Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

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.’

Finn squinted in bafflement at the sketches. ‘Just a draft, then?’

‘Yep. Once I get the concept right, I’ll call in proper engineers and such. Just wanted to know what you thought.’

‘Er, I’d need to know the detail. It’s… still a concept, you 137 say?’

Sandy finally took the hint. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m getting ahead of myself. You know the Big Banana, the Big Pineapple, the Big Merino and so on? Well, this is the Great Galah. It’ll be the making of the town. Tourists love that kind of stuff.’

Finn looked more closely at the sketches. Yes, there was no mistaking; it was a large, unwieldy-looking bird, its giant wings outspread. He struggled for a response. ‘Any reason for a galah? Aren’t they seen as a bit of a pest?’

‘That’s the beauty of it. This area is full of galahs. They drive the farmers crazy. What I’m doing is turning a negative into a positive.’ He beamed. ‘In the future, we’re talking theme park. Big money. Serious money.’

Could Sandy be for real? Finn listened for irony and heard only enthusiasm. He needed to find a respectful but discouraging response. ‘The town could certainly do with some help. But is this the way to go? The Big Banana and Pineapple are up north, with beaches and that sort of thing.’ He brightened as a foolproof objection presented itself. ‘I doubt that we’d get funding in a place like this.’

‘Not a problem. It would be my gift to the town. A memorial to my father, Major Sandilands, DSO and Bar.’ It was a cool day, but he mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief and went on: ‘My family were pioneers of this district, you know. Been here since the gold rush. But now all the young people are leaving. We don’t have many families left in town, and some of the farmers are close to broke.’ He looked soberly at his friend. ‘I don’t want the town to die, Finn. It’s my home.’

Moved in spite of himself, and racking his brains for something to say, Finn looked back at the sketch for inspiration. Steps led up into the belly region, where a door was labelled SOUVENIR SHOP. There was what appeared to be a corkscrew slide from head to tail, terminating in a swimming pool. Tables and umbrellas sprouted under one wing and there seemed to be a kind of lookout in the beak. The space under the second wing bore a question mark.

‘Nothing under the second wing, then?’ Finn was relieved to find something to say.

‘Not yet. Maybe we could run a competition. You know, so locals can have some input.’

Finn imagined the kind of input locals would offer. He weighed his words carefully. ‘A very interesting idea, Sandy. Challenging. Maybe a bit, you know, innovative for Opportunity? You might need to bide your time. Take things slowly.’

Since then Sandy had visited Finn several times to discuss revisions to his sketches. Finn knew he had to tell Sandy just how ridiculous his plan really was. Next time , he’d say to himself. Next time I’ll tell him straight. And next time he’d look into Sandy’s naively hopeful eyes and his courage would fail him. ‘I just couldn’t bring myself to crush the man’s dream,’ Finn explained to Moss as they returned from the pub with Mrs Pargetter. ‘I suggested he keep it under wraps and we’d talk about it until the idea is fully fleshed out. I should’ve stopped things right there, that first day, but to be honest, I’m too much of a coward.’

‘That boy has always been a bit soft in the head, if you ask me,’ sniffed Mrs Pargetter. ‘His father was right: he is a great galah.’

‘He has his good points.’ Finn thought of the dogs, the knitting wool that appeared regularly in Mrs Pargetter’s letterbox, and the money left under the teapot after her nephew’s visits. But he didn’t say anything about those things. Not even to Moss.

The next day, Sandy spread his plans out once more on Finn’s table. The frayed edges betrayed the many other unfoldings these plans had endured in the loneliness of Sandy’s sprawling farmhouse.

‘Can’t you see, Finn? Tourism is the only way to save a town like ours. The Balfours are leaving next week. We’re bleeding people, mate.’

Finn sighed. ‘I like the quiet. That’s why I came here. I’m sorry, but I just can’t see tourist buses lined up in the footy ground car park.’ He tried a comradely grin.

The footy ground was a sore point, and Sandy looked up sharply. ‘Better tourist buses than to see the oval unused. Since the Knockers merged with the Mystic Wombats it’s become a wasteland. I played cricket there in my young days. And footy. Only the Seconds, but I did my bit. I bet you didn’t know that Dad won the Best and Fairest award three times? Even the trophy was named in honour of my grandfather, Nugget Sandilands. They reckon he won the 1912 grand final off his own boot.’

Finn tried to concentrate but was becoming annoyed at the incursions this man was making into his life. He shook his head in despair. The wretched plans were more elaborate than ever.

He suddenly tuned in to what Sandy was saying. ‘The shire engineer? You’ve submitted the plans to the shire engineer?’

‘Honestly, Finn. Sometimes I wonder if you listen to a word I say. Tomorrow. I’m meeting with him tomorrow, in Cradle-town. He’s had the plans for weeks.’

Finn felt the weight of responsibility begin to lift. The shire engineer could be the assassin.

‘So you can come, then, Finn? I’ll pick you up at ten thirty.’ And he was gone before Finn could think of an excuse.

The shire engineer was an ambitious young man, totally devoid of imagination. His grave demeanour and careful grooming were evidence that he took both himself and his position very seriously indeed. He shook hands gravely, with just the right amount of pressure to assert his authority.

Pompous git , thought Finn as they were ushered into the office.

Smugly ensconced behind his large desk, the shire engineer sat back and steepled his fingers. ‘So, Mr Sandilands. You want to build a tourist attraction.’ He referred to his notes and frowned. ‘A tourist attraction called, er, the Great Galah. And these,’ he indicated the blueprints, ‘are your plans.’

Sandy started to speak, but was silenced by a gesture. ‘I’m afraid I cannot approve these plans, Mr Sandilands…’

Finn felt both pity and relief. Sandy would take it hard, but at least he wouldn’t be humiliated.

The engineer continued: ‘… I cannot approve them until certain safety aspects are dealt with.’

Finn stared in disbelief. What did he say?

‘I understand all that. This is just the concept stage,’ Sandy said. ‘Once I know the regulations, I’ll have them drawn up by a proper engineer.’

‘I will give your project every consideration,’ said the smug young man. ‘My job is to ensure all building and safety regulations are in place. Then I pass it on to the town planner and then to the business subcommittee…’

‘You mean, Mr Sandilands could invest in fully developed plans and have town planning or the business subcommittee knock it back?’