Page 96 of That Island Feeling

‘Alrighty! Everyone out on the verandah for the fireworks display,’ Hazel announces.

Fireworks!

My hands tightly grip the balustrade as Arthur uses his hexagonal oars to paddle out into the middle of the river. Across the balcony, I catch Jack’s amused gaze. It’s like there’s an invisible string that connects us, finer than fishing line, that only we’re aware of. My mind records the moment to replay later when I’m back home in Sydney.

Oohs and aahs ripple around me as the first firework rockets into the air and the sky erupts into a kaleidoscope of pinks and purples that rain down over the river.

Arthur’s boat disappears under a dark cloud of smoke, as if he’s rowed into the crater lake of an active volcano.

‘Are you alright, mate?’ Jack shouts.

Arthur flashes us a thumbs-up – at least it appears that way; he’s wearing an oven mitt.

The show is over almost as soon as it began, a final golden shimmer of sparkles marking the finale. A brief silence follows, the night air thick with the smell of gunpowder and the river reflecting the last flickers of light.

‘Back inside now!’ Hazel barks. Her lips are painted rose red again. It really is her colour. ‘The documentary is about to commence.’

The whole island seems to be here, even Ben, Garth and Richie – who has taken an entire platter of smoked salmon canapés for himself and is set up in a corner, scoffing the lot.

We assume our original positions and I spot Taylor at the door. Mitch is at her side. She must have slipped in during the fireworks display.

The girls’ trip hasn’t ended the way I envisioned, but then again, none of it went as expected – for better and for worse. But mostly for the better, I reflect, eyeing Jack across the room with his lampshade hat. I can’t see his feet from here. I wonder if he’s barefoot in that suit.

Hazel points the remote at the television, then pauses.

‘Andie-girl!’ she calls out. ‘Come join me over here. Make some space for her, please.’

The obedient crowd parts, creating a clear path to Hazel. I take a seat next to her on the settee.

I’m now seated in front of Jack. I can feel heat radiating from his body, a blend of warm familiarity and stickiness of his skin baking in its wool blend. The scent of oranges reaches my nose as a gentle whisper.

‘Right, we’re ready to begin,’ Hazel says. She points again and clicks.

A chorus of chirps plays through the speakers, transporting us through the heavily forested trees on Jack’s side of the island. The sound is mesmerising. I glance at Hazel and smile. ‘Eyes on the screen, Andie-girl,’ she smiles back, patting my leg gently.

I almost miss the opening sequence, only just catching the swirly font before it flashes away.

For Hannah. And for Lily.

We’ll meet you in the movies.

Joy and confusion pitch inside me, and it takes a moment for my brain to catch up. As I feel Jack’s hand on my shoulder, tears well up in my eyes. He’s told Hazel about my mum.

Over the next ten minutes, a breathtaking montage of Pearl Island unfolds – everything I’ve come to love: the birds, the beaches, Izzie – even Brad and his rip-off ice-cream boat.

Next, Hazel speaks animatedly to the camera. Some of these stories I have heard before, while others are new to me. Hazel is vibrant and full of life as she shares tales of her time on the island with Hannah, occasionally bursting into sparkling laughter, her words budding with hope.

As her image fades, a resolve settles over me – Pearl Island has left me hopeful too, for the first time in a long time. Hazel’s voice carries on, only now she’s recounting the island’s darkest day while the screen fills with photos of oysters scattered across the beach in front of a small building. Is that Jack’s cabin?

Before I can ponder further, his face appears.

The back of my neck tingles as I catch sight of his dulled sea-green eyes, so different from the sparkly ones I’ve come to . . . love? I think, maybe, yes. It feels a lot like love. His eyes drift across the screen as a despondent voice – one I barely recognise – speaks. ‘We gave our blood, sweat and tears to our oysters, and now we have nothing.’

I read the caption underneath his image: Former co-owner, Pearl Island Oyster Farm.

Wait. What? I suck in a shock of air as it hits me. It was Jack’s oyster farm. Jack’s livelihood. Jack’s responsibility.

His hand is still on my shoulder, and I sense his unease behind me. Reaching back, I place what I hope is a comforting hand on top of his. How did I not piece this together sooner? I knew about the oysters, yet I reduced his life to that of a simple island local with a casual cleaning gig, who spent his days paddleboarding and fishing. I cringe as I recall how many times I implied – or even outright told him – that his life was uncomplicated. But why didn’t he correct me? Why was he okay with letting me believe a version of his life that was clearly false? I pull my hand away.

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