by Susan Duncan
The crowd roars. ‘Let’s do it the Island way, Bill. Let’s show the bastards!’
Bill Firth, his face now puce, his shirt sodden at the neckline and under his armpits, scans the equally heated faces in the airless hall. ‘So where do you want to start?’
The silence – broken only by the lazy buzzing of an early March fly – is deafening.
‘Right,’ Bill says, sighing heavily. ‘We can all agree, at least, that no one wants Garrawi Park to be desecrated by developers.’
‘Hear, hear.’ Enthusiastic shouts.
‘Well, we’ve made a start. Not much of one, but nevertheless, it’s a beginning.’
Davo again: ‘Pretty bloody good, if you ask me. Can’t remember the last time we all agreed . . .’
‘Thanks, Davo.’ Bill Firth actually bangs the table with his fist, bringing to swift closure what everyone is fully aware could have turned into a long Davo-paranoia-rant.
Sam places his empty stubby on the floor at his feet and rises from his chair. ‘Artie reckons . . .’ There’s a collective groan. ‘No, wait a minute and hear me out. He was a big-time union boss in his day and what he said made a bit of sense.’
‘Before or after the first glass of rum?’ shouts someone from the back.
The rotund president raises his hand for silence. ‘Give the man a hearing,’ he orders, nodding at Sam to continue. Outside, the breaking clouds take on the golden hues of sunset. A dog barks. White cockatoos go ape-shit. A goanna must be raiding a nest. ‘Everyone’s a critic,’ someone yells, getting a laugh.
Sam begins: ‘Artie said the best way to tackle the problem was to light spot fires. Keep the bastards jumping so they never know what’s going to happen next. Any delays cost money. Artie reckons if you start costing them enough, they give up and go away.’ This time the crowd stays quiet. Heartened, Sam continues. ‘Kate – you all know Kate from The Briny Café . . .’
‘Not as well as you, mate.’ There’s a ripple of uncomfortable laughter. Sam chucks the culprit a dirty look and continues with his case.
‘I know there are a lot of smart people here tonight. But Kate, well, she used to be a top journo and she’s reported on environmental and property development issues in the past. We had an impromptu meeting . . .’ Sam breaks off and eyeballs a sniggerer, who sinks lower in his chair and raises his beer in apology. ‘Any of you blokes speak Latin?’
‘Aw jeez, Sam, get to the point. We’re melting in here.’
‘Two words, my friend: quis licit. Who profits, in other words. Follow the money and nail the shady deal-makers behind this travesty of a development.’ He ends with what he believes is the core point of the crusade: ‘How can we feel proud if we don’t save Garrawi? How do we tell our grandchildren we failed because we didn’t try hard enough?’
People are sitting higher in their sweaty, sticky, scratched white plastic chairs now, their faces aglow with what Sam hopes is enthusiasm and not just the booze. ‘With enough passion and plain old bullheadedness, I believe we can pull off a coup and roll a plan that looks like a certainty right now,’ Sam says. ‘Let’s face it. Most of us are born anarchists and rule benders. We’re used to fighting for what we believe in and if our methods can be a little, er, unorthodox at times, at least we end up with the right result. Well, nine times out of ten.’
‘So when are we going to light the first fire?’ calls Marty Robinson, a ruddy-faced Islander with a huge thirst and a legendary wild streak.
‘Hear, hear,’ echoes the crowd, clapping cheerfully. Aren’t most of them volunteer fireys who are experts at lighting spot fires for hazard reduction burns?
‘Well, we need to start with a few volunteers to form a committee . . .’
There’s rustling and shifting as people begin to stand and make their way to the kitchen to grab a plate. Beer in hand, the Islander with a big thirst comes over and wraps his arm around Sam’s shoulder. He leans in to Sam’s ear to whisper in a beery breath: ‘Details bog us down, mate. Think of the total picture and go for it. We’ll back you all the way.’ He whacks Sam hard and moves off, his long skinny legs not quite steady as he makes a beeline for the bar.
One by one, Cutter Island residents shuffle up to Sam and stand alongside him, rocking on their heels, nursing their beers. ‘We’ll support you all the way. And that means with cudgels or swords, mate. Whatever you think is best. Every war needs a general and you’ve been unanimously elected. Good on ya. We won’t let the bastards win.’
The offshore artists approach him in a group. Their spokesperson, John Scott, a short bloke with a Roman nose and deep brown eyes, who is a skilful and diplomatic organiser, outlines a plan in a rush to cover his shyness. ‘We’re going to need money to fight. Count on one painting from each of us. We’ll hold an auction and a BYO knees-up party to follow. Or maybe the other way around. Nothing like a few stiff drinks to loosen wallets and run up the bids. Phoebe’s already come up with a fabulous idea for a logo. She’s a genius, that dame. Did you know Garrawi means cockatoo in the local Aboriginal language? Trudy thinks a giant papier-mâché bird would look good in the Square. Draw attention to the cause. She’s going to get the kindergarten kids to help. We’ll need a couple of weeks. OK? Lord, it’s a sweat-bath in here, isn’t it?’
The two Misses Skettle, looking fresh as two pink daisies despite a long stint in the kitchen alongside Kate and Ettie, coyly sidle up to Sam and offer to distribute material as soon as it comes off the presses, to combat the developer’s evil propaganda. ‘Thank you, ladies, from the bottom of my heart,’ he says, gallantly kissing their powdered and rouged cheeks. Evil propaganda? What bloody presses?
Halfway through the evening, discussions about the proposed development peter out from lack of fresh fodder. Talk inevitably shifts to the problems caused by the recent rain; the rise in giardia cases and the multiplying swimming-pool-size potholes. The track needs bulldozing so the community ute doesn’t crack an axle. Long after dark, when these topics too have been hammered to death, the weary but well-fed and -watered people of Cutter Island and the bays head home under swollen black clouds that block out the silver sparkle of the night sky. Even during war, life goes on.
Chapter Seven
Over the next twenty-four hours, Sam hits the phone. He decides to do away with Kate’s ritzy committee job descriptions, which, when he broke them down into everyday language, lost their terror. All they needed was a leader, a thinker, a doer and a heap of support staff. Anyway, nothing beats all hands on deck, he figures. And human nature being what it is, the right people will put up their hands for the right jobs. No mug wants to volunteer and make an idiot of himself. Which, he tells himself swiftly, is not the same as fearing failure. Different kettle of fish completely.
First, he dials Marcus on his mobile. ‘Mate!’ he says enthusiastically. ‘You have just been unanimously voted onto the Save Garrawi committee. Congratulations. Yes, mate, completely aboveboard and legit.’ He ends the call after accepting an invitation to dinner on Monday night so the chef can fully discuss his role and thereafter fulfil it to the best of his ability. Sam tells himself that only a full-blown pea brain would turn down the chance to sup at the chef’s bountiful table and, by tomorrow night, he’ll have thought of an appropriate way to use the chef’s many and wide-ranging skills.
Next, he phones Siobhan O’Shaughnessy, an Irish firebrand who lives on the Island and once produced a top-rating talkback radio show with the power to make or break governments, careers and causes. Touchy, volatile, explicit to the point of rudeness, she was famous far and wide for battling for the underdog no matter what the cost. Once, she had two black eyes to prove it (a difference of opinion, Siobhan explained wryly at the time, regarding the rights and roles of women). According to local gossip, she carries the home phone numbers of every celebrity from Hugh Jackman to Ricky Ponting in her head. Sam makes a mental wish list of big-name converts to saving
Garrawi, throws in a few top athletes to broaden the spectrum. Comes back to earth with a thump when his call goes to voice mail. He leaves a message.
Next, with the mobile burning hot against his ear, he wheedles, entices, cajoles, seduces and, once, bribes with the promise of a same-day delivery of his (arguably) world-famous sausage rolls still warm from the oven. Glenn the Removalist, who’d been humming and haa-ing on the basis that he didn’t have much to offer in the way of brains or even – despite his chosen profession – brawn, couldn’t resist.
With the Mary Kay swept clean and safely bedded down on her mooring for the night, Sam makes a dash to the supermarket, where he scrabbles together the ingredients he needs to keep his promise. A man’s only as good as his word, as his father used to say.
Not long after sunset, he’s pulling four dozen sizzling concoctions of his newest creation – minced lamb tickled with mint, parsley and chilli – from the oven. He uses tongs to pluck a dozen from the tray, wraps them in a tea towel to keep them warm and almost jogs to Glenn’s back door. ‘Good to have you on board, mate,’ he says, slapping his friend on the back. In an almost simultaneous motion, he whips away the tea towel, grabs a roll, and bites into it with gusto. ‘Just making sure they’re up to standard. Wouldn’t want to think I left anything out in my rush to keep a promise.’
Glenn gives him a hard look. ‘I’d be more impressed with your attention to detail if I didn’t know for a fact that you’ve got a heap more at home waiting to be stashed in your freezer.’
‘You wouldn’t have a beer anywhere, would you?’ Sam asks, heading for the fridge. ‘A sauso roll and a frigidly cold. Marriage made in heaven.’
‘Next you’ll tell me kings used to live like this.’
‘But they did, Glenn. Trust me, they did.’
By Monday, the rain is back again and the air so still and heavy the clouds don’t look like shifting – ever. Some bright spark posts a notice in the Square on how to recognise early symptoms of trench foot and cure it. It triggers a sudden rush of toe and feet inspections, followed by thorough washings and dryings, among the Island kids. Adept at dealing with ticks, leeches, spiders and sand flies, they had been unaware of the threat of trench foot until now. Parents are stoked: ‘Don’t want to wash your feet before bed, eh? Well, don’t blame me if you get trench foot.’ Grumpy holiday sailors are forced to anchor in sandy coves where rain tapping on cabbage-palm fronds is a steady wall of noise. Disappointed day-trippers stash their bait in the freezer, replace their fishing rods and cancel their dinghy hire. Working boatsheds postpone anti-fouls, paint and varnish jobs and concentrate on below-deck tasks such as servicing engines and electrics, plugging leaks, cleaning the bilge. Only the day-to-day routine that keeps the infrastructure of offshore living intact continues without a nod to the wet weather. Trucks are loaded onto massive barges to make their stately circuit of public jetties to collect garbage from large dump bins. A smaller barge makes the rounds of the bays and private jetties to swap empty wheelie bins for those loaded to the max with stuff that even the canniest recyclers can find no further use for. Septic pump-outs continue to do a roaring trade.
Inside The Briny Café, business has slowed to a trickle but Ettie, who hasn’t quite recovered from Kate’s blasé announcement that times change and Cook’s Basin residents better get used to the idea, is heartened to see her partner using the down time to research the New Planet Fountain of Youth on the internet. After their disagreement about the development of Garrawi – which she knows would have escalated to a full-on row if the arrival of Marcus hadn’t interrupted – she’d worried Kate still didn’t quite understand the underlying forces that drove Island life. Or far worse – unthinkable, in fact – that she did understand but wasn’t convinced they were worth fighting for. Once, she glances at the screen over Kate’s shoulder. Shocked, she flees back to her oven to remove a tray of golden shortbread. The comforting scent instantly steadies her nerves. She gives a silent thank you to unknown forces for the small blessings of her daily life.
Then, without permission, her mind cunningly slips into what she blithely referred to as cranky old lady back in the days when she thought she’d somehow (miraculously) avoid the nasty trap of aging. She finds herself launched on an internal rant against the idiocy of war, the pointlessness of cruelty, the horror of modern waste, the necessity of hoarding every empty glass jar along with last year’s leftover Christmas gift ribbons until there’s no room on the shelf for full jars and the moths have devoured the ribbons. She bemoans the absolute tragedy of seeing smooth-skinned, angelic boys grow ugly facial hair at the same time as their sweet voices drop and they develop shifty-eye syndrome when asked a simple question such as What are you up to tonight? Before she knows it, she’s on the verge of tears. She’s broken-hearted by the threat to Garrawi Park, Island life, innocence; she’s worn down by the worry that doing two loads of washing a day is going to cause a worldwide water shortage and lead to failed crops and ceaseless, catastrophic famine; she’s tormented by the thought that if she uses one more supermarket shopping bag – ever – she will seal the fate of humankind and tip it irrevocably towards extinction.
Flushed, sweaty and on the verge of a panic attack, she finds she’s unable to think of a single strategy to get through the next two minutes, let alone the next few years. She swallows a sob and reaches for a piece of shortbread. It’s all too, too much, she thinks, at the same time as she registers that the shortbread is perfect. She sighs; the heat leaves her face. When she considers the baffling alchemy of combining a correct balance of butter, sugar and flour to achieve this crisp, dry but infinitely rich result she is suddenly more hopeful about the condition of humanity. She tells herself it’s the sticky wet weather that’s making her morose, that she will be back to her old self when the sun comes out again. Or I’ll die of a brain tumour or dementia, she thinks, finding a skerrick of her old hubris at last, and all my worries will be buried with me. She covers the shortbread with a clean cloth while it cools and hopes the humidity doesn’t turn it soggy before she’s sold every piece. ‘What do you think Marcus will cook us for dinner?’ she asks, as much to switch her focus as to satisfy her curiosity.
Kate shrugs without looking up from the computer.
‘Whatever it is, it will be superb,’ Ettie says, almost dreamily.
Two drenched cyclists step inside the café. Long skinny black bodies with aerodynamic helmets at one end and luminously shod feet at the other, they remind Ettie of a couple of praying mantises. ‘How can I help you?’ she asks. They order coffees and drink them thirstily at the counter. She mentally swings completely back on track, pegged firmly by routine. Grind the coffee beans, mugs under the spouts, hit the button for hot water. Heat the milk. Outside, the rain keeps falling.
Near closing time, Kate says: ‘I’ll finish cleaning and lock up. You go ahead.’
‘You sure?’ Ettie dithers. Without a word, Kate takes Ettie’s arm and steers her through the fly-wire slammer, across the back deck, down the jetty and onto the pontoon. ‘Go! While there’s a break in the weather. I’ll see you soon with my research. Hope you’ve all got strong stomachs.’
Ettie steps into her ancient tinny, resurrected so many times by Frankie that the locals have dubbed it Life Everlasting. She hoists her skirts out of the greasy bilge water with a wrinkled nose. ‘God, Marcus and his spiffy boat have spoiled me. It’s amazing how quickly a girl gets seduced by luxury.’ Despite the odds, the engine catches first go. Kate shoves off the boat with her foot.
Ettie chugs to the mustard-yellow eight-knot marker, where she hits the revs. At high speed, she swerves around the newly spiffy Seagull to a cheer from commuters perched on the back deck like pigeons. She waves, grinning. For a moment she feels immortal. Why would anyone want to destroy a paradise like this? Her heart blips erratically with the awful resonance of the word destroy. Despite the wind in her face, the cool sea spray misting over the
bow, her dazzling display of daring, Ettie starts to burn. Strong stomachs? She swallows a surge of bile. Looks towards the horizon where the rolling blue hills are like a frozen sea. Fights the urge to leap overboard and end the worry once and for all. Suddenly, the gloom lifts. The grey overcast sky breaks into a mass of tiny clouds like fat curls and picks up the last light, changing from pink to red to apricot while she watches. She focuses on the magic. It’s all good, she thinks, crossing her fingers. All good.
‘Kate’s late,’ Sam says, scanning an empty void of suddenly glowing water, a hand shielding his eyes. A table is set on the deck. White linen, tall wine glasses, bone china plates. Like something out of a travel brochure. Marcus hands Sam a beer from an icebox at his feet. Frigidly cold. ‘Took a risk with the weather, mate, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Sam says.
‘No, of course not. I am a careful man. I checked the radar,’ Marcus explains. ‘The rain, it was due to shift. And Kate? She will have a good reason to come after the designated time. She is not a thoughtless person.’ He pours himself a glass of sparkling wine. ‘This is a very decent drop that will take on the French winemakers at their own game and in my opinion as a chef who knows these things, will either beat or at least come close to surpassing them.’
