Gone Fishing (10 page)

‘Your boat or mine?' Kate asks.

‘I'll follow,' he says. As he knew he would.

Sam slips into bed beside a drowsy Kate. ‘The stuff about the cult knocked us sideways. It was good work, Kate. We're on a learning curve. Most of us still can't understand how all this has happened. I mean there we all are, going along minding our own business, leading halfway decent lives and all of a sudden, someone rips the rug from under us . . .'

‘Clichés, Sam. Time to give them a rest.' She rolls deliciously on top of him. Their separate skins joined by the heat of their bodies. In a voice hollow with sleepiness, she says: ‘Promise you won't turn rogue soldier and roar off on your own again. No freelancing, OK?'

He grins and runs his hand along her silken back. The power of women. No wonder men go mad. ‘Nice to think you care,' he says, dodging the question, knowing he'd never get away with it if she were wide-awake. Just to make sure, he does his best to distract her.

 

 

Chapter Eight

Within a week, the first official gathering of Sam's vagabond committee comprising Marcus, Jenny, Jane, Judy, Glenn the removalist, Ettie, the Misses Skettle, Lindy Jones (who still insists on shouldering the blame for letting Eric Lowdon sneak under her radar to buy properties), John Scott (representing the art community) and Seaweed (a devout rule-bender with a talent for creating top websites) takes place at Marcus's home. Siobhan still hasn't returned Sam's call. A bad sign.

More or less on time (the first in what turns out to be a series of minor but significant miracles), a small flotilla of boats, with Sam in his tiny tinny at the point like an arrowhead, arrives in V-shape formation, setting up a foaming white chop that washes against the chef's sandstone seawall. ‘The navy's in port and ready to man the battle stations,' they shout, waving madly. ‘What's for dinner, chef?'

Marcus greets them one by one as they disembark with a firm handshake and a slight bow. It is a strangely formal gesture, underlining the grave purpose of the gathering and for a moment the committee is overwhelmed by the seriousness of the task they have set themselves. The fate and future of their small community is in their unskilled and very possibly inadequate hands. The mood goes flat.

Sensing this, Marcus indicates a table and chairs spread out on the deck. When everyone is settled with a drink, he announces: ‘We are here to work, of course. This does not need to be said. But if we are not to weary ourselves, and even possibly – Gott Verboten – lose heart, we must also embrace the great Australian tradition of facing even the most dire situations with courage, of course – but, above all, with humour. We have already had our first round of luck, I think. The campaign has been born in the most luscious and bountiful of grape seasons. There is a wine glut, my friends. We will not go thirsty.' Hear, hear. ‘Also, we cannot think straight on an empty stomach. This is true. No?' Hear, hear. ‘I will attend to our dinner.' Hear, hear! ‘So refill your glasses. I will return in moments.' Before he disappears along the gangplank corridor that leads to his state-of-the-art kitchen, he whispers in Sam's ear: ‘But where is Kate? Is she ill?'

Sam shrugs. ‘She's knows it's on. Left it to her to decide whether to get involved or stick to the sidelines as, er . . . as a consultant,' he adds, hurriedly, not sure whether it's true or not.

Marcus, clearly confused, nods diplomatically. ‘Of course. I see.'

Wish I did, thinks Sam, turning back to the throng spilling over the deck and halfway along the jetty. That's when he notices a lone tinny, with a slight figure standing straight-backed, red hair streaming like a Botticelli maiden, at the console. It
putt putts
slowly, almost regally, towards the chef's house. It's not Kate but, in his mind, the appearance of Siobhan O'Shaughnessy (‘We kept the O because we'd rather starve than take the filthy English soup in the famine'), adds up to a poetic moment. He makes a fist with his hand and raises it high in triumph. He's almost starting to feel sorry for the poor bastards they're going to drill into the ground. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He hurries along the jetty to help the most battle-hardened recruit of them all tie up, leap over a few tinnies and arrive safely on terra firma. ‘Siobhan,' he breathes, his face lit up like a lantern.

‘Just so you know, I'll not tolerate laziness or eejits and there's only one boss. Me . . .' she begins, in a strong Irish lilt that, despite thirty years spent listening to the long flat drawl of down-under, still sounds like music even when she swears. Which she does frequently. But in a singsong way that not even the young Island mums trying to teach their kids some manners find offensive.

Sam holds up his hand. ‘Save it until after dinner.' He grins, thinking she'll be as delighted as the rest of them at Marcus's generosity, and continues cheerily: ‘The chef's barbecued a heap of king prawns that have been marinating all day. A feast, if he stays true to form – and there's no reason to think tonight he won't.'

Siobhan grimaces, gathers her flaming hair in a fist, lashes it neatly with an emerald-green elastic band wrapped around her wrist like a bangle. ‘I knew you'd be faffing around worrying about food and wine like it's a frigging mothers' club meeting. You're going to have to get real, boy. You and all the other freeloaders up there with their snouts in the trough. This is war.'

Jeez, Sam thinks, instinctively taking a step back and feeling slightly winded. The tiny, pale-faced, fierce-eyed woman, of indeterminate age (the only clue being her public-transport seniors card, although given her low opinion of all governments she could easily be ripping off the system), stares straight back, daring him to contradict her.

‘Good to have the gutsy Irish on board,' he finally says, recovering, throwing an arm around her shoulders and quickly removing it when she stumbles under the weight.

Her sharpish features soften, she jabs him playfully in the ribs. ‘Wasn't it the English who gave in first, then? Even after a thousand years of bloody tyranny.' She laughs, slips an arm through his and lets him escort her into the maelstrom. ‘Jaysus,' she adds, turning towards him, suddenly serious, ‘and, you know, this little skirmish could take just as long.'

‘Dinner is served!' The chef places a massive earthenware bowl filled with glossy char-grilled prawns in the centre of the table. He fetches a basket of sourdough baguettes, a leafy green salad with a soupçon of lime in the creamy dressing.

Sam rips into the prawns. ‘Messy eating,' he says, licking his fingers with a loud, smacking sound. ‘The best kind.' It takes enormous personal control to hold back from mentioning that kings used to live like this. He heads for the pontoon with a heavily loaded sandwich. The others, who haven't experienced the chef's hospitality beyond a fireshed dinner now mostly memorable for the fact that it resulted in Ettie and Marcus finding true love, enthusiastically embrace Sam's style and plunge into the bowl without restraint. The chef sits back, smiling happily, his gaze returning to Ettie over and over, as though she's the spreading light of dawn after a black and stormy night.

Siobhan takes a position alongside Sam, dangling her legs in the tepid water. ‘A magnificent love affair, eh?' she says, indicating Ettie and Marcus.

‘World beating,' agrees Sam, who's noticed that even the most rancorous Island couples have been inspired by the chef's gallantry and Ettie's joyful response to it. All summer the bays have been awash with people relishing the forgotten romance of boat picnics. The bush has been busy with Islanders sheepishly carrying blankets in the direction of the mossy, twilight softness of the waterfall in the deepest crevices of Oyster Bay. A top but no longer secret spot, he thinks with a hint of wistfulness. The Island, too, has been rocking under the sound of popping champagne corks.

‘None of me business, of course, but I was thinking Kate might be here to lend a hand.'

Sam chucks his scraps into the water, unable to think of a suitable response. Siobhan lets it go. In the distance, the sky lights up and a few thunderous booms shoot across the water. Another bloody storm, he thinks.

‘Watch Jane,' Siobhan says, nudging Sam with her shoulder, pointing a finger. ‘She'll be the first to squib if it rains. That colour and haircut cost a fortune.'

It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask Siobhan if her astonishing shade of hair also comes courtesy of a bottle.

‘Me own's natural, if that's what you're thinking,' she growls, giving him a fierce look.

‘Never crossed my mind it wasn't,' he agrees, hastily.

Siobhan walks back to the others and calls the meeting to order.

*

Not much is resolved during the first official gathering of the Save Garrawi committee, which ends early anyway, when the heavens open. Hands over her hair, Jane bolts like someone has set her backside on fire. In her tinny, she opens a brolly, holds it above her head and sets off at a sedate speed to prevent turning it inside out and rendering it useless.

‘It's only water,' Ettie yells after her, but she is gone and the mood with her. The rest depart in a ragged, wrung-out pack, Siobhan's words wired into their heads: ‘Get people talking,' she said, ‘until there's not a soul – not even a babe – from coast to coast who hasn't heard that Garrawi is in danger of being lost forever.' She warns them against using the cult to get attention. ‘The leader enjoys a good law suit. It builds his property portfolio. And anyway, soon as you mention a cult, people write you off as a nutter.'

Not sure whether to feel desperate or elated, they go home to think of ways to wake up a nation to what is happening under its nose. What no one dares to ask is whether the nation will even care. At the last moment, unable to contemplate defeat, fists are raised. A battle cry goes up: ‘No resort. No bridge. No resort. No bridge.' The chant carries across the water in the heat of the damp night until it echoes back from a band of sympathetic barbecuers on Cutter Island. ‘No resort. No bridge.' Bring on the rage. Take up arms. Fight to the end. It's bloody on!

Kate circles Emily's mysterious tin box where it lies on the kitchen table.

Antennae twitching, she scrabbles in the bottom drawer, searching for a screwdriver to pop the lock. Now or never. Or is it? She hesitates – as she has for days. If the box contains what she thinks it does, lifting the lid means risking everything she believes to be true. Her family tree may not be ideal, but it's all she's got to anchor her, however ephemerally, to her sense of self. ‘Your choice, Kate,' she says out loud. Sink the box – unopened – in the middle of the bay and retain the status quo that will mean she can continue to go about her daily darg comfortably and – she might as well admit it – uninspiringly. Or ratchet it open and let loose whatever lies within.

She reaches for the box but withdraws her hand at the last moment, unwilling to touch it. Nighttime paranoia, she thinks. She's letting the dark get to her. There's probably nothing important inside. She cannot imagine Emily saving a lock of baby hair, a tiny shoe, a photograph of a swaddled creature not long out of the womb.
You were a little wolf when you were born, covered in fur. She can't be mine, I told the nurses and I still believe they made a terrible mistake, that you're the progeny of ferals.
It was meant to hurt, but Kate had immediately latched on to the idea. A changeling. Her
real
mother, she dreamed, hoped, prayed in the ridiculously phantasmagorical way of unhappy little kids, was kind and beautiful and compassionate and warm and . . . there was nothing of Emily in Kate's DNA at all. She reaches again for the metal tin. It is cold and smooth except for a couple of shallow dings, a few scratches. No. Not now. Not yet. She isn't ready. She needs more time.

All night, she lies awake, staring at the dark lines of the heavy timber beams holding up the plaster ceiling, listening to the sounds of nocturnal bush life. Wallabies. Owls. Bandicoots. Thump. Sob. Grunt. A whole new order that emerges at dusk to forage. When she first took possession of her stone cottage on the wrong side (no winter sun) of Oyster Bay, the nighttime rustles, twangs and tunes – so foreign to her inner-city ears, which were used to the caterwauling of sirens – made her anxious. Thump. Sob. Grunt. Reassuring. The box, she thinks over and over. What to do with the box?