Last Day in the Dynamite Factory (42 page)

The shack has a new roof, new barge boards and steps. Inside it is clean and empty.

Home.

Chris puts his knapsack on the floor and upends the contents. Underpants, T-shirts, wet-pack, torch, notebook, pencils, and the bag of timber off-cuts he's had since London. He goes to the louvres and opens them wide, letting in the sounds of the ocean – the cracking, tearing and
whoomp
ing as it smashes into the rocks and shoots water high the air. The sun is low in the sky, the wind is insistent. Chris can't see the rock pool from here but he can picture the water sloshing to and fro, spilling over the edge and racing across the granite face. Tomorrow, he'll go and see it for himself. He'll get a bed, a chair and a table. He'll start on a workbench to go along the northern wall. Tomorrow is the first day of February and the rest of his life. Tonight, though, he needs to find a motel bed. But even before that, there's something he must do.

He parks at the bottom of Bertie's driveway and walks up to the house with the bag of timber off-cuts. He twitches the rope on a weather-pitted brass bell by the door. After a moment, footsteps … Bertie's? No, too regular. Stuart?

Neither. A young woman. Big grey eyes in a heart-shaped face. A baby in her arms.

‘I'm looking for Roberta Lightfoot,' Chris says.

‘Lightfoot?'

‘Sorry – Beaumont.'

The girl looks at him questioningly.

‘Chris Bright,' he says. ‘An old school friend.'

‘Oh.' She turns and calls over her shoulder. ‘Chris Bright, Mum. Old school friend.' She gently jiggles the baby, who surveys Chris through half-closed eyes. Off with the fairies by the look of it. He feels a dragging emptiness.

‘Nice baby,' he says.

‘He's Fred. I'm Lily.' She looks down. ‘There you are!'

Chris follows her gaze – to the cat with the broken tail. He bends to rub its ears and it head-butts him affectionately.

Bertie comes to the door. ‘Oh, you naughty boy! I've been looking for you everywhere. I was worried.'

‘Me?' says Chris.

‘No. Stuart. He's been gone since yesterday.'

‘S-Stuart?'

‘Hi, Chris. Happy New Year – better late than never. Come in.' She picks up the cat, drapes it over her shoulder and goes inside.

‘
Stuart!
' Chris pounds after her. ‘All this time you've been hiding behind a mangy
cat
?'

‘He's not mangy.'

‘You said you were living with a bloke.'

‘He is a bloke.'

‘Why did you let me think—'

‘You're
married
. Remember?' She puts Stuart on the floor and opens the pantry.

‘I'm not married. I've left. I'm gone. We've separated.'

Her eyebrows arc. ‘Since when?'

‘Three or four months.'

‘
Months?
But I've spoken to you on the phone half-a-dozen times since. Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Because you were
living
with a bloke – remember? Same as you were in England – remember? Which, I assume, is the reason you stood me up. But why – why leave without a word? Why leave me waiting, week after week with no explanation? Silence. Only silence.'

She fills a bowl with water, shakes biscuits into another dish and puts them on the floor. The cat hoes in.

‘I can tell you why, Chris, but you won't like it.'

‘There's a lot I haven't liked over the last eighteen months. One more thing won't make much difference.'

She looks towards the door. Lily and the baby have disappeared. ‘All right. I was … when you and I first met in London, Oliver and I were already married.'

‘Married …?'

‘That day. Our last, magic, unforgettable time together, I'd been to the doctor and found out.' She pauses. ‘I found out I was pregnant, with Stephie.'

Chris swallows.

‘I had no intention of deceiving you. When I arrived that day it was to tell you we had to stop seeing each other. But you made it so difficult. Of all the days you chose …' She gazes at Stuart, chasing biscuits around the bowl. ‘I wanted you so much, Chris. Too much to leave without …
being
with you. I'm so sorry I hurt you but I couldn't see you again. I had to choose and I chose Oliver and Stephie and it was the right decision. I loved Oliver, though … not as I love you.'

Stuart yawns and arches his back, making his crooked tail tremble.

Chris holds out his bag of off-cuts. ‘Here. I never did manage to assemble them into anything worthwhile. I told you it needed two people.'

She peers into the bag.

‘Did you say you love me, Bertie?'

She nods. ‘I reckon I did.'

‘Ankle deep, or submersion?'

‘Submersion.'

He sighs. ‘Good.'

‘Why?'

‘Swimming lessons,' he says. ‘I've come to collect.'

He lies on his back, rigid as a plank. Sucks air deep into his lungs and clamps his lips together. While he holds his breath he'll stay horizontal but as soon as he lets go, his bum will sag. Beside him, seal-like in her Speedos, Bertie waits for him to breathe out, catching him as he sinks. She's teaching him to float. Swimming, she reckons, will come naturally after that. Floating is about trusting the water. The sea is not malicious; it will support him if he lets it. It's a body thing.

So she reckons.

He breathes out. His bum sags. She catches him.

‘Again,' she says patiently. ‘Shut your eyes. Just feel. Floating has nothing to do with your brain.'

Every morning for the past eighteen days they've done this; come here to the rock pool, in time for the sun to come up. Bertie questioned the likelihood of Chris ever being able to overcome his fear in the place where he nearly drowned, but ironically, it's the safest place to swim. When they began, his body rebelled. It bucketed and flailed, his legs pumped and his arms shot off in all directions; water stung his nose and filled his lungs; he coughed, spluttered and cursed. Now, he no longer lurks on the edge of the pool but wades in and sinks, chest deep, awaiting her instructions. Every morning, he mutters his mantra.

‘Life in abundance.'

Water in abundance, anyway.

‘Nothing to be afraid of,' she says. ‘Humans are seventy per cent water. All that's between us and the sea is skin and fear.'

Skin is not the problem; his body exults in water. It's his brain that rebels. He lies back. Her hands beneath him are light and tender and for a fleeting moment he has the impression that they are superfluous; that the water really
is
holding him up. But immediately he thinks it, he sinks again.

‘Come on,' she says. ‘Shut your eyes.' One arm supports him while the other moves over his chest, arms and neck. Her hand is as cool and slippery as a fish and it's all he can do not to reach for her but her rules forbid it. No fooling around in the water until he can float.

‘Your body has its own mind, its own way of being with the sea. Give it a chance to find it.'

He allows his neck to relax, his head to become heavy. Water slops and gurgles in his ears. Fighting the urge to lift his head, he presses back further until it is under the water and he's looking up at the world through warped and weaving light. A silent world where soft aquatic fingers weave through his hair and caress his limbs.

Bertie begins to lift him, gently, slowly, up and down, giving him time to breathe in and out with each rise and fall. Up and down, up and down, the movement gradually becoming regular and hypnotic until he can feel his body adapting to the rhythm. His muscles soften, up and down, and his flesh begins to feel as if it's merging with the sea. As his breathing becomes even and regular, knots of memory loosen and Liam's body no longer smothers him with the weight of memory and time.

An image forms of Diane, lying in bed as he lay in the water when he first tried to float. She's rigid and resisting, bubbling with the panic of impending loss, the terror of drowning in the sea of another human being or even another version of herself, a remembered self of pain and shame; needy, vulnerable and unloved. In a heartbeat he comprehends her fear. But he also knows she will never experience freedom while gripping the past with one hand and reaching for the future with the other.
Now
rests between them; it is all that exists. Now demands surrender.

He opens his eyes.

Bertie has disappeared – so imperceptibly he didn't feel her hands leave his body. He's been floating on his own, just him and the sea. He turns his head and sees her lying nearby, her eyes closed, hair dark and wavy around her head. He moves his arms, finlike, and draws closer. Without opening her eyes, she reaches for him, her fingers curling gently around his own.

He closes his eyes, surrendering his body to the sea, to the pulse of life and the hand of his beloved. His breath comes, and goes and comes again – in, out – it makes no difference. It isn't air holding him up any more, it isn't even water.

It's joy.

Last Day in the Dynamite Factory
is not a solo achievement. Loved ones, friends and professionals all contributed to the soup of words and ideas that became this book.

Information in these pages has been drawn primarily from the first-hand accounts of my uncle,
Albert Edwin Svensson
, and my aunt,
Alison Rosemary Svensson
, both of whom worked in a munitions factory in Victoria shortly after the end of World War Two. Alison wrapped dynamite, Albert worked on an assembly line. An inveterate inventor, he devised a finger-guard to protect workers against the ever-present risk of amputation. This book is dedicated to their memory.

To my husband,
Alec Faulkner
, my inexpressible gratitude. For your never-ending nourishment of my literary, emotional and physical wellbeing, your incisive editorial skills, your moral (and immoral when moral became boring) support. For always being there.

Heartfelt thanks to my friend, mentor and consummate editor,
Rose Allan
. Your willingness to listen, to entertain and support my vision, your astutely critical comments and encouragement made my journey to realise this book far less lonely and difficult than it would otherwise have been.

Many thanks to my brother,
Peter Svensson
, for bringing your vast reading experience and keen editorial eye to my manuscript.

To
Graham Johnson
, for the incomparable honour of being admitted to your shed and introduced to its contents, for feedback on ‘bloke stuff' and the loan of your terrific 1965
Reader's Digest
Do-it-Yourself Manual, great thanks.

Big hug and a forelock tug to
Alister Jan Shuttleworth
for admitting me to your shed, explaining the gear and introducing me to the intricacies of wood-turning.

Dr Caroline Pattison

Many thanks for squeezing time from your busy schedule to supply me with first-hand information on the effects and treatment of CVA.

David Wixted, Architect

My sincere gratitude for your courtesy, time and expertise in the supply of information on explosive factories.

Stephen Cashmore, Conservation Architect

Many thanks for your warmth and enthusiasm, the generous sharing of your specialty knowledge, time and passion for conservation work.

Michael O Kennedy, Architect

Thanks, Michael, for your research suggestions and the loan of your precious old tome.

To my Special Agent,
Clare Forster
at Curtis Brown, my sincere gratitude for your encouragement, support and continuing efforts on my behalf.

Huge thanks to the entire Team Picador, with particular mention to my publisher,
Alexandra Craig
, for her faith in my ability and in this book, and for seeing it through to publication. To the editors,
Emma Rafferty
,
Julia Stiles
and
Brianne Collins
, who painstakingly picked their way through the flaws, anomalies and faults to produce this result, my sincere thanks.