The Eden Effect (5 page)

Despite his descent into hell, Arthur Fromm had not lost the thoroughness and thirst for knowledge that saw him excel at university and that propelled him so high up the corporate ladder. Once he had learnt that the next phase of his life was to be in Eden, he wasted no time in finding out all about the place. Google did not let him down.

Eden. Located one hundred and thirty seven kilometres north of Melbourne. Access via the Hume Highway, although not on the highway itself. Accessed also by train, except that the nearest station was forty kilometres away and connected to the town by a twice daily bus service.

Eden. Population one thousand seven hundred and fifty at the last census, two years earlier.

Like the towns around it, Eden was founded in the days of the Victorian gold rush in the 1850s.The gold had long run out but the legacy of those golden days was still there to be seen. On High Street, the town's main thoroughfare, stood the old Post Office, the Town Hall and Courthouse, built in the 1870s and a reminder of the glorious days of gold. The streetscape was indeed impressive. So much so that several movies and TV shows had been shot there over the years.

Eden was definitely not on the tourist map. There was a period when one of the gold mines was still open and attracted tourists who spent days looking for gold, hoping to strike it rich, only to go home with a few specks or a tiny nugget at best. Even that had dried up and so had the tourists.

The once magnificent Club Hotel had long ago closed and the only accommodation on offer, should someone stumble onto the place, was the Eden Motel, boasting a total of five double rooms, each with heating, cooling, TV and cooking facilities, but none with its own bathroom. The only other option was the Edenhope B and B, sleeping up to four guests. No cooking but ensuite bathrooms.

The town was serviced by one supermarket, an IGA, one petrol station, BP, a general store which also housed the post office and a small Bendigo Bank branch and a hardware store. There was one pub, The Red Lion, which in better days had a few accommodation rooms, now used for storage. There was Don's Café and Bakery which did breakfast and lunch and supplied the town with freshly baked bread. Five kilometres away was a small winery, Willow Wines, which specialized in Shiraz. It had a cellar door and restaurant, open only on weekends.

And underpinning all that, just two kilometres from the centre of town, stood the Eden Valley Meat Processing Company. Without it and without the government handouts that kept it going, the town of Eden would long ago have ceased to exist. Eden Valley was known throughout Australia for its hams, cured meats and most of all its bacon. It employed just over three hundred people, sixty percent of the town's workforce and was the lifeblood of the town of Eden.

It had been started in the 1950's by two immigrant Italian brothers, Tony and Mario Donati who brought with them their skills from Italy and who still owned and ran the company. By now, however, their numerous offspring were in charge of the day to day running of the business. The whole family lived in eight houses, all within a stone's throw of each other, all fronting picturesque Lake Eden, just five minutes' drive from the plant.

Arthur, knew these details from his exhaustive research and as he strolled down the High Street towards Don's Café and Bakery, He felt at home even though he had never set foot in the place before that day.

He reached Don's which was easy to find, entered and looked around for a table to have lunch. The place was quaint. Small wooden tables, wooden chairs, a wooden floor. In the back, he could see where the bakery was, people lined up at the counter buying bread and rolls. The aroma of freshly baked bread pervaded the whole place and Arthur realized he was hungry. The place was crowded but not full and he soon spotted a table near the window. He began to head toward it when he heard: ‘Arthur, Arthur, over here.'

There was Natalie, on her own (with legs) sitting at a table, a plate of salad in front of her and a vacant chair on her left.

‘Over here, Arthur, come and join me,' she called out. Arthur changed direction, headed towards her table and sat down.

‘Hi Natalie, nice to see you. This place any good? Martin suggested it.'

‘It's good Arthur. The only decent place to have lunch in town. Look at the menu, I'm sure you'll find something. And the coffee is great.'

Arthur glanced at the menu and his first reaction was surprise. It was good and contained several dishes that he would have been very happy with. His eyes were drawn to one of his favourites, Salad Nicoise, listed as ‘Chef's Choice'. And it was with grilled fresh tuna, not canned. The dish arrived seven minutes from when he ordered it. It tasted as good as it looked. It was followed by an excellent coffee, long black, the only way Arthur drank coffee.

While this was going on, Natalie had finished her salad and was making small talk about the café, the weather, the town. Arthur listened and nodded or smiled from time to time, busy consuming the excellent lunch. Then lunch was over. It was time to ask for the bill and pay. Arthur at that point realised that he had enough cash to pay for his meal but not for Natalie's. He did not own a credit card. After his downfall, no one considered him a good enough credit risk to supply him with one. Natalie must have read his mind. While Arthur was still contemplating how to deal with the situation, Natalie already had the bill, and was handing it back to the waitress with her Platinum American Express credit card.

‘This one's on me Arthur. I know this is your first day and I can't imagine Martin paid you in advance. You owe me a lunch. Next time.'

Arthur managed to stammer a thank you, he could feel his face flushing with embarrassment. Another humiliation in a long series.

Natalie continued, ‘Come on Arthur, let's go back to my place. We can have a quiet chat. I understand you want to hear my story.'

Martin must have told her, thought Arthur, feeling even more embarrassed.

‘Come on, I'll drive. My car is just outside. I only live five minutes away. Don't worry you'll be safe. I can drive you home later. I'll even let you see my legs.'

By that time Natalie was standing and Arthur looked quizzically at her artificial legs, which were under dark blue jeans.

‘Not these legs, Arthur, my real legs. Lets go.'

And with that Arthur followed Natalie. Her car was just outside, in the handicapped spot, where else. They got in, Arthur first opening the door for Natalie and they were off.

Natalie lived less than five minutes' drive away but only because she drove like a maniac. Arthur was thankful that he had fastened his seatbelt. He noticed that Natalie had not. Natalie activated the remote and slid the car into a single garage. From there, there was a direct entry into the house. Natalie pointed to a small lounge room.

‘Have a seat, Arthur. I'll just be two seconds. Have to powder my nose.''

Arthur made his way to a black leather armchair, sat down and waited. He looked around the room, which was small but adequate. The walls were covered in paintings, all abstracts. Quite good really, all looked like they have been painted by the same artist. Arthur rose to look at the signatures. He loved art and in his former life he had a formidable art collection. As he stood peering at one of the paintings, Natalie returned.

‘Do you like it, Arthur?' she asked. Before he could reply, she added, ‘they're mine. I have a studio out back. I'll show you later.'

Arthur was definitely impressed. She had talent.

‘Natalie, they're great. Have you ever exhibited?'

Natalie laughed. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. They're not great. They're OK. But thanks Arthur. Nice of you to say so. Would you like a Scotch? I'm having one.'

Arthur did feel like a Scotch. ‘That would be great, Natalie. Neat. No ice.'

Natalie left and Arthur could see a dining room across the hall where she presumably kept her liquor. She was back two minutes later, a glass in each hand with a generous measure of Scotch in each.

‘Macallan Directors Edition, Arthur. Do you know it?'

Arthur knew it. The knowledge gave him a fleeting feeling of days gone by.

‘Yes, I know it, Natalie. What's the occasion?'

The Directors Edition was not your everyday Scotch. In the days when he could afford it, he used to baulk at the hefty price tag, about $300 a bottle, he recalled. There seemed to be more to Natalie than met the eye.

‘No occasion, Arthur. My view is, if you're going drink, drink the good stuff. Maybe it is an occasion. Your first day at work. I hope we can become friends. That's if you stay. And I need a good drink if I'm going to tell you my story.'

‘Natalie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I just happened to ask Martin in conversation. I was, I mean, I am curious. Anyone would be, wouldn't they?'
He stammered his replied.

‘It's O.K, Arthur. Don't apologize. I do realize that most people do not have double amputees in this social circle. I think I like you Arthur. You're a bit sad, but likeable. Sip your whisky, sit back and I'll tell you my story.'

And what a story it was. Natalie Mason was a daughter of Charles and Vivienne Mason. Natalie's grandfather, Richard Mason owned the largest alcohol distribution company on Australia's east coast. He died at fifty five in a plane crash, his plane. He was flying with his wife, Annette, at his side. Charles, who was the only child, inherited the business, which he expanded and diversified. Natalie was Charles' and Vivienne's only child. They had tried for a second child without success. Natalie was indulged, private schools, nannies, shopping trips to Europe when only in her teens. She had it all.

But by nineteen she was already well on her way to an expensive heroin habit. She had enough money to buy the good stuff and enough sense to avoid all the health risks associated with that lifestyle.

Her parents somehow never knew, or if they knew, they pretended not to. She was brilliant at concealing her addiction and outwardly was a happy, well-adjusted young woman. Beautiful, there were no shortage of suitors, all of whom she found completely unsuitable. By twenty one, it all fell apart. The drugs had so messed with her brain that hiding her addiction was no longer possible. There were at least three failed attempts at rehab in the best centres money could buy. Charles and Vivienne were by now aware of the awful truth, and to their credit did everything their money could do to rescue their daughter.

Then one Saturday night, in a drug-induced haze, Natalie drove her Porsche 911, quietly out of the garage of her home, somehow managed to make it from Toorak to Footscray. She parked the Porsche near a section of a railway track that for some unknown reason was not fenced off. She got out of her car, weaved her way towards the tracks and lay across them, waiting for the next city bound V-Line train.

She was in the grip of a drug-induced paranoid-psychosis. At least that is how it was later explained to her. She had no clear recollection of the events of that night at all. Her intent however was quite clear. This was no gesture. This was the real thing. She wanted to die or at least that was what her drug addled brain was telling her.

And it was the drugs that saved her life. Instead of lying across the tracks in the correct fashion for suicide, in her disoriented state, she put her legs across one of the tracks and her body on the grass away from the tracks. So when the 11:15pm train passed over her it cleanly sliced off her legs, mid-thigh. It was an express, travelling fast, so fast that the cut was clean, almost surgical. The heat of the wheels cauterized the wounds, and while her legs were severed and lying between the tracks, her stumps did not bleed and this saved her life. And the other thing that saved her life was her mobile phone. It was on. After frantically searching the house in vain, Charles called the police to report her missing, only he had no idea where the police should look. The astute triple 0 operator was another factor in Natalie's survival. He was the one who asked about the mobile phone and explained how its location could be traced. Charles immediately called his golfing partner, the Telstra CFO, whose mobile number he had. Grant Rowlands had still been awake. In five minutes he activated Telstra's system and their computer was able to locate the phone and thereby Natalie. When the ambulance arrived, Natalie was in shock. Her pulse was thready, her blood pressure un-recordable. She was unconscious. The quick action of the paramedics was yet another factor in her survival and half an hour later, her cardiovascular system stabilized, she was on a ventilator in Intensive Care Unit at The Western General Hospital. Following a month in hospital she was transferred to a private rehabilitation unit. And this time the rehab took. It was another year and four months before Natalie made it home. She walked in from the limo on her artificial legs. The legs were computer modelled and manufactured in Sweden, the country of the Volvo and a world leader in prosthetic technology. The addiction behind her, Natalie began to rebuild her life. Despite the drugs and despite her parlous state after the injury, her brain was intact. Her youth and her brain's plasticity prevented any permanent loss of cerebral function, which in itself was a small miracle.