by Judy Nunn
‘We’d never have been able to make that distance,’ Massoud muttered to Hala in English. ‘That’s at least four hundred metres, more likely five, and most of us can barely swim.’
She raised a whimsical eyebrow in reply. ‘Do you think when they find us they’ll put us to the test?’
‘No.’ He returned a wry smile. ‘No, I think they’ll have far more on their minds than the credibility of our story.’
Massoud wondered whether Rassen would share with his wife the bleak expectations they’d gleaned from their meeting with Lou. Yes, the good doctor is bound to tell her, he thought, they share everything those two. How very lucky they are.
When Principessa had been returned to her berth at the end of the jetty, Lou gave the group the whole of his day’s catch of fish, together with several lobsters.
‘Have to save a few of those for mates,’ he said apologetically as he doled out only half of the lobsters. ‘I’m on a promise.’
‘The whole of your catch!’ Rassen declared in amazement as the Australian methodically lifted the fish from the boat’s freezer and placed them one by one into a large polystyrene container. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘Why not? I’ll be out at dawn tomorrow, and I’ll catch the same amount all over again. It’s what I do, Rassen. What I love to do,’ he said, his weathered face wreathed in a happy grin. ‘You can retire an old fisher, mate, but you can’t stop him fishing.’
Back ashore, while Hany and Karim set about scaling and gutting the catch, the others returned to the hut, where Rassen read out the list and, upon invitation, several further requests were put to Lou.
‘We have very little cooking oil left,’ Sanaa said to Rassen, ‘and virtually no sugar.’
Rassen translated, Lou nodded, and oil and sugar were added to the list.
‘Could we perhaps find some cough medicine for Azra?’ Hala spoke directly to Lou. ‘Nothing requiring a prescription of course, just an expectorant mixture or a eucalyptus-oil inhalant – something to help break up her chest cough?’
‘Of course.’ Lou gave another nod and Rassen added it to the list.
‘And …’ She hesitated, reluctant to make a further request that would surely sound not only trivial but selfish. ‘I don’t suppose …’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Come on, Hala, what is it?’ Rassen urged.
‘It sounds terrible of me, I know, but would there be any possible chance of shampoo? Just a small bottle,’ she added hastily, ‘that we could share, and use very sparingly?’ She glanced at the other women as if hoping for backup, but of course they hadn’t understood what she’d said.
Rassen laughed out loud at his wife’s timidity, something rarely witnessed. ‘You can but ask, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’ve already put in a bid for shaving foam and a razor myself.’
‘Shampoo it is,’ Lou agreed, ‘and what about young Hamid here, does he have any special request?’
Upon being asked by Rassen, Hamid’s response was immediate.
‘Sultanas,’ he said, ‘sultanas to go in the tadig.’
When shampoo and sultanas had been added to the list, no other requests were forthcoming, so Lou made a couple of additions of his own.
‘I’ll bring you a fresh gas bottle for the barbecue,’ he said, ‘and some more meths for the stoves – you don’t want to run out and have to rely on wood fires for cooking. The smoke might attract attention.’
And clothes, he resolved, looking about at the motley collection of blanket kaftans most were wearing, I’ll bring them some extra clothes too. There are so many things they could have requested and haven’t, he thought. I don’t think they’ve seen much goodwill in the past.
Lou then addressed Jalila directly. For some odd reason he felt compelled to hear her speak English in front of the others. Why does she choose not to do so? he wondered.
‘And you, Jalila? Is there anything you would like me to bring you?’
Jalila looked to Rassen, waiting for the question to be repeated in Arabic.
But Rassen did not translate for her, recognising Lou’s desire to converse with the girl in English as he obviously had upon their first meeting.
Jalila looked back to the Australian. She was hesitant. She did have a request and she did want to reply, but she did not relish being the centre of attention.
The others exchanged glances, wondering what was going on, bewildered by the pause in proceedings.
‘A ball,’ she said finally. ‘I would like a ball that I may play catch with Hamid.’
The reaction all round was instantaneous: delight from Rassen and Hala, who saw the exchange as a breakthrough; astonishment from the others, who rarely heard the girl speak at all, let alone in English; and from Hamid an immediate response to the sound of his name.
‘What did Jalila ask for?’ he demanded of Rassen.
‘A secret,’ Jalila said in English. Ignoring the child altogether, her comment was made to Lou.
‘Ah,’ Lou nodded, ‘I see. It’s a gift, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Jalila said, ‘a gift.’
Rassen added the ball to the list, and upon a quick whispered request from Lou, he added also the names of everyone in the group.
‘Just the first names will do,’ Lou hurriedly added under his breath.
And then the meeting was over.
Half an hour later, they stood on the end of the jetty, waving goodbye to Principessa. Lou had promised he would return in five days with their supplies and as they watched the old Princess steadily chug out of sight, there was much conversation, the general consensus being one of puzzlement. Why does this good man care so for us?
It was a question none could answer, but it was one that was of no concern at all to Hamid.
‘What did you ask for, Jalila?’ he insisted.
‘A handkerchief,’ she said. ‘I asked for a handkerchief, because your nose is always running.’
Hamid lost interest immediately.
True to his word, Lou returned five days later, and he brought with him an abundance of supplies that were quite beyond their wildest expectations. Along with the list that had been drawn up and the requests they’d made were eggs and fresh fruit and vegetables, there were packets of sweet biscuits, a large jar of honey and, much to Rassen’s delight, ground coffee and a plunger. There were also clothes. An odd selection to be sure – ‘Cast-offs,’ Lou said, ‘from the back of our wardrobes. Paolo and I had a good clean-out’ – but the old cardigans and shirts and tracksuit pants were eagerly embraced. There was a set of binoculars too. ‘In order to keep a sharp lookout for planes and boats, Rassen,’ Lou said, ‘but you’ll find some pleasure in them I’m sure. The birdlife out here is quite spectacular.’
Every new item produced was joyously greeted, but the greatest thrill of all belonged to Hamid, upon the presentation of a tennis ball and a soccer ball.
‘I didn’t know what sort of ball you wanted, Jalila,’ Lou said, ‘so I brought both. A game of “catch” you said, but every boy wants to kick a footie around, doesn’t he?’
There was a further recreational surprise in store – two board games – a set of draughts and a chess set, both well-worn, having seen years of use, for which Lou apologised.
‘Pretty old, nothing fancy, but they’ll serve to while away the time,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why, Rassen, but you’re the sort of bloke who strikes me as a chess player, am I right?’
He was indeed right. Hala was a keen chess player too, as was Massoud.
‘Expected as much,’ Lou said a touch of nonchalance, although secretly he was thrilled by the pleasure he could see on their faces as each fresh gift was revealed. They’re like kids at Christmas, he thought, all of them, even the posh-voiced doctor and his wife, just like kids at Christmas. Although, he corrected himself, they don’t have Christmas where they come from, do they?
‘But this is your personal chess set, Lou, is it not?’ Rassen queried.
‘Yep.’
&nbs
p; ‘We can’t deprive you of chess for months on end, man. What on earth will you do with yourself?’
‘I’ll watch TV.’ Lou gave an impish grin, suspecting the good doctor thought he was joking, before admitting to the truth. ‘I don’t play much these days actually, haven’t for ten years, not since my wife, Barbara, died. It was Barb who taught me and I was never much chop anyway.’ He cast a fond glance at his young grandson. ‘He was the champ in the family,’ he said, ‘even as a lad he could outplay his grandmother. He’s got his own chess set now, so he certainly doesn’t need this old thing.’
Of all the surprises that day, Paul had been the greatest.
In the mid-morning, when they’d seen the boat approaching from afar, they’d expected it to be Principessa, but they’d remained out of sight just in case. Then, when the old Princess was clearly recognisable, they’d gone down to the jetty to welcome Lou.
But as the boat had drawn closer, despite the assuring wave they’d received from Lou at the helm, the young man standing, mooring rope in hand, up the bow had come as a shock to them all.
‘This is my grandson,’ Lou said when, after securing the vessel, the two had stepped on to the jetty. ‘I call him Paolo, but he’s Paul to everyone else. Paul Miller – he’s my daughter’s son, and his dad likes to downplay the Italian connection.’ There was no rancour in the comment, just a statement of long-accepted fact.
They took in the image of the young man. Unlike his grandfather, there appeared very little of the Mediterranean about him. Tall, lanky but fit, straight, mid-brown hair in need of a cut, a face unbearded but in need of a shave, and youthful skin, as yet unweathered, unlike most Australians who lived a life outdoors. Twenty-two-year-old Paul was ill-kempt but pleasant-looking. The one hint of Italian heritage was perhaps the dark brown of his eyes where one might have expected blue.
As they warily assessed Lou’s grandson, it was quite obvious Lou’s grandson was assessing them with equal wariness. The moment was awkward. Then, just as Rassen was about to commence the introductions, Lou took over.
He proceeded to introduce, one by one, every member of the group, starting with the doctor and his wife, whose surname he included. The others he introduced by first name only, but he’d memorised the list and, with methodical precision, got every single person’s name right and correctly pronounced. Rassen was most impressed.
‘How do you do,’ Paul said formally, shaking each hand in turn, friendly enough, but the wariness still evident.
‘And this is Hamid,’ Lou concluded.
The little boy held his hand up to the tall stranger. ‘Hello there,’ he said loudly and clearly in English. That was what the old man had said to him upon their first meeting, he remembered.
Hamid was determined to learn English and, having privately nagged Jalila, he had made some progress over the past several days. Not only could he say ‘hello’, but also ‘goodbye’, ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and a number of other words. He now committed to memory ‘how do you do’ and intended to ask Jalila its meaning when they were alone.
Paul squatted on the worn, warm planks of the jetty, accepting the child’s firm little handshake. ‘G’day, mate,’ he said, and something in the boyishness of his smile and the way he said it broke the awkwardness.
G’day, mate, Hamid thought solemnly; he would ask Jalila about those words too.
The cardboard boxes and polystyrene container and sacks of supplies were all lifted from the boat and, shouldering the loads they could handle, the women insistent upon carrying their share, they set off for the blue hut where the kitchen and pantry were housed.
The heaviest burden appeared to be Paul’s, although at first they were mystified as to what it could be. Hoisted over one shoulder was a hessian sack that obviously contained something very large and very hefty. He was quick to explain.
‘Crushed ice,’ he said to Rassen. ‘Four bags straight from the boat’s freezer; we need to get it to my hut as soon as possible.’
When the general supplies had been deposited in the blue hut, Lou instructed Karim to take the polystyrene container of fresh fish to the green hut where it could be kept on ice.
‘Rassen and I will come with you,’ he said. The offer was made in the spirit of camaraderie, but Lou was aware it might be a good idea to have an interpreter present, particularly as Karim and his family were the ones currently occupying Paul’s hut. Lou remained unsure about his grandson’s acceptance of the refugees. Paulo’s initial reaction to the news had been anything but receptive.
Rassen picked up on the message immediately. ‘Wait here,’ he instructed the others. ‘We’ll be back shortly.’
By the time the three of them reached the green hut, Paul had already placed the bags of ice in a huge old icebox that sat gathering dust in the corner of the workshop out the back. The icebox seemed both oddly old-fashioned and quite unnecessary as inside the hut was a refrigerator, which would surely be used during the fishing season when there was generator-powered electricity on the island.
Lou, however, crowed his triumph. Vindicated at long last, he was inordinately proud of himself.
‘See,’ he declared to his grandson, ‘I told you it’d come in handy.’
‘Bullshit,’ Paul scoffed, ‘you just couldn’t bear to get rid of the damn thing. A useless piece of rubbish from the fifties, that’s all it is, a waste of space.’
‘Hardly useless, I’d say,’ his grandfather countered argumentatively. ‘We couldn’t have supplied them with a generator. It would have been a dead giveaway that someone was helping them.’ He added in a quick aside to Rassen, ‘No one leaves generators on the island,’ before continuing his tirade to Paul. ‘This way at least they’ve got refrigeration. All they need to do when they’re discovered is chuck the ice out.’ He concluded his argument in a gloatingly superior tone, ‘I think under the circumstances, Paolo, you’d have to agree I was right all along. The old icebox has proved highly useful.’
‘These aren’t exactly normal circumstances, Lou,’ Paul said, this time tetchily. ‘In fact I’d say this is a totally one-off situation.’
Rassen was starting to feel uncomfortable, and even Karim, although not understanding a word that was being said, appeared ill at ease with the tension between the two.
Aware of their discomfort Lou apologised. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Paolo and I argue all the time. He’s been trying to make me get rid of the old icebox for years, and I always dig my heels in.’
‘I have, and you do.’ Paul gave an easy smile and the tension dissolved immediately. Arguments between grandfather and grandson rarely lasted long.
Relieved the confrontation was over, Rassen briefly translated the exchange to Karim.
‘Good that they did not get rid of the icebox,’ Karim replied, ‘very useful for us.’
Rassen did not bother translating his response to the Australians.
They packed the various parcels of fresh fish into the icebox. The fish had been thoroughly cleaned and gutted, Lou explained, but not scaled.
‘They’ll keep better that way,’ he said. ‘Scale them just before you cook them.’ Then, as he closed the door, he determined to have the last word. ‘It’ll work a treat, you’ll see,’ he said to Rassen, but mainly for Paul’s benefit. ‘That old icebox is as good as any fridge.’
Paul took no notice. Much as he loved his grandfather, the old man could be dogmatic when he chose, and there were times when it was best to ignore him.
Looking around the shed, Lou noticed that the old pedal-operated grinding wheel had been freshly cleaned and oiled. Beside it on the workbench sat several well-honed tools, including the axe. No wonder Karim chopped through the dinghy as efficiently as he did, he thought with a sense of satisfaction. The old wheel is obviously back in action.
‘He’s been trying to make me get rid of that too,’ he said smugly. ‘But I won’t let him.’
‘True,’ Paul said to the others. ‘I have. And he won’t.’
The young man’s smile once again defused the situation, so Rassen considered it safe to translate the exchange for Karim.
‘I like the wheel,’ Karim said, ‘the wheel is good.’
Rassen, as before, did not bother with the English translation.
‘Lou always hangs on to the past,’ Paul continued pleasantly, but nonetheless having a mild dig at his grandfather, ‘even when the rubbish he hangs on to is useless.’
‘This is most certainly true,’ Lou acceded, ‘I do. Why would I not wish to hang on to the past? The past has been good to me.’ Then he couldn’t resist adding under his breath to Paul, taking care Rassen didn’t hear, ‘Unlike these poor bastards.’
Upon their return to the blue hut they discovered the others waiting patiently, even Hamid. Or rather Hamid was making a pretence of patience. He was desperate to discover what was inside the boxes and sacks, but he’d been told he must wait, that they must all share in the moment.
And then the unveiling began, producing ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of wonder at the most basic of items. Eggs, honey, fresh fruit, ground coffee: everything was greeted with excitement. It seemed Hamid was not the only child present. And when they got to the sack of clothes, there was laughter as they pulled cardigans on over their shirts or held garments up against their bodies, humour mingling with the deepest of gratitude.
Kids at Christmas, Lou thought, listening to the chatter of a language he did not understand, but which communicated itself as clearly as if he did. Just like kids at Christmas. He offered the odd comment now and then for Rassen to translate to the others. ‘Cast-offs,’ he said, ‘from the back of our wardrobes, Paolo and I had a good clean-out …’ but for the most part he just stood and looked on.
So did Paul. And as he looked on, he recalled the night, only several days previously, when Lou had told him all about the refugees.
‘You’re not going to report them?’ He’d been outraged by the idea. ‘What do you mean you’re not going to report them?’
‘Just that. I mean I’m not going to report them, and you’ll know why when you see them. Stop being so quick to make judgements, Paolo.’