‘We each had such a strong vision of what Australia should be when we arrived at Refuge. Refuge let us share each other’s visions.’ She met his eyes. ‘I think, no, I believe, that each one of us who was at Refuge has made a difference in this world. Will make a difference too. Every one of us.’
‘Even me?’
‘Don’t get too swollen-headed, boyo.’ Somehow the strong lilt of her childhood was back. ‘But yes … you too.’
‘I was so scared. I thought maybe I was mad.’ His voice broke. And he was crying, sobbing fully as he had never been able to sob in the last three years. Sobbing for the loss of Jadda, for the loss of the childhood he’d never had. Crying because he was happy too for the life that might be to come.
Susannah put her arm around him, just as she had so many times for all of them, back at the beach. The other patrons looked away, embarrassed.
At last the tears stopped. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘I … I don’t know why I am crying now.’
‘Because it’s over,’ she said quietly. ‘And it’s beginning. You know what we all do when we meet each year? We go down to the beach. Not just the friends you met at Refuge, but some of the ones who left before you as well: Jane, Vlad, Julio, Abdulla. We play the game too.’
He tried to think of a nun in black robes playing the game, or the old woman in front of him. ‘Even you?’
‘Even me,’ Susannah said. ‘Even David in that last year in his wheelchair, and the children and grandchildren too. And I’ll tell you something, boyo, every child on the beach joins in. No matter what their faith or colour. Refuge is still there, Faris, as long as love and memory live. Day by day, we change the world.’
Suddenly the scent of tea bags and reheated cakes vanished. He could smell Jadda’s hand cream, feel her warmth. All those days or weeks or years on the beach and she’d been there, and by the same power she was with him still.
She always would be, as long as love and memory remained. Jadda helped make me who I am, he thought. If I help change the world, Jadda’s hands will be there too.
He looked at the old woman next to him, fragile, fulfilled. Saw the old woman and the girl.
‘I am more than ninety years old,’ she said softly. ‘But I think I can toss a ball on a beach for a few years yet. I hope you will be with us too.’
‘I will,’ he said. He leaned over and kissed Susannah’s cheek.
CHAPTER 32
His father arrived as Susannah started on a second cup of tea and a slice of banana cake. She didn’t look tired. Almost, thought Faris, as if she is waiting for something to happen.
His father looked almost warily from his son to the old woman forking in cake. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes. All OK. Thanks, Dad.’
‘Sit down,’ invited Susannah. ‘The banana cake is good.’ She turned to Faris. ‘Off you go for a walk. Your father and I can have a talk.’
Suddenly it was as though they were back at Refuge, with Susannah plotting — always for their own good, but plotting still — up on her sand hill.
Faris looked at her suspiciously. ‘What do you want to talk to him about?’
‘Faris!’ said his father, obviously surprised by his son’s lack of manners with an old woman.
Susannah laughed. ‘Oh, your son knows me well. Off you go, boyo. I want to convince your father to spend next Christmas at a beach, where you can play a game on the sand. Does that satisfy you?’
It didn’t. But Faris knew that was all he was going to get. Susannah might have spent a long life being Sister Margaret-Mary, but she’d spent eighty years being Susannah too.
What was she planning now?
‘Take the path down to the harbour,’ said Susannah. ‘Just a quick breath of fresh air, there and back. There’s a lovely apartment you can both stay in at the beach,’ she added to his father. ‘It’s in a block of units that belongs to an old friend of mine, Nikkodemus Simoneides. Faris has met him. You can help us celebrate the Feast of St Kangarou too.’ Her smile had a touch of wickedness.
‘I’m not sure —’ began his father.
Faris grinned. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. St Kangarou isn’t part of a religion.’ He stood up. ‘I won’t be long.’
His father sat next to Susannah, obviously puzzled, and just as obviously waiting till his son would choose to tell him what was happening here, how he came to know a nun so well she’d want him to visit at Christmas, how he knew a man who owned holiday apartments by the sea, and why he should celebrate a Feast of St Kangarou.
Faris realised that his father had also waited patiently for his son to talk about Jadda, about all the things that had hurt too much to speak of.
Until today. Suddenly he knew he liked this man. He’d had to love him. There had been no one else in the last three years to love. But Faris was proud his father was a man who he liked now.
Tonight I will tell him how strong Jadda was on the boat, thought Faris. Tell him that Jadda spoke of him, just before she died. How much she loved us both. All of life is a voyage, he thought. My father and I are still sailing. But finally he could feel the joy and wonder of the journey.
One day, maybe, he might even tell his father about the beach, about Refuge. Even if he didn’t believe in its reality, this man would understand. And when Faris was ready, he would reach back, into that day of grief and terror, and see the wave as beautiful, majestic, as it reached towards the sky. There was no hatred in a wave. It simply was.
‘See you in twenty minutes,’ he said.
Susannah smiled. ‘There’s all the time you need. Banana cake,’ she added to his father, ‘and coffee, I’m guessing, not tea? You look like a coffee man to me.’
Faris walked down between the trees. The harbour waves slapped at the sea wall. No beach, no breakfast buffets, no kangaroos grazing under orange trees in suburban streets, no pet koalas who sat on your lap and ate chicken, nothing at all of the Australia he’d dreamed up. But Faris was the happiest he had ever been.
We’ll play the game on the beach again, he thought. My father too. Perhaps he’ll learn to laugh more.
Suddenly he wondered what Dad would think of Jamila. She would be closer to his father’s age than his. He grinned at the idea of Jamila as a stepmother, or his father as husband to a prime minister. Impossible …
But then the impossible had happened. He shook his head, still smiling, and turned to go back. Would the concert tonight be as good as David’s playing? Perhaps he’d cry, in the dimness of the audience. It felt good to be able to cry at last.
Three girls walked along the path next to the harbour wall, licking ice-creams. The younger girls wore jeans and T-shirts. The tallest wore a long blue top, embroidered and edged with gold, over plain white trousers. Her long black hair was drawn back in a single plait, the sides held with two gold-coloured combs. A silky scarf was draped across her hair and neck, in gold and blue.
She pointed the way to the café, then said something to the younger girls, obviously intending to head up that way.
She was too young. No, Faris thought, it is I who am older. Three years older than when I left Refuge. Older by a year or two, perhaps, than she is now.
Something he had never felt before washed through him. Susannah had planned this. Known about them both. Plotted their meeting. Perhaps had planned that they wouldn’t meet, if all Faris had been through had made him angry and intolerant.
But he had passed her test.
This girl was a stranger, with a different past, from a different culture. Even here, he realised, in the real world, each person had his or her own Australia. But people could still share dreams, forging a world they knew was good. And this stranger had shared more with him than any other girl he’d ever meet.
The girl saw him. Her face broke into a smile of joy. ‘Faris!’
Suddenly Faris could smell orange blossom, feel the hot golden sand, see the years stretch before him, each one richer than the last.
‘Nafeesa,’ he whispered.
The little girls stared as Faris ran towards their sister.
Author’s Notes
My various ancestors all came here by boat, of one sort or another, from many places, at many different times. All of them were fleeing persecution or hardship, or dreaming of a better life.
People have sailed across the dangerous ocean to Australia for perhaps the last sixty thousand years. Probably they always will, as long as there are humans and boats to sail in.
This book explores the stories of some of those who have made that voyage. It is never easy to leave your land and your people.
I don’t believe that any nation — including Australia — has a duty to accept everyone who wants to live there, or who arrives on its shores. This is a world where there can be three million refugees a year, or far more. There are many millions more who would like to leave a poor nation and live in a rich one. No country can ever say these days, ‘Let them all come,’ without destroying its land and social structures. I am glad that I don’t have to make the decisions about who and how many should live here, although I think that all Australians should be part of that debate.
But we also have a duty to try to understand the grief and tragedies of others, and to accept that, as an island nation, strangers always have and always will — somehow — arrive here by sea.
In Pennies for Hitler I wrote that hatred is contagious, but so is kindness. Sometimes being good to others — as a nation, or as individuals — can be as powerful as guns.
My grandmother was proud that she greeted visitors with a cup of tea, and fresh scones or apple tea cake. No matter who the new arrivals are, or what they have done — or for how long we decide they should stay — we owe them the equivalent of Grandma’s welcome: a cup of tea, a scone (and the best education and medical help while they are here) and compassion.
Yes, we should plan and examine carefully who and how many people come to Australia and in what way. But we should always remember that our families were in those boats too.
Faris’s homeland
I have deliberately kept the details of Faris’s homeland vague. Faris could be from one of many countries where, if you speak out against the government, or are of a race or religion that isn’t that of the ruling party, you might be tortured and imprisoned, and your family too. For the same reason I have not mentioned his religion, skin colour, or the year this story is set. The boy on the cover of this book is the designer’s image of Faris — a good one, but perhaps not mine or yours.
Immigration laws, regulations and practices
The immigration requirements mentioned in this book may differ from the ones in place by the time you read it. Australia’s immigration laws, regulations and practices constantly change as circumstances do.
The Faris in this book arrived in Australia as a thirteen-year-old boy who had accurate and detailed papers with him, proving both his identity and his history. He also had a father who would already have been assessed as not being a security risk, and who already had residence in Australia, with good prospects of being accepted for citizenship. At the time I wrote this book it appeared that in a case like Faris’s the case workers assigned to him would probably have arranged for him to fairly swiftly join his father. This, however, is supposition. The government agencies contacted stated that much would depend ‘on circumstances’, without specifying what those circumstances might be, nor did websites give a definitive answer. I had the impression — which may not be accurate — that case workers might be allowed leeway in assessing what might happen, depending on the boy’s circumstances.
These notes would be a good place to discuss Australia’s immigration practices, but as I write this, the laws and regulations are undergoing considerable change, with a great deal of discussion and many differing points of view. It is likely that the next two years, at least, will see even more changes. Anything I write now would probably be out of date even before this book is printed.
St Kangarou
There is, of course, no St Kangarou. Many thanks to Liz Kemp, for suggesting that St Kangaroo should end in the Greek ‘ou’ (and for her insistence on making the original story richer too).
Susannah
Susannah — Sister Margaret-Mary — and Sister Augustine are not based on any real person, especially not any of the members of the Sisters of St Joseph. But in my childhood I saw those indomitable women fight for the best possible education for barefoot kids. Back in the days when many schools found some pretext to exclude Indigenous kids, and when girls weren’t supposed to beat boys in debating, the Sisters made an Indigenous girl captain of their debating team.
The team won the championship. I still wonder how it changed those girls’ lives too. Perhaps their lives also changed Australia. This book is for those women, with honour and gratitude.
The game
About a decade ago, on a South Australian beach, I watched a game that went on for all the days I was there. People joined it, people left, young, old, different clothes or different-coloured skins. It was the simplest game I’ve ever seen, and perhaps the richest too.
David’s music
As a child, the man who taught me the violin had David’s hands and history. He was a good man, generous, and I think happy, despite all that he had lost.
Susannah’s list
1. Mudurra — fourteen years old at Refuge. Born in what is now East Timor circa 60,000 BCE. Arrived in a canoe, fleeing a volcanic eruption. Married Juhi.
2. Ah Goon — thirteen years old at Refuge. Born in Peking (modern-day Beijing). He was part of an exploration fleet ordered by Emperor Yung-Lo, commanded by the Grand Eunuch Zheng He, which sailed in 1421. Ah Goon was washed overboard in a storm circa 1422. Married (?). Had at least one child, a son, when he returned to China. High-ranking public servant and author of the poem ‘The Golden Beach’ (see translation by Mei Ling McDonald).
3. Pedro (surname uncertain) — twelve years old at Refuge. Born in Portugal. He was ill from scurvy when he arrived in 1522 on a ship commanded by his uncle Cristóvão de Mendonça in a search for the ‘Isles of Gold’ (Ilhas do Ouro) beyond Sumatra. A Pedro de Mendonça captained the Ilhas do Ouro in 1544.
4. Jan van Klomp — ten-year-old son of an important man (supercargo — the person who supervises the cargo) on the Dutch ship Arnhem in 1623. Suffered from scurvy. Cape Arnhem and Arnhem Land in Australia are named after Jan’s ship, which itself was named after the Netherlands city of Arnhem. Jan survived scurvy, and later shipwreck. It is probable he is the Jan van Klomp who later became a famous astronomer. Twice married; eight children; died in 1708.
5. Henri Bouvier — twelve years old at Refuge. Born in Marseilles, France, in 1760. He arrived on the Gros Ventre as part of the expedition of Louis François de Saint Allouarn, who claimed the west coast of Australia for France in 1772. Unable to determine what part of the coast Henri came ashore; he only knew they had been sailing along it for ‘some days’. Henri was suffering from scurvy, but recovered with the fresh food in Australia. An Henri Bouvier is listed as a captain in Napoleon’s army circa 1800; probably the same Henri Bouvier who became a wine merchant and grape grower in 1801. Chateau Bouvier is still owned by the family and the ‘De Or’ label is well known, with wine cellars open to the public; see Nikko’s letter, 1982. Seventeen children; wife Margrete.
6. Billy (William) Higgs — fifteen years old at Refuge. Born in London, England, in 1814. Arrived in Australia as a convict in 1829. Married Mary Higginbotham in 1845 and had fourteen children, including William, Susannah, Bridget, Mary and Nicholas; see chart from Higgs family tree. Died in 1902. Great-great-grandson Arthur (Artie) Harrison engineer and astronaut.
7. John Grady (Big Johnny) — thirteen years old at Refuge. Born in Manchester, England, in 1822. Press-ganged into the crew of the ship Mary Castle in 1834 and shipwrecked in 1835. Arrived at Refuge after the shipwreck. Rescued and arrived in Cape Town in 1835. He arrived in Hobart in 1836
as a crewmember on the Anglesea. He jumped ship — the Anglesea — in Hobart in 1836; was granted land in the Midlands of Van Diemen’s Land (modern Tasmania) in 1841. Married Anne Douglass in 1841, no issue; married Jane McDonald in 1843 and had six children: Bill, Henry, Jane, Susan, John and Douglas. John Grady became a magistrate in 1847 and founded Grady and Henty Agricultural Company in 1848.
8. Bridget Flaherty — ten years old at Refuge. Born in Galway, Ireland, in 1839. Reason for leaving — the Irish Potato Famine of 1845–52 and typhoid epidemics. Starved on board ship. Arrived in Australia in 1849. She later wrote to a niece in Ireland that she had survived by making soup from the ship’s rats. Present at the Eureka Stockade with her parents in 1852. She married Thomas Burke MP in 1859. They had eight children and she became a prominent reformer for children’s health and schooling; said to be the force behind her husband’s campaign to end child labour in factories. She was a member of the Women’s Suffrage Union. Died in 1919. Great-granddaughter Senator Jessup (contacted). See further notes on the Burke family.
9. Gow Lee — born in southern China in Kaiping county, inland from Hong Kong. Arrived in Australia in 1857. Founded The Worragong Dispatch in 1867; founded Eagle Publishing in 1872; President of Worragong Enlistment Committee 1916–18. Married Gladys Green in 1872 and had six children: William, Albert, Susan, John, Henry and Percival. Died in 1939. His son Albert was elected Member for Burrinyup 1923–34. Henry won the Distinguished Conduct Medal; his citation credited him with saving the lives of eight of his comrades. Susan was first female councillor for Worragong and founded The Gazette, a literary and political magazine. See Lee family records.
10. Wolfgang Klaus — born in Bavaria in 1844. He arrived in Adelaide, Australia, in 1857 and settled on a farm near Mount Pleasant, in the Barossa Valley, in 1862. This is still farmed by his descendants. He married Bertha Smith in 1873 and had seven children: Martha, Heinrich, Wilhelm, Kurt, Annaliese, Susannah and John. See History of Mount Pleasant and Pioneers of the Barossa.
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