FINN
Later, Finn could trace the seismic shift back to the afternoon he stood in the fading light and slid the fine sandpaper over the curve of Huon pine. The initial scrape of grit had smoothed out to a soft glide, the grain of the wood revealing its hidden whorls. He lifted the sandpaper, puffed the fine dust away and ran his hand over the wood’s surface. It rose under his fingers like something alive.
The light was nearly gone and the air, at last, felt slightly cooler. Finn’s sweat had dried and crusted into a hard mix of salt and sawdust on his skin. Invisible creatures – frogs, crickets, he never knew what they were – burst into a racket outside his window, ushering in the evening.
He smoothed an oiled cloth over the haunch of wood, which rewarded him by glowing in the last of the light. He placed it on the ground, shoving aside the jumble of scrap metal with a twinge of guilt. That’s what he was meant to be working on; his agent was convinced his clockwork constructions were the way to a breakthrough. But it didn’t feel like real sculpture, not like his carving.
The piece Edmund had spotted during a Skype was a machine born out of Finn’s frustration with getting from the kitchen to his studio, a clumsy two-handed operation with gates and latches and sliding doors in and out of the pool area. He’d put his mind to solving the problem, taking due account of the safety principles involved in pool fencing, and adding clockwork characterisations to amuse Toby. A wall-mounted system of pulleys and gears, styled as an owl, elegantly opened and automatically closed the gate between the verandah and the pool when Finn pulled the high brass lever. A second apparatus, with a dragon’s head and outspread wings, operated the sliding doors linking the studio to the pool. Yes, he’d created them to look good – clunky, evocative creatures made of oversized cogs and gears, burnished metal and chains that fascinated Toby when they cranked into life. But before Edmund declared them art and named them – Owl Sentry and Dragon Sentry – Finn considered them simply functional.
Edmund had demanded a spec piece – he was sure he could sell one. Just like Owl or Dragon, he’d urged. But Finn had got only as far as gathering scrap metal, old machinery parts and gears and stacking them on the bench.
The sound of voices drifted over from the house and he looked out into the indigo-orange sky of a subtropical dusk. Bridget must have come home. When the wood had him, he didn’t hear a thing. He never kept a clock in the workshop lest its hard little hands yank him back from his thrall. And so, not for the first time, he was late. He’d left the kids to their own devices and now she was home, and it was Friday. That meant a bottle of wine with dinner, and probably she’d want to fuck to throw off the week and he’d want to fuck because of the sensuality of the wood under his hands all day, and they’d mark the passage from the working week to the weekend and the relief that their marriage was still intact. Their sex life had been revitalised by what happened, at any rate, and thank God it turned out they still desired each other’s bodies, no matter his convex belly and balding head and her bunions.
He should have started dinner, but he needed a swim. A quick plunge, no lights on, to sluice the dust and sweat from him; more satisfying than a shower. He pulled Dragon Sentry’s heavy lever, and with a clanking of gears the thing opened the sliding doors of the studio and admitted him to the pool area.
After ten months he could still hardly believe Bridget had agreed to buy this purple weatherboard home, with its red trim, wonky doors that didn’t lock, crooked corners and overgrown garden of bold tropical plants – mauve jacaranda, red poinciana, pink frangipani, yellow trumpet flowers. So different from their old brick bungalow in Hobart – and from the airy beach house Bridget had had in mind when making this sea change.
He shucked off his overalls and underpants at the pool’s edge, leaned over the water and tilted, making a hole in the surface with his hands and pouring his body into it. Underwater, he rubbed at his arms, face, hair, loosening the dust so it detached and floated in little whorls and bubbles.
JARRAH
‘Jawwah, weed it.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Weed it.’
‘Dad can read it. I’ve got homework.’
‘WEED IT!’
‘ALL RIGHT!’
I slapped my maths book shut, glad of the excuse, though I sighed and pushed myself up like it was a big effort. This was usually how it panned out in the afternoons. Dad distracted with his art, Mum busy and important and not home from work, me trying to do homework, and Toby trying to stop me. Changing towns hadn’t changed that.
I flopped down on my bed. Toby clambered up, threw himself on my chest, and started to bounce up and down. ‘Horsey!’
‘Hey, we’re meant to be reading.’ I let him do it a few times and then reached over and picked up the tattered copy of his favourite book from the bedside table. ‘The Monster King?’
He gave a whoop of excitement. He never got sick of it. I took a deep breath, adjusted my voice and began.
Toby wriggled around and cuddled up next to me, waiting while I tucked my arm under his head. His blue eyes fixed on the pages as I read, putting on my best deep, gruff voice for the monsters so he shivered and squealed.
If it scared him so much, how come he still liked it?
I turned the final page.
‘Gain!’
Toby would be happy if I read that book to him twenty times in a row. I heaved another dramatic, weary sigh and dragged out the words to make him laugh. ‘Aaall right.’
The thing is, I didn’t get bored. The feel of his small body against my side, his attention, the smell of his hair, kind of sweet and salty together. When it was just him and me, something churned in me so I could hardly stand it.
During the third reading the light changed. Mum was running late and Dad must have forgotten the time. I felt Toby’s body soften and his breath deepen. His leg twitched, and I paused and looked down at him. He was asleep, way out of his naptime, one hand splayed on my chest, the other clutching a stray piece of my hair.
Two reasons he was my best friend. First, the obvious. He was the only one who never judged me. Never looked at me weirdly, never thought something was wrong with me.
I heard the engine in the driveway and closed my eyes. I could count the moments of peace left. I heard Mum pull on the handbrake, switch off the ignition, unclack the seatbelt, open the car door, scrabble for her handbag on the floor of the front seat. Her shoes crunched on the gravel. Five moments more of Toby and me. Four moments as she reached the verandah and slid the screen door open. Three as she stepped inside. Two as she started up the stairs. One as she called out.
‘Yoo-hoo? Boys? Marital companion?’
Our mother’s voice could reach Toby even in sleep. He jerked and his eyes flew open. In a single move he was upright.
‘Mumma!’ He squirmed off the bed and bolted for the door. I heard the rhythmic thud of his bare feet, the squeal as he caught sight of her at the top of the stairs, his leap into her arms. I heard snuggling, kissing, nonsense words. Felt that dig of jealousy.
Copyright © 2017 by Jesse Blackadder
