Chris turns off the light and reruns images from the day. The relief on Phoebe’s face when she saw her mother, the way she flopped into Diane’s arms and clung as if drowning. How Diane stood awkwardly for a moment, then stroked her daughter’s hair. It’s a day Chris never wants to repeat, yet he feels there was nothing more he could have done. His muscles ache with exhausted tension, but sleep remains elusive. Phoebe has been out to it for hours – hit the sack the moment she came home and hasn’t budged since.
As Chris helped make up her bed before they went to the hospital, Diane asked if he would stay the night.
‘I’ll prop in Archie’s room,’ he said.
He dozes, stirs, flops about. When he feels a weight on the bed he’s not sure whether he’s awake or asleep and jerks up.
‘Move over,’ Diane whispers.
‘What’s wrong?’
She pulls back the covers.
‘No!’ He gropes for his T-shirt. ‘No, Di.’ He scrambles to the edge of the bed, puts his arm around her and guides her back to her room.
She starts to cry. She’s cried more in the past two days than in their whole life together.
‘Get in,’ he says, lifting the sheet, ‘and I’ll sit with you.’
She crawls into bed and he sits beside her, stroking her back in slow circles. Her sobs are muffled and soft and he waits for them to subside but they don’t stop. He tilts his watch towards the moonlight, longing for sleep, but can’t read the time. Must be at least one. His eyelids droop, yet still she weeps … When his forehead hits the headboard he snaps awake. Silence. He eases himself off the bed and returns to Archie’s room.
A shaft of sunlight.
Chris blinks, gropes for his glasses and peers at his watch: eight thirty. The day’s half gone. He pulls on his clothes and goes into the kitchen where Diane is stirring eggs in a bowl. She looks tired, but otherwise much like her normal self.
‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ she says, passing him a mug of tea. ‘Phoebe’s still asleep. She’ll be hungry when she wakes up. Breakfast?’
‘Thanks, Di, but I really don’t have time. I’ll—’
‘Ho, ho, ho.’
Santa Claus stands at the back door. Red cap and coat, flowing beard, fat stomach, the lot. ‘What ho! Just in time for brekkie.’
‘Archie,’ says Diane. ‘What on earth are you doing here – and why the silly outfit?’
‘Got stuck in a chimney last Christmas,’ he mumbles through the snowy beard. ‘Had to lose ten kilos before I fell out.’ He pulls off the Santa cap. ‘Last night’s fancy dress at Bruce’s,’ he says of his mate who lives in the next street. ‘I know it’s a bit early for Christmas, but Santa was the cheapest costume I could hire. Thought I’d better change before I drive home.’ He waits until his mother is tipping flour into a bowl before enveloping her in a hug that sends flour all over her, himself, the bench and the floor.
‘I’m going to say goodbye to Phoebe,’ says Chris.
She’s lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Without makeup her pale skin is flawless, her eyelashes the same whitegold as her hair.
‘How are you, Pebbles?’
‘All right … I guess.’ She turns on her side to face him. ‘I’m wondering how I can resent James so much for not wanting the baby, when I didn’t want it either. Did I expect too much?’
‘I understand him not wanting a baby,’ says Chris, ‘but the ultimatum he gave you was the act of a thorough shit.’ He pulls a sad face. ‘Poor old chook.’
‘Better now, I suppose,’ says Phoebe, ‘than after we bought a place to— What the …?’
Archie stands in the doorway in his Santa outfit.
‘Tell me it’s a nightmare,’ says Phoebe, ‘and any moment I’m going to wake up and that – thing – won’t be there.’
‘What are you doing here?’ says Archie.
Phoebe pulls on a gown and slides out of bed. ‘I need tea.’
Chris follows her to the kitchen and picks up his car keys.
‘Pancakes?’ says Diane, as Phoebe pecks her cheek.
Archie reappears in an old T-shirt and shorts, still sporting his Santa beard. ‘Who’s been sleeping in my bed?’
‘Papa bear,’ murmurs Chris.
‘Why?’
Chris rattles his keys. ‘I’m off.’
‘Chris,’ Diane pauses, midway through beating batter. ‘You’d better tell them.’
‘Oh.’ He tugs his ear. ‘Yes. I’ve, um … Your mother and I have separated.’ It’s out so quickly the words hang, undigested.
‘Separated what?’ says Archie.
‘I’ve moved out. I’m staying in a flat on—’
‘You what?’
‘No.’ Phoebe’s face drains like yolk from an egg. ‘It’s because of me.’
‘It’s not,’ says Chris.
‘It is. It’s my fault.’ She looks appalled.
‘No, Phoebe,’ says Diane. ‘It has nothing to do with you.’
‘Then … why?’ She looks at her parents in turn, as if trying to separate a single entity into two parts and if she looks hard enough, she’ll find an explanation for the inexplicable.
‘It’s not working for us any more,’ says Chris.
‘That’s not a reason.’
‘I’m sorry, Pebbles, it’s the only one you’re going to get.’
‘No,’ says Archie, removing his beard. Without it his face looks young and raw. ‘It’s not enough. We have a right to know why.’
Chris shakes his head. ‘Sorry, but you don’t.’
‘Whose idea is it?’
‘None of your business,’ says Diane.
‘Mine,’ says Chris.
Archie regards his father with a suspicious look. ‘A bit on the side, is it?’
Chris says nothing.
‘You mongrel.’
‘Don’t you dare speak to your father like that,’ Diane hisses.
‘A younger chick? What the hell do you think you’re doing? She’ll take you to the cleaners and Mum with you. Mum’s given you her whole life and this is how you say thanks? Happy twenty-fifth wedding anniversary – but I’m leaving you for someone else.’
‘Shut it, Archie. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You arsehole.’ He looks his father up and down as if he’s inspecting a piece of rotting meat. ‘Or should I say, prick?’
Phoebe shakes his arm. ‘Stop it!’
‘Meet the real Christopher Bright. Number One Bastard. Except now we know who this particular bastard’s father is. Like father, like son.’
Phoebe delivers a stinging slap to her brother’s face. He reels back, but doesn’t stop. ‘I liked it better when we thought your father might be a murderer. Anything’s better than a cheat. Two-timing pair of pricks. You’re better off without him, Mum.’
Chris’s fingers curl so tightly around his keys he can feel a smear of blood. Pain is all that stops him ramming his son’s head through the wall. Yet the moral mountain on which Archie stands is familiar. He stood there himself when he found Jo’s diary, judging without thought, without insight. It’s a desolate place, no home for mortals prone to human cock-ups; a place Chris is done with, and eventually, Archie will be too. When he is, Chris will be waiting … as Ben is waiting for him.
Phoebe reaches for him as he heads out the door. ‘Dad – don’t take any notice. He’s going to be so sorry.’
He touches her face, briefly, tenderly.
Diane comes and puts a gentle hand on his arm. ‘Phoebe’s right. He’ll regret it.’
Chris nods. ‘I know he will.’
‘Will you be all right?’
He nods again, squinting into the day.
‘You’ve had no breakfast,’ Diane says with a rueful smile.
Chris summons a smile of his own. ‘I’ll get breakfast at Ben’s. That’s where I’m going now. I’ve kept him waiting long enough.’
He starts down the stairs, then turns and looks back. ‘J
ust because we didn’t make it forever, Di, doesn’t mean we didn’t make it. We had twenty-five good years and produced two great kids – nothing to regret. You’re a wonderful woman. I’ll always be grateful.’
Chris unlocks the door of his apartment and dumps a bag of groceries on the bench. A carrot slides out. He picks it up and hurls it at the wall. It hits the calendar, and Chris’s eyes zoom to the date: December the twenty-eighth. Forty-one years to the day since Liam died.
This is the first year that the Bright family’s annual pilgrimage to the rock pool did not take place. Now that he knew what really happened to his son, Ben no longer felt the need to go.
Chris rescues the carrot – beaten but not broken, and tosses it on the bench. He straightens the calendar, the only decoration on the living room walls, and glances around. Not exactly home, but at least a place where he doesn’t have to consider anyone but himself. He comes and goes when he wants and if his cooking is not as good as Diane’s, it’s good enough. If his shirts are not as well pressed and his underpants are not folded, at least he is not reaching for something he can’t have. He can sing tunelessly along with the boom box and fall asleep in front of the TV without being roused for bed so he can get up in the morning. In over two months he hasn’t overslept, proving Diane’s vigilance unnecessary. Once or twice a week he eats with Ben or Phoebe, or they with him.
It was a month before he heard from Archie, and even then not offering the olive branch Chris was hoping for. He phoned, he said, because his mother had ordered him to apologise.
‘So I’m apologising.’
‘Fine,’ Chris said. ‘You’ve done what you were told. Next time, apologise because you want to.’
‘I won’t apologise for telling the truth.’
‘You don’t know the truth.’
‘You screwed someone else and left Mum and that makes you a dumb, middle-aged fuckwit.’
‘Listen, Archie. I’m here for you, always. Any time you want – you call. But I’m not copping any abuse – now or in the future. Is that clear?’
‘Clear,’ said Archie, and hung up.
Chris has heard nothing from him since, apart from a brief pre-Christmas email.
‘Licking his wounds,’ Diane said, reporting on the Christmas lunch she hosted for the kids. ‘Moving out has done him good – he’s discovered the world does not revolve around him. He’s trying to salvage his pride: I didn’t tell him to apologise; I simply said he was wrong. He’ll be back, Chris. Count on it. How was your day with Ben?’
‘Good. Different. He did the whole thing himself: turkey with all the trimmings. His cleaning lady bought a pud. Rosa. She’s nice. More to their relationship than cleaning, I reckon.’
Chris gets up and slides open the balcony doors, admitting the city’s rumble. Mostly, the noise is not disagreeable. Not quiet, like number 10 Appleby but not intrusive. His own thoughts are more audible here, his memories sharper. A host of Christophers with long-ago dreams, Fletcher-like pieces of himself, have been turning up lately and hovering like small bold birds – oblivious to the rules of probability – as if awaiting permission to roost. Normally, he welcomes them, but right now the fallout from this afternoon’s meeting with Judge has sent them scattering.
He arrived back at the office from a trip to the Gold Coast where he’d been trying – unsuccessfully – to stir the builders into action on the hospital job. A promise that work would recommence in the first week of January was all he could extract. Normally, this time of year saw the office deserted but Hamish was at his computer, muttering to himself. Chris began sorting through the messages on his desk when Judge poked his head in.
‘G’day. How about a beer?’
Chris glanced at his watch: four o’clock. ‘A bit early, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve got a five-thirty appointment with Sammy. Come on. Let’s go.’
The beer garden was deserted so they nabbed the shadiest spot: a dusty table in the corner.
‘Cheers,’ said Judge, lifting his glass.
‘Likewise,’ said Chris, downing a mouthful of beer. ‘How come you’re still getting acupuncture? You sound perfectly fine to me.’
Judge leaned back in a gesture of exaggerated relaxation and began to hum.
‘Am I missing something?’ Chris said.
‘No, but some things are strictly between a man and his wife.’
Chris gazed at him blankly, then his eyes drifted down Judge’s body, eventually arriving at his groin. ‘Oh … no … acupuncture? Where—?’
‘I’ll leave that to your imagination,’ Judge said. He leaned forward. ‘Now, on a more sombre note, guess what I found this morning.’
‘Go on.’
‘A mistake in Hamish’s work.’
‘Really? That’s a first.’
‘Yes, first time since he’s worked for us – that I know of. He put Federation-style barge trims on an 1886 house.’
‘Well spotted.’
‘Just luck, mate. And luck’s not good enough.’
‘He’s bound to make the odd mistake. He’s getting the hang of things.’
‘He’s not getting the hang of things and you know it. Hamish is not cut out for your job, and you’re not cut out for his.’
‘Don’t—’
‘I’m not.’ Judge held up his hand. ‘I’m not going to try to change your mind. If there’s one thing the stroke has taught me, it’s not to fight the inevitable. But I reckon you are.’
‘I am what?’
‘Look. I haven’t finished with Baillieu & Bright yet – not by a long shot. But I think you have.’
Chris blinks. ‘Come again?’
‘Tell me I’m wrong.’
‘Of course you’re wrong! I’m totally committed to our firm, to you and the staff, and you know it.’
‘Yes, I do, Chris, but you no longer fit. You’ve become the proverbial square peg. You and conservation architecture – like it or not – were a dream team, but you’re completely out of sync with what you’re doing now.’
‘What’s your point, Judge?’
‘We’re surviving on our reputation and it won’t last. We lost our advantage when we let go Hamilton House. So we either have to get it back, or create a new one. Yesterday,’ Judge cleared his throat, ‘I was approached by someone who I reckon can do just that.’
Chris, feeling like Gulliver in Lilliput, tried to keep his voice level. ‘Who?’
‘A young architect, full of energy and solid ideas.’
‘We can’t afford another architect.’
‘I know that.’
Chris frowned into his beer. ‘Let me … get this straight. You’re saying you want me to leave so you can hire someone else?’
‘Not if you don’t want to go.’
‘Gee, thanks, Judge. Odd thing, you know; I thought Baillieu & Bright was half mine and I get to choose if, or when, I leave.’ He stood up, knocking the table and spilling beer. ‘Enjoy your acupuncture. Have Sammy stick a needle up your Khyber. I’ll see you tomorrow, at work.’
Chris reaches for the beaten carrot and bites off the end, mashing it angrily between his teeth and swallowing unchewed lumps so violently they lodge in his throat. Booted out of his firm by his own partner? No bloody way.
When his mobile starts ringing he answers in a voice strangled by carrot.
It’s Phoebe. She wants to know when he’s coming to see Violet’s house. Everyone has, except him.
‘I’ve been at the Gold Coast,’ he croaks.
‘I know. The new hospital – you told me. Was it exciting?’
He forces down lumps of carrot. ‘Are you taking the piss, Phoebe?’
‘Don’t be crude, Dad. Listen, I’m at Mum’s now – why don’t you come over and I’ll meet you at Violet’s?’
‘I’m a bit tired. It’s been a shit of a day.’
‘I’ll buy you dinner afterwards.’
‘Where?’
‘Danny’s Pizza.’
Chris snor
ts. ‘Last of the big spenders.’ He looks at the pile of groceries. ‘Yeah, all right. Give me half an hour. I’ve just walked in.’
The living area is twice its original size. Two new sash windows matching the original have doubled the light and two more in the kitchen have brought the garden into view. The overall effect is one of relief; of air, light and space released in an old house. The biggest surprise is the retention of the old cupboards, 1950s kitsch transformed into 1990s chic. Everything has been stripped, lined and resealed, brass hardware has been cleaned, polished and reset. The old gas jets have been removed from the lumbering enamel stove and a new cooktop seamlessly installed. Above it, a thirty-centimetre-high strip of clear glass both reveals and protects Violet’s precious T & G wall.
Not a restoration. A makeover, but so artfully done, it has the feel of an original.
In the living room Hugo is reassembling his sound system. ‘Does it meet with your approval?’ he asks Chris.
‘Mine – yes. What about yours?’
Hugo examines the stray end of a wire. ‘I have a proper place for my speakers at last, I can read without turning on a light and there’s a wine cellar downstairs. What else do I need? Look at Violet; she’s floating.’
Chris is challenged by the image of Violet floating, but the smug smile she’s worn since he arrived says she knew all along she could have her ‘original’ house.
Phoebe turns her wineglass restlessly. ‘Well?’ she says. ‘What did you think?’
‘I’m impressed. It’s very simple, very convincing and beautifully done – but it’s not a restoration. How did you get Violet’s nod to knock out those walls? She was all for putting them back.’
‘I did some computer modelling to show what her house would look like if it was authentically restored. It was so small and cramped, even she couldn’t pretend to like it. So then I showed her what the house could look like if it was modelled on others of the same era. I told her we could create a house that was faithful to its time, if not to its own particular history. She went for it.’
Danny swoops down with their pizzas. ‘For the signorina, the seafood. For Signor, is-a-the pepperoni. Watch-a-the pepperoni,’ he warns Chris. ‘It’s-a hot.’
Last Day in the Dynamite Factory Page 25
