She coaxed him to take a seat at the outdoor table setting he had bought for them not six weeks ago. Once he sat down, it didn’t feel as though the property was his at all. Something was different. Between his property and Neema’s was the Ashforths’ place; he noticed that they had hacked down the enormous jasmine crawler that had been there since forever. He looked up at his own house and was a little shocked at how visible it appeared through the fronds of the palm tree next to Neema’s deck. Beyond his house, the sun was withering into the creases of the Kollala Ranges. A translucent projection of yellow from the distant hinterland pressed up into the pallid sky as voluminous clouds cloaked the southern constellations.
‘View is beautiful here, but yours is better. More er …’ She groped, embarrassed, for the right word and a line appeared between her eyebrows. ‘You have more sky,’ she said, finally. ‘You have more horizon.’
The thick ferns in the garden rustled like dull chimes. He settled back into the plastic chair and heard it creak under his weight.
She brought out platter after platter of food to the middle of the table. She seemed less anxious now and wholly absorbed in the comforting organisation of the food she had cooked. She reached for his dinner plate and began to serve. He’d learned this was customary in her country. The sinew that ran along the upper part of her arm trembled with the weight of the plate in her hand. Her neck glistened as the afternoon’s humidity conspired with the steam of her kitchen. The gentle bump in the middle of her nose, he hadn’t noticed it before, no larger than a split pea, was small enough to lick off, if that were possible. The idea of the pea dragged his eyes further down, past her mouth and chin. She was married, damn it. He looked away at an Indian myna bird that twitched and stared at him accusingly on the decking rail.
Neema placed a heaving plate in front of him. It was a spectacle of colour and aroma. She’d given him a quarter of a roasted chicken, nestled on a bed of potatoes. The chicken’s leg was pointed impolitely into the air. Small meatballs poked out of a puddle of red sauce and next to that there was zucchini stuffed with something looking like rice. He knew how much effort went into the preparation of her meals. Something came over him when he ate her food. It roused him and comforted him and warmed him through.
He filled his fork. Heat seared his tongue and flushed his head. He couldn’t hold back the coughs. She’d damn near burnt his mouth out. He’d forgotten how much chilli was in her food. He smiled graciously and drained all the water from a tall glass.
‘You okay?’ She smiled back, all innocence. As if she didn’t know.
He looked at his wrist watch. Fred was likely to be home soon. ‘So tell me, what are you doing with yourself these days?’
She made a wry face and shrugged. ‘Very quiet town.’
‘Did you have a swim at the bay today?’
‘Yes I did.’ Her face glowed. ‘Water was very beautiful and warm.’
‘Was the money beautiful as well? Was your pocket warm afterwards?’ He raised an eyebrow but continued eating.
‘Hah?’ It was Neema’s turn to cough and reach for the water glass. ‘What money you talk about, Tom?’
‘Well, I’ve been hearing things about you. You’re quite the entrepreneur, setting up shop on the pier with that Pritchett girl. My pier, I might add.’ He put his cutlery down and pulled gingerly at the piece of chicken on his plate until the drumstick came away in his hands. He bit into the tender flesh of the thigh and groped at the crispy skin with his lips. It was damn near perfect.
‘You hear about this? When you find out?’
‘Today,’ he said. ‘I just found out today. Course, I always hear about things. If it weren’t for me those blokes from the construction site wouldn’t have jobs, wouldn’t have the money to buy the food and whatnot you’ve been selling them.’
‘We do this for three days. Only for three days.’
‘And tell me exactly … what it is that you’re doing?’
‘We sell food. Cakes. Sandwiches.’ She frowned. ‘Why you say the pier belongs to you? Frank Pritchett, he owns the pier.’
‘I suppose your Pritchett friend told you that. You can’t trust anything said by a Pritchett. They lack the decency gene.’
‘You know Goldie?’
‘I know her uncle. That’s enough Pritchett in one lifetime. He is one nasty piece of work. I own the pier, but he owns the land adjacent to it. You see, that land used to be owned by my family before my grandad lost it. Well, he gambled it … signed away the papers. But not the pier, he never signed over the pier.’
‘I didn’t know. You want me to stop? Is okay, we stop.’
Tom watched her neck turn scarlet and felt like a conceited maggot straight away. He looked down at his hands. ‘Thing is … hearing about what you’ve been up to has given me an idea.’
Neema pressed her index finger onto the rim of the plate where a pool of tahini had dribbled. He watched sideways as she absently put her finger on the tip of her tongue as though she were administering a drop of medicine. He took another bite of chicken.
‘I wouldn’t normally talk business over a beautiful dinner like this … but I figure that this is a conversation,’ he lowered his voice, ‘we should have without Fred around. I have a hunch he doesn’t know about the spare change in your pocket.’
Neema shooed away a file of ants from the border of the table.
‘Didn’t think so,’ he said softly.
He pushed some onion pieces to the side of the plate with his knife. The smell of onion would be coming off his skin by tomorrow morning.
‘Tell me, Neema, why do you do this?’
‘I do it because it gives me some money. I meet people. I swim in the bay. I laugh with Goldie. Better than being at home. Why not?’ She crossed one leg over the other defiantly.
He kept his gaze focused on the darkening garden beyond the deck for fear that if he stole a glance at her smooth, taut legs he would be unable to stop himself from staring. ‘Look, it’s not that I object to what you and the Pritchett girl are doing, it’s the sort of thing I admire in a person … but it’s not exactly above board. You get what I’m saying?’
Neema bit her bottom lip.
‘I have a proposition for you.’
‘What is proposition?’
‘It’s like a proposal. I propose to set you up in a proper kiosk … in a houseboat that we’ll moor at the end of the pier. As it happens, I own a houseboat. Well, I share one with my brother. You’ll manage the kiosk and prepare the food. We’ll keep the kiosk running for the duration of the construction.’
‘What about the cafeteria strike? I hear it will finish in a few days. No one will come to … kiosk.’ She stumbled on the word.
‘The cafeteria food is awful. Cheap, yes, but awful too. Now that creates opportunity. Strike or no strike, you’ve created something. But there are hurdles. There are always hurdles.’ The main hurdle was Frank Pritchett throwing up a stink about people walking over his land to get to the pier.
He looked up at the roof of the verandah. A lizard carcass was being pecked at by another lizard. It turned his stomach when like ate like. He thought of his father on his back with his bloodied mouth gaping open in the destroyed remains of his flipped-over car.
‘Look, I’ve eaten your food many times now, and I’m backing you. I’d back your food any day. I think this proposal will bring in money for both of us. We’ll both win. And it will all be above board. Now, the construction company I’ve contracted won’t care if there is a kiosk at the bay because it’s the union that requires them to provide subsidised meals to the blokes on site. It’s already built into their cost, so no problem there.’ His cheek twitched. A union brouhaha was always a possibility.
‘The houseboat has a little kitchen. And you’ll have shelter so you’ll be comfortable whether it’s hot, raining, or whatnot. That’s the first rule of running a business, you have to be consistent and you have to be reliable.’
‘This is
business rule, eh?’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘You can teach me how to make business, yes, this is very good idea.’ Her lips widened into an expansive smile. She tugged at her ears, and gently stroked her earrings with her fingers. He noticed she was blushing. She dropped her hands and clasped them firmly in her lap, as though she didn’t trust her fingers unshackled.
‘So you are interested in running my kiosk?’
‘Yes, all above board. Kiosk is such funny word.’
‘We could have it open for lunch. Of course, you’d be working longer than that, you’d have to take into account setting-up time, cleaning up and closing. It might take the entire day.’
‘We,’ she repeated. ‘We work together?’
‘Not directly … I’ll set it up. You’d be my manager. My employee.’
She nodded thoughtfully. A tiny sliver of parsley was stuck to her bottom lip.
‘But you’re also my cook. Your food is the star attraction, so I’ve got to make this an appealing deal for you. As my employee I will pay you a fair wage, but I will give you an active interest. Do you know what an active interest means?’ he continued. ‘Once you bring in a certain amount, you’ll be entitled to a bonus. We can decide what that is later. For now, let’s say that if you make more than twenty dollars per week, then you’ll get a cut of the amount exceeding twenty dollars. This would be on top of your regular wage. It won’t be easy. I’ll set you a tough hurdle. Call it an incentive to work hard. Sound okay to you?’
‘Sounds very okay to me.’ She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I earn money and whatnot and I take swim every day. Your boat is an old boat, you say?’
‘We called her Big Bertha. Anyway, about this Pritchett girl … I really can’t have her in the picture. I’d like to get rid of her.’
Neema crossed her arms firmly across her chest and shook her head. Her plump lips disappeared into a thin line.
‘Thought that was the case,’ he sighed. ‘I don’t want any Pritchett on my payroll. If you want to pay her you’ll have to do it out of your wage.’
‘She bakes sausage pies and whatnot and the caramel slice. Very popular,’ said Neema, her arms still folded.
‘Even if I agreed, which I’m not, her uncle would kick her out of his house before allowing her on my payroll.’
Neema nodded. ‘I talk with her.’
He fiddled with the strap of his watch. It was almost eight pm. ‘What about Fred? How would he feel about you working on my houseboat?’
‘He is busy with working at the pharmacy. He has big dreams, so it is no problem what I do with kiosk. I have big dreams too. But all my dreams are for somewhere else.’
‘That’s the beauty of dreams.’
‘My dreams will happen in Sydney.’
‘You can make a good life here in Burraboo, it all depends on what you want.’
She hesitated. ‘I am not sure how I do this, but I would like to own a business for doing holes in the ears.’ She pulled at her own earrings and made an imaginary hole punch on her earlobe.
‘You want to pierce ears?’
‘Yes. Maybe the nose, too, for the Indian girls. Only in Sydney, not here.’
‘Why ears?’
She threw up her hands and laughed a delightful, jittery tinkle. The wire door to the deck swung open noisily. They both jumped.
‘Good evening,’ said Fred, stepping onto the timber deck. His chubby cheeks gleamed like polished cricket balls. It was the only chubby feature on his otherwise lean body, thought Tom, with some measure of irritation.
Fred made his way towards Tom, his right arm already extended. Tom rose from the table to shake his hand.
‘I see you have finished eating, I am sorry I could not have joined you … I was unavoidably delayed. I had business discussions with Pat. I am sure you understand, being a businessman yourself.’
‘Beautiful night for business,’ agreed Tom, watching Neema leave the table and step inside the house.
Tom squinted at Fred. If he was not mistaken, he seemed to be swaying. Old Pat Morris must have shown him some of his home-brew hospitality.
Neema returned with a plate for Fred. She began heaping a selection from each platter on the table. There was still enough food left to feed a large family.
‘Food is not hot anymore, Fawzy. Doesn’t matter, hah?’ she said gruffly, in a manner that suggested she was not going to be heating it for him.
Fred sat himself at the table obediently. He loaded his fork. By the time the fork reached his mouth, most of the food had slid off. Tom watched Fred repeat the painful exercise. He could now smell the brew on Fred’s breath. He wondered if Neema would tell Fred about any of their kiosk discussion. It was probably about time to leave.
‘You stay for coffee, Tom?’
‘I think I’ll go home, Neema.’
‘No, stay,’ said Fred earnestly, though his words were muffled by food. ‘Please.’
Tom nodded reluctantly. Neema went back into the kitchen. ‘Did you hear about that Mungo Man discovery?’ offered Tom.
‘An extraordinary discovery,’ said Fred, waving his cutlery. ‘Fascinating to think how many embalmed bodies are lying in the earth beneath us and almost perfectly preserved as though thirty thousand years were nothing for a corpse to withstand. As a man of science, I am captivated by this discovery.’
‘There’s talk that there may be a few Mungos here in Burraboo. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were.’
Neema returned with three little coffee cups and a plate of sugar cubes on a tray. ‘What’s this you talk about?’
‘Mungo Man. It is a very important discovery, ya butta,’ Fred said. ‘It’s been in the newspaper every day this week. You should be reading the newspaper. It will help with … I keep telling you …’
‘Yes, yes, you keep telling me. Who is Mungo Man?’
‘The skeleton of a buried man was found in a dried lake, called Lake Mungo. We don’t know how old the skeleton is yet … maybe thirty thousand years old,’ Tom said. ‘A geologist found him.’
‘Here in New South Wales, inland, ya butta, inland from here …’ Fred flicked his hand several times above his head, in an attempt to indicate distance. ‘By jolly, it’s amazing to consider what lies beneath. They say that a shift in the sand dunes revealed his bones.’
Tom swirled the tiny coffee cup in his hand. It was as thick as tar. He took one sip and knew that if he drank the lot at this hour, he’d be counting sheep or scratching his tackle or pining for a scotch later in the night.
‘Speaking of bones … what a terrible act of vandalism, Tom. Your car burned to its bones … such a magnificent car.’ He looked up at Tom as though he was about to say more. Then he pressed his lips together in silence. A dimple emerged.
‘Appreciate the sentiment, Fred. Look, I really should be heading off now.’ Tom rose from his plastic chair quickly and almost flipped it over. ‘Dinner was great, thanks again. No, don’t get up Fred, please finish your dinner.’
Fred raised a hand to his head and gave him a limp salute, his lips greasy with chicken, and eyes beginning to droop. Neema insisted on seeing Tom to the front door.
As they made their passage through the house Tom avoided the stern glare of family members suspended on the walls. The yaw of dissatisfaction he felt at Fred’s arrival was unnerving. It was lousy timing. He couldn’t shake the thought that he and Neema should shake on things, cement the conversation, however vague the details were. Instead, he hovered at the front door and mumbled his thanks for dinner.
‘We talk again,’ said Neema, raising her eyebrows and nodding. Her lovely face was solemn. ‘I like your idea very much.’
His spirits soared as he made his way across Neema’s lawn in the starless dark. He didn’t know why Neema’s happiness meant something to him. But he felt good. Heard the grass crunch beneath his shoes, the smell of jasmine. It really was a beautiful night.
When he reached his doorstep there was a strange wad of paper. He knew this one,
everyone knew this trick, except the wad of paper wasn’t flaming. It should have been on fire, with a turd wrapped inside the paper. He quickly turned to the street, glancing up and down the cul-de-sac for any suspicious shadows. Cripes, was someone planning to burn down his house? The elation he’d felt a few short minutes ago dropped like a dead bird from the sky.
He nudged the wad gently with his foot. To his surprise, it was heavy, felt rock solid. There was definitely something inside the paper but it was no turd. He opened the front door to his house for light. He nudged the wad again and squatted to look at it. Hell, he was going to have to open it up, touch the damned thing with his fingers. He pulled at the paper delicately and as he did the contents of the paper rolled out. It was a ball. A billiard ball. There was writing on the paper, scrawled and childlike, as though written by a right-handed person with their left hand.
You bring filth into our town
You pay the price
Get used to broken glass
He stepped indoors, his fury knotting into a ball in his chest. The opposition to the commune wasn’t going away. Somewhere in this town there was an angry lunatic wanting to throw a billiard ball through the window of his house. What had stopped that person? Had Tom’s arrival interrupted him or was this a warning of things to come?
He turned the ball in his hands. It was probably pinched from the Royal. He had a memory of his old man. Big Jack was calling him down to the billiard room. It was Saturday afternoon. Tom had just returned home from swim squad and his hair was still slightly damp. He was eating a cheese sandwich and had Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland balanced on his knee.
When Tom reached the billiard room, his father greeted him with a bellow. ‘Boy!’ Big Jack’s cheeks were shiny. This usually meant that he was in a good mood and that the liquor cabinet was open. In his hand was a cue stick. He tapped the stick against the floor impatiently. His best mate, Jim Goodhall, was visiting from Port Kembla and gave Tom his usual wry smile as he chalked up the end of his cue. Jim was in the business of coal and, according to Big Jack, was ‘the wealthiest bastard on the east coast … you gotta respect a man for that’.
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