Ron McCoy’s Sea of Diamonds (30 page)

The swirls of the laminex table-top shone, the navigational light flashed through the sink window, the stout tasted better than it had for weeks. The kitchen felt warm again. He sighed, deep in a reprieve. As the night grew wild outside he relished the sound of it. The sound of the world. He'd asked and she'd come. Now the big blow he'd been expecting was brewing outside. Like an old friend. His anger was gone and a flame-lick of faith had come back into his heart.

‘I
don't think he's interested.'

By late April, Craig had visited on three occasions and had left a Batty Real Estate calling card under the porch door on another. He'd got nowhere. Each time he visited he was conscious of stepping into another, almost forgotten world. The old bloke would stand at the door and hardly say a word until Craig felt half ridiculous and decided to leave. One day he turned up to find Ron laying out three flat pans of ocean salt to dry in the sun on the mown slope. He was fascinated. But no conversation was forthcoming. ‘Well, you know where to find us, hey, Ron,' he would say, before getting back into his Tribute and driving off.

‘Yeah, but are you getting anywhere?' Colin wanted to know, as he and Craig discussed their project in the office.

‘Nup. He's the same every time. He hasn't asked one question about price or procedure or anything. Are you sure we shouldn't just leave him alone?'

‘If he wasn't going to sell the place I'd leave him alone. If he was
like the Trahernes, for instance, who I know for a cert will never sell their place, I wouldn't even bother. But don't you see, Willo, it's clear as day, with one thing and another, he's a monty to sell.'

Craig sighed and looked up at the fake wood panelling behind his boss's head, where Colin's framed real estate certificates were hung. Looking down from the three certificates and back at Colin, he said: ‘I just feel a bit rude when I go round there. I prefer to feel good about a job. I'd like to be able to tell him honestly that we've got his best interests at heart. But I feel like I'm hassling him.'

Colin picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee. He set it back down again on the desk. ‘OK then,' he said, staring straight into Craig's eyes. ‘Well, listen to this. A bloke I grew up with works in the planning department at the shire offices in Minapre. He told me recently – in an absolute whisper, I might add – that the government has pretty well decided on the whole area around the Two Pointers, from the jetty at Boat Creek right around to Heatherbrae, becoming a sanctuary, a marine park. They're gonna consult the community and all that later this year but it's already pretty much locked in, a done deal. It'll tie in beautifully with the Met Station becoming a museum, the whole thing'll be like a new precinct. But there'll be no more fishing around there for Ron McCoy, fishing'll be banned. And that's not all. Part of the deal is that the government funds the marine park and the climate museum as long as the shire goes dollar for dollar on certain other requirements. The pollies want them to put in an extension of the clifftop walk, from Heatherbrae right along to the Met Station, so tourists can wander along the cliff, stand at various points, read the info boards and look at the sanctuary. It'll all happen right out in front of Ron's house. They'll be trawling right past his shed and his garden and all that. I swore I wouldn't tell anybody any of this but I can see now it's gonna help. The fact is, Willo, it's a dead certainty the old bloke's gonna sell when he finds out. My idea is we tell him early. And about his neighbour's involvement.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Well, the whole thing's a bit tricky, you see, coz the shire's almost bankrupt, mate. They're in love with the idea but how do you think they're gonna go dollar for dollar on the cliff walk extension?'

‘How?'

‘Dom Khouri, mate. The great philanthropist.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. He's not there permanently, it's no skin off his nose if the backpackers and the grey nomads are trooping past. He'll just extend his big wall around the front. Won't block the view with the elevation he's got. Nah, he'll do it for sure. Add something green to his bow. He loves that type of thing. They'll probably name it after him.'

Craig pulled a poker face, as he got his mind around the information.

‘Anyway,' Colin went on, ‘there's no stopping it. Change is inevitable up there, mate. It's too spectacular. And what's the point of putting the ocean in a glass case if people can't walk along and look at it? Hey? But Ron's not gonna be happy when he finds out his neighbour's helping fund the onslaught.'

Craig shifted in his seat and frowned. ‘But how can you know for sure that Khouri will fund it? And anyway, Ron's too attached up there. He was born there. I just can't see him moving.'

Colin shook his head confidently. ‘Nah,' he said. ‘You're wrong, mate. He might be attached but he's also chronically private. He couldn't handle people gawking at him all the time. Not to mention not being allowed to fish where he always has. And anyway, Ron's talked about it for years. How when the time is right he'd just slip down onto the riverflat onto something smaller. Scale down in his old age.'

‘Is that right? You've heard him say that?'

‘Certainly have. So now can you see my point?'

Craig knitted his brow, thinking hard.

‘And the thing is,' Colin went on, ‘I've been thinking of selling my little renter down on the river there anyway, seeing you're taking over the biz and that. I could do with the capital, you know. I can make more investing the money than I can from renting it out for a month or so over summer. So, what I want to do is look after the old fella, say, “Hey, Ron, this is the inside info on what's about to happen up here, we know you're not going to like it, we're giving you the tip-off, what about you just move straight onto my block on the flat, without having to wait or to look around, and we'll work out a deal for the clifftop.” All we're doing is presenting Ron with a quick and easy way. Saves him the hassle. He doesn't need it, particularly after his old mum's just died. It just makes sense. We're professionals, Craig, we're being proactive. What we're doing is looking after the old guy and getting our due share of the market. Rather than letting the whole world come crashing in on him.'

Craig nodded slowly in agreement. Sometimes Colin could make him feel like he was still very much a novice in the game. One thing still bugged him, though. He wasn't convinced that Ron McCoy would ever be able to bring himself to sell. Any messages he got when he visited were to the contrary.

‘So anyhow, what we want to do now,' Colin went on, ‘given that you reckon he's holding his cards close to his chest, is knock Khouri right out of the running with this new info about the marine park and my block down on the flat. It'll clear things up for Ron and show him that it's us he should be dealing with. Any ideas he might have had to sell to Khouri again will be out the window then. I bet you a slab of Heineken he'll start to talk to us. He'll have to! What do you reckon?'

‘Well, I suppose he of all people has a right to that information. And then, of course, he can work out for sure whether he wants to sell or not.'

A look of annoyance came over Colin Batty's face. ‘Trust me, mate,' he said emphatically, ‘he wants to sell, all right. You'll see.'

Craig looked out the office window at the playground across the road. A strip of plastic cordon tape was flapping where it had come loose in the wind. The playground was in the process of being updated with colourful new slides, climbing nets and swings.

‘So you want me to go slowly or tell him straight out, about your block and everything?' he asked Colin.

‘I don't see why not. You tell him that and about the shire's plans and you've got the inside running. Mate, short of the Met Station itself, which the government owns anyway, this block is
the
one. Personally I'd like to see someone buy it and build a few units, tasteful units, around the garden that's there, solar powered, grey water systems and all that, rather than see it locked up as an extension of the Khouri compound. People should be able to enjoy a spot like that. Last time I looked we were living in a democracy. It shouldn't be just for the privileged few.'

‘You're not thinking of buying it by any chance, are you?'

‘Me? No way. I've told you, I'm out of here. Nah. Two million dollars is a lot of money, Willo. I'm just not a developer anyway. I've helped a few out over the years but nah. Couldn't handle the stress. Building my place was bad enough. Imagine building six or eight, or ten or twenty, at the same time. It'd be a fuckin' nightmare. And I'll tell you this for the future. I've never, in all my time in this lark, ever, met one property developer with a smile on his face.'

‘No?'

‘No way. They're shocking, mate. Stressed out, always got too much going on. They think they're real smart but they're thick, eh? Life's too short, mate. Isn't it? Half of them have already got more money than they know what to do with. But it's like they're addicted. You watch 'em, when you take all this on. Watch them very closely. They're always trying to cut you. Secret is, Willo,
you've got to laugh 'em off. That's what I've always done. Just be cheery as hell. It drives them nuts.'

The two estate agents sat there chuckling and looking out the tinted window at the half-renovated playground. Now that the next stage of Colin's plan was worked out they moved on to talk about other things, like travelling. Craig was reluctant to tell Colin about their planned trip to Prague for fear of seeming presumptuous but after chatting about the beauties of Vietnam, Colin made it easy and natural for him when he asked:

‘Where are you and Liz gonna get to with the extra dosh you'll have in the coffers?'

They talked about Prague then for a little while and Colin told Craig about the month he spent hiking through Scandinavia in 1986. Craig had always wanted to go to Scandinavia but had never managed it. He told Colin it'd have to be next on the agenda after Prague, even though he knew Liz was super-keen these days to go trekking in Nepal.

That night Colin Batty reclined on his leather couch with his bowl of tomato and chilli pasta and a stubby of Heineken. He watched
Punch-Drunk Love
on DVD. He thought it was a weird film, and he loved it for that. The Adam Sandler character was bent, the whole atmosphere of the film was drug-fucked.

When it ended, he got up and sat at his computer terminal to go online. Typing in his own URL he had a quick look at the Batty Real Estate site just to check the updates. Then, he googled his own name as well as Batty Real Estate. After scanning the results he paused before googling his father's name, Art Batty, and then the words Art Batty's Surfer's Shop. A plethora of entries appeared to do with the origins of surfing and the surf industry. He clicked on Google Images and found twelve photos of either Art or the shop. There was one of his father standing proudly on the beach, holding
what was supposed to be that first bit of cypress he ever surfed on. Beside him a row of multicoloured Currumbin planks were stuck in the sand with a young Nat Young standing next to them. The photo was obviously taken up north but the inference was that Art had fathered it all. Scoffing under his breath, he then visited the Lonely Planet site, some travel agent sites, and checked prices to Vietnam. Things looked good for spring. Shutting down then, he got up and put a Van Morrison CD on and kicked back again on the couch. He fell asleep, loaded up on pasta and beer.

At 11:30 he woke disoriented and confronted by the silence. In his body he felt a brief rush of panic until he remembered what came next. He got up, splashed his face with water at the kitchen sink, and heated up a frozen sausage roll in the microwave. Then, slipping on his beanie and his black Bollé rain jacket, he left the house to drive up to Ron McCoy's.

Craig went home after work with a single salmon he'd caught under Turtle Head and described his conversation with Colin to Liz.

‘Well, change probably is inevitable up there, you know,' Liz had said. ‘And a marine park would be wonderful. To know that at least one spot can't be raped and pillaged. It's a shame for old Ron but at least by telling him you can feel a little better about what you're doing.'

Craig supposed she was right.

She told him about her day (she'd had to go to Colac to see their accountant) and how Libby was planning for an overnight horse ride in the bush in a fortnight's time. It was all worked out apparently and John Patterson, the outdoor rec. teacher at the school, was going to go with them. Craig thought it sounded good and reiterated how they'd done the right thing by bringing the kids to live in Mangowak.

‘It's their home now,' said Liz, ‘much more than it'll ever be ours. It's all they know.'

‘Yeah, it's like their Doncaster,' Craig agreed, half amused by the comparison.

They flicked on the telly at around eight thirty, once Reef had gone to bed with a book and Libby was lost to her bedroom. They lay on separate couches and watched a repeat of a
Parkinson
interview with Jack Lemmon. Craig fell asleep halfway through the interview but Liz was captivated. Lemmon was reminiscing about working with Marilyn Monroe. He was trashing her. Liz couldn't believe how frank he was being. Somehow or other, Marilyn had really pissed him off.

When the show ended, she zapped the TV with the remote and watched Craig slowly wake in the silence. Opening his eyes he looked around and for a moment was confused. He'd been dreaming. Playing in a stormwater drain back in the suburbs with his brother. Reef was in the dream somewhere as well.