The Love Beach

by Leslie Thomas

Having posed the subject to his satisfaction he produced a German camera which he had stolen from a busy Dusseldorfer in Paris and which he considered as part of German reparations to the Jews. It was an excellent camera, although he told himself not nearly as excellent as his

  grandmother who had died in Breslau. He took an entire reel of pictures of his boat to be used as evidence in any future litigation and then proceeded to clear away the wreckage. Sections of the cabin, stray planks from the deck, and bulwarks, and finally and spectacularly the St Paul's motor cycle, all went over the side and into the pale blue harbour.

  On the following day Her Majesty would be arriving in her royal yacht and Abe needed his boat to take sightseers who couldn't wait a moment longer out to meet the arriving vessel. He was already fully booked at two pounds a ticket and he could not countenance losing a commission like that. Indeed, he thought, the removal of the cabin meant that he would probably be able to sell another five or six places on the deck.

  The whole of the forgotten fetid little capital was making itself ready for the great tomorrow. The sagging buildings and gritty streets seemed to feel the excitement as much as the people. Coloured bunting streamed along the paintless sun balconies of the waterfront. The streets had been swept twice that week and would be done over again quickly a few hours before the arrival of the royal party. The imitation Christmas tree which flashed on and off every year in the window of the Chinese Emporium in the main street had been produced out of season and was on display with all its little lights. Chairs from the British Legion hall had been brought down to the quayside and arranged in ranks for the accommodation of the distinguished British and French residents and the tribal chiefs from the outer islands, the banana‑clad leaders from St Mark's being cunningly accommodated in the back row.

  Tame flowers from the gardens had been carried in baskets, pots, and handfuls to the arrival point. They sat up in tubs, fell dizzily over balconies in long brilliant trails, climbed posts and the masts and rigging of the little boats in the harbour. The copra hulk in the lagoon was dressed overall, the Governor's pinnace shone like a regal swan as it made its orthodox steady journey across the harbour, the crew in their virgin uniforms and set faces performing theirpattern of six familiar navigational movements.

  From the peak of the Condominium headquarters on the waterfront stood out two new flags, the Union JJack and the Tricolour, flank to flank, heads down in identical limpness in the breathless, breezeless air. It was expected that the Queen would deliver at least three sentences in French somewhere towards the end of her speech.

  Children's tea parties had been arranged for the school and the mission hall and there would be Highland games on the town sports field in the cool of the evening followed by a special performance of Judas Maccabeas given by the Sexagesima choral union at the Chinese Assembly Hall. Speeches had been prepared, wires spread out, cars and children washed, and the police band threatened with certain dismissal if they didn't get it right this time.

  Down at The Love Beach, by its caretaker ocean, the chapel of the Unknown Soldier stood in metallic solitude, set, into the sand, the concrete tomb having received the poor bones, the crucifix of gun and helmet fixed. Flowers would be brought that evening by the children from the beach village and garlanded about the rusting shoulders of the landing barges. It was Bird who had suggested to the children that they should bring the blossoms and cover the sides of the invasion craft. They would go out in the evening, a few hours before the arrival of the royal visitors and gather thousands of flowers for the barges on the beach. So that the Queen and all the important people with her would not see the shame of the Apostle Islands.

  Like everyone else George Turtle was awake that lucid morning. His. wife had experienced a bad night dreaming about fainting while curtseying to the Monarch and she had kept waking him up to tell him her troubles. His eyes felt sore as he left the house with his green Morris Minor to go to the radio,station. But the brilliant early scenery of the island, the overflow greenness, the darting colours of the birds, the blue sheeted ocean beyond the trees, revived him. This was a splendid place. He was never so glad he had left Isleworth.

  He was pleased too with the new paint on the radio building, a fine cricket white so that it looked like a nice pavilion. The aerials looked high and powerful. The Queen would come to visit the station after all, although she would not have the time to broadcast. He would have some impressive pictures to send home to his brother for the local paper. Christ, wasn't it marvellous to be somebody!

  The station had been in contact twice daily with the

  approaching royal yacht and he knew it was steaming

  placidly two hundred and thirty miles or so to the south.

  Leaving his Morris on the gravel drive in front of the build‑

  ing he walked out to the small garden headland and looked

  over the sea to the saucer edge of the horizon, pointing his

  blank Isleworth face due south and trying to imagine he

  could see for ever, or two hundred and thirty miles at least,

  and focus that grand vessel approaching these fine islands '.

  Had he looked south‑west towards the rising pudding of st

  Paul's Island he might have seen a few hairs of smoke no

  thicker than a Melanesian poisoned arrow, standing over

  the brow of the island.

  At the South Seas Hilton Scamus stood outside in the street and nodded his approval at the final efforts of a Vietnamese boy, the sickly son of the shopkeeper across the road, to tie the cord of a large flag of the Irish Republic above the door. That was fine. As long as they were in no doubt where he stood. One day he wanted to go back to County Wexford and he wanted to make the journey with a clear conscience. It was all right to sell beer and spirits to the British, feed them, accommodate them, even be friends with them. But never let them think that you approved of them. One of the older ground‑floor rooms of the hotel had collapsed that morning. It had been sagging for some time and that part of the building had not been very safe since 1948 and was let at half rate because of the risk. But no one had been hurt. These things happened, Seamus thought, even in the best‑run places.

  At the pavement café next to Bird's salon Mr Hassey, Mr Kendrick, and Mr Livesley met in the full ten o'clock sunsh;ne for their first drink. Each sported a patriotic rosette which Abe had been selling on behalf of a French firm at Papette who had over‑manufactured when General de Gaulle visited Tahiti. Since the national colours were the same there was no embarrassment.

  'Never thought I'd live to see a time like this in the Apostles,' beamed Mr Hassey. 'My God, thirty‑eight years in the islands. Thirty‑eight years, you know.'

  'Ascertaining the natives,' Mr Livesley finished for him. Hassey stared at him in an aggrieved way. 'That's why I came,' he agreed. 'Been doin' it thirty‑eight years.'

  Mr Kendrick said: 'Every bicycle in the place, white and native, is going to be decorated with coloured streamers. From the handlebars, through the spokes. Every single bike.'

  'Some people might think I had a lot of foresight with my neon sign,' commented Mr Livesley, drinking pedantically. 'It's in the most patriotic colours don't you agree?'

  Some Tonkinese children, bright yellow in the sun, jumped along the dry street waving paper Union Jacks, jostling each other as they ran. The Chinese shopkeeper opposite threw a mild firecracker into the street to frighten them but they laughed and ran from it. The Chinese threw another behind them.

  Mr Hassey turned, annoyed. 'For God's sake,' he said. 'That old fool is for ever throwing those things. Chinese New Year, his birthday. his kids' birthdays ‑ well, his son's, anyway ‑ and any other excuse he can think of. I hope he doesn't chuck them tomorrow. He'll scare the shit out of the police band.'

  Bird came from her salon and looked at the three men at their drinks, at the wisp of smoke from the dying firecracker, then down the yellow light of the street of bunting and flags to the Iris
h banner that Seamus had flown outside the hotel. From over the house‑tops, already seeming lower under the growing heat, she could hear the muffled band practising on the quayside. It would be a wonderful day tomorrow. She was sure of that. Something they would always remember.

  Rob Roy English went to The Love Beach very early and stood contemplating the shrine he had caused to be made from the landing craft. He seemed relieved that it was still there. He grinned savagely at it, pushing out his jaw and projecting his false teeth with the grin. It looked starkly impressive, like one of those modern art masters they sometimes showed in The Scotsman. The thought of newspapers made him remember that The Baffin Bay was due to arrive in three days. Its appearance, always the great hinge of the month to life in the islands, had been almost forgotten in the anticipation and excitement of the royal visit. Yes, the papers would be arriving, Scottish Field too. What with that and Her Majesty dedicating the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier it was going to be a tremendous week.

  Across the sheeted lagoon, on the terrace of her house, where the red roof projected like a sharp tongue, Mrs Flagg composed a letter to the British Governor protesting at the placing of Tom Ya‑Ya, the St Mark's chief, in the back row of the official reception stand on the quayside. She made the point that since Her Majesty had desired to see the islands she ought to see them in all their aspects. It was too late to do anything now, but she felt she ought to make a protest.

  Her lawn rolled down luxuriously to the indolent lagoon, touching it with diffidence as though afraid the colours would not mix. Water sprinklers danced a splashing ballet over the green, the drops splintering in the sunlight as they fell. Somewhere in the overblown thicket at the side of the garden the St Mark's natives were polishing their family skulls.

  Despite her disappointment at the relegation of her islander chieftain, Mrs Flagg was firm with well‑being that morning. She had been selected as one of the important islanders to be presented to the Queen and she had been practising her curtsey since the previous Friday. She had been working on a hat decoration which incorporated some of the tribal feathers of the St Mark's tribe and, since their vivid feathers were never less than two feet in length, she was hoping that Her Majesty would be encouraged to ask her about them.

  She looked up after signing her letter ‑ she contrived to model her signature in such a way that her surname was flung out in the appropriate shape of a pennant ‑ and saw a small native boat coming through the lagoon towards her small landing jetty. It was immediately recognizable to her as a St Mark's war canoe, coming through the idle water at an urgent pace. Mrs Flagg was at once alarmed and half rose from her basketwork chair. Then she saw her own natives running towards the waterfront, dancing with apprehension. She plunged among the six natives, a head and more taller than any. She cupped her hands and made a bellowing noise across the water. An answering sound came back, a single moaning hoot, followed by a gobbling chorus from the other men in the boat.

  'Something terrible has happened,' Mrs Flagg said to herself, repeating the prophecy to the natives in their own tongue. They agreed anxiously. The canoe, manned by ten natives, was now only fifty yards off shore, swinging to come into the jetty. Tribal language was bellowed across the flat water so fast that Mrs Flagg could not follow it. The natives ashore became very agitated. Two of them ran off towards their hut to collect spears, ancestral skulls, and other personal belongings.

  Some of the phrases so rapidly shouted between the tribesmen began to make sense for Mrs Flagg. She held her throat like a shocked duchess. 'War?' she said to herself. 'That's what they're saying? It's war with St Peter's.' She swung on the native nearest her and questioned him. He began to gabble.

  'Slowly,' pleaded Mrs Flagg. 'Slowly if you will.'

  He told her slowly that his brothers in the canoe had come to say that a great war fleet from St Peter's was about to attack St Mark's with the object of stealing the St Mark's copra hulk. The St Peter's hulk had been burned out in the night.

  Mrs Flagg felt herself go pale. She turned from the lagoon and ran heavily up the grass to the house swerving around the sprinkler as she ran. Mr Flagg was coming serenely through the french windows carrying a Polynesian skin shield and some poisoned arrows. He turned the points of the arrows quickly upwards, out of danger, when he saw his wife closing on him.

  'Bert!' she gasped. Oh Bert, something awful.'

  'Calm, calm,' he motioned. 'Let's be calm.'

  She all but collided with him, held on to him. He thrust the arrows high above his head well out of harm. 'Please!' he pleaded. 'Calm.'

  Mrs Flagg halted. 'Right,' she breathed. 'I'm calm.' She looked at his startled face. 'It's war,' she said. 'The St Peter's people are preparing to sail against our lads at St Mark's. Full tribal war!'

  'No,' whispered Mr Flagg. 'That can't be.'

  'It can be,' argued Mrs Flagg. 'It is. The St Peter's copra hulk was burned out last night and you can be certain they're mounting an attack to steal the St Mark's hulk, or to burn it, or something.' She stamped with temper. 'Oh, how I hate them! 'They're such a rotten lot of sports!'

  'And Her Majesty is coming tomorrow,' said Mr Flagg, closing his eyes.

  'Exactly,' moaned Mrs Flagg. 'Exactly.' She ran into the house. 'We must act,' she said. 'At once. We must tell the Governor.'

  She made for the telephone, flopped on the couch beside it, and asked the Sexagesima operator to put her through to the Govemor. She got Cooper, the ADC. 'Good heavens, Mrs Flagg, are you sure?' he said, his head sinking lower to his desk.

  'Absolutely,' she said. 'Do something Cooper, and quickly or there will be mayhem. Mayhem!'

  'Mayhem,' he agreed. He went into the Governor's office. Sir William was combing out the feathers on his white officer's hat. His best shoes had just been cleaned and were sitting obediently on the carpet by his desk.

  'Fine hat this, Cooper,' said the Governor before his ashen ADC could speak. 'Look at the cockade. Never had a chance to wear it before. Ha! what a day it's going to be tomorrow, eh?' He beamed up, saw Cooper and frowned. 'What's the matter man?'

  Cooper swallowed. He seemed to digest some of his own face as he did so.

  'Sir William,' he said. 'There's trouble.'

  'Trouble?'

  'Mrs Flagg, sir, she just phoned.'

  'Oh her,' said the Governor turning away, relieved.

  'The St Peter's natives are going to war against St Mark's sir.'

  Sir William stopped as though an arrow bad caught him between the shoulders. He turned. 'Dear God! When?'

  'Today sir. Any moment. Their canoes are ready to sail and the St Mark's tribe are preparing to sail out to meet them.'

  'But they catn't" protested Sir William. 'The hell of them! They can't. Not today.'

  'They are sir. The St Peter's copra hulk was burned out last night. Either they think it was St Mark's people who did it or they are out to get the St Mark's copra ship. Or both.'

  Sir William cradled his head. The cockaded hat slipped back over his neck. 'No,' he muttered. 'No. Not now. Why do the black fools do it now.'

  'They're just contrary, sir,' suggested the inane Cooper. 'Just damned contrary.'

  Sir William stared from the window. The flags and bunting in the Government House garden hung exhausted in the sun. Across the harbour he could see the red, white, and blue colours lining the quay. He turned on Cooper standing pale and thin as a thermometer.

  'Cooper,' he said. 'We've got to stop thern. We can't have tribal war when the Queen is about to arrive. We have to stop them.'

  'Yes, sir,' acknowledged Cooper. 'How?'

  'God knows,' said Sir William, dropping his old face in his hands. He stood up consciously straight, took the cockaded hat from his head, and stared into the lagoon outside his window. He revolved again.

  'Get English,' he said. 'And the other people. You know, Kendrick and Livesley. All the council people. And Mrs Flagg. Must have her.'

  He looked uncertain, his brow collapsed a little. '
Better tell Monsieur Martin, I suppose. We're supposed to let the French know if any emergencies arrive. Yes, tell him. And ... Yes. listen Cooper, get me that Australian bugger, you remember the objectionable one.'

  'They are frequently objectionable, sir,' said Cooper. 'Mr Conway you mean.'

  'That's him. He knows a lot about the St Peter's people. He's been over there a great deal recently. Too much in fact.' Sir William seemed to suddenly revive. 'Come on, Cooper, we're going to this war. And we're going to stop it.'

  In the thick mid‑afternoon Conway was uneasily sleeping in his room at the Hilton, his split and bruised face lying painfully in the crook of his arm. He was sweating and there were so many flies in the room that even the geckos had been sated and did not want to gorge any more. The flies whirred in the hot enclosed air, full of their new freedom, standing proudly on Conway's bare feet, playing up and down his nose. He twitched but did not wake.

  Davies woke him. Pale still from Abe's crab, he entered the room, shook Conway by the shoulder and loudly called him. Conway released a stiff eye. It seemed to take him some time to recognize Davies. 'What's going on, pal?' he asked.

  'They're going to war all right,' said Davies grimly.

  'Great,' grinned Conway, getting up on his elbow. 'See, son. it always goes for the brave. I'd better get over there.'

  Davies looked at him nastily. 'I wouldn't,' he warned. 'They're going to war against the St Mark's natives.'

  Conway's face went solid. 'You're joking,' he breathed. He jumped up. 'The bloody fools, they can't do that! What the hell are they doing that for?'

  Davies shrugged, enjoying watching Conway. 'Because the St Mark's islanders are their traditional enemies, that's why. Arid when Dodson‑Smith rings his bell for them to go to war they don't go to Vietnam because they've never heard of the sodding place. They head straight across the water because that's where the usual enemies live. And what's more they've got eyes on the copra stored in the hulk on St Mark's. How are you going to work this one out?'