by Susan Duncan
‘Bunch o’ wankers, if you’ll excuse me language.’
‘Your mum say that?’
‘Nah. That’s me own version.’
Sam is floored, as he is so often, by the kid’s ability to cut through the crap without ever being seduced by it. He watches Jimmy work for a while longer. Seeing a new focus, less frenzy. A boy starting to figure out what makes him tick. Who he is and where he belongs. According to Fast Freddy, who sees his fair share of the Island’s more intellectually endowed kids searching for self-knowledge, Jimmy’s come from a long way behind to lead the pack. If everyone’s due fifteen minutes of fame, Sam’s sure as hell happy that Jimmy’s time has come and gone. No harm done, thank god.
The payment should hit the kid’s bank account by the end of the day. Jeez, the press weren’t a trusting lot, were they? No money up front – nothing till after the story went to air. Even a hint of a sneeze in the direction of an opposition television station, and all bets were off. Meaning no money because the exclusivity clause was broken. Anywhere else, and Sam was sure Jimmy would have blown the contract in happy innocence. But in Cook’s Basin, where strangers stood out like bad debts, the community – already on full alert after the sinking of the Mary Kay – was ready to steer the kid away from any wandering press people intent on wrecking the deal with what Kate called a ‘spoiler’. Which meant, she told him patiently, taking a couple of hiyas and giddays and fleshing them out with dodgy stuff based on quotes from ‘sources close to Jimmy’. He’d argued the point, insisting no bloke, no matter how great a bastard, would motz a deal that was going to set up a kid with one or two unique personality issues for life. Kate had given him one of those looks that made his toes curl, like he was two cards short of a full deck. ‘You think they care about Jimmy? They’d trample over their grannies to get a story,’ she said. He wanted to know if she’d been like that when she was a fully operational journo. ‘I worked in financial news. It’s a different scene.’
He finds a scraper on Frankie’s bench and goes to work alongside Jimmy. The kid gives him a comrade-in-arms grin that almost blows up his heart. If he was going to make a habit of picking up waifs and strays he’d be a fool to think he’d manage a one hundred per cent strike rate. Kate was a gamble from day one. You win some, you lose some. ‘Ya missed a bit, Sam. Ya gotta concentrate, ya know.’
‘Where’s your whip?’
‘Daydreaming again, were ya? Doesn’t get ya anywhere, ya know?’
‘Who said that?’ Sam, a great believer in the power of daydreaming to restore the spirit, is curious.
‘That TV bloke. Said we were daydreamin’ about savin’ the park.’
‘Bloody knuckle-head. What would he know?’
‘We gunna save it, Sam?’
‘The great lesson to be learned from this campaign is that no matter what gets thrown at you, never give up or give in. They can change the rules, break your windows or sink your barge, but you keep fighting. You getting my drift, kid?’
‘Never take no for an answer, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So what are we gunna do next, Sam?’
‘I’m working on it, mate. Trust me. It’s going to be big.’ Jeez, how often has he said that and how often is he going to have to say it?
A short time after café closing hour, Kate walks past the boatshed on her way home. He waves.
She comes over. ‘As a friend,’ she says with a wry grin, ‘would you be able to call in tonight?’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Give me half an hour.’
‘I’ll make dinner.’
‘I don’t need bribing, Kate.’
‘Didn’t think for a moment that you did.’
Under a canopy of stars made brighter by a moonless night, Kate tells Sam about her trip to Victoria to meet the man she thought was her brother’s father. Sam listens, stupefied by her lack of tact and sensitivity.
For the first time since he spotted her back in the days when old Bertie was behind the counter of The Briny Café serving shocker coffee and life-threatening egg-and-bacon rolls, the golden flame of infatuation flickers for what he honestly believes is truly the last time, before dying out.
Thank Christ the old bloke was waiting with a confession he’d obviously been desperate to unloose for decades. Probably did him more good than harm to get it off his chest. He wonders if Kate will stay in touch. Realises he couldn’t even hazard a guess, which doesn’t say a lot about his genuine understanding of a woman he was supposed to be in love with. Maybe falling for her simply came down to timing. Forty years old, a string of light summer romances in his past that required neither effort nor commitment, he was ready for more. He’d always thought there was something sad about aging men chasing young women. Never dreamed he’d be on the brink of becoming one.
Kate appeared like a prize. He should have known it was never going to be easy. He resists an impulse to indulge in a round of self-pity. Sacrilege when you live in a strong community that never lets you down. Jeez, what’s the point of her sad and pointless crusades to get to truths that should have no real bearing on the way she lives her life? ‘The sins of the fathers,’ he says, out loud without meaning to.
‘That’s the point, isn’t it? Who is Alex’s father if it isn’t Timothy Terence Martin O’Reilly?’ she replies.
Sam closes his eyes. ‘Does your brother care?’
‘Of course,’ she replies, looking surprised he’d even asked. ‘I told him I’d keep looking. And I will, even if it takes a lifetime.’ She looks at him defiantly. ‘Can you imagine how hard it must be to have no knowledge of who you are? Where you really come from?’
‘I’ve never met the bloke but from what you’ve told me, he sounds pretty grounded. Reckon he knows who he is, and maybe, just maybe, even though everyone’s intentions are pure gold, digging into stuff that Emily went to a lot of trouble to hide, might rock him right off his foundations. It’s risky, Kate. If he wants to search, maybe he should go it alone.’
Kate pulls a spag bol sauce out of the freezer, and holds it up in a question. Sam gives in and nods. ‘I just can’t let it go,’ she says, shoving the container in the microwave, putting a pot of water on the stove to boil. ‘It’s obsessive, I know. Maybe I want to prove once and for all that Emily was a monster in her own right and not one that I created out of . . . well, whatever the many and varied reasons behind some kids turning their parents into fiends.’ She throws a small handful of salt into the water. The microwave pings. She tips the softened sauce into a saucepan: ‘Ettie says it’s OK for defrosting, but warming pre-cooked food in the microwave is like nuking it,’ she explains. ‘Slow and easy gives a better result.’
‘She’ll make a chef of you yet.’
‘No. I’ll always be a read-the-instructions type of woman. I don’t have the instinctive flair she has.’ She stirs the sauce. Throws the spaghetti into bubbling water. Steam rises and hits the ceiling where it hangs like tears. Kate opens the top of a window. Sam watches vapour twist and curl outwards into the open air.
He asks: ‘You sure there aren’t any more clues in the grey box?’
Without a word, she leaves the kitchen. When she returns, she lays out all the information she has. Only half engaged, wishing he had the sense to follow his own advice and leave the subject alone, Sam searches for links, a pattern, a joining of action and result. Keeps coming back to the word suicide. It bounces loudly off the inside walls of his skull. A single tone that resonates more and more strongly. ‘Why would Emily’s mother kill herself?’ he asks after a while, more out of curiosity than a belief it holds a vital clue. ‘What makes someone decide that death is preferable to life?’
Kate shrugs. ‘Where do you start? Grief. Pain. Hopelessness. Or all three. But if there’d been a hint of mental illness, I’m quite sure Emily would have used it as a weapon: You’re as mad as your grandmother . . .’
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‘I’ve always thought something awful must have happened to Emily when she was very young,’ he says. ‘O’Reilly’s story backs me up, too. No mother, not even Emily, could hand over a baby without a backward glance unless there was something so hideous about the conception she couldn’t bear to look at the child.’ The sins of the fathers, he thinks again. Ah jeez. The sins of the fathers.
Sam knows he should change the subject. Knows he should stop his thoughts rocketing in the kind of directions that could lead to endless pain and anguish. He knows all this but still he says: ‘Has Alex ever considered a DNA test?’
Kate scoffs at the idea. ‘What’s the point?’
‘Maybe,’ he says, skirting around the hideous idea that’s latched onto his brain and refuses to budge, ‘to verify that Alex is really, truly your half-brother and not a kid Emily snatched.’ Dumb, he thinks, really dumb. No one snatches a kid and gets away with it. He tells himself to back-pedal fast. Get out of the hole he’s digging deeper and deeper. Before he can swallow his words and in a final roll of the dice, he impulsively and foolishly opens what he knows in his gut is the real Pandora’s horror box. ‘You might want to get Emily’s DNA and O’Reilly’s at the same time.’
‘What? Dig up her grave?’
‘I dunno,’ he mumbles. ‘O’Reilly could be lying. Alex might be a fraud. Or maybe just closure.’
‘Crazy idea,’ she says. Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He may be a firm believer in steering clear of fibs, but seeking out the secrets of the past when they could do more harm than good is a no-win bet.
Thoughtfully, Kate adds: ‘Maybe not so crazy. I’ll talk to Alex and Timothy. See if they approve. I’ve still got Emily’s hats. They should do. All I need is hair, don’t I? Exhuming a body is going a bit too far.’ She grins, to show it’s a joke. Sam wants to cut out his tongue.
Jeez, he thinks, sculling his beer. Fighting an urge to jump into the water and start swimming. No good will come from all this. Ah jeez. He feels like he might suffocate if he stays a minute longer.
‘Feel a bit fluey,’ he croaks, struggling to his feet, ignoring Kate’s surprise. And it’s the flat-out truth. He feels sick to his gut. ‘Might have to skip dinner, love. Sorry. Suddenly feel crook as a dog.’
‘You’d be better off with someone around to look after you,’ she says.
‘Thanks, but when I’m this bad, all I want to do is crawl in a corner and curl up like an old dog. Sorry, love. Just hit me all of a sudden.’
Kate sees him to the dock, holding onto his arm. ‘Call me,’ she says, ‘if you need anything.’
‘Of all the shocker clichés,’ he says when he’s on the water and safely out of earshot. ‘A freaking tragedy, that’s what it is. I’m as sure of it as I am that the sun comes up every morning. The sins of the fathers. Dear god.’ He has never in his life ever wanted more to be wrong.
Sam wakes in what feels like the dead of night. He switches on his bedside light and checks the clock. One am. His mobile phone pulsates. You’d call it the death-throes if you saw a person in a similar condition. Bzzzzz. Too late to be anything but a crank call. While he’s still deciding whether or not to answer, the call rings out. He rolls over in bed, pulling the sheet up to his chin, hoping he’ll be able to go back to sleep. He makes a deliberate attempt to switch his mind from Kate to Garrawi and the urgent need for a new thrust in the campaign. Aside from the art auction, future plans are a blank page.
Ring. Ring. Enough to drive a bloke to distraction. Ah jeez, get it over with, he thinks, reaching for the phone to put it out of its misery.
‘Sam Scully.’
‘I know who you are. I called you, didn’t I? You need any more money? I got a million here that’s yours. Say the word and it’s in the account.’
Sam sits up. Fully awake now. ‘You got a name, mate?’
‘Yeah. Max. Short for Max.’ He chuckles, like he’s making the joke for the first time.
‘If you don’t mind me asking – and please don’t think for a moment that I’m not grateful, mate, when there’s no way I could even begin to measure my gratitude and the gratitude of the community – why are you doing this?’
‘Sailed past the park every weekend when I was young. Magic, it was. Places like that? They’re breathing spaces. Stop people going mad when the pressure gets too much. Know what I mean?’
‘Yeah. But, mate, tell me, how can we thank you?’
‘I’m not looking for recognition, if that’s what you think. Doesn’t mean diddly-squat to a man as old – and rich – as me.’
‘There’s got to be something –’
‘Gimme a plaque after I’m buried.’ The old man’s laugh turns into a coughing spasm. Sam waits it out. Max continues: ‘Just wanted to say the ad was good. Real good. Here’s my number. When you need more money, call. Any time. Old people can sleep when they’re dead.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
The following week, as the summer holidays are almost a forgotten era and the working year is well under way, the Mary Kay is ready to return to partial duty. Her resurrection, completed a day ahead of schedule, has the barge looking as fit as a woman who’s just spent two weeks at a health farm drinking water, eating vegetables and running marathons. Delivery of the new gearbox for the crane is two weeks away so she’ll be taking on light duties only.
Frankie presses a button to launch the cradle down the slipway. Sam and Jimmy, as twitchy as expectant fathers, follow the progress of the freshly painted canary-yellow hull with a mixture of anxiety and pride. Longfellow yips and nips, like he’s rounding up a flock of sheep, until the stern rams into the water, sinks alarmingly but steadies quickly.
Half an hour later, ropes stowed, fuel checked, they are on their way. Sam spins the wheel and points the barge towards Cat Island to give the engine a long, flat-out run to smooth any kinks before committing to paid work. Under his feet, the thrum is deep and steady, the engine purring its heart out. He figures he’ll wait till he reaches the confused waters swirling around Cat Island sanctuary before giving Frankie a progress report – more out of respect than necessity. Frankie won’t let go of his grip on a boat until he’s one hundred per cent certain – short of an unforeseen natural disaster such as a tsunami or a hurricane – it’s not going to kill anybody. He’s a good man. Pity he’s never had any luck with women.
Sam grimaces inwardly. He’s not travelling too smoothly in the romance stakes himself, right now. For the first time in a while, he hankers for the weedy taste of a rollie, the smell of a thin spiral of smoke curling from his mouth, snaking past his nose . . . Jeez, then landing in your hair so you smell like a bushfire or a barbecue at the end of the day. When a man hits forty, he has to make a few hard decisions if he wants to give himself a good shot at making eighty. Christ, there he goes again, thinking about his own mortality, time running out. He wonders briefly if he’s currently engaged in a condition he’s heard is called a mid-life crisis. It’s mind over matter, he tells himself. Long as he believes he’s a man in his prime he’ll be OK.
But he’s buggered if he can think of what to do next in the fight for Garrawi. He dials Siobhan. Gets The Briny by mistake. He hears Kate call an order, his ear as tuned to her tone as a mother to her baby’s cry. The strange chemistry of humans is an utter mystery and he bets he could read The Concise History of the World from cover to cover and never discover the reason why, against all reason, one person chooses another.
*
In the pre-dawn light two days later, Sam and Jimmy set off from the car park on one of Siobhan’s stealth missions – although stealth is the wrong word. They tow, strapped on a trailer built for ten-metre yachts, the giant cockatoo (cockscomb repaired for its big day out) majestically through the suburbs. Sam takes the opportunity to run Jimmy through the gearshifts. Baulks when, less than five minutes later, the kid offers to take over the driving. ‘Rome wasn
’t –’
‘Aw jeez, Sam, ya’r wearin’ that thinner than ya top line for Ettie.’
‘Well, mate, she is the answer to every man’s dreams.’
Sam dodges the tunnel (in favour of keeping the cockscomb intact), makes it across the Harbour Bridge without mishap and proceeds, in what he likes to think is a stately manner, through the backstreets of the northern CBD then along Macquarie Street, where once again he makes use of the four-hour parking zone across the road from Mulvaney’s office.
‘That you, Sam?’ asks Ben Butler, sticking his grey head out the door of his guardhouse. ‘Would you like a cuppa? Kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Lovely. And this is Jimmy.’
‘Oh, we all know Jimmy.’
Sam nobbles Theo Mulvaney, Minister for Housing and Development, a little before midday as he tries to scoot, head down, past the giant cockatoo: ‘Have you seriously sold Garrawi? Are you really going to let a shonky cult take over one of the most beautiful parks in New South Wales and turn it into a Club Med? Are you?’
A television news reporter, who has just finished interviewing the opposition spokesperson for land and environment on the current lack of any credible research into the ongoing side effects of coal-seam gas mining, sees an opportunity for another news story. He and the cameraman shoot across and start rolling. Without any prompting, Jimmy stretches a long skinny leg in front of Mulvaney – like a brolga testing the sand of a riverbank. His going-to-town outfit of cerise and peacock blue is a photographer’s dream. ‘Why are ya trashin’ the park, Mr Mulvaney? Why do ya wanna kill the cheese tree?’ he asks politely, seriously and patently anxious to understand how foreign forces can be allowed to threaten the foundations of an age-old community and its sacred icons.