Gone Fishing (6 page)

Fuelled by anger, he yanks open the desk drawers one by one. Hits gold in the last one in the form of a glossy pamphlet with a long-haired bloke dressed in white robes – a ringer for the Jesus in his Sunday School book – holding his hands out for . . . what? Alms? That'd be right, he thinks. It's always about cold hard cash. He shoves the pamphlet in his pocket. In the hallway, he picks up the can, chucks it back onto the reception desk. ‘Shit in your own nest, mate,' he shouts into an empty space.

Back on the street, he stops short, looking up and down with a frown on his face. Where the bloody hell did he park the ute? North or south? How do people spend all day in these soulless concrete canyons, where the only breeze comes from the dirty exhausts of crawling traffic? South, he decides, setting off in a hurry, anxious to put the city behind him and aware he's achieved absolutely nothing. Lighting spot fires isn't as easy as it sounds.

He arrives back at the Square by late lunchtime and marches into The Briny in search of sustenance. Ettie can't keep the shock out of her eyes. ‘Someone die?' she asks, not joking.

‘On a mission, love. Had an appointment in the city,' Sam says casually, although they both know it's almost historic for him to quit Cook's Basin for any place more distant than the local supermarket. ‘And I'll have the beef pie, easy on the grassy stuff. Don't hold back on the spuds. A napkin in case I spill a drop on my pristine clothes that I'm very pleased to see that you've noticed.'

‘You're up to something, Sam Scully. Duplicity is hanging off you like a bad smell.' Ettie leans forward on the counter, ignoring his order.

‘Kate around?' he asks, avoiding the subject.

‘Upstairs with Marcus. They're setting a few rat traps,' she says. She goes pink, looks around for a chair. Heat builds from her toes like a tidal surge. She has the weird sensation the ceiling is about to crash down on her head. Her heart thumps loudly in her ears. She could be drowning.

‘Rats?' Sam's voice is an underwater echo. His worried face swims in front of her. ‘Settle, Ettie. It's no big deal. Couple of traps and you're as sweet as a nut.'

‘Want me to tell Kate you're here?' she says, feeling steadier by the second, wiping a sudden eruption of perspiration from her brow, her upper lip. The impulse to rip off her clothes is abating.

Sam visibly swallows. He makes a point of looking at his watch. Feigns surprise. ‘It's getting late. Make it a take-away. I've got a job on. What's the damage?'

‘Fixing two chairs on the deck,' Ettie says, realising Kate still hasn't called Sam and he hasn't called her.

‘Done!'

Sam grabs his tucker and skedaddles like a man who's mislaid his backbone. He makes it into the Square where the luscious scent of pastry and tender beef wins out. He rips open the package and takes a bite, leaning forward to spare his going-to-town clothes a gravy hammering. Sauce. Not gravy. Gravy, Ettie tells him, is old-fashioned even though it's basically one and the same. He checks out the blackboard. Sees the Cook's Basin Community Residents' Association has called an extraordinary general meeting at the community hall to discuss the plans to develop Garrawi Park.
Volunteers needed: tea and scone duty
. Sam toys briefly with the idea of offering to make his world-famous sausage rolls and then comes to his senses. It will be a full house. Two hundred irate locals equal four hundred sausage rolls. His knees go weak and he feels a light sweat break out on his forehead as though he's had a narrow escape. He scoffs the last of his pie, wipes his chin with his forearm and heads for the communal tap, where he rinses and refills a dog water bowl wired tightly to the pipe so neither a king tide nor a thieving bastard can whip it away. Washes his hands. He catches sight of the two Misses Skettle, octogenarian twins resplendent in starched pink cotton shirts and skirts, deep in conversation with the Three Js – Jenny, Jane and Judy. All of them born and bred Cook's Basin women. Tough as nails. Soft as mush. Depends on the day and the circumstances. They look cool in loose cotton dresses and sandals, despite the heat and the meagre shade from the casuarina. He joins them in the far corner of the Square, where they're seated around one of several scabby picnic tables carved with the initials of four generations.

‘Ladies,' he says, mock bowing. ‘Sorting scone duty, are you? What do you reckon about cheese scones for a change? My mum used to make the lightest cheese scones in the world in her kero stove. Fairdinkum magic, they were, with enough hoist to see you through to dinner time.' He breaks off. The five women are giving him hard looks. Too late he remembers the unwritten Cook's Basin rule: Never question a volunteer. You risk scaring them off. And landing the job.

Jenny slides closer to Sam, a sweet smile on her face that instantly makes the hairs on the back of his neck shoot up. He waits for the crunch moment. ‘You need a job too, Sam. How about whipping the cream?' She cracks that killer smile again. Sam scrabbles to suss the catch that he knows is hurtling towards him like a locomotive. She adds: ‘The cream has to be good and stiff or it makes the scones go soggy. We'll need ten litres. Might take a while with that old egg beater of yours.'

The women laugh. Pleased with themselves. Three (mostly) kind-hearted and good-natured women, he thinks, automatically excluding the eternally sweet and compassionate Misses Skettle. You'd never guess at the killer instinct lurking just under their skin.

He finds Jimmy waiting for him on the barge at Cargo Wharf. ‘Ya gunna tell me who died?' asks the kid, grinning widely, pleased with his witticism. Sam sighs. Wonders if everyone's reading from the same script. Lets the comment ride. ‘You give that mutt a bath last night, mate?'

‘Yeah, Sam. Used me own shampoo so he smells real good.' The kid bends to scoop the pup into his arms. He shoves the warm, wriggling mass of fur under Sam's nose. ‘Go on. Have a sniff.'

Sam grimaces, reels back. ‘Smells like a bloody fruit salad, mate. You might want to change your shampoo . . .' The smile is wiped off the kid's face. He dances up and down. Anxious. Sam wants to cut out his tongue. He back-pedals. ‘Er, deliciously enticing as it is, mate, maybe you should find one that's more suitable for a dog. Something that works on fleas and ticks. Know what I mean?'

‘Sure, Sam.'

But the spark has gone out. Sam searches for a way to redeem himself. Guide Jimmy, who gives the smallest, most inconsequential task everything he's got, back on track. He seizes the pup, holds him high against the empty blue sky, feels his emotions go slightly haywire at the sight of an exposed pink tummy, trusting brown eyes: ‘He's a lucky dog to have you, Jimmy. And Christ, he smells good enough to eat.' He holds the dog against his neck, suddenly embarrassed because he doesn't want to let go.

Jimmy senses the shift. Grows a little taller. ‘Watch the tide, Sam. You gotta concentrate, cap'n. Where's this stuff goin' anyway? You got a sling ready? C'mon on, Sam, get it together: we got work to do.'

‘How much you saved, Jimmy?' Sam asks, as he does at the start of every job.

‘Not enough yet, Sam.'

‘Well, mate, Rome wasn't built in a day and cars don't come cheap.'

‘How long did it take to build Rome, Sam?'

‘Grab the sling. Thread it under the cargo pallet like I've shown you. Hurry up, mate. Then I'm leaving you in charge of the
Mary Kay
for a while, which means I expect her to shine brighter than the stars by the time I get back. You getting my drift?'

‘Aye, aye, sir. You want me to work my scrawny backside off. Is that it?'

Sam smiles, gives the kid the thumbs up, strips to his jocks in the wheelhouse and pulls on his work clothes. They load without another word and set off. Jimmy sits on the pitted deck by the pup's basket, his skinny knees pulled up against his cheekbones. Every so often, the pup twitches in his sleep. Jimmy rubs a furry ear until he settles once more.

Just on dark. A low, brooding sky. The smell of rain on the way. Out on the deck of Ettie's penthouse, the two tired owners of The Briny Café sip frosty glasses of white wine. Ettie bunches her voluminous blue-and-red tie-dyed skirt around her knees, kicks off her sparkly sandals, and hoists her throbbing feet up to the top rail. Her toenails are painted to match her clothes. I'm not entirely losing the plot then, she thinks. She briefly considers investing in orthotic footwear. Then her vanity kicks in and she quickly ditches the idea. Kate rolls up her jeans. Ettie drops her feet, covers her legs to avoid comparing Kate's smooth young skin with her own battle-hardened extremities.

It's been a gruelling afternoon; busloads of dithering white-haired tourists, clumsy on Zimmer frames in small spaces; dripping wet kids on school holidays, impatient to eat and then plunge back into a warm and tender sea; a constant stream of anxious offshorers dropping in to chat about the plans for Garrawi even though they could see the two women were flat out.

‘Felt like hanging out a sign announcing it was
all quiet on the eastern seaboard
except no one would bother to read it,' Ettie says.

A few lights switch on over at the southern end of the Island. The faint sound of laughter carries across water that's battleship grey and matches the sky. The
Seagull
hoots three times. The last commuters make a dash, beers in hand. It's the final run for the day and a long swim to Cutter Island.

‘I've heard the timber ferry is borderline. A big swell or a killer storm and she's liable to give one last moan before sinking,' Kate says.

‘Chris says he's stacked toddler-sized lifejackets at the entrance. Reckons adults can fend for themselves.'

Kate says: ‘Yeah, well, I guess it's a doable swim to shore in any direction, barring sharks.'

The
Seagull
eases away. Ettie wipes a pool of sweat from under each eye. She tries to recall the last time she saw a shark part the clean blue sea with a fin like a small black sail. Three years ago? Five? She measures time by ingredients, now. If she's run out of eggs, it's Wednesday. Ready for a fresh delivery on Thursday. If the milk has reached its use-by date, it's Sunday. The butcher delivers on Monday. The greengrocer on Tuesday. She has to work out the ingredients for the Saturday special on Sunday. A whole week accounted for in routine chores.

‘Maybe a bridge isn't such a bad idea . . .' Kate says.

Ettie's feet drop to the deck; she rounds on Kate, furious. ‘That better be a joke and if it is, it's not funny.'

‘I'm not supporting the development. I'm just saying. Times change. You can't hold back progress.'

‘Depends what you call progress.' Ettie suddenly stands and waves. Marcus Allender is coming towards them in his swish commuter boat with its highly polished timber bow and white padded seats. A Riviera runabout, straight out of a gossip magazine. Ettie turns back to Kate, suddenly almost teary. ‘Mention one word about how you feel and you'll kill our business overnight. Not a single offshorer will ever walk through this door again for even a box of matches. No one will forgive you – or me, because I had faith in you. Think about where you stand, Kate. Let me know what you decide. Oh, and by the way, I – by that I mean we – volunteered to cook dinner to serve after the community meeting on Saturday. We've all got to do our bit, eh?'

Marcus stands and waves madly with both hands, his silver hair flying. The boat skews sideways. He loses his balance for a second. A huge laugh booms across to Ettie. She rips off her bandana and brandishes it like a flag of victory. ‘Lock up, will you? I'm out of here.'

 

 

Chapter Five

Night falls. The Island becomes a carnival of lights. Voices drift across the water. A lone tinny struggles past, the outboard coughing. The driver curses when the motor dies. Kate hears the snap of the starter cord. The engine catches limply. The boat coughs on.

She lingers, sifting through the realities of her current existence and how they fit with what she knows of herself. She casts her mind back over the fewer than one handful of lovers in her life – so different from Ettie, whose past included a phil­andering ex-husband and a string of good-looking bedmates who came and went with the sailing season. Kate remembers the claustrophobia, the struggle for ascendancy that inevitably culminated in endless compromises until they leached the marrow from each other's bones and she felt hunched over from the weight of another's expectations. None had lasted as long as a year. Each excision felt like a release from prison. Not for the first time, she wonders what curious force drives humans to think that they'll find salvation through love. In her heart, she is aware that Sam is that rare thing, a good and decent man, but she can't shake the feeling that if you let it, love exacts too high a price. Too high for her, anyway.

*

A hand on her shoulder wakes her. Kate jumps to her feet, groggy with sleep.

‘Café door was wide open. Didn't know whether to leave you in peace or not,' Sam says. ‘Then I figured you wouldn't want to wake in the morning with a sore back and a stiff neck.'

‘Ettie said you went to town?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Garrawi business?'

He nods.

‘Want to talk about it?' she asks.

‘I'll put the kettle on. Unless you'd prefer a beer or a glass of wine.'

‘Tea's fine.'

‘Think I'll opt for a beer, myself. As days go, this one hasn't exactly been gold star.'

‘How so?'

‘You got an electric beater hidden anywhere in your house?'

‘Eh?'

‘Nah. I'm kidding. I called into the not-so-swank offices of the New Planet Fountain of Youth this morning. You could say the meeting didn't quite go according to plan.'

Back on the deck where the air is cooler, they sit with the table between them, both staring into a sky the colour of tar. ‘I thought I could make them see sense, you see, get them to understand that the success of a community is far more important than dollars in the bank,' Sam says, earnestly.

Kate shakes her head in disbelief. ‘No offence, Sam, but if you think the sudden appearance of a well-meaning but – in their view – misguided bargeman in a downtown office might influence their multi-million dollar decisions, you're a five-star idiot.'

‘Jeez, Kate –'

‘Look at it from their perspective. You turn up alone in blue jeans and – sorry – ratty boat shoes without any facts and bearing a banner for peace, justice and the Cutter Island way. Don't you understand that your idea of nirvana is their idea of hell? They like nightclubs. They enjoy resorts. They think they're improving the quality of living and the community should be on its knees with gratitude. Quite frankly, they have a case.'

‘What are you saying?' Said in a whisper. His face as shocked as if she'd just slapped him.

‘A resort would bring local employment. A bridge would reduce the risk of fatal boat accidents . . .'

Sam cuts in: ‘Guess it depends on what you value, eh?'

Kate slumps back in her chair. ‘Those goons, they're probably just front men. Not smart enough to tie their own shoelaces. You'll need to wade through three thousand pages of listed companies to find the source . . .'

‘There are certain basic principles that are sacrosanct,' Sam continues quietly, as though he hasn't heard her. ‘The first is that you protect your environment. The second is that it only takes a minute to destroy the landscape. The third is that you never get it back.'

Kate opens her mouth. Before she can say a word, Sam continues. ‘Hear me out. OK? Maybe I'm delusional or naïve, but I've always believed the best things in life come without a price tag. And yet every time I turn around, there's some new project that destroys something free and precious for short-term gains and long-term losses.'

‘You're exaggerating –'

‘Take farmers. Decent, hard-working people who suddenly find they haven't the right to stop miners from drilling into land they've nurtured for five generations in the mistaken belief that when they were handed the title deed it meant they called the shots.

‘Then there's quiet little coastal towns – not unlike the offshore clusters all over Cook's Basin – and one morning, locals wake up to find there's a swank hotel blocking their view and access to the beach. Or one day, the pristine wetlands rich with birdlife in your country-town backyard have suddenly been re-zoned for housing. Surely “wetlands”
is a pretty strong hint that the location might not be ideal for a string of villas aimed at retirees. Not unless they've got webbed feet, anyway.'

‘Pressure of population, Sam. Too many people. Not enough land. And even the strongest dissenters can lose track of their scruples when a hefty cheque is waved under their noses.'

‘Maybe. But if we all stand back and let some shonky idiot rip into the heart of Island life for the sake of a few dollars, we'll never forgive ourselves. Something's got to give sometime. Or we're all buggered in the end. But where do we bloody start when we don't even have a name to call the enemy?'

‘Quis licit, Sam,' Kate says, sounding resigned.

‘Not following you . . .'

‘Who profits? Track the money, Sam. You'll find the culprits when you uncover the source of the money.'

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask for her help. But suddenly he's not sure where she stands. If he has to guess, he reckons she'll sit quietly on the fence. A bull-at-a-gate man, he'd once asked her about her tendency to observe instead of act, hoping some of it might rub off on him. Turned out it was another of those journo habits she couldn't shake. ‘Journos look at every angle, never take sides. It's all about objectivity.' In Cook's Basin, he almost said at the time, the fence-sitters were regarded as a waste of space. ‘So all we have to do is find the source, eh, and twist his arm until he gives in and buggers off?'

‘There's one other thing you need to check,' she says. ‘There are often little-known and frequently changing state regulations that allow large projects to by-pass local councils and head straight to the State Housing and Development minister who can tick them off without even notifying parliament. Sadly, it doesn't take much to buy a politician.'

‘Jeez, Kate, they're bloody strong words.'

‘Trust me, if this is already a done deal – and in my view it probably is – you'll be able to smell the rot all the way to the premier.'

Sam pulls from his pocket the brochure he nicked. ‘Found this in a drawer. What do you reckon? A bunch of unrelated bible-bashing happy clappers or the real deal?'

Kate gets up to turn on a light that casts a soft yellow glow across the water. It's still hot as hell. The sea smells swampy. A swarm of insects hones in on the glow.
Bang. Bang. Bzzt
. Ducking the barrage every so often, she studies the front page for a long time. Breaks off to fish out a Christmas beetle that's fallen down her shirt and latched on to her left breast. Sam sits waiting. He watches her face intently, like it's a book he might be able to read. She catches him. Gives a quick smile. Opens to the inside blurb and reads every line. When she looks up, she's frowning. ‘Could be dealing with a cult, Sam. I'll check into it, if you like.'

He feels a swell of euphoria. She's moved off the fence and onto the sidelines. It's a start.

With a half-smile, she asks: ‘Your place or mine?'

In the dark, the cloud cover thick again, Sam follows Kate's boat across a flat sea all the way to Oyster Bay, guiding the
Mary Kay
around the winking green shallow-water marker at Stony Point. Lamplight shines through the windows of the Misses Skettles' home. Sleep, they tell him, eludes the aged. He politely refrains from revealing that he's often arrived in the early afternoon and found the two of them dozing peacefully in their rosy armchairs, wearing their rosy pink outfits, rosy pink lips hanging slack. Out behind him, phosphorescence plumes and skitters like sparkling green goblins in the black wall of a merging sea and sky. The night feels syrupy.

Inside Kate's sandstone house it's much cooler but the air is still thick with moisture. Here and there, he notices condensation trickling down a wall. First it's drought, he thinks. Six long anxious years of tapping tanks to check water levels and holding back from flushing the dunny until it verged on a health hazard. Now if a dry spell doesn't kick in soon, everyone in Cook's Basin will be wiping mould from nooks and crevasses and dragging their one good suit out of the cupboard before it shuffles off unassisted. He follows her into the whitewashed kitchen where the timber benches are scrubbed to paleness. The room holds the promise of warmth and succour but seems trapped in rigid, clinical order. Like Kate, he thinks, wondering – not for the first and he's sure as hell it won't be the last time – what strange, untrustworthy chemistry keeps sucking him back into her orbit; why a romantic confluence of two consenting adults can sometimes feel more like punishment than pleasure.

She opens the fridge door, her eyebrows raised. ‘A beer?'

He nods. Senses her mood has slipped a little. Can't think what to do about it. He goes back to square one. ‘Track the money, you say?' He takes the frosty bottle, feels the cold on his hand like a blast of air-conditioning, twists off the top. Watches as she grabs a bottle of white wine from the fridge, a glass from a high shelf so she has to balance on tiptoes, stretch her arms. Dark hair falls across her face for a second and it's all he can do not to reach out and tuck it behind her ears. ‘You need to start by forming a committee,' she says. She opens a drawer near the sink, rummages for a pencil. She rips a sheet of paper from a notepad near the phone. Returns to her chair. Sam leans in: is she moving in from the sidelines now? He watches her chest rise and fall. Wonders at the pulsing softness of women.

‘You'll need a spokesperson. Passionate but cluey, who understands libel laws. A media liaison person who can write press releases. Of course a few celebrities on board is essential. It guarantees media attention.'

‘You're kidding, right? What am I supposed to do? Call Nicole Kidman? Hey, Nicole, got a little problem you might be able to help out with. God, Kate . . .'

‘Celebrities make good copy. Soon as they open their mouths, ratings soar, newspapers sell. Doesn't matter whether they're smart or dumb as long as they can learn a few lines. And you'll need a strategist to organise rallies and demonstrations. Also a website and a web master to keep it updated . . .'

Sam feels his optimism drizzle away in the cacophony of foreign jargon. What the hell is a web master? How do you find a spokesperson? Where in god's name do strategists appear from? Why does she keep using the word
you
when he was hoping desperately to hear
we
? Christ, she has all this knowledge at her fingertips. If she put her mind to it, she could orchestrate a campaign single-handed. ‘This is starting to sound like Swahili, Kate,' he says. ‘We're a small community . . .'

‘A long time ago, I interviewed a man who saved a national treasure. He wasn't a genius, he didn't have much money and he didn't have contacts in high places. He had nothing going for him except an unshakeable belief that his motives were pure and his fight was for the greater good. Every time he was pummelled to the ground, he laughed in their faces and bounced back. That's the weird thing about the rich and powerful. They're so used to stomping on the well-meaning poor until they cave in, they have no idea how to handle idealists.'

‘Jeez, Kate . . .'

‘You might as well know, I don't think you have a chance of winning. Men like the one I just described come along once in every four lifetimes. Mostly, people just plain get worn out and walk away. Or someone breaks from the ranks and lets the enemy in.'

‘Never! Not in Cook's Basin . . .'

‘Don't be too sure. Here's how it happens: you're getting old. It's becoming harder and harder to look after your house and pay the bills. One day, someone turns up on your doorstep, offers you a magic price for your property and guarantees ownership of a brand spanking new unit in a tasteful little development right where your house is. Bottom line: easy-care home, money in the bank, and you don't have to make new friends. Happens all the time. And you know what? It's a good deal. Even the neighbours see that. They'll all line up for their share and –
snap!
– the foreshore has a new identity. Times change, Sam. And there's sweet Fanny Adams you can do about it.'