Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (16 page)

When Ben answers, Chris's mind blanks.

‘Is that you, Chris?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Everything all right?'

‘Yeah …'

‘Diane said you'd gone away.'

‘I'm at Coolum. She … said there were things you wanted to tell me … about Jo.'

‘Oh.' Ben sighs. ‘Yes – sorry. She turned up on my doorstep and I couldn't …'

Chris sighs. ‘I know – micro-managing.'

‘It was … I wanted to explain – better than I did when you came around – about Jo's take on things.'

‘You said she reckoned I'd disappear if I knew the truth.'

‘Yes, she did. But by the time you got to about fifteen or so I thought she might be over it and I tried to get her to tell you. But she wouldn't. She was still convinced it would destroy our family. Even if you didn't write us off, it would change the family dynamic. Knowing you were my son, you would regard
her
as the outsider.'

‘But that's crap! Jo was the only mother I've ever known. She
was
my mother in all but name.'

‘I know – and that was another thing. Neither of us wanted you to forget Alice, or have your impression of her overshadowed by what … she and I did. She was a wonderful mother; she loved you to distraction.'

Chris tugs his ear. ‘You never told me. Or, maybe you said the words but they didn't carry any weight.'

‘I know. And I'm so bloody sorry. I was always very nervous about how Jo might react to anything I said about Alice so I said as little as I could. I didn't think about what it was doing to you. I just wanted a quiet life. Weak, Chris. Weak as piss. I wish I could change it but I can't. I'm glad you rang though, lad. Please, any time, you know … you want to just talk, or anything …'

‘Yeah. Okay. I've, ah, got to go now. I'll … be in touch.'

He hangs up, gets a beer from the fridge and goes outside to watch the light fade. The stupidity of it all – Jo frightened of being the outsider. His eyes mist as he tries to recall the Jo of his childhood: strong Jo, stubborn Jo, yet always tender with him. But these earlier memories have been hijacked by later images of the ravaged Jo she'd been at the end. How difficult it must have been for her: his constant presence a permanent reminder of Ben's affair. If the truth had been known … maybe it
would
have weakened their family unit. He might have felt complicit in something he didn't understand. Even now, knowing isn't easy. Silence was a kind of raw concrete, a workable surface. There was a certain freedom in not knowing.

As he draws on his beer, his phone rings. ‘Bright.'

‘It's me,' says Diane. ‘Are you having a nice holiday?'

‘Yes, thanks.'

‘When are you coming back?'

He wedges the phone against his ear and takes another draught from his stubbie. ‘I've only been here three days.'

‘Did you see Ben before you left?'

‘No.'

‘Oh, Christopher! How can you can be so hard?'

‘Dunno. Must be genetic.'

‘You think that's
funny
?'

He says nothing.

‘Believe me, it's not. Look, I'm going to hang up now. I only phoned to make sure you're all right. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Do yourself a favour and ring your father.'

The phone goes dead.

Chris stares at it for a moment, then reaches for a prawn.

The rumble of high tide wakes him at five the next morning. He pulls on shorts, T-shirt and runners and heads for Point Perry to watch the sun come up. The path is a meandering, pandanus-lined track across the road from low-rise unit blocks and weather-beaten beach houses. Kombi vans, surfboards and towels litter sloping green yards, reminding Chris of teenage holidays with mates and the exhilarating freedom of youth. He one-finger salutes an old man sitting on the deck of his small shack set on a magnificent block of land overlooking the sandy bay. He has a mug and a cigarette in his hand, as he does every morning, and raises the mug in acknowledgement of Chris's greeting. At the top of Point Perry the view takes in the beaches that stretch north and the rocky bays that dot the southern coastline. Below, waves surge and thunder over the rock pool where he and Liam played.

The sun is a fiery fingernail on the ocean's rim, silhouetting a few early souls: a man holding a child's hand, another with a grizzled halo of hair and bony arms that hang like parentheses – a fisherman perhaps – and a woman in a loose dress with a walking stick.

After a moment, the woman detaches herself from the tableau and walks around the headland towards him. She moves carefully, and as she nears, Chris can see she has a boot on one foot. His heart surges. She's close enough now to see that her skin is the colour of maple syrup, her hair is black and thick and cut just below the ears. Even without seeing her eyes he knows their exact colour: blue; dark, luminous blue. She comes towards him like she used to in the cafe, leaning slightly to the right, stepping cautiously. He used to get there early just to see her arrive and scan the crowd looking for him.

‘Roberta,' he says. Not loudly, but loud enough.

She looks up and sees him. Her eyes widen. ‘
Chris
… ?'

She's still beautiful. But life has inscribed her face; there are lines around her mouth and eyes, and her cheekbones are sharper. As she stops in front of him the sun breaks free from the horizon. It hits her in the eyes and she puts a steadying hand on his arm. He looks at it, feeling the touch of each slim finger, and his mind goes blank.

‘It's
wonderful
to see you again,' she says.

‘Is it?' Her eyes – they haven't changed. It feels like yesterday.

‘Yes …'

He looks at her thoughtfully. ‘So, why did you leave me – without a word?'

She removes her hand and shields her eyes from the sun. ‘Pardon?'

‘In London, Roberta. In our cafe. I waited. For
weeks
.'

She shrugs slowly. ‘Um, I don't … so long ago … I can't remember.'

‘Oh, come on. It's
me
you're talking to. Not a word. Never even answered my letter. Never—'

‘Oh, Chris.' She bats the air. ‘A lifetime ago. Tell me about you. What brings you here? Do you live up this way?'

It's tempting to walk away; to leave her as she left him, without a word. But his feet are cemented to the spot. ‘Brisbane.'

‘And you're … married? Do you have a family?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you still doing architecture?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you're … on holiday?'

He squints into the sun. ‘Not exactly.'

She jabs her stick in the ground and swivels on it. ‘This is like pulling teeth. Should I go?'

‘No. You should not go – again.' He steps back. ‘I'm not on holiday; more like R and R.'

‘Rest and – what's the other R – recuperation?'

‘Regroup and resurrection.'

‘Resurrection?'

‘Ghosts.'

‘Really? Most people want to bury them.' She's over-bright, giddy; perhaps flustered by his unexpected appearance. He hopes so. ‘Yes, well, that's most people. Mine continue to haunt.' Even after twenty-five years, Roberta haunts. ‘You,' he stammers, ‘you live here?'

‘Up there.' She points to the hill behind them, then glances at her watch. ‘I'd better get going, I have an art class at nine.'

‘
Nine?
Where's the class – Cairns? It's just gone six o'clock.'

‘It's here but I've got a tradesman coming at seven to extend my wardrobe.'

‘I can extend wardrobes.'

‘Well, thanks, but it's a bit late to cancel. Look, would you like to catch up for a coffee sometime or are you busy?' Her casual tone is betrayed by a fluttering eyelid.

Chris remembers that tic: she
is
nervous. He should say no. ‘I'm not busy and I'm fine with having a coffee but I'm buggered if I'm going to sit in a cafe with egg on my face waiting for you – again.'

Roberta sighs. ‘Well, if you're convinced you'll be left with egg on your face, why not wear it at my place? Come up and have breakfast.'

He stands beneath the shower, letting it pummel his head.

She told him not to bother changing but he had to get away, gather his wits and assume an air of nonchalance. She acted as if it never happened – or worse – that it happened but didn't matter. It mattered. It
still
matters. Whenever he begins to doubt, even after all these years, he has only to remember Fridays.

Seven months of Fridays, every one the sneaky, joyful highlight of his week, time stolen from everyday life, an hour or so that belonged to them alone. A platter of bread, cheese, pickles and half a pint of cider. Now and then, if time permitted, they visited an art gallery – Bertie's world. Her world, beyond interior design, where a flower was not only colour, shape and texture, but a shadow cast by the past or a glimpse of the future. It might be life, or death, an intimation of life beyond death, or simply an imaginary prod for whatever you wanted it to be.

Fridays and friendship. Chris wanted more than friendship but more was not on offer. Bertie lived with Oliver, the invisible third. Chris reluctantly accepted the limitations of their relationship; any time with Bertie was better than none at all. But Saturdays to Thursdays she rode in his mind – her lunatic giggle, her disregard for rules, her imaginative reach. He replayed their time together; her strong, slim hands …
their
hands – doodling on paper serviettes; playing their game. The game began when Chris drew a single line and declared he would sketch the perfect chair. Bertie grabbed the pencil and drew a wriggly line through his. ‘Bet I can stop you.' She grinned fiendishly. Chris snatched his pencil back, thought for a moment, then drew a line to accommodate her damage. Again Bertie took the pencil, this time adding an obstructing crescent. Chris drew another to correct it and Bertie another to thwart him, and so it went, each taking turns: Chris determined to draw a chair, Bertie determined to stop him. After thirty lines, he triumphed. ‘You pay for lunch,' he said. The following week Bertie produced paper, drew a curve and declared it a cat-to-be. Chris put a vertical line straight through it. Thirty lines was the limit. If by then the picture was clearly a cat, she would win. She did. He paid for lunch. Every week they took turns, with the loser paying. Once, Bertie brought him a bag of wooden offcuts from her design company – spruce, pine, oak and beech. They laid the pieces on the table and between bites of cheese and bread assembled doll-sized furniture. On fine days they bought ice-creams and took them to eat in the park. They talked and laughed and talked, until …

Chris turns off the shower and reaches for a towel.

Why? Why, without even
goodbye
?

He blows on his hot coffee and takes in the view. ‘You can actually see the curvature of the earth from here.'