Chapter 27

There really wasn't much in the way of real estate. It seemed as though most of the office's activity involved vacation rentals. They did have a winery for several million dollars, but Rob was certainly not a customer for that. When he enquired about river side property they looked at him blankly. We took several pages of listings and another local map, but it was clear that "No Sale" had been rung up.

We drove to Mary's the "short way," and Rob asked about the boat, the oars and the fishing gear. "Everything's in the shed" was the response. None of us had even noticed the shed at the edge of the clearing. Mary found the key to the padlock and we went out back. It was a small shack – about two by three meters, perhaps a bit less, standing on 10 cinder blocks.

There was a light switch by the door and Mary flicked it on. The place was somewhat dusty and it smelled damp, but not mouldy. There were several pairs of oars on end in a corner, a table across the short end, and racks on both long walls. I could see fly and bait rods and two or three small nets. The table had a small vise attached to it. On top were two tackle boxes and a 4 x 3 matrix of pigeonholes, which appeared to have reels and spools of line in them. Finally, there was a box of tools near the vise.

"I see Ned made his own flies."

"Oh, yes! And he'd fish for barramundi, brown or rainbow trout, freshwater cobbler or redfin perch. Right up to the limit of 24 pounds. He'd talk about what a bargain it was: only $20 for a recreational license."

"They've put it up to $24," said Rob. "Could Gordy and I see if the boat's OK?"

"Of course! There are vests under the table. Ned said folks never realized how dangerous messing in boats was. He'd make his friends wear a vest. And no beer in the boat."

"Let's go have some tea," said Weena. I'd noticed, too, that Mary was tearing up as she reminisced.

"Barramundi?" I said, after the ladies had left.

"Oh, yes. They are both fresh and salt water. I don't like the freshwater ones – they've got a layer of fat that I find unpleasant. But they are great fighters. The cobblers are catfish. They get a good half meter long. There might be brown trout here. No rainbows, though. Redfin perch are good eating. And there's no limit on them. Hell, the Department of Fisheries asks you to not throw them back, they're really nasty invaders."

"Weena never told me you were an angler."

Rob laughed. "Thirty years eating dust at a mine makes you appreciate the lakes, rivers and oceans of Australia, Gordy. I've had fishing holidays from Darwin and Cairns to Apollo Bay and Albany." He got thoughtful. "I wonder if Mary would gut, scale and cook my catch?"

"You like her ... after just about 24 hours?"

"And how long did you and Weena take?"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Anyway, Mary's a timid lass. Patience and time will work wonders. Or not. Let's look at that boat."

We ran over the outside with a rag from the shed. It didn't look at all bad. Then we turned it over, disturbing any number of spiders and insects that had discovered this large cave. But there weren't any scorpions nor any snakes. The thwarts would need a good scrubbing, but the tholes were intact.

"Let's put it in the water in the morning and see if there are any pinholes," I suggested.

"There won't be. In over a year, even a pinhole would show real corrosion."

"Probably. But it won't cost anything to wait. And we should go in and be pleasant."