Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  ‘But they’re illegal immigrants, for Christ’s sake. They’ve invaded our camp – they’ve taken over our huts! Why the hell would you not report them?’

  ‘They’re welcome to stay in my hut,’ Lou replied with icy dignity. ‘I’m only too glad I can be of some help to these poor souls who find themselves in such dire circumstances.’

  Paul could have hit the old man. It always infuriated him when Lou got on his high horse, which he regularly did, and solely in order to infuriate.

  ‘You do realise,’ he responded with equal iciness, ‘that the hut is my hut, not yours.’

  ‘Yes, you are the fisher in the family now, Paolo, I know this.’ Lou was instantly contrite, aware he’d been wrong to adopt their usual combative routine. He needed his young grandson on side; in fact, it was essential Paul become an ally. ‘But we did agree some time back that we’d call it our hut, didn’t we?’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Paul recognised a truce was being called. ‘But you can’t help these people the way you intend to, Lou. You simply can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?!’ Even communicating reasonably, as he obviously believed he was, the old man was maddening. ‘Why not, for Christ’s sake! You don’t know them, that’s why not! They’re Middle Eastern you say. That means they’re Muslims. Jesus Christ, Lou, they could be terrorists for all you know.’

  ‘They’re not. I know they’re not. Two of them are even Christians. And stop blaspheming.’

  Despite his outrage, Paul couldn’t help but be vaguely amused by the comment, which was made purely out of habit. His grandfather was a severely lapsed Catholic who didn’t give a damn about Jesus Christ or the Pope or anything to do with the Church. For years now, ever since the scandalous cover-up of paedophilia in the priesthood had been exposed, Luigi Panuzza had been scathing in his condemnation of the Church of Rome.

  ‘You should see these people, Paolo,’ Lou continued in earnest. ‘No, no,’ he held his hand up as his grandson threatened to interrupt, ‘no, no, you must see them, and then you’ll know what I mean. They’re walking around in clothes made of blankets and they have tragedy in their eyes. All of them. You can see it; you can feel it. Several are educated and the others are peasants from what I can gather, but they’re people who’ve been through a hell you and I couldn’t imagine. There’s even a little boy – he wouldn’t be more than three.’

  Paul didn’t interrupt, waiting instead for his grandfather to go on. He couldn’t recall ever having seen Lou like this. The old man, strong and proud, at times even arrogant, was all but begging.

  ‘I remember the animosity my parents suffered when they first came to Australia.’ Lou’s voice was quieter now he had his grandson’s attention. ‘These people deserve better than that, Paolo. They deserve some kindness. For as long as we can offer it anyway,’ he said with resignation. ‘God knows what’ll happen to them when they’re discovered. In all conscience I couldn’t bring myself to report them, I honestly couldn’t.’ Once again there was a plea in his voice. ‘You will help me, won’t you? Please promise you will.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll help you,’ Paul agreed with reluctance. ‘We’ll probably end up in bloody jail, but I’ll help you, I promise.’

  ‘And you’ll keep the secret?

  ‘Yeah, I’ll do that too. But I’ll make my own judgement about these people, Lou. They might not be the innocents you reckon they are. I have a right to my own opinion, you know.’

  ‘Of course you do, Paolo, of course you do.’

  ‘We can’t deprive you of chess for months on end, man. What on earth will you do with yourself?’

  ‘I’ll watch TV.’

  Paul heard the discussion about the chess set, but he didn’t really take it in – his mind was too preoccupied, and when it came to the reference to him he made no reaction at all.

  ‘… the champ in the family, even as a lad … got his own chess set now … doesn’t need this old thing.’

  The words barely reached him. He’d set out to study these people, to make his own judgement, as he’d told Lou he would. But he could make no judgement about them: there was none to be made. Lou was quite right. The very pleasure they were currently displaying was revelatory in itself. These were damaged people. People unaccustomed to kindness. He’d seen in their eyes, too, the tragedy Lou had mentioned. That first meeting on the jetty. Beneath the wariness, he’d seen glimpses of fear, vulnerability, pain. Even the doctor, stylish, confident man that he was, the leader of the group, even the doctor’s eyes had held something indiscernible. Sorrow? Regret? Impossible to tell.

  But it was the girl who intrigued Paul the most, the girl they called Jalila. Her beauty was mesmeric, certainly – he’d been struck by her appearance the moment he’d first seen her, what man wouldn’t be? But Jalila’s eyes differed from the eyes of the others in more than their beauty. Jalila’s eyes held nothing. He could see no fear there, no vulnerability, no sorrow, no pain: Jalila’s eyes were dead. Which perhaps made her the most tragic figure of all.

  He’d studied her particularly closely when Lou had produced the gift she’d requested for the boy.

  ‘I didn’t know what sort of ball you wanted, Jalila, so I brought both. A game of “catch” you said, but every boy wants to kick a footie around, doesn’t he?’

  Little Hamid’s reaction had been ecstatic upon the appearance of the tennis and soccer balls.

  ‘That’s what you asked for, Jalila!’ he’d squealed excitedly at the top of his voice. ‘That’s what you asked for!’

  ‘Yes,’ she’d replied calmly, ‘that is your handkerchief.’

  Paul hadn’t understood the exchange between the two, but the boy’s delight in the present she’d asked for on his behalf was so obvious that he’d expected some pleasure in Jalila’s reaction. There had appeared to be none, at least none that he could see, which he’d found most odd. And he’d realised in that moment how much he’d longed to see her smile.

  Now, as the unveiling of the supplies and the presents came to a close, he continued to study the girl, and the group in general, pondering the various relationships.

  The doctor embarked upon a speech of thanks, particularly to Lou, but as Paul found himself also included, he politely paid attention, even as his eyes flickered about the hut.

  ‘On behalf of us all, I cannot express deeply enough our gratitude to you, Lou,’ Rassen said. ‘And to you also, Paul …’

  The others listened in rapt attention. Even though the majority of them did not understand the actual words, they knew what was being said.

  Hamid, seated on the floor, wriggled about impatiently. He was itching to be outside playing catch, but he knew better than to leave while the doctor was speaking. That would be rude and he’d get into trouble.

  They’re all couples, Paul was thinking. The doctor and his very English-looking wife; Karim and his wife and child, who are staying in my hut; and the Egyptian husband and wife, who are Coptic Christians. So what about Jalila and the young man called Massoud? Are Jalila and Massoud a couple? They don’t seem to be – there’s no body language between them. Could they be brother and sister? But there’s no evidence of that either. And Lou would’ve mentioned it if they were, he gave me a bit of background on everyone. There seems no connection at all. And no interest in forming one, what’s more.

  That was the part Paul found most odd.

  The brief speech at an end, Rassen started a round of applause and everyone joined in, all eyes on Lou and Paul, who acknowledged the thanks with a wave of their hands.

  Then the women got to work sorting out the foodstuffs, packing things in the shed that had been converted to a pantry, shooing the men away; the blue hut was their domain.

  Karim and Hany were more than happy to go outside. They were both eyeing off the soccer ball, which Hamid was happy to relinquish. For the moment anyway. Right now the tennis ball was more his style.

  He looked an enquiry to Jalila. Was it all ri
ght for him to play now and would she come with him, his eyes asked. Jalila returned a nod and the two slipped outside.

  ‘Right, we’ll be off then,’ Lou said.

  ‘No, no,’ Hala insisted, thinking how rude they must have appeared. ‘I insist you stay for tea and biscuits. Or coffee,’ she added with a smile to her husband. ‘I know Rassen is aching for a cup.’

  ‘And perhaps you’ll join me in a game?’ Rassen suggested hopefully, picking up the chess set. A cup of coffee and a game of chess in the quiet of the yellow hut; he could think of nothing better.

  ‘Thank you, Hala, but no, Paolo and I will be on our way – perhaps next time. And as for chess, Rassen,’ Lou gave a woeful shake of his head, ‘you wouldn’t want me as an opponent, I can assure you. Why don’t you ask Massoud to join you instead?’

  Massoud agreed eagerly. ‘More than happy to oblige,’ he said.

  The men shook hands all round and Lou and Paul made their departure, with the promise they would return again in five days.

  ‘We’ll bring more fresh fish and produce and run a check on any other supplies you might need,’ Lou said.

  They stepped out into the late morning sun and walked down towards the jetty, but when they were halfway there Paul paused to look back at the scene behind them.

  Up near the benches, Karim and Hany were kicking the soccer ball around, while on the footpath in front of the huts Jalila and Hamid played catch. Then, as Paul watched, Rassen and Massoud appeared from the blue hut, the chess set tucked firmly under Rassen’s arm.

  On their way to the yellow hut, the two walked right by the young woman and the child, even detouring a step or so, yet Massoud, chatting away to Rassen, did not once look at Jalila. Not even a glance, as if he failed to notice her altogether.

  Massoud has no interest in her at all, Paul thought. How could a young bloke his age fail to notice a woman like that?

  PART TWO

  THE TOWN

  CHAPTER NINE

  The small town and fishing port of Shoalhaven on the mid-west coast of Western Australia boasted a population of approximately three hundred, although the head count of residents was rarely consistent as numbers fluctuated according to the lobster fishing season. Since the introduction of a quota system, there was no specific ‘season’ as such, but little fishing took place between late August and early February and some fishers, particularly those who leased their pots, chose to seek employment on off-shore vessels working the oil and gas fields to the north of the state. Those who owned their pots more often than not remained in town, repairing their boats and gear in preparation for the following year when some would return to their huts on Gevaar Island while others concentrated upon coastal fishing.

  But despite the occasional variance in numbers, Shoalhaven was a tightly knit community, more a village than a township, where everyone knew everyone and everyone had their place.

  The main street was called Main Street, and the coastal beachfront road that ran parallel to it was called Marine Parade. The town evolved around these two hubs of activity, the several smaller connecting and intersecting streets being lined with the houses of residents, some modest cottages and some a little more grand. The grander ones were situated in the vicinity of North Terrace to the town’s north and those a little more modest in the vicinity of South Terrace to the town’s south. Outsiders might therefore have presumed that the town’s simple grid system reflected its hierarchy and that those from the north might look down on those from the south, but this was not at all so. Shoalhaven was a tidy town, a practical town, where everyone’s position within its small society was recognised and respected.

  Main Street housed the town’s centre. A wide road, lined on either side by a colourful variety of conjoined single-storey shops and businesses, all companionably linked by a common corrugated iron roof stretching over the footpath, there was no denying Main Street had a distinctly ‘outback’ look. Many of the shops and businesses were multi-purposed: the post office served also as the general store and newsagency; the clothing store (men’s and women’s) served also as a drapery, haberdashery and bed linen outlet; the bakery (selling excellent home-made pies, pasties and sausage rolls) doubled as a milk bar and café; and Henry Wong’s Chinese Restaurant, being particularly versatile, offered steak, eggs and chips alongside chow mein, dim sims and fried rice while also doubling as a takeaway hamburger bar. Next door, and linked to Wong’s Chinese Restaurant, was a laundry run by Henry’s wife, Florence, who also worked in her husband’s kitchen; the Wongs were an enterprising couple.

  Some shops and businesses were simply what they were. Hutchings and Son was the butcher’s shop, with a residence out the back; the pharmacy was the pharmacy, run by the chemist Alfred Tran and his wife, although the premises did house to one side their daughter Vanessa’s small hairdressing salon (male and female clients); and the hardware store was the hardware store, possibly the most successful business in town, catering not only for the needs of fishers, but also those farmers whose nearby properties produced wheat that was shipped all over from Geraldton, one hundred kilometres to the south.

  Marine Parade, while picturesque, looking out as it did over a sweep of pristine white beach and aquamarine ocean, did not live up to the grandiosity of its title. Marine Parade wasn’t a parade at all really; in fact, as roads go it was quite ordinary, without the impressive width of Main Street. But then North and South Terraces weren’t terrace-like either: they were all just country-town roads, nothing more. Marine Parade was, however, the true face of Shoalhaven, reflecting the town’s very purpose. For this was a fishers’ town.

  The north end of the parade looked out over the marina, alongside which sat the small fishing co-operative that served as a sales outlet for the locals. The majority of a fisher’s catch was shipped to Geraldton for export.

  The marina was not a large marina by normal fishing port standards, but eminently suitable for Shoalhaven’s needs. A man-made rocky mole stretched out into the sea, serving as an effective breakwater; there was one sizable jetty with boat pens either side and a smaller jetty and bowser for fuelling; there was a mechanics’ shop, permanently staffed, and a repair yard with two slipways; there were several boat launching ramps also, and a large car park able to accommodate the trailers of smaller recreational vessels. All this together with a toilet block – what more could be needed? There’d been talk at one time in the Shoalhaven Residents’ Group of possibly building a clubhouse and restaurant, but nothing had eventuated. It had been decided, a little reluctantly by several of the town’s merchants it was true, but amicably enough, that the Shoalhaven marina wasn’t intended as a social centre, but rather was the domain of fishers. For socialising you went to the pub.

  The pub was to the south end of town, a rambling wooden structure on the corner of Marine Parade and South Terrace. One of the few two-storey buildings in the whole of the township, its wide verandahs and broad upstairs balcony looked out over the beauty of the Indian Ocean.

  The pub, or rather ‘Shoalhaven Hotel’, offered accommodation to the occasional tourist or visitor who happened along, but principally it catered to the locals and was highly popular, serving not only as a drinking hole, but provider of the best pub tucker at the best pub prices. From fish and chips to rissoles and gravy, from bangers and mash to things more fancy like spaghetti bolognaise, there was even, for those prepared to pay a lot more, local lobster and salad.

  Salted amongst the residences fronting onto the ocean between the marina and the pub were several small businesses.

  There was Kellys’ Garage, with two petrol bowsers and an adjacent yard where the owner and his wife, both skilled mechanics, repaired every form of engine from road vehicles to tractors and other farm machinery. The Kellys did not, however, undertake the repair of marine engines, which was a different matter altogether requiring a highly specialised skill. Marine engine repair was the realm of Archie Lang, who worked at the marina. Needless to say, Archie was one of t
he town’s most valued citizens.

  A little further up from the garage was Mac’s, a shop that catered for recreational needs: fishing rods, handlines, bait, masks, snorkels, flippers. Nothing that competed with the professional equipment on offer at the hardware store, though – in Shoalhaven one did not trespass on another’s territory.

  In the very middle of Marine Parade was Ian Tuckey’s tuckshop. The Tuckshop, or ‘Tuckey’s’, as it was more commonly known, sold soft drinks, ice-cream, lollies, potato crisps and simple takeaway fare like sandwiches and meat pies. Tuckey’s did surprisingly well, particularly on weekends and during the school holidays, or perhaps unsurprisingly, for it sat right opposite the jetty.

  The public jetty, sturdy, reliable, stretching proudly from the sweep of white beach into the vibrant blue of the bay, was iconic to the citizens of Shoalhaven. Broadly T-shaped at the end with pylons at each corner, well maintained at all times, the public jetty, like the town’s shops, served a multitude of purposes. The occasional fishing boat might call in briefly, but the jetty’s boating use was mainly for recreational vessels, the picking up and dropping off of passengers. Then of course there was the fishing. The fishing was good from the end of the jetty and families would arrive with rods and handlines and even picnic hampers to make a day of it. But above all there was the swimming: kids climbing the jetty’s pylons and, knees tucked to chests, chucking ‘bombies’, vying for who could make the biggest splash. Every Shoalhaven kid for generations had thrown themselves off the end of the jetty in one way or another only to haul themselves up the old barnacle-encrusted ladder, getting a little bloodied on the way, but raring to go again, the boldest climbing the pylons to perform dives or even somersaults in order to come out on top.

  A tacit agreement existed between those who fished and swam from the T-shaped end of the jetty. Those fishing had claim to the right-hand side and those swimming had claim to the left. For as long as the oldest residents could remember, it had always been so. Things never changed in Shoalhaven.