A Concreter’s Heart
Mark Smith
D es Winfield was sitting alone on his porch listening to the slap and slurp of creatures in the mangroves, when his son rang with the news.
‘Dad?’ Toby’s voice sounded distant, crushed.
‘What is it, Tobes?’
‘It’s Mum.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s had an accident, Dad. A bad one. Crashed the car. She’s . . . she’s dead Dad. Can you come home?’
Des filtered the news through a bourbon haze.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘Can you come home, Dad?’
‘Yeah, course I’ll come. Course I will. Jesus! Dead? How did . . .? What happened?’
‘It’s all a bit sketchy. It was a country road.’
‘Why would she be—?’
‘We dunno. We’re still trying to . . . . Can you come home?’
‘I’ll get the first flight I can. Jesus,’ he said again. ‘Beth. Dead.’
He felt his way back inside the darkened house and slumped into the recliner. His bare thighs stuck to the vinyl.
‘You there, Dad?’
‘Yeah. When’s the funeral?’
‘I’ll fill you in when you get here.’
‘Okay. I’ll call ya soon as I get a flight.’ He hung up.
Des leaned forward and ground a tight fist against his chest. The heartburn had been working its way up into a scrub fire all afternoon, and now Toby’s news had set it racing. He tried to picture his wife. His ex-wife. In the years leading up to their divorce they’d had more of a business arrangement than a marriage, yet if someone had asked him if he’d loved her he probably would have said yes. Probably. There had always been qualifiers on what he felt. In the last two years he’d only spoken to her on a couple of occasions. Both times he’d been reminded of her knack for passing judgment without uttering a word. The silences and small clicks of her tongue were enough to convey her disgust at the shambles his life had become.
Des flew south two days after Toby’s call. Sitting in the departure lounge, the fact of Beth’s death now fully formed inside him, he remembered a job he did one summer in the early days, when Caroline Springs was just being subdivided. He was working fifteen-hour days in the stinking heat with the northerlies blowing hard across the tussock grass plains. Beth drove out every afternoon with her little styrofoam chilly box full of freshly cut sandwiches and homemade lemon cordial. They’d find a bit of shade behind one of the new houses that were sprouting like mushrooms, and sit and talk and eat. Beth would leave him a thermos of tea and some Anzac biscuits to have after the sting had gone out of the day. Later, he’d sit on the tray of the truck and admire the driveway he’d just finished, thinking he could almost hear the concrete cooling and setting.
Despite everything, Des enjoyed the flight south—the static nothingness of life between tarmacs. Up here he wasn’t broke, with debtors knocking at the door. He wasn’t a man travelling to his wife’s funeral. He was just another punter in seat 22B. When they touched down, a chorus of pinging phones filled the cabin. Des had two alerts from his online betting accounts, both offering enhanced odds for this weekend only.
Toby was waiting at the arrival gate. They shook hands then, realising the situation held more gravity, fell into an awkward hug that was only retrieved by a couple of heavy backslaps. Des could see his son taking in his reduced state—his hair in need of a good cut, his polo shirt frayed at the collar and the tell-tale capillaries fanning out across his cheeks.
He avoided his son’s gaze, hitched his carry bag over his shoulder and walked out into the Melbourne night. He had forgotten how cold it could be down here, the August winds that cut at your body like a flensing knife.
When they reached the protection of the under-cover car park Des said, ‘Still drivin’ the ute?’
‘Had to get rid of it. Gearbox was shot and the diff was on the way out.’
‘I could’ve fixed that for ya.’
‘Yeah, ’cept you weren’t here.’
Toby led him to a Subaru. He clicked the keyless entry to open the back.
‘Costs a fuckin’ fortune to service these things,’ Des said.
The drive in, along the freeway, passed in silence. Des feigned interest in the new flyover at the ring road and through force of habit advised his son to get off before the tollway. Toby threw him a glance that Des couldn’t read. It was nearly a year since they’d seen each other. Toby had come up for the super-cars and they spent the day at the track, the engine noise keeping conversations mercifully short.
As they exited the freeway and ran the gauntlet of traffic lights along Bell Street, Des said, ‘You gonna tell me what happened?’
Toby looked over at his father briefly then turned his attention back to the road.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said finally.
‘What doesn’t?’
Toby cleared his throat, lowered the window and spat out onto the road. The cold air made the hair on Des’ arms stand up. ‘She was driving out on some godforsaken road near Bacchus Marsh, coming up from Werribee as best we can tell.’
‘Did she know anyone out there?’
‘We don’t think so.’
‘What was she doin’, then?’
‘I dunno. The cops have asked me all these questions and I just don’t have any answers. They reckon . . .’ He paused again, his hands wringing the steering wheel.
‘They reckon what?’
‘There weren’t any skid marks, Dad. The car just ran off the road and hit a tree.’
‘She fell asleep, they reckon?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What else could it be?’
Toby breathed in heavily. ‘They think maybe she did it deliberately.’
‘That’s bullshit, son. Not Beth. No way.’
Toby’s voice hardened. ‘No offence, Dad, but how would you know?’
‘Jesus, Tobes. I was married to ’er for thirty years. I reckon I know ’er pretty well.’
‘You’ve hardly seen her these last few years, Dad. Did you know she’d been seeing a shrink?’
‘A shrink?’
‘She spent all her time at home on her own. Even stopped going to mass.’
‘Jesus! Was she crook?’
‘Not sick crook. I looked in on her every couple of weeks. Mowed the grass, fixed the leaks, that sort of thing. She seemed okay but the house was a mess. She was taking a heap of prescription stuff. Bathroom cabinet full of it.’
They dropped down and crossed the Merri Creek then turned south to wind their way through the neat suburban streets.
‘When’s the funeral?’
‘Soon as they release the body.’
‘Release it? What’s that mean?’
‘It’s routine they reckon. Unexplained death.’
‘Unexplained? She crashed into a fuckin’ tree. What’d they think she died of, leprosy?’
‘They have to try to figure out why she crashed, if the car was faulty, if she’d been drinking. Drugs.’
Toby drew into the driveway of a neat Californian bungalow.
‘Couple of months.’
‘Renting?’
‘Nah. Mortgage.’
‘You’re doin’ alright then.’
‘Well enough. Now come in and meet Stef. I’ve told her a bit about you but take it easy on her. No need for an interrogation.’
‘Righto.’
‘And watch the swearing, too. Stef ’s not big on it.’
A tall woman with short-cropped, dark hair met them at the front door. She tentatively hugged Des and said, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mister Winfield.’
‘Des. Please. Call me Des.’
The house was warm in a 1960s sort of way—floral carpet, big sofa and a laminex table in the kitchen.
‘We haven’t been here long,’ Stef said. ‘It was furnished when we bought it. An executor’s auction.’
‘Yeah, nice,’ Des said, his eyes darting about. ‘Guessing I can’t fag inside then?’
They ushered him onto the back porch and left him to enjoy his cigarette. The house sat under the flight path and every couple of minutes a lumbering jet descended towards the airport, great behemoths of flashing lights and screaming engines. Des finished one cigarette and lit another. He inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and held it there. He imagined it filtering out into his body: smoke in his arms, in his legs, in his head.
‘What were you thinkin’, Beth?’ he said under his breath, smoke streaming from his nose.
He would have liked to stay out there all night, smoking and taking it all in. He wouldn’t have to struggle through conversations with Toby and Stef, all three of them trying to connect in some way that might mean they’re a family.
Des drew himself up and walked back into the kitchen. Stef and Toby were sitting at the table nursing cups of tea.
‘Cuppa, Dad?’
‘Haven’t got anythin’ stronger have ya?’
‘Sorry, Dad. Stef ’s a non-drinker.’
‘Shit.’ Des corrected himself. ‘Jeez. You too?’
‘I haven’t had a drink since we started going out.’ Toby reached his hand across the table and rested it on Stef ’s arm.
‘Right. Well,’ Des said, looking about the kitchen. ‘Mind if I borrow the car?’
Toby and Stef exchanged glances.
‘The Brickmaker’s is just up on Spensley Street. Reckon you’d have remembered that.’
‘Yeah, of course, the Brickmaker’s. I can walk from ’ere. Need to stretch me legs after the flight anyway.’
The night air bit at Des again as he headed out the front door. He had a few dollars in his pocket, enough for a couple of shooters to still the tremors. Before long though, he found himself retracing their route back out to Bell Street. It felt good to move, the cold air filling his lungs and the reassuring sound of shoes on concrete. He was sure he’d done a job along here somewhere, a big place up towards Pentridge. He still believed he could tell a Des Winfield job from those Italian operators who were too quick in and too quick out.
He walked an hour towards the freeway before heading south again into the streets of Brunswick East. The old street hadn’t changed much. He felt for the slight rise and fall in the footpath and knew the third streetlight would be out because Tom Griffin had shot it out with his slug gun every time the power company had come to repair it for the last twenty years.
The house looked shabby. The grass at the front needed a mow. Maybe Toby hadn’t been as regular a visitor as he made out. For all his efforts in getting there though, Des couldn’t bring himself to go inside just yet. Instead, he walked through the side gate and along the path. He remembered mixing the concrete and barrowing it up from the driveway. He had concreted the backyard over completely in the early days, all the way to the back fence. The Hills hoist sat stoically in the middle of the bare expanse of yard. Des skirted the house, sticking to what he knew, the comforting memories of backyard cricket and barbeques. These he could understand.
Having circled the house, he sat on the front porch, lit up a fag and took long slow drags, allowing the nicotine to do its work.
A figure appeared at the front gate and a torch beam blinded him. He put his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare.
‘That you, Dessy?’
The voice sounded familiar.
‘It’s me, ya blind prick, Tom Griffin.’
‘Griffo! Turn that fuckin’ light off. You’ll give a bloke a heart attack.’
Tom lowered the light and Des climbed to his feet. The two met half way down the front path and shook hands.
‘Jesus mate, you look like shit,’ Tom said, then remembered himself. ‘We’re all real sorry to hear about Beth, Des. Terrible business. You must be takin’ it hard?’
‘I only flew down from up north today. Tryin’ to piece it all together in me head, ya know.’
‘Heard it was a shocking accident. Trish saw it on the telly.’
They hadn’t seen each other for two years and Des thought the gap between them was unreasonably wide.
He broke the thick silence. ‘Had you seen ’er recently, Tom? Beth?’
‘Not near as much as we used to when you were around. She always waved on her way down to the shops. That’s about it.’
‘What about Trish, she keep in touch with ’er?’
‘Reckons she spoke to her a couple a months back. Just stuff about Toby really.’
They heard a semi out on the freeway, the sound of a loose tarp flapping at a hundred k’s an hour.
‘Well, I’ll leave ya to it,’ Tom said, extending his hand again. ‘Be sure and let us know about the funeral, won’t ya?’
They shook hands. ‘Thanks, Tom. Keep an eye on the papers. Toby’ll have a notice in.’
As Tom walked back out into the street Des called after him, ‘I’ll ring the power company in the mornin’ about that streetlight if ya like?’
‘Yeah, good on ya.’
Des found the spare key hanging on the rafter. He pushed his foot on the bottom of the door where it had always jammed on the step. The first thing that hit him was the smell of the place, trapped in the furniture, in the curtains and bedspreads, the lived-in smell of a home, none of it familiar to him anymore. He wandered from room to room. It could have been a different house to the one he had lived in for thirty years. The old sofa was gone, replaced by an Ikea ensemble with matching armchairs. There were dishes in the sink and the laundry smelled of cat shit.
Des sat at the kitchen table and lay his hands flat on the dusty surface. Even here, back in Melbourne, back in the old house, it was as though everything had shifted and cracked underneath him, his son living a new life, his wife killed in a manner he could only guess at, his old friends barely able to talk to him. Nothing was set, nothing solid like concrete. For the first time in years he wanted to be ankle deep in wet cement, a trowel in each hand, smoothing over the pits and crevices. He longed for that feeling of transformation that came with shaping the concrete to his will. When he’d finished he could sit back and admire the artistry in the curve of a gutter or the perfect line of a vee joint. He ached for Beth to appear out of the summer dust with her little esky in hand and a soft smile on her face, to see Toby waiting by the front gate when he arrived home, cricket bat in hand. He was never a man to understand happiness when he was in the midst of it but he looked back now and knew he should have been happy then.
He’d hoped to feel Beth’s presence here, but the house was still and quiet and empty. He ran his hands across the tabletop and the dust stuck to his fingertips. He got up, wiped his hands on his pants and walked down the hallway to the front door. He locked it behind him and replaced the key on the rafter. Toby would need it when he came in to clean up.
He lit a cigarette and walked out into the night.