An Iron Rose by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online

remember his name, lived out on Cribbin Road. Dead now. They’re all dead.’
     
    ‘There wouldn’t be photographs, would there?’ I said.
     
    The taller woman sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Don’t talk about photos. There’s a whole room of unsorted photos. Mr Collits was in charge of photographs. Wouldn’t give anyone else a look-in, would he, Elsie?’
     
    ‘He’s not around anymore?’
     
    She shook her head. ‘Blessing, really. Had a terrible time.’
     
    ‘I told the committee we needed to appoint someone to sort the photos,’ Elsie said. ‘But will they do anything practical?’
     
    ‘These men who worked at Harkness Park,’ I said, ‘do they have family still here?’
     
    ‘Why don’t you just go out there and knock on the door?’ Elsie said. ‘It’s still in the family. Some cousin or something got it.’
     
    ‘They sold it. I’m interested in knowing what it was like twenty or thirty years ago.’
     
    ‘Col Harris’s boy’s here,’ the taller one said. ‘Dennis. Saw him a few weeks ago. Wife went off with the kids. Shouldn’t say that. He works for Deering’s. They’re building the big retirement village, y’know.’
     
    I said thanks and had a look around the museum. It was like a meticulously arranged garage sale: nothing was of much value or of any great age, but assembling the collection had clearly given the organisers a lot of pleasure.
     
    Finding the new retirement village wasn’t a problem. It was at an early stage, a paddock of wet, ravaged earth, concrete slabs and a few matchstick timber frames going up.
     
    A man at the site hut pointed out Dennis Harris on one of the slabs, a big man in his forties with long hair, cutting studs to length with a dropsaw. At my approach, he switched it off and slid back his ear protectors. Dennis’s eyes said he didn’t think I was the man from Tattslotto.
     
    ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘Ladies at the museum thought you could help me.’
     
    ‘Museum?’ Deep suspicion, stiff shoulders.
     
    ‘They said your father worked at Harkness Park. I’m trying to find old photos of the place.’
     
    Dennis’s shoulders relaxed. He nodded. ‘There’s pictures in his old album. Lots. He used to work in the vegie garden when he was a young fella. Before the war. Huge. Wall around it. There was five gardeners there.’
     
    We arranged to meet at the pub after knock-off. Dennis brought the album. ‘Take it and copy what you want,’ he said.
     
    ‘I could give you some kind of security for it,’ I said.
     
    ‘Nah. What kind of bloke pinches old photos? Just bring it back.’
     
    I bought him a beer and we talked about building. Then I drove home and rang Stan.
     
    ‘Research,’ I said. ‘Paid for by the hour. I’ve got photographs from the 1930s.’
     
    ‘No you haven’t, lad,’ he said. ‘Not yet. Not enough hours.’
     

Ten minutes into the last quarter, it began to rain, freezing rain, driven into our faces by a wind that had passed over pack ice in its time. We only needed a kick to win but nobody could hold the ball, let alone get a boot to it. We were sliding around, falling over, trying to recognise our own side under the mudpacks. Mick Doolan was shouting instructions from the sideline but no-one paid any attention. We were completely knackered. Finally, close to time, we had some luck: a big bloke came out of the mist and broke Scotty Ewan’s nose with a vicious swing of the elbow. Even in the rain, you could hear the cartilage crunch. Scotty was helped off, streaming blood, and we got a penalty.
    ‘Take the kick, Mac,’ said Billy Garrett, the captain. He would normally take the kick in situations like this, but since the chance of putting it through was nil, he thought it best that I lose the game for Brockley.
     
    ‘Privilege,’ I said, spitting out some mud. ‘Count on my vote for skipper next year. Skipper.’
     
    I was right in front of goal but the wind was lifting my upper lip. I