by Di Morrissey
Damien and Jacqui had a couple of dances before Damien suggested they leave. ‘You’re one hot dancer,’ he whispered.
Jacqui gathered up her bag from the table.
‘I’m making early tracks. Congrats, Nat. If everything continues with the same energy and passion as tonight, the festival will be a huge hit!’ Jacqui gave her a quick hug.
Nat gave her a quizzical look. ‘Leaving so soon? Oh well, I suppose you’ve got a big day ahead of you. Thanks for all your help, especially with the film people.’ She raised her eyebrows and gave Jacqui a knowing look.
When they got back to Jacqui’s house, Damien sat making notes for Rita on what he and Richie had shot that evening, while Jacqui threw together an omelette for him, as he’d not had time to eat anything.
‘Lydia had a real go at the band leader,’ said Damien eventually, putting down his pen. ‘If the gas hub thing gets traction it could blow up into something pretty big. It sounds as though some of the local Aboriginal people won’t like it. Do you think they’ll be able to mount any effective opposition?’
‘I’m sure there’re a lot of people in town who’ll take their side,’ said Jacqui.
‘Don’t be so sure. In my experience, the prospect of a quick buck will overrule altruism most of the time.’
‘Oh dear. I hope not.’
‘Well, if there is an issue, it could mean I’d have to come up here a lot, just to keep tabs on the story,’ said Damien with a grin.
‘That’d be nice,’ Jacqui replied, smiling.
As she put the omelette on a plate, Jacqui thought what a relief it was to have the festival officially underway. She hoped it would be a big success. Even more, it was nice to share everything with Damien. She was trying to be sensible about him, to not fall madly in love with him and project him into a future with her just yet. But the ground beneath her feet was definitely feeling more like quicksand each day. At the very least, she knew she’d miss his company when he went back to Perth.
*
‘Ugh. What a rude awakening.’ Damien rolled over and slapped his phone alarm into silence, then reached for Jacqui, holding her soft body close. He nuzzled his face in her hair. ‘Damn. It’s hard to leave.’
‘Do you want some breakfast?’ She kissed him.
‘Just you.’
Their lovemaking was urgent and without lingering foreplay. Lying together afterwards, their bodies damp, holding hands, they didn’t speak until Damien rolled away and stretched.
‘If I don’t stop now, I’ll never leave. You are irresistible, Madame Bouchard.’ He jumped from the bed and looked out the window. ‘Weather check. Looks okay. A few clouds, that’s good.’ He continued to stand at the window, looking through the palm fronds to the sky.
Jacqui went and put her arms around him, pressing her naked body against his back. They stood as one, not moving for a moment.
‘I love this early light. The curdling grey milky pearly look. Reminds me of good fat oysters,’ said Damien.
Jacqui laughed and kissed his back. ‘Food. Okay, I’ll make coffee. Or tea?’
‘I need coffee. I’ll jump in the shower.’
Jacqui padded around the kitchen in her sarong. The smell of coffee and toast, the sound of the shower running, was homely. After all this time, she realised, she still missed having a man in her life.
Slowly, she cautioned herself. But she couldn’t help smiling as the memory of Damien’s lips and body lingered.
*
The festival was crowded. The grounds of the resort where it was being held hummed with activity, and its café was doing a roaring trade in coffee and sandwiches. Riley Mathieson’s talk had been enthusiastically applauded. Afterwards he’d been besieged by star-struck readers asking questions, although the organisers had kept the sessions to time, limiting long exchanges. Many readers grabbed the chance to engage the authors in conversation as they walked around the grounds.
Jacqui scarcely paused for breath. The queue at the till in the mini bookshop was never-ending, while the line of fans waiting patiently for their books to be signed stretched out the door. Once the devotees were at the signing table, after a brief exchange of greetings, vigilant publicists moved them along.
Jacqui was impressed by Riley’s patience and charm, and even though the fans were not encouraged to linger, he seemed to have a special smile and attentive look for each one as they spoke to him.
Jacqui was keeping tabs on the flow of books out the door, and hoped she had ordered enough stock. Jean-Luc was helping her by finding books that different customers were after.
By mid-afternoon, Jacqui realised that she needed some more change for her mini shop. Everyone seemed to be paying in fifty-dollar notes! Luckily, at that moment, Nat came in to see how sales were going, so Jacqui asked her if she could stay and help while Jacqui popped back to Red Coast Books to get some change.
‘No worries. I assume Jean-Luc knows where everything is.’ Then Nat whispered, ‘I trust you had a good time last night.’
‘I thought the opening night was really great,’ Jacqui replied brightly, blatantly ignoring Natalie’s innuendo.
As Jacqui drove the twenty minutes back to Red Coast Books, she passed the small organic food café on the edge of town, where she saw three men deep in conversation at one of its outdoor tables. Instantly she recognised one of them as Cameron, and she slowed, debating whether or not to stop and thank him for his text message the previous night. Then she realised who was sitting opposite him. She knew the familiar face and bushy red beard from newspapers and television. It was Daryl Johnson, one of the richest entrepreneurs in Western Australia, though Jacqui vaguely recalled reading somewhere that he was born in Canada, and someone who Jacqui knew to be heavily involved in mining through his company, Chamberlain Industries. The third person had his back to her, but she could tell he was an indigenous man. She kept driving, wondering what on earth the magnate was doing talking with Cameron.
There had to be something big going on, she thought, perhaps connected with the proposed gas development. Could Cameron be connected with that? Maybe Lydia had heard more. With the festival in action, she just hadn’t had a chance to ask her about it.
Red Coast Books was busy when Jacqui got there and Sylvia was flat out. Jacqui dumped the carton of signed books she was carrying beside the counter.
‘Phew, they’re so heavy. Here are some autographed books, including Riley Mathieson’s. He might have time to do more later.’
‘People keep asking for signed Sheila Turner books,’ said Sylvia.
‘She’ll be signing at her festival event, so I’ll bring some in after that. I’ve really just popped in to grab some change for the festival shop. I hope we have some here – I’m really short.’
‘I think we’re all right in that department,’ said Sylvia, opening the till. ‘Hey, you’ll never guess who came in here a little while ago,’ she added. ‘Daryl Johnson! He wouldn’t be here for the festival, would he?’
‘Could be. I just passed him having coffee at the organic café. Did he buy anything?’ asked Jacqui.
‘Yeah, he sure did. A pile of books on Aboriginal culture.’
Jacqui shrugged. ‘Interested in the local area, I guess.’
‘He had that Aboriginal elder with him, the guy who’s always in the newspaper. Runs the New Country Leadership Trust,’ said Sylvia.
Jacqui paused. That must be the third man she’d seen at the café. ‘Interesting. Did you hear what they were talking about?’
‘Look around you, Jacqui! Do I have time to wander about eavesdropping?’ Sylvia laughed and went to help at the counter where customers were waiting.
Back at the festival, Jacqui found that her little shop was just as busy as when she had left it, but Brian from the committee was there, helping Jean-Luc.
‘Nat had to leave,’ he e
xplained. ‘But she realised this place is hectic and asked me if I could help out for the rest of the day. So here I am.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Jacqui. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’
Later in the day, during a rare lull, Brian suggested that she take the opportunity to slip into one or two of the authors’ talks and listen to the writers interacting with the audience. Jacqui quietly found a seat in the back row of the crowded room. As a bookseller, Jacqui saw the finished product, but hearing an author reveal their inspiration for a particular book, and the angst, passion and struggle that went into creating it, gave a whole new perspective on a book.
Jacqui quickly realised that the audience appreciated hearing about how and why a book was conceived. She was impressed, too, by the thoughtful and intelligent questions and discussions between the authors and the audience. She knew she was not alone in her deep love of books and reading. She’d often observed in her bookshop how people came together, no matter their background, to share their passion for what was found between a book’s covers.
As she glanced around, she saw Lily Barton and Alison Brown sitting together down the front. As if sensing she was being observed, Lily glanced over her shoulder and Jacqui gave her a little wave. She smiled and blew Jacqui a quick kiss, nudging Alison, who gave a big smile. Jacqui made a mental note to catch up with them before they left town and share impressions of the festival and guests.
At the end of the session, during question time, Jacqui was surprised to hear a familiar voice boom out from the audience. She instantly recognised it as her old friend Wally’s.
‘So, tell me,’ he asked one of the onstage authors, ‘how would you suggest getting a book together from a whole pile of notes and letters?’
‘Are they yours? Or someone else’s? You mean like compiling a family history?’ replied the young author.
‘Ah, it’s better than that. It’s a ripping yarn, an adventure and a mystery. But it’s all true,’ answered Wally. ‘Be a bloody good movie. Sad, though.’
‘Start at the beginning,’ advised the author. ‘Pretend you’re writing a letter to a friend. Can you use a computer?’
‘Bloody oath. I’m on Facebook,’ answered Wally. There was a smattering of laughter from the audience.
With a smile, the woman sitting next to Jacqui leaned over to her and whispered, ‘Don’t you just love him! How old is he, do you think?’
‘He’s over ninety,’ Jacqui whispered back. ‘And pretty sharp, I can tell you.’
‘Well, computers might be all the go these days, but I reckon we should all be writing down our family stories,’ Wally continued. ‘And even if they don’t get published, someone will find and read them. Nobody inherits emails and tweets. My wife’s family’s history is an oral one, so unless the stories are told to the next generation, that history will be lost. You’ve got to keep your family’s stories.’
There was a burst of applause when he said this, and Wally sat back down looking pleased with himself.
Jacqui edged along the row and tapped Wally on the shoulder. ‘Good one, Wally. Are you enjoying the festival?’ she whispered.
He grinned and gave her a thumbs up. ‘You bet. I’m going to head into your little book place and buy this girlie’s book. She sounds like a bonza writer.’
‘Do you need help?’
‘Nah, got one of the grandkids in tow. He’ll help me, if I need it. See ya, Jacqui. This is a good show,’ he whispered.
She patted his shoulder, smiling as the young boy on the other side of Wally prepared to help his grandfather get to the next session.
*
The festival was winding up. Even though it had only been three days, Jacqui could see how the writers had bonded with their audiences, who had briefly stepped out of the familiar and mundane to enjoy something different. To hear a new voice, to escape into a book they might never otherwise have known about, to hear the funny anecdotes, the trials and vicissitudes of the author’s journey to publication, gave not just an extra dimension to a book, but to their own lives as well.
In the end, much to her relief, Jacqui hadn’t been called on to moderate any sessions. However, from what she’d seen herself, and heard about in her festival shop, there had been some definite highlights. Sheila Turner’s session had been packed, with extra chairs squeezed in at the ends of rows. A lot of the festival workers who could manage it had stood at the back and around the entrance, where a speaker broadcast the event for people outside to hear. Everyone agreed Sheila had been frank, funny and forthright. She hadn’t appeared to take offence if someone in the audience asked a question with a veiled hint that, while they admired her, they perhaps didn’t agree with all her views. Many asked her if she would run for politics. Sheila handled those questions with a smile and sometimes barbed wit, saying she felt she could be far more effective ‘outside the tent, unconstrained by political convention and correctness’.
As often happened at these things, there was a surprise hit as a new author was discovered to be a great on-stage talent. This time, it was a local author, a young fellow who’d written and illustrated a children’s rhyming book. In his session he had sung the songs from the book and told hilarious stories and jokes. He’d had a guitar and wore a silly hat. To Jacqui, who’d managed to sneak into his talk for a few minutes, it was as though he’d stepped straight from the pages of a Dr Seuss book. His songs reminded her of one of Jean-Luc’s favourite Barney Saltzberg songs when he was little, called, ‘Where, Oh, Where’s My Underwear?’. While he was singing to the children about a skinny dinosaur who invented a diet where he only ate rock cakes because he wanted to be big and strong, Jacqui recognised a beautiful singing voice.
Damien had stopped by in the late afternoon. Jacqui was pleased to see him, but she was very tired and begged off meeting that night, promising to catch up with him as soon as she could the next day. As she started to pack some of the unsold books into a carton by the table, the local newsagent nudged her. ‘Bloody terrific festival. Well done to all concerned, Jacqui,’ he said.
‘Thank you. I’ll let the committee know,’ she said with a smile.
Jacqui and Jean-Luc closed the little festival shop for the last time and went home feeling grubby and tired but exhilarated.
‘You have been so much help, Jean-Luc. Thank you, I really appreciate it. I hope you haven’t been bored,’ said Jacqui as they got into her car.
‘I was pleased to be able to help you. Besides, I got to hear Riley speak and everyone thought he was magnificent. I’m sorry that he has left Broome.’
‘Yes, he was a very pleasant person and very good to you. But I also noticed that you spent a bit of time talking with Peggy Knowles,’ said Jacqui with a knowing smile.
Jean-Luc grinned. ‘Peggy is a lot of fun. She occupies herself in such unusual ways.’
‘Does she? Like what?’ Jacqui asked.
‘She told me they have a small boat and she goes out crabbing with Luke, one of the local Aboriginal boys. She said he lives in an old pearling shack with all his family. And, Maman, they have a fire always burning in a cut-down forty-four-gallon drum out the front, ready to cook fish and crabs in as soon as they are caught. Peggy is unusual for an educated person who’ll soon be going to university. She is so different from the girls I know in France,’ Jean-Luc exclaimed.
‘Yes, I agree. I don’t think many French girls are like her,’ said Jacqui with a small smile.
*
Back at home, Jacqui collapsed into a chair on the verandah. Jean-Luc had suddenly decided to meet Peggy in town and so this was the first time she’d had to herself since the festival had started. Tomorrow she would be packing up the unsold books and the accompanying detailed paperwork in order to return them to the various publishers.
Her phone rang and she hurried to the kitchen to answer it.
‘Hi, Mum. Perfect timin
g, I’m just getting a drink to watch the sun go down with. You guys getting excited about your visit? Jean-Luc and I certainly are.’ She picked up her glass and walked back towards the verandah.
‘Honey, we have a bit of a problem. Your father has had an accident and hurt himself.’
‘Oh no! What do you mean? Is Dad okay? What’s happened?’
‘He’s fine, but it’s upset our plans. It was the silliest thing. A simple fall, he just tripped over the garden hose and got tangled up in it. He’s broken one of his ankles and his knee is dreadfully sprained. He simply won’t be able to walk comfortably for some time. His ankle is in a cast and his knee is heavily strapped. I hate to have to tell you this, but your father simply can’t face the idea of travelling to Broome just now.’
‘Oh, poor Dad and poor Jean-Luc! He was so looking forward to spending time with you both.’
She took a gulp of her wine as her mother outlined her plan for Jean-Luc to fly to Sydney, stay with them for a week, and then fly to Europe from Sydney. Jacqui knew with all the post-festival clean-up and paperwork, plus running Red Coast Books, there was no chance she could get away for that long.
She spoke briefly to her father, making sure that he was all right and assuring him that she’d work something out with Jean-Luc. ‘Things will sort themselves out. Take care, Dad.’ Jacqui hung up and picked up her wine glass with a sigh.
She heard Jean-Luc coming through the front garden as she was preparing dinner. He had ducked into town to meet Peggy after they’d got home, and Jacqui could hear Peggy’s laughter interspersed with Jean-Luc’s happy chatter.
‘Maman, can Peggy have dinner with us? Her papa is working with Ms Turner,’ Jean-Luc asked as they came into the kitchen.
‘I think my father is helping her with something she’s writing. Or going to write,’ said Peggy. ‘I thought I’d keep out of their way.’
‘Of course, you’re welcome, but if you’ll excuse us for a minute, I need to speak to Jean-Luc.’
At the tone of her voice, Jean-Luc’s expression changed and Peggy said, ‘I’ll go and sit in the garden.’