Fishing for Stars
Authors: Bryce Courtenay
The Power of One
Tandia
The Family Frying Pan
The Night Country
Jessica
Smoky Joe’s Cafe
Four Fires
Matthew Flinders’ Cat
Brother Fish
Whitethorn
Sylvia
The Persimmon Tree
Fishing for Stars
THE AUSTRALIAN TRILOGY
The Potato Factory
Tommo & Hawk
Solomon’s Song
BRYCE COURTENAY
Fishing
for
Stars
McArthur & Company
Toronto
First published in Canada in 2009 by
McArthur & Company
322 King Street West, Suite 402
Toronto, Ontario
M5V 1J2
This ebook edition published in 2010 by McArthur & Company
Copyright © Bryce Courtenay 2008
All rights reserved.
The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the expressed written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Courtenay, Bryce, 1933-
Fishing for stars / Bryce Courtenay.
ISBN 978-1-55278-806-6
eISBN 978-1-55278-924-7
I. Title.
PR9619.3.C598F58 2009 ---- 823’.914 ---- C2009-904288-6
Cover design by Allison Colpoys © Penguin Group (Australia)
Text design by Tony Palmer © Penguin Group (Australia)
Front cover photograph: Kirstie Tweed/Veer
Author photograph: Graham McCarter
Typeset in Goudy Oldstyle
eBook development by Wild Element
www.wildelement.ca
For the Corroboree frog
‘Frogs are one of our early-warning systems; when they start to be endangered it’s time to take notice.’
Nick Duncan, Port Vila, 1993
SOME THINGS FROM THE
past stay fresh in the mind of an old man: the curve of a young woman’s breast, the sheen of suntan on her legs. A look, a sidelong glance, so beautiful your mind takes a snapshot to retain it forever, images in which the colours never fade. Out to sea on a pristine morning on the gaff-rigged cutter
Madam Butterfly
with the ocean spray hitting your face, when you were young and strong and anything was possible. Friends, partners, business deals, government bribes, drink, fortunes to be made and lost, islands, women, children, hope. Anna and Marg, especially Anna and Marg, the yin and yang of womankind. They’re all there trapped in the brilliant blink of a flashlight, then stored as a lasting image. Mine as long as the lens in my mind remains clear.
I am sitting on the verandah of my home in Vanuatu looking over Beautiful Bay. It is near the end of the wet season and the morning air carries a vague hint of crispness. As I seem to be doing more and more these days, I’m recollecting the past. When almost everything that is going to happen to you has already happened, memories occupy more of your time.
Sitting in this large comfortable old cane chair, mentally meandering, flicking through mindscapes, I am attempting to banish what I have called ‘The killing-of-Anna dream’. I woke at dawn again this morning clutching the pillow and bawling like a little kid, choking back my grief, thinking the pillow was Anna. If I don’t exorcise this dream, cast out these demons, the dark shadows of the night will linger throughout this sparkling day in paradise.
Welcome to Paradise; another time, a different pace.
I’d read that recently on a large poster as I left the airport after picking up Saffron, my goddaughter, who was visiting me from Port Moresby. Beautiful Bay is about as much paradise as anyone can take; add a little phoney Hawaiian music, frame up, roll camera and let
Tales of the South Pacific
begin.
Mine has been a fortunate life in so many ways, but in the end we live more in our head than we do in a place and lately there’s some alarming stuff happening in my head. More and more I seem to be recalling the blood, sweat and tears of my life in the islands. Nick Duncan. Billionaire? Sailor? Lover? Soldier? Killer? Dreamer? Pioneer? Nice guy? Bastard? Adulterer? What?
Saffron disturbs my thoughts in a lap-lap sarong and bikini top, looking every inch a beautiful young woman. ‘Uncle Nick, the phone. It’s Great Auntie Marg.’ She giggles. ‘And she’s talking green.’
‘What else,’ I sigh, then laugh, rising from my chair. ‘It’s morning, and her morning calls are always a dark shade of green.’
Saffron, brought up in the islands where the pace of life is relaxed, asks, ‘But why is she always in such a hurry?’
I shrug. ‘It’s her way. Yesterday is a lost opportunity, a list of tasks not completed, so today all
must
be recovered. Marg is always running to catch up with herself.’
‘She’s seventy-seven! When I’m her age I won’t be jumping around like Jiminy Cricket.’
‘You mean jumping around
saving
Jiminy Cricket,’ I retort. ‘May we be spared from all zealots, religious or green, God-botherers or self-appointed custodians of all creatures great and small.’
‘What about frogs, Uncle Nick . . . and butterflies?’ Saffron asks mischievously.
‘Ah, that’s different,’ I grin. ‘If you kiss a frog he may turn into a prince, and butterflies are born to become princesses.’
‘You’re not
really
a cynic about the environment, are you, Uncle Nick?’ Saffron asks.
‘No, but there’s a big difference between being concerned and being a zealot. Frogs are one of our early-warning systems; when they start to be endangered it’s time to take notice. Old man trees must be respected not turned into chopsticks and cardboard cartons. Moderation in all things, my dear.’ This last remark I recall coming from my Anglican missionary father when, as a child, I’d excitedly captured half a dozen of the same species of butterfly.
‘Better hurry, you know how cranky she gets when she has to wait,’ Saffron cautions, seemingly satisfied with my reply. Some of the kids today really seem to care and don’t think nature is confined to the strip of grass beside the pavement where the dog takes a poo.
Marg Hamilton’s morning calls from Sydney are always a machine-gun barrage of words, and usually I’m hit with a request. This time it’s ‘Nick, I need your help! Have the Japanese secured the fishing rights to your Marine Exclusive Economic Zone? Has that corrupt government of yours already signed away their rights? We’ve got to do something, darling! Did you know the Pacific tuna fishery is the last fishing resource not to be decimated by factory fishing!’
That’s our Marg, straight to the point, no opening niceties, strictly business. Some item or other needs to be ticked off her inexhaustible list of crucial green issues, something that invariably involves my time or money or both.
I’m in inter-island shipping, though she’s aware that I would, of course, know about the tuna resources in this part of the Pacific. She also knows damn well that nothing whatsoever happens swiftly in an island government department.
‘Good morning, Marg. And how are you? Lovely day here on the island.’ I glance through the large picture window overlooking Beautiful Bay and then further out to the harbour. ‘Not a cloud in the sky, the bay is sparkling, God’s thrown a handful of diamonds into the water, the harbour beyond is like a millpond. Unusual weather, even for this late in the wet season.’
The irony in my voice is lost on her. She’s probably got the phone tucked between her shoulder and chin the way women seem able to do, freeing both hands to make notes, fish in her handbag for the car keys, check her make-up in the mirror. How do they do that?
‘Nick, is there any way you can find out quickly? I thought Anna might have been mixed up in it. These things usually take a year or two to resolve,’ she says, silently acknowledging that her agitation was merely for effect.
I feel an involuntary pang of guilt at the mention of Anna’s name. Had she still been alive, she would almost certainly have been part of negotiations with the Japanese. And a small but significant percentage of the licensing fees would have been skimmed off the top as ‘Ongoing Consulting Fees’ or some such euphemism for appropriating the island people’s money. As well, you could bet your army boots there would be a significant backhander from the Japanese for facilitating negotiations; ‘smoothing’ is the common word.
Marg Hamilton and Anna Til are the two women who have been equal halves of the whole of my loving, the greater part of my frustrations, probably the bulk of my infuriation and certainly most of the happiness and abundant love I’ve been blessed to receive. No man on earth, least of all myself, is sufficiently strong to manage two such beautiful, intelligent, articulate, stubborn and determined women who are opposed to each other in every conceivable way. Philosophically, in their aesthetic and gastronomic tastes (Marg eats pretty bland vegetarian; Anna, a contradiction as always, Japanese and French), in the movies, entertainment and music they love, I cannot imagine two people more at variance.
Anna, in her day a superb example of the work of the Big Craftsman in the Sky, passed away four months ago at the age of sixty-six, so I would have welcomed a soupçon of tact from Marg, also once a finely chiselled edition of the Maker’s art. But even so soon after Anna’s death, Marg’s forthright opinions of the other woman in my life are unlikely to be tempered by mealy-mouthed niceties. She is too well bred to say so, but not only has she endured the ambiguities of her relationship with me, she has also outlasted her opponent and must feel that she therefore deserves certain rights. Women are by nature predatory creatures and I have long since understood that any influence I might have had on either Anna or Marg was based entirely on the constant threat that the other might gain the upper hand. Marg has waited a long time to have me all to herself again and she will make the most of it.
‘No, I don’t believe Anna was involved,’ I say, deliberately keeping my voice matter-of-fact, abiding by the old rules even though there is no longer any need.
‘Nick, it’s important we know the very moment they sign. The media will give it a big run. Bob Brown may be able to get some sort of brouhaha started in the senate and that’s very good for us.’
‘Sweetheart, isn’t it about time you threw in the towel, put your feet up?’ I tease, mixing my metaphors. ‘Let the youngsters save the planet. Come to Beautiful Bay and live with me all the days of your life. God knows, collectively we haven’t got that many left. An insurance bloke told me recently that at my age they could estimate on average the number of minutes I could expect to live!’ I chuckle. ‘Minutes, mind you!’
Marg laughs politely, ignoring my deliberately insensitive invitation. I already know she’d find it unacceptable, not only because of the too recent death of Anna, but also because it’s difficult to save the planet from Port Vila. ‘All the more reason to use one’s time productively,’ she replies primly.
‘Please, Marg, not the schoolmistress,’ I tease. ‘It’s the least attractive aspect of your personality.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Nick. I’m an old head and old heads are hard to find in the movement. There are plenty of marvellous young people prepared to throw themselves in front of a whaling ship, and while these confrontations are very important for the movement, of equal or even greater importance is the silent force, the behind-the-scenes work. The kids don’t know who to badger, threaten or compromise in Canberra
.
’ Then she cleverly gets back on track, ‘As I know you do in the islands.’
‘I don’t know about this fishing business,’ I reply. ‘I don’t have the pull, the influence I used to have.’
‘Nonsense!’ Marg cuts in. ‘You’re the grand patriarch and, unlike us, the islands still respect the wisdom that comes with age.’
‘It’s changing fast, new generation, cocaine, piercings, youth culture.’ Despite myself I’m flattered that she has referred to me as the grand patriarch, even if it is a bit of an exaggeration. However, I am aware that it isn’t like the old days. Many of the new breed of politicians in the Pacific possess law degrees and almost all are university trained, a bequest to the youth of the various Pacific Islands from Australia, New Zealand, Britain or France. It doesn’t make them less open to corruption, only smarter at it.
‘I’ll see what I can do; I can’t promise.’
‘Good boy,’ she replies. I imagine her crossing the item off her list. Good ol’ Nick, always comes through. But I know from experience Marg usually has two requests. I have come to think of this tactic as the ‘double tap’. Moreover, she always makes the less important request first. A right jab followed by a vicious left hook. Suddenly she announces, ‘Nick, I hear you’ve been giving away money . . . a lot.’ A slight pause. ‘Is it Anna’s?’
‘Would it matter if it was?’
Another pause. ‘Well not now, I
suppose
,’ she says, drawing out the last word.
‘
Don’t
go there, Marg,’ I say.
‘Nick, will you help the zoo?’ Marg asks, ignoring my caution.
‘Help? With what?’
‘A frog. I know you’re rather fond of frogs.’
‘You’ll need to be a bit more specific, darling.’
‘The Southern Corroboree frog. It’s facing extinction.’
Marg knows how to get my attention. ‘Ah,
Pseudophryne corroboree
,
unique to Australia, habitat – Snowy Mountains. What, the amphibian chytrid fungus?’
‘Yes, amongst other threats. Guy Cooper, one of the directors with me at Taronga Park, estimates there are less than two hundred left in the wild. We want to begin a recovery program.’
‘Hmm, how much?’
‘For the Corroboree only?’
‘Oh, I see. There’s more?’
‘Nick, you know there is! At least forty-seven Australian species face extinction, hundreds more worldwide.’
‘Pliny the Elder said, “Out of Africa always something new”.’
‘Nick, you’re changing the subject.’
‘No I’m not. Some authorities suggest the fungus has spread across the planet from Africa in the last twenty years.’
‘Well yes, Nick, thank you. The point is, frogs are dying. May I say you’re good for a hundred thousand dollars?’
I pause deliberately to make her work for her money. ‘That’s a big ask.’
‘She can afford it!’
‘She? Watch your step, sweetheart. You and Anna – it’s time to stop. Anna is no longer here.’
Marg doesn’t know how to watch her step, or how to take a backward one. ‘Darling, let’s face it. Anna only liked frogs for their legs, lightly sautéed with fresh garlic and a sprinkling of truffles.’
I don’t take the bait. The antipathy between the two women was always going to continue beyond the grave. If the situation had been reversed and Anna had outlived Marg, she would probably have been even more vituperative. Nevertheless, Marg can’t have it both ways. I allow the silence to grow, then say, ‘Pity you disapprove so strongly of Anna. After all, it was her money, and as far as I’m concerned still is. I rather like frogs – frogs and butterflies; both so wonderfully diverse. But you’re right, frogs are having a terrible time. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll send the money to the Bronx Zoo; they have an excellent frog conservation program underway.’