Gone Fishing (33 page)

Max doesn't hesitate. ‘Hang on to it,' he wheezes. ‘It'll keep any future bastards honest.'

A week later, Lindy Jones reports that Eric Lowdon is selling his Cutter Island properties at a knock-down price. Like worms turning, the mayor and his fellow councillors, religious fence-sitters up to the last moment, step forward to claim credit for saving Garrawi in a barrage of hastily written press releases. Even the Misses Skettle can't hide their disgust. ‘Pariahs. Not one of them could find their way here with a hand-written map,' they fume.

The committee, cold hard realists now, with Max's blessing, put aside the remains of the fighting fund in a high-interest account for the day someone else with the morals of a bandicoot tries to steal the park from under their noses. ‘Max has a great understanding of human nature,' they say with sadness and resignation. Siobhan asks Sam whether Max might want to reveal his identity to the public as the man who truly turned the tide in the fight for Garrawi. Max declines. He got his money's worth, he says, by tracking the course of the battle from his sitting room, where he's anchored by chronic emphysema.

The great, cracked, mashed and almost collapsed sulphur-crested cockatoo is ceremoniously withdrawn from the Square and returned to the Island kindergarten playground. For as long as she remains in charge, says Trudy Wentwhistle, every child who attends will be told of the brave and noble warriors from far and wide who fought so hard to keep their park so they could play, propose and possibly (probably) procreate under the spreading arms of the cheese tree.

‘We made history, didn' we, Sam?' Jimmy asks.

‘Yeah, mate.' Sam feels oddly flat. Sensing his mood, Longfellow, who's made the transition from pup to a gloriously full-grown dog with a full deck of impeccable manners that every Island mum hopes to instil in her kids, gives him a quizzical, head-sideways look. He rubs the mutt's velvet ears, sighs loudly. Wonders if chugging the open waterways with a kid and a dog is going to feel a little dull after the past few months of adrenalin-fuelled hand-to-hand combat. In a moment of madness, he considers whether he might swap his barge business for a life in politics. Discards the idea almost immediately. Even on a top day, he wouldn't be able to keep up with the skulduggery. The thought settles his mind, brings peace. He'll focus on keeping his home turf clean and safe. ‘Jimmy!' he shouts.

‘Standin' right next to ya, Sam.'

‘Time for a driving lesson. If you're going to chauffeur me around in my old age, I want to feel confident you're as good as the legendary Jack Brabham.'

‘Who's Jack Brabham, Sam?'

The image of a tape measure strung along the edge of a bathtub flashes through his mind. Halfway through my allotted time, providing all goes well, he thinks. But he's content with the knowledge that in a small but critical way he has helped to make a difference. ‘You got any shoes with you? You can't learn to drive unless you're wearing shoes, mate. Rule number one.'

‘Longfella! Fetch me shoes!' orders the kid, pointing in the direction of home.

The dog takes off. Pink tongue flapping. Fur flying. On a mission. Five minutes later, triumphant, he's back on Sam's dock. He drops a single boat shoe. Looks up for approval. ‘Now, go git the other one!' Jimmy orders. Longfellow flies off.

‘You're doing a fine job bringing up that dog, Jimmy. First class.'

‘Aw. If ya say so.' He blushes red from his toes to his top. The dog returns. Spits out the shoe. It falls in the water.

‘Still got a way to go, though, eh?'

‘He's a good dog, Sam. We all make mistakes, me mum says.'

The Briny Café declares a record-breaking season. While the two owners expected business to drop off once the publicity about Garrawi faded away, the crowds keep coming. Some are rubber-neckers but there's also a surprising number of supporters and everyday mums and dads who are fighting their own backyard environmental battles. ‘Can you give us a blueprint?' they ask, over and over, until one day Sam and Siobhan spend a whole day trying to distil an erratic but passionate campaign into coherent advice.

1) Form an efficient committee

2) Keep minutes of every meeting

3) Be open and completely scrupulous about funds

4) Have a designated media spokesperson and never lie

5) Think outside the square

6) Never give up

7) Always be on the front foot

8) Never pause or let up the pressure even when it goes quiet

9) Never believe what you are told

10) Big business lies. Check the background of every ‘official' statement

11) Use the internet to get and spread information

12) Knowledge is a mighty weapon

13) Do not be afraid of bullies

14) Never fight on their terms

15) Be creative, do ridiculous stunts to get attention

16) Line up your patrons

17) Suck up to the media and never lie (repeated for emphasis)

18) Never take a backward step

19) Light spot fires all over the place (metaphorically)

20) With patience and persistence you will prevail

‘Twenty steps to victory,' Siobhan says. ‘Set out like a women's magazine suggesting twenty ways to drop a dress size. But it's never that simple, is it? We got lucky, sonny.'

‘Nah,' Sam says, daring to disagree with her for the first time. ‘As my dad used to say, luck is where ability and opportunity meet. He also used to say that the harder you work, the luckier you get.'

‘A nice man, then, was he?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Not much of a realist, though. If you don't mind me saying so. A good man died so we could get lucky. And another man gave us a fortune for no other reason than he'd always loved the park. Truth – stranger than fiction, eh?'

In June, with a new government in power that no one really believes will be able – or even willing – to clean out the stench of corruption in high places, café business shows no sign of slowing. Kate and Ettie sit down in the mostly vacant penthouse with the figures for nearly a year of trading. Ettie, who'd rather eat glass than add up, surreptitiously moves the paperwork to one side.

‘The quotes are in for a new roof and it's more than affordable. The builder will replace it section by section so we won't have to close the café for even a day.'

‘Who's doing the work?'

‘Reagan. From the Island.'

‘Ah, good girl. Keeping the money in the community where it does the most good.'

‘Best price, Ettie, business is business. And he's near enough to chase up if he does anything dodgy.'

Ettie sighs. Then looks alarmed. ‘Kate? Are you all right?'

Kate is on her feet, heading for the bathroom, a hand over her mouth. Ettie hears retching. A flush.

‘Sorry. Must have eaten something . . .' she says when she returns.

‘Not café food, Kate, don't tell me that.'

‘No, of course not.' Kate sits again, pale but functioning. ‘I might as well admit that since Jenny joined us, business has boomed. I know outside events have helped hugely, but Jenny's ability in the kitchen means we've doubled our capacity in a way that would never have happened with only my input. I'd like to suggest hiring her as a permanent, part-time – sous chef.'

‘But Kate –'

‘Hear me out. All three of us work the morning and lunchtime shifts. Jenny quits at two o'clock, in time for her kids, and I work through to closing time, giving you an afternoon break before the school rush. Frankly, most of my work now is routine maintenance, ordering and keeping track of the money. Not physical enough to wear me out.'

‘I'm not that smart, Kate, but this has the ring of a long-term plan to give up The Briny.'

‘No, Ettie. If I wanted out, I'd tell you. And frankly, there's not enough money yet to buy me out. You'd have to find another partner.'

‘I see,' Ettie says. ‘God, Kate. Are you sick again? How long's this been going on? Time to see a doctor, love.' The bathroom door slams. Ettie fetches a glass of water. When Kate emerges, even paler and gripping her stomach, she sends her home.

Feeling like she's abandoned a sick woman, Ettie calls Sam and asks him to check on her in the morning. ‘Long as you're not trying to play match-maker. We're friends, Ettie, nothing more,' he says.

‘That's what friends do, Sam, they look after each other.'

In the morning, when the sun is still no more than a flat orange line on the horizon, Sam follows through on his promise to Ettie. As he guides the
Mary Kay
past Artie's yacht, he hears a kettle whistling and smiles inwardly at the thought that the old man with his buggered legs and razor-sharp mind will live to see another day.

Nearer Kate's house, he feels a shiver. Even in summer, the estuary end of Oyster Bay is a gloomy spot, he thinks. At this time of the year, it broods darkly in shadows until almost noon. He ties up at Kate's pontoon, telling himself a quick
hello
and
how are you
and he'll be out of there in a flash. He and Jimmy have a full day's work ahead and Ettie's a born worrier. Kate's probably only got a mild bug.

She opens the door to his knock in her pyjamas. Reaches on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The warm, musty bed smell of her almost brings him undone. Without a word, she leads the way inside, leaving him no choice but to follow. In the kitchen, she begins the ritual of preparing a couple of mugs of fragrant tea – her favourite, Darjeeling – without asking if he'd like one. Unless he's prepared to be flat-out rude, he's stymied.

‘Feeling a bit crook, love?' he begins.

‘Timothy O'Reilly sent me his DNA profile,' she says, pouring boiling water into the warmed pot. ‘He's out of the picture.' She fits the lid back on, slips on a plain knitted green tea cosy.

‘So the old bloke was fairdinkum, eh? You always thought he was.'

‘Alex emailed me a copy of his DNA results, too.' She lines up two very fine white bone china mugs. Pours milk into his. Leaves hers empty. She spins the pot, first one way and then the other. Never looking up. ‘I sent them off with Emily's for analysis.' She pours the brew. Very quietly, she adds: ‘Just got the results.'

‘Ah.'

She finally looks at him. ‘You guessed, didn't you?'

‘Are you going to tell Alex?'

‘Not unless he asks.'

‘He will.'

‘Yeah.' In the early grey light drifting through the kitchen window, Kate looks haggard. He has no idea how to help her. She hands him his tea then disappears into the bedroom. Returns with the box of horrors, as he thinks of it, and puts it carefully on the table. Like it's a ticking bomb. ‘I can't bring myself to throw this stuff away. And yet keeping it feels like picking at a scab.'

‘Get rid of it, Kate. Ditch it. Burn it. Bury it. Long as it's here, Emily rules. You're better than that.'

‘Am I?'

Trying for lightness, he grins. ‘Well, you showed a lot of early promise but fell by the wayside a couple of times. There's nothing holding you back now, love. You are who you are. No secrets. No ghosts. No reason to look back. Time to step forward.' Jeez, he thinks, I sound like a football coach.

‘I can't help wondering how it happened. I keep trying to see Emily as a victim, but the image doesn't work. Maybe if she was a kid when the abuse began . . .'

‘You'll never know.'

‘Trouble is, she always had to be top dog. Maybe she was the instigator –'

‘Jesus Christ, Kate,' he says in frustration, ‘what does it matter whether a father abused his daughter or Emily seduced her father? Let it go. Or you'll end up as bitter and twisted as your mother.'

‘I'm pregnant, Sam.' Her voice is small. Defeated. Trapped.

He closes his eyes, drops his head into his hands and waits for the kicker line he knows is coming. But he's wrong; the silence goes on and on. ‘When is it due?' he asks, finally.

‘October. I lost track. All the travel. Work. The Briny boom. It's too late to do anything about it.'

‘Wouldn't want you to, love. I've always dreamed of having a kid –'

‘This is not about you, Sam,' she says, breaking in. ‘I don't want this baby. Any baby.'

‘Ah jeez, Kate,' he says, wincing. ‘A little baby. They're miracles of engineering and evolution, you know.'

She grimaces: ‘Evolution! Take a good look at my family history, Sam. A dreadful legacy for a kid. What if it turns out to be a monster like Emily?' She is on the verge of tears. Sam reaches for her hand. She snatches it away.

‘There's not a pregnant woman in the world that doesn't fear and hope for her child in equal parts. This little Cook's Basin baby will be fine. Trust me,' he says.

Kate pushes her chair back from the kitchen table, walks to the window and stares out. The light, warmer now, catches her face. ‘You have no idea what it feels like knowing there's no way out.'

‘It's a baby, Kate. People have them every day. Give yourself time.'

‘I don't want it, Sam. I don't want anything to do with it. It's a mistake. A hideous mistake. Oh god, I'm just like Emily. Oh god.' She bunches her fists, pushes them against her cheeks, forcing back tears.

He steps towards her and takes her hands in his: ‘Not like Emily, love. Never like that.' He leads her back to the table, takes a seat and guides her onto his knee like a child in need of comfort. ‘I've always been good with babies, did I ever tell you that? For some reason, they love me. It's my size, I think. Makes them feel safe. A baby, eh? Girl or a boy, do you know yet? Doesn't matter, of course.'

‘Will you be there for the birth?' she asks in a tone that's as close to desperate need as he's ever heard from her.

‘I'll be with you all the way and on any terms you set out.'