Gone Fishing (2 page)

The community had rocked in shock when Ettie announced she was taking on Kate as a partner. The woman was newly arrived and more inclined towards loner than joiner, so ­everyone – him included – thought Ettie was nuts and that once again her instinct to nurture was over-riding her common sense. Kate couldn't cook and even wearing jeans (ironed, razor creases) and a T-shirt (ironed, blinding white) she looked more corporate than café. For Ettie's sake, they'd all given Kate the benefit of the doubt and she's done a good job, he admits. Slipped into dishes, mops and waitressing without a quibble. Even learned a couple of failsafe recipes (her spaghetti Bolognese with finely diced celery and carrots was right up there with Ettie's). But skills are really just window dressing. Personalities – their hard core – might broaden but do they ever switch gears completely? Truthfully, if he had to put money either way, he still wouldn't know how to place his bet.

‘You heard the news?' Ettie asks, lining up two white china mugs, punching the espresso machine and plating up a raspberry muffin in one fluid movement that's as much about instinct as practice.

‘What news?' he asks, his neck twisted sideways so he can read the newspaper headlines without bothering to pick up a copy from the stack under the counter.

Ettie turns off the steam, wipes the spout: ‘They're going to build a bridge to Cutter Island then plonk a flash resort in the middle of Garrawi Park.'

‘Eh?' Sam jerks up from the headlines so quickly pain shoots up his neck to his head. ‘You're joking, right? Setting me up for some shocker community job like carting Portaloos to the next big fundraiser so it looks good in comparison.'

‘Serious as,' Ettie says. ‘Check out the development notice in the Square. Found it there first thing this morning. Thought someone was having me on but Fast Freddy says he ferried two dark-suited blokes with a fistful of posters and pamphlets around the public wharves in the dead of night. Looks like it's a fact all right.'

‘Where's Freddy now?'

Ettie slides Sam's mug across the counter and picks up her own. Takes a long sip, shoulders rounded, hands circling the hot creamy brew like it's winter instead of midsummer outside. In a dry voice, she says: ‘Think about it, Sam. He's a water-taxi driver who comes off a twelve-hour night shift at first light. He's where he is every morning by nine o'clock. Racking up the zzz's.'

Kate finds the address she's searching for located between a fast-food joint and a (borderline) porno lingerie shop. Limp hamburgers and even limper sugar-coated fries (to turn them golden instead of brown, according to a story she once wrote about the hidden ingredients in fast food) alongside fire-engine red frilly knickers, shiny black boots with metal stiletto heels, rubber aprons (not the kitchen clean-up variety), and lacy corsets. She checks the scribbled note in her hand to make sure she's not mistaken and pushes open a dirty glass door. She wonders how on earth Emily, who revered glitz and glamour and judged everyone and everything by appearances, managed to put aside her prejudices to engage the services of Mr Sly. This is low-rent territory at best, slum territory at worst. Without the shadowy existence of a brother she's hoping to either confirm or deny, she probably would have done a runner. She tells herself to expect nothing, a lesson she learned early to avoid the disappointment of forgotten birthdays, worthless promises and – at best – an abstract acknowledgement of her existence. Out of the blue, she has a sudden and completely uncharacteristic compulsion to whitewash the facts – or did she mean acts? – of the dead. Dead. Not
passed
,
which seems to be the new, dreadfully twee and slightly ambiguous euphemism for an essentially unambiguous state. What is, after all, uncertain about lying six feet under a marble slab? Emily hasn't
passed
by, she hasn't
passed
the salt and pepper, she will never again sail
past
in a froth of floral chiffon and a cloud of complicated millinery and heavy perfume. Kate angrily wipes a tear off her cheek. Surely she doesn't feel
guilty
for outliving her volatile mother. It is, after all, part of the natural order. Emily is dead. Move on. Survival of the fittest. It was ever thus. Law, according to Emily. So why the empty hole in the centre of her chest? The dull ache that constricts her throat? Why the awful, tippy feeling that nothing is quite in alignment any more?

Kate finds the office of Sly & Son easily. So absurdly Dickensian, she thinks, wondering whether names go hand in hand with careers or vice versa. She wonders if Emily was attracted by the irony of hiring a firm with a title that accurately summed up the dodging and weaving that made up the fabric of her existence. Probably not. Emily was never a deep thinker. Devious, yes, but not deep. Kate swallows, clenches her fists and angrily wipes away another tear, appalled by the see-sawing going on between her head and heart, reminding herself of the pointlessness of regret. Death changes everything, she thinks, and nothing.

She knocks lightly. Opens the door swiftly and decisively without waiting for an invitation. ‘Hello,' she says brightly to the aged receptionist who points her index finger at a seat without a word of acknowledgement.

After a while a tall man, probably in his early forties, wearing a well-cut charcoal suit – Armani or a good copy that's lounge-lizard sleek – emerges from an office. Kate assumes he's a client on the way out. More well-heeled than she would've expected given the location. An observation, she reassures herself, not one of Emily's snap judgments.

‘Ms Jackson? Neville Sly. My father looked after your mother's affairs until he retired a few months ago. On the face of it, it all seems pretty simple. Would you like tea? Coffee? No? OK, let's proceed then.'

‘Great.'

‘It's not a complicated will,' Mr Sly adds. ‘She's left everything to you.'

‘No mention of anyone else?'

He looks surprised. ‘No. It's quite clear. Just you. As soon as outstanding debts are paid and probate is cleared, the estate will be settled.'

‘Thanks.' Kate gets up, holds out her hand politely.

‘Aren't you going to ask about the value of the estate?'

Mr Sly sounds less smooth, more shocked, which makes Kate wonder how most of his clients respond to the news they're sole beneficiaries. ‘There can't be much. Enough to pay your fees, I hope, but if not, don't worry, I'll settle the account.'

Mr Sly is thoughtful. ‘I see. Odd then. After everything is taken care of, our fees included, there should be a balance remaining of about $70,000.'

‘I beg your pardon?' It's got to be a cock-up, she thinks. He's muddled her up with some other client. ‘Are you sure? We're talking about Emily Jackson, right?'

‘We don't make mistakes, Ms Jackson,' he says tersely.

‘Sorry, I'm in shock.'

The idea of Emily hoarding cash when she had a lifetime history of scatterbrain financial profligacy that consistently involved running up debts and then stepping back until first Kate's father and then Kate bailed her out is baffling. Emily was a born squanderer. Unable to resist the sparkle of pretty trinkets, the lure of a silken fabric. Kate, who thought through the long-term ramifications of even the smallest purchase – an instinctive mechanism to counter her mother's extremes, in all probability – frantically scrabbles back through Emily's history, trying to find a possible source for this kind of windfall. As far as she is aware, the family fortune, such as it was (her father's small country grocery shop wasn't worth much in the days before they morphed into trendy bakeries serving exotic teas and a mind-boggling range of flavoured coffees), was frittered away in one failed Emily-inspired business venture after another. To put it mildly, money turned to dust in her hands. At least that's what she'd thought until now.

‘As far as I knew, Emily never had two coins to rub together.'

Mr Sly remains silent, uninvolved in family drama. He closes the file. Folds his hands on top of it, signalling there's no more business to be done. Kate glances at her watch. The wrapping up of the final details of Emily's life has barely taken ten minutes. Her mother would have been outraged by the lack of flourishes and rigmarole, the rigorous attention to details unembellished by colourful asides. She would have said yes to the coffee, refused a biscuit and requested cake. Chocolate was her preference. It made her feel happy, she said. She would have taken two small bites. Left the rest. Then she would have embarked on a long account of the deceased's life, or more accurately, her role in the deceased's life. The reading of Gerald's will had turned into a circus, Emily giving an award-winning performance of a grieving widow, switching on tears as easily as a light. By the end of it, Kate, who never uttered a word throughout the whole shabby show, saw that the solicitor couldn't work out whether to applaud or commiserate.

‘By the way, you don't happen to know how Emily came to use this firm, do you?' she asks.

‘We're one of three recommended by the retirement village. Does it matter?'

‘Not at all,' she replies quickly. ‘It's just . . . I was wondering . . . Well, if there'd been a long association. Whether she kept old documents here, you know, such as birth and wedding certificates. For safekeeping, I mean.' She is tempted to tell him about Emily's deathbed (as it turned out) confession. How somewhere deep in a past that Kate, and presumably Gerald, knew nothing about, Emily had given birth to a son and then – for all she knew – abandoned him. Her mother's periodic disappearances, which she'd put down to illicit affairs, could have been about the boy. Maybe he'd been institutionalised for some reason. Perhaps if Mr Sly searched Emily's file one more time, he might find a clue so Kate could nail the ghost and move on. Her thoughts remain unuttered.

‘This probably sounds odd, but there are huge gaps in my knowledge of my mother's life. I'm trying to unravel a few, er, complications she left behind. You're sure there's not another file lurking out there in one of those huge stacks . . .'

‘We have the current will and a copy of her earlier will. Nothing else. Is it possible your mother used the services of two solicitors at some time?'

‘I doubt it.' Emily would resent paying one bill, forget two.
How rude
,
she'd explode whenever one popped up in the mail. Queen Emily. Bestowing favours. Her fingers holding the request for money like a bag of dog poo before flicking it towards her husband.

‘Yeah, well, it was a long shot.' Kate reaches for her handbag. ‘So it's all a mystery then.'

‘Lawyers tend to be incurious. It's often a mistake to know too much about your clients.' He smiles to show it's a joke. ‘Probate usually takes from one to three months, if anyone wants to challenge the will . . .'

‘Challenge?' Kate asks, too quickly.

‘As a general rule, only children and grandchildren have grounds, although theoretically anyone can challenge. In your case, there shouldn't be any problems. Expect a cheque around late April. Sorry I can't be of more help.'

Kate turns back at the door, her hand already on the knob. Now is the time to mention a half-brother, she thinks. ‘I'm curious. When does time run out on challenging a will?'

‘Once probate is settled, it's very difficult to revoke the terms.'

On a street thick with exhaust fumes and rushing lunchtime crowds, the noonday heat hits Kate like a blow. She leans against the gaudy underwear shop window, her eyes adjusting to sharp sunlight. Feeling frazzled and confused, she ducks into a dimly lit and smelly basement pub next door, compelled by a force she can't define. She orders a cognac for the first time in her life. A tired barmaid, either drug or alcohol affected, pours what Kate recognises as a cheap brandy into a shot glass and slams it on the counter.

‘Fifteen bucks, love, on the nose.' The woman sways slightly. Kate fishes in her bag, looking around the room. Furtive men in raincoats – or the equivalent.

‘Oh hell.' She pushes a twenty over the counter, sculls the drink and flees. Outside on the street, she puts together the lingerie shop and the bar. If it's not a front for a brothel, her name's not Kate Jackson. Her stomach feels like it's on fire. Her mouth is raw. Too late, she realises she's just done exactly what her mother would have done in the same circumstances. Feel good? Order a brandy? Feel bad? Order a brandy. Feel hot, cold, happy, sad – order a brandy. Does anyone ever travel a long way from their original DNA?

She thinks: Seventy thousand dollars? There's got to be a catch. Nothing to do with Emily is ever clear-cut. There'll be a debt somewhere. An Emily-created catastrophe that will emerge one day – probably quite soon – and take every penny, and probably more, to put right. She grabs hold of anger like a lifeline, burying what she doesn't even realise is grief and loss under a blanket of rage and confusion.

 

 

Chapter Two

Outside in the Square, where even the spindly leaves of the casuarinas seem plumper after a week of heavy summer rain, it's still too early for the January holiday crowd and the chaotic early-morning offshore commuter dash is well and truly over. A couple of elderly tourists are installed at one of the picnic tables, sipping café coffee out of cardboard cups. On the foreshore, a lone dog walker struggles with a sleek and self-satisfied mutt the colour of toffee, tugging on a lead. A cyclist zooms in and out of sight. Two joggers flash by. Otherwise there's no one. It's almost nine o'clock and Sam is virtually on his own.

He fronts up to the community announcement blackboard. Skips past a few wind-chewed, mostly out-of-date notices (
House to Rent. Moving Sale
.
Reliable tinny – Reasonable price
.
Babysitter available
.
House cleaners wanted.
). Hones in on screaming red letters plastered on a poster-size sheet of paper:
BRIDGE. RESORT. SPA
. And shouting loudest:
EXCLUSIVE DEVELOPMENT!

Sam swears. Moves closer to read it carefully, paying particular attention to the small print where, he's learned through painful experience, the real information is found. The notice has the stink of authenticity. This isn't some die-hard Island prankster gristing the local rumour mill to see how far it runs before someone susses it's a joke. Some anonymous bastard is serious about trashing Cutter Island.

A bridge from the mainland to the west-facing foreshore of Cutter Island, Sam thinks darkly, feeling a twist in his gut. All this bloody beauty of place and people with fine instincts and some philistine plans to blitz the golden sand, turquoise waters and a fresh-water creek that rushes over mossy boulders from the knobbly peak of the Island for . . . what? A bridge and a freaking resort. As far as he's concerned, the world is already brimming with resorts. Lined up next to each other so even if you scratch around you can never find the paradise that titillated the developers in the first place. Not that he's ever been a paying guest in one, of course. But he's seen pictures of tropical destinations where blank-faced high-rise shockers – with a couple of token palms at the front – are lined up closer than a Briny Café knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. The palms replaced, no doubt, after the originals were ripped out. They don't need a resort 'cause no right-thinking Islander wants an influx of visitors pushing Island resources to breaking point. And who needs a bridge when ninety per cent of the pleasure of going home comes from crossing the water in a boat with the wind in your face and your lungs full of sharp, salty air?

‘Sam! Where ya bin? Bin waitin' on the barge. Me and Longfella. We got a job on, remember? The steel beams, Sam. They're due in Blue Swimmer Bay. Doc's house. Remember?' Jimmy, the
Mary Kay
's sartorially colourful deckhand (lime-green shorts and a purple T-shirt today), heads towards him at a cracking pace, his fluffy black-and-white Border Collie pup close on his heels.

‘They're going to build a bridge, mate. A bridge and a bloody resort on Cutter Island. It's enough to make a grown man weep.'

Jimmy skates to a stop, dances and prances with anxiety. ‘Ya sure?' His sunburned face (clashing puce against the purple) is earnest.

‘The bulldozers first,' Sam says, his emotions running hot. ‘Then landfill. The contours of the site will be moulded to some wanky architect's vision of nirvana.'

‘Ya sure?'

On a roll, Sam continues: ‘The beach will be lined with glass and steel. Then the racket of jet skis and high-powered boats dragging screaming water skiers . . .'

‘What about the turtles, Sam? And the stingrays?'

‘And the jellyfish? The constellations of starfish?' The kid nods violently, in full agreement. Sam, angry now: ‘This whole magic world, mate, is going to be ripped and gutted by tourists here for a week or two before roaring off, never to be seen again. Everything the Cook's Basin community holds sacred wrecked forever. And that's aside from the trashing of the park.'

‘Ya sure?' the kid asks again, teary now.

On the verge of another tirade, Sam notes Jimmy's growing distress and bites his tongue. Jimmy's already fragile hold on the basic routines of daily life, all that keeps him balanced, is threatening to snap altogether. Sam fixes an easy smile on his face, places a comforting hand the size of a dinner plate on the kid's bony shoulder, lowers the tone of his voice: ‘Relax, Jimmy. It's early days yet. Nothing to worry about. You had breakfast?' he asks, trying to switch the kid's head from mayhem to manna before he has a complete meltdown.

‘'Course. Mum put out twenty-four Weet-Bix when I told her about the steel beams. Reckoned I'd need me strength.'

‘Right. So let's get going, eh? Before we miss the peak tide.'

‘What are they gunna rip up the Island for, Sam? When's it gunna happen?'

Not quite back on track yet, Sam decides, scrabbling to come up with a new distraction. He pulls out the book from his back pocket. ‘On your mark, get set, and it's time for history lesson number one.'

‘Aw gee, Sam.' The kid slumps, scrapes a toe along the ground like he's about to sign his name. ‘I thought ya were kiddin'.'

‘Education, Jimmy. It's the key to self-improvement. Now. Did you know that it's taken nearly six million years for you and me to end up with shorter arms, longer legs and a bigger brain than our primate relatives?'

Jimmy shrugs: ‘What about me dog, Sam? How long's it taken for him to grow four legs insteada two?'

Sam sighs. Snookered at the opening gambit. But the kid's head is back in neutral territory, which has to count for something. As the two of them march across the Square to board the
Mary Kay
, Sam wonders if educating Jimmy is his ham-fisted way of disguising an attempt to better himself so that when he and Kate sit down politely to a candlelit dinner (presuming he wasn't being turfed off the premises for good last night) complete with meticulously ironed and folded cotton napkins (not serviettes), he'll be able to impress her with little-known but exciting facts. There is, he admits wryly, more than a pathetic grain of truth there. Yep, love does your head in. True as night follows day.

Beams craned aboard and on a swollen tide, the
Mary Kay
sedately cruises to one of a hand-spread of blue bays hemmed by golden beaches and crowned by towering eucalypts, their leopard-spotted trunks washed clean by the recent rain. The sea drifts from navy blue to turquoise. The barge comes to rest deep in a corner where mangroves are a corps de ballet on a stage of shifting sand and sea. Sam kills the engine. Listens to the whispery song of cabbage palms while tree ferns, delicate as lace, spread like giant umbrellas in a damp green gully. The high humidity hangs like a bridal veil. Mysterious. Magical. Wondrous. ‘Over my dead body,' he whispers, so the kid doesn't hear and get knocked off his hinges again. In his ears, though, it rings like a war cry.

On the way back to Cook's Basin, Kate veers off the road home and heads towards the retirement village where Emily lived, presumably loved and took her final breath. Was she deep in a pleasant dream when the Grim Reaper came to claim her? Or did she wake, a pain so sharp in her chest she was unable to find the strength to press the emergency button strategically placed by the bed of every resident in a place where each night – she'd once told Kate – she could hear the discreet roll of mortuary vans creeping in to spirit away their once-in-a-lifetime clients.
Hardly inspiring, being forced to consider death on a nightly basis.
Survival of the fittest – law, according to Emily.

By the time Emily moved into her neat little unit, though, she'd run out of options. Kate had questioned the rationale of the red button. Better to roar off into the great void of death than hover at the edge in pain and anguish, she'd said.
Wait until you're old, then you'll understand the will to live gets stronger and stronger.
And yet, seventy wasn't a great age any more, not by ‘forty-is-the-new-thirty' standards. So Emily must have slept peacefully through the point where she quit one world for another, depending on your school of spiritual thought. The bottom line was always the same, though. Everything that is born must die – one of the rare absolute truths.

The village looms. She swings into the pretty driveway with the pretty herbaceous borders before she can change her mind. She unlocks the door and steps inside. Emily's heavy perfume, trapped in her pink frills – chairs, clothes, curtains, lampshades – hits her like an assault.

Here to empty the unit so village management can erase any lingering traces of Emily with new carpet, a fresh paint job and a new stove top before offering it
as new
to the next cab off the mortal rank, she stumbles for a second. She'd planned to ask Vinnies, the provider of luxuries small and large in Sam's impoverished childhood, to blitz the place but kept putting off the call. Now, with the lawyer unable to shed any light on her mystery brother, she's glad. Somewhere in the detritus of seventy years there must be a clue.

Kate takes a deep breath and enters the bedroom to open the wardrobe. Suddenly finding it hard to breathe, she leans against a wall, slowly sliding to the floor. Eyes closed, she scrolls through the past like a black-and-white movie show, searching for hints, clues, answers. Or even a flimsy link she might be able to follow up.

She remembers conversations between her parents that suddenly went silent when she, still a little girl, entered the room. She remembers her father's quiet acceptance of Emily's frequent absences. Once, when she plucked up the courage to ask where Emily had gone, he simply said, ‘Out.' She knew the question was off limits forever after. Sometimes Emily'd be gone only a day and night. Sometimes a week. Once, she heard her father ask, ‘The money ran out, did it?' Her mother's response a murmur too low to catch.

Out of the blue, Kate remembers being dragged along on a flight to the city to tour one of the few Australian navy battleships in operation. It seemed so weird at the time. Emily, a battleship nerd? Even weirder in hindsight, unless one of the sailors – no, never a sailor, Emily was a snob – one of the officers, then, was the father of her child. Or maybe her son had joined the navy? But why drag her daughter along? For appearances? As an equaliser? To prevent a nasty scene?

Kate's head is beginning to throb.
It's not called rotgut for nothing, Kate, so don't bother buying me the cheap stuff, I'll only throw it out
. Birthday and Christmas gift law, according to Emily. Kate goes into the kitchen where a used coffee mug sits on a bench that needs wiping. She scours it, fills it with tap water, drinks thirstily.

Revived and back at the wardrobe, she gingerly fingers clothing arranged fastidiously in strict colour order: red, green, blue, turquoise, yellow and pink, pink, pink. Underneath, a rack of shoes reflects the same colour code. She counts twenty cardboard hatboxes stacked on the top shelf. All of them almost certainly crammed with over-decorated hats representing the most outlandish fashion fads for the past fifty years. Kate had never considered her mother capable of such forensic order.

‘The Secret Life of Emily Jackson,' she murmurs.

How her mother adored hats. It didn't matter what style she placed on her head, it always looked fabulous.
I've got the right bones, Kate, very few women do.

She opens a hatbox and, against her will, finds herself impossibly seduced by a gauzy emerald-green fascinator with a jaunty little feather (no doubt from an endangered species – survival of the fittest, Emily would poo-poo) propped on top in a swirl of silk. It must have cost a bomb, she thinks. And suddenly she can't bear the thought that her mother's great passion for outrageously glorious hats will end up on Vinnie's crowded and shabby shelves. She puts them aside to take home in what she hopes isn't a bout of grotesque sentimentality. The Island Players, she tells herself, might be able to use them for their next theatrical production.

After a while, Kate stumbles on a plastic supermarket bag stuffed with old photos of the blurry, bleached-colour kind, and her heart leaps. Unable to bring herself to sit in one of Emily's frilly floral armchairs, she sinks to the floor again and sifts through the shots. Her journalist's eye is tuned to pick up odd emotional nuances among groups of wedgie-wearing, frizzy-haired 1960s diehards in washed-out psychedelic shirts and skirts who smile mechanically into the lens. Were they all saying
cheese
back then? Or had that free-love generation invoked
sex
to loosen lips? She has no idea. Nothing leaps out at her. There's not a baby in sight. She finds two pictures of her father and puts them aside with the hatboxes.