Olivia's Awakening. Margaret Way
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registered in amazement his incredible outfit. Navy boxer shorts with a frog-green singlet.
“You need help, little lady?”
That, when she was some inches taller than he. She momentarily closed her eyes. “I’m fine, thank you. Someone will be meeting me.”
“Lucky devil!”
Olivia’s Balfour blue eyes glinted. Why did it have to be a man? She could have been meeting a favourite aunt. She continued making slow progress through the swirling throng, marvelling at the sights around her.
She had never seen such flimsy dressing in her entire life, nor so much bare skin. Not even on the Caribbean islands. Nor so many marvellously attractive children, girls and exotic young women with startlingly beautiful black eyes, and skin either gilded honey, café au lait, light fawn or chocolate. They were all petite, with lovely slender limbs. Not for the first time in her life she felt like a giraffe, more pallid than she really was. Even Bella might have a job being singled out here. She didn’t know if these people were part aboriginal, part Indonesian, part New Guinean, part Chinese—anywhere from South-East Asia.
She didn’t know this part of the world at all. But they were all Australians, it seemed. They spoke with the same distinctive Australian accent, so much broader than her own and—it had to be said—the voices so much louder. No comment seemed to be offered quietly. She recalled her own voice had often been referred to as “cut glass.” But then they all spoke like that, the Balfours.
Heavens, was it possible she was a snob after all? For a moment she wondered if she had caught herself out. Looking around her she saw Australia’s proximity to Asia was well in evidence. This was a melting pot. Fifty nationalities made up the one-hundred-thousand-strong population and they all seemed to be waiting for flights out or meeting up with relatives and friends. She remembered now Darwin was the base for tourists who wanted to explore the World Heritage-listed Kakadu National Park and the great wilderness areas of Arnhem Land. She could readily believe such areas would be magnificent, but she couldn’t think how they would find the strength to go exploring in such heat!
She hadn’t thought to take off her long-sleeved Armani jacket. No chance of her ever getting about in floral bras, halter necks and short shorts like the young women around her. Not that there was anything wrong with her legs. Or her arms. Any part of her body for that matter. The jacket she wore over a slim skirt and a cream silk shirt beneath. Now she wished she had taken off the jacket. She was melting with little chance to mop her brow. The humid heat was far beyond anything she was used to. By Darwin standards she realised she was ridiculously overdressed. Absolutely nobody looked like her. Even her expensive shoes felt damp and clonky.
She was fully aware of all the curious glances directed her way. She also had quite a number of pieces of luggage to be off-loaded—all necessary, all bearing the famous Louis Vuitton label. Now she wished she had bought some ordinary everyday luggage. It was starkly apparent she didn’t fit in. Worse, she must have looked helpless.
“All right, love, are you?”
Olivia turned, astonished. Obviously she did have helpless or hopeless tattooed on her brow. For out of the milling crowd had emerged a pretty dark-skinned woman somewhere in her thirties, a little pudgy around the tummy, wearing a loose, floral dress alight with beautiful hand-painted hibiscus and some kind of rubber flip-flops on her feet. Despite that Olivia could see with her trained eyes that this was a woman of consequence, albeit in her own way. She had that certain look Olivia recognised, the self-assurance in the fathomless black eyes. She also wore a look of kindly concern. Olivia valued concern and kindness. Olivia liked her immediately. Something that happened rarely with strangers.
“Thank you for asking, but I’m quite all right.”
“Don’t look it, love!” The woman flashed a smile, still observing Olivia closely.
Did all these people speak their thoughts aloud? Olivia felt giddy and terribly overheated, as though the sun had bored a hole in her skull.
“Yah pale, and that lovely porcelain face of yours is flushed and covered in sweat. What say we sit down for a moment, love.” She paused to look around her. “Long flight, was it? You’re a Pom, of course. No mistakin’ the accent.” The woman laughed softly. “No offence, love. Me great-grandad was a Pom. Sent out to oversee the Pommy pearling interest. Used to be big in those days. His family never acknowledged me but that’s OK. I never acknowledged ‘im. So come on.” She took Olivia’s nerveless arm in a motherly fashion. “Over here. Don’t want you faintin’ on us.”
Olivia’s laugh was brittle. “I’ve never fainted in my life.” Nevertheless she allowed herself to be led away.
“Always a first time, love. They reckon five out of ten people faint at some point of their life. I fainted when I got speared one time. Accident, o’ course, but I nearly died. Me and Rani were out fishin’ for barra—that’s barramundi, if you don’t know. Best-eatin’ fish in the world.”
“I have heard of it,” Olivia said, not wanting to be impolite. “It’s terribly hot, isn’t it?” She sank rather feebly onto one of the long bench seats arranged in rows.
“This is cool for us, love. By the sound of it you wouldn’t want to be here in the wet. It’s just over.” The woman took a seat beside her. “What are you doin’ here anyway? Don’t look like a tourist to me. Look more like the wind blow you in, the wind blow you out. A bit spooky!”
“Spooky?” Olivia felt what was left of her self-confidence ooze away.
“Something about you, love.” The woman looked searchingly into Olivia’s blue eyes. “Your spirit bin wounded. Somethin’ happened you weren’t countin’ on? Don’t worry, yah spirit will heal here, far, far away from what you left behind. You’re gunna be able to display your real colours.”
Olivia, who fancied she had something of a gift, recognised a prophecy when she heard one. “Oh, I hope so!” The strange woman continued to stare directly into her eyes. Just as hypnotists do. Probably she was one. Or a sorceress. Then again she might discover the woman wasn’t real.
“Yah bin like a bird in a cage strugglin’ to escape,” the woman continued, her tone at lullaby pitch. “Beatin’ yah wings and flingin’ yourself against the bars. You have to have the will to escape.”
“Maybe I’ve been frightened to fly alone?” Incredibly Oliva found herself divulging that startling piece of information.
“Escape is within reach.”
The one thing she hadn’t reckoned on was an airport clairvoyant. “I’m waiting for a Mr Clint McAlpine to pick me up,” she confided in another strange burst of friendliness. “I’m to work for him.”
It was the woman’s turn to be astonished. “Clint hired yah?”
“You call him Clint?” Olivia was somewhat taken aback. No one, for instance, outside of family and close friends called her father Oscar. Dear me, no!
“Now, now, love, don’t come over the Pom.” The woman tapped her hand lightly. “We all call him Clint. We love him up here. He’s the best fella in the world. A fittin’ heir for his dad, who’s up there in the Milky Way, the home of the Great Beings and our ancestors. I’m Bessie Malgil, by the way. I shoulda told yah. Everyone knows me around here. I paint.”
“Pictures?” Olivia stared at her with quickening interest.
“Not your kind of pictures, love. We’re talkin’ indigenous art. Now how about you? What’s your name? Lady Somethin', I’ll be bound!”
“Olivia Balfour.” Olivia gave the Good Samaritan her hand. “No title.”
“Don’t need one. Written all over yah. Nice to meet yah, Livvy,” Bessie said, giving Olivia’s elegant long-fingered hand a gentle shake.
Livvy!