A lesser man would not have read them all, but Sandy did. Or almost did. He only had a dozen or so to go when he heard noises in his drive and looked out the window to see a small, determined group of his neighbours, armed with placards, marching up to his door.
They stopped short of the verandah and began their chant. ‘What do we want? Dump the Galah. When do we want it? Now.
’ Unperturbed, the resident galahs continued to tear at the wooden shed while Sandy peered out from behind his blinds. The decision to abandon his project was suddenly replaced by anger. Who were these people to tell him what to do? Scratching around in the dirt all day, knee-deep in animal shit; losers, the lot of them. He was a Sandilands and, as such, worthy of respect. Deference, even. He’d show those tree-hugging do-gooders a thing or two. Striding into the hall, he was stopped short by the sight of his father in the hall mirror-the same livid purple, the same arrogant features, the same small, rage-filled eyes. He found himself shaking, whether in anger or fear he wasn’t sure. Then his aunt’s voice echoed in his head: You are not your father, Sandy. Not your father. No, he wasn’t. He stood, breathing deeply, until the last of his anger was exorcised and the face in the mirror became his own benign full moon.
Meanwhile, two people detached themselves from the crowd outside and approached the door. They were obviously spokespersons for the group. Knocking loudly, they were startled at the sudden appearance of their quarry, who was, in fact, coming out to meet them.
‘We are here,’ said Tom Ferguson, regaining his composure with admirable speed, ‘we are here to demand that you give up your plans for the building of the Great Galah.’
Sandy opened his mouth, but was firmly silenced as Freda D’Amico waved a bundle of papers at him. ‘This is a petition to go to council. It has over five hundred signatures already and-’ she glared at him darkly-‘and I promise you, there-will-be-more!’
‘Well, okay,’ said Sandy.
‘Okay what?’ asked Tom.
‘Okay, I won’t build it.’
‘You won’t build it?’
‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
The two leaders looked confused, then aggrieved. ‘That’s it?’ said Tom.
‘Yes. If there’s nothing else…?’
‘Just a mo’.’
Tom and Freda returned to the waiting crowd, and the group conferred briefly. They all stood looking at each other, not sure what to do next. This was just Plan A. They had other, perfectly good plans ready to go-Plans B, C, D and, for some of the more radical among them, Plan E.
‘We’ll be off then, Sandy,’ Ned Humphries finally called out. It was nearly milking time. They headed back to their utes and four-wheel drives feeling a little cheated. Freda left her sign, NO GREAT GALAH, as a reminder in case Sandy reneged. The resident galahs soon took care of that, and a few days later it read O G. Still, as Freda maintained, it served its purpose.
Sandy chuckled as he wrote his letter to the council. ‘That took the wind out of their sails,’ he muttered. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.
He was printing out the letter the next morning when there was a knock at the door. It was Helen Porter, her hastily pinned-up hair falling as usual in untidy tendrils. Sandy wasn’t surprised to see Helen. They’d known each other since primary school, and her mother, Minnie, had been Rosie’s close friend. Until Sandy went to boarding school, they used to play together while their mothers took a break in their busy farm lives to enjoy tea and scones on Minnie’s verandah.
Helen’s instincts had always been to protect Sandy. Her mother had referred to him as that poor wee lad, and Helen knew more about his family than he ever imagined. By the time Sandy had returned to Opportunity from university, Helen was married; she had been widowed now for fifteen years. She remained Sandy’s friend despite the fact that he sometimes disappointed her, and she encouraged him in his better ideas, like the Memorial Park project. As he motioned her in the door, she looked at him with concern.
‘Freda told me you’ve given up the Great Galah,’ she said, taking off her anorak and peering into his face. ‘Are you okay? You know I advised against it right from the start, but I guess you’re feeling pretty disappointed.’ She patted his arm and was surprised to see something like glee in his eyes.
As they shared a cup of tea, Sandy told her the story of the aborted protest.
‘I can just imagine Tom huffing and puffing,’ she chortled. ‘And Freda-did she bring along that awful husband of hers?’
The conversation had moved on to more general matters when Sandy leaned forward. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘I need a replacement for the Great Galah. I still want to do something for Opportunity.’ He gave a small, deprecating gesture. ‘I want it to be something for my mother, too. Something beautiful-I want to give her something beautiful.’
Helen nodded sympathetically. She had strong memories of the red-faced man with bullying shoulders and, beside him, the pale, pretty woman with defeated eyes. ‘How can I help, Sandy?’
‘I need an idea-and someone to talk it over with.’ He grinned. ‘My last idea had a few rough edges. I need someone like you-no, I need you to keep me on track.’ His grin faded, replaced by an uncharacteristic humility. ‘I don’t have many friends here and you’ve always been so nice…’
Helen took his hand and wondered at his honesty. Sandy’s a strange mixture, she thought. But this could be worth doing. ‘We’ll plan something wonderful for your mother and for Opportunity,’ she said. ‘What about you make me a sandwich and we’ll begin right away.’ Helen Porter was a practical woman.
20Finn and Boniface
AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM. AFTER driving through the night with Sandy, Finn found himself standing once again at the wrought-iron gates of Our Lady of Sorrows monastery, this time seeking refuge from the press.
‘Do you want me to wait?’ Sandy had fussed and worried the whole way and was clearly reluctant to leave his charge standing at a locked gate.
Through his haze, Finn noted that technology had come to the monastery and there was now an intercom instead of a bell. ‘It’s okay, Sandy,’ said Finn as he pressed the button. ‘I have friends here.’
The porter’s eerily disembodied voice came through the speaker. ‘Brother Kevin here. How can I help you?’
‘Kevin. It’s Finn, mate. Please let me in. I need to come in.’
‘Finn? Finn Clancy? Just a tick, mate.’
The gates slid open. Finn was sure that they had swung open on his first visit. He hastily shook hands with Sandy and almost ran into their embrace. ‘I’ll contact you in a couple of days,’ he said. ‘Tell Moss and Mrs Pargetter not to worry: I’ll be safe here.’
Kevin came down the path to meet him and led him back to the porter’s room. It was as clean and sparsely furnished as Finn remembered, and Kevin had changed little in the ten years since they last met. He began to relax. This place had been a constant in his memory, and some part of him had always dwelt behind these worn stone walls. He felt like a child returning home.
‘You’ve got a new job,’ observed Finn. ‘Who’s looking after the garden?’
‘There aren’t as many of us now,’ Kevin replied. ‘We all have to be-I think they call it multi-skilled.’ He grinned and then looked at Finn soberly. ‘You understand that I’ll have to call Father Jerome.’
‘Of course.’
Kevin left, and Finn sat on the wooden bench waiting for Jerome, who entered some ten minutes later and extended both hands in greeting. The years had not been kind to either of them, and they were both slightly shocked to see how the other had aged.