I couldn’t help laughing. Nino Gaines had always got me like that, as long ago as the war, when he’d first come and announced his intention to set up here. Then the whole of the bay had been taken over by Australian and American servicemen, and my father had had to make pointed references to his accuracy with a shotgun when the young men whooped and catcalled at me behind the bar. Nino had been more gentlemanly: he had always removed his cap while he waited to be served, and he had never failed to call my mother ‘ma’am’. ‘Still don’t trust him,’ my father had muttered, and, on balance, I thought he had probably been right.
Out at sea it was bright and calm, a good day for the whale crews, and as we sat down, I watched Moby One and Two heading out for the mouth of the bay. My eyes weren’t as good as they had been, but from here it looked like they had a good number of passengers. Liza had headed out earlier; she was taking a group of pensioners from the Returned and Services League (RSL) club for nothing, as she did every month, even though I told her she was a fool.
‘You shutting this place up for the winter?’
I shook my head, and took a bite of my pie.
‘Nope. The Mobys are going to try out a deal with me – bed, board and a whaling trip for a fixed sum, plus admission to the museum. A bit like I do with Liza. They’ve printed some leaflets, and they’re going to put something on a New South Wales tourism website. They say it’s big business that way.’
I’d thought he would mutter something about technology being beyond him, but he said, ‘Good idea. I sell maybe forty cases a month online now.’
‘You’re on the Internet?’ I gazed at him over the top of my glasses.
He lifted a glass, unable to hide his satisfaction at having surprised me. ‘Plenty you don’t know about me, Miss Kathleen Whittier Mostyn, no matter what you might think. I’ve been out there in cyberspace for a good eighteen months now. Frank set it up for me. Tell you the truth, I quite like having a little surf around. I’ve bought all sorts.’ He gestured at my glass – he wanted me to taste the wine. ‘Bloody useful for seeing what the big growers in the Hunter Valley are offering too.’
I tried to concentrate on my wine, unable to admit quite how thrown I was by Nino Gaines’s apparent ease with technology. I felt wrongfooted, as I often did when talking to young people, as if some vital new knowledge had been dished out when I’d had my back turned. I sniffed the glass, then sipped, letting the flavour flood my mouth. It was a little green, but none the worse for that. ‘This is very nice, Nino. A hint of raspberry in there.’ At least I still understand wine.
He nodded, pleased. ‘Thought you’d pick up on that. And you know you get a mention?’
‘A mention of what?’
‘The Shark Girl. Frank typed you into a search engine and there you are – picture and all. From newspaper archives.’
‘There’s a picture of me on the Internet?’
‘In your bathing-suit. You always did look fetching in it. There’s a couple of pieces of writing about you too. Some girl at university in Victoria used you in her thesis on the role of women and hunting, or somesuch. Quite an impressive piece of writing – full of symbolism, classical references and goodness knows what else. I asked Frank to print it out – must have forgotten to pick it up. I thought you could put it in the museum.’
Now I felt very unbalanced indeed. I put my glass down on the table. ‘There’s a picture of me in my bathing-suit on the Internet?’
Nino Gaines laughed. ‘Calm down, Kate – it’s hardly Playboy magazine. Come over tomorrow and I’ll show you.’
‘I’m not sure if I like the idea of this. Me being out there for anyone to look at.’
‘It’s the same photograph as you’ve got in there.’ He waved towards the museum. ‘You don’t mind people gawping at that.’
‘But that’s – that’s different.’ Even as I said it, I knew the distinction made little sense. But the museum was my domain. I could dictate who entered it, who got to see what. The thought of people I didn’t know being able to dip into my life, my history, as casually as if they were scanning the betting pages . . .
‘You should put up a picture of Liza and her boat. You might get a few more visitors. Forget advertising the hotel with the Mobys – a fine-looking girl like her could be quite a draw.’
‘Oh, you know Liza. She likes to pick who she takes out.’
‘No way to run a business. Why don’t you focus on your own boat? Bed, board and a trip out on Ishmael with Liza. She’d get enquiries from all over the world.’
‘No.’ I began to tidy up. ‘I don’t think so. Very kind of you, Nino, but it’s really not for us.’
‘You never know, she might find herself a bloke. About time she was courting.’
It was a couple of minutes before he realised that the atmosphere had changed. Half-way through his pie, he saw something in my expression that gave him pause. He was disconcerted, trying to work out what he’d said that had been so wrong. ‘Didn’t mean to offend you, Kate.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘Well, something’s wrong. You’re all twitchy.’
‘I have not gone all twitchy.’
‘There! Look at you.’ He pointed to my hand, which was playing restlessly up and down the bleached wood.
‘Since when was tapping my fingers a crime?’ I placed my hand firmly on my lap.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nino Gaines, I have a room to make up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve already wasted half the day.’
‘You’re not going in? Aw, come on, Kate. You haven’t finished your lunch. What’s the matter? Is it what I said about your picture?’
No one except Nino Gaines calls me Kate. For some reason this intimacy just about finished me off. ‘I’ve got things to do. Will you stop going on?’
‘I’ll email them, ask them to take it down. Perhaps we can say it’s copyright.’
‘Oh, will you stop wittering on about that darned photograph? I’m going in. I really have to get that room finished. I’ll see you soon.’ I brushed imaginary crumbs from my trousers. ‘Thank you for the lunch.’
He watched as I – the woman he had loved and been perplexed by for more than half a century – stood up, less heavily than age should have allowed, and began to walk briskly towards the kitchen, leaving him with two half-eaten pies and a barely touched glass of his best vintage. I felt his eyes burn into my back all the way back to the house.