I dreamt I was in the old factory in Footscray, Dr Barbie’s point of exit. It was cold, dark in the corners spreading out. I was walking from cavernous space to cavernous space, looking for something in the gloom, uneasy. I pushed open a huge sliding door and I was in a room filled with light, the ceiling seemed to glow, one huge skylight. People were standing in groups, talking and drinking, laughing. The nearest group had their backs to me. As I approached, one by one they turned, smiling, greeting me: my father, that shy smile, Ned, Alex, forehead bloody, Brendan Burrows, Berglin, Scully, Hill, Bianchi, Lefroy. The group parted and Carlie Mance appeared, radiant, took my arm, tucked it under hers. We walked together to the centre of the chamber and she pointed. A body, elongated, was dangling from the roof, slowly turning. I waited, full of dread, to see the face. It came around slowly, slowly, familiar profile…
I woke, sweating, still filled with the dream’s apprehension. Just like the old days, I thought.
It was almost five am. I got up, no point in staying in bed, washed my face, revved up the kitchen stove, made a pot of tea, read The Plant Hunter till it was time to shower, cook, eat and start work. Today was committed to finishing Frank Cullen’s contraption, long overdue. But Frank was a patient man. He never hurried the realisation of his inventions because it gave him time to think about modifications. Not big ones: tweaks of the brilliant concept.
I was tidying up the welds with the anglegrinder when Allie arrived. I switched off and lifted the helmet. She knew about the contraption.
‘What I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘is why you wouldn’t simply put whatever it is you want to load onto the back of the ute. Why would you put it on this thing and haul it up with a winch?’
‘The idea, as I understand it, and I may be utterly wrong here, is that you can take this thing where utes fear to go. Reach the parts ordinary utes cannot reach. Then you haul it back and wham! It’s on board.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Haul it back? How much cable is there going to be?’
‘Brilliant idea or scrapmetal in the making,’ I said, ‘the man doesn’t blink at the bill, writes out the cheque right here in front of me, very neat and legible hand, and the bank doesn’t blink either. Which is a lot more that can be said for many of our clients.’
‘Which is why I’m glad I don’t have to send out my own bills anymore.’
‘Not gladder than I am,’ I said. ‘Listen, this extensive training of yours equip you to make a knife blade?’
‘You don’t have to be a Rhodes scholar,’ she said, ‘to make a blade. All you have to do is take pains.’
I put up my gloved hand. ‘Point taken, to the hilt. I’m weeks behind with the knives. Fit it in? I’ll show you what’s needed.’
‘Let’s look at the diary,’ she said. ‘Has to be time this week.’
I was fitting the wheels when Frank Cullen and Jim Caswell arrived, today in full squatter’s uniform. Jim took his seat on the bench, Frank came over to inspect the work.
‘Nice wheels, Mac,’ Frank said. ‘Where’d you get ’em?’
‘Place in town sells bearings,’ I said. ‘Cost a fair bit.’
‘Quality,’ Frank said. ‘Remembered when price is forgotten.’
‘Very true,’ I said. ‘Motto of this workshop.’
‘Now these tracks,’ Frank said. ‘Bin givin ’em some thought, woke up this mornin with the answer.’ He took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and carefully opened it. ‘This diagram shows what I’ve come up with.’
I looked at it. The tracks now had angled projections at each end.
‘Beauty of it,’ Frank said, ‘is these top bits. They slide into these housings you bolt to the tray. What d’ya think?’
‘Like all the best ideas,’ I said, ‘you wonder why you didn’t think of it earlier.’
Frank took a seat, lit a cigarette, had a good cough.
‘Don’t know how you can do it,’ Jim said, shaking his head.
‘Do what?’ Frank said.
‘Smoke. You know what the doctor said.’
‘Bloody doctors,’ Frank said. ‘What do they know? Know buggerall, that’s why they blame the fags. Could be somethin else entirely. Could be-could be bloody potatoes kills ya. Carrots. I read where everybody in China smokes, from babies upwards, they don’t bloody die any more than anyone else. Look at that Mao Tsebloodytung, used to smoke in his sleep, couldn’t get him to die. Same with the other bloke, whatsisname, thingummy, shot them students, eighty fags a day, still runnin the place at ninety, whatever.’
‘The Veenes,’ I said. ‘What do you know about the Veenes?’
‘Veenes,’ Frank said. ‘Don’t talk to me about Veenes. I know Veenes. Worked for bloody old Clarrie Veene, the most miserable bastard ever to walk God’s earth, bar none. Used to look at you like you were a sick dog he wouldn’t waste a bullet on, kill it with a spade. Little bastard used to come up to me, didn’t reach my top button, course I was six-three then…’
‘You were never six-three,’ Jim said.
‘You bloody dwarf, what would you know? You couldn’t see that high. Come up to me, the old bastard, wasn’t all that old then either, come right up to me, under me nose, say something like, whining bloody voice, “Cullen, when you going to do something about that slate you’re running over at Meagher’s?” Coulda killed him right there, one blow.’
‘A Veene had some land near Milstead,’ I said. ‘Pine forest now.’
‘That was Ernest’s,’ Frank said. ‘Clarrie’s brother. Another miserable bastard. Went to his son. Donald.’
‘Some Melbourne company owns it now,’ I said.
‘Rick Veene’s got a share in the company,’ Frank said. ‘Heard that. He’s Donald’s boy. Looks a lot like Ernest. Rick’s tied up with that Stefanidis from over near Daylesford. RSPCA went there, heard he was shooting pigeons. Bloke behind a wall throws ’em in the air, Greek shoots ’em with a twelve bore from about four yards. Sticks it up their arses practically. Couldn’t prove it. Not a feather to be found.’
‘What’s on the land apart from trees?’
‘Old house. Bluestone place. Solid. Never lived in I don’t think after Donald moved to town.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh, donkey’s. Died about twenty years ago.’
Just before noon, I finished the contraption. We fitted the housings to Frank’s ute, attached the tracks and ran the tray up them, not without difficulty.
‘Good work,’ Frank said. ‘Excellent work. Craftsmanship of the highest order.’
We went over to the pub for a sandwich. I had a beer. Jim had a glass of milk. Frank had three brandies.
The phone was ringing as we came up the lane. I ran for it.
Irene Barbie.
‘Mac,’ she said, ‘I’ve had a call from my daughter. From London. She’s just got back from Italy and Greece and she found a letter from Ian waiting for her. It’s been to about five of her previous addresses.’
I was still panting.
‘Are you all right, Mac?’
‘Fine. Been running. Go on.’
‘Well, I think it puts Ian’s suicide beyond doubt. Alice was in tears and the letter sounds a bit disjointed, but Ian says he’s leaving a note explaining everything and apologises for the pain he’s caused.’