Fava Beans For Breakfast Page 9

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The smell of a car burning from the inside out was god-awful. Plastic, fabric, carpet, seat padding, and petrol incinerated the air and smacked his throat. Glass and metal groaned and wept. When a 1972 Dodge Charger in Lucerne Blue burned, it shuddered like the wreckage that was your heart melted alive. It was a tragic and pitiful sight.

  Tom watched in quiet horror as his two-year-old car, the only of its kind seen between Sydney and Newcastle, drew its last gasps. Black smoke plumed around the car, heavy and dense and cloying. Bright, savage flames roared through the interior and spiked up through the bonnet. Cripes, the inside of the cabin lit up bright like a cracker for a full mournful minute. The back of the car burned slower, and he could see the metal of the boot was melting. He’d get the miserable scum that did this. He’d get them.

  From the throng of people who stood silently in front of his decimated Dodge, their hands covering their mouths and noses from the harsh and astringent smoke, Tom stepped forth. Something sinewy and bilious rose from his stomach and he roared from deep within. When he looked back at the gathered crowd and saw the fat smug face of Stewy Dart with his mouth half upturned, he grabbed the stinking filthy scum by the chin and punched his right cheek and watched him fall to the ground like a dainty teacup knocked from a table.

  Then it was on. He didn’t know or care whether Stewy Dart was the glasshole that had burned his car. It was probably unlikely that Stewy Dart had the requisite skill in speed and stealth to do such a brazen thing in daylight, it was simply enough that he was there, like the rest of them, looking like they thought Tom deserved it. A few of the blokes lunged for him and he was ready. His fists were screaming for it, his eyes were full of steam and mist, his vision blurry, his cheeks burning with grief and rage. He felt his elbows being pulled behind his back and blood in his mouth and his legs buckling beneath him. You feckless pack of shameless, witless glassholes. Someone smacked his face. His spine pressed hard against a sharp rock on the road.

  He heard a whistle being blown, bodies being pulled off him. He looked up. Bargearse Barry and a couple of his minions were breaking up the rabble but most of the group surrendered only after taking a final swing at him.

  ‘C’mon, mate,’ said Davo, appearing from nowhere, and helping Tom to his feet. ‘Hey, steady on, Tom. You’ve taken a knock to your noggin.’

  Tom staggered back a couple of steps. Bargearse Barry’s face lunged towards him. ‘I know you’re upset, but seriously, that was real dangerous to pick a fight so close to a burning bloody car.’

  ‘It’s my burning bloody car. I’ll do what I want.’

  ‘You’ll need to file a police report. I can drive you to the station now,’ said Bargearse.

  Tom licked his torn lip, tasted blood. He gave Bargearse a ragged look.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ offered Davo, quickly.

  ‘Why are you so calm about this? My bloody car is sitting there, still burning away, its innards gutted by a Molotov cocktail. Shouldn’t you be arresting someone?’ Tom yelled.

  Bargearse rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll see you at the station. I reckon you should leave now. I’ll wait here a bit longer. Don’t leave the station before I get there.’

  Davo nudged Tom. ‘You heard him, let’s go.’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ said Davo, shoving Tom forcefully away from the burning shell of his Dodge. ‘Cop shop first, then I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘Well if you’re going to drive me home you can help me charge the battery on the other car while you’re there. Guess I’ll be needing it now.’

  ‘You’ve still got the Monaro?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘It’s a beauty that one.’

  ‘You think?’ Tom took a parting look over his shoulder at his celebration car as a thick blanket of black smoke settled like a death shroud over its remains.

  * * *

  ‘So many bloody forms,’ Tom complained to the fresh-faced constable at the police station. ‘What kind of bludgers are you? Earn your keep and fill them out yourself.’

  ‘Don’t take it out on the kid,’ cautioned Davo.

  Behind the counter, behind the kid, a heavy metal door swung open. Bargearse Barry nodded curtly to them.

  ‘What have you got for me?’ started Tom. ‘Who torched my car?’

  ‘Why don’t you begin by telling me what you know about it?’ said Bargearse.

  ‘What are you talking about? There’s nothing to tell. I parked the car outside the Royal like I do every day. I have a chat with Davo in the office. I go back to my car and find it burning like a wood chip.’

  ‘How long were you inside the pub?’

  Tom glared at him. ‘It’s in the report.’

  Davo jumped in, ‘About ten minutes, I reckon.’

  ‘Have you had any threats before today? Any inkling that this might happen?’ said Bargearse.

  ‘Well … there have been the posters. At the Royal, since before the meeting at the cricket club. Three weeks, I’d say,’ said Davo. ‘Every morning when I open up, there’s a couple on the front door. Sometimes they’re on the windows too. Angry stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Davo produced a wad of rolled-up paper. ‘I’ve been keeping them. Thought you’d want to see the last few.’

  Tom unfurled the poster-sized paper and grimly read aloud: ‘“Selling out our town? We’ll burn your money to the ground.” Then there’s “Grieves equals Grub.” These glassholes are hilarious, don’t you think? This last one reads, “Boycott the Royal.”’

  ‘Have you known about these posters?’ asked Bargearse.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tom.

  ‘You should have notified us. These are threats.’

  ‘Well they’re not invitations to tea.’

  ‘Any idea who’s responsible for putting these up?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘The thing is, Tom … plenty of people are real angry with you. I’m not surprised this has happened. Disappointed, yes. But not surprised.’

  ‘Really? Well, thanks for the warning.’

  ‘The posters were your warning.’

  Tom wanted to smack him.

  ‘Selling that dairy farm …’ Bargearse shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Since when does selling my dairy farm become anyone’s business but mine?’

  ‘It’s not so much about why you’ve sold the farm. It’s more about who you’ve sold to … those Rainbow people. Gawd. Those hippies are bludgers of the worst kind. Alternative living is free licence to bum around and make babies. This town isn’t welcoming their filth or their drugs. They’re a poison to our kids. Plus, they’re a law enforcement nightmare. They’ll be bringing in their marijuana and trying to cultivate it, mark my words. That bloody Aquarius Festival in Nimbin …’ Bargearse’s lips curled down. ‘Every day you keep hearing about some new “social experiment”.’

  Tom stared at Bargearse’s plump face, his earnest, self-bloody-righteous eyes, his ruddy nose, and laughed; a loud, demented, wild bark that came insincerely from the throat and sounded just like his old man’s. ‘It’s the only decent offer I’ve had since the farms and factory closed down.’

  ‘I know, Tom. I know you needed to sell. But I’ve a bad feelin’ in me gut about them Rainbow people. What they’re doin’ rips through the heart of everyone who loves this place,’ he said with feeling. ‘It’s not right … them stormin’ in here and taking up our land.’

  ‘Like that’s never happened before.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘The history of Burraboo is a who’s who of storming in and taking land.’

  Barry squinted at him. ‘You know, people are so angry with you right now I don’t reckon anyone’s going to talk. But we’ll run a full investigation. We’ll do our best to make an arrest. But those hippies …’

  ‘The hippies didn’t torch my car.’

  Bargearse closed his eyes. ‘We’ll be in touch.’


  This town pissed Tom right off sometimes.

  * * *

  Tom sank into the seat of Davo’s Datsun. ‘Who’d you think did the Dodge in?’

  Davo shook his head. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘You know, last week, someone keyed the Dodge. The week before, someone let down the tyres. But this … this is something else.’ Tom spread his right hand out, stretched open his fingers. Cripes, it hurt.

  ‘I’ve been asking about the posters, on the quiet …’ said Davo. ‘No one’s talking.’

  ‘Reckon I’ll put up my own poster saying there’ll be a reward for any information on my car being torched.’

  ‘People won’t wanna be bought,’ said Davo.

  ‘I should’ve left this stinking town with my brother.’

  ‘It’s because of the hippies. Bargearse is right. People aren’t happy that you sold land to them.’

  ‘Who would’ve thought a few hocus-pocus bloody hippies would get people so worked up?’

  Davo pulled into Tom’s driveway. ‘I’ll help you give the Monaro a charge.’ He was a good man, Davo, rock solid.

  After he helped Tom charge the car’s battery, he made Tom a cup of tea with a splash of whiskey and left straight away, back to the Royal.

  Tom reclined into his favourite leather armchair in the rumpus room. Felt the tea warm his ragged throat. The last time he’d seen a car burn he was barely lucid. His dad’s face was covered with a towel, his body inert on the ground. Big Jack’s flashy Jaguar in flames right after the two of them had been cut out of it.

  The Dodge. What was next? His house? The Royal? Sabotage on the construction site? Jesus, he’d have to organise security. Who knew how far this nutcase would go. He felt sparks in his head. Something was beating behind his eye. He rubbed his ribs. His chest felt so tight he could barely breathe. His fingertips streamed water like burst pipes. His palms were damp. He was having an episode. Did anyone notice his humid hands? How he constantly rubbed them down the sides of his trousers to remove the sweat?

  The greatest humiliations of his life—his marriage, his Oxford madness—would be nothing more than tiny pimples in comparison to failing a project of this magnitude.

  He held his breath, tried to regulate his confetti of worry into logical streams of thought. He could get out whenever he wanted. He could sell even if the construction was incomplete. He’d find buyers. Surely? He’d leave this place and leave it for good. He’d go to Sydney. No. Maybe he’d go to India and try to find God or the Maharishi. He’d ensconce himself in some ashram and forget that he’d ever wanted to do something that was bigger than his own personal need. Who was he to think he could do some good for this joint? Get out now.

  Tom squirmed in his armchair, felt the hard pulse in his eyeballs, and pressed his fingers over his eyes. In his father and his grandfather, Tom had seen a certain kind of emptiness, something like disappointment, amid their frenzy of attainment. Tom’s own emptiness came from somewhere else: a rotten hole of a place where there was never sun.

  Stop. Focus on the positives. Here was his chance to realise the potential he had shown as a young man. It was not too late. There had been many times when he had teased himself with rewrites of his past, how different things might have been, complete with all the self-pitying ‘what ifs’, and every time he performed this miserable exercise, he always began with 1961. It was that bastard of a year that changed everything for him.

  He had been granted a prestigious scholarship to Oxford. Fresh and hurting from the failure of his marriage, he told himself the lacerations from his duplicitous ex-wife were nothing more than flesh wounds. That what he needed was to be immersed in intellectual pursuits somewhere far away from the snide sniggers. He was twenty-four years old, unusually intelligent and charismatic. He was also green and cocky and a bit of a noodle. If he were a different kind of man, the kind who rose quickly from a fall, he would have returned to Australia a celebrated Rhodes Scholar.

  The glory ahead of him had frightened him. The moment he’d unpacked his suitcase at Balliol College and looked at his schedule, he was overcome with the need for rest.

  For the next three months, he cowered inside his room in a state of exhaustion, barely leaving his bed or eating. Just a bit more rest, he reasoned, then I’ll have all the energy I need to complete the program. As the semester moved on without him, the thought of all the lectures he’d missed sent him into a deeper state of fatigue. So he slept more. But it was deeper than fatigue; it was a paralysis in both mind and body that was akin to nothingness. His absence was eventually noted—calls were made and councillors brought in, doctors examined him for tropical diseases that he may have caught en route to England but none were found. Agitated Rhodes Trust representatives expressed their disappointment. They made threats. In the end, he allowed himself to be thrown off the scholarship roster.

  His short time at Oxford was a murky mess of half-dreams, broken up with semiconscious fits of staring out of the window of his residential hall—a muddle of green lawns and daffodils. Before his long flight home, he had called his parents at Heathrow Airport. That had been one hell of a phone call. He remembered his mother’s shaky voice, Big Jack’s disgust, his brother’s hollow concern. His family’s respect for him had fallen faster than a whore’s knickers.

  When he returned to Burraboo, his father had refused to speak to him. When Big Jack Grieves finally did condescend to acknowledge him, it was to remind Tom of his own achievements at twenty-four and to stress that Tom was indeed a weak sap. Two weeks later, on Christmas Eve, his father was killed in the car accident.

  He’d slammed the Jaguar into a tree on the Maxwell Pass with his belly full of beer. Tom had been in the passenger seat, his right leg badly crushed and broken in three places. Months would pass before he could walk again but he was lucky to be alive at all. His brother Nick saw the sliver of escape that had opened up with the old man’s death and announced, barely a week after the funeral, that he was going to live indefinitely in Sydney. Nick had never looked back. Tom, on crutches, was left to deal with the Grieves’ family business and his mother’s quiet rage.

  Since that disaster of a year, he had lacked the capacity and the will to surprise himself. Failure had swallowed him up. There was nothing left of him but impulse and raw, twitching nerves. He found solace in the predictability and security of his family’s situation. Everything that had been expected of him since that bastard of a year, he had readily, and so easily, obliged. Cripes almighty. He was a Grieves man after all. People expected him to behave badly. And for years he’d delivered in spades. Heavy drinking, serial womanising; he was not proud of what he’d become.

  Yet, even in those dark, wild years, he was the most muted version of Grieves, just as Burraboo itself was a star that had long faded. For years he tried not to blame himself for the decline in the Grieves family’s fortunes. Things just happened in cycles: economies rose and economies fell; strong empires were always eventually toppled; it was the way of things. He’d spent a lot of time thinking about cycles. There was nothing much you could do about them. You just hoped the bad ones passed quickly.

  Here was his chance to do some good and maybe discover something about himself that he liked. He had endured the past fourteen years in a silent, private purgatory. Now he was ready for the cycle to swing up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  She watched Tom from her deck. He was seated on his elegant wicker chair on his verandah, one leg shaking fiercely. The curved arm of the chair obscured his face, but she knew he was gazing west. A translucent veil of tamarind weaved across the sky, a little eerily, reminding her of the cellophane tint of the sky in Alexandria during the Khamaseen when nothing good could happen.

  ‘Ya butta, there is something I must tell you. Please, can you come inside?’ Fawzy said in Arabic, for once abandoning his precise English. He had one foot on the verandah, one foot inside the house.

  Nayeema jumped. She hadn’t realised he had returned home. Her mouth went
dry as she followed him into the lounge room. He placed his hand over her knee. His almond eyes were soft and imploring.

  ‘Pat Morris, he is a good man. He has high expectations of me. Really, he is convinced that I will take the pharmacy—’ he gestured with his hand the motion of a plane taking off, ‘—to great success. One day, well …’ His eyes darted over Nayeema’s face. ‘Ya butta, we talked about my buying the pharmacy.’

  Nayeema squinted at the mulberry-coloured carpet. ‘Does it make sense to buy a pharmacy in this useless town when we will be returning to Sydney in two years? We have an agreement. We said we would stay here for two years.’

  ‘Plans can change. Why be inflexible?’

  ‘In two years you will have all the experience you need. You will be able to work in any pharmacy you want. Why not stick to your commitment?’ Her birthmark prickled with sudden ferocity and she responded with a single savage scratch.

  ‘I don’t want to just work in the best pharmacy, I want to own the best pharmacy. There is so much good work I can do here. We can make so much more money here than in Sydney.’

  Was he losing his head? ‘How is this possible? This is a village.’

  ‘Merchandising.’ He beamed. ‘This is my vision. The pharmacy will be a place to buy lots of things, not just medicines. I will offer everyday products, things that you can’t find in the Super-S. You have said yourself that the Super-S is rubbish.’

  ‘So you plan to sell lentils and olives in your pharmacy?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ He smiled patiently. ‘Have you heard of natural foods? Health foods? Things like granola. Black strap molasses. There is a big movement in America for this health food business. I’ll also sell vitamins. Hair care products. Skin care products.’

  ‘Who will buy all this? The women here don’t even dye their hair.’

  ‘Tom’s development, the Horizon, will change that. There will be visitors to Burraboo. Things will change.’

  ‘This is a small town.’

  ‘This is the only pharmacy in four towns.’

  ‘You’ll make Wendy and Stan angry … you’ll take their customers.’