Gone Fishing (17 page)

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, she 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 on 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?'

Frankie shakes his head. ‘Haven't said yes and I haven't said no.'

Sam feels a surge of hope. His eyes catch fire. ‘What can we do to convince you to turn it down, mate? What? Give us the right of reply.'

Frankie picks up a screwdriver and walks over to Kate's desk, standing untouched in a back corner with one door hanging open sadly. He begins to pry away the backboard. Sam holds his impatience down with an effort. The backboard loosens. Frankie drops the screwdriver back on the workbench.

‘I'm going to look at every angle. Make sure that if I sign up there aren't any nasty surprises waiting. I'll let you know what I decide.' He picks up the screwdriver again. ‘You want to call Kate? Ask her to come down. It's time we looked at this desk.'

Sam reaches for his mobile. ‘She's on her way,' he tells Frankie. And another picnic bites the dust.

‘What do you think?' Kate asks, hands on her hips, circling the desk that Sam and Frankie have pulled away from the wall. It stands mutely, sagging shabbily under the pressure of age.

‘The timber is still solid,' Frankie replies, running his hands expertly over the grain. ‘One pane of glass has to be replaced. It's very old, maybe eighty to one hundred years. It will take a while to find the right glass.' He opens the desktop, releasing smells of timber, dust, must, olden days. The two men watch Kate almost reel with nostalgia.

‘Stamps in this pigeon hole,' she whispers, pointing with her index finger. ‘Pencils here, staples, paper clips, envelopes here, here and here. Three bottles of ink in this corner. Indian was black and used for accounts. Swan was blue and used only for letters. My father thought it was bad manners to correspond using a ball-point pen.'

‘And the third was red?'

‘To be avoided at any cost.'

‘He's dead, then, your father?'

‘A long time ago.'

Frankie returns to safer ground. ‘The hinges are loose but they'll come up good after they're cleaned and polished. The desk is oak, scratched but strong. Should restore like a dream. But this will have to go.' He taps the backboard. ‘Masonite. Tough but cheap shit put on some time later.' He grunts. ‘Strange,' he says, frowning. He closes one eye, peers into the skinny dark space he's created. ‘Look – the original backboard is still here.' He works faster now. His hands are steady, careful. He's more curious than expectant. Tacks release with a small popping sound. ‘A mystery, eh?' Frankie murmurs. Sam comes closer. Frankie eases the rubbishy board away from the frame. Lets it fall to the floor. Steps back, one eye shut. Finds a penlight in his pocket. Shines it over the surface in slow sweeping motions. ‘Look, here's the reason.' He runs his hand along the timber like it's expensive fabric, squinting through one eye again. ‘A secret cavity,' he says. ‘You'd never find it if you weren't an expert.'

Afraid Kate's in for another round of crushing disappointment, Sam says: ‘Could be anything. Could be nothing.' Under her thin cotton shirt, he swears he can see her heart beating faster.

‘See the edges of the cut? There's a tiny fraction of shift in the grain. Shows up because this is a single slab of timber from a great old tree.' Once more, Frankie touches the wood, almost reverently. ‘The desk may look simple but there's nothing shoddy about it. Built by a craftsman.'

‘I thought people used to hide things behind a brick in the chimney or in old jam jars on the mantelpiece,' Kate says. She looks and sounds bizarrely chirrupy, flirty. She's all over the place, Sam thinks.

‘Only in movies. Bad ones.' He circles the desk, wolfish under the green light. Kate bangs the backboard with the palm of her hand. Frankie shakes his head, takes her arm and pulls her gently but firmly away. ‘It's always better to think first. Force, which can do more damage than good, is the last resort.' He shoves his cap higher on his head, rubs his forehead like he's trying to get rid of a nagging headache. Steps back for a better overall look and trips on the edge of the Masonite. He picks it up and leans it tidily against the wall.

‘No lock, no release, no hinges,' he murmurs. ‘So this means we must approach the problem from the inside.' He moves in slow motion.

Kate spins in frustration. Covers it with a thin grin. She says: ‘I've cleaned and wiped it from top to bottom, Frankie. There's nothing inside. Truly. I would have seen it.'

The shipwright ignores her and opens the bevelled glass doors. ‘They were so precious once,' he says.

Kate looks at him blankly. ‘Desks?' she asks.

‘Books,' Frankie says. He slips his hand inside the shelving, presses against the timber at the top of the framework. His eyes are closed, his head turned slightly to bring one ear closer to the action, like he's listening for a heartbeat. ‘Ah,' he says. There's the sound of a ping. Kate races around the back.

‘Don't touch,' warns Frankie, following her at a normal pace. ‘Whatever you do, don't touch.' He takes out the penlight for a second time. ‘Maybe there's a fortune in jewels? A treasure most of us dream about?' He's teasing. He examines the four sides of the cutting then places a finger in different places, pressing gently.

‘Do you need any help?' Sam asks, unable to bear watching the fluctuations of hope and despair on Kate's face, hoping to speed up the process.

‘Patience, patience.' He hits the spot. The wood makes a slight cracking sound. Frankie eases the cover off. Stands back. ‘Might as well see what we've got,' he says.

Kate looks as though she could throw up all over Frankie's neatly swept cement slab. Sam watches her swallow. She reaches inside. Withdraws a smeary plastic bag.

‘A bunch of old paperwork,' Kate says, feigning disinterest.

‘So no diamonds, no gold, then,' Frankie says, sounding disappointed.

To make the point, she picks up the pouch and shakes it. ‘Nope, nothing but papers. Probably a stack of Emily's old bills. She had a habit of hiding them from my father.' She places the bag on Frankie's workbench, returns to the matter of restoration. Sam moves towards them. ‘Don't touch,' she snaps. So not just a bunch of old bills, he thinks, jerking backwards like she's zapped him with an electric prong.

‘You reckon you can make this old desk glow again?' she asks.

‘It will take time. Each piece must be removed, sanded, oiled and polished. Time costs.' He raises his eyebrows, looks her square in the eye.

‘This desk is precious to me, Frankie. Whatever you need to do is OK.'

Sam moves outside the spooky green satellite glow of the boatshed. Listens to the swallowing sound of tiny waves breaking on shore. A fish jumps. The night is clammy. People keep secrets, he thinks, because they are afraid of triggering havoc. No one keeps a good secret. Not for long, anyway. Sticking your nose where it's really not wanted is a good way of getting it chopped off, as his mother used to say. He feels a familiar surge of dread. He turns at the sound of Kate's footsteps. She slips her arm through his and guides him towards the pontoon. They sit side-by-side, their legs dangling in cool water.

‘I could see him there, you know?'

‘Your father?'

‘Every night before dinner, he'd do the accounts and balance the till from the grocery shop, placing the cash in a bag to take to the bank in the morning. Notes tied with a rubber band. I can't remember how old I was when my father found a secret wad of unpaid accounts stuffed in a jam tin and pushed into the deepest corner of the pantry. Accounts Emily had run up in the city. He was looking for something sweet to put on his toast. It was before they sold the shop, anyway. He was appalled. Humiliated is probably closer to the truth. In country towns, small businesses skate on a thin line between surviving to trade another day or bankruptcy and a family thrown out on the street, so owing money was on a par with paedophilia. Neighbours stopped talking to you, invitations to dinner or tennis dried up, no one even knocked on your door for a donation for the local Scouts group. You didn't buy what you didn't have the money to pay for.'

‘They're a bunch of old accounts then, eh?'

Kate avoids the question. ‘Emily hid bills, as if that somehow made the debt disappear. She seriously believed it was OK for others to go without, but completely impossible for her. Why would she even contemplate putting someone else's welfare before her own? Law according to Emily.'

‘Want me to hang around while you check it out?'

‘Thanks. I'm good. No cowardly hanging back this time, promise you.' She smiles, calm now, as though she's passed through the eye of the storm.

He gives her shoulder a brotherly pat. Pushes to his feet, aware she's determined to go it alone on the big stuff again, and he's been given his marching orders.

‘Oy!' Frankie's silhouette waves them back to the boatshed. Sam reaches for Kate's hand. Hauls her up.

‘Thought you'd like to know straight away. I've found another hidey-hole. Don't get too excited. No jewels. A few old letters, that's all.'

Frankie shows them a second secret cavity behind the first. ‘A false back. Genius. You find the first stash, figure that's it, and move on. Just like we did.'

*

Sam makes his way along the jetty to the
Mary Kay
. Every time he feels he's getting closer to her, it triggers a response that catapults him back to square one. That bloody yo-yo syndrome, he thinks, not to mention the freaking twig. He suddenly feels too exhausted to think straight.