by Nick Hawkes
She was stunned. “What?” she said, not comprehending.
Benjamin explained again.
When the reality of what had happened began to register, Felicity put her hand over her stomach, tried to catch a sob…and failed. She began reaching out to Benjamin, then turned away and began to cry.
He reached out and drew her to himself, steadying her with his arms.
She sobbed because he’d cared; she sobbed for the joy of hope; she sobbed in relief; she sobbed because she’d sabotaged a romantic opportunity inside—simply because she was piqued. She wanted to go back inside and start over. I want the shadows, the hurrican lamp, us…alone. I have something wonderful to share. I want this night to end differently.
Benjamin let her go, and again held the car door open.
“Goodnight, Felicity. Sleep well.”
Chapter 9
“Archie, listen to the wood. It’ll tell you if your blade is sharp enough.” Benjamin pushed the smoothing plane along the piece of Oregon. Wheeee-hishssssss-zip. “That’s the sound of a happy plane.” A curling piece of wood shaving fell to the floor. Benjamin picked it up and placed it on the kitchen cabinet.
Archie raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Benjamin continued to smooth the piece of wood. “If I’m away from the workshop, I take a chunk of fruit and nut slice for morning tea and wrap it in a piece of wood-shaving.” He stood up and brushed the wood with his hand. “It’s more friendly than a plastic bag.” Benjamin handed the plane to Archie. “If I pick up one of your wood-shavings, it means you’ve made the grade.”
He paused as he heard footsteps coming up the steps outside. Two loud raps on the door and the tinkling doorbell announced the arrival of Sergeant Anderson. Benjamin left Archie at his work and took the policeman across to the stools by the workbench.
Anderson nodded toward Archie. “Not your standard apprentice.”
“He’s handy.”
“Hmph.” The detective swung around on the stool and looked up at the new skylight.
“Any more disturbances?”
“No.”
He swung back. “We’ve managed to find out who your intruder was.” He mentioned a name. “Mean anything to you?”
“Never heard of him. Who is he?”
“He’s a thug from Sydney. He’s got form…and has links with an outlaw motorbike gang. The detective fixed Benjamin with an aggressive stare. “These gangs are linked with drugs and extortion…so tell me why such a person would be interested in you.”
Benjamin shook his head. “Complete mystery.”
The detective tapped a finger on the bench top. “And there’s something else. We found two minor cuts on the man’s back that were inconsistent with the rest of his injuries.”
“He did fall through a glass skylight.”
The detective shook his head. “The two cuts were surrounded with slight burning.”
Benjamin frowned, not understanding.
“The wounds are consistent with the use of a wire-projecting stun gun—in other words, a taser.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t suppose…”
“No…and I have no idea.” Benjamin passed a hand over his head, trying to come to terms with what he’d learned. “I…I thought the police were the only ones allowed to use tasers.”
“So did I,” said Anderson dryly.
Benjamin was bewildered. He was journeying down a rabbit hole in which nothing made sense. A hired thug had tried to kill him…and someone else had stopped him doing so. The intervention was probably intended to be non-lethal—although the welfare of the victim had obviously not been seen as a high priority. He closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose. “Who on earth…?”
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
“Um, no,” confessed Benjamin.
“Young O’Lauchlan has not done a great job in restraining himself. I gave him a press release two days ago. Your story reads like a bungled burglary—which it almost certainly wasn’t. I didn’t tell him about the gun.”
“Probably wise.”
The detective grunted as he got down from the stool. “Don’t leave the area without telling me first.”
After Anderson left, Benjamin sat back on his stool and tried to think. So many thoughts…swirling…making no sense, not to mention a disturbing email he’d received via his website that morning. He put his head in his hands. Then, of course, there was Felicity. It had been three days since he had entertained her and Marcus in the workshop. That evening had gone better than he had dared to hope, so he was bewildered as to why there had been no communication from her since. He was a little…what? He didn’t know. It was simply that it mattered to him.
The previous afternoon, he was so restless thinking about her that he took himself out into the countryside, ostensibly to get permission from a farmer he knew to cut some wood from fallen trees. He threw the chainsaw in the back of the ute and headed inland.
As he drove through the farm gate, he saw a gaggle of utes and twin cabs outside the corrugated iron shearing shed. The shed’s sliding door was open to let in some fresh air for the shearers. Someone had put a few folding chairs and a half bale of wool near the entrance so that they could relax in the cool air while enjoying a well-earned “smoko.”
Benjamin could hear the flat chattering sound of the electric sheers, and the bump and clump of sheep moving in their pens on the wooden floor. The earthy, ammonia smell of their dung was hanging the air. He located the farmer, who nodded his permission and dismissed him with a wave. Benjamin drove along the track until he came to some picturesque grazing land, heavily dotted by large gum trees. He got out and leaned against the ute.
What was troubling Felicity the other night? he wondered. Why didn’t she want talk to me about it? He kicked absently at a tuft of sedge and gazed around him. Shadows cast by clouds were marching across the hills. They’d brought a light shower that had left jewels glistening in the grass. He sighed and picked up the chainsaw.
Three hours later, the ute had a healthy load of wood, and the gum trees were beginning to cast long shadows over the emerald green grass. He closed the tailgate and tried to marshal his thoughts. It was a gentle time of day, magical. He was conscious of an ache, something unfulfilled…missing. Midges danced around him in the late sunshine. He brushed his way through them and climbed into the cab.
That was yesterday—but today, the feeling of emptiness was still with him. Felicity. It was all to do with Felicity, he admitted.
A draft under the door scattered some shavings across the floorboards. The wind was rising. Benjamin looked at the floor. A thug with a gun had died on that very spot…yet here he was, thinking about Felicity. He sighed. One way or another, he knew that nothing in his life was going to remain the same. He’d come to a point where his need for someone had grown stronger than his fear of relationships. But what should he do? What could he do?
Make something. He glanced across at Archie. His new apprentice was busy squaring up the ends of the posts that Benjamin would later turn to make stanchions for Felicity’s bull-nosed veranda. So, what can I make?
After a moment’s thought, he rummaged through his wood collection and pulled out a piece of Murray Valley pine—strong and warm. He took it across to the wood lathe.
“They’re magnificent.” Marjorie ran her hands down the curving flanks of one of the candlesticks. “This blackheart sassafras really is a beautiful wood. Smoky, like a candlestick should be.” She turned around to him. “Why are things beautiful, Benjamin? Have you thought about it any more?”
Benjamin shrugged, unsure if he was going to keep up with the mercurial mind of Ms. Eddington.
Her bright eyes danced over him. “Shrugs should be used sparingly,” she remonstrated, “and never as shields to hide behind.”
Benjamin smiled at Marjorie’s audacity…and began fighting for words. “Um, ah, beauty is…” He thought furiously. He dare not be careless with this formid
able mind. “I think beauty has to do with order…an order that reflects the patterns and ratios seen in nature. Ratios that…er, work.”
Marjorie cocked her head sideways. “Like the ratios of the golden rectangle that feature in the Parthenon and the Mona Lisa…hmm…” She seemed to retreat into some sort of internal reverie. Benjamin wasn’t sure if she had asked a question or was making a statement. After a moment, she continued. “Certainly, the Fibonacci series of numbers describes ratios that we see in lots of places—in the spirals of seashells, in DNA, in tropical storms and in galaxies.” She ran a finger lightly down one of the candlesticks. “It would be interesting to discover whether you’ve used those ratios here.”
“I, er…don’t measure things very much.”
“You go by instinct?”
“Yes.”
“And what does that tell you?”
Benjamin fought down the temptation to shrug. “Um…order is everywhere?”
She smiled at him. “Precisely. And if order is everywhere, then there is design…and if there is design, there is meaning.” She smiled. “Didn’t Paul Dirac say, ‘God is a mathematician of a very high order, and he used very advanced mathematics in constructing the universe’?”
Benjamin forbore from asking who Paul Dirac was. “Hmm,” he said.
Marjorie waved a finger. “Design bespeaks meaning. So, Benjamin, have you found your meaning?”
Benjamin laughed with slightly more bitterness than he had intended. “I don’t even know who I am, far less what my meaning is.”
“Oh, how sad.” Marjorie looked him up and down. Eventually, she said. “My work in anthropology, particularly among indigenous Australians, suggests to me that your name is a local one, quite possibly from around here.”
Her remark landed among his sensibilities like a bombshell. Benjamin managed to splutter, “Er…someone told me when I was young that my dad came from around here but I’ve no idea where.”
“Is that the reason you choose to live here? Deep calls to deep, perhaps?”
Don’t shrug. He didn’t.
“So, what do you know about the people who lived here?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“Never bothered to ask.”
“Well, Benjamin, let me tell you that the original inhabitants of the Moyne area were the Gunditjmara…and they were an extraordinary people.”
Despite his apprehension, Benjamin’s interest was piqued. Could it be that after all these years, something might emerge from the fog of unknowing that surrounded his identity?
Marjorie continued. “They were a river and lake people with a sophisticated culture. Their dwellings were built of stone, and, intriguingly, they engaged in aquaculture.”
“I didn’t know any blackfellas built with stone!”
“Yes. And they also built stone dams to create ponds in which they farmed eels.” She smiled and wagged a finger at him. “But they were a feisty lot. They warred against the European colonialists in the mid-nineteenth century in what came to be called the Eumerella Wars. The fighting lasted about twenty years.”
Benjamin’s mind was reeling. “Um…are there any…um…left?”
“Certainly are. They’ve been very active in fighting for their land rights. They got them too. The Federal Court of Australia granted them native title to one hundred and forty-five thousand hectares of crown land near Portland and Yambuk. They also have title over Lady Julia Percy Island.”
“But haven’t the local mob had all their Aboriginality bred out of them by intermarrying?”
“There’s certainly been a lot of that but heritage is still there.” Marjorie smiled. “There’s evidence that interbreeding has been happening for some time, even before settlement. The Henty family—early settlers near Portland—reported that a local tribe included people with fair skin and high cheekbones.”
Benjamin rubbed the back of his neck as he pondered what he had learned. He glanced at Marjorie. She was sitting upright in her stool as if posing for a portrait.
“What’s troubling you?” she demanded.
“Um, I had an email this morning.”
Marjorie waited for him to elaborate.
“It came from a minister in the Uniting Church. He’s a pilot, a bush padre who flies around the East Kimberley offering pastoral care to remote communities.”
“And?”
“He tells me that my uncle, the one I lived with as a kid, has been missing for months and is presumed dead. Evidently, the elders want to speak to me about his ‘sorry business’.” He dropped his head. “My mother was Kija, one of their mob.”
“I’m sad to hear about the death of your uncle. Were you close?”
Benjamin breathed in between his teeth. “No, I hated him.”
“Oh.”
“And vowed never to return.”
“Yet the elders want to talk you.”
“Yes.” He stared at the floor. Sunlight through the workshop window had laid a golden trapezium on the rough planks.
“I think you should go…and, what’s more, you should go as soon as possible.”
Benjamin jerked his head up. “Why?”
Marjorie lifted up her chin. “Because it is your story. Because you need to fix things.” She sniffed delicately. “We’ve been talking about beauty and meaning…and meaning gives identity. I think you are struggling to know who you are.”
Benjamin stayed silent, appalled at being understood and having his pathology voiced.
She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. Benjamin looked down at it. Her skin was thin and papery, like last winter’s leaves, half rotten and lying on the ground. “Benjamin, if you are to live your purpose, you must belong…at three levels.”
Benjamin grunted, hoping that his mutinous state was not too obvious.
“First, you need to belong to at least one other person in a close relationship of love. Second, you need to belong to a community within which you have meaning…” She paused.
“And?” he asked, hoping to end things quickly.
“Third, you need to belong to God, to discover your purpose in living…and why it is that you are sacred.”
Marjorie stepped down from her stool. “Take courage, Benjamin,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. She reached down for her handbag. “Now, let me pay you for my beautiful candlesticks.”
Benjamin wrapped Marjorie’s purchases and carried them to her car, walking slowly to keep pace with Marjorie as she descended the steps. She gripped the handrail and negotiated them gingerly.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“No, but I don’t talk about it.”
Benjamin held the car door open and located the seat belt buckle for her.
Marjorie nodded her thanks and leaned back with a sigh. He was about to close the door when she said, “Benjamin, may I commission you for another job? There’s no rush for it but seeing the quality of your work, I feel compelled to at least ask.”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“I’d like a toolbox—a beautiful one to hold all the paraphernalia associated with my tapestry work. About this size.” She indicated the dimensions with her hands. “I’d love it to be made of a local wood, if possible.” She smiled through her fatigue. “Perhaps you might suggest one?”
“Oh.” Benjamin pictured the wooded flatlands and swamps of the local area in his mind’s eye. “Um…I think Australian blackwood would work well. It’s great for cabinet making, musical instruments—even boat-building. The wood is chocolate-colored and has dark honey streaks.” He pointed inland. “The tree is pretty common around here because it grows well in creeks and wetlands.”
“Perfect,” she smiled.
Chapter 10
Felicity stamped on the brakes. She had been reversing out of the driveway, her mind a million miles away, and she hadn’t been thinking.
The ancient white ute she had nearly driven into skidded to a halt and then reversed b
ack into the curb.
Felicity held on to the steering wheel, mentally rehearsing an apology.
The bangings and whine of buzz saws behind her were a sign that the builders were in full swing, putting in place her second fixings. It was a good sound. She had called in to her renovation project to check on progress before making the visit that was so preoccupying her mind. Damn. Silly. Nearly caused an accident. She thumped the wheel.
“Hello.”
And there he was. The very man she was going to visit…to apologize to. Benjamin.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and put her head back. “Um…distracted. So sorry. I…er, was just coming to visit…you actually. To apologize.” She smiled weakly. “Now I have to apologize twice. Once for running away and not thanking you for a wonderful evening…and now for nearly crashing into you.”
Benjamin said nothing for a long time…and simply looked at her.
Apprehension boiled around Felicity’s heart.
“It’s…good to see you. As it happens, I was coming to see you, to check that you were okay,” he said.
“Oh.” Relief…delight…flooded through her.
Silence.
“I’m…I’m fine.” Her voice had a catch in it. She rushed on. “I got a call from a colleague at the museum where I used to work. She had some information that I needed to check out.” And I wanted space to examine what I feel about you, Benjamin Bidjara. “I got back last night.”
He nodded.
More silence.
“Would you like a coffee?” she said. “There’s a great café around the corner. I’ve…er, got lots of things to tell you.”
“I’d like that very much.” He opened the car door for her.
Felicity felt absurdly happy walking beside Benjamin to the café. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t want to break the spell.
As they approached the café, Gabrielle came outside to wipe down the tables. Today, she was dressed in a floaty black dress with black lace everywhere. A trailing black ribbon tied up her hair. She spotted them coming toward her and stood with a hand on her hip, arms akimbo. She appraised Benjamin from head to tail—without much subtlety, before glancing at Felicity. Her lips were pressed together…but a small smile peeked around the edges.