The Butcherbird (14 page)

‘Clinton Normile—we call him “the Pope”. I thought you knew him.’

‘Yes, I know Mr Normile, but not by any ecclesiastical appellation. You can tell Mr Normile that in these matters his infallibility is not accepted. “Probably” cuts no mustard in this room, Mr Beaumont. If there is no transfer of risk, there must be some accompanying document. Find it, or forget it.’

And so it went. The contents of the file were metaphorically shredded one by one. At the end, Jack felt his ego lay with them. But the hammering continued.

‘And here we have your suggested list of experts. Some of whom are worthy of their title. But this woman you recommend as the communications person. A gossip columnist, a manicurist who sends out press releases and does lunch. We want street fighters, maulers. This is not the judging at the annual dahlia festival, at which I’m sure you have won any number of prizes.’

‘Fine. Do you know someone?’

‘Of course I know someone, Mr Beaumont.’ The words were nearly spat at him. ‘I know everyone. The point is do you know someone. If we start using my contacts, the jig is up. I am not involved in this, remember. I am a semi-retired old dodderer who told you to slink off into your corner and forget the whole thing, so I could get back to making those rocking horses.’

Jack knelt and began to pick the documents from the floor, shaking each to remove the sawdust. When he replaced the first one in his briefcase, the gruff voice came, tired, dead flat. ‘Leave them. Leave them where they are. I’ll read them again. Perhaps there is something there. It’s late, I’ll look at them in the morning.’

They walked to the door. It was raining heavily now and gusts of cold air and a few wet leaves blew in. Jack hadn’t spoken. He turned as he felt the hand on his shoulder.

‘You would have liked him.’ They shook hands and Jack walked slowly back along the slippery path to his car, not caring much that the rain was soaking through his thin layers of clothing.

‘I want it to be huge, Larry, enormous—the best goddamn party this city has ever seen. And I want everyone there—not just the business people, I can take care of them, but the pollies and all the art wankers, the lot. That’s where you come in.’

Even Sir Laurence’s formidable skill as a concealer of true feelings couldn’t help to hide his distaste at this remark. Mac was quick to make amends. ‘I mean you were the head of the thing, weren’t you, the museum? A very distinguished head, from all I hear. Archie Speyne speaks very highly of you …’ and then, observing the reaction to the mention of Archie, ‘and others, I mean others speak very highly of you. Not Archie speaking— you know what I mean.’

Sir Laurence drew himself up slightly in his chairman’s chair. They were in the HOA boardroom, where he preferred to hold meetings, rather than his office. The subject of Mac’s party, whatever form that may take, was not the subject he’d intended to discuss when the meeting was requested by him. But clearly his topic wouldn’t reach the table before this was dispensed with.

‘I’m not sure I do know what you mean, Mac. Is there some way I can be of assistance?’

‘Exactly. You can. That’s what I’m saying. When I open my gallery, the Biddulph fucking Gallery, I want a real blow-out, a sensation, not some boring corporate function. I want the party to be a fucking artwork, do you see? And that means all the art people and hangers-on and social A-listers and whatever have got to be there. You must know all these folks, or how to get them, from when you were mixing with that lot. So I need you to help bring them all in.’

Sir Laurence was now completely attuned to the conversation. His help was needed. These were words of opportunity, never to be ignored. ‘Of course, Mac. Whatever I can do. Such a wonderful gesture of yours.’ He paused. ‘And especially in times like this.’ Mac shot him an inquiring glance, but the face was completely opaque. Sir Laurence continued, ‘Who’s going to organise the party?’

‘Well, Archie Speyne, I suppose. Or his people anyway. Strictly, it’s their party.’

‘I see.’ Sir Laurence’s thumb and forefinger rose to his chin. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. It is your gallery, after all. It should be your party.’ Mac nodded, so he pressed on. ‘Would you like me to arrange for someone to organise it? It might not look well for you to intervene, if you see what I mean. Better that the party is given for you, since you have already given, yes?’

Mac smiled. ‘You’re a cunning old bastard, Laurence. I forget just how clever you are sometimes.’

‘What a charming compliment, Mac. I’m quite swept away. But I’d be more than happy to oversee everything, and you can rest assured everyone who matters will be there. Who do they have opening it?’

‘Archie is going to ask the Premier.’

‘I think not. The Prime Minister would be more appropriate. The state may have responsibilities for the museum, but the federal government regulates the insurance industry.’

Mac slapped the table. ‘My chairman. You’re worth every penny, Larry—and I’m not talking about director’s fees.’

Sir Laurence moved on quickly. ‘Speaking of money for a moment, is there a budget for this event? We’ll need professional event managers.’

‘Whatever it takes. Fly the fucking tulips from Holland for all I care. Hang Nicole Kidman from the Harbour Bridge by her knickers. Just so long as all those wankers go home remembering there’s only one Mac Biddulph. Now what did you want to talk about?’

Jack had driven straight to Palm Beach, rented a canoe from the hire shop, ignored the instruction not to go beyond Barrenjoey, and set his course for Lion Island. It was foolhardy, he knew, in many respects. The craft wasn’t the kayak of his youth, that beautiful wooden-hulled bullet with fitted canvas covers to keep the water out and a balanced offset panel that, in skilled hands, swept the little boat along even into the wind. This was a moulded fibreglass clunker with a gaping, unprotected opening and a heavy, cumbersome paddle. He’d taken the day off, needing to distance himself from the greys of corporate life, to feel the sunlight and drink in the deep blues of the real world. But it was a perfect day, just the faintest feather of wind on his face, even the sea flat like a lake. As he let the canoe run to the edge of the rocks on the headland, he could see the water heaving gently onto the beach, barely shifting the threads of weed on the yellow sand. He loved the colour of the sand on these peninsular beaches; it wasn’t the whiter, finer material of the city beaches, or the even more intense white of tropical beaches in Queensland or the Northern Territory, but a coarse salmon from the sandstone cliffs of Pittwater and the Hawkesbury River. The water lapped benignly against the boulders at the base of the headland where the lighthouse kept watch. Even though he knew there’d be a swell the moment he edged the canoe beyond the point and into the open waters of Broken Bay, if there was a day to complete his adventure this was it.

He wanted, needed, to find the natural world again, even for a few hours. When he turned the car onto the access road to the headland car park, he was dismayed by the litter of signs and ticket machines, council barbecues for the tourists, neatly planted trees in rows with huge wind guards around them because they weren’t indigenous to the area, seats with concrete pads and metal arms, all the paraphernalia of suburbia in what had been the wild place of his youth. He counted fifty-three signs in the half-mile from the main road to the car park before giving up in disgust.

But on the water, his spirits lifted. They couldn’t kerb and gutter Pittwater. As he let the canoe drift in the light breeze, he could see schools of fish darting about under him, seagulls floating quietly, a pelican gliding through the air currents, a sea eagle hunting on the cliffs. His was the only craft in sight on this mid-week day, other than a white sail barely moving in the distance near Mackerel Beach.

He paused at the point for a moment, as if to turn back, then let the canoe drift on the wind until it was hidden from sight behind the rocks and struck out for the island with long, smooth strokes. For the first half-hour he felt exhilarated, euphoric, to be in the sea, low down, almost nestled, in the water, as the gentle swells rolled through the opening into the bay. Lion Island was further away than he remembered, but he paddled without a break and the rhythm was even and the stroke strong and he was eighteen again. Soon the muscles in his shoulders began to ache and his back was cramped against the back of the canoe, so he paused to let the wind take him for a while and to stretch his arms and back. He looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the white belly of the sea eagle, but the great bird had either caught its prey or moved on to other hunting grounds.

When he glanced back at the island it seemed more distant than it had before. The swell was bigger now, and when the boat dropped down into a trough he could barely see the land at all. The wind was shifting. The sea had turned to deep green from its turquoise blue, and when he looked up at the sky, there were dull grey patches overhead. He lifted the paddle and drove the canoe forward into the chop, but after another half-hour of increasingly difficult paddling towards the island, with the wind and the sea conspiring against his advance, he began to doubt his judgement. He’d forgotten how quickly the weather could turn here, how exposed the waters were beyond the protection of the headland. The island would have to wait for another day.

He turned the boat and gritted his teeth for a tough paddle back to safety, for the wind was from due south now. The spray from the wave crests whipped into his face and his cap blew away into the sea behind him. His teeth were literally grinding against one another as he strained to make any gain against the superior force. It was cold. What had been a balmy day had turned cold with a blustery, troubled sky, and the sweat and spray cooled on his bare head and under his wet shirt. As he rested for a moment, he felt his body begin to shiver uncontrollably and the dryness in his mouth became extreme. He hadn’t bothered to bring any more than one small bottle of water, long since drunk, on such a pleasant day. He recognised the first signs of hypothermia and suddenly he was afraid.

The boat wouldn’t sink, that was no concern—but he might. If the swell continued to increase and a real southerly buster blew in, there was no way he could keep the canoe upright. Then the question was how long he could hang onto it. He’d given up any hope of making a landfall this side of New Zealand. The important thing was not to lose his nerve, not to panic. Panic in the sea was death, he knew that, had told people that. But he wasn’t eighteen; his body felt spent and feeble, and he ached and shivered as light rain began to whip across the white caps. Visibility was only a hundred yards now—and who would look for him out here where he wasn’t meant to be?

He heard the voice before he heard the engine. ‘Hello over there. What the hell are you doing out here, having a picnic?’ It was a battered old fishing boat, but the most beautiful craft Jack had ever set eyes on. ‘G’day, mate. We don’t pull many fish like you out of the water. You’d better climb up here before the sharks get you.’

He’d forgotten about the sharks. The area around Barrenjoey where the fish came in to feed was notorious for sharks. He was hauled into the boat, wrapped in a blanket, handed a flask of tea. The canoe was tossed onto the deck like a discarded banana.

‘You’d probably rather have a whisky, but no grog on this boat, mate. Not while we’re at sea anyway. Make up for it later. What, did you get blown around the headland by the southerly?’

Jack was still shaking despite the warmth of the blanket. ‘Something like that. I feel a real idiot, I must say. Thank Christ you came along.’

‘No worries, mate. Still, there was no one else around today so you might have been pulled out by the Maoris if we hadn’t found you. The yellow canoe, that’s what saved you.’

The fisherman stood in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt as the rain beat under the canopy, making Jack feel even colder.

‘You want to get home, mate, into a hot bath, have a couple of beers or a scotch, into bed with a good woman, hey? Stay away from the canoes for a while.’

When they dropped him off to shore he left them with profuse thanks—they’d accept nothing more—and drove off with the car heater blasting, home to the safety of Louise. He just wanted to hold her, to nestle into her back, to breathe into her hair while she slept. He wouldn’t roll away as he usually did once she was asleep. He would stay, locked against her all night, not sleeping. He would stay, now, locked against her, always. Or at least until he had to face Sir Laurence in the morning.

Sir Laurence gazed contentedly around his room. He loved the silk on the far wall, the discreet patterns of flecks and circles woven into the texture. He loved the majestic space of it all, the sweep of the horseshoe table, the rich quality of the mahogany colour, the deep comfort of the upholstered chairs. The only artwork, an oil by Sir Arthur Streeton, was worthy of a place in any public gallery—indeed the museum had wanted to buy it.

But he preferred it here. Two knights together.

He thought of this room as his own. It might belong to HOA, technically, or to the landlords more technically, but it was his in every other sense. He was not just the chairman but the conscience of this company. Yes, that’s what he was. The conscience. He’d never thought of it that way before. Mac might have created the business in the raw sense, but who steered it away from the follies and indiscretions and crude manipulations that people like Mac and Renton Healey were capable of committing? Even his own special arrangements were poor recompense for the value he added. And of course, his contributions were not evident, so he received scant public recognition. But he bore no grudges. The work was sufficient unto itself.

The great bronze door to the boardroom swung open, cutting short these pleasant thoughts. In fact, it was not only the opening of the door but the person entering that reversed his mood. Jack appeared to be even more bronzed than usual. It was revolting. He looked like some sort of native more used to scrabbling around in the soil for roots and tubers—although perhaps it was the women who did that. No doubt Jack would be lounging around in a loincloth, doing nothing but waiting to remove the loincloth. Disgusting. And now here he was in this beautiful room, decorated by Sir Laurence himself, coatless, tieless, probably with a loincloth under the trousers.