His mother’s grave is where he remembers it, in the middle of a row, a forsaken rectangle of scant grass eerily reminiscent of Jo’s hair after chemo. There are no plastic flowers, no scummy jars of water or twig-dry plants, nothing to indicate that anyone has been here for thirty-nine years. Nobody alive remembers Alice Johansson except Julie and his father, and only God and Ben know if he ever came here.
And there it is.
ALICE MARY JOHANSSON
11.1.1928 – 13.10.1949
Beloved daughter of Mary & Gregor Johansson
Sister of Josephine
Mother of Christopher.
Her headstone tilts slightly backwards, as if surrendering to her fate. Chris has brought nothing to put on her grave; no trinket or flowers, not even a rose.
Some son.
By their fruits you shall recognise them.
Would she? Would she recognise in his tall stranger’s body and craggy features the face of her baby? He trails his fingers down the cold marble and sees at the bottom of the headstone a smaller inscription, barely discernible above the grass. He wipes fog from his glasses and dirt from the writing.
‘I came that they may have life,
and have it abundantly.’
John 10:10
Life. Abundantly.
Alice’s life: short but abundant – career, love and sacrifice, all lived to the hilt. There’s nothing to regret about her life except its ending. Chris can’t remember his mother’s face, the colour of her eyes or her smile. He has no memory of her touch, her voice, or what she smelled like, but her life is in those words. He presses his fingers to his lips and touches them to the cold marble. He doesn’t want to leave her here. He wants to take her from this place of the dead and carry her home in the pocket over his heart.
On the train back to the city he pulls out his mobile. When Julie answers she sounds relieved.
‘I was worried about you,’ she says. ‘Afraid I told you too much.’
‘No, Julie. I’m grateful. I’ve just been visiting my mother’s grave. There’s an inscription on it about life in abundance. You don’t happen to know who chose it?’
‘Oh, yes … She did, sort of. The local minister came by one time. Nice man; didn’t carry on about Alice being pregnant or anything. But he prayed and read things from the Bible like they did back then and I don’t think Alice was taking much notice until he came to that bit, then she really lit up. “Life in abundance,” she said. “That’s what I want for my baby.” Ma never forgot, and when Alice died, she told Alice’s sister. I guess it was her sister that got it put on the grave.’
Chris stands on the footpath, surveying the familiar lines and textures of his childhood home. A barge board over Ben’s porch needs replacing. Fretwork on the bullnose window awnings could do with a coat of paint. Things he and Ben would once have tackled together.
The yard is tidy and the porch is swept, as if Ben is expecting a guest. When he opens the door with no evidence of surprise, Chris walks past him into the living room and waits by the window, looking out onto the jacaranda tree and the old bench. In his head is a speech so well rehearsed there’s no chance of cocking it up: ‘I went to Melbourne and found out what you tried to keep from me: that my mother worked and died in a dynamite factory and that if you had looked after her, she might still be alive today. I wanted to start over again with you, to build something new, but what I found out is too big to ignore. So I’m going to do what Alice did, and walk away; live my life, and let you live yours.’
Ben comes in and perches warily on the sofa. ‘Diane said you went to Melbourne.’
‘Yes. I went to Melbourne and I …’ He looks at Ben and his eyes are drawn to the wavy line where his hair springs from his forehead … just like his own.
By their fruits …
A slow wave of certainty engulfs him. He can run to the ends of the earth but there is no escaping what he knows. He fingers the darn Diane made on the shoulder of his old jumper – strongest part of the garment now. He and Ben are likewise bound, by the supple and tenacious fabric of love, threaded through with all the baggage and blessings of nearly half a century. There is no walking away; there is no new design.
‘Yes,’ Chris says. ‘I went to Melbourne. To find out what you wouldn’t tell me.’
Ben grunts, as if someone has hit him in the stomach.
‘I had to find out from a stranger the most important things about my mother’s life and death, things that told me what sort of person she was … and what sort you are. Why, Ben? Why didn’t you stop her working in that godforsaken place? Why didn’t you give her enough money so she didn’t have to? She died in that hellhole. Alone.’
‘No.’ Ben shakes his head with the slow weight of a mammoth. ‘We didn’t know. We didn’t know she was working at all – let alone where. And we did give her money – enough so she didn’t have to work. The first we knew about her being at the factory was … was when it was too late. Oh, God, Chris. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you found that out.’
‘Sorry? I’m not sorry. It was my privilege to know, and you should have told me.’
‘Would you tell your children if their mother died like that? Leave them with such an enduring nightmare? It doesn’t stop. You never forget. You’d do anything to save your kids that. I did, and I’d do it again.’
‘It’s not your call. I had a right to know and I am burdened by knowing how she died but I’m glad because for the first time in my life I’m proud to
be her son. I know how gutsy she was and I’m humbled and honoured by what she did for me and that—’ he stabs the air, ‘that is what you kept from me.’ He swallows noisily. ‘My mother, my flesh and blood mother.’ He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. ‘Have you … have you even been to her grave?’
‘Of course!’
‘When? When was the last time?’
‘About three years ago. Last time I was in Melbourne. I go every time.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘What’s in – what?’
‘What’s in her grave? Is she in it? Was there anything left of her to put in a coffin?’ The question bloodies the air but Chris is glad of it, glad of its perfect aim and powerful ugliness.
Ben sags on the arm of the sofa.
‘Well?’ Chris says. ‘Was there?’
His father’s head moves in rhythmic denial.
‘Tell me!’
Ben bats the question away.
Chris grabs his flailing wrist. ‘For once in your life, tell me the truth.’
‘All right!’ Ben shouts, shaking him off. ‘All bloody right! Her legs were blown off. At the knees – both of them – off. It took ten minutes for her to die. Ten minutes. Every night of my damned life I imagine every hellish second of every one of those minutes, over and over; seven hundred heartbeats and every one of them pumping away her life. Every second, one closer to death, every night of my life.’
Chris reaches for a chair.
‘I’d die for you, son.’
Ben’s voice comes from a distance. ‘But I can’t fix what happened. I can’t make it right. I’ll always regret not telling you I’m your father but there are some things that should never be told. Some knowledge doesn’t add to our understanding of life, it just diminishes it.’
A spicy aroma of chilli burgers reaches Chris as he’s halfway up the stairs. He pauses in the doorway, watching Diane move about the kitchen. She tips noodles into a pot, stirs them briskly, then turns her attention to the burgers. So familiar, that steady way of hers, so calm.
‘Diane.’
‘Oh, you’re home!’ She comes towards him, smiling, delivers a kiss to his cheek then scrutinises his face. ‘You look tired. How did it go?’
He nods wordlessly.
‘Go and have a shower,’ she says. ‘I’ll get you a drink and you can tell me about it over dinner. I’m making your favourite; I even have Sydney rock oysters.’
She’s trying to be kind, and he’s grateful. But he’d rather she wanted him.
He flops on the bed and closes his eyes. His mother’s blood pulses behind his eyelids. Seven hundred heartbeats, each the sound of one less breath every night for the rest of his life. He demanded to know and now there’s no forgetting it this side of a lobotomy.
Don’t be another casualty. How many victims of her death do you imagine would Alice want?
The tink of silver on china splinters the silence. Chris puts down his fork. ‘I’ve made a decision.’
Diane pauses mid-mouthful, and eyes him uneasily.
‘I’m through with conservation work. I know I’ve been saying it for years, but this time I mean it. Not only churches. Everything.’ He goes to the kitchen for Scotch, waves the bottle at Diane. She shakes her head. He pours a slug and brings it back to the table.
‘Is now the best time?’ she asks.
‘It is for me.’
‘Does it have anything to do with your trip to Melbourne?’
He nods, and slowly releases the story of Alice’s work in the factory, her death and the epitaph on her grave. He does not tell her of his visit to Ben.
‘The point is,’ he says before she can interject. ‘The point is, for her the dynamite factory was a means to an end, a treadmill with a specific outcome in mind. For me, conservation work has become just the treadmill.’
‘Chris. I’m awfully sorry about your mother but please don’t rush your decision.’ She dabs her mouth with a serviette. ‘Baillieu & Bright’s reputation rests on your work. People respect you – you’re the best. Don’t risk doing something you’ll regret.’
He takes a mouthful of Scotch. ‘The only thing I’ll regret is not doing it.’
He sleeps surprisingly well. Exhaustion, probably.
Next morning in the shower, he tries not to anticipate Judge’s reaction to his decision and the inevitable fallout. As he’s about to leave, Violet appears.
‘Chris – sorry to be a bother, but could you come over? There’s a leak in the living room. It’s wetting the carpet and getting worse. Hugo’s at a conference.’
He follows her into the cramped living area where a glistening line of water blooms on the wall and tracks steadily downwards. Violet has dragged Hugo’s sound gear out from the wall and CDs and DVDs litter every surface. Chris runs his finger through the water and sniffs.
‘Fresh. Broken pipe, for sure.’ He goes to the adjoining bathroom. The wall is fibro. ‘I need to make a hole, Violet, but I warn you, it might crack.’
She shrugs. ‘Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Anyway you’re going to do the place up soon. Remember?’
Chris fetches a ball-peen hammer and taps the wall. A small, neat hole appears, followed by a jagged crack. A large piece of fibro clatters to the floor. ‘Whoops.’ He peers into the gloom. ‘Got a torch?’
Violet brings a torch and he shines it inside the wall. ‘Yep, a pipe. You need a plumber. Now. Will I call one of mine?’
‘Please.’ She indicates the phone book beneath a pile of DVDs. As he removes them Chris recognises the Beethoven DVD which enthralled Diane the night of Violet’s dinner party. On the cover, four people sit in a circle, cradling instruments.
The Brinkley Quartet.
Violin – Stephen Craig.
Violin – Antonia Topp.
Viola – Adrian Locke.
Cello …
Adrian Locke?
Adrian … oh … yes. Diane’s erstwhile lover. He studies the photo of Adrian Locke, feeling stupid.
Viola be buggered.
She’s sitting on the verandah, trying to read the newspaper. A stiff south-westerly is tossing the pages, her hair and the leaf-laden branches of the hibiscus with the same frenetic beat.
Chris drapes his jacket on the back of a chair and props himself in the doorway. ‘Saw your old boyfriend just now.’
She stares at him blankly.
‘Adrian Locke. On Hugo’s DVD.’ Chris takes off his glasses and rubs them on his shirt sleeve. ‘You told me it was the viola.’
Diane reddens. ‘It wasn’t …’ She pats down the paper. ‘It … it was, it was the music.’
He puts his glasses back on. ‘Di, I’m blind, but not stupid. You told me he didn’t matter. But he was worth lying about so clearly he does. You were on your knees to him that night at Violet’s. So, who is he?’
Diane traps the paper and shoves it under the cushion of the chair. ‘He is nobody, Mr Perfect. He was my teacher. My viola teacher.’
‘Ah, enter the viola.’
‘Yes, the viola. I wanted to learn when I was young but my mother wouldn’t let me. So when I left home I took lessons.’ She studies her hands – the backs, the fronts – as if trying to recall.
‘Go on.’
She eyes him challengingly. ‘I was a good student; learned fast. Adrian said I had talent; I could go a long way.’ She grimaces. ‘I did go a long way. Too far. I was a pushover. Imagined myself in love with him. He was married, of course – they always are, aren’t they? Unhappily, of course.’ She reaches for a hibiscus leaf, snaps it off, and tears it slowly into pieces. ‘He said he was leaving his wife and I believed him. Young. Stupid. I loved the viola, and thought it was some magical bond between us – something his wife didn’t have.’ She sighs. ‘Turns out she had something I didn’t. Lo and behold, just when I started putting pressure on Adrian to leave, suddenly she was pregnant. He couldn’t leave her then – not with a baby on the way.’
Diane li
fts her hand, allowing the shredded leaf to be snatched by the wind. ‘He left me instead. Said he’d find me another teacher. I didn’t want another teacher, I wanted him. I trailed after him, begging, pleading; I couldn’t believe he didn’t love me. I was disgusting … and he was disgusted. I had no pride. I was too easy.’
Chris worries at his ear, flattening it against his head.
‘Too easy?’ Diane mimics. ‘I was a virgin. No; too keen, he meant. Too needy, too clingy. He’d seen all of me and there were no surprises. I might be able to get a man but I’d never be able to keep him.’
Chris tries to swallow but the inclination of his stomach is to go the other way. ‘So you came to London to prove him wrong.’
‘I went to London because … I woke up to what he was really like – weak and pathetic and not worth crying over.’ Diane unfolds herself from the chair. ‘I wanted to get away. But when I saw you again I thought … that’s the sort of man I want. Decent, kind. Intelligent. Someone I thought would make a good husband and father.’
‘Oh … Diane,’ Chris shakes his head. ‘That’s a résumé. What about love?’
She looks out at the whirling leaves and bobbing red flowers. The wind is blowing billy-o, slamming branches against the railing and scraping the roof. She doesn’t reply.
‘There’s a silence that speaks volumes,’ Chris murmurs.
‘See?’ says Diane. ‘This is what happens when you start unpicking everything. Some things don’t survive analysis. I tried so-called “love”.’ She quote-marks the air with her fingers. ‘But I found out substance is more important, a commitment that goes beyond five-minute infatuation. Commitment is what we have. And just so you know, Christopher, I will never let myself be lost to another human being or be hurt like that again.’
‘But it’s the risk you take when you love someone.’
‘I didn’t love Adrian. I was obsessed with him. Love is more than a few hot nights.’
Chris looks at his wife’s grim face. ‘But I need those hot nights, Diane.’ He reaches for his jacket. ‘I need to be warm.’ He touches his chest. ‘In here.’
Last Day in the Dynamite Factory Page 18
