The Newcomer Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Author’s Note

  OVERDUE

  Y2 KILL ME NOW

  COOKIES

  HONEYMOON

  GOOD NEWS

  FOODFOLK

  ULVINIS

  NICE GIRL

  PRECIOUS CARGO

  MUTINY DAY

  ONLY CHILD

  RABBIT TRAP

  TROPHY

  OFF THE ROCK

  PERSONS OF INTEREST

  CLIFFTOP

  MERCY COVE

  TRAMP STAMP

  8:30 UNSOLVED

  DOWN SEASON

  KUKA PLANA

  KINGDOM BY THE SEA

  DRIFTWOOD

  THE WALLS

  A FAIR TRIAL

  HUNTING AND GATHERING

  INCEST?

  TOMBSTONE

  CASUARINA

  THE GREAT WHITE WHALE

  AULULARIA

  Acknowledgements

  THE NEWCOMER

  Laura Elizabeth Woollett is the author of a short story collection, The Love of a Bad Man (Scribe, 2016), and a novel, Beautiful Revolutionary (Scribe, 2018). The Love of a Bad Man was shortlisted for the Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Fiction and the Ned Kelly Award for Best First Fiction. Beautiful Revolutionary was shortlisted for the 2019 Prime Minister’s Literary Award for Fiction, the Australian Literature Society Gold Medal, and the Kathleen Mitchell Award. Laura was the City of Melbourne’s 2020 Boyd Garret writer-in-residence and is a 2020–22 Marten Bequest scholar for prose.

  Scribe Publications

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  Published by Scribe 2021

  Copyright © Laura Elizabeth Woollett 2021

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  Scribe acknowledges Australia’s First Nations peoples as the traditional owners and custodians of this country, and we pay our respects to their elders, past and present.

  978 1 922310 23 1 (Australian edition)

  978 1 913348 38 0 (UK edition)

  978 1 925938 92 0 (ebook)

  Catalogue records for this book are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library.

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  Although inspired by true events, The Newcomer is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  OVERDUE

  Just like grief, waiting had stages. And by two o’clock, Judy Novak was well and truly in the anger phase.

  Thirty years old! And still bloody selfish. Well, whose fault is that?

  The Mutineers’ Lodge cabins had been renovated for high season. Marine-blue carpet. Brochures swimming under coffee-table glass. Drapes so red they hurt her eyes. ‘You have to stay at Mutes’!’ Paulina had insisted, months back. ‘I’ll make your bed and serve you breakfast!’

  So proud of the fact that she could finally make a bed. Making an appointment — not so much.

  Two hours late! Island time be damned. It’s selfish, bloody selfish.

  Judy had called — how many times? Enough. She’d call again. Just once. On the bedside phone, so plasticky-new it looked like a toy.

  NOVAK, PAULINA

  The only ‘Novak’ in the Fairfolk Island phone book. Almost, it gave Judy goosebumps, seeing her daughter’s name so alone in that forest of Kings, Carlyles, Stevenses, Greatorexes.

  Pick up! For chrissakes, Paulina. Pick up!

  Each ring like a screaming newborn. Torture. She slammed the phone.

  ‘Fine! You’re a grown woman. So am I.’

  Judy stared at the phone for a long moment, like it was a snake slithering into a bush. Then she picked up her beach bag, threw a challenging glance at her pink-faced reflection.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She swiped a tear. ‘You’re fine.’

  ‘Excuse me. If you see my daughter—’

  He didn’t remember Judy, the fat clerk in the mutiny-red shirt. His smile said as much: a crocodile smile that didn’t quite meet the sea-glass eyes with their curiously beautiful dark-brown lashes. A man her age. It was one thing being invisible to young blokes, but had this man really lumped her in the same category as all the nearly-deads with their coach tours and activity calendars?

  ‘I’m Paulina’s mum,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Of course you are!’ Patronising. ‘What can I do for you, ma’am?’

  Judy’s eyes wandered down to his name tag: Bazel.

  ‘Well. She was supposed to meet me at my cabin two hours ago. At least, that’s what we agreed? After her walk. Paulina said we’d go to the beach.’

  Bazel cupped his chin in his hands and frowned. ‘Is that right!’

  A gold ring glinted in his right ear. His desk was shaped like a prow, the wall behind it painted with half-naked Polynesian women and rogue British sailors, looking out to sea at a burning ship.

  ‘That one’s my ancestor, Samuel Stevens.’ Noticing her looking, Bazel pointed out one of the sailors. ‘I made sure the artist gave him lots of muscles.’

  ‘Which one’s his wife?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ He shrugged sheepishly. ‘That one there with the white flowers is Gideon King’s bride, Puatea.’

  ‘Very … historical.’ Sighing, Judy straightened the strap of her beach bag. ‘If you see Paulina, tell her I’ve gone for a drive. I’ll be back in an hour or so. She can call me then, if she likes.’

  Judy didn’t wait around to listen to Bazel’s reply; she had things to do, goddamnit. Although, once behind the wheel of her rented Hyundai, she wasn’t quite sure what.

  Where are you, Paulina?

  There’d been no rental cars when she and Marko honeymooned on the island thirty years ago. Just hiking. Horseriding. Men cracking onto her every time Marko left her side — asking what’s a girl like you doing with that old bloke with the funny accent? Even so, Judy felt a pleasant sense of déjà vu, easing onto the sleepy palm-lined road.

  The Pacific peek-a-booed from the bottom of the hill. For a moment, Judy thought the car might roll straight into it. Instead, the road twisted and flattened out to a disconcertingly British expanse of fields, ruins, grim Georgian architecture. Pine trees tall as skyscrapers. Judy slowed as she neared King’s Pier, parking behind a cluster of trucks and utes. On the horizon, dockers in hi-vis shirts bloomed like hallucinogenic flowers.

  ‘Afternoon!’ A bloke, half-hidden by the truck he was loading up, startled her as she exited the Hyundai. He was old for a labourer, with a skinned-seeming head, hair so colourless and closely cropped it looked more like a film of sweat.

  ‘Afternoon.’ Judy smiled. ‘Working on Good Friday? You poor things!’

  ‘First supply ship in six weeks, all hands on deck. See these boxes?’ He motioned Judy closer, deftly sliced through the cardboard. ‘I’ve been telling the grandkids to expect chook eggs in this year’s Easter-egg hunt.
Better late than never, eh?’

  ‘I miss those days.’ Judy looked down at the bright-foiled chocolate eggs. ‘My daughter won’t go anywhere near chocolate. She’s thirty this Sunday.’

  ‘Mother–daughter birthday trip, eh?’

  ‘I’m just visiting. She’s here on a work permit.’ Already, Judy felt annoyed with herself for talking about Paulina — who, wherever she was, surely wasn’t talking about her. ‘She’s … working now, actually. So much for the easy, breezy island lifestyle!’

  The bloke winked. ‘You need a local to show you some of that.’

  Was he cracking onto her? Judy didn’t stick around to find out — just squeaked a laugh and drifted away from the pier, toward the grassy clifftops. She could almost hear Paulina cackling at her back: ‘Told ya! Fairfolk men are desperate !’

  Judy stumbled upon a plaque, bowed her head to read:

  After six torturous months at sea, the mutineers and their Polynesian wives found shelter on Fairfolk’s paradisiac shores, and set HMS Fortuna on fire.

  Judy walked on, until she reached a cemetery where elderly couples were wandering around like reanimated corpses. She knew there was a beach just beyond the cemetery, a beach Paulina loved. But when the wind picked up behind her, bringing with it a fresh, earthy smell, she took it as a sign.

  By the time she got back to the car, her carefully blown hair was stringy, the powder on her nose dissolved. But worst of all was the tender thought rattling through her brain:

  Wherever you are, Paulina, I hope you’re safe from the rain.

  Judy drove into town. Everything was closed, including the pubs, which had been her greatest hope for finding Paulina. She parked and sat behind the wheel, hopelessly watching the miserable strip of shops being rained on. A cow wandered past. A cow. No people. Not for a long time — until she saw a blonde woman bustling across the road to let herself into a shop: Tabby’s Treasures.

  ‘Sorry? Are you open?’ Judy knew it was a desperate thing, barging muddy-footed into this woman’s shop on a public holiday. ‘Sorry — I was just wondering? Could I use your phone?’

  She could see the woman’s face forming a ‘no’. It wasn’t a kind face. Pretty once, maybe. Young once. Still youngish in a pert, freckle-nosed sort of way — or younger than Judy’s, anyway. She had the eyes Judy kept seeing everywhere: pale with dark lashes.

  ‘I’m sorry. Just quickly, I was hoping — could I just call my daughter?’

  ‘Is there not a phone where you’re staying?’ the woman asked, in that accent Judy had just now decided she hated.

  ‘There is, but … Look, I’ll be quick.’

  The woman relented. Judy apologised for her muddy feet, followed the woman like a sniper, eyes trained on the fat spilling over the outline of her bra. There was a scrunchie in her rain-frizzed hair. A scrunchie. ‘What pretty things,’ Judy murmured. ‘What a pretty shop.’

  The phone was behind the counter. ‘I’m just here for some paperwork,’ the woman explained. ‘The supply ship’s arrived. I’m expecting a big delivery tomorrow.’

  Judy picked up the phone, tried to dial.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should know it by now. My brain’s not working.’

  With a hissy little sigh, the woman dumped a lean phone book on the counter, stood back with folded arms as Judy fumbled, dialled.

  Hey, I’m not here. Sorry! Leave a message or see ya when I see ya. Whatever! Bye.

  ‘I’m coming over, Paulina,’ Judy said, in her sternest undertone. ‘Okay? I don’t care … what state you’re in. I’m coming over. Okay?’

  The machine beeped. Judy hung up, lost her nerve. Her eyes latched onto the closest thing: a tray of pale-aqua business cards on the countertop.

  ‘Oh, are you “Tabby”?’ She picked one up: Tabitha King, Custom Designs. ‘Like the shop? You design everything, do you?’

  ‘Just the jewellery,’ Tabby said, in a distant voice. ‘Everything’s Fairfolk-made, though. I export, too.’

  ‘Oh. Lovely.’

  ‘Take as many as you like.’ A saleswoman’s voice edged in. ‘I’m open tomorrow. Monday, too. Please, do come back, when I’m open.’

  ‘Of course …’ Judy’s eyes scanned for something else: fastened on a pendant in the nearest cabinet. ‘The angelfish! The little angelfish. Oh, I have to get her that!’

  ‘The angelfish?’ Tabby looked over her shoulder. ‘I’ll put it aside.’

  ‘Yes — no!’ Judy panicked. ‘Please, you don’t understand? It’s her birthday. Her thirtieth. I’ll be a terrible mother if I don’t get it now.’

  In fact, Judy had already bought far too many presents: a new Sony Discman, headphones, pedometer, Reeboks, and enough batteries to last the year.

  ‘Cash,’ Tabby demanded. ‘One hundred and fifty, cash. Our EFTPOS machine isn’t working.’

  Judy knew this woman, this cow, was screwing her over. She also knew she would’ve paid any amount for the little angelfish, in that moment.

  ‘Of course,’ Judy replied, with hysterical poise. ‘Thank you very much. And please — if you can — please gift-wrap it.’

  Pulling onto the gravel-and-mud of Tenderloin Road, Judy had the feeling she was trespassing. A downcast Fairfolk flag, dripping against its pole. A bathtub murky with rainwater. A miniature plantation of palm trees, their bases sharp with rat traps. Then she noticed the letterbox: shaped like a cow, with a slot for a bum-crack. She laughed, louder than it warranted. Paulina had told her about the letterbox, and the lady it belonged to — her landlady, Vera.

  Judy parked in front of the main house.

  It was a white clapboard house with an olive-green tin roof. Wraparound porch cluttered with fishing gear and mismatched furniture. Judy wondered if she should knock before proceeding to the cottage. Then she spied Paulina’s little blue Mazda parked outside.

  So she is home! Unless—

  The windows of the Mazda were open. Carpet drenched. Upholstery drenched. A puddle of water on the dashboard, flecked with dirt and stray pine needles.

  ‘Oh, Paulina!’ Judy cried, and shivered all over.

  She crossed the yard to the cottage — a smaller, boxier version of the main house. Banged on the flyscreen. ‘Yoo-hoo! Paulina!’

  No answer, except the jingle-jangle of a cat, scampering out of the bushes and winding its fluffy, toasted-marshmallow-coloured body around Judy’s legs.

  Judy grimaced. ‘You’re not Paulina.’

  She tried the door. Unlocked. This wasn’t so strange, was it? Paulina was always saying nobody believed in locks here.

  The cat dashed inside.

  Right away, Judy could tell two things: Paulina wasn’t home, but had been. Car keys on the counter. A half-empty water glass. The cat leapt onto the counter, sniffed the water.

  ‘Shoo!’ Judy cried. ‘Get down.’

  She peeked inside the pantry. Canned soup. Canned veg. Alcohol — a lot of it.

  ‘Oh, Paulina,’ Judy repeated, noticing a stack of empty goon boxes by the bin.

  The bathroom, though, made her proud. No dirty clothes on the floor. Only a single long brown hair in the sink. Towels hung from a rack on the door, the hooks shaped like seahorses. Even a wicker hamper for her laundry.

  Judy looked through cabinets, heart hammering. Found Paulina’s blow-dryer, plugged it in, and puffed her hair back to life.

  Her heart was calmer, entering Paulina’s bedroom. Not snooping. Just checking.

  The bed was made. Good girl. Cobalt-blue damask covers she knew Paulina had ordered from a catalogue, waited weeks for.

  A copy of Anna Karenina on the bedside table. Judy opened the bedside drawer.

  Phone book. Birth control. Diary.

  She should’ve known better; she’d read Paulina’s diary once when she was a teenager, and they’d fought bitterly about the contents. But s
urely things were different now?

  March 21, 2002

  Hangover. Fat pig. Sick of this shit, wish I was dead already.

  Judy shut the diary away, fought the tears. Oh, Paulina! ‘Mrep!’ The cat slunk into the room, pounced on the bed, and stalked toward Judy’s lap. Judy jumped to her feet. Snatched a tissue from the box by the bed, blew her nose — then wondered how often Paulina used those same tissues to clean up after men.

  That’s what you get for snooping!

  Crossing the room, Judy paused to check her hair in Paulina’s vanity, to spray Paulina’s perfume. Picked up the framed photo Paulina kept of herself, taken by her ex, Vinnie, outside Marko’s village in Croatia. Judy had never seen the village. Didn’t especially want to. Still, she’d envied Paulina — twenty-five and zipping off to Europe with a 65-litre backpack and the Greek boy she almost married.

  ‘Knock, knock!’ a cheery voice — not Paulina’s — called from the front door. ‘Fresh-laid Easter eggs.’

  The cat sprinted to meet the voice. Judy followed it, face burning; she was sure the snooping would show on her face. ‘Hello? I’m just looking for—’

  ‘You must be Judy.’ The woman, previously just a silhouette in the flyscreen, let herself in, and, in one fell swoop, set down a basket of eggs and scooped up the cat. ‘I’m Vera. I see you already met the Queen of the World, Miss Katie. Paulina’s out, is she?’

  A tall woman, wide-hipped, brown as toast, older than Judy — but not so much older that she’d call her ‘old’, like Paulina did. I’m renting from this old lady now. Vera, the old landlady. The old bitch next door’s on at me for smoking again. Vera’s dark-grey hair was short as a man’s, her clothes also mannish: boots, jeans, grey flannel. Slanted, very dark eyes. One of the few Islanders Judy had seen who looked typically Polynesian, instead of like a run-of-the-mill sunbaked Anglo-Australian.

  ‘I don’t know where she is. She told me she’d meet me at Mutineers’ Lodge, but that was hours ago.’ Don’t cry. Do. Not. Cry. Judy looked determinedly at the couch. ‘Maybe I should go back to the hotel?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Vera’s face smoothed in sympathy. ‘Come up. I’ll make some calls.’