Free Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan Page B

tender sea; a constant stream of anxious offshorers dropping in to chat about the plans for Garrawi even though they could see the two women were flat out.
    â€˜Felt like hanging out a sign announcing it was all quiet on the eastern seaboard except no one would bother to read it,’ Ettie says.
    A few lights switch on over at the southern end of the Island. The faint sound of laughter carries across water that’s battleship grey and matches the sky. The Seagull hoots three times. The last commuters make a dash, beers in hand. It’s the final run for the day and a long swim to Cutter Island.
    â€˜I’ve heard the timber ferry is borderline. A big swell or a killer storm and she’s liable to give one last moan before sinking,’ Kate says.
    â€˜Chris says he’s stacked toddler-sized lifejackets at the entrance. Reckons adults can fend for themselves.’
    Kate says: ‘Yeah, well, I guess it’s a doable swim to shore in any direction, barring sharks.’
    The Seagull eases away. Ettie wipes a pool of sweat from under each eye. She tries to recall the last time she saw a shark part the clean blue sea with a fin like a small black sail. Three years ago? Five? She measures time by ingredients, now. If she’s run out of eggs, it’s Wednesday. Ready for a fresh delivery on Thursday. If the milk has reached its use-by date, it’s Sunday. The butcher delivers on Monday. The greengrocer on Tuesday. She has to work out the ingredients for the Saturday special on Sunday. A whole week accounted for in routine chores.
    â€˜Maybe a bridge isn’t such a bad idea . . .’ Kate says.
    Ettie’s feet drop to the deck; she rounds on Kate, furious. ‘That better be a joke and if it is, it’s not funny.’
    â€˜I’m not supporting the development. I’m just saying. Times change. You can’t hold back progress.’
    â€˜Depends what you call progress.’ Ettie suddenly stands and waves. Marcus Allender is coming towards them in his swish commuter boat with its highly polished timber bow and white padded seats. A Riviera runabout, straight out of a gossip magazine. Ettie turns back to Kate, suddenly almost teary. ‘Mention one word about how you feel and you’ll kill our business overnight. Not a single offshorer will ever walk through this door again for even a box of matches. No one will forgive you – or me, because I had faith in you. Think about where you stand, Kate. Let me know what you decide. Oh, and by the way, I – by that I mean we – volunteered to cook dinner to serve after the community meeting on Saturday. We’ve all got to do our bit, eh?’
    Marcus stands and waves madly with both hands, his silver hair flying. The boat skews sideways. He loses his balance for a second. A huge laugh booms across to Ettie. She rips off her bandana and brandishes it like a flag of victory. ‘Lock up, will you? I’m out of here.’
    Â 

 
    Chapter Five
    Night falls. The Island becomes a carnival of lights. Voices drift across the water. A lone tinny struggles past, the outboard coughing. The driver curses when the motor dies. Kate hears the snap of the starter cord. The engine catches limply. The boat coughs on.
    She lingers, sifting through the realities of her current existence and how they fit with what she knows of herself. She casts her mind back over the fewer than one handful of lovers in her life – so different from Ettie, whose past included a phil­andering ex-husband and a string of good-looking bedmates who came and went with the sailing season. Kate remembers the claustrophobia, the struggle for ascendancy that inevitably culminated in endless compromises until they leached the marrow from each other’s bones and she felt hunched over from the weight of another’s expectations. None had lasted as long as a year. Each excision felt like a release from prison. Not for the first