Last Day in the Dynamite Factory Read Online Free

what’s in his by heart. Four grades of pencil. A slide rule. A key ring Archie made when he was ten that was supposed to be a beer bottle but is so gummed up with solder it looks like a dog turd. It’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen but Chris can’t bring himself to throw it out. There’s a sketchbook filled with his own half-developed ideas – shapes mostly – formed for satisfaction rather than purpose, and a wallet Diane gave him which he has never used. Chris resolutely persists with one he bought in London long ago. Soft and fragile, the time is fast approaching when he knows he will have to surrender to change.
    From his drawing board, set in solitary splendour in a corner overlooking the streetscape, he has a distant view of Mount Coot-tha.
    Their suite occupies the top floor of a narrow, three-storey building in central Toowong. Recently they refurbished the office and, in a spirit of democracy, the staff were given the freedom to design their own work space. Judge opted for a surprisingly traditional office behind glass. Their other architect, Hamish – quiet, steady and ferociously accurate – walled himself in behind slatted timber. In ten years no-one has identified a single mistake in Hamish’s work, though Judge has made it his life’s mission to do so. Their draughtsman, Mick, is fast and creative and requires supervising in case his imagination inspires him to put the house atop the roof. His work area is surrounded by an 800 millimetre-high glass ‘fence’ which he steps over and an absurd little glass door by which he requires everyone else to come and go. Maureen’s unadorned work station presides over the centre of the office. Only Tabi, as receptionist, has restricted options. But she has pushed their limits with cherry-red visitors’ chairs, yellow cushions, a forest of pot plants and one appalling – and universally bullied – garden gnome. Although its long white beard clearly marks it as male, it has been given the name Doris. Judge drapes it in ladies’ hats and handbags; Mick opts for underwear and nappies, Hamish a raincoat. Chris wants to buy Doris a parachute but can’t find one the right size.
    Tabi remains unfazed.
    Chris frowns at a brief clipped to his drawing board. How many times does he have to tell Judge – no more churches!
    As if summoned by his ire, Judge flings open his door and Porter emerges with a hesitant smile. Judge escorts him to the lift and comes back beaming.
    Chris beckons him over. ‘He’s supposed to be my client.’
    â€˜Yeah, and he would
of
been, but you weren’t here,’ Judge says, in a fair imitation of Tabi. He dumps a wad of notes on Chris’s drawing board. ‘Here, have it. He was expecting to work with you, anyway.’
    â€˜And you take this.’ Chris shoves the church brief into Judge’s hands. ‘I told you. No. More.
Churches
.’
    â€˜You didn’t mean it.’
    â€˜I did!’
    â€˜Oh, come on, be a sport – who else is going to do it? You’re our expert. Just one last time?’
    â€˜No – I am not bloody doing it!’
    â€˜Okay, okay. Not doing it. Not bloody doing it. Christ, you’ve changed your tune.’
    â€˜I changed it ten years ago,’ Chris says. ‘But you weren’t listening. St Barnabas – remember?’
    â€˜A triumph.’
    â€˜A social disaster.’
    St Barnabas marked the end of Chris’s career in conservation work – in his mind, anyway. In reality, little has changed. Nobody is willing to release him from his reputation – a reputation not sought but acquired when the only job he could get in London after graduating was with a firm of conservation architects. With no clear plan for his architectural career and a lifelong love of working with wood, he didn’t mind. Three years later, back in Brisbane, he found a ready market for his skills.