Toiling away, chiselling mortar off thousands of house bricks for a friend’s reno’, the constant sound of clinks and thunks emanating from the bricks, began to change. Like, really change.
Bricks have never been regarded as being sentient. Same as many other things, like trees, lakes and mountains. But talk to people who know them well, have been immersed in them for a long time, and you hear a different story. They’ll tell you that they have moods or expressions. Some particularly evolved people will say that these inanimate things ‘speak’ to them.
Same goes with bricks.
Being a regular visitor to the house for a decade or so created a fair bit of familiarity, with not just the rooms, but with the flooring, structure and sub structure of the house, and also the materials it was made from. Then came the renovation and the demolition of some of the brick walls to be restored and reused in a new layout. Reusing bricks in situ is a noble act of conservation, but it involves a considerable amount of manual labour; hammer drilling the old mortar away, dunking in water, then into an acid bath and finally, brushing and stacking. Every one of them. They do come up pretty well though, it should be said.
It was Dale who first cut through during a frigid June chiselling session. Dale was laid near the back door about eighty years ago. He’d had a few unsuccessful goes at ‘reaching out’, but on this extraordinary morning, he connected. And what did he do with this incredible, historical, even cosmic opportunity? Whinge about Nathan. It turns out that the pair were on opposite sides of the back door and since the 1940s, had traded barbs, patronising remarks and the unkindest of insults, as well as long periods of decidedly cold snubs. Why? It might go back to the quarry. Seemed like it.
Turns out Nathan has something of a class consciousness, as does Dale. To the casual observer, the red bricks and sandy/orangey bricks that make up many homes, such as this one, are merely same but different, however in the kiln, red bricks have the better silica and alumina, plus iron oxide, which makes them red, resulting in a more durable, and it should be said, better brick. Both of course, were aware of this. Who started it, neither can say, but the mutual antagonism was clearly, deeply ingrained. And complex. Nathan has the air of a fighter. Perhaps with a chip on his shoulder, or corner. Not to suggest he is lacking in sensitivity or nuance, but that’s the first trait you’re likely to see. Dale, on the other hand, has more of an aristocratic bearing. Turn the clock back, and he might have been an eloquent charmer.
Self assured, gregarious, perhaps a little conceited. Time has not been that kind to Dale, not with the relentless abrasions between he and Nathan. For his part, Nathan has been the more durable or persistent of the two. Grievance can be such a driving force. What if they were separated in the rebuild? Dale would most likely be over the moon. Nathan, not so easy to tell. Is he pondering a ‘devil you know’, scenario? It would make sense.
Len and Theresa, on the other hand, are profoundly dreading the prospect of separation. They’d been side by side a few rows below the back window, and couldn’t be happier. The years seemed to have passed by in a blink. The back yard had gone from a parched grass scape to verdant shrubbery. All the greats were there, you had your Australian Cheesewoods, camellias, Agapanthus and Camphor Laurel, beautiful. And with views across the Wombat Forest, their outlooks were quite nice. They’d never had a row, never a cross word. They were like golden era grandparents from the word go. Sure, the odd crack or fracture had developed over time, but ce la vie. They were in a world of contentment. Until now. Abruptly hacked out of their blissful companionship and strewn across the ground, this was not their idea of a good day.
Geraldine, from the west wall, was an utter cow. Nothing could scorn like she could. She barely missed an opportunity to cast an aspersion or deliver some kind of unkind judgement, often thinly disguised as something else. It could be a snide remark, an unnecessary or insensitive observation or a brittle, two faced compliment, but it would be there. It was as though she invented the double entendre.
Geraldine possessed not an atom of kindness or compassion. When Keith slowly developed compound fractures, obviously not his fault, she never missed an opportunity to remind him. Oh Keith, have you heard about that terrible drug called crack? Help me this crossword Keith, five letters, rhymes with track. Or putting on her Bogan voice would call, Hey Keith, show us your crack! It goes on. What could Keith do about it, nothing, of course. They say it actually sped up his fracture. Geraldine has made life a misery for the other bricks around her. And as a corner brick, she was able to cast her deplorable net a fair distance. If she would harangue and harass another brick, on even the flimsiest of pretexts, she would.
Poor Denise just lacked confidence.
Quiet and, let’s face it, a bit withdrawn, she clearly struggled in
the public domain. And where did she end up in her life’s journey, a row
beneath Geraldine. A good day for Denise was when Geraldine had someone
else in her frigid glare and was dedicating her petty malice towards them,
otherwise it was back to the usual condescension’s, acerbic remarks or
impatient tut-tutting. But all that was about to change. From lording it from
over her in her corner for decades, she was about to be relocated.
Denise, for one, was counting the days and hours, but an inner dread had recently gripped her, what if she ended up directly below or even beside Geraldine in the rebuild?
It was entirely possible that she could end up even closer, and
even more in the gun. But it was statistically more likely, that the two would
end up further apart, and the dominance that one had so assiduously
developed, would suddenly vanish. By now her reputation was quite well
known, and as they say, you make your bed and then you lie it. Geraldine
would never show it, but she was growing increasingly anxious about the
imminent change. And the thought that she could even end up near to
Genevieve, was really, highly concerning.
For if, as they say attack is the best defence, then Geraldine must have had
something massive to defend, but no one could ever get under her skin to get
anywhere near probing that. Her brick walling strategy had been entirely successful. But Genevieve was made of different, sterner stuff.
A piercing, imperious intellect, an expert of the long, pregnant pause and
possessed of a penetrating, ultra dry wit, which could be absolutely merciless,
if that was her whim. Most likely she would commence their new
acquaintanceship politely enough, but it would only be a matter of time before
a miniscule probe might occur, developing at some stage into a carefully
measured aside. Which could, or almost certainly would, in turn grow into a
febrile, territorial quest. The gallery of neighbours and those in the know
would all be backing Genevieve She would ensure that the good old days
would be over for Geraldine, if it came to pass. And there wouldn’t be a single
brick Geraldine could turn to.
For Mark, the impending rebuild and relocation was incredibly high stakes.
Closer to Joanne would be a dream come true, a beautiful swoon, a
moonshot of fulfillment. But further apart would be an insufferable heartache.
It all started casually enough. The goings on at a nearby wren nest, many
generations ago, was the catalyst for almost daily chatting. Over time the topic
list expanded. The trajectory of neighbouring children from infants to
adolescents and eventually adults was fertile ground. A car long stationary in a nearby back yard was an ongoing concern. Or the questionable standards of the local Councils road maintenance program or the current state of leaves in the guttering. There was always something going on.
Always something intriguing and deserving of a thoughtful and at times
lengthy examination. It had been like this for who knows how long, but
beneath the surface, Mark had progressively become besotted with Joanne.
He was near bonkers with passion and desire. He was almost spare before a
conversation would commence, and virtually inconsolable after it had
concluded. During their conversations, it would appear to any passerby, merely the casual chatting of two locals, passing the time.
If there was one thing Mark didn’t want to do, it was to go and drop his long and deeply harboured feelings into Joannes’s lap, so to speak.
To blurt out his heartfelt passion. To create a scene. That could put Joanne in a highly awkward situation from which a polite rejection, probably by changing the subject or realising what the time was, would be the most diplomatic response. That would be crushing. It would open up a bottomless chasm for Mark. A misstep like that could be catastrophic.
For her part, Joanne seemed to be playing her cards close to her chest, if in fact she had any cards. It was quite clear that she took some interest in their conversations, but along the way, had she at any stage intimated that
perhaps, in the fullness of time, their chats could development into something
of a more personal nature? Not really. Or to be entirely honest, no. But to Mark, that didn’t mean she did not have those desires. Or that Joanne could also carrying a massive torch. She too, could be sitting on a volcano of unrequited passion. It was too hard to tell. It was especially too hard to tell at the distance that separated them.
The lottery of where they could end up was the stuff of dreams and crushing fear. He’d caught sight of the Brickie a few days ago. The transformation was
imminent. Marks raison d’être was in his hands.
To be continued.
Scorch McBurn
10/25