Pebbles from a Northern Shore

by Peter D Wilson

CULTURE SHOCK

  You can get dreadfully blasé about travel: going half-way round the world is nothing these days. And if you're on a long business trip, staying in the usual international hotels that all look much alike, you can sometimes be hard put to tell one country from another. "It's Tuesday, this must be Taiwan" and all that. It's the big jets that have done it, of course, rushing people around the globe by the hundred - not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'd certainly have been glad if everything had been laid on half so conveniently when I first went abroad for the firm.

  That was back in the late 1940s, but I still remember it well. Things were a lot less organised then, particularly with the war being so recently over and some of the scars still showing. Old Perkin called me into his office one day and explained that there was a big installation job coming up overseas, and the reputation of Perkin and Warbeck depended on it (actually there wasn't a Warbeck, and never had been, but he thought that a double-barrelled company name sounded more impressive than his own by itself, and anyway he had a penchant for historical allusion). I'd heard about that particular contract, but didn't know much about it, so Perkin gave me a quick briefing. I'll say this for him, he knew a damn sight more about what was going on in his business than a lot of directors do now. He was especially emphatic about the importance of time.

  "We've estimated ten weeks to finish. There's a bit of leeway, but it's vital to take no more than three months," he insisted. "A day longer and the penalty clauses really start to bite, and bang goes our chance of the follow-up contracts. Any trouble could put the job back by weeks, and everything depends on good relations with the local people. Pendennis and his men will do the actual engineering work, of course, or at least our share of it. You'll be in charge of liaison. I need hardly warn you not to tread on their toes. Oh yes, and you're to go out three weeks on Tuesday to see that everything's ready before they get there."

  "Why me, of all people?"

  "Well, you know the lingo, don't you?"

  "Yes, I've studied it, but ..."

  "That's settled, then. My secretary will see to the travel arrangements. Good luck!"

  At least that was something. The secretary was a bit of a dragon, but efficient in a cold-blooded sort of way, and any arrangements she made would work, whatever they cost in lost sleep and frayed nerves: my nerves, of course, not hers. I was more concerned about coping once I got to the other end, not so much on the technical side - after all, engineers are engineers, wherever they are - but with the simple problems of living in a strange country for a substantial spell. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted advice.

  The question was, where to get it? There were plenty of ex-servicemen around who had been abroad, but along with so many thousands of others that it was more like taking a bit of England away with them, and the relations with civilians that they described (usually after the third pint) were not quite what I supposed Perkin had in mind. An uncomfortably large part of the three weeks had passed before the obvious answer struck me: my Uncle Edward, a retired missionary, who had been pretty well everywhere in his time, although by then he seldom went much further than the next county. He said he'd done quite enough wandering already, and had earned a rest. After decades of putting up with primitive conditions, he also thought he'd earned the right to indulge himself a little, particularly with a favoured guest.

  As it happened, a spinster aunt had left him a bundle of half-forgotten shares that had appreciated enough for him to buy a small property in a neighbouring village, stock the cellar remarkably well for those days, and still convert the residue into a comfortable annuity. He was looked after by a middle-aged cook-housekeeper whom he always called Dame Margery, but didn't get much other company, and was glad of any excuse to lay on the nearest thing she could manage to a slap-up dinner with all the trimmings.

  On the evening we arranged, Dame Margery had produced one of her better efforts, so that by the second or third glass of port, we were both pleasantly relaxed and conversation was flowing easily. He'd given me some useful tips about easily-overlooked bits of personal kit that would be handy to have with me, such as a good selection of buttons and thread, and others that seemed important but would probably be more trouble than they were worth. Naturally, he also wanted to know where precisely I was going, what the job involved, and in particular how well I was prepared for social mixing during several months in a basically unfamiliar culture. "You can't talk engineering all the time, after all."

  "That's not what Perkin thinks."

  I had actually given some thought to that point since Perkin's bombshell. The local librarian relished a challenge and had done me proud with a selection of relevant literature, which I'd studied carefully besides revising the language, so that I was more than a shade too glib about expecting no serious problems in that line at least.

  "Very dangerous attitude," Edward muttered darkly, glancing at the skull-like object that formed an incongruously macabre centre-piece on the mantel. I'd always thought it an odd place for a memento mori. "You can easily drop the most frightful bricks. Angels fear to tread, you know."

  Then he clammed up completely, which really intrigued me. No one had ever suggested dark secrets in Edward's past, and he wasn't usually reticent about it. In fact, given his head, he could be a bore of county if not international class, so this must have been something right out of the ordinary. Remembering the "third pint" effect, I made a point of seeing that the decanter always came to rest by his hand, and eventually the story emerged.

  It happened early in his missionary life. A much older member of his society, call him Gregory for the present, had been working in a fresh area of New Guinea, at that time nowhere near as civilised as it is now and a notoriously dodgy place to go. He had just started to establish himself when he fell ill with one of the nastier tropical diseases. At least he survived, more than could be said of his colleague, but had to be invalided home for treatment, promising his flock to go back as soon as possible. His recovery, although disappointingly slow, now seemed to be complete, and Edward was considered just experienced enough to replace the dead colleague - not a very encouraging prospect.

  Edward was seldom given to strong likes or dislikes, but Gregory proved an exception. He was a man of vast and distinguished experience, who had abandoned a brilliant academic career twenty years earlier to serve in the missions, and many of the young ordinands would have given their eye teeth for the chance to understudy him. Edward detested him on sight. The feeling was evidently mutual, and deepened with closer acquaintance to the extent that Edward tentatively asked whether another assignment might be more appropriate. He got short shrift from the Superior, one of the old no-nonsense type, who sharply reminded him that he was there to do the will of the Lord, not to serve his own inclinations; there was no one else available anyway, Gregory hadn't complained, and if he could put up with an uncongenial companion, so much more easily should a younger man. Edward thought better of raising the obvious objection to that argument, and just resigned himself to a disagreeable tour of duty.

  At least on the ship it was possible by careful management to keep out of each others' way except at meal times. Edward tried his best at first to make conversation on these painful occasions, but eventually they agreed tacitly to minimise friction by rigid politeness within a rule of near-silence. Then, half-way across the Indian Ocean, they ran into a storm that pretty well confined them to their cabin. Gregory's illness flared up again in the heat, the ship's doctor was himself laid up after losing his balance during a particularly violent twisting roll and cracking his head on a bulkhead, and so Edward had to nurse Gregory as best he could.

  The basic medical training he had received was hardly up to dealing with anything serious, and by the time they reached Darwin it was quite obvious that Gregory was not going anywhere just then - if ever - but into hospital. Edward was almost frantic with qualms of conscience over his antagonism, and hovered around wondering whether his
duty lay in staying with the sick man or pressing on, until eventually the nurses made it none too tactfully clear that he was more hindrance than help. Accordingly he got what directions he could and carried on towards the destination.

  That was itself a long enough journey, first by tramp steamer to Port Moresby, then by coaster, river launch and finally a series of dug-out canoes to a long-house in the jungle, well up a narrow valley in the mountains. All the way Edward was wondering what sort of reception he could expect, but he needn't have worried on that score. The inhabitants had scrupulously reserved the area that Gregory had adapted as a little chapel and sleeping quarters, and were delighted to have them in use again.

  Of an evening they would happily sit for hours listening to tales of the outside world, even if they took them with a large pinch of salt, and Edward, ever talkative, was equally glad to oblige. In return the villagers taught him how to eke out the supplies he had brought with him (he didn't want to rely entirely on the generosity of people poorer than himself, however willing they might be to support him) by catching fish, gathering wild fruits and generally following their way of subsistence.

  Eventually it dawned on him that he was doing fine socially, but making very little impression on the people's tolerant scepticism about an alien religion. Their culture was animistic, seeing every natural feature as the home of a controlling spirit that had to be placated for any interference - understandable, where the caprice of nature could make all the difference between relative prosperity and starvation, but providing scarcely a toe-hold for Christian teaching. The villagers were mostly content with the beliefs of their ancestors: the white man might deal with whatever powers he liked, but what could his god know about their crops and the spirits of the forest, their fish traps and the river demons, and so on?

  There were a few exceptions, however, generally youngsters simply rebelling against the traditions of their elders, but the odd one or two with genuinely inquiring minds. Edward decided to concentrate his efforts on them. For a while he feared that the older people might resent any influence he gained with their offspring, and he therefore made a special point of stressing respect for them, but they generally seemed to think his ideas a curiously irrelevant folly rather than any kind of threat. In any case it gave them some relief from coping with the more irritating antics of adolescents.

  He picked the least unpromising of his little group, a lively teenager whom he called Joseph, to train as an assistant, despite a strong suspicion that the lad regarded Christianity as the coming thing and was more concerned about his status in the present world than in the next. Occasionally he showed alarming tendencies to order the others around more than was necessary. Still, he was a likable and resourceful rogue, who in time became a good friend.

  Edward's next concern was about the mode of address that tribal etiquette demanded he should choose for use at their instruction sessions: "My Father" (an accepted title of respect) seemed too Romish, "Reverend" too colloquial, "Padre" too military, "Teacher belong big chief in sky," suggested by one of the lads, tolerably accurate but altogether too cumbersome. Joseph had his own solution to that problem. Edward was simply "The Boss," and despite his reservations, the term stuck.

  He kept plugging away, but putting across the basic ideas of Christianity even to his chosen few was an uphill task. One God, well, yes, every village had a head man, so why not a supreme being over everything, while the distinction between angels and minor deities could be put aside for the time being. "Take not the name of the Lord in vain," again, you didn't insult the chief with impunity. "Honour thy father and mother," they did that anyway, more or less. But some of the later Commandments were trickier, especially what they did or did not prohibit.

  "Thou shalt not kill" gave him particular difficulty. No, it didn't cover killing animals for food. No, it didn't invariably cover killing people either, although that was to be avoided if at all possible. "Then where does it apply, Boss?"

  "Look at it this way. If someone's going for you with a hatchet on the crossing above the waterfall, you might at a pinch tip him in the river. But not if he's doing you no harm and you just want a clear run at his wife."

  So that of course led him on to the next one. He tried lightening his explanations with a rendering of the old jingle "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, his ox thou shalt not slaughter, but thank the Lord it is not a sin to covet thy neighbour's daughter." It was a mistake: the verse translated clumsily into the local dialect, and merely confused everyone. He didn't risk any further attempts at humour in his teaching.

  After six months with very little headway, Edward needed a break. There was no chance of home leave, of course, or even a week in Port Moresby, but perhaps he might usefully visit a neighbouring tribe that had aroused his curiosity, along the one overgrown track through the jungle and over the ridge. At least he could spy out the land and the prospects for work there. Joseph, however, was far from keen. His father had come across some of the Deeka: they were a strange people, their ways were not his ways, and he didn't relish meddling with them. Admittedly they weren't usually hostile or even unfriendly, but they certainly were unpredictably touchy about some things and formidable if roused, so that it was wise to give them a respectfully wide berth.

  As it happened, during his training Edward had read an anthropological study of a group that had migrated to the coast but claimed descent from the Deeka and to have kept faithfully the traditions of their ancestors. What he could remember of it was encouraging, particularly their rule of meticulous courtesy to strangers who might be the incarnation of powerful spirits, as he carefully explained to Joseph.

  "All very well for you, Boss. You look like a what-do-you-call-it spirit. I don't."

  "But yours is a very great spirit, Joseph."

  "The Deeka don't know that. To them I'll be just an ordinary lad from the next village - and from the wrong valley, what's more."

  By now Edward was confident of handling anything short of overwhelming physical violence, which seemed an unlikely prospect, so Joseph's objections were overruled. It said a lot for the lad's loyalty that despite his grave misgivings, reinforced by his mother's alarm, he nevertheless went along with the plan and was a great help in organising supplies for the expedition. He even insisted on carrying most of them.

  In the event the Deeka were even more hospitable than Edward had expected. After the initial surprise at the arrival of unaccustomed visitors from beyond the ridge, they were taken to the chief, who welcomed them with a traditional exchange of courtesies. He received their gifts graciously, asked their business and seemed satisfied by Edward's carefully diplomatic answer that he had heard much of the Deeka's lore and wished to study it at first hand. The chief for his part had heard rumours about the strange ways of Europeans, but never met one before, and was mildly curious, enough to order that they should be given the best available lodging and shown every consideration.

  Edward and Joseph were thus free to go about talking to anyone they wished. However, it wouldn't do to push the privilege too far by interrupting important work, so they generally started by taking a morning stroll, finding someone not particularly busy, and asking the sort of questions that might be expected of any friendly stranger. Then, when the opportunity offered, they gradually worked round to matters of religion. For instance, Edward might ask about the local belief in this or that, perhaps express respectful surprise at some aspect of it, and so invite questions about his own ideas. People generally heard him politely if without great enthusiasm, and he was tolerably satisfied with progress.

  One of the most interesting characters in the village was Jinato, a sort of shaman or witch-doctor to the tribe. He was a wizened but bright-eyed old man, totally pagan yet blessed with a natural wisdom and quick intelligence that Edward found deeply impressive. Indeed, some of the points he raised were very hard to answer within the context of the tribe's experience and Edward's knowledge of it; on the other hand, he w
as open-minded enough to recognise limitations in that experience. The two men had many long and animated discussions, never conclusive but always interesting.

  Edward was a little puzzled at the attitude of Joseph, who after the first two of these sessions suddenly developed an eagerness for more of them that contrasted sharply with his initial scarcely-concealed impatience. "Isn't it time for another talk with Jinato?" he would say, or "How about trying such-and-such a line on that argument?" The curious thing was that he never stayed to hear the outcome of his suggestions, but always excused himself as soon as courtesy permitted. The mystery was solved when Edward caught sight of him engaged in light-hearted banter with one of Jinato's grand-daughters, a comely girl approaching marriageable age.

  About a week after their arrival, the village celebrated a festival that was to culminate in a grand supper. One kind of dried fish among the supplies that Joseph had brought was apparently a rare delicacy among the Deeka, so he asked if he might contribute it to the menu. Edward didn't particularly care for it and agreed readily. Perhaps partly as a result, perhaps because of the friendship he had struck up with Jinato, he was treated as a guest of honour, seated next to the chief. He was more than a little embarrassed by the privilege, especially as it was not extended to Joseph, who nevertheless urged him not to worry; Edward realised why when he saw that Jinato's grand-daughter was among the serving maids and giving Joseph far more than his fair share of attention, which he obviously didn't mind at all. Relieved on that score, he relaxed and started looking around him.

  There was one other girl who caught Edward's attention; indeed, he could hardly miss her. Becoming a missionary hadn't dimmed his eye for the ladies, and this one had an attractive figure, features more to European than to local taste, and a particularly graceful manner. Edward had seen her about the village, and understood that she was an orphan, stranded years before when her parents had wandered in from no-one knew where, suffering from some unidentified and eventually fatal illness. One of the chief's junior wives had taken pity on the child, but the circumstances of her arrival seemed an ill omen and she was still something of a Cinderella.

  Her position in the chief's household however gave her some status, and she was serving at what Edward couldn't help thinking of as the "high table," even though with everyone alike sitting on the ground the term was a little inapt. Towards the end, after she had gently pressed him to take yet another helping and smilingly accepted that he had had quite enough, he casually complimented the chief on his charming attendant. "You like her? Good, you shall have her. The wedding will be in three days' time."

  Edward was flabbergasted. Thoughts tumbled through his mind about trying to explain that to admire a girl's appearance and deportment was one thing, but to marry her, practically unknown, was another. No, in this culture it wouldn't cut any ice at all. And while he had no objections in principle to a married clergy and neither had his society, its views on miscegenation as a source of envy, friction and scandal were hardly likely to go down well - particularly as they might justifiably be thought a mere rationalisation of prejudice. With suitable expressions of regret and appreciation, he therefore said simply that overwhelmed as he was by the chief's generosity, such a match would be strictly taboo.

  The merriment of the evening came to an abrupt halt. Joseph, whose attention had been caught by the sudden hush that descended at the chief's words, looked horror-struck, Jinato scowled and the chief frowned like thunder. Edward wasn't sure what was wrong, still less how to put it right, and decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He therefore apologised in general terms and withdrew with what grace he could, leaving the chief and witch-doctor in agitated discussion amid a general clamour of consternation.

  Joseph followed, asking how all this had come about. Edward told him. "That wasn't very clever, Boss."

  "I know, but how would you have got out of it?"

  "I shouldn't have got into it."

  "True, I dare say, but not very helpful. What do I do now?"

  They agreed that he should stay mostly in the hut for the next few days, communing with the spirits if anyone asked, while Joseph tested the social atmosphere. It was decidedly chilly as far as Edward was concerned. Some of the disgrace inevitably rubbed off on to Joseph, but he didn't let it daunt his spirits, and his natural friendliness was more than the villagers could resist for long. Then for a time he was very busy coming and going, and decidedly uncommunicative about it. "I'm working on it, Boss," he would say when asked about progress, and that was about as much as could be got out of him. Edward was dubious, noticing that Joseph's steps usually led towards the spot where Jinato's grand-daughter - Eve, as Edward came for some reason to think of her - was usually to be found preparing food or doing other household chores. He was half right; that was indeed the place, but after a few words with Eve, Joseph would concentrate his attention on her father, Jinato's favourite son. It did no harm to his chances with the girl anyway, and why not kill two birds with one stone? Even so, his main efforts were devoted to restoring Edward's position.

  Everything he said about it was passed on, subtly re-phrased where necessary, to Jinato himself, who after his initial anger was very willing to be persuaded that the whole business was a terrible misunderstanding. He had no wish to prolong a quarrel that could bring nothing but harm to anyone. Neither had the chief, once his offended dignity had been assuaged. So, without any embarrassing contact between the principals to the dispute, Joseph was eventually able to announce his triumph.

  "Done it, Boss."

  "Done what?"

  "Sorted out your problem."

  "That's marvellous, Joseph! However did you manage it?"

  "No time for details, Boss. There'll be a message coming from the chief any minute now, and it's important you give the right reply."

  "What's that?"

  "Well, you'll be invited to a ceremony of reconciliation . . ."

  "I'll obviously accept - what's the difficulty?"

  "Please, Boss, don't interrupt. There isn't time. You have to reply in a particular form of words - 'I deeply regret having given offence to the mighty Chief, I thank him for his gracious forbearance, I gratefully accept his offer of reconciliation, and I wish the whole village to share in it."

  "Why that?"

  "Because the girl has no parents, she belongs to the whole village, therefore the whole village was offended by your refusing her, so it must be included in the reconciliation. Now come along, Boss, practise your speech before the messengers arrive, for goodness' sake." So they did, and he got it near enough right to satisfy everyone, except perhaps Joseph.

  The ceremony was to take place during another banquet the following Saturday - any excuse, thought Edward in a moment of cynicism. After that, he felt, it might be wise to leave before he put his foot in it again. On the other hand, going away so suddenly might cause yet more offence, but judicious enquiries by Joseph confirmed that none would be taken.

  Once arrangements were made, tension in the village promptly relaxed amid a bustle of activity. There was much gathering of fruit, pounding of roots, snaring of pigeons and hunting of jungle pig. Edward felt able to move around freely again, and even if the missionary message was no more welcome than before, he was satisfied for the present to be back personally in favour. Besides, he had to rehearse his part in the ceremony; also to prepare a speech, so Joseph had told him, to be given at the end of the banquet. Fortunately Eve's father was willing to act as a critical audience and point out any infelicities, of which there were plenty in the early drafts.

  Come Saturday, the ceremony was a splendid occasion with songs, dances and athletic displays before the formal banquet. Edward had to be seated next to the chief again as the rubrics required them to join hands, declare to each other the intention that any animosity should be as dead as the garnished joint of meat placed between them, that the two men and the whole village should be united in spirit by sharing it, and
that all misunderstandings should vanish like the smoke of the fire over which it had been roasted. Edward was highly relieved to get it over, and then began to enjoy the meal.

  It was in fact excellent as jungle fare went, particularly since he and the chief received the choicest portions, and he did them full justice. He couldn't help noticing that Joseph, aided and abetted by Eve, wasn't letting the side down in that respect, either; a few thoughts on the deadly sin of gluttony crossed his mind, but he dismissed them as ungracious in view of Joseph's part in retrieving the situation; and for his own part, he had to keep up a good appearance on this of all occasions, didn't he?

  After privately complimenting the chief on the opulence of the feast, he ended by delivering his carefully prepared and highly flattering speech of thanks and farewell, praising the greatness and magnanimity of the Chief, the wisdom of Jinato, the skill of the cooks, the assiduity of the serving maids, the prowess of the young men . . . he was tempted to go beyond his script by adding the beauty of the village maidens, but decided at the last minute that in the first place it wasn't strictly true, and in the second it might lead to more difficulties of the kind from which he had so narrowly been rescued. So he concluded by presenting his parting gifts - a more propitious occasion than before their departure early the next morning - and professing the hope that friendship between the Deeka and his base tribe would thrive and endure. These sentiments the chief heartily endorsed, to thunderous applause for both of them from the whole assembly.

  The journey home the next day was uneventful, and Edward was happier than he could have believed possible to stumble down the last few yards of the track, clean himself up with a quick splash in the river, and relax in the section of the longhouse that he had come to regard as his own. The villagers were glad to have him back, too; he was a popular figure, whatever they might think of his teaching, and they had been anxiously recalling the evidently well-founded worries about dealing with the Deeka. Joseph's family, of course, made a great fuss of their son, all the more after Edward had praised the lad's part in saving him from goodness knew what disaster.

  The tribe rarely knew much variety in the routine of survival, and the expedition was naturally the main topic of conversation for weeks. Joseph was a born story-teller, and his account lost nothing with repetition. But he was practical, too: the way in which his "luxury" goods had been received in the Deeka village was not lost on him, neither was the quality of the arrowheads and utensils he had seen there, items for which there was a demand in his village and probably elsewhere in the valley. Before long he was back over the ridge to do some trading, not to mention a visit to Eve, and these visits became more and more frequent.

  For some reason there was now quite a flood of people suddenly wanting religious instruction. Edward needed his assistant, and found Joseph's absences a definite hindrance. "I'm sorry, Boss," he said when Edward tackled him about it, "I've done my best, but I'm not really cut out for the job, and I do have a business to look after now. Look, there's Benjamin, he's picked up everything I've learned and more, and he hasn't my - er - distractions. Why not get him to help here? I don't mind doing what I can among the Deeka on my visits there."

  "I think I know who'll get the main benefit of that!"

  Whatever the motives, Edward had to agree that there was a lot of sense in the suggestion: Benjamin (Joseph's younger brother) was keen if not quite so intelligent, and after a day or two of reflection was duly appointed. Now Edward was able to make some real progress, concentrating on the more advanced pupils while Benjamin prepared the starters. Within a year half the village was involved, so far that for many of them Edward was able to arrange a mass baptism; and of the other half, a good proportion were showing signs of interest while hardly any were totally implacable.

  Meanwhile traffic on the path over the ridge was steadily increasing. Edward himself seldom returned that way, although he scrupulously sent greetings and occasional gifts by way of the traders. One occasion when he did go, during the second summer after his first visit, was to act more or less as Joseph's best man though also as officiating pastor, escorting Eve (now so christened) back for the wedding.

  Another, some months later, was to attend Jinato's funeral after he had succumbed to a mercifully brief illness. Edward travelled with Joseph and Eve. The path had been improved beyond recognition, with steps in the steeper parts reinforced by logs to prevent erosion, so that it was possible to talk almost normally on the way. Since one of Edward's pet phrases was "No salvation without belief," Eve was desperately anxious to know what he thought of her grandfather's fate. The official line on virtuous pagans wouldn't be much comfort to her, Edward realised, and he was reduced to platitudes about God's justice being no less generous than man's. Later, as he stood before the old, lined face, so completely different without its animating sparkle, the utter inadequacy of his words overwhelmed him and he had to turn away to hide tears. They were noticed. That a man from outside the tribe - indeed, from far beyond the most distant horizon that any of them could imagine - that such a man should share their grief at the loss of a dearly respected elder did more to win over the Deeka than could any amount of words and gifts.

  Time inexorably passed. For various reasons, missionaries of Edward's society were generally moved around every few years. By the time his tour of duty drew to an end, the contrast with what he had found on arrival was striking. A new church was going up to replace the ramshackle structure that he had built when the tiny "chapel" could no longer hold his congregation, and which was now itself hopelessly inadequate. The villagers, realising that the longhouse partitions were anything but sound-proof and that some of the noises passing through them might be disturbing to a celibate, had also built him a separate hut for himself, after delicate enquiries through Joseph on whether he might misunderstand it as an exclusion from the community. Three-quarters of them were committed to Christianity, if not yet actually baptised, with half the rest hovering; and besides Eve, who was a special case, there had actually been some tentative approaches from the Deeka to suggest that they would like to hear more of what he had touched on during his original stay with them. If certain regrettable superstitions still lingered on - well, that could equally be said about plenty of communities with more centuries of Christian tradition than his village had years. All in all, Edward couldn't help congratulating himself on the situation he was leaving for his successor. He would almost have been glad to show it off to Gregory, who had however been shipped back permanently to England on health grounds.

  As the day of departure approached, Edward sensed an air of furtive excitement among his flock. Whenever he joined any group of people talking, there would be an obviously contrived change of subject, but odd phrases came to his ears. In time, Benjamin let slip what Edward had already guessed, that a special gift was being prepared for him. What it might be was another matter; obviously all would be revealed at the presentation, but it occurred to him that he really ought to check, before there was any public embarrassment, whether it was something he could legitimately accept. The people were still poor, if less so than previously, and Edward was very anxious not to take anything of undue value. Perhaps he could worm some hint out of Joseph, who was sure to be involved.

  It was a moonlit evening when Edward walked from his own hut towards the part of the longhouse occupied by Joseph's family, but none of the villagers seemed to be about. However, as he approached, he noticed someone scurrying away, glancing over his shoulder and trying with comic lack of success to hide what looked like a pale globe on a carved wooden plinth. That was probably the gift, Edward thought with some relief: he'd never seen anything quite like it, but it was presumably a piece of local craft-work. To accept it wouldn't deprive the village of precious resources, it would be a pleasant memento, and it looked reasonably transportable too.

  Joseph greeted him warmly, and Eve fussed around making him comfortable and offering refreshments - was she? Yes, almost certa
inly she was pregnant, after so long that Joseph's mother had been seen sadly shaking her head over the prospects of grandchildren from that quarter. Congratulations were evidently in order, and Joseph thanked him absently but seemed oddly depressed.

  "What's up?" Edward asked. "I'd have thought you'd be rejoicing."

  "Look, Boss, how long have we known each other?"

  "Must be about five years - yes, easily that."

  "And we've been good friends?"

  "The best."

  "Yet you're going away next week and we probably shan't see you again."

  Edward was silent for a moment. "But Joseph, life's like that. I have to obey orders. And there'll be someone to take my place, don't forget."

  "We can't change our friends as easily as you change your shirt, Boss."

  "Now you know I wasn't suggesting that. Look, however far apart we may be, we can pray for each other."

  It didn't seem to help Joseph much. "We could pray for Jinato when he was ill - and we did - but it wasn't the same as crossing the ridge to see him. And we can't do that now."

  "I'm afraid that's the way of things, Joseph. All human friendships must come to an end sooner or later in any case. None of us lives for ever. But eventually we'll meet again in the next world."

  "All very well, Boss, but my problem's in this one."

  Edward sighed, but could think of no way out of this impasse. He had a strong suspicion that Joseph's attitude to the hereafter was rather like a bank manager's to an unsecured loan, and the best he could do was to try changing the subject. As it happened there was one thing that had been puzzling him for long enough: why the sudden spate of interest in Christianity after the first visit to the Deeka?

  "That's simple. The people thought that to make such a display of courage, you must have protection from some really powerful spirits, and they wanted a share."

  "Well, that's true in a sense. But what display of courage?"

  "Why, refusing the chief's offer of a wife, of course. You knew the ways of the Deeka, you must have known you were as good as asking for death. Isn't that right?"

  Edward was stunned. "Good Lord, I'd no idea."

  "Come off it, Boss. You told me you'd read all about them."

  "Not all, Joseph. You can't learn everything just by reading. You have to live with people for years to know them properly - and even then they can surprise you. A book couldn't cover all the details, even if the author knew them."

  "I wouldn't call this a detail, Boss."

  "No, you're right. And that particular point wasn't mentioned in the account I read. Are you sure about it?"

  "Absolutely. Eve's father explained it to me. You know that if you're visiting someone, and admire something he has, then he has to offer it to you?"

  "That's true in a lot of places. I hadn't thought of it just then, though - silly of me. But surely, once the offer was made, honour was satisfied even if I declined it? After all, I'd have thought I was fulsome enough in thanking the chief."

  "That's not the point, Boss. In Deeka custom a gift can't be refused. It's now your property, so the chief can't keep it without becoming a thief. It's taboo. And if you don't accept it, he's stuck with it."

  "He could give it to someone else."

  "No good, Boss. You can't give away someone else's property. Or if you do, it makes things worse."

  "All right, I see that. But where does the bit about 'asking for death' come in?"

  "Well, it seems that this sort of problem had cropped up before. Not in quite the same way, but close enough. Then someone pointed out that if the man who'd refused the gift were no longer alive, the difficulty would disappear - the dead have no right to property. So there was a very unfortunate fatal accident. And ever since, that's been the standard way to deal with that kind of situation."

  "But there was no suggestion of any such thing."

  "How do you know, Boss? If you're planning an accident, you don't warn the victim. But you were lucky: the chief respected your taboo as much as his own, and Jinato thought of another way out."

  "The reconciliation ceremony?"

  "That's right."

  "Then why wasn't it used on the earlier occasions?"

  "Well, for one thing, because it didn't exist then."

  "But I thought it was traditional. Do you mean to say it was something new?"

  "Yes, Boss, Jinato and I planned it between us."

  Again Edward was astonished. "You?"

  "Why yes. Jinato wanted it to be binding on both you and the chief, so he asked what sort of ritual would fit your customs as well as the Deeka's. The best I could think of - not too far from either side - was the Old Testament communion sacrifice, so we worked it up from that."

  "A brilliant inspiration, Joseph; I really must hand it to you. No wonder I kept feeling there was something a bit familiar about the ceremony. But just a moment, there's something missing. To make the reconciliation complete, the girl I'd admired should have taken a main part, too. After all, she had more cause than anyone to be offended. I'm afraid I was too selfishly preoccupied to think of it at the time, but looking back, I don't remember her even being there."

  "Boss, that was the whole point of the meal. Didn't you realise? She was the main course."

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  GRACEFUL GHOST

  It was only a four-minute fill-in between two programmes on the radio, but hearing that particular piece of music shook Harry out of an uneasy reverie and swept him back half a century to the late 1920s. He had come down from university a year earlier with an undistinguished degree, been repelled by the idea of school-mastering as the option then common for men in that situation, and in the absence of other offers taken a junior position in the family firm. Unlike many of his student contemporaries, he could not afford to remain idle, but was chary of revealing the fact; he did have his pride. As a rule he therefore made excuses when suggestions for getting together again came his way; however, for long-forgotten reasons that must have seemed good at the time, there was one major exception when he mistakenly accepted an invitation to spend a weekend at the home of a friend with whom he had briefly shared digs.

  He could not now remember the occasion for the visit, and only a few years later had lost touch with that friend, who in any case was completely out of his class and had gone on to heights in public service far beyond Harry's decidedly modest hopes or ambitions. He did remember that Francis had taken seriously his obligations as host and done his best to draw Harry into the activities of the party, but it was an uphill task and not always successful. Harry too tried conscientiously but ineptly to fit in, feeling like a fish out of water for much of the time, but gave up the struggle when most of the party retired to play bridge; his ignorance of the game was matched only by a disdain that as a matter of courtesy he tried to conceal. In retrospect, he probably ought to have made a greater effort.

  Pleading fatigue he had instead taken a book to the drawing room, hoping for solitude, but found with some annoyance that Philip Something-or-other was already there at the piano. He was a pale young man who reminded Harry of one of the more effete characters in a Noel Coward show, but his talent in that respect was undeniable, and 'Graceful Ghost' was the next piece in his repertoire. Somehow it seemed to Harry not quite right in the context, but it calmed his nerves, so whatever the incongruity might be he dismissed it as unimportant and relaxed to the gentle charm of the music. He even managed to muster a sort of smile when Philip noticed his presence and nodded to him.

  After a blustery day a southerly breeze had banished the clouds and then fallen away to nothing, leaving a warm, moonlit evening; the French windows were open to a verandah overlooking the garden, and no doubt the performance could be clearly heard for some distance outside. The grounds were large, as befitted the house, with a formal area in geometric designs leading to a walled rose garden. The main avenue of the layout passed through it by arched gateways into an arbor
etum and on to a fair-sized lake.

  Harry had once been casually introduced to Philip's sister Sarah, who had bowled him over completely. Rather tall and very slim, she was striking rather than beautiful, having fair, slightly aquiline features set off by short black hair and finely-arched eyebrows; the effect was further enhanced that day by her vivid red blouse with a black skirt and neck-band. She was gracious with it, too; in trying to dispel his tongue-tied incoherence she seemed genuinely friendly. Indeed, a few days later when they had chanced to meet again, he imagined a flicker of real interest on her part, but reluctantly dismissed the notion as wishful thinking. Nevertheless she haunted his dreams for months.

  He was indeed thinking about her when as if drawn by the music she appeared, this time in a white dress, gently twirling along the verandah. Again Noel Coward came to mind. She seemed completely absorbed in her own thoughts, but just before she passed out of sight Harry thought she glanced in his direction with a slight beckoning gesture. After a brief argument with himself over the likelihood of its reality, and despite an irritating niggle about the banal theatricality of the whole scenario, he settled on the thought that there was nothing to lose and followed.

  Sarah was by now well ahead of him, but her dress showed up clearly in the moonlight. Torn between vague hopes and more distinct fears of an all too predictable disappointment, he was in no hurry to catch up. Her path led through the rose garden, where the scent of the blooms was delicious, and on into the arboretum. The way through was plain enough, so it hardly mattered that Sarah was only intermittently in sight, until he emerged by the side of the lake and she seemed to have vanished altogether. He wondered where she could have gone, but then saw the gleam of white a couple of hundred yards away to the right beside a boathouse. However, it seemed curiously static, and he realised on approaching that it was a column set into the ground. The base was inscribed "In memory of Sarah Heseltine, 1906 - 1927. A dearly loved daughter and sister." He stood horror-struck.

  A noisy announcement of the next item on the radio roused him from his reminiscence. He had evidently fallen asleep, as these days he tended to do more and more often, even during broadcasts that had particularly attracted him. It was rather worrying, although he told himself that in retirement it hardly mattered; he seldom paid for it with night-time insomnia. He had never married, maybe he sometimes suspected because he shirked the responsibility, or perhaps it was simply that the right woman had not come his way. Consequently he had only himself to please in the house. His routine chores were undemanding, his work had equipped him with no skills in particular demand, he was unadventurous in his hobbies, and hardly any "voluntary" duties were thrust upon him; he thus had time on his hands, and dozing at least helped it to pass.

  For some reason the memory of his dream still nagged at him. At least he eventually identified the source of his unease about the music; 'Graceful Ghost' was written long after his visit. He wondered how much more of his recollection might be equally unreliable. It so happened that the National Trust handbook had arrived that morning and he had noticed the house in question as one of those open to the public; that was no doubt the real trigger for recalling the occasion. On a rare impulse towards positive action, he resolved to take another look at it come the spring. A great deal must have changed over the decades, but much of the place might still remain.

  Actually, apart from the basic structure, very little did. He made the usual round of the open rooms, was disappointed at finding hardly any resemblance to his vague memories, but then remembered that as a guest he would of course have been mostly in the domestic quarters which were now marked "Private". About to leave after completing the tour, he happened to find the chief custodian chatting at the reception desk. She was a pleasant, cheerful, middle-aged woman who smiled encouragingly at him and asked how he had enjoyed the visit.

  "Quite well, thank you, though it's certainly changed a lot."

  "You've been before?"

  "A long time ago. A house party in 1928."

  "Goodness, that's remarkable. A lot's certainly happened since then."

  "The usual story, I suppose - death duties, decline in the family fortunes and so on?"

  "That among other things. The house was requisitioned by the military during the war, then occupied by some government body for a few years and afterwards left empty. It was in a shocking state when the Trust took it over. We've done our best to get things back as they were, or at least in keeping with the basic style, but there's an awful lot of guesswork in it."

  A sudden thought seemed to strike her. "I wonder ..."

  "Yes?"

  "Could you remember how it really was? If we tried to make it a bit more authentic ..."

  "I doubt if my memories would be much help. But you never know ... There is one thing, though. Am I right in thinking that there was a memorial near the boathouse to a girl who had died very young, or have I just imagined it?"

  "Yes, it's there all right. It was dreadfully shabby, but we've cleaned and re-painted it. To be honest, we probably shouldn't have bothered, but our handyman thought that in that state it was an insult to the dead and did it up in his spare time."

  "Good for him. I know it's a long shot, but is anything known of what happened to her?"

  "Funny you should ask, but then coincidence does seem to strike surprisingly often. Only a few weeks ago, a letter about it turned up when someone was going through her family's records, and we were sent a copy. Very sad, it was. Apparently she was a particular friend of this family, not actually engaged to the son of the house but there was believed to be what they called an understanding, and they held her twenty-first birthday party here. It was a fine night and a few of the youngsters decided to take a boat out on the lake. I don't suppose they were altogether sober. Anyway, something went wrong; no one seems to have been very precise about it afterwards, maybe for legal reasons, but reading between the lines there was probably a bit of horse-play. Whatever it was, it ended up with Sarah being drowned. She's buried in her home parish, of course, but the family here were devastated by the accident and had a little monument put up near the spot."

  "As you say, very sad. Would it be possible, do you think, to have a look at it? I actually knew the girl very slightly ..."

  "You did? That's extraordinary!"

  "Well, only the slightest acquaintance, really. I met her just a couple of times and thought she was wonderful."

  "That seems to have been the general opinion. Hmm. We don't normally allow visitors down there, but in such particular circumstances, and of course with your being a member, I think we ought to make an exception. But do take care; that area's been neglected badly and I shouldn't like you to come a cropper. I'd come with you myself only we're expecting a party any minute. Do you think you can find the way if I point you in the right direction?"

  With fingers crossed, he assured her that he could.

  The walk down to the lake was depressing, and a turn for the worse in the weather added to the gloom, with the air becoming sultry and a suggestion of thunder in the distance. Harry wondered if he should turn back, but thought it would be discourteous in view of the privilege he had been given and so went on. He was disappointed to see that the rose garden had been given over to vegetables, though at least the plots were well tended. Otherwise the custodian had understated the neglect; the wall where the further gate had been seemed on the verge of collapse and the path through the arboretum was overgrown with scrub. The shore-line of the lake was choked with reeds, the paving of the path beside it broken and uneven, the boathouse seriously dilapidated, and the stones of the jetty covered in moss where they had not already fallen into the water. Beside it, the remains of a boat lay half buried in silt. However, Harry was relieved to find the monument very much as he had only half-expected it. He spent a minute or two in sad contemplation. As he straightened up after reading the inscription, a sudden pain took his breath away and he was compelled to rest on a rusty seat nearby. The
daylight seemed to fade almost to nothing, then returned more brightly.

  A cool breeze had suddenly sprung up and he felt strangely reinvigorated, as though he had indeed gone back to a bracing day in his youth. The sky was cloudless. Sparkling wavelets were gently rocking a smart little boat moored to the jetty. Then he was surprised by a touch of fabric against his cheek, and a hand rested gently on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Sarah standing beside him, just as he remembered her.

  "Come along, Harry," she said cheerfully. "It's time to be going. Don't keep me waiting any longer."

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