span of cocker spaniels, it seemed a custom from another time. But any night they were all home, which was often, they ate as a family, with Jack acting as quiz master in another strange Beaumont custom.
‘Who was the King of Spain in 1922?’
‘That’s dumb, Dad. We know they were all called Carlos. Ask a proper question.’
Sarah would be another Louise, he could see that already. She was captain of the hockey team, frighteningly good at maths, and more than capable of instructing her father in the finer points of his behaviour.
‘Yes, well, you may know that but a reasonable percentage of the world’s population is unaware of these mysteries.’
Sarah tossed her head so her long hair shook from side to side, something she had observed many twentyyear-old girls in the coffee shops of Paddington were wont to do. ‘Nonsense, Dad. Everyone knows it. Now ask us something decent and remember you have to know the answer.’
Louise interjected. ‘A family rule which has stifled many a brilliant question in former times.’
Jack observed them all with deep affection. This was the family sport, scoring points off Dad, but he knew it was their way of expressing love and that the day it stopped he would have lost more than respect. He looked across to the dog sleeping quietly on the rug, for support, but received none.
‘All right then, who’s the President of Tanzania?’
‘Where is Tanzania?’ Shane was always ready to answer a question with a question.
Jack smiled at his only son, the prodigal son he always called him, without really knowing the meaning of ‘prodigal’.’I cannot be called upon to give clues in the great game of life.’
‘Meaning he doesn’t know and therefore loses the great game of life.’ Louise raised her eyebrows at him again.
‘A preposterous and outrageous slander. Tanzania is in Africa, situated conveniently near Zambia and Uganda, especially if you live in either of those highly desirable localities. As the atlas will confirm.’
Sarah had already leapt up to fetch the reference books. ‘He’s right, Mum, it is in Africa.’
‘Of course it’s in Africa, darling, but it’s a hundred to one your father doesn’t know who the President is and is relying on the fact that none of our books are up to date. Am I right?’
The phone rang. Jack gestured for Sarah to answer it. ‘Why do I always have to get it?’
‘Because it’s usually for you.’
Louise held his gaze. ‘You won’t get away with this bluff, you know.’
Sarah called. ‘It’s for Dad. A Mr Biddulph.’
Jack was startled. Louise watched him. ‘Big Mac strikes again. You are popular. Remember, we can’t afford another weekend away or we’ll go broke-and besides, Shane has rugby.’
Jack took the call in the atrium and they could only hear him mumbling and the occasional word. He returned after a few minutes, running his fingers through his thick hair absentmindedly.
‘You haven’t sold the house and left the family homeless or something, have you? You look somewhat addled.’
‘I am. More than somewhat.’
‘Well, what did he say? We’re all agog. And keen to get back to Tanzania and the leader of that great nation.’
Jack gazed around the room, around the knot of his family, apparently not seeing. ‘He said all roads lead to me. He said he’d been thinking about me ever since the weekend. He said he wants me to come and discuss running his company. That’s about it.’
They were all quiet. The kitchen clock ticked. ‘Why would he do that?’ Jack shot her a look. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. We all know you’re a genius and an MBA and all, not to mention your ravishing good looks. But he’s in the insurance business, isn’t he? You don’t know anything about that.’
‘Or who the President of Tanzania is.’ Sarah tried to emulate her mother’s arched brows.
‘Yeah, it’s strange. I assume he’s talking about the insurance company. He’s in all sorts of things privately, but that’s the big public face. I was too stunned to ask. He cut off any questions and said, come and talk. I was the only one, all roads led to me. He repeated that. Don’t think about it, just come and talk. That was the line.’ Again the fingers ran through the hair.
‘Why would you? You run your own company. Quite well we feel, don’t we, group? Although we may razz you from time to time, you’re a good little earner. Why would you bother to talk to him?’
Jack didn’t answer. He looked up. Shifting clouds and a full moon were visible through the glass roof. ‘Well, are you going to talk?’
He nodded slowly. ‘I’m going to have a chat. Why not? It’s intriguing. I’m a bit bored, to tell you the truth, doing the same thing. I don’t mean I’m going to do this, whatever it is, but there’s no harm in talking.’
‘You’re late, Jack. Just off the nest, I’ll bet. And missing a great story. Start again, Maroubra, this one’s a cracker.’
Jack slid into the only vacant chair at the long table and looked around the room. He loved the old beach house and the ritual of the monthly lunch with this disparate group of prominent citizens, knockabouts and larrikins. The creaking timber floorboards, the roar of the Bondi surf, the smell of fish grilling, of chilli and garlic melting in the pan, jugs of beer on the refectory table, Armando in the kitchen yelling his way into any discussion he chose to join, yarns and stories, myths and fables spinning around the table, sometimes raging arguments about politics or sport-never religion. Tales of women they’d known or wished they’d known, good humour and mateship in the old ironic manner. Armando closed the restaurant for them now, even though there were only a dozen or so in the group and the room seated more than double that number. They’d been coming for years and he was proud to have them-judges and heads of companies, people you saw sometimes on television, other characters you thought you should know but couldn’t place, a few you felt it mightn’t be a good idea to recognise. He just cooked whatever he felt like and served it with his favourite wines; no bill, always the same charge.
‘Wake up, Jack, Maroubra’s in full flight. What are you dreaming about?’
The voice came from the depths of the great lump of a man sitting beside him. It was a voice said to engender fear in the hearts of witnesses who had something to hide as the withering cross-examination of Thomas Wetherington Smiley QC lashed them from six feet five inches. Tom was slouched beside him, schooner in hand, drifts of froth finding their way onto the signature Zegna suit he always managed to make look like a charity cast-off within a month of purchase.
‘Get on with it, Maroubra, or we’ll rule you out of order and tell Armando to ration your grog.’
Another towering figure rose from the end of the table and raised its hand slowly in a gesture of silence. ‘Gentlemen. As I was saying before Jack-the-lad graced us with his exquisite presence, reeking no doubt of bodily fluids, the nature of which most of us only dimly recall, an appalling and frightening apparition appeared at the door of number four Cross Street, Maroubra, the family home, at one in the morning last Friday.’ Maroubra paused for effect, glaring around the table, capturing each eye. ‘My son. Yes, gentlemen, the fruit of my loins, my only son, Gordy-rugby player, drinker, rooter-all fifteen stone of muscle and meat, beaten, bleeding. Shirt torn. The shirt his mother gave him for Christmas, five years ago admittedly, but ripped, covered in blood. Gordy, my son. I ask you, gentlemen-’ another pause, ‘who would dare lay a finger on my son and expect a happy life?’
The group nodded, mumbled assent, took long drafts of beer or wine. There was expectation in the air. Maroubra’s stories were always rich with courageous deeds or extreme violence or remote and dangerous locations. Weird characters of dubious origin, often involved in his salvage business, threaded their way in and out of the fabric of the stories. But the pride of the family, beaten by unknown persons in the middle of the night-the wrath of Maroubra (kayak medallist, surf belt champion, mountaineer, stroke of the Olympic Eight), the wrath of this man was terrible to witness.
‘I extracted the details soon enough, gentlemen, as you can imagine. A professional job. Bouncers from New Zealand, Gordy in a club, a few beers more than he should, perhaps, but nothing we all haven’t done. They could’ve asked him politely to leave, but no, they smack him around the head. Bad call.’ Maroubra swung his gaze slowly around the table again and then lifted his eyes to the roof. ‘What was I to do to restore the honour of my family? Sometimes, gentlemen, you receive a sign. I looked up and there on the wall was my most treasured possession. The oar I used to stroke the Olympic Eight. With the crew’s names in gold. What could I do?’
Maroubra lowered his head, sighed. ‘I took down that oar and sawed it in half.’ There was an intake of breath from the table and a shuffling of chairs. ‘I took the butt end, comrades, put it inside my overcoat and walked down to that club. Straight in the door. Past those two ugly thugs before they could stop me and yelled as I went past, If
