Sole Survivor

  Angus sat at the table doing his best to feel miserable despite the tantalising aromas that assaulted him. He studiously ignored Red and Rosie and made no attempt at conversation. He’d seen enough of Rosie, more of her in one day than in all the preceding months. Obligation had brought him to her dinner table, nothing else. Someone had to make sure Red stayed and did his duty as a man, and Angus had unilaterally taken the responsibility upon himself.

  ‘Cannot that mangy creature wait outside where he belongs?’ He glared at Archie curled up on the mat by the Shacklock.

  ‘Archie and Red always share, Angus, you know that. Red’s enjoying the smell of roast lamb just like you are, and Archie’s entitled to enjoy it, too. Look at his nose. He’s sucking in more air than my Hoover.’

  ‘There’s a place for beasts and it’s not indoors.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on to Bonnie. Now make yourself useful and open this.’

  Angus reluctantly took the bottle of Dalwood Burgundy and the corkscrew she handed him.

  ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘it’s raining outside. Who would send a dog out on a night like this?’

  As if on cue, a gust of wind whipped around the eaves and roared off through the tree tops. Spring held sway during the days but at night winter still lingered. Inside the bach, in the thick, smoky warmth, the occupants were reduced to shirt sleeves. This was the sort of night Angus had never imagined possible. The three of them together, sitting around a dinner table, the woman cackling about like a smug mother hen. He was determined not to enjoy a second of it. But the thickly sliced roast lamb, crisp on the outside and pink in the middle, the roast potatoes and kumara and the thick, dark, heady gravy invoked pleasant memories of meals long past and sorely missed. His tummy rumbled and he found it hard to be stern in the face of such temptation.

  ‘Here’s to you, Rosie,’ he said gruffly, raising his glass. ‘I thank you for this splendid meal here before us, and for inviting us to share it with you. A rare pleasure and one best kept that way.’ He turned to Red. ‘Raise your glass, man, in a toast to the lady.’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘What? Don’t be a fool, man!’

  ‘Hold on, Angus, I’ll handle this. Red, have you always been a teetotaller?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you stop drinking before or after the war?’

  ‘After.’

  ‘Because of your medication?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Red, you’re not on medication now. It’s safe to have an occasional drink. Angus and I will see to it that you drink no more than your share. Okay?’

  ‘If you say so, Rosie.’

  ‘Then raise your glass, man. To Rosie!’

  ‘To Rosie.’

  ‘To me.’ Rosie added mischievously, ‘Queen of Wreck Bay.’

  Rosie had not expected scintillating dinner party conversation, but neither had she expected to be left to eat in silence. Clearly it had been a long time since either man had sat down to roast lamb. They focussed on the food before them and switched off to everything else. Yet she felt overwhelmingly happy, found the way both men wolfed down their meals and helped themselves to seconds intensely satisfying. Instincts she never knew she possessed began to surface. Perhaps she really was ready for motherhood.

  Angus reluctantly laid down his knife and fork and toyed with his glass. He wasn’t normally a wine drinker, but it had gone well enough with the lamb.

  ‘I’ll start the dishes.’

  ‘Sit down, Red, the dishes aren’t going anywhere.’

  Red stood. ‘They should be rinsed, Rosie.’

  ‘I know, but they can wait a while. Sit down and have another glass of wine while your dinner settles.’

  A gust of wind hurdled the ridge and came hurtling down the valley, slamming into the bach, shaking it to its foundations and rattling the windows.

  ‘Glad I’m in here and not out there,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Aye, but it’s time I was heading out there.’ Angus turned to Rosie and gave what he imagined was a subtle wink. ‘If Red’s so keen to attend to the dishes, you’ll not need me. I’ll be getting back to Bonnie.’

  ‘At least stay until the wine’s finished.’

  ‘No thank you, Rosie. I’ll leave that to the two of you to finish. You know what they say about the effects of good wine upon the humour of man.’ He threw Rosie another wink.

  ‘No, Angus, I don’t.’

  ‘Ah well, it’s perhaps best not said.’ A rogue gust of wind drove the rain hard into the windows. Momentarily it reminded him of the wild storms that used to rage across the Minch. ‘Would you listen to that! Pity all fishermen at sea.’

  ‘No!’

  Angus spun around in time to see Red’s chair crash to the floor. The madman stood, fists clenched, eyes aflame.

  ‘Red! Calm down!’ Rosie jumped to her feet and tried to pull Red down into her chair. But Red could have been a statue welded to the floor.

  ‘Good Lord! What’s the matter with you, man?’

  ‘It’s okay, Red, it’s okay.’ Rosie imploring.

  ‘Man’s mad. I told you!’

  ‘Keep out of this, Angus. Red, what’s the problem? Tell me.’

  ‘I won’t pity them!’ Red slowly relaxed and let Rosie guide him into her chair.

  ‘What are you going on with, man?’

  ‘The Japanese fishermen. The trawlers, the longliners. Shimojo Seiichi. The Shoto Maru. The bastards, they’re coming back here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mickey told me. On the radio.’

  Angus turned to Rosie. ‘He spoke to Mickey?’

  ‘Yes, apparently Mickey’s coming here day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Is he now?’ The old man’s eyes narrowed as he perceived the more attractive option. It called for a change in tactics. ‘The day after tomorrow?’ The Scot’s face lit up in delight as possible consequences registered. With Lieutenant Commander Finn due there was no need for Red to stay the night. Indeed, it would be far better from his point of view if the madman didn’t stay the night. He glanced furtively at Rosie and saw her watching him warningly. But he ignored her. Too many opportunities had slipped by to allow another to pass. ‘Well, Red, we mustn’t keep this good woman up. I’ll help you with the dishes then walk with you down the path.’

  Red stood immediately, the opportunity to lose himself in work and attend to the dirty dishes was too good to pass up.

  ‘Sit!’

  Red sat, dropped like a shot duck. Rosie glowered at Angus.

  ‘You haven’t been listening, Angus,’ she said in a voice loaded with menace. ‘I decide when I do my dishes. I’ve told you that before. I also told you I wouldn’t put up with any interference. I told you what the consequences of that would be. There is no role for you. Do you understand? No role. You can take this as a warning. Your last. Now don’t let us keep you from your bed.’

  Angus rose, beaten but unbowed. ‘I meant well, Rosie. I only want what’s best for you.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Then don’t be a sentimental fool, woman! It’s not yourself you should be thinking of but the –’

  ‘Angus! That’ll do!’

  ‘Aye . . . well I’ll be off, then. I thank you for the meal and pray you come to your senses.’ He appeared to relent and softened his voice. ‘Before I go, do you think Red could give me some of the scrapings from the plates? For Bonnie. Be a treat for her.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rosie dropped her guard. The man was incorrigible. Red took a plain saucer from the cupboard, one he recognised as a leftover from Bernie’s days, and scraped gravy-rich pieces of meat and baked potato onto it.

  ‘Let me give you a hand.’ Angus leaned in close to Red. He cast a quick glance back at Rosie. She was still seated at the table, her back to them, wine glass in hand. He spoke softly, directly into Red’s ear. ‘This Shimojo fishes at night, I understand.
Do you not think it wise to run up to Tataweka and keep an eye out for him? Just in case.’

  ‘He’s still too far south. Besides, he wouldn’t dare come in close on a night like this.’

  ‘Aye, suppose you’re right.’ Angus’ shoulders sagged. He’d done all he could. If Red was going to be the father then that was that. But he would have preferred a better, saner bloodline and, more importantly, an absentee father like the Lieutenant Commander so that he could be the only man in the boy’s life. De facto grandfather and father. He walked over to the door and pulled on his long plastic mac. He began buttoning it, working his way up to the very top. With the Lieutenant Commander coming he was still in with a fifty–fifty chance. ‘I’ll be away, then. Goodnight to you both.’

  ‘Goodnight, Angus,’ said Rosie menacingly. ‘Don’t get your hopes up.’

  Angus slammed the door behind him as another volley of wind-driven rain drum-rolled against the windows.

  Rosie turned to Red, who was patiently stacking dishes as he filled the sink with hot water. ‘Red, can’t the dishes wait till morning just once? It’s been a long day and I need some sleep.’

  ‘In the camps we used to keep a drum of boiling water to dip our dishes in the moment we’d finished eating. It was the flies. They’re what spread the diseases.’

  ‘Okay, okay, Red, you win.’ Rosie could see instantly where the conversation would lead him. Back to his never-never land. She took his hand. She didn’t want him going anywhere, not on such an important night. ‘You’re right. It’s better we do them now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let Angus help if you’re so tired?’

  ‘Long story.’

  Red waited for Rosie to elaborate but soon realised she had no intention of doing so. ‘Leave them to me, Rosie. You go on to bed. I promise I won’t wake you.’

  ‘That, my friend, is the problem.’ She sighed and picked up a tea towel.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Bastard’s up to his tricks again.’ Mickey Finn put down the phone as Gloria brought him in a cup of dishwater coffee. But it was hot, wet and sweet, a condition in which he hoped one day to find his young assistant.

  ‘Shimojo?’

  ‘Yep. That was the Ministry of Marine. Bay of Plenty fishermen report a phantom trawler appearing and disappearing through the night. Ring a bell with you? It already has with the newspapers. I’ve had a call from a reporter from the Herald.’

  ‘Have you informed Lieutenant Commander Scriven, sir?’

  ‘Gloria . . . sorry, Officer Wainscott, I don’t think either he or the Commodore ever want to hear Shimojo’s name mentioned again.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to nail the bastard, that’s what I’m going to do. Don’t know how, don’t know when. In the meantime let’s do the usual. See if we can get an aircraft up, dawn flight preferably and try to nab him inside territorial waters. Failing that, let’s at least let him know we’re watching. We might save the lives of a few fish that way. Be a good girl and call the airbase for me. Oh, and book a table at the Gourmet.’

  ‘For how many?’

  ‘Two. Just you and me.’ Mickey watched for her reaction. She took her time.

  ‘I can’t make it tonight. How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ It was his turn to come under scrutiny. There was an edge to her voice which suggested the rumour mill had been at work. Gloria knew damn well that the following night was out of the question because of his visit to Great Barrier, which she’d helped organise. There’d been no hiding the smile on his face nor the spring in his step as he’d made his way back to the patrol boat with the two junior ratings after the first visit. Doubtless they’d guessed and blabbed. ‘How about the night after that?’ he ventured tentatively.

  ‘We’ll see.’ She turned, tight-lipped, and left his office.

  Mickey slammed his fist down onto his desk. Typical bloody woman! She showed no sign of wanting him until someone else did. But what could he do? Rosie before dinner, Gloria for dessert? Would he ever get that lucky? He shook his head. If the two incidents with Shimojo Seiichi had taught him anything it was that he was not a naturally lucky person. He leaned back in his chair and began to contemplate possible ways of trapping the Shoto Maru. He realised the phantom trawler was becoming something of an obsession with him and was aware of the dangers. Shimojo Seiichi was not the only foreign skipper to raid New Zealand’s inshore waters. They all did whenever opportunity presented, but only Shimojo made it his principal modus operandi. Was it sheer nerve or greed? Mickey couldn’t guess. He was accustomed to longliners fishing in close, but this was the first occasion he’d had a trawler specifically target snapper. Shimojo’s success would only encourage others and that would be disastrous for the species. Mickey found it easy to justify his obsession with the Shoto Maru but also realised the downside. Other poachers could slip beneath his guard while his eyes were fixed on Shimojo. He couldn’t allow that either.

  He’d had some success, and regained some of the esteem he’d lost. He’d been instrumental in intercepting Japanese dories on two separate occasions, both groups working within a mile or two of Ninety Mile Beach. They’d been escorted back to their mother ships and both mother ships had been recalled to Japan. The Commodore had sent a curt letter of congratulations, more notable for its brevity than enthusiasm. Mickey had also hidden a patrol boat behind Kapiti Island near Wellington to catch a Russian squid trawler. That gained him more credibility, but he still bore the burden of being the man who let the Shoto Maru, the famous phantom trawler, slip through his grasp. He was lost deep in thought when Gloria returned.

  ‘No aircraft.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No aircraft. They’re in the middle of changing over. The Sunderlands are being de-commissioned and they’re rotating crews for familiarisation flights on the Orions.’

  Mickey groaned.

  ‘Apparently they were expecting to have three aircraft by now, but they’ve only taken delivery of two. The balance is due, hopefully, in the first half of next year.’

  ‘How long will this process of familiarisation go on for?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but I gathered it will take some time.’

  ‘Jesus wept! Any chance that they could organise their flight paths so that they familiarised themselves over encroaching foreign trawlers?’

  ‘I asked them that, sir, but they’re reluctant to send crews out on missions until they’re fully trained and experienced. Air New Zealand dropping their new DC8 hasn’t helped.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better have a word with them. See if I have more luck, not that I’d ever be so foolish that I’d back my charm against yours.’ He smiled. A peace offering.

  ‘Is that all, sir?’ She was still giving him her impression of an Easter Island statue.

  ‘Yes, Gloria. It is.’

  Shimojo’s incursions forced Mickey to change his plans. Lieutenant Commander Scriven insisted that the Cormorant head south immediately to sit on the Shoto Maru and prevent any further incidents. Mickey argued vehemently, but the Staff Officer Operations was adamant that he would not allow the Shoto Maru to cause them further embarrassment. In the end, seniority won over reason, and Mickey lost his transport back to base from Wreck Bay. On an impulse, he rang Captain Ladd and discovered he had a pick-up booked at Fitzroy late in the afternoon. He asked him if, in a gesture of goodwill towards the Navy, he wouldn’t mind picking him up from Wreck Bay at the same time. Captain Ladd laughed and agreed immediately. Apparently he’d heard the rumours, too.

  The Cormorant’s tender dropped him on the beach just on eleven in the morning. Mickey was surprised to see that Red’s boat was absent from its mooring and that a reception committee of two awaited him. What surprised him even more was that the Scotsman seemed pleased to see him.

  ‘Welcome, man, it’s a pleasure to have you here!’

  ‘Thank you, Angus.’ The old recluse shook his hand as if
reluctant to let go and fixed him with an ingratiating smile that almost turned his stomach. If he’d brought Angus a case of single malt he doubted the old fraud would have been more delighted.

  ‘Hello, Rosie.’

  ‘Hello, sailor.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thanks for the card and the flowers.’

  Mickey froze momentarily, but the twinkle in her eyes gave her away.

  ‘Would a letter do? We called into Fitzroy on the way over.’

  ‘I’ll not keep you,’ Angus interjected. ‘I just came down to extend a welcome and I’ve done that. Might I also ask if you’d mind dropping by my place on your way back down to the beach? There are some questions concerning the radio, you understand.’

  ‘Can’t I deal with them now?’

  ‘Nooo . . . There’s plenty of time. Like I say, I’ll not keep you.’

  Mickey watched the Scotsman head off back to the track, his stride more sprightly and his back straighter than he’d remembered. He turned to Rosie. ‘What’s going on? What brought the change of heart?’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘You tell me. You’re a man. You know what goes on inside a man’s head?’

  ‘Beats me, Rosie.’

  ‘Maybe he hopes you’ll rescue me from all this.’ She gestured towards the deserted hillsides. ‘If you do you’ll make my best friend Norma eternally grateful. She’s finally written, so she must be missing me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mickey said doubtfully, but with waning interest. ‘Where’s Red?’

  ‘Gone fishing. The snapper are coming back and he went off early this morning to set his longlines. He needs to catch fish to pay for his diesel and the occasional barge load of rice. He’s gone south to Coromandel so I’m not expecting him back until some time tomorrow. Come on. Unless you plan to go skinny dipping with me, let’s start up the track.’