An Iron Rose

by Peter Temple

  ‘Who wouldn’t,’ I said. ‘An older man. They can be attracted to capable young women.’

  She put her head on one side. ‘Older man? He’s about your age.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’

  She laughed. Vinnie arrived with the toasted sandwiches.

  ‘That was quick,’ I said.

  ‘Cook’s day off,’ said Vinnie. ‘Everything’s quicker on his day off. Including the time. Passes too fast.’

  We talked business while we ate. On our way back, I said, ‘About Alan Snelling.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You want to think.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Alan’s lucky,’ I said. ‘His old mum popped off. Nobody thought she had much, just the house, falling-over weatherboard. Not so. She had lots of things. Jewellery, coin collections, stamp collections, and a box with about $100,000 in cash in it. All up, worth about $400,000.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there’s an explanation,’ said Allie.

  I said, ‘Also, Alan had a business partner, ran their little video hire business in Melbourne. Top little business, big as a phone booth, cash flow like Target. Then the partner was working out in his home gym and the machine collapsed on him. Fatal.’

  ‘That’s not lucky,’ Allie said.

  ‘They had key executive insurance,’ I said. ‘Half a million.’

  We were going down the lane, when Allie said, ‘What’s that about his mother mean? I don’t get it.’

  ‘People could think Alan was parking invisible earnings with his mother.’

  ‘Invisible? You mean illegal? Like drugs?’

  I shrugged. ‘Among the possibilities.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Allie said. ‘How do you know this stuff?’

  ‘I forget where I heard it,’ I said.

  Allie went off to a job. I should have worked on the knives but instead I rang the library at Burnley Horticultural College and asked them if they had any information on Harkness Park. The woman took my number. She rang back inside half an hour.

  ‘I’ve tracked down a dozen or so references to it,’ she said. ‘There’ll probably be more.’

  ‘Any pictures or drawings?’

  ‘No. It was designed by a man called Robert Barton Graham, an Englishman. It’s not clear but he seems to have been brought out by a Colonel Stephen Peverell in 1896 to design the garden. He designed other gardens in Victoria while he was here, but they’re all gone as far as we know.’

  ‘Anywhere else I could try?’

  She sighed. ‘Our collection’s pretty good. The State Library doesn’t have anything we don’t have. Not that you can get to, anyway. I’ll keep looking.’ As an afterthought, she said, ‘Sometimes the local history associations can help. They might know who has information.’

  I drove over to Brixton, the town nearest Harkness Park. I knew where the local history museum was, a brick and weatherboard building near the railway station. It had once been a factory with its own rail siding. Two elderly women sitting behind a glass display counter in the front room of the museum looked surprised to see a visitor.

  ‘G’day,’ said the smaller of the pair. She was wearing a knitted hat that resembled a chimney pot. Wisps of bright orange hair escaped at the temples. ‘You’re just in time. We’re just having a cup of tea before we close.’

  A hand-lettered sign said: Adults $2, Children $1, Pensioners Free. I put down a coin.

  The second woman took the money. ‘On your own, are you?’ she said. She looked like someone who’d worked hard outdoors: ruddy skin, hands too big for her wrists.

  ‘I’m interested in gardens,’ I said. ‘Old gardens.’

  The women looked at each other. ‘This is a local history museum,’ the smaller one said apologetically.

  ‘I thought you might be the ones to ask about old gardens around here,’ I said.

  They exchanged glances again. ‘Well, there’s a good few that open to the public,’ the taller one said. ‘The best’d be Mrs Sheridan’s, wouldn’t it, Elsie? Some very nice beds.’

  ‘You don’t know of a place called Harkness Park?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Harkness Park,’ she said. ‘Mrs Rosier’s house. I don’t think that’s ever been open. She had nothing to do with the town. Didn’t even come to church. People say it was a grand garden once, but you can’t see anything from the road except the trees. It’s like a forest.’

  ‘Old Col Harris used to work there,’ the other woman said. ‘Him and that Meekin and another man-I can’t remember his name, lived out on Cribbin Road. Dead now. They’re all dead.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be photographs, would there?’ I said.

  The taller woman sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Don’t talk about photos. There’s a whole room of unsorted photos. Mr Collits was in charge of photographs. Wouldn’t give anyone else a look-in, would he, Elsie?’

  ‘He’s not around anymore?’

  She shook her head. ‘Blessing, really. Had a terrible time.’

  ‘I told the committee we needed to appoint someone to sort the photos,’ Elsie said. ‘But will they do anything practical?’

  ‘These men who worked at Harkness Park,’ I said, ‘do they have family still here?’

  ‘Why don’t you just go out there and knock on the door?’ Elsie said. ‘It’s still in the family. Some cousin or something got it.’

  ‘They sold it. I’m interested in knowing what it was like twenty or thirty years ago.’

  ‘Col Harris’s boy’s here,’ the taller one said. ‘Dennis. Saw him a few weeks ago. Wife went off with the kids. Shouldn’t say that. He works for Deering’s. They’re building the big retirement village, y’know.’

  I said thanks and had a look around the museum. It was like a meticulously arranged garage sale: nothing was of much value or of any great age, but assembling the collection had clearly given the organisers a lot of pleasure.

  Finding the new retirement village wasn’t a problem. It was at an early stage, a paddock of wet, ravaged earth, concrete slabs and a few matchstick timber frames going up.

  A man at the site hut pointed out Dennis Harris on one of the slabs, a big man in his forties with long hair, cutting studs to length with a dropsaw. At my approach, he switched it off and slid back his ear protectors. Dennis’s eyes said he didn’t think I was the man from Tattslotto.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘Ladies at the museum thought you could help me.’

  ‘Museum?’ Deep suspicion, stiff shoulders.

  ‘They said your father worked at Harkness Park. I’m trying to find old photos of the place.’

  Dennis’s shoulders relaxed. He nodded. ‘There’s pictures in his old album. Lots. He used to work in the vegie garden when he was a young fella. Before the war. Huge. Wall around it. There was five gardeners there.’

  We arranged to meet at the pub after knock-off. Dennis brought the album. ‘Take it and copy what you want,’ he said.

  ‘I could give you some kind of security for it,’ I said.

  ‘Nah. What kind of bloke pinches old photos? Just bring it back.’

  I bought him a beer and we talked about building. Then I drove home and rang Stan.

  ‘Research,’ I said. ‘Paid for by the hour. I’ve got photographs from the 1930s.’

  ‘No you haven’t, lad,’ he said. ‘Not yet. Not enough hours.’

  Ten minutes into the last quarter, it began to rain, freezing rain, driven into our faces by a wind that had passed over pack ice in its time. We only needed a kick to win but nobody could hold the ball, let alone get a boot to it. We were sliding around, falling over, trying to recognise our own side under the mudpacks. Mick Doolan was shouting instructions from the sideline but no-one paid any attention. We were completely knackered. Finally, close to time, we had some luck: a big bloke came out of the mist and broke Scotty Ewan’s nose with a vicious swing of the elbow. Even in the rain, you could hear the cartilage crunch. Scotty was helped off, streaming blood, and we got a penalty.
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br />   ‘Take the kick, Mac,’ said Billy Garrett, the captain. He would normally take the kick in situations like this, but since the chance of putting it through was nil, he thought it best that I lose the game for Brockley.

  ‘Privilege,’ I said, spitting out some mud. ‘Count on my vote for skipper next year. Skipper.’

  I was right in front of goal but the wind was lifting my upper lip. I looked around the field. There were about twenty spectators left, some of them dogs sitting in old utes.

  ‘Slab says you can’t do it,’ said the player closest to me. He was just another anonymous mudman but I knew the voice.

  ‘Very supportive, Flannery,’ I said. ‘You’re on, you little prick.’

  Squinting against the rain, I took my run-up into the gale, scared that I was going to slip before I could even make the kick.

  But I didn’t. I managed to give the ball a reasonable punt before my left leg went out under me. I hit the ground with my left shoulder and slid towards goal.

  And as I lay in the cold black mud, the wind paused for a second or two and the ball went straight between the uprights.

  The final whistle went. Victory. Victory in round eight of the second division of the Brockley and District League. I got up. My shoulder felt dislocated. ‘That’ll be a slab of Boag, Flannery,’ I said. ‘You fucking traitor.’

  ‘Brought out yer best,’ Flannery said. ‘Psychology. Read about it.’

  I said, ‘Read about it? Psychology in Pictures. I didn’t know they’d done that.’

  We staggered off in the direction of the corrugated-iron changing room. On the way, Billy Garrett joined us. ‘Pisseasy kick,’ he said.

  ‘That’s why you didn’t want it, Billy,’ I said. ‘Not enough challenge.’

  After we’d wiped off the worst of the mud and changed, we drove the hundred metres to the Heart of Oak. Mick Doolan had about twenty beers lined up.

  ‘Magnificent, me boyos,’ he said. ‘Out of the textbook. And good to see you followin instructions, Flannery. Hasn’t always bin the case.’

  ‘Instructions?’ Flannery said. ‘I didn’t hear any instructions.’

  The outside door opened and the big bloke who’d broken Scotty Ewan’s nose came in. Behind him were four or five of the other larger members of the Millthorpe side, just in case. He came over to Mick.

  ‘Bloke of yours all right?’ he said. ‘Didn’t intend him no harm. Sort of run into me arm.’ He looked down at his right forearm as if inquiring something of it.

  ‘Perfectly all right,’ Mick said. ‘Hazard of the game. Nothin modern medical science can’t handle. Won’t be out for more than three or four. Shout you fellas a beer?’

  ‘Thanks, no,’ the man said. ‘Be gettin back. Just didn’t want to go short of sayin me regrets.’

  ‘You’re a gentleman, Chilla,’ Mick said. ‘There’s not many would take the trouble.’

  After they’d left, Flannery said, ‘There’s not many would have the fuckin front to come around here afterwards. Might as well’ve hit Scotty with an axe handle.’

  ‘Think positively,’ Mick said. ‘Some good in the worst tragedy. Got the penalty. And we won.’

  ‘Bloody won a lot easier if you’d play Lew,’ Billy Garrett said. ‘Be the only bloke under thirty in the side.’

  I said, ‘Also the only bloke who can run more than five metres without stopping for a cough and a puke.’

  Mick took a deep drink, wiped the foam from his lips, shook his head. ‘Don’t understand, do ya lads? Young fella’s pure gold. Do ya put your young classical piano player in a woodchoppin competition? Do ya risk your young golf talent on a frozen paddick with grown men, violent spudgrubbers and the like? Bloody no, that’s the answer. Boy’s goin to be a champion.’

  ‘Speakin of champions,’ said Flannery. ‘Reckon I’m givin away this runnin around in the mud on Satdee arvos, big fellas tryin to bump into me. All me joints achin.’ He scratched his impossibly dense curly dog hair. ‘Could be me last season.’

  Mick’s eyes narrowed. He rubbed his small nose. ‘Last season? That so? Well, Flanners me boyo, get to the Grand Final, I’ll point out a coupla fellas ya can take into retirement with ya.’

  I took the next shout. Then Vinnie came in from fighting with the cook and sent the beers around. Flannery’s younger brother came in with the lovely and twice-widowed Yvonne and shouted the room. Things were good in trucking. Other rounds followed. In due course, Mick broke into ‘The Rose of Tralee’ and Flannery’s voice, shockingly deep from the compact frame, joined him. The air warmed, thickened, became a brew of beer fumes, breath, tobacco smoke, cooking smells from the kitchen. The windows cried tears of condensation and my shoulder was healed of all pain. It was after ten, whole body in neutral, when I decided against another drink. I was saying my farewells when Mick put his head close to me and said, ‘Moc, other day. That Ned thing we were discussin. Met the fella today, works on the gate at Kinross Hall. Says Ned was there a coupla days before. Before he-y’know.’

  I wandered out into the drizzle, cold night, black as Guinness, smell of deep and wet potato fields. The dog appeared and we found our way across the road. I stopped for a leak beside the sign that said Blacksmith, All Metalwork and Shoeing. Flannery had done it for me in pokerwork and it wasn’t going to get him a place in the Skills Olympics. Down the muddy lane the two of us went home, both happy to have a home. Homes are not easy to come by.

  The sign saying Kinross Hall, Juvenile Training Centre directed you down a country road. Five kilometres further, another sign pointed at a long avenue of poplars. At the end of it, huge spear-pointed cast-iron gates were set in a bluestone wall fully three metres high. Above them, an ornate wrought-iron arch held the words Kinross Hall, the two words separated by a beautiful wrought-iron rose. Through them you could see a gravel driveway flanked by bare elms. An arrow on the gate took the eye to a button on the right-hand pillar. A sign said: RING.

  I got out of the vehicle, admired the craftsmanship of the iron rose on the arch, and pushed the button. After a few minutes, I rang again. Then a man in standard blue security guard uniform came walking down the drive-moon face, fat man’s walk, not in any hurry.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘I’m trying to find about someone who was here about two weeks ago,’ I said.

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at the Land Rover and looked back at me blankly.

  ‘Bloke called Ned Lowey,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘I heard about him. He was here. Hold on, tell you when.’ He went off to my right, out of sight. When he came back, he had a black and red ledger, open. He riffed though it, then said, ‘Tuesday 9 July, nine twenty am.’

  I said, ‘What was it about?’

  Still expressionless, he said, ‘Wouldn’t know, mate. Had an appointment with the director at nine-thirty am.’

  ‘How do you get to see the director?’

  ‘Ask. Want me to?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Name and purpose of visit.’

  I gave him my name and said, ‘Inquiry about Ned Lowey’s visit.’

  He wrote it in the book and went off again. He was away no more than two minutes. ‘Better put the dog in the cab,’ he said. ‘Park in front of the main building. Turn right as you go in the front door. Down the passage. There’s a sign says Director’s Office.’

  I opened the passenger window and whistled. The dog jumped onto the cab roof. His back legs appeared, scrambled their way over the windowsill, and then the whole animal dropped into the cab. The guard shook his head and opened the gate.

  No inmates were to be seen, only a man on a ride-on mower in the distance. The main building was stone, someone’s house once, a mixture of castle and Gothic cathedral with a hint of French chateau, set in immaculate parkland. It could have been an expensive country hotel but it had the feeling of all places of involuntary residence: the silence, the smell of disinfectant, the disciplined look of everything, the little extra chill in the ai
r.

  The secretary was a pale, thin woman in her thirties with very little make-up. Her bare and unwelcoming office was cold and she had her jacket on.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ she said. She tugged an earlobe. Blunt nails. ‘Dr Carrier will see you shortly.’

  It was a ten-minute wait in an upright chair, probably an instructional technique. The secretary pecked at the computer. There wasn’t anything to read, nothing on the walls to look at. I thought about Ned. Had the director kept him sitting here, too? On this very chair? Finally, the secretary received some kind of a signal.

  ‘Please go through,’ she said.

  The director’s office was everything the secretary’s wasn’t, a comfortable sitting room rather than a place of business. A fire burned in a cast-iron grate under a wooden mantelpiece, there were paintings and photographs on the walls and chintz armchairs on either side of a deep window.

  A woman sat behind an elegant writing table. She was in her mid-forties, tall, and groomed for Olympic dressage: black suit with white silk cravat, dark hair pulled back severely, discreet make-up.

  ‘Mr Faraday,’ she said. She came around the table and put out her right hand. ‘Marcia Carrier. Let’s sit somewhere comfortable.’ There was an air of confidence about her. You could imagine her talking to prime ministers as an equal.

  We shook hands and sat down in the armchairs. She had long, slim legs.

  ‘I understand it’s to do with Mr Lowey,’ she said. ‘What a shock. A terrible thing. Are you family?’

  ‘Just a friend,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you can tell me why he came to see you?’

  She smiled, put her head on one side in a puzzled way. ‘Why he came to see me? Is this somehow connected with what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It was about work,’ she said.

  I waited.

  ‘He’d done some work for us before. A long time ago. I confess I didn’t remember him. He was inquiring about the prospect of future work.’

  ‘You hire the casual workers yourself?’