‘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.’