Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  Quite simply, Bev was fun. Her send-up of Thelma was neither hurtful nor cruel. There was not a shred of malice in Bev; she just saw the funny side of things. Paul often envied his older sister her lack of inhibition and ability to laugh at the world and herself. She was so like their mother, vivacious and outgoing – ‘It’s the Sicilian blood in her,’ Lou was wont to say proudly – while Paul had a sinking feeling he was more like his father, a conservative man who took himself too seriously. Loath to admit that the Miller blood might run more strongly in his veins than the Panuzza, Paul had always gravitated to his grandfather, preferring the spontaneity of the old man’s company, perhaps hoping some of it might rub off on him.

  Given the siblings’ two-year age difference, Bev had been very much the bossy big sister during their childhood, but as they’d grown older, the relationship had become more complex. Bev no longer bossed her younger brother around, but she could sense when something was troubling him, and on the occasions when Paul, frustrated, expressed a wish he could tackle things the way she did, she would show her support by sending him up.

  ‘Bullshit,’ she’d say in typical fashion, ‘I’m a show-off and you’re not, I’m the extrovert, you’re the introvert, it’s that simple.’

  But Bev knew things were not really ‘that simple’, and that Paul was a private young man who kept his feelings tucked away deep inside. She respected him for it, never intruding. The very differences between the two siblings, and the fact they both recognised and valued their differences, made the bond between them particularly strong.

  Over the bowl of dwindling potato wedges, the conversation led inevitably to the American presidential campaign. Well, as Bev said, how could it not? Donald Trump was the name on everyone’s lips all over the world.

  ‘Insanity,’ she said. ‘There are people who are actually taking him seriously. Americans can’t be that mad, surely!’

  ‘You should hear Ian Tuckey on the subject,’ Paul said. ‘Ian adores Trump, reckons he has all the right answers.’

  ‘Ian Tuckey!’ Another throaty laugh from Bev and a dismissive toss of the head that set her black curls bouncing. ‘Ian Tuckey just adores the sound of his own voice.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Paul agreed.

  ‘Oh he’s not a bad bloke,’ Lou said in defence; he didn’t like to hear one of his mates maligned, and Ian was a mate of sorts – they all were in Shoalhaven. ‘He’s good with kids, you’ve got to admit. The kids just love him.’

  Bev gave a derisive hoot. ‘Of course the kids love him – he sells ice-creams and lollies and chucks them a few freebies to keep them on side.’ There was no winning against Bev.

  The conversation continued for a further half-hour or so, Bev railing against Trump’s inane views, particularly regarding Muslims and refugees in general, Lou and Paul agreeing with her entirely, both longing all the while to tell her about their friends on the island.

  Then it came time for reluctant goodbyes. She’d asked them to stay in town for the night at her flat in Fitzgerald Street, little more than a ten-minute stroll from the library. ‘Only one spare bedroom,’ she’d said, ‘but a very comfy couch, and then we could have dinner together with heaps of wine, and you wouldn’t have to worry about the drive home.’

  Much as she’d tried to make the offer sound attractive, they’d refused of course, as she’d known they would.

  ‘No, no,’ they’d said, ‘you’ve got a busy weekend ahead, and we wouldn’t want to hang around and get in your way.’

  So she stood in Marine Terrace, waving goodbye to Paul’s Land Rover as it took off on the hundred-kilometre drive that would take no more than an hour.

  Crazy, she thought, as she watched them go. They can’t wait to get back to their cosy little town, so close and yet a whole world away. That’s Shoalhaven for you.

  Bev had loved her childhood in Shoalhaven, but the very things she’d loved most had turned out to be the reasons she’d had to leave. The insularity, the familiarity, the cosiness would eventually have driven her insane. Perhaps it’s different for Lou and Paul, she thought. As fishers they spend half their lives on a remote island – but to be locked in the township? No, no. She cringed at the thought. Even Gero, much as she loved the place, was becoming too small for her. After completing her degree at Curtin University in Perth, she’d applied for the position at Geraldton Regional Library in order to be near her family, but now, after three years, she couldn’t wait to return to Perth. And after that, who could tell? Perhaps Sydney. Then she’d like to travel abroad. London, Europe, America … The world was an adventure crying out to be experienced.

  But that’s the difference between those who are born to be Shoalhaven people, and those who are not, Bev thought. You’re either one or the other; there are no in-betweens.

  It was true. When youngsters from Shoalhaven reached high-school age, they commuted to Geraldton – a Shoalhaven shuttle service had long ago been established for that very purpose – and after completing their schooling, one of two things happened. They either departed Shoalhaven altogether to pursue a tertiary education and follow a chosen career, or they settled down and became true Shoalhaven citizens. Old residents rarely left; they died in the saddle, passing their businesses on to the next generation. And if there were no family takers the business was sold up, more often than not to a fellow Shoalhaven citizen. Over the years the town’s population had swollen a little, to be sure, but young people seemed to leave in roughly equal proportion to those who stayed and carried on the tradition.

  A self-perpetuating society, Bev thought as she walked back to the library to meet up for dinner with the gang, that’s what Shoalhaven is. But a society that looks after its own, and even if you don’t want to be part of it, you’ve got to respect that.

  ‘You were dying to tell her, weren’t you?’ Lou said during the drive home.

  ‘Yep,’ Paul replied, eyes fixed on the darkening road ahead.

  ‘Yeah, me too. We will, Paolo. We’ll tell Bev when the time’s right.’

  ‘Good.’

  Several days later, as the old Princess, once more loaded with fresh supplies, approached the island, Paul was pleased to see Jalila in the group at the end of the jetty. She was not waving like the others, but she was there, just standing, watching and waiting, which he took to be a good sign. And as the boat drew nearer, he felt more than pleased, he felt positively elated. Draped over her head was the shawl he’d given her.

  He made no comment upon the fact as he and Lou alighted at the jetty to the chorus of hellos and good mornings in English, the g’day, mate from little Hamid, and the customary shaking of hands all round. He didn’t even look at Jalila, who took no part in the greetings, but stood to one side. It was only when everyone had shouldered their share of supplies and the group as a whole was making its way to the blue hut that he addressed her, for she had deliberately chosen to walk beside him.

  ‘Good morning, Jalila,’ he said, as if noticing her for the first time.

  ‘Good morning, Paul,’ she replied.

  And again, after the supplies were unpacked, the men dismissed, and the women were storing the items, it was Jalila who made the approach.

  ‘We go fairy terns, Paul?’ she asked as he was about to leave.

  ‘Sure, if you like,’ he said, trying to sound offhand. ‘It’s low tide and we’d need to go now if you want to cross the sandbar.’

  ‘I like,’ she replied, then turning to Hala. ‘Is all right I go fairy terns, Hala?’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent idea, Jalila.’ Hala’s reply was as offhand as Paul’s, but having heard their exchange she was secretly delighted. ‘Don’t forget the binoculars,’ she said, and as Jalila disappeared briefly she raised an eyebrow to Paul that said, ‘What have you done to the girl?’

  Paul quelled his instinctive reaction, which was one of wariness, and as the two of them walked out the door he told himself he must stop being paranoid, that far from harbouring suspicions, H
ala had been congratulating him.

  They set off for the windward side of the island, Jalila with the binoculars looped around her neck, and as they walked she lifted them to her eyes every now and then.

  ‘Pacific gulls,’ she said, pointing up at the sky. Then, moments later, ‘Crested terns.’ Then, further on, pointing out over the sea, ‘Wedge shearwaters.’

  ‘Wedge-tailed shearwaters,’ he corrected her. ‘But you’ve remembered them all. Well done, Jalila.’

  He received no smile in return, but she did react, nodding seriously; she had been rehearsing to herself the names of the birds.

  ‘Wedge-tailed shearwaters,’ she repeated.

  They walked on in silence for a while, then …

  ‘I like the shawl,’ he said. ‘It looks good on you.’

  ‘Is pretty,’ she replied, fingering the cloth briefly, then returning her attention to the binoculars and the birds.

  Upon their arrival at the isthmus, where the ever-present wind was stronger than ever, Jalila appeared surprised to discover the rocks were linked to the shoreline by a narrow stretch of sand.

  ‘No island,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. I told you, at low tide you can walk out across the sandbar, remember?’

  ‘Oh.’ She did remember he’d said something like that, but she hadn’t really understood what he’d meant.

  ‘Come on, follow me,’ he instructed, ‘and stay in the middle of the bar – it gets quite deep either side.’

  Jalila tied the shawl around her waist, the wind threatening to rip it from her, and they crossed the fifty metres to the beach and rocky outcrop. As they went, Paul issued a warning.

  ‘Don’t be frightened when the terns dive-bomb you,’ he said, ‘they won’t hurt you, I promise, they’re just trying to scare you off.’

  Again she wasn’t quite sure what he meant and didn’t know what to expect, but as they arrived at the edge of the sandy beach, she very quickly understood. Upon their intrusion, the neat little birds with their black caps and yellow-brown bills went berserk, wheeling about overhead, catching the wind and swooping down at them.

  ‘See? What did I tell you,’ Paul laughed, ‘they’re trying their best to be as scary as they can, but it doesn’t really work, it’s just show.’ He indicated the surrounding sand. ‘Look at all the nests, Jalila. Be careful you don’t tread on any eggs.’

  Jalila ignored the birds and looked down at the nests, which weren’t really nests at all, just shallow hollows dotted about on the sand and coral fragments that made up the beach. Some were lined with bits of shell and vegetation, others were no more than indentations, and in each were eggs. Mottled silvery-grey eggs, some darker than others, some heavily patterned like marble, others delicately translucent, but all very beautiful. She bent over to examine them more closely, not touching them, moving warily about the beach, taking care with each step. One egg only here, two eggs there, three there, and in one little hollow four eggs nestling neatly together: each nest housed eggs that were slightly different, but equally beautiful.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed quietly. ‘So pretty.’

  He loved to see her entranced like this. ‘Yes, they are pretty, aren’t they? And very vulnerable too, just lying about on the sand like this. No wonder the parents are so mad at us for being here.’ He gazed up at the terns that hovered overhead. ‘Look at the way they use the wind, Jalila.’

  She looked up.

  ‘See? They seem to be flying backwards, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in amazement. The little birds with their outstretched wings seemed most definitely to be moving backwards, not forwards.

  ‘It’s their method of attack,’ Paul explained, ‘their way of fooling you. They hover for a moment and let the wind take them so it seems they’re no threat and then they swoop down from behind you and take you by surprise.’

  Even as she watched, the birds behaved exactly as he described, and to Jalila it did appear a very conscious battle tactic.

  ‘Fairy terns clever,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Paul agreed, ‘but not very effective I’m afraid. Which is probably why they’re an endangered species.’

  They stayed for another hour, Jalila examining every single nest on the beach, assuring the angry birds she meant no harm. ‘I no hurt,’ she promised them over and over, but they didn’t take any notice. So she and Paul left the beach and explored the rocky outcrop in order to give them a rest, Jalila studying the terns from some distance through the binoculars. After which it was time to leave.

  ‘The tide’s on the way in,’ he said. ‘If we leave it much longer we’ll have to take our shoes off and wade across.’ She was wearing sandals and he the rubber-soled runners he always favoured. ‘Come on, we don’t want to get wet. Follow me, and stay in the middle.’

  Jalila tightened the shawl at her waist – the wind was well and truly whipping about them now – and looped the binoculars around her neck. Then they set off across the sandbar.

  They were halfway towards the shore when Jalila, distracted by bird activity out over the water, forgot to watch her footing. Her eyes weren’t even on Paul and without being aware she’d wandered a little off course to one side of the sandbar.

  Her foot slipped. The ground seemed to fall away from beneath her and all of a sudden she was in the sea, being swept away by the current. Everything happened so quickly, she did not cry out. But she would not have cried out in any event. Even had she had sufficient warning, she would not have screamed for help. Her brain had signalled in an instant that this was the way she was intended to die, and just as instantly her will had surrendered. Jalila had no wish to fight for survival.

  Several steps ahead, with no idea of the drama unfolding behind him, it was sheer chance that Paul happened to turn and check on her. By then, she was twenty metres away, the current sweeping her out to sea.

  He ripped the runners from his feet. Jesus Christ, he thought as he dived in and swam strongly towards her, why the hell didn’t she call out?

  He reached her, supporting her in the choppy, wind-churned water, surprised to see that although she was coughing and spluttering a little she was not panic-stricken as most people on the verge of drowning were. He had saved others in the past and panic was always a major concern for both victim and rescuer.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he barked. ‘Now turn on your back! You need to float on your back!’

  She obeyed, putting her trust in him completely, and grasping her over one shoulder, his arm across her chest, his hand under her other armpit, he swam for the shore. The current was strong, but he had no trouble, her body travelling passively beside him: this was an easy rescue.

  Upon reaching the shoreline, he picked her up and carried her over the rocky shallows. Then when they were seated together on the foreshore, he made her lean forward, her head between her knees, and smacked her firmly several times on the back.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked after she’d coughed up some of the water she’d swallowed.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, her voice husky.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you yell out?’ he said accusatively, angrily even. Now the danger was over, he allowed his fear to show. ‘Christ alive, you could have bloody well drowned! Why the hell didn’t you call out to me?’

  ‘Sorry.’ He was angry with her, she realised. She didn’t quite understand the reason for his anger. Why should she have called out to him? The thought hadn’t once occurred to her, she’d accepted her fate. However, she didn’t like him being angry with her and wanted to make amends ‘I sorry, Paul,’ she said.

  ‘All right. Forget it.’ His anger faded, but he refused to feel guilty for having snapped at her. Jesus, what if she’d drowned? What would he have told the others? I took her to see the fairy terns and now she’s dead. ‘Well at least you didn’t lose the binoculars,’ he said, taking them from around her neck and trying to sound calm. She should have got rid of the binoculars, he thought, they would have helpe
d drag her down. ‘Let me get some of the water out of that for you,’ he said, pointing to the shawl still tied around her waist.

  She untangled it and handed it to him. He squeezed the shawl free of as much water as he could and gave it back to her. Then he stood, ringing the moisture from his shirt and from the legs of his shorts. ‘The wind should dry us off on the walk home. Are you cold?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, wringing out the hem of her skirt.

  ‘I’ll go and get my shoes,’ he said, ‘back in a tick.’ He walked off to the sandbar to collect his runners.

  Jalila was glad he was not angry with her any more. She was confused though. Paul confused her. She confused herself. She had been so prepared to die. More than prepared: she would have welcomed death. For years now she would have welcomed death at any time: nothing in life was of consequence. But when he had come to her out there in the water, when he had taken a hold of her and she’d realised she was about to be spared, she had been surprised to discover that she wanted to live. And when he’d swum her ashore, so strongly, so surely, so inevitably to safety, she’d looked up at the sky and the gulls soaring there, Pacific gulls, she’d told herself, and she was glad she hadn’t drowned. Why?

  He was back several minutes later. He picked up the binoculars, looping them around his neck, and she draped the shawl, damp as it was, over her head.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  She took the hand he offered and stood, but once on her feet, instead of releasing his hand, she maintained her hold and took a step closer.

  They were very near one another now, her face turned up to him, her eyes looking into his, as if deciphering something, Paul had no idea what, but it made him feel uncomfortable. He did not back away, nor did he avoid her scrutiny, but he did release his hand.