by Susan Duncan
Sensing this, Marcus indicates a table and chairs spread out on the deck. When everyone is settled with a drink, he announces: ‘We are here to work, of course. This does not need to be said. But if we are not to weary ourselves, and even possibly – Gott Verboten – lose heart, we must also embrace the great Australian tradition of facing even the most dire situations with courage, of course – but, above all, with humour. We have already had our first round of luck, I think. The campaign has been born in the most luscious and bountiful of grape seasons. There is a wine glut, my friends. We will not go thirsty.’ Hear, hear. ‘Also, we cannot think straight on an empty stomach. This is true. No?’ Hear, hear. ‘I will attend to our dinner.’ Hear, hear! ‘So refill your glasses. I will return in moments.’ Before he disappears along the gangplank corridor that leads to his state-of-the-art kitchen, he whispers in Sam’s ear: ‘But where is Kate? Is she ill?’
Sam shrugs. ‘She’s knows it’s on. Left it to her to decide whether to get involved or stick to the sidelines as, er . . . as a consultant,’ he adds, hurriedly, not sure whether it’s true or not.
Marcus, clearly confused, nods diplomatically. ‘Of course. I see.’
Wish I did, thinks Sam, turning back to the throng spilling over the deck and halfway along the jetty. That’s when he notices a lone tinny, with a slight figure standing straight-backed, red hair streaming like a Botticelli maiden, at the console. It putt putts slowly, almost regally, towards the chef’s house. It’s not Kate but, in his mind, the appearance of Siobhan O’Shaughnessy (‘We kept the O because we’d rather starve than take the filthy English soup in the famine’), adds up to a poetic moment. He makes a fist with his hand and raises it high in triumph. He’s almost starting to feel sorry for the poor bastards they’re going to drill into the ground. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He hurries along the jetty to help the most battle-hardened recruit of them all tie up, leap over a few tinnies and arrive safely on terra firma. ‘Siobhan,’ he breathes, his face lit up like a lantern.
‘Just so you know, I’ll not tolerate laziness or eejits and there’s only one boss. Me . . .’ she begins, in a strong Irish lilt that, despite thirty years spent listening to the long flat drawl of down-under, still sounds like music even when she swears. Which she does frequently. But in a singsong way that not even the young Island mums trying to teach their kids some manners find offensive.
Sam holds up his hand. ‘Save it until after dinner.’ He grins, thinking she’ll be as delighted as the rest of them at Marcus’s generosity, and continues cheerily: ‘The chef’s barbecued a heap of king prawns that have been marinating all day. A feast, if he stays true to form – and there’s no reason to think tonight he won’t.’
Siobhan grimaces, gathers her flaming hair in a fist, lashes it neatly with an emerald-green elastic band wrapped around her wrist like a bangle. ‘I knew you’d be faffing around worrying about food and wine like it’s a frigging mothers’ club meeting. You’re going to have to get real, boy. You and all the other freeloaders up there with their snouts in the trough. This is war.’
Jeez, Sam thinks, instinctively taking a step back and feeling slightly winded. The tiny, pale-faced, fierce-eyed woman, of indeterminate age (the only clue being her public-transport seniors card, although given her low opinion of all governments she could easily be ripping off the system), stares straight back, daring him to contradict her.
‘Good to have the gutsy Irish on board,’ he finally says, recovering, throwing an arm around her shoulders and quickly removing it when she stumbles under the weight.
Her sharpish features soften, she jabs him playfully in the ribs. ‘Wasn’t it the English who gave in first, then? Even after a thousand years of bloody tyranny.’ She laughs, slips an arm through his and lets him escort her into the maelstrom. ‘Jaysus,’ she adds, turning towards him, suddenly serious, ‘and, you know, this little skirmish could take just as long.’
‘Dinner is served!’ The chef places a massive earthenware bowl filled with glossy char-grilled prawns in the centre of the table. He fetches a basket of sourdough baguettes, a leafy green salad with a soupçon of lime in the creamy dressing.
Sam rips into the prawns. ‘Messy eating,’ he says, licking his fingers with a loud, smacking sound. ‘The best kind.’ It takes enormous personal control to hold back from mentioning that kings used to live like this. He heads for the pontoon with a heavily loaded sandwich. The others, who haven’t experienced the chef’s hospitality beyond a fireshed dinner now mostly memorable for the fact that it resulted in Ettie and Marcus finding true love, enthusiastically embrace Sam’s style and plunge into the bowl without restraint. The chef sits back, smiling happily, his gaze returning to Ettie over and over, as though she’s the spreading light of dawn after a black and stormy night.
Siobhan takes a position alongside Sam, dangling her legs in the tepid water. ‘A magnificent love affair, eh?’ she says, indicating Ettie and Marcus.
‘World beating,’ agrees Sam, who’s noticed that even the most rancorous Island couples have been inspired by the chef’s gallantry and Ettie’s joyful response to it. All summer the bays have been awash with people relishing the forgotten romance of boat picnics. The bush has been busy with Islanders sheepishly carrying blankets in the direction of the mossy, twilight softness of the waterfall in the deepest crevices of Oyster Bay. A top but no longer secret spot, he thinks with a hint of wistfulness. The Island, too, has been rocking under the sound of popping champagne corks.
‘None of me business, of course, but I was thinking Kate might be here to lend a hand.’
Sam chucks his scraps into the water, unable to think of a suitable response. Siobhan lets it go. In the distance, the sky lights up and a few thunderous booms shoot across the water. Another bloody storm, he thinks.
‘Watch Jane,’ Siobhan says, nudging Sam with her shoulder, pointing a finger. ‘She’ll be the first to squib if it rains. That colour and haircut cost a fortune.’
It’s on the tip of Sam’s tongue to ask Siobhan if her astonishing shade of hair also comes courtesy of a bottle.
‘Me own’s natural, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ she growls, giving him a fierce look.
‘Never crossed my mind it wasn’t,’ he agrees, hastily.
Siobhan walks back to the others and calls the meeting to order.
*
Not much is resolved during the first official gathering of the Save Garrawi committee, which ends early anyway, when the heavens open. Hands over her hair, Jane bolts like someone has set her backside on fire. In her tinny, she opens a brolly, holds it above her head and sets off at a sedate speed to prevent turning it inside out and rendering it useless.
‘It’s only water,’ Ettie yells after her, but she is gone and the mood with her. The rest depart in a ragged, wrung-out pack, Siobhan’s words wired into their heads: ‘Get people talking,’ she said, ‘until there’s not a soul – not even a babe – from coast to coast who hasn’t heard that Garrawi is in danger of being lost forever.’ She warns them against using the cult to get attention. ‘The leader enjoys a good law suit. It builds his property portfolio. And anyway, soon as you mention a cult, people write you off as a nutter.’
Not sure whether to feel desperate or elated, they go home to think of ways to wake up a nation to what is happening under its nose. What no one dares to ask is whether the nation will even care. At the last moment, unable to contemplate defeat, fists are raised. A battle cry goes up: ‘No resort. No bridge. No resort. No bridge.’ The chant carries across the water in the heat of the damp night until it echoes back from a band of sympathetic barbecuers on Cutter Island. ‘No resort. No bridge.’ Bring on the rage. Take up arms. Fight to the end. It’s bloody on!
Kate circles Emily’s mysterious tin box where it lies on the kitchen table.
Antennae twitching, she scrabbles in the bottom drawer, searching for a screwdriver to
pop the lock. Now or never. Or is it? She hesitates – as she has for days. If the box contains what she thinks it does, lifting the lid means risking everything she believes to be true. Her family tree may not be ideal, but it’s all she’s got to anchor her, however ephemerally, to her sense of self. ‘Your choice, Kate,’ she says out loud. Sink the box – unopened – in the middle of the bay and retain the status quo that will mean she can continue to go about her daily darg comfortably and – she might as well admit it – uninspiringly. Or ratchet it open and let loose whatever lies within.
She reaches for the box but withdraws her hand at the last moment, unwilling to touch it. Nighttime paranoia, she thinks. She’s letting the dark get to her. There’s probably nothing important inside. She cannot imagine Emily saving a lock of baby hair, a tiny shoe, a photograph of a swaddled creature not long out of the womb. You were a little wolf when you were born, covered in fur. She can’t be mine, I told the nurses and I still believe they made a terrible mistake, that you’re the progeny of ferals. It was meant to hurt, but Kate had immediately latched on to the idea. A changeling. Her real mother, she dreamed, hoped, prayed in the ridiculously phantasmagorical way of unhappy little kids, was kind and beautiful and compassionate and warm and . . . there was nothing of Emily in Kate’s DNA at all. She reaches again for the metal tin. It is cold and smooth except for a couple of shallow dings, a few scratches. No. Not now. Not yet. She isn’t ready. She needs more time.
All night, she lies awake, staring at the dark lines of the heavy timber beams holding up the plaster ceiling, listening to the sounds of nocturnal bush life. Wallabies. Owls. Bandicoots. Thump. Sob. Grunt. A whole new order that emerges at dusk to forage. When she first took possession of her stone cottage on the wrong side (no winter sun) of Oyster Bay, the nighttime rustles, twangs and tunes – so foreign to her inner-city ears, which were used to the caterwauling of sirens – made her anxious. Thump. Sob. Grunt. Reassuring. The box, she thinks over and over. What to do with the box?
Chapter Nine
On Monday, with the summer humidity not letting up and the stink of a low tide wafting about like ripe garbage, Sam and Jimmy set off to pick up Kate’s writing desk. Jimmy – rake thin, frail almost – wears electric-blue clothes that strobe in the sunlight. Barefooted, he dances and prances on the hot gravel like an exotic bird hoping to attract a mate. His spiked carrot hair a handsome cockscomb. Longfellow nips and pounces at his heels. The boy laughs. The pup squeals back, races off, full tilt and fur flying, to incite to flight a flock of seagulls arguing over scraps left over from weekend picnickers. The kid whistles. The dog screeches to a halt, torn between a full-bore chase or boring obedience. After an indecisive second or two he opts to join the hunt for Sam’s ute among the bird-shit-splattered rows of rusting vehicles in the shambolic car park designated for offshorers. Smart dog, Sam thinks. Get lost on the wrong side of the moat and it could be forever.
‘There it is, Sam,’ Jimmy says, excited and pointing out the ute. ‘Over there. Under the tree. Aw, Sam, ya windscreen’s gunna be a shitty mess. You bring a rag, Sam? You want me to get a bucket of water?’
Up close, the kid frowns. ‘Ya taillights are busted, Sam. Both sides. Ya musta hit something big, eh?’
‘Eh?’ Tiny shards of red plastic crunch under the weight of his boots. Sam steps back. He’s either been rear-ended or some funny bugger has deliberately taken a hammer to his lights. He checks the windscreen. No note of apology with a contact name and number. He hadn’t expected one but he’d hoped, because he sure as hell didn’t want to feel the itchy sensation that this small but effective act of vandalism had anything to do with the campaign to save Garrawi. He counsels himself to stop being paranoid. There’s not a car in the park that isn’t scarred from vandals, falling branches from the few over-hanging shade trees, used as roosts by incontinent birds, or the erratic reverse parking of a few locals who shall remain nameless. (Although the Misses Skettle could well be among them. On second thought, probably not. They’ve never reverse parked in their lives. A fact they announce proudly whenever the opportunity arises.) He decides to imagine incompetence instead of conspiracy.
‘Hoist that pup in the back seat, Jimmy, and climb in after him. Hold him on your knee good and tight. No questions, mate. Go on. In you get,’ he adds, holding up his hand. ‘The mutt will be safer in the back. First we’ll get the lights fixed. Then we’ll pick up the desk.’
They set off sedately, slowing even more for school zones until Jimmy thoughtfully points out the kids are still on holidays and the law is on temporary hold.
Pretty quickly, the pup starts to whine. Scrabbles at the half-open window. Sniffing land smells. Anxious to explore. Jimmy lifts a furry ear and whispers a litany of soothing sounds into it. With a harrumph of unwilling surrender, Longfellow settles.
‘Someone got it in for you, mate?’ asks the mechanic.
Sam shrugs. ‘Why d’you ask?’
The young bloke, clean as a whistle in a dark blue shirt and matching shorts, points a finger at the damage. ‘Too precise to be caused by a bingle.’
Sam bends down, looks closely into the gizzards of the electricals. ‘See what you mean. Yeah, clear as a bell.’ The battlefield, he thinks, has just been sign-posted.
‘I’ll patch it temporarily with tape and order in replacement parts. Bring it back in a week. The new bits’ll click in like a Lego set.’ He walks to a computer and hits the keyboard.
Sam thinks: No wonder he never gets dirty. It’s a weird day in history when blue collar turns white collar.
He whistles up Jimmy and the mutt. Ten minutes later, he swings into the driveway of Emily’s retirement village, slipping into second gear, which is as slow as he can go without stalling. He drives aimlessly through acres of well-tended gardens and hundreds of identical units, hoping to find someone to ask for directions. There is not a soul out smelling the roses (so much for the positive spin on reaching the age when no one wants to employ you any more) or walking the shady paths.
‘Not many joggers, eh?’ he jokes.
Jimmy twists and turns, held fast by the seatbelt, checking for himself. ‘Nope. Can’t see one. Are we lost, Sam?’
Sam pulls up to get some local advice. A pallid-faced old man keeps the security door locked while he gives directions in a thin and uncertain voice. Five minutes later, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes following his progress through lace curtains, they arrive at Emily’s unit. Sam takes a solemn oath that when he is too old to fend for himself, he will take the Mary Kay way out to sea, drill a hole in her voluptuous rear end and raise a frigidly cold stubby in farewell to what he hopes he’ll truthfully be able to describe as a life well lived. Man and vessel going down together. Nobly.
Unless I’ve got a heap of kids by then, he thinks, coming to his senses, and one of them needs the barge to continue in the Scully family tradition of working on the water. In which case, he’ll come up with another appropriate end scenario with the same final result. But god save him from this kind of mortal anteroom where the weekly death rate is probably in double figures so you don’t dare make friends for fear of losing them before you finally learn their names. The eternally useful (and therefore youthful) Misses Skettle, he reminds himself, have old age nailed. Feeling less depressed by the minute, he tells himself there are always options as long as you keep your mind open.
‘Let’s get this desk, mate, and then we’ll treat ourselves to a nice long lunch at The Briny until the tide comes in. What do you reckon?’
‘Sounds good to me. It sure does. You gunna eat your spinach today, Sam?’
‘Trust me, it’ll be a pleasure and an honour to slide it onto your plate.’ He unlocks the door. He expects the room to be dark and dingy, smelling of decay and dust, but big windows frame a lush garden with a pond where a couple of black ducks dunk their heads to scavenge whatever tasty morsels lurk under water. Wrens, finches and noisy lorike
ets play about in a bushy grevillea covered in pollen-heavy lemon flowers. The lorikeets are bullies but the wrens are good fighters with smart, attack-from-the-rear tactics. Despite his prejudices, Sam decides if you’re the type that prefers to shoot for unchallenging longevity instead of guts and glory, this isn’t such a bad end chapter after all. Never leap to conclusions, old son, he thinks. Or as his father would have said: Walk a mile in a man’s moccasins before making a judgment. The unit is bare except for a lone writing desk standing up against a wall, the last remaining evidence of Emily’s occupancy, her life.
For some reason, he’d expected a roll top or something equally fancy but it is tall and narrow with head-high glassed-in bookshelves, a drop top and cupboards below. A schoolboy’s desk from the early 1900s. Shabby now, but with good bones that will see it through another century if it’s restored and cared for.
‘Grab the bottom end, Jimmy, and slowly as she blows. No, no, don’t say a word. Concentrate or Kate will end up with nothing but toothpicks. This is a frail piece of furniture held together mostly by habit. Your next job is to tie it down in the ute so tightly it doesn’t shift a fraction. See that glass? It’s a bit wavy, isn’t it? Means it’s old, Jimmy, and age should always be respected.’
‘Ya might want to swerve around the bumps on the way home then, Sam. Ya can’t be too careful, can ya?’
‘Round up that mutt of yours. It’s time to get going.’
*
Ettie Brookbank is in a major flap. The rat-traps, temptingly laced with honey and peanut butter, have remained empty and she’s found more poo on the floor near the deep fryer. Every time a stranger walks into the café, she mutters a fervid prayer that he’s not from the health department. Just thinking about the problem sends her into a spin. Her face flushes, the strange dizziness she’s been experiencing lately returns. Anxiety takes hold until her breath comes in quick little gasps. She feels like Chicken Licken waiting for the sky to crash down on her head.
