She was right. The moonlight on the river was enough to steer by, and the great dome of the night sky was clearer and closer than she had ever seen it. On either side, the secrets of the mangroves were hidden in
blackness. They were alone with only their fussy little motor to connect them with civilisation.
“Jeez, this boat"s slow, Shirl,” said Marilyn, “You ought to get a proper one. Or at least a decent motor.”
“It"s a nice boat. And Uncle John had the motor for ages. Walter says it"s a classic and people pay a lot of money for second hand ones.”
“But it"s so slow…”
“Well, I think it"s nice. And who"s in a hurry anyway? This is Port Bruce, don"t forget.”
“God, listen to her. Only been here a couple of weeks, and she"s telling me to slow down.”
The lights of Port Bruce twinkled into view and soon the whole expanse of the river mouth and the sea beyond had opened up in front of them.
“We"d better take her in just by the ramp,” said Marilyn, “We"ll beach her – it"ll be safe enough tonight. Head just left of the bright light.” She moved up into the bows.
“Do you know how to do this?” asked Midge in a low voice.
“I think so. I just come near the beach and she"ll jump into the water.”
“More or less. I think she wants you to run up onto the beach.”
Shapes were beginning to emerge from the darkness of the river bank ahead. The jetty and pontoon were there, under the bright light, and she thought she could make out the small stretch of sand beside the boat ramp. What did Marilyn want her to do? She had better ask.
“Just run straight in at the beach and cut the motor at the last minute. I don"t want to jump out on top of any stonefish. And pull the motor up as soon as it"s stopped.”
“Pull the motor up?” she asked Midge.
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“Yes – there"ll be a catch on the side somewhere. Underneath, where
it sits on the boat. It"ll be on your side. Don"t worry, I"ll help you. Just don"t stop too early.”
The beach was rushing towards them and Shirley wanted to throttle back. Marilyn was having none of it. “Go, go, go!” she shouted, “Now!”
Shirley cut the motor just as they hissed onto the sand. Marilyn was off with the painter and Midge was helping her find the catch and tip the motor forward.
“There we are,” said Marilyn as Shirley clambered out onto the sand, “We"ll make a sailor of you yet. Now let"s slide it up as far as we can get it, and we"ll go and see what Dad"s left in the fridge.”
Shirley was not sure where Marilyn was taking them. She thought she recognised the Cooktown road, but Marilyn soon turned off and dived into the bush. They bounced slowly along, winding their way past large white tree trunks that jumped into the glare of the headlights and then turned away. They drove for a long time before they pulled up beside a small house huddled amongst trees. Floozy came running to greet them.
“Here we are – my place. Come and meet my old man. Get off, Floozy – leave „em alone!”
She was woken by the sun peeping around the corner of the veranda. The night had not been comfortable. Shirley disliked sleeping on her back, and hammocks gave no alternative position. She was looking at Marilyn"s untidy garden through the mesh of her mosquito net. Garden was too grand a word for it; all she could see was a wide patch of bare earth under two multi-trunked trees. There were two four-wheel drives
parked under them. Marilyn"s ute and one that was even older and more battered. That one must belong to Marilyn"s father. She rubbed her eyes and cautiously tipped herself out of the hammock.
Ian was in the kitchen already, making coffee, and they sat together at the shaded end of the veranda and waited for Marilyn and Midge to leave their shared bed. The air was full of raucous bird squawks but there were no birds to be seen. Ian got up to re-fill their coffees. He looked like Marilyn. Square, short hair – gone silver in his case. Late fifties, she guessed? He was wearing only a pair of shorts and was tanned all over.
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She did not know what work he did in the mines, but it kept him in good shape for an old man.
He brought her coffee mug back to the table with a smile. “You enjoying Port Bruce, then?”
“Yes. Yes – it"s good, but I haven"t seen much yet. I"ve been busy with the house.”
“Nice house, that. All you"d need, and no grass to cut. Old Johnno did you proud.”
“I"m very lucky. I really like the place.” Shirley had not forgotten the hurt of losing her house for the night, but somehow it did not seem so important this morning. They would all take the boat back after breakfast, and everything would be fine again. She was looking forward to the trip when Ian asked the unaskable question.
“So are you going to stay in Port Bruce or not?”
Of course, she was not going to stay. It would be impossible. Where would she work? What would Rupert say? The idea was out of the question. But…
Did she love London so much? Was she so chained to her work that
she could not lift her head until retirement? She could visit her little house every vacation, she supposed, but that was not living.
“I don"t know,” she stammered. “I"m still thinking about it.”
“Good. At least you"re thinking about it. We could use a few people like you around. Most of us are just ignorant bushies. I can"t tell a computer from a type-writer, but we can"t all be like that.”
They were interrupted by Marilyn. She was wrapped in a batik sarong and her hair was a mess. “What"s for breakfast, Dad?”
“Sorry, love. Fridge is just about empty. I wasn"t expecting the three of you.”
“Yeah – that"s right. I wasn"t expecting to be here either.” She stretched inelegantly and yawned. “What a beautiful day!”
Ian chuckled. “No breakfast and you"re all sweetness and light?” He looked at Shirley and whispered, “I think someone got laid at last.”
She threatened him with a slap. “Nosey! Well, it"s been long enough. Aah – I need a shower.”
“How about Lulu"s then?” asked Shirley. “I"ll treat you.”
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Marilyn"s tinny was waiting for them back at the house. Shirley hurried up the steps, fearing some trace of Japan had been left, but the house appeared untouched. Everything was as they had left it, right down to the dirty plates in the sink. Marilyn gathered up her swag and took Midge back to town, leaving Shirley to wash up and settle back into her home.
She found the letter when she lifted the kettle up from the countertop. A page from a notebook, tightly folded and pressed flat. The writing was Chinese. She carefully unfolded it and spread it out. The writing was small and neat, and covered both sides of the paper. Near the bottom of one side was a word in Roman letters. Melbun. Nothing more, just Chinese characters. How mysterious.
She would take it to Mr Hing. Taking time only for a quick shower and a change of clothes, she set off down the river.
Finding Tom"s creek was difficult. It was further away than she had remembered and appeared long after she had convinced herself that she had missed it. She eased her way carefully into its shadow, as Walter had showed her, and puttered up to Tom"s landing. There was no one visible in the garden or at the house. Not wanting to intrude, she stood on the bank and called. They appeared immediately from behind the house. Tom was dressed in a short and faded sarong. This was not a day for shorts.
She told Tom of Japan"s visit while they waited for Mr Hing and the coffee. When he came, he forgot everything in his haste to read the
letter.
He was reading and nodding his head. “Ver" bad. Ver" bad. How you have?”
“Japan came last night. He sent me away because he had some business and he wanted my house. I found the note this morning when I came back.”
“What does it say, Hing?” ask
ed Tom.
Mr Hing shrugged his shoulders. “One girl – write. Eight girl come China. Go Melbun. Where Melbun? Cairns?”
“Melbun?” It meant nothing to Shirley, but that was the word in
Roman letters. She took the note from Mr Hing to show Tom.
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“Melbun. Mmh – Melbourne! Of course. That bastard Japan! He"s smuggling girls. And drugs as well, I suppose. What else does the note say?”
“Letter say – help! Girls not want go Melbun.”
“We"ve got to tell the police ” decided Shirley.,
Mr Hing was immediately agitated. “No, not police. Letter say nothing police. I write girl family – OK?”
“Why no police?” asked Shirley.
“No, no. No police. Plis no police.”
She turned to Tom. “Why doesn"t he want the police? They could catch the girls if we hurry.”
Mr Hing knew why not. “Police come, girl…” and he drew his finger across his throat.
Tom agreed. “He could be right. If Japan"s friends hear the police are looking for them, the girls might just disappear. Problem solved.”
“They couldn"t… I mean, just like that? They wouldn"t.”
“Yes, they would. If it suited them. These are pretty unpleasant people we"re talking about. So what do we do, Hing?”
“I write. Give Shir"ee. Letter go Ingrand, go China. No?”
“I suppose you could do that, couldn"t you Shirley? Sending anything directly from here could be a big problem, and Immigration would only be a part of it.”
“Yes. Yes, I could send it out, I suppose. I"m sure Rupert wouldn"t mind. But it"ll take ages. And what good would it do?”
“I don"t know,” admitted Tom, “And I wouldn"t know anyway, but who can we ask? No one knows about Hing, don"t forget, so we can"t talk to anyone around here. I don"t understand why Japan"s bringing girls into Port Bruce. How"s he going to get them down to Melbourne? That"s a long, long way away.”
“Marilyn says he sends his drugs down there. I thought he makes them in his place, but it sounds like he imports them too. Marilyn says that he distributes them through the bikie gangs down there. I"m sure she said they control prostitution too. That"s right, she said that all the strippers had to work for the bikies or they"d get beaten up, and they do the same to the prostitutes. They must be really foul. Like Japan, I
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suppose. And Marilyn says he"s got so much money he doesn"t know what to do with it. She"s says the police in the cities are being paid to look the other way – there"s so much money involved. I wish there was some way we could stop him.”
“Japan ver" bad man. I kill him,” said Mr Hing.
“He really hates Japan,” said Tom, “I"m sure he would kill him if he got the chance. I think the best way we can interfere with him is to help Hing write his letters. May be the Chinese government will start asking questions.”
“Yes, I write,” nodded Mr Hing.
“OK – but no Port Bruce, Hing. You say „Cooktown" – I"ll write it for you. Get some paper and I"ll show you.”
They left Mr Hing on the veranda hunched over his letters and walked in the garden. “I really like what you"ve done here, Tom. It"s so – I don"t know – so tropical. So green and fertile. It"s only like this for two or three months of the year in England, and it"s never this warm.”
“Yup, I know. I was brought up in Devon. Not bad, but this is much better. I don"t see me moving from here.”
“You don"t go back to England? Not even to visit? No family there?”
“No – my folks moved out here when I was eleven. They"ve gone now. Maybe I"ll go and visit sometime. If I ever get restless. Johnno was going to take me, but it"s too late for that now.”
“You can come and visit me – well, us. Rupert and me. I"ve got a place right in London.”
Tom looked around at the garden and then down at his legs. “London. That"d be a bit different. Can I wear my sarong?”
Shirley giggled. “I can think of half a dozen of my friends who would be fighting to take it off you.” And then she regretted her tongue; she somehow knew Tom would be embarrassed.
“I"d have to buy clothes,” mused Tom, “And shoes. I haven"t worn proper shoes for ages.”
“We could have fun. We could rent a car and drive around Devon.
It"s beautiful in the summer. If you go early enough to avoid the tourists.”
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They walked on in silence. She watched Tom as he inspected his trees, checking buds, searching for bugs. He really is quite happy here, she thought. I wonder why? Is there nothing else he wants? Does he never need any money? He seems to have balanced his need for the world"s products with the money he makes from selling fruit and vegetables. And there can"t be much money in that, especially in a place like Port Bruce.
A dead frond was lying under one of the coconut palms and Tom dragged it to the edge of the grass. “Bloody coconuts,” he said half to himself, “Always dropping stuff everywhere. Fancy a koolau? I mean a green coconut drink? Wait a minute.”
Standing against one of the fruit trees was a long bamboo pole with a hooked knife blade bound to its end. “Stand back,” he warned and reached it up into the crown of the coconut palm. Three nuts thumped onto the grass, “We"ll take them back to Hing. We can have them for lunch.”
She carried one of the green nuts back to the house. It was big –almost as big as a soccer ball – and very heavy. Tom produced a bush knife from behind the house and with two fluid blows had slashed a facet into the top of the nut. He drilled a hole into the exposed surface with the tip of the knife and handed it to her. “There you go – Chateau Bombadil. I could run it into a glass if you like.”
Shirley pressed her lips to the damp surface and tipped the nut back. The liquid was cool; fresh and slightly fizzy. It was nothing like the milk from coconuts bought in England. There was a lot of it, and she sat on the step to enjoy the experience. Tom prepared the other nuts and passed one to Mr Hing.
“Like it?” he asked.
“Heavenly. You should bottle it.”
“Doesn"t keep. And you can"t make wine from it either. But it"s pretty good just as it is, and you"d never run out of it here.”
Shirley slowly drained her nut. Once the last of it had gone, Tom took it back. “Now for lunch,” he said, striking some flakes off the husk. He passed one of the slivers to her and, with a heavy blow, split her nut in two. Inside, it was wet and shiny. A thin layer of flesh coated the
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surface. Tom picked up one of the slivers of husk and, using it as a spoon, scraped off a mouthful of the creamy meat. She copied him.
“Oh, I like that!”
Tom smiled at her. “The good things in life…”
She waited until Mr Hing had finished writing. There were three letters, one of them to Mr Hing"s family. She asked him to leave that one open. She would come back with her camera and take a picture of him for home. Rupert could print it out and slip it into the letter. She left them on the veranda and went looking for Walter.
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Chapter 8
Shirley drove Walter home by boat after buying him dinner at the RSL. She had wanted to take Tom as well, but he had refused. Walter said it was because he did not have the money to return the treat. That was a shame because she was curious to see how he would behave in the
outside world. She guessed she would just have to catch him at the Saturday market. Perhaps he would let her treat him to an ice cream.
She had sent her package off to Rupert, and telephoned him instructions as well. She had visited Byrnsie and emailed her photos including the one of Tom and Mr Hing standing in front of their house. And she had telephoned her mother and tried to persuade her to make a visit. That had failed, but her moth
er had picked up that something was troubling her. She had cut the call short to avoid questions, but promised to call again on Monday, without fail.
And then, on impulse, she had called her office. Kevin was a darling and put up no more than a token fight when she announced that legal problems meant she would have to stay another month. She felt guilty for the trouble she would cause.
Walter had heard her news without surprise. “Port Bruce can get to you like that,” was all he said.
And Port Bruce did get to her. She had sat on her veranda that night with the river flowing silently past and decided that Rupert would have to come and visit her. No excuses. She would email him next day and tell him to get moving.
Over the next week, she began to explore more widely. Tom took her one morning to walk along the north shore. He steered her little boat out of the river and along the shore for a while, and then stopped and pulled it up on the beach. Although it faced Port Bruce across the river mouth and was not far away, the beach here was untrodden. The locals had no call to go there.
“It"s a good place for beach combing,” said Tom as they started along the beach, “If there was a market for used fishing floats, I could be rich.” Or single thongs, thought Shirley, or empty plastic bottles.
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“Sometimes there are useful things,” Tom continued, “Plastic crates, good timber, useful rope. Other times there"s nothing at all, but it"s still a pleasant walk.”
They strolled on, scanning the strand line. The sun was fierce above them but there was breeze off the sea. Although she was becoming used to the sun now, she did not neglect her barrier cream. Tom used nothing. As he walked in front of her, dressed in no more than his faded sarong wrapped around his hips, his back was glistening. He was a powerful man, broad and strong. She was fascinated by his fur – she had never met anyone who was quite so hairy. The golden brown curls were thick on his arms and shoulders, and narrowed to run down the centre of his back. She wondered if there would be enough hair to comb.
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