by Tess Evans
Finn didn’t actually go out of his way to befriend him, of course, but Sandy was a dutiful nephew to his Aunt Lily, and so it was inevitable that he and Finn should eventually meet. When Finn first arrived, Sandy was away, so it was nearly two months before this happened. Finn was working on Mrs Pargetter’s vegie patch when her nephew arrived with Errol VI.
‘Dog. For Aunt Lily,’ puffed Sandy. ‘She’ll call it Errol. Always does.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘George Sandilands. Call me Sandy. I’m her nephew,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘I come in every now and then to see how the old girl’s doing. She talks to her dog, you know. Last one died a couple of months ago, while I was away. Time for a new one.’ He looked at Finn expectantly.
‘Good dog,’ Finn said, stooping to pat the shaggy head. ‘Nice to meet you, Errol.’
That’s how Finn came to have a weekly cup of tea with Mrs Pargetter and her despised nephew. Sandy did most of the talking, but that was alright. The other two were good listeners, and Sandy somehow felt more valued in Finn’s presence. There was no blame or scorn in the dark blue eyes that regarded him with such courteous attention. Finn hadn’t known the Major, hadn’t known Rosie, and Sandy could be more who he was, who he wanted to be, with Finn.
Finn, in turn, tolerated Sandy for his neighbour’s sake but found the big man’s garrulousness irksome. His morning teas with Mrs Pargetter had been quiet affairs. They discussed the weather, the garden, her knitting. There were many comfortable silences. Now here was her nephew, full of his own importance, dominating the conversation.
In fairness, Finn had to admit Sandy was good to his aunt. He would hover around her solicitously: Do you want me to stoke up the fire, Aunt Lily? Can I get you something from the shops? I’ll send Macca around to fix that switch. While Mrs Pargetter tended to be ungracious (Stop fussing, Sandy, she’d say irritably), Finn would notice the warring emotions that passed over her face when her nephew came in.
‘He was such a pretty little boy—copper curls just like his mother,’ she told Finn once. ‘And the sweetest smile. When he went to boarding school we couldn’t wait for the holidays. I’d make him a nice cream sponge. He loved passionfruit icing. Aunt Lily, he’d say, I’ve been waiting all term for your passionfruit cream sponge. He’d tuck away at least two slices,’ she continued with satisfaction. ‘He always had a good appetite—’ She broke off abruptly. ‘Well, that was then and this is now. Time does strange things to people.’ She couldn’t forgive him for his betrayal of Rosie, which she had watched with increasing dismay as the years passed.
Finn was returning with his newspaper one day when Sandy pulled up in his dusty BMW. Ambivalent about whether he wanted to impress or fit in, Sandy drove a luxury car but didn’t clean it. Half the topsoil of the Opportunity district camouflaged its dark blue duco.
‘Do you mind if we have a word, mate?’
Finn did mind but stepped aside for the other man, who was already bustling through the gate, brandishing a roll of paper.
‘Tea? Coffee? I don’t have any beer.’
‘Not to worry. Tea’ll do.’ And Sandy cleared a space on the kitchen table to spread out the roll of paper, arranging a sugar bowl, an ashtray and two books to hold down the corners. ‘There,’ he said. ‘What do you think? This is just a draft, of course.’
Finn squinted in bafflement at the sketches. ‘Just a draft, then?’
‘Yep. Once I get the concept right, I’ll call in proper engineers and such. Just wanted to know what you thought.’
‘Er, I’d need to know the detail. It’s . . . still a concept, you 137 say?’
Sandy finally took the hint. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m getting ahead of myself. You know the Big Banana, the Big Pineapple, the Big Merino and so on? Well, this is the Great Galah. It’ll be the making of the town. Tourists love that kind of stuff.’
Finn looked more closely at the sketches. Yes, there was no mistaking; it was a large, unwieldy-looking bird, its giant wings outspread. He struggled for a response. ‘Any reason for a galah? Aren’t they seen as a bit of a pest?’
‘That’s the beauty of it. This area is full of galahs. They drive the farmers crazy. What I’m doing is turning a negative into a positive.’ He beamed. ‘In the future, we’re talking theme park. Big money. Serious money.’
Could Sandy be for real? Finn listened for irony and heard only enthusiasm. He needed to find a respectful but discouraging response. ‘The town could certainly do with some help. But is this the way to go? The Big Banana and Pineapple are up north, with beaches and that sort of thing.’ He brightened as a foolproof objection presented itself. ‘I doubt that we’d get funding in a place like this.’
‘Not a problem. It would be my gift to the town. A memorial to my father, Major Sandilands, DSO and Bar.’ It was a cool day, but he mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief and went on: ‘My family were pioneers of this district, you know. Been here since the gold rush. But now all the young people are leaving. We don’t have many families left in town, and some of the farmers are close to broke.’ He looked soberly at his friend. ‘I don’t want the town to die, Finn. It’s my home.’
Moved in spite of himself, and racking his brains for something to say, Finn looked back at the sketch for inspiration. Steps led up into the belly region, where a door was labelled SOUVENIR SHOP. There was what appeared to be a corkscrew slide from head to tail, terminating in a swimming pool. Tables and umbrellas sprouted under one wing and there seemed to be a kind of lookout in the beak. The space under the second wing bore a question mark.
‘Nothing under the second wing, then?’ Finn was relieved to find something to say.
‘Not yet. Maybe we could run a competition. You know, so locals can have some input.’
Finn imagined the kind of input locals would offer. He weighed his words carefully. ‘A very interesting idea, Sandy. Challenging. Maybe a bit, you know, innovative for Opportunity? You might need to bide your time. Take things slowly.’
Since then Sandy had visited Finn several times to discuss revisions to his sketches. Finn knew he had to tell Sandy just how ridiculous his plan really was. Next time, he’d say to himself. Next time I’ll tell him straight. And next time he’d look into Sandy’s naively hopeful eyes and his courage would fail him. ‘I just couldn’t bring myself to crush the man’s dream,’ Finn explained to Moss as they returned from the pub with Mrs Pargetter. ‘I suggested he keep it under wraps and we’d talk about it until the idea is fully fleshed out. I should’ve stopped things right there, that first day, but to be honest, I’m too much of a coward.’
‘That boy has always been a bit soft in the head, if you ask me,’ sniffed Mrs Pargetter. ‘His father was right: he is a great galah.’
‘He has his good points.’ Finn thought of the dogs, the knitting wool that appeared regularly in Mrs Pargetter’s letterbox, and the money left under the teapot after her nephew’s visits. But he didn’t say anything about those things. Not even to Moss.
The next day, Sandy spread his plans out once more on Finn’s table. The frayed edges betrayed the many other unfoldings these plans had endured in the loneliness of Sandy’s sprawling farmhouse.
‘Can’t you see, Finn? Tourism is the only way to save a town like ours. The Balfours are leaving next week. We’re bleeding people, mate.’
Finn sighed. ‘I like the quiet. That’s why I came here. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see tourist buses lined up in the footy ground car park.’ He tried a comradely grin.
The footy ground was a sore point, and Sandy looked up sharply. ‘Better tourist buses than to see the oval unused. Since the Knockers merged with the Mystic Wombats it’s become a wasteland. I played cricket there in my young days. And footy. Only the Seconds, but I did my bit. I bet you didn’t know that Dad won the Best and Fairest award three times? Even the trophy was named in honour of my grandfather, Nugget Sandilands. They reckon he won the 1912 grand final off his own boot.’
Finn tried to concentrate but was bec
oming annoyed at the incursions this man was making into his life. He shook his head in despair. The wretched plans were more elaborate than ever.
He suddenly tuned in to what Sandy was saying. ‘The shire engineer? You’ve submitted the plans to the shire engineer?’
‘Honestly, Finn. Sometimes I wonder if you listen to a word I say. Tomorrow. I’m meeting with him tomorrow, in Cradle-town. He’s had the plans for weeks.’
Finn felt the weight of responsibility begin to lift. The shire engineer could be the assassin.
‘So you can come, then, Finn? I’ll pick you up at ten thirty.’ And he was gone before Finn could think of an excuse.
The shire engineer was an ambitious young man, totally devoid of imagination. His grave demeanour and careful grooming were evidence that he took both himself and his position very seriously indeed. He shook hands gravely, with just the right amount of pressure to assert his authority.
Pompous git, thought Finn as they were ushered into the office.
Smugly ensconced behind his large desk, the shire engineer sat back and steepled his fingers. ‘So, Mr Sandilands. You want to build a tourist attraction.’ He referred to his notes and frowned. ‘A tourist attraction called, er, the Great Galah. And these,’ he indicated the blueprints, ‘are your plans.’
Sandy started to speak, but was silenced by a gesture. ‘I’m afraid I cannot approve these plans, Mr Sandilands . . .’
Finn felt both pity and relief. Sandy would take it hard, but at least he wouldn’t be humiliated.
The engineer continued: ‘. . . I cannot approve them until certain safety aspects are dealt with.’
Finn stared in disbelief. What did he say?
‘I understand all that. This is just the concept stage,’ Sandy said. ‘Once I know the regulations, I’ll have them drawn up by a proper engineer.’
‘I will give your project every consideration,’ said the smug young man. ‘My job is to ensure all building and safety regulations are in place. Then I pass it on to the town planner and then to the business subcommittee . . .’
‘You mean, Mr Sandilands could invest in fully developed plans and have town planning or the business subcommittee knock it back?’
‘That’s the system, Mr . . .’
Finn just stared at him and the young man was forced to refer again to his notes.
‘That’s the system, Mr Clancy. It has served us well until now.’ He gathered his papers and stood up. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Sandilands; Mr Clancy. I look forward to the next stage of your project.’
Finn groaned inwardly. Project! Now this crazy scheme was a project!
Sandy babbled excitedly all the way home and Finn was required to say little. ‘Bloody engineer,’ he swore softly to himself more than once. ‘Officious, smart-–arsed engineer.’
Sandy stopped at one of Cradletown’s bakeries and bought a cream sponge and several iced doughnuts.
‘We’ll celebrate with Aunt Lily and Moss,’ he said, climbing back into the car. He grinned broadly. ‘Plenty to celebrate, mate. I think we can safely say that we’ve passed stage one.’
Finn shook his head in disbelief. So now it was not only a project but had a stage one, implying God knows how many other stages. He had to disentangle himself somehow before it became public knowledge.
When Sandy burst in with the news, Moss was privately stunned but his aunt was sanguine.
‘I must admit that I thought it was a silly notion at first, but if the shire engineer thinks it’s a good idea . . .’ The old lady trailed off vaguely. ‘Well, it must be a good idea, mustn’t it?’
Finn bit into his sponge slice and tried another tack. ‘Your Memorial Park project’s coming on nicely, Sandy,’ he said. ‘You need to be sure this other thing doesn’t take your time from that.’
Moss remembered the green oasis and the cenotaph. ‘What project’s that, Sandy?’
‘Well, when the lawns started to die and we weren’t allowed to water, I brought in synthetic turf . . .’
‘Synthetic turf ?’ Nothing was quite what it seemed.
Sandy shrugged. ‘No other solution, as far as I could see. Some people objected, but once the lawns died off completely, the council gave the go-ahead. Helen Porter and the girls from the Country Women’s have done some replanting of the gardens with drought-resistant shrubs. A couple of them use some of their waste water on the trees.’
‘So there are some people who haven’t given up, then?’ said Moss.
‘Really it’s just me, Helen and one or two others. Everyone cares, but the job just seems too big, so a lot of them have given up trying. They’re happy enough to survive, but I want more. I want us to progress.’
The other three looked at Sandy. A visionary without charisma. An eccentric with a passion. An obese, sweaty giant with a tiny voice and lonely eyes. A little boy who was broken by his father, thought Mrs Pargetter. A kind man who keeps Errol alive and fills my letterbox with wool. She patted his arm.
‘Have another doughnut,’ she offered. And he heard echoes of his mother, Rosie.
11
Jilly Baker and Amber-Lee
JILLY’S MOTHER, PATTY, HAD BEEN a wilful child, and with the onset of puberty she became uncontrollable. Her family were ‘nice’, as people say, and her parents spent many sleepless nights wondering if she’d been raped and pushed off the pier or had crashed on one of the motorbikes that revved impatiently outside the house as she applied another coat of mascara. They felt an odd relief, then, when they found out she was pregnant, at the age of seventeen, to a nineteen-year-old apprentice carpenter.
‘This will slow her down,’ her parents agreed. ‘She’s a bit wild, but a good girl, really. And he does have a steady job.’
His family were less pleased, but in a manner that harked back to another era, the young couple were married in Black-pool at St Stephen-on-the-Cliffs while the bride still had a waist. Patty was radiant in white, and her mother tearful in violet. Her sister, Ellen, was sceptical in cerise chiffon.
Jillian Maree was born seven months later, and the young parents were delighted to show off their pretty daughter. But despite her parents’ optimism, Patty failed to settle down to motherhood. The wedding and the birth had only temporarily satisfied her need for attention and excitement, and domestic life in Blackpool left her irritable and discontented, her love for her baby being tenuous at best. Fortunately for the child she had a sweet little face, and Patty would play at dressing her, sometimes changing her clothes four or five times before she was satisfied. Her parents took comfort in the fact that at least she was giving her daughter some attention.
Her young husband would come home to find that his wife had bought an expensive new dress for their daughter and one for herself in a matching colour.
‘We can’t afford to spend that sort of money on clothes,’ he would say, holding his wife’s hand. ‘When I finish my apprenticeship we’ll be fine, but for now . . .’
Patty would pull her hand away. ‘Well, I’m sorry if I want our daughter to look nice. Thank goodness one of us loves her.’
But Andy Baker did love his daughter. He had loved her from the moment he saw her wizened little newborn face; he loved the way she crawled to the door when she heard his key in the lock; he loved the way she giggled when he blew on her tummy. She was his little Jilly-muffin, and when he bent over her cot to kiss her goodnight he felt his chest tighten with love and fear.
Like Moss, Jilly’s earliest memory was of the seaside. It was a mild summer day, and her parents took her for a paddle and ice-cream at Blackpool Pier. Her Aunty Ellen and family came with them. Jilly’s cousin Meg brought her dog, a King Charles spaniel called Mr Pie, a puzzling name that seven-year-old Meg had insisted upon. They asked a passerby to take their photo; this would be the only memento that Jilly had of her childhood. There they were, holding ice-creams in various stages of consumption. Her mother pouted and posed in her denim shorts and halter-neck top. Aunty Ellen was holding baby Ma
tthew, and Meg was grinning down at Mr Pie. Uncle Harry was scratching his ear, and her father, a dark-haired young man of twenty-four, was holding Jilly’s hand. She remembered the strawberry ice-cream and the warmth of her father’s body. She remembered how, later, he put her up on his shoulders and danced with her along the pier. She’d been afraid of the clown. He had a scary white face and false red smile.
No-one understood why Patty took Jilly with her when she left. Perhaps it was to spite Andy. Maybe, at the last minute, some maternal feeling prevailed. Nevertheless, she had Jilly with her when she disappeared with a New Zealand tourist called Brad.
Family relationships are complex, and it was almost with a sense of reprieve that her parents realised that Patty was now beyond their assistance. They felt a burden lift as they came to understand that they would no longer have to justify her actions or bear witness to the daily evidence of her selfishness. But they could not so easily reconcile themselves to the loss of Jilly. She had been a happy and affectionate little soul and they missed her dreadfully, mourning her as though she were dead.
Andy Baker had accepted some time ago that he no longer loved Patty. He didn’t even like her much, and would have celebrated her desertion if it weren’t for the fact that she took their daughter—his daughter—with her. He was nearly mad with grief. Coming home from work with the forlorn hope that she might have returned, he would pause at the front door and listen in vain for the sound of her little voice calling to him: Is that you, Daddy? Here I are, Daddy. And his arms ached to swing her up, and his face longed to feel her soft little cheek against his. He spent every spare penny trying to locate her.
He finally tracked them down to Sydney, where Patty and Jilly were living with a new man, Serg. Court orders were issued giving him access to his daughter, but Patty was always on the move and changed her name many times. The trail had gone cold by the time Patty—now calling herself Monique Tyler— and her daughter finally settled in Perth with Brian who, unlike Patty’s other lovers, tried to be a father to Jilly.