The Butcherbird (13 page)

An inappropriate thought—’not unless we can get a roof on’—passed fleetingly through Archie’s consciousness before he ploughed on. ‘We must enable our fellow citizens to view works like this, uplifting works, whenever they wish. And particularly those less fortunate persons in our community who cannot travel to Paris or London.’

There was general murmuring of approval at this. The concept of cold or hunger was difficult to grasp, but the inability to travel to Paris or London was real and terrible to contemplate.

‘We want these pictures of beauty and wonder on our own walls.’ He cast his hands around the walls in a circular motion. ‘Although there is one among us who already has that privilege, as I shall mention in a moment.’

There was a general exchange of inquiring looks at this remark. The burly figure at the head of the table stared mournfully down at the pink cloth and wondered how on earth he could extract himself from this torture. Bonny was spending the week at some sort of retreat to ‘find herself ‘ or something. God knows why. She was easy enough to find. He’d been on his own in the Kimberley for a while and he wanted company. He supposed he could have had dinner with Edith, which would have been novel, but she was always asking him how things were. ‘How are things, Mac?’ she would say in that earnest voice, as if the end of the world was nigh. Even when it wasn’t. Not that it was now. Anyway, maybe he should have had dinner with Edith.

At least he would’ve escaped this lot.

He felt a hand on his lap and turned in surprise to the woman next to him. He’d never met her before and peered at her place card, trying to make out her name in the gloom.

‘It’s Popsie, darling, just Popsie. Such a pleasure to be with the famous Mac Biddulph again. Unbelievable our paths have crossed so seldom.’

In truth their paths wouldn’t have crossed this starry evening had Popsie not carefully examined the table while drinks were being served and surreptitiously moved her name card from near the kitchen entrance to its present cosy and prominent position next to Mac.

She pouted at him in an unusual pursing of the lips that seemed to presage the application of lip gloss, but was merely the prelude to a whisper. ‘I hear you’re about to become a benefactor of this wonderful museum. What a marvellous man you are. How lucky we are to have people like you.’

She patted his arm in a gesture that Mac found offensive. He turned away from her to listen briefly to Archie’s round of introductions—anything was better than this posturing pantomime beside him.

‘And now our dear friend Vera North who, with her dear late husband Alec, has helped the museum in so many ways and continues to do so. Where would the arts be in this great city without people of taste and sensibility like Vera? We can’t rely on governments, can we?’ As Archie’s eyes swept around the table for confirmation, they suddenly lighted on the Premier’s chief of staff. ‘Alone. We cannot and must not rely on governments alone. Because they have other important responsibilities, like hospitals and roads and other things.’ Archie sensed he was drifting slightly from his planned course. ‘And we’re incredibly grateful to this government for more than twenty million dollars in recurrent funding. But we must also help ourselves. From our positions of privilege, we must contribute where we can.’

Mac wondered exactly what privileged position Archie Speyne was referring to in his own case, unless it was the close proximity to the twenty million that allowed him to travel the world in modest style in the interests of art. But his mind was more occupied with how he could escape before Archie sprayed him with his own dose of flattery and cologne, and before the strange creature next to him devoured him with her extraordinary expanding mouth. All eyes were now on Archie as he was introducing, with urbane wit he felt, the chairman of a large concrete company who was fond of saying, ‘Half this country is covered in our product and the other half in red dust.’ Gently, unobtrusively, Mac eased his chair back and made his way to the rear exit of the gallery. Only a few noticed him leave as all waited their turn for attention. His rubber-soled shoes made no sound on the terrazzo floor. He always wore rubber, no point in slipping, and God was he glad of it now.

The cold night air was a blessed relief after the claustrophobic atmosphere of those cloying remarks and clinging people. Christ. He’d give anything to be out on the Honey Bear whacking golf balls into the river. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t mind having Archie Speyne’s head printed on them. He waved to his driver to wait for him and set off at a brisk pace towards Mrs Macquarie’s Chair. He’d have loved to see Archie’s face when his circus act finally reached Mac’s empty chair.

A disturbing thought flitted across his vision like a bat through the night sky. There were a lot of well-placed people at that table, apart from poseurs like Popsie whatever her name was, including the heads of three major banks. They wouldn’t think he’d slipped away to dodge making a donation, would they? That wouldn’t look so good. After all, he had accepted the damn invitation—if you’re not going to give, don’t go. And the only way to defend was to attack. He turned and hurried back to the museum, fumbling to find the cell phone in his pocket as he tapped Archie on the shoulder and drew him into a corner with the words, ‘Sorry, had to make an urgent call, but I’ve some news for you.’ He thought the poor little bastard would piss his pants when he told him, and watched with contempt as Archie almost ran to the table to tap his wineglass.

‘Friends, dear friends, I have the most exciting news. What a wonderful evening, made so special by one of those people who contribute so much to society in so many ways. Our godfather here, Mac Biddulph, has just allowed me to reveal the name of the exceptional space behind you that will, on completion, house so many of our treasures and hopefully, with your generous assistance, our new Matisse. I am proud to announce, following a wonderfully generous gift of two million dollars, that this new space will be named the Biddulph Gallery.’

As Popsie Trudeaux drove home in her Mercedes 55 AMG she had mixed feelings. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t driving home in a 55 AMG, although the car carried those numbers and letters on its rear. Actually it was a standard model costing about a hundred thousand dollars less. It hadn’t been easy acquiring those badges either. The dealer had been outraged when she’d offered to buy them. ‘We sell cars, madam, not badges.’ So she told him to fuck off and found someone who could get them for a couple of hundred, God knows where from. Just because Angus couldn’t even bring home the bacon like he used to didn’t mean the whole world needed to know. But that wasn’t the cause of her mixed feelings. She’d managed to seat herself next to Mac, which was a plus, but despite her ample charms being on full display and all kinds of electrical impulses being directed his way, there’d not been a flicker of response. It was enormously frustrating. To be so close to a man like that, so rich, so well known for screwing around, so much the star of the night, and not even to score a lunch date or a leg tremble. Nothing. She’d ring her doctor first thing in the morning.

Certainly more Botox was required, perhaps something more radical, although her tits were perfect. Maybe the bottom. He was probably a bum man, that was it. Although she’d been sitting down all night. Certainly a new wardrobe. Angus would just have to pull his weight for once.

Jack parked his car two streets from Hedley Stimson’s house, as instructed, and walked through the piles of wet leaves left unraked from last autumn on the footpath under the arch of a liquidamber. It was drizzling lightly and he had no coat or umbrella. He shivered as he walked, whether from the chill or in nervous anticipation of the clandestine meeting he wasn’t sure. It was probably all a mistake. Sure, it looked like Mac was creaming off millions of dollars of HOA profits for his own personal gain, or at the very least failing to report benefits in filed documents. But what business was it of his? Why not let the auditors and the lawyers sort it out?

As for the big issue, well, he was no closer to pinning that down. HOA was reporting record profits, had just issued a market guidance—despite his objections—to the effect that it expected a substantial increase above expectations. His objections had been swept away in a landslide of factual argument from Renton Healey, Mac, the auditors, the actuaries—in fact everyone but the chairman. Sir Laurence had stated his position in a terse telephone conversation that added little to the knowledge bank and nothing to global warming.

‘It is not appropriate for a non-executive chairman to become involved in a discussion of this nature. It is a matter for the executive team, in conjunction with the auditors, to make a recommendation to the board. Please advise me when you are in a position to do so.’

And the recommendation had finally progressed, under Jack’s signature as CEO. Substantial releases from reserves due to favourable underwriting conditions, together with certain one-off gains, led the company to advise an upgrade in its full year outlook. The share price had reacted immediately. Not only was the slump arrested, but the shares had added three per cent in a week and were still rising. All under his name, with his brilliant salesmanship.

As he approached the lichgate that opened into the garden of the rambling federation house, he could hear the whirr of machinery and the scream of metal on wood emanating from the workshop at the rear of the house, hidden away in a grove of birches, and he could just make out the shape of a man’s head bent over in the lighted window. He knocked on the wooden door and the whirring stopped immediately.

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?’