Chapter Twenty-nine

About a month after the rally, the community holds a ceremony to erect (or, technically, to screw onto a large sandstone boulder) a plaque honouring Delaney for his role in the battle to save Garrawi. While every local was expected to pitch in without reward, congratulation or even thanks or acknowledgment, Delaney, though an outsider, deserved eternal recognition for never shirking the hard yards in a cause that really wasn’t his own.

The event takes place late on a Sunday when the bay ­sparkles like jewels and birds are too busy finding soft furnishings for their spring nests to make much of a racket. Islanders stand around and wonder at the compassionate insight of a brawny big man who used words so skilfully to tell the story of a different young boy with such heart and understanding, when it’s the nature of the press to tear down heroes. ‘Not Delaney,’ they agree. ‘He wasn’t that kind of man.’

The plaque is set next to the one honouring Teddy Mulray for his gift of the land in 1946 to the people of Cutter Island, of which the ownership is still in doubt despite the moral victories of a tiny community with the might of right on their side.

Bill Firth, wearing his hat as President of the Cook’s Basin Community Residents’ Association, delivers a few quick but well-chosen words about Delaney’s influence on the battle to save Garrawi. He finishes with a line that sends a chill through everyone there: ‘The park is still vulnerable. We cannot relax. The battle is far from over. To lose at this stage would insult the memory of Paul Delaney. Keep the faith and keep up the vigilance.’

There are a few moments’ silence while his words are digested then Jenny fires up the barbecue under the beady eye of a greedy goanna. When he comes too close, his summer skin dulled by heat and wear and tear and ready to be shed, she grabs a big stick. Yelling Geronimo like it’s the Indians’ last charge, she roars after him. Everyone laughs. Though not Siobhan, who is inconsolable.

Jimmy, spiffily dressed in his most exotic shorts and T-shirt as a tribute to the man who made him a star for long enough to build Rome in short order, wraps an arm around her shoulders: ‘He’s not really dead, Miss O’Shaughnessy. Not while the park’s still here.’

Hurting, and never a woman to soften the facts, she says: ‘Oh yes he is, sonny. He’s dead all right.’

The kid doesn’t miss a beat: ‘Not to me, Miss O’Shaughnessy. An’ he never will be to me or me kids when I ’ave ’em.’

‘You’re a good boy, Jimmy, but move along now so I can weep alone.’

*

Life settles down to an easy Island pace. In the wider world, Mulvaney is currently under investigation for corruption but no charges have yet been laid. Eric Lowden is rumoured to be taking an extended holiday overseas. The goons are already a fading memory although when the Island kids play war games, the baddies inevitably wear dark clothes and mirror sunglasses. Despite Bill Firth’s warnings, even the Save Garrawi committee loses its edge and when Jane suggests a meeting, Siobhan just shrugs. ‘What for? It’s a stalemate until after the election.’

‘Maybe,’ Jane replies. ‘But we’re still in charge of a lot of money that doesn’t belong to us. We need to decide what to do with it.’

The sixth and – as it turns out – final meeting of the Save Garrawi committee once again takes place on the back deck of The Briny Café. The nights are cool and closing in earlier. The Misses Skettle are wrapped in hand-crocheted afghan shawls. Ettie, Jenny and Jane wear cardigans. The men – apart from Glenn and Sam whose sole concession to winter is to wear socks with their shorts – are back in long trousers. Lindy has sent her apologies. She has a parents’ and teachers’ meeting.

Ettie and Kate dish up early-autumn fare – cheese and onion tarts made with sour-cream pastry and imported Gruyere. ‘Imported,’ Marcus explains apologetically, ‘because even though the cheese of this great country is extraordinary, I have yet to find a local Gruyere with the long sharp bite of the Swiss variety. Perhaps our grass is to blame, no? Or perhaps, as with our wine, it is the soil and climate that make a difference? Certainly not our cheese makers, who are sublime.’

To follow, they serve baked apples stuffed with rum-soaked sultanas and roasted walnuts, presented in shallow terracotta bowls with a large spoonful of double cream. ‘Winter is coming,’ Ettie says. ‘We’ll need a little extra padding to keep out the cold.’

When the plates are cleared, Jane stands and clears her throat. ‘If everyone is ready, I’d like to give the Treasurer’s report.’

Hear, hear. (Muted.)

‘Expenses for the rally came to four thousand three hundred and twenty-seven dollars, which includes a small fine of seventy-five dollars for sticking up a poster in the bus shelter. The most expensive items were paper, timber and fabric. All other materials and the execution of props were donated.’

She looks up, aware Glenn is starting to fidget. She gives him a hard look. ‘Until two days ago, the net balance was forty-nine thousand, three hundred and eighty-three dollars and eleven cents.’

Siobhan hones in like an Exocet missile: ‘And what’s changed since two days ago?’

Jane goes pink, runs her tongue along her lips. ‘Unless there’s been a terrible bank error, someone has deposited a million dollars in our account.’

‘Did you call the bank, then, to see whether it was true or false?’ Siobhan demands.

Jane shakes her head nervously. ‘I had no idea what to do.’

Sam smiles. ‘Max,’ he says. ‘The money will have come from Max.’

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and retreats to a quiet corner. Dials. ‘Can I put you on speaker phone, Max? I’m sitting on the deck of The Briny Café with my fellow committee members and we’re wondering what you want us to do with the money.’

Sam gets permission. Hits the button. Max’s laboured breathing comes across in stereo sound. ‘What do you think I want you to do with a million bucks?’ he wheezes.

‘Haven’t a clue, mate.’

‘Buy the bloody park, of course. And you’d better get this sorted out before I die or I’ll come back to haunt you.’ He coughs. The phone goes dead. Max has run out of puff.

Later, when Ettie, Sam, Siobhan and the chef recall the moment, they all agree it felt as though even the pulsing sea under the deck froze hard and solid for a good minute.

‘Have we not just learned, then, that money can solve as many problems as it creates?’ Siobhan says. ‘But I’m wondering – is buying the park the answer? Who buys it? Another Trust and when the money is all used up and we’re dead and gone, some other dirty little toe rag like Eric Lowdon can come along with his gutter morality and snap! The community is back where it started. I’m thinking . . .

‘Another newspaper ad but a full-on campaign this time, one that runs for as long as the money lasts. We’ll slam the government’s record on environmental issues and focus on the corrupt mishandling of Garrawi Park. If we get the wording right, it should send every member of the current ruling party running straight to the toilet. And haven’t we already been given the green light by the premier to expose Mulvaney’s greedy brown-paper-bag deal with a now totally discredited and extremely dead cult leader?’ She rubs her hands gleefully. ‘Oh this is going to be fun. To be on the safe side, though, would you mind, Glenn, putting your Kombi and barge on the line again?’

Glenn bows with an ear-splitting grin. ‘It would be a pleasure.’

The aim is to launch the campaign on Saturday, the biggest circulation day, and ramp up the pressure until the election with a series of shocking facts about the lack of due process in the Garrawi development plan. Kate Jackson is called in to broker a deal for a month-long run of bottom-front-page ads at a cut, bulk rate. The committee stands around during a mid-morning lull in the café and listens while Kate haggles like a Turkish rug dealer. Holds its collective breath when she threatens to take the ads to another newspaper. Gasps audibly when she casually mulls the benefits of television over print. ‘With more than a million dollars to spend, perhaps we should think bigger,’ she hints. The deal is done half a minute later. ‘Clever girl,’ Ettie says, beaming like a proud mother. Even Jenny slaps Kate’s back in congratulation.

The first bullet in the campaign is fired the following Saturday – six weeks before the election date – with a forty-centimetre-deep, single-colour ad that runs along the bottom of page one of the Herald. In blood-red type, it says: ‘If this Government busted an iron-clad Trust to sell off Garrawi Park against the wishes of the people, what’s to stop it selling off the whole State?’

On Monday morning, another ad hits the newsstands. ‘If this government is prepared to do business with a mad and fraudulent foreign cult leader, what’s to stop it doing deals with terrorists, gun runners and drug dealers?’

Tuesday hits even harder: ‘If a former member of this government actively engaged in graft and corruption, shouldn’t he face legal action and the full force of the law like anyone else?’

Late on Tuesday afternoon, the mayor of Cook’s Basin, Evan Robotham, calls the Save Garrawi committee in a flap and requests an urgent meeting. ‘Not tomorrow. Now!’ he insists.

Siobhan, her nose twitching with the scent of something major, rounds up Sam, Ettie, Jenny, the Misses Skettle, Glenn, Jane, John, Marcus, Lindy and gives up on Seaweed after four attempts to reach his mobile. Sam calls Jimmy.

‘I’m makin’ a worm-juice delivery, Sam. Can ya wait a minute?’

‘Now or never, mate. This is history and history doesn’t wait for anyone.’

‘I’m wearin’ me work clothes . . .’

‘Just get here . . .’

While Kate keeps the café open, the committee hits their tinnies, illegally roar through the go slow zone with their eyes peeled, slam into the commuter dock, and trot towards the car park, where even the immaculate chef agrees to squash into Glenn’s, er, retro Kombi, in which the pong of Jimmy’s wet mutt is barely noticeable.

The mayor is waiting for them as they pull into the council car park and points at a space reserved in the name of Garrawi. ‘Sure, they’re treating us like royalty,’ Siobhan says, falling out of the van, straightening slowly so the kink in her back doesn’t go into full spasm. ‘I’m getting a warm feeling in the pit of me stomach.’

Ettie rips off her apron. Jenny checks for stains on her shirt. The Misses Skettle reach into their handbags and withdraw scent bottles. They give everyone a squirt except for Marcus and Sam. They rode up front. They follow Evan into the building. ‘No dogs,’ he shouts. The entire committee instantly turns on its heels. ‘Jesus,’ Evan whines. ‘Don’t blame me. It’s the rule.’

The meeting that seals the fate of Garrawi is held on the front steps of the council chambers in full view of passers-by who stop and stare as the mayor addresses a motley collection of men and women as though his life depends on it. A few move in to listen.

‘The premier,’ Evan announces, ‘has called me to say he will approve a plan I put forward a week ago to transfer the title of Garrawi into the hands of the National Parks and Wildlife. It will remain under its control and as a heritage-listed site, free from all future development.’

‘Eh?’

He beams. ‘I’d call this a win, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d call it sleight of hand and panic,’ Siobhan says in a muttered aside to Sam. ‘There’ll be a proviso, just wait and see.’ She turns a smiley face towards the mayor. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news. We had no idea the council was so concerned about the fate of Garrawi. None at all. What a dark horse you’ve been all along, eh? So we’re free and clear, then. Nothing else to add?’

‘Er, there’s just one proviso . . .’

‘Well and why is that not a surprise? It’s the advertisements, I suppose. If we cancel the remainder, the park is ours.’

Evan nods.

‘And if we don’t?’ Siobhan asks. Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes turn towards her in shock.

The mayor swallows. Looks like he’s about to wet his pants. His face goes red. He puts a hand in his pocket and nervously withdraws his mobile phone. ‘Er, I’d have to check . . .’

‘Ah, no need. I was kidding,’ Siobhan says. ‘A little joke to amuse myself. No harm intended.’ She turns towards the committee. ‘Shall we call it a deal, then?’

Hear, hear.

On Wednesday morning, a hastily prepared new ad appears at the bottom of the front page of the Herald. GARRAWI SAVED: THE PEOPLE WIN. Nothing else. The rest of the campaign is cancelled. Most of Max’s money is comfortingly intact.

Sam rings the good-hearted benefactor, whose hefty donations effectively levelled the playing field for Save Garrawi, to give him the news. ‘And, mate, tell us where to send your change.’

Max doesn’t hesitate. ‘Hang on to it,’ he wheezes. ‘It’ll keep any future bastards honest.’

A week later, Lindy Jones reports that Eric Lowdon is selling his Cutter Island properties at a knock-down price. Like worms turning, the mayor and his fellow councillors, religious fence-sitters up to the last moment, step forward to claim credit for saving Garrawi in a barrage of hastily written press releases. Even the Misses Skettle can’t hide their disgust. ‘Pariahs. Not one of them could find their way here with a hand-written map,’ they fume.

The committee, cold hard realists now, with Max’s blessing, put aside the remains of the fighting fund in a high-interest account for the day someone else with the morals of a bandicoot tries to steal the park from under their noses. ‘Max has a great understanding of human nature,’ they say with sadness and resignation. Siobhan asks Sam whether Max might want to reveal his identity to the public as the man who truly turned the tide in the fight for Garrawi. Max declines. He got his money’s worth, he says, by tracking the course of the battle from his sitting room, where he’s anchored by chronic emphysema.

The great, cracked, mashed and almost collapsed sulphur-crested cockatoo is ceremoniously withdrawn from the Square and returned to the Island kindergarten playground. For as long as she remains in charge, says Trudy Wentwhistle, every child who attends will be told of the brave and noble warriors from far and wide who fought so hard to keep their park so they could play, propose and possibly (probably) procreate under the spreading arms of the cheese tree.

‘We made history, didn’ we, Sam?’ Jimmy asks.

‘Yeah, mate.’ Sam feels oddly flat. Sensing his mood, Longfellow, who’s made the transition from pup to a gloriously full-grown dog with a full deck of impeccable manners that every Island mum hopes to instil in her kids, gives him a quizzical, head-sideways look. He rubs the mutt’s velvet ears, sighs loudly. Wonders if chugging the open waterways with a kid and a dog is going to feel a little dull after the past few months of adrenalin-fuelled hand-to-hand combat. In a moment of madness, he considers whether he might swap his barge business for a life in politics. Discards the idea almost immediately. Even on a top day, he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the skulduggery. The thought settles his mind, brings peace. He’ll focus on keeping his home turf clean and safe. ‘Jimmy!’ he shouts.

‘Standin’ right next to ya, Sam.’

‘Time for a driving lesson. If you’re going to chauffeur me around in my old age, I want to feel confident you’re as good as the legendary Jack Brabham.’

‘Who’s Jack Brabham, Sam?’

The image of a tape measure strung along the edge of a bathtub flashes through his mind. Halfway through my allotted time, providing all goes well, he thinks. But he’s content with the knowledge that in a small but critical way he has helped to make a difference. ‘You got any shoes with you? You can’t learn to drive unless you’re wearing shoes, mate. Rule number one.’

‘Longfella! Fetch me shoes!’ orders the kid, pointing in the direction of home.

The dog takes off. Pink tongue flapping. Fur flying. On a mission. Five minutes later, triumphant, he’s back on Sam’s dock. He drops a single boat shoe. Looks up for approval. ‘Now, go git the other one!’ Jimmy orders. Longfellow flies off.

‘You’re doing a fine job bringing up that dog, Jimmy. First class.’

‘Aw. If ya say so.’ He blushes red from his toes to his top. The dog returns. Spits out the shoe. It falls in the water.

‘Still got a way to go, though, eh?’

‘He’s a good dog, Sam. We all make mistakes, me mum says.’

The Briny Café declares a record-breaking season. While the two owners expected business to drop off once the publicity about Garrawi faded away, the crowds keep coming. Some are rubber-neckers but there’s also a surprising number of supporters and everyday mums and dads who are fighting their own backyard environmental battles. ‘Can you give us a blueprint?’ they ask, over and over, until one day Sam and Siobhan spend a whole day trying to distil an erratic but passionate campaign into coherent advice.

1) Form an efficient committee

2) Keep minutes of every meeting

3) Be open and completely scrupulous about funds

4) Have a designated media spokesperson and never lie

5) Think outside the square

6) Never give up

7) Always be on the front foot

8) Never pause or let up the pressure even when it goes quiet

9) Never believe what you are told

10) Big business lies. Check the background of every ‘official’ statement

11) Use the internet to get and spread information

12) Knowledge is a mighty weapon

13) Do not be afraid of bullies

14) Never fight on their terms

15) Be creative, do ridiculous stunts to get attention

16) Line up your patrons

17) Suck up to the media and never lie (repeated for emphasis)

18) Never take a backward step

19) Light spot fires all over the place (metaphorically)

20) With patience and persistence you will prevail

‘Twenty steps to victory,’ Siobhan says. ‘Set out like a women’s magazine suggesting twenty ways to drop a dress size. But it’s never that simple, is it? We got lucky, sonny.’

‘Nah,’ Sam says, daring to disagree with her for the first time. ‘As my dad used to say, luck is where ability and opportunity meet. He also used to say that the harder you work, the luckier you get.’

‘A nice man, then, was he?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Not much of a realist, though. If you don’t mind me saying so. A good man died so we could get lucky. And another man gave us a fortune for no other reason than he’d always loved the park. Truth – stranger than fiction, eh?’

In June, with a new government in power that no one really believes will be able – or even willing – to clean out the stench of corruption in high places, café business shows no sign of slowing. Kate and Ettie sit down in the mostly vacant penthouse with the figures for nearly a year of trading. Ettie, who’d rather eat glass than add up, surreptitiously moves the paperwork to one side.

‘The quotes are in for a new roof and it’s more than affordable. The builder will replace it section by section so we won’t have to close the café for even a day.’

‘Who’s doing the work?’

‘Reagan. From the Island.’

‘Ah, good girl. Keeping the money in the community where it does the most good.’

‘Best price, Ettie, business is business. And he’s near enough to chase up if he does anything dodgy.’

Ettie sighs. Then looks alarmed. ‘Kate? Are you all right?’

Kate is on her feet, heading for the bathroom, a hand over her mouth. Ettie hears retching. A flush.

‘Sorry. Must have eaten something . . .’ she says when she returns.

‘Not café food, Kate, don’t tell me that.’

‘No, of course not.’ Kate sits again, pale but functioning. ‘I might as well admit that since Jenny joined us, business has boomed. I know outside events have helped hugely, but Jenny’s ability in the kitchen means we’ve doubled our capacity in a way that would never have happened with only my input. I’d like to suggest hiring her as a permanent, part-time – sous chef.’

‘But Kate –’

‘Hear me out. All three of us work the morning and lunchtime shifts. Jenny quits at two o’clock, in time for her kids, and I work through to closing time, giving you an afternoon break before the school rush. Frankly, most of my work now is routine maintenance, ordering and keeping track of the money. Not physical enough to wear me out.’

‘I’m not that smart, Kate, but this has the ring of a long-term plan to give up The Briny.’

‘No, Ettie. If I wanted out, I’d tell you. And frankly, there’s not enough money yet to buy me out. You’d have to find another partner.’

‘I see,’ Ettie says. ‘God, Kate. Are you sick again? How long’s this been going on? Time to see a doctor, love.’ The bathroom door slams. Ettie fetches a glass of water. When Kate emerges, even paler and gripping her stomach, she sends her home.

Feeling like she’s abandoned a sick woman, Ettie calls Sam and asks him to check on her in the morning. ‘Long as you’re not trying to play match-maker. We’re friends, Ettie, nothing more,’ he says.

‘That’s what friends do, Sam, they look after each other.’

In the morning, when the sun is still no more than a flat orange line on the horizon, Sam follows through on his promise to Ettie. As he guides the Mary Kay past Artie’s yacht, he hears a kettle whistling and smiles inwardly at the thought that the old man with his buggered legs and razor-sharp mind will live to see another day.

Nearer Kate’s house, he feels a shiver. Even in summer, the estuary end of Oyster Bay is a gloomy spot, he thinks. At this time of the year, it broods darkly in shadows until almost noon. He ties up at Kate’s pontoon, telling himself a quick hello and how are you and he’ll be out of there in a flash. He and Jimmy have a full day’s work ahead and Ettie’s a born worrier. Kate’s probably only got a mild bug.

She opens the door to his knock in her pyjamas. Reaches on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The warm, musty bed smell of her almost brings him undone. Without a word, she leads the way inside, leaving him no choice but to follow. In the kitchen, she begins the ritual of preparing a couple of mugs of fragrant tea – her favourite, Darjeeling – without asking if he’d like one. Unless he’s prepared to be flat-out rude, he’s stymied.

‘Feeling a bit crook, love?’ he begins.

‘Timothy O’Reilly sent me his DNA profile,’ she says, pouring boiling water into the warmed pot. ‘He’s out of the picture.’ She fits the lid back on, slips on a plain knitted green tea cosy.

‘So the old bloke was fairdinkum, eh? You always thought he was.’

‘Alex emailed me a copy of his DNA results, too.’ She lines up two very fine white bone china mugs. Pours milk into his. Leaves hers empty. She spins the pot, first one way and then the other. Never looking up. ‘I sent them off with Emily’s for analysis.’ She pours the brew. Very quietly, she adds: ‘Just got the results.’

‘Ah.’

She finally looks at him. ‘You guessed, didn’t you?’

‘Are you going to tell Alex?’

‘Not unless he asks.’

‘He will.’

‘Yeah.’ In the early grey light drifting through the kitchen window, Kate looks haggard. He has no idea how to help her. She hands him his tea then disappears into the bedroom. Returns with the box of horrors, as he thinks of it, and puts it carefully on the table. Like it’s a ticking bomb. ‘I can’t bring myself to throw this stuff away. And yet keeping it feels like picking at a scab.’

‘Get rid of it, Kate. Ditch it. Burn it. Bury it. Long as it’s here, Emily rules. You’re better than that.’

‘Am I?’

Trying for lightness, he grins. ‘Well, you showed a lot of early promise but fell by the wayside a couple of times. There’s nothing holding you back now, love. You are who you are. No secrets. No ghosts. No reason to look back. Time to step forward.’ Jeez, he thinks, I sound like a football coach.

‘I can’t help wondering how it happened. I keep trying to see Emily as a victim, but the image doesn’t work. Maybe if she was a kid when the abuse began . . .’

‘You’ll never know.’

‘Trouble is, she always had to be top dog. Maybe she was the instigator –’

‘Jesus Christ, Kate,’ he says in frustration, ‘what does it matter whether a father abused his daughter or Emily seduced her father? Let it go. Or you’ll end up as bitter and twisted as your mother.’

‘I’m pregnant, Sam.’ Her voice is small. Defeated. Trapped.

He closes his eyes, drops his head into his hands and waits for the kicker line he knows is coming. But he’s wrong; the silence goes on and on. ‘When is it due?’ he asks, finally.

‘October. I lost track. All the travel. Work. The Briny boom. It’s too late to do anything about it.’

‘Wouldn’t want you to, love. I’ve always dreamed of having a kid –’

‘This is not about you, Sam,’ she says, breaking in. ‘I don’t want this baby. Any baby.’

‘Ah jeez, Kate,’ he says, wincing. ‘A little baby. They’re miracles of engineering and evolution, you know.’

She grimaces: ‘Evolution! Take a good look at my family history, Sam. A dreadful legacy for a kid. What if it turns out to be a monster like Emily?’ She is on the verge of tears. Sam reaches for her hand. She snatches it away.

‘There’s not a pregnant woman in the world that doesn’t fear and hope for her child in equal parts. This little Cook’s Basin baby will be fine. Trust me,’ he says.

Kate pushes her chair back from the kitchen table, walks to the window and stares out. The light, warmer now, catches her face. ‘You have no idea what it feels like knowing there’s no way out.’

‘It’s a baby, Kate. People have them every day. Give yourself time.’

‘I don’t want it, Sam. I don’t want anything to do with it. It’s a mistake. A hideous mistake. Oh god, I’m just like Emily. Oh god.’ She bunches her fists, pushes them against her cheeks, forcing back tears.

He steps towards her and takes her hands in his: ‘Not like Emily, love. Never like that.’ He leads her back to the table, takes a seat and guides her onto his knee like a child in need of comfort. ‘I’ve always been good with babies, did I ever tell you that? For some reason, they love me. It’s my size, I think. Makes them feel safe. A baby, eh? Girl or a boy, do you know yet? Doesn’t matter, of course.’

‘Will you be there for the birth?’ she asks in a tone that’s as close to desperate need as he’s ever heard from her.

‘I’ll be with you all the way and on any terms you set out.’

‘I’m scared, Sam. Terrified that being a mother will make me mean and jealous and cruel and competitive like Emily. That I’ll end up bending a pure new life into something bruised and broken because that’s how I’ve been programmed.’

‘Nah. You’re smarter than that. Truth is, you’re a realist. That doesn’t make you a bad person. Me? I’m an optimist, a dreamer. We’re not a bad combination if you think about it.’ He rubs her back, unaware he’s doing it. She leans into his chest. Looser now. Like the glue holding her tight is melting. Her eyes close. Black lashes fan on her pale skin. He sees the small hard roundness of her stomach under her pyjamas and feels a surge of pure joy. ‘You’ll be a great mother, Kate,’ he whispers. ‘You’d be a great wife, too.’

She twists towards him, eyes wet, a tentative smile lifting the corners of her mouth: ‘Is that a proposal, Sam Scully?’

‘Yeah. I’m not saying we’d have a smooth run –’

She puts a finger over his lips: ‘What about you? A great father? A wonderful husband?’

‘I’ll give it my best shot, love.’

‘Then so will I.’

Back on the Mary Kay, Sam calls Ettie and tells her Kate’s fine and she’ll be in later to explain what’s going on.

‘She’s pregnant, isn’t she?’ Ettie says.

Sam sighs. ‘Jeez, Ettie, she was going to surprise you with the news.’

Ettie’s voice softens. ‘You and Kate, you’ll be magnificent parents. And that little baby’s going to be loved, cherished and fought over by the whole community. A café baby, how wonderful . . .’

‘Barge baby, love. Boy or a girl, it’ll be a barge baby.’

‘We’ll see what Kate says. Early days yet. I might paint the penthouse pink. Or blue. Depends.’

‘I was thinking the wheelhouse of the Mary Kay might be due for a facelift. A pale, gender-neutral lemon to blend in with the hull might go well.’

‘Marcus and me, we’ll be honorary grandparents, of course. Pretty dresses for a girl. Boat shoes for a boy. Do they make baby boat shoes?’

Sam laughs. A kid of his own. Not quite the way he thought it would happen, but in four months, he’ll have a tiny Scully to hold in his arms. To point out the stars, the moon, the sea and the infinite secrets of the natural world.

Ettie adds: ‘By the way, Jimmy’s here and waiting for you. Says you’re running late for a couple of pick-ups.’

‘Tell him they’re cancelled, will you? And then give him a slap-up brekky with plenty of spinach. And ask him to give his mum a call. We’re going to need a baby-size patchwork quilt the same colour as the Mary Kay by October. Jeez. I’d better get a list going. Oh, and inform him that I’ve put his name down as number-one babysitter. It’ll be good practice for when he has his own kids. After that, tell him . . . tell him I’ve gone fishing and I’ll see him and that lollopy mutt of his first thing tomorrow. And Ettie?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘You’d better start thinking about top nosh for a mega wedding. You might start with a few sauso rolls, eh?’