by Judy Nunn
Jane registered a ring of truth as she remembered Sera’s words of the previous morning. Her husband thought the sickness would pass, Sera had said. But she was a mother, and something in her blood told her that her son was in danger.
‘I take full responsibility, however,’ Jean-François continued, ‘I should have sought medical advice.’ And he certainly should have, he now realised, it was a lesson learned. It hadn’t occurred to him that the boy’s illness could be contagious. Good God, if the village children had become ill, his workers would have been severely affected. ‘I will know better next time,’ he said in all honesty. ‘Meanwhile, Madame Thackeray, you have my sincerest thanks.’
Jane was flummoxed. The man’s remorse was evident and she was left with nothing to say.
‘You will be visiting Pascal again, I trust?’ Marat enquired.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I promised Sera I would return in a week.’
‘Then of course you will allow me to drive you there and back. I insist,’ he said when she hesitated, ‘it is the least I can do.’
‘Thank you, M’sieur Marat, that would be most kind.’
It was dusk when Mary, who had been anxiously awaiting the return of her mistress, heard the car approaching. She opened the door of the cottage and stood frozen to the spot at the sight of Marat. She had had no dealings with the Frenchman, but she knew who he was. Everyone knew Masta Marat.
Jean-François escorted Jane to the front door. ‘You must be Mary,’ he said without waiting for an introduction.
‘Say hello to M’sieur Marat, Mary,’ Jane prompted gently as the young woman remained, immobile and dumbstruck, on the doorstep.
‘’Ow do you do,’ Mary murmured in her very best English, eyes downcast, staring at her feet.
‘I believe it was you who informed Madame Thackeray of Pascal Poilama’s illness,’ Jean-François said.
Mary was terrified. She looked at the Missus. Why had the Missus told the Masta that? But the Missus was signalling her with her eyes. The Missus wanted her to say yes. So she nodded.
‘You did the right thing, Mary,’ Jean-François smiled. ‘You have been a good friend to Sera, and you have helped to make her little boy better. I am obliged to you.’ He was obliged to them both, he thought. Sera and Mary had done him a great favour.
Mary breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘Missus make everyone better,’ she said proudly. ‘Missus very good doctor.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Enough chat with the housemaid, he thought, and he gave her a brisk nod.
Recognising the Masta’s dismissal, Mary obediently retired inside, but she left the door open in case the Missus should require her.
Jean-François and Jane agreed upon the day of her visit the following week and he promised that he would pick her up at nine in the morning.
‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked. ‘Or something to eat before your journey home? It will be dark before you reach Chanson de Mer.’
He liked the familiarity with which she said ‘Chanson de Mer’. So she remembered the name of his house, it was a promising sign.
‘I would not dream of imposing,’ he replied, ‘you must be exhausted. I suggest you retire as soon as possible.’
‘It is no imposition, I assure you.’ She was rather hoping he would refuse, she didn’t wish to entertain him. Marat no longer frightened her, but she was still not entirely comfortable in his presence, and she was indeed exhausted. She felt obliged to make the offer, however. ‘In any event I cannot retire until Savi arrives, I must return the horse and buggy to Reverend Smeed.’
But Jean-François had it all planned. ‘I shall dine at Reid’s,’ he said, ‘and wait for Savi there. He will need to drive right past the hotel and I will be watching out for him. We will return the horse and buggy and then I shall drive Savi home.’
‘I couldn’t possibly allow you to …’
‘Of course you could allow me, Madame Thackeray, and you must. You must allow me to repay at least a little of the debt I owe you.’ The Frenchman’s tone was authoritative and final, and Jane, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue, longed to accept his offer. The thought of waiting for Savi for the next two hours and then returning the horse and buggy to Reverend Smeed, who would no doubt demand a full explanation as to the lateness of her return, was more than she could bear.
‘But Reverend Smeed will be expecting me,’ she protested weakly.
‘I shall visit the Reverend immediately and inform him of our arrangements.’ He could see that she’d already given in. She was grateful for his concern. Excellent. He was winning her trust. ‘Mr Smeed must surely have been worried about your travelling unaccompanied,’ he said, ‘and he will become even more so as night approaches.’
‘I’d be obliged if you neglected to mention my travelling alone,’ she said. ‘Reverend Smeed believes that Mary was with me.’ She felt herself flush as the Frenchman raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t lie,’ she assured him, ‘it was merely his presumption.’
‘Then of course I shall say nothing,’ Jean-François promised, ‘apart from singing your praises for the deed you have done me.’ He studied her closely. Did Smeed know that she had visited his workers?
Again Jane flushed. ‘I saw no reason to alarm the Reverend before I had made my examinations,’ she said. ‘He knows only that I was visiting a sick child.’
So she was capable of deception, most interesting, Jean-François thought. ‘How wise,’ he replied, ‘one would always wish to avoid unnecessary panic.’ Smeed knew nothing, that was good. And how lovely she looked when she flushed. He smiled thoughtfully at her for a moment, and Jane started to feel self-conscious.
‘Most women are content to be housewives, Madame,’ he said finally. ‘You are obviously not one of them.’
Jane saw in the dark eyes that were studying her so astutely something which, at first, she took to be mockery. Then she realised it was approval.
‘No, M’sieur, I am not.’
‘You are a most admirable woman.’ He held out his hand and she took it. ‘And now I must bid you good night.’ This time, as he kissed her hand, Jane found nothing intimidating in the gesture. She blamed her own ignorance and unfamiliarity with the French custom. How foolish of her to have been unnerved, she thought, and how unfair of her to have judged the Frenchman for a simple common courtesy.
‘Thank you for driving me home, M’sieur.’
‘Bon nuit, Madame Thackeray.’
He had sensed her relax as he’d kissed her hand. It was always the same with Englishwomen, he thought as he walked to the Peugeot. They were unaccustomed to physical contact because of their men; Englishmen were so cold and aloof. But once an Englishwoman relaxed, she found she enjoyed being touched. A masculine hand to the elbow. A manly arm about the waist. Brief, tasteful, and always in the guise of courteous assistance.
He climbed into the car and started the engine. Englishwomen were so susceptible once they relaxed, he thought. That’s what made them putty in his hands.
She was standing on the front doorstep and she waved him farewell as he slowly drove off. She looked magnificent, he thought. Even more so than the day he’d first met her. Her fair hair framed a face now tanned by the sun and her slim body was fit and youthful. Everything about Jane Thackeray was vital and alive. Everything except her sexuality, he thought, and the prospect of awakening her filled him with the utmost excitement. He was tired of black velvet, Selena bored him now, she was too easy, as was the French trader’s wife he bedded from time to time. He’d been missing the thrill of the chase, he realised. To conquer Jane Thackeray would be the ultimate triumph.
He waved through the open car window. ‘Nine o’clock,’ he called, and he watched in the rear vision mirror as she closed the front door behind her. It would take time of course, she was an intelligent woman who could not be rushed, but the prize would be worth the wait.
‘Missus Tack!’ Pascal was excited to see Jane. She was his friend. None of his cousins in the v
illage had a white missus for a friend.
Upon examination, Jane found the boy’s condition remarkably improved. He was still tired and weak, but the photophobia had gone completely and he was feeling no pain. He was eating now, Sera told her. He was enjoying his food, she said, and he was taking an interest in things. So much so that they had had to shift his bedding into the front room by the doorway, so that he could watch what was going on outside, and so that he could play with Marie who would toddle about, making him laugh when she fell over.
Marat had left Jane at the Poilamas’ hut, telling her that he would return when she had completed her examination of the child.
‘I do not intrude upon their privacy,’ he’d said as they’d turned off the coast track and into the main drive to Chanson de Mer. ‘It would not be right for the master to come into their home. They report to the big house for work each day. It’s the way it should be.’
Jane agreed, but was surprised by the man’s tact, it didn’t seem in keeping with the lack of care he displayed to his workers. She was cautious as she broached the subject of Savi’s English lesson, however, realising that the offer she’d made with such largesse had been a rather thoughtless one. Savi was Marat’s foreman, he could hardly take a morning off at his leisure. Moreover, why would the Frenchman be interested in his number one worker learning English? He might even be opposed to the idea.
‘It was a little foolish of me to make such a promise,’ she admitted.
‘Not at all, it was most generous of you. I see no problem in Savi having an hour or so away from his work.’ Jean-François was quite happy to foster Jane’s relationship with the Poilama family. The more often she visited them the better, he thought as he drove across the open scrubland towards the hut. ‘Savi has an enquiring mind which I believe should be encouraged.’
When they’d pulled up, he got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. ‘I shall send him to you,’ he said, opening the door and taking her hand as she alighted, ‘and I shall return to collect you at one o’clock.’
The woman’s offer to teach Savi had certainly been presumptuous, he thought whilst he drove back to the house, but the more Jane Thackeray interfered in his personal affairs, the more she was playing into his hands. Besides, it would do no real harm for Savi to learn English. It was, after all, the man’s enquiring mind that made him such an invaluable worker. Savi was as skilled in the plantation’s management as any white overseer would be.
But at heart he was the same as the rest of the blacks, Jean-François thought. Simple and easy to control. They all were. Even the smart ones. In fact, the smart ones were the easiest of the lot. The smart ones were prone to corruption. Savi’s cousin, Pako Kalsaunaka, of whom he was so proud, was a prime example. Pako was firmly in Jean-François’s pocket and the Frenchman encouraged the cousins’ friendship – it was a valid excuse for the Sergeant’s regular visits to the plantation. Jean-François had plans for Pako. Through his connections with the French authorities, he would see to it that the young man rose to power in the police force. The Condominium could not last forever; one day the New Hebrides would claim its independence, and when it did, Pako Kalsaunaka would be an obvious candidate for a prime position in the new government’s hierarchy. He would also be Jean-François Marat’s personal ally.
But, easy as the Melanesians were to manipulate, he thought, they were lazy labourers. He would have preferred to employ Chinese or Tonkinese. Hard workers, the Asians. But Asians were also canny, you couldn’t trust them. They learned quickly and before you knew it they were setting up their own businesses. In Jean-François’s opinion, the blackbirders had had the right idea. Round up the islanders’ young bucks and put them to work. It was a simple fact that men worked harder and stole less when they were separated from the distractions of family and village life.
Alas, blackbirding was no longer legal, but he had an ace up his sleeve with Savi. Jean-François’s villagers worked hard by Melanesian standards, and they did so because of Savi. Theft was at a minimum too; the villagers would not steal from their good friend Savi.
Savinata Poilama was worth his weight in gold and Jean-François knew it. Which was why he’d done his best to keep his hands off the man’s wife. By God there was a beauty, he thought. He’d lusted after Sera from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and he still did. Now more than ever, her grace and bearing and sheer unavailability drove him mad with desire. But he’d had to satisfy himself with the sister instead, Savi was far too valuable to lose.
Selena had proved a satisfying distraction. A highly sexual creature – as most of them were, Jean-François had found – she was good-looking and her body was luscious. But several years down the track she now irritated him. Slothful and lazy, except in bed, Selena obviously believed that servicing the Masta was enough to keep her employed. It wasn’t, and Jean-François would certainly have replaced her with another sexually compliant housemaid if it were not for the fact that she was Savi’s sister-in-law. She also served as a convenient babysitter for Sera, who was an excellent worker. The Poilama household must be kept smoothly run and intact, he had decided.
Given his current state of dissatisfaction, the fresh challenge which had presented itself in the form of Jane Thackeray was most timely, he thought, as he pulled the Peugeot up outside Chanson de Mer.
Sera had waited for the car to drive away before going outside to greet Jane, having no wish to feel the Masta’s lust here on her own home ground. She watched fondly as the Missus examined her son, Pascal enjoying the attention and chatting animatedly to his best friend Missus Tack.
Every day at the big house Sera was aware of the Masta’s desire, and she avoided physical contact whenever she could, although he was forever inventing reasons to touch her. He’d ask her to fetch something for him and stroke her hand as she gave it to him, or he’d admire a dress she wore and caress her shoulder as he did so.
She never told Savi that the Masta touched her. Even that time two years ago when the Masta had been drunk and had tried to force himself upon her, she hadn’t told Savi.
She’d fought the Masta like a tigress when he’d tried to rape her. She’d bitten him and torn at him with her nails until he’d given up. He’d called her a black slut and told her to send her sister to him. The next day he’d pretended that nothing had happened. Or else he’d been so drunk that he didn’t remember.
Sera couldn’t understand how Selena could bear the Masta touching her. But Selena liked sleeping with him, the Masta was very good in bed, she boasted. Very sexy. So Sera kept her disapproval to herself. She presumed her husband knew that Selena was sleeping with the Bos, but then Savi believed in people minding their own business and, just as she had never mentioned the Masta’s attack upon her, so the two of them had never discussed Selena’s relationship with the Bos. Nothing was worth risking Savi’s job and the security and comfort they had all come to depend upon.
Jane had finished her examination now and was playing an ‘I spy’ game with Pascal. The Missus spoke Bislama like a local, Sera thought. Most white women knew only enough Bislama to issue orders to their servants. How lucky they were to have found such a friend as Missus Tack.
‘Missus Tack!’ Savi had arrived. As eager and excited to see Jane as Pascal had been. It was time for his English lesson and he couldn’t wait.
Sera insisted upon showing Savi the fish and yam meal she had made with coconut milk for Missus Tack’s lunch. He didn’t need to light a fire, she told him, it was good to eat cold, but Savi was paying scant attention, he was too keen to get started on his lesson. Then, leaving the children in their care, Sera walked up to the big house to help Selena.
Sera would have liked, very much, to stay for the lesson. Like Savi, she longed to learn English. But it was washday and she was worried that Selena would be slovenly in her work. When the Masta was away, as he often was, Sera would take the children with her to the big house whilst she worked. More and more, lately, she d
idn’t trust Selena, and washday was the most important day of the week. If the Masta’s clothes were not scrubbed spotlessly clean, if they were not hung to dry properly, if they were not impeccably ironed, he would get very, very angry. And she’d had to teach Selena about the money he occasionally left in a pocket. The Masta had put it there deliberately as a test of their honesty, she’d told her sister right from the start, but Selena hadn’t listened and one day she’d stolen five francs. Sure enough, the Masta had confronted her, and Selena had said that she hadn’t seen the money, it must have fallen out of the pocket. Then she’d pretended to find it behind the washtub. But the Masta had beaten her anyway; he hadn’t believed her. And when Selena had told Savi she’d been beaten, Savi had said that it served her right for stealing. Sera loved her younger sister, but Selena could be very stupid sometimes, and stupidity was dangerous.
Savi, aware of his wife’s disappointment in missing out on the lesson, promised her, as she left, that he would teach her what he had learned that day. ‘I teach,’ he said, ‘you learn.’ Then he looked to Jane for confirmation. ‘Is right?’
‘Yes, quite right, Savi,’ she said. ‘Very good.’ And she promised Sera that she would come back again, with M’sieur Marat’s permission of course, and they would have another lesson just for her.
Savi proved an exhausting but rewarding pupil, not only relentless in his own desire to learn, but eager for his son to be given the same opportunity.
For the first ten minutes, they sat on the floor in the front room near the little boy’s bed, Marie toddling about beside them, and Jane was pleased to note Pascal’s genuine interest. Like father, like son, she thought. The child listened attentively as she translated the meaning of a word from Bislama into English.
