Cooper Bartholomew is Dead by Rebecca James

Author:Rebecca James
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2014-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

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As I showed Cooper around my house, I couldn’t help being conscious of the vast differences between our homes. I’d never before thought of our three-bedroom house as being particularly large or luxurious, but compared to Cooper’s it was both. The ceilings were high, the halls wide, the rooms generous. We had a relatively modern kitchen and an open-plan living area. French doors led out to a leafy backyard.

When we were in the dining area, Mum emerged from the study. She had her glasses perched on top of her head, and looked rumpled and tired. No doubt she’d been writing an essay and slogging through piles of old legal judgements. I was nervous introducing them, but Cooper did all the right things, reached out to shake Mum’s hand, smiled warmly, asked polite questions. I could tell that she was charmed.

We had to do the whole tea and conversation thing again. Mum made a pot of tea, arranged chocolate biscuits on a plate. Just as we’d done at Cooper’s, we took it to the kitchen table. Cooper flashed me a bemused look as we took our seats.

Mum got straight into the interrogation. ‘So, Cooper?’ she asked. ‘You work with Cameron Woodley?’

‘Yep. Making furniture.’

‘You didn’t ever think of going to uni?’

I glared at her. If I could have done it surreptitiously enough I would have kicked her in the shin.

‘I did think of it,’ Cooper said, unfazed. ‘But I wanted to get out and earn some money first.’

Mum nodded.

‘And when I started down at the shed I realised I liked it. There’s actually a real craft involved in working with timber. And I’m good at it. I want to learn what I can from Cameron and try to get work in Sydney. Start up my own thing eventually.’

‘Why Sydney?’

‘Because there’s more money and I’m going to need people with money to buy the kind of stuff I want to make.’

‘And what kind of stuff is that?’

‘Bespoke furniture. Handcrafted original pieces.’

‘What’s the difference?’ Mum asked, laying her palm flat on the table. ‘Take this for example. I bought it at Casey’s. I don’t suppose it’s a one-off. But how would you even know?’

He bent over, his head disappearing beneath the table for a moment. When he emerged he grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s obviously mass-made. The joints are nailed together, the legs are held on with metal brackets. There’s no give in it at all.’

‘And that’s not good?’

‘It’s okay. It’s fine. But it won’t last a hundred years. A piece made the traditional way, with proper mortice and tenon joints, can last forever.’

Mum laughed. ‘But why would I even want my table to last forever?’

‘You might not. Lots of people don’t care.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you want a family heirloom, a special piece of furniture, something that lasts for hundreds of years . . . well, that’s what I want to make.’

I piped up then and changed the subject. I asked Mum what she’d been studying

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