The Eden Effect Page 3

  The rattle of the glasses on the metal tray announced Glenn’s return. He set down the two beers, one pot for him and one for Owen. He put a glass of what looked like Scotch with ice in front of Natalie and a Scotch, neat, in front of Arthur and sat down.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Natalie. ‘Welcome Arthur to our little gang. Our gang minus one. Martin should be here soon, I’m not sure what’s keeping him.’

  And just then, as if summoned, Martin appeared. He was holding a glass of red wine in his hand as he slid into the booth next to Arthur.

  ‘I assume everyone has met,’ he said.

  ‘Yes Martin, I’ve done the introductions,’ Natalie replied.

  ‘OK, Cheers,’ Martin said and proceeded to take a long sip of the red, Shiraz, Arthur presumed. Another brief silence all were sipping on their drinks. Arthur took a sip of his Johnny Walker. Red, he suspected. It would have to do.

  ‘What’s everyone up to?’ Martin asked. ‘Come on, bring me up-to-date.’

  ‘Nothing new Martin,’ was Owen’s reply. Glen just shook his head and grunted.

  Natalie was holding up a glass and swirling the ice around.

  ‘Arthur tells me you’ve given him the welcome speech Martin. I am surprised he is still here.’

  ‘Has to be,’ Martin replied.’ Centrelink won’t pay him if he leaves quite so soon. Anyway, he was okay about it, weren’t you Arthur?’

  ‘Yes Martin, quite okay. No problem with me. I’m looking forward to starting work with you tomorrow.’

  ‘Easy Arthur. Don’t lay it on too thick. I know you’re here because you have to be. Don’t make more of it than it is. But you seem to be an okay guy so I’m looking forward to working with you too.’

  There was a collective sigh of relief from the others. The conversation turned to issues relating to the town, something to do with the sewerage plant. Arthur had nothing to contribute. Martin bought the next round of drinks,Owen the round after that. Arthur tried to have his turn but was told, not this time, not on your first day. Natalie did the next round and by then, four Scotches later, Arthur’s head was spinning, his speech slurred. Not that he had much to contribute to the conversation anyway.

  Arthur looked at his watch. It was 9pm. Where did the time go? As if he had read his mind Martin announced. ‘OK that’s all folks. Come on Arthur, let’s stagger home together. Early start tomorrow.’

  The five of them stood up. Arthur noticed that he was the only one was struggling to walk. The others could obviously hold their liquor he thought. Natalie’s gait was even steadier that his and she had artificial legs.

  ‘Good night all ,’Arthur managed to slur. He headed off with Martin for the walk home which took fifteen minutes. Once inside he went to the bathroom, went into his room, fell on to his bed on top of his personal effects and fell into a deep sleep, fully clothed.

  He looked ridiculous. Arthur was looking at himself in the bedroom mirror. He had to open the wardrobe door, the mirror was attached to the inside of the door. The door kept swinging closed and his image moved with it, making it look all the more bizarre. He was all white. Martin had not been joking. In his hungover state Arthur managed to find the right sized uniform and put it on. All white-shirt, short jacket, trousers, socks, shoes and a white bow tie, for God’s sake.

  He kept staring at his image swinging in the mirror. He was transfixed. A strange thought came into his mind. It was lucky that Marie and the kids could not see him. He could imagine what they would have thought.

  ‘Arthur, you ready?’ Martin’s voice shook him back to reality.

  ‘All ready, Martin. Be right out’ he called as he closed the wardrobe door and hurried out of his room. Martin was standing in the hallway hands on hips. Arthur thought he was looking at himself in the mirror again. The clothing was identical, just the face was different.

  ‘You look great Arthur’, Martin said. He was smiling broadly. ‘You had breakfast?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘It’s 5.15. You’ve got fifteen minutes. When I said 5.30, I meant we leave at 5.30. You have fifteen minutes to have breakfast.’

  ‘It’s OK, Martin. I’m not really breakfast eater. Do I have time for a coffee? I don’t think I’d be much use to you without one.’

  ‘Sure but make it quick. Coffee is in the kitchen.’ Martin’s voice had a tinge of annoyance in it. Arthur hurried into the kitchen, headed to the kitchen bench, assuming coffee meant instant. He was pleasantly surprised. On the bench stood a black Nespresso machine, its light steady meaning it was ready. And next to it was a large array of coffee pods. Every colour that Nestlé made complete with the chart identifying each one. Arthur’s spirits lifted. This is a good start he thought. He loved his coffee and had had a similar machine at home and at work in the past. He did not need to refer to the chart at all. He went straight to the purple pod, Arpeggio, intensity nine, his favourite. Strong but not too bitter. He popped in a pod, pressed the half cup button, then a second pod, half cup again. He needed a double in the morning to get him going.

  ‘Arthur, 5.25, let’s go,’ Martin’s voice boomed from the hallway. Arthur had had the foresight to use the disposable cup that was standing next to the coffee machine. He quickly put the plastic lid on and headed out of the kitchen. Martin had the back door open already. They headed out to the van which was parked only a few metres away.

  ‘You can drink the coffee while I drive. You’ve got six minutes before the first delivery stop.’

  They climbed into the van, a VW Transporter, white of course. It looked spotless. As he sat down Arthur noticed that the upholstery was white. He was not surprised. Martin reversed the van into the street and they were off. The Transporter had a surprisingly smooth ride. It must have great suspension Arthur thought. He was able to remove the plastic lid from the cardboard cup and drink the coffee without any of it spilling. He refused to drink coffee with the lid on, through that small slit that always reminded him of the training cups his children used when they were little.

  ‘Are you awake Arthur?’ Martin asked as Arthur was halfway through his coffee.

  ‘I’ve told you it’s not rocket science but now you need to pay attention because our first delivery is coming up in three minutes.’

  Arthur said nothing, he waited.

  ‘Look behind you Arthur.’ Arthur turned, being careful not to spill his coffee. The back of the Transporter was open to the cabin. It was a very high vehicle and Arthur could see rows and rows of milk cartons, bottles of cream and jars of yoghurt. There seemed to be three or four layers with what looks like a conveyor belt arrangement. Right behind his seat there appeared to be a control unit with buttons on which were either numbers or letters.

  ‘Have you been to a dry cleaners lately Arthur?’

  It seemed a strange question to Arthur.

  ‘Yes Martin not often but I have been a few times.’ Arthur wondered how the question was relevant.

  ‘Have you noticed how they find the cleaned garments when you collect?’ Martin asked. He did not wait for a reply.

  ‘They press code into a keypad and the garments all hanging on the rail move until the right garment stops at the counter.’

  Martin realized that he had seen that happen. He just never paid much attention, he was always in a hurry in those days.

  ‘Well I’ve rigged up something similar in the van. You see that control panel behind you. You enter in the code, the conveyor belt moves and the order stops just behind your seat. You pick it up, take it out and leave it at the door. At the door you will find the empty holder which you then pick up and put back into the same spot. I had it custom-built. Cost a small fortune but saves getting out of the van, running around the back, opening the doors and fishing to the right items. I’ve not always had an assistant and this way I could operate the whole thing myself, with ease. In fact I don’t really need an assistant, can do it all myself. But Centrelink is offering cheap labour and am getting sick of getting in and out of the van, so th
at’s why you’re here.’

  Arthur wasn’t sure what to say. He was impressed with the setup. Before he could say anything, Martin said, ‘We’re here. First stop. Now look Arthur, there is a list of all stops. Next to each one the code. See the first stop 24 Alexander Street, code A24. Simple. Go on punch in the code, get going.’

  Arthur turned, pressed A24, a soft whirring noise started and he could see the conveyor belt moving. It stopped seconds later with what he assumed was the correct order for 24 Alexander Street. The green plastic holder contained two 1L cartons of milk, one full fat and one low-fat. He picked it up, opened the door of the van, walked the ten metres to the house, deposited the full container, picked up the empty one and was back in the van with empty container and its correct spot in less than thirty seconds.

  ‘This is really impressive Martin,’ Arthur said and he meant it. ‘I don’t want to pry but have you considered marketing the system. I bet you’d do really well.’

  ‘Yes, I have Arthur. I considered it for about sixty seconds. It would never work. The setup cost is enormous and it would take at least five years to recoup. No one would buy it. No, I’m happy as it is. Can’t be bothered with all the hassle. I’m not cut out to be an entrepreneur.’

  And with that Martin put the van into drive and they were off to the next stop where the procedure was repeated. And then the next and the next.

  ‘How many stops do we make?’ Arthur asked after about half an hour.

  ‘Between seventy and eighty depending on the day. It keeps changing, some people dropout, new ones come in.’

  That would explain the four hours thought Arthur. He was actually quite enjoying it. The set up that Martin had developed suited Arthur’s mathematical brain.

  ‘Well what you think Arthur? Are you coping?’

  ‘Yes Martin, I am. I agree it’s not rocket science but your setup is amazing and yes, I am quite enjoying the work. And there’s a bit of exercise, that can’t hurt.’

  By then they had reached the next stop. The procedure was repeated and off they went.

  ‘There are twenty minutes until the next one Arthur. Gives us the chance to talk.’

  Arthur waited. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to talk or if Martin had something to tell him. Another rule perhaps. After a minute’s silence Arthur felt obliged to say something.

  ‘Natalie is very nice,’ he ventured. ‘And so other two guys from the pub, Alan and…’

  ‘It’s Owen and Glen,’ Martin corrected him. Owen Jordan and Glen Roberts. And yes Natalie is as nice as she is taken,’ he added.

  ‘I know Martin, she told me.’ He hesitated. ‘What’s Natalie’s story’ he asked. There was silence. Arthur suddenly thought he had gone too far.

  ‘Natalie’s story,’ said Martin. ‘Natalie’s story. Is that what you want to know? Well, she has a story. I told you yesterday, everyone has a story. Natalie’s story is Natalie’s story. If she is in the mood she might tell you one day. It’s her story to tell. A word of advice Arthur, don’t ask her. If she wants to tell you she will, if you hang around long enough that is.’

  They travelled the rest of the way the next stop in silence. Arthur thought the better of asking any more questions. The morning seemed to go by quickly and suddenly they were back at the dairy. Martin parked the van, they both got out.

  ‘I told you Arthur, look at the time, 9.45. You’re done for the day. Your time is your own now. Why what don’t you go out and explore the town. It’s not much but Eden is your home at least for now.’

  ‘I will Martin. I’ll go into town and look around. Might have some lunch. Anywhere you would recommend?’

  ‘Try Don’s Cafe and Bakery. It’s on High Street, that’s the main street, you can’t miss it. It’s about five minutes’ walk. Have fun and by the way, don’t forget to change.’

  Arthur remembered the white uniform he was wearing, went inside, changed into a shirt, trousers and sneakers and headed off towards the town of Eden.

  The Town of Eden. Arthur had never heard of it before the letter from Centrelink directing him to his new job. Why should he. Eden was hardly on the tourist map, it wasn’t even on a main highway.

  Despite his descent into hell, Arthur Fromm had not lost the thoroughness and thirst for knowledge that saw him excel at university and that propelled him so high up the corporate ladder. Once he had learnt that the next phase of his life was to be in Eden, he wasted no time in finding out all about the place. Google did not let him down.

  Eden. Located one hundred and thirty seven kilometres north of Melbourne. Access via the Hume Highway, although not on the highway itself. Accessed also by train, except that the nearest station was forty kilometres away and connected to the town by a twice daily bus service.

  Eden. Population one thousand seven hundred and fifty at the last census, two years earlier.

  Like the towns around it, Eden was founded in the days of the Victorian gold rush in the 1850s.The gold had long run out but the legacy of those golden days was still there to be seen. On High Street, the town’s main thoroughfare, stood the old Post Office, the Town Hall and Courthouse, built in the 1870s and a reminder of the glorious days of gold. The streetscape was indeed impressive. So much so that several movies and TV shows had been shot there over the years.

  Eden was definitely not on the tourist map. There was a period when one of the gold mines was still open and attracted tourists who spent days looking for gold, hoping to strike it rich, only to go home with a few specks or a tiny nugget at best. Even that had dried up and so had the tourists.

  The once magnificent Club Hotel had long ago closed and the only accommodation on offer, should someone stumble onto the place, was the Eden Motel, boasting a total of five double rooms, each with heating, cooling, TV and cooking facilities, but none with its own bathroom. The only other option was the Edenhope B and B, sleeping up to four guests. No cooking but ensuite bathrooms.

  The town was serviced by one supermarket, an IGA, one petrol station, BP, a general store which also housed the post office and a small Bendigo Bank branch and a hardware store. There was one pub, The Red Lion, which in better days had a few accommodation rooms, now used for storage. There was Don’s Café and Bakery which did breakfast and lunch and supplied the town with freshly baked bread. Five kilometres away was a small winery, Willow Wines, which specialized in Shiraz. It had a cellar door and restaurant, open only on weekends.

  And underpinning all that, just two kilometres from the centre of town, stood the Eden Valley Meat Processing Company. Without it and without the government handouts that kept it going, the town of Eden would long ago have ceased to exist. Eden Valley was known throughout Australia for its hams, cured meats and most of all its bacon. It employed just over three hundred people, sixty percent of the town’s workforce and was the lifeblood of the town of Eden.

  It had been started in the 1950’s by two immigrant Italian brothers, Tony and Mario Donati who brought with them their skills from Italy and who still owned and ran the company. By now, however, their numerous offspring were in charge of the day to day running of the business. The whole family lived in eight houses, all within a stone’s throw of each other, all fronting picturesque Lake Eden, just five minutes’ drive from the plant.

  Arthur, knew these details from his exhaustive research and as he strolled down the High Street towards Don’s Café and Bakery, He felt at home even though he had never set foot in the place before that day.

  He reached Don’s which was easy to find, entered and looked around for a table to have lunch. The place was quaint. Small wooden tables, wooden chairs, a wooden floor. In the back, he could see where the bakery was, people lined up at the counter buying bread and rolls. The aroma of freshly baked bread pervaded the whole place and Arthur realized he was hungry. The place was crowded but not full and he soon spotted a table near the window. He began to head toward it when he heard: ‘Arthur, Arthur, over here.’

  There was Natalie, on her o
wn (with legs) sitting at a table, a plate of salad in front of her and a vacant chair on her left.

  ‘Over here, Arthur, come and join me,’ she called out. Arthur changed direction, headed towards her table and sat down.

  ‘Hi Natalie, nice to see you. This place any good? Martin suggested it.’

  ‘It’s good Arthur. The only decent place to have lunch in town. Look at the menu, I’m sure you’ll find something. And the coffee is great.’

  Arthur glanced at the menu and his first reaction was surprise. It was good and contained several dishes that he would have been very happy with. His eyes were drawn to one of his favourites, Salad Nicoise, listed as ‘Chef’s Choice’. And it was with grilled fresh tuna, not canned. The dish arrived seven minutes from when he ordered it. It tasted as good as it looked. It was followed by an excellent coffee, long black, the only way Arthur drank coffee.

  While this was going on, Natalie had finished her salad and was making small talk about the café, the weather, the town. Arthur listened and nodded or smiled from time to time, busy consuming the excellent lunch. Then lunch was over. It was time to ask for the bill and pay. Arthur at that point realised that he had enough cash to pay for his meal but not for Natalie’s. He did not own a credit card. After his downfall, no one considered him a good enough credit risk to supply him with one. Natalie must have read his mind. While Arthur was still contemplating how to deal with the situation, Natalie already had the bill, and was handing it back to the waitress with her Platinum American Express credit card.

  ‘This one’s on me Arthur. I know this is your first day and I can’t imagine Martin paid you in advance. You owe me a lunch. Next time.’

  Arthur managed to stammer a thank you, he could feel his face flushing with embarrassment. Another humiliation in a long series.

  Natalie continued, ‘Come on Arthur, let’s go back to my place. We can have a quiet chat. I understand you want to hear my story.’

  Martin must have told her, thought Arthur, feeling even more embarrassed.