Silver

by Chris Hammer

  Vern leads Martin down off the deck via jury-rigged stairs to a well-used barbecue, made from cinder blocks built into a wall of river stones and concrete. A fire is already burning brightly, yet Vern busies himself building it higher, fetching wood from a nearby lean-to of corrugated iron, splitting it on a stump with effortless axe swings, and feeding it to the flames.

  Martin’s eyes follow the smoke up into the sky, scanning the wide dome, from the residual glow of the sunset to the darkening of its eastern edge. It’s a warm night, clear and still; the sporadic wind of the day has subsided altogether, sighing to a rest, work done, relaxing into the subtropical evening. To the west, the sky is still aglow, pinks and oranges, mauves and yellows, a lingering pattern cast onto a smattering of clouds above the black solidity of the escarpment. Beneath the hills the sunset reappears, reflecting in the flat expanse of the river, a ribbon of light running towards the house, diverting around the bend below Vern’s allotment before flowing on to Port Silver and the ocean. The elevated position of the house makes the sky seem even larger, the eastern horizon appearing somehow to be lower than the house. A shower of sparks crackles, floating skywards, flickering within the column of smoke.

  ‘What a spot,’ says Martin. ‘How long you been here?’

  ‘Getting close to twenty years. Just a cottage when I got it. Not so long after you left.’

  ‘Safe from flooding?’

  ‘Should be. River hasn’t ever got this high, not in whitefella history. Doesn’t mean it won’t happen, but it will take something biblical.’

  ‘At least you can get insurance then,’ says Martin.

  ‘Fucked if I know. Never checked. If we get flooded, or it burns down, I’ll just rebuild it. Lucy May is an apprentice carpenter. She can do it. After she finishes the deck.’

  Martin smiles. He’s glad to see children haven’t stripped Vern of his laidback, roll-with-the-punches attitude. When Martin was a kid, everyone else had seemed to be wound so tight: his mum and dad, his teachers, Bruce and Scotty’s parents. Not Vern; he’d always been Mr Cruise. Martin wonders how much of it was genuine, how much compensation for his uncle’s lack of literacy. Mostly genuine, he concludes. He raises his bottle, takes another long slug of his beer. It tastes somehow appropriate, mixing with the warm air, the smell of wood smoke, the flow of the river. Off to the north-west, up where the Argyle curves towards the escarpment, he can see the lights of the sugar mill starting to take effect, chimney puffing like a contemplative smoker, adding a residual sweetness to the air. The peace of the evening, accentuated by the seemingly distant noise of kids and rock music drifting from the house, seems to leach into him. Above him, bats are flying silently across the sky, moving out for another night in search of fruit.

  ‘You seem happy here, Vern.’

  ‘Oh, I am, I am. Count my blessings every day.’

  ‘How’d you meet Josie?’

  ‘Fishing.’

  ‘Fishing?’

  ‘Yeah. Not professionally, not out at sea. I went looking for a stream up on the escarpment. It was a stinker of a day, thought it might be cooler up there. Found a waterfall, forgot about fishing, went swimming instead. She found me there. Stole my clothes.’ Vern’s eyes shine in the flickering light of the fire, his smile broad. ‘She already had Lucy May, I already had Levi. We teamed up and had four more. Plus a couple of strays we’ve picked up along the way. Almost got our own cricket team.’

  ‘So what do you do for a crust, if you don’t mind me asking? Your card said fishing charters.’

  ‘That’s right. The government pretty much closed the fishery down, bought out most of the licences, including my two. Ninety per cent of the coastline is marine reserve now. There’re just a couple of diehards with limited licences, servicing local restaurants, and that’s about it. Plus recreational fishers. I’m able to sell a bit on the side, but it’s the tourists who pay the bills.’

  ‘That’s tough. You must miss it.’

  ‘Nah, not really. It happened just at the right time. Gave me the money to pay off this place. Got us out from under; the fish stocks were collapsing and the banks were circling. I sold the big boat, kept the little one for charters and whale watching. It’s good in summer and okay in spring and autumn. Levi gives me a hand; he’s a good kid. In between times and in winter I do odd jobs around the place, handyman stuff, or help out the local tradies if they need an extra set of hands. Still have my carpenter’s tools, the ones Lucy May hasn’t knocked off. Josie’s full-time. She’s an Indigenous ranger, the real breadwinner. So, I do a lot with the kids. Life’s pretty full. You have kids?’

  ‘No. Yes. Kind of. My partner has a baby boy. Now I’m here, I guess I’ll be getting more involved.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Any tips?’

  ‘Love ’em, look after ’em, support ’em. Set ’em straight when they need it. But don’t think you can change them. They’re who they always were. Simple as that.’

  Martin nods, wondering if Mandy could ever be so relaxed with Liam. If he could. ‘Mandy sends her apologies, by the way. She wants to meet you, but she’s still in shock.’

  ‘From finding Jasper?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m okay. I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Seen what before?’

  ‘Death.’

  Vern takes a slug of beer, considers his words. ‘Reckon it must be different though, when it’s a friend.’

  ‘Maybe. I guess.’

  The men pause. Vern pokes at the fire. The sky is darkening, the first stars appearing and, below them, the lights of Port Silver.

  ‘Well, you were never much of a talker,’ says Vern, breaking the silence. ‘But if you need someone to confide in, if you don’t want to trouble your woman, I’m always here.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Vern. That’s good of you.’

  ‘Seriously. And look after her, Martin. A good woman is hard to find.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Sure as shit it’s right. Josie practically saved my life. Well, made it, anyway. Can’t imagine being without her. She even taught me to read and write a bit.’

  Martin nods. He can’t imagine life without words. Was this why he had been so quick to distance Vern? One of the reasons?

  ‘I got dyslexia and a few other things happening. Makes it hard. But she helped me.’

  ‘That’s great, Vern. It can’t have been easy.’

  ‘It wasn’t. Some of those analysis pieces you write, when you’re on your high horse, I still can’t follow them. I get Josie to read ’em out loud for me.’

  ‘My articles?’

  ‘Sure. It was how she taught me. Figured it would be easier if it was something I was interested in.’

  Martin doesn’t know what to say; he says nothing, glad the night is growing darker so his uncle can’t see the emotion on his face.

  ‘But the main thing she taught me wasn’t words or numbers. The main thing was that I wasn’t dumb. Until then, I thought I was stupid. Now I don’t. That’s some gift she gave me.’

  ‘You were never dumb, Vern.’ It’s true: Martin had never thought his uncle unintelligent. But, unlike Josie, he’d never done anything to help him overcome his disability. Nor to bolster his self-esteem.

  ‘That’s why you want to look after this Mandy. If you catch a good one, don’t let her get away.’

  They fall back into silence, Vern busying himself with the fire, Martin looking on, thinking about Mandy, alone at the caravan park with Liam. Vern is right: he should be with her. But he can hardly walk out on his uncle now. Instead he wonders what he should do while he’s here: whether or not to question his uncle or to give it a break, surrender to the seductive warmth of the evening and the hypnotic cast of the fire. It’s been a long day after a restless night in the police cell. He can feel the fatigue settling upon him as the beer starts to flow out through his veins. He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts
, regain his purpose.

  His uncle drains the last of his beer. ‘You ready for another?’

  Martin’s bottle is almost empty. ‘Yeah, sure. Let me get them.’

  Returning from the esky, he hands a bottle to his uncle. ‘Vern, I saw Denise Speight this morning.’

  ‘Poor woman. How’s she holding up?’

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’d better take her some fish, see what else we can do.’

  Martin smiles at the image, Vern arriving at Denise’s home with condolences and mullet. ‘Denise said that Jasper was opposed to some development at Mackenzie’s Swamp. A marina and a golf course.’

  ‘That’s right. But you don’t think that’s what got him killed, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Denise reckons he was keen for me to write a story about the development proposals. She said you were working with him.’

  ‘Loosely. Josie’s people have a native title claim on the lagoon and surrounding land. We’re trying to put a caveat on any development until the claim is settled.’

  ‘A caveat? You have a lawyer then?’

  ‘Yeah. Young hotshot in town. Greek guy.’

  ‘Nick Poulos?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘We’ve met. He’s a hotshot, is he?’

  ‘If he’s working pro bono he is.’

  There it is again; Vern’s laconic turn of phrase. ‘What do you reckon your chances of stopping it are?’

  Vern sucks on his beer. ‘Not sure. But the marina and golf course won’t go ahead unless the resort at Hummingbird Beach does. Denise tell you about that?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Without the resort, the marina would be a white elephant. Same with the golf course.’

  ‘So what’s stopping the resort? Is there a native title claim there as well?’

  ‘No. It’s all private property on that side of the road, freehold, but as far as I know the owner isn’t inclined to sell.’

  ‘Who’s the owner?’

  Vern stops poking at the fire, turns to regard him. Martin feels as if his uncle is looking for something in his face, some recognition, before he answers. ‘Local woman. Jennifer Hayes. Known to everyone as Jay Jay. You remember her?’

  ‘No. Name rings a bell, though. Wasn’t she a champion surfer or something?’

  ‘That’s her. Back when you were a kid. She returned to town a few years ago, inherited the land when her folks died. Another clapped-out dairy farm. She’s set herself up in business, so she can pay the rates and make a living. Shacks on the beach for backpackers, surf lessons for foreigners, yoga sessions for middle-aged women.’

  ‘And she’s making enough to get by?’

  ‘She is now, ever since she got herself a swami. You must have heard all about that.’

  ‘A swami? Like a guru? Really?’ Martin laughs. ‘Why would I know about that?’

  ‘Swami Hawananda. It was all over the news a month or so back.’

  ‘The news? Are you serious?’

  ‘Sure. Imported him from India. Four-five-seven visa.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: the Longton Observer didn’t approve.’

  Vern shakes his head, laughing. ‘No, not the local rag. The national news. I can’t believe you don’t know about it. A big soapie star, Garth McGrath, left his wife and moved up here to become one of Hawananda’s devotees. There were all sorts of stories about orgies and drugs and parties. The local coppers were giving them grief, even raided the place. The photographers were in boats off the beach, flying drones over it, the whole shit show.’

  A memory seizes Martin: a news report on the old television in his motel room down in the Riverina, people dancing in a circle, semi-naked, like some latter-day Woodstock. That was Port Silver? ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Nothing. It was just media bullshit. Cops didn’t find any drugs, just a couple of backpackers with pot. And sex isn’t illegal. It was still the holidays and I was busy with charters, but Jasper and Nick helped Jay Jay out. Jasper thought it might have been some effort to discredit her, get the council to close down her business, force her to sell.’

  ‘Really? Could that happen?’

  ‘Not without any evidence of serious misconduct. Half the council are greenies, so she’s not without support. And it’s all blown over. When the cops found nothing, the media lost interest. You can only run so many pictures of a soap star with his old fella swingin’ in the breeze.’

  ‘Is the swami still there?’

  ‘As far as I know. I reckon they could be hard to come by.’

  ‘So Jay Jay Hayes—she’s definitely not selling?’

  ‘That’s what Jasper reckoned. Said she’s been having the time of her life and making enough money to get by while she’s doing it.’

  ‘And there’s no urgency to contest the plans for the marina and the golf course?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  ‘Why would anyone kill Jasper, if the development isn’t going ahead?’

  ‘Fucked if I know. Probably not connected.’

  Martin takes another slug of home brew, reluctant to let go of the possibility that Jasper was killed because of his opposition to the development of Mackenzie’s, no matter how tenuous the theory is beginning to look. Another memory leaps into Martin’s consciousness: how he had all too readily leapt to conclusions out west, got things so badly wrong that he lost his job. He needs to learn his lesson: no more going off half-cocked, no more letting his imagination carry him into dangerous waters. ‘Denise thought Jasper might have something for me. Some information. Any idea what it might have been?’

  ‘No. Not a clue.’

  ‘Apparently he collected postcards.’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Vern, sounding nonplussed. ‘You think someone killed him over a postcard?’

  Martin can’t help laughing. ‘No. Of course not.’

  A young man comes down off the deck. He’s a good fifteen centimetres taller than Martin and Vern, with rippling muscles and tattooed biceps and the colouring of an Islander. He walks straight up to Martin, his voice assertive. ‘So you’re the great Martin Scarsden then? Heard all about you.’

  ‘Not sure about great, but that’s me.’

  ‘I’m Levi. Your cousin.’

  ‘Right,’ says Martin, holding out his hand, trying not to wince as it’s crushed by the young man’s handshake. And all the while his mind is racing: Vern’s children are his cousins. Of course they are; why has it required Levi to point out the obvious? Cousins. He smiles at the thought. ‘It’s bloody great to meet you, Levi. I never knew I had so much family.’

  ‘Yeah, bloody Vern,’ his cousin says with mocking good humour. ‘Who knows how many more he’s sired about the place? They reckon half the Settlement are his.’

  Vern does nothing but laugh; it seems to Martin that Levi has outgrown the range of a parental reprimand.

  ‘I’d better get back inside and lend a hand. Mum wants to know how long before you need the meat?’

  ‘Any time,’ says Vern. ‘The fire is just about there.’

  ‘Big lad,’ says Martin, watching Levi spring up the stairs to the deck in two strides.

  ‘And only seventeen. Hope like hell he’s finished growing. Food bill is killing us.’

  The flames are subdued, the fire burning down to coals, a glowing bed of red and black in the darkening night. Vern rakes them out evenly and is placing a grill above the embers when, right on cue, Levi and a teenage girl with an Asian face—maybe the carpenter, Lucy May—appear carrying plates of meat, fish and sausages. Martin makes himself useful, cutting up a string of sausages and spiking them with a fork while Vern cooks, filling up the grill in stages, depending on cooking times. Levi and his sister sit up on the deck, talking quietly to each other.

  ‘Righto!’ Vern yells to his kids. ‘Five minutes!’

  Lucy May returns inside to alert the others. Levi comes down to help out. Levi and Martin hold the platters; Vern stacks them h
igh. Josie and Lucy May emerge from the house, accompanied by a squadron of kids who immediately start setting the table and lighting kerosene and gas lamps, citronella candles and mossie coils. Salads appear, piles of white bread, glasses, jugs of water, four-litre containers of tomato sauce, a stockpot of steaming minestrone. There is something practised about it, every child knowing their job; the apparent chaos of the front room replaced by coordination. A row of multi-coloured party lights strung along the roof flicker to life, and suddenly the night is full of sound and light, people and laughter. Martin counts ten kids, ranging from the two infants to a couple of boys aged about fifteen and Lucy May and Levi. Martin is positioned at the head of the table, the seat of honour, Josie on one side and Vern on the other. No one touches the platters of food; the children’s eyes are all on Josie and Vern. For a moment Martin thinks they’re waiting for someone to say grace. ‘Righto,’ says Vern instead. ‘Leave some for Martin; he’s family.’ And as if a starting gun has been fired the kids bog in, but not in an ill-disciplined way: the older kids help serve the younger ones, passing platters of food to each other. Martin watches as Vern and Josie pile food onto his plate; soon he needs to call a halt, before they give him too much.

  Later, after the meal is over and the kids have cleared the table and returned inside under the supervision of Lucy May and Levi, the three adults sit beneath the stars, embraced by the warmth of the air. Josie leans over the table, concentrating on rolling a joint, and soon the air is thick with the rich smell of marijuana smoke, sparking memories in Martin of teenage transgressions. There is something comforting in the smell, something familiar, the way the smoke curls in the humid air. Josie passes the joint to him and he accepts it, more from politeness than desire. His eyelids are already growing heavy, the food and the drink combining with the fatigue of the day to nudge him towards sleep. He takes a couple of cursory tokes, listening to it crackle, and passes it on to Vern.

  Martin’s eyes ease shut and he feels the night wrap its soporific tentacles around him. He can hear music coming from inside, blending with the sounds of the night: frogs croaking, dogs barking somewhere down amid the greenhouses, a sporadic crackle from the dying fire, a fish jumping in the river.