Silver Bay, Page 23

'I don't think killing is ever something to be proud of,' I muttered.

  'Well, then, use the death of that shark to help the whales.' Mike nodded at me.

  'I'm not going to be the Shark Lady again. I have enough on my plate without stirring all that up.' I pursed my lips, and hoped he'd leave it there.

  'Liza then,' he said. She had been doing her best to ignore him, her head buried in the newspaper. But she was, I noted, in the kitchen, rather than her bedroom or on board Ishmael, her traditional places of retreat.

  'Liza what?' she said, not looking up from the paper.

  'You'd make a great figurehead for the campaign.'

  'Why?'

  'Well . . . there aren't many female skippers. And you know a lot about whales. You're . . .' here he had the grace to cough and flush '. . . you're a good-looking woman. I've been told how it all works and--'

  'No,' she said abruptly.

  I stood very still at the sink, wondering what she would say next.

  After a moment she added, a little defensively, 'I don't want - Hannah exposed to . . . all that.'

  'I don't mind,' said Hannah. 'I'd like to be in the paper.'

  'It's the only way to stop the development,' Mike said. 'You have to galvanise as much support as you can. Once people know what's--'

  'No.'

  He stared at her. 'Why are you being so stubborn?'

  'I'm not.'

  'I thought you'd do anything for the whales.'

  'Don't you dare tell me what I should be doing for the whales.' Liza folded up her newspaper and slammed it down on the table. 'If it hadn't been for you, none of this would have happened and we wouldn't be in this bloody mess.'

  'Liza--' I began.

  'You really believe that?' he interrupted. 'You really think this area would have been untouched for ever?'

  'No - but it wouldn't have happened yet. We would have had more time . . .' Her voice tailed away.

  'What do you mean, "more time"?'

  The little room went quiet. Hannah glanced up, then down at her homework.

  Liza looked at me and shook her head, a delicate, discreet movement.

  Mike caught it and I saw it register on his face as disappointment. I started to tidy away the empty cups, as a kind of distraction. Both Mike and Liza handed theirs to me, as if grateful for it.

  'Look,' he said, finally, 'one of you is going to have to do something. You two are the best chance we've got to stop this development, and at the moment even that chance is pretty slim. I'll do everything I can to help you - and, believe me, I can't do more than I already am doing - but you have to cut me a little slack.'

  'No,' said Liza. 'You might as well get this straight, Mike. Neither Hannah nor I will appear in any publicity. I'll do anything else you suggest, but I won't do that. So there's no point you going on about it.'

  With that, she got up and left the kitchen, Milly following tight at her heels.

  'So what are you going to do?' he called after her. 'Fire rockets at all the jet-skiers like you did with the boats?'

  Hannah gathered up her things from the table, gave Mike an apologetic smile and followed her mother.

  I heard him sigh deeply.

  'Mike, I'll think about it,' I said, more to be kind than out of genuine intention. He was so disappointed, I had to say something. He gazed after Liza's departing back like a starving man whose last meal has been whipped away from him, and his feelings were so obvious that I looked away.

  'Right,' he said. 'On with Plan B, then.' He gave me a lopsided grin and flipped a new sheet of paper. 'I just have to work out what Plan B is.'

  I discovered pretty quickly that Mike had given up everything to come back to Silver Bay. He admitted he no longer had a job, or a girlfriend, or apparently even an address. 'I can pay, though,' he said, when he asked for his old room back. 'My bank balance is . . . Well, I don't need to worry about money.'

  He seemed oddly changed by his month away. The slickness had disappeared, and a new uncertainty had crept in. He tended to ask, rather than state, and his emotions sat more obviously on the surface, no longer masked by a deceptively bland shell. He also drank more, so I took pains to remark on it, which brought him up short. 'Is it that bad?' he asked quietly. 'I guess I've tried not to think about it.'

  'Perfectly understandable,' I said, 'as a short-term measure.'

  He got the picture. I found the new Mike Dormer rather more endearing. It was one of the reasons I had allowed him to stay. One of the few I was prepared to confide in Liza.

  Meanwhile, every disco boat, every two-bit operator who had once seen an oversized sardine and now described itself as an eco-tour, found their way into what our crews had considered their waters. It was as if they were sizing us up, trying to work out how far they could impinge on our business. The coastguard told me there had been talk of extending Whale Jetty, so that others could move in. Twice the disco boats had come as far as our bay, and Lance had complained to the National Parks and Wildlife Service, blaming them for the disappearance of the whales. The official line was that perhaps migration patterns were changing, that perhaps global warming was shifting either the timing or the distance of the migration. The whalechasers didn't buy it -Yoshi had spoken to some of her old academic friends and they thought it was likely to be something more local. The dolphins were still occasionally visible in the bay, but I wondered if they felt bullied, the focus of so much daily attention because they were now the only thing for the passengers to see. For every pod there were now two or three boats a session stopping nearby, the tourists leaning overboard with their cameras.

  Perhaps because she was so distracted by the plight of the whales and - although she would not admit it - Mike's return, I persuaded Liza to agree to Hannah having sailing lessons. I took her to the first, with her friend, at Salamander Bay, and when I saw her out on the water I saw, with a start, that it couldn't have been the first time she had negotiated her way alone in a dinghy. She confessed afterwards, with a grin, that I was right, and we agreed that it was probably best not to tell her mother.

  'Do you think she'll let me take out Hannah's Glory?' she said, as we drove home, the dog drooling happily over her shoulder. 'When the teachers say I'm good enough?'

  'Don't let that dog take your sandwich,' I said, pushing at Milly's nose.

  It had been a beautiful day, but clouds were moving in from the west, a dark forbidding line. 'I don't know, sweetie. I think we should just take it one step at a time.'

  'Greg says she won't - just to get up his nose.'

  'He told you that?'

  'I heard him say it to Lance. They didn't know I was listening.'

  I'd have words with young Greg. 'What your mum thinks about Greg has nothing to do with it,' I said. 'You'll get your boat. But, as I said, you have to be patient.'

  I slowed down on the coast road to say g'day to old Mr Henderson, returning on his bicycle from the fish market. When I turned back to Hannah she was staring out of the window. 'Can you change the name of a boat?' she said, gazing at something in the distance.

  'Why?'

  'I thought I might change the name of mine. Once I'm allowed to take it out.'

  'It can be done,' I said. I was half thinking about what I could cook for dinner that night. I was no longer sure how many whalechasers I could expect. I should have asked Mr Henderson what was on special at the market. 'You might not want to change it, though - there's some say it's unlucky.'

  'I'm going to call it Darling Letty.'

  I braked so hard the dog nearly fell into my lap.

  For a moment neither of us spoke, and then Hannah's eyes widened. 'Can't I even say her name?' she cried.

  I pulled the car over, raising a hand in apology to the van that had had to brake suddenly behind me. When it had disappeared I turned in my seat and stroked her cheek, trying to appear less rattled than I felt. 'Sweetie, you can say whatever you like. I'm sorry. You just gave me a start.'

  'She's my sister,' she sai
d, her eyes filling with tears. 'She was my sister. And I want to be allowed to talk about her sometimes.'

  'I know you do.' The dog was clambering into her lap, whining. She hated anyone to cry.

  'I thought if my boat had her name I could say it whenever I wanted without everyone going all weird.'

  I stared at my great-niece and wished there was something, anything, I could say that would alleviate what I now knew she had been hiding.

  'I want to talk about her without Mum looking like she's going to collapse or something.'

  'It's a lovely idea, a really smart one, Hannah, but I'm not sure that's ever going to happen. Not for a long time yet.'

  When we got home, I climbed slowly up to my room and pulled out the drawer where I kept the picture of Liza with her two little girls. The edges are a little uneven, where I'd cut that man out with a little too much resolve. Liza thought the only way to protect them all was to bury Letty, I knew. It was the only way she herself could continue to live, and the two of them could exist safely.

  But it wasn't as simple as that. They couldn't bury Letty then, and they couldn't bury her now.

  And trying to pretend otherwise was no kind of living at all.

  Every afternoon I visited Nino Gaines. I brushed his hair, brought him freshly laundered pyjamas and, when I felt brave enough, I even gave him a shave - not out of sentiment, you understand, but because there wasn't anyone else to do it. Okay, so Frank might have been able to, or John John, or perhaps John John's wife, but the young are busy. They have their own lives to lead. So I volunteered, and sat there for a few hours every day and read him the bits I thought he would enjoy from the newspaper and occasionally berated the nurses on his behalf.

  I had to come. I reckoned he hated it in there by himself, his nostrils filled with the smell of disinfectant, his strong old body hooked up to bleeping monitors, and tubes that fed him God only knows what. Nino Gaines was built for the outdoors: he had strode up and down the lines of his vines like a colossus, occasionally removing his hat as he stooped to take a closer look at this or that grape, muttering about bloom or acidity. I tried not to see him as he was now: too large for the hospital bed, but somehow diminished. It was clear he was not asleep, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that he was.

  His family were happy for me to stay; they came and left food that mouldered beside his bed. They brought photographs, in case he opened his eyes, and music, in case he could hear. They whispered together, held his hand and talked in huddles with the doctors about prognoses and medication, reassured by the EEGs, which said that his brain was working fine. I could have told them that. I talked to him: about the vineyard, how Frank had said the first buds of this year's growth were about to show through, and that some supermarket buyer had made a special trip to see him all the way from Perth because he'd heard how good his wines were and wanted to stock them. I told him about the planning inquiry, which had received an unprecedented number of public objections, including a whole folderful from the children of the Silver Bay Elementary School who had deemed their whales more important to them than a smart new school bus. I told him about Mike and the hours he spent alone in his room on the telephone, doing what he could to stop the development. I told Nino about my sneaking affection for the young man, despite what he had brought to bear on us, and about the watchfulness in Mike's eyes that seemed to me a reflection of what he expected of himself as much as anyone else, and the way that when they alighted on my niece I felt I might have done the right thing in letting him stay.

  And I told him about the disappearing whales and the poor, beleaguered dolphins, and about my niece, who seemed so rattled by Mike Dormer's reappearance in her life that she didn't know what to do with herself. She was busy and she was not busy. She went out by herself on Ishmael and came back in a worse mood than when she had left. She ignored Mike at every meal, then scolded her daughter if she did the same. She was furious with both of us for allowing him to stay at the hotel. She swore she had no feelings for him - and when I finally told her she couldn't see what was in front of her face she had the temerity to use the words 'pot and kettle' at me.

  But she was a fool and Nino Gaines was an older fool. He lay there uncharacteristically still, the tubes flowing in and out of him. He said nothing, did nothing, just let me pour my troubles into him as if he hadn't a care in the world. Sometimes I left feeling hopeful. Sometimes his immobility made me mad. One day the nurse caught me shouting, 'Wake up!' at him with such ferocity that she threatened to get the doctor.

  But when I was by myself in that little room, and I lowered my cheek on to the back of his old hand - the one without the cannula fed under the near-transparent skin - it was only Nino Gaines who could feel the wet of my tears.

  It rained all afternoon, as I had guessed, and by nightfall it turned into a storm. It was what my father would have called an old-fashioned storm, while my mother would mutter that it was no different from any other storm. I understood what he meant, though - it was no-nonsense, biblical weather with thunderclaps that made your teeth rattle, and sparked lightning strikes out at sea, like a wet-season storm in Darwin. When I got back from the hospital I called up the coastguard, and he said we needn't worry too much - we're always wary of the waterspouts, tornadoes over water, that look like God's finger pointing from the heavens, but behave like the hand of the devil - because the worst of it had already passed. I closed the shutters, built up the log fire and Liza, Hannah and I sat in front of the television, Hannah glued to some programme she liked, Liza and I locked in our own thoughts as the wind rattled around us and the lights flickered, just to remind us that we were still at God's mercy. At around a quarter past six, I heard noise in the hall, and stepped out to find Yoshi, Lance and Greg shedding their oilskins, bringing with them the cold damp air, their skin shining with rain.

  'You all right if we stop with you for a bit, Kathleen? Thought we'd have a drink before we set off home.' Lance apologised for the puddle his feet had left on the floor.

  'You've been out all this time in this weather? Are you mad?'

  'Someone didn't check the weather reports,' said Yoshi, glancing at Lance. 'We thought we'd go out a bit further, head round the coast towards Kagoorie Island, in case there were any whales round there, and it came on awful sudden.'

  'It's okay, we didn't have any passengers,' said Greg. 'Waves were a bit sloppy coming back, but. Winds were against us all the way. Anyway, we weren't out on the water all this time - we've been securing all the boats. Gave Ishmael an extra knot or two.'

  'You'd better come in and sit down,' I said. 'Hannah, move up. I'll put on some soup.' I fussed as if they were an inconvenience, but I was pleased to have them there. The hotel had been empty lately and their presence was reassuring.

  'Did you find any?' Liza put down her newspaper.

  'Not a sign.' Yoshi fumbled in her pocket and brought out a comb. 'Something odd's going on, Liza, I tell you. No dolphins today, either. If they go we're all in trouble.'

  'Go where?' Hannah lifted her head.

  Liza shot Yoshi a warning look, but it was too late. 'The dolphins are hiding out somewhere while the weather improves,' Liza said firmly. 'They'll be back soon.'

  'They're probably sheltering by the rocks,' said Hannah. 'I think they hide in that little cove.'

  'More than likely, Squirt,' said Lance. 'God, that tastes good,' he said, as he took his first swig of a beer.

  Yoshi leant round the door frame towards the kitchen. 'Actually, Kathleen, can I have a cup of tea? I need warming up.'

  I relaxed a little when I realised the worst of the storm had passed. Since I was a girl I've counted the seconds between thunderclaps and flashes of lightning, calculating how many miles away the storm is. It was only now I was sure that the worst was headed back out to sea that I could concentrate on the conversation around me. I still remember the storm of '48 when two cruising ships were wrecked on our shores, and my father and the other men spent half the
night out in the waters picking up survivors. They collected the dead too, but I had not discovered that until years later when my mother confessed the bodies had lain in the museum until the authorities could take them away.

  Greg had sat down next to Liza. He muttered something to her, and she nodded vaguely. Then his eyes narrowed. 'What the hell is he doing here?' he said sharply.

  Mike stood in the doorway, holding a sheaf of papers, a little taken aback to find so many people in the lounge.

  'Paying his way, Greg, just like anyone else.' I hadn't told Greg about Mike's return. I'd figured he'd find out eventually with no input from me, and that it was none of his business.

  As I looked now at Liza's studied indifference, I guessed she had reasoned the same.

  Greg made as if to say more, but something in my expression must have stilled him. He gave an audible harrumph and settled into the sofa beside Liza.

  Mike walked over to me. 'The phone lines appear to have gone down,' he said quietly. 'I can't get an Internet connection.'

  'They often do in heavy rain,' I said. 'Sit tight, and they'll be back later. The rain won't last all night.'

  'What are you doing? Trying to ruin some more businesses?'

  'Leave it, Greg,' Liza snapped.

  'Why are you defending him? How can you even have him sit here, given what he's done?' Greg's voice had risen to an unattractive whine, and he glared at Mike.

  'I'm not defending him.'

  'You should have slung him out on his ear.'

  'If it was any of your business--' Liza began.

  'I'm trying to clear up the mess,' said Mike. 'Okay? I'm no longer attached to Beaker Holdings. I want to get the development stopped.'

  'Yeah, you say that--'

  'What the hell do you mean?'

  Greg looked at me. 'How do you know he's not a plant?'

  The idea had never occurred to me.

  'His company must know there's opposition brewing. What's to stop them sending him here to suss out what's going on?'

  Mike took a step towards him, his voice lowered. 'Are you calling me a liar?'

  I held my breath, feeling the atmosphere start to spin.

  Greg's English accent was mocking: 'Are you calling me a liar?'

  'I've had just about enough of--'

  'Yes, I'm calling you a liar. And howsabout deceiver, cheating, stinking pen-pusher, spiv--'