by Judy Nunn
‘I know you mean it,’ she said in all seriousness. ‘And I’m saying that you haven’t either.’
‘Great,’ he grinned. ‘I’m twenty-six again, that’s wonderful.’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’
They sat in silence for a moment, and then he said, ‘Leipanga’s every bit as beautiful as you painted her.’
‘Yes, she’s a lovely looking creature, but not a very good mother, I’m afraid.’
Harsh as the statement was, she said it with a quiet resignation, and Wolf was intrigued.
‘In what way?’ he asked.
The letters they’d shared over the years had always been open and honest. They’d written about their children, and their children’s spouses, and eventually their grandchildren, and Jane had no inhibitions about discussing her daughter-in-law with him. But she checked that Jason was nowhere in earshot this time.
‘Leipanga will disappear any day now,’ she said quietly. ‘She’ll desert her son, just as she was deserted when she was a child. Like her mother, she’ll sell her beauty to the next highest bidder.’ Again, though her words were harsh, her tone was not. She was simply stating the facts.
Jane had had her doubts about her future daughter-in-law from the moment she’d first met her, but Ronnie had been infatuated, and she’d felt she had no right to criticise his choice. Besides, the girl no doubt loved him in her own way, and as long as he remained successful and provided well for her, she would stay with him. But Ronnie was dead now.
She’d tried to persuade Leipanga to stay and be a mother to her son, promising that she would support her and her child, but the proposition had held no attraction. Leipanga needed a man, and she’d been very open about it.
‘Soon I will be thirty-five,’ she’d said to Jane, ‘there is little time left. No man wants a woman who is old, and no man wants a woman with a child.’
She meant no rich white man and Jane knew it. Just as she knew that, to Leipanga, no other option was worthy of consideration. Like her mother before her, the girl had relied upon the commodity of her beauty throughout her life.
‘It’s sad, Wolf,’ she said, ‘but there are many like Leipanga.’
‘Very sad for the boy,’ Wolf agreed.
‘Yes. To lose both parents so quickly.’
He was glad that she was now communicating freely as they did in their letters, and he decided to broach the subject that she’d so assiduously avoided. ‘Why don’t you want to talk about it, Jane?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Ronnie’s death. There’s something you’re not telling me.’
It was perceptive of him, she realised. She’d thought that, with her dismissal of the senseless car accident, he’d presumed she simply didn’t wish to speak about it, but he’d sensed something deeper. She supposed she should have expected it. During their short time together all those years ago, he had come to know her well, and he obviously still did. She was not skilled at deception.
She would have liked to have told him about Ronnie, but she didn’t dare. Wolf, in his impetuosity, which she sensed had not lessened with age, might try to address the situation, and that could be dangerous.
She would once have confided in Phoebe, she thought. But, for a different reason altogether, she had not even informed Phoebe of Ronnie’s death. Phoebe’s letters, rare these days, had become progressively distracted. Since the death of her daughter, over twenty years ago now, and the subsequent break-up of her marriage, Phoebe’s emotional state remained fragile. She had returned to the safety of Fareham, and Jane, in her letters, encouraged the talk of their happy childhood days which seemed more and more to preoccupy Phoebe.
There was no-one from the past in whom she could confide the true facts of Ronnie’s death, Jane thought. Not yet anyway. Perhaps, one day.
‘You’re right, Wolf,’ she admitted, ‘there is more to tell, and I wish I could share it, but it’s too soon.’
Assuming she was referring to her anguish, he felt guilty for having pushed further. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you any further pain.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s not that at all, I would honestly like to talk about it, especially to you of all people. But given the present climate, I daren’t.’ Her voice was even, and she paused for a moment, prepared to say only as much as she felt she could. ‘Ronnie’s death was an accident of his own making, and that’s the way it must remain. For the moment anyway. One day I’ll tell the true story, particularly to his son, but for now …’ She shook her head. ‘Other lives could be in danger.’
Wolf was shocked. Someone else had caused her son’s death, and yet there was to be no enquiry? How could she bear it? ‘Is there anything I can do, Jane? I’m a powerful man, please let me …’
‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘That’s exactly why I can’t tell you.’ She picked up the percolator. ‘More coffee?’
She had taken his cup and started pouring without even waiting for a reply, and he knew that the subject was closed.
They talked comfortably for a while, about the past and the present, about their lives and their families. But when Wolf brought up the subject of the islands’ forthcoming independence, he was puzzled by her reaction.
‘The end of the Condominium, Jane,’ he said. ‘Cause for celebration, I’m sure.’
‘I hope so.’
She seemed a little doubtful. How extraordinary, he thought. ‘But it’s what you’ve always believed in, the rights of the islanders to choose their own government, to lead their own people.’
‘So long as the right people are chosen, and for the right reasons. There’s a lot of influence being brought to bear from foreign businessmen who’ve had a hold in the islands for years.’
‘You fear corruption?’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes, I do.’
Well, of course it was natural, he thought, human nature, greed. Regrettable, but a fact of life. He’d been about to pursue the conversation, a country’s politics were always of great interest, but once again, abruptly, she changed the subject. It appeared this was another area of discussion that she did not wish to engage in.
They talked on and on, well into the late afternoon, and Jane was surprised when he rose, announcing that it was time to leave.
‘But surely you’ll stay for dinner,’ she urged.
‘No, no, I’ll dine at the hotel and get an early night. I leave first thing in the morning.’
‘How? There are no flights out of Port Vila tomorrow.’
‘I hired a jet in Hawaii,’ he said. ‘Just a brief visit, I’m afraid.’
‘Heavens above, a private jet, I’m very impressed.’
‘That’s good.’ He grinned broadly. ‘I like to impress.’
The age in his face had dropped away and to Jane he looked as boyish as the day she’d met him.
‘Oh, Wolf, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.’ She took his hands. ‘You are so dear to me.’
‘As are you to me.’ He realised that he sounded quite stilted as he said it, but the touch of her hands had caught him off guard. How he would love to hold her, he thought, to feel her body close to his, just once more. But it would have been wrong. His loyalties belonged back home, and she was not his anyway. She never really had been. Besides, through the open verandah doors, he could see the boy.
‘It’s wonderful to have had a great love in one’s life, Jane,’ he said softly. ‘Marty was yours. And you were mine.’
She didn’t know what to say by way of reply, so she leaned up and kissed his cheek instead, and then they went into the lounge room.
Jason was seated with his homework spread out on the coffee table before him; there was no sign of Leipanga.
‘Goodbye, Jason.’ The boy rose as Wolf offered him his hand, and they shook. ‘I won’t forget those stamps, I promise.’
‘Thank you.’
Poor lonely little boy, Wolf thought. Still, he would have Jane in his life, and Jane Th
ackeray was strong enough to fulfil the role of both parents.
Jason accompanied them to the door, Jane holding the boy’s hand.
‘Goodbye, Jane.’ Wolf lingered for a moment, his eyes drinking their fill, knowing that this would be the last time he would ever see her.
‘Goodbye, Wolf.’
‘You keep those letters coming, mind.’
‘I promise.’
‘I’ve no idea what they talked about all afternoon,’ Jason said, ‘but it was the look in his eyes when he said goodbye to her. I was only ten, but I could tell that he loved her.’
It was close to midnight, but Sam had lost all track of time. The other diners had gone, with the exception of the tourists who remained on the jetty, partying over liqueurs.
‘So Jane and Wolf had an affair,’ she breathed.
‘Yes, I believe so.’ He smiled to himself. She was completely unaware, he thought, that she’d automatically adopted their first names. ‘And I got the stamps,’ he added.
‘Oh really?’ She’d forgotten the stamps.
‘Yes, an amazing collection, filled half my album. I was an avid stamp collector in those days. I still have them somewhere, and they’re probably worth a fortune now. Don’t you have to be up in five hours?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘Hell! Yes!’
‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Well, that’s me gone to a watery grave. What a shame, I never end up with the girl.’
It was Sunday and the film unit was gathered at the Crowne Plaza pool, having an impromptu farewell get-together for Mickey Robertson. They’d completed filming the death of Mickey’s character, Hugh Blackston, the previous day and Mickey was flying out of Vanuatu first thing in the morning.
It was a hot afternoon, and most of the gang were in their bathing costumes. Sam looked at the lanky actor lounging against the bar, one gangly arm draped around Elizabeth’s naked brown shoulder, and she laughed. Mickey always ended up with the girl. In nearly every production he’d worked on — stage, film or television — Mickey Robertson invariably had an affair with the leading lady. Sam herself had been one of the very few exceptions, but he’d still managed to attract the favours of some other female cast member, and this time was no different. Unlikely looking Lothario though he was, women seemed to find Mickey irresistible. He caught her eye and winked.
The death of the Reverend Hugh Blackston had been spectacular. Mammoth Productions had hired a number of decommissioned US naval vessels from a company in San Diego that specialised in the supply of naval equipment for movie-makers, and the scene had been filmed at sea aboard a US destroyer.
Jason had accompanied Sam and the other two principal actors on the shoot, both Louis Durand and Brett Marsdon also keen to watch the filming, and he’d found the whole process astonishing. Even without the sound effects of heavy explosives, overhead aircraft and machine-gun fire, all of which would be added in post-production, the scene was terrifyingly real. The explosions didn’t appear fake, he couldn’t see where the black smoke was coming from, and the cameras were shooting through walls of flame. The whole vessel seemed ablaze. Everywhere, desperate men fought the inferno, hoses fired blasts of water showering debris into the air, a man ran screaming from out of the flames, his body a fireball.
Then the call for meal break, and it all stopped. The smoke pump, the gas-controlled fires in their safety containers, everything was simply switched off. Suddenly they were sitting peacefully on the aft deck of a destroyer in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – all of them: actors, crew, extras, stuntmen and safety officers – and the caterers were serving up lunch. It was sheer madness, Jason thought.
Now, as they partied around the pool, he suggested to Sam that they have an official farewell dinner for Mickey at a little French restaurant where he knew the host well. They could make a private booking, he said, and have the place to themselves.
There was no dawn call for the cast and main crew the following day; Simon would shoot the aerial dogfights with the second unit, and the stunt pilots would bear the brunt of the morning’s work. Sam put the dinner idea to the vote and everyone agreed with alacrity.
The evening at L’Houstalet was a raucous affair, most of the gang boldly choosing the chef’s famous and highly recommended gourmet specialty of stuffed fruit bat. Jason, who knew better, decided on the boeuf bourguignon. Mickey Robertson, in order to avoid a hangover, had determined that he would remain drunk for his early morning flight, and they partied until well after three in the morning. The staff were thrilled by the presence of none other than Brett Marsdon, who good-naturedly signed autographs, and the host was only too happy with the amount of money that was changing hands.
Jason enjoyed the company of the film crowd, but they were not the reason he had changed his plans. His intention had been to remain no longer than a week in Port Vila, as he did each year. He always returned briefly to his childhood home to catch up with his old friends, but since the death of his grandmother, he rarely stayed longer than a week or ten days.
It had been a fortnight since his evening with Samantha at Vila Chaumieres, however, and he was toying with the idea of staying much longer, perhaps for the duration of the filming. Having recently resigned his residency at the medical clinic in Bournemouth where he’d worked for several years, he was undecided upon his future. He had time on his hands, he thought, why not enjoy it?
He was fully aware that it was far more than the world of film-making which attracted him, but he wasn’t sure exactly what it was that intrigued him the most. Was it the portrayal of his grandmother by Samantha Lindsay? Or was it Samantha Lindsay herself? The two had by now become inextricably entwined.
Sam didn’t analyse her feelings about Jason at all; she simply spent every moment she could in his company, dining with him most nights and gravitating towards him during filming breaks. He was her link to the past and Jane Thackeray, and she didn’t look beyond that. There was so much more Jason knew, she thought, and so much more she needed to find out.
Brett Marsdon’s jealousy was patently obvious to all, although he wasn’t prepared to admit it. ‘We’re an ensemble, Sam,’ he complained, towards the end of Mickey’s farewell party. ‘You should be spending more time with the cast.’ He meant him. ‘But you’re always with that doctor guy.’ He pretended to forget Jason’s name. ‘Come on now, we’re a team.’
‘Research, Brett,’ she said diplomatically, ‘that’s all it is. Research. Jason is Mamma Tack’s grandson, remember?’
‘Yeah, well, I’m the one you’re playing opposite,’ he sulkily replied. ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘I don’t. I love working with you. You know I do.’
He wished she wouldn’t treat him like some kind of kid brother. He knew he wasn’t going to make it with her, he accepted that, but he was damned if he was going to let anyone else score, least of all a goddamn doctor! What did Thackeray have to do with the movie business? It wasn’t fair.
‘And you’re brilliant.’ She gave him a brief hug. ‘I can’t think of anyone who could play Wily Halliday better.’
It mollified him somewhat. And she was right, he thought, it was undoubtedly his best performance to date. And he’d cut down a lot on the coke and the party pills. But Jesus, he cursed inwardly, that guy Thackeray was a pain in the ass.
With the departure of Mickey, the filming concentrated upon the love affair between Wily and Sarah, and Sam, as always, was eager for Jason’s opinion.
‘What do you think of Brett?’ she asked as they sat apart from the others, having a pre-dinner drink, Brett scowling at them from across the hotel lounge.
‘He seems nice enough.’ Jason, like everyone else, thought Brett Marsdon was a spoilt brat.
‘No, I mean his performance.’
‘Well, I’m hardly an expert,’ he said, amused that she should ask, then he realised that she was seriously seeking his opinion. ‘I think he’s an excellent actor, and he’s certai
nly good-looking.’
‘But is he Wolf Baker? I mean is Wily Halliday Wolf Baker?’
Jason gave one of his loud hoots of laughter. ‘Good heavens above, Sam, Wolf Baker must have been in his sixties when I met him, and I was ten years old. How on earth would I know?’
She looked so disappointed that he felt he’d let her down. She was always intense when she discussed her work, which was probably why she was such a good actress, he thought, but her intensity sometimes seemed at odds with the girl she really was. Jason thought that he’d never met a young woman so relaxed and free of self-consciousness as Samantha Lindsay.
He didn’t like to disappoint her, and he looked across the room at Brett, trying to formulate an opinion, but Brett had heard his laughter and was once again glowering in their direction. The spoilt brat, no answers there, Jason thought.
‘He’s very different in front of the camera,’ he said.
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ She was leaning forward eagerly, aware that he was giving some consideration to her query now.
Jason recalled the day’s filming. There had been a strong chemistry between the two of them. It had been completely believable that a woman like Sarah Blackston was attracted by the boyish cheeky charm of Wily Halliday. Could it have been that way between his grandmother and Wolf Baker? He remembered the easy assurance of Wolf Baker’s manner and the air of success that he’d worn like a mantle. Would Wily Halliday be like that as an older man? It was eminently possible.
‘I think it’s quite likely that Wolf Baker was similar to Wily Halliday,’ he said.
‘Do you think so?’ Her face split into the widest grin. ‘Do you really, really think so?’
‘I really, really do.’ He shook his head, bemused. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it, this movie business? If you think about things hard enough, fact and fiction can become quite blurred.’
‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, punching the air in her enthusiasm. ‘That’s what makes it so exciting.’
Over the next several days, Jason began to feel strangely uncomfortable watching the love scenes between Sam and Brett. He wasn’t sure why; probably just self-consciousness, he thought. Then the morning loomed when they were to shoot in a closed set.
