Read Online The Idea of Perfection by Kate Grenville - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Grenville
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mean?
Douglas looked around at last.
Against the concrete! he repeated.
Chook glanced at him and smiled a brown-toothed smile. He took a fresh grip on the wheel, settled back against his seat. Douglas could see how pleased he was to have finally got his attention.
How’s that, then? he asked.
It seemed to him that Chook was driving less fast now. Concrete seemed to have something of a steadying effect on him.
Being against the concrete?
Not organic, Chook said.
He thought for a moment, and elaborated.
Not bloody organic enough.
He gathered the phlegm in the back of his mouth with a ripping sound and spat out the window.
It’s the compost and earth-toilet lot. The bloody vitamins and let-the-bloody-chooks-free lot.
He gestured with both hands to demonstrate the letting-free-of-the-bloody-chooks and the ute sailed towards the bushes beside the road.
But concrete! Douglas said quickly.
Concrete!
His mouth faltered, trying to find the words to do justice to concrete.
Chook was not a man to wait around for the right word. He laughed a short unamused laugh.
Course it’s organic!
One hand was holding the wheel casually, the other was out the window, elbow on the sill, hand gripping the edge of the roof so his shirt sleeve flapped in the slipstream.
Organic as bloody anything!
Douglas turned slightly towards him and put the Engineering Digest on the floor. He thought he was probably close enough to grab the wheel himself, if worst came to worst. The thing was to turn towards Chook in an interested way, but to keep his eyes on the road.
You’ve got no rot, no bloody maintenance at all!
Yes, Douglas said. I mean, no.
Neat and tidy! See you right for years!
Yes, he said again. Absolutely.
Chook grew quieter, put both hands back on the steering-wheel.
Nearly there, he said.
He coughed.
You’ll find there’s a bit of it in town, he said casually.
Douglas wondered what there was a bit of in town. As Chook turned to him and nodded, he noticed one eyebrow was tufted up, giving him a lopsided look.
Oh? he said, feeling helpless.
Nothing to worry about, Chook said.
Douglas was immediately anxious.
The bloody Heritage Committee.
Chook loaded the words with irony. He swung the ute around a corner, down a hill, and suddenly there it was, the tributary, and the bridge that was a danger to the public.
It was a cock-eyed little thing with a bend in it as if someone had given it a push in the middle. Chook switched the engine off and a hot humming silence established itself.
Knew a bloke once with a dick that shape, he said.
Douglas laughed. Then he wished he had not.
With his thumb Chook killed a fly trapped against the windscreen, and wiped his hand on his pants.
No worries, he said.
He glanced at Douglas, who nodded, but in fact he was full of worries, especially about the drive back. He would have to try to be sure to drive, except that he was not certain of the way. If he could not be the one driving, the next best thing would be to lead the conversation on to subjects less inflammatory than the bridge. Something nice and boring.
There was a lot to be said for being boring, and it was something he was good at.
He stood beside the stream, balancing on a big bean-shaped stone. Beside him a fallen tree had been silvered by years of floods and sun, the grain streaming like hair around the knots and holes in the wood. A small bold bird in a suit of green perched on it, cocked its head at him, and flew off. On the map, the stream was called Cascade Rivulet, but it was neither a cascade nor a rivulet, just a modest flow of water that travelled sinuously over rocks and logs in a series of shining bulges. It was a comfort, the way it kept coming, calmly obeying gravity, threading its way diligently downhill, whether anyone was there to see it or not. It did not have to be authoritative or impress anyone. It just took the line of least resistance.
The bridge had not started life bent, but during some
Douglas looked around at last.
Against the concrete! he repeated.
Chook glanced at him and smiled a brown-toothed smile. He took a fresh grip on the wheel, settled back against his seat. Douglas could see how pleased he was to have finally got his attention.
How’s that, then? he asked.
It seemed to him that Chook was driving less fast now. Concrete seemed to have something of a steadying effect on him.
Being against the concrete?
Not organic, Chook said.
He thought for a moment, and elaborated.
Not bloody organic enough.
He gathered the phlegm in the back of his mouth with a ripping sound and spat out the window.
It’s the compost and earth-toilet lot. The bloody vitamins and let-the-bloody-chooks-free lot.
He gestured with both hands to demonstrate the letting-free-of-the-bloody-chooks and the ute sailed towards the bushes beside the road.
But concrete! Douglas said quickly.
Concrete!
His mouth faltered, trying to find the words to do justice to concrete.
Chook was not a man to wait around for the right word. He laughed a short unamused laugh.
Course it’s organic!
One hand was holding the wheel casually, the other was out the window, elbow on the sill, hand gripping the edge of the roof so his shirt sleeve flapped in the slipstream.
Organic as bloody anything!
Douglas turned slightly towards him and put the Engineering Digest on the floor. He thought he was probably close enough to grab the wheel himself, if worst came to worst. The thing was to turn towards Chook in an interested way, but to keep his eyes on the road.
You’ve got no rot, no bloody maintenance at all!
Yes, Douglas said. I mean, no.
Neat and tidy! See you right for years!
Yes, he said again. Absolutely.
Chook grew quieter, put both hands back on the steering-wheel.
Nearly there, he said.
He coughed.
You’ll find there’s a bit of it in town, he said casually.
Douglas wondered what there was a bit of in town. As Chook turned to him and nodded, he noticed one eyebrow was tufted up, giving him a lopsided look.
Oh? he said, feeling helpless.
Nothing to worry about, Chook said.
Douglas was immediately anxious.
The bloody Heritage Committee.
Chook loaded the words with irony. He swung the ute around a corner, down a hill, and suddenly there it was, the tributary, and the bridge that was a danger to the public.
It was a cock-eyed little thing with a bend in it as if someone had given it a push in the middle. Chook switched the engine off and a hot humming silence established itself.
Knew a bloke once with a dick that shape, he said.
Douglas laughed. Then he wished he had not.
With his thumb Chook killed a fly trapped against the windscreen, and wiped his hand on his pants.
No worries, he said.
He glanced at Douglas, who nodded, but in fact he was full of worries, especially about the drive back. He would have to try to be sure to drive, except that he was not certain of the way. If he could not be the one driving, the next best thing would be to lead the conversation on to subjects less inflammatory than the bridge. Something nice and boring.
There was a lot to be said for being boring, and it was something he was good at.
He stood beside the stream, balancing on a big bean-shaped stone. Beside him a fallen tree had been silvered by years of floods and sun, the grain streaming like hair around the knots and holes in the wood. A small bold bird in a suit of green perched on it, cocked its head at him, and flew off. On the map, the stream was called Cascade Rivulet, but it was neither a cascade nor a rivulet, just a modest flow of water that travelled sinuously over rocks and logs in a series of shining bulges. It was a comfort, the way it kept coming, calmly obeying gravity, threading its way diligently downhill, whether anyone was there to see it or not. It did not have to be authoritative or impress anyone. It just took the line of least resistance.
The bridge had not started life bent, but during some
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