Thirteen Pearls Read Online Free PDF

tropics.
    The bakery was opposite the sea. I wove my way between the tables and chairs and gazed through the display window into a carboholic’s worst nightmare.
    A man behind the counter asked, ‘What do you want? Haven’t got all day you know.’
    I snapped out of my daze. ‘Oh, sorry. I’m waiting for my uncle. I um . . . Could I have a chocolate milkshake please, with malt, and a lamington?’ Junk, junk, junk, but who knew what opportunities there ’d be for empty calories on a pearling island?
    I took my goodies to a picnic table by the water. Late afternoon sun shone on the tide-raked beach, exposing shards of broken bottles and chipped shells. Not exactly a postcard-perfect vision of an idyllic tropical island.
    Across the road, someone called out after me. It was the same guy who’d served me. ‘You don’t want to be sleeping down on that beach. If I was you I’d find a place to stay tonight, especially if your uncle ’s running on island time.’
    â€˜But . . . wait!’
    He turned back, batting a cloud of flies with flour-dusted fingers. ‘Yeah what?’
    â€˜Do you know him? Redmond Warren. He owns Thirteen Pearls. Did he tell you what time he ’d meet me here?’
    He shrugged. ‘It’s all ailan time here.’ He vanished inside the bakery.
    The sun was sinking lower over an island across the channel and soon would be swallowed by the rising hill. What if Uncle Red had mucked it up? I only had fifty bucks until I got paid. Dad had slipped the fifty to me when Mum wasn’t looking, ‘for emergencies’.
    Don’t be such a wuss! At least everyone here spoke English. I’d walk around the island, get a better look, and see if I could find any backpacker accommodation, just in case.
    On the ferry there ’d been a framed map of T.I. showing a five kilometre road that circled the entire island. Trudging back to the wharf, I picked my way through the sticky, green-skinned mangoes and drained the dregs of my milkshake. A row of paint-faded fibro houses edged a road above the mangroves. Littered throughout the stubby mangrove roots were drifts of rubbish – plastic bottles, chip packets, soft drink cans and beer bottles. Disgusting. Dumping my pack on the embankment, I clambered down and started picking up some of the rubbish until bit by bit I accumulated a decent-sized mound.
    â€˜Oi!’
    I spun around.
    A shrunken brown face with laughing, almond-shaped eyes and a halo of grizzled white hair peered down at me. ‘You better come up from there! There ’s crocs living down in them mangroves.’
    I scrambled up the bank at light speed, suddenly convinced I could smell the rotten breath of a croc snout centimetres from my backside.
    The old man pointed at me, doubling over with laughter. ‘Gotcha, didn’t I?’
    I kept my face blank. ‘You mean there aren’t any crocs?’
    â€˜Nah. I’m not saying that. Some big salties like this spot. It was just funny seeing your hair flying like a wild thing and your face so white like you seen a ghost.’
    I caught my breath. ‘There ’s so much rubbish. Doesn’t anyone care?’
    The old man shook his head and tsked in agreement. ‘No respect. Specially some of the young ones. But you got to remember. For hundreds of years, we had something to throw away – it was fish bones or coconut husks.’
    Though he was missing a couple of teeth, the old man’s grin lit up his face. ‘I’m Uncle Bill. You’re new to T.I. then. You being looked after?’ he asked, as if I’d just arrived at a party and my host was still too busy showing others around.
    I shook my head.
    He hobbled closer and squinted up at me. ‘Who you looking for?’
    â€˜My Uncle, Redmond Warren,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘He owns Thirteen Pearls and—’
    I was unprepared for his reaction