Read Gone Fishing Online

Authors: Susan Duncan

Tags: #FICTION

Gone Fishing (7 page)

BOOK: Gone Fishing
13.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

‘So you wouldn't bother fighting this if some old bloke was getting a golden handshake and a change of lifestyle opportunity?'

‘We all have to adapt. Cook's Basin can't hold out forever.'

Sam slumps, the foot he's been tapping so hard that the table rattled, goes still. The enormity of the job overwhelms him. He's a bargeman, for chrissake. He cruises the waters of Cook's Basin with the sun on his face, the tide coming and going under his feet. He does a job, he gets paid – well, ninety-nine times out of a hundred. He loves his life. He may not be a genius but the people he cares about understand the skill and concentration it takes to judge times, tides, loads and weather so no one's life or property is ever at risk. They trust him. What if she's right? What if this is a mad, pointless and potentially painful folly? What if the community bursts its collective gut and comes out with nothing to show for it but cracked heads and busted noses? Then he remembers reading a newspaper story about a cattle farmer from Burrell Creek who took on the state energy giants to stop construction of a huge new power grid in a pristine valley. Against all odds, he won. Sam leans over the table, his face close to the list, straining to read the words in the dim light. ‘Give me one job at a time.'

‘Get yourself a committee, Sam. Then take it from there.'

All through the night, the temperature stays stubbornly in the low thirties and the humidity is as thick as pea soup. Prime conditions for a cracker storm to rise out of nowhere. Sam and Kate lie side-by-side but not touching, too hot, too wired, for sleep. In the end, with eyes wide open but shielded by the dark, they talk to each other in soft tones. She asks him about his mother, his father, his boatshed life. Who built the barge? What timbers were used? The Misses Skettle – what were they like when they were much younger women? Tough eh? But oh so girlish with it. Ettie and the chef? Has he noticed Ettie seems more anxious lately? The roof of The Briny needs replacing or does he think it will see out the winter? Isn't Jimmy's pup well behaved? So roly-poly sweet. Once or twice, he questions her on subjects he considers safe but, like a good journo, she flicks them back. He retreats with grace, holding back from gushing on about love, marriage, kids, an ordinary life together. He's forty years old and in a rush to pin down the future. His problem, not hers. Her responses drop to a slurred murmur and her breathing grows deep and rhythmic. Using a corner of the sheet, he dabs gently at the sweat gathered in the hollow of her neck. Careful not to wake her.

*

Not long after dawn, the heat wears him down and he gets up to brew a cup of tea. Pours another when he hears Kate stirring. He takes it in to her. An ancient, dinted cash box of the kind his father once kept hidden up the chimney in the boatshed where they lived, takes up most of the space on her bedside table. He's never seen it before. She reaches for the tea with a smile that tears his heart. Just in time, he swallows what he was about to say, knowing she's not ready to hear that he'd be happy to bring her a morning cuppa for eternity. A cool breeze sneaks in from nowhere and skates across the floorboards. In the distance, thunder rumbles. The air is thin and feverish now. The first few drops of rain hit the roof like the tap of a hammer. ‘Want to fill in time till the rain stops?' he asks, grinning.

‘I might get fired if I'm late for work.'

‘That's the beauty of being a boss. You call your own shots.'

She slides easily into his arms where she stays until long after the tea goes cold.

After she's gone, he takes his time showering, washing their mugs and making the bed, pulling the sheets tight as a drum, tucking the corners neatly. He finds he enjoys the process of completing these small domestic chores to the best of his ability when, mostly, he used to race through them.

Outside, the morning sky is dull and low. The rain-swollen tail-end of a cyclone that's already hammered northern Queensland is on the way. In the wheelhouse, he finds a note weighted with a small shackle.
Have a favour to ask. Could you bring a writing desk from Emily's unit? It belonged to my father.
The pick-up address is written in block letters. Below, there's a PS.
Deliver it to Frankie at the boatshed.
No signature. Short, sharp and to the point. For a former journo, he thinks wryly, she's bloody frugal with words. Sam carefully folds the paper and places it in his back pocket. He points the duckbill bow of the
Mary Kay
towards Cutter Island, which climbs out of the deep blue sea like an upended cone, wondering why he suddenly feels like his engine's blown and he's adrift on a rising sea without even a piece of canvas to rig to bring him home.

 

 

Chapter Six

The rain sets in steadily and heavily right up to Saturday morning, when it eases off until it's light enough to be mistaken for a sea mist drifting in from the tropics. The bush, flattened for so long by the drought, rises in the heat and damp and runs rampant. Cissus vine curls upwards looking for light, bringing down weak young trees that collapse untidily across paths. Lantana reaches new infestation levels despite last year's backbreaking weeding weekends (even the most dedicated bush regenners are feeling defeated). The land is awash with ticks, sand fleas and every other kind of garden pest that stings, bites or just plain aggravates. In backyards all over Cutter Island and the Cook's Basin area, washing hangs limply on Hills Hoists, wetter than when it was first put out to dry. Soon, it will stink of damp and need washing again. One or two mothers with large, dirty broods of tear-away kids begin to hanker for a few weeks of drought – though they keep their thoughts to themselves, knowing to voice them would be sacrilege.

Miraculously, the rain eases at lunchtime and in the clammy afternoon, the residents of Cutter Island shuffle along steaming pathways and tracks mined with puddles towards the community hall, to plan a strategy to fight the development of Garrawi Park. There's a record attendance that has nothing to do with the fact that Ettie and Kate have volun­teered to provide a light early supper of roasted potato, zucchini, capsicum and pumpkin frittata – considering the enormity of the problem, the meeting is certain to flow into dinner time.

To combat what they all agree is a bad dose of heat fatigue, the crowd – covered by only enough clothing to remain decent in public – pounces on the crusty scones provided by the Three Js and anointed with the Misses Skettles' homemade strawberry jam. Most of them skip the cuppas and move in soldier-crab formation towards the bar. Gasping for a frigidly cold, they insist it will only take a couple of quick swigs until they are sufficiently resuscitated to be of some practical and intellectual (heh, heh) use to the proceedings, which have been delayed anyway by the late arrival of Bill Firth, who finally appears full of apologies. He'd lost track of time, apparently. Paradise, eh? Who could blame him? As it turned out, paradise had nothing to do with it. His septic tank was overflowing and he couldn't leave before he'd organised and overseen an emergency pump-out. Given the inclement weather, he suggests it might be advisable for the community to get together to make a group booking
with the pump-out barge
to keep the cost down should the rising water table plunge more of them into a similar deeply odourous and undesirable situation.

By the time the scones have been demolished and the crowd is well into the third beer, feelings are running as hot as the oven-like temperature in the hall. The president calls for order, aware that a move towards a fourth stubby might end all hope of rational discussion.

‘Right now, we're all angry and upset. We feel like our park is being stolen . . .'

‘That's because it is, mate,' shouts Davo, one of the old Island hippies, whose two kids – according to rumour – were conceived like many others on a hot summer night under the spreading arms of the ancient cheese tree. Wearing nothing but a yellow sarong accessorised with a beer, he rises purposefully from his seat.

Bill Firth smoothly cuts him off. ‘A good point, Davo, but before we go any further, we need a few facts. Let me give you a quick outline of the history of Garrawi Park before we get started.' He clears his throat, shuffles around a few pieces of paper until they form some sort of order.

‘The park was left in trust to the people of Cutter Island in 1946 by Teddy Mulray.' The crowd begins to murmur. Bill Firth holds his hand up for silence. ‘Yes, yes, I know we're all aware of this fact.'

‘There's a bloody engraved plaque with all the details under the cheese tree, for chrissake, Bill. Tell us something we don't know!' Davo reties his sarong grumpily. Anyone within eye-line turns his or her head sharply in the opposite direction, acutely aware of what lies under the fabric. Davo is renowned for attacking his wild and woolly garden buck-naked except for a hat and a chainsaw. How he's remained un-castrated is one of the great local mysteries.

‘The point I'm trying to make – if you'll let me, Davo – is that the park is actually controlled and cared for by a private trust –'

‘Oy, oy oy, back up, Bill,' shouts Davo angrily. ‘Islanders have always looked after the park . . .'

Bill wipes a fresh outbreak of sweat from his brow. ‘Yes, yes. But the point is, technically and legally, a private trust has the last word on what happens to the park.'

‘Get the names, mate. We'll deal with them in our own way and it won't cost a penny,' Davo shouts, shaking a fist.

‘Hear, hear!'

‘The real enemy, Davo, is the developer, not the trustees. Although I suppose neither could function without the other.' He breaks off, aware that going down the long and convoluted path of explaining the rights of trustees and developers, combined with the heat and booze, would send the crowd straight to sleep. ‘Anyone ever fought a development proposal before?' A hand shoots up at the back. ‘Not your neighbour's plans for an extension that's going to block a corner of your view, Ernie, I mean a full-on campaign against bona fide, large-scale developers.' The hand sinks. ‘Right, well anyone got any sensible ideas about where to start with all this? Do we want to hit the legal trail and wear the costs – and frankly it could run into hundreds of thousands of dollars? Or do we want to come up with a program of what I can only refer to as our unique and traditional Island way of handling a problem? By that I mean we find a way to handle it ourselves.'

The crowd roars. ‘Let's do it the Island way, Bill. Let's show the bastards!'

Bill Firth, his face now puce, his shirt sodden at the neckline and under his armpits, scans the equally heated faces in the airless hall. ‘So where do you want to start?'

The silence – broken only by the lazy buzzing of an early March fly – is deafening.

‘Right,' Bill says, sighing heavily. ‘We can all agree, at least, that no one wants Garrawi Park to be desecrated by developers.'

‘Hear, hear.' Enthusiastic shouts.

‘Well, we've made a start. Not much of one, but nevertheless, it's a beginning.'

Davo again: ‘Pretty bloody good, if you ask me. Can't remember the last time we all agreed . . .'

‘Thanks, Davo.' Bill Firth actually bangs the table with his fist, bringing to swift closure what everyone is fully aware could have turned into a long Davo-paranoia-rant.

Sam places his empty stubby on the floor at his feet and rises from his chair. ‘Artie reckons . . .' There's a collective groan. ‘No, wait a minute and hear me out. He was a big-time union boss in his day and what he said made a bit of sense.'

‘Before or after the first glass of rum?' shouts someone from the back.

The rotund president raises his hand for silence. ‘Give the man a hearing,' he orders, nodding at Sam to continue. Outside, the breaking clouds take on the golden hues of sunset. A dog barks. White cockatoos go ape-shit. A goanna must be raiding a nest. ‘Everyone's a critic,' someone yells, getting a laugh.

Sam begins: ‘Artie said the best way to tackle the problem was to light spot fires. Keep the bastards jumping so they never know what's going to happen next. Any delays cost money. Artie reckons if you start costing them enough, they give up and go away.' This time the crowd stays quiet. Heartened, Sam continues. ‘Kate – you all know Kate from The Briny Café . . .'

‘Not as well as you, mate.' There's a ripple of uncomfortable laughter. Sam chucks the culprit a dirty look and continues with his case.

‘I know there are a lot of smart people here tonight. But Kate, well, she used to be a top journo and she's reported on environmental and property development issues in the past. We had an impromptu meeting . . .' Sam breaks off and eyeballs a sniggerer, who sinks lower in his chair and raises his beer in apology. ‘Any of you blokes speak Latin?'

‘Aw jeez, Sam, get to the point. We're melting in here.'

‘Two words, my friend:
quis licit
. Who profits, in other words. Follow the money and nail the shady deal-makers behind this travesty of a development.' He ends with what he believes is the core point of the crusade: ‘How can we feel proud if we don't save Garrawi? How do we tell our grandchildren we failed because we didn't try hard enough?'

People are sitting higher in their sweaty, sticky, scratched white plastic chairs now, their faces aglow with what Sam hopes is enthusiasm and not just the booze. ‘With enough passion and plain old bullheadedness, I believe we can pull off a coup and roll a plan that looks like a certainty right now,' Sam says. ‘Let's face it. Most of us are born anarchists and rule benders. We're used to fighting for what we believe in and if our methods can be a little, er, unorthodox at times, at least we end up with the right result. Well, nine times out of ten.'

‘So when are we going to light the first fire?' calls Marty Robinson, a ruddy-faced Islander with a huge thirst and a legendary wild streak.

‘Hear, hear,' echoes the crowd, clapping cheerfully. Aren't most of them volunteer fireys who are experts at lighting spot fires for hazard reduction burns?

‘Well, we need to start with a few volunteers to form a committee . . .'

There's rustling and shifting as people begin to stand and make their way to the kitchen to grab a plate. Beer in hand, the Islander with a big thirst comes over and wraps his arm around Sam's shoulder. He leans in to Sam's ear to whisper in a beery breath: ‘Details bog us down, mate. Think of the total picture and go for it. We'll back you all the way.' He whacks Sam hard and moves off, his long skinny legs not quite steady as he makes a beeline for the bar.

One by one, Cutter Island residents shuffle up to Sam and stand alongside him, rocking on their heels, nursing their beers. ‘We'll support you all the way. And that means with cudgels or swords, mate. Whatever you think is best. Every war needs a general and you've been unanimously elected. Good on ya. We won't let the bastards win.'

The offshore artists approach him in a group. Their spokesperson, John Scott, a short bloke with a Roman nose and deep brown eyes, who is a skilful and diplomatic organiser, outlines a plan in a rush to cover his shyness. ‘We're going to need money to fight. Count on one painting from each of us. We'll hold an auction and a BYO knees-up party to follow. Or maybe the other way around. Nothing like a few stiff drinks to loosen wallets and run up the bids. Phoebe's already come up with a fabulous idea for a logo. She's a genius, that dame. Did you know Garrawi means cockatoo in the local Aboriginal language? Trudy thinks a giant papier-mâché bird would look good in the Square. Draw attention to the cause. She's going to get the kindergarten kids to help. We'll need a couple of weeks. OK? Lord, it's a sweat-bath in here, isn't it?'

The two Misses Skettle, looking fresh as two pink daisies despite a long stint in the kitchen alongside Kate and Ettie, coyly sidle up to Sam and offer to distribute material as soon as it comes off the presses, to combat the developer's evil propaganda. ‘Thank you, ladies, from the bottom of my heart,' he says, gallantly kissing their powdered and rouged cheeks. Evil propaganda? What bloody presses?

Halfway through the evening, discussions about the proposed development peter out from lack of fresh fodder. Talk inevitably shifts to the problems caused by the recent rain; the rise in giardia cases and the multiplying swimming-pool-size potholes. The track needs bulldozing so the community ute doesn't crack an axle. Long after dark, when these topics too have been hammered to death, the weary but well-fed and -watered people of Cutter Island and the bays head home under swollen black clouds that block out the silver sparkle of the night sky. Even during war, life goes on.

 

BOOK: Gone Fishing
13.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Restoration by Carol Berg
A Blind Eye by Julie Daines
Fairy Dust by Titania Woods
The Sheikh's Green Card Bride by Holly Rayner, Lara Hunter
Prayer-Cushions of the Flesh by Robert Irwin, Magnus Irvin
Three Weddings And A Kiss by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, Catherine Anderson, Loretta Chase
Being Zolt by D. L. Raver