Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (28 page)

Chris stands on the footpath, surveying the familiar lines and textures of his childhood home. A barge board over Ben's porch needs replacing. Fretwork on the bullnose window awnings could do with a coat of paint. Things he and Ben would once have tackled together.

The yard is tidy and the porch is swept, as if Ben is expecting a guest. When he opens the door with no evidence of surprise, Chris walks past him into the living room and waits by the window, looking out onto the jacaranda tree and the old bench. In his head is a speech so well rehearsed there's no chance of cocking it up: ‘I went to Melbourne and found out what you tried to keep from me: that my mother worked and died in a dynamite factory and that if you had looked after her, she might still be alive today. I wanted to start over again with you, to build something new, but what I found out is too big to ignore. So I'm going to do what Alice did, and walk away; live my life, and let you live yours.'

Ben comes in and perches warily on the sofa. ‘Diane said you went to Melbourne.'

‘Yes. I went to Melbourne and I …' He looks at Ben and his eyes are drawn to the wavy line where his hair springs from his forehead … just like his own.

By their fruits …

A slow wave of certainty engulfs him. He can run to the ends of the earth but there is no escaping what he knows. He fingers the darn Diane made on the shoulder of his old jumper – strongest part of the garment now. He and Ben are likewise bound, by the supple and tenacious fabric of love, threaded through with all the baggage and blessings of nearly half a century. There is no walking away; there is no new design.

‘Yes,' Chris says. ‘I went to Melbourne. To find out what you wouldn't tell me.'

Ben grunts, as if someone has hit him in the stomach.

‘I had to find out from a stranger the most important things about my mother's life and death, things that told me what sort of person she was … and what sort you are. Why, Ben? Why didn't you stop her working in that godforsaken place? Why didn't you give her enough money so she didn't have to? She died in that hellhole. Alone.'

‘No.' Ben shakes his head with the slow weight of a mammoth. ‘We didn't know. We didn't know she was working at all – let alone where. And we did give her money – enough so she didn't have to work. The first we knew about her being at the factory was … was when it was too late. Oh, God, Chris. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you found that out.'

‘Sorry? I'm not sorry. It was my
privilege
to know, and
you
should have told me.'

‘Would you tell your children if their mother died like that? Leave them with such an enduring nightmare? It doesn't stop. You never forget. You'd do anything to save your kids that. I did, and I'd do it again.'

‘It's not your call. I had a right to know and I
am
burdened by knowing how she died but I'm glad because for the first time in my life I'm proud to be her son. I know how gutsy she was and I'm humbled and honoured by what she did for me and that—' he stabs the air, ‘that is what you kept from me.' He swallows noisily. ‘My mother, my flesh and blood mother.' He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes. ‘Have you … have you even been to her grave?'

‘Of course!'

‘When? When was the last time?'

‘About three years ago. Last time I was in Melbourne. I go every time.'

‘What's in it?'

‘What's in – what?'

‘What's in her grave? Is
she
in it? Was there anything left of her to put in a coffin?' The question bloodies the air but Chris is glad of it, glad of its perfect aim and powerful ugliness.

Ben sags on the arm of the sofa.

‘Well?' Chris says. ‘Was there?'

His father's head moves in rhythmic denial.

‘Tell me!'

Ben bats the question away.

Chris grabs his flailing wrist. ‘For once in your life, tell me the
truth
.'

‘All right!' Ben shouts, shaking him off. ‘All bloody right! Her legs were blown off. At the knees – both of them –
off
. It took ten minutes for her to die. Ten
minutes
. Every night of my damned life I imagine every hellish second of every one of those minutes, over and over; seven hundred heartbeats and every one of them pumping away her life. Every second, one closer to death, every night of my life.'

Chris reaches for a chair.

‘I'd die for you, son.'

Ben's voice comes from a distance. ‘But I can't fix what happened. I can't make it right. I'll always regret not telling you I'm your father but there are some things that should never be told. Some knowledge doesn't add to our understanding of life, it just diminishes it.'

A spicy aroma of chilli burgers reaches Chris as he's halfway up the stairs. He pauses in the doorway, watching Diane move about the kitchen. She tips noodles into a pot, stirs them briskly, then turns her attention to the burgers. So familiar, that steady way of hers, so calm.

‘Diane.'

‘Oh, you're home!' She comes towards him, smiling, delivers a kiss to his cheek then scrutinises his face. ‘You look tired. How did it go?'

He nods wordlessly.

‘Go and have a shower,' she says. ‘I'll get you a drink and you can tell me about it over dinner. I'm making your favourite; I even have Sydney rock oysters.'

She's trying to be kind, and he's grateful. But he'd rather she wanted him.

He flops on the bed and closes his eyes. His mother's blood pulses behind his eyelids. Seven hundred heartbeats, each the sound of one less breath every night for the rest of his life. He demanded to know and now there's no forgetting it this side of a lobotomy.

Don't be another casualty. How many victims of her death do you imagine would Alice want?

The
tink
of silver on china splinters the silence. Chris puts down his fork. ‘I've made a decision.'

Diane pauses mid-mouthful, and eyes him uneasily.

‘I'm through with conservation work. I know I've been saying it for years, but this time I mean it. Not only churches. Everything.' He goes to the kitchen for Scotch, waves the bottle at Diane. She shakes her head. He pours a slug and brings it back to the table.

‘Is now the best time?' she asks.

‘It is for me.'

‘Does it have anything to do with your trip to Melbourne?'

He nods, and slowly releases the story of Alice's work in the factory, her death and the epitaph on her grave. He does not tell her of his visit to Ben.

‘The point is,' he says before she can interject. ‘The point is, for her the dynamite factory was a means to an end, a treadmill with a specific outcome in mind. For me, conservation work has become just the treadmill.'

‘Chris. I'm awfully sorry about your mother but please don't rush your decision.' She dabs her mouth with a serviette. ‘Baillieu & Bright's reputation rests on your work. People respect you – you're the best. Don't risk doing something you'll regret.'

He takes a mouthful of Scotch. ‘The only thing I'll regret is not doing it.'

He sleeps surprisingly well. Exhaustion, probably.

Next morning in the shower, he tries not to anticipate Judge's reaction to his decision and the inevitable fallout. As he's about to leave, Violet appears.

‘Chris – sorry to be a bother, but could you come over? There's a leak in the living room. It's wetting the carpet and getting worse. Hugo's at a conference.'

He follows her into the cramped living area where a glistening line of water blooms on the wall and tracks steadily downwards. Violet has dragged Hugo's sound gear out from the wall and CDs and DVDs litter every surface. Chris runs his finger through the water and sniffs.

‘Fresh. Broken pipe, for sure.' He goes to the adjoining bathroom. The wall is fibro. ‘I need to make a hole, Violet, but I warn you, it might crack.'

She shrugs. ‘Can't make an omelette without breaking eggs. Anyway you're going to do the place up soon. Remember?'

Chris fetches a ball-peen hammer and taps the wall. A small, neat hole appears, followed by a jagged crack. A large piece of fibro clatters to the floor. ‘Whoops.' He peers into the gloom. ‘Got a torch?'

Violet brings a torch and he shines it inside the wall. ‘Yep, a pipe. You need a plumber. Now. Will I call one of mine?'

‘Please.' She indicates the phone book beneath a pile of DVDs. As he removes them Chris recognises the Beethoven DVD which enthralled Diane the night of Violet's dinner party. On the cover, four people sit in a circle, cradling instruments.

The Brinkley Quartet.

Violin – Stephen Craig.

Violin – Antonia Topp.

Viola – Adrian Locke.

Cello …

Adrian Locke?

Adrian … oh … yes. Diane's erstwhile lover. He studies the photo of Adrian Locke, feeling stupid.

Viola be buggered.

She's sitting on the verandah, trying to read the newspaper. A stiff south-westerly is tossing the pages, her hair and the leaf-laden branches of the hibiscus with the same frenetic beat.

Chris drapes his jacket on the back of a chair and props himself in the doorway. ‘Saw your old boyfriend just now.'

She stares at him blankly.

‘Adrian Locke. On Hugo's DVD.' Chris takes off his glasses and rubs them on his shirt sleeve. ‘You told me it was the viola.'

Diane reddens. ‘It wasn't …' She pats down the paper. ‘It … it was, it was the music.'

He puts his glasses back on. ‘Di, I'm blind, but not stupid. You told me he didn't matter. But he was worth lying about so clearly he does. You were on your
knees
to him that night at Violet's. So, who is he?'

Diane traps the paper and shoves it under the cushion of the chair. ‘He
is
nobody, Mr Perfect. He
was
my teacher. My viola teacher.'

‘Ah, enter the viola.'

‘Yes, the viola. I wanted to learn when I was young but my mother wouldn't let me. So when I left home I took lessons.' She studies her hands – the backs, the fronts – as if trying to recall.

‘Go on.'

She eyes him challengingly. ‘I was a good student; learned fast. Adrian said I had talent; I could go a long way.' She grimaces. ‘I did go a long way. Too far. I was a pushover. Imagined myself in love with him. He was married, of course – they always are, aren't they? Unhappily,
of course
.' She reaches for a hibiscus leaf, snaps it off, and tears it slowly into pieces. ‘He said he was leaving his wife and I believed him. Young. Stupid. I loved the viola, and thought it was some magical bond between us – something his wife didn't have.' She sighs. ‘Turns out she had something I didn't. Lo and behold, just when I started putting pressure on Adrian to leave, suddenly she was pregnant. He couldn't leave her then – not with a baby on the way.'

Diane lifts her hand, allowing the shredded leaf to be snatched by the wind. ‘He left me instead. Said he'd find me another teacher. I didn't want another teacher, I wanted
him
. I trailed after him, begging, pleading; I couldn't believe he didn't love me. I was disgusting … and he was disgusted. I had no pride. I was too easy.'

Chris worries at his ear, flattening it against his head.

‘Too
easy
?' Diane mimics. ‘I was a virgin. No; too keen, he meant. Too needy, too
clingy
. He'd seen all of me and there were no surprises. I might be able to get a man but I'd never be able to keep him.'

Chris tries to swallow but the inclination of his stomach is to go the other way. ‘So you came to London to prove him wrong.'

‘I went to London because … I woke up to what he was really like – weak and pathetic and not worth crying over.' Diane unfolds herself from the chair. ‘I wanted to get away. But when I saw you again I thought … that's the sort of man I want. Decent, kind. Intelligent. Someone I thought would make a good husband and father.'