A Life On Pittwater

by Susan Duncan

  ‘No rush, love. Take your time. Er, the mitt’s in front of you. There.’ He points. Ettie snatches it up. ‘Bloody hell. Must be going blind,’ she says, crossly, her face beet-root now.

  Sam grins, joking: ‘Senior moments compressing, eh?’

  Ettie gives him a look that shrivels his kidneys.

  In Bertie’s day, Sam recalls, the counter was a dusty mess of tins of antique baked beans, melted globs of sweets and green-fringed bread. Cantankerous old bastard that he was, he’d done the right thing by selling The Briny to Ettie for a knockdown price. Understood money wasn’t much use to a dying man and he might as well do something useful before the rock-hard knobs that had latched onto his lungs cut off his oxygen supply forever.

  The community had rocked in shock when Ettie announced she was taking on Kate as a partner. The woman was newly arrived and more inclined towards loner than joiner, so everyone – him included – thought Ettie was nuts and that once again her instinct to nurture was over-riding her common sense. Kate couldn’t cook and even wearing jeans (ironed, razor creases) and a T-shirt (ironed, blinding white) she looked more corporate than café. For Ettie’s sake, they’d all given Kate the benefit of the doubt and she’s done a good job, he admits. Slipped into dishes, mops and waitressing without a quibble. Even learned a couple of failsafe recipes (her spaghetti Bolognese with finely diced celery and carrots was right up there with Ettie’s). But skills are really just window dressing. Personalities – their hard core – might broaden but do they ever switch gears completely? Truthfully, if he had to put money either way, he still wouldn’t know how to place his bet.

  ‘You heard the news?’ Ettie asks, lining up two white china mugs, punching the espresso machine and plating up a raspberry muffin in one fluid movement that’s as much about instinct as practice.

  ‘What news?’ he asks, his neck twisted sideways so he can read the newspaper headlines without bothering to pick up a copy from the stack under the counter.

  Ettie turns off the steam, wipes the spout: ‘They’re going to build a bridge to Cutter Island then plonk a flash resort in the middle of Garrawi Park.’

  ‘Eh?’ Sam jerks up from the headlines so quickly pain shoots up his neck to his head. ‘You’re joking, right? Setting me up for some shocker community job like carting Portaloos to the next big fundraiser so it looks good in comparison.’

  ‘Serious as,’ Ettie says. ‘Check out the development notice in the Square. Found it there first thing this morning. Thought someone was having me on but Fast Freddy says he ferried two dark-suited blokes with a fistful of posters and pamphlets around the public wharves in the dead of night. Looks like it’s a fact all right.’

  ‘Where’s Freddy now?’

  Ettie slides Sam’s mug across the counter and picks up her own. Takes a long sip, shoulders rounded, hands circling the hot creamy brew like it’s winter instead of midsummer outside. In a dry voice, she says: ‘Think about it, Sam. He’s a water-taxi driver who comes off a twelve-hour night shift at first light. He’s where he is every morning by nine o’clock. Racking up the zzz’s.’

  Kate finds the address she’s searching for located between a fast-food joint and a (borderline) porno lingerie shop. Limp hamburgers and even limper sugar-coated fries (to turn them golden instead of brown, according to a story she once wrote about the hidden ingredients in fast food) alongside fire-engine red frilly knickers, shiny black boots with metal stiletto heels, rubber aprons (not the kitchen clean-up variety), and lacy corsets. She checks the scribbled note in her hand to make sure she’s not mistaken and pushes open a dirty glass door. She wonders how on earth Emily, who revered glitz and glamour and judged everyone and everything by appearances, managed to put aside her prejudices to engage the services of Mr Sly. This is low-rent territory at best, slum territory at worst. Without the shadowy existence of a brother she’s hoping to either confirm or deny, she probably would have done a runner. She tells herself to expect nothing, a lesson she learned early to avoid the disappointment of forgotten birthdays, worthless promises and – at best – an abstract acknowledgement of her existence. Out of the blue, she has a sudden and completely uncharacteristic compulsion to whitewash the facts – or did she mean acts? – of the dead. Dead. Not passed, which seems to be the new, dreadfully twee and slightly ambiguous euphemism for an essentially unambiguous state. What is, after all, uncertain about lying six feet under a marble slab? Emily hasn’t passed by, she hasn’t passed the salt and pepper, she will never again sail past in a froth of floral chiffon and a cloud of complicated millinery and heavy perfume. Kate angrily wipes a tear off her cheek. Surely she doesn’t feel guilty for outliving her volatile mother. It is, after all, part of the natural order. Emily is dead. Move on. Survival of the fittest. It was ever thus. Law, according to Emily. So why the empty hole in the centre of her chest? The dull ache that constricts her throat? Why the awful, tippy feeling that nothing is quite in alignment any more?

  Kate finds the office of Sly & Son easily. So absurdly Dickensian, she thinks, wondering whether names go hand in hand with careers or vice versa. She wonders if Emily was attracted by the irony of hiring a firm with a title that accurately summed up the dodging and weaving that made up the fabric of her existence. Probably not. Emily was never a deep thinker. Devious, yes, but not deep. Kate swallows, clenches her fists and angrily wipes away another tear, appalled by the see-sawing going on between her head and heart, reminding herself of the pointlessness of regret. Death changes everything, she thinks, and nothing.

  She knocks lightly. Opens the door swiftly and decisively without waiting for an invitation. ‘Hello,’ she says brightly to the aged receptionist who points her index finger at a seat without a word of acknowledgement.

  After a while a tall man, probably in his early forties, wearing a well-cut charcoal suit – Armani or a good copy that’s lounge-lizard sleek – emerges from an office. Kate assumes he’s a client on the way out. More well-heeled than she would’ve expected given the location. An observation, she reassures herself, not one of Emily’s snap judgments.

  ‘Ms Jackson? Neville Sly. My father looked after your mother’s affairs until he retired a few months ago. On the face of it, it all seems pretty simple. Would you like tea? Coffee? No? OK, let’s proceed then.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘It’s not a complicated will,’ Mr Sly adds. ‘She’s left everything to you.’

  ‘No mention of anyone else?’

  He looks surprised. ‘No. It’s quite clear. Just you. As soon as outstanding debts are paid and probate is cleared, the estate will be settled.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kate gets up, holds out her hand politely.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask about the value of the estate?’

  Mr Sly sounds less smooth, more shocked, which makes Kate wonder how most of his clients respond to the news they’re sole beneficiaries. ‘There can’t be much. Enough to pay your fees, I hope, but if not, don’t worry, I’ll settle the account.’

  Mr Sly is thoughtful. ‘I see. Odd then. After everything is taken care of, our fees included, there should be a balance remaining of about $70,000.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ It’s got to be a cock-up, she thinks. He’s muddled her up with some other client. ‘Are you sure? We’re talking about Emily Jackson, right?’

  ‘We don’t make mistakes, Ms Jackson,’ he says tersely.

  ‘Sorry, I’m in shock.’

  The idea of Emily hoarding cash when she had a lifetime history of scatterbrain financial profligacy that consistently involved running up debts and then stepping back until first Kate’s father and then Kate bailed her out is baffling. Emily was a born squanderer. Unable to resist the sparkle of pretty trinkets, the lure of a silken fabric. Kate, who thought through the long-term ramifications of even the smallest purchase – an instinctive mechanism to counter her mother’s extremes, in all probability – frantically scrabbles back through Emily’s history, trying to find a possible source for this k
ind of windfall. As far as she is aware, the family fortune, such as it was (her father’s small country grocery shop wasn’t worth much in the days before they morphed into trendy bakeries serving exotic teas and a mind-boggling range of flavoured coffees), was frittered away in one failed Emily-inspired business venture after another. To put it mildly, money turned to dust in her hands. At least that’s what she’d thought until now.

  ‘As far as I knew, Emily never had two coins to rub together.’

  Mr Sly remains silent, uninvolved in family drama. He closes the file. Folds his hands on top of it, signalling there’s no more business to be done. Kate glances at her watch. The wrapping up of the final details of Emily’s life has barely taken ten minutes. Her mother would have been outraged by the lack of flourishes and rigmarole, the rigorous attention to details unembellished by colourful asides. She would have said yes to the coffee, refused a biscuit and requested cake. Chocolate was her preference. It made her feel happy, she said. She would have taken two small bites. Left the rest. Then she would have embarked on a long account of the deceased’s life, or more accurately, her role in the deceased’s life. The reading of Gerald’s will had turned into a circus, Emily giving an award-winning performance of a grieving widow, switching on tears as easily as a light. By the end of it, Kate, who never uttered a word throughout the whole shabby show, saw that the solicitor couldn’t work out whether to applaud or commiserate.

  ‘By the way, you don’t happen to know how Emily came to use this firm, do you?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re one of three recommended by the retirement village. Does it matter?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she replies quickly. ‘It’s just … I was wondering … Well, if there’d been a long association. Whether she kept old documents here, you know, such as birth and wedding certificates. For safekeeping, I mean.’ She is tempted to tell him about Emily’s deathbed (as it turned out) confession. How somewhere deep in a past that Kate, and presumably Gerald, knew nothing about, Emily had given birth to a son and then – for all she knew – abandoned him. Her mother’s periodic disappearances, which she’d put down to illicit affairs, could have been about the boy. Maybe he’d been institutionalised for some reason. Perhaps if Mr Sly searched Emily’s file one more time, he might find a clue so Kate could nail the ghost and move on. Her thoughts remain unuttered.

  ‘This probably sounds odd, but there are huge gaps in my knowledge of my mother’s life. I’m trying to unravel a few, er, complications she left behind. You’re sure there’s not another file lurking out there in one of those huge stacks …’

  ‘We have the current will and a copy of her earlier will. Nothing else. Is it possible your mother used the services of two solicitors at some time?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Emily would resent paying one bill, forget two. How rude, she’d explode whenever one popped up in the mail. Queen Emily. Bestowing favours. Her fingers holding the request for money like a bag of dog poo before flicking it towards her husband.

  ‘Yeah, well, it was a long shot.’ Kate reaches for her handbag. ‘So it’s all a mystery then.’

  ‘Lawyers tend to be incurious. It’s often a mistake to know too much about your clients.’ He smiles to show it’s a joke. ‘Probate usually takes from one to three months, if anyone wants to challenge the will …’

  ‘Challenge?’ Kate asks, too quickly.

  ‘As a general rule, only children and grandchildren have grounds, although theoretically anyone can challenge. In your case, there shouldn’t be any problems. Expect a cheque around late April. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

  Kate turns back at the door, her hand already on the knob. Now is the time to mention a half-brother, she thinks. ‘I’m curious. When does time run out on challenging a will?’

  ‘Once probate is settled, it’s very difficult to revoke the terms.’

  On a street thick with exhaust fumes and rushing lunchtime crowds, the noonday heat hits Kate like a blow. She leans against the gaudy underwear shop window, her eyes adjusting to sharp sunlight. Feeling frazzled and confused, she ducks into a dimly lit and smelly basement pub next door, compelled by a force she can’t define. She orders a cognac for the first time in her life. A tired barmaid, either drug or alcohol affected, pours what Kate recognises as a cheap brandy into a shot glass and slams it on the counter.

  ‘Fifteen bucks, love, on the nose.’ The woman sways slightly. Kate fishes in her bag, looking around the room. Furtive men in raincoats – or the equivalent.

  ‘Oh hell.’ She pushes a twenty over the counter, sculls the drink and flees. Outside on the street, she puts together the lingerie shop and the bar. If it’s not a front for a brothel, her name’s not Kate Jackson. Her stomach feels like it’s on fire. Her mouth is raw. Too late, she realises she’s just done exactly what her mother would have done in the same circumstances. Feel good? Order a brandy? Feel bad? Order a brandy. Feel hot, cold, happy, sad – order a brandy. Does anyone ever travel a long way from their original DNA?

  She thinks: Seventy thousand dollars? There’s got to be a catch. Nothing to do with Emily is ever clear-cut. There’ll be a debt somewhere. An Emily-created catastrophe that will emerge one day – probably quite soon – and take every penny, and probably more, to put right. She grabs hold of anger like a lifeline, burying what she doesn’t even realise is grief and loss under a blanket of rage and confusion.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to all the wonderful offshore residents – our big-hearted community – who were so kind about sharing their time, stories and local knowledge. Their generosity of spirit is one of the many reasons the Scotland Island and Western Foreshores is a truly rich community. Thank-you, too, to everyone who gave his and her time to be photographed and to dig out old material to remind us of how each generation that came here added another layer to our way of life.

  The glorious pictures in this book speak for themselves, but I’d really like to add special thanks to Anthony Ong for seeing the beauty of battered tinnies, leaning boatsheds and the ragged bush. The Bays and Scotland Island are not, and never have been, about glamour. They are about our quirky, vibrant, eclectic and never-dull locals who don’t give a damn what kind of car you drive, only whether you’re a good neighbour. Anthony has captured that so beautifully.

  Thanks to Alana Landsberry for stepping in to photograph the Woody Point Yacht Club Putt Putt Day at such short notice. She did a fantastic job under difficult conditions. Thanks, too, to Scotland Island photographer June Lahm who captures random Pittwater moments beautifully and truthfully and is a great chronicler of local life. Then there’s Gwyn Perkins – a man who sees the world with a rare combination of wisdom and innocence, which shines through his art. Thanks, Gwynnie, for the map. It’s a treasure.

  I’m grateful to Nick Reeve, Bernice Dunn, Beth Franklin, Marty Cowan, Nick Cowdery and Sophie Wilson, who took the time to search through their old photo albums for pictures of the 1994 bushfires. Thanks to Jenny Winterton for her terrific pictures of the volunteer fire brigade Pittwater back-burns.

  Thanks to Kerry Borthwick, Bob Bolton and Bob Blackwood for digging in their archives to find old Scotland Island Players programmes. Thanks to Prue Sky, Sandy Cozens and David Yardley for their invaluable input and local knowledge about the earlier days and for taking the time to set straight some misty moments of local history.

  Thanks to publisher Nikki Christer, who had the courage to take on this project, and Jill Brown, who understood the challenges of photographing Tarrangaua. Thanks to Liz Seymour who made the book come alive and Ingrid Korda for her finessing.

  Thank you, too, to my friend, neighbour and agent, Caroline Adams. Her tact, wisdom, local knowledge and quiet understanding at every stage of the project were – as usual – pure gold.

  Finally, thanks to my husband, Bob. He makes everything possible with his love, support, encouragement … and patience!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I have not attempted to write a history of
Pittwater. All I wanted to do was try to record a little of the beauty of the landscape and the spirit of the community where I am fortunate enough to live. I would like to think that this book might become a small legacy to future generations. A beautifully photographed, unfluffed-up account of how we offshorers lived, loved, played and preserved our way of life, at a particular time. I fervently hope nothing intrinsic ever changes here, and that the pressure to develop as populations grow is resisted with force and, if necessary, fury. So that one hundred years from now, people will still be able to board the ferry at Church Point and disembark at Halls Wharf to take a walk through scrub, rainforest and the twisted vegetation of the escarpments. To see wallabies, goannas, a python or shy black snake or two, kookaburras and a blue sky littered with clouds of white cockatoos. What I hope more than anything, though, is that a century from now, no-one shakes her head in despair and says: ‘Look at how they stuffed up.’

  Contacts

  There are various types of accommodation available in the area.

  Pittwater YHA at Towlers Bay (also known as Morning Bay) can be accessed via ferry or water taxi from Church Point to Halls Wharf, where there is a signposted, uphill walk to the hostel, situated within the Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park.

  Ph: 61 2 9999 5748

  Website: www.yha.com.au

  Email: Pittwater@yhansw.org.au

  The Scotland Island Lodge, Scotland Island, accessed via ferry or water taxi from Church Point, has two double guest rooms and includes breakfast in the tariff. Other meals can be organised on request.