Kimberley Sun

by Di Morrissey

  Farouz walked over to them and spoke softly. ‘You have talked?’

  ‘I want to help her, Farouz.’ Sami turned to Leila. ‘Do you want to stay here? Or go to a town? A city? Perhaps you could teach again.’

  Leila lifted her shoulders. ‘I have no heart to work in a city. I would be afraid. I feel safe here, life is simple.’

  ‘How can she go anywhere? She is illegal. She is not wanted in this country,’ Farouz reminded Sami.

  ‘But if people knew her, knew her story,’ said Sami vehemently, ‘it would be different. I can ask Harlan to help. He is a lawyer.’

  ‘It would be helpful. Give her some security,’ Farouz agreed.

  ‘Security? What does that mean? It’s a word that has little meaning for me now,’ said Leila as she got to her feet.

  The three turned back towards the art shelter. ‘I can understand you wanting to stay here, for the moment,’ said Sami. ‘But you always run the risk of someone reporting you. Then you’d be taken to a detention centre.’

  ‘I do not want to be locked up, behind wire. Here I can walk where I want, see the stars, watch the sun rise and set. Say my prayers, feel free in my body if not my heart. These women have been good to me. The men have been discreet, not telling anyone about me being here. They say I’m their special secret. That’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘You have helped them too,’ said Farouz, trying to make her feel more comfortable. ‘The art and weaving I took into Broome was much admired. Isn’t that right, Sami?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, quickly picking up on the cue from Farouz. ‘Rosie says she can sell them very easily. She would like more. You are doing something wonderful, Leila, helping the women expand their artistic talent.’

  Leila looked at Sami, her eyes hollow and empty. ‘And who will help me? No one can help me. No one can bring back those I love . . . and miss.’

  ‘I know,’ said Sami, putting her arm around Leila’s thin waist. ‘But we can help. At least try to make you feel safe. Find a way to allow you to stay here. One day you might go back home . . .’

  Leila shook her head. ‘For what? There is only sadness and painful memories for me. I have no family. I have no one to love.’

  ‘You can love me!’ Sami blurted the words without thinking. And shocked herself. What an odd thing to say. She so wanted to help Leila with every fibre of her being and she felt utterly helpless.

  Farouz nodded. ‘To love oneself you must love others. Shuhud, the realisation of love, is the object of every soul. I read this in my grandfather’s books.’

  Leila looked steadily at Sami. ‘You are a good person. And your heart is kind. Whatever is to be . . .’ She turned away, her words trailing off.

  They were brought back to earth by Gussie. ‘So, what you reckon ’bout our art? Leila one good teacher, eh? You gonna fix it so she kin stay or what?’

  ‘We’re going to try our best, Gussie,’ said Sami. ‘You understand how she came here. Not by the proper way, so the government says she can’t stay until she gets papers and does things the right way.’

  ‘Government people, yeah, we know all about them! We still fightin’ to stay in our country right way too!’

  Leila smiled at Sami and asked, ‘What do you think they should do about their paintings and the weavings? There is a market for this work?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’d say you should deal with Rosie at Little Street Gallery. She has a good reputation among artists, and being Aboriginal she understands the culture of the work. We can take some more back with us, and perhaps help set up a formal agreement. Rosie should come and see you.’

  ‘We bin careful ’bout visitors, ’cause of Leila,’ warned Gussie. ‘Only Farouz know everything.’

  ‘Well, we’ll start sorting things out,’ said Sami firmly, knowing that Leila could not hide here forever. It wouldn’t be long before rumours reached the ears of government authorities, particularly now that the unusual weavings were being talked about in Broome.

  They were walking towards the main house when the pink bicycle on the roof caught Sami’s eye again. ‘Why is the bike up there?’ It occurred to her she’d noticed the same thing at Sister Angelica’s community.

  ‘Ah, someone flush with money buy it and then all the kids fight over who is going to ride the bike. So Uncle tossed it up there to shut ’em up. They forget ’bout it and go on to something else,’ explained Gussie.

  They spent the rest of the day being shown around the settlement, and in the afternoon they took a short walk to gather some bush tucker to supplement the supplies from the store at the main community. The lifestyle was simple. There was a lot of sitting around in plastic chairs outside the big house drinking tea and eating biscuits. Each morning the children were driven into the community school and the women did their art work. Sami also went to work, with tape recorder, notebook and camera, recording stories of two cultures half a world apart and bridged by an unlikely artistic concept.

  Ross had time to sit and ponder these days, out on his little verandah facing the creek. His analytical and tidy mind kept sifting through the jumble of information he’d gleaned from Bobby, Palmer and Lily about the robberies. He was still puzzled by them and wondered if they were connected. He decided to drop in to the police station and have a yarn with his new friend, Detective-Sergeant Karl Howard.

  They sat over mugs of instant coffee in a back room that served as an office for the detectives. ‘So how did you guys identify that body in the scrub as Matthias Stern?’ asked Ross.

  ‘By the time he was found by a couple of kids on trailbikes the body was gone – past recognition, bones, hair, clothes. You know what this climate does in a couple of weeks? Not to mention blowflies, ants, maggots and the wildlife. So it was sent to the state mortuary in Perth.’

  ‘Did a family member or friend contact you, looking for a missing person?’

  Detective Howard raised an eyebrow. ‘C’mon, mate, we get more than our fair share of so-called missing persons out here. Most of them deliberately go missing, running away from ex-wives, government agencies or something.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As we found out, this guy had sent a postcard to his son in Germany from the motel when he first arrived. When the son didn’t hear from him again after a while, he rang the motel who put him onto us. Dental records were checked and, bingo! Herr Stern. Or Professor Stern.’

  ‘He was an academic?’

  ‘Yeah, some well-known art history and language buff, I think. He was written up in the papers back in Germany.’

  ‘Interesting. So Bobby Ching was never a suspect?’

  ‘Nah, forensic put the time of death much earlier, while Ching was still up at Bradley Station. He and Lily Barton couldn’t tell us a lot. The person of interest is the fellow he’d arranged to meet at the races. We assume that was who got him out of the hospital. But we’ve just run into blanks after that. None of Stern’s gear has turned up.’

  Ross decided for the time being not to mention the sun ornament Bobby and Palmer had talked about. ‘Hmm. Do you know what was on the postcard Stern sent from here?’

  ‘Yeah, we do as a matter of fact. The son sent it over in case it helped. I can show you if you like, seeing as you’re one of us. Well, used to be, eh?’ He went to a shelf and took down a plastic bag and pulled out the postcard of a Broome sunset with the camels trudging across Cable Beach. Attached to it was a translation of what Matthias had written on it in German: ‘Sun really is shining here. Deal in place re Sunday, will contact you re success of venture and the goods.’

  Ross handed it back. ‘Pretty enigmatic.’

  ‘Yeah. The son didn’t want to send it, then thought better of it. Well, unless we could get a handle on the guy he was meeting, Hajid – the only name we have – we’re unlikely to find out more. It could be personal, drugs, who knows? The son didn’t know who he was meeting. Only that he was setting up a deal to solve his financial worries.’

  ‘What about other
crimes in town? Anything unusual?’

  ‘Not really. Couple of kids in a prang, had a gun but it wasn’t used to kill Stern.’

  ‘I was thinking about the bashing of Pauline Despar.’

  ‘Oh, right. Most likely local hoodlums. She was working late in a jewellery store with the back door and the safe open . . . I mean, what’dya expect?’

  Ross was thoughtful. ‘Bobby Ching’s father’s place was hit too.’

  ‘Shit happens, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Well, nice talking to you. I’ll keep in touch.’

  The detective grinned. ‘Once a copper always a copper.’

  ‘Nah. I’m looking for new opportunities. See ya, mate.’

  ‘Palmer, it’s Ross. Before we head up north tomorrow, I was wondering if you could find out anything about a fellow academic.’

  ‘Yes. I have my laptop, I can be hooked up to the Web in a flash,’ said Palmer.

  ‘It’s our poor friend Matthias Stern. Professor Matthias Stern, from Stuttgart University. Art or archaeology department, I think.’

  ‘Is that so? Shouldn’t be too hard. Now, how quickly do you need this information?’

  ‘It’d be helpful if you get it as quickly as you can, mate. I’m off to the local newspaper. I’ll call you later, thanks.’

  Lily was sitting at the computer updating the inventory of shell out on the leases when a blast of ‘Hail to the Chief’ on the bagpipes shattered the midmorning calm. She grinned and wondered how it sounded to the others at work in the sheds. From the verandah she watched the little parade. Ross was marching in front twirling what looked like a rake handle, stepping out like a bandmaster. The two men did a small circle of the parking area for the benefit of curious staff then stopped at the office.

  Lily applauded. ‘A magnificent entry, chaps. I imagine that you’ll be in big demand for the next Edinburgh Festival.’

  ‘A generous assessment, and much appreciated,’ acknowledged Palmer, as he deposited the pipes on a verandah chair. ‘Well, this certainly looks like the real thing. Almost a film set waiting for a cast headed by Russell Crowe to come in by romantic ketch.’ Palmer flung out his arms to embrace the scene of swaying palms, the crushed oyster-shell path edged with coral, and bits of coral and pretty driftwood in a window over her desk.

  ‘You’ve certainly settled in and made your mark,’ said Ross approvingly. ‘There are little touches of class that I gather aren’t your friend Dave’s work. I might get you to do a landscape design for my place.’

  ‘So, where do we start?’ asked Palmer. ‘Do we get the tour, a job to help with, or a cup of tea?’

  ‘The lot, but we’ll start with tea. I could make one here but let’s go over to the canteen, meet some of the crew. Then I’ll show you to your quarters. How’s Pauline? What else is new in pearl city?’

  Their footsteps crunched on the shell-grit path. ‘She’s doing fine. We both went to see her. She’ll be home tomorrow,’ said Ross. ‘I offered to pick her up but Rosie is looking after her.’

  ‘We took her flowers and said they were from you,’ added Palmer.

  ‘That was nice of you. I feel bad that I didn’t go down and see her. When we last talked she said she was planning to fly to Perth to see her father and brother.’

  ‘Yeah. The break will do her good. She’s back working, said she was seeing some sales agents and designers about her jewellery,’ Ross explained. ‘She’s one talented girl.’

  After lunch the two men went out on a work boat with a crew checking some lines and bringing up a section of panels for cleaning. The ropes and the oysters had to be cleaned of weed and barnacles on the spot. They were both given gloves and joined in the work.

  ‘Must be a test run before they offer us fulltime jobs,’ observed Palmer.

  ‘Dreamer,’ responded David George without sparing him a glance. ‘You blue it with the first bar of bagpipe music. Enough to make sensitive oysters very unhappy.’

  Lily had received wads of notes and forms from the Department of Fisheries about applying for an extended quota and notification of activating their second lease. And now as the sun set she began to read through the pile. They’d been planning to take the Georgiana out to the Lacepede Islands to see if they really could extend the farm, and Lily thought it would be good if Ross and Palmer could go with them. It would save taking crew away from the farm, and she preferred the staff not to know what they were doing just yet.

  There was a tap on her door and Palmer came in with his arms full. ‘Booty from Broome, one flowering bromeliad. It needs scant attention and water, in case you get too busy. And bottles of the finest red I could find, a tin of Scottish shortbread – no home should be without it – and Mrs Fong’s finest bread and a smelly Stilton and olives to go with it. Am I invited for cocktails?’

  ‘What a feast! How thoughtful. Open a red immediately. It will be ready by the time the others arrive. How was your afternoon?’ Lily began hunting for glasses in her kitchenette.

  ‘This pearling business is bloody hard work.’ He held out his hands. ‘Dishpan hands. Nevertheless, it was a rewarding and interesting exercise. You certainly can’t beat bobbing around out there on the bay.’ He picked up the bottle of wine and the glasses Lily handed him and brought them out to the verandah table. ‘Tim knows his stuff and Dave is the salt of the earth.’ He poured some wine and sniffed it appreciatively, swirling it in his glass. ‘Let’s not wait. Cheers. I think you’ve chosen a splendid vocation. Here’s to your success, but mostly to your happiness.’

  ‘Why thank you, Ted.’ Lily was warmed by his toast.

  Tim and Dave arrived with cold beers and settled themselves as Lily set out the cheese, olives and fresh bread.

  ‘Palmer was just saying he enjoyed going out in the boat,’ Lily said to Tim. ‘Do you think he’d fancy some serious seafaring?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Ross, how about you?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Is there fishing involved?’

  ‘Always have a line ready to throw over the side,’ said Dave, taking the top off a beer.

  ‘Then count me in,’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re going to have to look around soon. I just got word that several other pearl farms have lodged an objection against us fishing for wild shell in their territory.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ Ross asked, looking at Lily who looked at Tim.

  ‘It’s a surprise. No, a secret,’ said Tim with a wink.

  ‘That means he doesn’t know,’ said Dave. ‘We’ll know it when we see it, eh Tim?’

  They laughed but Lily wondered if they really had nutted out precisely where they were headed. How did one find shell beds and a good place to anchor long lines with their precious shell out there in the wild blue yonder?

  Three days later she was hanging over the side of the Georgiana as a steady stream of bubbles exploded on the water’s surface. Tim rose up like a sleek wet seal and Palmer helped him back on board. He shook off his scuba tanks and face mask, easing back the black rubber skull cap.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Hang on, Lily, let him get his breath,’ said Palmer. ‘What’s it like?’ he added instantly.

  ‘You guys must all be suffering from a touch of the sun,’ said Tim lightly. ‘Well, it’s a good hard dead-coral seabed, so there’s great visibility. And there are lots of natural wild oysters, which means the area is right for growing pearls.’

  ‘How many metres?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Twelve to fifteen. A good location but whether we’re going to get permission is another matter. Let’s chart the spot anyway.’

  ‘Should we find a backup position?’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea, Lily,’ said Dave. ‘I reckon we should head further out of the channel, south of the islands a bit. An old hand I had on luggers for years always reckoned it was a good position.’

  ‘Let’s check it out,’ said Lily, immediately scanning the marine chart spread out on the deck.

&nb
sp; ‘Aye, aye, captain,’ laughed Dave, amused and pleased at how readily she had taken to being at sea.

  Ross and Dave stood at the helm chatting quietly. Tim was stretched out under some shade on the deck, sound asleep. Palmer and Lily sat on the hatch cover listening to the flap of the sails and the slap of the sea against the hull as they sailed through the afternoon. ‘Fine way to spend the day,’ said Palmer.

  ‘A change from the lecture hall and remote rock sites.’

  ‘Each has its own appeal. Working a room full of enthusiastic faces and energised minds is a great thing. And as for the Kimberley outback . . . it’s so beautiful. You’ll have to go out to the rock sites one day. Ask Sami to take you.’

  ‘Not you?’ teased Lily.

  Palmer spoke with a serious tone. ‘No, that wouldn’t go down well with your daughter. It would mean stepping over boundaries. Let her show you, share what she’s learning. It could also be a bonding situation in coming to terms with that corner of her heritage.’

  ‘She’s talked to you about it?’ asked Lily, surprised and slightly upset that Sami had chosen to share her feelings with him. But she added quickly and awkwardly, ‘I guess chat like that is all part of the research thing.’

  ‘It can be in a situation like this, Lily,’ said Palmer softly. ‘The unusual location, the total experience, can generate some unexpected impressions. I’ll remember this for a long time, but it’s not something I could adequately describe to someone else.’

  Lily flushed, wondering why she felt so uncomfortable . . . no, unsettled by his remarks.

  They moored for the night close to a coral atoll ringing a lagoon off one of the many islets in the area. It was a bird rookery and they listened to the sea birds shriek and squabble as they settled for the night. Dave chose to sleep below deck, the others swung gently in hammocks strung from the mast and rigging, or wherever they could fit, under a brilliant display of stars.