Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (30 page)

‘Dad, I'm not a baby.'

‘You're my baby. Open.'

Obediently, she opens her mouth.

‘Good girl.' He hands her the spoon. ‘It's a relief, Pebbles. Except this job for Violet. I don't want to fix up her bloody house but she's such a decent person I'll feel like a heel if I don't.'

Phoebe gives him a long-suffering look that makes her doubts about the wisdom of his decision clear. But the surrendering sigh that follows tells him he's still her dad, even if he doesn't know what he's doing.

‘What does she want?'

‘A house that never was. It could be a very nice duck but she wants a swan.'

‘Don't they all? Any chance I could help – maybe at the weekends?'

Chris regards her thoughtfully.

‘I might enjoy it,' she says. ‘And James and I are looking for a bigger place so I could do with the extra money.'

‘You can have it as far as I'm concerned. I'd like to be shot of the whole thing but I'll have to check with Violet. If she's okay, I'll introduce you. I warn you, though, it's a terrible little job.'

Archie leans on the door of his father's den. ‘Got your speech ready, Father?'

‘Speech?'

‘Yeah. Speech. The one where you thank Mum for a quarter of a century of selfless devotion.' Archie gives him a one-fingered salute and disappears to the kitchen.

Chris grimaces. He's right. Twenty-five years; something must be said. With his family, Judge, Karen and James-not-Jim all gathering for this special event, they will expect something appropriate, even from the world's worst speech-maker. He goes to the window where the outlines of trees and foliage stand dark against the fading light.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming.'

It's not Toastmasters. It's a wedding anniversary.

He clears his throat. ‘Diane, here—' (he smiles at his wife) ‘has been a very good wife . . .'

Yeah, and the dog's been a very good dog.

He's not made for speeches.

Come on!

‘A lovely wife, an excellent wife, a solid – no – a steady partner, a faithful—'

Whoops.

‘A rock.'

A rock?

‘A wonderful mother.'

It's not Mothers' Day.

‘A terrific – you know – guide, supporter.' Shit, do I have to do this?

You do.

‘Who keeps us steady in times of . . . flux.'

Flux . . .?

The dining table, normally the subject of Diane's creative endeavours, is tonight Phoebe's triumph. She has laid it with pink linen placemats, crystal wineglasses, silver cutlery and twin silver candlesticks (an anniversary gift from her and James-not-Jim). There are three bowls of roses in all shades of pink from pale to dark, pink candles and Karen's and Judge's gift of silver salt and pepper grinders.

In the kitchen Archie flourishes pans and chops herbs so fast his fingers blur. Diane's expression is proud. His six-course dinner is already down three magnificent courses: trout pate, lettuce soup and crunchy deep-fried sardines. He darts about confidently, buoyed by having just secured an apprenticeship at Brisbane's swankiest new seafood restaurant, Something Fishy.

‘Looks like we might have done a good job on him after all,' Chris observes.

Phoebe cocks a sardonic brow. ‘You did your best.'

Chris pushes back his chair. ‘I'd like to propose a toast to a wonderful woman – Diane.'

‘To Diane,' everyone echoes.

He takes a mouthful of wine. ‘Twenty-five years later, Di. You still look lovely.'

She touches the locket at her neck. Her skin glows. She does look lovely; closer to forty than fifty, and her smile is gracious. He wonders what she's thinking, whether she really considers her years with him have been worth it. Is this her idea of life in abundance? Contentment, she said, not happiness.

‘To both of you,' says Karen. ‘Diane and Chris.'

Judge takes a sip of wine. ‘Did you speak to Noland on Friday?'

‘Yeah, I'm on site first thing Tuesday. I have to get him off the builder's back; he's an interfering bully.'

‘You're wasted on that work, Chris. Do you know what came in for you on Friday?'

‘Nope,' he says, hoping his crisp response indicates he doesn't care.

‘Hamilton House. Complete restoration. Doesn't get any better. The most prestigious commission in. The. City.'

Phoebe gasps. ‘Dad! Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!'

‘Just the thing for Hamish to cut his teeth on.'

‘Hamish can't do a Christopher Bright and you know it,' says Judge. ‘He can't do the kind of work that distinguishes our firm from every other outfit in Queensland. It's your name and your reputation they want.'

Chris twists his wineglass, determined not to be provoked. ‘You know as well as I do, Judge, what distinguishes a building is the person who designs it. I didn't design it and I'm not restoring it.'

‘Dad,' Phoebe hisses. ‘You can't pass up Hamilton House.'

‘Drop it, Phoebe.'

‘Listen to your daughter,' says Judge.

James-not-Jim takes a nervous sip of wine.

‘Enough about work,' says Karen. ‘Tonight's a celebration.'

Archie glides to the table. ‘Behold,' he says, setting down plates. ‘Sacrificial lamb.' He picks up Chris's wineglass and downs the contents. ‘Happy quarter of a century of marital bliss to our dear mother and father. May your love continue to bloom and your fiftieth anniversary be held in my Michelin-starred establishment. Oh, and congratulations on your splendid offspring.'

Chris stands in his own Michelin-starred establishment, the dunny, casting doubtful glances at the Burtons' house next door.

Violet has agreed to meet Phoebe and discuss her taking over the work. Chris has arranged a meeting this afternoon.

Phoebe listens without interruption as Violet explains her vision over a cup of tea.

‘Original. Like I told Chris. Open up the verandahs, put fretwork back over the doorways, get rid of the fibro, the fifties kitchen and the seventies bathroom. Everything out that wasn't here to start with. Apart from the toilet, of course.' She giggles. ‘We need that.'

Phoebe nods understandingly.

‘I've explained to Violet that her house was a worker's cottage,' says Chris. ‘Her sleep-outs were never verandahs, just add-ons from the forties. There were no verandahs except at the front. The kitchen was a lean-to out the back, separated from the house by a breezeway in case of fire. All it had was a wood stove and a sink with one cold tap.'

Phoebe shoots him a warning look.

‘No fretwork,' he continues. ‘Tiny rooms – barely nine feet square. Get rid of the fibro, yes, but keep the kitchen; it's a piece of history. Work around that fifties stove – it's a beauty. Cleaned up, with the right fittings and cabinetry, the kitchen will look good. You've got some beautiful 1940s tiles there, Violet. We could match them for over the cooker.'

‘No,' says Violet. ‘I don't want tiles.'

‘You need something to protect the T & G. You'll never keep it clean otherwise.'

‘They managed in the old days. I'll manage too. I want it original.'

‘In that case, we'll have to move the kitchen out the back where the laundry is. Your bathroom will be a tub under the house. Your internal staircase will disappear because the only staircase was at the front – that's how you got in. You want it original – you're going to lose all your ground-floor accommodation. Where's Dom going to stay when he comes home for holidays? That's the problem, Violet. You want it how you imagine it was, not how it really was.'

‘Dad!'

‘What?'

Violet plucks miserably at her tea cosy. ‘I want it . . . how I want it, even if it's not how you think it should be.'

‘Of course you do,' says Phoebe. ‘It's your house. Heritage architects follow the rules. We don't have to.'

‘I'm not a heritage architect any more.'

‘Then stop acting like one,' Phoebe says, sounding horribly like her mother. She turns to Violet. ‘I'll help you, Violet. We'll work together – you and me – to get the house just how you want it.'

‘It'll be a Heath Robinson job,' says Chris, ‘neither one thing nor another. A mish-mash with your name on it – is that what you want? You're supposed to be building a career and a reputation.'

Phoebe scowls at her father. ‘I want a career that helps people get what they dream about having. Giving that lady a house she loves is more important than making a name.'

‘Oh, Phoebe. You're too good an architect to do an inauthentic, inefficient cock-up.'

‘It doesn't have to be authentic. It has to be right – for her. You don't have much faith in me, do you, Dad?'

‘I do, Pebbles. But I'm afraid you'll come unstuck.'

She smiles. ‘I'll know who to call if I do.'

Chris takes his feet off his desk and moves the mouse. The Pattersons' house springs to life in 3D. He squints at it, trying to find the inspiration to finish this job by tomorrow's deadline. He glances towards Hamish who is frowning at a drawing on his board.