Beat Not the Bones

by Charlotte Jay

  Nyall waited and Jobe soothed his outraged feelings.

  About five minutes later the door opened and Warwick came in. He was a broad-shouldered, thick-set man in his forty-ninth year. He had lived in the Territory most of his life and, like many Territorians, did not look his age. The climate agreed with him. He was strong, active and clear-eyed. His name had meant nothing to Jobe, but actually he was one of the island’s aristocrats. He had been born in Marapai, a distinction that not many of the older men could boast of, and here the aristocracy were not those of blue blood or noble occupations but the ones who had lived here longest. This, however, was not the end of his achievements. He had half a dozen books to his credit and a reputation for learning and practical ability. To that minute section of humanity who had any interest in this primitive island, he was a celebrity.

  Even Jobe, who had not known his name, recognised him immediately. His heart sank. What rotten luck. What a piece of filthy, rotten luck.

  Warwick had not looked at him. He moved into the centre of the room and stood looking at Nyall. He seemed rather ill at ease and said uncertainly, ‘Well, Trevor …’

  ‘This,’ said Nyall, waving a hand vaguely, ‘is Mr Jobe.’

  Jobe came boldly forward with an outstretched hand. It was rotten luck, all right, but there was nothing to do but brazen it out. There was just a chance that this fellow wouldn’t recognise him.

  Warwick looked straight at him but appeared not to see him at all. He looked vague and worried.

  ‘He’s just come back from Kairipi,’ said Nyall briskly. ‘He’s been up the Bava River – hasn’t told us yet exactly where. And he brought these back with him.’

  Warwick took the two gold moons from his hand. The look of anxiety passed from his face. He turned the moons over and peered at them intently, then said, ‘Most interesting.’

  ‘Mr Jobe finds them interesting too,’ Nyall said with a faint smile.

  Warwick looked up and focused now on Alfred Jobe.

  Jobe held his breath. He thought he saw for an instant a faint beam of recognition in Warwick’s eyes. ‘I suppose he would,’ he said.

  ‘Well, come on, Mr Jobe. Let’s have your story. I’m afraid you’ll have to tell us where these things come from.’ Nyall spoke briskly now.

  Jobe had hoped he wouldn’t have to tell them but saw that this would be impossible. He squared his shoulders and went over to the map. His finger followed the coastline west from Marapai and mounted inland up the Bava River.

  ‘Here’s the river,’ he said. ‘Bava. Here’s Kairipi on the coast. Patrol ends at Maiola. You can take a boat up that far. The district officer goes up every six months from Kairipi. Eola’s about here, three miles west along the river.’ He tapped his finger on the map.

  ‘Eola,’ repeated Nyall.

  ‘Outside patrolled Territory,’ said Warwick.

  ‘Eola,’ said Jobe again impressively. ‘I was having a look around these parts. I’ve got a boat, been doing a bit of ­pearling up in the north. I took the boat up the Bava River and in one of the villages I came across one of these ornaments. They said they didn’t make them there, and I traced it back to Eola.’

  He paused. The two men were silent, their eyes turned intently to his face. He went on. ‘Eola’s a river village. You know the sort of thing … twenty or thirty grass huts built on the bank of the river. Big long house in the middle of the place, for the men – no women allowed – you know. Where they do all their hocus-pocus nonsense. Pretty wild people. Only half a dozen of them had ever seen a white man before. One of them had been down to Kairipi. They get a bit of trade stuff through from Maiola. A couple of them had cotton ramis on, and they had some tins of bully beef.’

  ‘Were they at all hostile?’ asked Warwick.

  Jobe became vague. This was a subject that he did not wish to go into. These government fellows were always worrying whether the locals were hostile. Wouldn’t even let you carry a gun. A man would be a fool to go into the jungle without a gun, but it might frighten the poor bloody natives.

  ‘Bit nervy at first, you know,’ he said airily. ‘Only natural. Not used to white men. Soon got used to me, though. Got quite fond of me after a bit, you might say.’

  ‘And the gold?’ said Nyall.

  ‘There’s a lot in the village,’ said Jobe, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Some of the old men wear those things round their necks, like pearl shell, you know. I’d say they was beaten out nuggets. And they’ve got a lot of rough stuff stuck away, and one special bit they make a fuss about that would be worth a few thousand on its own. There must be more of it round the place.’

  ‘Did you look when you were there?’ said Warwick.

  Jobe shook his head. This far he would not go.

  ‘Why would they value it!’ said Nyall, turning to the anthropologist. ‘It couldn’t have any utilitarian value, and these things are so crudely made they’re nothing to look at. The pearl shell is at least ornamental.’

  Warwick shrugged his shoulders. ‘There might be a hundred reasons, it’s hard to say how these things begin. Take those two rocks in the middle of the harbour. They’re more or less sacred, or used to be. There’s a legend about them. There’d be magic behind this somewhere. Where do they keep the gold?’

  ‘In the long house, or whatever you call it. The big hut in the middle of the village where all the men get together, and dance and eat and howl and God knows what.’

  ‘In the long house!’ exclaimed Warwick. ‘How on earth did you get in there? I had to wait in a village for three months once before they’d even let me look at it.’

  Jobe shifted uneasily. He had not been prepared for these questions. He knew well how taboo the long houses were; in fact it was there that the trouble had started.

  ‘Well, when I first got to the place,’ he said, ‘I saw some of the old men wearing ornaments like these, and I asked them if they had any more. There was an old bird who’d been to Kairipi and spoke a bit of police motu, and we could more or less understand each other. They was pretty cagey at first and wouldn’t say anything, but I managed to break them down. I had some trade goods with me, and I handed them around to sort of sweeten them up. Then one day he took me into the long house and showed me what they had hidden away. Very secret. Very hot, it was. This one big nugget, seems to be the prize piece, was hidden under leaves and feathers.’

  ‘Did they explain why they kept it?’ Warwick asked.

  ‘They seemed to think the big bit looked like a crocodile. It was quite rough. They hadn’t touched it. But there was a sort of look about it.’

  ‘Would it be a clan totem?’ asked Nyall.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Warwick. ‘Something like that. It probably started with the crocodile. Some sorcerer may have found it and made some sort of magic with it and then gradually the material itself – the gold – would be believed to possess the same properties.’ He turned back to Jobe. ‘Did you try to take any away?’

  Jobe’s spirits bubbled up afresh. Everything was going all right. This fellow Warwick hadn’t recognised him. And they were interested, they were quite excited about it all. It paid to put your cards on the table. It wasn’t such a bad show. They couldn’t help it if Australia interfered all the time. ‘I tried to buy some with trade goods, but they weren’t having any. The old boy sold me one of those ornaments for tobacco. But when the others found out about it they got a bit restive, and I had to hop it. One of them pitched a spear at me.’

  He extended for their inspection the underside of his arm. Across the delicate, almost feminine, flesh was scrawled a shallow, red scar.

  He saw immediately that he had made a mistake. Warwick looked up at him, faintly narrowed his eyes and glanced across at Nyall. There was a moment’s silence in which the only sound was of Jobe’s heavy breathing. Then Warwick put the two gold moons carefully on the desk. ‘We’ll have to talk this over, Mr Jobe, and let you know later on. But …’ he paused ‘… I don’t want to hold out much
hope for you.’

  Nyall nodded and said nothing.

  Jobe, looking from one to the other, thought he detected a faint, identical expression of satisfaction on their faces. ‘Oh. Why?’ he said loudly.

  Warwick did not look at him. His voice was soft and tired. ‘From what you’ve said, Mr Jobe, this gold is obviously of considerable value to the Eolans. The fact that they keep it secreted away in the long house means that it has ceremonial, to them almost sacred, significance. They wouldn’t sell it to you, they wouldn’t give it to you.’ He paused and shrugged his shoulders. ‘The fact that you value it for a different reason does not give you a right to it.’

  Jobe’s face was crimson. Words choked in his throat. For a moment the probable loss of his gold was a secondary consideration. It was this white man talking about native rights that enraged him.

  Warwick looked at him sharply. This time his eyes were curious. He’s remembering, thought Jobe. It’s coming back. He changed his tone, smiled and said sweetly, ‘It seems to me that we haven’t always been so mighty fussy about the things that natives value.’

  Warwick still stared at him. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But you’re speaking of the past. Exploitation has stopped now; at least, we’re doing all in our power to stop it. But there’s more to it than that. If you’d found the gold within patrolled territory, we might have had a different answer for you. But these people have no culture contact whatsoever. They don’t know our law. When you take their gold, they throw spears at you. The whole enterprise might end in a welter of bloodshed.’

  ‘They’ve had trade contact,’ said Jobe, still smiling. ‘They’ve bartered trade goods from Kairipi. They’re very fond of bully beef.’

  ‘A few tins of bully beef could hardly be called culture contact,’ Warwick said coldly.

  ‘I thought the policy of this government was to encourage private enterprise,’ Jobe bellowed.

  Nyall rose to his feet and spoke sternly. ‘The policy of this administration is also to protect the Papuans, particularly the unsophisticated people in backward areas.’

  ‘Protect!’ said Jobe, cut by the implication of his words. ‘Protect! Now, Mr Nyall, I come to you in all good faith. Fair and above board.’

  Nyall looked at his watch. ‘Come back at three this afternoon when we’ve had time to think it over. You never know …’ he ended vaguely. ‘In the meantime I trust you won’t mention this to anyone. We don’t like rumours to get around.’

  ‘I’m not such a bloody fool,’ said Jobe. He threw a baleful glance at Warwick, bowed respectfully to Nyall and left the room.

  They waited till his footsteps had died away, then Warwick said, ‘You can’t let him go, Trevor.’

  Nyall turned away. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, apart form the obvious reasons that I’ve been trying to explain to Mr Jobe – there’s the man himself.’

  ‘I saw you didn’t like him.’

  ‘He shouldn’t even be here,’ said Warwick. ‘He would have been deported, but war broke out and things slackened up a bit. He’s been gaoled twice – in Rabaul before the war – once for nearly killing a boy, hit him over the head with an oar and nearly beat him to death, and once when he was tried for peddling spirits in a local village. Got away with that on insufficient evidence. He’s a really nasty type – makes trouble in the worst way, and there are others like him. They hate the local people, exploit them and teach them bad habits. They should never be allowed near a country like Papua.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about him. I thought all the Rabaul court records had gone in the war.’

  ‘They have, too. It was bad luck for him he happened to run into me. I gave evidence against him. Obviously he struck trouble in Eola too. He would never have come to us except as a last resort. It’s my guess they chased him out and he was scared to go back. So he thought he’d try and get government protection, possibly the help of the district officer and some police boys. Why else would he come here and tie himself up in red tape?’

  ‘Well,’ Nyall said. ‘That settles it.’

  Warwick picked up his hat. ‘I must get back.’ He glanced at the door and back again at Nyall. He waited, as if for permission to leave.

  Nyall said, ‘I have a feeling he won’t take it lying down.’

  At three o’clock that afternoon Warwick was sitting at his desk writing a letter to his wife. He faced out through the open louvres of his office onto a long, open parade ground ending in a belt of coconut palms. The letter he was answering fluttered in the breeze and he picked up a stone adze and put it on top of the paper.

  ‘My dear love,’ he had written. ‘Your letter arrived this morning. You should not have dismissed your father’s nurse without asking me. He is sick and can’t know what’s best for him. You must consult me about these things. Now you will have far too much to do. I am very angry with you. No, I am not angry – how could I be? But I hate the thought of your taking on too much work. When you come up here you will have nothing to worry about …’

  His pen faltered and he looked for inspiration at a framed snapshot on his desk. For some unexamined reason he found it difficult writing to his wife. The snapshot showed a young woman in her early twenties, wearing slacks and open-necked shirt, who sat, cross-legged, on a lawn, a spaniel puppy in her lap. She was bare-headed and smiled. They had been married for only two months, during his last leave in Australia, but his wife had not been able to leave her father.

  The telephone rang. It was on a table behind him. He turned and glanced over his shoulder. His assistant, a man fifteen years his junior, was sitting on the other side of the room, his chair tilted back, feet on the desk. He was pulling the heads off a cluster of frangipani and threading them on a piece of string. The telephone rang again, but he did not move or look up.

  Warwick leaned across for the phone, but he hardly heard the voice that said, ‘Hello, Mr Warwick please.’ His lips bit tight. Something will have to be done about him, he thought. It was awkward, but things could not go on like this.

  ‘Hello. Warwick here.’

  ‘Is that you, David?’ It was Trevor Nyall. What now? he wondered. Then he remembered Jobe.

  ‘I thought I’d just ring up and let you know,’ Nyall said. ‘I think our friend might pay you a visit. He’s not in a pretty mood.’

  ‘Oh?’ Warwick was barely listening. His eyes were still fixed on the cluster of frangipani and the brown, nimble fingers threading the string. They were narrow, long, smooth, like native hands. He had never liked them.

  ‘He seems to think that the whole thing is your fault,’ said Nyall. ‘He won’t listen. He says I’m a good bloke, and would have given him a fair deal. He thinks you’ve got your knife into him.’

  ‘He must have recognised me,’ said Warwick, attending now.

  ‘I expect so. My guess is he’s in the pub now getting a skinful, then he’ll come and tell you what he thinks of you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Warwick and hung up. He turned round. Jobe did not worry him greatly, but the flowers did.

  ‘What’s the matter, Tony? Nothing to do?’ The garland dropped on the desk. The hands were folded.

  ‘Plenty, but this seems the least destructive. This at least I shall not have to answer for. When our brown brothers ask us for excuses and explanations I shall be able to say, “You’ve got nothing on me, I only played with flowers …”’

  Warwick was not unsympathetic to the younger man. He was perhaps too clever for the Territory, and it did not do to be too clever here. He was too clear-sighted and saw not only the good but the inevitable evil that was trailed after all that was done. But he needed rounding up. He worked under direction with bad grace.

  ‘We all know it’s difficult. We’ve all made mistakes. Probably it’s impossible, but we’ve got to stick at it. You’re neurotic, Tony. Want to pull yourself together,’ Warwick said.

  ‘I’m not neurotic. I’m normal. Here it’s the happy, successful and untroubled who are neur
otic.’

  Warwick turned away angrily. Me, I suppose, he thought. He had never allowed Papuan problems to make him feel uncomfortable. It was suicidal to take the show too seriously. He picked up his pen and wrote – not because it could be of any interest to his wife, but to rid himself of irritation – ‘an interruption … words with my difficult assistant. If things weren’t so tied up I’d get rid of him. He has a neurotic, jealous nature and doesn’t like doing what he’s told …’

  He was still writing this letter at 3.45. The office was empty and he sat alone. The rest of the staff had gone home except for one of the clerks who appeared now in the doorway. Sereva was tall and well built. He came from a nearby village and had once been Warwick’s houseboy. Warwick had become attached to him, taught him to speak and write English and, after the war, took him into the department. Although he was educated – as far as Papuans could be called so – he was not superficially westernised and had none of the blind regard for anything imported. He did not despise his village customs and preferred to wear a rami rather than shorts and shirt.

  He spoke in a soft, whispering voice. ‘There is a gentleman to see you, Mr Warwick.’

  In the next instant Mr Jobe had blundered past him, thrust out an arm and sent him spinning backwards. ‘Get out of my way, you filthy savage!’

  Sereva, knocked off his balance and crouching on the floor, rose to his feet.

  ‘If Sereva had a vindictive nature,’ said Warwick quietly, ‘he could see you in court for that. Are you all right, Sereva?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Yes, taubada.’ He did not glance at Jobe, but quietly left the room.

  ‘Don’t you know that it’s against the law to strike a Papuan?’ Warwick said.

  Jobe looked frightened. ‘I didn’t hit him. Only gave him a sort of friendly shove.’ He stood looking red and sheepish in the centre of the room.

  ‘I’m sorry about the gold,’ said Warwick. ‘It’s bad luck, but there you are.’

  ‘Bad luck!’ exploded Jobe. ‘It’s a dirty trick, Mr Warwick, and I’m bloody well not standing for it. This fellow Nyall, he’s okay. Everything would have gone along fine if it hadn’t been for you.’ He smiled and stretched out his hands. ‘I ask you, Mr Warwick, is it fair? Throwing up a fella’s mistakes at him. Dragging up the past when a fella’s trying to be honest?’