by Susan Duncan
‘You think that’s our mother making her presence felt?’ Alexander shouts above the storm, pulling her into the doorway.
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ Kate shouts back, amazed to find that she’s laughing. They stand for a moment and watch a torrent rush down red-tiled roofs to find its way along ancient gutters. ‘What century have we been flung back into?’ she adds, looking around at a tiny pocket of slouching redbrick houses where a horse and carriage would not have seemed out of place.
‘Mostly eighteenth.’
An icy, waterlogged gust whacks them hard up against the pub door; it swings open and they fall inside a warm, dark room with low, beamed ceilings, cherry-red carpet and enough space to hold about fifteen people at the most. They shake off some of the water. The barman holds up a towel with a question in his eyes. Alexander strides over and grabs it. He throws it to Kate, who catches the faint whiff of stale beer embedded in the fabric. She dries off. The barman passes him another.
‘They know you well here?’ she asks, towelling her hair, curious at the easy familiarity of the barman.
‘You could say that.’ He pauses then seems to come to a decision. ‘Actually, I own it. So we’re in the same sort of business, you and I. Weird, don’t you think?’
Kate hands him back the towel. ‘I’ve given up being surprised by anything.’
Alexander leads the way up a flight of creaking stairs so skewed they make the Misses Skettles’ hallway look like an airport runway. The timber smells of wax and polish. The hall runner, a colourful kelim that she’d feel happy having in her own home, might be faded and worn but it, too, exudes a dedicated and fresh spotlessness. A monumentally different cultural environment, she thinks, and yet the details of their characters are essentially the same. Which makes her wonder about research that insists environment is the driving force in character. Emily used to say it was all in the genes – usually as a prelude to another cruel quip about Kate being swapped at birth.
‘My parents owned the pub, passed it on to me. I make a decent living but I would have gone broke long ago if I’d had to buy the place.’
‘Are your parents still alive?’
‘No. I wouldn’t have opened the door to you if they were. I loved them both and they were spectacularly good to me. I wouldn’t have hurt them for the world.’ He lifts a latch, opens one of three doors leading off a small landing and waves his hand to usher her in.
A wall of glass overlooks a wide canal beaded with old river barges. Despite the foul grey weather, the boats are bright and joyful, painted yellow, red, sky blue – all the colours of the rainbow. She could almost be looking out from Ettie’s penthouse.
‘I live in a world where the only way home is by boat,’ she says.
He slides Kate’s damp backpack onto a darkly gleaming round oak corner table. Indicates she should sit on one of a pair of wingback chairs on either side of a small cast-iron fireplace. He lights a match and opens the glass door, sets newspaper and kindling alight. After the cold and wet of the outdoors, the warmth and comfort makes Kate want to curl up and sleep. She yawns loudly: ‘Sorry. Jetlag.’
‘Now,’ he says, ‘tell me about our mother.’
‘Would you like the short or long version?’
‘Start with the short.’
Chapter Nineteen
Three days after Kate’s disappearance – or desertion as some of the less understanding locals describe her dawn flit in the midst of the busy late-summer season at the café and the battle to save Garrawi – the scuttlebutt switches from the effect on Ettie to the impact on Sam. No one dares broach the subject except Fast Freddy, who deliberately hangs around the Square longer than usual after coming off his water-taxi shift to catch up with his friend. ‘She didn’t say much when I picked her up before dawn,’ he says. ‘Just that she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t follow through. Nothing to do with you, Sam, or the way she feels about you. Not that I’d know much about all that,’ he adds hastily. ‘What goes on between two people is their business. But in all my years of ferrying broken hearts around the waterways, I’ve learned to read some of the signs. Tears. Anger. Sadness. Disbelief. Occasionally, resignation or relief. She showed none of them. Seemed more like a woman on a quest, if you know what I mean. She gets a look in her eye . . .’
‘Yeah,’ Sam says. ‘Know what you mean. Like an avenging warrior.’ Or a cat waiting to pounce, he thinks.
Fast Freddy beams: ‘That’s it! You got it in one. So you’re all right, then. It’s just when you called asking if I’d picked her up, it occurred to me she’d obviously forgotten to mention she was taking off and I thought you might be wondering or unsure . . .’ He breaks off. Out of puff. Out of ideas. Out of his comfort zone.
‘Thanks for the concern, mate, but it’s all good. She’ll be back when she’s ready. Count on it.’
The third meeting of the Save Garrawi committee takes place four days before the black-tie fundraiser. The group convenes at Sam’s house. Shoes are kicked off in a mess at the door. Backpacks dumped in the hallway. Bottles of red wine are slammed onto the kitchen counter, beer and white wine stashed in the fridge before they lose their frigidly cold edge. The house smells of buttery pastry with savoury overtones. Mouths water. The mood is upbeat. Sam and his sous chef, Jimmy, produce a medley of sausage rolls from the oven, including his newest experiment, a tasty mixture of pork, veal, ginger, garlic, chilli and shallots.
‘Hold off on the tom sauce with these little beauties,’ Jimmy advises, his freckly face red from the heat of the oven.
Sam says: ‘Try them with the sweet chilli or on their own.’
Even the chef is impressed. ‘You are becoming adventurous,’ he says, slapping Sam on the back. ‘Next we can expect the Sam’s Sauso Roll franchise, no?’
‘Ya reckon?’ Jimmy asks. He swallows one whole, licks his fingers. Reaches for another. Blows on it and passes it to Longfellow. ‘They’re bloody delicious, Sam, I’m tellin’ ya. Longfella’s a pretty good judge.’
Siobhan calls the meeting to order. People plant their backsides uncomfortably on deck rails. Two mouldy canvas chairs are reserved for the Misses Skettle, who have rung to say they are running late. Something to do with setting the custard for the desserts for the fundraiser on Saturday night.
Jane reports that the treasury is in the black. The gala dinner is a sell-out. She will have a more accurate figure after expenses are deducted. Ettie breaks in: ‘I’ve worked out the food costs. Around five hundred dollars . . .’
‘I’ll need receipts,’ Jane says, a tad officiously. Ettie looks bewildered. Marcus rushes to her side. ‘I will organise this aspect,’ he announces. ‘Kate is away. It is too much to run a café and separate the costs, yes?’
‘Good idea, chef,’ Siobhan says, smoothly. ‘Ettie’s generosity often means she ends up out of pocket. We can’t have that.’ Jane retires to a corner of the deck, unsure whether she’s had a win, a loss or a rap over the knuckles. Sam’s phone rings. He races off. Reports back with the news that the Misses Skettle apologise. They regret they will be unable to attend this evening. The custard has curdled and they must begin again. Everyone feels deeply for them.
Jimmy announces with a swagger that’s new to him that there has been no new paintwork in the park. ‘But a lotta blokes have been trampin’ around lookin’ under rocks and takin’ pictures. Bloody shifty-lookin’ lot if ya want my opinion.’
Siobhan gives the kid a hard look. ‘You’re an expert now on shifty looks, are you?’ Jimmy grins, missing the irony. ‘Watch you don’t get too big for your boots, sonny. Or you’ll come a cropper.’
Sam steers Jimmy back to the kitchen, out of harm’s way. ‘Another plate of sauso rolls, mate. And don’t forget the dog. As you rightly deduced, he’s a downright connoisseur of life’s little luxuries.’
Jimmy, bamboozled by the rhetoric, catches the bit
about feeding the dog and follows through. One bite for the dog. One for him. By the time he returns to the meeting, it’s well under way. He sits in a corner with his knees pulled into his chest. Wipes a few flakes of pastry from the mutt’s jowls. They both fall asleep.
‘We’re doing well, so far,’ Siobhan says. ‘But in another week or two, the safety-flare demonstration will be forgotten and, along with it, our campaign. More ideas, if you please. Keep the spot fires burning.’
She goes on to report that continuing responses to the Three Js’ letters asking for support are still flying in from the Greens, individual members of the Liberal and Labor Parties, particularly local members who, she warns, can’t be trusted beyond the next election. The Conservation Foundation, the Heritage Council, the Surfrider Foundation – every single official body contacted including unions and mothers’ clubs – are asking if they can help out. There’s even finally been a positive response from the office of the Duke of Edinburgh, that commends the preservation of the environment.
‘This is all well and good but if you think Mulvaney’s going to take any notice of a few letters, you’re all off in la-la land. He’s just going to play dirtier. I’ve heard, by the way, that sneaky son-of-a-bitch who’s swanning around like he’s the newly anointed king of Cook’s Basin is looking for barges to carry three bulldozers into the park.’
‘Ah, bloody hell . . .’
‘No takers, so far. But don’t get too cosy. As we all know, money talks and it takes very little effort to become fluent in the language of cash.’
John Scott steps forward, his face beetroot red. ‘I’ve been holding back on reporting an offer to the artists from Lowdon.’
Siobhan nods: ‘The art gallery and commissions, eh? No secrets on the Island, John. You should know that by now. So have you come to a decision?’
‘No deal.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Loud clapping. Another cheer.
‘And if I may ask, what was the deciding factor?’
‘There were a few. Lowdon’s a deadshit. The money would be spent in a flash. We’d all have to move because the Island would be ruined. And we’re planning to set up our own galleries in our boatsheds, which we’ll open once a month for organised tours. Phoebe’s working on a design for the website as we speak.’
‘Hear, hear!’
Siobhan turns towards Sam: ‘And Frankie? Has he made up his mind yet?’
Sam sighs. No secrets on the Island all right. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.’
Siobhan rubs her hands together like they’re cold, paces for a second: ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says. The committee leans forward. ‘After the fundraiser there’ll be money to burn, eh? We should move on those advertisements in a major metropolitan newspaper. Nothing terrifies powerful men more than the thought that they’re up against money. They’re scared rigid it will mean spending some of their own.’
Hear, hear.
‘If the artists could come up with a design?’
John nods.
Siobhan smiles: ‘Haven’t I always said? There’s no situation that cannot be further inflamed.’
Hear, hear.
Seaweed stands and clears his throat. ‘If ya interested . . .’ he begins, hitching frayed shorts kept up by a string around his waist. Every head turns in his direction. He squirms. ‘I’m not sayin’ I’ve done the right thing . . .’
‘Well get to the point, Seaweed, and be sure that we’ll tell you,’ Siobhan says, with what passes for kindness.
‘I came across a few files er, by mistake. Yeah. That’s it. By mistake.’
‘And?’ Siobhan says.
‘I was checkin’ out me own bank balance, when – by mistake, you understand – I found myself lookin’ at an unfamiliar set of figures for an account in the Cook Islands, which as it turned out, appeared to belong to Theo Mulvaney. At least, he seemed to be a director of the company I accidentally came across.’
‘You hacked –?’ Jenny says, incredulously.
Siobhan snaps, ‘Did you not hear how the man made a terrible mistake?’ Her voice softens: ‘Well now, I’d call that the luck of the Irish. If I still believed in a god in heaven I’d say he was well and truly committed to our cause.’
Jenny grins. The whole committee grins. Siobhan wriggles her shoulders in happy anticipation. ‘And from this terrible mistake, Seaweed,’ she wheedles, ‘what did you discover?’
‘That Mulvaney received a payment of five hundred thousand dollars from the New Planet Fountain of Youth six months ago.’
‘Ah,’ everyone murmurs.
Sensing there’s more, Siobhan makes a beckoning sign with her hand. ‘Give, give.’
Seaweed delivers with a flourish: ‘He also received twenty-five grand from Eric Lowdon.’
‘Ah.’ Another collective response.
Siobhan says: ‘What a cheapskate the bald little toad is, eh?’ She sighs almost dreamily. ‘Since the Misses Skettle aren’t with us tonight, I’ll indulge in a little colourful language, if you don’t mind. My friends, we have got him by the proverbial balls.’
‘Hear, hear.’
She stands, unlashes and re-lashes her long red hair. ‘So we’ll keep this to ourselves for the moment, are you all clear? Print out a file, would you, Seaweed, and deliver it to my door when you have a moment. From now on, we’ve no idea how we came by this information. An anonymous benefactor, we’ll say. The file dropped at my back door and none of us the wiser. You’ll wipe your hard drive, of course.’
Seaweed digs into a stained knapsack at his feet. Hands Siobhan a file. ‘The hard drive’s so clean you could eat off it,’ he says smugly.
‘Good man. It’s a question of how we use this amazing insight into a man’s uncanny ability to make such massive amounts of money in the flicker of an eyelid. I need to think long and hard.’
When the meeting breaks up, Siobhan takes Sam aside: ‘Now tell me, are you able to fly unassisted, then?’ she asks. ‘Can we expect to see you floating around the Island on a magic mattress in the not too distant future?’
‘Ah, mate, trust me, the whole experience beggared belief. I still can’t figure out whether it was crazy, misguided or just plain weird. About forty – I dunno, what would you call them?’
‘Eejits,’ Siobhan suggests drily.
‘Well, anyway, they were a bunch of barefoot, beaming innocents – no women – with neat haircuts and dressed in white tracksuits. They sat on thin mattresses on the floor in a dingy old room smelling of a blocked drain that made the toxic-smelling recent septic gasses on the Island seem like a sweet perfume. Although no one seemed to notice. They were too busy bouncing up and down on their backsides with their legs crossed in a position I have just learned is known as lotus. I’ll tell you something else for nothing, mate. The lotus position is the nearest thing to torture I’ve ever experienced.’
‘But the flying part? How did they get around that?’
‘Ah. The backside raising was stage one. I would be inducted into Stage Two after signing a form agreeing to pay a further three thousand bucks. All for a good cause, you understand. The money, I was told, would go towards creating a philosophy that will lead to world peace.’
Siobhan snorts.
‘Not a goon in sight, though. No black suits or sunglasses. Just a bright-eyed leader lifting his backside over and over and chanting loudly.’
Siobhan stands to leave. ‘Watch your back, boyo. They’ll know you were there. Trust me, they’ll know.’
Chapter Twenty
Kate watches a hot orange sun rise slowly above a cushion of white clouds, turning them the colour of one of Jimmy’s traffic-stopping orange T-shirts. The quality of light shifts from thin and wintry to richly tropical. Two hours later, she makes it quickly through customs and immigration and through the International terminal to the escalators leading to the
rail shuttle service to the city. At Central Station, she waits at the bus stop. The switch from icy to hot weather is almost an assault. Every so often she checks the schedule printed on the sign. The bus is running late.
By the time the double-length blue people carrier with its accordion midriff screeches to a halt in a cloud of thick exhaust, she has stripped to a T-shirt and pulled off her woollen socks. After just ten days in Britain, the tan on her arms has faded to a faint stain. She stands aside while people stumble down steps and onto the footpath to head off in different directions. When the last passenger, a young woman with an iPod plugged into her ears and wearing denim shorts over thick black stockings like she can’t decide on the season, topples out, Kate steps on board. She rummages in her bag to find the right currency among her pounds, shillings and pence and takes a seat up front. There are just two other passengers heading out of the city instead of into it. The bus roars off, buildings pass in a blur.
Just over an hour later, she wanders into the Square, where the giant white papier-mâché cockatoo, with its arrogant yellow cockscomb fanned out like a clownish hat, takes up most of the space. It takes her by surprise until she remembers the fight to save Garrawi. There is no sign of Sam or the Mary Kay but Fast Freddy is dressed in rainbow colours as usual, supping his usual coffee, breaking apart his usual raspberry muffin and contemplating – as usual – what the astrology column says is in store for him during the day. He sees her and his tired, water-taxi post-nightshift eyes, light up. ‘So you’re back then,’ he says.
Kate throws her gear on the picnic table, stands back to take in the sight of The Briny Café, still leaning, still in need of a new roof, still in business. ‘Nobody walks away from their investments, Freddy.’
As the words fall out of her mouth, Kate hears the cold practicality of them. Fast Freddy, one of the few locals who embraced her from the very beginning, flinches.
‘But the bottom line, Freddy,’ she adds quickly, ‘is that it’s good to be back.’ Fast Freddy nods. Kate kisses his cheek. He blushes so furiously his skin clashes with his sky-blue beanie. He shoots off like a frightened rabbit, upsetting a couple of scrounging seagulls, before leaping nimbly into his water taxi (nimbly for a man on the wrong side of fifty), and gunning the engine home.