‘Drop-a-the accent, Danny. Red hair and freckles ain’t-a-Italian.’ He picks up a piece of pizza and drops it.
‘I told you it was hot.’ Danny spins haughtily on his heel and minces away.
Chris wipes his hand on a napkin. ‘The kitchen cupboards,’ he says, ‘how did you convince her to keep them?’
‘I gave her a choice between restoring her cupboards or putting in new ones.’ Phoebe giggles. ‘Violet hates that word, new.’
‘You should have been a psychologist.’
‘No.’ She nibbles her pizza. ‘I just like turning people’s dreams into reality. We get so many clients coming through our office with ideas of what they want. But when they can’t articulate them or show how they’ll work they can get talked into something else; something that might excite the designer more than them. Then there are people like Violet. If they get what they say they want, you know they’ll be miserable. So you have to show them – gently, Dad – why it won’t work, and have them “help” you design something that does.’ Phoebe picks up her glass and studies its contents with the intensity of a scryer examining a crystal ball. ‘I realised something while I was doing Violet’s house. I don’t want to keep working for Armstrongs. I want to be somewhere smaller, some place where the protocol isn’t so fixed.’
Silence gathers.
Chris coughs, suddenly aware of how strong the pepperoni is.
Phoebe sips her wine. ‘I went to see Judge yesterday.’
Chris drags the serviette from his lap and presses it to his mouth.
‘Did he tell you?’ she says.
The restaurant is suddenly stifling. Chris gulps water.
‘Dad?’
‘Why didn’t you come to me first?’
‘I thought you might have found it harder to say no than Judge. But he didn’t; he just said he’d have to sound you out. I’m sure I could make a go of it, Dad. I’d love to work with Baillieu & Bright. I think we’d get on fine.’
‘Pro bono, Phoebe?’
She looks startled. ‘For … nothing?’
‘Didn’t Judge tell you we can’t afford another architect?’
‘No, he – he said he’d have to discuss it with you.’
‘He has discussed it with me. And he knows perfectly well that in order to hire you, we’d have to sack someone else.’
‘Oh.’ Phoebe rubs her forehead. ‘I didn’t know … I’m sorry.’
Chris yanks at his ear. ‘And the trouble is, it’s me he wants to disappear.’
‘No …’ She smiles tentatively, as if testing him for a joke. ‘Dad …?’
‘I’m sorry, Phoebe. It won’t be happening. I’m not going anywhere.’
Everything. Every bloody, crappy thing – happens behind his back.
Because you won’t face the writing on the wall.
I’ve left Diane. I’ve left my home. I’m not leaving my job.
Okay, stand back and watch the world go by – if that’s your idea of life in abundance.
The fragrance of pine has surrendered to the cold smell of steel. Gloves have replaced calloused hands and nail guns have replaced the chippy’s pouch. Being on site is not the pleasure it used to be. But that’s progress. Surrender or die. At least Roger Noland is happy with progress, for the time being, anyway.
At four o’clock everyone packs up and Chris toys with the idea of going back to the office, but there’s nothing there that needs his attention. What he does need is more gear from Diane’s. He wishes he could collect some tools too but there’s nowhere to use them except for Ben’s shed, and while Ben is happy to share his space, Chris is increasingly aware of a need to find his own place. His own shed, big and airy and full of light. His own wood … cedar or silky oak, curling off the plane, falling to the floor, the fragrance of it permeating the air. The apartment is past its use-by date.
Like Baillieu & Bright.
No, Baillieu & Bright is not past its use-by date.
But you are – there.
Judge had crept apologetically into Chris’s office the morning after his dinner with Phoebe.
‘Sorry, mate. I thought I might have been letting you off the hook; that … you know, maybe you were trying to tell me you wanted out but didn’t know how.’
‘It never occurred to me.’
But now that it has …
‘Yeah. Sorry. Sorry about Phoebe and—’
‘Forget it, Judge. Just … forget it.’
But two weeks into the New Year, Chris still hasn’t forgotten.
He pauses at the gate of number 10 Appleby and squints up at the top of the stairs. Something’s different; some long-familiar arrangement of angle and line has changed. Horizontal should be vertical. Wall should be door. The dunny …
Gone!
Weatherboards and a long high window have replaced the door. Chris goes cautiously upstairs and peers inside.
The kitchen has disappeared. Or rather, it has zoomed out into the view, merging with the trees through deep windows.
She was right.
Must be costing her a tidy packet but it’s not his business now. Their financial separation had been clean and amicable. Diane kept Appleby Street; he kept their rental property. Everything else was halved.
‘Chris?’
He whips around. ‘Sorry, Di – didn’t mean to barge in. Just came for some more summer gear.’
‘Come in.’
‘You’ve been busy these past few months. This is amazing.’
‘It will be when it’s finished.’
‘Phoebe?’
‘Naturally.’
Naturally. Phoebe was born for this work. ‘She didn’t tell me she was doing this.’
‘I think she wanted you to see it finished.’
‘So, you’ve finally canned the dunny – pardon the pun. Got one inside?’
Diane smiles and crooks her finger.
Chris follows her down the hall to his den … which no longer exists. A pedestal, a shower and a spa bath have replaced it. He smiles with reluctant admiration. ‘I always did say it was a crap den. What happened to my pictures?’
Diane unearths his pictures from the hall closet – the drawing she gave him, the cat and dog, and the nude.
‘Who did this one?’ She points to the nude.
‘I, ah – got it in London.’
‘I know, but there’s no signature. Who did it?’
He tugs at his ear. ‘Roberta.’
‘Oh.’ Diane shuts the closet door. ‘I should have guessed.’
‘Guessed what?’
‘You and her.’
‘There is no me and her.’
‘So you say. But it was easier to believe than you and Tabitha. Sorry. Not my business any more.’
He follows her back to the living room, and stops. A score sheet and a bow rest on a music stand in the corner. Beside them, on the sofa … a viola.
For a moment Chris feels like he’s walked in on his wife and her lover in the family home.
Pretty, though.
The viola is honey-hued, a colour almost the same as Diane’s hair, and he has both an urge and a reluctance to touch it.
‘I’m playing again.’
‘So I see. Does it … remind you of him?’
‘Adrian? I suppose it did at first, but no, not now.’ She picks up the viola and runs her hand over its belly. ‘This was my love long before him. This is my voice, the one my parents never heard.’
The one he never heard.
‘Look – see this – lower C? That’s what gives it the deeper register. It’s said to be the nearest sound to the human voice.’
Chris watches her with a twinge of envy. He is the one who left home, yet Diane is the one who has moved on – the viola, the house. In just a few months the gap he left has closed. He’d imagined his departure might have had greater impact.
Would you be glad if it had?
Not really. It’s a bit like looking at his kids – relief at seeing them indep
endent but regret that they don’t need him as they once did.
Phoebe seems to have moved on too. She doesn’t need Baillieu & Bright to make a name for herself in the world of architecture, but they’d have been lucky to have her. Chris looks around the kitchen – it’ll be a corker when it’s finished.
His hand strays to the phone, clipped to his belt. He hesitates a moment, then unhooks it. ‘Excuse me, Di.’ He presses in a number. ‘It’s me,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I’m fine thanks, Pebbles. Look, ah … I’ve been thinking and I’ve realised Judge was right. I have run out of steam at Baillieu & Bright, so … I’ve decided to bow out and that means there’s a vacancy … with your name on it. If you’re still interested.’ A torrent of babble pours through the phone. He holds it away from his ear. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll tell him you’re still interested.’ He clips the phone back on his belt.
Diane raises her eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t that rather reckless?’
‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘It’ll make things tight for a while. I’ll get capital from the company eventually, but in the meantime I’ll have to sell the rental property.’ He shrugs and smiles. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s probably time, anyway.’ He reaches out and touches the viola. Diane passes it to him and he runs his fingers gently over the belly and ribs, and turns it over. ‘A lot of work.’ He tilts the instrument towards the light, revealing flame-like patterns in the wood, alternating light and dark. ‘Maple?’
‘I think it’s spruce.’
‘Spruce on the front, maybe,’ he says, examining it carefully. ‘These look like growth rings. I don’t know a lot about foreign wood. Nice, though. Well-seasoned.’ He passes it back to her.
‘Chris, I—’ Diane holds the viola to her chest. ‘I just want you to know … I really did love you.’
Chris stares at her for a moment, then touches his fingers to her cheek. ‘I know. And I loved you, as much as you’d let me. I still do.’
‘Is this Goodbye Architecture or the Pause Button?’ Ben sharpens a kitchen knife on a whetstone and tests its edge on his thumb.
Chris shrugs. ‘Well, never say never, but I think it’s goodbye. What are you doing with that?’ He indicates the fish which Ben is now slicing carefully down the spine.
‘Stuffing it.’
‘You’re turning into a cook.’
‘I am. Thanks to Rosa’s expert tuition.’
‘Your … Rosa. I gather she’s special?’
Ben tries to smother a sheepish smile then, equally unsuccessfully, dismisses the subject with a shrug. ‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ Chris gazes out the window. ‘I’m going to do what I always wanted to do. Work with wood. Make fine furniture. A lot to learn but I’ve enrolled in the Advanced Fine Woodworking course. Starts in two weeks.’
Ben nods. ‘Good on you. Where are you going to set yourself up?’
‘Not sure. I’ll eventually get my share of the business, but I don’t want to tighten the screws on Judge just yet. Give him time to settle in with Phoebe. I’m selling the investment property. As long as I’ve got enough for a shed – that’s all I really want.’
‘And a loo with a view.’
Chris smiles. ‘I’m thinking Sunshine Coast. It means commuting to the course, but … I like it there. More air … or something.’
‘Well, son, I’m glad to hear that.’ Ben rinses off his fishy hands and wipes them on his apron. ‘Be back in a tick.’ He goes down the hall and returns with an envelope. ‘This arrived yesterday. Took rather longer than I’d hoped to stitch it up, but there it is. Go on, open it.’
Chris takes the envelope and cautiously lifts the flap. Papers. ‘What is it?’
‘A late Christmas present,’ says Ben. ‘Actually – no. It’s a choice. A more user-friendly alternative than Diane’s ultimatum.’
Chris unfolds the paper. ‘Deeds?’
‘To your land. I drove up and looked at those blocks of yours at Coolum Beach and they were too good to pass up, so I nabbed them.’
‘You …?’
‘You get to choose this time, Chris. Keep them, sell them, divvy them up – whatever you want.’
‘I want a drink.’
‘A toast,’ says Ben. ‘Let’s go up to the shed.’
Little has changed in the shed apart from the cycle of timber, the addition of a new router and a vacuum chuck for the lathe. On the bench a small echidna is emerging from a piece of rosewood. Chris picks it up.
‘All these spines,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you stick to platypuses or wombats?’
‘Same reason you aren’t sticking to architecture.’ Ben goes to the ancient fridge for a couple of beers. He stands for a moment, leaning on the door. ‘You know what I’d really like? Creaming soda. I haven’t had one in donkey’s years. You don’t see it around much these days, do you?’
Chris shakes his head.
‘We used to pack a lunch at Mum and Dad’s farm and stop on the way to Coolum for a creaming soda for me and lemonade for the rest of you and you kids would be bleating for ice-cream which Jo always reckoned would spoil your lunch.’ Ben chuckles. ‘God bless her. I don’t think it ever did, but yeah, creaming soda. I wonder if you can still buy it – it used to come in a …’
Chris picks up the echidna and examines it closely, turning it this way and that in the fading light.
‘Chris?’
‘Turn the light on, will you, Ben?’
‘Chris, there’s something I need to know.’
‘How are you going to get rid of these chisel marks?’
‘The glass, the glass you said Liam fell on—’ Ben takes the echidna from him and holds it to his chest as if to stop it escaping. ‘What sort of glass was it?’
Chris reaches for a beer and thumbs off the top. ‘Just … a broken bottle.’
‘What colour?’
Chris takes a mouthful of beer.
‘What colour, son?’
Chris swallows but the beer lodges painfully in his chest. He looks into his father’s eyes. ‘Brown,’ he says softly, maintaining Ben’s gaze. ‘It was a beer bottle. I saw the label, the Fourex man with the hat. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.’
The hum of distant traffic reaches him through the open door of his unit. He lies in bed with the lights off but he can still see the city’s flickering neon and the beams of headlights.
So, you still couldn’t bring yourself to tell him the truth.
Ben was right. Some truths should never be told.
But neither will they ever be forgotten. Chris closes his eyes.
Jo is calling out. Ben leaps up, dropping his sandwich and his creaming soda bottle, the bottle which takes a shortcut down the rock face – bouncing, tumbling and spewing its contents into the air. Chris and Liam watch the sun-struck missile explode on the last big rock in a fountain of colourless glass.
Liam points to a glittering shard lodged upright in the sand, scrambles out of the rock pool, and runs …
The ocean rises up in front of him, all shades of blue and green, stretching to the horizon. At the intersection he turns right and follows the sea for half a kilometre, then pulls over and – mindful of his new truck’s booty of tools and timber – does a careful U-turn and stops. He gets out, and there it is.
His land. His shack, patched up and looking almost respectable, and …
No.
The tree. The beautiful fig tree between the blocks … it’s gone.
That bastard – Dave – he was hell bent on destroying the tree. Chris walks slowly up the block, his pleasure dented by the absence of the leafy giant. He stops and turns to take in the view, steps back, and his heel strikes something hard. He peers down into the long grass and there, brutally attenuated, is a stump. From its centre, two green leaves sashay cockily in the breeze.
The shack has a new roof, new barge boards and steps. Inside it is clean and empty.
Home.
Chris puts his knapsack on the floor and upends the contents. Underpants, T-shirts, w
et-pack, torch, notebook, pencils, and the bag of timber off-cuts he’s had since London. He goes to the louvres and opens them wide, letting in the sounds of the ocean – the cracking, tearing and whoomping as it smashes into the rocks and shoots water high the air. The sun is low in the sky, the wind is insistent. Chris can’t see the rock pool from here but he can picture the water sloshing to and fro, spilling over the edge and racing across the granite face. Tomorrow, he’ll go and see it for himself. He’ll get a bed, a chair and a table. He’ll start on a workbench to go along the northern wall. Tomorrow is the first day of February and the rest of his life. Tonight, though, he needs to find a motel bed. But even before that, there’s something he must do.
He parks at the bottom of Bertie’s driveway and walks up to the house with the bag of timber off-cuts. He twitches the rope on a weather-pitted brass bell by the door. After a moment, footsteps … Bertie’s? No, too regular. Stuart?
Neither. A young woman. Big grey eyes in a heart-shaped face. A baby in her arms.
‘I’m looking for Roberta Lightfoot,’ Chris says.
‘Lightfoot?’
‘Sorry – Beaumont.’
The girl looks at him questioningly.
‘Chris Bright,’ he says. ‘An old school friend.’
‘Oh.’ She turns and calls over her shoulder. ‘Chris Bright, Mum. Old school friend.’ She gently jiggles the baby, who surveys Chris through half-closed eyes. Off with the fairies by the look of it. He feels a dragging emptiness.
‘Nice baby,’ he says.
‘He’s Fred. I’m Lily.’ She looks down. ‘There you are!’
Chris follows her gaze – to the cat with the broken tail. He bends to rub its ears and it head-butts him affectionately.
Bertie comes to the door. ‘Oh, you naughty boy! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I was worried.’
‘Me?’ says Chris.
‘No. Stuart. He’s been gone since yesterday.’
‘S-Stuart?’
‘Hi, Chris. Happy New Year – better late than never. Come in.’ She picks up the cat, drapes it over her shoulder and goes inside.
‘Stuart!’ Chris pounds after her. ‘All this time you’ve been hiding behind a mangy cat?’
Last Day in the Dynamite Factory Page 26
