by Di Morrissey
‘It can get a bit stressful when we’re under pressure. And things can often go wrong on shoots. But generally the boys are pretty cool in a drama. I’ve learned just to keep telling them it’s all under control, but then I bust a gut to make it all happen,’ she said nonchalantly.
‘You ready, Jacqui?’ asked Damien.
‘Lovely to see you again, Jacqui,’ said Richie.
‘Yes. Nice to meet you,’ added Rita.
‘Oh, you’re not coming to dinner?’ said Jacqui.
‘No, it’s just us,’ said Damien as he headed to the door. Jacqui gave a wave goodbye to the others and followed him out.
*
Jacqui looked around the restaurant Damien had chosen. ‘It’s nice to eat someplace new. Not a huge choice in Broome, and I’ve tried them all. Though there are some nice places to go back to again and again. Favourite spots where the food is always good.’
‘I like the food here and it has the advantage of being close to the HQ,’ said Damien.
‘You three seem to be a good team. Rita is nice, and obviously efficient.’
‘Yes. She’s great in an emergency and can jump in and do continuity if needed.’
Jacqui looked puzzled, so Damien went on to explain what he meant.
‘Continuity means keeping tabs on everything we film and making sure everything is kept sequential. You know, you film a scene one day and then when you shoot the next day and the story is the continuation of the same scene, you notice something has changed. Maybe the leading lady now isn’t wearing the same earrings, or has forgotten to wear the watch she had on yesterday. Perhaps a piece of furniture has been moved to another position. Continuity is more a job for feature films than for docos,’ explained Damien, ‘but if we have to shoot the same scene over a couple of days, we have to make sure that nothing has changed or been moved. Rita is really good at that. And she can slap on make-up like a real pro, if someone needs it. It’s also good to have someone keeping notes when you do an interview in case you have to repeat a question or something.’
‘It sounds as though she has an interesting job.’
‘It’s not exactly routine, nine to five.’
‘Like mine is,’ said Jacqui. ‘Mind you, I’ve done my share of flying by the seat of my pants in the last few years.’
The waiter brought them the menus and a bottle of sparkling water.
‘We’ll decide on the food in a moment, thanks, Peter,’ said Damien as he took one of the menus. He was obviously at home in the place. ‘I know you’re from Sydney, Jacqui, but have you been anywhere else other than Broome?’
Jacqui shrugged. ‘I’ve spent some time working around Australia in a variety of jobs, from administrative work, to a chef in a small up-market tourist lodge in the Daintree.’ It seemed a big omission to not mention her years in France, but she just wasn’t ready to raise the subject yet.
‘You have been around! But why the Kimberley?’
‘I just came to see the place, but once I arrived in Broome I fell in love with the town. Next thing I knew I had a business, and I started to feel like part of the community. I’ve made some wonderful friends there.’
‘Yes, it seems to be a trait in small townships. The community has to rub along together because there’s nowhere else to go,’ said Damien.
‘That’s true. And community leaders are so important in a multicultural place like Broome. It’s been a sharp learning curve for me. I never took much interest in our local area when I was young and living in Sydney. Dad used to whinge about the local council, but he never did anything about changing it. In Broome, it’s quite different. People have a feeling of ownership. They get involved,’ said Jacqui. ‘And what about you? Have you worked overseas?’
‘Yes, quite a lot, but it’s not exactly seeing the place. You fly in and work long hours and fly out again. Whenever I take a holiday I prefer to go scuba-diving, fishing, or somewhere just to chill out. Not that I don’t appreciate interesting places and culture, but I just feel like racing around looking at palaces and ruins in a foreign country isn’t relaxing.’
The waiter returned with their wine and Damien tasted it and nodded his approval.
‘Have you travelled overseas, Jacqui?’
There was no avoiding it, she couldn’t lie to him. ‘Yes. I lived in France for years.’
‘Really? Working?’
Jacqui gave a wry smile. ‘It was work, rather. I was married to a Frenchman.’
‘Good heavens. How long were you married?’
Jacqui took a deep breath. ‘Long enough to have a son. His name is Jean-Luc.’
‘You have a son. That’s amazing. How old is he?’
‘Nearly sixteen. He lives in Nîmes, with his father. I only see him once a year,’ she said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
‘I bet you miss him. And your husband?’ asked Damien tentatively.
‘Ex-husband,’ Jacqui said quickly, then paused. ‘Not a topic I want to discuss.’ She took a sip of her water and changed the subject. ‘So tell me about you. Never married?’
‘Nope. A couple of serious relationships. On my own now. Been too busy, too peripatetic to settle down. It’s hard to have a proper relationship when I’m on the move such a lot. As far as I’m concerned, this is a big beautiful country, and I want to see and film as much of it as possible.’
Later that evening, after they had finished dinner, Damien swung his car into the curved driveway entrance of the modest hotel Jacqui had booked. As soon as he brought the car to a halt, he leaped out to open her door and retrieved her bag from the boot.
She turned to Damien, and said, ‘Thank you so much, Damien, it’s been a fun evening.’
‘Keep in touch, and when – if – we get a deal to shoot in the Kimberley, I’ll be up to see you.’
Damien reached for her and drew her to him, kissing her mouth. Jacqui was stunned for a second, before melting into the warmth and softness of his lips as she returned his kiss.
Taxis were pulling up behind Damien’s car, and one of the drivers beeped the horn.
‘Better go. Enjoy your son’s visit.’ He gave her a quick smile and a look that promised . . . well, she was unsure what. ‘See you soon, Jacqui!’ He got in the car and pulled away.
‘Thanks for the DVD!’ she called after him.
What a stupid thing to say, she thought. She was flustered. But a warmth spread through her, and she smiled happily to herself.
*
Jacqui left the hotel ridiculously early the next morning. She was always concerned that she’d be caught in traffic and would miss Jean-Luc as he walked out of customs into the arrival hall.
This morning the arrivals hall was crowded; some sports team was due back from a successful tour and fans were clustered at the barrier, waving banners and placards.
She watched the people coming out in straggling clusters, one by one, and noisy groups.
Several young couples, a family with kids in tow, a lanky teenager, several backpacker girls came through in a bunch. Jacqui glanced at her watch. They must be getting towards the end of the two last flights that had landed. The sports fans had gone, chasing after their heroes.
There was a tap on her shoulder and she spun around, and gasped. Jean-Luc was standing there, with a querying smile.
‘Oh, mais non! How did I miss you? Sorry, darling. Oh. Oof.’ She fanned herself in mock amazement. The tall and lean young man in front of her, with the hat pulled low, the casual grace with which he carried his bag on his shoulder, the long strides and purposeful air, was her son! This Jean-Luc was so different from the little boy who had first started travelling to Australia many years before, a little boy with serious eyes, wearing short pants and clutching his worn green frog, escorted by a tired crew member. Was this the child who had broken away and run to her, wrapping h
is arms tightly around her, unable to speak, whose anxious, longing eyes had looked up into hers, spearing into her heart? Now Jean-Luc had moved from childhood to the cusp of manhood.
‘You must have walked right past me.’ As they embraced and kissed each other on their cheeks, she finally pushed him away, holding him by the shoulders, and stared into his slightly amused face. To say he’d grown in the last twelve months was an understatement.
‘It’s only been a year, Maman.’
‘Too long, far too long. I’ve missed you. Come on, let’s grab a taxi.’
Jean-Luc slung his soft leather bag into the boot of the taxi with ease, dropping a carry-on bag on top of it.
‘You haven’t brought much luggage.’
‘All that I need for Australia.’
He slid into the back seat beside her.
As the taxi drew away into the traffic he pulled out his phone and began texting.
‘Letting Papa know you are here safely?’ she commented.
He nodded as he concentrated, fingers flying over the keys.
He finished, pushed the phone into his jacket pocket and stretched. ‘What’s the plan?’ he asked.
‘I’ve booked us into a hotel in Perth for a few days. I thought we could do some shopping, eat some nice food, see some of the sights. We could go over to Rottnest Island, if you like. Then we fly home to Broome on Friday.’
‘How is the bookshop? Are you still liking it?’
‘Yes. I am. If I have to make a living for myself, Jean-Luc, it’s a nice way to do it,’ she added gently.
‘Can we go away somewhere besides Broome?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, for a day or two. Sylvia is minding the bookshop now, and she could do it again so that we can get away. We probably won’t be able to do anything like that until after the writers’ festival I’m involved with, but there’ll be plenty of time after that. I’ve seen some amazing places up north I thought you might like to see. And I can arrange for us to go to some great fishing spots.’
He shrugged. ‘Fine. If you say so. I hope I don’t suffer from mal de mer!’
‘Why would you? You’ve never been seasick before. You loved fishing last time you were in Broome!’
Jean-Luc was silent for the rest of the taxi ride, and Jacqui didn’t want to push him. While they kept in touch over Skype, it didn’t truly give her a sense of what her son was like in person. Sitting beside him in the taxi, she noticed there was a spikiness about her son, a hint of a bored young adult. What a leap Jean-Luc seemed to have suddenly made. She might have to rethink a few plans. Her loving and enthusiastic little boy had evolved into a young adult, even if he wasn’t quite sixteen. He was tall and slim, pale-skinned, long-fingered, with delicate features, a wide mouth and slow, killer smile. Doe-eyed, his soft dark hair fell charmingly across his face. Even as a small boy, he could gaze up at her with his dancing brown eyes and slowly unleash that hesitant, lopsided grin into the mischievous, huge, knowing and playful smile that was hard to resist.
She noticed Jean-Luc’s clothes were different from those he had worn twelve months before. The trainers, even the smart ones, were gone, and he was now wearing soft leather loafers. His blazer was well cut, as was his casual shirt, and his jeans looked expensive, the denim of a fine quality.
Eventually she said, ‘You can decide what you want to do. There’re lots of options. And Granny and Pop are flying over from Sydney to see us. They may have a few ideas and surprises lined up for you.’
‘That’s nice. I hope they haven’t gone to a lot of trouble or expense. My taste for some things has changed, you know,’ said Jean-Luc in a carefully polite voice.
‘You have grown a lot,’ said Jacqui fondly, glancing over at him.
‘I am quite grown up. I will soon be studying for my baccalauréat, Maman.’
‘So, no more rolling down the sandhills or mud crabbing with the Broome boys?’ His face twitched but he remained composed. ‘What specialisation are you thinking of taking?’ she asked.
He was more comfortable talking about his plans and chatted seriously about his options at the exclusive bilingual school he was attending.
‘Geology interests me. So, my option is Mathematics, Physics–Chemistry or Biology–Geology.’
‘I thought you were keen on Anthropology?’
‘I am. But it was not offered. And I now wonder about working in remote places.’
‘Oh? Why is that?’ asked Jacqui.
‘Oh. So long away from home. Working in rough conditions in the field. You know, away from friends . . . family.’ He looked out the window.
Jacqui was tempted to ask why he now thought like this when he’d been travelling on his own across the world, between France and Australia, for years. But she hesitated before saying calmly, ‘I guess you’re getting to an age where old friends start going in different directions. But I hope you don’t feel you need to follow the herd. I think you should concentrate on what you want to do, not what your friends are doing.’
Jean-Luc shrugged. The gesture instantly reminded Jacqui of his father. His dismissive Gallic put-down to her ideas had always irritated her. She hoped Jean-Luc wasn’t developing the same trait.
‘Friends will always be friends, I hope,’ he said.
‘True. And good friends are important. A true friendship perseveres even if you don’t see each other as often as you’d like. I have friends I haven’t seen for years. But if they walked in the door, we would pick up where we left off.’
‘That’s nice, Maman, but I like to have my friends around me,’ Jean-Luc said in a disinterested voice.
Jacqui didn’t say any more. She was tempted to remark that he hadn’t seemed to have any trouble picking up the friendships he’d established with the boys he’d met in Broome when he had visited previously, but decided not to. While Jean-Luc was polite, Jacqui could sense a slight note of resignation in his tone. The bubbling boy who had wanted to do this, go there, see that, had retreated into this poised, faintly remote youth she found hard to recognise for the moment.
She just hoped that her son would thaw and shed this veneer of ennui in Broome’s blinding sunshine.
*
Over the next few days, Jean-Luc began to relax as the two of them explored the shops of Perth and the quaint buildings of Fremantle. He enjoyed the trip to Rottnest Island and was enchanted by the little quokkas that inhabited the place. Jean-Luc especially liked venues with local musicians and enjoyed eating outside in the restaurants and cafés. Occasionally he commented on the food, saying that it didn’t compare with French food, but Jacqui noticed that it didn’t stop him from enjoying the fresh Australian cuisine.
As they started the descent into Broome a few days later, Jean-Luc, seated by the window, leaned forward to look out as the red rocky coastline and the aquamarine water, burnished by the setting sun, flashed past. And as the plane passed over the corrugated iron rooftops of the town to bump gently onto the runway, Jean-Luc reached out, took his mother’s hand and squeezed it.
Jacqui smiled to herself. Deep down she knew that Australia and her influence ran deep in her son, and his occasionally impossible French side was essentially a façade hiding a basically nice kid. She comforted herself that in time he would come to understand and appreciate the real value of people and circumstances.
Her home had a different ambience once her son was back in residence, and Jacqui loved it. She enjoyed cooking for him, and was surprised that, for the first time, Jean-Luc was keen to help her and learn how to cook certain dishes rather than just turn up, sit down, and eat. Food was taken seriously in France, but it was expected that women did the cooking. Most of the men Jacqui had known there had not shown much interest in how the meals that appeared before them had been made, even if they were subsequently generous with their praise. So it had been a bumpy road for a girl from Sydney’s Nort
hern Beaches raised on barbeques, salads, fruit, fish and chips, and Vegemite sandwiches.
*
While Jacqui was busy with her shop and the extra work that the writers’ festival was creating, Jean-Luc made contact again with his Broome acquaintances. There were brief exchanges on the phone and vague arrangements to get together which didn’t ever seem to eventuate, because the friends he had made on previous visits were at school or heavily involved with their sport. So Jean-Luc took to riding his bike and disappearing into town or cruising around on his own. Jacqui tried not to fret or say anything to him, very aware of the sensitivity it might cause. But her heart ached to see his seeming frustration, boredom and endless time spent texting and emailing his friends in France. He took photos with his phone, which he’d never done before.
Just the same, by the end of the first week, he was living in board shorts, his pale skin was beginning to tan, his hair was tangled from the saltwater and he went about in thongs.
Jacqui rolled her eyes when she told Lydia what Jean-Luc had been doing. ‘Facebook, I guess. Teenagers can’t live without technology. I suppose it had to happen. He can’t cut himself off from his friends.’
‘Well, I don’t see that as surprising,’ said Lydia.
‘It’s not that he’s obsessed, it’s just that he’s never really bothered before. I suppose all his friends are the same so he wants to keep in touch and up to date. Mostly, though, he seems to download music. I’m trying to think if I was ever that dedicated to bands.’
‘It’s more accessible now,’ said Lydia, who was interested in bands generally and local singers in particular. ‘I remember how I madly downloaded songs and burned them onto CDs, but it’s even easier to get hold of music now. Same idea, just different technologies.’
Jacqui couldn’t help laughing. ‘Okay, I’ll just relax and enjoy having my handsome boy around. Lily has invited Jean-Luc up to her operation for a few days. He’ll have a ball up at the farm. Dear old Ted Palmer is picking him up because he had to come to town anyway. I’ll go and collect him at the end of the week.’