Free Last Day in the Dynamite Factory by Annah Faulkner Page A

him, and look where that got me!’
    â€˜Shh … calm down.’
    â€˜Calm
down
? Thirty years I looked for a father who didn’t exist! My history’s an invention. A farce.’
    â€˜Yes, well … give yourself a few days to absorb it. You’re still in shock. When you’re thinking more clearly you’ll see it’s a good thing. Everything will sort itself out.’
    Will it? Will the world slide obediently back onto its axis after a lie-down? Does she have the slightest inkling of what a mess his head is? What kind of words would he need to explain?
    He goes downstairs and follows the meandering pathway to the tree house he built for the kids fifteen years ago. He hoists himself up and prises open the hinged roof Phoebe insisted on so she could look up at the trees and the night sky. The floor is littered with leaves and dirt and the broken remains of a child’s tea set. Seems like yesterday Diane brought a yellow ribbon for the opening ceremony. Phoebe, claiming the superiority of age, demanded to cut it. Archie resorted to brute force and yanked it down. Phoebe made straight for the rope ladder to be first up but Archie shook it so hard she couldn’t get a foothold. Chris lifted him away, allowing Phoebe to climb in, then deposited Archie on the floor at precisely the same moment. Phoebe brought mirrors and cups and saucers to the tree house which Archie promptly chucked out. Phoebe shoved Archie after them; he landed on his arse and screeched like a band-saw.
    â€˜Great success,’ Chris shouted over their howling son.
    Diane rolled her eyes and asked why they’d bothered.
    â€˜To build the tree house or have kids?’
    â€˜Both,’ she said, and they’d laughed.
    He reaches for two pieces of doll-sized teacup and brings them together. They don’t belong. In the blotchy mirror dangling from chicken wire Chris catches sight of his reflection; the hair – Jo was right – springing from his forehead like Ben’s. How could he not have seen it? Looking for Jack Ward all those years and every question put to Jo and Ben met with evasion and discouragement because – he believed – they were afraid of losing him back to his birth father. So then he took care to protect them from knowing about his endless enquiries; the letters, the searches and scouring of records, all in vain. Year, after year, after year.
    He drops down, landing on weak legs, and takes the path back to the house. Jo’s diary is still on the floor of his den, red and threatening as a branding iron. Chris clamps it cautiously between a finger and thumb and goes back downstairs. Diane watches with a puzzled expression as he gets into his car.
    He heads for the office. The staff are still on holidays; maybe there he can think. Familiar territory passes by: the Oswald’s decaying house, their huge weeping fig tree, Woolworth’s grubby brick facade, cars baking in the hard sunlight. Same, yet different. Everything’s the same, yet everything is different.
    Doris, Tabitha’s garden gnome, is decorated in tinsel and Christmas lights. No matter what assaults that thing endures, it continues to smile with the same everlasting, obnoxious cheer.
    The office is not empty. Judge is leaning on Hamish’s drawing board, scowling. He looks silly in shorts, with his bony little legs and leprechaun knees.
    â€˜Hey ho,’ he says. ‘Come and have a look at this. Perfect, of course. That bloody Hamish – always,
always
accurate. Wouldn’t it be great to find a mistake in his work? We could plant one. Imagine his mortification – wouldn’t that be something? What are you doing here?’
    Chris opens the diary with fumbling hands and pokes at the offending entry.
    Judge raises his eyebrows.
    â€˜Read it. My aunt’s diary.’
    Judge takes the journal and begins to read. After a moment he glances at Chris with a stunned expression before