Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

When they were seated by the potbelly stove with mugs of tea, and Hedley Stimson was holding forth on the intricacies of lathe work and its contribution to the welfare of mankind, Jack relaxed, forgot about the documents in the briefcase alongside him and examined the studio in detail. It was one large room, roughly built with exposed beams in a vaulted roof where the corrugated iron sheeting was visible, a concrete floor obscured by a coating of sawdust and curled wood shavings. There was a long bench by the only window, with vices and a lathe set in, and a wall of tools meticulously arranged by size and use-chisels of every gradation and type, saw blades, routers, hammers and other tools of less obvious application, at least to Jack’s untrained eye. As the gravelly voice warmed to its passion, Jack felt, after a couple of sessions like this, his expertise on woodworking matters, if not on the legal implications of potential HOA misdemeanours, would be complete.

‘But I can see I may be boring you, Mr Beaumont. Wood-turning and its subtleties are not to everyone’s taste. More’s the pity.’ He placed his heavy mug on the floor beside the chair and its base and half the sides disappeared into the layer of sawdust. ‘It’s a lovely, quiet night for anything, Sunday night. Walk around the streets and you’ll barely hear a sound. Just the flicker of light from the great god in the living room as you pass each house. The churches are empty and we’re all crouched low before the god of light. Football, then the movies-a perfect Sunday. What more could you seek as the rockbed of true belief?’

‘You’re crouched low in front of a workbench.’

‘Not at all, Mr Beaumont. I am uplifted by the joyful experience of releasing useful creations from the fibre of God’s work. Under my hands a tree becomes a chair, a table, a rocking horse for my grandchildren. You see the difference?’

‘Do you have grandchildren?’ It was very quiet in the studio, apart from a faint hissing from the potbelly stove as the thick offcuts slowly turned to ash. The old lawyer spoke without looking up. ‘My only son died a long time ago.’

Somehow Jack knew he’d touched an undressed wound, but he asked the question anyway: ‘How did he die?’

Now the hooded eyes were raised to him and the big hands lifted slowly and began to circle as if to tell the story, but then fell back on the arms of the chair. When the voice finally came it was flat, empty.

‘He was only ten. Perfectly healthy. Bright little fellow. Short for his age-I don’t think he would ever have been a big chap-but full of courage. On the rugby field he’d tackle anyone, didn’t matter what size they were, and bounce up like a rubber ball just when you thought he had to be injured. Great little half-back, quick hands, clever with the play. I used to love watching him.’ He paused and looked away to the window where there was nothing to see. ‘I was in court. They handed me a note. By the time I got there he was gone. Just like that. Overwhelming virus of the heart. A virus-and gone.’

He continued to stare through the window into the night garden. ‘Have you ever been to a child’s funeral, Mr Beaumont? The coffin is white, for some reason. It looks like it’s made out of cardboard. Incredibly small and fragile-like a child’s life. That alone is enough to break your heart.’

Jack heard the tremor in his own voice as he spoke. ‘Did you never want to have more children?’

The square face swung to him and the eyes stared fiercely into Jack’s. ‘As you will certainly discover in the coming weeks, what you want and what you receive in this life are frequently worlds apart. Now, we’re not here to discuss the history of the Stimson family, so let’s get on.’

It was difficult to get on, Jack felt. He handed across the file of documents and waited, not speaking, for ten minutes or more as each was read carefully and placed aside, in order, on the floor. When the last document had landed in a puff of sawdust, the grilling began. There was anger in the questioning and heavy sarcasm, rather than irony, in the commentary.

‘This is flim-flam, card houses, walls made from woodchip, not a solid beam anywhere. Look at this reinsurance contract that you opine, in your ultimate wisdom, may breach some regulation, law, you know not what. Which clause in its labyrinthine depths do you wish to direct my attention to? Which specific aspect of its cover proves your case?’

Jack stood. ‘I don’t know. The Pope said it’s a financial reinsurance contract that probably doesn’t have any real transfer of risk involved.’

‘Probably? The Pope? You are communicating with God’s representative in Rome?’

‘Clinton Normile-we call him the Pope. I thought you knew him.’

‘Yes, I know Mr Normile, but not by any ecclesiastical appellation. You can tell Mr Normile that in these matters his infallibility is not accepted. Probably cuts no mustard in this room, Mr Beaumont. If there is no transfer of risk, there must be some accompanying document. Find it, or forget it.’

And so it went. The contents of the file were metaphorically shredded one by one. At the end, Jack felt his ego lay with them. But the hammering continued.

‘And here we have your suggested list of experts. Some of whom are worthy of their title. But this woman you recommend as the communications person. A gossip columnist, a manicurist who sends out press releases and does lunch. We want street fighters, maulers. This is not the judging at the annual dahlia festival, at which I’m sure you have won any number of prizes.’

‘Fine. Do you know someone?’

‘Of course I know someone, Mr Beaumont.’ The words were nearly spat at him. ‘I know everyone. The point is do you know someone. If we start using my contacts, the jig is up. I am not involved in this, remember. I am a semi-retired old dodderer who told you to slink off into your corner and forget the whole thing, so I could get back to making those rocking horses.’

Jack knelt and began to pick the documents from the floor, shaking each to remove the sawdust. When he replaced the first one in his briefcase, the gruff voice came, tired, dead flat. ‘Leave them. Leave them where they are. I’ll read them again. Perhaps there is something there. It’s late, I’ll look at them in the morning.’

They walked to the door. It was raining heavily now and gusts of cold air and a few wet leaves blew in. Jack hadn’t spoken. He turned as he felt the hand on his shoulder.

‘You would have liked him.’ They shook hands and Jack walked slowly back along the slippery path to his car, not caring much that the rain was soaking through his thin layers of clothing.

‘I want it to be huge, Larry, enormous-the best goddamn party this city has ever seen. And I want everyone there-not just the business people, I can take care of them, but the pollies and all the art wankers, the lot. That’s where you come in.’

Even Sir Laurence’s formidable skill as a concealer of true feelings couldn’t help to hide his distaste at this remark. Mac was quick to make amends. ‘I mean you were the head of the thing, weren’t you, the museum? A very distinguished head, from all I hear. Archie Speyne speaks very highly of you…’ and then, observing the reaction to the mention of Archie, ‘and others, I mean others speak very highly of you. Not Archie speaking- you know what I mean.’

Sir Laurence drew himself up slightly in his chairman’s chair. They were in the HOA boardroom, where he preferred to hold meetings, rather than his office. The subject of Mac’s party, whatever form that may take, was not the subject he’d intended to discuss when the meeting was requested by him. But clearly his topic wouldn’t reach the table before this was dispensed with.