by Derek Hansen
‘It’ll be cooler on the beach,’ said Adrian. ‘Come on, I’ll take you snorkelling.’
Snorkelling at Homestead Beach was always spectacular but on this day it was more spectacular than most. Permit up to six kilos grazed on oysters within metres of the shore. Well-disciplined schools of trevally swam past, turning and diving with perfect synchronisation. Spiky gossamer-finned lionfish nosed gently around the holes in the coral, sharing their habitat with parrotfish and leatherjackets of every colour and size. And the usual suspects, the myriad small, riotously coloured coral dwellers, surrounded them, taking care to remain just — and only just — out of reach.
Even more spectacular, from Adrian’s point of view, was the beautiful woman swimming alongside him. The previous night when they’d lain in bed together, her skin glowing by the soft light of the candles arranged along the shelf behind the bed, he’d been totally besotted, unable to imagine any woman more exquisite or desirable. That had only added to his frustration and confusion. Yet, if anything, Suzanne looked even more gorgeous in her tiny bikini, with the sun on the water dappling her skin. He stopped breathing every time she glided beneath him in pursuit of a fish that had caught her attention. He could not take his eyes off her. His face mask and the crystal-clear tropical water magnified her, accentuating her curves, exaggerating her perfection. He forgot about his failure and the disaster of the previous night. Before long he began to feel a familiar tingling in his loins.
‘Hallelujah!’ he said into his snorkel.
‘I think we should go straight home,’ said Adrian.
‘Oh?’ said Suzanne. She’d only just picked up her towel to dry herself.
‘Unfinished business.’
‘Oh!’ she said again. The reason for urgency had become obvious.‘Welcome back.’
‘A quick shower,’ said Adrian in the Suzuki four-wheel drive as they headed up the road. ‘Then a lie-down before dinner.’
‘Why does the shower have to be quick?’ asked Suzanne.
Adrian laughed. It was the easy, joyful laugh of a man for whom all burdens had been lifted, the laugh of a man on a promise.
‘It doesn’t,’ he said.‘We can take as long as we like.’
Adrian hoped Mary wasn’t watching as he jumped out of the little Suzuki to open the gate. No one could mistake his intentions. He drove in, parked and raced back to close the gate. Suzanne could hardly stop laughing.
‘Patience,’ she said. ‘All good things come to those who wait.’
‘Damn it, I’ve waited long enough.’
To avoid Mary, he led Suzanne around the side of the main building to the steps leading down to the bures. They were like teenagers in their eagerness.
Bugger the shower, thought Adrian. He decided to head straight to bed where he intended to make up for lost time with the most urgent, energetic, frenetic lovemaking of his life. Then he saw the movement in the garden.
‘Oh no!’ he cried.‘Not now!’
‘What’s the matter?’ said Suzanne.
‘Deer,’ said Adrian.
‘Leave them be,’ she said.
‘Can’t,’ he said. He knew exactly how much damage deer could do in just a matter of minutes. He also knew that it would take him at least half an hour to chase the deer out and repair the fence, even with Mary’s help.
‘You go ahead and shower,’ he said miserably.
Suzanne stared at him in disbelief before turning her back on him and storming off.
It took Adrian and Mary more than half an hour to chase off the deer and repair the fence. By the time he caught up with Suzanne she’d showered, changed for dinner and returned to the main building. She was reading a copy of Stock Watch when he joined her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She ignored him.
‘Margarita?’
She’d made her own.
‘It’s not a cancellation,’ he said.‘Only a temporary delay.’
‘Wanna bet?’ said Suzanne icily.
Adrian made her another margarita and it helped.
‘Mary’s making us more sashimi,’ said Adrian.
The sashimi helped even more.
When Mary brought them Thai fishcakes Suzanne actually smiled for the first time that evening.
‘Thai fishcakes,’ she said.‘I adore them.’
‘Make special for you and Mr Adrian,’ said Mary solemnly.
‘If you like them so much, have one of mine as well,’ said Adrian.
‘Thank you,’ said Suzanne.
‘Thai green chicken curry to follow,’ cut in Mary quickly. She clearly disapproved of Adrian sharing his fishcakes.
‘In that case I’ll just have what I’ve been given,’ said Suzanne.‘I adore green chicken curry.’
‘Am I forgiven?’ asked Adrian, once Mary had returned to the kitchen.
‘Almost,’ said Suzanne. ‘But I’m expecting big things from you tonight.’
‘So am I,’ said Adrian.‘So am I.’
‘This is getting beyond a joke,’ said Suzanne.
They lay side by side with nothing covering them except the mosquito net hanging from the frame above the bed.
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Adrian miserably.‘I can’t believe this is happening to me.’
‘I can’t believe what’s not happening to me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Maybe it’s my fault,’ said Suzanne. ‘Maybe there’s something about my body that turns you off.’
‘Are you kidding?’ said Adrian. ‘You are the perfect woman. Your body is everything men dream of. Your body would give a snowman an erection.’
‘Maybe you’d better get me a snowman,’ said Suzanne.
Something suspiciously like contempt had crept into her voice, adding to his humiliation.
Once again Adrian pinned all his hopes on a dawnbreaker but once again the sun rose alone. For Suzanne it was the last straw.
When she asked him to arrange a charter to fly her back to Nadi, Adrian didn’t object. After all, what could he say to placate her? What guarantees could he give? Instead he booked a light plane and also rescheduled her onward flight back to Hawaii. Conversation was desultory on the drive out to the airstrip. When the light plane raced down the grass runway and took off over the indigo sea, Adrian felt a sense of relief overcome his shame and disappointment. He’d never suffered such humiliation before in his life and was relieved that he wouldn’t have to endure more.
He didn’t drive straight home. He wanted to give Mary time to clean up and remove any trace of Suzanne. He wanted no reminders of his failure. Instead he drove down to the lagoon, parked his Suzuki and walked disconsolately onto the jetty. A slight breeze ruffled the water in the lagoon but not enough to obscure the dark shapes of trevally cruising by. He thought he was alone until he noticed the boat boy, Mika, fishing with a handline from a small boat tied alongside. As he watched, Mika pulled in a small brownish-green fish and dropped it into the live-bait tank by his feet. The fish joined four or five others just like it.
‘Your dinner?’ said Adrian.
‘Noo . . . not dinner,’ said Mika. He looked up guiltily.
‘Sashimi?’
‘Noo . . . not sashimi.’
‘No?’ said Adrian.‘Why not?’
‘Dis fish not good fish for man to eat.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Adrian irritably.
‘Ujimate fish,’ said Mika uncomfortably.
‘What?’ said Adrian. He never could get the hang of Fijian. He had no ear for the language. It had too many vowels.
‘Ujimate,’ repeated Mika.
‘Does it have an English name?’
‘Yes.’ Mika clearly wished it hadn’t.
‘What is the English name?’
Mika was prepared to look anywhere except at Adrian, his guilt and complicity inescapable.
‘Come on!’ said Adrian.
‘Him call deadwillyfish.’
‘Deadwillyfish?’ said Adr
ian. ‘Dead-willy-fish!’ He looked more closely at the fish in the tank, recognised them as the same kind of fish he’d seen on a plate under cling wrap in his refrigerator. ‘Dead-willy-fish?’ he repeated weakly. He closed his eyes. At last he understood what Mary had meant when she’d said,‘Make special for you and Miss Suzanne.’
Footnote: The deadwillyfish exists. The Fijian name for it is ujimate: uji is slang for penis and mate means dead. It is also known by a somewhat more polite name, ulumate; ulu being the Fijian word for head. Ujimate are brown in colour and rarely exceed thirty to forty centimetres. When they’re not intended to be used as live bait, their heads are cut off so men know not to eat them. Women, apparently, can eat them with impunity. Spanish mackerel or walu treat them as a favoured staple and appear to suffer no ill effects, but then again how would you know?
The Peppermint Pom
Terry looked at the rotating cowl atop his stainless-steel chimney and thought lubricating it would be a cinch, the sort of thing any chartered accountant could do. He’d bought the squeeze bottle of graphite he’d been told to use and borrowed his neighbour’s extension ladder. A wiser man might have waited for a calm day, but the deep-throated moaning and groaning of the cowl swinging in the wind had been driving his wife spare. She’d made him promise to fix it before he went fishing. He hoped a squeeze of graphite would silence both the cowl and his wife.
When he lifted off the cowl he was surprised at how light it was. When a sudden gust came up and blew him off the roof he was surprised how something so small could catch so much wind. When he hit the ground he was surprised how much it hurt.
‘Barry,’ he gasped into his mobile phone, ‘I’ve had an accident. I won’t be able to go. Sorry.’ He had just enough time to make a second call for an ambulance before he lost consciousness.
‘Terry’s a non-starter,’ said Big Barry to Carlton. Like Terry, they were also chartered accountants but with different specialisations: Big Barry worked in insolvency while Carlton was a tax adviser.‘He fell off his roof.’
‘What on earth was he doing up there?’ said Carlton.
‘Nothing he was good at.’
Carlton smiled into the phone. Accountants weren’t supposed to have a sense of humour but this was the way he and his mates carried on. Nothing was so serious that they couldn’t find a laugh in it.
‘Anything break his fall?’ said Carlton, picturing Terry’s home and the height of the roof.
‘Only the ground,’ said Big Barry.
This time Carlton laughed out loud.
‘Poor bugger,’ he said.‘How is he?’
‘Broke his leg.’
‘Ouch.’
‘In two places.’
‘Ouch, ouch.’
‘He rang me before he rang the ambulance.’
‘At least he understood the gravity of the situation.’ This time it was Big Barry’s turn to laugh.
‘I’ll tell him what you said when I see him tonight,’ said Big Barry.‘He’s in Royal North Shore. But, mate, it’s time to get serious. He was our last reserve. His broken leg leaves us a man short.’
Every two years the boys abandoned jobs, families and their normal sense of responsibility and went away fishing together. This time Big Barry had been the organiser and he’d arranged a barramundi fishing expedition to Maningrida, way up at the Top End in the wilds of Arnhemland. He’d spent hours on the internet talking to barramundi fishermen before settling on Maningrida. According to his research, the Liverpool and Blyth rivers were loaded with the best saltwater barra fishing in the country. Normally Maningrida fished three anglers to a boat but Big Barry had been advised that fishing in pairs was the way to go. The boys had agreed to pay an extra five hundred dollars each for the privilege. There was one drawback to Maningrida, however, and for a while it had been something of a sticking point. Maningrida was on Aboriginal land and there were tough penalties for anyone caught taking alcohol there. It took a lot of convincing by Big Barry before the others were persuaded that the quality of the fishing justified the abstinence. They couldn’t imagine sitting around in the evening without a beer, scotch or glass of red. It was the sort of sacrifice none of them had ever envisaged making, especially on one of their fishing trips.
Maningrida could only accommodate six more guests so Big Barry signed up five of his mates and sent off their deposits. To be safe, he also lined up three reserves because he knew from past experience that someone always dropped out.
Russell, a divisional manager with a manufacturing conglomerate, was the first to withdraw. His company decided to take over a competitor and Russell was put in charge of the project. It was exactly the sort of opportunity he’d been hoping for to give him a leg up the corporate ladder.
‘Man’s lost all sense of perspective and priority,’ said Carlton, even though he’d sent Russell a bottle of champagne along with his congratulations. ‘It’ll bring him more money, more prestige and more job satisfaction. But he’ll have nothing to go with his chips.’
Yanni, their token Greek, took Russell’s place. Yanni was a partner in an import company that brought in specialty foods from Europe. He’d been bitterly disappointed when he was balloted out of the original six.
Then Neal, a marketing director, had to drop out to attend the birth of his first child. The boys had a field day over that.
‘You’re out of your mind,’ Big Barry told him. ‘You can always have another kid.’
‘You could have dozens,’ said Carlton. ‘Now that you’ve worked out what to do.’
Mick, a software sales manager, took Neal’s place. Mick wasn’t a natural fisherman but made up for the deficiency with sheer enthusiasm.
Then Steve, a corporate lawyer, had a routine colonoscopy that revealed a cancerous growth needing immediate surgery.
‘Gruesome,’ said Carlton.‘Can’t they wait a couple of weeks?’
‘First question I asked,’ said Steve. ‘They said if I wait a couple of weeks I could die.’
‘Tough decision,’ said Big Barry.
Terry, the roof diver, took Steve’s place and promptly landed them in their predicament.
The five survivors met over a beer at the Newport Arms to discuss their problem.
‘The thing is, we’re committed,’ said Big Barry.‘We have to pay for six even if only five of us go. We’ll save a bit on airfares but it’s still another seven hundred dollars each.’
‘The tech wreck hasn’t exactly left me flush,’ said Mick. ‘I’m not sure I can afford the extra.’
‘It’s a big ask,’ said Graham, who was the oldest and retired.
‘Big ask, maybe, but you’ve got the big answers,’ said Carlton.‘You could buy and sell the lot of us.’
‘Who’d want to?’ said Graham.
‘Does anyone know anyone else who’d like to come with us?’ said Big Barry.‘Graham?’
‘I’ve tried a few blokes but they need more notice.’
‘Same here,’ said Carlton.
‘Come on. Somebody must know someone,’ said Big Barry.
‘Well . . .’ said Yanni hesitantly.‘I met this bloke at a dinner party who reckons he’s mother-shipped on the Iron Lady up in Buckingham Bay.’
‘I looked into that,’ said Big Barry.
‘Said he’d also fished the Arafura Swamp.’
‘Lucky man,’ said Big Barry. ‘I looked at both those options. They’re lineball with Maningrida.’
‘He actually said that if anyone dropped out he’d love to go.’
The boys all turned and looked at Yanni as if he’d just materialised from another dimension. They couldn’t understand why he hadn’t volunteered this information earlier so they could get on with some serious drinking and the kind of facetious exchanges that kept them entertained.
‘So what are you waiting for?’ said Big Barry. ‘Written instructions?’
‘Could be an invitation to disaster,’ said Yanni.‘Remember the golden rule. Never go away fishing with someon
e you don’t know well enough to lend your car to.’
‘I thought it was wife,’ said Carlton.
‘No, car,’ said Mick.‘We upped the stakes last meeting.’
‘What’s he like?’ said Big Barry impatiently. He wanted business settled so he could relax.
‘Can’t say for sure. We’d both had more than a few. He seemed all right. For a Pom.’
‘For a Pom?’ said Mick.
‘A Pom that sucks peppermints. When he reached into his pocket for his car keys, rolls of peppermints went everywhere.’
‘At least he doesn’t suck his teeth,’ said Graham charitably.
‘Not to invite him just because he’s a Pom smacks of discrimination,’ said Big Barry after the fifth round of beer. ‘After all, we’re talking seven hundred bucks a head here.’
‘Are all his limbs intact?’ asked Carlton. ‘Does he wander about on his roof?’
‘I think you should give him a call,’ said Big Barry.
‘Okay,’ said Yanni. ‘But don’t blame me if he turns out to be a jerk.’
‘What’s his name?’ said Big Barry.
‘Neville.’
The boys sat back and thought of all the Nevilles they knew, as if that might give them some inkling of what to expect, but nobody actually knew any.
‘Had a mate once who had a dog called Neville,’ said Carlton eventually.‘Goofy-looking thing but a brilliant ratter.’
‘In that case Neville will probably do fine,’ said Big Barry.
When the light plane that flew them from Darwin to Maningrida touched down, the boys could hardly hide their excitement. The Liverpool River looked as fishy as all hell. Not too murky and with just the right amount of water flowing.
‘Not the prettiest place,’ said Neville, sucking on a peppermint.‘Bit of a dump compared to Buckingham Bay.’
The boys paid Neville no attention and carted their bags and gear over to the accommodation. It looked good. The tents were high and spacious, protected from both sun and rain by generous flysheets, and were erected over timber floors. The toilets, which they queued to use, were clean and not at all on the nose. The boys were impressed.
‘Not exactly the Hilton,’ said Neville. ‘I was expecting better. Even Millingimby in the Arafura Swamp has hardstand accommodation. Only the toilets and bathrooms were under canvas.’