by Susan Duncan
He knocks on Artie’s hull and climbs aboard the yacht at the old man’s invitation. When he goes below, he finds two glasses filled with rum and Artie looking as businesslike as Sam’s ever seen him. No bed hair today. And he’s wearing a shirt, for chrissake. Sam didn’t know he owned one.
‘This calls for new strategies, son,’ Artie says, straight to the point. ‘I’ve called a few of me old pals who know a bit about the danger of dark alleys and the power of crowbars.’
‘Call off the dogs, Artie. Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment behind the action but that doesn’t make it right.’
Artie sculls his tot of rum, coughs as the fire runs down the back of his throat: ‘Wouldn’t have expected you to say anything else, I s’pose. It’ll hurt though. Kinda lookin’ forward to seeing a few ugly heads roll. I saw ’em, ya know, when they shipped into the er, flare safety demonstration parade in that ugly black torpedo that passes for a boat. Didn’t say nothin’ at the time. No point. But I recognised the type. Not a brain the size of a pea between them. The kind of idiot that shoots first. Asks questions later. So you watch out, son. They’re after ya and even if they’re only aimin’ to hurt, they’re dumb enough to kill you by mistake.’
Sam uses his finger to slide his glass across the table into Artie’s easy reach. ‘Long as it’s only me,’ he says.
‘Ya might think about shiftin’ the battleground under their noses, if ya get my drift.’
‘Not sure I do, mate.’
‘Keep tabs on Mulvaney’s movements. Send in the hecklers every time he gives a speech. Annoy the shit out of the bastard till it feels like a bad itch that won’t go away. It’ll get you prime-time coverage. Guarantee it. Round up a few protesters and set a day to march in the streets of Sydney. Placards and kids, a few good-lookin’ women in low-cut tops –’
‘Jeez, Artie.’
‘Orright, orright. But think about getting’ yourself a mob, mate, and storm the palace. This is an election year.’
‘Ah jeez,’ Sam says again, sliding out of his seat in a hurry. ‘I forgot. Jimmy’s big media debut is being filmed today.’
‘Pity,’ Artie says, drawing the glass towards him. ‘Bloody pity. It’ll ruin the boy.’ But Sam is long gone.
In the Square and under the shade of the giant white cockatoo, its heat-stressed cockscomb wilted by the weather to a custardy mush, an elderly woman with pale blue hair sits at a fold-up card table (red-check tablecloth circa 1970) with a Thermos, cups, apples, a bag of nuts and a large cake she’s cut into small slivers. ‘Anyone can join me,’ she tells passers-by, who mostly nod and smile and write her off as batty. She says the same to Sam when he rocks up searching for a dog, a kid and a television crew. He can’t think how to refuse politely, so he pauses.
‘Sam, right? Lost your beautiful barge this morning. Same barge I’ve been watching out of my window for years.’ She points at a cluster of buildings up the hill to show him where she lives. ‘Thought you might be having a really bad day so I decided I’d prop here for a while. It’s time you lot on the other side of the moat know that onshorers have hearts, too, and we’re with you all the way. You’re going to win, you know. Right always knocks the stuffing out of might.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Sam says, bowled over, suddenly less heartsick and more heartened. She hands him a slice of chocolate cake, beckons him closer to whisper in his ear. ‘Could claim I made it but I bought it at the café. I’m a lousy cook. Least that’s what they tell me at the bowling club where I run the chook raffle every Saturday night.’
Sam laughs, scoffs the cake, suddenly famished. ‘You happen to see a kid and a television crew around here?’
She points a red-painted fingernail at the Island. ‘Took off about an hour ago. Nice kid. Different. But definitely made of the right stuff.’
‘Thanks, love. And . . . well, thanks.’
Sam finds Ettie getting ready to close up. She’s packed a pile of leftovers into a basket, which she passes to Sam without comment. Then she comes around to the public side of the counter and wraps her arms around his beefy body in a clinch so tight she cuts off Sam’s oxygen supply.
‘Easy on,’ he says, trying to lighten the moment. ‘It’s all good, love. The gearbox for the crane was just about buggered anyway and now I’m getting a new one courtesy of the insurance company that I’ve been supporting single-handed – if their criminal rates are anything to go by – for more than twenty years. And the Mary Kay? She’s tough. She’ll come back all cylinders firing.’ He grins, gently disengaging Ettie’s arms.
‘The horror of it, Sam. The sheer horror of it.’ On the verge of blubbing.
‘Nah. Stuff like this happens everywhere. We’re just not used to it. As my dad used to say, doesn’t matter what hand you’re dealt, it’s how you cope that counts.’ He’s been rolling out that out a fair bit lately. ‘Any idea where Jimmy and the crew have ended up? I clean forgot it was on today.’
‘Kate’s got it under control. Turns out she knew the cameraman. He told her the producer wants a feel-good story so the twenty fiercely protective mother ducks hovering around the kid and ready to kill on the strength of one wrong word could get back to their daily business without fear. Or words to that effect. Kate, all smiles and charm so the sting didn’t hit straight off, sweetly suggested that he who trusts busts, and she and Amelia would stick around to see he kept his word. Smart girl.’
‘Jimmy OK?’
Ettie laughs. ‘You should have seen him, Sam. He outdid himself. All red and orange flames and silver and gold sparkle, like a comet streaking across the sky. Or Elvis on a bad night in Vegas. He was off in all directions. In his own sweet way, without having a clue what he was doing, he ran the whole show. It’s going to be fine. Feel it in my heart. Goes to air on Sunday night. Jenny got a bit carried away and wanted to set up a huge screen at the top of the Island. Bring the community together sort of stuff. But it’s hot on the heels of the black-tie fundraiser. Not sure how many people will be up for it.’
‘It’s a top idea, love. Jimmy’s moment to shine. It’ll hold him up every time some yobbo has a go at him for being exactly who he is because he knows, now. He’s a star.’
As if on cue, the kid explodes through the door: ‘Forgot to get me scraps for the worms, Ettie. They need their dinner and I almost forgot. Cripes, I nearly wet meself with worry although me mum says they can manage for a few days. But ya never know, do ya?’
‘How’d it go today, Jimmy?’ Sam asks, ruffling the kid’s iron-gelled hair.
‘Aw, Sam. OK, I s’pect. But jeez, they work slower than Glenn after a coupla grogs. Ya wouldn’t put up with them on the Mary Kay, that’s for sure. When’s she gunna be back in the water, Sam? Tomorrow?’
‘Next week, mate, but that doesn’t mean a holiday so don’t go getting any fancy ideas. We’ll both help Frankie. Nine to five, round the clock.’
Jimmy looks puzzled. ‘Ya mean seven till four, don’t ya?’
Ettie explains: ‘It’s an expression, love. A saying.’
‘On ya, then. See ya.’ He’s out the door like a rocket with his two green garbage bags of scraps. A second later he bounces back. ‘Me ute, Sam. When are we gunna get me ute?’
‘One step at a time, mate. Got to teach you to drive, first.’
‘Aw, that’ll take a minute.’
‘Might take longer than that but we’ll get started on it soon.’ The kid’s yips echo through the café, the Square and across the water. Pure joy. Life is good.
Sam’s mobile goes off. He takes a call from Jane: ‘Someone loves us. Fifteen grand went into the fighting fund today. Any idea where it’s come from?’
‘Jeez,’ breathes Sam, looking at Ettie in wide-eyed astonishment. ‘Who says there isn’t a god?’
Sam stows his basket of provisions and pulls the starter cord on his wussy little fift
een horsepower outboard until his arm is almost broken. In the end, all he gets is a wheeze. The engine is dead. He sighs, defeated. Tilts it out of the water. The old Seagull, her bow slicing through the water like a knife, heads towards the ferry wharf. He tells himself that using public transport is a civic duty anyway and it’s time he supported the service. He checks his pockets for his wallet. Dashes back inside the café and borrows five bucks from Ettie. Hopes it’s enough. It’s been close to two decades since he’s stepped on board and he figures there’ve probably been a couple of price rises since then. He saunters along the jetty. Gives Chris a hand to tie up. Gallantly positions himself to help passengers disembark, figuring it’s a perfect time to thank the community for its care and support.
The first man to appear is Eric Lowdon. Sam comes unglued. He lunges. Savage. Lowdon squeals. Retreats with a blind backward step. His foot gets jammed between the pontoon and the rocking ferry. The crunch of breaking bones is so loud homebound commuters hear it from the picnic tables where they’re knocking back their beers. Lowdon roars with pain, goes white, almost passes out. Sam curses. Against his better judgment, he hauls him to safety then lets him drop to the pontoon like a sack of potatoes.
Ferry riders step around the beached man in his sombre going-to-town clothes as though he’s contaminated. Not one hand is extended to help. He lies there, eyes closed, his breath coming in short sharp gasps. ‘You, the kid and the dog. You’re all dead,’ he pants. Sam steps forward, his boot accidentally coming down hard on Lowdon’s broken bones. He yowls like a wild dog.
Sam bends to whisper in his ear: ‘Touch one hair on that boy’s head, even go near the dog, and you’ll be in a wheelchair for life. Boats. Water. Danger everywhere. A simple accident. No one will ever know how it happened. Not even you.’
He feels a hand pulling him away.
‘How about I give you a lift home?’ Kate asks. His blood still boiling hot, he nods. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.
She says, ‘Sorry doesn’t cut it about the Mary Kay –’
Sam puts a finger to his lips. Kate goes silent. Together, they tie his tinny to the stern of her boat and slowly – much too slowly – tow it towards the Island. He knows he should tell her to speed up a little, at least until the towrope goes taut, but he hasn’t got the energy. Every so often, he gets up and fends off. It’s easier than words.
When they are almost at Sam’s wharf, she says: ‘The real problem with campaigns that run a long time –’
Sam holds up his hand, again. ‘Not right now, if you don’t mind. I’m about as buggered as I’ve ever felt in my life.’
She continues, as though she hasn’t heard him: ‘People get tired of the story. Reporters figure they’ve covered it and lose interest. Readers go on to the next big issue. The trick, if you want to win, is to keep the flame burning.’
‘More bloody spot fires,’ Sam says gloomily, coming alive despite himself.
‘Ye-es. But you need new angles. Stuff no one’s heard about before.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’ll try to come up with a few ideas.’
So here it is, he thinks, the olive branch. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘I live here, too, Sam,’ she says softly, rounding up at his jetty. Sam recalls the days before she fully grasped the fact that boats didn’t come with brake pedals but she comes alongside without chipping the woodwork or scratching the paint on her hull. Expert. His tinny glides in on the wake. For a second he’s tempted to slip back into the blind faith he once had in her. But he’s older now, about a hundred years older, so he unties his tinny. Holding the towrope, he steps out of her boat and onto his wharf.
‘Any help is appreciated, Kate. But run your idea past Siobhan. She’s handling the media campaign. And she’s got a shitload of info –’
‘I think I can manage this on my own,’ she says. She roars off without a wave. Once, he would’ve bemoaned his foot coming down on the twig. Now he wonders if the twig is all about Kate getting her own way. Nothing to do with him at all. Well, not much, he admits wryly.
Suddenly, she circles and zooms back, the wash from the boat splashing up against his jetty like a tiny tsunami. ‘You could always pose naked for the local paper,’ she shouts, grinning. ‘You don’t look too bad with your clothes off.’
Sam makes a rude sign. But he’s laughing, as she knew he would, and it feels good.
Three days later, the more square-eyed members of the community lean forward in front of their television sets when an advertisement for the latest edition of Woman Magazine flashes on screen promoting a story by Australian journalist Kate Jackson, whose international search for a long-lost brother becomes a heart-breaking analysis of the deep complexities of mother–daughter relationships. In The Briny Café, where Woman Magazine sells an average of one copy a month and the remaining (well-thumbed) five are regularly returned to the publisher, the issue sells out by noon the following day. Sam snaffles Ettie’s copy and takes it out on to the back deck with a double-shot flat white and a slice of Ettie’s strawberry tart. He lines up the vittles like rations for a long haul and starts to read.
OPENING THE DOOR
by
Kate Jackson
Until my mother died last Christmas, I had no idea I had a half-brother. After I found out, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to find him. But how do you close a door once it has been flung wide open? How do you deny a cold hard fact and squeeze it back into a dark place once it has escaped into the light? There was no way, I realised, unless I could cope with being shadowed by a ghost for the rest of my life.
My mother, Emily, who died before I could even ask his name, played Agatha Christie from the grave. She left clues to his identity and whereabouts that would become apparent only if I did my duty as a daughter – a role she was fully aware I would be reluctant to assume. Our relationship – mildly combative at best – was mostly defined by anger and bitterness. I was an unwanted, late-life baby and she never let me forget it. When I look back on my childhood, I see myself scrunched in a quiet corner, knees pulled up against my cheeks like armour, a spectator determined to remain aloof from the struggles of my parents’ damaged relationship – the uncontrolled velocity of my mother’s disappointments, my father’s desire and inability to fulfil her extravagant dreams.
As children do, I shouldered the guilt and responsibility for ruining the carefree, glamorous life she told me she’d aspired to – until I was old enough to know better. Then I exchanged guilt for resentment. Not a helpful choice but much easier than struggling towards détente in the bloodied arena of our relationship. Like most selfish decisions, it did neither of us any good.
My mother was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. On the street, people stared after her, tripping over their feet, falling into gutters. At parties, men flocked to her side. Years later, she told me she’d never understood how she failed to be a star on a far bigger stage. Instead she married a country boy and was restricted to a small country town, standing – when she couldn’t avoid it – behind the counter of the family grocery store where – among everyday staples such as bread and sugar – red, green and yellow cocktail onions were sold to housewives determined to put a bit of pizazz into their cheese-and-biscuit morning teas. It was a rare admission. My mother never acknowledged defeat or failure.
She told me the secret that I can only guess defined her life – the child born out of wedlock and relinquished forever – in a bitter deathbed confession that I was sure was intended more as a shotgun blast aimed at my heart than a clearing of the decks – a tidying up – of the loose ends of a life governed by unwise choices. Am I being harsh? Perhaps. Probably. Children have ringside seats in families but rarely influence the daily mechanics. Parents lay down the rules, which makes it easy to blame them for our own shortcomings, every knock and lack of success. How gratifyingly simple it is to dodge personal responsibility
by pointing a finger at the past. My tragedy, if I can give it such a dramatic word, is that it took my mother’s death for me to grow up and accept that every choice – and its ramifications – is mine alone. I am the designer of my own life. A revelation that must seem paltry to many, but to me, was like finding myself with wings to fly.
How fortunate it was that I fought off a childish desire to inflict hurt on someone who was, anyway, beyond hurting: that I did my duty as a daughter. By cleaning my mother’s home, I discovered a small tin box filled with clues to my brother’s existence. By restoring my father’s dilapidated old writing desk for sentimental reasons instead of weighing expense against practicality, I found precious family documents hidden in a secret compartment. If I’d forgone those ancient family rites and left them in the disengaged hands of strangers, I would have paid a terrible price. My brother would have remained a ghost and I am sure that every time I caught a glimpse of a likeness of Emily in a crowd, I’d wonder: Is it him?
Emily’s strategy could have gone either way. I can see her smiling at the thought. A game player to the end. Strange behaviour for a mother, perhaps, but she was always a woman who lived for drama and excitement. How I wish now that I’d made a genuine effort to put aside our frictions and stretched wide my arms, even for a moment, when my father, her husband, died. But I didn’t. I continued to lay the blame for every family flaw like a wreath at her feet – and turned my back on her.
The first document I unfolded from the secret cavity of the writing desk, turned out to be a deed, dated January 27, 1938, to a house in the Melbourne suburb of Fitzroy. The owners’ names, Phyllis and Robert Conway, meant nothing to me. The next document revealed that in 1962, Phyllis took her own life. Robert Conway, who never remarried, died in 1983. I also found a birth certificate for Emily Elizabeth Conway. My mother. I discovered she was two years older than she ever admitted and she also fibbed about her age on her wedding certificate. I smiled at what I instantly recognised as her vanity, when once I would have sat in judgment and labelled her a liar. I wept, too, as I began to discover the forces that built Emily. How does a child cope with the knowledge that her mother took her own life?
