The Bay (42 page)

Alice gave Eddie a grateful look then knelt by her mother. Laura now had her head on her arms on the kitchen table. ‘Mum, it'll be all right. You'll be all right. Can't you stay down at the beach and we can see each other a lot more? Just till you get, you know, settled . . .' Alice patted her mother's head.

‘Well, I can tell when I'm not wanted. You didn't even ask me to dinner.' She wiped her face.

‘You hate fish,' said Eddie dismissively.

‘Mum, where are you staying?'

‘I haven't got anywhere to stay yet,' sniffed Laura. ‘I just came straight here. I thought I'd be welcome.' She glared at Eddie.

‘You could have phoned.'

‘You were out fishing. Enjoying yourself,' she snapped back.

‘Mum! He was filming!' said Alice.

Laura got to her feet. ‘All right, I'll go to a motel and phone in the morning and arrange to see my daughter.'

Mitchell called out to Holly as he carried the box of fish into the kitchen. ‘Fisho – delivery as promised.'

‘Only come in if they're really fresh,' she answered.

‘Madame, these monsters were swimming just two hours ago. I've cleaned them. They're ready to bung in the freezer.'

‘Wonderful. Thanks so much. You've given me far too many.'

‘Serve them to the guests. Hey, why don't you come up to Eddie's for dinner? He's throwing some on the barbie.'

‘I can't, thanks. Too much to do.'

‘Okay, but we have to sit down soon and finalise some thoughts on your advertising brochure that we've talked about. I've come up with a few ideas for you to look at. And Sagaro has put together a great website idea.'

‘Give me a call on Monday. And don't forget the meeting in the community hall about the Mighty Beach development. Andrew is coming up to show me his concepts.'

‘We'll all be keen to know about that,' said Mitchell.

‘I hope we get a good roll-up. Stolle has stuck flyers around town. Be sure and bring Veronica.'

Mitchell busied himself with the fish and didn't look at her. ‘Um, Ronnie has gone back to Sydney. Got a great job in a gallery with a studio she can use for her work.'

Holly was taken aback, but forced what she hoped was an appropriate response. ‘That's great for her. She must be pleased. Will she commute? When did all this happen?'

Mitchell straightened up and gave her a slightly embarrassed, perplexed look. ‘This week, and commuting is out, Holly. She's moving back into the house with Tom. She feels she's run the distance up here.'

‘Oh,' said Holly quietly, the silence in the room so intense she could hear the clock ticking. ‘And you?'

‘I'm staying.'

‘There seems to be a lot going on in people's lives at the moment,' she said simply.

‘I suppose Mac would say there's some planetary upheaval in the universe at the moment,' he said and gave a small grin.

‘Seems like it. Thanks for the fish, Mitch.'

He nodded, then walked back out to his truck and drove slowly down the driveway.

S
AM PACED AROUND HIS LIVING ROOM IN A QUIET STREET
in one of the original housing estates in The Bay. Large trees and established gardens disguised the dreariness of brick suburbia – so out of place in the tropical casualness of the rest of the town. Housing developments now had to meet more sensitive regulations pioneered by a talented woman architect and developers were obliged to follow her brief and leave a band of native trees and vegetation around the buildings.

Freda Mann had lived contentedly in the pleasant environment, rarely taking any interest in her husband's business activities. When Sam talked of selling up, leaving The Bay and retiring to a more up-market place, she took little notice. Sam had always talked big. She was happy to stay exactly where she was.

His wife was out at bowls and Sam picked up the latest edition of the local paper and scanned through the page one story again: ‘ALMIGHTY ROW BREWING'. He was amused by the headline, which was typical of the
Bugle
style. However, he realised it was necessary now to organise some headlines of his own, some positive reaction, to emphasise that the project would be environ mentally friendly and create lots of jobs. Of more immediate concern was the reference in the ‘Buzz' column that tenuously linked the General with the project. Who the hell leaked that? Sam asked himself over and over. Oh well, keep calm, he told himself and read the ‘Buzz' paragraph again.

We're used to having sea eagles hovering over Mighty Beach, but a new species has been sighted in the area – vultures. Not the feathered kind, either. They've flown in from Sydney and as far away as Bangkok, so I've been told by well-informed local birdwatchers on the civic scene. The Asian subspecies are noted for their fat wallets and are known everywhere as Development Vultures. Their activities concerning Mighty Beach will come under discussion at the public meeting on Tuesday in the Community Centre.

Sam settled into his high-backed swivel chair at his desk in the sunny room overlooking his back garden which served as his office. Having read the paper that morning he had been expecting a call from Councillor Jimmy Bright.

‘Hold it, Jimmy. Hold it. All the story said was the rezoning application is being considered for a report to council. The report said, correctly, that the land is owned by a Sydney company. The rest of the story is about initial community reaction and the predictable concerns about impact on the environment. Nothing we hadn't anticipated, apart from the story getting out sooner than we wanted.'

‘Yeah. That's true, but this new organisation of women that came out of nowhere to announce they're going to oppose the project sounds like a nuisance we hadn't anticipated. Nola Florens, of all people!' exclaimed the councillor with disdain and dismay. ‘She's done bugger-all but drink and swan around ever since she sashayed into town. What the hell is she up to?'

Sam had a little laugh. ‘Sure, she's a wild card I hadn't expected. I can't explain her change of style. Maybe she's had a religious experience.'

‘A bad batch of wine, or an overdose of caviar more likely.'

‘Maybe, but her network reaches well beyond this neck of the woods, so that makes her a bit of a worry. Media and the like.'

‘Okay. Okay. But there are many relative newcomers making noises. Eddie, that television bloke, for one, and even Andrew's wife, Holly. Now what the hell is going on there? Have they split? And how has the Sydney connection reacted?'

‘Calmly,' replied Sam quite casually. ‘As for Holly's involvement, I'll talk to Andrew, but maybe she got wind of you know what with whom.'

‘Play with fire and you get your fingers burned,' concluded Jimmy Bright, now feeling relaxed. ‘Some people never learn. See you later at the club, Sam.'

The
Bugle
story added to Letitia's nagging but ill-defined concerns about the Mighty Beach project. She'd been uncomfortable ever since the telephone call from Andrew alerting her to Holly's outburst the previous weekend.

After pouring her second cup of coffee for the morning she rang the Sydney representative for Beacon Land Holdings, the solicitor Maxwell Hamilton. They had spoken many times since he first contacted her in connection with the rezoning application by the company he fronted. Since then he had taken her and Andrew to dinner at an exclusive club near Parliament House on two occasions when she was in Sydney ‘on business'. Sam Mann had recommended her to Hamilton as a legal representative in The Bay when Sam had been chosen as the development manager. For Letitia the connection had been lucrative and had enormous potential, which fitted in very nicely with her ambitions to be a huge success – financially – as quickly as possible.

Just hearing the affable and mature voice of the silver-haired lawyer was reassuring. ‘How lovely to begin the day with a call from The Bay. I imagine it's another beautiful day and you are all congratulating each other for being there and not in Sydney. What can I do for you, Letitia?'

‘Oh, it's nothing earth shattering, Mr Hamilton, but I was wondering if you had heard about the public reaction here to the rezoning application? It was all over the local rag this morning.'

‘Yes, my dear. Sam gave me a call at an hour he associated with bowel movements of the sparrow,' he replied. ‘Filled me in completely. There's nothing untoward in what's being made public. I expected it would raise some concerns, but Andrew should be able to address those with some expertise.'

‘There are some coffee-shop rumours suggesting shady deals done a long time ago to do with that land on Mighty Beach. Nothing definite, but you know . . . They've had a week to gather momentum,' Letitia said, trying to give the call added justification.

‘Momentum and exaggeration, no doubt,' he replied, politely dismissing the reaction. ‘Be assured, Letitia, that everything about this deal is above board. After all, your father was closely associated with the company that sold the land to Beacon Land Holdings so long ago. It was gilt-edged, that was how he put it to me. Good fellow, all very tragic . . .' He sighed, leaving the sentence unfinished. He was thinking about the sad demise of a promising solicitor he'd studied with at law school. Drunk himself into an early grave leaving a wife and very young daughter.

Letitia was stunned, speechless almost. She'd known her father and Hamilton had been to law school together, but couldn't recall either of them ever mentioning a business connection. She quickly closed the conversation. ‘Yes, indeed. Of course,' she fumbled. ‘All right then, back to the daily grind. Bye.'

For a while she paced around her smart unit with its distant ocean view and agonised over what to do next. She had to get the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind under control. Suddenly she stopped, quickly swallowed the last of the near cold coffee and rang the office. She was relieved to hear she had no appointments, told the secretary that she would be late and to refer people to her mobile for only the most urgent matters. Then she drove to the industrial estate and parked outside a self-storage shed in the complex.

The lock had rusted up and required some lubricant from the car tool kit, and some hissed curses, before it opened. It had been a couple of years since she had needed to unlock the shed. It was filled with possessions from the family home, which she had packed up when her mother was admitted to the Brigalow Nursing Home. After rummaging around for ten minutes she found some tea chests identified by marker pen as ‘Daddy's Files'. She knew from a couple of previous hunts for some of his old legal papers relevant to her own clients that the search this time was not going to be easy, unless she was lucky.

The atmosphere in the Community Centre was almost festive as friends greeted each other. There was also the occasional head shaking and exclamation as people wandered up to the large display board propped in front of the stage. On it was a map of the land in question and a series of photographs showing its pristine state, children in the small park in the reserve, birds in the wetlands and a lovely shot of the full length of the beach with a couple in the distance walking their dog. A large sign declared ‘Save Mighty Beach' with a petition beside it which almost everyone signed.

Rows of chairs were set up facing the stage and a trestle table by one wall held a hot water urn, cups, milk, instant coffee and tea bags for people to help themselves. Nola glanced at her watch and looked around the rapidly filling hall. ‘Better get the show on the road in a few minutes. Looks like everyone who wants to be here, is here.'

Holly nodded agreement. ‘It's a good roll-up considering the short notice and little publicity. All we need is Buck Hagen and he'll turn up for sure. Best of luck, Nola.'

She was about to move off the stage when Nola called her back and in a softer than usual voice said, ‘Holly, I hope you're not too upset about the way this is going, given the certainty that Andrew is involved. I mean, you're more or less committing yourself to being in the frontline of opposition.'

Holly took Nola's hands in hers and squeezed them in a gesture of appreciation. ‘Thank you for thinking about my feelings at this time. I am so grateful that with all the pressure of the evening you can find the time to give a thought to me.' Holly leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Thanks, but I'm handling it all okay so far, and I'm determined to stay in the frontline, as you described it. Very determined,' she added.

‘Wonderful, darling. Absolutely wonderful,' said Nola as Holly moved off and then went to a seat a few rows from the front.

Stolle sat with Lynn at the front and flipped open his notebook. ‘The pro-development lobby has a few reps here, I see,' he said and pointed towards a group of local builders and business types in the centre of the hall.

‘Going to be a good night out,' Lynn said as she checked the tape in a small recorder linked to a microphone on the stage. They were going to record the evening for community radio. ‘Also the people from Coast Care are here, the Natural Heritage Preservation Society, a few other environmental groups, the wildlife carers and our local member of State Parliament. And to complete the cast, my opposition has just arrived – ABC Radio.'

Setting up another microphone on the stage was an attractive woman with a tape recorder who introduced herself to Nola. ‘I'm Fiona Wyllie, I host the breakfast show on regional ABC. I'd like to tape the proceedings and get a few words from you and some of the others here for tomorrow morning's program. Local radio news will use some of it too.'

‘Delighted,' declared Nola. ‘You might be lucky and score something unexpected.'

There was a stir as Buck Hagen strode in looking rumpled and distracted, clutching a folder of documents. He sat beside Sid Wainwright in the front row.

Nola tapped the microphone, which crackled and caused the crowd to start hushing each other as they looked expectantly at the dramatic figure before them. Nola had dressed for the occasion in a gold and scarlet print caftan and matching turban. She was wearing emerald jewellery and looked, declared Lynn, ‘like the high priestess of The Bay'.

‘Fellow citizens, welcome,' she said and the room grew quiet. ‘Thank you for coming. You're here as I am, not just because we care about The Bay we love, but also because we care about what we're going to leave for future generations. A special part of The Bay is under threat. Let us begin by asking why. Why here? Why this strip of land, why this bit of beach? Why choose to build on an area of land that has been regarded as a public reserve for years, that has sensitive wetlands and dunes, that is unstable for construction and would require massive infrastructure, and also is culturally significant to our Indigenous people?'

The instant but subdued reaction in many parts of the audience caused Nola to pause. She decided not to elaborate, particularly since the local middens and sacred sites had been well documented by the Aboriginal custodians of The Bay's indigenous history.

Then she sailed on, raising an arm for dramatic effect. ‘The main reason this land is sought for development is its beauty. And beauty means big bucks. But beauty is something that cannot be bought. Such natural beauty is given by God. Once we allow it to be taken away, we lose it forever.' There was a burst of applause.

‘There's a lot of ugliness in this world. So a place that is unique, that is as beautiful as any place in the world is a place to be treasured. This tiny stretch of land which we can all own, all share, all appreciate, should not, must not, be taken from us and buried beneath bricks and mortar!'

‘Hear, hear.' There was a roar of approval from most people in the room.

The small knot of pro-development supporters looked disgusted and shook their heads in disbelief. ‘Get real, what about jobs, the future of the town?' called one of the group.

‘Debate on this issue is welcome,' said Nola. ‘Informed debate,' she added pointedly and glancing at her notes went on. ‘A member of the community has asked to speak, one of our writers, Shelley Neller.'