by Susan Duncan
‘Storm’s a long way off. Ya have to count. That’s how ya tell. Ya hear the thunder first, then ya count. If ya make it to ten it’s all good. If ya barely make it to one, it’s time to skedaddle. And me pup’s been snoozin’ all day. Me mum said to take him out for a poo and a piddle before bed. He’s done the piddle but . . .’
Sam breaks in. ‘Yeah, well we’re on for an afternoon pick-up at Cargo for Kingfish Bay. I told you all this earlier, Jimmy. You’ve got to focus, mate.’
‘Yeah, Sam. I’m there. Good as gold. I mean me other job.’
Sam struggles to catch on. ‘You talking about the worm farm, Jimmy?’
‘Nah, Sam. The park. What’s me job to save the park?’ The kid stops suddenly and turns full on towards Sam, his earnest face struck white by a ribbon of light streaming across the track from a nearby house. His feet uncharacteristically anchored to the ground.
‘Ah. Gotcha. The thing is, mate, we’re taking it one day at a time. I’ll tell you when you’re needed, promise you.’
Jimmy reaches out a scrawny arm to grab hold of Sam’s shoulder. ‘I need a real job, don’t I? I’m gunna have kids one day and I wanna tell ’em about me part in the battle. We’re makin’ history here, Sam. Everyone says so.’
‘That’s what they’re saying, eh? S’pose we are, in a way. Never been a fight like this in Cook’s Basin before.’
‘So what’s me job, Sam? I can do anything, ya know. Ya just gotta tell me what.’
Sam tilts his head gravely. ‘You’re coming through loud and clear and it’s a noble offer, cuts through to my heart. Truly. Give me a couple of days, though, because all new action has to be approved by the committee. You square with that?’
‘Sure, Sam. A coupla days. No worries. You wanna hear me idea, but?’
‘Go for it!’ Sam is barely concentrating. He’s reached his house and he’s impatient to call it a night before rain buckets down.
‘How about I rub out the pink marks on the rocks and trees in the park. I gotta tell ya, they look weird. Pink’s no good in a park. Stands out like dog’s balls.’
It takes a couple of seconds for the information to sink in then Sam half closes his eyes, thinking. ‘Run that past me again, mate?’
‘The pink paint on the rocks, Sam. Some fella went round with a spray can of paint today and made a mess. Gotta tell ya, it looks bloomin’ awful. Even though me mum says . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah, a fresh coat of paint is as good as a holiday. Leave it with me, Jimmy. By the way, you’ve just been elected to the committee. You’ve got to be on time for the meetings and all, though. You up to it?’
‘I can do anything, Sam. How many times I gotta tell ya that? There he goes, good boy Longfella, he’s havin’ a poo . . .’
‘Keep your eyes peeled, Jimmy. Anything odd, you report back. Got it?’
‘We steppin’ forward, Sam?’
‘No, mate, we’re rocketing forward.’
War is officially declared, hand-to-hand combat begun. The Island artists slog through stinking hot and humid nights to create logos, choose powerful typefaces and prepare exquisite artwork showing the fragile flora and fauna of Garrawi. ‘It’s too hot to sleep anyway.’ They shrug, as though it’s no big deal.
Huge posters decrying the desecration of Garrawi appear one morning out of John’s print works, and are plastered from one end of Cook’s Basin to the other, as well as all over the city. Collector quality, everyone agrees, barely holding back from ripping them down and racing off to get them framed for their walls at home. Pamphlets (outlining the background and history of the park) are widely distributed. Emotive letters (Jenny, Judy and Jane) begging for support are sent to environmental organisations around the world including a special hand-written note on quality paper, to the Duke of Edinburgh and Queen Elizabeth. Monarchists and republicans unite briefly in a common cause for the common good.
Next, every heritage and conservation authority is contacted (Jenny, Judy and Jane), as well as the Greens, Liberal and Labor Parties, National Parks and Wildlife, even the Surfrider Foundation. ‘We want them all on our side,’ Jenny explains. ‘So if anyone calls us a bunch of NIMBY silvertails living in waterfront properties, we can tell them we’re supported by hundreds of groups across the country.’
The list of impressively credentialled supporters grows longer and longer. Even the National Trust comes on board and agrees to declare Garrawi worthy of conservation — a big win when you consider the Trust doesn’t have much money and there’ll be even less if it upsets potential donors. The letter campaign continues until every single heritage and conservation authority comes onside. The consensus is unanimous. Garrawi belongs to the people and should be preserved forever. Only the local mayor, Evan Robotham, a confirmed believer in the far-reaching power of the current state government, refuses to support the cause. Hiding behind a blah-blah press release citing the council’s mandate is to remain neutral, he ducks and weaves like a professional pickpocket in a holiday crowd.
The promised papier-mâché white cockatoo, about four metres long and two and a half metres tall, is fitted with a fully fanned bright yellow crest and takes up residence in the Square. Passers-by are told to pat it for luck. The Misses Skettle, armed with flyers, set up camp day after day, sweetly cajoling signatures against the development even from tourists who don’t speak English. At precisely ten-thirty, they break out morning tea from their picnic basket. Lunch is on the dot of one o’clock. Afternoon tea is at three-thirty.
‘You can set your clock by them,’ says Kate, standing in the doorway of the café, watching them set out plates, napkins, sandwiches and a Thermos. She puzzles out loud over the old ladies’ refusal of free refreshment; they don’t even accept a cappuccino.
‘They lace their coffee with whisky,’ Ettie explains. ‘They don’t think anyone knows but we all do. The smell of booze that steams out of the Thermos when the top comes off is enough to knock you out.’
‘Ah.’ Kate understands at last. ‘I was worried they didn’t like our food.’
Every time it rains, they rush around with a blue tarpaulin, anchor the corners with rocks. Papier-mâché, they explain, is particularly vulnerable to moisture.
Soon, the whole community is revved and ready for a full-on stoush. Excitement is tangible. Defeat is unthinkable. Ettie and Kate are planning a massive black-tie fundraiser to be held in the park. Every woman in the area is combing op shops for glamour gear to wear on the night. There’s also been a run on white T-shirts printed with a black bow tie.
Deciding he doesn’t have time to wait around for another committee meeting which may or may not end in the kind of action he is itching for, and without discussing his plans with a soul, Sam decides to call on Theo Mulvaney, State Minister for Housing and Development and first cousin to Eric Lowdon. He reassures himself that technically, he’s not breaking his word to Kate since he never – technically – gave it. On the way, he detours to get his taillights replaced.
At Parliament House, he expects to get the run-around but all it takes to get him through the door is a single phone call from the guardhouse to an office located somewhere deep in the hallowed halls of power and the mention of Lowdon and Garrawi Park in a manner that – he later admits – is obscure and could be construed as supporting the plan. Without a single hold-up, he is magically waved through security (emptying pockets that reveal two shackles, eight screws, one nut – no bolt – and a ratty wallet that spills its guts the moment he withdraws it) and directed to the plush but deeply masculine inner sanctum of the minister. Leather sofas, mahogany table with lion’s-claw feet and four serious chairs, a desk the size of a small dance floor. A barrage of clashing smells – furniture polish, flowery air fresheners, a lemon-scented aftershave – make his eyes water. Were he blindfolded, he couldn’t say whether he’d stepped into a toffy club or a toffy dunny. He catches a whiff of something mor
e primal. His mind flashes back to Fast Freddy’s tabloid and its recent dissection of questionable executive expense-account use within a branch of a top-ranking union. And we’re paying their wages, he thinks. Whatever happened to the good old days when politicians understood they worked for the taxpayers? Not the other way around.
‘Call me Theo’ arrives a few seconds after his citrus aftershave. He approaches with his hand outstretched, a wide, narcissist’s smile on a soft-living, unblemished, beautician-cured face. Beneath fiercely plucked, trimmed and (presumably) dyed brows, insincerity floats in his eyes like an oil slick. If politicians were meant to be charismatic, then this bloke has had a triple by-pass. Sam stares at the hand as though it might bite, unable to decide whether to take it in his own great paw or let it hang. Before he can make up his mind, Mulvaney, with the finely honed survival instincts of a city rat, picks up an off vibe. The hale-fellow-well-met mask dissolves. His smile disappears; his eyes go hard. He puts the desk between them in a couple of long steps, refrains from offering Sam a seat. ‘Friend of Eric’s, are you?’ he asks. His tone is brisk. Frigid. Sam realises he’s lost the element of surprise – never a smart tactic. With nothing more to lose, he goes for broke.
‘Sam Scully. Wouldn’t mean anything to you, of course, although Eric Lowdon knows me well enough. Might be an overstatement to refer to us as friends, though. Big overstatement.’ Despite the fact that he believes unflinchingly in the nobility of his mission, he’s surprised to find himself more than a little intimidated by his expensive surroundings. He catches another whiff. This time of power. So strong it’s almost tangible. He needs a moment to settle his mind into a customarily stable balance. He shifts a crystal paperweight, a few papers, from the edge of the desk and perches there. ‘Nice office you’ve got here. Good views. Plenty of space. Your own loo?’ He points towards a door tucked discreetly off to the side of the room. ‘Bet it’s got a shower. All the luxuries.’
‘Look, I’m not sure what you’re doing here . . .’ Mulvaney is irritated. He checks his watch, makes a whole lot of other signals that he’s a busy man. Sam picks up the paperweight, tosses it from hand to hand. Mulvaney snatches it away. ‘If you’re here to play catchy, I’m all booked up.’
Sam makes what he hopes is an educated guess and decides to go way out on a limb. ‘Just wanted to let you know that the residents of Cook’s Basin are fully aware that you, personally, signed off on the Garrawi development and the community is pissed off. Ropeable. No consultation. No environmental studies. No impact statements. Just your name on a document, followed by a champagne toast, I imagine. And, hey presto, a fat cheque lands in your personal bank account and that’s the end of it.’
‘You accusing me of taking bribes, you numbskull? Get out and get a life, sonny. Before I have you kicked out.’ Mulvaney moves a few papers around. Looks up. ‘Still here? Go on, get out.’ He waves his hand dismissively, like he’s dealing with an idiot.
One decent punch, Sam thinks, seeing red. Settle the quarrel like men. One almighty whack on that over-cleansed weak little chin. Even better, two. He clenches his fists by his side. Holds back from striking out with an almighty mental struggle. Hang around scum and you turn into scum. Then where do you end up? With an effort, he smiles, hoping it comes off as more Bond than Clouseau. In a normal voice, he says: ‘Thought it only polite to let you know that from now on, every time you turn around for the foreseeable future, I’d recommend you duck real fast because there’ll be a bullet coming your way.’ He pauses, fixes a friendly grin on his face. ‘Figure of speech, of course.’ He wipes the grin. ‘This time, you’ve taken on the wrong crowd, mate. Big mistake.’
Mulvaney launches himself around the desk, reaches for Sam’s shirtfront. ‘You threatening me, you dickhead? Do you know who I am?’ Instead of alarming Sam, the assault settles his resolve to stay calm under pressure. He unlocks Mulvaney’s fingers, one by one. He briefly – very briefly – considers trying to sell the bloke on the idea of a paradise that’s attracted dreamers, poets, lefties, commos, young love, old love, kids and dogs. Realises he’d be mining a barren seam. ‘By the time we’re finished with you and your dodgy land deals, you won’t have the kudos to OK a public lavatory. Your name will be mud. Nah. Worse than that. Slime. Scum. Not even your mother will own up to you.’ He dusts his hands, continues, almost conversationally, ‘Wouldn’t want you to be under any illusions.’
Mulvaney lets rip with a deep, gut-busting laugh. The smile returns, dirty with malice. ‘Go home and take a long last look at your beloved park, which according to the report on my desk is infested with ticks and used as a garbage dump. The developers are doing you a favour. In three weeks, the bulldozers move in. You’re whistling Dixie if you think a few raddled pot-smokers and bozo surf bums are going to stand in the way. Oh, and just so you know, the government of New South Wales bought the park from the Trust a month ago. Lock, stock and barrel. And we’ve sold it to the highest bidder. It’s a deal as clean as a whistle.’
A well-groomed and discreet assistant or secretary, Sam has no idea which, materialises out of nowhere. But Mulvaney’s not finished: ‘You say one word about me that I find offensive and I’ll sue your pants off. By the time I’m finished, I’ll have your house, your car. Even your fucking underwear. Now get out.’
Sam is tempted to make a crack about his jocks. Decides Mulvaney isn’t worth the effort. The secretary holds the door open, indicates Sam should go ahead of him.
When it’s just the two of them in the empty corridor, the dapper little man, polished from the tip of his balding head to his black leather lace-ups, says, quite pleasantly: ‘Don’t come back. Not if you want to live a long life.’ Said with a poker face, like it’s a hack line in a lousy sitcom he gets to repeat over and over.
For some reason he’ll never understand – his bloody instinct again – Sam offers his hand, feels heartened when it’s grasped almost warmly. ‘They play for keeps,’ the secretary adds, in a manner that’s clearly meant to inform, not threaten. He pauses. Then, ‘Is the park really full of ticks, a dump?’
‘No, mate, it’s paradise.’
He lets out a sigh heavy with regret. ‘They always are.’ He disappears back into what Sam can only think of as an expensive rat hole.
Out on the street, Sam takes a minute to thank the two sweat-soaked security guards at their sauna-hot gatepost for – as he puts it – looking after a man more at ease on the open waterways, a bargeman named Sam Scully who doesn’t set foot on land too bloody often. Not if he can help it. ‘And by the way,’ he asks, ‘just so I can get my bearings, where would Mulvaney’s office rank in that three-storey stack of windows?’
The guards, stomachs hanging over their belts, shirt buttons stretched to breaking point, swagger a little and laugh. ‘Top floor, mate, three from the end. Right next door to the premier and breathing down his neck like a rabid dog.’ Heh, heh.
Heading home, Sam silently declares his mission a success. Mulvaney is as rotten as a week-old sardine. Why do they think they can get away with it? Because they always have, he thinks, feeling a layer of innocence peel off him like sunburn. ‘But not this time,’ he says vehemently. ‘No freaking way.’ He pounds the sun-bleached dash of his rusty old ute, then apologises to the car as if it can hear him. Up ahead, flashing orange lights warn him there’s been an accident on the bridge. He checks his petrol gauge and crosses his fingers.
Once again, Sam lies in his own bed. Lightning strobes through the window. Thunder rumbles. Once, it cracks louder than a gunshot next to his ear and he feels a sudden lurch of dread. Raindrops tap the roof. He counts the beats between light and boom, following Jimmy’s instructions. One . . . bang! Another house-rattler. The storm feels like it’s on top of him. He’d invited Kate to spend the night in his house but she’d turned him down even though she understood he didn’t want to leave the premises unoccupied for a while yet. Come to think of it, she’d barely ever
set foot in his home. If he were the kind of bloke who tended towards cynicism he’d put it down to a fear of losing control. His house, his rules. He turns over, punches his pillow into a shape to fit between his neck and shoulders. Curls into a ball. Squeezes his eyes shut tight like a small boy. The wind picks up. He hears bark peeling from spotted gums and crashing noisily to the ground. There’ll be a mess in the morning, he thinks. Water in the tanks will go even browner. It’s fortunate Islanders favour strong colours in their clothing. Which brings him to Kate’s sparkling white T-shirts. How does she do it? And why won’t she join the committee? When he asks, all he gets is a shrug and a hard look that warns him it’s a no-go zone. Eventually, the monkey in his head tires of the Kate loop. Sam falls into a fitful sleep.
At the tail-end of the following day, Sam is nobbled by Jenny, who roars up to him in the Square, beaming with victory, her hair still wet from a quick swim or a shower, he’s not sure which. She waves a fist full of cash under his nose. ‘Smell this. Sweeter than roses. Signed up every local to the cause except for three. Two weekenders and Artie. Three thousand nine hundred and seventy dollars. The fighting fund is under way. Gotta run,’ she says, shoving the money at him, ‘or the kids will take off without me and I’ll have to swim home.’
Artie, he thinks. Artie refused to join?
He holds the cash out from his body as though it might bite. Where’s he going to stash a shitload of money until the committee opens a bank account? He checks out the commuter crowd with their frigidly cold beers, chewing the fat, hawk-eyes on the puddles to avoid soaking their only pair of going-to-town-shoes. Sees a cheeky, wiry terrier ambitiously trying to mount a thuggish, barrel-chested Staffy. A bad move that ends in flashing fangs and an all-out brawl until the terrier rolls over, four paws in the air, pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. Complete surrender. Two mums strip their red-faced toddlers to splash about naked in the cool water. A bunch of kids help load groceries into tinnies. A few dragging their feet. He’d trust every one of them with his life but he wouldn’t put a single soul in charge of a ten-cent coin that wasn’t his own. The committee needs a treasurer.
