by Di Morrissey
What that story would be, she didn’t know. Confused facts, images, feelings and possibilities whirled about in her head. She had never been so emotionally involved in a story before. While always open-minded when covering a story, Odette found that she often had to hold her own feelings in check and not be swayed by an emotional response to the person she was interviewing. The last time she had written a story with personal passion had been her story on Zac and the gypsy queen, Cerina.
Fitz’s cynicism and challenging questions had taught her always to look at both sides of a story. Was her own attachment to Zanana clouding the facts? Was she being unfair to Eden Davenport?
She wished she could talk to Zac. The years away had settled her heart and mind about him, and now that he was internationally famous, cropping up on television shows, his music constantly on the radio, his records big sellers, she had adjusted to his role as the people’s troubadour. He could never belong to just one person. But she missed his wisdom and often caught herself wondering what he would say about things.
It had been a painful period of letting go of Zac as his own star ascended. But she realised how special he was and that they were still bonded and linked in a unique way. They would never have a life together but he would always be part of hers. The physical longing had faded, the ache in her heart had healed, and when she thought of him, a warmth and calmness spread through her body. She often felt his presence and knew that he was thinking of her and it made her feel secure. She had to make her own way in the world but somehow Zac would always be there for her.
Odette was trudging along the inner city street one night, deep in thought, wondering about the intricacies of the Zanana story. ‘So where do I go next, Zac?’ she wondered aloud. And, as if in answer, she suddenly had a flash of memory. Old Wally Simpson. She hadn’t been in touch with him since she went overseas when she had paid him a short visit at the veterans’ home.
Of course! Wally had spent time at Zanana after the war. They’d talked about some of those days but never in detail. Hopefully Wally was still fit and well enough to remember and talk. He probably had answers, it would be up to her to find the right questions.
She went to Bondi the next morning and asked to see Wally Simpson. The young receptionist checked her book and ran her finger down a list of names. She looked up at Odette, who found she was holding her breath.
‘Room twelve, at the end of the hall to the right.’
Odette expelled her breath and smiled, thanking her as she hurried down the wide hall where an elderly man was pushing himself along in a wheelchair. She tapped on the door, paused, then opened it slowly.
A man was in one bed, asleep, his mouth open, breath rasping in his throat.
Wally Simpson sat in an armchair by his freshly made bed, a patch of sun coming through the window and falling in a blanket of yellow light on his gnarled hands held together in his lap. He seemed to be asleep, his chin sunk onto his chest.
Odette went and knelt down before him, laying her hands on his and saying softly, ‘Wally? It’s me, Odette. Odette Barber.’
He opened his eyes and stared at her blankly for a moment, then he smiled with recognition.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve come to visit. I’ve been away. Overseas. Travelling. Saw a lot of interesting places.’
He took this in then asked, ‘France? You see France? We were there y’know. Dunno that anyone cares anymore though.’
‘I know you were there, Wally. You and your mates. You’ve told me about it. Yes, I went there — saw the old trenches. Say, would you like to go outside in the garden for a bit? Are you up to a walk or do you want me to get you a wheelchair?’
‘I can manage. Don’t need flaming wheels,’ grumbled Wally struggling to his feet. ‘Where’s my stick? No one around here will wait five minutes for an old bloke. Stick you in a wheelchair and whizz you off like a speed car.’
Odette reached for the walking cane by his bed and handed it to him, helping him out of the chair. Leaning heavily on his stick, and with Odette’s arm linked through his, supporting him, Wally began to shuffle towards the door.
They made slow progress, but neither was in a hurry. Odette made the occasional comment but didn’t want to distract him from the concentration of putting one foot before the other. At the doorway, Odette stepped forward and held it open.
Wally paused and took a deep breath, staring into the distance. ‘Is that you, Glad? You out there in the rose garden?’ He moved forward and Odette gently guided him to the iron seat at the edge of the neatly manicured garden path.
They settled themselves and he leaned back in the warmth of the sun, closing his eyes. ‘Smell the roses.’
‘Wally? What do you remember about Zanana? Who is Glad?’
He turned eyes on her that slowly refocused from the past to the present. ‘Gladys. Ran Zanana as smoothly as a Swiss watch, she did. Broke her heart when they all died. But we had a good life, we did, at the end, in Bangalow.’
‘Gladys? Gladys Butterworth, Wally? Did you know her?’
‘We had good years together me and Glad. Then they all went. ’Cept Alec of course. Poor little kid, should have grown up at Zanana and taken it on. It was his, after all. But no.’ He lapsed into silence, lost in some memory.
‘What happened, Wally?’
‘All went bust, no money, Ben and Kate killed. Wish we never had to give Alec up. He’s out there.’
‘Where Wally? Where is Alec? Who is he?’
‘Should be at Zanana.’ He turned and tugged at Odette’s arm. ‘You find Alec and take him home to Zanana. Will you do that, for an old fella, please?’
He looked distressed and agitated and Odette said soothingly, ‘I’ll do my best, Wally. I promise.’
She had no idea who Alec was or his connection with Zanana, but it seemed to calm the old man who now found it impossible to focus his mind on that dim past. He rambled almost incoherently.
Odette organised some morning tea in his room and for the next half hour they sat beside his bed as Odette tried to extract more information from the old man.
When she finally bid him goodbye, he held her hand tightly for a moment. ‘Odette,’ he said in a moment of lucidity, ‘you still write for that magazine? I have one in my case, with your name in it.’
Odette hadn’t told Wally about the furore looming over Zanana. She sensed the news that it could be torn down would distress him. ‘Yes, Wally. I still write for the Gazette — why?’
‘One day, you write about Zanana. Will you?’ Odette was stunned but before she answered he turned away nodding to himself, ‘She’s the one. I know it for sure.’
‘Goodbye, Wally. I’ll come and visit you again. Take care.’ But Wally had settled himself back in his chair and was nodding off to sleep. Odette quietly left the room where Wally’s roommate still snored and rasped.
By the time Odette arrived at the council meeting on Thursday, there was a crowd trying to get into the already packed public gallery. A flustered and cranky clerk tried to placate the crowd as voices were raised demanding to get in. Odette flashed her press card and squeezed through the door and found the table reserved for the press. The local reporter had his notebook open and moved along the bench as she sat down. They exchanged introductions.
‘This is going to be a bit of a humdinger. Never seen this much interest in a council meeting. They’ve certainly got themselves organised.’ He nodded to Mrs Bramble and the Save Zanana committee.
They filled the public gallery including the standing room and stairs. They’d come with banners and cardboard signs, but had been asked to leave them in the foyer. Mrs Bramble waved to Odette and showed her crossed fingers. Odette smiled back.
Several councillors were already in place, busying themselves with comparing notes, reading agenda papers and chatting quietly. Odette saw Mick O’Toole at a table reserved for council and gave him a discreet wink.
In the centre of the room was a small table cov
ered by a sheet and to one side was an easel with a drawing of the Zanana boundaries held in place with a peg.
The rest of the councillors took their seats, leaving only the mayor’s ornate chair empty. A reporter from the Sydney Morning Herald arrived, a veteran civic rounds journalist whom Odette had met on several occasions. They exchanged ‘G’days’ and joined forces to get a quick rundown on the councillors from the local newsman, a retired daily man supplementing his pension by covering the town hall for the Kincaid Courier. He was big on dandruff, cigarette ash and information.
‘Yer got two real estate agents, a builder, and a schoolteacher — he‘s the local radical lefty and right in with the protesters, a big fan of Jack Mundey, that green bans fellow — then there’s the bloke from the local chamber of commerce, he’s a chemist . . . two retired public servants — one’s the mayor and the other’s the inevitable smart bastard, Mr Beck who’s known as Mr Big, an entrepreneur via the used-car yard and assorted enterprises that were very much wink-wink during the war, if you get my drift. It’s going to be a close run thing I reckon.’
They had barely finished putting faces to these names when the mayor entered the chamber and called the meeting to order with exaggerated ceremony. The noisy gallery responded and fell silent. Odette saw Eden Davenport slip in through a side door and was surprised that his appearance gave her a fleeting sensation of excitement. He took a seat reserved next to a smartly dressed executive type and they busied themselves in whispered conversation and study of the agenda. Odette assumed the other man was the Hacienda representative.
The meeting progressed in an orderly way, the usual business being attended to in a boring and routine fashion. Then came the rezoning of Zanana and the gallery stirred, provoking a restrained ‘Order’ from the mayor and a tap of his gavel on the table. He cleared his throat and spoke.
‘I know that many people in the gallery are rather interested in this item . . .’ A burst of ironic laughter interrupted the mayor, who this time banged his gavel with energy. ‘Order, order. Now, I want to make it clear that I will not tolerate anything that will interfere with our deliberations. I will explain the procedure so you will all know what’s happening. Council staff have prepared a report on this proposal recommending rezoning. . .’ Again the gallery erupted, this time many protesters jumping to their feet, waving agenda papers and shouting.
With much gavel thumping the mayor restored order, although getting the crowd to settle down was due more to signals from Mrs Bramble. He resumed his explanation, slightly irritated. ‘First a representative of Hacienda Homes will address council, then there will be a motion from the floor, and then a debate. Mr Alan Harper, will you please address the council.’ He nodded towards the man beside Eden.
The tall, solidly built executive in an expensive suit stepped forward. He exuded confidence and was clearly not the least perturbed by the gallery.
‘Mr Mayor, gentlemen. There is little to say because, as you will see, the project speaks for itself most eloquently. It is in effect the most significant step forward for Kincaid in its history.’
There was a roar of protest from the gallery and Alan Harper waited patiently and unflustered for it to subside. ‘I am, of course, prepared to answer any questions, but would like to ask our consultant designer and planner, Mr Eden Davenport, to give details of the project we envisage for Zanana.’
The brevity of his presentation surprised Odette. She didn’t like Harper. He was acting as if it was all in the bag. She looked across at O’Toole who raised his eyebrows in response. The Herald man leaned back in his chair and whispered to Odette, ‘Smarmy bastard, isn’t he?’
Eden stepped up to the table on which his model was laid out, and removed the sheet. He spoke with quiet authority and the gallery listened intently. He stressed the garden suburb concept and gave the councillors a thorough but polite lesson in some of the latest town planning concepts that were gaining currency in modern western cities and which were, of course, reflected in his plans.
During his presentation, Eden stole a look across the chamber to where Odette was sitting. Their eyes met and Odette found she was unable to resist giving him a fleeting grin. ‘Heck, why did I do that?’ she silently asked herself. ‘The other day we were shouting at each other.’
Then her pencil point snapped. ‘Damn,’ she said half aloud, but heard by half the chamber. She felt Eden’s eyes on her again and, blushing, she rummaged in her handbag for a Biro, which she hated using. She forced herself to concentrate on his words and her shorthand.
‘Councillors, I know that there is a lot of opposition to this project, but I feel that emotion rather than common sense is disturbing the reality of the situation.’
There was a loud murmur from the gallery, but no shouting. Odette knew that his quiet professionalism had won a measure of their respect. He went on. ‘If the owners of Zanana want to sell, no one can stop them. But there must be good reasons for denying development. My approach is that if development is to take place, then let it be the best possible for the community. That is what I have been striving for when devising these plans — as well as the commercial interests of Hacienda. I am willing to answer questions.’
The Kincaid reporter quickly whispered, ‘Here it comes. Mr Big strikes again.’
Before anyone could react to Eden’s invitation, Councillor Beck, a very fat and red-faced man, rose awkwardly to his feet and, referring unnecessarily to a piece of paper, addressed the chair. ‘Mr Mayor, I would like to move that the recommendation of the Planning Committee for rezoning the property known as Zanana be approved.’
Another councillor quickly added, ‘I’ll second that’. And a roar went up from the gallery.
Once again it was Mrs Bramble rather than the mayor who got the crowd to quieten.
‘If there’s any more of that I’ll clear the gallery,’ admonished the mayor. ‘A motion is necessary for debate to take place. Mr Beck, do you wish to speak to the motion?’
The councillor cleared his throat and tried to draw himself up to present a more authoritative figure, but too many years of good food and wine thwarted the effort. ‘I think Mr Davenport has told us all we need to know and the staff report is quite honest and informative. We cannot live in the past, progress is the name of the game, progress . . . that’s what the people want.’
But the people in the gallery made it clear he wasn’t referring to them and the debate was continuously punctuated by shouts or applause, depending on the argument. It seemed that the council was evenly divided on the issue. Eventually, the most outspoken opponent of the rezoning proposal, a bushy-bearded councillor in an ancient Harris tweed sports coat with leather on the arms moved an amendment.
‘This is the intellectual counter attack,’ hissed the Kincaid Courier.
‘Mr Mayor, it is clear from argument tonight and the passion of the public in regard to this important matter, that it would be most inappropriate for us to decide on this issue in such a precipitate way by proceeding tonight with Mr Beck’s motion. To quote the immortal bard, “Much may be said on both sides”, and I am persuaded that there is a great deal more to be heard before we can judiciously decide this matter. Therefore, I move that the matter be referred back to a full committee of council for further study and report.’
It was quickly seconded.
The mayor, who would have an embarrassing casting vote in the event of a deadlock, quickly made it clear where he now stood. ‘I think that might be a reasonable line of action at this stage. Do you wish to speak to the motion?’
The schoolteacher summed up the main points of the heritage arguments without ruling out the possibility that a compromise between development and conservation could be achieved.
‘I think we are in the vanguard of some quite revolutionary new thinking on urban development,’ he intoned with somewhat forced gravity. ‘It ill-behoves us to ignore the people when the people speak with such passion and clarity. But before we put the motion, Mr May
or, I would like to ask Mr Davenport a question . . . What guarantee do you have that Hacienda Homes will actually implement your concept?’
Eden allowed himself a slight smile. ‘Clients don’t usually pay for a concept and design — and approve it — then readily change their minds. It is my understanding, after meetings and discussions, that Hacienda approve of my design and want to follow it through.’
‘But you have no guarantee, I repeat — no guarantee — do you, Mr Davenport?’ The councillor thumped the table with his fist to emphasise the point.
Eden paused, a little taken aback by the melodramatics. ‘No, but I think it reasonable to assume, given the demand for housing, that funds will be made available to proceed.’
‘Reasonable, Mr Davenport?’ retorted the bearded councillor with heavy irony. ‘Reasonable? Methinks you are a little too young and naive for this business, Mr Davenport.’
The protesters applauded loudly and from the back of the chamber came shouts of, ‘It’s a con job . . . it’s a con job.’
Odette could see that Eden was very embarrassed and angry. As he sat down he cast a furious look at Odette, who shook her head vehemently, denying she had put the councillor up to asking the question.
‘Councillors,’ the speaker went on with much seriousness, ‘it is clear that no matter what Hacienda say they are going to do — to you, to Mr Davenport, or to the public — they are within their rights to do almost anything they jolly well please should this rezoning be granted without restrictions.’
Debate on the amendment broke no new ground but the numbers were there to carry it, and thus put off the day of reckoning. The vote was greeted with cheers from the gallery.
‘They won the battle, but not the war,’ observed the local newspaperman as he lit up an untidily rolled cigarette. ‘Mr Beck will round up the troops and bounce back, believe me. It won’t stay an even split.’
