Last Day in the Dynamite Factory Read Online Free PDF Page B

hair-flecked trousers.
    â€˜Oh, yes. Sorry. Yesterday Archie’s friend brought in a dog. I thought I’d got it all.’
    Chris brushes the hairs but they stick stubbornly to the fabric. He begins picking them off, one by one. ‘Hell, don’t these things
cling
!’ He glances up at Diane, who is watching him, mesmerised.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ he says.
    â€˜My … my parents did that.’
    â€˜Did what?’
    â€˜Picked me off them. They said I clung.’ She shakes her head. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜No – tell me.’
    She shrugs. ‘When they went away – field trips or whatever – I used to stay with a friend, Jane. Every night after dinner her family played music and Jane would climb onto her father’s lap for a cuddle. It looked so … appealing, I tried the same thing with my father. But I knocked the pipe out of his mouth and it fell on the floor and scorched the rug. He pushed me off – prised my fingers from his arm. He said I stuck like dog hairs.’
    Chris stares at her, aghast. He knows that her archaeologist father and anthropologist mother had always been emotionally distant – but
this
? Her face is splotchy with embarrassment. He reaches for her hand. The toast begins to burn. She pulls her hand free and grabs the pan off the stove.
    â€˜I’ll make some more.’
    â€˜Forget the toast, Di. Come here.’
    â€˜No, I’ll make some more. I’m happy to.’ She pulls more bread from the packet.
    â€˜Are you?’ he says.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Happy?’
    â€˜Oh … um, yes, I’m content.’
    â€˜Just … content?’
    â€˜Y-yes, but that’s all right. Content is better than happy; more enduring, more … stable. You’re not all over the place, emotionally.’
    She dips bread into the egg mixture and takes it to the pan and Chris wonders if she’ll ask him whether he’s happy. Probably not, and probably just as well. He is neither happy nor content, but yearns for something which has no name. It’s a longing, a lurch of his soul that sends it crashing against an invisible wall. He’s certain there is something beyond that wall which does fulfil, but walls keep life in place. You don’t destroy a perfectly good house without a perfectly good reason.
    Diane slides now-perfect toast onto two plates and sits opposite him at the bench. Recomposed, she slices her toast neatly and drizzles it with maple syrup. Chris’s eyes travel the length of her body, encased in a dark gold linen sheath. She favours these sorts of dresses and they suit her. In winter she wears them with a smart little cardigan or a contrasting jacket. Her skin is palest olive and invites touch, her body substantial without being fat. She has the allure of a woman who doesn’t seek to attract but does anyway, and she still attracts him. Beneath her clothes, her body leans towards some unidentifiable longing. Chris wishes it was him, but doubts it. He wonders if even Diane knows what it is.
    He watches her hands, strong and smooth. Efficient with a deck of cards – she’s a killer Bridge player and has tried to get him interested but what appeals to her about Bridge is exactly what puts him off. Rules. Diane likes rules; she likes knowing what is expected. Chris hates rules but is good at them, a trait he finds depressing. His reputation as a responsible, reliable, decent husband, father and architect is harder to kick than smoking was. Not that he ever smoked much; it interfered with his tennis.
    Every Saturday for the last twenty years he and a bunch of mates have played on a court at Bardon, a lovely spot overlooking Ithaca Creek, partly shaded by a massive camphor laurel tree that reminds him of the tree Grandpa dynamited on his farm all those years ago. The tree has been declared a weed and the pest police want it dead but Chris loves it. He’d like to hug its