Brother Fish (92 page)

Jack McGinty was the printing foreman at the
Gazette
, and a bit of a blabbermouth. I shrugged. ‘Since when has anyone been able to keep a secret on the island for more than five minutes? Could have come from just about anywhere. Gloria, er . . . my mum got it from Father Crosby.'

‘Trust his nibs to know,' she remarked, and disappeared into the kitchenette.

I opened up the sandwiches and pushed some of the newspaper clippings aside to make room for them on the desk, also allowing for the teapot, milk jug, sugar and cups.

She returned after a few minutes, poured the tea and handed me a cup. ‘Jack, I've been thinking,' she began. ‘Upon reflection I'm not at all sure it's a good idea to send Jimmy the specifications for a boat. What do you think?' She must have seen my look of relief, because she immediately said, ‘Oh, I see you agree – splendid!'

She'd pipped me at the post again. I'd been just a tad upset about what had happened on the way to the airport and I guess I'd got myself worked up a fair bit stewing over the situation. I had decided that Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan needed a run-down not only on boats, but also on what it was like to be a fisherman. Although it was probably fair to say most of the fishermen on the island were just about illiterate, that didn't make them stupid. I had decided she ought to know how I felt on the subject. In my mind I'd ticked off the attributes of a bloke who can call himself a fisherman, using Alf as my template.

For a start, he had to be a fierce individual with a real love of the sea, so much so that he must be prepared to earn less than if he kept his feet dry. He must have some idea of how to navigate, have a knowledge of first aid, be at the very least a competent bush mechanic – that is, someone who can change a filter, fit or adjust a belt, make up a hydraulic hose and get a stalled engine going, all with the deck pitching like a bronco at the Calvary rodeo. One thing is certain, these things never happen when you're in port or having a smoko in some quiet bay. Oh yes, these days he also has to be an electrician, as transceivers and echo sounders have a propensity to break down – not to mention alternators, generators, starter motors, and so on. Then, of course, like all sailors, he needs to be able to splice a rope, repair a sail (if he has one), fit a shackle, and repair anchor winches, pot haulers and steering devices with whatever material is at hand, most of which is usually inadequate for the job. And all that's just to keep him afloat! After all this is done, he still has to catch himself a load of fish, one of the more skilful, tricky and unpredictable pursuits devised by mankind to fill the universal stomach.

Lying in bed the night after Jimmy left, I had decided I would give Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan this little lecture – then maybe, just maybe, she might show me and people like me a little more respect when it came to writing down the specifications when you were about to buy a bloody fishing boat.

But, of course, I did no such thing. I relayed the conversation I had had with Paddy McCorkindale and then elaborated on my theory on boats and their owners – though, of course, not making quite the same analogies to a woman and marriage. I ended up making the suggestion that we buy a second-hand vessel, pointing out that we'd be able to sea-trial it and, furthermore, that we'd end up getting more for our money. ‘There's got to be the right boat somewhere around the main island or even as far up as Eden. Provided they're properly maintained, boats don't necessarily get old. A boat built from Huon pine, for instance, will last practically forever. For the kind of money we're talking we might just be able to get something a little bigger than a forty-five footer if we buy second-hand. There's plenty of good cray fishermen who'll gladly help us sort things out when the time comes to make a choice.'

‘That's a splendid idea, Jack. Shall I run an advertisement in the
Gazette
? I'm constantly surprised where my silly little newspaper ends up. Perhaps also in the Launceston
Examiner
and the Hobart
Mercury
. What do you think?'

Here she goes again, taking over.
‘Great, I'll write the advertisement tonight and bring it in tomorrow.'

That night I wrote the words. The ad needed to be sweet and to the point, so there wasn't much to it:

Fully equipped cray boat wanted in good condition. All weathers. Twin donks. Suit crew of 2 to 4. 45 feet plus. Inquiries to the
Queen Island Weekly Gazette
, Queen Island. Tel. Queen Is. 27

That was the easy part, but what I needed was a catchy headline – and nothing would come. I went to bed with my head spinning, and awoke quite suddenly at about three in the morning. There it was, shining in the air above my head like neon on the Ginza strip! So elegant, simple, amusing, catchy – even a modest stroke of genius.

Cray
-zy a-
boat
you!

I lay awake until I heard Cory's black Orpington rooster start crowing. Sometimes an idea you get in the middle of the night seems ingenious until the cold light of dawn, when you've either forgotten it or it proves to be gibberish. I reckoned if I lay awake it wouldn't go away, and daylight would tell me if it held up.

I dressed while it was still dark, walked down to the harbour and climbed up to the lighthouse on the rise above, where I could see the fishing boats as they left Livingston. By this time it was coming on light and the fishermen were beginning to arrive on their pushbikes and motorcycles, the engine noises ripping the still, fragile morning air.

The gulls swooped down to check me out, squawking at my feet and wheeling above my head, the usual stickybeak opportunists making a bloody nuisance of themselves. Fishing is almost all hard work but it has its moments, and one of them is on a morning like this one with the sea like glass, starting the outboard and putt-putting out of Livingston Harbour just as the sun begins to rise. I could picture Jimmy and me in our own boat, feeling the chill in the little zephyr that always blows across the bow just as the sun is peeping over the horizon. ‘
Cray
-zy a-
boat
you!' The slogan that was sure to get us the boat we wanted was still holding up, and looked like lasting into the new day. A sliver of the rising sun blistered a few cotton clouds that sat above the horizon and I took this as absolute confirmation that I was onto a certain winner.
Cray
-zy a-
boat
you!
A man's a bloody genius.

Hardly able to contain myself, I arrived at the
Gazette
office just after it opened at half-past seven. I said g'day to Jack McGinty and noted that he really did have very large ears – the light streaming through a window behind him gave them the appearance of two red ping-pong bats attached to the sides of his head. ‘Her Grace is in,' he said, jerking his head towards the door to Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan's tiny office. I knocked, and heard the call to enter.

‘Goodness, it's you,' she said, surprised. ‘What brings you here so early, Jack?'

I was astounded that she should ask. I'd been so consumed by the composing of our ad that if I'd been told Jack McGinty had been put on red alert, that he was oiling the press for the sole purpose of getting the advertisement into Saturday's paper, I wouldn't have been in the least surprised. ‘I've brought the advertisement for the boat,' I said, trying to sound casual. ‘It came to me in the middle of the night,' I clicked my fingers, ‘just like that!'

Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan looked up over her glasses the way she'd done when I was a kid. ‘Hmm . . . in my experience, those flashes of inspiration in the dark are usually better left there.'

‘No, you'll
really
like this,' I assured her. I handed her the separate piece of paper on which I'd written my truly amazing headline.

She studied it for a moment, then ventured. ‘It's a pun?'

‘Yeah, yeah, but it's clever. See how I've picked out the word “Cray” and then “boat”?'

‘Yes, I do see,' she said tentatively. ‘Quite clever, Jack.'

‘
Quite
clever?' I could hardly believe my ears.

‘Oh dear, I've hurt your feelings. I am so sorry.'

‘You don't like it, do you, Countess? I mean, Nicole ma'am?'

She looked suddenly very stern. ‘Jack, the average fisherman can barely write his name. Of course, there are some like yourself and Jimmy who are very bright, but they're in the minority. I'm not suggesting that they lack intelligence – I've seen enough over the years to know that's not the case. But they are, as a general rule, illiterate. That means someone else may have to bring their attention to the advertisement we run. “
Cray
-zy a-
boat
you!”, complete with attendant exclamation mark, isn't going to thrill their aesthetic senses to the marrow. Or do you disagree?'

‘I reckon it will work a treat,' I said defiantly, determined to defend my work.

She considered for a moment, then said, ‘Very well, it won't cost much to find out and I may be wrong – in which case I'd be delighted to apologise. We'll run it as a six-double in the
Gazette
and as a two-inch single in the big-island papers.'

‘Six-double?'

‘Six inches deep by two columns wide, or two inches by one,' she explained.

In my head I had seen it taking up a full page, which I know would have been ridiculous but these things build up and take on a life of their own.

That night I told Gloria the partnership was a goer and that we were looking for a second-hand boat to buy.

Her first question, of course, was, ‘Won Tatts, 'ave ya?'

‘Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan is putting up the money,' I replied.

‘And where's she gunna get it? Sell that rag of hers, is she?'

‘Mum, it's second-hand! A second-hand boat!' I protested, unwilling to tell her we were looking for something pretty special and bigger than forty-five foot. When she saw my advertisement in the paper I'd come clean.

‘You know what happened to your father – could never make a go of it with that small boat. Took us a year after he gave it all up to pay the bank.'

I decided to come clean after all. ‘It's not like that – we're looking for something decent.'

Gloria would have had a fair idea of what a decent rig would cost. ‘Where's her money comin' from,
that's
what I'd like to know.'

‘I dunno, Mum. She lives on her own – maybe she's saved her salary all these years?'

‘Oh yeah? Then how did she buy that printing press? That would've cost a pretty penny.'

‘I don't know,' I sighed. ‘I guess it's none of our business.'

‘Is if yer goin' to be partners an' all!'

‘Leave it go, will'ya, Mum,' I answered, walking away.

‘Much too much ya don't know about that one, Jack,' she called after me.

The ad appeared in the
Gazette
that Saturday and I waited for someone in the family to mention it at dinner that night. Nobody did. ‘Anything unusual in the
Gazette
this week?' I asked after a while, trying to sound casual.

‘No,' Gloria replied. ‘Bit about more and more families getting the telephone, and they're putting a switchboard into the post office. Ma Gutherie's goin' to need a girl to operate it. I thought Dora might apply.'

‘Anything else? You know,
unusual
?' I cut in hastily, trying to get the conversation back onto the
Gazette
. But they all looked at me, mystified.

‘What is it, Jacko?' Sue asked.

‘Well, as a matter of fact, only my whole future.'

‘What are you on about, Jacko?' Gloria said. ‘Nothin' about us in the paper.'

I gave up. ‘The advertisement,' I sighed. ‘The boat we're looking for.'

‘Huh?' Gloria said, rather rudely. ‘What advertisement?'

‘Wait on,' Sue said. ‘Where'd you put the paper, Mum?'

‘Over there on the shelf, love.'

Sue left the table to retrieve the
Gazette
, turning the pages as she sat down. Finally, she discovered the ad. ‘“Cray-zy a-boat you!”' she read out aloud. I must confess, it didn't sound all that great the way she read it out.

‘Oh, that!' Gloria exclaimed. ‘Bloody stupid.'

‘Stupid?'

‘I think it's quite clever,' Sue said hurriedly. ‘It's a pun.'

‘What's a pun?' Cory asked.

‘No bloke's gunna read that,' Steve said dismissively.

‘Don't make no sense,' Gloria said again.

‘Why not? Bloody good headline!' I defended, raising my voice somewhat.

‘Jacko, they're fishermen!' she cried.

‘That's a poofter headline,' Cory added, picking up on the word ‘headline'.

‘What the fuck would you know?' I shouted back.

‘Eh! You mind your bloody language, Jacko! This is still my house! You're not too old to have your mouth washed out with soap!'

‘Well, I still think it's clever,' Sue, ever the peacemaker, said, while Steve grunted and went on eating his dinner.