by Susan Duncan
Frankie shakes his head. ‘Haven’t said yes and I haven’t said no.’
Sam feels a surge of hope. His eyes catch fire. ‘What can we do to convince you to turn it down, mate? What? Give us the right of reply.’
Frankie picks up a screwdriver and walks over to Kate’s desk, standing untouched in a back corner with one door hanging open sadly. He begins to pry away the backboard. Sam holds his impatience down with an effort. The backboard loosens. Frankie drops the screwdriver back on the workbench.
‘I’m going to look at every angle. Make sure that if I sign up there aren’t any nasty surprises waiting. I’ll let you know what I decide.’ He picks up the screwdriver again. ‘You want to call Kate? Ask her to come down. It’s time we looked at this desk.’
Sam reaches for his mobile. ‘She’s on her way,’ he tells Frankie. And another picnic bites the dust.
‘What do you think?’ Kate asks, hands on her hips, circling the desk that Sam and Frankie have pulled away from the wall. It stands mutely, sagging shabbily under the pressure of age.
‘The timber is still solid,’ Frankie replies, running his hands expertly over the grain. ‘One pane of glass has to be replaced. It’s very old, maybe eighty to one hundred years. It will take a while to find the right glass.’ He opens the desktop, releasing smells of timber, dust, must, olden days. The two men watch Kate almost reel with nostalgia.
‘Stamps in this pigeon hole,’ she whispers, pointing with her index finger. ‘Pencils here, staples, paper clips, envelopes here, here and here. Three bottles of ink in this corner. Indian was black and used for accounts. Swan was blue and used only for letters. My father thought it was bad manners to correspond using a ball-point pen.’
‘And the third was red?’
‘To be avoided at any cost.’
‘He’s dead, then, your father?’
‘A long time ago.’
Frankie returns to safer ground. ‘The hinges are loose but they’ll come up good after they’re cleaned and polished. The desk is oak, scratched but strong. Should restore like a dream. But this will have to go.’ He taps the backboard. ‘Masonite. Tough but cheap shit put on some time later.’ He grunts. ‘Strange,’ he says, frowning. He closes one eye, peers into the skinny dark space he’s created. ‘Look – the original backboard is still here.’ He works faster now. His hands are steady, careful. He’s more curious than expectant. Tacks release with a small popping sound. ‘A mystery, eh?’ Frankie murmurs. Sam comes closer. Frankie eases the rubbishy board away from the frame. Lets it fall to the floor. Steps back, one eye shut. Finds a penlight in his pocket. Shines it over the surface in slow sweeping motions. ‘Look, here’s the reason.’ He runs his hand along the timber like it’s expensive fabric, squinting through one eye again. ‘A secret cavity,’ he says. ‘You’d never find it if you weren’t an expert.’
Afraid Kate’s in for another round of crushing disappointment, Sam says: ‘Could be anything. Could be nothing.’ Under her thin cotton shirt, he swears he can see her heart beating faster.
‘See the edges of the cut? There’s a tiny fraction of shift in the grain. Shows up because this is a single slab of timber from a great old tree.’ Once more, Frankie touches the wood, almost reverently. ‘The desk may look simple but there’s nothing shoddy about it. Built by a craftsman.’
‘I thought people used to hide things behind a brick in the chimney or in old jam jars on the mantelpiece,’ Kate says. She looks and sounds bizarrely chirrupy, flirty. She’s all over the place, Sam thinks.
‘Only in movies. Bad ones.’ He circles the desk, wolfish under the green light. Kate bangs the backboard with the palm of her hand. Frankie shakes his head, takes her arm and pulls her gently but firmly away. ‘It’s always better to think first. Force, which can do more damage than good, is the last resort.’ He shoves his cap higher on his head, rubs his forehead like he’s trying to get rid of a nagging headache. Steps back for a better overall look and trips on the edge of the Masonite. He picks it up and leans it tidily against the wall.
‘No lock, no release, no hinges,’ he murmurs. ‘So this means we must approach the problem from the inside.’ He moves in slow motion.
Kate spins in frustration. Covers it with a thin grin. She says: ‘I’ve cleaned and wiped it from top to bottom, Frankie. There’s nothing inside. Truly. I would have seen it.’
The shipwright ignores her and opens the bevelled glass doors. ‘They were so precious once,’ he says.
Kate looks at him blankly. ‘Desks?’ she asks.
‘Books,’ Frankie says. He slips his hand inside the shelving, presses against the timber at the top of the framework. His eyes are closed, his head turned slightly to bring one ear closer to the action, like he’s listening for a heartbeat. ‘Ah,’ he says. There’s the sound of a ping. Kate races around the back.
‘Don’t touch,’ warns Frankie, following her at a normal pace. ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch.’ He takes out the penlight for a second time. ‘Maybe there’s a fortune in jewels? A treasure most of us dream about?’ He’s teasing. He examines the four sides of the cutting then places a finger in different places, pressing gently.
‘Do you need any help?’ Sam asks, unable to bear watching the fluctuations of hope and despair on Kate’s face, hoping to speed up the process.
‘Patience, patience.’ He hits the spot. The wood makes a slight cracking sound. Frankie eases the cover off. Stands back. ‘Might as well see what we’ve got,’ he says.
Kate looks as though she could throw up all over Frankie’s neatly swept cement slab. Sam watches her swallow. She reaches inside. Withdraws a smeary plastic bag.
‘A bunch of old paperwork,’ Kate says, feigning disinterest.
‘So no diamonds, no gold, then,’ Frankie says, sounding disappointed.
To make the point, she picks up the pouch and shakes it. ‘Nope, nothing but papers. Probably a stack of Emily’s old bills. She had a habit of hiding them from my father.’ She places the bag on Frankie’s workbench, returns to the matter of restoration. Sam moves towards them. ‘Don’t touch,’ she snaps. So not just a bunch of old bills, he thinks, jerking backwards like she’s zapped him with an electric prong.
‘You reckon you can make this old desk glow again?’ she asks.
‘It will take time. Each piece must be removed, sanded, oiled and polished. Time costs.’ He raises his eyebrows, looks her square in the eye.
‘This desk is precious to me, Frankie. Whatever you need to do is OK.’
Sam moves outside the spooky green satellite glow of the boatshed. Listens to the swallowing sound of tiny waves breaking on shore. A fish jumps. The night is clammy. People keep secrets, he thinks, because they are afraid of triggering havoc. No one keeps a good secret. Not for long, anyway. Sticking your nose where it’s really not wanted is a good way of getting it chopped off, as his mother used to say. He feels a familiar surge of dread. He turns at the sound of Kate’s footsteps. She slips her arm through his and guides him towards the pontoon. They sit side-by-side, their legs dangling in cool water.
‘I could see him there, you know?’
‘Your father?’
‘Every night before dinner, he’d do the accounts and balance the till from the grocery shop, placing the cash in a bag to take to the bank in the morning. Notes tied with a rubber band. I can’t remember how old I was when my father found a secret wad of unpaid accounts stuffed in a jam tin and pushed into the deepest corner of the pantry. Accounts Emily had run up in the city. He was looking for something sweet to put on his toast. It was before they sold the shop, anyway. He was appalled. Humiliated is probably closer to the truth. In country towns, small businesses skate on a thin line between surviving to trade another day or bankruptcy and a family thrown out on the street, so owing money was on a par with paedophilia. Neighbours stopped talking to you, invitations to dinner or tennis
dried up, no one even knocked on your door for a donation for the local Scouts group. You didn’t buy what you didn’t have the money to pay for.’
‘They’re a bunch of old accounts then, eh?’
Kate avoids the question. ‘Emily hid bills, as if that somehow made the debt disappear. She seriously believed it was OK for others to go without, but completely impossible for her. Why would she even contemplate putting someone else’s welfare before her own? Law according to Emily.’
‘Want me to hang around while you check it out?’
‘Thanks. I’m good. No cowardly hanging back this time, promise you.’ She smiles, calm now, as though she’s passed through the eye of the storm.
He gives her shoulder a brotherly pat. Pushes to his feet, aware she’s determined to go it alone on the big stuff again, and he’s been given his marching orders.
‘Oy!’ Frankie’s silhouette waves them back to the boatshed. Sam reaches for Kate’s hand. Hauls her up.
‘Thought you’d like to know straight away. I’ve found another hidey-hole. Don’t get too excited. No jewels. A few old letters, that’s all.’
Frankie shows them a second secret cavity behind the first. ‘A false back. Genius. You find the first stash, figure that’s it, and move on. Just like we did.’
*
Sam makes his way along the jetty to the Mary Kay. Every time he feels he’s getting closer to her, it triggers a response that catapults him back to square one. That bloody yo-yo syndrome, he thinks, not to mention the freaking twig. He suddenly feels too exhausted to think straight.
Chapter Sixteen
On Sunday morning Sam wakes with a bad feeling in his gut. His house is already an oven. It would be irresponsible madness if the community went ahead with the flare safety demonstration. Less than a week without rain and already the air crackles with the kind of moisture-less heat that gives a tiny unnoticed spark from a backyard barbecue the power to explode into catastrophic force. They’d all be wiped out in minutes.
He makes a cuppa, wandering around naked. No point in saving a park, he figures, if fire wipes out every house on the Island. He shrugs. He’s a practical man who knows how to prioritise. He is also painfully aware of how it feels to push the limits and wear the consequences if events go spectacularly belly-up. He wraps a towel around his waist and takes his tea onto the deck to check the sky. A squillion mares’ tails swipe the early-morning blue. He smiles inwardly. If the air keeps moving fast in the upper layers of the atmosphere, there’s a chance a storm will blow up and bring a cool change. It could all work out yet.
He sips his tea, wondering if the gods land on your side if your motives are pure and unselfish. Wonders too, if the reverse is true. But pulls up short when he thinks of the New Planet Fountain of Youth. Worth a billion dollars and flourishing without a philanthropic instinct to be found. He tosses the dregs over the side and wanders back into the house, consoling himself with a fact he knows for sure is true even if science with all its tests and calculations sneers in his face: what goes around, comes around. Or as his mum drummed into him you reap what you sow. An image of Kate creeps into his mind, her face firm and serious: Steer clear of the clichés, Sam. They’re a lazy way of making a point. Well, it is OK for her to think that way: words are – or were – her livelihood. He’s just a bargeman who knows good from bad and wants to lead a blameless life. No rocket science involved. Shit, another cliché.
He gives up digging deep and heads for the shower, turns the cold on with a blast and steps under a stinging waterfall that’s lukewarm from the early-morning sun hitting his tank full on. Yep, it’s hot as the hammers today, he says out loud, taking pleasure this time as yet another cliché rolls off his tongue with ease. He wonders if Frankie has made a decision yet.
The plans are for the community to line up their boats at Triangle ferry wharf at seven pm. Theoretically, there’s still enough light to stay safely on course but by the time they’re organised it will be dark enough to make a maximum impact with the flares. Sam also wants to do a quick check to list the seriously dodgy vessels that haven’t a hope of completing the course without sinking or breaking down. He’ll assign people with fully functioning boats and enough horsepower in their motors to tow, as guardians. He mentally maps out the day ahead until he’s satisfied that, weather permitting, it should go like a dream.
He makes his way down the steps to his tinny and sets off for a substantial breakfast at The Briny Café. He’s going to need his strength. Ettie might even persuade him to eat a little of that spinach she insists on loading onto his plate even though he’s told her a thousand times that he’s long past his growing years and green stuff is for rabbits. With the exception of peas. Nothing beats a handful of peas alongside four lamb loin chops – their fatty tails crisped to a salted golden crunch – and a serious mound of creamy potato mashed with lashings of butter and not a drop of milk. He feels his taste buds slip into overdrive and saliva fill his mouth. He could wipe out a coffee or two and three helpings of Ettie’s spicy baked beans with a fried egg on the top, a hint of greens to lift the look of the plate and about eight slices of toasted sourdough that’s solid enough to hold a serious amount of butter without going soggy. By the time he ties up at the end of the deck, he’s sorted. He bangs his way into the café, gives Ettie a smooch and a quick swing around the kitchen and places his order with all the fanfare of a prime minister announcing a major, guaranteed vote-winning initiative.
‘We’re out of spicy beans and I haven’t had time to make a new batch,’ Ettie says.
Sam is crestfallen. Without expecting any success, he mutters something about a few lamb chops.
‘No worries, love,’ Ettie agrees. ‘How about poached eggs, fried tomatoes and a heap of spuds seared in butter in a hot pan with a little onion, capsicum and chilli thrown in?’
‘You’re the answer to every man’s dream, love. Er, you couldn’t whip up a few peas and a little mash, could you?’
‘No,’ Ettie says firmly. ‘This is a take it or leave it, once only, offer.’
‘Good as gold,’ he says in a hurry, remembering Delaney’s sound advice that a wise man knows that it’s smart to quit while he’s ahead. His mobile phone goes off in his pocket. Sam checks the screen. The loyal Cook’s Basin anti-development protesters have woken up and, given the weather, they’re edgy and looking for direction. Sam tells them it’s all systems go until they meet at Triangle, which is where they will assess the climatic conditions and come to a democratic consensus.
The Islander with a legendary thirst takes umbrage: ‘What the hell does that mean? You’re getting a bit high fallutin’ with your vocabulary, mate.’
‘Be there and we’ll see what happens,’ Sam explains, patiently.
‘Orright then. All you had to do was say so.’
Ettie delivers Sam’s breakfast with a flourish. ‘Have you seen Kate? She hasn’t turned up yet.’
Sam’s gut somersaults. ‘You called her?’
‘No answer on the landline or her mobile.’ Ettie is puzzled. ‘Can’t understand it. We made a deal. If she can’t make it, she calls. If today is like yesterday, we’re going to be under pressure from the word go.’
‘Put my brekky in the oven to keep warm. I’ll do a quick dash.’
‘No, love, I’m sure it’s all OK. Eat your food while it’s hot. If she’s not here in the next few minutes, I’ll call Jenny to fill in. It might teach her that rules are rules. And,’ she adds with a grin, ‘she can dock her own pay.’
Ettie disappears inside the café. Sam drags out his mobile and dials Fast Freddy. ‘You pick up an Oyster Bay resident in the early hours, mate?’
‘Kate, ya mean? Yeah. She was off to the airport. In a stinking hurry and all revved up like it was life or death. Never seen her so nervy.’
Sam ends the call. Pushes Jenny’s number. ‘Get over to The Briny asap, love. E
ttie needs you.’ The phone goes dead in his ear. Five minutes later, he sees Jenny’s tinny flying across the water from the Island. Good communities, he thinks, know how to take care of each other and never, ever worry about the details. Kate, he realises, may never get it. For once, he feels sadder for her than for himself.
By lunchtime, blue sky is a fading memory and the sky is bruised and overcast. Heavy rain will mean a washout. Even though the community is hell-bent on saving Garrawi, postponements kill enthusiasm and douse the spark of spontaneity. Sam keeps his fingers crossed, trusting luck to hold off the storm until well after dark. He checks four weather sites. They’re all over the place. Anything could happen.
At four pm Delaney arrives at The Briny Café, this time wearing a baby blue shirt with his khaki linen trousers. He looks uncomfortably hot, with large rings of perspiration darkening the fabric under his arms. His trousers give the impression they’ve been through a mangle. Clive, the photographer, is as ruddy-faced as the reporter. ‘Do you reckon Ettie would be able to find a couple of icy cold beers?’ Delaney asks, straight off, throwing himself into a chair on the back deck with reckless abandon considering his size and the relative fragility of the furniture. ‘Maybe throw in a burger for Clive and a salad of some kind for me? Almost didn’t come. The weather. What do you think?’
‘Good as gold,’ Sam fibs, fingers crossed like he’s a five-year-old kid.
Ettie and Jenny appear with a platter of cold-cuts, cheeses and grilled vegetables and a tray of cold beers. ‘A few snackettes for the workers,’ Ettie says brightly. ‘Paid for by the café, if you’re worried about ethics, Mr Delaney. An army marches on its stomach. Napoleon, I think.’
‘Well, the French understand food better than anyone else . . .’ He reaches for a beer with one hand, a snack with the other.