Book of Lost Threads (15 page)
Most of the farmers managed well enough during the eighties and early nineties, but now, after ten years of drought, a fatal lethargy held the town in thrall. It seeped out of the mud in the dying creek. It sent out tendrils that choked endeavour. It whispered in the ears of sleepers who thought themselves safe in bed. It loitered in the dust that hung in the air, or swirled ahead of the winds that swept unimpeded across a treeless landscape. You could see it in the eyes of your neighbours. You could taste it in your beer.
S
ANDY
S
ANDILANDS WAS NEARLY SIXTY and he loved his home town. If asked what there was to love about Opportunity, he couldn’t have given a rational reply. The blood of Opportunity Weekes still ran strong in the veins of this, the last of his heirs. It was his family’s town, Sandy would say if pressed. What he would not say was that he felt responsible; that there was a sort of
noblesse oblige
arising from both his wealth and his heritage. That he was barely tolerated by his neighbours made no difference. The damaged child had become a stubborn man with a mission.
Rosie’s son was christened George Francis for his father and maternal grandfather. There was the usual household confusion that occurs when father and son share names. ‘Georgie’ didn’t work. It reminded the Major of the old nursery rhyme and the days when he was the target.
Georgie Porgie, puddin’
and pie
, the boys chanted.
Kissed the girls and made them cry
. (
Well, that was prophetic
, Lily always thought. She remembered George Sandilands from primary school days.) Rosie was afraid to suggest ‘Frank’, so when his aunt commented on his red-gold curls, ‘Sandy’ seemed like a good option, echoing his surname as it did.
Sandy spent most of his childhood feeling fear and shame: fear of his father’s violence, and shame that he failed to protect his mother. In later life he excused himself; after all, he was just a child—no physical match for the Major. He knew, but refused to acknowledge, that this was not the whole truth. For Sandy was not merely a passive spectator of his mother’s abuse but was shamefully complicit. He was hers until he learned that discretion was the better part of valour, and as he grew older, he began to speak to her in the disparaging tone used by his father. He would snigger at the insults and caustic remarks that were his mother’s lot, and while, unlike his father, he never resorted to physical violence, he was aware that he wounded her deeply.
At the same time, he was anguished by her pain, and longed to be able to protect her. He suppressed his love but penitentially ate the food she prepared, his lean young body growing rounder with each passing year. He accepted as due punishment his father’s cruel jibes and the scorn of his schoolmates (Fatty Arbuckle, they called him). Mercifully, he was sent away to board for his senior schooling, after which he completed a commerce degree in Melbourne. For a while he was free, and even dreamed of a future in a merchant bank, but at his father’s command he timidly returned home.
When his mother died, it was, shamefully, a burden lifted. When his father died a few years later, Sandy set about reinventing his childhood; in time he constructed a father endowed with a dry wit and a clever turn of phrase.
Fair enough, he could
be impatient and hot-tempered
, Sandy would say,
but I was a bit of a scallywag and poor old Mum wasn’t too bright. Dad would call
me a galah if I did something crazy as boys do. It was like a nickname.
And the local sycophants would chuckle into their beer. But his father had been universally loathed as an arrogant bully. Old Minnie Porter remembered poor Rosie, white and tense at her husband’s side.
‘Major Bully-boy Sandilands. Drove his wife to her grave, God rest her soul. Thought he was too good for the rest of us. Mark my words, that youngster will turn out the same.’
So ‘the youngster’ inherited the general antipathy felt for his father, and his reverence for the Major only made things worse.
Sandy didn’t have friends but socialised with three or four hangers-on. The dislike was mutual. He was, as Finn had told Moss, the richest man in the district. When his father died he sold most of the land, keeping only the house and a few acres on which he ran some cattle. Agriculture was booming then, so he realised considerable capital. While the other landholders sneered—
Hasn’t got the guts to be a farmer
—Sandy began to study the stock market and invested in blue-chip shares as well as some speculative mining companies in Western Australia. He had pre-empted the mining boom by a few years and, while the farming community watched as drought wizened their land, Sandy was busy minimising tax on his share-trading profits.
He spent much of his time indoors, skilfully day trading online, and his large, white body contrasted sharply with the sinewy brownness of his neighbours. He held his beer glass with soft, clean hands, nails innocent of dirt, palms innocent of calluses. He was despised by the people of the district even as they drank his beer and accepted the cheques and the many trophies he donated to the various sporting and social clubs. The final straw came when he sold the farm. At least as a farmer he had some point of contact with his peers. But who ever heard of a day trader?
There’s something shonky about making money that way
, Merv Randall, the publican, would say to his customers. They all agreed.
Swanning around in those poncy shirts
, they said.
Look at
his hands
.
Hasn’t done a day’s work in years
, they muttered
. The
law’ll catch up with him eventually
, they agreed, downing their beers in satisfaction at the thought.
As usual, it was Tom Ferguson, farmer and bush philosopher, who summed up the mood of the meeting. ‘I’d rather do an honest day’s work—mortgage, drought and all—than piss about on a computer all day. I don’t care how much money he makes.’
A lonely man, Sandy wanted to be liked and admired, and not long before Moss’s arrival in Opportunity, he devised his Great Plan.
He had gone to Finn for advice. By this time the enigmatic Finn was held somewhat in awe by the people of Opportunity. His arrival had caused a little flurry of excitement and curiosity, and it wasn’t long before a small contingent of women arrived at his front door with baskets. He thanked them gravely for the scones, the sponge cake and the chicken casserole. He assured them that the eggs and chutney would be useful, and that he would indeed see them around. They left to report on his posh voice, his nice manners and his wonderful blue eyes.
So sad, his
eyes. Sort of tragic, you know?
Their men snorted derisively, but allowed him to be a decent sort of bloke.
Unlike other newcomers to small towns, Finn made no effort to secure friendships or forge contacts. He went about, nodding pleasantly, resisting all efforts to pry. He didn’t attend church, was not seen at the weekly film and, despite his enviable height, regretfully declined to play in the ruck for the Knockers. No, he didn’t play cricket either, he told the local president, but would probably come to a few matches. This intransigence would have been fatal for any other new arrival, but Finn had such an abstracted air that the residents of Opportunity chose to treat him as a nice old man, although they could see he was probably only in his late thirties.
‘Funny bloke,’ Merv observed to his regulars. ‘When I asked him about playing for the Knockers, I thought he’d jump at the chance. I know he’s skinny, but he’s even taller than young Bob Corless . . .
How about it?
I ask him.
We need
another ruckman
. He just says,
Thanks very much for asking,
but I don’t play football.
Just like that. Polite as pie—but . . .’ Merv shook his head. ‘It’s like he’s—it’s hard to put a finger on it . . . it’s like . . .’
‘Like he’s an island,’ Tom Ferguson offered.
‘Exactly. You’re dead right, Tom. An island.’
They approved of his concern for his neighbour, Mrs Pargetter, relieving them as it did from responsibility. But they were surprised and aggrieved when Finn befriended Sandy. How could that nice Finn take to Sandy Sandilands?
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.’