At Hell's Gate by Mark Abernethy

Author:Mark Abernethy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan Australia
Published: 2017-10-20T04:00:00+00:00

1

The conversation started off okay, and I thought we were making progress. There’s me and Tom at the table at the Moorabbin RSL, and there’s Pete and Bruce on the other side. It’s a tradie meeting of the type you sometimes have to have. Subbie shit, money crap. Pete and Tom have a dispute about a concrete pour that went wrong and it has set back Tom’s ability to get other things done, which cost him a lot of money with progress payments and then having to dip into the overdraft – something he’d kept high and dry for another job. It was Butterfly Effect stuff.

Pete is saying that the architect specified the job incorrectly, gave vague gradient information and asked for a certain concrete grade, so the reo and formwork was done in a certain way and the concrete type ordered was the one specified. The pour didn’t take properly and the council inspector wants it fixed. Lots of gnashing of teeth: angry property owner, angry council, angry Tom, angry Pete. A cluster of fucks in tradieland.

So we’ve had a meal and we’re on our second beers and Bruce and I are the ‘lawyers’ in the dispute, asking the questions, taking notes, getting timelines and financials absolutely nailed down. I’m with Tom; Bruce is Pete’s mate. But we’re not like lawyers, trying to get an argument into court and fleece everyone with fees. We’ll meet in a couple of days – just us two – and come to a decision about where the fault lies in this dispute and who has to give who a handful of money. It’s not looking good for Pete: he may be able to lay the initial blame at the architect’s feet, but he also sent a junior crew and they did the job off the notes rather than re-specify the job and do another quote. I’m known as being a bit picky, myself. Before I give a quote I go on-site, walk the property, take my own measurements, crawl under the house, shine the torch, kick the tyres. That sort of thing. I don’t rely on drawings and this dispute in front of me is living testament to why.

‘We good?’ I said to Bruce, who I could tell was going to blame this on his mate Pete and then try to minimise the damages. On behalf of Tom I’d accept a $5000 cash payment and Pete doing the job properly. He’d baulk at that because of the amount of time he’d have to take ripping up the failed pour. But he might say yes so that he could limit the cash component and not end up in the crosshairs of both the owner and the council. My way forward would keep everyone working and reduce council involvement.

‘We’re good,’ said Bruce, and the four of us shook hands and I made to go but Tom wanted to stay because he had some money on a trots meeting in Adelaide and the TAB screens were humming.

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