by Judy Nunn
He heard his own voice. ‘What land do you come from, Jalila?’
And he recalled the exact words of her response. ‘I am Yazidi. I come from a mountain in nowhere land.’
It was the start he needed. He turned on his computer, and the search began.
An hour later, he sat back, convinced he had discovered the answer. If he was right, it explained everything about the mystery that was Jalila.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Paul arrived at the pub Lou was already there, seated and in deep conversation with several of the regulars at a table on the verandah. Or rather, the others were in deep conversation; Lou appeared for the most part to be listening while the three of them rattled on in typical fashion.
Archie Lang, marine mechanic, Ian Tuckey of Tuckey’s Tuckshop, and Hamish McDonald of Mac’s Recreational Fishing Store were always to be found at this same table at this same time every day of the week. There’d often be others with them – townspeople or fishers; how many and who varied – but these three stalwarts were as regular as clockwork.
‘G’day, Paul,’ they chorused.
‘G’day, Arch, Ian, Mac, how’re you going?’
‘Good, good,’ another chorus.
‘Pull up a pew,’ Mac said. He was a squat, burly Glaswegian in his late sixties with a gruffly strong accent despite the fact he’d lived in Australia for well over fifty years, thirty of those in Shoalhaven.
‘Sure. I’ll just a grab a beer. You fellas all right?’ Even if one could see that the men’s glasses were full, as Paul could, and as they were, it was always essential that one make the offer.
‘Yeah, we’re right thanks, mate,’ Ian said. ‘Lou just shouted the first round.’ Ian Tuckey’s voice, perceived by some to be ‘typically Aussie’, was nasal and tinny, a ‘thin’ voice as scrawny as his sixty-year-old Ichabod Crane frame. He and Mac, firm friends that they were, made a very odd couple.
‘Rightio, back in a tick.’
Paul disappeared to the bar. Good on you, Lou, he thought, knowing exactly why his grandfather had insisted upon buying the first round. You could always leave the company with a shout owed, but never with one owing, and given there were now five of them at the table it could be some time before dinner. Paul was grateful. Having skipped lunch he was ravenous.
He returned to discover the men had resumed their intense conversation, which happened to be about the American presidential campaign that was currently headline news worldwide. Could a flash-in-the-pan billionaire reality television star really become president of the United States?
‘Bloody oath he could,’ Arch declared vehemently. ‘The Americans want change. Obama’s a good enough bloke, but they’re sick of the Establishment looking after its own, and they sure as hell don’t want Hillary Clinton.’
‘Yeah,’ Ian Tuckey agreed, his reedy tone cutting through the surrounding chatter at nearby tables as fresh customers gathered, ‘and Trump’s got some damn good ideas what’s more.’
‘Like what?’ Lou asked. In closely following the Middle East crisis, he hadn’t paid much attention to the US campaign, apart from gathering that Donald Trump was considered by most to be a rank outsider and little more than a bad joke. But then it was quite likely Ian and Arch hadn’t been studying the situation in great detail either, he decided, they were probably just mouthing off about what they’d read and seen in the media. Nothing wrong with that, he thought. All the blokes did that, himself included. Everyone loved a good chat at the pub.
Paul sat sipping his beer and listening, realising as the conversation progressed why Lou, normally one to join in, chose on this occasion to keep quiet. He did so himself, for the very same reason.
‘Well for starters, Trump’s spot on when it comes to illegals,’ Ian said with an air of belligerence, as if defying others to disagree; there was nothing Ian Tuckey liked more than a good verbal stoush. ‘Build a wall, keep those Mexicans out, that’s what I’d want if I was a Yank. And then there’s the refugees. You can’t afford to let them in, can you? Look what’s happening in Germany.’ He turned to Mac for confirmation, and Mac gave a benign nod. The Scot was rarely ruffled.
‘True, true,’ he said.
Archie Lang, half the age of the other two men, but equally keen to voice his opinion, re-entered the fray. ‘And then there’s the Muslims,’ he said. ‘Trump wants to get rid of them, doesn’t he? Well good luck to him I say. We could take a leaf out of his book there.’
‘Too right we could,’ Ian replied, altogether fired up now. ‘Donald Trump and Pauline Hanson have both got a point, you know …’ He was going to go on but Archie jumped in.
‘Yeah. Don’t let in any more Muslims and chuck out the ones who are here.’
That hadn’t been exactly what Ian meant and he was about to correct Arch, but Mac surprised them.
‘Well, you can’t really do that, can you?’ he suggested mildly.
A brief hiatus as Arch and Ian both looked at him.
‘I mean a lot of Muslims have been here a long time – they’re legal immigrants. Heck, a whole lot of us are, aren’t we? I’m an immigrant myself.’
‘That’s hardly the same thing.’ Ian’s response was scathing.
‘Aye, it is,’ the Scot replied unperturbed, sounding exactly like his father, who’d died twenty years previously. ‘My parents came to Australia in the late fifties on the Bring out a Briton scheme. That makes me an immigrant. And you could hardly throw me out now, could you?’ he said as if he’d clinched the argument.
‘That’s got bugger all to do with it, Mac,’ Ian exploded, ‘you dunno what the fuck you’re talking about.’
‘I do. Oh yes I do indeed.’ As always, Mac refused to be ruffled by his argumentative friend. ‘I’m talking about immigrants,’ he said. ‘Immigrants who arrive in a country and contribute to that country as my parents did and as I do. I’m talking about multiculturalism.’
‘No, you’re not.’ Ian heaved an immense sigh as if he was Einstein attempting to communicate the theory of relativity to a five-year-old. ‘The Bring out a Briton Campaign was designed to keep Australia British, Mac! Jesus bloody Christ, the whole country was shitting itself about the European migrants who were pouring in. You’d hardly call a scheme like Bring out a bloody Briton multicultural now, would you?’ he said scornfully.
Mac downed the rest of his beer in one go, a dismissive gesture indicating he didn’t wish to discuss the matter further. When Ian went out of his way to make him feel inferior, Mac always closed off, which at no time indicated any form of submission, and most certainly not in this case. Mac was a firm believer in multiculturalism, regardless of whatever his smartarse friend Ian Tuckey might have to say on the matter.
Ian, however, was insistent the last word be his; the argument did not stop here. ‘And now everyone’s scared about the Muslims, aren’t they? The Muslims and the refugees,’ he said. ‘And so they bloody well should be. Trump and Hanson might be a bit extreme, I grant you, but as I was saying, they do have a point.’ He sat back smugly. There, he’d had the last word.
‘Hear, hear,’ Arch echoed.
Lou and Paul followed Mac’s example and hastily gulped down their beers, both keen to get away.
Crikey, Paul was thinking, what the hell are they going to do when they discover who’s out there on that island?
Lou’s thoughts were a little more convoluted. He rather wished some of the other fishers had been present. Some of the townspeople too, whose opinions might have been more along Mac’s lines. No point in joining in a conversation like this though, he thought, no point at all.
‘My round.’ Mac stood, gathering up the several empty glasses.
‘Not for us, thanks, Mac,’ Lou said with a glance to Paul. ‘The place is filling up and we want to grab some dinner, don’t we, Paolo?’
‘Too right we do – I’m bloody starving.’
They rose to their feet.
‘Right you are then,’ the Scot said. ‘Owe you one ne
xt time, Lou.’
The three of them headed inside together, Mac for the bar and lounge just off the verandah, Lou and Paul turning left through the doors into the large dining area, where another bar sat against the rear wall and where huge plate glass windows looked out over the spectacular coastal view.
After ordering steak and chips and collecting the buzzer that would announce when their food was ready, they bought another beer and settled themselves at a window table in the far corner.
They said nothing as they gazed out at the Indian Ocean, where the last rays of what had been a splendid sunset fanned the horizon, but each knew the other was thinking about the island out there. The island and the purpose it was now serving.
Paul was the one who finally broke the silence. ‘When they’re found the shit’s really going to hit the fan, isn’t it,’ he said, a statement rather than a question.
‘Yep,’ Lou agreed, ‘but not everyone feels the same way as Ian and Arch, you know. There are many in Shoalhaven who’d sympathise with our friends rather than judge them as the enemy.’ He thought of the fishers, some of Italian descent like himself, and there were Greeks, and a Finnish man and his sons. He thought of the townspeople: of Henry and Florence Wong and their Chinese restaurant, of Alfred Tran, the Vietnamese pharmacist and his family, of Nina Adrejic, the hard-working Serbian woman who, with her daughter, ran Nina’s Bakery. All of these people, not to mention any number of Irish, Scots and English residents, were immigrants, or at least their parents had been. ‘Let’s face it,’ he said, ‘we’re a pretty multicultural bunch ourselves.’
Paul, however, did not appear convinced. ‘And you honestly reckon that’ll make a difference?’
‘To the outcome?’ Lou shook his head sadly. ‘Nope, not one bit. I’m afraid the die is cast for our mob on the island. But I’d like to think the people of Shoalhaven would show them some kindness. We’re a close-knit community, one that doesn’t pass judgement. Even blokes like Ian and Arch, they don’t mean to stir up hate, Paolo, they’re only spouting what they’ve read in the paper, trying to show off like blokes do. Particularly Ian, he loves being the town know-all, but he’s not a bad bloke. We’re good people in Shoalhaven. At least that’s the way I like to see us.’
‘You’re a bloody romantic, mate,’ Paul said fondly, ‘that’s your problem.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lou agreed, ‘you’re quite right of course.’ Unperturbed, he was about to go on but was startled by the sound of the buzzer.
‘Perfect timing.’ Paul picked up the remote and pressed the off button. ‘Maybe food’ll shut you up,’ he said with a good-natured grin.
They both stood.
‘I’ll grab the tucker, you get the knives and forks,’ Lou ordered, ‘and don’t forget the tomato sauce,’ he called over his shoulder as he headed for the servery.
During the days that followed, Paul didn’t accompany Lou on his fishing trips as he often did during the off-season. Instead he worked hard on the necessary repairs of Palermo Miss and his gear, all the while doing the best he could to put the girl from his mind. But it wasn’t easy. Having discovered what might possibly be Jalila’s background, he wondered how he could find out whether or not he was right. Did he dare ask her? He recalled how, when he’d apologised for prying into her past, she’d seemed quite unconcerned. ‘You ask what you wish,’ she’d said, ‘you are friend.’ But did he dare ask her outright about the horrors he’d learnt of, the horrors that she might have lived through? How was he to broach such a subject? And did he have the right?
Paul was becoming driven by the belief that if he could discover the truth about the girl, he just might be able to help her. How he could do so he had no idea, but young Paul Miller was desperate to help Jalila.
Friday dawned and with it the promise Lou and Paul had made to attend the writers’ festival in Geraldton. They’d get there early and shop up for further supplies to take to the island, they’d decided.
Reluctant as they were, they’d resigned themselves to their commitment for Bev’s sake, and were actually looking forward very much to seeing her. The Big Sky Writers’ Festival, however, they agreed they could do without, such occasions demanding a form of socialising that was not at all their style. Even Geraldton itself, a highly attractive city with a great deal to offer, held little appeal for Lou and Paul who, like most long-term Shoalhaven residents, ventured from their small coastal realm only when necessary.
Shoalhaven was indeed its own tiny oasis, taking great pride in its solidarity and self-sufficiency. As a township it had no desire to compete with all Geraldton had to offer. Why should it bother? It didn’t even compete amongst its own. The town’s merchants were supportive of each other, rather than competitive, and the same attitude existed between the fishers who shared the island and coastal waters amicably, without the hindrance of sophisticated aquaculture or the irritation of tourists. The busyness of Geraldton and the Abrolhos Islands, where fishers worked alongside pearl farms and coral farms and where tourism was rife, was not for those from Shoalhaven, who lived at a far slower pace and in a world of their own.
‘You were very well behaved, both of you,’ Bev said. ‘I had my eye on you the whole time and you barely fidgeted at all.’ Bev was a younger, slimmer version of her mother, vibrant and unselfconsciously sexy. She gave one of her delicious throaty laughs, so reminiscent of Maria’s. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that you were under no obligation to come to the feminist writers’ panel discussion?’
‘Course we were,’ Lou insisted. ‘You were running the show and introducing the guests – we couldn’t miss out on all that. I found bits of it quite interesting actually.’ He wouldn’t have under normal circumstances. Under normal circumstances his mind would have drifted off and he wouldn’t have heard a word. But he’d thought of Rassen and of Hala. He’d remembered how Rassen had boasted of his wife’s feminism and the bold stance she’d taken on equal rights for women, particularly within her own Muslim community. He’d remembered, too, how Rassen had recited Hala’s favourite quote of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk’s. Thinking along such lines had proved a perfect distraction to Lou and had even helped make sense – just now and then anyway – of some of the women writers’ comments. At least it had stopped him nodding off.
‘I liked the interview with the two crime blokes best,’ Paul said. ‘They were really good.’ Having had no such memory to distract him during the feminist event, Paul presumed Lou was lying for Bev’s benefit, and thought he’d better show a bit of enthusiasm himself.
‘That’s great,’ Bev said, grinning heartily as if she believed every word. They’re lying through their teeth, the two of them, she thought. She was surprised, and also touched, they’d attended both her events that day when just the crime writers’ interview would have sufficed. Poor darlings, she thought, they must have hated every single second. ‘And you even took part in the Q and A, Paul,’ she said. ‘That has to be a first. Well done.’
‘Yeah,’ Paul said, glad she was pleased. He’d had his question all prepared before the event just in order to please her. ‘That’s how interested I was, you see.’
‘Yep,’ Lou added his congratulations, ‘good question too, mate – really got things going.’
Bev did her best not to laugh, they were trying so hard, and she loved them for it. ‘It certainly was and it certainly did,’ she agreed. She didn’t have the heart to tell them ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ was the question every single fiction writer was asked during question time after every single event.
It was late afternoon and they were seated, beers in hand, around a large bowl of potato wedges at a table in the Freemasons’ downstairs bar. A grand two-storey hotel in Marine Terrace not far from the library, the Freemasons was one of Gero’s most popular watering holes.
‘So how’s everyone back home?’ Bev asked, a deliberate change of subject, knowing any further talk about the festival would bore them witless. She leant forwards and helped herself to anothe
r potato wedge, systematically dunking it into the dishes of sour cream and sweet chilli sauce. ‘Any goss to give me?’
‘Thelma said thank you very much for the clothes you donated,’ Lou replied.
‘Come again?’ Bev queried through a mouthful of potato.
‘We had a big clothes clean-out for Thelma to send off to St Vinnies and your mum donated a bag full of your old stuff.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’
‘Yes, yes, it is, isn’t it?’ Lou’s eyes signalled mischief as he slowly added, ‘Thelma was very –’
‘Very grateful,’ Bev parroted, instantly getting the hint. Her words were not quite in unison with his, but just the slightest beat later. ‘Yes, yes, very grateful,’ she repeated in the sycophantic, head-nodding way Thelma always did, ‘very grateful indeed.’
‘She said to say –’
‘Say thank you,’ Bev once again followed a fractional beat after him, then added another repetition, ‘yes, yes, said to say thank you very much.’
‘And she sends –’
‘Sends her best, yes, yes of course. Sends her very best.’
Paul was by now laughing out loud, threatening to choke on his fourth potato wedge. Bev’s mimicry of Thelma was wickedly accurate and always had been. It was Bev herself who, as a teenager, had nicknamed the woman ‘the Echo’, a term that was extraordinarily apt. Thelma Lyttleton, the pastor’s spidery wife, had the most irritating habit: she was a compulsive lip reader. She had no need to be, she was not hearing impaired, but her eyes trained upon the lips of a speaker, she had become exceedingly adept at anticipating the imminent end of a sentence. She would echo a person’s words just a beat behind them, then repeat herself, often several times as if in agreement or self-congratulation. Paul had always avoided the woman whenever possible, but Bev had invented her ‘Thelma game’ instead. During a conversation, she would stop as if distracted just before the end of a sentence, leaving poor Thelma dangling. Or else, at the very last minute, she would nonsensically change context altogether, totally confounding the woman. Bev enjoyed the game hugely herself, but Thelma didn’t. Thelma Lyttleton found Bev Miller, for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, a most confused young woman, one who might perhaps have mental issues.