by Fleur Beale
Chapter Thirteen
THE FACTORY was becoming my haven. A place of retreat. I arrived early, looking forward to greeting a pumped and positive workforce. But no, Clint gloomed his way in, followed by despondent Alton, lugubrious Maurice and sad Eddy.
‘What?’ I snapped.
Clint shook his head ‘Can’t do the orders, boss. Nobody in the finishing room now.’
‘Can’t one of you do it?’
‘No,’ said Clint. ‘It’s a specialised job. You need the eye. Got to have the artistic flair.’
I examined each of them, but no one offered a solution, a way out of this dilemma. Eddy, I reckoned, was drafting his resignation in his dumb head. ‘Anybody here ever done any finishing? Any at all?’
One synchronised headshake. I should put it on YouTube. ‘What about Bernie?’
Clint nodded. ‘Bernie’s done everything.’
‘Good. You lot go and get started on the orders.’ I held up a hand. ‘And don’t ask me who should make what. How the hell would I know? Eddy, you got the orders, you decide.’
He looked pleased, and positive. How nice. But of course, there was a quibble. ‘There’s work for two of us, boss. Not four.’
Be a good boss, don’t yell. Don’t do a Mum on them. ‘Make some wooden toys or something. There’s still plenty of docked ends there. Make them for the kids in your lives.’
Alton shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. ‘Ah, Bess — just an idea. But could I make miniatures of the orders? I’ve always wanted to do that. No time till now.’
Lesson for Bess. Oh, big fat ‘be nice’ lesson. ‘That’s a brilliant idea!’
‘And how about I make a Christmas nativity scene,’ Maurice said. ‘Asses, cows, wise men.’
I clapped my hands. ‘You guys are awesome. Do your best work. We’ll get a finisher, don’t worry.’
They strode off to the workshop, happy, positive and confident that the boss would sort it. She’d better.
Bernie always came in later than the others. While I waited for him, I wrote out what I wanted on a sheet of the unused A3, beginning with: Bernie, we’ve got a problem and I’m hoping you can help solve it. I didn’t want him, even for a second, to think I was sacking him. I wrote about the orders and the lack of a finisher, and ended with: If I find somebody, would you be able, and willing, to train him?
I put the kettle on and had the tea made when I heard the squeak of the door. ‘Morning, Bess. How’s Charlie?’
I gave him the usual thumbs-up, but beckoned him to the table and the teapot. He sat himself down. ‘What’s up, lass?’
I put the sheet of paper in front of him. He took his time reading it through, then reading it again. I sat patiently, and prayed.
‘I reckon I could do that,’ he said at last. ‘To tell you the truth, I’d be pleased to teach a young ’un. You find me a good lad. Doesn’t matter what he looks like. It’s his heart I’m interested in. I won’t work with a sniveller.’
What qualifications will he need?
‘Doesn’t need the exams. Needs the touch, the feel for it. Try and find a lad who likes art.’ He grinned at me. ‘Be good if he’s got a loud voice, eh Bess?’
I laughed. When do you need him by?
‘Monday. He can help me assemble and stain the gate, then I’ll get him working on some finished ends. I can get some of those ready tomorrow.’
I hugged him, and he went off chuckling. I didn’t tell him that tomorrow I wouldn’t be here. I’d have to leave Eddy in charge, with instructions to keep everyone positive and on track. Oh, and I’d better reschedule the appointment with Beverly Maketawa — in fact it would be good to talk to her before I hired anyone. How much did I pay a trainee?
Beverly was her usual brusque self. ‘Four-thirty this afternoon,’ she said.
‘Um, I need some advice before then. Could I come in half an hour?’
‘Make it 11.30.’ She disconnected.
I checked Trade Me on Dad’s computer — Mum had refused to let me take the tablet. Six hundred! Yay! I clicked sold. The other bid was up to $370. One down, three to go. I put up the next one.
After that, I tussled with the question of how to find a lad with a good heart and an artistic eye. The high school was the obvious place to start, but it felt peculiar to be phoning up as the prospective employer of one of its students when I was going to be a student there myself next year.
I picked up the phone, dialled and asked for the head of the art department. I introduced myself, then cut to the chase. ‘Could I come and see you? I need an employee with an artistic flair and I’m hoping you can help?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘After school today?’
‘It’s kind of urgent. Any chance I could pop down now?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Interval’s at 10.30. Bring me a custard square from Lisette’s and I’m yours.’
Lisette! Oh my god, the lease! It had completely slipped my mind. I rang Alan. He gave me a time for the following Monday which I wrote down in huge letters and left on Dad’s desk so I wouldn’t forget. I felt like a juggler — so many things to remember. How had Dad done it all these years?
At the school, I followed the receptionist’s directions to the art department, and with every step tried not to compare this school with St Annie’s. I would make friends here — Harriet for a start. Boys too. I’d like to have boys for friends. And if Nick was out of bounds, why shouldn’t I find myself a boyfriend?
I prepared myself for Ms Kendrick’s doubt, astonishment, amusement blah blah when she saw me. I should have changed into something more formal than my denim shorts and tee-shirt.
But, wouldn’t you know it, Ms Alisha Kendrick was Maurice’s wife. She greeted me with both hands out to take mine.
‘Maurice thinks you’re the bees’ knees. He can’t quite get over it. Comes home like a stunned mullet these days.’ She let me go. ‘Anything I can do for you, Bess Grey, I will. The prospect of an unemployed husband is not one I wish to contemplate.’
I gave her the custard square which she promptly cut in two, offering half of it to me on a flowered plate. While we ate and dropped crumbs all over her bench I told her what Bernie had asked for.
She processed that while she finished the custard square, then flicked through the phone book and rang a number, all without a word about what she had in mind. ‘Arini? Has that boy of yours got a job yet? Where could I find him, do you know? Okay. Thanks.’ To me, she said, ‘His name’s Jason Crossland. Artistic, but wouldn’t do exams. Hated school, loved his art.’
He didn’t sound promising, but she said, ‘He’ll get on with Bernie like a house on fire. Jason responds well to father-figures. He’ll like the work, and he’ll like being one of the men.’
I couldn’t see Beverly M being impressed. ‘Is he the only one you can think of?’
‘He’s the right one. Trust me.’
It felt like a huge step to take, but she knew the kid, I didn’t. ‘Okay. It’s your hubby out of a job if it all goes pear-shaped.’
‘Turns to custard, you mean.’ She laughed. ‘Tell Lisette she hasn’t lost her touch. Listen, Bess — young Jason’s a risk, but so is anyone. My pick is that he’ll blossom, and your dad will have a loyal and able employee. You’ll find him in the skate park. Look for a yobby type with a diagonal stripe through his hair. It was green last time I saw it. Yellow the time before. The yellow was a mistake.’
The bells shrieked and right away kids were at the door, peering through and begging to be let in. ‘The darlings,’ Ms Kendrick said. ‘I do love my Year 10s.’ She opened the door and they fell inside — a bunch of puppies. She had them organised and working in five minutes flat. I timed her.
THANKS TO JASON’S stripe — pink today — he was easy to spot. I bellowed, loud enough even for Bernie to hear me, ‘Jason Crossland, can I talk to you?’
His mate elbowed him — ‘Yer girlfriend wants you’ — and for a moment Jason teetered on his board. But he ignore
d me, skated up to the lip of the bowl, down and up the other side to land tidily on the edge. There was possibly an arcane name for such a move. I sat myself down on the edge of the bowl. I’d wait him out. His curiosity would get the better of him sooner or later.
It took eight minutes before he skimmed over. ‘Whatcha want?’
‘You interested in a job?’
‘Nah.’
‘Ms Kendrick said you’d be good.’
‘Don’t want a job.’
‘Okay. I won’t tell you what it is then. Bye.’
‘What is it then?’
I made a snap decision. ‘I’ll show you. You want to come with me or ride your board? It’s the other side of town.’
After a good hard stare at me, he said, ‘With you.’
He followed me to the car. He looked a bit surprised that I actually knew how to drive, and said, ‘You’re just a kid.’
‘True.’
He didn’t know what to do with that. His suspicions filled the car.
‘Oh shit, not Charlie Grey’s,’ he said when I pulled up outside. ‘Don’t want to make furniture. Dumb bunny.’
‘I don’t want you to make furniture,’ I said, ‘so dumb bunny yourself.’ I headed off towards Bernie’s work area, not really caring if Jason followed or not — but he did.
Bernie had a piece on the lathe. I waved at him to get his attention, then when the machine was quiet, said, ‘Jason, Bernie’s deaf. He’ll probably hear you, but he can’t hear my voice. Tell him your name please.’
That got me a sulky glare, but he said, ‘Jason.’
Bernie held out his hand. ‘Glad to meet you, Jason. You come along with me. I’ll show you the finishing room.’
Jason shrugged his shoulders but tagged along behind him. I left them to it. Bernie might decide he could transform him into a willing, skilled worker who’d turn up on time every day and work his butt off. Stranger pigs have flown the skies.
Besides, I had other problems to deal with. Beverly was expecting me, and wouldn’t be impressed if I turned up late.
I got there with a minute to spare, gave her the required report, then asked how to go about hiring Jason or some more prepossessing adolescent.
Well, would you believe it, Beverly Maketawa smiled at me. ‘You’ve surprised me, Bess. Very pleasantly. I confess I rated your chances at less than zero.’
‘And now?’
She laughed. ‘I’m betting you’ll do it. The place will be thriving by the time you go back to school.’
For some reason back to school amused the heck out of her. I didn’t mind.
She snapped right back into being Beverly the Banker. ‘Here’s the info you need about hiring.’ She handed me a computer printout. ‘Three months to see how he goes, then your dad can decide from there. Good luck.’
I took myself back to the factory, half expecting to meet Jason on his board along the way, but he and Bernie were still in the finishing room. Bernie had one of the turned rods for his gate on the bench. Jason had a brush in his hand and concentration on his face. He looked alert, purposeful — manly. Wow, who would have thought it?
‘That’s it. That’s the ticket.’ Bernie watched every move. ‘Easy does it. Good. Good.’
Jason, in a clear, carrying voice said, ‘A golden colour would be better. Reckon this is too dark.’
‘Gold,’ said Bernie, rubbing his hands like he’d struck a vein of the stuff. ‘You could be right. We’ll mix up a batch of gold.’
I snuck away. It was lunchtime and I was hungry. I paid Lisette a visit and used my own money to buy pies all round, cunningly figuring that Jason might stay long enough to get hooked if he had a full stomach. The men normally brought their own lunches, but I’d not met too many blokes who couldn’t fit in a pie as well.
Back at the factory, I poked my head round the finishing-room door. Bernie was holding up a tin and explaining a recipe — for a particular shade of stain, apparently. I went in, and Jason’s face closed down.
‘Jason, would you mind telling Bernie there are pies for lunch?’ I turned away, but not before I’d clocked the hungry look in his eyes. At the door I said, as if it had just occurred to me, ‘Oh, there’s one for you if you want it.’
I got out of there. If Bernie thought he could turn the kid into a craftsman, then I didn’t want to screw the deal by getting in the way.
Jason trailed Bernie over to the tearoom, where I introduced him to the men. ‘This is Jason, everyone. He’s spending some time with Bernie to suss us out.’
Clint said, ‘Think you could work with us, Jason?’ He cocked a thumb in my direction. ‘Don’t worry about her. The old man’ll be back in a few weeks and this one will be back to school.’
Typical bloody Clint. But being a boy himself, it seemed he knew exactly what to say to a sulky streak of teenage male, because Jason treated him to a man-to-man grin.
Alton said, ‘We could do with some young blood around here.’
Clint caught my eye and gave a quick flick of his head. I got the message and stood up. ‘Sorry, guys, I’ll have to leave you to it. Thanks for coming, Jason.’ No pressure from me, not a hint that we needed him urgently, because I had the feeling the little toe-rag would do the complete opposite of what I wanted.
I went to Dad’s office. There was a pile of unopened mail and a string of emails to be dealt to. I couldn’t put it off any longer, though it felt wrong, intrusive somehow, to be opening mail meant for him. There were a couple of accounts to pay. I gulped at the size of the one from the wood supplier, but paid it once I’d checked it. That was what the loan was for, after all — though suddenly it seemed unwise to be taking on Jason. Well, it mightn’t be wise, but it was necessary.
By the end of the day, the bid on the table on Trade Me was up to $425, work was well on track in the workshop, and at 4.30 Bernie appeared with Jason skulking along behind him. ‘Bess, Jason’s going to come back tomorrow. He wants to have another go before he makes up his mind. Okay with you?’
‘Could you tell Bernie that’s okay with me, Jason. And can you ask him if he thinks $50 is fair pay for tomorrow?’
Jason stopped skulking. ‘Fifty bucks. For me?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The wages for whoever takes the job will be more than that, of course. But can you ask him what he thinks?’
I suspected Bernie was a reasonably good lip reader, judging by the wink he gave me. Jason didn’t notice and repeated my questions, his voice especially loud for the money part.
‘Well now,’ said Bernie. ‘Fifty dollars. I’ll make you work for it, young man. Are you up for it?’
I thought I’d better get out of there a.s.a.p.
The other men were packing up, and their faces all asked the same questions. I kept my voice low. ‘Bernie likes him. He’s coming back tomorrow. Bait of $50 for work experience.’
‘He’ll be okay,’ Clint said.
‘Well, let’s not count our chickens. He for sure doesn’t react too well to me. I’m not going to be here tomorrow, but it’ll be good to leave him with just you guys. Clint, will you open up and lock up? And Eddy, if people start flooding us with orders, can you deal with those?’
‘Sure, boss. Enjoy your day off.’
If only! There wasn’t going to be a lot about Friday to enjoy with Gwennie taking me back to those sickening scenes. Already I could feel them at my back, waiting to break through, to pounce the moment I let down my guard.
Chapter Fourteen
I DROVE HOME past the tennis courts. A tough game was what I needed before breaking the news to Mum that I was absconding for three days, but by the look of things there was a tournament about to begin. I went in to watch — anything to put off going home. Marion Symes came over. ‘Sorry there’s no slot for you tonight,’ she said. ‘How are you placed for Saturday?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ll be away. Maybe next week?’
She made no promises.
I spied Harriet sitting on the steps. She
was lacing up her left shoe but kept stopping to argue with the boy beside her. ‘You’re a sentimental dork,’ she told him.
He leaned down, tweaked the lace undone again, and said, ‘Not me. Tough as adamantine. That’s me.’
She gave him a swift kick, then gave up on her shoe. ‘Hey, Bess,’ she called, ‘meet Solomon Drummond. Sol, she’s going to be at school with us, so be human. If you can.’ She pulled out her iPhone.
He said, ‘I’ve heard about you. Bess, the boss at Charlie Grey’s.’
‘Temporary only,’ I said. He was sizing me up, so I sized right back. Lanky, brown eyes and hair. A face that was a reasonably attractive assemblage of parts. There was no handy flash of recognition that he was mystery olive grove guy.
‘Ha!’ Harriet waved her phone. ‘Adamantine is an adjective. You can’t be as tough as a ruddy adjective.’
‘Poetic licence,’ he said. ‘Te Ana’s waiting for you.’
Harriet dealt to her shoe and ran onto the court with a parting shot. ‘Watch him, Bess. The blood supply doesn’t reach his brain.’
Sol had a killer smile. He leaned forward to beam it right at me. ‘What’s it like, Bess Grey? Being the big boss?’
I leaned forward too so that our noses almost touched. ‘I can’t think, Sol Drummond, with your charm oozing all over me from point-blank range.’
He gave a hoot of laughter and relaxed back against the step. ‘I was born in the wrong century. At heart, I’m a Byronic character. Attractive girls …’ a sly glance here in my direction ‘… react positively to my charm by swooning at my feet.’
‘You were probably a poet in the nineteenth century,’ I said, testing the water. ‘You could have been swanning around Greece with the Romantics.’
‘No such luck,’ he said. ‘Here and now is where it’s at.’ He stood up — as tall as Hadleigh, I guessed. ‘Gotta go. The umpire’s chair calls.’
I oughtagotta go too.
Gloom settled on me the second I got home. I put a smile on my face and a spring in my step. ‘Hi, Mum. Hey, I dropped in at the tennis club. Met a couple of kids I’ll be at school with next year.’