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Authors: Owen Marshall
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growing impatience as his presence was ignored. Edging closer, he tried to attract the attention of at least one of the service men, but even when he was almost at their shoulders he was apparently invisible to them. Sheff even raised his palm in a small apologetic gesture for interruption. Nothing. He imagined himself taking a cosh from his pocket and bringing it down with force on the head of the senior employee: the satisfying thud of it, the tremor of the man’s cartilaginous, butterfly ears, the startled attention of the others.
‘Excuse me,’ Sheff said politely. All three turned reluctantly to regard him. ‘It’s just that my car’s stuck a few streets back and won’t start. I know you must be almost knocking off.’ The Mazda owner emphasised his precedence by turning back and immediately asking about the cost of brake linings. The older mechanic, unperturbed by his hypothetical coshing, caught his mate’s eye and cocked his head towards Sheff. The young guy took a few steps to be in the sun at the wide workshop door, and motioned to Sheff to follow. He wasconfident and relaxed within his own jurisdiction, and even Sheff was aware that he was handsome in a slim-hipped, Mafia sort of way: dark hair and eyes, sharp features. The collar of his overalls was turned up, and a grey rag was draped on his shoulder with the casual elegance of a Milanese scarf. Sheff had seldom seen someone whose appearance was so uncharacteristic of his occupation, and would have been intrigued by it in other circumstances.
‘Is it a jump-start thing?’ the mechanic asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Is the battery flat? Did she turn over?’
‘Turned over fine, but still wouldn’t start,’ said Sheff. ‘I didn’t like to keep on until the battery died.’
‘So where’s the car?’ the matinee idol asked, and when Sheff told him, he pursed his lips in exaggerated concern, and said they wouldn’t try to tow it in from there during rush hour. ‘Best I drop you home, mate, and you give us a ring tomorrow morning and we’ll let you know the damage. There’ll be an after-hours fee for towing, unless you want to leave it there all night?’
‘Better bring it in before dark,’ said Sheff. The way his luck was, a rugby squad would trampoline on the car’s roof under a full moon if it were left on the road.
So the afternoon that began with the panel to choose the nation’s most prestigious journalism award, ended with the likelihood of a hefty repair bill and a ride home in the garage runabout, with the Mafia-smooth mechanic making lascivious comments about the women they passed. Sheff and he never exchanged names. The car keys were all the surety the mechanic needed, and when he’d dropped Sheff at his gate, he accelerated away without a glance behind. Life is short, yet so much of it inescapably wadded with the disconnected and inconsequential.
HIS FATHER ENJOYED COLLECTING CONES
for winter. It had nothing to do with saving money: he was quite happy to part out for the best dry firewood each year. He liked the heft, the shape, the subtle colours, and the satisfaction of flipping them into just the right spot on the open fire where they would incandesce almost immediately. He would pick them up during strolls and picnics, jostle one in his hand as he walked. He disliked those with vicious, thin spikes. His favourite was the rare variety as big as pineapples, and he knew the places where they could be found, even going out to an island in Lake Tekapo especially to retrieve some. The best of those he considered too attractive to be consumed, and he would use them as ornaments in the summer grate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHEFF HAD DELIBERATELY kept away from the paper after his resignation. Often he’d witnessed ex-staffers turning up, ostensibly just in passing, but obviously adrift, nonplussed, in their retirement, or voluntary exclusion. The more perceptive of them quickly realised how superfluous they were to the busy workplace, and
‘Excuse me,’ Sheff said politely. All three turned reluctantly to regard him. ‘It’s just that my car’s stuck a few streets back and won’t start. I know you must be almost knocking off.’ The Mazda owner emphasised his precedence by turning back and immediately asking about the cost of brake linings. The older mechanic, unperturbed by his hypothetical coshing, caught his mate’s eye and cocked his head towards Sheff. The young guy took a few steps to be in the sun at the wide workshop door, and motioned to Sheff to follow. He wasconfident and relaxed within his own jurisdiction, and even Sheff was aware that he was handsome in a slim-hipped, Mafia sort of way: dark hair and eyes, sharp features. The collar of his overalls was turned up, and a grey rag was draped on his shoulder with the casual elegance of a Milanese scarf. Sheff had seldom seen someone whose appearance was so uncharacteristic of his occupation, and would have been intrigued by it in other circumstances.
‘Is it a jump-start thing?’ the mechanic asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Is the battery flat? Did she turn over?’
‘Turned over fine, but still wouldn’t start,’ said Sheff. ‘I didn’t like to keep on until the battery died.’
‘So where’s the car?’ the matinee idol asked, and when Sheff told him, he pursed his lips in exaggerated concern, and said they wouldn’t try to tow it in from there during rush hour. ‘Best I drop you home, mate, and you give us a ring tomorrow morning and we’ll let you know the damage. There’ll be an after-hours fee for towing, unless you want to leave it there all night?’
‘Better bring it in before dark,’ said Sheff. The way his luck was, a rugby squad would trampoline on the car’s roof under a full moon if it were left on the road.
So the afternoon that began with the panel to choose the nation’s most prestigious journalism award, ended with the likelihood of a hefty repair bill and a ride home in the garage runabout, with the Mafia-smooth mechanic making lascivious comments about the women they passed. Sheff and he never exchanged names. The car keys were all the surety the mechanic needed, and when he’d dropped Sheff at his gate, he accelerated away without a glance behind. Life is short, yet so much of it inescapably wadded with the disconnected and inconsequential.
HIS FATHER ENJOYED COLLECTING CONES
for winter. It had nothing to do with saving money: he was quite happy to part out for the best dry firewood each year. He liked the heft, the shape, the subtle colours, and the satisfaction of flipping them into just the right spot on the open fire where they would incandesce almost immediately. He would pick them up during strolls and picnics, jostle one in his hand as he walked. He disliked those with vicious, thin spikes. His favourite was the rare variety as big as pineapples, and he knew the places where they could be found, even going out to an island in Lake Tekapo especially to retrieve some. The best of those he considered too attractive to be consumed, and he would use them as ornaments in the summer grate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHEFF HAD DELIBERATELY kept away from the paper after his resignation. Often he’d witnessed ex-staffers turning up, ostensibly just in passing, but obviously adrift, nonplussed, in their retirement, or voluntary exclusion. The more perceptive of them quickly realised how superfluous they were to the busy workplace, and
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