Ron McCoy’s Sea of Diamonds (27 page)

He went and sat in the Papa Mahoney chair in the front room. He placed his arms on the rests of the chair just as she used to do and looked back into the room, the ocean light through the windows reflecting off the honey-coloured she-oak skirting boards and door jambs. His eyes settled on the sideboard, the framed pictures and the empty dining table. It was all hers. Her things. Over the previous few days an avalanche of anecdotes had been unleashed about Min, stories which he had never before heard, funny stories, glancing memories and major recollections, in which she invariably figured as a presence akin to sunlight on water. He had noticed that
for the younger generation, for the Lea boys and Darren and Barb Traherne and Nanette, his mother had become an instant point of pride during those days, almost as if they were
from
her as well, in the same way they were
from
Mangowak. Walker Lea had said to Ron that he considered it a privilege to have known her, to have heard her speak of the things she knew, to have counted as a friend a person who had lived throughout the entire previous century. Ron had also overheard Noel recalling the little things, the way she sucked her teeth sometimes as she talked, the way she said ‘By Jiminy Cricket', when she was feeling strong about something or ‘I've come a cropper' when she felt she'd made a blue. Now as he looked around the room full of her furniture, the china in the dresser, the faded floral rug of Papa Mahoney's on the floor at his feet, it was impossible to believe that she wasn't just out the back in the laundry, or on her knees in the garden, cursing the boneseed.

He heard a car outside and Nanette Burns calling from the door. He walked through to the kitchen and let her hug him. He'd known Nan since she was a fiery, freckle-faced little girl but there was nothing much to say, and she drove off after half an hour, leaving six huge yellow squashes on the bench beside the kitchen sink. ‘Best ever,' Nan had said and after she'd gone Ron lit the Rayburn and boiled the life out of them. He ate them with some bread that Chris from the general store had dropped in the previous day. Then he opened a bottle of stout.

At five thirty when Sweet William arrived, the temperature had climbed to over thirty degrees and Ron was sitting on the La Branca bench on the clifftop with his cap on and his back half turned against the sea. He had an empty pony glass in his hand and was hunched forward when Sweet William saw him as he rounded the house for the open shed.

‘Not feeling too flash, Ron,' his old friend said to him as he approached.

Ron looked up and stared into Sweet William's eyes. He was crying, his eyes saturated in loss and vulnerability. Sweet William sat down on the seat and put his arm around him. The touch set Ron off and once again he let out an awful cry and his shoulders began to rock under the remorseless sun.

W
hen Colin Batty called Craig Wilson into his office for a chat not long after Min McCoy had died, he was an unhappy man. In a conversation at the pub a month before, Colin had learnt from Givva Way that from time to time over the years Ron McCoy had tossed around the possibility of moving from the clifftop down onto a smaller block of land in a quiet sheltered spot on the riverflat. Givva Way had conjectured to Colin Batty that with Min's passing and a ready buyer for the land right next door, this was exactly what Ron was now likely to do. Colin quickly deduced from this information that the selling of Ron McCoy's house and remaining land to Dom Khouri was imminent, if not already a fait accompli.

Craig Wilson sat down and squinted at Colin Batty, trying to figure what it was that had warranted the meeting. Craig had clients to see, his schedule was full to bursting and his boss knew that. This better be good, Craig thought as Colin straightened out the papers on his desk with his left hand whilst scouring his gums with his tongue and looking poker-faced around the room.

He came right out with it. ‘I've decided to give it away, mate,' he said, and waited for the reaction.

There was none. Craig sat tight, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of what was coming next.

Colin Batty shifted in his seat and breathed through his nose. ‘Yeah. It's time,' he went on. ‘Twenty-three years this year, you know. Long enough. I don't need the stress anymore, mate. The palaver, the kowtowing, people trying to suck you dry, squeeze every last cent. You get to a point where that stuff just straight out gives you the shits. There's more important things in life.'

‘You're fair dinkum?' said Craig.

Colin sat up straight and a look of satisfaction came over his face. ‘Bloody oath, I am. God, I remember when I started out here, I would never have dreamt it'd go this well. I've been lucky, Craig. First the bushfires, then the sea changers. And it's gonna continue. Mark my words, globalisation means there'll never be another slump in the beauty spots of the western world.'

‘So you say.'

‘Nah, well, it's just common sense. Europe's a bloody zoo, the Yanks are nuts, it's us and the Kiwis that're gonna have the focus. Wait till the Chinese get in on the act, mate. Places like this will go completely ballistic. And West Oz. Nah, the timing's been perfect. We've had the ramp all through the eighties and nineties and now it's really about to take off.'

He paused and looked Craig in the eye. ‘So what do you reckon about taking over?'

Liz had been right. Colin Batty was offering him his business.

‘Who, me?'

‘No, the fuckin' fly on your nose. Yes you.'

‘Whoa. That's a big ask, Colin.'

‘It's a big
gift
, mate, that's what it is.'

Craig ran his hand through his hair. ‘Well, yeah.'

Colin Batty continued. ‘Nah, the only reason I've been able to make a go of it has been because I've got a world view. I saw a bit before I got into this. You know that. I'm naturally curious. The kind of shmoes who buy down here like that. A bit of Riviera talk, a bit of the Tuscan stuff, Phuket, the Maldives, you know. Genuine, though, coz I've been to those places. It all helps. That way they don't feel like they're gonna be surrounded by rednecks. You know what I mean? I reckon you've got about the same mix I did when I started. You've probably got more, actually. Except you're not a local, of course.'

Craig didn't know where to look. He didn't know whether to be flattered or appalled by Colin comparing him with himself.

‘Are you interested?'

‘Yeah, well, yeah, in theory I'm interested. Who wouldn't be?'

‘Exactly.'

‘But shit, I'd have to think about it, talk it over with Liz and everything.'

Colin Batty let out a laugh, a laugh so loud there could be no doubt it was anxious and forced. ‘Of course you do. What do you reckon, I want you to sign on the dotted line right now?'

Craig laughed too. ‘Well, when do you need to know by?'

‘Ah, there's a few things to organise. Like, I wanna sell Ron McCoy's place before I'm done.'

‘I didn't know he was selling.'

‘Yeah, well, his mum's passed on now. I reckon it'll get a bit cold and lonely up there on the cliff.'

‘But where would he go? He's been there forever.'

‘Oh, he mightn't go far at all, mate. Maybe just down the hill a bit, down by the river. Maybe he'll get a bit sick of the place up there now he's on his own.'

‘You reckon?'

‘Sure, why not? They're talking about turning the old Met Station
into a climate museum. There'll be more and more touroes heading past his place all day to go and look at it. I'm sure that'll give him the shits. His whole world'll be different now that old Min's gone. And as for the property; well, over two mill, I reckon. Wouldn't you say?'

‘I dunno, I've never set foot on it.'

‘Well, let me tell ya, it'd cap things off nicely for me. The other bit he sold off would've been nice but this is better, it's already set up, the land, the garden, fruit trees, the old windbreak of pines along the side. Stuff like that'd be priceless mixed in with a flash new house. That's what the bastards are looking for these days. A bit of history, mate. Classic stuff. Not this tabula rasa crap. Nup, it's hard to beat Ron's, it's front row
and some
. Blue chip.'

‘Yeah, right.'

‘Anyway, Willo,' Colin Batty said, rising from his chair, ‘you have a think and if you want to do it, then together we'll have a crack at the McCoy place and then do the handover. We'll have a big piss-up, and you'll be coming into your own. You've got the gift, Craig. People like you. The market's your generation now. Us boomers are bloody dinosaurs. And you're smart. So's Liz. She'd be into it, wouldn't she?'

Craig shrugged, but then nodded slowly. ‘Yeah,' he said, ‘I reckon she might be.'

Craig rose from his chair as well and together they went out of the office and into the foyer. It was a Friday, and a long weekend. Through the plate-glass automatic doors they could see the traffic arriving, the shining steel bonnets in the sunlight.

As the doors slid open and they stepped outside, Colin nodded towards the road. ‘See that,' he said to Craig, grinning conspiratorially. ‘Rich dickheads, western ringroaders, you name it. It's too easy. They just can't get enough of it, mate.'

*

Later that day Liz and Reef met Craig on the beach after work. The swell was picking up after two or three days of easterly chop and the waves were now good enough for bodysurfing. In the sky, high cirrus cloud streaked about in wisps and a new crisp daylight moon could be seen rising in the northwest.

Craig had already cast his line and was standing by his rod where it was stuck into its PVC holder in the sand. He had his black board-shorts on and the Mambo Still Life With Franchise t-shirt. Beside him was the yellow plastic crate he used for his gear and bait, and for the fish if he was lucky enough to catch any. He was watching the line where it left the tip of the rod and bowed straight out into the surf but he was thinking of other things. His life was about to change. He could feel it in his bones.

He had a decision to make. Whether or not to get seriously rich. Until now he felt he'd just cruised along in life. He'd moved down to the coast and that was OK, but in the back of his mind he'd always known there was a bigger challenge to come. He was sure that Colin's offer was it. Taking over the business would mean working seventy, eighty hours a week, taking on a new identity in his adopted town, calling his own auctions, spinning the spin, and raking in the dough. He was going to hate the bullshit but this was a destiny moment. A turning point, perhaps even a coming-into-himself.

As Liz and Reef arrived and the boy donned his rash-vest and headed off into the waves, Craig told Liz what had transpired at work. He scanned his wife's face for her reaction. Liz sensed his anxiety and immediately put him out of his misery.

‘That's fantastic, darling,' she exclaimed. ‘What did I tell you?'

‘I know, you were spot-on. So you think we should do it?'

Liz took his hand in hers. ‘Don't you?'

Craig suddenly felt overwhelmed. ‘To tell you the truth I don't feel like I have any choice. It's the way things are rolling.'

‘You don't sound that keen.'

‘Nah. In some ways I'm not. Real estate, for godsake! Look at what most people think of Colin. They think he's totally suss.'

‘Yeah, but he
is
totally suss. You're not.'

‘Yeah, well, that's the theory.'

Craig looked up at the tip of his fishing rod. The line was slanting out south, southwest. He pulled the rod out of the holder and turned the reel a few times. Then he put the rod back into the PVC tube and said, ‘But I think I wanna do it. I'm not Colin Batty. It doesn't have to be shit, does it?'

‘No way,' Liz said emphatically. ‘It's a good time for it. People are sick of shysters and dodgy brothers. Good ethics is good business these days. You look after people and it goes well. Colin's a dinosaur.'

‘A very rich dinosaur.'

‘Yeah, but his time's up.'

‘He reckons the market is our generation now, so there is some logic to it.'

‘Of course there is. If you feel tainted by Batty Real Estate, well, you don't have to anymore. Make it something you're proud of. Change the name. Call it Ruthven Real Estate, after Reef.'

Craig lowered his head and gave Liz his cheeky smile. ‘You know there's huge money in it.'

Liz squeezed his fingers. ‘Der, Fred,' she said.

Five minutes later she ran into the waves and called out encouragement to Reef as he tottered on his board, riding the whitewater. He was still of an age where public demonstrations of his mother's love for him were not an embarrassment. After falling off the board his tongue would slip in determination out one side of his mouth and he'd paddle madly back out to where they were breaking for him. The water all about him was marbled, the colour of sauvignon blanc in the later afternoon light.

Liz dived into the waves and let the water slick her hair back as she rose out into the air. She licked her lips and tasted the salt.
As Reef headed towards her again on his board, this time standing fixed in a mimetic surfer's crouch, she squealed with delight and dived back into the water to swim and greet him. Once again she let the wine-coloured water slick her hair back as she emerged to catch sight of her son.

‘That's great, Reefy,' she called out, still a good thirty metres from where he was riding the surf. ‘Wave to your father.'

Reef could see his mother shouting to him, but over the roar of the ocean could not make out a single word she was saying. On the beach he could see his dad standing beside his fishing rod and was glad that he was watching.