Fishing for Stars (6 page)

‘Got a butterfly as a tattoo, on her shoulder,’ I say calmly, trying to hide my amusement. ‘It’s her graduation gift from me.’
Please don’t let this stop now, God!
I beg silently.

Marg’s throat is wobbling like a turkey cock’s. Mid-wobble she senses my amusement. ‘It’s not true, is it, Nick?’ she exclaims, relaxing.

I don’t want Saffron to be castigated over her tattoo. Marg has known her since she was a child and has always believed she has full reprimanding rights, earned when Saffron attended boarding school at the Presbyterian Ladies’ College here in Sydney. In a half-fib, I chide, ‘Just getting my own back, darling.’ Then add, ‘Saffy had every right to know where I was when she called you last night.’

To my surprise, Marg apologises, a very rare event. ‘I wasn’t myself, Nick. I was worried and upset about you. I now realise I should have told her your whereabouts.’ She lifts her chin slightly, making up her mind. ‘I shall apologise to Saffron . . . although I wish you wouldn’t call her Saffy. Saffron is such a nice name.’

She really is a grand old dame; always has to have a comeback. I guess at seventy-seven with all her marbles and with a burning desire to save a world from which she will soon enough be departing, she has to be admired, despite her sometimes overweening manner.

‘That’s very gracious of you, Marg.’ Then thinking it’s probably better to delay the shock, I say, ‘By the way, do keep my little joke about the butterfly tattoo to yourself when Saffron returns. She’s gone to fetch coffee. Don’t want her getting ideas, do we?’

‘I wasn’t fooled for a minute! As if she would go to a place like that!’ Marg snorts, her confidence in Saffron and her expensive education at PLC Pymble restored.

Saffron bursts excitedly into the room, takeaway coffee in one hand and the
Daily Telegraph
clutched in the other. ‘Uncle Nick, you’re in the paper, on the front page! Look!’ She props, clutching the
Telegraph
to her breast. ‘Hi, Great Auntie Marg,’ she says tentatively.

‘Saffron, it was quite wrong of me not to tell you the name of this hospital. I apologise without reserve.’

If it’s not an effusive apology, Saffron has probably never seen Marg Hamilton contrite and I’d have to go back a fair way, too. I expect Saffron to accept gracefully, pretty eyes averted. No such thing. ‘That’s all right, Great Auntie Marg. No problems. I found out for myself,’ she says without rancour, cool as a cucumber, eyes fixed directly on Marg. The kid, like her mother, has plenty of fire. Then she remembers the newspaper and holds it out to me, crying, ‘You didn’t tell me you were a war hero, Uncle Nick!’

‘Gawd! Spare me! What now?’ I accept the newspaper with my good hand, then, turning to Marg, ask suspiciously, ‘You have anything to do with this?’

Unusually, she doesn’t look at me directly. ‘All accidents are reported to the police,’ she allows obliquely, ‘that’s how the reporters get onto these things.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question. It’s almost a column on the front page!’

Marg sniffs, then in a haughty voice says, ‘Well, ten days ago, Nick, you were complaining on the phone that you’d been forgotten. I simply mentioned it to a friend.’

‘I wasn’t bloody complaining!’ I tap the paper. ‘This friend, he wouldn’t be the editor of this scurrilous rag, would he?’

Marg Hamilton looks up, her chin thrust forward. ‘Well, at our fundraising dinner at Taronga Zoo last night I was sitting next to Guy Cooper, telling him about your offer to sponsor the frog-breeding program and he must have overheard. He’s also one of our directors . . . and well . . . it just slipped out about the accident. It was an upsetting day, and what with you lying here in hospital close to death . . . ’

Saffron’s eyes dart from one of us to the other, taking it all in. She is receiving a gratis lesson in female manipulation from Marg bloody Hamilton.

Billionaire Butterfly Collector & War Hero in Traffic Accident

Sydney:
Mr Nicholas Duncan, DSC, was injured in a traffic accident yesterday while crossing Macquarie St. Mr Duncan, 69, sustained a broken leg and multiple lacerations and is recovering in hospital.

As Lieutenant Nick Duncan, RANVR, he served first with the Australian Naval Intelligence Services in New Guinea during the Second World War. Later he served as a radio intelligence operator with the American marines at Guadalcanal in the Solomon Islands. There he was awarded the Navy Cross for valour by the Americans after the famous Battle of Bloody Ridge in 1943.

Recovering from malaria and battle fatigue, Duncan received the Distinguised Service Cross from General MacArthur.

Bloody Ridge was the first major American land offensive against the Japanese and, together with the battles at Midway and the Australian victories at Milne Bay and Kokoda, it is credited with turning the tide against the Japanese in the Pacific War.

Widely reported to be a billionaire, Mr Duncan lives in Vanuatu, a popular tax haven for the very rich. He has shipping and transport interests in several Pacific nations.

Perhaps surprisingly, Mr Duncan possesses the world’s finest and most valuable collection of butterflies from the Pacific region.

Mr Duncan was intimately involved with the international financier, Ms Anna Til, until her recent death. Ms Til was also known as Madam Butterfly, the name of an infamous house of bondage she established in the 1950s in Spring Street, Melbourne.

I slam the paper down and glare at Marg. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve read this arrant crap?’ I snort angrily.

‘No, well yes, but I don’t
usually
read the
Telegraph
,’ she protests. ‘Don’t be angry, Nick. I mentioned your philanthropy and the fact that you’ve bequeathed your butterfly collection to the National Museum but they chose to ignore it. There will be harsh words to the editor, I promise. Although I don’t think at heart he’s a frog person.’ She hesitates momentarily. ‘By the way, darling, are you
really
a billionaire?’

‘And the drop of acid about Anna at the end. Your doing?’

‘Nicholas, how
dare
you! They must have dug up that part about the brothel from the newspaper archives. And I haven’t told them why you’re in Sydney.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, woman! That’s
not
why I’m here. When will you get it into your stubborn head that we’re here for Saffron’s graduation; the rest, including looking up my arse, is purely incidental!’

‘Well, I do say!’ Marg exclaims, eyebrows taking off, expression suitably shocked, nose twitching. She glances over at the wide-eyed Saffron then announces, ‘Poor darling, your Uncle Nick most certainly won’t be there to see you receive your degree.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘Would you like me to come?’

‘No! You’ll be in Tasmania!’ I cry, too loudly and too quickly. Saffron has turned away so neither of us can see her expression, which I dare say isn’t too difficult to imagine.

‘Nick, you
can’t
go in your condition and the child should have someone there.’

‘Just you watch me,’ I yell. I point to my goddaughter. ‘Saffron has arranged a wheelchair with a plank for my leg!’

‘Clever girl,’ Marg sniffs. Glancing at her watch she adds, ‘Dr Light hasn’t been on his rounds yet. Who gave her permission? The cleaning lady?’

I ignore the fact that she’s caught me out in a fib. Instead, exasperated, I sigh. ‘I don’t need permission. I’m just going! Okay?’

Lips momentarily pulled tight, she doesn’t argue, then at last she smiles. ‘Well, I must be off; busy, busy, busy. I’ll see you tonight, Nick.’

Saffron turns towards us, her face full of concern. ‘Great Auntie Marg, you
must
go to Tasmania, the old-growth forests are much too important.’ Then she adds, ‘Those Gunns people should be shot!’

Marg looks pleased. ‘I’m glad you think so, dear. Obviously you’re not a protégé of your Aunt Anna.’ She reaches into her bag and removes a tissue and pats her lips. ‘Lipstick. Don’t want people talking, do we?’ She laughs then kisses me lightly on the forehead. ‘Well, it seems your Uncle Nick is to disregard all medical advice and have his own way as usual. Very well then, I’ll go to Tasmania with your blessing. You have my very best wishes, Saffron. We are all very proud of you.’

Marg rises from the chair. ‘Thank you for the frog money.’ She stoops and pecks me on the cheek this time, whispering, ‘I do love you, Nick,’ then she kisses Saffron, slings her handbag over her shoulder and walks towards the door, at seventy-seven her step still light and her back ramrod straight. I think to myself,
she must have inherited bloody good genes because she’s still a nice-looking woman
.

Marg turns at the door. ‘Oh, by the way, I spoke to Dr Freeman, and he may pop in to see you after he’s completed his rounds this afternoon. He’s the honorary at the clinic across the road, you know.’

After she’s gone Saffron starts to giggle. ‘Thank you, Uncle Nick,’ she says, kissing me.

‘Go on, Saffron, be off with you. You don’t have to hang around an old man.’ Then I remember. ‘Fetch my wallet, Saffy.’ I indicate the drawer at my bedside.

Saffron retrieves my wallet. ‘Uncle Nick, I don’t need any money,’ she says, adding, ‘I’ve saved up the money for the tat.’

‘Open it, I can’t with one hand,’ I explain. She opens the wallet. ‘See the Visa card in the first pocket? Pull it out and read it.’

Saffron does as she’s told and her eyes grow large. ‘Uncle Nick!’ she exclaims. ‘It’s in my name!’

‘It’s your combined twenty-first and graduation gift. The credit limit should be high enough for a good time, and low enough to satisfy your family. Every year we’ll add a little until you’re thirty-five. If you can’t support yourself by then your mother will be thoroughly ashamed of you.’ I know Joe Popkin hasn’t spoiled his grandchildren and Fiery Frances and Joe Junior have been equally careful not to indulge them.

Saffron is trying hard not to cry.

‘I can’t take the credit for it, Saffron. It was Anna’s idea.’

Then suddenly she claps her hands. ‘I know just what to do! I’m going out to hire one of those electric wheelchairs and have a man fix a plank on it for your leg.’

I feel a sudden lump in my throat and I’m damned if my eyes don’t start to lose focus. I point to the wallet. ‘No, no! It’s a lovely idea, but take my money for that, sweetheart.’

Saffron looks directly at me. ‘Uncle Nick, how
could
you!’ A flash of something like anger momentarily crosses her pretty face.

I laugh, trying to recover. Serves me right, it was arrogant of me. ‘Extremely generous, Saffron,’ I say quietly, suitably chastened.

‘Oh Uncle Nick, I love you so much!’ she cries suddenly.

Relieved that I’ve been forgiven, I say, ‘G’arn, give me a kiss and then be off. Come and see me tonight and show me your butterfly tat.’

‘No!’ She laughs and then kisses me. ‘It will be all red and sore from the needle. You should have seen it last night! My arm was like one of those sausage balloons. You’ll have to wait for my graduation; the tat artist says it will be perfect by then.’

‘Okay, then tonight we’ll share our pain, and commiserate with each other. Be sure to bring me a large flat white; a good cup of coffee is better for pain relief than a shot of morphine.’

She too turns at the door. ‘Oh, by the way, Uncle Nick, I’m thinking of getting a tongue bar. Don’t worry, it’s only for decoration.’ She giggles. ‘I promise I won’t get one that vibrates!’

‘Over my dead body, girl!’ I yell, grinning like an ape.

‘See ya!’ Saffron flicks her dark hair away from her face and departs, her laughter echoing down the hospital corridor. That young woman is learning too much too fast, I conclude happily. Oh, dear, how much I love the mere thought of women. Marvellous creatures.

Tony Freeman’s head appears at the door shortly after four in the afternoon. ‘Got a moment, Nick?’ he asks, as if nothing has happened between us.

I shrug my good shoulder and grin, slightly embarrassed. ‘As you can see, I’m not going anywhere.’

He points to the chair beside my bed. ‘May I sit down?’

‘Sure, go ahead.’

He seats himself and says, ‘Nick, I saw the piece in the paper this morning. Bloody
Telegraph
! Nobody needs that sort of gratuitous muckraking.’ He pauses then looks at me directly. ‘Your visit yesterday morning . . . it’s pretty clear that you’re not yet ready to talk. In fact, you may never be. But if and when you are, I’d like to think I could be of some help.’

‘Tony, I apologise for what occurred . . . ’

Tony Freeman raises his hand. ‘Stop, Nick, there’s no need. But may I make a suggestion?’

I grin, pointing to my leg in the air above me. ‘No way I can run from you this time.’

He laughs. ‘You’re obviously a very articulate man. Sometimes it helps to put things down. Of course, it may not.’

‘What, write?’ I ask, surprised. ‘Where do I begin?’

‘Anna, write about Anna.’

And bloody Marg Hamilton
, I think to myself after he’s left. The yin and the yang, Princess Plunder and the Green Bitch, the two impossibly infuriating, frustrating, remarkable and totally loving females in my life!