by Judy Nunn
She needed the Reverend Smeed’s permission to use the horse and buggy and, as she walked over to the church, she told herself that, as Sera’s family lived away from the big house, it would be most unlikely she would encounter Marat in any event.
The Reverend Smeed was quite happy for her to take the horse and buggy. It was most admirable of her to visit the sick child, he said, but surely someone should accompany her. He was rapidly thinking who on earth he could send; he was far too busy himself.
‘Mary is coming with me,’ Jane said. ‘We can manage perfectly well on our own, I assure you.’
And the Reverend Smeed thought, as he had for some time now, what an extraordinarily modern young woman Martin Thackeray’s wife was.
It was a long ride out to the plantation at Undine Bay, several hours in the horse and buggy, and Jane wondered how Sera had made the trip into town.
She’d hitched a lift with a dray delivering copra to the Burns Philp warehouse the previous day, she said, and she’d stayed last night with Mary in the village. Her sister, who lived with her and her husband and who also worked as a maid at the big house, was looking after her son and her eighteen-month-old daughter, Marie.
The poor woman must be desperate, Jane thought, and, as the drive progressed, she tried to put her at her ease, asking about her family and her home until finally Sera was chatting away in the most animated fashion.
Her husband’s name, it appeared, was Savinata, although she referred to him as Savi, and every time she mentioned his name she glowed; it was clear she loved him very much. Savi had been working for the Masta for more than six years and he was a boss himself. He organised the labour teams from his village for the harvest. Savi was very clever. Savi could speak French and it had been he who had taught her. He could even speak English. Savi was the Masta’s nambawan man and he was paid in French francs, she said proudly. The Masta didn’t pay the village workers real money, but gave them their huts and a bullock a month.
Sera felt happier than she had for the past three days, ever since Pascal had become so sick. Missus Tackry was a fine person. Warm and caring. And Missus Tackry would make Pascal better, just as Mary had promised she would.
Savi had taught her to speak French when they were courting, Sera said, so that she could get a job at the big house. That was why the Masta had given them their very own house when they’d got married. And he’d given her sister Selena a job too, even though Selena’s French wasn’t very good.
Sera’s face clouded slightly as she spoke of Selena. She knew why the Masta had given Selena a job, and she knew why Selena didn’t work hard to improve her French. She didn’t need to. Selena was sleeping with the Masta, and Sera didn’t approve of the fact.
But she was once again happily smiling as she spoke about her house. Sera was proud of her house. No-one else she knew had their very own house, with three rooms, and a sink.
The change in the woman was remarkable, Jane thought, as she watched Sera chatting away. The worry had left her face and she was childlike, carefree in her happiness. Charming as it was, it only added to Jane’s own worry. It was obvious that Sera had placed her entire trust in Jane, convinced that the Missus would save her son. But what if she couldn’t? Jane thought. What if the little boy was truly ill and beyond help?
At Undine Bay, they pulled off the rough coastal track and Jane drove the buggy up the road that led to the plantation homestead only five hundred yards away. So this was Chanson de Mer, she thought. A large timber bungalow with a shiny silver corrugated-iron roof, it was surrounded by verandahs and stood in a wide, cleared ground of rough grass overlooking the ocean. Behind it, stretching as far as she could see, was the coconut plantation.
So much for avoiding Marat, Jane thought, wondering if he was watching them through the windows as they trotted boldly up the drive.
But, halfway to the house, Sera directed her to the right and she pulled the horse up to a walk as they drove off the road to the wooded area of trees and palms several hundred yards away. Nestled amongst them was Sera’s ‘house’. It was little more than a hut, with a rusty corrugated-iron roof, an open-framed entrance and open windows.
It would probably not be visible from the homestead, Jane thought, but she guided the horse through the trees and around to the rear, just to be sure.
The Masta was not home, Sera said, as if she had read Jane’s thoughts, his motor car was not out the front of the big house.
Jane breathed a sigh of relief and, as they alighted from the buggy, she took her medical bag from the back and instructed Mary to stay outside with Ronnie whilst she examined the child.
The hut was a far more solid building than those Jane had seen in the villages she’d visited, and the interior was much more sophisticated. There were three separate rooms with open-framed doors and windows, but blinds of natangora matting could be rolled down for privacy. There was matting on the floor also, and a table and chairs in the main living area and a bench where Sera prepared food. In one corner were large containers of water and a sink that sat in a bamboo frame, the hose beneath it disappearing through a hole in the wall. The sink was self-draining, Sera proudly explained, and they fetched their water each day from the tank at the big house.
The little hut was neat and tidy and obviously tended with care. Sera had every right to feel proud of her home, Jane thought.
Sera led the way into the larger of the two rooms at the rear of the main living area. The little room was where Selena slept, she said, and this room was hers and Savi’s and the children’s.
A young woman was sitting on the floor, a sleeping infant cradled in her arms, and a little boy lay on the bedding beside her. His head was turned to one side and his eyes were shut tight, but his breathing was fitful and Jane could tell that he was not asleep.
The woman, who appeared around twenty, was a younger version of Sera. Not as arrestingly handsome in facial features but, in a voluptuous way, just as attractive.
‘Sista blong mi Selena.’
‘Allo, Selena,’ Jane said.
Sera then introduced Jane as if she were royalty itself. ‘Missus Tackry,’ she said to her sister with the utmost reverence.
‘Allo, Missus Tackry.’ Selena was about to scramble to her feet; it was wrong that she should be sitting whilst Missus Tackry was standing.
Jane gestured for her to stay seated and, as Sera herself sat and took the infant from her sister, she knelt beside the little boy.
‘Allo, Pascal,’ she said.
The child turned his head slightly at the sound of her voice and, as he opened his eyes, she saw his flicker of interest in the white woman with the fair hair who was leaning over him. But he quickly closed his eyes again, squeezing his lids shut as tightly as he could, and again he turned his head away from the light that streamed through the nearby open window.
Jane instructed Selena to pull the blinds down, over both the window and the door that led to the main room. The child was photophobic, the light distressed him, it was not a good sign. She took the pencil torch from her medical bag and lifted the boy’s eyelids to check his pupils, talking softly to him all the while. The pupils were normal, there was no sign of brain hemorrhage. She checked for the other symptoms, which she feared might confirm her suspicions, testing his spine for any stiffness or irritation. He whimpered in pain as she turned his neck. Then she stripped him of the light cotton shirt he was wearing and searched for the ominous evidence of bacterial rash. To her relief, there was none.
The child had meningitis, she was sure of it. But it appeared to be viral. She certainly hoped so. Oh God, why wasn’t Martin here? He would know. But then would he? How could anyone be sure? She so desperately needed another opinion. If the meningitis were to prove bacterial, it could be catastrophic.
She questioned the women. Had Pascal been in contact with other children? Oh yes, Sera and Selena answered. Savi’s parents and his brothers and sisters lived in the nearby village, and they regularly took Pa
scal there to see his grandparents and to play with his cousins and the other children.
And had any of the other children had coughs and runny noses? Jane asked. Yes, they had, the women said. And had they recovered? she queried. Oh yes, the children had all got better, they told her.
It had to be viral, Jane thought, it simply had to. Everything pointed to it, surely. But how could she be positive?
She instructed Sera that Pascal must be kept away from the light. The room must be dark, she said. And he must be kept cool at all times, and he must be fed plenty of fluids.
‘Plante kolwater,’ she repeated as she prepared to take her leave. She would come back tomorrow, she said. She told Sera that she believed Pascal would recover, but that the next twenty-four hours were vital, and that they must all pray.
Outside the hut, Sera had tears in her eyes as she farewelled Mary and Jane. ‘Tangkyu ta, Mary,’ she said, hugging her friend fiercely. But when she turned to Jane, words couldn’t suffice. ‘Oh Missus Tackry,’ she said, ‘oh Missus Tackry.’ And suddenly she was crying, all the pent-up worry about her little boy flooded out in a wealth of tears. Jane embraced her, wondering as she did at her own audacity in giving the woman hope when her diagnosis could prove wrong.
During the ride back to town, she prayed fervently for the boy’s safety, but beneath her prayers, anger seethed. Blind, cold anger at Jean-François Marat. If little Pascal Poilama’s meningitis proved to be bacterial, not only would the boy die, there was the risk of an outbreak amongst the villagers, perhaps even a localised epidemic. And all because of the Frenchman’s utter disregard for the people who served him. Sera Poilama had told him of her son’s illness and Marat had dismissed it out of hand. The man was a monster.
As she’d driven the trap down the main drive Jane had rather hoped to meet Marat on his way home. She’d have liked to have confronted him whilst her anger was at its peak.
Now, half an hour later, as they plodded their way back home, she was glad that she hadn’t. Creating an enemy of a man like Marat would be to no-one’s advantage. He would no doubt vent his own anger at her interference upon Sera and her family.
Beside her, Mary had lapsed into silence. For the first ten minutes after they’d left the plantation Mary had been most talkative, eager to chat about her friend Sera and the miracle of their visit to Pascal, but she’d soon realised the Missus was deep in her own thoughts and Mary respected that. So she chatted to Ronnie instead, and he answered back in his strange mixture of Bislama and English and gibberish as he happily punched the air with his fists.
By the time they arrived home in the early dusk, Jane had made her plans. Tomorrow, after she had visited Pascal, she would drive out to the village and examine the children for any sign of bacterial meningitis, and she would travel on her own; she could not afford to expose Ronnie to any possible danger. But she wondered how the villagers would receive her. Would they trust her? It was different when she was with Martin and her baby son, they were accepted as a family, but the local people were not accustomed to a white woman travelling unaccompanied. Again she contemplated seeking Godfrey’s help, and again she dismissed the idea. These were Marat’s workers and she must move cautiously. Under no circumstances must she arouse the Frenchman’s anger.
Early the following morning, when she once again sought Reverend Smeed’s permission to use the horse and buggy, she allowed the man to presume Mary was accompanying her, aware that he would forbid her to travel alone.
‘The child will make a speedy recovery, I hope,’ Reverend Smeed remarked as he wished her well.
She had been deliberately vague as to the boy’s specific illness. He was lethargic and off his food, she’d said. She wondered what the good Reverend’s reaction would be if she told him there was the possibility of an outbreak of bacterial meningitis on the island. Of course, if it were to come to that, Martin would be immediately recalled to Efate, and Jane wished for the hundredth time, as she had throughout her sleepless night, that Martin was with her right now.
‘I hope so too, Reverend Smeed,’ she replied.
Mary had been disappointed to discover she was being left out of the adventure this time.
‘I need you to stay home and look after Ronnie,’ Jane told her.
‘But Ronnie want to come too.’ Mary tried a little subtle blackmail, indicating the child who was waving his arms about and yelling ‘mami’ over and over in the hope that either Jane or Mary would pick him up.
‘I’m going to examine the children in the village after I’ve visited Sera,’ Jane explained, ‘and I don’t want Ronnie with me.’
The response puzzled Mary. The Masta and the Missus often took Ronnie with them when they visited villages. ‘But I help you,’ she said. She was a very good assistant, the Missus had often told her so.
‘You are not coming, Mary, and that’s that,’ Jane said in a tone that defied any further discussion.
Mary sulked for a while, but nevertheless packed a lunch that she insisted Jane take with her. ‘Not right you go on your own,’ she said as Jane climbed into the buggy.
‘Goodbye, Mary.’
It was close to midday by the time she reached Undine Bay and, as she turned off the track and into the drive, she was relieved to notice there was no vehicle parked outside the big house.
She drove the buggy to the rear of the hut just to be safe and Sera, who was waiting to greet her, once again seemed to read her thoughts. The Masta had not come home last night, she said.
‘Allo, Missus Tackry.’ Selena appeared at her sister’s side, the baby girl slung over one hip, and as Jane returned the greeting she wondered who was looking after Pascal. But obviously the child’s condition must have improved, she thought, Sera was beaming as she ushered her into the hut and through to the bedroom.
On the bedding in the corner of the darkened room, a man was seated leaning up against the wall, and the child was in his arms. He was gently rocking the little boy from side to side, and the little boy’s arms were hooked around his neck. As soon as the women entered, the man carefully laid the child down on the bedding and rose to his feet.
Jane could see, even in the gloom, that the little boy’s eyes were open and that he was watching everything.
‘Man blong mi Savi,’ Sera said, and Jane turned her attention to the man.
Savi didn’t wait for his wife to make the further introduction. He took Jane’s right hand in both of his. ‘Missus Tackry,’ he said, ‘is an honour. From Pascal I tank you. I tank you so much from my son.’
Jane was touched, not only by the man’s profound gratitude, but by his determination to communicate it in English. She wasn’t sure what to say, though, she hadn’t even examined the child yet. ‘He’s improved then, I take it?’ she said, which sounded rather abrupt, she realised.
‘He is live,’ Savi said. ‘He is much sick in night. We is much worry.’
‘Perhaps I should look at him,’ Jane suggested.
‘Oh yes,’ Savi dropped her hand instantly, ‘oh yes, plis.’
She knelt, and Savi crouched beside her, watching her every action as she examined the child.
‘Allo, Pascal,’ she smiled. ‘Nem blong mi Missus Tackry. Olsem wanem?’
The little boy gave the faintest of smiles and nodded as she asked him how he was; it was obvious that he found her intriguing.
She chatted to him throughout the examination, telling him everything she was doing and why, aware that she was really explaining it all to Savi whose face was only inches away, his eyes darting from the pencil torch, to the stethoscope, to her, to the boy. Savi was missing nothing.
She was very sorry if it hurt a little bit, she said to Pascal as she tested his neck and his spine. But this time, as she turned his head gently to the side, he didn’t whimper – he was far more interested in continuing his own examination of the white missus.
The photophobia had lessened considerably, the spine was more flexible, the neck less tender and, although
the child was still very lethargic, his interest in her was an excellent sign of his recovery. Jane rose to her feet and Savi jumped up beside her.
‘He is good, yes?’ he asked.
‘He is still very tired, Savi, and it will take him some time to recover his strength,’ she said, ‘but yes, he will get better.’
She didn’t need to say it in Bislama for Sera, Savi said it all. He picked his wife up bodily and whirled her about, nearly bowling over Selena who was standing by the doorway, the baby in her arms.
‘Ssh,’ Jane said, trying to calm him down. ‘Ssh.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘Too much excitement, Pascal must be kept calm and quiet.’
Savi put Sera down guiltily. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘So sorry, Missus Tackry.’
Jane knelt once again beside Pascal. He was a very good boy, she told him, and he was going to be strong again soon. She was going now, she said, but she would come back and visit him in one week’s time.
Savi, who had instantly crouched at her side, smiled at his son. ‘Yu talem Missus Tackry tangkyu, ta, Pascal.’
‘Tangkyu, ta,’ the boy said obediently, his voice little more than a whisper.
Jane smiled and stroked his head gently as she said goodbye. ‘Siyu, Pascal.’
Pascal smiled back at the nice white missus, he liked her a lot. ‘Siyu, Missus Tack,’ he said.
Selena remained with Pascal whilst Sera and Savi accompanied Jane outside.
‘Missus Tack,’ Savi grinned. ‘Is good name.’ He decided right then to adopt it. The Missus was special to them, she deserved a special name, and Missus Tack it was.
Savi was not at all happy, however, to discover Missus Tack had driven the buggy all the way from Vila on her own. It was not right she should travel without an escort, he maintained.
In the daylight, where she could see him properly, Jane was further impressed by Savi. He was a good-looking man, around thirty, with a lean, fit body, and he wore his hair cropped very short, like a woolly cap on his finely shaped skull. But it was his vitality and the intelligent enquiry in his eyes that struck her above all else. Sera’s proud comment about her husband had been no mere boast. Savi was clever.
