Fava Beans For Breakfast

by Suzanne Salem

  The only child of Pat Morris was dangerous. Nayeema felt it. Shivers bolted up Nayeema’s arms when she was with Bev, and her birthmark pricked and prickled with ferocity. Nayeema needed to step towards that danger, and find a way to harness the power that Bev had in the pharmacy. Nayeema would have to outsmart her unknowing collaborator. First, she would have to get closer to Bev.

  Bev was the bull that could help Nayeema in this struggle with Fawzy over Burraboo. She needed to milk the bull. But how would she do this? The woman looked at her and Fawzy with eyes that were deader than any amphibian fossil.

  * * *

  ‘Proud Mary’ kept on burning while Tom tossed his smalls and socks into the suitcase. Blimey, someone was pumping it out loud. He carefully laid down a collared shirt and pressed trousers, though he knew that they’d be hopelessly crumpled by the time he needed them. Two toy trucks for his nephews, just in case, shorts, T-shirts and his swimming trunks, what else? He threw in his dog-eared paperback of G.

  Tina Turner’s words screamed out. His suitcase was more substantial than the weekend required and his few paltry items were doomed to slide around like a miniature model ship inside an oversized bottle. He was driving down to Sydney first thing tomorrow, for a rock concert in the evening. Lou Reed, could you believe it, touring Australia, supported by Stevie Wright and a band called AC/DC. Hadn’t heard of them before, but that didn’t matter, he knew he’d get a ripping good show. He scanned the ticket for the tenth time to check he had the right date. Yup. Hordern Pavilion. Yup. He was good to go. He had seen Status Quo back in September last year. That was something amazing.

  He had bought a second ticket, just in case. He stared at the spare ticket in his hand. He was going alone, again, and that was the ugly truth. There was no point wishing otherwise. It stung. Nothing made him feel lonelier than going to a concert without a companion. Meals in public were fine: he’d coped with that situation for years. But music … music was supposed to be shared. He struck off on his fingers the number of concerts he wished he’d been able to sling his arm around the waist of a lovely somebody.

  He’d called his brother yesterday. Explained that he’d be in Sydney over the weekend. Nick was happy to hear from him and to learn of Tom’s new plans for the houseboat. He sounded indifferent about losing the houseboat to the kiosk. Big Bertha had been a big failure. They were supposed to share her, him and his brother. The whole idea was to create a place where they could meet up on weekends and play cards and swim and fish. Back in 1962, when Bertha was being built, Tom was still driving down to Sydney to visit his brother. It was not such a crazy idea that they would moor her down the Hawkesbury, or that he and his brother would continue to see one another occasionally. It was their last shared project.

  He wondered if Nick would have time to see him, and if he’d get to see his nephews. These questions were unanswered when they’d said their goodbyes on the phone. He wasn’t holding his breath.

  He trotted out of the bedroom and headed for the verandah. The music was clearer now, and it seemed to be coming from Neema’s joint. Well, well, wasn’t she full of surprises? He wanted to shout out, ‘Hey Neema, let’s talk some more.’ He toyed with the idea of knocking on her door. Back off, you turkey, he chided himself.

  He reclined into his wicker chair and recalled the story she had told him, of her brothers and their woeful behaviour. Hearing that story had made him feel ashamed. There had been no spectacular falling out between him and Nick and yet they, too, were almost estranged. There had been no one single thing that caused an unspoken divide to form between them; rather, as Nick’s regard for Tom’s decisions crumpled, there seemed to be more that distanced them than kept them united. He’d upset his brother plenty. When Tom returned from his Oxford malaise and decided he’d learn the family business under Big Jack’s tutelage, Nick had begged him to do anything but that. When Tom accommodated his father’s peccadillos and roving appetite for women by not calling out the rotten deception to his face, Nick had seethed. Now all he felt was Nick’s quiet disappointment, which was much worse than anger. He and Nick had been childhood allies to one another, bucking each other up while their father brutalised them. In the last ten years, they had drifted so far apart that their relationship was on the edge of being irreversibly irreconcilable. Another chasm. And he was close to tumbling into it, away from Nick and the possibility that he might become the best uncle that two little boys could know.

  Tom had always judged himself harshly. He would never be as decent or as gentle or reasonable a man as Nick. But his friendship with Neema had shifted his perception of himself. She considered him to be all of those things. He saw that in the way that she looked at him and it shifted something in him because he wanted to be that decent, gentle, reasonable person. Maybe he actually was that person Neema saw, and was deserving of Nick’s regard, and no longer had to suffer or be alone or fall into the chasm.

  ‘Stuff it,’ he said aloud and smacked the arm of the chair. Surely Nick would appreciate a ticket to Lou Reed. He would expose the most tender part of himself—the part that he usually covered in bluff and bravado—to Nick by calling him a second time and asking his brother to join him at the concert.

  ‘Stuff it.’ He rose to his feet quickly and almost ran to the phone. He started dialling Nick’s number before he could change his mind.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tom pulled himself up to full height as he walked through the guts of the bar at The Royal Hotel. There was a bit of a swagger in his walk, and why not? Business was booming. He had caught up with Nick in Sydney at the Lou Reed concert and the night couldn’t have gone any better; something of their old connection was summonsed back into existence. If life were a movie, right now, he’d be with a group of blokes drinking beer and sharing jokes. But amid the flush of new cash and jolly banter floating around the place, there was a piece of rotted fruit that followed him everywhere and the Rainbow Lilies were that fruit. So no one especially cared as he headed for the exit. Only Davo shouted out goodbye.

  Even Tom couldn’t deny that the hippies had introduced a certain complexity to Burraboo. There was endless talk about their drug use throughout the town. Tom had been to the compound so many times he knew the Lilies were leaving themselves wide open. There was plenty of smoke being shared under that gazebo and somewhere on the compound’s eleven acres he was sure they were cultivating plants, though he hadn’t seen it himself. Maybe he was developing paranoia about the Lilies, overcompensating for their lack of awareness, but lately he had noticed surreptitious glances between them, silent gestures that he never quite understood but were intended to exclude him from whatever was happening on the compound.

  The rumour that most troubled the Burraboo locals was the idea that the Lilies were bringing their smoke into town and selling it to the city folk—the scientists, media brigades, researchers. Hell, there was even talk that the Lilies were flaunting their wares on his pier and on Big Bertha. Even worse, one of the local schoolkids was found with the stuff. Coincidence? And there was the rub right there. For every bad decision the Rainbow Lilies made, every misstep, Tom would take the hit, if not immediately then eventually.

  The euphoria in the town over the sweet hand dealt by the discovery of the amphibian fossils was matched by rage that the hippies were spoiling Burraboo’s long-awaited party. The general feeling around town was that Tom was complicit. The locals were ripening for an uprising. Whatever was going to trigger the revolution, he had to stay the hell ahead of it.

  A couple of months had passed since the double discovery of the fossils and the sensational media headlines had not abated, if anything, they had become more sensational. Optimism for further discoveries was growing.

  Main Street was buzzing with types that this town hadn’t seen before: journalists, photographers, news crews, palaeontologists, historians, and geologists. They all wanted a piece of Burraboo and Burraboo was happy to oblige. The media headlines kept screaming out that it was a g
olden year for palaeontologists, but one look around town and you could see it was becoming a golden year for a hell of a lot of people. People were talking about the fossil discovery like it was a gas pipeline. There was optimism and plenty of it. He could feel it.

  Tom had opened three dingy weatherboard houses for viewing, which had been vacant for years, and they were instantly snapped up for short-term leases. Enterprising families opened up spare rooms in their homes for rent. The Royal Hotel was enjoying full occupancy of all five rooms.

  There was a different energy in town now, one that smelled and breathed and sounded like the city. He didn’t have any problems with people from the city, but plenty of locals were suspicious of those whose fortunes were not dependent on the land. And now, after all these years, it was still the land that held Burraboo’s destiny. First the sandstone quarries, then the dairy farms and now the fossils. Quarry labourers and farming types didn’t strut around with wide-eyed fascination the way these city tourists did. The world of academia and research had arrived.

  Oh, but the irony of it all. If that land surrounding the retired quarry were still owned by the Grieves family then this discovery would never have been made. It was his grandfather, Artie, who’d sold that land in one of his final acts of delirium. So, in some way, Tom did feel a modicum of responsibility for the wave of optimism surging into Burraboo. The binds of family history had you by the knuckles whether or not you liked it.

  Big Jack had been furious about the sale, not because he wished to retain the land but because it had been sold so cheaply to the state government. True, it had been a steal. His grandfather had been barking mad in those final two years before he died, but Tom believed him when he said that the sale was a philanthropic gesture. It was to be his first and only philanthropic gesture. The Grieves family had never really been known as altruistic. They were takers, not givers, whatever way you looked at it. New lines were being drawn. Tom rolled down his window and waved to Stan from the Super-S, who was supervising the unloading of a supply truck. That little fat cat was about to get fatter.

  The fossil discoveries had spawned a natural market for his Horizon development. Tourism was certain to introduce itself to Burraboo and he would be ready with a ludicrous campaign designed to encourage travellers to the fossil site to stay awhile. Why not rent an apartment at the Horizon? There’s fun for the whole family. Cool down on the water slides, or take in a movie after dinner. It was only now that he truly believed this project would be a success and that Burraboo would make it into the next century.

  He turned on the car radio and settled into the drive to his office. Busy day. He had a bundle of board papers to read. Mick Copes was earning his keep, for this month, anyway. There were some errors in Neema’s bookkeeping for the houseboat that needed his attention. Then he’d head over to Serpentine Heights to see for himself how construction of the Horizon was progressing. His unannounced visit to the site ten days ago made him feel more in control about everything that was beyond his control. Besides, he needed to keep an eye on the construction company. More than before, there was an urgent need for his development to be completed on time.

  Once in his office, Tom took off his tie. There was a knock at his door. Denise stepped into his office. Her forehead looked clammy and red blotches had formed like a choker around her neck.

  ‘Tom. You have a visitor waiting outside. No appointment.’

  ‘I’m pretty busy. Who is it?’

  ‘Um, well … it’s Frank Pritchett.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes. Frank Pritchett. That’s why I didn’t, you know, buzz you … Oh dear. What would you like me to do?’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted to see me?’

  ‘No, not exactly, but he told me that you would want to hear what he has to say.’

  ‘Is that so? The cocky bastard.’

  ‘Shall I get rid of him?’

  ‘No, I’ll see him. But let him wait out there for fifteen minutes before letting him in.’

  Denise wiped her forehead. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are you alright, Denise? Has he given you a hard time out there? I swear, I’ll sock him if he has.’

  She paused for a moment before answering. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  Tom reached over and squeezed her wrist. ‘You’re too good for me.’

  ‘Don’t you forget it,’ she said, and smiled as she closed the door behind her.

  Tom stood motionless in the middle of his office. Frank Pritchett. He tightened his tie and returned to his desk. Shoved all the papers on his desk into his top drawer. Tension was building in his knuckles. Formed a fist. Felt better almost instantly. He leaned back into his chair. This meeting was not going to end well. Pritchett had barely been seen around town since he’d had that angina attack in the ocean and almost drowned Neema. On that incident alone, Pritchett hadn’t earned himself any favours. The old coot must be feeling on top of the world to show his face in this office. Tom got up and paced the length of his office. Peered out of the window. Checked his watch.

  Denise buzzed him. ‘Are you ready for Mr Pritchett?’

  ‘Thanks, Denise, you can let him in.’ He had barely released his finger from the intercom when old Pritchett charged into the office. The old coot must have been waiting by the door, ready to pounce.

  ‘Frank. Why don’t you let yourself in?’

  Pritchett walked towards Tom, acknowledging him with a miserable grunt. ‘Humph.’

  Tom stayed seated. No courtesies would be extended to Pritchett. Not today, not ever.

  Pritchett seated himself on a guest chair opposite Tom’s desk. He offered another ‘Humph,’ and took his time making himself comfortable. Tom appraised him. His face was battered with sun spots. The end of his nose ballooned like a wine decanter and from the base of the decanter crawled unsavoury lumps and feathery red pathways. Last time Tom had seen him, Pritchett was almost bald but today he sported a thick brown fringe that covered the sides of his head. Blimey, he wasn’t fooling anyone with that.

  ‘Why are you here, Frank?’

  ‘Doing away with the niceties? Don’t you want to inquire about my health? I had quite a scare a few months back.’

  ‘I don’t have all day.’

  ‘Shame. Here I was … thinking we could exchange stories.’

  Tom stared at him. Pritchett’s cool blue eyes stared back. The smug smile on his face was as stubborn as grease on a rag.

  ‘You see, there are many stories you could tell me about your Horizon development. In fact, that’s a story in a story.’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with things you don’t understand, old man.’

  ‘Humph.’ Pritchett’s mouth contorted into a wide threat of a smile that caused his hairpiece to shift backwards. ‘The thing is, you have a finger in quite a few pies at the minute. Some people might say that you’ve been a little greedy, Tom.’

  Here we go. Now it comes.

  ‘I’ve always considered myself to be a reasonable man. I am here to give you two options. I’ll start with my preferred.’

  ‘A warning old man, this meeting could end very quickly.’

  ‘That parcel of land on Bishops Bay that I own … oh, you know, the one that you trespass on whenever you access your pier … It would appear that this parcel has more worth to me than ever before. I have you to thank for that.’

  ‘There is no trespassing. I own the access point to the pier.’

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  ‘It’s what I know. It’s legally documented.’

  ‘This parcel of land that I own, that your contemptible father spent years trying to buy off me … it means nothing to you? Not even when your houseboat customers are crawling over it? Are your customers aware that they are on private property? Have you, as proprietor, taken steps to ensure that your customers do not encroach on my fair and proper enjoyment of my property?’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘Your commercial interest a
t Bishops Bay is problematic for me.’

  ‘I own the access point to the pier.’

  ‘How many people know that you own precisely two-by-five metres of that land, give or take tide movement? How many people know about the one-metre gap? So I have a proposition for you. You can have my land. You can have the whole parcel at Bishops Bay.’ He paused, sucked in his teeth. ‘In return, you will give me a stake in the Horizon. A thirty per cent stake.’

  Tom shook his head slowly and returned the smirk. ‘And why would I do that, old man?’

  ‘I’ll just let you ponder that for a moment, quietly now.’

  ‘That’s not worth pondering for any amount of time. The Horizon is not negotiable.’

  ‘And yet, you gave away a ten per cent stake, just the other week. It was in the newspapers.’

  ‘To an investor who is partially funding the project.’

  ‘Well, you could say that I’ll be funding your little houseboat as an ongoing concern.’

  ‘The houseboat is a pleasant side project.’

  ‘Yes. It is. Lucky for some.’

  ‘So you came here to offer your land in return for a substantial ownership stake in the Horizon.’ Tom laughed. ‘Got to hand it to you, Frank. You do madness well. The Horizon is worth multiples of the land value at Bishops Bay. Perhaps you might tell me a bedtime fairytale of why I would agree to this exchange?’

  ‘You’re not much of a storyteller are you? Real shame. As it happens, I am a master storyteller. You see … if you don’t agree, I will make it impossible for people to access your pier by land. Your foreigner girlfriend won’t be happy about that.’