Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  ‘We don’t want to go gently, you mean? Yes, well, that’s Jacko — rage, rage.’

  Doc Love smiled. ‘It’s past six, Mac. What else can I help you with?’

  How did he know? Decades of seeing people, she assumed. Seeing them, not just their illnesses and complaints.

  ‘I think we — the town — need to plan for your retirement. And to do that—’

  ‘You need a date.’

  ‘Bingo.’

  He laid the magazine to one side. Queen Victoria aimed her bazooka at the window. Doc Love’s Skoda would take a direct hit if she let fly.

  ‘How many candidates have you short-listed?’ he asked.

  ‘None!’ Oh, what was the point? ‘All right, one. Seems the only people who want to work in a small town are charlatans and imbeciles.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She ignored him. ‘The only halfway decent one turned up in my inbox last night. Do you want to have a look?’

  ‘Now there’s a question,’ he said. ‘If I stare into the abyss, will it stare back?’

  ‘You’re retiring, not checking into a room at Dignitas.’

  He reached out, ran his finger over the piece of shrapnel on his desk, the one that might have been plucked from a dead man’s shattered skull.

  ‘Rage, rage, Mac,’ he said, quietly.

  Hell. How stupid of her not to realise. She wasn’t the only one dreading the prospect of his last day as Gabriel’s Bay’s GP. How stupid, and how blind had she been?

  ‘Look,’ she began, ‘we don’t have to—’

  ‘We do,’ he said. ‘I do.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It’s time. You’ve known it for — how long?’

  Mac never blushed, but she did now. ‘I like to plan ahead, that’s all!’

  ‘Very wise.’

  ‘You are OK — aren’t you?’ she ventured.

  ‘I’m in fine fettle, Mac,’ he said. ‘I’ve simply resisted adjusting to the inevitable.’

  ‘Join the club.’

  Tapped his finger on the shrapnel, once, a gesture of resolution.

  ‘Show me your candidate,’ he said. ‘The one person you deem worthy of the people of Gabriel’s Bay.’

  ‘I thought Elaine was going to burst,’ said Kerry. ‘Literally burst like a boiled tomato.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Sidney told Jacko and Gene. ‘She swelled up like a puffer fish. The buttons on her cardigan barely held.’

  ‘Puffer fish can die from inflating too much,’ offered Devon. ‘Dickheads who bash on aquariums should be forced to eat the poisonous ones. No filleting.’

  ‘I’d like to feed Prince Joffrey toxic puffer fish,’ said Sidney. ‘He’s such a Creepy McCreepface.’

  ‘Probably his online name,’ said Kerry. ‘And he wonders how people can tell it’s him.’

  He and Sidney were next to each other at the table they’d all crammed into at the Boat Shed. Quite close, Mac noted; almost shoulder to shoulder. Were they an item?

  Or, now that she’d begun to look harder, was the affection more on Sidney’s side? Young Mr Macfarlane could turn on the charm, but was he actually interested in her, as more than a willing audience for his jokes?

  Mac knew Sidney cited the dearth of local men who were available and/or had IQs above mollusc level as her reason for steering clear of new relationships. She didn’t want to be forever single, but she was picky about who she took up with, who she allowed into her and her children’s lives. Mac respected that — had never believed any man was better than none, and was eternally grateful that life had put Jacko her way. Sidney, too, deserved an equal match, and if she saw one in the ginger joker, then all power to her. With luck, her budding affection would either be requited or she’d be let down gently, kindly. If not — well, there was always tar and feathers, and rolling him down the hill to Hampton wearing nothing but a barrel.

  ‘What about old Bernardo the Bore?’ asked Gene. ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Surprisingly well,’ said Mac. ‘Did his usual “We need more evidence of viability” spiel, as if we can conjure up some magic data that will eliminate every last skerrick of risk. But apart from that, he was on our side, I’d say. Which is surprising given he was all carrot-up-the-jaxie when I talked to him at the surgery. What do you think?’

  She directed the question to Doc Love, who had taken a seat that allowed him to observe Jacko behind the bar, where he occupied four-fifths of the space, forcing Gene and Devon to squash into the corner. At Jacko’s feet lay King, who’d hoovered up the floor scraps in the wake of the night’s last customers.

  ‘I believe Bernard has a great fondness for model trains,’ said Doc Love. ‘And has visited the miniature world displays at the Windsor Legoland more than once.’

  ‘Has he now?’ said Gene. ‘Bear Grylls will be coming to him for tips on how to live more dangerously.’

  ‘But Elaine wasn’t buying it?’ said Jacko.

  ‘Elaine would sooner buy used dog faeces,’ said Mac. ‘And she’s got Joffrey right behind her — sorry for the mental image there — and Fraulein Ropable. Wendy will leap to obey whoever shouts loudest and Tinker, bless him, wouldn’t know if he was voting for a miniature display or for turning Gabriel’s Bay into an alien-worshipping cult.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate Tinker,’ said Doc Love.

  ‘Too right,’ said Jacko. ‘Last time we met on the battlefield, he kicked my arse. Like Attila the Hun he was. A one-man horde.’

  ‘And the Squealer and Sharp were keeping their powder dry,’ Mac continued. ‘Waiting to see which way the wind blows.’

  ‘Carrying either a smell of musty books or too much Yardley eau de toilette,’ said Gene.

  ‘But then we had us lot and Patricia Weston, and Aggie Robotham, Chester and Peg cheering from the sidelines,’ said Mac.

  ‘To the crazies.’ Gene lifted his beer. ‘A bit of nutso always improves the flavour.’

  ‘Casey and Corinna are on board if we support the name change to Onemanawa.’

  ‘Bribery,’ said Jacko.

  ‘Politics,’ said Mac. ‘They’ll support us anyway. I know all the embarrassing things they did when they were young.’

  ‘And Meredith?’ said Gene. ‘Her support’s pretty key, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mrs Barton has agreed, on the promise that we keep her dollhouse absolutely safe,’ said Kerry. ‘But I, er, still need to get permission from Mr Barton to move the trains.’

  ‘Plus we need a venue,’ said Sidney. ‘Little things like that.’

  ‘What about the old fish plant?’ Devon said. ‘Been empty for years.’

  ‘Still smells of fish,’ said Mac. ‘And it’s too big.’

  ‘Don’t need all of it,’ said Devon.

  ‘Suppose not …’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Kerry.

  Everyone pointed to the north-east.

  ‘You’ve seen that scrubby area on the corner?’ said Devon. ‘That was the side entrance. Plant faces the wharf.’

  ‘There’s a wharf?’ said Kerry.

  ‘Kind of,’ said Devon. ‘Still standing, but hasn’t been maintained. Neither has the jetty. No point. No vessels. Only recreational fishers here now, and they launch next door, off the beach.’

  ‘So is the area dangerous?’

  ‘A few hazards,’ said Jacko. ‘Nothing a working bee and some electric fencing couldn’t sort out.’

  ‘Who owns it?’ said Kerry. ‘I could get in touch.’

  Everyone looked at everyone else.

  ‘Good question,’ said Gene. ‘Used to be the Caraccis, didn’t it? Old Italian fishing family? But who knows if they’ve flogged it since. Suppose District Council will have records …’

  ‘Can’t we think of another venue?’ said Mac. ‘This is getting awfully complicated.’

  ‘Have you considered the Legion of Frontiersmen’s headquarters?’ said Doc Love. ‘It’s a good size, and centrally located.’

  ‘We did,’ said Sidn
ey. ‘But it’s been nabbed by the plant collective. They’ve got an arrangement with the Legion’s national body — somebody’s granddad was a member. They’ll only lend it out to community projects that fit with their ethos of — I quote — “peaceful, inclusive and non-binary collaboration”. Plus, you have to make room for the world cinema club every Thursday night, and the Tuesday-morning toddler music group. So all told, not that practical.’

  ‘Peaceful collaboration in a space previously occupied by war veterans,’ said Gene. ‘I guess that’s progress for you.’

  ‘What about some of Bernard’s empty shops?’ Mac said. ‘If he is on our side, he should come to the party and help out.’

  ‘I suspect he’d prefer to benefit from a Gabriel’s Bay resurgence by filling those shops with new paying tenants,’ said Doc Love.

  Mac folded her arms crossly. ‘Avaricious git.’

  ‘Probably not an epithet that will encourage him to stay on our side,’ Doc Love admonished mildly.

  ‘Fish factory, then?’ Kerry said.

  ‘Looking good,’ said Devon. ‘And with a bit of elbow grease, it’ll smell that way, too.’

  ‘Right,’ said Kerry. ‘I’ll pursue it.’

  ‘Sorted,’ said Jacko. ‘Time for a smoke.’

  He had the cigarette already in his mouth, spoke out the corner. ‘Come on, boy.’

  And King followed his beloved master out the back door.

  Mac couldn’t help a glance at Doc Love, but as usual his expression was serene, unreadable. Oh, well, he was an excellent observer. If he’d seen anything of concern, he’d let her know.

  Sidney yawned, covered her mouth with her hand.

  ‘Sure you’ve got the stamina for this, Sid?’ Gene needled.

  ‘Not all of us live life at your sedate pace,’ she retorted. ‘But I’d better be off home. Your nephew will be bored senseless by now. He was aghast when I said I didn’t have Sky.’

  ‘Sam’s a good lad,’ said Gene. ‘We’ll miss him when he goes.’

  ‘Best thing for him,’ said Mac. ‘Sooner he ditches those loser friends of his the better. Well, Barrett’s all right, but the other two?’

  ‘They’ve been mates since primary school,’ said Gene. ‘But, yeah, I’m with you on it being a good move. Pity Barrett won’t go with him.’

  ‘Oh, I dunno about that,’ said Devon.

  ‘What do you mean, Dev?’ said Sidney.

  Devon shifted, uncomfortable. ‘Dunno. Just — something not right about him.’

  ‘Dev, the lad’s mum died only last year, and now his dad’s an invalid,’ said Gene. ‘Who would be quite right in those circumstances?’

  ‘Yeah, but I still say there’s something off about him.’ Devon scowled, trying to pin the feeling down. ‘It’s like he seems ordinary, jokes around, one of the blokes and all that, but there’s like this shadow part to him. He hides it, but it’s there.’

  ‘Dev, your woo-wah is off the charts,’ said Gene. ‘Barrett’s an ordinary lad who’s had a rough time. End of.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Devon began to clear away the glasses. ‘But for the record, my woo-wah has so far proved one hundred per cent correct.’

  ‘Yeah, you and the Justified Ancients of Mumu.’

  ‘All righty then.’ Sidney stood. ‘Time to go. Time to save Sam from the horrors of poor people’s TV.’

  Kerry hopped up also. With alacrity, Mac observed. Perhaps it wasn’t one-sided after all?

  ‘Want a lift?’ he asked her.

  Sidney hesitated, then smiled. ‘Why not?’

  Kerry saluted the others in farewell. ‘Thank you for your efforts tonight, everyone. Stellar work.’

  ‘Job’s only just begun!’ Gene threw after him.

  ‘We know!’ was lobbed back by Sidney at the door.

  ‘And I, too, must away,’ said Doc Love.

  Mac caught his eye. He understood, smiled.

  ‘Sleep tight, Mac,’ he said, which meant he’d seen nothing to concern him unduly, but it would indeed be good if she could persuade Jacko in for a quick check-up. Oh well. It had been worth a shot.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ he added.

  ‘Without fail,’ she replied.

  The crosswind as the front door swung shut brought a waft of cigarette smoke in from outside.

  ‘Night, Gene,’ said Mac. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’

  She pushed past Devon in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, and sat beside her husband on the back steps. King had gone, off on one of his foraging trips that took him far and wide. Mac had asked Jacko if they should keep King at the house for his own safety. No need, said Jacko. He’d always come back.

  Jacko put his hand on her knee. He was the kind of man who didn’t believe in the need to say ‘I love you’ more than once. Once you’d said it, it stood until you said otherwise.

  Mac put her own hand over his, and sat with him until it was time to go home.

  Chapter 21

  Kerry

  Sidney would have no patience with Nietzsche. If Sidney read a line like “For it is man who creates for himself the image of woman, and woman forms herself according to this image” she’d want to reach down the ages and yank hard on his moustaches. Then again, Sidney might agree wholeheartedly that it was bonkers to bring up women to feel ashamed of erotic thoughts. Nietzsche could almost redeem himself in Sidney’s eyes with that idea. And undo it in an instant by advising women not to talk too much in the presence of potential lovers, because “Men are most surely seduced by a certain secret and phlegmatic tenderness.” Phlegmatic tenderness, my bum, Sidney would say. All it means is that smart women who speak their minds make men’s willies droop.

  At that moment, Kerry realised Sidney’s name had popped into his mind no less than thirty times in as many minutes. Her face, too, arose to blot out the real face in front of him because he preferred to see her smiling mouth, her blue eyes and her apple-like cheeks. (He suspected Sidney wouldn’t like her cheeks being compared with round apples, but to him that fruit was the epitome of natural rosy-hued perfection.) He wanted to hear her quips, and her full, unfettered laugh in response to his own. He wanted to curl up beside her on the battered old sofa and force her to dissect for him the secret of Tim Gunn’s mild, bespectacled appeal.

  If he had a magic wand, he’d be on that sofa with her right now instead of ploughing through — God, how many? — three hundred-and-eighty-three philosophical aphorisms. And all the while waiting for a chance to act on his mother’s advice. Not that he had a clue yet exactly what that might entail.

  Kerry had been in Jonty’s dog box for close to a fortnight, banned from coming anywhere near the bedroom or even speaking too loudly downstairs (he had a carrying voice, apparently). Meredith had taken over the reading again, and Kerry had done his best to make it up to her by doing extra chores, and preparing meals he knew to be special favourites of hers.

  Then, yesterday morning, out of the blue, Meredith announced that Mr Barton had requested Kerry’s presence once more. For what reason, she could not say, and Jonty didn’t seem inclined to explain, greeting Kerry with a curt nod and then, as had been usual, proceeding to ignore him. Meredith had spurned Ecce Homo for The Gay Science, so Kerry took up where she’d left off, at aphorism twenty-four, Different forms of dissatisfaction, passed the hour without incident, and so he was here again today.

  An absence from Nietzsche hadn’t made his heart grow fonder of florid philosophy, but at least it gave him a chance to relieve Meredith, and to gird himself up for action. If he were to follow his mother’s advice, he’d need nerve, opportunity and smart thinking. So far, Kerry had drawn a blank on all three …

  The night after Jonty banished him, a worried Kerry had phoned Bronagh.

  ‘Did I push it too far?’ he asked her. ‘Have I kicked a man when he was down?’

  ‘Thing is, we all sink below the line at some point,’ Bronagh said. ‘Grief, trauma, just ordinary old hard life can send us down. Most
of us come up again naturally, or with a bit of help from medication, after about three months. However, some don’t, and that’s when we’d diagnose the depression as clinical. But there are recognised symptoms for clinical depression, so let’s see how many your fella is ticking. He eats three squares?’

  ‘He does. And tea and biccies in the afternoon.’

  ‘Aches and pains?’

  ‘None complained of.’

  ‘Feelings of suicide? Attempts?’

  ‘Nope. Small-town grapevine’s pretty reliable on that front.’

  ‘Mind sharp?’

  ‘As a sharp thing. Tongue, too.’

  ‘So that’s a tick for irritability. Low self-esteem?’ said Bronagh.

  ‘If so, he hides it well.’

  ‘So we’re left with fatigue, possibly, and social withdrawal definitely, refusing to leave his bed. Any shagging? Is he getting his hole?’

  ‘God, Ma!’ Kerry protested. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Old people do it, too.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Move on.’

  His mother went quiet, weighing up the evidence. In the background, he heard his father shouting imprecations in Scottish, as was his routine when reading the morning newspaper, and Kerry felt pole-axed by homesickness. But home would have to wait a while longer. Until he’d proved himself worthy of it.

  ‘His wife’s been letting this go on, hasn’t she?’ said Bronagh.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘She’s not put her foot down, said enough of these shenanigans?’

  ‘Small-town grapevine says she hasn’t,’ said Kerry.

  ‘Then, maybe— OK, no. Forget it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not qualified to diagnose, especially not from afar.’

  ‘But you have a hunch, I can tell. Go on, spit it out.’

  ‘You promise not to blame me if it’s rubbish?’

  ‘You never blame me.’

  ‘OK, then,’ said his mother. ‘My unqualified hunch is that he’s come out of his depression but is too afraid and ashamed to face the world again. Many people see mental illness as weakness, particularly men, and even more particularly men who pride themselves on their mastery, their control. Before all this, was he a fella who liked things just so?’