Last Day in the Dynamite Factory

by Annah Faulkner

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I know how much you wanted them. I am interested, though. What price should I try for?’

  ‘I nailed him at two fifty.’

  ‘Oh.’ A burst of laughter comes from her end of the phone.

  ‘You’re busy,’ he says.

  ‘My family’s visiting for a few days; fatso daughter Lily, and John, and my soon-to-be-grandchild. I’d best go. Thanks for calling, Chris. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  Archie’s room is a shambles. Every item he owns, surely – washed and unwashed – plus bedding, shoes, plastic bags, cookery books, magazines, CDs and God knows what else, is strewn across every surface. Amidst it all, Diane presides over the double bed like a queen on her way to the guillotine.

  ‘You’re not having it, Archie.’

  ‘But … what am I supposed to sleep on?’

  ‘The floor, for all I care.’

  ‘Mummy, dearest – you don’t mean it!’

  ‘Stop it, Archie. This isn’t Brideshead Revisited and you’re not Sebastian Flyte.’

  ‘He certainly is not,’ says Chris, knowing Archie’s interest in the bed is not for sleeping. All this freedom, and no bed? Disaster.

  ‘An air mattress,’ he suggests. ‘A single air mattress is dirt cheap. We’ll buy you one as a housewarming gift.’

  Archie gives him a look similar to the one Diane has been giving him for the last fortnight. The way things are with her, Chris might need the bed himself, so ratty is she – still – over Tabi returning to work. He’s done everything he can to assure her that the brief affair is over and her anxiety is misplaced, but she won’t be persuaded.

  It takes three hours to move Archie and all his gear (minus the bed) to the creaky mansion by the river, and just one more for the remaining inhabitants of number 10 Appleby Street to become aware that they are the only ones left.

  Shift-work and lectures often took Archie away from home but his presence – so endearingly, if wearingly, insistent – could still be felt within its walls. Now that he’s really gone, Chris and Diane rattle around the house like nails in an empty paint tin.

  More cheerful is Phoebe’s presence next door on the weekends. She and Violet have agreed on the changes, plans are in Council and a builder has been organised. Phoebe ducks in and out and stays for at least one meal but won’t discuss the job with her father. He has abrogated his responsibilities, she says, and can wait to see it finished.

  ‘Have you seen Ben?’ Chris asks her over dinner one evening. It’s been more than a fortnight since he told Ben about Liam and he’s heard nothing.

  ‘Last week,’ she says.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Okay. Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  ‘I’m … giving him space to digest some … unexpected news.’

  News that must have hit Ben hard. Rewriting history is not for the faint-hearted. ‘I’ll call him,’ he says.

  Soon. He’s been busy. Cleaning the fishpond. Mowing the lawn. Playing tennis. Designing a motel on the northern outskirts of Brisbane. At work he is doing his best, but knows that his best is not flash.

  Monday sees him at his drawing board trying to design a reception area for a motel that doesn’t look like every other motel in Brisbane. Fletcher keeps appearing on the drawing and Chris erases him for the third time. He sketches in a raked ceiling.

  What next – exposed beams? This isn’t the seventies.

  Chris is rescued by his mobile.

  ‘It’s gone!’ Bertie wails. ‘Can you believe it? Gone.’

  ‘The land?’

  ‘Yes, the land. The beautiful land.’

  ‘Oh.’ The news is unexpectedly depressing, like losing it all over again himself. ‘I’m really sorry, Bertie. How much did it go for?’

  ‘The agent won’t tell me – in case the contract falls through, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, there’s that hope.’

  ‘Faint. It’s probably gone to a developer who wants to put up a piss-ugly block of units. There goes my perfect studio.’

  Chris sighs. ‘And my perfect workroom.’

  ‘Ah well,’ she says, ‘I guess it’s back to the drawing board.’

  ‘You’ve stolen my thunder.’

  ‘And you’ve stolen my … ah, sorry. Got to go. Bye-bye for now.’

  October evenings stretch out, but it’s still dark by the time Chris gets home from a post-work game of tennis.

  Diane is slumped on a bar stool, her head resting in her hands.

  ‘You okay?’ Chris asks, getting a beer from the fridge.

  ‘I … don’t think so.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He flips off the cap and puts the bottle to his mouth.

  ‘Phoebe’s pregnant.’

  Beer explodes so violently up his nose he coughs uncontrollably, his eyes water and his glasses steam up. ‘How?’ he croaks.

  She lifts her head and scowls. ‘You’re not seriously asking, are you?’

  ‘She can’t be.’ She’s too young. She’s his baby. She’s not ready. He’s not ready. His heart thumps. A baby … another Bright. No, not a Bright, a – what was it? – Griggs, Briggs? Bloody hell, he doesn’t even know. A baby. A grandfather … a grandfather? No! Not yet. Her career – she’s barely got started. What will she do? How will she cope?

  Alice coped.

  He inhales deeply, wipes his glasses and puts them back on. Alice coped, under far worse circumstances.

  ‘Phoebe will cope,’ he says.

  Diane is silent. Why isn’t she celebrating?

  ‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I mean, might have been nicer if she was married, but—’

  ‘I don’t care if she’s married. All I care about is that baby. James doesn’t want it.’ Diane’s voice wavers. ‘And Phoebe says she won’t have it without his support. She’s talking about a – an abortion.’

  The word hits him in the throat and instantly he’s air-locked.

  Diane drags herself off the stool and goes to the fridge. She looks at the contents for a long time before bringing out half a cabbage, mushrooms and tomatoes and shuffling them around on the bench top.

  Forty minutes later, dinner appears on the table. They eat in silence.

  Chris can’t speak.

  Diane doesn’t speak.

  Each moves food from one side of the plate to the other, grimly contemplating a prospect abhorrent to them both. Chris urgently wants to phone Phoebe but without a voice, he can’t.

  In bed he turns and turns until the bedcovers are a cocoon on his side and Diane wakes to haul them back.

  He gets up and goes to the kitchen, switches on the light over the stove and plugs in the kettle.

  Abortion. The word is like an open wound. What if his mother—?

  She didn’t. And Phoebe is not your mother.

  She’s his daughter. She doesn’t have to do this. Things are different these days. There are more choices, more support, no social stigma. He’ll tell her; he’ll explain.

  Diane finds him squeezing a tea bag with his fingers. Her eyes are red. Chris puts a comforting hand on her back.

  ‘That – bloody James,’ she says. ‘If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be considering it.’ She pours hot water over a chamomile tea bag. ‘She can’t, Chris. She just can’t.’

  He hangs up the phone and stares out the office window. For three days Phoebe has eluded them and Chris wonders – despairingly – if the baby has already gone.

  He looks at the notepad in front of him, cause for celebration. He’s just secured a major commission to design and supervise the construction of a new private hospital at the Gold Coast. A project that would normally have fallen to Hamish, it is now his, but he’s unable to generate much enthusiasm. He’s scheduled a meeting with the hospital board for late tomorrow afternoon and decided to stay overnight so he can inspect the site the following morning. Bashing his way down the highway on a two-hundred-click return journey for the next eighteen m
onths is not his idea of fun but he can no longer pick and choose.

  He turns his gaze on the phone. If only she’d call. He doesn’t feel ready for a grandchild but he’s certain Alice wasn’t ready for him. How did Ben react? he wonders. What would he say about Phoebe? He picks up the phone, then puts it back down again, not sure he really wants to know. What if Ben thinks abortion is a sensible option? What if he wished Alice had had one? His gut rumbles. His watch says lunchtime.

  He sticks his head around the door of Judge’s office. ‘Sandwich?’

  Judge looks at him and frowns. ‘What’s up?’

  Chris snorts.

  Judge taps his pencil softly on the drawing board. ‘Well?’

  ‘Among other things, Phoebe’s pregnant.’

  Judge’s eyes widen.

  ‘She doesn’t answer my phone calls and when I go to her unit she’s not there. According to Diane, she wants an abortion, or at least her boyfriend does. I’m worried she’s already …’ Chris rubs his ears.

  Judge slides off his stool. ‘Bugger sandwiches. Let’s go to the pub for fish and chips and a beer.’

  ‘Your objection,’ Judge blows on a hot chip. ‘Moral or personal?’

  Chris hedges. ‘Personal, I guess. I can’t help thinking about how I wouldn’t be here if my mother … I know it’s not fair to compare but Diane says Phoebe’s only considering an abortion because of James. I’m surprised she’s kowtowing to him, Judge. She’s usually so independent, I expected she’d stand up more for herself.’

  ‘That’s a crap thing to say.’

  ‘It’s a baby we’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s two people’s baby, you pious prick. If Phoebe’s being pressured by that numbskull, get off your high horse and find out what she wants.’

  Chris’s jaw drops.

  ‘It’s time someone told you,’ Judge grumbles.

  Chris peers at him. ‘Have you been having acupuncture?’

  ‘Maybe. Why?’

  ‘I understood every word you said.’

  ‘Good. Then you can’t say you weren’t told.’

  It’s dark by the time Chris gets home, but not so dark he can’t see Phoebe’s car parked in the driveway. He dumps the Rover in the street and bolts upstairs.

  She’s sitting at the dining table, her mother opposite, each separated from the other by an excruciating silence.

  ‘Hello, Pebbles.’

  Phoebe looks up as he kisses her forehead. ‘Don’t you start,’ she says.

  Diane looks at him, anguish scrawled on her face. ‘She says she wants an abortion.’

  ‘Termination,’ says Phoebe.

  ‘Tell her, Christopher. Please, tell her she doesn’t have to do this.’

  He pulls out a chair beside Phoebe and reaches for her hand but she puts it in her lap. ‘Your mum’s right, sweetheart. There are other ways.’

  ‘James doesn’t want a baby. He’s absolutely … adamant.’

  ‘So I heard. What do you want?’

  ‘I’d … I don’t know. Maybe I’d have it if he wanted it, but not … not on my own.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be on your own,’ Diane says. ‘We’ll help you every step of the way, won’t we, Chris?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have a career.’

  ‘You can still have a career – work part time.’ Diane smiles unconvincingly.

  ‘I can’t, my job’s full time and anyway, part-time work would barely cover childcare.’

  ‘You don’t need childcare – you’ll have us.’

  ‘This is my responsibility, Mum. It’s my life.’

  ‘Your child’s life.’ Diane reaches unsuccessfully for Phoebe’s hand. ‘Let us help you. Move back here, have the baby and go back to work. Keep your career. We’ll take care of your little one, won’t we, Chris?’

  He rubs his forehead, as if erasing what he can foresee. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘No,’ says Phoebe. ‘It won’t work.’ She scoops her car keys from the table and heads for the door.

  Diane pushes back her chair and hurries ahead of her. She stands in the doorway blocking her daughter’s exit.

  ‘Listen to me, Phoebe. I can’t bear to think of you making a decision that’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. Don’t do it. You can’t do it. You will never forget. Ever.’

  Phoebe scours her mother’s face. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘I … just do.’

  ‘Did … did you have a termination?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then don’t pretend to know what I will or won’t regret.’

  Diane looks at Chris. ‘Tell her, Chris. Tell her we’ll take her baby. We’ll bring it up.’

  ‘No.’ Chris shakes his head. ‘I’m not doing fatherhood all over again. We’re not the solution, Diane. Phoebe’s right: it’s her decision, her responsibility.’

  Diane gasps. ‘How can you – of all people – say that? What if your mother had taken the easy way out? Or mine? My parents didn’t want me but I’m standing here because they accepted their responsibilities and I’m damn glad they did.’ Her eyes drill into Phoebe’s. ‘I’ll look after your baby. You won’t have to do a thing.’ She glances coldly at Chris. ‘Nor will you.’

  ‘Di,’ he says gently. ‘I know you want grandkids, but this is not the way.’

  Phoebe pushes past her mother and clatters downstairs. She scrambles into the car and starts the engine. Chris lurches after her and bangs frantically on the window. Phoebe lowers it a fraction, her expression so fragile she looks ready to break.

  ‘Phoebe,’ he says. ‘Only you can make this decision, and it doesn’t come any harder. Whatever you choose, remember we love you. We’re on your side, both of us.’

  ‘Mum isn’t.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  A single tear spills down Phoebe’s cheek. She turns her head and reverses into the road.

  Upstairs, Chris finds Diane huddled in a cane chair on the verandah. Her expression is so despairing he wants to comfort her, but knows she won’t accept his kind of comfort.

  She looks up and fixes him with a glare of incomprehension. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done, Christopher? Sanctioned the killing of our grandchild. How can you live with yourself, knowing what your mother endured to give life to you?’

  ‘Phoebe is not my mother.’

  ‘Phoebe is our child.’

  ‘Yes, and I love her more than I love her baby.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a choice. It needn’t be a choice.’

  ‘But it is a choice, Diane, and she’s the one who has to make it.’

  Chris has a full day ahead of him and not much sleep to base it on. He tips up his mug and drains every last desperate drop of coffee before picking up his knapsack.

  ‘Where are you going with that?’ Diane says.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. With everything that … happened yesterday, I forgot to tell you. I have a meeting late this afternoon at the Gold Coast. A new job. I’ll stay the night so I can look over the site in the morning.’

  ‘Really?’ she says flatly.

  ‘A hospital at Southport. I’ll be doing a lot of shuttling back and forth. You’re welcome to come with me if you want.’

  ‘I’m working at the library this afternoon,’ she says. ‘As you well know. Can I assume you’ll be available on your mobile?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You won’t run out of battery or hang up on me?’

  ‘I’m going alone, Diane.’

  She picks at her nails. ‘I’m thinking … of Phoebe.’

  ‘I know you are. I’ll keep the phone charged, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  It’s one o’clock by the time Chris finalises the Tuckers’ plans. When he hands the specification to Tabi she raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve remembered the plaster cupid on the bedroom wall, I hope?’

  ‘Two,’ he grunts, checking for the next job on his list. Pattersons’ house. Painting at the wool store. Nothing that can’t wait. He cou
ld go to Southport now, do the site inspection today rather than tomorrow, and be better prepared for the meeting.

  By five-thirty, the inspection is done and the meeting is over. There were only three board members present and no waffle or disagreement. He phones Diane to tell her he’ll be home after all but the line is engaged. Doesn’t matter. They can eat out tonight for a change.

  A single unwashed wine glass and a crumby plate lie, uncharacteristically, in the kitchen sink. Chris drops his knapsack on the bench and goes into the living room. Diane’s shoes are abandoned on the floor, a book is open upside down on the coffee table, a biography of Berlioz. From down the hall, he hears the strangest sound – Diane, singing.

  He finds her in his den with his headphones on, singing to the night beyond the window. A single lamp illuminates the room. She’s wearing only a transparent, silky gown. Beneath it, she’s naked. He stands in the shadows of the hall, transfixed. It takes him a moment or two to register she’s singing a song from Tramp, the musical she’s always dismissed as crassly sentimental, and as her voice curves around the lyrics his heart sets up a nauseating thump. Her movements are languid, her voice velvety.

  ‘Remember me,’ she sings, trailing her fingers slowly down her thighs. She leans over, unplugs the headphones from the boom box and the seductive voice of Christine Courtney fills the room.

  ‘You are my fantasy

  My secret memory …’

  Diane lifts her arms and sways in time with the music, her movements erotic, mesmerising. The sight of her abandonment is both heart-breaking and galling. This woman, this lovely woman is his wife, but not his lover.

  And he is not hers. He never was and never will be. She chose him because he represented what she wanted in a husband, without any risk of her falling in love with him.

  When the music dies away she switches off the player, runs her hands through her hair and turns.

  ‘Oh – my God! You frightened me!’

  ‘Sentimental twaddle, huh, Diane?’ He takes in her tousled hair, her naked body beneath the gown, her bare feet. Then he turns and strides down the hall, scoops up his knapsack and plunges down the stairs two at a time. When he hears her following, he ducks into his workroom, to the smell of timber, the certainty of drills and nails and glue and the conviction that he can make something, something beautiful, something to be treasured; but not with Diane. He shuts the door but it has no lock and she pushes it open.