Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan Page B

Yes, mate, completely aboveboard and legit.’ He ends the call after accepting an invitation to dinner on Monday night so the chef can fully discuss his role and thereafter fulfil it to the best of his ability. Sam tells himself that only a full-blown pea brain would turn down the chance to sup at the chef’s bountiful table and, by tomorrow night, he’ll have thought of an appropriate way to use the chef’s many and wide-ranging skills.
    Next, he phones Siobhan O’Shaughnessy, an Irish firebrand who lives on the Island and once produced a top-rating talkback radio show with the power to make or break governments, careers and causes. Touchy, volatile, explicit to the point of rudeness, she was famous far and wide for battling for the underdog no matter what the cost. Once, she had two black eyes to prove it (a difference of opinion, Siobhan explained wryly at the time, regarding the rights and roles of women). According to local gossip, she carries the home phone numbers of every celebrity from Hugh Jackman to Ricky Ponting in her head. Sam makes a mental wish list of big-name converts to saving Garrawi, throws in a few top athletes to broaden the spectrum. Comes back to earth with a thump when his call goes to voice mail. He leaves a message.
    Next, with the mobile burning hot against his ear, he wheedles, entices, cajoles, seduces and, once, bribes with the promise of a same-day delivery of his (arguably) world-famous sausage rolls still warm from the oven. Glenn the Removalist, who’d been humming and haa-ing on the basis that he didn’t have much to offer in the way of brains or even – despite his chosen profession – brawn, couldn’t resist.
    With the Mary Kay swept clean and safely bedded down on her mooring for the night, Sam makes a dash to the supermarket, where he scrabbles together the ingredients he needs to keep his promise. A man’s only as good as his word, as his father used to say.
    Not long after sunset, he’s pulling four dozen sizzling concoctions of his newest creation – minced lamb tickled with mint, parsley and chilli – from the oven. He uses tongs to pluck a dozen from the tray, wraps them in a tea towel to keep them warm and almost jogs to Glenn’s back door. ‘Good to have you on board, mate,’ he says, slapping his friend on the back. In an almost simultaneous motion, he whips away the tea towel, grabs a roll, and bites into it with gusto. ‘Just making sure they’re up to standard. Wouldn’t want to think I left anything out in my rush to keep a promise.’
    Glenn gives him a hard look. ‘I’d be more impressed with your attention to detail if I didn’t know for a fact that you’ve got a heap more at home waiting to be stashed in your freezer.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t have a beer anywhere, would you?’ Sam asks, heading for the fridge. ‘A sauso roll and a frigidly cold. Marriage made in heaven.’
    â€˜Next you’ll tell me kings used to live like this.’
    â€˜But they did, Glenn. Trust me, they did.’
    By Monday, the rain is back again and the air so still and heavy the clouds don’t look like shifting – ever. Some bright spark posts a notice in the Square on how to recognise early symptoms of trench foot and cure it. It triggers a sudden rush of toe and feet inspections, followed by thorough washings and dryings, among the Island kids. Adept at dealing with ticks, leeches, spiders and sand flies, they had been unaware of the threat of trench foot until now. Parents are stoked: ‘Don’t want to wash your feet before bed, eh? Well, don’t blame me if you get trench foot . ’Grumpy holiday sailors are forced to anchor in sandy coves where rain tapping on cabbage-palm fronds is a steady wall of noise. Disappointed day-trippers stash their bait in the freezer, replace their fishing rods and cancel their dinghy hire. Working boatsheds postpone