Johnno Dawson’s Filipina bride, there’d been no Asian people in Dungirri in her time.
Seeing Jenn and Mark in their grimy, ash-covered clothes, the barman raised a concerned eyebrow. ‘Mark! We heard about the fire – are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Liam. Jenn needs a room, at least for tonight. Have you got one for her?’
‘Sure.’ Liam took a key from the drawer. ‘Room two’s upstairs on the left. It’s the nicest one. You can fix up the bill in the morning, Ms …’ He gave her the I’m-sure-I-recognise-you look she was gradually becoming more accustomed to. ‘Ms Barrett, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ A shower, a bed, peace and quiet – she craved all of it.
‘I’d better go in,’ Mark said, his voice low, indicating the front bar, where the rumble of conversation was gradually slowing. ‘They’ll want to know about Jim. Do you want it known, yet?’
He was asking her permission – family permission – to tell them. Not that she had any right; that was Paul’s role, not hers. But Paul wasn’t here, and a bar full of locals who knew Jim far better than she did werewaiting on news.
She nodded. ‘Let’s go tell them.’
She left her duffle bag in the hallway and walked into the main bar beside Mark. The chatter fell silent, and all eyes turned to face them.
She scanned the small crowd: maybe thirty, forty people. There were guys in RFS T-shirts – the crew who’d been first on the scene – and a couple of people in SES overalls, including the young man who’d worked with Beth on Jim. She knew the face, although in a much younger form. One of the Sauer boys; Karl, Mark had called him earlier. She’d babysat the Sauer kids a couple of times.
Other faces held that similar disconcerting familiarity of kids she’d known, now adults. And the older ones – yes, they’d aged, some more than others. George Pappas and Frank Williams now with white hair and the faces of old men.
And every face watched Mark, wary, with a hundred questions waiting to be asked. A few people nodded at Jenn, one or two with subdued smiles. She checked the room again for her Uncle Mick – no sign of him. Good. Maybe it was cowardly of her, but she was relieved Paul would be the one to tell him of his brother’s death.
Frank Williams cleared his throat. ‘Mark. I’m sorry about your place. Is there any news on Jim?’
She felt Mark’s eyes on her, his hand light against her elbow. He’d do it for her if she couldn’t. But some part of her wanted to take the responsibility, do Jim this small service and tell his friends.
Words. Just words, and therewere a thousand phrases she could use.
‘We’ve just come from the hospital,’ she said, more steadily than she’d expected. ‘It won’t be announced officially until Sean and Mick are informed, but I’m sorry to tell you that Jim’s injuries were too severe. He … passed away a little while ago.’
Passed away. Stopped breathing. Died. Expired. Departed. She could think of a hundred synonyms and none of them came close to expressing the sense of desolation gradually engulfing her numbness. How could a man she hadn’t seen in so long leave such an emptiness?
Murmurs of shock, denial and dismay rippled around the room. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, a brief battle for control evident in his features, but he succeeded, stepping forward and taking her hand between his.
‘Jenny, I’m sorry for your loss. Jim was a good man, a good friend.’
The
Jenny
threatened her composure. She could almost hear Jim saying it, in his voice so like her memory of her father’s. She hadn’t been Jenny since she left Dungirri. But that was half a lifetime ago, and she wasn’t going to fall to pieces in the front bar of the Dungirri pub.
Do the right things, say the right things.
‘Thank you, Frank. He valued his mates. I know you will all miss him.’
‘Has anyone told Mick yet?’ ‘Paul’s telling him now,’ she said.
‘Tough on the lad.
Seeing Jenn and Mark in their grimy, ash-covered clothes, the barman raised a concerned eyebrow. ‘Mark! We heard about the fire – are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Liam. Jenn needs a room, at least for tonight. Have you got one for her?’
‘Sure.’ Liam took a key from the drawer. ‘Room two’s upstairs on the left. It’s the nicest one. You can fix up the bill in the morning, Ms …’ He gave her the I’m-sure-I-recognise-you look she was gradually becoming more accustomed to. ‘Ms Barrett, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ A shower, a bed, peace and quiet – she craved all of it.
‘I’d better go in,’ Mark said, his voice low, indicating the front bar, where the rumble of conversation was gradually slowing. ‘They’ll want to know about Jim. Do you want it known, yet?’
He was asking her permission – family permission – to tell them. Not that she had any right; that was Paul’s role, not hers. But Paul wasn’t here, and a bar full of locals who knew Jim far better than she did werewaiting on news.
She nodded. ‘Let’s go tell them.’
She left her duffle bag in the hallway and walked into the main bar beside Mark. The chatter fell silent, and all eyes turned to face them.
She scanned the small crowd: maybe thirty, forty people. There were guys in RFS T-shirts – the crew who’d been first on the scene – and a couple of people in SES overalls, including the young man who’d worked with Beth on Jim. She knew the face, although in a much younger form. One of the Sauer boys; Karl, Mark had called him earlier. She’d babysat the Sauer kids a couple of times.
Other faces held that similar disconcerting familiarity of kids she’d known, now adults. And the older ones – yes, they’d aged, some more than others. George Pappas and Frank Williams now with white hair and the faces of old men.
And every face watched Mark, wary, with a hundred questions waiting to be asked. A few people nodded at Jenn, one or two with subdued smiles. She checked the room again for her Uncle Mick – no sign of him. Good. Maybe it was cowardly of her, but she was relieved Paul would be the one to tell him of his brother’s death.
Frank Williams cleared his throat. ‘Mark. I’m sorry about your place. Is there any news on Jim?’
She felt Mark’s eyes on her, his hand light against her elbow. He’d do it for her if she couldn’t. But some part of her wanted to take the responsibility, do Jim this small service and tell his friends.
Words. Just words, and therewere a thousand phrases she could use.
‘We’ve just come from the hospital,’ she said, more steadily than she’d expected. ‘It won’t be announced officially until Sean and Mick are informed, but I’m sorry to tell you that Jim’s injuries were too severe. He … passed away a little while ago.’
Passed away. Stopped breathing. Died. Expired. Departed. She could think of a hundred synonyms and none of them came close to expressing the sense of desolation gradually engulfing her numbness. How could a man she hadn’t seen in so long leave such an emptiness?
Murmurs of shock, denial and dismay rippled around the room. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, a brief battle for control evident in his features, but he succeeded, stepping forward and taking her hand between his.
‘Jenny, I’m sorry for your loss. Jim was a good man, a good friend.’
The
Jenny
threatened her composure. She could almost hear Jim saying it, in his voice so like her memory of her father’s. She hadn’t been Jenny since she left Dungirri. But that was half a lifetime ago, and she wasn’t going to fall to pieces in the front bar of the Dungirri pub.
Do the right things, say the right things.
‘Thank you, Frank. He valued his mates. I know you will all miss him.’
‘Has anyone told Mick yet?’ ‘Paul’s telling him now,’ she said.
‘Tough on the lad.
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