Book of Lost Threads

19
Sandy and Helen Porter

THOUGH DISTRACTED BY HIS ANXIETY for Finn, Sandy had a few problems of his own. On the day of the TV broadcast, a letter had arrived from the shire council.
At the time he perused it hastily, groaned aloud and threw it on the desk to be dealt with at a later date. But once Finn was safely settled with friends, he read it through again.
Dear Mr Sandilands,
Your design for the ‘Great Galah’ will come before Council at our November meeting. The plans submitted by Constanopolous and Son have been approved in principle by the Office of the Shire Engineer and the Business Subcommittee.
The Town Planning Department has called for submissions regarding your plans, and to date we have received four hundred and twenty-two responses, four hundred and fifteen of which are negative.
We request that you meet with the Planning Committee on 7 November with your engineers and, may we suggest, your lawyer, to address the issues the community has raised, a detailed list of which has been attached.
Yours faithfully,
Merriam Douglas
Executive Officer, Planning Committee
Sandy’s first thought was to talk to Finn, but he remembered that was impossible. How on earth did he get himself into this mess? Since Sandy read his mother’s journals, the Great Galah, once his passion, had become an albatross. The mere thought of building a memorial to his father made him feel ill. He decided to write to the council to withdraw his plans in the hope that the fuss would die down.
This expectation proved to be optimistic. Preparing to write his letter, he booted up his computer only to find his inbox full of outraged emails castigating him for the folly of the Great Galah. The majority were from residents of the Cradletown district, accusing him of everything from environmental vandalism to money laundering. He was bemused to see that one H.T. Fairbanks of Burton-on-Waters, Oxfordshire, thought him a ‘cloth-eared dolt’, and that the Secretary of the Friends of the Galah was outraged at his money-grubbing exploitation of defenceless wildlife. But the one from Helen Porter hurt the most. Sandy, it said, you can’t possibly go on with this galah thing. I did warn you. We’ll be a laughing stock.
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.