Gone Fishing (15 page)

‘Hot, eh?' Sam says.

‘Butter was shoved way back,' she snaps.

Behind the counter, her hands deep in a sink full of hot soapy water, Kate rolls her eyes.

Inspired and feeling like he's on an unstoppable roll, Sam decides to call Jack Mundey. He figures if a name keeps popping up it's a sign that unseen forces on the side of good are hard at work. Once, Sam and his dad had watched the evening news on a friend's brand-spanking-new and utterly wondrous full-colour television set, still such a rare commodity in Cook's Basin, the neighbours took turns to call in. Mundey, his black hair faded to grey, his craggy face filling the screen, was talking about the need to stand up for minorities – feminists, gays, Aboriginals – anyone who was denied a voice on the basis of bigotry.

Sam's dad watched, mesmerised. ‘Take a look at one of the few genuine heroes, son. A man who never did deals with one hand behind his back, who never let his ego get in the way of common sense.' He was only a kid but, even then, it seemed to Sam that Mundey had kind eyes, a soft mouth. A noble nose. That he was a man with a soul, a social conscience. A man for all seasons. A man, as Siobhan would say, who never took the soup. Sam badly wants him onside.

He starts at the top of the Mundeys listed in the telephone directory and begins dialling.

‘Jack Mundey?'

‘Never heard of him.'
Click
.

‘Jack Mundey?'

‘Wrong number, love, but we're distantly related. No I haven't got his number but I'll tell you about the last family get-together . . .'

Twenty minutes later, his ear thoroughly bashed, he dials again: ‘Jack Mundey?'

‘No. Great man, though. Do you remember when . . . ?'

Another ear-bashing.

Twenty minutes later: ‘Jack Mundey?' The phone goes dead. Rude bastard, thinks Sam, dialling again.

‘Jack Mundey?'
Click
. Now he's pissed off. It wouldn't hurt a bloke to say hello. Once more. ‘Jack Mundey?'

Almost a whisper: ‘Who wants to know?' Bingo.

Sam blurts the cause. Not sure he's making any sense. When he eventually runs out of steam, silence stretches emptily between them. Sam figures he's blown it. Failed to win over this giant of a man. He pulls in his stomach, thrusts out his chest, aware Mundey can't see him but he doesn't care. Taking his courage firmly in both hands, he asks: ‘Would you be our patron, mate? Er, Mr Mundey?'

‘Why do you want an old ghost like me?' Mundey whispers down the line.

‘Why? Well, you're a legend. You saved everything in Sydney that was worth saving. My dad thought you were a hero. So do I. Will you back us? Will you back us?' Sam repeats.

‘You going to fight it all the way?' Mundey asks.

‘Yeah. Oh yeah. It's on, mate, and we'll die fighting if that's the way it's got to go.'

Again the old man pauses. Jeez, Sam thinks, looking at his phone to make sure the line hasn't dropped out, he's in his eighties. He's got every right to say no. He squeezes his eyes shut, crosses his fingers and invokes the spirit of his father. Waits. Mundey replies: ‘I'll help you all I can. Look after you. Tell you who to talk to.'

Sam lets out a breath he's held for so long, black spots dance in his eyes. ‘So you'll put your name to it?' he asks.

‘Yeah,' says Mundey. Sam's hectic, heartfelt thanks are garbled, idiotic. Mundey laughs, just a dry croak, and ends the call. But it's there. A promise. I just signed up a living legend, Sam thinks, wondering if he's finally starting to seriously get the hang of lighting spot fires. He pulls out a crappy little spiral notebook and pencils in Mundey's name under a new heading:
PATRONS
. Then he turns to the back page and lists his phone number. The campaign has its first official backer; a bloke with the kind of credibility that can't be bought. Who needs celebrities? He's stoked. Bring on the critics, bring on the dissenters, bring on the doubters, he rails inwardly, punching the air with his fist. We're on fire! He feels like kings did, once upon a time. Except this is no fairy-tale. This is a thriller to the bitter end. For the first time, Sam feels a glimmer of hope based on hard reality instead of blind faith.

 

 

Chapter Thirteen

By the time the second meeting of the Save Garrawi committee convenes at seven pm in the cosy front living room of the Misses Skettle, with its views across the water to Cutter Island, there's a buzz in the air and not just because it's the end of the week.

The Three Js take up positions cross-legged on the floor, John Scott perches on a windowsill, Glenn, Lindy, Seaweed, Ettie, Marcus, Jimmy and Siobhan spill into the hallway, balancing yachtie-style on the sloping floorboards. Nobody goes near either of the rosy armchairs where the two old ladies keep watch on stormy days and nights in case some poor wretch's engine fails in dangerous seas and they need rescuing. Small bowls of prunes wrapped in bacon are dotted around with tiny pip saucers and napkins alongside – the dainty embroidered variety used for formal morning and afternoon teas half a century ago. Nobody touches those either.

The Misses Skettle flit around in frothy summer dresses like pink butterflies, filling glasses, patting arms, enquiring after this and that with an old-worldly charm that inhibits anyone normally inclined towards bawdy noisiness at community get-togethers. When drinks are topped up for the second time and the prunes whisked away so they don't get tipped over, the meeting begins. Across the open waterway, the park they are determined to save is a dark and mysterious shadow in the gathering gloom of evening.

With a clap of hands, the meeting is called to order. Siobhan tips John off his windowsill and takes charge. ‘Your job was to get people talking about Garrawi,' she says. ‘By god, you've done it like bloody pros. And sure and be damned if there's not a tear in my eye when I think of all you've achieved in such a short time.'

‘Hear, hear.'

‘Laying it on a bit thick, isn't she?' Glenn whispers in Sam's ear.

‘She's Irish, mate. It's in the genes.'

‘Oh. Orright, then.'

Siobhan goes on to tell them about Sam's impromptu and ultimately fruitless meeting with Mulvaney. She mentions the electronic message board; the coup of recruiting Jack Mundey as a patron; and that the press has already begun sniffing around. ‘But it's early days yet. I'm not one for giving orders, as you all know (she grins) but the first person who even says a polite hello to a member of the media without my express permission will be publicly castrated. We are faced with a difficult task. We need the press. Of course we do. But let them get to the bottom of this travesty on their own. Who would believe us if we talked about gurus, human flight, world destruction? As I've said, we'd be written off as nutters and we can't afford to have that happen. Are we all clear on this?'

Hear, hear.

Siobhan crosses her ankles. Her red rope-sole shoes look like they've just come out of the box. She wears faded denim jeans, a red-checked cotton shirt open low enough at the neck to be interesting. There's probably not a bloke in the room who can decide whether he's half in love with her or just plain scared shitless, Sam thinks. He toys with the idea of asking her age when they next share a couple of drinks. Comes to his senses. He'd like to live a suitably long life.

‘Right,' she says, dusting off her hands. ‘Any ideas for more spot fires?'

‘Well, I was thinking a parade of boats,' Sam begins.

There's a collective groan. ‘Mate,' says Seaweed, ‘in Cook's Basin, there's virtually a parade of boats at peak hour twice a day. Then there's the twilight yacht races, the putt-putt parade, the Three Island race and all the other notable events we're familiar with. No one will even turn a head to watch.'

‘I'm talking about a different kind of parade. Using boats to set fire to the sky.'

‘Eh?'

Sam explains. ‘We rally everything that floats, circle the Island and set off safety flares till the world glows orange. We can use old ones well past their use-by date. We'll call it a donation – might even manage a tax deduction in the form of counting it as a contribution to a cause that has recently been listed as a charitable foundation thanks to the chef –' Hear, hear! Marcus takes a bow ‘– and replace them with new flares?' Eyes sparkle in agreement. A double whammy with a tuck. Nothing Islanders enjoy more. ‘I'll give Waterways a call in the morning to suss out safety rules and regulations. No point in ending up in the clink before the fight hots up.'

Hear, hear.

‘Can we set a date?'

Debate surges instantly. They need to take into account the fireshed dinners, kindergarten rallies, Lenny's funeral and wake, twilight racing, Thursday afternoon sailing . . .

Siobhan puts up her hand for silence, checks the events calendar on her mobile phone. ‘Listen up . . . according to this schedule, Sunday, February 17, is available. Any questions? Done!'

She reaches for a pad and pencil. ‘As we all know, the park's been recently surveyed and trees marked for removal – thank you, Jimmy, for being the first to note the changes. Is Jimmy here?'

‘He's taken the dog out to lift his leg. He'll be back in a minute,' advises one of the Misses Skettle.

‘OK, I'll come back to the trees. The black-tie fundraiser is set for three weeks from Saturday.' To cut off debate, she adds, ‘Don't worry if you can't make it, just be sure to buy a ticket which we'll put down as a donation. But each of you will be given ten double tickets to sell. Payment is in advance. Each payment is to come directly to Jane, our new treasurer.'

‘Oh, but . . .' Jane stammers.

Siobhan glares at her: ‘If you're not happy, talk to Jenny. She volunteered on your behalf. But meself, I'd be thinking that anything you could do to help . . .'

‘Of course,' Jane stammers. Totally cowed.

Siobhan continues: ‘Now be warned, all of you. If you sell eight tickets but fail to turn in the remainders, you will be charged. Sure and I know it's not the way we do business in Cook's Basin but we're not talking about a feel-good little get-together here.'

‘We're makin' history, Miss O'Shaughnessy. That's what we're doin', aren't we?' Jimmy says, rocketing into the room, the pup tucked under his left arm. ‘And I'm not late, Sam, just tendin' to Longfella's business. Me mum says boy dogs lift their legs in strange houses and it's best to be sure . . .'

Siobhan cuts in, not unkindly: ‘Good lad and good spotting with those eagle eyes. A fine clean-up job, too.'

Jimmy beams, his face flushes purple. He shifts the dog to his other arm and bounces on the balls of his feet. ‘I can do anything, I told ya, didn't I?'

‘Right, Jimmy. That's enough now. We've more work to do.' And such is Siobhan's power that even Jimmy goes still and silent on demand.

After the discussion ends and the committee huddles over a plate of smelly cheese and warm bread, John Scott takes Sam aside. ‘I had a visit from Eric Lowdon,' he says, in a low voice. ‘Pitched up close to midnight. Which is probably smart given the lynch-mob mentality on the Island right now.'

‘What did he want?'

John blushes. ‘He wants to build an art gallery, Sam. Says the local artists need a showcase and he's prepared to put up the money.'

‘Nah, empty promises, mate. He'll get you onside and welch on the deal. Guarantee it.'

‘It's not quite that simple. He also made a six-figure offer – half the money upfront – to commission a wide range of local artwork for the walls of the new resort.'

Sam swears under his breath. ‘You told the other artists?'

‘Not yet. But they have a right to know. It's an artist's dream. Money in the bank and more to come. Like winning the lottery.'

The two men stand silently for a while. Each one scrolling through the ramifications of something too big to be dismissed. Eventually, Sam says: ‘What do you reckon? Think they'll go for it? Er, I'm assuming, as you're still on the committee, that you're against the deal.'

‘I'm lucky. I make a decent living. I can afford to knock it back but I won't lie – it still hurts to say no. The others? I'm not sure. And you know what? I couldn't really blame them if they rolled over and took the soup, as Siobhan would say.'

‘So Lowdon figures he can use his money to divide and conquer, eh? Plunge a knife into the heart of a community and watch it slowly bleed to death? When are you going to mention it?'

‘I've asked Lowdon to put the offer in writing. Soon as I get it, I'll organise a barbecue.'

‘If you had to guess, mate, which way do you think they'll go?'

‘Truthfully? With one less zero attached to the deal, I'd reckon Lowdon would lose. But this is big money. I haven't a clue how they're going to react.'

*

Later, when he's home, Sam considers lobbying the artists against Lowdon's deal and then backs off. If there's no resort, there's no gallery. One step at a time.

He checks his watch. It's still a decent hour. He finds the phone number for the Water Police on a card he keeps secured by a magnet on his fridge door. He writes it in his small spiral notebook: the beginning of his own arsenal of contacts. He likes to think he's a man who learns quickly. He dials. The call's picked up. He hears the smooth and steady roar of a few hundred horse power in the background. He makes his pitch.

‘Run that past me again?' says the officer-on-duty, throwing the cruiser into neutral. The noise drops back to a throaty murmur.

‘We want to circle Cutter Island in our boats and fire off two hundred distress flares.'

‘No, mate, you can't do it. It's illegal.'

‘Ah, bugger. It seemed like a cracker of an idea at the time.' For some reason, Sam doesn't hang up.

The officer waits a beat, then speaks: ‘Er, is this for Garrawi?'

‘Yeah, mate,' Sam replies. ‘One and the same.'

There's another pause, a sound like lips smacking. ‘Well, you could always call it a flare safety demonstration . . .'

‘How do we do that?' Sam asks, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.

‘I'll send you the form. Fill it in and get back to us. No worries.'

Sam disconnects, throws the phone down on the table, spins around four times shouting yippee. Not cool, he thinks, not caring.

An hour later, he puts the finishing touches to his flare safety demonstration plan. In his mind, he sees it as a grand parade of character vessels ranging from svelte little sailing boats to leaky tin dinghies that will probably need to be rescued when the flotilla reaches the unprotected eastern shore of Cutter Island, where a strong wind could whip the seas into a surging frenzy. Which, when he thinks about it, is a perfect result for a flare safety demonstration aimed at saving sinking boats.

Just before he goes to sleep, he calls Jack Mundey. ‘There's a top seat on the barge for you, mate. Say the word and we'll spring for a taxi, a hire car, anything to get you here on the day.'

Mundey doesn't even hesitate. ‘Do you know the number of the bus from Central?'

‘A taxi, mate. Our privilege. It's too far by bus.'

‘For an old bloke, you mean.'

‘Jeez . . . sorry . . .'

‘I'll be there. But I'll find my own way. Save your money for the campaign.'

Next he calls Siobhan. They confirm the date they'd nominated in mid February.

‘I'll tell Seaweed to put out the word on the new website,' Siobhan says. ‘Check it out, Sam. It's wonderful. You click on the link and straightaway a fierce-looking cockatoo screeches “Stop the vandals!” loudly in your ear.' The notice is also posted in
Cook's Basin News
. The game is heating up.

He's about to call Kate but checks the time. It's just past her curfew and he'd hate to wake her. When you start work at 6 am late nights are a rare luxury. He puts down the phone. He'll talk to her in the morning. He's tired of his lonely bed. That's the truth. He even misses the sparring.

He makes a note to remind himself to ask Seaweed to suss out a simple computer for his personal use. It's time to embrace change, he thinks, with a twinge of regret. And jeez, they can't be that hard to handle. Every Island kid is an expert.

He hits the sack and wakes with a start an hour before dawn, shocked by the feel of a cool breeze on his naked skin. A sou'easterly, he thinks. He gets up to take a piss from the deck, grinning up at a faultless sky. The rank stench of rotting vegetation overlaid with the stink of leaky septics is already fading. He takes a deep breath. The soupiness of high humidity is gone. One or two boats, their red, white and green nav lights moving across the water like large, rare insects in air-force formation, are already about. Sam rubs his arms, feeling almost chilled. He decides to catch another hour in the cot to make the most of the comfortable temperature. Brute summer is on the run for a blessed moment and the fight to save Garrawi is moving up a notch. He needs to stay strong.