Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (32 page)

‘Two?'

Dave dips his head at the block behind.

Chris wades up through the long grass. From here, the views are even better. A three-story unit block obscures part of the northern aspect but the building on the southern side is set back, offering views thirty kilometres south to Mooloolaba. The weeping fig straddles both blocks, its dense foliage spreading across the sky. Chris pats its trunk.

Make an offer.

He walks back to Dave.

‘I could manage two thirty,' he says. ‘Cash. Two grand today, the rest in seven days. I'll know by lunchtime.'

‘Now who's dreaming?'

‘It'll take you blokes a fortnight to dismantle this heap and clear the block. Then you'll have to wait till the land sells and no-one's going to match your price. Two forty; that's it.'

Dave drops a piece of rusted downpipe on the pile with a crash. ‘Two sixty, final offer. It's gunna be two days' work getting rid of that tree.'

‘I don't want it gotten rid of.'

Dave snorts. ‘You'll be sorry. Them roots are a bastard. Cash. Seven days.'

‘Can you hold off work until I talk to the bank, say – midday?'

Dave looks at his friend. ‘It'll cost ya.'

Chris roots in his wallet. ‘Here's fifty.'

‘Fifty!'

‘All right. A hundred.'

Dave looks at his watch. ‘Five hours till midday. Five hundred bucks.'

Chris waves his empty wallet. ‘A hundred,' he says. ‘I'll be back in twenty minutes with the rest. And two fifty is my offer. My
final
offer.'

Seven twenty. Chris can hardly keep still. Nothing has excited him so much in years but he doesn't have the cash Dave has demanded. He'll have to convince Diane to increase the loan on their rental property or number 10 Appleby. His stomach rumbles. Too late to call Bertie for breakfast, or too early? She can bring her man. He doesn't care. He has to tell someone.

‘Breakfast?' says Roberta. ‘Is this going to be a habit?'

‘My treat. Meet me at Sandy's Bar. Bring your … Stuart.'

‘Um, I'd like to, Chris, but—'

‘Oh, come on, Bertie. I'm here, I'm hungry and I have to tell someone.'

‘Tell them what?'

‘I'll tell you when you get here.'

‘Oh, Christopher!'

‘Be here in ten.'

‘I'll be there when I get there.'

She arrives alone twenty minutes later wearing a white shirt and black baggy trousers, her hair a dark messy halo silhouetted against the light. She weaves between the tables pointing her stick at him menacingly.

‘What took you so long?' He stands up and pulls out a chair.

‘Exterior decoration. I could hardly turn up naked.'

‘I wouldn't mind.'

‘Yes, you would, trust me. Now, where's the fire?'

‘I've found a property up the road.'

She hooks her stick over the chair and sits. ‘Oh?'

‘Lovely land, Bertie – two blocks with scorching views and my name on them.'

‘When did all this happen?'

‘This morning.'

Her eyebrows shoot up. ‘It's—' she peers at her watch, ‘—not even eight o'clock.'

‘I know. Let's order.' A waitress saunters over with a notepad. ‘Eggs Florentine and smoked salmon,' he says. ‘And another coffee. Double shot. What are you having?'

Roberta rolls her eyes. ‘You're wired.' To the waitress, ‘I'll have what he's having.'

She turns her attention to Chris, her eyes moving slowly from his mouth to his eyes. ‘You have your sparkle back.'

He grins, a smile of boyish pleasure.

‘Is it the land or life in general?' she says.

He pulls a face. ‘Life in general is somewhat … messy.'

‘Your father?'

The waitress sets coffee on the table. Bertie spoons in a mound of sugar and watches it sink through the
crema
.

‘Yes, my father,' says Chris. ‘And my mother. I did some digging and found out things about her that … I could never have imagined.'

He releases the story. The whole story. When he comes to the end, Bertie seems unable to say anything. She contemplates her coffee, then offers him her hand. Chris covers it with his own. Her grip is strong and reassuring and when he returns the pressure she sandwiches his hand between both of hers.

‘I'm trying to focus on how she lived, rather than how she died.'

Bertie nods.

‘I went to see her grave. There's a wonderful inscription on the headstone. “
I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.
”'

Bertie's eyes become damp. ‘What a gift.'

‘Yes.'

‘Hence the land.'

‘Hence the land.' He nods. ‘Other changes, too. At the office. I've quit doing conservation work – been wanting out for years but never had the guts to follow through.'

She looks at him, surprised. ‘I thought you liked working with all that old wood.'

‘The wood, yes, but I never chose conservation work. It happened and I let it.'

The waitress brings their food and Bertie gently withdraws her hands. Chris spears an egg with his fork, releasing a swift golden river into the spinach. ‘Judge is crabby as hell. He still has major problems with his speech.'

‘Maybe he should try acupuncture. It worked for my dad.'

‘Will it improve his temper?'

She smiles. ‘Maybe. I imagine there are lot of changes for him to absorb right now. So – what are you doing instead?'

Chris takes a mouthful of eggy spinach. ‘Anything. Everything.' He pulls a face. ‘Needs must. Especially now I have to pay for two blocks of land.'

‘What are you going to do with them?'

‘Build a shed. I've never had a proper place for my woodworking.'

‘Still playing with wood?' She smiles.

‘Not as much as I'd like to.'

Her gaze slides past him and her mouth softens. ‘You always did love messing around with it. Remember those pieces I gave you?'

‘Of course I remember.'

‘You were forever trying to make something out of them. Something … truly special.'

‘I still am, Bertie. I still have them, and I still am.'

She limps a little as they walk up the road. Only twice has he seen her without a boot. Once, in his London flat; the other time years earlier, when she was a kid at school, dressed up for an evening out. She wore shiny black court shoes that made her crippled foot very obvious but she moved so proudly she looked gorgeous.

‘Do you ever wear regular shoes?' he asks.

‘No. Never.'

‘You wore them the night Stefi danced in the pantomime.'

‘Oh … so long ago.'

‘You looked beautiful.'

Bertie glances over her shoulder and tosses him a cynical, or maybe a hopeful look.

He touches her shoulder gently. ‘I mean it. Beautiful … like you did on our day—'

‘For crying out loud – can we
please
just see this land?' She plods on up the footpath and something in her walk – the doggedness, maybe – reminds him of Fletcher.

Dave is still yanking out nails. His mate has disappeared.

Chris hands him another fifty dollars. ‘I asked you to stop. This time, I mean it.'

‘You buy it, I'll put it back.' He salutes Bertie.

‘Can I look inside?' she says.

‘For you, darlin', anything.'

She ignores Chris's offer of help up the rickety stairs and grimaces at the fishy smell.

‘It'll be all right,' he says, ‘cleaned up. Check out the bathroom.'

She pokes her head out the back. ‘Great view from the loo.'

‘I'll hire you to decorate it.'

‘Yeah, sure.' She looks up to the back of the block. ‘Lovely tree.'

‘Yes. Beautiful.'

She lets Chris help her down into the long grass and hold her hand across the uneven ground. Her hand is warm and small and slightly rough from paint and turps, and life. When he unthinkingly caresses it with his thumb she shakes him off and covers it with her other hand. She finds a survey peg near the tree and nudges it with her boot. ‘The tree straddles both blocks. If you sell one you'll have to chop it down.'

‘I'd keep both blocks.'

She nods. ‘If I'd known they were for sale I'd have bought them myself. I've been ages looking for a place with good light and a studio. These must be new on the market.'

‘I could sell you one.'

‘You just said you weren't selling.'

‘I could change my mind.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Why are you shitty with me – because I mentioned your foot, or
our
day?' He steps towards her, dislodging a stone beneath his foot. Bertie lunges at him, trying to catch him before he falls but she misses and he lands on his backside. ‘You owe me—'

‘Nothing. I owe you nothing.' She dusts her hands on her trousers. ‘Get over the past, Christopher. You're married and I have Stuart.'

‘Do you love him?'

‘Yes, I do. Very much. So, I'm not interested – get it?'

Neither is he. He scrambles to his feet. The only things that interest him are wood and land.

Women can go to hell.

By the time he reaches Brisbane, Chris has turned on the air-conditioning. He needs to stay cool; he has a truth to confess and a lie to construct.

When he rang Diane to tell her he'd bought land, she was shrill with disbelief. ‘You bought two blocks of land without even
consulting
me?'

‘Yeah, sorry. I had to act quickly.'

‘Where is it?'

She'll go ballistic if you say Coolum.

‘Oh, sod it. Battery's flashing again, Di. Sorry, I'm going flat. See you soon.'

He'll have to tell her it wasn't Bertie he slept with.

Who?

Well, not Tabi. He can't implicate her. He'll have to make someone up.

Lie.

Sometimes it's necessary. In this case, it's to protect someone.

It's always to protect someone. Usually the liar.

‘Coolum,' she says, attacking a saucepan with a pot-scourer. ‘Why didn't I guess? Poor, dumb Diane. The last to know.'

‘It's not like that, Di, truly. Look, ah … I need to tell you something.'

‘Oh – there's more? You've bought two properties without consulting me and cashed in our term deposit. But wait – there's more!'

‘I didn't sleep with Roberta.'

Her mouth opens, then closes.

‘I can't go on letting you think it was her.'

‘
You
told me it was her.'

‘I didn't. You assumed it and I let you.'

‘Why? Why would you do that? Who was it?' She tosses the scourer into the sink.

‘It doesn't matter.'

A look of comprehension crosses her face. ‘It's somebody I know, isn't it?'