Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

The Pope shrugged. ‘That doesn’t matter now. Get on with it, and quickly.’ He turned to go. ‘I have to teach a class.’

Maroubra stopped him, shook his hand, then watched him walk away into the forest. He remained in the clearing, staring into the distant mountains. He knelt and ran his hands again over the joints in the stone and wood before stuffing the envelope into his trouser pocket and hurrying back to the car, shivering in the thin air.

Popsie Trudeaux was in heaven. At least she assumed heaven would largely resemble this haven of pink houses with white roofs; with suntanned, attractive people strutting about in excitingly cut shorts; with dark waiters carrying colourful drinks on glass trays; with bougainvillea cascading over white walls and oleanders hiding money behind high hedges. The whole place was pink and white and rich. The smell of money was stronger than the scent of the flowers.

She’d loved it from the minute she’d arrived at the cute little airport and been escorted through customs by a handsome, young, darkish man who told her he was there to look after her during her stay. How thoughtful of her host, whoever he was. She’d really no information about him other than a name and the name of a boat and a time to meet. She loved the idea that the board meeting would take place on a boat. She loved everything about this company Sir Laurence had introduced her to. They paid their directors fees in advance and all she had to do was sign a few documents, share transfers and bank drafts, and come to Bermuda. The hardships of corporate life were bearable. Obviously it was a cover for someone who wanted to stay hidden. Fine. She hoped he’d stay that way forever. Although, probably, he’d be on the boat tomorrow.

Her hotel suite was pink and white-oceans of pink and white. Although the ocean itself was, of course, blue. It was spread before her through the tall French windows and the sun jazzed from it when she lay on one of the pink and white striped lounges on her vast terrace. She looked down on people below who did not have such vast terraces, but did not feel sorry for them. Try harder was all you could say.

She barely needed to try at all anymore. What a delicious feeling of comfort and security to know you could do absolutely nothing for the rest of your life except eat chocolate and have massages. What a sense of accomplishment. The money poured in and now the bucket stayed full. She’d won the Grand Prix contract, hired the most wonderful manager who produced graphs and accounts and full buckets, and wasn’t bad looking either-although she’d vowed never to fuck him. No distractions for that little moneymaker.

She, however, was very much distracted by all the waiters and houseboys wandering about in their crisp uniforms, white shorts on dark legs. They were all that sort of light chocolatey colour, not black at all. Absolutely edible.

The last few months had been the most exciting time of her life. She’d barely had a minute to speak to Angus, not that she would have had much to say if a spare minute arrived. Angus was irrelevant. She was a woman of complete independence now, with her own business, her own money, carefully sequestered away from any joint assets in her own accounts, beholden to no one. Although she was terribly grateful to Sir Laurence for the chance to arrange the Biddulph Gallery opening party. And the suggestion to start her business. And that help with the Grand Prix contract, not to mention being here in Bermuda. Yes, all in all, she owed a great deal to Laurence Treadmore. She would find an opportunity to repay him, she was sure. Indeed she was anxious to see Sir Laurence. Not least because he would have the inside story on the latest with the Mac Biddulph opera. It was an opera, with great arias and sweeping scenery and even some bad acting. All of Sydney was in its thrall. The auction had merely confirmed it as the number-one news story of the year. Popsie had drunk in every minute of the auction night, despite the absence of any beverages. She’d even bought a small Aboriginal painting she’d had no intention of buying and didn’t much like. It had some sort of serpent twisting across a brown background covered with small yellow dots. Perhaps she’d hang it in a toilet.

When Mac Biddulph himself had bid on those books, well no opera, soap or otherwise, had ever produced such drama. All sorts of serious academics and do-gooders had analysed the contents of the poetry books he’d bought, or re-bought, and suggested this was a truly cultured man, a man of taste and sensibility, morals, ethics even; that no one who appreciated those exquisite tomes, who understood the sentiments within, could be the callous fraudster painted by the authorities. And to want to keep only these from among all the other grander possessions on offer, this was the final proof of his complex character. And then an editor of a computer magazine claimed he’d found the very same books offered for sale on eBay just ten days after the auction. A newspaper rushed to buy the books, hoping to expose Mac or the magazine editor or anyone else it could implicate, but the items were withdrawn from sale. No one could track the email address and the mystery remained unsolved.

Popsie needed to be able to speak with authority on issues of this kind, important social issues. It was part of her persona now, as a doyenne of Sydney society, a sort of duchess of the dinner table, a diva of the cocktail circuit, to know more than anyone else about people who mattered, or at least to be able to appear to know. A wink, a nod, a nudge-maybe two nudges. Why, they might even ask her about it on the boat tomorrow. It would be embarrassing not to have inside information at her first meeting with these generous fellow directors. She’d called Sir Laurence several times, her lovely Laurence as she thought of him now, but his secretary, who Popsie disliked intensely, said he was away for two weeks.

After a light lunch-well not so light, but healthy, surely, in that it contained some fish and a great deal of lobster-she decided she would make her way to Hamilton Harbour to check on the whereabouts of the boat she was to sail on the next day. In fact, she wanted to measure the boat, more than find its mooring. She believed, and was firm in this belief, that it paid to know the size of a person’s boat before you met them.

The afternoon was blessed with a light zephyr to keep the temperature perfect as Popsie wandered along the dock admiring the phalanx of handsome craft and their equally well-equipped crew. No wonder people came here to avoid tax; although obviously one had to be prepared to travel to less pleasant parts for the same reason. But the combination was heady. Perhaps she should have a residence here herself. A cottage on a hill, pink and white of course, with a couple of chocolate houseboys, one firm, one soft. She giggled at her own wit and sashayed further past more and larger boats. They seemed to be arranged in some ascending order and clearly her boat, the Butcherbird (a curious name, she felt), would be at the apex of the boat hierarchy.

But what was this? There, nestled in a vast berth between two suitably enormous craft, was a mere pup of a boat-a whimpering, cowering, snivelling puppy amidst all these magnificent beasts. And disappointingly, horribly, the name on its tiny rear bore the word she was looking for: Butcherbird. Certainly it was a pretty little thing in its own way. But a navy hull and cream canvas and polished brass, no matter how attractively presented, couldn’t make up for lack of substance. Length was what mattered in boats. Popsie resisted the obvious parallel thought-she was not a vulgar person.

She sighed. She normally preferred not to sigh because that could be seen as a vulgar habit also. People who sighed a great deal were expressing cynicism, or resignation, or disgust or some other negative sentiment. It was better to express energy and sex. Those were the two characteristics Popsie admired most. She’d been in readiness to express both in a devastating manner on the decks of the Butcherbird tomorrow, but she doubted if it could contain her performance. Oh, well. It would have to suffice. Perhaps the mysterious owner was indifferent to boats and flew his own 747 instead. That was a gripping thought. Just one long reception room, one cocoon of a bedroom and a huge spa bath off it-now that would make up for this disappointing sprat bobbing about in front of her. She wandered back along the marina consoled by this image. Next time she flew into that cute little airport she’d be fresh off Air Force One or whatever it was called, and feeling very relaxed.