by Judy Nunn
‘Thanks, Arch, I’ll leave you to it.’
As Paul climbed from the bow of Palermo Miss onto the jetty, he received no reply from Archie, whose thatch of red hair was barely visible and whose beefy shoulders remained hunched over one of the vessel’s diesel motors. But Paul had expected no reply other than the customary salute of acknowledgement, and he would possibly have had cause to worry had he received one. When Archie Lang was servicing a boat’s engines the only time he made a comment was if something was wrong. It was a different matter altogether if he was at the pub – Arch just loved a chat over a beer.
It was late afternoon on a day unseasonably warm for mid-September and, walking along the beachfront of Marine Parade, Paul was tempted to have a dip in order to cool off. His lightweight cotton shorts served equally well as bathers and he had no need of a towel; it was a regular habit of his in the height of summer to shed his shirt and wade in, or else throw himself off the end of the jetty along with the kids who were invariably there. Not today though, he decided. He’d head home instead and do the bit of research he’d planned. He and Lou were taking off for the island in the morning with the fresh supplies they’d purchased the preceding day, and before they did, there were a few things he wanted to check out on his computer. He wouldn’t leave it until tonight. Being Sunday he was on a promise for the customary roast dinner at his mother’s house. As was Lou. During the off-season, Sunday dinners were a regular family custom, a gathering of three generations, more often than not including Paul’s older sister, who would drive up from Geraldton. Twenty-four-year-old Beverly had relocated south just two years earlier, having accepted a position at Geraldton Library. A qualified librarian and a feisty young woman, she preferred the faster pace of Gero to the sleepy hollow of Shoalhaven, particularly as there was no library nor even a bookshop in the village, apart from the several shelves of second-hand offerings available for sale at the small charity collection centre run by the pastor’s wife. Beverly was always scathingly outspoken about the dearth of literature available in Shoalhaven.
‘Doesn’t anyone in this town read books?’ she’d rant, which would only serve to egg her brother on.
‘Sure they read books,’ he’d reply with a laconic superiority intended to madden, ‘but they download them. This is the twenty-first century, Bev – you’ve got to move with the times.’
Which would of course only set his sister off on a further rant. But despite their differences – Bev openly rebellious always prepared to take a stance, Paul for the most part reluctant to reveal his inner feelings – the siblings were close. And perhaps because of their differences they greatly respected each other.
Paul turned off Marine Parade into Cooper Street, a block up from the pub, where he had one of the old fishers’ cottages at the south end of town. He’d moved into the place on a share-rental basis with two other deckhands a good five years previously when he was seventeen and had left school to work full-time on his grandfather’s fishing boat. He could have shifted in with Lou, who had certainly wanted him to once they were a permanent team, but close though he was with his grandfather, indeed more a son than a grandson, Paul had craved independence. Besides, he and Lou were in each other’s pockets enough as it was during the fishing season, stranded out there in that hut on the island.
Now a successful fisher and businessman in his own right, and his old share-rental mates having moved on, Paul had recently taken out a bank loan and purchased the cottage, an achievement of which he was inordinately proud having only just turned twenty-two. More than ever these days he relished his independence. The little old cottage was his and his alone and he loved the solitude it afforded him.
During his walk home from the marina, Paul’s mind would normally have been on Palermo Miss – on the servicing of her engines and the fact that she was due up on the slip for anti-fouling the following week, and a great many other issues worthy of attention at this time of the year. There was much to be done in preparation for the marine engineer’s annual survey, which would guarantee the vessel’s certification of seaworthiness.
But Paul’s mind was not on Palermo Miss. He was thinking of the refugees, and most particularly of the girl, aware that he would be seeing her the following morning. It had been five days since his visit to the island, during which time he’d given her little thought, but now the image of her, the mystery of her, played on his mind. He remembered the brief exchange he’d had with Lou aboard the old Princess as they’d chugged their way back to Shoalhaven that day.
‘Hey Lou,’ he’d said thoughtfully not long after they’d left, ‘what do you know about Jalila and Massoud?’
Lou had simply given a shrug. ‘Massoud’s from Iran, well educated, I told you that. And Jalila,’ another shrug, ‘no one knows who she is or where she’s from, I told you that too. They didn’t even know she spoke English until I prompted her into it,’ he added with some considerable pride.
‘Yeah, yeah. But what about their relationship?’
‘What do you mean?’ The question obviously mystified Lou. ‘Their relationship to what?’
‘To each other. I mean they’re not brother and sister, are they?’
‘Course they’re not. Rassen would have told me if they were. Why do you ask?’
‘Because there’s no …’ Paul fumbled for the right word ‘… no particular contact between them, you know what I mean?’
‘Nup. No idea what you’re on about. What sort of contact?’
‘Oh come on, mate,’ Paul replied half-jokingly in an attempt to bluff, hiding his frustration at Lou’s obtuseness, but reminding himself that his grandfather was over seventy after all. ‘Massoud’s a young bloke, and a girl like Jalila …’ A shake of the head spoke multitudes. ‘Well you’d think he’d bloody well notice her, wouldn’t you?’
A dawning light appeared in Lou’s eyes. Of course, he thought. How stupid of me. Have I really become that old?
He looked back towards the island, now quite distant, but Jalila still visible, staring up at some birds wheeling in the sky.
Lou’s expression was grave as he turned to his grandson. ‘I’d be careful if I were you, Paolo,’ he warned. ‘You mustn’t be attracted to that girl. You can’t make advances. You’d frighten her.’
For a moment Paul was struck speechless, his grandfather’s words, simple as they were, sending a host of jagged thoughts streaking lightning-like through his mind. Of course I’m attracted to her, what bloke wouldn’t be? Of course I don’t intend to ‘make advances’ as you bloody well call it – why the hell would I? Of course she’d be frightened, she’d be bloody terrified. How could you think I’d come on to her, how could you even suggest …? Paul was angry, very angry, but he did his best to hide it.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid, Lou,’ he said with what he hoped sounded like mere irritation. ‘The situation interests me, that’s all. Everyone out there on that island is a couple, everyone except Jalila and Massoud. They’re all in pairs, haven’t you noticed? I’m just wondering where those two stand with each other, that’s all.’
‘Of course you are,’ Lou replied. ‘I didn’t mean to insult you, Paolo, I only wanted to warn you. For your own sake, as well as hers.’
Lou applied his attention to the wheel and the sea ahead, as if he was on lookout, as if he didn’t know every inch of this crossing and couldn’t accomplish it blindfolded. I’m not as old as all that, my boy, he thought, not so old that I don’t remember what it’s like to be obsessed by a beautiful woman.
Paul made no reply. He felt more than insulted – he felt invaded, as if some private part of him, a part of which he hadn’t even been aware himself, had been given voice. And it was ugly. Ugly and wrong. He knew he was overreacting, that his grandfather had meant no harm, but he couldn’t help himself. Fuck you, Lou, he thought, fuck you!
The remainder of the crossing had been made in a silence that, rather than its customary companionship, was just a touch uncomfortable.
&nb
sp; After finishing his intended research on the computer, Paul showered and scrubbed himself up with a little more care than he usually did for the Sunday family roast dinners. He’d had his hair cut the previous morning at Vanessa’s, the tiny salon in the pharmacy run by Alfred and Linda Tran. He’d been long overdue for a haircut and young Nessa Tran had done a good job – now it seemed only right he should shave to complete the image.
‘My, my, how spruce,’ David Miller said as he opened the door to his son. He was quickly joined by his wife, who hugged her son warmly.
‘Absolutely,’ Maria agreed, standing back to survey him. ‘Very, very spruce, my darling – to what do we owe the honour?’
Paul stepped over the threshold and into the lounge room of his family’s comfortable single-storey bungalow in North Terrace to be met by a quirky reaction from his grandfather, already seated on the sofa, stubby of beer in hand. It was no more than a mild moue that said, Well, look at you, but Paul felt another irrational flash of anger. You think I’ve scrubbed myself up for Jalila, don’t you? he thought. Well you can get fucked, Lou, you can bloody well go and get fucked!
‘I’ve been known to have a shave and a haircut before,’ he said caustically.
‘Of course you have, darling.’ Maria wondered why her son was in such a prickly mood.
‘Get you a beer, son?’ David asked, wondering exactly the same thing.
‘Thanks, Dad.’
Catching a confused and querying look from his grandfather, Paul felt caught out. Oh shit, he thought, I’ve overreacted again.
‘Bev not here yet?’ he asked, seating himself beside Lou on the sofa, keen to make amends for his tetchiness.
‘Not coming, apparently,’ Lou replied.
‘Of course she’s not,’ Maria said, placing the tray of pickings on the coffee table before them. She was a fleshy woman in her late forties, but comfortable with her body, still sexy, still attractive to men, yet seemingly unaware of the fact, which only made her all the more sexy. She seated herself opposite her father and son; the family always sat and chatted for a while before the serving-up of the ritual roast.
‘Bev’s preparing for the festival – she’s been working day and night,’ Maria went on. ‘She won’t be here next Sunday either of course, the festival will be at its peak over the weekend.’
A blank pause.
‘The Big Sky Writers’ Festival starts in Geraldton next week,’ Maria painstakingly spelled out. ‘Surely you remember. She told you. I heard her.’
Paul and Lou looked dutifully guilty. Bev had told them all about the impending festival just the previous Sunday. They’d forgotten.
Bev had more than told them about it, she’d positively boasted. ‘Some really big-time writers are coming,’ she’d said with pride, ‘and not just up from Perth, but several from Sydney and Melbourne – it’ll be one of the biggest festivals the library’s had.’
‘It’s a very exciting time for her,’ Maria said in mild rebuke. ‘Thank you, dear.’
She accepted the glass of wine her husband offered and David joined the circle around the coffee table, handing a stubby of beer to Paul.
‘Yes, we’re very proud of our Beverly,’ he said.
They toasted each other, and also Bev, the three men drinking in comradely fashion from their bottles, which for David was strictly an acknowledgement of family: he never drank from the bottle in public. His job as the town’s postmaster demanded a certain image, or at least that was the way he saw it. He wasn’t a snob, nor was he pretentious, but rather a man who had always taken his position and the responsibilities that attended it seriously.
When, as a young accountant in a Geraldton bank, David Miller had applied for the position of bank manager at the tiny branch in the tiny town of Shoalhaven to the north (the position vacant due to the death of the previous manager, who had served there for twenty-five years) he’d seen the move as an excellent career opportunity. His application had proved successful mainly because few were interested in a branch housing a staff of only two (including manager), but this fact had not bothered David. He was quite sure the experience and qualification he would gain would eventually lead to a managerial position in a much larger branch of a much larger bank in a much larger town. He may have been right, but one would never know as the bank had closed three years later, along with so many banks in so many small country towns, and he’d never applied for another bank job in another bank in another town. The truth was, David hadn’t anticipated falling in love with the beguilingly attractive daughter of a local Italian fisher, and now twenty-eight years on he was still there.
He’d been not only enterprising, but of great value to the town. When, shortly after the bank’s closure, the elderly and recently widowed owner of the general store had been forced to retire and sell up, David had bought the property. The store having also served as the post office, he’d applied for the licence of postmaster, thereby ensuring Shoalhaven would not lose one of its principal services. From that day on he’d worked hard, as had the postmaster before him, to maintain the quota of mail necessary for the service to keep functioning efficiently and successfully.
The position of postmaster was one of grave responsibility in David’s eyes, and the title, while hardly ranking alongside that of bank manager, remained of great importance to him. He no longer wore a suit and tie to work, admittedly, but he did maintain a degree of smart dress during post-office hours and observed a certain decorum at all other times, which included not drinking from a beer bottle in public. He didn’t realise, perhaps sadly for him, that the people of Shoalhaven wouldn’t have cared in the least if their postmaster had turned up for work in the traditional garb of shorts, T-shirt and sandals, which was only sensible in the height of summer, and had guzzled beer from a stubby along with the rest of them.
David Miller, fifty, tall, and very good-looking, perhaps more so than ever these days, with the greying-haired dignity that befitted his perceived position, was and always had been a highly conservative man.
The chat around the coffee table continued, Maria producing a program of the festival’s events, including biographies of the various authors, poets, artists and illustrators attending.
‘We’re going down next weekend,’ she said with a smile to her husband. ‘Saturday afternoon when we’ve closed the post office, and all day Sunday – I must say I can’t wait.’
David returned her smile fondly. ‘I’m very much looking forward to it, too. Beverly has booked us in to all the events she thinks will be of most interest to us.’
‘You should come along too, Papa,’ Maria urged, ‘and you, too, Paul. We should make it a family affair. Bev would be thrilled.’
Neither Lou nor Paul could think of anything worse, but they both loved Bev, so they made their own form of commitment.
‘Let’s go a bit earlier, you and me,’ Lou suggested, ‘say either Thursday or Friday, what do you reckon?’
‘Yep,’ Paul agreed, ‘good idea – lot of work to do on the boat over the weekend. Sorry, Mum, can’t take too much time off. Why don’t we make it Friday, Lou?’
‘You’re on.’
Well that got them off the hook.
It had taken Lou some time to come to grips with the husband his daughter had chosen. What could Maria, black-haired, vibrant, passionate Maria, who had so much of his Sicilian blood in her veins, possibly see in such a stitched-up man? He presumed David’s looks had something to do with it: the two certainly made a handsome couple. Perhaps they aroused each other to lustful heights, he thought cynically. Perhaps a boring man could be exciting in bed. But lust was not enough upon which to base the lifetime commitment of marriage. At least it wasn’t in Lou’s opinion. Lust doesn’t last, he thought, and lust can be destructive. He should know. A brief lustful dalliance in the early years of his marriage had nearly cost him Barbara. Funny, tough-Aussie, loyal-to-the-end Barb, the love of his life and the best wife a man could ask for. He only hoped there was more to his da
ughter’s marriage than lust.
Lou’s views had been right to a certain extent – lust had been a governing factor, and over time there did appear occasional cracks in the Millers’ marriage, resulting principally from David’s conservatism. Particularly symbolic was the naming of their children, or rather the aftermath. David, besotted with his wife, had agreed that their secondborn be christened Paolo (thus pleasing Lou no end), this being the customary middle name of the males in her father’s family, particularly as Maria had agreed their firstborn be christened Beverly after David’s mother, who was of English descent. All of which had seemed quite fair, an equal balance. But the balance had not been equal at all. Paolo had very soon became Paul, his father introducing the little boy to all and sundry by the Anglicised version of his name, to the point where nobody knew him as anything else. Even his mother, albeit reluctantly, had adopted the name, although to start with she had protested the case.
‘But he’s Australian, darling,’ David had argued in his mild, common-sense way; disagreements never involved a shadow of hostility, David was a firm believer in good old-fashioned logic. ‘And what’s more he’s second generation Australian; he’ll be much more comfortable known as Paul, believe me.’
Maria had to admit that her husband might have a point, but in any event she didn’t wish to confuse the child, so she gave in, bludgeoned by good old-fashioned logic.
Only the boy’s grandfather refused to conform. Paolo remained Paolo to Lou, which produced some tension between him and his son-in-law, although both assiduously avoided a confrontation on the topic.
David had something of a fetish about names in general it seemed. He didn’t like diminutives. Beverly was always Beverly to him, even while to everyone else she was Bev. And if anyone, in a bid to be friendly, inadvertently called him Dave, he or she was quickly corrected. ‘David,’ he would say, very, very politely. ‘I prefer David.’