Gone Fishing

by Susan Duncan

  ‘Yes and no. We went to her cabin, both of us drunk on wine, the promise of sex, the hot tropical night. I felt as though we were disconnected from reality. Ships do that, I think. There you are, floating way out to sea among disinterested strangers, without any responsibility for day-to-day decisions except whether to choose fruit or pastry for dessert. It feels deliciously like anarchy although perhaps hedonism is closer to the truth. So, yes, we went to bed. But it never became an affair. I believe that these days our experience is commonly referred to as a one-night stand.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Kate is incredulous.

  ‘Would you like a drink? It’s my habit to indulge in a whisky at this time of day.’ O’Reilly stands, taking a moment to straighten his back, as though it is a painful process. ‘After all this time, do you really think I have any reason to lie? I could have sent you on your way, you know. Probably should have instead of indulging an old man’s desire for exoneration.’ O’Reilly pours his drink. ‘I have wine, if you’d like to join me. Or a beer?’

  ‘White wine. Thank you.’

  He finds a bottle in the fridge and pours a glass, handing it to Kate, tilting his head to indicate she should follow him. They move along a dim, bare passageway. O’Reilly pushes open a door and waits for her to go ahead.

  ‘My study,’ he explains. ‘I have some photographs you might like to see. Absurd to keep them, but I could never quite bring myself to throw them away.’

  ‘Emily?’ Kate asks.

  ‘Yes. They were taken by the ship’s official photographer on the night of the fancy-dress ball.’ He sculls his whisky. Slams down the glass. After a while, he gets up and goes to a wall of books. He finds the title he’s looking for without hesitation and pulls a thin envelope from between the pages. ‘Here she is, in full angel regalia. Quite beautiful, don’t you think.’

  ‘Her eyes . . .’

  ‘A coldness, calculation? If that’s what you’re thinking, you’re right. After our one night together, Emily cut off contact with me. She was full of regrets, she said. I had a wife, children. It was all impossible. Naturally, I thought I’d been a disaster in the sex department, if you’ll excuse the bluntness. Or worse, offended her badly in some way and that was the real reason she wanted nothing more to do with me. I’d never lied to her about my family so that couldn’t be the real reason. We avoided each other for the rest of the voyage. If it’s possible to feel heart-broken and relieved at the same time, then that’s how I was. I was slowly coming to my senses.

  ‘A year later, when I was back home and fully immersed in my career as a member of parliament, trying to run a sheep and cattle property, scrabbling to hold my marriage intact, I attended an official dinner at Parliament House for a visiting head of state from somewhere I’d never heard of. I rarely went to them but the PM had been adamant. He wanted a show of force on the night.’ His voice softens: ‘I felt her presence before I saw her. It was like a blast of heat coming from my left. I have no idea how she’d arranged to be there. Didn’t think to ask. I was quite mad with any number of emotions. Hope and fear being the two strongest. I’m not sure what I expected. A polite hello? The brush-off.

  ‘But she walked up to me with a smile, much harder than the one I remembered: “We have a son. What are you going to do about it?” There we were in a public place, I hadn’t seen or heard from her for more than a year, and suddenly she announces she has a baby and I am the father. Remember, we’re talking the start of the 1960s here. Didn’t matter how you looked at it, it was a scandal. But you know what? I didn’t give a damn. I still loved her, you see. I quickly decided the church would give my wife a face- and soul-saving annulment. Oh yes, it would have been possible. A large cash donation . . . Anyway, I would quit politics and marry Emily.’

  O’Reilly’s voice is wearing out now. He is white-faced, exhausted. Kate offers to fetch him another whisky. He smiles assent. She takes her time in the kitchen, letting him rest for a while.

  ‘But something went wrong?’ she suggests on her return.

  ‘My dear, that hardly begins to describe it. I drove for six hours and walked straight in the house – this house, by the way – and confessed with much wringing of hands and contrition. I thought Chloe would be outraged, but she left the room without a word. I waited. A couple of hours later, when it was nearly midnight, she returned. “Arrange for us to meet. Tell her to bring the baby.”’ O’Reilly lets his head fall back, closes his eyes. ‘I can’t explain the horror her words invoked. What on earth was she thinking? In the end, I told her I would leave the decision to Emily. If she agreed, we’d go ahead with the, er, introductions.’

  ‘And did she agree?’

  ‘Oh yes. Why not? She knew she’d won. We were to meet in the foyer of the Australia Hotel. My wife’s choice. She was so bloody civilised about it all. A luncheon in the dining room to follow, Chloe suggested, as if we were all old friends.

  ‘Emily arrived late. The baby, she explained, refused to settle. My wife, sweetly implying a strong bond of motherhood between them, said she understood completely. Then almost in the same breath, Chloe dropped her bombshell. She would happily apply for an annulment of a six-year marriage resulting in two children, she said, on the condition that Emily and I take total responsibility for the offspring of said marriage. It was what some would call a show-stopping moment. I turned to Emily, over the moon. Her face was ashen; she looked ill. I put a hand out to steady her while Chloe marched over to the baby and threw back the blankets. Emily came out of her trance, pushed Chloe away. People were starting to stare at us. “Let me know what you decide,” Chloe said, walking away.’

  ‘Emily said no?’

  ‘She handed me the baby. Then she left. I never saw her again. Not until a couple of years ago.’

  ‘But why didn’t you keep your son?’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple. When I went back to our hotel room, Chloe took the baby from me without a word. She laid him on the bed, checked his nappy then she rang room service and ordered a double whisky for me. After the drink was delivered, she advised me to get a copy of his birth certificate if I didn’t want to be lumbered with another man’s son for the rest of my life.’

  ‘How could she tell he wasn’t yours?’

  ‘She couldn’t, of course. It was a wild guess. But I can’t exactly explain how I knew instantly it was true. Instinct, perhaps? Or a string of odd episodes that alone could be excused but herded together should have gone off like a siren if I’d been in my right mind. Emily’s clothes were more priestess than siren. Near the equator, when the heat was almost intolerable, she stayed away from the pool. The night we spent together, she hurriedly snapped off the lights before even taking off her shoes. So many little signs. But I was blind.’

  Evening closes in. O’Reilly switches on a table lamp. Outside, one of the cows moans softly as though the heat has sapped her strength. O’Reilly, who’s ignored his whisky until now, quietly drains the glass. ‘I have some cheese . . .’

  ‘Did you confront Emily? Did she tell you who fathered the child?’

  ‘Emily disappeared.’

  ‘But I don’t understand . . . How did Alex end up in Britain?’

  ‘My wife arranged everything. I was . . . I was unwell. I believe the correct term, in this era, is depression. For two years, I railed against God, as if it were His fault. As if my own hand in events had been divinely guided. In the end, I grew up. I put aside my soul, if there is such a thing, and accepted that I was fortunate in many, many ways. Just not in matters of the heart. I had two beautiful sons, a wife with whom I’d achieved an uneasy truce.’

  ‘Did Emily ever get in touch? Looking for news of her son, maybe?’

  ‘I had no idea what had happened to her until two years ago when she turned up here like a ghost. Said she’d been feeling sentimental about the past and was on a sort of pilgrimage to set old wrongs right. She a
sked about my wife, my sons. But I’m sure she knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  He seems to struggle then lets go: ‘A Greek Island holiday. A ferry carrying too many passengers in rough weather.’

  ‘But you survived?’ Kate catches a hard note of accusation in her voice, the journalist in her rising. Eases off. ‘It must have been terrible. Your worst nightmare.’

  ‘Worse, in a way. If I still believed in a god, I’d say he exacted a heavy price for my sins. You see, I wasn’t with them. It was hay-cutting season. I couldn’t leave the farm.’

  They are both silent for a long time.

  ‘Emily asked you for money, didn’t she?’

  ‘I gave it to her. A small price to pay for a promise never to return. You see, old people learn to blot out the infamies and pains of their youth. It’s the only way to achieve a small measure of peace.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much you gave her, but there’s around seventy thousand dollars in her account. I’ll make sure it comes back to you.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Keep it . . .’

  ‘No,’ she says, breaking in. ‘Blood money never does anyone any good.’

  It is almost eight o’clock when Kate begins the drive back to the city, the grey box still on the seat where she’d forgotten it. Against the odds, she’d liked Timothy Terence Martin O’Reilly. Been seduced by his dignity under what she is ashamed to admit was an intense and biased grilling he didn’t deserve. She’d made the very basic mistake so common to inexperienced journalists and leaped to conclusions without real evidence. She is appalled by how quickly the rules and ethics of her profession collapsed when the story got personal; she is quite sure a lesser man would have thrown her out. She should have given him the box. Filled with mementoes from that awful voyage, they indicated that, at least on some level, Emily had cared enough to hold onto reminders of him. The folded silver wing. It makes sense now. But the ash? Timothy O’Reilly looked surprised when at the last minute she’d asked him when he’d quit smoking. ‘Never had a cigarette in my life,’ he said. ‘Filthy things.’

  She dials the café, planning to leave a message on the machine. Ettie picks up on the first ring.

  ‘I’m on my way home,’ Kate says. ‘I’ll be back on deck in the morning.’

  ‘No need to rush. Business is under control.’ The phone goes dead in Kate’s ear.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Early on Monday morning, with the sun refusing to bow to the changing season and already hot enough to sting, Sam borrows Jimmy’s tinny and zooms to The Briny to check out the newspaper advertisement in the campaign to save Garrawi. Tying up at the pontoon, he races up the gangplank and explodes through the back door. ‘Ladies!’ he announces.

  Before he can say another word, Ettie hands him a frothy mug of coffee. Jenny thrusts an egg-and-bacon roll at him. The two hard-working women look fit to bust. Success is catching. ‘Jimmy was brilliant, wasn’t he?’ Ettie says.

  ‘Always said the kid’s a genius. In my humble opinion, last night he galvanised a nation. If there’s anyone between here and the Kimberley who isn’t onside they’re either asleep or dead. If you’re interested in a second opinion, I reckon you ought to batten down the hatches because you’re about to have the biggest day in the almost two-hundred-year history of The Briny Café!’ He jerks his thumb towards the Square. A crowd is building. ‘But for starters, you might want to unlock the door.’ He grabs a paper and takes off to avoid the stampede.

  ‘Shit,’ says Jenny, rocketing forward. Ettie slams eight cups in the coffee machine, presses the button. It’s going to be a long – and very profitable – day.

  On the back deck, which he doesn’t expect to have to himself for very long, Sam lays the newspaper flat on a table, shocked by the difference between seeing a small piece of artwork printed on A4 paper and a full-colour advertisement at the bottom of page one of a mass-circulation daily newspaper. The impact is massive. ‘NOT FOR SALE’, ‘OUTRAGE’. The two words are plastered in red across an idyllic photograph of Garrawi Park.

  The ad draws your eye quicker than the headlines (another pointless opinion poll rating the premier and the leader of the opposition – as if anything matters except election day) and dares you to ignore it. He whacks up his feet on a spare chair, crossing his ankles, and reads the ad line by line, letting his food go cold.

  Too beautiful to lose! Garrawi Park is a pristine public space and natural wonderland on Cutter Island in Cook’s Basin. It is in danger of being stolen from the people of NSW and turned into an exclusive resort for the wealthy. The destruction of this unique and historic site is vandalism. Show you care. Join the Save Garrawi Campaign online by going to our website – www.savegarrawi.com – to register your vote against any future development. Join the fight to stop our beautiful beaches falling into the hands of profiteers. Force the State Government to abide by the wishes of the people. Vote now! Make a difference!

  It couldn’t be a better end to a top weekend, he thinks, wishing Delaney had been around to share in the triumphs. He flicks through the news. Murder. Cricket. Tennis. Road accidents. War in the Middle East. Remembers the day he found an old newspaper under linoleum he was ripping out of the kitchen. Murder. Cricket etc. He scoffs his congealing roll and sculls his lukewarm coffee. Leaving greasy thumbprints on the newspaper.

  Jeez, he’s late for work at the boatshed. Not good for a man who tries to lead by example. Star or no star, young Jimmy better be there. Fame is fleeting, according to Kate, and anyone who chases it better have a bread-and-butter job to keep from starving when the lights are turned off. His spirit falters.

  Before the year is done, he predicts, Kate will coolly pack up, sell out and move on. A blow-in after all, despite Ettie’s faith, his hopes. By then, if business stays strong, Ettie will be in a position to buy out Kate’s share. The café will survive, Cook’s Basin will prosper. And inevitably, so will Kate. People who have little perspective beyond their own tend to come out on top. Must be a lonely life, he thinks. The tragedy – the big freaking tragedy – is that although Kate thinks she’s survived Emily’s influence unscathed, she is like a pot that’s on a slow simmer until someone suddenly turns up the heat. He can’t help wondering whether her latest flight to the wilds of Victoria has answered all her questions. Christ, as long as it hasn’t opened up an even bigger black hole.

  If she’d asked his opinion, he would’ve told her to quit while she was ahead, cliché or no freaking cliché. Emily was as mad as a cut snake and the only way to deal with madness is to cut it out of your life. He heads for the café pontoon. Jumps into Jimmy’s tinny and roars off to Oyster Bay. A furry black-and-white dog streaks down the boatshed jetty, his tail whipping up a force forty gale, to greet him. He breaks into an ear-splitting grin.

  ‘Where you bin, Sam?’ shouts Jimmy, his red hair jammed into one of Frankie’s Greek fisherman caps. Sam waves. In the slip, the Mary Kay is on her way to full glory. He pats her hull as he passes. ‘All good, Frankie?’ The shipwright nods, keeps filling small cracks in the timber with putty. ‘She was due for an anti-foul anyway,’ Sam says. ‘Tell me, just how many caps like that have you got?’

  ‘The kid was going to need a number one. More shit in his hair than on the hull till he got the hang of it.’

  ‘Knew you were a soft touch under the bluff. How you doing, Jimmy?’ Sam tests the texture of the fill with a fingertip. Massages a little between his thumb and index finger. Satisfied, he flicks it away.

  The kid slides back his cap, jiggles, giving the question serious consideration: ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, Sam. Ya gotta have patience. But me an’ Longfella, we’re doin’ good.’

  Sam pulls the kid’s cap over his eyes. ‘You’re a fast learner, mate.’ He looks up at Kate’s empty house, pleased to note he’s feeling more wistful these days than wounded. Soon, he’ll convince himself he’s had a lucky escap
e. Soon. Trouble is, every time he writes her off, she comes up with a thought, a gesture, that rips out his heart. There’s gold in her, he thinks, a pure seam of kindness that’s based on clear-headed common sense without any fiddle-faddling sentimentality. Made her effort to contribute worth more, if you took the time to think about it.

  The phone goes off in his pocket, making a noise like a fly caught in a bottle. No caller ID. The press, he decides. The world, it seems, wants more of Jimmy. He dumps the call. ‘Jimmy!’

  ‘Yar, Sam.’ His freckled face pokes out below the hull.

  ‘You want to do more interviews?’

  ‘They offerin’ to sling me another fistful of dollars?’

  ‘No, mate. You’re not an exclusive story any more. You’re just fodder.’ He sees the lack of comprehension in the kid’s eyes and back tracks. ‘It’s like this. You did a good job last night and now more journalists want to talk to you but because you’ve already told your story once, no one’s willing to pay a fee. The law according to Kate.’

  ‘We got work to do, Sam, don’t we? How we gunna do our work if we’re buzzin’ all over the place?’

  ‘Decide what you want, and we’ll manage no matter what. Is it a quiet life or the limelight?’

  ‘What’s the limelight, Sam?’

  ‘A star, mate. Do you want to be a star?’

  ‘Aw jeez, Sam. Not unless there’s a dollar in it. Just a waste of time, me mum says.’

  ‘She’s a wise woman,’ Sam says, feeling a tide of relief wash through him; Amelia has clearly had an epiphany or Artie’s had a quiet but forceful word in her ear and explained the downside of celebrity. Who was it that said everyone would experience fifteen minutes of fame in a lifetime? The artist, what was his name? Loved Campbell’s soup cans. Warhol, that was it. Personally, he was a Heinz tomato soup man. Tip the contents in a saucepan with the same amount of milk and as much sweet sherry as you thought you might need to get you through the night. It was one of his mother’s favourite winter stand-by dinners, served with heaps of hot buttered toast. Guaranteed to ward off colds and flu. He didn’t remember spending much of his childhood prone on the cot with a runny nose and red eyes so she may have had a point. ‘You thought about this long and hard?’ he asks, giving the kid one last chance at the big time.