Mr Peacock's Possessions

by Lydia Syson

  ‘You go with her, Billy,’ Ma orders. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘We’ll follow soon – as soon as we know they cannot leave,’ says Ada. ‘When we see they are sending the boat. Look! It’s calmer again now. Sit down and rest, Ma, do, and give me Gus … We will look pitiful. Truly pitiful.’

  Lizzie is already running, down to the invisible shore.

  7

  A SAND-FLICKER ON MY SKIN, A DOG’S WET NOSE IN my wet hair, a growl and summoning bark, and then a falling shadow. A smell half known, half not, of fish and feathers and oil and something else. A rotten, eggy, hanging odour, sweet and sour together. The feet that stop so close to my opening eyes are rough and tough and bare and old. Man’s feet. Ragged, grey skin, black-lined and splitting, toenails like hihi, unshined, scratched yellow, and broken like empty snail shells too. Thick hair, like a black goat’s, creeps down from rolled-up trousers.

  ‘Quiet, Sal!’ The man’s order is quickly obeyed.

  Now the dog lies watching me for movement, pink tongue lapping air.

  I raise my head. Paws forward creep, stopped by a pointed finger. Tongue swallowed.

  I tilt my neck and look into eyes like sky or sea or glass or light, always moving, never resting. Eyes you long to land on you alone. You seek their favour with your own. Like Mr Reverend’s, in that way, and yet not like, for my minister’s are soft and brown and steady. I see power of a different nature in the man who marks me now: power of purpose. Strong because he knows he is, he has strength of mind as well as muscle. Our master, then, and a man always to be quickly obeyed. So I urge my limbs to move.

  Yet this is also a man gone almost to rags. His shirt is torn. A salt-specked, broad-brimmed hat pushes back from a brow that shines with sweat. His beard is vast and brown like coconut hair, and near as coarse. Some scattered grey. He does not look a wealthy man, which will not please Luka. His hands are empty. But the father of these children lives.

  Like me, he cannot still his shoulders. Like me, he tries. Up and down, our backs heave helplessly, and in and out together. In our running and swimming we have both stretched our bags of breath too far. I think of Solomona, and Mr Reverend, and give thanks to God for safe deliverance. I push myself back on my heels. I sit and cross my legs, to show my humbleness. My mind remembers busily what is the something else I must do, and do at once. Shake hands, yes, shake hands, don’t forget to show him what kind of fellow you are. Which hand? I look at both, so quickly he cannot see, I hope, and with them both I make the bottom of a square, palms down. One thumbs ‘L’ for ‘Left’, and then I know, so I give him the other. The Right hand is the right hand. I do not stand too close. I do not stand at all. I remember that too. I remember everything, and I want to tell my Mission friends so they know that I have minded their wisdom.

  The clasp of his hand is like wet mud in sun, and moistens mine. Up and down I move them both, just like Becky show me. Yet calmly too like her mother, Mrs Reverend, tell me. I am a gentleman like Adam. Mr Reverend has made a gentleman of me. I am ready.

  ‘How do you do?’ Slow, careful, am I. Eye to eye, as bidden. ‘Pleased to meet you. Sir.’

  Then full-square he looks at me, eyes on every little portion of my person, so piercing quick I feel his looking on my body like crawling ants or dripping water. From up to down his sky-eyes go, and then from down to up, then once again, top to bottom, bottom to top. Still no movement in his lips, so I am silent, smileless too. Only our breathing speaking. He folds his arms.

  I see what he wants: to poke my flesh … test my strength … feel my true weight. Am I the thing he ordered?

  ‘Just one?’ he ask at last. ‘Only one of you come?’

  At first his words make little sense to me. He breaks gaze before I can. Down then he bends again. Down comes his hand to me once more, but not for shaking this time. Rope-laddered, rigged with veins, spotted brown, as hairy as his toes. I take the hand, and close my fingers, and as I do he pulls me hard, so hard I am quickly standing. I rock on my feet, head swimmerly, and he lets my arm fall, and steps back again to see better what has he in me. He is tall, I find, taller than me, somewhat – and broad too – but not so tall as Mr Reverend, who is a long, stretched man with a long, stretched neck and long, stretched fingers.

  ‘Tally gally fy eh fy ah,’ say he. He quickly sees this too means nothing to me. ‘Ah. So you speak English? Savvy?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Certainly.’ I say with pride. But I am fearful, a little, of releasing from mine this man’s visive powers.

  ‘My name is Kalala.’

  ‘Kalala. Well, Kalala, how do you do? I’m Mr Peacock. Welcome to my island.’

  BEFORE

  This is a story which began two years earlier, on another South Sea island, larger by far than Monday, and a good way off. Perhaps a thousand miles away.

  *

  Beyond the blackened window-glass, night had arrived in Apia with the tropical speed that still sometimes took the Peacocks by surprise. There was a new vessel in port and the hotel saloon was beginning to fill up, lamplight and shadows swinging as the first comers passed each other, negotiated positions, and settled or moved on. Whalers and beachcombers, pearl hunters and sandalwood traders, sailors from every nation – all drank here. There was nowhere else to go.

  No place for nice girls, Mrs Peacock tutted. Keep away. Her daughters laughed and parroted Ma behind her back. Lizzie took her crossness as a clue, lingering longer in the bar-room for any gleanings that could be picked up and picked over later, in her head, or better still with Ada. Stories of stowaways, tales of castaways and cannibals. Sightings of the new gunboats on patrol. (For what?) Hot arguments: which port was the orifice of Oceania; whether to hard drive or reef down in a gale’s teeth; which island missionaries kept too close a watch on vice.

  When men saw Lizzie listening, their voices thickened and slowed or stopped. They looked too long and hard at her, so hard you’d think they saw right through her apron, blouse and shift too, as if they knew more about the tenderness that newly tingled beneath the layers of cotton than Lizzie understood herself. With Ada, their longing was more open. So that night Lizzie listened out of sight, crouching on the ale-soaked boards behind the bar, ready to jump up at any moment to ask Pa for the brandy Ma wanted to dab on the baby’s swollen gums. No doubt there’d be words later about why she’d taken so long, but Lizzie didn’t care. She’d seen again a look in her father’s eye – one that meant change was likely afoot once more. She wasn’t moving until she found out more. Mr Peacock had left the counter and was sitting at the nearest table, leaning in towards a man who looked familiar.

  ‘You could be king of the Kermadecs,’ the speaker assured him.

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘Because it’s the truth.’

  ‘And I believe you.’

  Did Pa believe him? Lizzie wasn’t certain.

  ‘The island’s yours for the taking and you’d be a fool to let it lie.’

  Mr Peacock didn’t rise, as Lizzie had expected; merely asked another question.

  ‘No nation has claimed it still?’

  ‘Not yet. No nation nor no other man, not of any faith or hue. Not that I know of. And I’ve kept my ears open since we left, believe me. What a place it is …’

  ‘So why not go back yourself? What’s keeping you, if it’s as good as you say?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ A bark of a laugh. A swig and a swallow. Lizzie risked raising her head, and for a moment thought he’d seen her, though he gave nothing away. But then she understood. Robson was blind. She’d seen him before, being led along the seafront, white beard jutting out as he tasted the air ahead, his hand on the shoulder of one of his great crew of children, all native enough for the young Peacocks to be told to keep away from them.

  ‘Fair enough.’ Mr Peacock retreated, almost apologetically. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the blind man continued, ‘we’d had some bad luck. Sickness brought by strangers. And my wife missed her
family here. But that’s the past. I may be past my best, but you’re still young enough, strong enough …’

  Mr Peacock could see through flattery, so Lizzie wasn’t surprised by his silence. Perhaps he also noticed, as she had, a certain caginess in the man’s response.

  ‘I’ve had my eye on you since you arrived,’ Robson continued. ‘As it were. Yes, I know you’re smiling now. I can still watch you, after my own fashion. And there’s things I see that other folk miss. It’s plain you’re wasting yourself on this hotel.’

  True enough, thought Lizzie, proudly. Ma had often said as much, these last few months.

  Pa grunted. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re too late getting here for what you’re after,’ said Robson. ‘Far, far too late. But over there … seize your chance quick enough, and this island could be another story.’

  ‘The name of the place?’

  ‘On the maps, Monday Island. It was sighted on a Monday, years ago. Some call it Blackbird Island.’

  He didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Not sure I know of it,’ said Pa, uncertainly.

  ‘Well, the climate’s heaven itself. Blessed, I’d say, right blessed, and I’m not one to take the Lord’s name in vain. I’ve never seen a place so fertile. Take the right seeds with you and you can’t but thrive. Goats galore, too.’

  Pa kept his voice down – a sign of interest? – but Robson kept at his theme loudly enough, and his promises made Lizzie’s stomach sing: the sweetest, juiciest oranges Mr Peacock had ever tasted; the biggest peaches. Bananas. Figs. Grapes. There was nothing you couldn’t grow on this island, it seemed, if you set your mind to it; no sooner a seed met the soil than it began to shoot. Like Jack and the Beanstalk. Fee-fi-fo-fum. And the few plants Robson had had the chance to put in twenty years ago should still be there full-strength, gone native by now. He was beginning to sound homesick.

  ‘Why are you telling me about it now?’ asked Pa, suspicious again.

  Robson didn’t answer immediately.

  ‘It’s an opportunity.’

  ‘What makes you think I need one?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone? And you’ve always struck me as a man who knows how to make the best of an opportunity.’ Admiringly. Robson let that thought sink in.

  ‘What’s in it for you?’ asked Mr Peacock, and then Robson became evasive.

  ‘I’d heard you’d a mind to selling out.’

  It was the first Lizzie had heard, but that meant nothing.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Never mind who. Is it true or not? And do you want my help? Or do you want someone else to take this island? Are you happy to stick around here, living on other men’s scraps for the rest of your days?’

  Lizzie sucked in her breath. Pa wouldn’t like that. And he didn’t. His chair scraped back and his voice dropped to a threatening hiss.

  ‘So we got here too late. Ten years or more. Do you think I came to Upolu looking for scraps? How was I to know the Germans would have snapped up every decent trading station from here to Auckland? Or that the climate wouldn’t agree with Mrs P?’

  ‘Calm down. Calm down. Only trying to help.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have brought her here. It was never my plan.’

  ‘Then listen to me. I’m offering you a chance to get Mrs Peacock and the little ones out of the tropics. Make a better life for you all. A piece of paradise, all to yourselves. And someone who can take you there. The Good Intent docked this morning from San Francisco. They’ve been unloading all afternoon. And she’s Auckland-bound.’

  Lizzie knew this already. Her brothers had sidled off to the quay earlier to watch. Of course Pa had been none too pleased to be given the slip when there were crates to be stacked, and bottles washed, and as usual it was Albert hauled over the coals, not Billy. When Pa’s wrath flashed in full, Lizzie had retreated. It was Ada who later soothed their brother’s stinging back.

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s a fellow coming by tonight who’ll have money in his pocket. A buyer for this place, if you want one.’

  ‘What fellow? Do I know him?’

  Still a hint of suspicion in Pa’s voice.

  ‘Not yet. But I can vouch for him.’

  The bar was getting busier, and the two men’s voices harder to hear. The last thing Pa said, Lizzie couldn’t catch at all. Her thoughts were leapfrogging too loudly anyway. She missed some more. Until Robson hissed indignantly:

  ‘No, of course not. Not to anyone.’

  And again her father’s voice dropped away.

  Then: ‘Day after tomorrow. And yes, New Zealand for certain sure. So that’ll please your missus. MacHeath’ll pass the Kermadecs on the way, and it seems – for the right price, mind you – he’d drop you off to have a look at the place. If you don’t like what you see, why, you can just keep going.’

  ‘What? Go back to the North Island with my tail between my legs?’

  ‘No shame in that, and you’ll have money in your pocket. I told you, I can get you a good price for the hotel. But trust me, when you see this island, you won’t want to keep going, and very likely, Mrs Peacock won’t neither.’

  ‘There’s really enough passing trade? There aren’t the whalers around these parts there were twenty years ago …’

  ‘There aren’t the whales. Any shore station’s a struggle if it’s depending only on whalers now. But there’s nowhere else for miles, and word will soon get about. Sheep’ll thrive once you’ve cleared the grazing, and wool will never perish while you’re waiting. As for the oranges, and other fruit …’

  How often did a chance like this come along? Nobody to interfere in anything. Not a native in sight, not that Robson wasn’t partial to the right kind of native, as was surely plain enough. Truly, a private empire, over which Mr Peacock could rule for the rest of his days on earth. His very own Garden of Eden.

  ‘Make sure your missus knows this island’s not in the tropics. That’s its beauty.’

  Lizzie bit her hands while she waited for her father’s response.

  ‘Well, will I bring you the buyer?’ Robson prompted.

  ‘Where’s the snake?’ Pa’s voice was loud and clear and a touch sarcastic. Perhaps he’d just remembered that he wasn’t born yesterday, and needed to prove it. ‘There’s always a snake. And who calls it Blackbird Island? I feel I have heard that name before.’

  At that moment the double doors to the road outside opened again and the bar filled up with a sudden roar. The crew of the Good Intent had been released, and shore leave might be four hours or twenty-four. With no certainty, the sailors treated every passing minute the same. This was what turned Ma’s stomach, and had her shooing the girls out of sight and into the back rooms. The swearing and the rolling and the smell and press of men fresh off a ship who hadn’t seen land for months. The appetite in their eyes.

  Rattling change and tattooed fists and forearms would soon be thumping down all along the countertop above Lizzie: anchors, turtles, Chinese dragons, and from time to time the blue-as-black geometry and intricate swirls of a visiting Islander. The tobacco fug thickened. She’d be trapped if she stayed another moment. Lizzie crawled out through the doorway on hands and knees as fast as she could.

  *

  In the bedroom above the bar, she slept badly. Long after the last drinker had staggered bellowing into the night, her eyes flicked open with every gecko cluck. When she tried to wake Ada to tell her about the blind man’s promises, her sister batted her away, grunted and rolled over. On Ada’s other side, Harriet slept on her stomach, head pillowed on folded arms, quietly dribbling and equally unresponsive. Doubt began to unpick Lizzie’s memory.

  Just as she thought she’d never sleep again, a low murmuring purr seeped through the wall into her wakeful dreams and she knew what she’d heard was real: Pa was finally trying out the notion on her mother. That meant Ma would be holding it up to the light to check its worth and quality, test its freshness. In her mind she would be rolling and squ
eezing and pressing the sparse facts like dough, pushing possibilities back and forth until they were worked enough to rise. Hearing only the tone of each question and answer, Lizzie’s ears hummed with the effort of listening, and trying to guess which way matters would fall.

  Surely Ma understood, as Lizzie did? Pa wasn’t right for this place. He deserved so much more, a man like him: so capable, so determined, so strong and brave and clever. She must know that. Lizzie had seen how she sometimes looked at Pa when he came late into the kitchen from the saloon, and she set his supper down before him. Ill luck had brought them to Samoa – Lizzie couldn’t entertain the thought it might have been ill judgement – but it didn’t mean they had to stay for ever. Nobody could expect a man like her father to spend the rest of his life serving liquor to ne’er-do-wells and broken-down swells, breaking up brawls. Lizzie could see it was time to move on. Pa hadn’t the temperament for this. He wore his restless ambition like a medal. Strangers were drawn to him at first, their curiosity pricked just by the way he bore himself. Then they discovered his quick temper. As for Lizzie, she had no desire to see out her own days doing laundry for strangers, nor hiding away in the back rooms of the hotel.

  But taking off into the unknown like this? Again? Lizzie prayed Ma would not choose safety over opportunity now. For Lizzie was her father’s daughter, a moth to the flame of new hopes and possibilities. Curled up under the sheet, thighs sticky with sweat, she crossed tight her fingers and her ankles. Say yes, Ma. Say yes.

  *

  She woke late to the muffled triple-throb of fruit doves feasting in the banyan tree outside the window. When her bare foot stretched out across the mattress and found a space, cool and empty where it should have been warm and solid, Lizzie was out of bed in a moment, hammering straight down the wooden stairs and into the kitchen. Unreadable faces turned her way.

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me, Ada?’ All innocence.

  Albert opened his delicate mouth, and closed it again.

  ‘Lizzie! Go and get yourself dressed right away,’ said Ma. ‘What were you thinking?’