Fava Beans For Breakfast Page 4

  When he’d stepped into his house last night, the aroma of fried onion, chopped parsley and something sweet smelling had greeted him. As Neema cooked, unaware of his presence at the entrance to the kitchen, he had lingered silently by the door and watched her. He approved of the way that she moved around his kitchen. Like she owned it. Making demands on all the kitchen’s resources, she pivoted from the oven to benchtop to sink with the weightlessness of a leaf.

  Strands of her dark curly hair had dislodged from the loose bun at the nape of her neck and cascaded down her back in distinct formations like the stems of a twisted vine. Her large gold earrings jangled every time she moved. He should be ashamed of his scrutiny of her. She was barely out of her teens. Twenty, he figured, twenty-one maybe. Yet there was something of the old-time classics in her. She dressed older than her years. She reminded him of a young Ava Gardner. Classy. Still, those tight pencil skirts that she wore seemed to reveal more than they hid. She was a peach from behind, no doubt about it.

  It was her voice that struck him the most, rising and falling with expression on unlikely words, her tone raw and husky with emotion and altogether unexpected, and when she furrowed her brow he understood that she was chasing the thoughts that ran faster and harder than her words so that when she reached the end of a sentence she was, at once, breathless, elated, and embarrassed. Her voice was like the inner workings of a baby grand piano: vulnerable and beguiling and intelligent.

  When she spoke, her dark eyes were busy with assessment. Oh, he was certain of that. She had a pretty face, but it wasn’t a face that gave much away. Her arms were soft. Thick lips. Slender fingers that tugged at the strangely splotchy skin on her chest. Some kind of heat rash, he guessed, that caused her skin to rise into tiny red bumps. He drew on all his strength to stop himself from staring at her chest as she razed that skin with her fingernails.

  Fred was genial enough; though he was the slowest eater Tom had ever seen, piling his fork with precision and chewing like a robot. Polite bastard, that’s for sure. You couldn’t fault him on his manners, except to say that he was probably too well-mannered. He kept the conversation moving and showed more interest in Burraboo than was warranted. He’d be making a move on buying that pharmacy, all right. He had that starry-eyed look of a young man about to make his first big dash for glory.

  It was a long time since his house was full of food and chat. His brother rarely visited him now. He and Nick, they didn’t really talk about the difficult stuff. That wasn’t how they’d been brought up. Big Jack preferred them to be combative rivals, but Nick was too gentle for that and conspired to make their old man their enemy. The vain old coot had never taught his sons a decent lesson in all his life. Their mother was like an apparition who flitted into being for the irrelevant moments but was wholly absent when they actually needed her. Somewhere along the way, Tom had mucked things up and disappointed Nick. Hell, he was disappointed with himself at least half the time. Gradually, then suddenly, there was a chasm between Tom and Nick that was hard and cold. It hurt like hell.

  The last time his brother came up from Sydney to the house was a few years back. He’d brought his family with him. It was the Easter long weekend. Nick’s kids were noisy terrors. The little one had spewed up his lunch. They’d all played cricket in the yard. It was a good day. There hadn’t been a better day since.

  Tom pulled into the road that led to the site, slowing the car down as he negotiated the rocky surface. Here it was. The Horizon at Serpentine Heights. In fifteen months’ time, this section would be a car park; further up, the entrance to the entertainment complex and the cinema. To the right would be the water park, to the left, a dozen apartments. There’d be people swarming everywhere: big-bellied dads and shrieking children and floppy-hatted mums. This was his perfectly realised vision of the Horizon. He had to believe it had the legs to be viable. Most of the time he did. In truth, the cinema was the only part of the development that he truly believed would succeed, because it would be the only indoor cinema in five towns. With two big screens, they’d be coming in droves.

  At the beginning, when the Serpentine Heights development was just a crumb of an idea that he’d half dreamt about, he was surprised that the financiers were interested. It was a gamble, one that his father would never have made, because the risks were clear enough and the returns were uncertain. It was downright wobbly. He had understood from the outset that it might go belly up. Hell, he hadn’t even figured out how to cover the entire construction expense. Yet, he was ploughing ahead, committing to a fifteen-month construction build. He needed one more loan or else he wouldn’t be able to complete the build or cover expenses for the first three months of operation. Just one more loan. Cripes, he’d be paying off loans for years.

  He had a big week ahead of him. Meetings with his financial team over the funding shortfall, then there was the town hall meeting for which he was completely unprepared. Construction would start a week later.

  This project would be the best thing any Grieves had ever done. Tom had lived in the shadow of first-movers all his life. Everything that could’ve been dreamed, built, sub-divided, quarried, logged, exported, exploited, had already been done by members of his family before him. This enterprising spirit began with his grandad, the Great Arthur Grieves, who passed through the Burraboo peninsula the year before Federation with his head full of ideas and a pocket full of money. He had his sights set on sandstone, a building material highly favoured for replicating the architectural sensibilities of England. Struck by the beauty of the honey-coloured Burraboo sandstone, which was streaked with vanilla and had oak bark veins, Artie Grieves acquired a large holding of land that was rich with it. He built a quarry. Success came early, with a contract to supply sandstone for the construction of a school in the rapidly growing township of Gosford. But the Great Artie Grieves had his sights set on Sydney, where the demand for sandstone outstripped supply. All over the state, rail lines were being built to transport sandstone, among other materials, into Sydney. Over the next thirty years, Artie had a hand behind every building project in Burraboo, from the railway station and sandstone station master’s house, now a museum, to the school, the boarding houses, and The Royal Hotel. All in all, the famous Grieves sandstone quarry had brought Burraboo more than half a century of prosperity. A dedication plaque was laid over sixty years ago, in front of The Royal Hotel, honouring Great Arthur as a founding father of Burraboo.

  Tom got out of the car. The view was something from here. In a single sweep you could see the entire peninsula, Burraboo Bay, Frenchmans Beach, Jindy, the coastline northwards, and all the way south to the Palm Beach headland in Sydney.

  The site for the entertainment complex had already been bulldozed and cleared, and until work began it would look like a bald spot amid the gnarled woodland that surrounded it on three sides. Red gums towered over ancient ferns. Tom kicked the toe of his leather shoe into the dirt. The urge to pull off his shoes and socks and let the earth and stones grind against his bones was a harking back to his childhood. Or maybe it came from a primitive, ancient instinct. He was connected with this place, and not just because his family had profited from its handsome sandstone. The feeling was greater than that. It was immense.

  He had to think back a long time to recall Burraboo as a prosperous, functioning, viable town. The decline in economic wealth had probably begun before his birth, but at least when he was growing up there were dairy farms all over the fringes of Burraboo. Most of this farming land was owned by the Grieves family and leased out to small-scale dairy farmers. When the farmers left, one by one, the rot was there for all to see.

  He’d spent the last fourteen years dealing with the mess his father had left him by selling down all loss-making interests from the Grieves Inc balance sheet. Near the end, Big Jack had gotten sloppy with his commercial interests. Tom had clung on to the Royal but sold almost everything else of value to pay off his old man’s legacy of debts.

  Now, Tom had an urge
nt desire to prove to himself that he could create and not just consolidate. He was the last in the line of Grieves with a stake still in the sand of Burraboo, but in building the Horizon, he wasn’t seeking personal acclaim. This was what Burraboo needed. The future of Burraboo depended on a new vision of itself. To survive change, they all had to participate in the change. For years they had all just waited, politely and quietly on the edges; one small push and the town—no, the entire region—would tumble into extinction. It was a real possibility. He would create something here, something out of nothing that would last for generations. There was beauty in staring the chasm of decay in the face and believing that you deserved more than falling into that void.

  The Horizon was a project of scale and ambition that would touch a greater number of people and change more lives than anything that Big Jack or Great Artie Grieves had ever created. His family had plundered whatever they wanted from this region and this land. He felt a responsibility to fix this imbalance, to spit in the face of that greed and need and want.

  Decent people wanted jobs, a livelihood, a purpose, a reason to get out of bed every day. Cripes almighty. That thought alone kept him going. The Horizon would endure long after his own body returned to the earth. He would not fail in this.

  The Great Artie and Big Jack Grieves were drawn so large in Burraboo folklore that their very names cast long, stretching shadows. They were the guardians of Burraboo’s prosperity, always in the light, always in the right. The gods of Burraboo.

  In fifty years’ time, what would be in the shadows and what would be in the light? Where would the lines of history be drawn? He eased himself down onto a rock and fixed his gaze where the ocean met the sky, all hazy blues, thick and muddled. The elegant stretch of horizon swept its arc right here, before him, like an open hand.

  * * *

  Tom cleared his throat and tapped the top of the microphone two times. The sound thumped across the Great Hall of the Burraboo cricket club. His sideburns gathered sweat. His moustache was moist. Cripes. His freshly pressed shirt was quickly turning into a damp mess as it clung to his chest and hugged his soft belly. He stood on the modestly elevated stage, behind the sturdy lectern, with his mouth hovering above the microphone, and appraised the room.

  The Great Hall was the only space in Burraboo and Jindy large enough to accommodate this gathering of bodies and still, every seat was taken. Along the back wall of the Great Hall were the stragglers, forced to take the standing room, shuffling their weight from one foot to the other. What a turnout. Voices bounced hard across the unforgiving surfaces of the hall. The noise was nuts in here. He readied himself, leaned forward and tapped the microphone again. The hall quickly turned silent. Faces looked up at him in anticipation. Shit, he thought. His stomach was a riot of gas and knots. He wondered if he was about to throw up.

  He looked at Rob Grimshaw, his chief legal counsel, seated in the front row, flanked by his clever, collared lackeys. Grimshaw nodded to him, ever so subtly, as though to signal that now was a good time to start. Tom pulled back his lips with the greatest force of will until he hoped he was smiling beatifically. He stood on the platform, his innards about to disintegrate. Oh god, how he hated public speaking, with all of its potential for heckling and dissent. Nah. He couldn’t let that happen tonight. He had to stay in control of the next thirty minutes. Keep it together for a measly thirty minutes, he told himself. The lines of Burraboo’s history were about to be drawn.

  He cleared his throat into the mic. ‘Hope you all enjoyed the sausage sizzle outside, courtesy of Grieves Developments.’ He noted the general absence of acknowledgement at his words. No big deal. People tended to withdraw from individual responsibility when they were inside a pack, because the good of the pack came first. He knew that.

  ‘Can we please show some appreciation to the lovely Janelle for making those lamingtons and teacakes and for being an all-round great gal?’

  He waited for the courteous applause to dim.

  ‘Hope that some of you made a donation for those cakes too, as you know all proceeds go to the cricket club, the pride of Burraboo.’ He looked around the Great Hall of the cricket club demonstratively. He noticed a large crack on one of the walls, beneath the window. The Great Hall was in great decay.

  ‘We have a wonderful community in Burraboo. We all love this place. That’s why there are so many of you here tonight.’ He paused a moment. ‘This meeting is an open forum. I’m not here to preach to anyone, but let me be absolutely clear that we are on the brink of exciting times.’

  A smattering of heads bobbed in agreement in the crowd.

  ‘It’s been years since Burraboo has had any investment, any growth, any jobs. The last big spending splurge was right here, at the cricket club, with the lawns re-turfed, the grandstands upgraded, and of course, this fine hall was built. Club and council did a great job but that was years ago now. We could all do with a bit more of that. Burraboo isn’t alone. Jindy’s had it tough, too. Plenty of towns up the coast have shrivelled up. When you look around Burraboo today, well … the dairy farms are closed. The quarry is closed. They’re ancient industries from another time. But we are modern people living in modern times. We need jobs, income. Sometimes it feels like the cities have left us behind.’

  There was a ripple of agreement among the crowd.

  Tom drew himself up to full height. ‘Well, I’ve had enough. Sitting tight and doing nothing isn’t an option any longer. I can’t bear to watch our kids leave us as soon as they’ve finished school. If we do nothing, this town will keep on marching down the path towards extinction.’

  The Great Hall was silent, save an odd cough or two. Tom was already feeling better. They were attentive, ready to meet him somewhere on the playing field. Good. This was very good. ‘This is why the Serpentine Heights development is so important. It’s going to change everything for us. The Horizon will save my town. Our town.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Most times in life, there are no guarantees. But there is one thing I can personally guarantee. The Horizon will create jobs for us, right here in Burraboo. The construction company I’ve commissioned is a professional Sydney-based mob—and they are required, by me, in their contract, in black and white, to employ as much local labour as possible.’ Tom waited and looked around slowly, noticed that Rob Grimshaw was smiling earnestly in support. ‘In every second house in Burraboo and Jindy, there will be a father, son or brother who will find employment at some point during the construction phase. Many of you are already signed up.’

  There was an incoherent mumble from the middle row of seating. Someone snorted and laughed.

  ‘What was that?’ said Tom. ‘Let’s all hear it. You can start by standing up.’

  A defiant head rose from the seated audience. It was Murray ‘Hoppo’ Hopkins. Should’ve bloody guessed it was Hoppo. The bludger was a royal glasshole who loved to stir the pot and had a special antipathy for Tom. ‘Yeah, Hoppo. Go on, then,’ said Tom.

  ‘So, we all get some jobs for a year. Then what? It’s all over.’

  ‘No. That’s when everything begins. You see, once construction is finished, we’ll have our platform—for a successful, economically viable future. There’ll be jobs in frontline consumer service and hospitality. Maintenance jobs. Gardening jobs. Retail jobs. Heaps of jobs, all needing to be filled.’

  Heads nodded in agreement. Smiles broke out.

  ‘Council has already approved this development,’ someone piped up at the back of the hall. ‘Construction starts in less than a week. It’s going ahead whether or not we all think it’s a good idea. So what’s the point of bringing us all here tonight?’

  ‘The point of tonight is that we’re all in this together. Let’s get excited about our future.’ Tom’s voice rose with genuine feeling.

  ‘All the papers keep telling us the economy’s stuffed. That we’re in a recession and that the whole world is in recession. What if the Horizon falls belly up
?’ the man persisted.

  The union rep, Les Dugan, rose from his seat and raised his hand. ‘What about wages? Are you going to pay good and fair wages … there are labour shortages all over.’ Heads craned in their seats to get a good look at Dugan.

  Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘So you union lot keep saying. We can do without your strike threats, Les. Look, I can’t afford any delays with the construction so you’ll all get a good and fair wage.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not happy with the wages that have already been agreed,’ said Dugan.

  ‘What’s to lose, mate? I’ll be keeping your members employed.’ Yeah, thanks to Whitlam, the unions are waving their war stick, thought Tom.

  ‘Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that if your construction costs blow out and your lenders won’t fork out any more … how can we be sure that the blokes on site will still get paid for their labour? We all know who ends up in the scrap heap when projects get junked. The little bloke, that’s who. The good bloke.’

  ‘Come on, Les, I’ve got financing for the project. You know that. There’s no problem. Don’t go fishing for one.’

  Tom noticed Rob Grimshaw grimacing. He looked back at Les Dugan, who was half-bent over and talking to the person seated next to him. They shared a smarmy laugh. The person next to Les rose slowly. Tom’s stomach kicked as he recognised his father’s former business partner, Frank Pritchett, the old miserable coot. Pritchett cleared his throat.

  ‘You see, Tommy-boy, you’re talking to us like we’re a bunch of dimwits. There’s a problem with this bloody economy right now, don’t whitewash it. There’s a big bloody oil price problem thanks to OPEC. Inflation is going through the roof. You’re paying more than you should for materials right now. The entire supply chains’ prices are stuffed. Some might even say that this is the worst time to start a mammoth project like this. You’re vulnerable,’ said Pritchett.

  ‘True. Oil prices aren’t helping to keep my costs down. Nor is the union,’ said Tom, stiffly. ‘Burraboo’s been stuffed long before oil prices doubled. I reckon by the time construction has finished and the Horizon is open for business, the economy will be back on track.’