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Southern Right .1
"Is this the place where a huge whale was once spotted?" Stephen asked. "About eight years ago?" He hated speaking to strangers. He sounded shy and uncertain now that he hadn't spoken to anyone for days. He fumbled in his purse in order to find the right coins to pay for his can of softdrink.
"A big whale? I wouldn't know, mate. Eight years ago, that'd be well before I came here, about a year ago." The man seemed genuinely interested; he stopped cleaning the counter with a wet cloth. "Big fish uh? I'll tell you something…"
"A Southern Right Whale," Stephen said.
"Where're ya from? I seem to detect a bit of a Pommie accent."
"I'm from England," Stephen said stifly.
"From the Old Country, eh? Permanently? You're here to stay?"
"No, I have to get back over there soon. I'm a student."
"From Oxford?"
Stephen smiled. "No, I'm from Aberystwyth, a small university town overlooking the Irish Sea."
The man nodded. "Ah, y're studying fishes and things, marine biology, and you haven't got any big whales up there so you've come Down Under to look for them here, is that it?"
"I'm studying English," Stephen said timidly. "English literature."
The man didn't seem to hear him for he went on: "Now what sort of a whale was it again?"
"A Southern Right Whale."
"That's right. Now let me see…" He pointed outside. "See that old fellah over there? Over near the jetty, on the sand. Cleaning or painting his boat. That's Old Jack Kinniburough. Now he'll know if anyone knows. He's lived here all his life, Old Jack has. You go and ask him."
Stephen made a mental note of the name Kinniborough. He paid the man and thanked him. He left the small seaside café and walked towards the beach, sauntering along the shoreline towards the powerboats and the small yachts anchored off a pier. It was low tide. Patches of dried sea weed crackled and popped under his shoes. Seagulls were walking or standing on stretches of sand that had fallen dry. They flew up as he approached them. The outline of numerous tall city buildings was visible in the distance across the immense bay.
From a distance he kept observing the old man who was bent over, working on a rowing-boat that had been pulled out of the water high up onto the beach. He wanted to put off the moment that he would step up to the man and ask the questions that he had already carefully formulated in his mind. Looking at the row of weatherboard houses across the road from where the old man was busy painting the bow of his upturned boat he remembered the day when he and his father and mother travelled by car from Warrnambool, his home town, to Melbourne, shortly before they left Australia. Now he had come back here to retrace his steps, to try and find out who his real family were. His father and mother in England were his adoptive parents, they had never spoken of his real, biological parents. Except his mother one day when she was very ill, shortly before she died. But she had not mentioned any names. All she had said was that he had actually seen his real mother once, by accident, from the back of their car, when they were held up in a traffic jam. In the distance he had seen her, one of the two women walking in the street, the day they travelled to Mordialloc where they were going to stay with his father's younger brother for a few days before flying off to England.
He looked at the houses and tried to remember which house it could have been that the women had come out of the day that groups of people had gathered near the water's edge looking at something in the waves close to shore. He remembered the scene as if it were a half-forgotten dream. People were standing on the jetty and outcrops of rocks pointing at something, a few holding binoculars. From the back of the car, sitting next to his mother, he had seen all this. Traffic had come to a standstill. His father, who was driving, got all flustered, not knowing what the excitement was about. But Stephen had lowered the back window and overheard someone say in a loud voice there was a whale out there and that they must try to stop it from beaching itself.
"Let's get out and see the whale," he had called out.
"No, don't," his mother hissed. She sounded panic stricken. She was looking out of the other window at the houses. Two women and a small girl had left one of the houses and hurried down a garden path towards them. As they approached their car, Stephen saw how his mother pressed herself against the upholstery of the back seat as if she wanted to hide. He twisted round to get a better look at the women and the child but his mother grabbed him by the shoulder to try and stop him. "Drive on," she urged.
"I can't," his father shouted. "Can't you see… I'm stuck here. Nobody is moving."
"Let's get out of the car and see the whale," Stephen called out excitedly.
"No, no, move on," said his mother, hiding her face behind her other hand.
Yes, it all came back to him now.
He looked around him. Old Jack seemed to have finished his job. He was straightening his back and putting the lid on a can of paint. Stephen mustered up his courage and walked up to him.
feedback van andere lezers- Anjer
Mooi dit, vraagt naar meer rudolfpaul, knap geschreven in Engels en a tat of Irish, grt Anjer - jack
Is engels je moedertaal? Knap en foutloos geschreven, in elk geval. De enige (weliswaar opbouwende) commentaar die ik zou kunnen geven is dat je de ware reden van zijn bezoek enz. ook nog even verborgen had kunnen houden. Maar het is goed zoals het is hoor, daar niet van.
Heel mooi, dat welluidende, licht ouderwetse engels.
RudolfPaul: Ja, ik spreek thuis engels met vrouw en kinderen.
Dank jevoor je bemodigende woorden. - Dora
Pommie accent? Ben benieuwd waar dat naar verwijst
jetty=? moeilijk als Engels niet je moers taal is maar wel interessant en leerzaam Rudy.
sauntering= slenteren? Spannend verhaal, ik ga het zeker volgen al is het best een kluif in het Engels. "Toevallig" schreef ik gisteren de column voor morgen naar aanleiding van "DNA onbekend."
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