by Maggie Groff
I dislike eating alone in public unless I have something else to do, so I opened my notebook and wrote down my impressions of Nemony. Then I wrote the name Amelia and underlined it.
There was no need to make notes on the conversation as I’d rather naughtily taped it on my note-taker. Assuming the meeting would be fraught with emotion, and worried I might miss something, I had switched it on when I’d sat down. By the time I’d remembered that it was on it was too late to ask Nemony for permission. Unprofessional, but I intended deleting it as soon as I’d updated the whiteboard.
I was drawing a doodle when the man in the corduroy jacket walked into the café. He picked up a menu, examined it, replaced it on the stand and then wandered off. An uneasy feeling swept over me and I shuddered. Good grief, had my primeval survival instinct kicked in again?
Listening to my inner voice, I recorded his details in my notebook. It wasn’t much: fiftyish, plump, receding short brown hair, moustache, old-fashioned corduroy jacket, smoked cigars. About as far from a Chippendale as you can get.
The soup arrived with Turkish bread and dukkah and was a delicious dunk-dip-eat scenario. While I ate, I jotted down that Nemony may have loved O’Leary once, a long time ago, but she didn’t seem to have loved him much since.
Her parting expression puzzled me. Had she fooled Hermione into believing she was broken-hearted? And if so, why and how had she maintained the illusion for thirty years? Such behaviour wasn’t a gold star on her personality chart, particularly when her elder sister had approached me with what I believed to be Nemony’s best interests at heart. It was all very odd.
The lost passport interested me, too. I could think of only two reasons why Nemony hadn’t received it. The first was that O’Leary had never lost the original and had therefore never applied for a replacement, and the second was that he had received the replacement without her knowing, or had arranged for it to be sent to a different address. However, this didn’t explain the birth certificate. If he’d gone to all that trouble with his passport, why hadn’t he pretended to lose the birth certificate as well?
I made notations about Mick O’Leary. He couldn’t have known that Nemony would be too ill to sail and he couldn’t have planned the storm. In conclusion I noted that his disappearance was possibly opportunistic.
After lunch I went across to the park, found a seat and called Harper.
Sam answered. ‘Aunt Scout.’
‘Sam?’
‘Yeah, Mum’s at work. She left her mobile on the kitchen table.’
‘And you answered it?’
‘Yeah, well, I can see it’s you,’ he explained. ‘I’m home. No lectures today.’
‘How are things? Harper was supposed to call last night, but she must have forgotten.’
‘It’s like a rumbling volcano. And Mum’s gone nuts. She hugged a tree this morning. What’s that about?’
‘Diffusing anger,’ I told him. ‘Therapy.’
He didn’t scoff as someone of my generation might have done. I’m not sure if it’s because young people today (channelling my mother here) are more accepting of alternative ideas, or if they haven’t yet learned to be cynical.
‘I’ve rallied the troops,’ Sam said. ‘I did the ironing. Jack made osso buco and rice for dinner and Fergus polished Mum’s shoes.’
I smiled at their supportive measures. ‘You’re good boys.’
‘Are we still on for tonight?’ he asked eagerly.
Pleased he had changed the subject, I said, ‘Yes, and don’t forget the props. And Sam, I know I keep asking, but you haven’t told anyone about GKI, have you?’
He huffed loudly. ‘Aunt Scout, I’m a twenty-one-year-old bloke. Do you really think I’m going to tell anyone I’m involved with a secret knitting group?’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ I lied, as obviously I had thought of it, and knew it was the best insurance against Sam spreading the word. Nevertheless I felt the need to constantly remind him.
‘I might come down early,’ Sam said.
‘Come for dinner,’ I suggested.
‘Sounds good.’
We said our goodbyes and rang off.
As always I was excited by the prospect of an imminent mission. This one was particularly risky because the targets had closed-circuit cameras. If Sam and I were caught Harper would kill me, an additional element that oddly added to the thrill. The fear of maternal discovery didn’t deter Sam—he’d been born with the ‘ride a bike downhill without brakes’ gene.
A clothing shop across the road caught my eye and I walked over to see if there was a suitable birthday gift for my mother. I chose a beaded bag for Harper to send, as I knew she wouldn’t be up to searching for gifts, and a handmade silk scarf from me. The scarf was woven from Varanassi silk, dark burgundy when viewed from one direction and emerald green from the other. The fringes were fine silver thread. It was exquisite and would be difficult to part with. If they’d had two, I’d have bought them both.
On the way home I stopped at the Humble Pie factory in Billinudgel and bought a family-size curried chicken pie for dinner. I was almost to Byron, driving along Ewingsdale Road, when I suddenly realised what hadn’t felt right in my conversation with Nemony.
Hmmm.
Either Nemony Longfellow was incredibly gullible and a consummate liar, or I was very much mistaken about the cost of things back in 1983.
Chapter 15
At home I googled Bosuns Marine, the dealership that had sold Lavender to Mick and Nemony. Chairman Meow hopped onto my lap and stared at the screen with me. Sometimes it takes two.
Bosuns Marine was a yacht chandler and marine supplier in Middle Harbour, near the Spit Bridge in Sydney. The blurb boasted a team of experienced brokers with over fifty years of buying and selling cruising and racing yachts. In addition they sold all manner of marine accessories, from anchors and safety equipment to galley stoves, ropes and flags.
I scooted Chairman Meow over to his Windsor chair and rang the contact number. With luck they’d have records dating back to 1983.
A young male voice answered. ‘Yo, Bosuns Marine.’
‘My name is Scout Davis,’ I said, adopting a forthright professional tone. ‘I’m a journalist writing an article about sailing on Sydney Harbour in the 1980s. In particular I’m after information on a yacht called a Bombora 23 Classic, and I understand you sold Bomboras in 1983.’
‘Search me,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t even born then.’
Typical!
‘Is there anyone there who could assist me?’
‘I’ll go and ask.’
He dropped the phone and I heard receding footsteps. So much for the team of experienced brokers, I thought with irritation. After what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably three, an older male voice came on the line.
‘Geoff Shaw here. Sorry about that. Blade’s on work experience. It’s his last day, thank God. How can I help you?’
I reiterated my request to Mr Shaw.
‘The old Bombora 23, eh?’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen one in a while, but if you were after one I could probably track one down. I’ve got a lovely twenty-three-foot sloop, fibreglass with teak trim, which might suit you.’
‘I only want information,’ I stressed, not wanting the hard sell. ‘Especially about the cost of a Bombora 23 Classic in 1983.’
‘Oh, I can help you there. My dad was the State agent. A new Bombora 23 Classic would have set you back about thirty-five thou’ in 1983, maybe forty with sails, insurance and a few gadgets. They haven’t made them since the mid-nineties. Pity—they were a nice little sailboat. Good for cruising.’
My pulse quickened. ‘Is that the price for the top of the range model as well? I mean, would $80,000 be out of the question?’
Shaw laughed. ‘For a Bombora 23, yes.’ He hesitated and then asked, ‘Why are you using the Bombora 23 in the article? There were plenty of other nifty yachts on the harbour in the eighties. Sydney was sailing mad with the America’s Cup
in September ’83. What about French Beneteaus? Now there’s a class yacht if you’re wanting high-end references.’
‘I was hoping to mention in the article an incident that occurred outside Sydney Heads at that time. There was a storm and a yacht disappeared and a sailor drowned. His boat was a Bombora 23 Classic, and I like to be meticulous with detail.’
‘Hey, I remember that storm. I was working on the tender boat at a local yacht club, ferrying people to and from moorings. The storm came out of nowhere. A lot of people were sailing in evening races.’
‘Do you remember anything about the Bombora disappearing?’ I tried not to sound too eager and give away the fact that this was my focus.
‘Nothing. But you know, I think my old man sold the guy that yacht. I remember there was something that bothered him about the disappearance at the time, but I can’t recall what it was.’
Somehow I tempered my excitement. ‘Is he there? Can I speak to him?’
‘Dad’s retired, but I could get him to call you when he gets back from Fiji. Then you might give us a mention in the article, eh?’
‘I might just do that,’ I told him, amused by his nose for free advertising. ‘When does your father get back?’
‘Saturday.’
Patience is not one of my virtues. ‘Is it possible, if I gave you a name and a date, and if you have records, that you could look up the sale now and save your father the bother? If I’m to mention your firm, I’ll need to have the facts right.’
‘Sorry, no chance. That was before we computerised. But don’t worry, Dad’s got a mind like a steel trap. I’ll have him ring you. Give me your landline as he won’t call a mobile.’
I rattled off the number.
‘Can I help with anything else?’ he asked.
‘Is the work experience kid really called Blade?’
‘Yeah, but we call him Blunt behind his back.’
I laughed and thanked Geoff Shaw for his time.
‘No worries,’ he said.
After I’d put down the phone I leaned over and plucked Chairman Meow off the Windsor chair and nestled him on my lap again.
‘Just as I thought,’ I told him. ‘Eighty thousand dollars was a lot to pay for a yacht in 1983.’
He licked my hand, which was his way of saying well done. Feeling overly proud of myself, I hugged him close to my chest and whispered in his ear, ‘Someone is telling lies and I want to know who and why.’
And that wasn’t all I wanted to know. What had happened to the rest of the $80,000?
So far I was raising more questions than answers, but that’s how it goes sometimes.
It’s hard to remember what life was like before the internet made searching for information an armchair sport. In the time it took for the kettle to boil I had found a photograph of a Bombora 23 Classic, had printed it out in colour and stuck it on the whiteboard.
It was an ordinary-looking yacht, much as a child would draw one. It had a single hull with a single mast, and a large mainsail and a small jib, which is the sail that goes in the front.
There was a bit of blurb that described the Bombora 23 Classic as a fast offshore vessel with a fin keel and four berths. The website also advised that the vessel had been well tested in rough weather, a fact I duly noted on the whiteboard.
That done, I made tea. Until recently I’ve been drinking a blend of Chinese teas, but since summer my tastebuds have strayed towards a fifty-fifty blend of pure Ceylon leaves and Earl Grey, half-Indian and half-Chinese.
I’ve christened this new blend Punkah Chi; ‘punkah’ being the Indian word for fan, and ‘chi’ the first three letters of the word Chinese, as well as the sound of the Arabic word for tea. Literally translated I like to think it means ‘fan of tea’ which is me to a . . . well, to a tee.
While I drank Punkah Chi, I listened to the recording of my conversation with Nemony, cringing when it got to the part where I suggested Mick planned to toss her over the side. It was hard to believe I’d said that. Naturally, I blame television.
As I listened I made appropriate notations on the whiteboard, and when the tape had finished I deleted it and then transferred the notes I’d made in the café onto the whiteboard as well.
For some strange reason, and again I know not why, I made a new box on the board and a heading for the man in the corduroy jacket and added his description.
Then I put a large question mark under the heading Amelia.
Before my holiday I had agreed to take a commission investigating a fraudulent building scam in which a government grant was suspected of being siphoned off to feather the project manager’s holiday nest.
As much as I enjoyed taking down the boys at the big end of town, the story held none of the potential intrigue of the Anemone Sisters and co., and I decided to nix the commission. Hopefully I could wheedle out of it and have the commissioning agent hand it on.
Brian Dunfey, the socially challenged commissioning editor at Anzasia Media Group in Sydney answered the phone himself. His PA was probably out having an Indian head massage and a Valium sandwich.
‘If you’re after more work, I need someone to do a piece on a neighbourhood fence dispute,’ Brian said abruptly.
‘Just bite the bullet and pay for the damned fence,’ I shot back.
He paused. ‘How did you know it was mine?’
I laughed. ‘I’m smart, remember. That’s why you send me so much work.’
Many of my colleagues are bothered by Brian’s unfortunate manner and avoid working with him, but I like the man, my past dealings with him having been mostly positive. It was another journo who’d given me the heads-up about the fence, but I wasn’t about to tell that to Brian.
‘I thought you were on holiday,’ he said.
‘I am, or rather I was. I wanted to let you know that I’ve stumbled across something that could be big, and it might be a while before I get to the building scam. Maybe you should pass it on.’
There was silence at the end of the phone and I waited to see if I’d be hauled over the coals for reneging on a commission, or if he had taken the bait.
‘How big?’ Brian asked eventually. I winked conspiratorially at Chairman Meow, who was watching me from the Windsor chair.
‘Huge.’
‘Give me an idea.’
‘A man who was believed to have drowned a long time ago but didn’t.’
‘Is it Harold Holt?’ he asked quickly.
‘Not that huge,’ I admitted reluctantly.
I gave Brian a few details, but not too many. Just enough to whet his appetite. Like me he was a sucker for a good mystery.
‘Well, I’m interested,’ he said, trying to sound as if he wasn’t. ‘And don’t give me any dishonest exaggeration. I want the truth this time, you hear.’
I put down the phone and sat back in the chair, smiling to myself at his clumsy attempt at humour. Brian and I have known each other for a long time and he knew that I’d give him exactly what I found and wouldn’t flower it up.
It’s one of the reasons I love being a freelance investigative journalist. Apart from being able to work at home on stories that interest me, independence means I can tell the real story and not be encouraged to mould information to suit a media conglomerate’s agenda. I’ve had my days of doing that, working for a major newspaper, and it no longer interests me.
Times have changed and mainstream journalism has become more about gathering and maintaining audience, and making profit at any cost, rather than speaking up for the voices that can’t be heard.
Yep, dancing to someone else’s tune is definitely not for me. At least not until the next time I’m broke. Poverty, I’ve noticed, always heralds a review of the Scout Davis Business and Ethics Plan.
Chapter 16
My nephew Sam is a tall, strong, immensely charming and sociable lad who looks like the tennis player Roger Federer, except Sam has an abundance of blond corkscrew curls.
He arrived earlier than planned, as he wanted t
o ride my bike around town before dinner. Sam’s purpose, I suspected, was less motivated by exercise than by the prospect of checking out the latest influx of young female backpackers. He was particularly drawn to the dark and sultry South American lasses.
‘Why don’t you take Chairman Meow with you?’ I suggested. ‘You’re always telling me he’s a chick magnet.’
He gave me the thumbs-up, but then frowned. ‘I can’t ride and carry him, he’s too much of a wriggler.’
‘Come with me,’ I said, heading out to the verandah.
Sam watched in amusement as I secured a blue plastic milk crate to the back of my bike. To date, the only time Chairman Meow had ventured away from home was when he had followed me when I went out on the bike. Taking him with me had been the obvious solution. Luckily he loved riding around in the crate and wasn’t averse to all the attention it created either.
The milk crate was on long-term loan from the back of Woolworths, and the sunshade attached to it was from an old doll’s pram. Inside the crate I’d placed a comfortable blue cushion and a turquoise cat harness that was fixed to the back of the crate.
At the sound of someone tinkering with the bike Chairman Meow came charging onto the verandah, jumped up into the milk crate and sat patiently while I did up his harness.
‘He won’t wear a helmet,’ I told Sam, ‘but you will.’ I handed him mine.
Sam grimaced and put the helmet on. ‘It’ll cramp my style, but if you insist.’
Two minutes later I watched the lads set off along the back lane, an unusual sight even for Byron Bay. At the end of the lane Sam stopped and took off the helmet, ruffled his hair and then set off again. Some males, I mused, are born out of woman and spend the rest of their lives trying to get back in again.
I went to the study and called my sister.
‘How’s things?’ I asked Harper.
‘Bloody awful.’
‘Have you confronted Andrew yet?’