Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  When you love someone there are some words in any language that chill you to the bone, and cancer is probably the worst of them. The weight loss, the time she stopped and clutched her breast in obvious pain shortly after she’d deserted the dinner table, the falling asleep in her office chair. My shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, no!’ I cried.

  It was to be a costly time for Marg, too, but in a quite different sense. Months after Anna’s elevation to the top of the feminist popularity poll as an inspiration to a new generation of young women beginning to flex their gym-toned muscles and sharp minds, on her evening call Marg mentioned casually, ‘Strangest thing happened today, Nick. I carelessly left my handbag in Mr Grumpy while I went into the post office to retrieve a parcel, a pair of hiking boots I’d sent to Paddy Pallin in Sydney to be re-soled. I wanted the original New Zealand manufacturer’s rubber soles. The post office was busy and I must have waited nearly twenty minutes for the parcel. When I returned, Mr Grumpy had been broken into and my handbag was open, but when I looked, nothing had been taken, the contents of my purse, all the money, chequebook, bankcard, the nice pen you gave me, they were all there. It was a complete mystery. I looked about thinking I might have disturbed the would-be thief but mine was the only vehicle around and there was nobody about.’

  ‘Your lucky day, I guess. Any damage? Did they break a window?’

  ‘No, they jemmied the front passenger door, but it still closes, sort of.’

  ‘I wish you’d let me get you another car, you can have a similar one, just updated,’ I offered for the umpteenth time.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Nick, I couldn’t bear to part with Mr Grumpy. Besides, I had the front seat re-covered last week. It was down to the cotton lining and you could see the shape of the springs underneath.’

  Then a week later Marg began her call excitedly with, ‘You’ll never guess what he stole, Nick!’

  ‘Stole? Who stole?’ I’d entirely forgotten about the great Mr Grumpy heist.

  ‘A pair of earrings! Clip-on frogs! Green Tree Frogs! They’re only the size of my fingernail. I mean, the babies in actual life. I’d been wearing them the previous evening to a fundraiser for The Wilderness Society. The clips were a wee bit tight and I’d taken them off and popped them into my bag on the way home. They have absolutely no value whatsoever. I bought them for five dollars at the Sandy Bay chemist. But I rather liked them and thought I might wear them to parliament, so I went to my handbag this morning and, well . . . they were gone! He took my frog earrings! Isn’t that bizarre?’

  ‘Sounds more like a female thief,’ I remarked.

  ‘Nick, girls don’t jemmy car doors open,’ Marg said in her practical voice.

  ‘Darling, she could have opened Mr Grumpy with her teeth,’ I laughed. ‘Sorry about your frogs.’

  ‘Oh, I can get another pair. As a matter of fact I nearly chose a Corroboree Frog, black with brilliant yellow squiggly stripes. I’ll get a pair of them this time. Since the blockade and after visiting the River Camp so often, I’ve become rather fond of frogs. Did you know, Nick, several species are facing the prospect of extinction?’

  ‘Marg, I’m glad you’ve solved the mystery of your earrings. Have you considered that the car thief was gay?’ I said quickly in an attempt to avoid a lecture on the demise of Freddo the Frog and all his croaking mates.

  Two weeks after the solution to the ‘Missing Frogs in the Handbag Mystery’, Marg’s nightly call came rather later in the evening than usual. This happened occasionally when the house was sitting late. The servants had all retired and I answered the phone myself.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello?’ I said again.

  There was a loud sob.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked. I’d been expecting it to be Marg, but Marg didn’t do a lot of sobbing, especially on the telephone.

  ‘Nick, I’ve just resigned,’ Marg said in a tearful voice.

  ‘What! Whaddaya mean?’

  ‘From parliament,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Whoa! Slowly, sweetheart. What on earth for?’

  ‘Having Gunns and Norths shares,’ she gulped.

  ‘Huh, come again?’ Gunns and Norths are the two main companies logging the old-growth forests in Tasmania. I knew this because Anna had bought a whole heap of stock in both, I suspect just to spite Marg. (‘Why shouldn’t I? They’re on the share market and highly profitable, Nicholas.’)

  ‘Remember the Mr Grumpy break-in?’ Marg sobbed.

  ‘Yeah . . . you lost your frog earrings.’

  Marg sniffed and then blew her nose and seemed a little better. ‘Two cheques and a deposit slip were taken from my chequebook that day, from the middle, the stubs removed as well. Of course I didn’t notice. Who would?’

  ‘Of course not. What happened, they rob your cheque account?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Nick, they deposited $18 000 in cash into my bank account and the cheques were used to withdraw that total to pay for the shares – $11 000 to Gunns, the balance for the Norths shares.’

  ‘Hey, c’mon, mysterious cash deposits? Everyone will know it’s a set-up,’ I comforted her, then added, ‘What about the phoney signatures?’

  Marg’s voice was almost normal. ‘Nick, I’m always getting cash donations from supporters who don’t want their families or bosses to find out. The signatures are expertly forged – my signature isn’t all that complicated – the forged versions almost fooled me.’

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No, I mean when they broke into Mr Grumpy.’

  ‘No, of course not. What, tell them I lost a five-dollar set of earrings?’

  ‘I see your point. That blows the cheque robbery. Surely they’ll realise it’s unusual for you to buy shares, particularly with your outspoken views about both companies?’

  ‘Nick, I’ve been dabbling in shares for years. It’s a hobby, not a vocation, but I usually end the year a few dollars ahead. But both transactions are bigger than I’d ever venture. I’ve got my super but you know I don’t have that kind of money to throw around.’

  ‘Okay, now tell me exactly what happened in parliament.’

  ‘During question time earlier this week the attorney-general stood up brandishing a sheaf of papers showing that I’d bought the shares. He claimed that they’d been sent to him anonymously.’

  ‘Wait a moment, you must have questioned that.’

  ‘Well, of course, but they were ahead of me. They’d had the signatures on the cheques authenticated by the police and the bank, who both validated them, checking them against legitimate cheques I’d written out in the past. He even had a certificate from a handwriting specialist the police use all the time in Melbourne!’

  ‘So, then you resigned? Do you think that was a good idea?’

  ‘Nick, I took legal advice. They went through everything with me again. Because I didn’t report the original theft to the police I had no case, they said. I can sue to clear my name, but the circumstantial and actual evidence is overwhelming; the chances of losing are pretty high. Even if I eventually win, it will be far too late to clear my name.’ Marg started to sob. ‘For the next two days, every time I entered parliament both sides stood up and booed and the attorney-general immediately rose and demanded my resignation. Today I had no choice. Bob Brown spoke up for me and they howled him down as well. “You in this too, Bob?” some idiot called out.’

  ‘Hey, wait on. Didn’t you show the police where the two cheques had been razored out of your chequebook, stubs and all?’

  ‘Nick, what would you do if you were trying to remove any evidence of a cheque you’d written?’

  ‘Yeah, I can see your point. Marg, now you get yourself the best barrister in town. Don’t worry about the money, I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Thank you, Nick, but even if I do, it will be much too late. I’m finished in Tasmania.’

  ‘Hang on, Marg, your friends will know you�
�ve been set up. There’s lots of other things you can do in the movement.’

  ‘Oh, Nick, it’s not quite like that. Some agree I should stay and fight. Bob does, but most disagree. We’re going after Gunns and Norths cutting down old-growth forests, they’re our next really big fight. Most agree my remaining would simply distract from the issue. Now the so-called evidence has gone public – it’s in all the newspapers, on the local radio, TV – the local media are not being kind, and the two companies are free to use it to lampoon and ridicule the movement. Even Bob agrees that’s likely to happen. And there’s a fair bit of jealousy in the movement, with some people seeing me as a born-again silvertail from the capitalist system they deeply despise. It came out on the radio that I have a large portfolio of shares. I guess they’ve never had two bob to rub together, so that’s enough to make them suspicious of me.’

  ‘Marg, I’m so sorry. So very sorry. What next, darling?’

  ‘Oh, Nick, will you come over and help me pack? Put my lovely house on the market? Please, darling,’ she pleaded.

  I hesitated. While I’d agreed that Marg could call me every evening, after what she’d done to Anna I’d put a moratorium on seeing her or her coming to Beautiful Bay for six months. It was my way, not a very strong protest, I admit, of letting her know that she’d gone too far. ‘Of course,’ I said, feeling a real weak shit.

  I put down the phone. ‘Anna, Anna, Anna, you little bitch!’ I said to myself, heading straight for the drinks cabinet and the Scotch bottle. Anna had appeared on the cover of the latest Time magazine and my copy had arrived earlier in the day. She was the cover story, the richest self-made woman in South-East Asia and Australia who had given a hundred-million-dollar gift to save the great Asian apes from extinction. I picked up the magazine from the coffee table. Anna looked out at me, still a radiantly beautiful woman. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but now I saw them. She was wearing a pair of five-dollar Green Tree Frog earrings.

  GAME OVER

  1993–2000

  MARG, EVER THE ZEALOT, moved back to Sydney and soon became a vocal spokeswoman on the subject of oil, fish, timber, coal, minerals, the pollution of rivers and the sky, and other big environmental issues. She was the number-one troublemaker pitted against the big companies and governments, local and international. She referred to them as ‘The Principal Plunderers’ and I often wondered whether this was a variation on Princess Plunder, just to remind her constantly who the enemy was.

  Her speech to the United Nations Earth Summit had made her a national identity and her nickname, ‘The Termite’, was taken seriously in the bastions of power; she could undermine the most carefully prepared government or corporate plans to conceal the signs of planet plunder. Moreover, a fuss made by her was usually taken seriously by media slowly becoming conscious of the environment issue, even though most of Canberra disputed climate change and the melting of the icecaps as scientific scaremongering.

  Marg Hamilton on the warpath was to be taken very seriously by one and all, and many a politician or company chairman knew to batten down the hatches when Marg Hamilton was on the case. As a testimony to her impact she probably appeared in more newspaper cartoons than any other woman in Australian history.

  I had employed the eminent Sydney barrister, John Robertson, to investigate the chequebook scandal and the shares bought in her name in Gunns and Norths. He eventually cleared her name when a Melbourne forger was arrested on another charge and admitted to being paid five thousand dollars by an unknown person to forge Marg’s name on the two cheques. Nevertheless, her demise from the Tasmanian Parliament still proved a handy instrument with which to bludgeon her under parliamentary privilege during debate in parliament.

  I should also be completely honest and say that at times I also found her pretty heavy going; Marg in full flight can make your average busybody appear to be in a coma. But as she grew older, more and more she turned to the fight against the extinction of all creatures great and small. She had joined the board of Taronga Zoo and was a committee member of the Taronga Foundation and became an expert on the extinction of frogs.

  She’d long since worn out the five-dollar Sandy Bay chemist earrings of the Corroboree Frog she purchased to replace the Green Tree Frog ones stolen by Anna and I’d since replaced the little black and yellow striped frog with a pair carved out of tektite, the squiggly stripes formed with gold. These she wore every day of her life and when they sparked a casual comment, as they invariably did, to the eventual regret of the enquirer, she launched into the story of the little frog only found in the upper reaches of Kosciusko National Park and threatened with imminent extinction. Having completed her set piece she’d extend her hand, then smilingly demand, ‘Now, please give me the smallest note in your wallet to help save this dear little frog.’ It never failed to work. The hapless recipients of Marg’s little lectures were pleased to pay in order to make their escape. Marg would often boast that, using the Corroboree Frog earrings, she raised ten thousand dollars a year for the zoo’s research into endangered species. I guess you get the idea of the formidable old hen she’d become. A well-known Hungarian shopping-centre magnate and philanthropist referred to her as ‘Dat Mrs Termite vid da earring’. Every time he saw her coming he’d throw up his hands and shout, ‘Please, no lecture!’ and hand her a hundred-dollar note.

  Anna – oh, how very much I miss her – fought her cancer like a tiger to the very end. Almost every day since her death in late 1993 I recall the evening she told me about it. There are moments in your life that are captured completely in your mind, every detail frozen in perpetuity. Dusk falling; a sliver of moon on the horizon just showing through the gloaming; the bay like a millpond; Madam Butterfly perfectly still, not even the slightest rocking of her mast; the evening chorus of birds in the garden preparing to bed down for the night; the lazy wing-beat of a giant fruit bat as it swoops over the native fig tree preparing to feast on the tiny fruit; Cook singing in the kitchen, a hymn, her sweet voice coming from far away; my pathetic statement about health being more important than wealth, a single letter of the alphabet separating the two words. Then, like a sudden, unexpected bolt of lighting, Anna saying she had cancer, marking the end of my brilliant world.

  She had sought a diagnosis too late, the trouble being that it was inflammatory breast cancer, one of the worst types because there is no lump, the usual early-warning sign women are taught to look for. This is because the cancer forms in the dermal lymphatic system under the skin and cannot be detected even by mammogram or ultrasound. Anna, feeling no lump, had simply ignored the pain, putting it down to stress, indigestion, perhaps a small infection, which she’d unsuccessfully self-medicated with antibiotics without going to the doctor. Finally she’d simply soldiered on. I recall her words when later she was explaining all this to me, her voice carefully matter-of-fact. ‘Because of the delay, it’s spread to the lymph nodes under my arms.’

  ‘What does that mean? Is that bad news?’ I asked fearfully.

  ‘Not great. Usually by this time it’s spread throughout the body.’ Anna paused and smiled. ‘But you’ll be happy to know they’re optimistic they can treat it when it’s only gone this far.’

  I was to find out that the word ‘treat’ has a qualified meaning with this type of cancer, rarely indicating that it leads to a cure. In Anna’s case it was only a matter of time before she died and no doctor we saw seemed prepared to guess how long that might be. The usual reply, ‘Six months to ten years if we do everything right’, wasn’t a great deal of help.

  Anna started the usual course of chemotherapy, and even completely bald she was still beautiful. She refused to wear a wig. I damn near burst into tears when she said, ‘Nicholas, I don’t need to hide anything anymore.’

  Then came the second great crisis when she told me tearfully, ‘Nicholas, they want to cut off my breast.’

  ‘Darling, you have to listen to them, they’re only trying to help.’ I smiled sympathetically. ‘You mean far more to me
than your breasts, however beautiful, and afterwards you can have those implants and get nice new ones with the nipples pointed to the moon.’

  This didn’t go down well. ‘Nick,’ always a warning, ‘it’s my body! No one is going to violate it. Only you may touch it. Nobody else, you hear? Not for any reason!’ Not even to save her life.

  I thought of her vaginismus and how she had resisted treatment. I now realised that Anna’s entire body was her temple; she not only forbade entry to it, but also it couldn’t be changed, the structure was to remain intact, exactly as it was; only age would alter it.

  And then Anna’s long exhausting fight to stay alive began. At first she seemed to get well and was almost her old self. For the next six years she started to put her affairs in order and spend a lot more time at Beautiful Bay, except for the one week a month Marg visited, when she would go to Melbourne and attend to a business virtually run by her dedicated staff.

  Mostly she remained at Beautiful Bay, with an occasional trip to Japan or Indonesia. I worked less and less, wanting to spend as much time as possible with her. Often I’d sit near her, cataloguing my enormous collection of butterflies so that they would be in good order for the museum. Anna never forgot the Clipper I’d given her all those years ago. Sometimes we’d sail for a couple of weeks on end and have a lot of fun together. Other times it was the simple stuff she’d never had time to do – go to the movies, a local dance, have parties, cook, visit Joe and Lela, spend all the time she could with Saffron when she was home from school. The two of them would sit in the garden for hours talking; Saffy was the little girl Anna had never had, and seemed to worship her.

  Then her remission ended and she grew steadily weaker. Saffron wanted to delay going to university to care for her but Anna insisted that she go. ‘Saffy, remember, we have plans,’ she’d say. During her last three years, when she became increasingly ill, she’d spend all her time when she was well enough writing. On one occasion I’d found her in tears in front of her Mac, and said, ‘Darling, you’re tired, can’t you leave that for a while?’