thing, you tell me.’
I crawled out, tympana still vibrating, got to my feet, braced myself against the table. ‘People go outside and do things, go to the beach, swim.’
Charlie made his pitying noise, a sort of snort enhanced with nasal sounds. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘They waste time. You think Mozart went to the beach? You hear that Liszt was a lot of the time swimming? What use is swimming, anyway?’
‘It keeps you from drowning,’ I said. ‘In deep water.’
He rolled his cheroot between thumb and two fingers, puffed at it, shook his head in a worried way.‘Jack, Jack,’ he said, ‘don’t go in the deep water, how can you drown? What use is swimming then?’
‘I need some time on that,’ I said. ‘What do I do while you’re away?’
He turned away, walked off towards his machines to touch them goodbye, said over his shoulder, ‘Pack up and deliver the library, the lady’s waiting.’
I followed him. ‘Me? Are you mad? Mrs Purbrick’s paying a fortune for Charlie Taub.’
‘I told you already, Charlie Taub the woman got. You put a couple screws in the wall, that’s it. When I come back, I check.’
‘Charlie, that’s not a good idea. I could ruin your reputation.’
He wound the blade of a table saw up, wound it down, an action serving no purpose. ‘So ruin,’ he said, subject closed. He turned his head in my direction. A new subject. ‘The one with the horsetail, you know?’
I knew. The property developer who’d turned the old chutney factory in Carrigan’s Lane into four desirable inner-city New York-style loft apartments, lifestyle choice plus once-in-a-lifetime blue-chip investment opportunity not to miss.
‘I know,’ I said, with an icepick in my heart.
‘Six hundred thousand dollars.’ Charlie pointed around the space.
‘An offer?’
‘From the agent. Clive, Clive somebody.’
‘Clive Miller,’ I said. The repulsive Clive, gone on from accepting fellatio in lieu of rent and from dudding poor tenants out of their rental bonds to sitting on boards and living in the best part of Kew. Clive Miller embodied the recent history of Fitzroy.
‘That one. Nine hundred pounds I paid. One hundred and fifty cash down, five quid a week.’
‘So?’ I said.
Charlie straightened, ran a hand the size of an oven glove over the burnished surface of the cabinet, tested the stability of the fence.
‘So?’ I repeated, wanting to know, at that moment.
‘So?’ Charlie said. ‘So?’
‘Are you selling?’
‘Selling?’ The large head turned around, eyes under thatch bundles regarded me. ‘My workshop? So I can go to Perth and learn to swim? So I don’t drown?’
‘Just asking,’ I said, trying as nonchalantly as possible to get oxygen to my gasping little lung sacs.
Now I walked around the workshop, touched a few machines, just to comfort them, spent five minutes studying Mrs Purbrick’s library. It was pure Charlie Taub: classical elements – pilasters, mouldings, cornices – but pared of all showiness. The eye was drawn first to the beauty of the wood, then to the perfect balance of the design, its understatement and severity, and then, perhaps, to the craft of the joiner.
The ensemble, missing only its top and bottom trimmings, stood assembled in a corner of the workshop. It had been sanded, grain-sealed, shellacked and polished by Charlie’s finishing man, the voluble Arthur McKinley, retired coffin-maker. That work had taken six weeks. To reach the stage where the finishing could begin had taken a mere eight months because Charlie had set aside three days a week for the library. Progress might have been even faster had he had someone other than me to assist him. But speed had never been a concern for Charlie. He didn’t hear clients’ questions about how long a job would take.
Once, in the early days, entrusted with a small table, anxious about my progress, I asked, ‘When does this have to be finished?’
Charlie had been rough-planing an 18-inch
I crawled out, tympana still vibrating, got to my feet, braced myself against the table. ‘People go outside and do things, go to the beach, swim.’
Charlie made his pitying noise, a sort of snort enhanced with nasal sounds. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘They waste time. You think Mozart went to the beach? You hear that Liszt was a lot of the time swimming? What use is swimming, anyway?’
‘It keeps you from drowning,’ I said. ‘In deep water.’
He rolled his cheroot between thumb and two fingers, puffed at it, shook his head in a worried way.‘Jack, Jack,’ he said, ‘don’t go in the deep water, how can you drown? What use is swimming then?’
‘I need some time on that,’ I said. ‘What do I do while you’re away?’
He turned away, walked off towards his machines to touch them goodbye, said over his shoulder, ‘Pack up and deliver the library, the lady’s waiting.’
I followed him. ‘Me? Are you mad? Mrs Purbrick’s paying a fortune for Charlie Taub.’
‘I told you already, Charlie Taub the woman got. You put a couple screws in the wall, that’s it. When I come back, I check.’
‘Charlie, that’s not a good idea. I could ruin your reputation.’
He wound the blade of a table saw up, wound it down, an action serving no purpose. ‘So ruin,’ he said, subject closed. He turned his head in my direction. A new subject. ‘The one with the horsetail, you know?’
I knew. The property developer who’d turned the old chutney factory in Carrigan’s Lane into four desirable inner-city New York-style loft apartments, lifestyle choice plus once-in-a-lifetime blue-chip investment opportunity not to miss.
‘I know,’ I said, with an icepick in my heart.
‘Six hundred thousand dollars.’ Charlie pointed around the space.
‘An offer?’
‘From the agent. Clive, Clive somebody.’
‘Clive Miller,’ I said. The repulsive Clive, gone on from accepting fellatio in lieu of rent and from dudding poor tenants out of their rental bonds to sitting on boards and living in the best part of Kew. Clive Miller embodied the recent history of Fitzroy.
‘That one. Nine hundred pounds I paid. One hundred and fifty cash down, five quid a week.’
‘So?’ I said.
Charlie straightened, ran a hand the size of an oven glove over the burnished surface of the cabinet, tested the stability of the fence.
‘So?’ I repeated, wanting to know, at that moment.
‘So?’ Charlie said. ‘So?’
‘Are you selling?’
‘Selling?’ The large head turned around, eyes under thatch bundles regarded me. ‘My workshop? So I can go to Perth and learn to swim? So I don’t drown?’
‘Just asking,’ I said, trying as nonchalantly as possible to get oxygen to my gasping little lung sacs.
Now I walked around the workshop, touched a few machines, just to comfort them, spent five minutes studying Mrs Purbrick’s library. It was pure Charlie Taub: classical elements – pilasters, mouldings, cornices – but pared of all showiness. The eye was drawn first to the beauty of the wood, then to the perfect balance of the design, its understatement and severity, and then, perhaps, to the craft of the joiner.
The ensemble, missing only its top and bottom trimmings, stood assembled in a corner of the workshop. It had been sanded, grain-sealed, shellacked and polished by Charlie’s finishing man, the voluble Arthur McKinley, retired coffin-maker. That work had taken six weeks. To reach the stage where the finishing could begin had taken a mere eight months because Charlie had set aside three days a week for the library. Progress might have been even faster had he had someone other than me to assist him. But speed had never been a concern for Charlie. He didn’t hear clients’ questions about how long a job would take.
Once, in the early days, entrusted with a small table, anxious about my progress, I asked, ‘When does this have to be finished?’
Charlie had been rough-planing an 18-inch
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