The Boy in the Olive Grove (4 page)

I was right. She got in a mega strop about it. ‘Typical of you, Bess. Always choosing That Man over me.’

She was no happier by the morning.

‘Mum, I’m sorry you’re upset. But you divorced Dad, I didn’t.’

That wasn’t the smartest comment either, because it let her point out with wounded dignity that Charles had divorced her. How much wounding could her dignity take? It must be beaten to a mush already.

I escaped to the factory, parking beside Dad’s car at the side of the building. The place was a mess. I went over to the heap of discarded junk in the far corner. An old fridge, half a washing machine and a kitchen sink, would you believe. Chucked in behind it was a dead Christmas tree along with decaying cardboard boxes and a heap of broken concrete blocks.

This land had been in lawn last time I was here, with a low wall along the edge of the footpath. Now the wall had migrated to the rubbish heap and, judging by the potholes and tyre tracks, the place had turned into a venue for boy-racer stunts. If the outside neglect was any indication, I began to suspect that Dad might have good reason to be worried about the business.

At the front of the factory the sign above the entrance nearly made me cry:
Grey and Son, Furniture Makers
. No wonder Hadleigh left the country.

The small side door squeaked as I opened it. You’d think a bunch of guys — practical, hands-on guys — would know how to oil a squeaky door. Or maybe they used it as an early-warning system. Dad certainly heard it, and poked his head out from his office to see who had come in half an hour early.

‘Bess! Good girl. I’ll show you around.’

There didn’t seem much point in reminding him that I’d been here hundreds of times before, so I humoured him, hoping he’d break the habit of
centuries
and talk to me about what was bothering him.

He gave me the conducted tour from the front to the back, running his hand across each of the machines as he named it. ‘This is the planer. The lads put the roughsawn boards through. Takes off one side and one edge.’

Yes, I knew. I’d seen them use it often, always with Dad’s big hand on my shoulder to haul me back if I looked like getting too curious.

‘Then they go to the thicknesser,’ I said. ‘Then on to the ripsaw to take off the other edge.’

Dad stared at me, light in his eyes for the first time since I’d got home. ‘You remember? You took all this in?’

I grinned at him. ‘And over there is the router. For moulded edges. Rebating grooves.’

‘Want to have a go?’ Before Hadleigh’s defection, he wouldn’t have asked, and certainly not in such a tentative, hopeful tone.

‘Love to.’ I tucked my arm through his to lead him away from the router and the jigsaw beside it. ‘Let’s finish the tour first.’ Because something was badly wrong with the factory. The run-up to Christmas was usually frantic, with the men working overtime to get orders delivered before the holidays. Now their work stations were empty. There could be stuff in the finishing room being stained and polished, I guessed, but that didn’t explain why there was no sign of work anywhere.

We went through to the woodroom where the roughcut boards were stored after delivery. Shelves stacked with timber lined one wall. Across from that was the big bin for docked ends too short to be used. Beside that was the lathe that was Bernie’s specialty.

‘Is Bernie still going strong?’ I asked. Dear old Bernie — he’d seemed ancient the first time I saw him when I was about five.

‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘There’s no stopping Bernie.’

He sounded almost sorry — no, he sounded really sorry, and that was another discordant note, because Dad adored the old guy. Bernie had been like a father to him — in fact, had just about given Dad the factory when he decided to retire, though he was happy to stay on as one of the boys. Dad must have imagined the pattern repeating, with him handing Hadleigh the business.

I decided not to probe, not yet. I walked to the four tables stacked in the centre of the space, waiting for pick-up. ‘Where are these going? Shall I get some of the dust off first?’

He didn’t answer, so I turned round to repeat the question. ‘Dad!’ He was hunched over and looked as if all the stuffing had been sucked out of him. ‘You’ve gone really pale. You’re sick. Let’s get you to a doctor.’

That straightened him up. ‘No bloody doctor. You’re as bad as Iris. I’m fine. Just a bit of a twinge. Get them sometimes. Make me a cuppa, then come to the office. Need to talk to you.’

I clamped my mouth shut on a million questions and went to the kitchen, another showcase of neglect. Couldn’t men wash a cup, wipe down a bench or, for god’s sake, clean up spilt sugar? I scoured a mug while the kettle boiled, then made the tea strong, with two sugars, the way he liked it.

‘Thanks, Bess. You’re a good kid.’

No, I was a bolshy, determined kid, as he could well be about to discover. Serve him right — I’d learnt pig-headedness from him.

‘What do you want to talk to me about?’ I strove for a friendly tone, without undertones. No small feat with him in front of me looking pale and ancient, and the factory around us at a standstill.

He fiddled with the tea so he could look at that and not me. ‘The place is in trouble, Bess. Bad trouble. Those tables out there. We haven’t got a buyer for them.’

‘But they’re terrific work! Why can’t you sell them?’

He sighed, gathering a few more years along the way. ‘It’s not the workmanship that’s the problem. It’s the design.’

He clammed up. But things were clicking together in my brain.

‘It’s something to do with Bernie, isn’t it? I didn’t have a close look, but the lathe work on those table legs looked perfect. So what’s the problem?’

He heaved another sigh. ‘His work’s as good as ever. The trouble is — there’s no market now for furniture with turned legs. It looks old-fashioned. We’ll only sell it if we price it down to the same as the bulk import stuff.’

He didn’t need to spell out the rest. His factory wasn’t a production line. He kept his workers for ever because they were men who loved making a piece from start to finish, and that of course was expensive. They were useless at basic tasks such as dish washing or rubbish clearing, but they were genuine craftsmen.

‘What are you going to do? Does Bernie realise you can’t keep him on?’

Dad got decisive, a.k.a. stubborn. ‘I won’t sack him. Never. It’s not an option.’

‘What are you going to do then?’

He straightened himself up. ‘It’s all in hand. Don’t worry.’

Don’t
worry?
How could I not, pray tell? But I recognised the signs. There’d be no more information from him. I headed down a different route. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

That produced a long silence, one that I was determined not to break. I could out-silence him any day. He cleared his throat four times, coughed once and wriggled in his chair before he managed to find his voice. ‘I want to … sorry, I mean, would you … um … sign a power of attorney? For the business. Just a safeguard. Can’t see that I’d ever need you to use it. But it’s a sort of insurance, I guess. Just in case.’

And what is it that you’re not telling me, you stubborn old chunk of teak? ‘Am I old enough? Legally, I mean.’

He frowned. ‘You’re eighteen, aren’t you?’

Yes, I was and still with a year of school to do, thanks to missing almost a whole year when I was eight because of a long bout of glandular fever not helped by him walking out on Mum.

The side-door squeak-alarm sounded. Dad hauled himself upright. ‘Think about it, will you, Bess? Tell me later. No hurry.’

THE DOOR CONTINUED
to squeak as each of the men arrived. Dad called them all into the tearoom for a cuppa. That wasn’t the normal pattern of the day. Smoko was at ten. They never had a drink before they started work.

I shot out the office door. ‘Tea? Now?’

He slumped in on himself again. ‘Gotta talk to them. It won’t be pretty. Has to be done, though.’

He couldn’t be going to close the place. Surely not. These men were more than just his workers, they were his friends. Clint had been with him the longest — Clint the Flint, Hadleigh and I called him. He had five sons and a cheerful wife, but he himself was taciturn, dour, and if there was a dark side to any situation then you could be sure Clint would point it out. If I were a movie director, I’d cast him as a grizzled, tough old thane in something historical and Scottish.

Maurice had started working for Dad just after I went away to school. He had a wife and a couple of kids, but he wasn’t one to share details either. Alton was quiet too, except on the subject of his three kids, and sport of any kind. Eddy was a contrast to all of them: in his early twenties and ambitious, I thought. I was surprised he was still here. When I’d seen him in October he’d had a hint of restlessness about him.

I stayed where I was in the doorway once the men had gone in, uncertain if Dad would want me present while he broke the bad news. I needed to be there if I was to have power of attorney, but I didn’t want to intrude on their misery.

The men clearly knew what was coming. Clint’s shoulders were slumped, Alton kept his eyes on the table, Maurice leaned back in his chair and pretended to be asleep. Eddy set his mouth in a hard line. There was no sign of the guy who did the finishing.

‘Is Lew coming?’

‘He left last week,’ Dad said. Then he set about delivering the bad news executioner-style — short, sharp and fast. ‘Men, I’m sorry but it looks like I’m going to have to shut the place down. The shop’s cancelled the order for those tables. Can’t sell them, they reckon. No more orders on the books.’ He stopped and joined Alton in staring at the table.

‘That’s it? We just give up?’

Dad lifted his head so that he could look Eddy in the eye. ‘I’m sorry, mate. It’s been tough for a while. You’ll all get paid till Christmas and you’ll get your holiday pay.’

Maurice rubbed his fingers together over and over again. ‘Does Bernie know?’

Dad nodded. ‘Told him yesterday.’ He scrubbed his eyes and sniffed. ‘I hoped Hadleigh … well, no use dwelling on that. You might as well call it a day. Go home.’

Somewhere I registered that it was good to feel anger instead of fear. I was not going to have power of attorney for a dead business. I stepped away from the doorway. ‘No, Dad, wait. Why are you giving up without even trying? If you can keep going till Christmas, that gives you three weeks to try and turn things around. You’ve got damned good workers! You can’t just give up on them.’

There was a weird quality to the silence round the table — hope mixed with a splash of what-
would-she
-know.

Dad just shook his head and got back to looking tired and ill, but Eddy said, ‘It’s Bernie, isn’t it, boss? If we make what the market wants, then Bernie’s out of a job.’

Dad didn’t answer, which to my mind looked like a big fat
yes
.

‘So you’re prepared,’ I said, ‘to let the whole factory die rather than tell Bernie there’s no call for lathe work now?’

It was Eddy who provided the answer to that by pulling a newspaper cutting from a drawer. He handed it to me without comment. It was dated
mid-September
and showed a beaming Bernie with Dad’s arm around his shoulders. The quote from Dad was:
My right-hand man.
Bernie’s comment was:
It’s a wonderful thing to still be useful when you’re 83
.

I said, ‘Dad, I know what he means to you. I know how he helped you get started. But won’t he be gutted if he finds out he’s the reason you’re closing down?’

The men all watched my father now — and sagged in their seats when he just shook his head.

‘We’ll be off then,’ Clint said, getting to his feet.

I slammed a hand against the wall. ‘No! Don’t give up. Not yet. Okay, there’s no work today. But there’s still a hell of a lot that needs doing.’ They were all frowning at me now, but no way was I going to shut up. ‘That so-called lawn out there. That needs clearing up. The place needs a new fence. One that’ll repel boy racers. The woodroom could do with being sorted out, and if the shops won’t buy those tables I’ll put them on Trade Me for you.’ I turned to Dad. ‘What reserve do you want on them?’

He pushed himself up from his chair. ‘Leave it, Bess. It’s all too late.’ He shuffled — there is no other way of describing it — away to his office.

Eddy shrugged. ‘I guess we could clear the lawn. Alton, could we use your trailer?’

I held my breath, wondering if the others would follow him or if they’d do what Dad had told them, give up and go home. ‘Okay,’ said Alton.

‘Better than twiddling my thumbs at home,’ said Maurice.

‘And what will you do, bossy Bessy?’ Clint asked.

I sat myself down beside him, drew my chair in close and leaned towards him all friendly and conversational. ‘Clint, tell me — do you put any value on your nuts?’

He gaped at me. I heard smothered guffaws from the men behind me.

‘Because,’ I went on, still with great affability, ‘if you want to keep them, you won’t mess around with my name. Ever.’ I got up to follow the others from the room. ‘Just a friendly warning,’ I said, and smiled at him.

He was still looking like a newly landed fish, but then he slapped the table and roared, ‘Well dang me! Who’d have thought it! Come on, lads. If she’s like this with Charlie, we might just have half a chance of saving the ship after all.’

Eddy winked at me, but repeated Clint’s question. ‘What
are
you going to do, Bess?’

‘Try and drag my stupid father to a doctor.’ And I had a plan that just might work a whole lot better than kidnapping.

They took themselves off to deal to the outside and I went to do battle with my father in his office.

‘The men gone home, have they, Bess?’

I sat down. ‘No. They’re cleaning up the lawn and building a new fence.’

He patted my hand. ‘You’re a good kid. But it’s too late. I haven’t got the heart for it any longer. Even without worrying about Bernie, it’s all too much.’

Neither of us mentioned Hadleigh. I needed him. Fear kicked right back in. Dad was being so unlike his usual energetic self.

‘Have you thought about the power of attorney?’ he asked.

‘Yes I have, and yes I will, but on one condition.’

He almost smiled at that. ‘And that would be?’

‘You have to see a doctor. Today. If you refuse, I won’t sign.’ I held my breath, praying to the universe to knock sense into him.

‘Damn it, girl! You’ve let Iris get to you! It’s all worry, worry, worry with that woman. I’m fine. Just a bit tired.’ His eyes spat sparks at me.

I stood up, wanting to howl. ‘Then see you, Dad.’ I’d really thought he’d agree. It was obvious to a blind donkey that he was desperate for me to have power of attorney.

I was out the door by a couple of strides when he bellowed, ‘All
right!
You win. But we go to the lawyer first and then the bloody doctor. If you can get an appointment at this time on a Friday.’

I came back, relief making my knees wobbly. ‘You’d better hope we do, because it’s today or never.’

‘Bloody stubborn, that’s what you are, Bess Rosamund Grey.’

‘Guess who I learnt that from, Charlie Archibald Grey?’

That made him smile. He pushed his address book at me. ‘Make the appointments.’

I rang the clinic first, but they were very sorry there was nothing till Monday.

‘Can I speak to Dr Furness, then. Tell him it’s Bess Grey, Charlie’s daughter, and I need to talk to him about Dad.’

Dad glowered for the whole five minutes I had to wait before Bob Furness got to the phone.

‘Dad’s lost weight,’ I told him, ‘he’s got no energy and he’s having twinges that make him lose all colour from his face.’

‘All right, I’ll squeeze him in at five.’

I rang Alan Stubbs’s office, and once again had to speak to the man himself to wangle an appointment. ‘I’ll have to see him over lunchtime. Wouldn’t do it for anyone. Tell him one o’clock.’

Dad got busy on the computer. I suspected he was just pretending so that I’d go away. To give myself something to do I cleaned up the disaster in the kitchen — though every ten minutes or so I’d walk past the office, checking to make sure he was okay.

At midday I poked my head around his door. He was just sitting there, staring at the wall.

‘Want me to pick you up some lunch?’

I brought him the pie he asked for, but he didn’t even eat it. He’d never normally leave a pie untouched. That doctor’s appointment couldn’t arrive fast enough.

At 12.45 I had to help him out of the chair. He leaned on me as we walked outside. The sight of the cleared lawn brought a glimmer of a smile to his face but he didn’t say anything. The guys were there measuring up for the fence and watched in silence as I helped him into Hadleigh’s car.

‘Clint, can you lock up?’ I called. ‘He’s really sick. I’m taking him home.’

‘The doctor? Will he go?’

I nodded. ‘Not till five, though.’

‘We’ll see to things here. Tell him not to fret,’ Clint said.

I was sorely tempted to go straight to the clinic and yell for help, rather than keeping the appointment with the lawyer. Only the knowledge that Dad would stress if nobody had power of attorney prevented me.

When we got there, I said, ‘Stay here. I’ll see if Alan can bring the papers out to you.’

In answer, Dad opened his door and struggled to get out. Bloody pig-headed man. I ran over to him, and again he leaned on me the whole way. Whatever was wrong with him was much more acute than cancer would be.

Mrs Henwood, the receptionist who’d been there for ever, took one glance at him and led us straight into Alan’s office. ‘Best see him straight away,’ she told him. ‘The man’s ill.’

Alan pursed his lips but unpursed them again immediately. He looked at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Doctor’s appointment at five,’ I said. ‘He wants me to have power of attorney for the business. Will it take long?’

Alan looked grim. ‘Longer than I think you should wait around, Charlie.’

‘Thought of that,’ said Dad in a harsh whisper. ‘The partnership papers. They still on the computer?’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Change them to Bess’s name.’

‘Bess?’

‘Do it. Anything. Hurry. Please.’

His lips went back to being thin, but in a few minutes I was signing the document designed for Hadleigh. Dad’s signature wavered, and didn’t at all resemble his usual confident scrawl.

Without asking, Alan helped me get him back into the car. He closed the door, then grabbed my arm. ‘Go to the doctor right now, Bess. I’ll ring and tell them you’re on your way. And I’ll talk to you on Monday about all this.’ He hurried off, muttering something about duress.

I did as he said. Dad shut his eyes and looked terrible.

Bob was waiting when I pulled up outside the clinic. He ripped the car door open. ‘Charlie? Let me have your wrist.’ He felt for the pulse, frowned and asked, ‘Any pain?’

‘Chest. Arm.’

I listened, my own heart thumping as if it would help Dad’s. Bob kept asking more questions and I couldn’t hear the whispered answers.

I rang Iris and told her where we were, thankful I wasn’t alone in all this, despite my wariness at being around her. ‘I think it’s a heart attack. The questions Bob’s asking …’

‘I’m on my way.’

Bob’s voice reached me, calm and calming. ‘Bess, ring for an ambulance. Tell them he’s conscious but with an undetectable radial pulse. Vital signs unacceptable.’

His manner steadied me. I repeated the
information
for the dispatcher and told her where we were.

A nurse carrying an oxygen cylinder came hurrying from the clinic. While Bob fitted the mask over Dad’s face, she ran back, returning in seconds with an IV bag. All I could do was watch and feel useless.

Iris and the ambulance arrived at the same time. She wasn’t able to do anything either, just watch as Dad was lifted onto a stretcher. The men talked to him, telling him what they were doing, where they were taking him.

‘I want to go with him,’ Iris said.

The paramedics showed her where to sit. She climbed in and they were gone, lights flashing. They only used the lights when it was urgent. I knew that much.

Bob steered me into the clinic and into his office. He sat me down and told me as much as he knew. ‘Your dad’s a sick man. He’s damn lucky you’ve got a good head on your shoulders or he’d be dead by now.’

‘Will he …’

‘Truthfully, it’s hard to say. I think he’ll come through, but I can’t guarantee it.’

The nurse came in with a cup of something and a couple of biscuits. She put the cup in my hands. ‘Drink it, Bess. It’s chocolate with sugar. You’ve had a shock, and this’ll do you good.’ She watched me for a while, then squeezed my shoulder. ‘Iris has left her car here. Can you drive it back for her?’

‘Yes, I guess so. I’ll have to walk back for Hadleigh’s — for mine. It’ll take a while.’ I couldn’t think.

She led me out to the waiting room and made me sit down. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get my nephew to drive her car, then you can deliver him back here.’

‘Will you ring the hospital for me?’

‘Bess, dear — they won’t be there yet. They’re taking him through to Waikato. It’s no use ringing for a while yet.’

I rubbed my head. ‘No. Of course.’

I wanted Hadleigh. I needed him. I couldn’t even ring him to tell him what had happened. My thoughts dived all over the place, shying away from the memory of Dad on a gurney. What was happening to my world? It had been so settled, so secure two weeks ago. But now Dad was seriously ill, school was gone, Hadleigh had vanished into thin air, all my friends were far away, and my mind — oh god, my mind. I dragged it away from dangerous images, trying to anchor myself in the present.