Black Tide (24 page)

‘Jack?’

Rosa. Relief.

‘About time you answered your phone,’ she said. ‘I’m here to tell you, just when I thought it was all over for me, this hunk, this absolute babe, has come into my life.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Bit early for this kind of conversation. How can a man be a babe?’

Long, languid sigh. ‘Where are you, Jack? Marooned in the seventies. You should mix with younger people.’

‘Tried that. Hasn’t done me much good. How old is this babe?’

‘Ah. The ear-kissing. I saw her on Rod Pringle’s television show the other night.

Radiant. Very striking.’

‘How old is this babe?’

‘Jack, what does it matter? Two people resonate, that’s all that counts.’

‘Resonate? The point about resonance is lack of contact. How old?’

‘Hmm. Thirtyish. Going on.’

‘Little more precision, please. How old?’

‘God, you’re a bore. Twenty-four. Thereabouts. Very mature.’

‘At least one mature person in a relationship is a good idea. What does he do?’

‘He’s a sommelier. At Maquis in South Yarra. He’s so knowledgable about wine, he’s a wine authority, he…’

‘A wine waiter. Three-week TAFE course. You’re having it off with a wine waiter and you’re giving him about sixteen years claim. How do you manage to get these things so absolutely right?’

‘Fourteen. No soul. Not an ounce of poetry in your body. Many, many relationships of this kind are wildly successful.’ Pause. ‘Wildly. Wildly.’

‘Wildly? Who said that? Elizabeth Taylor? Zsa Zsa Gabor? Catherine the Great?’

162

‘Jack, why would Lucy feel guilty about Dad’s death?’

Changes of subject by Rosa were standard but this one caught me flatfooted.

‘What? How do you know she felt guilty?’

‘She says so. In her diary. I’ve got all her diaries and letters in a big box and sometimes when I’m in a good mood I read bits. I’ve just been reading the new diary she started after I was born.’

‘Diaries?’ I looked at the digital clock on the microwave. ‘Eight-twenty a.m. I thought you didn’t wake up before noon? Medication problem, is it? You can tell me.’

Light laugh. ‘Up for hours, walking on the beach, reading. Listen, I’ve got it here, she says, “Sunny afternoon. Dad drove me to the cemetery. I was quite composed while I was at Bill’s grave, but on the way back it was suddenly too much for me. Dad pretended not to notice the tears. What haunts me night and day is that I could have saved my darling. I will carry that to my grave.’’’

‘Just emotional,’ I said. ‘People get like that. Blame themselves for anything. He was in a fight.’

‘A fight? I thought he was attacked. She always talked as if he was attacked.’

‘He was in a fight outside a pub. Grandpa told me that. Many times.’

Sitting alone, sun on my legs, teacup in my hand, my father lost, unknown to me, no memory of a touch, my mother always keeping me at a distance, my first wife just packing up and leaving, my second wife murdered by one of my clients, none of that obscured the memory of my grandfather’s quiet voice, grating voice, each word a rake of gravel. I could see his eyes moving over my face, an examination, a search for evidence of something, brief rest on my hair, my forehead, a look into my eyes, examination of my nose, my mouth. Sitting in a captain’s chair in the sun, all the years gone, I could see that mouth, my grandfather’s mouth, mean, bloodless, disapproving mouth.

And I could hear him. He never called me Jack.

Irresponsibility. It can be in the blood, John. Your father’s blood. In you. You always need to guard against it. Bar fighter your father, labourer and bar fighter. That’s how he died. Fighting outside a hotel.

Rosa said, ‘Why would she blame herself…?’

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I didn’t want to talk about it. ‘No idea. Lovely chat, apres wine appreciation, apres brief sleep, beach walk, diary reading, whatever. Unfortunately you find me at the beginning of a working day. I’ll have to say goodbye.’

Silence. ‘You resent happiness in others, don’t you, Jack?’ said Rosa. ‘Well, that’s perfectly understandable.’

I felt a coldness in my heart and I said, flippant voice, ‘It’s always nice to have one’s frailties understood and forgiven.’

She felt the coldness, it passed to her across the wire.

‘Jack, I didn’t mean that, Jack, listen, I meant…’

I said, ‘I’ve got to go. Miles to go. Promises to keep. Woods lovely dark and deep. Don’t accept any en primeur offers.’

‘En what?’

‘You pay now and get the wine later.’

‘I’m not sure brothers are worth the trouble,’ she said, a tremble in her voice. ‘They don’t seem to have any utility value.’

‘Except to tell you that they love you,’ I said.

I had never said that to her before. It had never crossed my mind to say it. Any more than it had occurred to me to be the one to offer the kiss on meeting or parting.

A long silence. ‘Is that so?’ she said, stronger voice now. ‘Well, perhaps they have some limited use.’

31

Taub’s. I had to let myself in. Not unusual. Charlie often failed to take the door off the latch.

Cold. That was unusual.

In winter, which was most of the year in Melbourne, Charlie’s first act was to light the big potbelly. The building took at least an hour to warm up.

No Charlie. I felt a pulse of anxiety in my throat, phoned.

It rang. Rang. Rang.

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‘Ja, Taub,’ he said. It sounded like a command.

I breathed out. ‘So,’ I said. ‘The work. Who needs the work? How many lives you got?

The work, the work can wait. Lie in bed, think about how the pishers gave you a good thrashing.’

Charlie laughed, the full laugh, leading to wheezing and sniffing. You didn’t hear the full laugh too often. The Charlie minimalist smile was enough to make you think you’d said something acute.

‘On my foot,’ he said. ‘The toes. Can’t walk. Like a cripple.’

‘On your foot what?’

‘What? What you think? The ball. The bowl.’

I said, ‘Oh. Sorry to hear that. Didn’t realise it was a contact sport. I’ll just struggle on here on my own then.’

Charlie said, ‘Ten to eleven in the morning. Two hours before you see I’m not there?’

‘I thought you were at the back, being very quiet.’

The snort. ‘Tomorrow, I make up the time.’

I said goodbye, put down the phone. Boss of Taub’s today. I went over to my glue-up of the evening before, admired my efforts, set to work taking off the clamps, all a little less tight now. A very pleasant task, spiced with anxiety about the perfection of the joints, the squareness of the frame.

Boss of Taub’s. A person could come in wanting something made. From time to time, a person did. Hi, they said. This is really old-fashioned. Terrific. Like Europe. More machines though. We stayed in this villa in Italy. In Umbria? Yes? Part of Italy. And there was this table. Really unusual. Long, I don’t know, from here to that wall. And narrow, that’s the difference. I’ve looked everywhere, they’re all too wide. But amazing, it had three sets of legs? Six legs? The outside ones sort of go outwards. I’ll draw it for you. Dark wood. Think you can make that? In pine. I’ll stain it myself. Not too many knots. I’ll need a price. I have to tell you, I’ve been ripped off by some so-called carpenters.

Listen politely. Show the person the door.

A person didn’t come in.

165

I passed the day in solitude, absorbed by the effort of bringing into being something people would admire and which would outlive them. I pushed away thoughts about Gary Connors, about the morass into which I had ventured so blithely.

A good day.

Charlie once said, elevation of chin, narrowing of eyes revealing that he was about to deliver a message, ‘Jack, make something, you look at it, you’re happy. The work it took, that’s not work.’

At home, cleansed by the day’s honest efforts, I was struck by the disgusting condition of the place. A frenzy came over me. As I vacuumed and scrubbed and dusted, my mind turned over the questions I should have asked Dave. The first one was why on earth I should believe him. I was on the downstairs de-cobwebbing when the phone rang.

‘Jack, Lyall Cronin.’ Voice deeper than I remembered.

‘You find me with a featherduster in my hand.’

Measured interval.

‘If I’m interrupting something…’

‘Between me and this featherduster you can come,’ I said. ‘A welcome interposition.’

She laughed. ‘Interposition. Good word. Bandied about a lot in suburban legal practices, I imagine.’

‘Endlessly bandied.’

‘Jack, I remembered something, I don’t know if it’s of any use.’ Pause. ‘You might want to drop by some time?’

‘I want to. When’s a good time?’

Pause.

‘Well, when’s a good time? Thursday? Friday? Actually, now’s a good time. No, God, Tuesday night, it wouldn’t be a good time for you…’

Sight, identify, fire. Not a millisecond of hesitation. ‘Tuesday night’s a very acceptable time. I could holster the featherduster, shower, be around shortly.’

‘Good. Yes. Well. You know how to find it.’

166

‘Yes. Well, see you.’

I stood for a moment, thought about my motives, decided not to think about them, went upstairs to shower, get the glue off my fingertips. Then I considered driving, phoning for a cab, instead walked down to Brunswick Street, fended off two pushers, got a cab, Ukrainian driver. I was in safe hands. He was a qualified surgeon and an Olympic skier, shockingly unappreciated in his adopted land and seriously thinking about going back.

32

Lyall Cronin’s hair was damp, black, back from her forehead. Cotton sweater, jeans.

Barefoot. Taller than I recalled. Even barefoot.

‘Mr Irish.’ The crooked smile. ‘That was quick.’

‘Like to see the ID?’ I asked.

‘I think I remember you. Come in.’

She led the way down the passage into the room on the right, a room I hadn’t seen, a comfortable sitting room, long and narrow, assortment of armchairs, two big sofas facing each other, paintings and photographs on the walls, books and newspapers on the coffee table. On the CD player, something classical, piano. A near-full bottle of red wine and a glass stood on the ornate wooden mantelpiece above a badly made and dying fire.

We stood.

‘More wood,’ she said. ‘We need wood. Not much left. Bradley did the wood. There was always a huge pile in the garage. I have no idea how to buy wood.’ She turned, shrugged. ‘First winter alone in this house. It’s much too big for one person but I can’t bear the idea of sharing with strangers. That part of life is over. If I didn’t love it so much, I’d find something smaller.’

‘Let’s see what’s left.’

She put on shoes. I followed her down the passage, through the kitchen, across the courtyard into the garage. Half a dozen logs were in the corner just in front of Stuart Wardle’s BMW. I squeezed in, just managed to get them all into my arms.

On the way back, Lyall said, ‘Bringing in the firewood. Essentially a male preserve.’

I said, ‘And we want to hang onto it. Not a lot of preserves left.’

167

‘I want you to hang onto it,’ Lyall said. ‘I want you to feel ownership of the firewood preserve.’

‘Empathy. Essentially a female preserve.’

She had a good deep chuckling laugh.

In the sitting room, I said, ‘Would you be offended if I reconstructed this fire?’

Our eyes met. Lyall tilted her head, looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I think that falls into the firewood preserve. What kind of idiot objects when someone else volunteers to get dirty and burnt?’

‘They’re out there, I’m told,’ I said, picking up the tongs to start the messy work of unpacking the heap of charred wood. ‘A dangerous strain of idiot.’

‘None around here,’ she said. ‘When you’ve got it inflamed, would you like some red?

White? There’s beer. I’m over beer now, may never drink beer again. The red’s a bit special.’

I said, ‘Once inflamed, red would be nice.’

She went away while I had a go at resuscitating the fire. When I came back from washing my hands in the down- stairs bathroom, she handed me a glass. ‘It’s called Hill of Grace.’

‘I know the bounteous hill. From the time when I was a responsible social drinker. And non-millionaires could afford it.’

‘This is the bounteous 1988. Courtesy of Bradley Joffrin. Two unopened cases in the pantry. It was the day you were here. I was looking for dried food. Bit unsteady. The room’s so big, bodies could be in there. Shelves about a metre deep. They were in the corner under all sorts of things. I sent Bradley an e-mail in Los Angeles. “Two cases expensive, unobtainable wine found in pantry. Await instructions.’’ He sent an e-mail back. “Listen, bitch, you pass this way but once. Drink.’’’

‘You’d like a person for that.’

The crooked smile. ‘Like him, love him. Love him’s fine. In love with him’s the problem.

I was in love with him for years. Never mentioned it. No point. He’s gay. Huge loss to womankind.’ She raised her glass. ‘Straight womankind. Cheers.’

The Hill of Grace was like drinking a liquidised alcoholic plum tart. We sat down on sofas opposite each other in front of the fire, now in aggressive form.

168

‘Talent for reconstructing fires, Mr Irish,’ she said, looking at the blaze through her glass. ‘To be honest, I’ve got to confess to vaguely false pretences. I don’t think that what I remembered will be of much use to you. Thought it would be nice to see you again.’

I said, ‘Well. That’s cheeky. Think you can get away with wasting a high-powered suburban solicitor’s time. Make nuisance calls.’

She turned her head, half-profile. I remembered thinking that she had a judgmental face. ‘I rather hoped so.’

‘If it’s show and tell,’ I said, ‘I considered phoning you the other night. Imagined getting the busy-this-year-feel-free-to-call-thereafter.’

We looked at each other.

‘So,’ she said, the smile. ‘Shown you mine, got a glimpse of yours.’

We both looked into the fire, uncertainty about the next step in the air.

‘I didn’t think about eating,’ she said. ‘You forget that other people don’t have lunch at 4 p.m. Are you before or after eating?’