by Susan Duncan
Sam keeps watch from the bow where he leans against a huge crucifix bollard until it cuts into his skin and he can no longer stand the pain. Then he too lies flat on the deck, gazing at an empty blue sky, wondering how people can bear to do such awful things to each other.
A week after Delaney’s death, April is three-quarters done and the Square is full of kids in school uniforms going back and forth, their packs as heavy as their faces. The rainclouds and humidity have long moved offshore to vent their spleen over the empty ocean. Balmy autumn days are sharp with clean light. Nobody wants to go to work. It’s the best time of the year. The sea, bluer than the sky and so sparkly it hurts naked eyes, calls like a siren. But the harsh economic realities of paying the mortgage and putting food on the table are inescapable. People count down the days to the weekend, with a longing that’s strong enough to call an ache.
There’s been no sign of the goons since the Misses Skettle told them to bugger off and the cult went spectacularly belly-up with the death of the leader and his closest followers. No one dares to suggest out loud that the threat is over.
Sam turns on the morning news; the cult mass suicide no longer rates a mention. The focus is on the upcoming state election where the incumbent government is tipped to be facing a nail-biting battle. He’s about to switch off in disgust when Theo Mulvaney’s face fills the screen. He watches as Mulvaney walks over to the worn patch of grass under the spreading arms of an ancient fig tree where most political television grabs take place and, citing the pressures of family life, announces his resignation. The reporter adds that the Minister for Housing and Development has been under party pressure to quit since it was revealed he had strong links with John James, ‘who orchestrated a mass suicide in his cult headquarters in Central America last week for reasons still unknown’.
Mulvaney refuses to answer any questions and ducks unceremoniously out of the grounds onto Macquarie Street, cheerfully waved through the gate by Ben Butler. Sam leans closer to the screen. In the background, he swears Ben’s middle finger is somehow raised in a rude sign. Two minutes later, Sam’s mobile goes off: ‘You fought hard but clean,’ Ben Butler says. ‘Congratulations.’
‘See you’ve had a bit of finger surgery,’ Sam says.
Ben laughs loudly: ‘Repetitive strain injury, mate. There’s a lot of it going around.’
The premier makes clear the reasons for Mulvaney’s exit on the evening news.
‘Theo Mulvaney’s part in questionable land and development deals, including Garrawi Park, Cutter Island, off the east coast of Australia, cannot be condoned or even tolerated by a government that prides itself on full and frank accountability in all areas.’ The man keeps a straight face.
Sam is rendered speechless. He turns to Siobhan, who is tucked onto his mismatched sofa with a glass of wine, and rolls his eyes. ‘My dad always said that rot starts at the top. Not one person on Cutter Island will believe him for a second.’
‘Sure and Mulvaney’s the designated fall guy for the lot of them,’ she says.
The premier goes on to mention illegitimate funds discovered in the offshore bank account of a company of which Mulvaney was director. Siobhan leans forward, shocked: ‘Tattling on colleagues on the same side in politics is a rare and dangerous act. He must be desperate to make sure Mulvaney’s career is dead once and for all. Men like Mulvaney, unless you hammer them into the ground, they pop up in a new guise and start their criminal games again.’
‘Bastards, all of them.’
‘No, no. It’s as well to remember that not all politicians are crooks. There are good men and women doing fine jobs. We just rarely hear about them.’
‘Maybe,’ Sam says grudgingly, because it has to be true or they’re all doomed.
Chapter Twenty-nine
About a month after the rally, the community holds a ceremony to erect (or, technically, to screw onto a large sandstone boulder) a plaque honouring Delaney for his role in the battle to save Garrawi. While every local was expected to pitch in without reward, congratulation or even thanks or acknowledgment, Delaney, though an outsider, deserved eternal recognition for never shirking the hard yards in a cause that really wasn’t his own.
The event takes place late on a Sunday when the bay sparkles like jewels and birds are too busy finding soft furnishings for their spring nests to make much of a racket. Islanders stand around and wonder at the compassionate insight of a brawny big man who used words so skilfully to tell the story of a different young boy with such heart and understanding, when it’s the nature of the press to tear down heroes. ‘Not Delaney,’ they agree. ‘He wasn’t that kind of man.’
The plaque is set next to the one honouring Teddy Mulray for his gift of the land in 1946 to the people of Cutter Island, of which the ownership is still in doubt despite the moral victories of a tiny community with the might of right on their side.
Bill Firth, wearing his hat as President of the Cook’s Basin Community Residents’ Association, delivers a few quick but well-chosen words about Delaney’s influence on the battle to save Garrawi. He finishes with a line that sends a chill through everyone there: ‘The park is still vulnerable. We cannot relax. The battle is far from over. To lose at this stage would insult the memory of Paul Delaney. Keep the faith and keep up the vigilance.’
There are a few moments’ silence while his words are digested then Jenny fires up the barbecue under the beady eye of a greedy goanna. When he comes too close, his summer skin dulled by heat and wear and tear and ready to be shed, she grabs a big stick. Yelling Geronimo like it’s the Indians’ last charge, she roars after him. Everyone laughs. Though not Siobhan, who is inconsolable.
Jimmy, spiffily dressed in his most exotic shorts and T-shirt as a tribute to the man who made him a star for long enough to build Rome in short order, wraps an arm around her shoulders: ‘He’s not really dead, Miss O’Shaughnessy. Not while the park’s still here.’
Hurting, and never a woman to soften the facts, she says: ‘Oh yes he is, sonny. He’s dead all right.’
The kid doesn’t miss a beat: ‘Not to me, Miss O’Shaughnessy. An’ he never will be to me or me kids when I ’ave ’em.’
‘You’re a good boy, Jimmy, but move along now so I can weep alone.’
*
Life settles down to an easy Island pace. In the wider world, Mulvaney is currently under investigation for corruption but no charges have yet been laid. Eric Lowden is rumoured to be taking an extended holiday overseas. The goons are already a fading memory although when the Island kids play war games, the baddies inevitably wear dark clothes and mirror sunglasses. Despite Bill Firth’s warnings, even the Save Garrawi committee loses its edge and when Jane suggests a meeting, Siobhan just shrugs. ‘What for? It’s a stalemate until after the election.’
‘Maybe,’ Jane replies. ‘But we’re still in charge of a lot of money that doesn’t belong to us. We need to decide what to do with it.’
The sixth and – as it turns out – final meeting of the Save Garrawi committee once again takes place on the back deck of The Briny Café. The nights are cool and closing in earlier. The Misses Skettle are wrapped in hand-crocheted afghan shawls. Ettie, Jenny and Jane wear cardigans. The men – apart from Glenn and Sam whose sole concession to winter is to wear socks with their shorts – are back in long trousers. Lindy has sent her apologies. She has a parents’ and teachers’ meeting.
Ettie and Kate dish up early-autumn fare – cheese and onion tarts made with sour-cream pastry and imported Gruyere. ‘Imported,’ Marcus explains apologetically, ‘because even though the cheese of this great country is extraordinary, I have yet to find a local Gruyere with the long sharp bite of the Swiss variety. Perhaps our grass is to blame, no? Or perhaps, as with our wine, it is the soil and climate that make a difference? Certainly not our cheese makers, who are sublime.’
To follow, they serve baked apples stuffed wi
th rum-soaked sultanas and roasted walnuts, presented in shallow terracotta bowls with a large spoonful of double cream. ‘Winter is coming,’ Ettie says. ‘We’ll need a little extra padding to keep out the cold.’
When the plates are cleared, Jane stands and clears her throat. ‘If everyone is ready, I’d like to give the Treasurer’s report.’
Hear, hear. (Muted.)
‘Expenses for the rally came to four thousand three hundred and twenty-seven dollars, which includes a small fine of seventy-five dollars for sticking up a poster in the bus shelter. The most expensive items were paper, timber and fabric. All other materials and the execution of props were donated.’
She looks up, aware Glenn is starting to fidget. She gives him a hard look. ‘Until two days ago, the net balance was forty-nine thousand, three hundred and eighty-three dollars and eleven cents.’
Siobhan hones in like an Exocet missile: ‘And what’s changed since two days ago?’
Jane goes pink, runs her tongue along her lips. ‘Unless there’s been a terrible bank error, someone has deposited a million dollars in our account.’
‘Did you call the bank, then, to see whether it was true or false?’ Siobhan demands.
Jane shakes her head nervously. ‘I had no idea what to do.’
Sam smiles. ‘Max,’ he says. ‘The money will have come from Max.’
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and retreats to a quiet corner. Dials. ‘Can I put you on speaker phone, Max? I’m sitting on the deck of The Briny Café with my fellow committee members and we’re wondering what you want us to do with the money.’
Sam gets permission. Hits the button. Max’s laboured breathing comes across in stereo sound. ‘What do you think I want you to do with a million bucks?’ he wheezes.
‘Haven’t a clue, mate.’
‘Buy the bloody park, of course. And you’d better get this sorted out before I die or I’ll come back to haunt you.’ He coughs. The phone goes dead. Max has run out of puff.
Later, when Ettie, Sam, Siobhan and the chef recall the moment, they all agree it felt as though even the pulsing sea under the deck froze hard and solid for a good minute.
‘Have we not just learned, then, that money can solve as many problems as it creates?’ Siobhan says. ‘But I’m wondering – is buying the park the answer? Who buys it? Another Trust and when the money is all used up and we’re dead and gone, some other dirty little toe rag like Eric Lowdon can come along with his gutter morality and snap! The community is back where it started. I’m thinking . . .
‘Another newspaper ad but a full-on campaign this time, one that runs for as long as the money lasts. We’ll slam the government’s record on environmental issues and focus on the corrupt mishandling of Garrawi Park. If we get the wording right, it should send every member of the current ruling party running straight to the toilet. And haven’t we already been given the green light by the premier to expose Mulvaney’s greedy brown-paper-bag deal with a now totally discredited and extremely dead cult leader?’ She rubs her hands gleefully. ‘Oh this is going to be fun. To be on the safe side, though, would you mind, Glenn, putting your Kombi and barge on the line again?’
Glenn bows with an ear-splitting grin. ‘It would be a pleasure.’
The aim is to launch the campaign on Saturday, the biggest circulation day, and ramp up the pressure until the election with a series of shocking facts about the lack of due process in the Garrawi development plan. Kate Jackson is called in to broker a deal for a month-long run of bottom-front-page ads at a cut, bulk rate. The committee stands around during a mid-morning lull in the café and listens while Kate haggles like a Turkish rug dealer. Holds its collective breath when she threatens to take the ads to another newspaper. Gasps audibly when she casually mulls the benefits of television over print. ‘With more than a million dollars to spend, perhaps we should think bigger,’ she hints. The deal is done half a minute later. ‘Clever girl,’ Ettie says, beaming like a proud mother. Even Jenny slaps Kate’s back in congratulation.
The first bullet in the campaign is fired the following Saturday – six weeks before the election date – with a forty-centimetre-deep, single-colour ad that runs along the bottom of page one of the Herald. In blood-red type, it says: ‘If this Government busted an iron-clad Trust to sell off Garrawi Park against the wishes of the people, what’s to stop it selling off the whole State?’
On Monday morning, another ad hits the newsstands. ‘If this government is prepared to do business with a mad and fraudulent foreign cult leader, what’s to stop it doing deals with terrorists, gun runners and drug dealers?’
Tuesday hits even harder: ‘If a former member of this government actively engaged in graft and corruption, shouldn’t he face legal action and the full force of the law like anyone else?’
Late on Tuesday afternoon, the mayor of Cook’s Basin, Evan Robotham, calls the Save Garrawi committee in a flap and requests an urgent meeting. ‘Not tomorrow. Now!’ he insists.
Siobhan, her nose twitching with the scent of something major, rounds up Sam, Ettie, Jenny, the Misses Skettle, Glenn, Jane, John, Marcus, Lindy and gives up on Seaweed after four attempts to reach his mobile. Sam calls Jimmy.
‘I’m makin’ a worm-juice delivery, Sam. Can ya wait a minute?’
‘Now or never, mate. This is history and history doesn’t wait for anyone.’
‘I’m wearin’ me work clothes . . .’
‘Just get here . . .’
While Kate keeps the café open, the committee hits their tinnies, illegally roar through the go slow zone with their eyes peeled, slam into the commuter dock, and trot towards the car park, where even the immaculate chef agrees to squash into Glenn’s, er, retro Kombi, in which the pong of Jimmy’s wet mutt is barely noticeable.
The mayor is waiting for them as they pull into the council car park and points at a space reserved in the name of Garrawi. ‘Sure, they’re treating us like royalty,’ Siobhan says, falling out of the van, straightening slowly so the kink in her back doesn’t go into full spasm. ‘I’m getting a warm feeling in the pit of me stomach.’
Ettie rips off her apron. Jenny checks for stains on her shirt. The Misses Skettle reach into their handbags and withdraw scent bottles. They give everyone a squirt except for Marcus and Sam. They rode up front. They follow Evan into the building. ‘No dogs,’ he shouts. The entire committee instantly turns on its heels. ‘Jesus,’ Evan whines. ‘Don’t blame me. It’s the rule.’
The meeting that seals the fate of Garrawi is held on the front steps of the council chambers in full view of passers-by who stop and stare as the mayor addresses a motley collection of men and women as though his life depends on it. A few move in to listen.
‘The premier,’ Evan announces, ‘has called me to say he will approve a plan I put forward a week ago to transfer the title of Garrawi into the hands of the National Parks and Wildlife. It will remain under its control and as a heritage-listed site, free from all future development.’
‘Eh?’
He beams. ‘I’d call this a win, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’d call it sleight of hand and panic,’ Siobhan says in a muttered aside to Sam. ‘There’ll be a proviso, just wait and see.’ She turns a smiley face towards the mayor. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news. We had no idea the council was so concerned about the fate of Garrawi. None at all. What a dark horse you’ve been all along, eh? So we’re free and clear, then. Nothing else to add?’
‘Er, there’s just one proviso . . .’
‘Well and why is that not a surprise? It’s the advertisements, I suppose. If we cancel the remainder, the park is ours.’
Evan nods.
‘And if we don’t?’ Siobhan asks. Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes turn towards her in shock.
The mayor swallows. Looks like he’s about to wet his pants. His face goes red. He puts a hand in his pocket and ner
vously withdraws his mobile phone. ‘Er, I’d have to check . . .’
‘Ah, no need. I was kidding,’ Siobhan says. ‘A little joke to amuse myself. No harm intended.’ She turns towards the committee. ‘Shall we call it a deal, then?’
Hear, hear.
On Wednesday morning, a hastily prepared new ad appears at the bottom of the front page of the Herald. GARRAWI SAVED: THE PEOPLE WIN. Nothing else. The rest of the campaign is cancelled. Most of Max’s money is comfortingly intact.
Sam rings the good-hearted benefactor, whose hefty donations effectively levelled the playing field for Save Garrawi, to give him the news. ‘And, mate, tell us where to send your change.’
Max doesn’t hesitate. ‘Hang on to it,’ he wheezes. ‘It’ll keep any future bastards honest.’
A week later, Lindy Jones reports that Eric Lowdon is selling his Cutter Island properties at a knock-down price. Like worms turning, the mayor and his fellow councillors, religious fence-sitters up to the last moment, step forward to claim credit for saving Garrawi in a barrage of hastily written press releases. Even the Misses Skettle can’t hide their disgust. ‘Pariahs. Not one of them could find their way here with a hand-written map,’ they fume.
The committee, cold hard realists now, with Max’s blessing, put aside the remains of the fighting fund in a high-interest account for the day someone else with the morals of a bandicoot tries to steal the park from under their noses. ‘Max has a great understanding of human nature,’ they say with sadness and resignation. Siobhan asks Sam whether Max might want to reveal his identity to the public as the man who truly turned the tide in the fight for Garrawi. Max declines. He got his money’s worth, he says, by tracking the course of the battle from his sitting room, where he’s anchored by chronic emphysema.
The great, cracked, mashed and almost collapsed sulphur-crested cockatoo is ceremoniously withdrawn from the Square and returned to the Island kindergarten playground. For as long as she remains in charge, says Trudy Wentwhistle, every child who attends will be told of the brave and noble warriors from far and wide who fought so hard to keep their park so they could play, propose and possibly (probably) procreate under the spreading arms of the cheese tree.