Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  His back was tense right across, his head bent. But he gave a quick nod. OK.

  ‘Nice work,’ said Kerry, softly. ‘Now, time to get you both home.’

  Chapter 26

  Kerry

  The dusting needed doing. Kerry was aware because Meredith had reminded him once already, and any time now would no doubt be donning the white gloves to run her finger over the mantelpiece. She’d reminded him, too, about the lightbulbs in the hallway, which he’d apparently been promising to replace for twelve days (he doubted it was that long, but she was his boss and so had the final word). Last shopping trip, he’d forgotten to buy milk and toilet paper, which, yes, fair call, were somewhat essential, and he’d cooked macaroni cheese for three lunches in a row, prompting complaints from Jonty, who, now that he was venturing downstairs and even out into the garden, should be perfectly able to cater for his own midday meal. If the man bothered to look, he’d find both an omelette pan and — all right, seemed eggs had also been forgotten on the shopping trip. Kerry made a mental note to make better mental notes. Proper notes on paper he invariably left behind.

  Trouble was, his schedule — and hence his brain — was too full. There was so much to do, and everyone wanted a piece of his time. Doc Love had persuaded a draughtsman friend to work up his rough sketches for the fish factory space, and Kerry had made the mistake of saying they looked fine without consulting anyone else, which, verily, had brought the wrath of Mac down upon him.

  ‘This is not a dictatorship, bucko,’ she said. ‘Everyone gets a vote.’

  But, of course, finding a meeting date that suited everyone had been impossible, so Kerry had run around like the proverbial fly with the blue-hued rear, showing the drawings to them all individually, and (of course) coming away with seven completely different individual opinions. He decided that the opinions of Mac, Meredith and Doc Love were the ones to take heed of, and if Jacko, Gene and Bernard complained, he’d tell them it was Mac who’d overridden them. Kerry’s worst feeling of disloyalty was to Sidney, but she wasn’t precious, was she? She’d be happy to go with what she believed was the result of a genuinely collaborative effort.

  Then there was old Mr Caracci, owner of the fish factory, who, after saying he had no wish to be involved, had been persuaded by his sons to change his mind. God knows why they’d become suddenly interested, but the Caracci Juniors now wanted a contract drawn up, giving the miniature displays a one-year lease. After that, they would revalue the fish factory and if the fortunes of Gabriel’s Bay had improved enough to create a material rise in the property’s market value then they reserved the right to boot their tenants out and advertise to potential buyers. The upside was that, for a year at least, they would not charge rent. Oh, and by the way, Mr Caracci Senior was to be ribbon-cutter at the opening, and receive a seat on the board of the charitable trust that had (obviously) been set up to manage the finances.

  After a panicked phone call to Sidney for advice, Kerry made an appointment to grovel to Corinna Marshall, who laughed and suggested he make an appointment with her husband and grovel to him. Fortunately, Tai Te Wera proved to be a fine, upstanding human being who said he would donate his services and advise them on establishing a charitable trust, appointing a board and all the other legal hoo-ha that seemed fully unncessary but Tai assured him was Good Practice 101.

  ‘Otherwise,’ said Tai, ‘you have no proper governance and no financial checks and balances. Someone could skim the profits and you’d be none the wiser.’

  Privately, Kerry doubted there’d be any profits worth skimming, but he thanked Tai profusely and complimented him on the fine tailoring of his suit.

  As Kerry was leaving, Tai said, ‘I assume you’ve consulted with the local iwi? They’re bound to feel they have a stake in this project.’

  Kerry’s hand tightened on the doorframe. ‘I’ve talked to your wife,’ he said. ‘Does that qualify as consultation?’

  Tai pursed his mouth. Kerry suspected him of trying to conceal a smile.

  ‘It’s certainly a good start,’ said Tai. ‘But you might need to go wider than that.’

  ‘And, er, how would I go about it?’ said Kerry. ‘To date my only formal interaction with indigenous people has been with customs officials in Dar es Salaam. And that, so they claimed, was strictly routine.’

  Tai was smiling openly now. ‘Would you like me to make some calls?’

  ‘That would be terrific,’ said Kerry. ‘And if you could come, too, and do all the talking, that’d top it off perfectly.’

  Kerry couldn’t say he’d understood much of what had been discussed in yet another extensive series of meetings, but according to Tai and Devon, who’d also helped out, the iwi had apparently agreed to support the project. A few conditions, of course. (Of course.) They, too, must have a representative on the board, and the war-game display must include a re-creation of the area’s famous battle, in which the local tribe had, legend had it, given an invading tribe such a comprehensive drubbing that their enemies had been too cowed ever to return. Given the pre-European timing of the battle, Kerry doubted that tanks had been involved. But he was sure Doc Love would make an exception. Fairly sure, anyway.

  At the last iwi consulation meeting, a terrifyingly competent woman in power-company management had asked, ‘What’s your marketing strategy?’ Kerry hoped he’d sounded convincing when he’d replied that it was in development. That evening, at the Boat Shed after a well-earned beer, he’d asked, ‘How does one go about developing a marketing strategy? What even is a marketing strategy?’

  ‘It’s how we advertise and promote our attraction to people,’ said Sidney. ‘Don’t know how, but that’s the idea.’

  ‘And you’ve landed squarely on our first problem right there,’ said Kerry. ‘“Our attraction” doesn’t even have a name yet.’

  ‘Tiny Town,’ said Gene. ‘Short, easy to remember.’

  ‘Doesn’t that sound a bit Enid Blyton-ish?’ said Kerry.

  ‘Better than Models Galore,’ said Gene. ‘That was Aggie Robotham’s contribution.’

  ‘You’d have to be careful Googling that one,’ said Sidney. ‘You might end up married to someone called Tatanya.’

  ‘Smallville,’ called Jacko from the kitchen.

  ‘Think you’ll find DC Comics owns that,’ said Devon. ‘You’ll have to prise it out of Superman’s cold, dead hands.’

  ‘Littleville, then, for Pete’s sake.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a kids’ TV show in the seventies?’ said Gene.

  ‘Lidsville,’ said Mac. ‘Giant talking hats. Flying hippies.’

  ‘No, the fools with wings were the Bugaloos,’ said Gene. ‘It’s all coming back to me.’

  Devon shook his head in disbelief. ‘Was this, like, televised acid trips for kids?’

  ‘Don’t get us started on Pufinstuf,’ said Mac. ‘It’s a wonder we stayed sober as long as we did.’

  ‘I quite like Littleville,’ said Sidney.

  ‘It’s a town in Alabama,’ said Kerry, who’d searched on his phone. ‘And an Indian preschool franchise. Doubt either of those will sue us. In saying that, it is Alabama.’

  ‘What’s Māori for “little”, Dev?’ said Gene.

  ‘Iti.’

  ‘Iti-ville?’ said Gene. ‘Iti Town? Iti Pā? Papaete? Come on, work with me here.’

  ‘Littleville’s still my frontrunner,’ said Sidney.

  ‘Little Town?’ said Kerry.

  ‘Want to pick a fight with Lyttelton?’ said Mac.

  ‘Depends,’ said Kerry. ‘Are they scarier than Alabama?’

  ‘Littleville!’ Jacko slapped a whole fish onto the kitchen bench. ‘Stop messing about!’

  ‘The mayor has spoken,’ said Gene. ‘All in favour?’

  ‘Aye,’ they all said.

  ‘Step one towards a marketing strategy,’ said Kerry. ‘And I suppose we could use the Gabriel’s Bay website to promote it.’

  ‘What website?’ said everyone.


  He brought it up on his phone. Everyone clustered around to see. Everyone laughed.

  ‘Last updated 1998,’ Gene read from the bottom of the home page.

  ‘Oh,’ said Kerry. ‘I missed that bit. Does Google not have quality control?’

  ‘Google doesn’t actually own the internet,’ said Devon. ‘OK, no, maybe they do. But they don’t give a toss what’s on it.’

  ‘Models Galore,’ said Gene, with a nod.

  ‘The more the merrier.’ Sidney raised her glass. ‘To Littleville! And, as the Young Communists used to say with nary a hint of irony: To the success of the scheduled tasks!’

  Fortunately, Littleville had been well received by the project’s supporters, mainly, Kerry suspected, because it was Jacko’s idea and he was scarier than Alabama and Lyttelton combined.

  Still, it was a win, and Kerry needed those for morale in his struggle to complete his seemingly endless scheduled tasks. For every item he ticked off another two took its place, like a flow-chart Hydra. As well as consulting with every man and his dog about the layout for the space (yes, King did get a look), dealing with the Caraccis’ offer he could not refuse, signing trust paperwork, attending meeting after meeting with iwi (which mostly consisted of sitting beside Tai and Devon and smiling a lot), there’d been a queue of artisans beating down his door. Word had got round that Gabriel’s Bay was creating a showcase for their work, but the salient point about it being in miniature had been lost. Kerry had to disappoint a man who made sculptures from rusted cars, multiple crafters of sandstone garden statuary, a group who wrapped trees in knitting, and a travelling circus. Everyone else, he took names and contact details of those who were not off-grid and promised to get back to them.

  And then there was Bernard, who had gone from being a ‘supply me with evidence’ sceptic to a fervent evangelist for the project. Kerry had no idea what had turned him, but every time Bernard came to see Jonty, he collared Kerry and grilled him about his progress. Bernard had his own list of tasks for Kerry, and became generally aggrieved when he discovered how much on that list Kerry had not yet done. Bernard’s biggest bugbear was Elaine, and he insisted the only way to thwart her was for Kerry to suck up to the Hampton District Council.

  ‘You must get in front of the mayor,’ said Bernard, ‘and the councillors who are likely to warm to our project — I can supply you with names. Build up a big enough base of support and any attempts to derail us will be themselves derailed.’

  ‘And why can’t you talk to them?’ Kerry said.

  ‘Because the Progressive Association has had cause in the past to take the council to task,’ said Bernard. ‘Perfectly justifiably, I might add. But grudges may have been formed. I think they’d be more amenable to an approach from a … a fresh face.’

  Instead of your beardy, speccy old one. Kerry immediately retracted the thought as uncharitable. Bernard meant well, and it was good, yes, relatively, that they had him on side. But they’d not yet heard a dicky-bird from the dreaded Elaine, and in Kerry’s opinion that meant she was stuck for ideas. Kerry was frantic enough right now. Until there was cause to worry, the council could wait.

  He was doing his best, he really was, but things kept falling off, like green bottles from a wall. He’d had to cancel this week’s football coaching, which caused Aidan to act up to the point where Sidney had to cut her tutoring session short, and waive her fee. Kerry offered to reimburse her, which had made her even more cross. She reminded him that these were kids he’d committed to, just in case, he supposed, he’d mistaken them for sentient plant-life with bad spatial awareness. He apologised, promised to do better, all the while wishing she would be more understanding. Sense encouraged him to refrain from telling her how much he had on his plate because, as sense pointed out, he’d been juggling multiple responsibilities for a matter of weeks and Sidney had been doing it for close to ten straight years.

  And, to be fair, she hadn’t been on his case about not spending enough time with her. Not that there was actually any chance of being in each other’s pockets, thanks to a dearth of available evenings, and locations conducive to intimacy.

  Mac babysat the boys when Sidney worked at the Boat Shed, but after being on her feet and smiling at people for hours, all Sidney wanted to do was crawl into bed — ‘alone’. But then she’d been reluctant to do anything if the boys were in the house. ‘It’s not that I think they’ll be traumatised,’ she said. ‘More that we will be if they point and laugh.’ That left their respective vehicles — ‘Ha, ha, no,’ said Sidney, ‘I hated it even when I was seventeen and desperate’ — or his sleep-out on Meredith’s property. But that meant sneaking past the main house, plus organising and paying babysitters and more sneaking to drop Sidney home by eleven. The result being that they’d had three nights together in two weeks, and now that she was miffed about the cancelled football session it seemed prudent to wait for her to arrange the next one.

  Kerry checked his phone. No text from Sidney, but he saw one from his mother that he’d completely forgotten about. ‘YOU DEAD???!!’ it said. He’d been politely rebuffing the travelling circus when it arrived, so hadn’t replied. That was two days ago. She may well now be weeping in an aeroplane seat, winging her way to reclaim her only son’s body. He texted back: ‘Am OK. V busy. Will call soon.’

  Soon was probably overstating it, but at least she knew he wasn’t laid out on a slab.

  Jehoshaphat! It was nearly midday! He hadn’t started lunch, and had, in fact, no idea what he intended to cook. Something that did not require eggs or milk, obviously, so on the plus side that put a fourth day of macaroni cheese out of the question. And he still hadn’t done the dusting. Better hop to it.

  The phone rang as he was running a damp cloth under the armpits of two cherubs atop an ormolu clock. Meredith had said she’d be in her study, doing an inventory on her doll’s house contents, so Kerry waited for her to answer. The phone continued to ring. Jonty’s voice floated mellifluously down from the upper floor.

  ‘Will someone pick up that infernal machine?’

  ‘Barton residence,’ said Kerry, while his mind wafted curses upwards.

  ‘Are you the only one there these days?’

  Sophie.

  ‘What did you do with the wrinklies?’ she said. ‘Bury them in the garden or brick them up behind a wall? The latter would be my preferred option. Especially if they were still alive beforehand.’

  ‘Answering the telephone is my job,’ said Kerry. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘I hear the old sod is up and about again,’ said Sophie. ‘Mother wrote me a letter. Thought I’d like to be informed.’

  ‘Well, it will be a longish haul until he’s back to his old self,’ said Kerry, ‘but there’s been progress, yes.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Sophie. ‘You say “his old self” as if that’s a desirable goal.’

  Did she vent only to him, Kerry wondered? Or was this her usual modus operandi? In which case, she must burn through friends like extra-spicy vindaloo.

  ‘Anyway, I didn’t call to talk to them,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m sure you’re really busy.’ She’d retained that teenage ability to make a request sound like a declaration of war. ‘But my show’s opening is next week, so you know …’

  The list Hydra grew yet another head. How could he say no, when she’d rung specially to invite a person she’d never even met? His theory that she burned through friends was gathering evidence. Was it possible he was the only person in the entire country with who she was still on speaking terms?

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kerry. ‘I’d very much like to come. May I bring a plus one?’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘Not entirely sure at this juncture.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  If Sophie’s views on his choice of romantic partner were negative — and what were the odds? — Kerry would rather not hear them.

  ‘Discretion is my watchword,’ he said. �
�Early days and all.’

  ‘OK, well, whatever. You can always keep me informed.’

  Dear Lord, she was hard work. And while he could have empathy for her — Jonty was hardly his top pick for Father of the Year — he was a little tired of being a go-between. She needed to grow up and bridge the gap with her parents.

  ‘Sophie, why don’t you come and visit while your show’s on?’ he said. ‘I’ll provide lunch for us all. Or high tea. Or something.’

  He could hear the doubt vibrating down the line.

  ‘It’s true that I lack several of Nigella Lawson’s outstanding qualifications,’ he said, ‘but I can put tea and biscuits on a tray.’

  Given his recent record, that wasn’t entirely true. But his catering credentials weren’t her problem.

  ‘By “us all” you mean them, too?’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ Kerry said. ‘I’ll be there. Don’t you think it’s about time?’

  ‘Who are you? Clarence the Christmas angel?’

  ‘More Harvey the Invisible Rabbit, I’d say. Though not as tall.’

  Pause. Kerry could hear the ormolu clock ticking away the minutes until the lunch that didn’t yet exist.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Sophie, and hung up.

  ‘And goodbye to you,’ said Kerry to the air.

  Twelve forty-five. Dusting would have to pause. What was there in the kitchen? One onion, a centimetre of hard cheese and two crusts.

  And, right at the back of the cupboard, a packet of mushroom soup!

  Sorted.

  Chapter 27

  Mac

  Mac had three criteria that would rule young Doctor Ghadavi instantly out of contention. One: if he mentioned Lord of the Rings. Two: if he used the word ‘wellness’. Three: if he seemed under the impression that Gabriel’s Bay was populated by cheerful, humble folk who, gosh darn it, rubbed along together best they could.

  She was self-aware enough to know that playing Elimination Bingo was a defensive strategy; a way of proving her heartfelt belief that no one could come close to Doc Love. She also knew any success would be a Pyrrhic victory that would set her right back to the next best contender, who was still, Lord love her, Mrs Joyce Zuma.