Last Day in the Dynamite Factory

by Annah Faulkner

  Judge has taken advantage of Chris’s brief absence to establish himself in the driver’s seat of Baillieu & Bright.

  ‘Successful trip?’ he asks guardedly as Chris perches on the visitor’s chair.

  ‘Did what I went to do.’

  ‘Good. Good. Maybe now you can do what you’re here to do.’ He picks up his ball. ‘Noland is in a spin. You went off without telling him. He’s a control freak; you need to sort him out.’

  ‘I will. But I need to sort out something with you first.’

  A muscle dances in Judge’s jaw.

  ‘I’m through with conservation work.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘I mean it; completely. I’ll finish what I’m working on but that’s the end. I’m sorry about the timing but I can’t do it any longer.’

  ‘I can’t do what I used to either, but you don’t see me spitting the dummy.’ Judge puts down the ball. ‘There’s shit going on here, Christopher. Besides, you can’t be that good at something you don’t like. Take a break if you must, but get over it.’

  ‘I am over it. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.’

  ‘Conservation work is a third of our business; what the hell are we supposed to do about that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe, you—’

  ‘Ah yes, very funny. Why not the cleaning lady?’

  ‘Hamish. His attention to detail will work in his favour. I can help if he gets totally stuck.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ says Judge, pushing back his chair. ‘And people reckon I’ve changed. You want out, you organise it. You tell Hamish and you supervise. It’s still your bloody responsibility.’

  Violet is digging over her garden, baggy body propped on swollen ankles, cardigan dangling off to one side.

  Chris watches her through the kitchen window while he waits for the kettle to boil. Such a warm, decent soul, but the job he’s promised to do for her is already driving him nuts and he hasn’t even put pencil to paper. It’s the same at the office. Having ditched heritage work he is having to take whatever comes along.

  His gaze shifts to his own side of the fence. It seems like yesterday he built that fence to keep the kids in and the neighbourhood dogs out. Laid a path of flagstones to the clothes line and put pine bark everywhere else so the kids could play without cracking their heads. They did anyway. Phoebe split her ear almost clear of her head and held it in place with a trembling hand as she made straight for her father, blood pumping into her flaxen hair. Archie scraped his finger and howled for his mother, a great cave of noise that tempted Diane to wrap the bandaid around his mouth instead of his finger. She smothered his noise against her stomach and rolled her eyes. Chris had laughed.

  Violet straightens and scoops stray strands of hair behind one ear. Suddenly Chris can’t stand it. He cannot do her house. He’ll tell her. He’ll tell her right now. He goes downstairs and wedges through a gap in the hedge.

  ‘Got a minute, Vi?’

  ‘Hi, Chris. Sure. I’ll make us a cuppa.’

  He prowls the kitchen while she fills a kettle. It’s a neat, clean room but the dismal victim of a 1950s makeover with stained cupboard fronts and discoloured apricot fibro walls.

  ‘I’ve had a wonderful idea for this kitchen,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, Violet . . .’

  The kettle begins to squeal. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Thing is, um . . . I’ve stopped doing restorations.’

  ‘But I thought they were your specialty.’ She rips open a packet of Tim Tams and tips them onto a saucer. ‘Bickie?’

  He takes a biscuit, then puts it back. ‘Not any longer.’

  Violet pours boiling water into the teapot and plonks on a red knitted cosy. ‘In that case, I’m lucky. Am I your last job?’

  ‘Um . . . yeah. Yeah, you are.’

  Weak. If he’d just said no, as he intended, he wouldn’t have wasted an hour on it last night and another this morning.

  He pours tea into two cups. Weak.

  He’s done it properly, the way Diane likes, with real leaves, but it’s so pale it looks more like lemongrass than English breakfast. He dips a tea bag into the cup, darkening the liquid and improving the appearance, if not the taste. He scrapes butter and vegemite over a piece of wholemeal toast. He offered to make Diane breakfast in bed as a gallant start to their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary but she’s opted for brunch at Frogmore’s Cafe instead; early enough not to spoil the dinner Archie has planned. It has already been marred by his refusal to cook if Ben came to the celebration. Archie had just started to thaw towards his grandfather when Chris told him about Alice. The story moved Phoebe to tears, Archie to fury.

  ‘He dumped her in a dynamite factory? What a complete shit!’

  ‘He’s not a shit and he didn’t dump her,’ said Chris.

  ‘He killed her!’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

  Diane smacked her hand on the table. ‘Stop it!’

  Archie flounced off. Diane turned to Chris. ‘I warned you this would happen if you told him about your mother. You know what he’s like. You should have kept quiet.’

  ‘No, I’m fed up with secrets. There’ve been too many in this family already,’ Chris said. ‘It’s time Archie learned to put his brain in gear before he mouths off.’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’

  Chris suggested they move the dinner to a restaurant but Diane demurred. It was Archie’s anniversary gift and it wasn’t for them to set the conditions. And as the subject hadn’t been raised with Ben, it was better to let things be.

  Chris takes the tea, toast, his gift and card on a tray to the bedroom. The card was the hardest part. All those funereal-looking watercolours of tranquil gardens, deserted benches and buckets stuffed with flowers; teddy bears swathed in tulle or entwined with spangled hearts – and everything pink – with verses sickly enough to make him puke. Considering the water that has passed beneath his and Diane’s particular bridge lately he’s opted for a blank card and his own take on the occasion.

  Dear Diane,

  Wishing you a very happy 25th Wedding Anniversary

  With heartfelt thanks and love,

  Chris

  Hopeless. Bloody awful, but he didn’t know what else to write. The gift is better; an elegant silver locket engraved with an art deco flourish, threaded onto a black leather band. He raided the photo album for pictures of the kids and put them inside. Phoebe declared the gift ‘very Mum’.

  Diane reads the card without comment but delights in the locket.

  ‘Beautiful.’ She traces the engraving with her finger. ‘Really lovely, Chris. Thank you.’

  She too has raided the photo album for her gift to Chris: a tiny family snap set into a stylish Georg Jensen key ring.

  ‘It’s great,’ he says, kissing her cheek. ‘Very classy. Brunch at eleven?’

  She nods, bending her head to the tea.

  Chris goes to his den. Beyond the window the potato vine nods jubilantly in the breeze. Rampant damn thing. Six months ago he cut it down and poisoned its roots but now it’s taken over the lilly pilly again. Inde-bloody-structible. He forces his attention to a northern elevation drawing of Violet’s and Hugo’s house. Wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t insist on restoring what was never there. As he scowls at the drawing the phone rings.

  ‘Bright,’ he answers absently.

  ‘Happy anniversary.’

  ‘Pebbles! Thanks.’

  ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘Taking your mother out for brunch. She’s saving herself for tonight.’

  ‘Did she like the locket?’

  ‘Loved it.’

  ‘You sound a bit flat. Anything wrong?’

  ‘Just trying to get my head around a job I promised to do for our neighbour. A renovation she insists on calling a restoration. I should have said no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m through with conservation work.’

  ‘You’re what?’


  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Are you having a breakdown?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Stay put, Dad. I’m coming for breakfast.’

  ‘I haven’t had a lobotomy, Pebbles. I’m simply tired of old buildings.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re a heritage architect. You bring history back to life.’

  ‘I’d rather make it.’ He slides a plate in front of his daughter. ‘Here. One perfect boiled egg, made especially for you.’

  ‘But you love what you do.’

  ‘I liked it for a while, and yes, I was good at it. But I never set out to do conservation work. I got landed with it and bloody hell – you knit socks for half your life, beanies start to look like fun. Come on, eat up.’

  ‘But . . . your socks are so good. I can’t imagine you doing anything else.’

  He can see himself dissolving before her eyes. He understands how unsettling it is to discover a parent isn’t who you thought they were; how it makes you question your judgement about so much else. He lops the top off Phoebe’s egg, salts it, scoops out the flesh and takes the spoon to her mouth. ‘Open.’

  ‘Dad, I’m not a baby.’

  ‘You’re my baby. Open.’

  Obediently, she opens her mouth.

  ‘Good girl.’ He hands her the spoon. ‘It’s a relief, Pebbles. Except this job for Violet. I don’t want to fix up her bloody house but she’s such a decent person I’ll feel like a heel if I don’t.’

  Phoebe gives him a long-suffering look that makes her doubts about the wisdom of his decision clear. But the surrendering sigh that follows tells him he’s still her dad, even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘A house that never was. It could be a very nice duck but she wants a swan.’

  ‘Don’t they all? Any chance I could help – maybe at the weekends?’

  Chris regards her thoughtfully.

  ‘I might enjoy it,’ she says. ‘And James and I are looking for a bigger place so I could do with the extra money.’

  ‘You can have it as far as I’m concerned. I’d like to be shot of the whole thing but I’ll have to check with Violet. If she’s okay, I’ll introduce you. I warn you, though, it’s a terrible little job.’

  Archie leans on the door of his father’s den. ‘Got your speech ready, Father?’

  ‘Speech?’

  ‘Yeah. Speech. The one where you thank Mum for a quarter of a century of selfless devotion.’ Archie gives him a one-fingered salute and disappears to the kitchen.

  Chris grimaces. He’s right. Twenty-five years; something must be said. With his family, Judge, Karen and James-not-Jim all gathering for this special event, they will expect something appropriate, even from the world’s worst speech-maker. He goes to the window where the outlines of trees and foliage stand dark against the fading light.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming.’

  It’s not Toastmasters. It’s a wedding anniversary.

  He clears his throat. ‘Diane, here—’ (he smiles at his wife) ‘has been a very good wife . . .’

  Yeah, and the dog’s been a very good dog.

  He’s not made for speeches.

  Come on!

  ‘A lovely wife, an excellent wife, a solid – no – a steady partner, a faithful—’

  Whoops.

  ‘A rock.’

  A rock?

  ‘A wonderful mother.’

  It’s not Mothers’ Day.

  ‘A terrific – you know – guide, supporter.’ Shit, do I have to do this?

  You do.

  ‘Who keeps us steady in times of . . . flux.’

  Flux . . .?

  The dining table, normally the subject of Diane’s creative endeavours, is tonight Phoebe’s triumph. She has laid it with pink linen placemats, crystal wineglasses, silver cutlery and twin silver candlesticks (an anniversary gift from her and James-not-Jim). There are three bowls of roses in all shades of pink from pale to dark, pink candles and Karen’s and Judge’s gift of silver salt and pepper grinders.

  In the kitchen Archie flourishes pans and chops herbs so fast his fingers blur. Diane’s expression is proud. His six-course dinner is already down three magnificent courses: trout pate, lettuce soup and crunchy deep-fried sardines. He darts about confidently, buoyed by having just secured an apprenticeship at Brisbane’s swankiest new seafood restaurant, Something Fishy.

  ‘Looks like we might have done a good job on him after all,’ Chris observes.

  Phoebe cocks a sardonic brow. ‘You did your best.’

  Chris pushes back his chair. ‘I’d like to propose a toast to a wonderful woman – Diane.’

  ‘To Diane,’ everyone echoes.

  He takes a mouthful of wine. ‘Twenty-five years later, Di. You still look lovely.’

  She touches the locket at her neck. Her skin glows. She does look lovely; closer to forty than fifty, and her smile is gracious. He wonders what she’s thinking, whether she really considers her years with him have been worth it. Is this her idea of life in abundance? Contentment, she said, not happiness.

  ‘To both of you,’ says Karen. ‘Diane and Chris.’

  Judge takes a sip of wine. ‘Did you speak to Noland on Friday?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m on site first thing Tuesday. I have to get him off the builder’s back; he’s an interfering bully.’

  ‘You’re wasted on that work, Chris. Do you know what came in for you on Friday?’

  ‘Nope,’ he says, hoping his crisp response indicates he doesn’t care.

  ‘Hamilton House. Complete restoration. Doesn’t get any better. The most prestigious commission in. The. City.’

  Phoebe gasps. ‘Dad! Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!’

  ‘Just the thing for Hamish to cut his teeth on.’

  ‘Hamish can’t do a Christopher Bright and you know it,’ says Judge. ‘He can’t do the kind of work that distinguishes our firm from every other outfit in Queensland. It’s your name and your reputation they want.’

  Chris twists his wineglass, determined not to be provoked. ‘You know as well as I do, Judge, what distinguishes a building is the person who designs it. I didn’t design it and I’m not restoring it.’

  ‘Dad,’ Phoebe hisses. ‘You can’t pass up Hamilton House.’

  ‘Drop it, Phoebe.’

  ‘Listen to your daughter,’ says Judge.

  James-not-Jim takes a nervous sip of wine.

  ‘Enough about work,’ says Karen. ‘Tonight’s a celebration.’

  Archie glides to the table. ‘Behold,’ he says, setting down plates. ‘Sacrificial lamb.’ He picks up Chris’s wineglass and downs the contents. ‘Happy quarter of a century of marital bliss to our dear mother and father. May your love continue to bloom and your fiftieth anniversary be held in my Michelin-starred establishment. Oh, and congratulations on your splendid offspring.’

  Chris stands in his own Michelin-starred establishment, the dunny, casting doubtful glances at the Burtons’ house next door.

  Violet has agreed to meet Phoebe and discuss her taking over the work. Chris has arranged a meeting this afternoon.

  Phoebe listens without interruption as Violet explains her vision over a cup of tea.

  ‘Original. Like I told Chris. Open up the verandahs, put fretwork back over the doorways, get rid of the fibro, the fifties kitchen and the seventies bathroom. Everything out that wasn’t here to start with. Apart from the toilet, of course.’ She giggles. ‘We need that.’

  Phoebe nods understandingly.

  ‘I’ve explained to Violet that her house was a worker’s cottage,’ says Chris. ‘Her sleep-outs were never verandahs, just add-ons from the forties. There were no verandahs except at the front. The kitchen was a lean-to out the back, separated from the house by a breezeway in case of fire. All it had was a wood stove and a sink with one cold tap.’

&nb
sp; Phoebe shoots him a warning look.

  ‘No fretwork,’ he continues. ‘Tiny rooms – barely nine feet square. Get rid of the fibro, yes, but keep the kitchen; it’s a piece of history. Work around that fifties stove – it’s a beauty. Cleaned up, with the right fittings and cabinetry, the kitchen will look good. You’ve got some beautiful 1940s tiles there, Violet. We could match them for over the cooker.’

  ‘No,’ says Violet. ‘I don’t want tiles.’

  ‘You need something to protect the T & G. You’ll never keep it clean otherwise.’

  ‘They managed in the old days. I’ll manage too. I want it original.’

  ‘In that case, we’ll have to move the kitchen out the back where the laundry is. Your bathroom will be a tub under the house. Your internal staircase will disappear because the only staircase was at the front – that’s how you got in. You want it original – you’re going to lose all your ground-floor accommodation. Where’s Dom going to stay when he comes home for holidays? That’s the problem, Violet. You want it how you imagine it was, not how it really was.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘What?’

  Violet plucks miserably at her tea cosy. ‘I want it . . . how I want it, even if it’s not how you think it should be.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ says Phoebe. ‘It’s your house. Heritage architects follow the rules. We don’t have to.’

  ‘I’m not a heritage architect any more.’

  ‘Then stop acting like one,’ Phoebe says, sounding horribly like her mother. She turns to Violet. ‘I’ll help you, Violet. We’ll work together – you and me – to get the house just how you want it.’

  ‘It’ll be a Heath Robinson job,’ says Chris, ‘neither one thing nor another. A mish-mash with your name on it – is that what you want? You’re supposed to be building a career and a reputation.’

  Phoebe scowls at her father. ‘I want a career that helps people get what they dream about having. Giving that lady a house she loves is more important than making a name.’

  ‘Oh, Phoebe. You’re too good an architect to do an inauthentic, inefficient cock-up.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be authentic. It has to be right – for her. You don’t have much faith in me, do you, Dad?’