by Judy Nunn
‘Open the door, Missus Tack. It is safe.’
Savi was panting heavily, but apart from a cut above his eye he was unharmed. Jean-François Marat lay sprawled on his back on the front path, his face a bloodied mess, his right arm at a grotesque angle to his body.
Jane told Ronnie to stay inside as Pascal ran to his father. Savi picked his son up, and the boy instantly stopped crying, then he looked down fearfully at the body of Marat. He had killed the Bos. A black man had killed his white master. ‘If they find out I have done this …’ He faltered.
Jane knelt beside Marat and checked his vital signs. ‘He is alive, Savi, you have not killed him.’
But Savi kept shaking his head.
‘You were protecting me. I will tell them that.’
‘It will do no good. The Bos is too strong.’ She did not understand. Even Missus Tack did not understand, none of the white people did.
Jane did understand. Savi’s fear of his corrupt white master was eminently justified. But Marat would need to admit to what had happened in order to lay charges against his servant. She herself would make sure of it. And Marat would admit to no such thing.
‘He will not tell anyone that you fought him, Savi. He will not want anyone to know that he attacked me.’
But even if what the Missus said was true, Savi thought, it would make no difference in the end. ‘He will kill my family, Missus Tack. He will kill my family for what I have done.’
She could see his desperation. Savi’s bravery had deserted him. He was frightened now. Frightened and lost. He had risked everything for her, even, it would seem, the life of his family, and she must take charge now. She must convince him that he was safe, and tell him what to do.
‘You must go home, Savi. You must go home straight away. And you must collect Sera and Marie and all of your belongings. The others will help you, won’t they?’
Savi nodded. Yes, he could borrow the donkey and cart from the village, and his cousins would help. He was listening attentively, the little boy’s arms entwined about his neck, he would do whatever Missus Tack said. Missus Tack always knew best.
‘But you must not go to your family’s village. You must come in to Sera’s village, well away from the plantation and close to town. I can help you then. I can find work for you both.’
Marat groaned, he was regaining consciousness. Savi’s eyes rolled with alarm as he looked down at the Bos.
‘He will not hurt your family, I promise you,’ Jane said. ‘But you must leave the plantation this afternoon.’
Marat stirred, then groaned again. And again Savi stared at him, petrified in his fear.
‘He will not be able to follow you, Savi, he is too hurt.’
Savi longed to do as Missus Tack suggested. He wanted to turn and run for all he was worth. But how could he leave Missus Tack with the Bos?
Jane understood his quandary. ‘And he is too hurt to do me any harm,’ she assured him. ‘Go now, Savi. Look after your family.’
He needed no further bidding. ‘You take care, Missus Tack.’ And he left before the Bos could open his eyes and see him standing there.
Jane’s courage didn’t falter when he’d gone, but she was uncertain about what to do next. She examined Marat. A dislocated shoulder, numerous abrasions, a nasty wound to the back of the head, and no doubt concussion. She could contact the hospital, but what sort of questions would be raised? Why had Marat been beaten to a pulp at her front door? She could simply lock the cottage, return to the clinic with Ronnie and leave the man where he lay, in the hope that when he regained consciousness he would stagger home to his apartment. But she dismissed the thought even as it occurred, her medical training could not allow such an option. And, most important of all, what of her promise to Savi that Marat would not harm his family? She needed a guarantee, and the only one who could give it was Marat.
She fetched a bowl of warm water and her medical kit and set about tending his wounds. She started with the shoulder first, she would relocate it whilst he was still unconscious. Both hands locked around his wrist, she lifted his arm, then she planted one foot firmly on his chest.
Marat was shocked into consciousness by a searing pain. He gasped and his eyes shot wide open. Jane Thackeray was standing over him, her foot on his chest. What had happened? The slut was doing something to him. He tried to move, but blackness engulfed him.
He’d fainted. Good, Jane thought, as she knelt beside him and prepared a sling for his arm. She worked quickly. When the arm was correctly positioned, she wedged a tightly rolled towel at the base of his neck to prop his head forward whilst she treated the wound, cutting away the surrounding hair and disinfecting it. She would bandage his head when she had bathed the lacerations and abrasions on his face.
It was a little over ten minutes later, as she was bathing his face, that he regained consciousness. Slowly this time, his eyelids flickering, his head turning slightly from side to side. Then his eyes opened and he stared at her. Jane put down the bowl and sponge and watched him warily.
He said nothing; he was trying to piece together what had happened. What was he doing lying here, his arm in a sling, the slut kneeling beside him? And she’d been bathing his face, he’d felt it. Then he remembered. Savi.
‘I’ll kill him!’ he said, sitting up, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. ‘I’ll kill the black bastard!’
He struggled to his feet, Jane scrambling up beside him, alarmed. But as soon as he was upright, he started to sway, the world swimming giddily about him.
‘Sit down.’ He was about to faint again. He sank onto the front doorstep. ‘Breathe,’ she said, ‘breathe deeply,’ and she pushed his head between his knees. He grunted with pain as the movement jarred his shoulder, but she took no notice. She needed him conscious now. ‘You’re concussed,’ she said, ‘another sudden movement like that and you’ll probably faint.’
He breathed deeply and the giddiness gradually cleared, leaving a dull aching throb behind his eyes. He raised his head and looked up at her where she stood beside him.
‘He’ll pay for this. His whole family will pay for this.’
‘No they won’t, Jean-François. If you attempt to harm Savi, or a member of his family, I will report your attempted rape.’
He snorted derisively. ‘And who would believe you, slut?’ Looking up into the sunlight was hurting his eyes. He stared down at the path, nursing his arm in its sling and rocking slightly to and fro. ‘You and your American stud! Who’s going to believe you, slut!’
‘What exactly is this fantasy you seem to have created, Jean-François?’ She maintained her composure, her voice icy, her eyes cold, but she was riddled with fear. Did anyone else know about Wolf?
He defied the stinging sunlight to stare up at her again, his ravaged face twisted with jealousy and hatred. ‘I’ve watched you, bitch. I’ve watched you for the past three nights. You and your husband’s “friend”,’ he sneered. ‘Don’t deny it.’
‘Of course I don’t deny it.’ He’d been spying on them, no-one else knew, she was sure of it, and she amazed herself with her confidence. ‘I don’t deny for one moment that Wolf Baker was my husband’s friend.’
He laughed, the laugh turning into a wheeze as the pain slid from his shoulder down his arm. ‘And he’s yours now, isn’t he.’
‘He most certainly is. And if you attempt to cast any slur upon me and my relationship with Wolf Baker, I will report your attack on me.’ She squatted beside him, careful to keep enough distance should he attempt to grab at her, and prepared to leap away if he did. But she was determined to make an impact upon him.
‘Who do you think they will listen to, Jean-François? I am Mamma Tack. What do you think they would do to you if you called Mamma Tack a slut? You’d make yourself a laughing stock, you’d never be able to hold your head up in this colony again.’ Jane had never felt so strong. ‘You say one word about your fanciful notions and I’ll destroy you. And if you attempt to harm Savi or any member of h
is family, I will tell them, Jean-François. I will tell them all that you tried to rape me, and Savi will be my witness.’
He knew he was powerless, and he hated her for it. He glared at her. His English rose, that’s how he’d thought of her. Jane Thackeray, his own English rose. Now the very beauty that had obsessed him was detestable. He wanted to destroy it, rip it apart petal by petal and grind it into the dirt where it belonged.
Jane stood. She had won, but she had to distance herself from the murderous look in his eyes. His hatred unnerved her, although she dared not let him know it. She busied herself with her medical kit, taking out the crepe bandage and the gauze.
‘Your head needs to be bandaged,’ she said.
‘Leave it.’
‘Very well.’ She replaced the supplies and closed her kit. ‘I’ll borrow the church car and take you back to your apartment.’
She intended to cut from the verandah across the clearing to the Reverend Smeed’s, but she needed to step around Marat to get into the house.
As she did so, he grabbed her ankle with his left hand. She didn’t scream, and she didn’t struggle, but she was terrified. Surely the man wouldn’t dare attempt to harm her further.
‘You won’t take me anywhere,’ he snarled.
To her vast relief, he released her ankle. She stepped back. Calm, careful that he shouldn’t read her fear. Then slowly he stood.
‘You can’t walk,’ she said, ‘you’ll probably faint if you try. Let me get the car.’
‘I don’t need your help, bitch.’ He steadied himself against a tree, his eyes once again fixed upon her. ‘You’d best watch your back from now on, Jane.’
She met his gaze unflinchingly.
‘You’ll pay, you know that? I’m always willing to wait, and if it takes me years, no matter. You’ll pay, I swear it.’
She said nothing, but she watched him as he turned and made his way unsteadily along the path through the trees. Then she followed him out onto the street to watch him walk down the hill, expecting to see him fall. But he didn’t. He stopped now and then, bending down, his hand on his knee, breathing deeply, willing himself not to faint. Then slowly, painfully, he continued on his way, ignoring the curious looks from the few passers-by.
She watched until he was out of sight before returning to the cottage where she sat at the kitchen table deep in thought, Ronnie gambolling about, the afternoon’s drama forgotten.
She expected the fear she’d so successfully quelled in Jean-François’s presence to return now that she was alone. She expected to feel shaken by her ordeal and frightened by his threat. But she felt neither. She was relieved to have escaped unharmed certainly, but beneath her relief was a resolve to fight, both for herself and for Savi and his family. Marat had warned her to watch her back. Then that was exactly what she would do, she thought.
Where had her strength come from? Jane wondered. Exactly when had she become so strong? So tough? She’d changed. She remembered the young Englishwoman who’d first arrived in Vila, little more than a girl, completely reliant upon her husband. That girl had gone.
She’d changed because she had to, she realised. Marty was no longer with her, and she would need to stay strong, even tough, for the times that lay ahead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Jane returned to Mamma Tack’s, she sent Mary to Reid’s Hotel with a sealed note for Wolf Baker saying that he was not to visit her that evening. She gave no reason why.
He appeared in the late afternoon as they were closing the clinic.
‘Got your note,’ he said, ‘just thought I’d give Ronnie a ride up the hill.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but hoisted the child onto his shoulders where Ronnie bounced around happily. They said goodbye to Mary and the three of them set off for the cottage.
‘I meant what I said in the note.’ Her pace was brisk and she didn’t look at him.
‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘I said you weren’t to come around tonight.’
‘I haven’t,’ he said facetiously. ‘I’ve come around this afternoon.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No I don’t. Ouch.’ He tried to disentangle Ronnie’s hands that were threatening to pull his hair out by the roots. ‘Telling me not to visit you doesn’t say anything, I don’t know what you mean at all. Can’t you slow down a bit?’
‘It means we must stop seeing each other.’
‘In what way? As friends?’ He was serious now. ‘I’m first and foremost your friend, Jane.’
‘I know.’ She slowed her pace and looked at him. ‘And I’m thankful for that. You’re a very good friend.’
‘Then let’s leave it that way, shall we?’
‘All right,’ she agreed, and they walked on in silence.
Jane had no intention of telling Wolf about Marat. Wolf might insist she go to the police, or God forbid, threaten to confront the Frenchman himself. She didn’t need the complication. But Wolf Baker was inextricably connected with the events of that day, and for the first time in their brief affair she felt a true sense of shame.
Throughout the afternoon, Marat’s words had kept coming back to her. ‘Don’t worry, my dear, it’s perfectly natural that you should seek some outlet, some distraction from your loneliness. I understand.’
She could hear the contempt in his voice and see the lust in his eyes, but even as she’d relived her repulsion, the words had taken on a ghastly ring of truth. Wasn’t that exactly what she had been doing? Seeking an outlet through Wolf to distract her from her loneliness?
They arrived at the cottage door, where Wolf untangled Ronnie from his hair and deposited him on the front doorstep.
‘Play hidey, Wolf, play hidey.’ The little boy tugged at his trouser leg.
‘Shall I?’ he asked Jane. ‘Shall I come in, old pal, old buddy? Just for a cup of your fabulous tea?’ He rubbed his hands together with pretended delight. ‘Yum, yum.’
He looked ridiculous, his hair sticking up like a cockatoo’s crest, and she laughed. ‘Of course. You can even have a bourbon.’ Her laughter quickly died as she fought to quell the image of Marat. ‘I am of the same opinion as your American. It is a man’s drink, do you not agree?’ And she felt the touch of the Frenchman’s fingers around hers.
‘I’ll do the hide and seek thing while you get the tea,’ Wolf said. But his heart wasn’t in it as he dodged behind the armchairs and the sofa, escaping the indefatigable Ronnie. Something had happened. What was it?
He confronted her as they sat in the lounge room over their respective tea and bourbon.
‘What is it, Jane?’
‘What’s what?’
‘Something’s happened, that’s what. Tell me.’
Never, she thought. Never as long as she lived would Wolf, or anyone else, know what had taken place in this very lounge room. She looked about. There was no evidence of the day’s drama. She’d cleared up the mess.
‘Guilt,’ she said. ‘Simply guilt.’
‘Okay.’ He could see she’d closed off. She was different, he thought. Less vulnerable. Surely that was a good thing, he told himself, but he wondered what was going through her mind, and he wished that she’d share it with him. ‘But I’m your friend, Jane, and I intend to stay that way.’
‘Good. I need friends. What about something to eat? I’m starving.’
They raided the larder, but she hadn’t done the shopping and there were only tins, so they had baked beans on toast, sitting beside Ronnie in his highchair, sharing a smile as he dribbled beans all over his tray.
They put the child to bed together and she saw him to the door; it all seemed so natural.
‘Good night, Jane.’ His hand gently upon her shoulder, he bent to kiss her forehead.
But even that was enough. The warmth of his fingers through her light cotton dress, the deep tan of his neck teasing her with the intimate knowledge that his chest was a different colour, the tantalisingly familiar smell of him.
; His lips brushed her forehead and, as if drawn by a magnet, she leaned forward and kissed the cleft at the base of his throat.
‘Stay, Wolf,’ she whispered, ‘please stay.’ She couldn’t help herself. Perhaps she did love him, in a way she’d never known. Perhaps she needed the escape of him, the sheer sexual escape. But her body seemed to have a will of its own. And if her actions were shameful, she thought, then so be it, she was damned.
Savi joined the army labour recruits. Jane recommended him for a position of authority, and the military readily agreed that Savi Poilama, bilingual, with a wealth of experience as a plantation foreman, was a valuable asset.
The native work gangs were a common sight in the streets of Vila, singing as they trooped off to work, ‘God Bless America’ or island versions of the big swing band melodies that were popular at the time. Jane regularly saw Savi, proudly heading his own team, and she waved to him as they marched past Mamma Tack’s.
She found shift work with the military for Sera too. As a cook. It remained imperative that island labourers be fed traditional staples and discouraged from a diet of American rations. Good local cooks were eagerly sought after and Sera, given her choice, chose the lunchtime shift so that she could spend the early mornings and evenings with her children.
With two army pays coming into the household, the Poilamas were more affluent than they had ever dreamed possible, and both Savi and Sera were happy in their work.
Sera’s sister, Selena, had not fared so well. When Savi had returned to his home to gather his family, Selena had refused to accompany them. She did not fear the Masta, she said. The Masta was different with her, she was special.
Savi refused to remonstrate with her, there was no time. He told Sera to talk some sense into her sister, and went to the village for the donkey and cart, and to enlist the help of his cousins.
Sera, horrified as she had been to hear of the Masta’s attempted rape of Missus Tack, was not altogether surprised. She had lived through a similar experience herself. She was proud of Savi for saving Missus Tack, it was very brave of him, she thought. But she was unable to convince Selena of the dangers of staying.
