Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  The one diminutive that appeared acceptable to David Miller was ‘Lou’, because it was less foreign-sounding than Luigi and therefore less likely to draw attention. Luigi Panuzza claimed sweet victory on that score.

  His daughter, too, claimed a victory of sorts. Maria always called her father Papa, knowing how much it pleased him, despite her husband’s protestations.

  ‘But it sounds so foreign, darling,’ David had said.

  ‘Yes,’ she’d replied demurely, but mischievously, ‘it’s meant to.’

  Over the years, the antipathy Lou had initially felt toward his son-in-law had waned, for one reason and one reason only: he had come to recognise the true and enduring love the man had for his daughter. Maria had found a loyal husband who would never look at another woman, one who would stand by her to the bitter end, and for this Lou was grateful. These days he didn’t even find David all that irritating – in fact, there were times when he actually felt sorry for him. The poor bloke can’t help being stitched up, he thought.

  Now, with talk of the writers’ festival successfully out of the way, Lou broached another subject, diving in quickly before the beers were finished when they would adjourn to the kitchen and dining room to get on with the setting of the table, the opening of the wine and the dishing-up of the veggies and gravy. The final preparation for the Sunday dinner was a family affair where everyone mucked in, although once they were gathered around the table it was of course always David, standing at the head, who carved the lamb. Which was just as it should be.

  ‘Did you find time to chuck any stuff together for Thelma to send to St Vinnies, Maria?’ Lou asked casually, drawing querying looks from both David and Paul. ‘I called your mother the other day, Paolo,’ he explained to his grandson. ‘I told her about the big clean-out of old clothes we had and said Thelma could do with some women’s stuff too if she felt like having a clean-out herself. Said I’d take them around to the church for her, good idea, don’t you reckon?’

  Paul’s look was one of alarm. Certainly getting some clothes, apart from men’s tracksuit pants and shirts for the women on the island was a good idea, but what about the risk? The subject was bound to come up in passing with Thelma, the pastor’s wife, who ran the small charity collection centre at the church only several blocks away on the corner of Marine Parade. Thelma was devoted to what she called her ‘good works’. The donated clothes and blankets she sent to St Vincent de Paul’s in Geraldton, and the books she put on display in the shelves of the church vestibule, the money raised from their sale going directly into the church funds. But even more than her ‘good works’, Thelma was devoted to gossip. She loved nothing more than a good old ‘chinwag’, as she called it. In fact it was often difficult to get away from Thelma.

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, ‘why not? If Mum’s got some old gear I’m sure Thelma’d be grateful.’ But his eyes signalled a warning. He could just hear Thelma’s parrot-like voice echoing what had been said to her, and echoing even her own reply. Clothes from your father, you say, clothes from your father? No, no, I didn’t receive any … didn’t receive any clothes from your father.

  Lou was quick to put his grandson’s fears to rest. ‘Yes, I know she would,’ he replied coolly. ‘She was most grateful when I dropped our supplies in. And when I asked her, she said she’d welcome some women’s gear.’

  You canny old bastard, Paul thought admiringly, you set this up right from the start. You gave Thelma some of our stuff last week and promised her some women’s stuff this week; half for the refugees and half for Thelma. You canny, canny old bastard.

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ Maria said, blissfully unaware of the collusion between her father and son, ‘I’ve looked out two large plastic bags’ worth; a clothes clean-out was way overdue. There’s some of Bev’s old stuff there too. I phoned her to check, but she told me to chuck the whole lot out. Don’t bother taking them around to the church, though, I’ll drop them in myself – it’s only down the street.’

  ‘Rubbish, you’re far too busy.’ It was true, Maria was certainly a busy woman. On weekdays she taught at the small junior school (which also housed the kindergarten) and during the weekends she helped her husband and his young assistant in the general store. ‘I have all the time in the world,’ Lou insisted. ‘I’ll take the bags with me tonight and drop them off tomorrow arvo when I get back from fishing. Besides,’ he added, ‘you don’t want to get stuck with Thelma.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maria added in hearty agreement, ‘there is always that. Thanks, Papa, I’ll take you up on the offer.’ She drained her wine glass and stood. ‘Now let’s eat.’

  Later that night back at Paul’s cottage they sifted through the bags of dresses and skirts and blouses and slacks, leaving aside the shorts and the tops with shoestring straps and other revealing items that obviously would not suit the modesty of dress required. They were selective in their choices, practicality being their principal objective, but there were a number of items they felt might bring some pleasure to the women on the island. There was even a mustardy, golden-hued shawl, lightweight, with brown thread running through it and fringes at each end, a little faded and worn, but still attractive. Paul remembered his mother wearing it on her evenings out many years back. Jalila, he thought as he folded it and put it to one side. Jalila would like that.

  The following morning at the break of dawn, Lou picked Paul up in the old Holden ute he’d been driving since the eighties. ‘Never given me a day’s trouble,’ was his proud boast. ‘Why should I swap the old girl when she’s been so loyal to me?’ The back of the vehicle was packed with all the supplies they’d gathered over the past days, some bought locally and some purchased from a quick trip Lou had made to Geraldton.

  They drove to the marina, where they loaded Principessa. The few other people around who were embarking upon a dawn fish themselves took no notice apart from an acknowledging wave; they were too busy preparing their own vessels. Even the large hessian sack packed with four fresh bags of crushed ice was no cause for comment – it could have contained gear for the boat, anything. Who cared? Other fishers certainly didn’t. The smuggling of goods to Gevaar Island was no problem at all.

  They chugged their way over at a pleasant twelve knots upon the calmest of seas, and arrived two hours later when the sun was high.

  As before, the group, having safely established the approaching vessel was the old Princess, had come out of hiding and was gathered on the jetty waving a welcome. But as Lou and Paul stepped from the boat they were met with a further welcome, one that took them by surprise.

  ‘Hello, Lou!’

  ‘Hello, Paul!’

  ‘Good morning, Lou.’

  ‘Good morning, Paul.’

  A chorus of voices greeted them as hands were shaken all round, a chorus of voices all speaking in English.

  ‘Well what do you know,’ Lou said with an approving nod, ‘that’s pretty impressive, that is.’

  But Hamid, having patiently waited for the fuss to die down, had an even more impressive greeting. He offered his hand up to Paul.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ he said as loudly and clearly as he could, and with a distinctly Australian accent.

  Paul didn’t laugh, although he was tempted to do so, as was Lou, who also kept a straight face. Instead he accepted the greeting in all seriousness. ‘G’day, mate,’ he said as they shook. ‘Good on you, Hamid, well done.’

  Hamid beamed triumphantly about at the others, particularly Rassen. He’d been practising for days and he knew he’d got it right.

  ‘We haven’t been able to translate the “gudeye” part,’ Rassen explained in his polished rounded vowels. A glance at Hala and Massoud revealed them to be equally mystified. ‘We know “mate” means “friend”, but “gudeye” has us somewhat stumped. Obviously it’s some form of “hello”, but literally …?’

  ‘Literally it’s “good day”,’ Paul replied.

  ‘Ah. Yes. Of course. How silly of me.’

  It had been little H
amid’s determination to learn English that had inspired Rassen to conduct classes with the group in general. Upon discovering the boy had learnt several words from Jalila (who had been unable to translate ‘g’day’, hence the query being directed to him), Rassen had realised this was why Hamid hovered about eavesdropping whenever he and Hala and Massoud were conversing. He’d then decided what an excellent idea it would be if everyone were taught a little English, just a word or two, a phrase here and there. It could only stand them in good stead when they were discovered. He didn’t know why the idea hadn’t occurred before. Perhaps he hadn’t wished to appear too dictatorial.

  Together, they unloaded the gear from the boat, Karim this time insistent upon carrying the heavy hessian sack of ice to the green hut, Paul accompanying him with the polystyrene container of seafood. After replacing the bags of ice and packing the fish, all neatly parcelled, into the old icebox, the two men rejoined the others, who had carted the rest of the supplies to the blue hut.

  It was only then, when they were all together, that the unpacking commenced, accompanied once again by ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of delight. This time, along with the fresh fruit and vegetables, the milk and the eggs, there was meat, in the form of lamb and chicken.

  Paul addressed Rassen for the translation to be made, but his words were directed in principal to Karim and Azra, whom he knew to be orthodox Muslims.

  ‘I’m afraid the meat may not be permissible for some,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t been certified as halal.’

  Rassen quickly made the translation, Karim and Azra nodding their thanks to Paul for his concern.

  But Paul had more to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on, ‘but we don’t have a Muslim butcher in Shoalhaven. I realise that for the correct form of slaughter it’s necessary –’

  ‘Enough, my friend,’ Rassen interrupted with the broadest of smiles, ‘there is no need for apology. The supply of foods you have brought us,’ he said, gesturing at the bounty before them, ‘is more than ample for the needs of all, I assure you.’

  Karim and Azra, understanding the gist of the exchange, were once again vigorously nodding their gratitude.

  ‘Oh. Right then,’ Paul said, ‘that’s good, I’m glad.’ He was just a little disappointed – he’d wanted to impress them with his knowledge of zabihah – but it now appeared his research had been for nought.

  Realising the Australian had gone to some pains to discover the traditional treatment of halal meat, Rassen pointed the fact out to the young Shia couple before turning back to Paul. ‘We are very touched you should go to such trouble on our behalf,’ he said formally, ‘and we thank you, Paul.’

  The young couple echoed his words. ‘Thank you, Paul,’ Karim said in English, Azra quickly following suit and patting her heart in a gesture that said far more than words.

  Their appreciation was so evident that Paul was relieved his research had not been for nought. He flashed a triumphant smile at Lou and refused to be disheartened by the look he received in return that simply said ‘show-off’.

  The unpacking continued: nuts, cheeses and biscuits, a large bag of mixed sweets, much to Hamid’s delight, and a brand-new pack of playing cards. ‘I may not be a worthy chess opponent,’ Lou commented to Rassen, ‘but I play a damn good hand of poker, I can promise you that. Oh, and Paul had an old mobile we were going to offer you, but reception on the island’s lousy,’ Lou said, ‘at times non-existent, so …’

  ‘Mobile?’ Rassen was thoroughly confused. ‘Mobile what?’

  ‘Phone.’

  ‘Ah. A cell phone, yes of course.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Paul chimed in, ‘but even if you’d managed to get some form of reception, you’d have needed a charger, so no point really.’

  Finally it was time to dole out the women’s clothing.

  ‘Some gifts for the ladies,’ Lou said rather grandly, upending the plastic bag and spilling the dozen or so items out onto the table, to the pleasant surprise of the women.

  He stood back allowing them to make their own choices, but it was his grandson who unexpectedly got in first.

  Paul picked up the light, golden-hued shawl. ‘I thought you might like this, Jalila,’ he said, holding it out to the girl. He sensed Lou’s gaze fixed firmly, and no doubt critically, upon him, but he refused to look at the old man. This was his gift to Jalila, something that he desperately hoped might arouse a smile, or at least some infinitesimal sign of pleasure.

  She took the shawl from him, stroking the fabric with her fingers. ‘Pretty.’

  She made the remark in English, which Paul found most promising. Smile, his mind begged. Please smile, Jalila, please! But there was not a vestige of personal interest; the remark had been only a remark, nothing more. Then he watched as she offered the shawl to Azra.

  ‘This will make an excellent hijab for you, Azra,’ Jalila said in Arabic.

  ‘No, no,’ Azra demurred, ‘I am quite happy with the one I have.’ She had made herself a new hijab a good week or so earlier from an attractive green cotton tablecloth they had discovered. ‘You must keep it for yourself, Jalila, it will suit you well.’

  But Jalila simply placed the shawl back on the table to be selected by any who might wish to take it. No one did. Aware that the young Australian had presented it to Jalila as a personal gift, they were a little embarrassed.

  ‘Well, well, it’s been a long time since I’ve worn something as smart as this,’ Hala said, donning a pinstripe jacket and twirling about to relieve the slight awkwardness that followed.

  ‘There’s a skirt that goes with it,’ Paul said, equally eager to move on, feeling self-conscious. ‘It’s a suit that belonged to my mother.’ He ferreted about and produced the slim-line, knee-length skirt.

  ‘How wonderful,’ Hala said, holding the skirt up against herself. ‘I do believe your mother and I are around the same size. I claim these as mine,’ she announced to the other women, knowing full well none of them would be interested in the items. ‘Do thank your mother for me, Paul; I feel very modern and at home in a pinstripe I must say.’ She didn’t feel particularly modern, rather more retrospective than anything, remembering the pinstripe business suit she’d acquired in London thirty years earlier when, after marrying Rassen, she’d been required to attend official functions. She found both the memory and the suit most comforting.

  ‘Mum’s not altogether in the know,’ Paul admitted sheepishly. ‘Lou and I are keeping you lot a secret, strictly between ourselves. She thinks her old clothes are going to charity.’

  ‘Which of course they are,’ Hala said with her bold, infectious laugh. ‘One day, perhaps though, we may be able to thank her in person.’

  The sorting out of the clothes continued, everyone finding an item or two of personal interest – a blouse here, a pair of slacks or a dress there – but the shawl sat conspicuously unclaimed.

  Hala felt sorry for Paul, recognising his disappointment at the rejection of his gift. She did not find anything suspect about his interest in Jalila. Naturally, as a young man, he would be attracted by the girl’s beauty, but there was nothing to fear from the Australian, she thought – he had no ulterior motive. Hala sensed that, like all of them, Paul wished simply to kindle some spark of life in Jalila.

  While the supplies were being packed away, Sanaa brewed a pot of tea, made coffee for those who preferred it and set out plates of biscuits. Everyone was insistent Lou and Paul stay for morning tea, and as they all settled themselves, Hala deliberately placed herself beside the young Australian, engaging him in conversation. She had a certain tack she intended to take, but started out on safely conventional and deeply sincere ground.

  ‘You could have no idea I’m sure, Paul,’ she said, ‘how immensely grateful we are for all you and your grandfather are doing for us. We realise that if you were to be discovered aiding illegal immigrants you would be in trouble with the law.’ It was a subject she and Rassen, and Massoud also, had discussed at some length.

  ‘No worries,�
�� Paul replied casually, ‘it’s a risk we’re willing to take. Rassen told Lou you need to buy time while you build your strength, and the huts are here so …’ he gave a nonchalant shrug ‘… no skin off our noses. Why not give you a hand?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Hala said, ‘but many would not see it that way. You are very generous, both of you. And not just in the material sense,’ she added. ‘You’re very generous in spirit, you and Lou.’

  She gazed about at the group. ‘We are building our strength, you know. This time on the island is doing us all a great deal of good.’ Her eyes came to rest upon her husband, who was chatting with Lou. The pack of cards in his hand and Lou nodding eager affirmation, the two were obviously keen to embark upon a poker game. ‘Being here is strengthening every single one of us,’ she said with a quiet gratitude this young man would never understand and which she had no intention of explaining; Rassen’s nightmares were far fewer these days. Then she took a slight conversational detour, moving on to the tack she’d intended. ‘In fact, even those of us who appear broken beyond mending are beginning to make some progress. Jalila, for instance …’

  Paul was immediately on guard. Lou’s warning, which he’d taken as the grossest of insults … His gift of the shawl to Jalila, the shawl she’d declined … Did Hala also think he was on the make? The mere thought appalled him. But Hala calmly continued.

  ‘Jalila has been using the binoculars you brought us,’ she said, a remark he found rather incongruous. Then, in response to his obvious bewilderment, she asked, only furthering the incongruity of the conversation, ‘Do you know much about the birdlife on this island?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, trying to mask his confusion, ‘I know a great deal.’

  ‘Excellent, I had presumed you might.’ She smiled her lovely, motherly smile. ‘I think you should go for a walk with Jalila. Take the binoculars and teach her something about the birds she has been so admiring.’ Hala’s smile faded; she was very much in earnest. ‘Apart from little Hamid, the birds are the only thing to have aroused in Jalila the slightest flicker of interest.’