by Susan Duncan
Ettie nods.
‘You’ve always survived. Right?’
Another mute nod.
‘So worrying about what might happen in the future is pointless. And first of all, nothing’s going to go pear-shaped. Trust me. Secondly, in the totally unlikely event that it does, you are part of a community that loves you deeply so it will take care of you the way you’ve taken care of every lost soul for so many years. And thirdly, I think you should have a check-up. I reckon your hormones are all over the place and they need sorting out.’
‘Hormones? What have they got to do with anything?’ she says dismissively. Her voice is firmer now, the heat draining from her face. ‘How about you fix the coffees for those two blokes on the deck while my hormones re-align themselves?’
Kate pushes to her feet. ‘Whatever you say . . .’
‘And charge that Delaney bloke top dollar. We’ll show him what happens to suspicious-minded cynics who turn down the kindness of strangers because they can’t believe anyone does anything without expecting something in return. Where’s that poor man lived all his life if that’s the way he thinks?’
‘He’s a journalist, Ettie, remember?’
‘That’s no excuse. You were a journo, too, and you’re . . .’ Ettie’s voice trails off. She looks around, flustered. ‘Right, time to peel the carrots.’
Under Ettie’s watchful eye, Kate makes two mugs of frothy coffee, each with a double shot, and delivers them to the deck.
‘What are they talking about?’ Ettie asks, when Kate returns. ‘Oh, damn, I’ve lost count.’
‘Couldn’t tell you. They went quiet as soon as I got close. Lost count of what?’
‘The number of peels off this carrot. Eleven or twelve, I think. Definitely not thirteen. I would’ve remembered thirteen. Thirteen is unlucky and I would’ve done one more to make it fourteen. Yep. Eleven. Got to be.’ She is distracted, anxious, staring at the peeler like it holds a dark secret.
Kate gives her a queer look. ‘There’s a magic number for peeling carrots?’
Caught out, Ettie laughs nervously. ‘’Course not. Time and motion study, that’s all.’
‘You need a visit to the doctor, Ettie, and the sooner the better.’
Scully and Delaney, as they become known forever after – like two cops out of a TV sitcom – finish their meeting by mid-afternoon. They mutually agree that a member of the community should enrol for flying lessons in one of the umpteen city courses run by the New Planet Fountain of Youth while the newspaperman will cover the flare safety demonstration rally on Sunday evening.
Delaney emphasises the fact that news is an unpredictable and ephemeral creature and the story could very well be blown out of the water by a leadership spill in the nation’s capital or a bikie raid on a rival group that ends up a horrific bloodbath. ‘Luck of the game, Scully,’ he explains. ‘I’ve sweated over noble stories until they were word perfect and still seen them tossed aside without apology for news of a half-baked celebrity on a drug-fuelled spree. It’s a national sport to blame the media for dishing up trash but it sells in droves, which ultimately reinforces the practice. I’ve been in the business a long, long time, and, without wanting to sound like a pessimist, it takes a hero who never loses his moral compass to stand up to the pressure of circulation figures and mostly, the general population gets what it deserves.’
‘Jeez, mate,’ Sam says, feeling his spirits sinking lower and lower. ‘What keeps you going?’
The big man’s florid face breaks into a grin. ‘Because every so often you win a round against seemingly unbeatable odds and you make a massive difference to the little man, who has no power, no weapons and no way of fighting for what he knows in his gut is right. You live for the golden moments, Scully, and you never, ever let up the pressure on genuine bastards.’
‘Good to have you onside,’ Scully says sticking out his hand for the second time.
The pleasure goes out of Delaney’s demeanour. ‘I don’t take sides, Scully. I look at the facts and if there’s even a whiff of corruption, I dig in. But sides? No. First rule of journalism? Get the facts, remain impartial. Might sound old-fashioned but it works for me.’
‘Siobhan said you were a straight-up bloke.’
Delaney leans back in his fragile chair, which creaks alarmingly under his massive bulk, shoving his notebook back in his shirt pocket. ‘So how is Siobhan? No one could believe she dumped a stellar career in radio to sit on a deck watching boats chug past in a rundown little coastal retreat. She’s much too young to throw it all in.’
Sam feels the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stick up straight as toothpicks; his eyes take on a distant, glassy quality. He’s about to let loose with a harangue about the glories of Cook’s Basin but Siobhan’s words come crashing into his mind: ‘Never piss off the press, Sam. They go away and never return.’ He curbs the impulse, sets a friendly smile on his face and offers to take Delaney on a quick tour of the area. ‘Sun’s out, mate, and so are we. Shouldn’t take more than an hour to circumnavigate Cutter Island and snookle into a couple of the Cook’s Basin bays for a squizz at some pristine rainforest gullies where waterfalls and lyrebirds make music together. Angels couldn’t do better. Trust me.’
Delaney considers his notebook like it holds the answer. ‘Works for me,’ he says, snapping it shut.
‘Give me a minute. I’ll ask Ettie to sling together a few supplies and a couple of frigidly colds and we’ll be on our way.’ He heads for the café, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘Jimmy!’ he shouts loud enough to be heard on the Island without the benefit of technology, ‘start up the glorious and voluptuous Mary Kay and get your skinny backside over to The Briny Café. We’re going on a cruise.’ He pauses: ‘No, mate, no need to bring Longfellow’s dinner. We’ll be home before then.’ Another pause. ‘A cruise can last a year or an hour, Jimmy. There are no rules. Now on your way.’ He storms through the back door, a man with a purpose. ‘Ettie, a picnic for three humans and our four-pawed friend. Quick as you can, love. I’m going to show Delaney the world of magic and wonderment that we’re all fighting for.’
Back on the deck, he gives Delaney a look of pure innocence. ‘So the lovely Siobhan retired too soon, you reckon. At what age would that have been, do you think?’
Delaney erupts in laughter: ‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’
Ettie flings together a basket crammed with some of The Briny’s finest food – smoked salmon sandwiches, chicken cold-cuts marinated in lime, chilli and ginger, cherry tomatoes skewered with velvety baby bocconcini and basil and swizzled in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. A tub of tiger prawns. She adds fresh baguettes, a hunk of parmesan, a couple of firm, early season pears, and a slab of her famous double chocolate and hazelnut brownie, slipping in a small container of raspberry sauce and clotted cream as well. She races up to her penthouse and hauls out a few enamel plates, some picnic cutlery and an icebox and finds a chilled bottle of white wine in the fridge. She takes a second to run through the provisions, then adds a bottle of Shiraz. Delaney has the look of a man who’s enjoyed a few good reds in his life. In a flash, she strips off her café chef’s clobber and changes into a swirling cotton dress that matches the blue of the sky. She slaps a huge straw hat on her head before making her way downstairs.
‘Call the chef, will you, Kate? See if he has time to get into his svelte little runabout to pick me up and join the Mary Kay on the water. He loves a picnic. You’re in charge. I’m going to make sure the journalist is spoiled rotten by the kind of hospitality that Cook’s Basin is famous for – whether he likes it or not. Oh, and get on the phone to alert everyone who’s around that we’re out and about with the journo so no serious rule-breaking in public, OK?’
Kate stands still, in shock. Ettie grins. ‘Yep. I’m leaving you on your own. Time to muscle up, love.’
At the last minute, s
he scoops up a large hunk of banana cake for Jimmy and a small tub of shredded chicken for the pup. Satisfied, she marches onto the deck with her basket just as Jimmy brings the Mary Kay alongside with a feather touch equal to Sam’s. ‘What’s a picnic without a bit of female company?’ she announces to a bemused Delaney. Without waiting for a reply, she steps on board the pitted timber deck and heads for the captain’s cabin. She stows the picnic basket on Sam’s comfy banquette, where he’s been known to do a lot of deep thinking with his eyes closed on very hot afternoons. ‘We need a couple of cushions and a blanket, Sam. They still stored in the hold?’
Sam might be on his own barge, but he nevertheless feels as though he’s lost control of the agenda. He nods with a shrug anyway. Sometimes it’s smarter to go with the flow.
‘Cast off, Jimmy and we’re away.’
Jimmy skids up to Sam with a puzzled look: ‘We never tied on, Sam. Y’all just jumped on board so quick.’
‘Right. All good then,’ Sam says, unable to shake the feeling he’s lagging behind everyone else. ‘Er, Jimmy, this is Paul Delaney . . .’
‘Are ya gunna help us save Garrawi?’ Jimmy asks, eagerly thrusting out his bony hand in a formal how do you do. ‘Are ya gunna look after the cheese tree, then?’
Delaney, probably used to people treading warily around him, is visibly taken aback by Jimmy’s earnest forthrightness and flounders for a minute or two. Then he recovers and places his huge mitt on the boy’s scrawny shoulder. ‘How about you tell me all about the cheese tree, Jimmy?’
Jimmy looks towards his captain, ecstatic: ‘I’m helpin’ the cause, Sam, aren’t I?’
‘You’re a top ambassador, mate.’
Delaney tries to steer Jimmy towards the cabin but the kid points at the bow of the Mary Kay. ‘Best seat in the house up there. Me and Longfellow, that’s our possie. Ya know much about barges, Mr Delaney?’
Delaney smiles. ‘Let’s talk about the cheese tree first. Then you can tell me all about barges.’
‘They’re gunna cut it down, Mr Delaney. They’re gunna rip off the hands, arms and legs and then cut through the tummy until the tree keels over dead and gone. Me dad proposed to me mum under that tree. ’Course he buggered off after a while but me mum’s never forgotten him on his knee and shit-scared she was gunna turn him down . . .’
Delaney reaches for his notebook.
‘I can go slower,’ Jimmy offers, seeing him making a few scribbles. ‘Just tell me if ya can’t keep up.’
Hours later, after Paul Delaney has been introduced to the famous cheese tree and when Jimmy and the mutt are home in bed, Ettie, Marcus and Sam sit on the chef’s deck in the warmth of the summer night.
‘Delaney’s travelled to the Planet’s headquarters in South America,’ Sam tells them. ‘He’s seen what goes on first hand and he says it terrifies him.’
Ettie, who’s had a delicious afternoon break from the café, tips the last of the white wine into her glass, knowing she’s going to regret it in the morning but not giving a damn anyway. ‘Long way to go for a story, wasn’t it?’ she asks.
‘Nothing to do with work. The cult got its hooks into his niece. He found the girl, starry-eyed, completely brainwashed and running around barefoot and dressed in long white robes with a whole lot of other white-robed chanting and giggling idiots. She didn’t want a bar of him or what she called his boring middle-class values. Delaney reckons there are more than two hundred Australians living in the commune, handing over every penny they’ve got and there’s more bad shit going on there than most of us could imagine.’
The chef breaks in: ‘This niece, she was a wild child perhaps?’
‘Not sure, chef, never asked him. But there’ll be no rest for Delaney until he brings her home. The girl’s mother is Delaney’s sister. Kid’s an only child. The sister’s divorced. Right now, he’s trying to persuade his local federal member to come with him to see for himself what’s going on. Delaney reckons it’s time the government intervened because he can smell a tragedy of epic proportions – his words, not mine – just waiting to happen. He’s also trying to get a US congressman to take a look. Apparently the commune is up to the rafters with young Americans also searching for the meaning of life.’
‘Ah, the age-old question,’ says the chef, shaking his head. ‘What is it all about? At my age, of course, you understand. It is about love.’ He reaches for Ettie and encases her hand in both of his.
The trio is silent while the moon plays chords on the water. Somewhere, an owl hoots in time with the shushing sea and the bush whispers soothingly.
Ettie says: ‘When Jimmy talked about the cheese tree, I nearly cried. He sees it as a human being, Marcus, a person with arms and legs and a giant torso.’
They talk, then, about the sudden light that switched on in Paul Delaney’s bright blue eyes when he first met Jimmy.
‘I swear, chef, his nose tilted into the wind like a dog on a fresh scent. It took him two seconds flat to suss out Jimmy’s, er, unique way of seeing and interacting with the landscape and the community. He gently eased stories out of the kid that none of us even knew. Said he’s got his column for Saturday thanks to Jimmy. Reckons it’s a perfect lead into a follow-up story on the flare safety demonstration on Sunday.’
‘This man, you trust him to be kind to the boy, yes?’ the chef asks. ‘Jimmy is not like others . . .’
‘This man, chef, may talk like he doesn’t have a heart but if you want my sometimes dodgy opinion he’s all heart.’
When it is late, Ettie excuses herself. Marcus walks with Sam along the silvery timber planks to the pontoon where his boat is tied. Halfway, Marcus hesitates and reaches out to touch Sam’s arm.
‘You all right, mate?’ Sam asks, alarmed.
‘Yes, yes, of course. I am wonderful for a man of my age. But you see, it is Ettie. I am worried. She is so tired and perhaps if I may reveal a fact that many men are uncomfortable to discuss?’
Sam nods, but inside he’s squirming. Confessions among men are unfamiliar territory.
‘Sometimes,’ Marcus says quietly, ‘instead of lying close, like two spoons yes? Instead of this, she moves away from me in the bed.’
Relieved, Sam laughs out loud: ‘It’s been a stinking hot summer, you idiot,’ he says. ‘Women feel the heat more than men. Trust me, mate, Ettie looks at you as though you’ve dropped down from the land where Greek gods were born.’
Marcus smiles, but it is thin, uncertain. ‘Something is wrong. Yesterday, I am hanging out the washing. I am, after all, a domesticated man. She snatches it from my hands –’
‘Helping you out, chef, that’s all.’
‘Because I am attaching a blue and red peg on the same shirt.’
‘Eh?’
‘The pegs, which are all doing the same fine job, she wants them to match. This is strange, no?’
Sam gives the chef an understanding pat. ‘Women, mate. They have their little routines. I once knew a dame who couldn’t sleep unless the pillowslip ends faced out from the centre of the bed. Seriously weird, eh? Knew another girl who would never wear black shoes on Friday. Never did find out what that was about.’
Sam can see that Marcus is unconvinced.
‘A month ago, the pegs were not of any interest to her,’ he insists.
‘It’s nothing serious, mate. Promise you.’
‘I am afraid, my friend, that it is very serious.’
Chapter Fifteen
Paul Delaney’s column about Jimmy and the fight to save Garrawi is published on Saturday morning. The community reads it and weeps. Young Jimmy MacFarlane’s innocent and unclouded vision cuts to the core of what is precious. Islanders are reminded of the many valid and valuable reasons why they choose to live in a water-access only community where sometimes completing the smallest tasks requires five times more effort than it would if they were living o
n the mainland. But every ounce of sweat and grunt is worth it. Jimmy, whose passion for all wild things including deadly snakes and funnel web spiders shines through, becomes an overnight hero.
The Briny Café has a record day with hungry and thirsty rubberneckers who have come from far and wide to see what all the fuss is about. Sam invites Kate on another picnic to celebrate. ‘Weather’s going to hold,’ he says. ‘Opportunity knocks.’
*
Frankie spots Sam heading up the steps to pick up Kate and calls him over. ‘This better be good, mate. Women don’t like to be kept waiting.’
In the bush, cicadas yammer hysterically, white cockatoos argue their way to bed somewhere high in the National Park. Night comes down like a hot, heavy blanket. Inside the boatshed in Oyster Bay under sickly green-tinged fluorescent lights Sam listens. His face turns black with fury.
‘What kind of money did he throw at you?’ he demands.
Frankie scratches his head under his cap. ‘Free rent for two years.’
‘Ah jeez. But what’s the point of that? You’ve got a boatshed that as far as I know you own outright, seeing as how you bought it before god was born. Why mess with something if it ain’t broke?’
‘Lowdon is talking about a working boatshed attached to a marina. Berths and moorings for forty small boats, twenty moorings for larger yachts and stink boats and a new fibreglass tender boat with a 120-horsepower outboard to transfer boaties from the shore. It’s a bloody good deal. All those Islanders without private jetties will have a safe, convenient berth for their tinnies. A blessing for young mums and their babies.’
‘S’pose he’s going to sling a fistful of cash into your back pocket, too?’ Sam is aggressive, accusing.
Frankie’s eyes go cold. ‘Watch your words, Sam. I’m talking about a legitimate business deal here. Two years to get it up and running and then a market rent. You can’t ask for much fairer than that.’
Sam slumps. Wonders what dream world he’s been living in. Money talks. Men like Lowdon always get what they want in the end. He gets the sickening feeling that he and the community are living in la-la land if they think they can beat lucrative bribes that are just honest enough to skate across the line. ‘So you’ve said yes, eh?’
