Floodtide

by Judy Nunn

  Television media, too, maintained a certain sense of decorum, cameras having been set up in the street well away from the church's courtyard. But their zoom lenses homed in on each car as it arrived and each new high-profile figure who alighted, and the running commentary from one particular female reporter, although hushed, was audible to those standing nearby.

  Then came the moment of the family's arrival. The black stretch limousine pulled up, the chauffeur alighted to open its doors, and the reporter's voice took on a new reverence.

  'The crowd gathered is silent as the McAllister family arrives,' she said. 'Johanna McAllister and her daughter, Alana, and, with them, stepping out of the car now, is Dr McAllister's mother and his sister, Julie, accompanied by her husband.'

  Sally Jordan looked down the street to check that the camera was following the family as the crowd parted to create a path for them. The soundman standing beside the camera gave Sally the thumbs up.

  'As they make their way towards the church, we wish them our deepest sympathy in their hour of grief,' she said.

  Sally was aware that some present considered she was overstepping the mark. The nearby ABC reporter was making dutiful notes and, when his segment went to air that night during the news, he would read his commentary over the footage his cameraman was currently filming. But Sally was hosting her own current affairs show these days – on commercial television what's more. She'd been welcomed back by a network only too happy to overlook her age in preference for her maverick approach, and Sally was determined to record everything live. It added impact.

  The cameraman was giving her the signal that he'd zoomed in on her. He'd lost sight of the family, now swal-lowed up by the crowd, which had closed ranks as they passed.

  'We're here to pay our respects to a great Western Australian . . .'

  She ignored the critical glances of those close by and continued her report, filling in time until the next car and the next VIPs arrived. She'd edit it all together later.

  Jo was amazed by the numbers of mourners gathered outside the church as she walked towards the entrance, which seemed so very far away. She tried not to catch the sympathy in people's eyes, but amongst the strangers she glimpsed faces she knew. Some she'd met in faraway places, in Frankfurt and Florida and London and Wales – and yet she'd accompanied Mike on relatively few of his trips. There must be many others from all over the world, from places she'd never seen. Mike would have liked that, she thought. He wouldn't have cared at all about the presence of the Prime Minister and the other high-ranking politicians and celebrities, but he would have welcomed such a turnout of his colleagues.

  There was standing room only in the church as more and more people filed in, and by the time the service started the place was packed and already stiflingly hot.

  The next hour for Jo was interminable. The priest seemed to drone on and on about things Mike would have hated, and she wondered if she'd made the right decision in allowing such pomp and ceremony. Forgive me, my darling, she thought. Her mind switched off for a lot of the proceedings; she could think of nothing but Mike. There were many tributes paid by his colleagues and by longstanding friends, and she thought vaguely that, yes, he would have liked them. The final eulogy was delivered by Allie.

  'My father was, and always will be, my hero,' Allie pronounced loudly and clearly from the pulpit. 'He led the way for others to follow. He was a pioneer before the importance of environmental preservation was even considered. I'm proud to have had a father like that . . .' Her voice quavered a little, but she recovered herself and continued in much the same vein.

  Oh yes, Jo thought. Oh yes, Mike, you would have liked this. You would have liked this so very, very much, my darling.

  For the first time, tears threatened and she stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, willing them away, and as the service came to an end she remained resolutely dry-eyed.

  It was a relief to escape the stifling confines of the church, even into the burning breezeless heat of the court-yard. Jo stood with the family, accepting the condolences offered with gracious dignity, but her responses were standard, mechanical. 'Thank you so much for coming . . . Yes, it was a lovely service . . .' She was hardly aware of what she was saying or to whom. She couldn't wait to get away from the church and the awful finality it represented.

  'Time to head off, I think.'

  Bev to the rescue. Thank God for Bev, she thought.

  The family climbed into the black limousine and the car headed off, shortly to be followed by a long procession of vehicles all bound for the Institute.

  Sally Jordan found herself a seat in one of the luxury coaches provided. She was aware that she was the only member of the media to flaunt the rules, but then the rules didn't really apply to her, did they? It was true she didn't have a connection with the family, but she'd known Mike McAllister and that was qualification enough. Pity she couldn't film the proceedings, she thought, but she'd be able to deliver a personal report on air, and she might get a few good quotes.

  The welcoming arrival of the Fremantle Doctor made conditions at the Institute comfortable, the fresh sea breeze off the water easing the oppressive mid-afternoon heat.

  After a sombre beginning, the general atmosphere relaxed and the gathering started to become the party Bev had planned. She'd laid in ample supplies of beer and champagne and finger food, and soon guests were mingling and chatting and rekindling old friendships, the talk principally about Mike and his work. Many of the international visitors were keen to be shown over the Institute, and Bev, in full sergeant major mode, elected Greg the official tour guide leader.

  The old gang had gathered in the main entrance foyer away from the crowd in order to pay their own special tribute – Muzza and Olga, Spud and Cora, and Pembo conspicuously minus Arlene.

  'To Mike,' Spud said, raising his stubby of beer.

  The others did the same. 'To Mike,' they said, and together they saluted the portrait.

  Muzza had refused the offer he'd received from the National Portrait Gallery in London, who'd wanted the work as a companion piece to his earlier portrait. Instead, he'd donated the painting to the Institute, where it dominated the foyer in truly spectacular fashion.

  Yes, he thought, as they all drank to Mike's portrait, this was certainly where it belonged. He was proud of the piece. He'd captured all of the commitment, all of the integrity, and something else besides. A touch of the steely hardness he'd sometimes seen in Mike's eyes, resolute and unwavering in purpose. Jo herself had commented on the fact. 'You've caught an element of Mike most people don't see, Muz,' she'd said admiringly. 'He can be a hard man.'

  Strange, Muz thought, how Mike had inspired his two finest works. But then perhaps not. Mike McAllister had been an inspiration to many.

  I'll miss you, Mikey, Spud was thinking. And I'm sorry, mate. I'm really sorry about everything.

  Spud wasn't sorry for his actions. He'd done what he'd done and he'd been prepared to pay the price. Guilt wasn't a consideration. But he was extremely sorry that he'd had to involve Mike. If he could have taken the rap on his own he would certainly have done so, but Mike had been so inextricably tied up with the whole business there'd been no other way out. Bloody shame about that, he thought. He hated the fact that they'd parted with bad feelings, or rather that Mike had. He wished he could somehow have made things up between them. But he couldn't now, could he? The poor bastard was dead. What a bugger of a thing to have happened.

  Pembo's thoughts were altogether different. As he looked at the portrait, he was riddled with guilt. Not for what he'd done, but for who he was. It seemed the eyes of the portrait were staring at him in personal accusation, and he felt compelled to look away, aware that, beside him, Spud knew why.

  Ian Pemberton had been as shocked as any by Mike's death. But he'd been unable to disguise the relief that had swiftly followed with the sure knowledge that, given the tragic death of its founder, the Institute's funding would no longer be questioned.

>   'The Institute won't come under investigation now, will it? We'll be off the hook, won't we?' They were the first words he'd uttered to Spud upon hearing the news.

  The question hadn't, as yet, occurred to Spud. It would have eventually, but there'd have been no joy in it. Christ, he'd rather have served three times the sentence and had Mikey alive. Spud had looked at Ian as if he were some sort of insect that had crawled out from under the nearest rock, which was exactly the way Spud saw him.

  'You're just a worm, aren't you, Pembo,' he'd said.

  Ian had felt every bit as insignificant and worthless as Spud had intended him to. He still did. He couldn't help himself. The awful truth was that he was still relieved, and the eyes of the portrait seemed to know that. Ian Pemberton's burden in life was the knowledge that he was a coward, and that he always would be.

  'Dry argument,' Muzza said, breaking the mood. Everyone was being altogether too quiet, the women respecting the men's silence, and he hoped the portrait wasn't making them all maudlin. It certainly wasn't meant to. He drained his stubby.

  'I'll go,' Olga said. 'It's a bit crowded inside.'

  'I will help you,' Cora offered and, taking the empty beer bottles from the men, the two women disappeared.

  'So it all starts next week, eh?' Muzza said. Spud had told him about their imminent appearance before the Royal Commission, even admitting quite openly that they were likely to end up facing criminal charges as a result of the findings. 'Are you nervous?'

  'Nah.' Spud shrugged. 'What will be, will be. Pembo's shitting himself, of course.'

  Ian squirmed, wishing Spud would stop putting him down at every opportunity. Muzza pretended not to notice.

  'What do you think the final outcome will be?'

  'My guess is we might cop a two-year sentence.' Spud's contemptuous glance at Ian said, Aren't we lucky? Probably would have been six if our best mate hadn't carked it. 'Could be out in nine months.'

  Spud was quite prepared for jail. He'd decided that he might write a book while he was inside. He'd thought of taking up painting, but Muzza was too hard an act to follow. Anyway, he'd keep himself busy, and then when he was out he'd rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

  'Shouldn't be too difficult,' he said. 'What do you reckon, Pembo?' His voice was mocking; he knew Pembo was terrified. Jail would probably kill Pembo.

  'Speak for yourself,' Ian spat back. He was heartily sick of the digs at his expense. He pulled himself together and ignored Spud as he turned to Muzza, trying to muster up some semblance of bravado. 'Arlene's kicked me out,' he explained, 'doesn't want a bar of what's in store. But Gordy's sticking by me, which I think says something.'

  Ian had moved back to the Sheraton. The strained relationship between him and Spud had made life intoler-able, and his son's support was all that was keeping him together.

  'He's refused to side with his mother,' Ian said with pride. 'We have a special relationship, Gordy and I.'

  Young Gordy Pemberton had certainly rebelled. He'd even shifted from the Peppermint Grove house into a poky flat in Crawley with several other students from his economics course at uni. If his dad was going to jail, then he'd stick by him, Gordy had announced to his mother's dismay.

  'Yeah,' Spud interjected, 'your kid's got guts, I'll admit that much.'

  He wondered how long it would be before young Gordy woke up to the fact that his father was the spineless wonder of the world.

  What was going on, Muzza wondered. He felt sorry for Pembo – he could tell he was frightened, and Spud was certainly getting the boot in. He wondered why.

  'You'll cope, Pembo.' He smiled comfortingly as he tapped the arm of his wheelchair. 'You can cope with just about anything if you put your mind to it,' he said.

  Pembo gave a wan smile in return, grateful for the show of support, but he knew he wasn't made of that stuff.

  Sally Jordan was accompanying a group of international visitors on one of Greg's tours, keeping well in the back-ground, making surreptitious notes as he showed them around the aquaria and laboratories. Some of the visiting scientists were making notes too, so she didn't look out of place.

  Sally had been keeping a low profile throughout the afternoon, avoiding locals who might recognise her from television, but she'd copped the odd glance and was expecting at any moment that she'd be asked to leave. Her gatecrashing exercise had proved most successful, however. She'd chatted to quite a few of Mike's overseas colleagues who'd come up with some very useful quotes, which, later in a secluded spot, she'd scribbled verbatim in her notepad. And now she'd had the full guided tour, all of which was most useful, she thought.

  As the group returned upstairs, she quickly slipped her notepad into her jacket pocket and decided that now was perhaps the right time to beat a retreat. Cars were on regular standby for those guests who might wish to return to the city.

  Then she saw the lone figure standing on the balcony looking out to sea, and she wondered if she dared.

  What the hell, of course she did, she couldn't resist. They could only kick her out, and she already had what she'd come for.

  She stepped outside, quietly closing the door behind her.

  'Dr McAllister,' she said, 'I do hope you don't mind my intruding, but I wondered whether I might have a quick word with you.'

  Jo had been sitting on the bench at the foreshore for some time, barefooted, her arms wrapped around her knees. The sea breeze, now fresh and vigorous, whipped at her hair and dress, and somehow also through her brain, seeming to clear away the cloud of depression that had enveloped her.

  She'd felt more at ease the moment she'd arrived at the Institute. She'd had no difficulty at all conversing with people as she had at the church. Even Andy was there, which had rather surprised her.

  'I wanted to pay my respects at the church, but you seemed a bit surrounded, so I . . .' he'd begun awkwardly.

  'Thank you for coming, Andy.'

  She'd realised that the words no longer sounded empty and mechanical. She was glad to see him. He'd quickly disappeared into the throng and she'd realised that she was glad to see all the others too. She'd actually enjoyed chatting about Mike to old friends and accepting tributes from so many of his colleagues. It was as if Mike himself had been present. But she'd eventually felt the need to be on her own.

  Now, here, gazing about at the Institute and the marina, she felt that Mike was all around her. And he was, she thought. This was where he would always live on. The thought was comforting. It lent her strength. Strength enough even to think of her own future.

  She stood, resolved. Not happy – that would take some time, she knew – but she would be able to get on with her life. And Mike would always be with her. He'd be with her in the Pilbara. Because that's where she would go, she'd decided. She would stay in Perth for as long as Allie needed her, and then she would go back to the Pilbara and her work at the clinic. It was where she'd been happiest, where she was needed. She hoped Allie would understand.

  As she neared the rear stairs to the balcony, she saw Allie directly above, alone, staring out to sea, others obviously respecting her privacy. A figure joined her, a woman. Jo didn't know the woman, but she looked vaguely familiar. Then she realised that she'd seen the face on television.

  She made for the back stairs; Allie needed rescuing.

  'You're a reporter, aren't you?' Allie recognised the woman, a current affairs journalist, she'd seen her on air.

  'Yes,' Sally admitted. 'But I did know your father,' she added hastily. 'I was the first to report on the Dampier oil spill in '75. He was a fine man, a very fine man.'

  'Yes, he was.'

  Sally had intended to start out by offering her condolences, but the young woman's startling blue eyes were shrewdly sizing her up, and she realised that the bullshit approach wouldn't work. Wiser to get straight to the point, she decided.