Finn knew he should be grateful. After a discussion that dragged on all evening Bridget had eventually agreed, but demanded he ask Angela to try for a higher offer. He’d hated risking the loss of the sale, but he made the call.
Angela got back to him the next morning. ‘They’ve come up fifteen grand,’ she said. ‘But they want the front of the house patched and repainted so you can’t see where the mechanism used to be.’
The words wouldn’t quite come clear in his mind and Finn felt stupid. ‘What?’
Angela paused. ‘Look, it stinks. I’m sorry. It’s the best I can do. Tom can start straight away on the repair and painting if you want to proceed.’
‘We want to proceed. Christ, we don’t want to lose it. How soon will they exchange?’
‘Within the week, or maybe two. But I can’t push too hard, or I’ll scare them off. It wouldn’t take much. Trust me, OK? I’ll send Tom around shortly.’
Finn hung up and went outside to stand on the verandah of the crazy purple house with its red trim, the house that had promised so much and seemed like their friend. Maybe, away from this place that had betrayed them, and back in Hobart, he’d be able to work again.
It wasn’t hard to hide his lack of progress from Bridget. She never came into the pool area or the studio, and she never asked about the sculptures. Edmund was so careful not to make demands on him that fobbing him off hadn’t been too hard either. But the truth was, he couldn’t work. He had no idea what Bridget’s working days were like, but his were agony.
He wanted to rage back at her; of course he did, he was human. But if he allowed himself, then he might accuse her, and he knew they could never have that conversation. He had to put it out of his mind. And so he walked the house during the empty days. He raked the lawn and pulled weeds, he went to the shops. Sometimes he went out for coffee, dark glasses on, hat brim low, newspaper held high so he wouldn’t be recognised. He cleaned the studio and fitted his tools into their places. He used the computer to scroll through real-estate sites, looking for houses in Hobart. It seemed much more expensive than he remembered, and those sessions would send him back to the studio to fiddle with pieces of metal, rearranging them uselessly. He avoided Toby’s neat bedroom, and he didn’t ask Bridget where she was keeping Toby’s ashes.
Tom arrived within an hour of Angela’s call. He methodically laid a drop sheet the length of the verandah and taped the edges. Set out paint tin, brushes, tray, roller, clean rags, stirrer. He had the correct tool for levering the lid off the tin of paint and he placed the lid, wet side up, where it wouldn’t get in the way.
‘Did Mum tell you they want it painted a different colour?’ he asked.
Finn looked down at the tin of pale paint, then up at the vivid purple wall. ‘No.’
‘They’ll repaint the whole house once they buy it, so they’ve asked for the front to be done in Clotted Cream. I’ll have to undercoat it first.’
‘You’re in charge.’
Finn sat on the step, pretending to drink his coffee while watching Tom’s preparations obliquely. The boy took up a clean brush, dipped it in the paint, stood and slid the brush along the join of two weatherboards. Paint spread out in a pale trail behind the brush, smelling clean, chemical, optimistic.
He was paying the boy to paint so he had time to finish the sculpture. But Finn wanted nothing more than to apply that thick coating to the wall, blot out any evidence of what had happened, focus on the simple job of moving the paintbrush in a straight line, covering up one colour with another.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ He felt foolish the moment he said it.
Tom showed no surprise. ‘Sure. I’m doing the joins first and then I’ll roller the rest. There’s another brush.’
Finn picked up the brush. It was used – old paint stains speckled the handle – but the bristles had been meticulously cleaned. He dipped it into the paint, lifted it, placed it against the timber. As he drew out the first line of paint, he inhaled the scent and felt inexplicably relieved.
The two of them worked easily together. Found their way around each other without hassle, timed their refills so they didn’t collide, took up where the other had left off. As the cutting-in work moved towards completion, Tom poured a slab of paint into the tray, worked the roller back and forth until it was saturated, screwed it to the end of the long pole. He moved down the other end and began rollering the boards, the paint matching up the gaps with a pleasing symmetry.
Finn let himself fall into the rhythm of the brush, senses alert, mind stilled. He was aware of the movement of his arm and the way his body supported it. The sounds of the birds, the humming of small insects, the occasional croak of an errant frog, the rustle of undergrowth as one of the water dragons moved through in search of that frog. A tapestry of sound in which he was central and the brush and the paint were central too. The task being done.
‘Do you miss your father?’ he asked, as Tom passed close with the roller.
Tom’s rhythm didn’t falter. ‘Every day.’
‘How long’s it been?’
‘Two years, three months.’
‘And no better?’
Tom stopped at the end of the row and lowered the roller. ‘Of course it’s better. You think it’ll never get better at first, but it does. Only thing is you hate yourself when you feel better. Like it’s disloyal.’
Finn nodded; that he could understand. ‘I can’t talk to my son, Tom. I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know if he’s OK and getting on with his life or what.’
Tom went back to the paint tray, topped up the paint, pressed the roller into it and soaked it again. ‘Can’t you do stuff with him?’
‘Stuff?’
Tom gestured to the wall. ‘Like this. Practical stuff.’
Finn lowered his brush. ‘He used to like running, but I’m too fat to run. Anyhow, he’s busy.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘I don’t know. He’s hardly at home any more. I think he has new friends.’
Tom started on the next row. ‘New friends, you reckon?’
Something in his voice caught Finn’s attention. He hadn’t thought much about Jarrah’s new friends, in truth. He’d seen him getting out of a car once or twice – there’d been a girl in the front seat and a woman, presumably her mother, who’d waved him off. But no one ever came into the house. He knew nothing much about any friends, new or otherwise. Just the girl from before, the one Bridget told him worked at the pizza place. Maybe she was the girl in the car?
‘Could you talk to him, Tom? You’re close to his age. You know what he’s going through.’
‘No one knows what you’re going through,’ Tom said, his voice wary. ‘Nothing anyone says makes much difference.’
‘You’re right about that,’ Finn said wearily. He put the brush down, suddenly exhausted. ‘I should go and get some work done,’ he said, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Thanks for letting me help out.’
Tom flashed him a small smile. Finn headed along the verandah, steeling himself to cross the pool area and do some actual work.
‘Don’t leave him alone too much,’ Tom said from behind him. ‘Even if you think that’s what he wants.’