up into a ponytail. The extensions are so heavy, they’ve given me a massive headache. I had no idea being a girl would be painful.
We don’t say anything at all. Every now and then I can hear him scratching away with his pen on a piece of paper—the flourish of his signature. Sometimes he taps on his computer keyboard. Or he grunts, but I don’tthink he’s aware of it.
Once the sheets are spread, I open up the can of paint. It’s orange. Not a Moroccan burnt ochre, but bright orange, like a traffic cone.
I look up. Crockett stares back at me, munching on the end of his pen.
‘You said it had to be brighter,’ he notes.
‘I did not! I only said it had to be different.’
‘That’s not different?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I say.
‘So? Pull your finger out.’
I look back down at the paint. The man has zero taste. ‘It will dry darker, you know.’
‘Darker schmarker,’ he says, diving into the next manila folder.
I pick up the paint tin and the brush and start cutting in the corners. It’s soothing, the thud, thud sound the bristles make against the plasterboard. I like the syrupy weight of the paint on the brush. I’m really careful along the cornice. Taking my time. Doing a good job.
Crockett turns on the radio.
(It ain’t about the money, money, money.)
Crockett shows me how to wrap up the paintbrush in a plastic bag so it doesn’t dry out, and then I start with the roller. After three walls it’s making my arms sore, but I push through it.
At lunchtime Crockett goes out to get us Subway. He doesn’t turn the computer off, or lock anything up.He grabs money out of his wallet and walks out.
I look out the door and see him scooting up the street with his hands in his trouser pockets.
I take the opportunity to do the section behind his chair while he’s not there, then I go for a stickybeak.
Down the hall there is another office. The sign on the door says Carsell. It’s locked. At the end of the hall there is a door that goes to a tiny concrete courtyard at the back of the building. There is a parking space and a wonky metal gate that opens onto a laneway.
There is a bathroom, with a toilet and washbasin, and to the side of that, there’s a narrow stairway heading to the apartment above the office. My feet clang as I jump up the metal stairs. At the top I peek through the window, but I can’t see much. I make a circle in the grime with my sleeve. There are some archive boxes stacked on a grey office desk, and an armchair with a broken back. There’s another ladder leaning against the wall. It doesn’t look as though anyone lives there.
When Crockett comes back we sit in the armchairs in reception to eat, to avoid the paint fumes.
‘Tell me about your daughter,’ I ask him between mouthfuls.
‘Grown up now. Natalie. She’s overseas. She works for a tour company, as a guide. She’s coming home soon, she says. That’s why I had to fix the blinds.’ He points at the ceiling.
‘So you just live with your wife then?’
‘Mm,’ he replies.
We eat in silence for a while.
After a long pause Crockett says, ‘My wife had cancer.’
‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’
‘She got better,’ he adds, quickly. ‘But she…Sally, her name is, decided she wanted to live with someone who was home a bit more, so she moved in with her sister up the coast.’
I take a slurp of my soft drink.
‘That was four years ago. We still get together at Christmas time. All of us. The kids come back. I have a son too. He’s married now. But…’ Crockett wipes the crumbs from his face with the back of his hand. He looks hunted.
‘But what?’
‘Oh,’ he laughs. ‘It’s been made very clear to me that I’m the bastard.’
‘Are you?’
‘A bastard?’ He rolls his sandwich paper up. ‘Maybe.’ He rubs his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. ‘Maybe I am.’
I want to ask him why he thinks he might be a bastard. I want to know what led up to that, but I don’t want to
We don’t say anything at all. Every now and then I can hear him scratching away with his pen on a piece of paper—the flourish of his signature. Sometimes he taps on his computer keyboard. Or he grunts, but I don’tthink he’s aware of it.
Once the sheets are spread, I open up the can of paint. It’s orange. Not a Moroccan burnt ochre, but bright orange, like a traffic cone.
I look up. Crockett stares back at me, munching on the end of his pen.
‘You said it had to be brighter,’ he notes.
‘I did not! I only said it had to be different.’
‘That’s not different?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I say.
‘So? Pull your finger out.’
I look back down at the paint. The man has zero taste. ‘It will dry darker, you know.’
‘Darker schmarker,’ he says, diving into the next manila folder.
I pick up the paint tin and the brush and start cutting in the corners. It’s soothing, the thud, thud sound the bristles make against the plasterboard. I like the syrupy weight of the paint on the brush. I’m really careful along the cornice. Taking my time. Doing a good job.
Crockett turns on the radio.
(It ain’t about the money, money, money.)
Crockett shows me how to wrap up the paintbrush in a plastic bag so it doesn’t dry out, and then I start with the roller. After three walls it’s making my arms sore, but I push through it.
At lunchtime Crockett goes out to get us Subway. He doesn’t turn the computer off, or lock anything up.He grabs money out of his wallet and walks out.
I look out the door and see him scooting up the street with his hands in his trouser pockets.
I take the opportunity to do the section behind his chair while he’s not there, then I go for a stickybeak.
Down the hall there is another office. The sign on the door says Carsell. It’s locked. At the end of the hall there is a door that goes to a tiny concrete courtyard at the back of the building. There is a parking space and a wonky metal gate that opens onto a laneway.
There is a bathroom, with a toilet and washbasin, and to the side of that, there’s a narrow stairway heading to the apartment above the office. My feet clang as I jump up the metal stairs. At the top I peek through the window, but I can’t see much. I make a circle in the grime with my sleeve. There are some archive boxes stacked on a grey office desk, and an armchair with a broken back. There’s another ladder leaning against the wall. It doesn’t look as though anyone lives there.
When Crockett comes back we sit in the armchairs in reception to eat, to avoid the paint fumes.
‘Tell me about your daughter,’ I ask him between mouthfuls.
‘Grown up now. Natalie. She’s overseas. She works for a tour company, as a guide. She’s coming home soon, she says. That’s why I had to fix the blinds.’ He points at the ceiling.
‘So you just live with your wife then?’
‘Mm,’ he replies.
We eat in silence for a while.
After a long pause Crockett says, ‘My wife had cancer.’
‘Oh shit, I’m sorry.’
‘She got better,’ he adds, quickly. ‘But she…Sally, her name is, decided she wanted to live with someone who was home a bit more, so she moved in with her sister up the coast.’
I take a slurp of my soft drink.
‘That was four years ago. We still get together at Christmas time. All of us. The kids come back. I have a son too. He’s married now. But…’ Crockett wipes the crumbs from his face with the back of his hand. He looks hunted.
‘But what?’
‘Oh,’ he laughs. ‘It’s been made very clear to me that I’m the bastard.’
‘Are you?’
‘A bastard?’ He rolls his sandwich paper up. ‘Maybe.’ He rubs his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. ‘Maybe I am.’
I want to ask him why he thinks he might be a bastard. I want to know what led up to that, but I don’t want to
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