Mr Peacock's Possessions

by Lydia Syson

  We climb higher, into cloud-mist. Sweat cools quickly here, where moss drip-drops and sparkling webs stretch branch to branch. We swing our arms and twitch when wetness lands from nowhere. The path is not so clear. It stretches longer between us. And then, all at once, it seems – maybe I was too slow to follow or my friend too fast to lead – I cannot tell – we have lost each other. How long has it been since I could not see or hear Pineki? A little too long. I hold myself quite still. Listen. Only to dripping. My mind is set not to move until Pineki finds me, as I guess he will, in time. Unless this is his game. To show me how easy it is to hide here, and how hard to find.

  Waiting, I sit on a tree fallen long, long ago, now soft and green with growing things, smothered by living ferns and moss cushions, star-pricked. I look around me without moving, marvelling at branches and trees damply draped, clothed in soft wisps of emerald and silver. Pale, papery bark hangs like rags. I push my curious hands into black, black soil which lets me in so easily and smells so strong, of life and death together, I think there must be witchery in it. I wonder how Solomona fares.

  A crash – a flying fox? – and then Pineki calls, and I reply, with breaking voice, and he appears before me. For a moment we clasp each other, while our heartbeats slow. We speak only of our happiness in finding, and say nothing of our fears.

  15

  PEOPLE ARE COMING TOWARDS LIZZIE. TWO OF THE kanakas, these Islander boys who look so much like men. Two of them, and one of her. When they arrived on the island, surrounded by burly sailors, they did not seem so tall and broad.

  She watches as they emerge from the bushes which means she sees the precise moment when they see her, and come to a sudden halt. On the path, knees open and bent, as surprised perhaps by her appearance as she is by theirs, they make her think of animals prepared to spring. They’ve tied their shirts around their waists and the sweat of effort gives a sheen to their chests. One says something under his breath, and the other answers, but of course she doesn’t understand. They are also on their guard, unsmiling. Lizzie has no experience of being alone with men. She remembers, of course, from the hotel, that Ma forbids it, but this is different. These men are not drunken strangers. They have left their own families to come and work with hers. She should surely welcome them. Yet when she moves towards the Islanders, they edge away.

  Lizzie closes a dry-as-biscuit mouth. Not the pastor, who speaks English. She knows him by his careful air of wisdom. Nor the other English speaker, the preacher’s brother, whose name made her think of the sound of singing, singing without words. She tries to remember other names, and fails. Disconnected syllables muddle in her head. Was there a kind of Luke? A Jacob? The shorter Islander – she’s right, it’s Likatau, and the other is Iakopo – Likatau speaks again, and Lizzie understands he is telling her something, something important. She panics. Something has scraped his upper arm, and it’s bleeding, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He speaks again. She doesn’t understand. She shakes her head, and he takes a step forward, and it’s her turn to back away, although there is nowhere to go, only Goat Point behind her.

  The men talk to each other again, swapping sounds, and she hates the fact that she has no idea at all what they are saying.

  ‘What is it? Where is he?’ she shouts at them. ‘What have you done with him? Tell me! Please.’

  She misreads their contorted faces. They cannot make out hers.

  ‘What do you want?’

  They have come to a decision. Their eyebrows are in accordance. One on each side, they come towards her, as if they mean to trap her. She turns to flee, but then they take her arms. She struggles and squirms, trying to pull away, but they’re far too strong. Just as she is about to bite Likatau’s hand, he lets her go, and so does Iakopo, and she staggers. They both step back, shaking their heads, clasping their hands as if in prayer or supplication. They look more frightened than she feels. It’s all a misunderstanding, she realises. They’re pointing. Their faces do not threaten but question.

  They don’t know where Albert is.

  They don’t even know where they are themselves. They need her to show them where to go.

  ‘Follow me,’ she says, heading home.

  Lizzie talks to keep herself brave. It doesn’t matter to her that the Islanders can’t understand, or that when she turns around next, there is bewilderment in their eyes. She notices they have put their shirts on. No doubt the missionaries have told them they must cover themselves. She knows that, like her mother, missionaries hate nakedness.

  ‘It’s not so far now,’ she tells them, in the soft way of speaking to fear she learned from Albert – the way he’d talk to the milk goats. They both nod, as if they understand. They understand at least that she’s offering friendship. ‘We follow this path all the way along the ridge until we reach the edge of the crater. That’s how you know. When the land rises and drops in two directions. You’ll learn your way all over the island soon enough.’

  Their heads jut forward as they try to catch and disentangle her intentions.

  ‘Is there a lake on your island? Or a volcano? Is it really a rock? How big is it, I wonder? I wish you could tell me. How many people? Is it as big as Tongatapu, where we used to live? That seems so long ago now. Did this island seem tiny, like it did to us, when we first saw it from the ship? We’ve been here ages now, since Gussie was a baby. Well, she’s still a bit of a baby, but she was much smaller then. We were all much smaller then, of course. And Albert hadn’t been well, and he needed lots of building up. It wasn’t easy, that first year – you know we used to live on the other side? Maybe that’s where Albert was last night? Well, Ada and Billy are sure to have found him and they’ll be bringing him back by now. With all of us searching, all this time, someone must have found him, don’t you think? But we must keep looking, just in case.’

  Desperation mounting, she calls again:

  ‘Al-bert! Are you there?’ Iakopo and Likatau copy her obediently, Lizzie urging them on, conducting with her hands so that they can all time their calling, and make it as loud as possible. A last great shout, and then they all strain their ears with exaggeratedly tilted heads. No answer but the noises of the island. When the men look at Lizzie for reassurance, she answers more emphatically than she feels.

  ‘You’ll see. He must be home by now. Come on. Let’s hurry. I hope Pa isn’t too angry with Albert about all this trouble he’s caused. Poor Albert. Pa can get cross, I ought to tell you, but that’s only because he sees how things should be. You’ll see what I mean. He wants everything done just so. You do, of course, when a thing’s your very own, don’t you? You want it perfect. And Pa says Monday Island is ours now, make no mistake.’

  ‘Monday Island,’ repeats Likatau, and Iakopo nods, eagerly, because these are two words he knows. The path broadens and they join her, one on each side, watching her lips move, taking it in turn to catch her approving eye.

  ‘Yes, Monday Island. And when we’ve cleared enough land, thanks to you, and you’ll be so quick at that, I can see you will, then Pa will send to Auckland, and we will finally have plantations as we’ve always planned, proper plantations – lots of fruit, all kinds of fruit – and also sheep, and then there’ll be wool to sell as well as timber. We really will make it a paradise. That’s what Pa has always said.’

  She looks for further signs of understanding.

  ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘Solomona will explain. Or Kalala.’

  She quickens her pace and lowers her voice.

  ‘Maybe it’s God’s will?’ Lizzie turns briefly to beam at Iakopo and Likatau. She likes this idea. It makes her feel that the whole family has simply been blown off course, a little way, and they are just on the point of finding their bearings again. ‘I mean that you’ve come now, after all this time, because now we truly have been tested and we’ve never given up, not once – not even Albert – we’ve always persevered, as Pa says we must. So God has sent you to us, like a reward. We’ve earned it. It’s meant to be.�
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  16

  RETURNING TO THE FLATS TO SEE NO BROTHER HERE, and her mother’s asking-face fast falling, the girl Lizzie stops, rock-still, silent. Iakopo and Likatau nearly knock against her in their tumbling hurry to be back with us.

  Solomona shouts out a warning, in our language: ‘No touching, no touching!’

  ‘Nothing?’ calls her mother, and now her voice is breaking. Lizzie can hear it too. We all can.

  Lizzie goes to her mother and takes her oily hand – she has been barrelling up mutton-birds all the morning. Mrs Peacock firms her mouth and brushes her girl away.

  ‘I thought you were with your father. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s not here?’ says Lizzie. Her face is red, uneasy. ‘He must be coming soon. We went different ways to cover more ground.’

  Mrs Peacock’s eyes close. It seems to me she is talking to herself, in her head, and then she nods, and brings an end to that matter, and she is another person.

  ‘Food now. Everyone needs to eat,’ she says. She reties the apron which stretches across her belly, and drives a fist into the hollow of her own back, as if to firm her spine. ‘Get the paring knife, Lizzie. We must get on.’

  ‘Where’s Billy?’ asks her daughter, not moving.

  ‘Digging taro.’

  ‘Queenie?’

  ‘With Billy.’

  ‘Everyone else is back? Even Ada?’

  Mrs Peacock nods over her shoulder, into the darkness of the hut. Lizzie looks around, as if she is counting. She sees Solomona and me, and also Vilipate and Pineki, safely returned, but no Albert.

  ‘Nobody’s seen anything.’ Her voice like a cave.

  Hunting without finding is a hollow thing. While you are away looking, it is easy to hope another has had the finding, and so no wonder your own hands are empty. With the return of every failed looker, the hollow space grows bigger.

  Unearthly silence hangs. All movements slow. Still there is no weeping to be heard, not since Ada’s mourning cry at dawn. As for us fellows, we watch, on hand, no certainty of our tasks, or even if we are to sit or stand.

  ‘You rest, Ma. I will cook.’ Lizzie talks soothingly, and steers her mother to a stool, but Mrs Peacock has had her fill of waiting.

  ‘I cannot do nothing.’

  Bustle. Bustle. Fingers flying. Lizzie’s shoulders sink. All hope now rests with the father.

  We fellows eat in silence, sitting apart from the family. Fatty smoked fowl and taro mash. Smack of lips and gulp of throat. We keep our eyes to the ground, and do not question. Our only task now can be waiting. From time to time Solomona’s lips move in prayer. I must speak to the Lord too. I will speak plainly. I ask him to help another father find his beloved son.

  Luka, by my side, head low, whispers his thinking aloud.

  ‘When Mr Peacock next returns, all this will end. You’ll see. Is he not a man of strength and vigour?’

  ‘Yes, surely,’ agrees Iakopo. ‘If any person can bring home the boy Albert, must it not be his own father?’

  ‘Certainly,’ says Solomona.

  I recall my first meeting with our master on the shore below – but a day ago, so very long a day – and I think of the force I saw at once in him, light and dark together.

  More hours pass. The barrel of birds is full-packed and weighted. Oil upward-seeps, enough that Mrs Peacock can draw it off. Always busy, yet always watching, listening, and all the children too. Hushed voices so any calling will be clear.

  Queenie is first to catch her father’s steps and runs at once to meet him on the path. Mr Peacock does not speak to her before she reaches him. He drags his feet. He comes alone. And it is not hard to see, even from afar, that he brings no good news with him.

  BEFORE

  On their second day on the island, Pa woke the children with an enticing shout:

  ‘Who’s coming to help me build our house?’

  Ma had let them sleep in their clothes again, so Lizzie was quickly on her feet, and first to chase after her father. Breakfast forgotten, the others followed, and soon they were all running along the edge of the sparkling lagoon towards the stream that fed it, where it was most swampish. When they were sloshing ankle-deep beside the tallest thicket of velvet-headed bulrushes, Mr Peacock stopped.

  ‘Rappoo,’ he said, handing out three stout knives to the eldest children.

  Then Lizzie understood that they were to make a whare, a thatched hut made of reeds, New Zealand-style. They would live like Maoris here.

  ‘Cut them right at the base,’ Pa instructed. ‘We’ll need the roots too. Then bring it all to camp. You and Billy too, Queenie. You’re big enough to carry plenty. I’m going up the cliffs.’

  Bringing the back hem of her skirt through her legs, Lizzie tucked it into the front of her bodice so that she could bend over without getting it soaked, and waded out. She grasped hold of the nearest, fattest reed, and set to, hacking away just below the water. She wanted Pa to return to great piles of reeds. The house took shape in her mind.

  ‘Lizzie’s wearing a nappy!’ chanted Queenie, but she copied her sister, and so did Ada. Lizzie was only shin-deep, but Queenie’s short legs meant the swamp water was over her knees, so Ada shooed her back towards the shallows.

  ‘I want a knife too,’ said Billy, trying to grab Albert’s. He jerked the blade out of reach.

  ‘Pa gave it to me.’

  ‘Stop it! There’s no time to mess around!’ Lizzie shouted through her legs. She stood up, scowling, having finally got the knife through the first tough white base. So much effort, and all she had to show for it was a single stem. She held it out to Billy. ‘Take this and lay it down over there. Just wait, Queenie, and I’ll give you the next.’

  Billy looked at it, disappointed.

  ‘It’s a start,’ Lizzie snapped.

  Back under the water to ease out the root. Her fingers groped in the mud, detaching the fine tendrils first so she could get hold of the solid lumpen thing she could feel sticking sideways out of the plant. A wriggle and a great heave, and it was out. She staggered backwards, splashing.

  ‘Come on, Billy, don’t sulk,’ said Ada. ‘You can have a turn with my knife soon. We’ll all get plenty of turns, don’t you worry.’

  They did. The children spent the whole morning hacking at the reeds. Queenie did her best to help, earnestly toing and froing from swamp to pile, but eventually she headed back to the camp, saying she was going to help Ma instead. Later, Lizzie saw her wandering off to the shore with a bucket. When they had cut and pulled enough reeds and roots, Ada, Albert, Lizzie and Billy took it in turns to carry them back. Doubled over with their loads, necks crooked backwards to see the way ahead, they wove up the gentle slope as if they had sunstroke. Someone always stayed at the swamp to keep on cutting. By mid-afternoon their hands were cut and blistered, their bellies rumbling.

  ‘When can we stop and eat?’ asked Billy. He wriggled toes so white and shrivelled they looked like maggots in the mud.

  ‘When Pa comes back,’ Lizzie said, without encouragement.

  ‘When Ma tells us,’ said Ada, at exactly the same time.

  Albert was too tired to speak. He dropped another reed on the pile, and splashed back into the swamp, shoulders slumped. One high cheekbone was smeared with mud. His golden hair was matted.

  A few hours later, there came a shout from Queenie, and Lizzie looked up to see Pa emerging from the woods.

  ‘Food!’ cried Billy gleefully, dropping the knife he had finally got his hands on, and running off to meet him. Lizzie picked it up with a sigh. It was obvious that Pa could have nothing substantial with him, dead or alive. She loaded herself up with the next bundle and followed the others back to camp.

  Pa still hadn’t sat down when she got there, and his hair was stuck with leaves and twigs.

  ‘What did he say?’ she whispered to Billy when she reached them.

  Pa lowered his tin cup of water and addressed Lizzie directly.

  ‘I said I’m going
to need your help if I’m ever going to get a goat … and yours … and yours too.’

  He nodded at Ada and Albert.

  ‘How many did you see?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Plenty. But I can’t get near them. They’re fast and they’re wild. We’ll need to take the dog up.’

  Albert stared at the rock face.

  ‘Are we going up there now?’ His voice quavered.

  ‘Don’t be nesh,’ snapped Pa. ‘Of course not now. We need to start on the house frame first. I’ve just found plenty of nikau – the trunks are sturdy and we’ll get thatch and mattresses too from their leaves. Where did I put the axe?’

  Ma broke in.

  ‘Nobody’s going anywhere till they’ve eaten. So go and wash your hands. The towel’s over there. Girls – tidy your hair. Albert – your face.’

  No matter where they found themselves, cleanliness remained next to Godliness in Mrs Peacock’s book. Observing the fundamental rules of life kept chaos at bay. Still she offered no clue as to what they were going to eat. When they were all sitting down, Queenie lifted the lid of the bucket with a triumphant flourish.

  ‘Look what we found!’

  Billy leaned over to look, and recoiled, nostrils quivering. ‘But they’re alive,’ he said. ‘Don’t we have to cook them?’

  ‘No need,’ said Pa, firmly, and reached in. Limpets, in their shells. Gigantic ones, some almost as big as a hand. He held one out for inspection, and turned it onto its back to reveal a shell apparently lined with shiny white porcelain, wavily bordered in purple, cupping a mass of glistening flesh that made Lizzie think of slugs. The flesh seemed startled when Pa’s knife plunged in. He smacked his lips when he tasted it and was a long time chewing. The children watched Mr Peacock’s slowly grinding jaws and marked his eyes, until at last he swallowed. More lipsmacking followed.

  Ma handed the bucket round, and the children surged forward. The limpets smelled of sea, and they tasted of it too. Leathery and tough, slimy and gritty, but definitely edible.