Pacific

by Judy Nunn

  Jason swerved to avoid a pothole; the road was treacherous, particularly in this weather. He slowed the car down to a crawl.

  ‘The colonial administration had corrupted many of the local leaders. They’d appointed them as ministers, given them chauffeured cars and servants, and these chaps swanned around in luxury while their own people lived in miserable huts without electricity. The authorities were trying to sneak in a dodgy constitution that wouldn’t allow freedom of the press, and would guarantee the corrupt islanders jobs in perpetuity. Dad was very vocal about the whole situation, and there were honest people around who listened to him, so the government couldn’t do much about it, except agree to take him on board as a legal adviser in the drawing up of the new constitution. But there were others who saw him as a very serious threat. Those from the private sector with business interests in the islands wanted to keep the locals in their pocket. So …’ Jason gave a shrug and avoided another pothole.

  ‘So they killed him?’ Sam was surprised by the detached way he spoke of his father’s death. It was as if he was talking about a historical figure from the past, she thought, as if there was no personal link.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Who? Do you know?’

  ‘No. But I believe Mamma Jane did. When she told me, just before she died, that my father had been murdered, she said I mustn’t live with any bitterness. She said that justice had been done, and his death had been avenged. Which I found rather strange at the time,’ he added, ‘because Mamma Jane wasn’t a vengeful person.’

  He glanced at Sam, who was willing him to continue. ‘That’s about it, I’m afraid. She didn’t tell me any more.’

  ‘So you don’t know who killed your father, or who avenged his death, or how it was done?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Sam was astonished. Why wasn’t Jason driven to discover the truth? She certainly would have been.

  Jason was aware that his apparent nonchalance surprised her. He was willing to share the whole story with her, but the rest of it wasn’t his to tell. She would find out soon enough, he thought.

  The storm had abated a little when they got back to the Crowne Plaza, and they went to their respective bungalows to shower and change. That night they dined with the crew members; and the second unit director, an efficient young man called Steve, announced that if the weather hadn’t cleared by morning, they’d postpone filming.

  Jason walked Sam back to her bungalow, along the path that wound among the coconut trees, the two of them huddled beneath the huge umbrella provided by the resort. The wind had dropped now, and the rain was little more than a steady drizzle.

  ‘If you’re not working tomorrow,’ he suggested, ‘I’ll arrange lunch with my friends, shall I?’

  ‘Great, I’d love it.’

  She was thoughtful when they arrived at the bungalow door. ‘You know, it amazes me that you can be so …’ she searched for the word ‘… so objective, so detached about everything, Jason.’

  ‘About my father’s murder, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Oh please don’t get me wrong,’ she hastily added. ‘I don’t mean to be critical, I’m just surprised.’

  ‘It was twenty-four years ago, Sam, and the past is the past.’

  ‘Yes of course it is.’ She shook her head, perplexed. ‘I suppose it’s being here … making this film … Somehow the past seems so immediate, so tangible. I feel I’m a part of it.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, that sounds silly, doesn’t it.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound silly at all.’ He enjoyed very much sharing his past with her, he thought, but he’d far rather share his future, and beneath the umbrella he leaned down to kiss her.

  This time there was no mistaking the kiss for a polite gesture. Their bodies were close, his arm was about her and, as his lips lingered on hers, she returned the kiss. But she was astonished when, as they parted, he handed her the umbrella.

  ‘Good night, Samantha,’ he said, and he walked off through the rain.

  In the morning, the debris of coconuts that lay scattered about the lawns of the resort was the only evidence that the storm had ever been. The morning was bright and clear and perfect for filming.

  They were shooting in an actual village, which was just up the street from the Crowne Plaza. The film unit, for a hefty fee by local standards, had the official permission of the local government, and the village itself was to be well remunerated. The villagers, who would be used as extras, were to receive a cash payment at the end of the day, and everyone was very happy with the arrangement.

  The principals’ makeup van had accompanied the first unit to Quoin Hill, but Maz had remained in Port Vila to tend to Sam and Elizabeth. She did their makeup and hair at the resort and then, in costume, the women were transported to the nearby village in the Landcruiser.

  ‘Geez, you’re a blast from the past, eh?’ Bob Crawley was impressed. He was accustomed to seeing Sam in shorts and a T-shirt; she looked quite different in her wig and the 1940s blouse and skirt.

  Whilst the crew was setting up for the first shots of the day, Jason arrived. Sam was sitting in one of the canvas director’s chairs near the catering truck, which was parked in the street by the wide, muddy drive that led into the village. Elizabeth was chatting to the cameraman nearby.

  ‘When you weren’t in the foyer I thought you weren’t coming,’ Sam said, pleased to see him, remembering last night’s kiss.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  Again his manner, so casual, was in no way different, and Sam once more decided that Jason Thackeray was a bloody enigma. He ran hot and cold and she had no idea where she stood.

  ‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ Jason called.

  ‘Hello, Jason,’ Elizabeth called back, then she returned her attention to the cameraman. She’d been having a steady affair with him since Mickey had left.

  A runner arrived with mugs of coffee, and Jason sat in one of the director’s chairs.

  ‘How bizarre,’ he said, looking up the muddy drive to the village square where, amongst the squalid huts, the grips were laying camera tracks and the sparkies were rigging lights and reflector boards. ‘Today meets yesterday, how truly bizarre.’

  ‘Yes it is, isn’t it,’ Sam agreed. The director, Steve, had shown her the village square, and the particular hut where they’d be shooting, and she’d commented upon the excellent work of the art department. Although the location was an ‘actual’, she’d presumed that the set designer’s additional dressing had created the authenticity of a 1940s village.

  ‘We didn’t add a thing,’ Steve had said.

  The fact had amazed her, and she told Jason so. ‘I can’t believe how primitive it is,’ she said.

  ‘How long before you’re needed?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh.’ The non sequitur surprised her. ‘About twenty minutes, I suppose.’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  He took her arm as they picked their way through the mud created by the storm, and they walked into the heart of the village.

  The walls of the ramshackle pole huts were principally of corrugated iron that had seen better days, the roofs also, although some were thatched. Hessian was draped over open doorways, and children played in the central square where there were the remnants of a cooking fire.

  ‘Just as it was in my grandmother’s day,’ Jason said.

  They wandered amongst the huts, the children gathering happily around them, several taking Sam’s hands, enchanting her with their smiles. Jason chatted in Bislama to the villagers, and Sam, proud that her lessons with Elizabeth had paid off, was able to understand much of what they said, despite the speed with which they said it.

  She made a tentative attempt to join in now and then, and the villagers grinned, applauding her efforts even when she got it wrong. It seemed the adults were just as excited as the children that the ‘pipol blong filem’ had chosen their village.

  It was not only the art designer whose labours had pr
oved unnecessary in recreating the past; the costume department had also had it easy. Several villagers had been instructed to divest themselves of their brand-name shoes and logo-emblazoned T-shirts, but for the most part, sloppy shorts, shirts and bare feet or sandals were favoured by the men, and the majority of women wore Mother Hubbard dresses, just as they had in the colonial days.

  ‘How extraordinary,’ Sam said to Jason when they finally returned to the caterer’s truck. ‘It’s as if time’s stood still.’

  ‘It’s also rather shocking, don’t you think?’

  Yes, she supposed that it was, although the people seemed very happy, she thought. She waited for him to continue.

  ‘This is actually quite a well-to-do village by some standards. A lot of these people are employed at the Crowne Plaza.’

  She nodded. Even with her limited Bislama she’d gathered as much from the villagers’ conversations. It had surprised her to think that they worked in such modern and opulent surrounds, and then returned to homes so primitive.

  ‘There are many other villages that still don’t have electricity or running water,’ Jason continued, ‘it’s a disgrace. The Melanesians remain subjugated, and the corrupt ones amongst them continue to live the life of Riley. My grandmother had hoped that independence would achieve something better, but it actually created a monster worse than colonialism.’ In his eyes there was a wealth of anger. ‘And it was that monster that killed my father.’

  Sam was silent, realising the inadequacy of any response. She also realised that she’d been wrong. Jason Thackeray was far from detached about his father’s murder. And about those who had perpetrated it.

  The second assistant director appeared, Sam was called to the set and the day’s work began. Jason didn’t stay to watch the filming and, to Sam’s disappointment, he wasn’t at the Crowne Plaza upon their return in the late afternoon. She showered and changed, eagerly awaiting his company in the dining room that night, she had so much to tell him.

  The day in the village had had a profound effect upon Sam. She had made friends amongst the villagers, particularly the children, who had instantly adopted her. During the filming, the children had been instructed to mill about and call her ‘Mamma Black’, which they obediently did. But when ‘cut’ was called and a break was taken, they didn’t stop. She continued to be Mamma Black and they displayed even more affection, the little ones vying to climb up on her lap, the others holding her hand or nestling against her. The children adored her, and she adored them in return. It was little wonder, Sam thought, that Jane Thackeray had formed such a bond with these people, and more and more, as the day progressed, she felt as if she had actually become Mamma Tack.

  She longed to tell Jason what had happened, but he didn’t appear that night, he was obviously dining elsewhere. Sam felt rather let down, there was no-one else with whom she could share her feelings.

  He arrived on set the second day, however. Work was well under way, and he simply gave her a wave. They were standing by, Steve had not yet called ‘action’, but the children were already milling about playing with her. ‘Action’ meant nothing to them. Sam noted that, as Jason watched, his expression, although enigmatic as always, was somehow fond. Fond and distant. He was reminiscing, she thought. Aware of her appearance in full costume and wig, she presumed that he was thinking of the past and his grandmother. She was right, but only to a certain extent.

  ‘Action!’ Steve called, and Sam concentrated upon her performance. He was watching Mamma Jane, Jason was thinking. He was a child again, and he was visiting a village with Mamma Jane, watching her whilst she played with the children. He smiled at his indulgence. It wasn’t Mamma Jane at all, he reminded himself. It was Samantha Lindsay, the woman he loved. And, very soon, he intended telling her so.

  Jason didn’t stay long. During a brief break in filming he said to Sam, ‘See you at dinner’, and disappeared.

  At the end of day, the crew packed away the gear, the two-day shoot over. Sam hugged the children one by one.

  ‘Siyu Mamma Black,’ they said.

  The villagers gathered around, many of them chanting the same farewell, having also taken to calling her ‘Mamma Black’ when the camera was no longer rolling. She promised them all that she would visit the village again before she returned to Australia.

  Less than a week to go, Sam thought. In just six days they’d be heading home for Christmas. There was to be a ten-day break before they shot the final scenes at Fox Studios, and then it would all be over. The past two and half months on location seemed to have flown, and she was already sad at the thought of leaving.

  That night, over dinner in the Crowne Plaza dining room, she let it all pour out to Jason. Her feel for the past, her affection for the islanders, her identification with Jane Thackeray.

  ‘I felt as if I became her, Jason,’ she said. ‘As if I actually became Mamma Tack!’

  He smiled. She hadn’t drawn breath for twenty minutes and her meal was congealed on her plate.

  ‘Well, you certainly looked like her,’ was all he said.

  After dinner, he once again saw her to her bungalow door.

  ‘It’s all arranged with my friends,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, eleven o’clock, we’re invited to lunch.’

  ‘Great.’

  She waited for him to kiss her. He did. And this time she sent him the strongest of signals in her response. Then, as they parted, she jumped in quickly.

  ‘Would you like a nightcap?’ she asked, and the offer was plainly for far more.

  He didn’t even hesitate. ‘No thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ she enquired as he held the car door open for her. ‘I didn’t bring my bathers.’

  There was a frosty edge to her voice, which didn’t seem to bother him.

  ‘You won’t need them.’

  He climbed into the driver’s side. ‘You’ll like these friends of mine,’ he said. ‘And I think you’ll find out some answers today.’ Answers to what? she thought.

  ‘I do pry a lot, don’t I?’ she said with a touch of irritation.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t mind.’

  Why did she find his manner patronising? Was it because he made a habit of kissing her and then disappearing into the night? Three times in a row now. And the last time, she couldn’t have sent a stronger signal. She found it very insulting.

  ‘Well, it’s my job to pry,’ she said, ‘it’s called research. After all, I am playing your grandmother.’ She sounded scathing, and she meant to.

  ‘I thought this film was only based upon my grandmother,’ he said with a smile.

  She’d been pedantic about the fact often enough, and the realisation that she was being hoisted on her own petard only irritated her all the more.

  ‘Even based upon is enough to make it ironic, don’t you think?’ she said archly.

  He realised that she was annoyed because he’d left without accepting her offer of a nightcap and all that it inferred. It was good that she was annoyed, he thought, he needed to be sure of how she felt about him.

  ‘Don’t be cross, Sam,’ he said gently. He flashed a glance at her and smiled, then returned his eyes to the road ahead. ‘There’s a reason for everything, and we’re just about to close a door on the past. I think that’s right, don’t you? With the film drawing to a close?’

  He looked at her again. Bright green they were this time, she thought, those amazing eyes.

  ‘When we’ve put the past to rest, we can get on with the future.’

  Sam was confused. What was that supposed to mean? What was she supposed to say in response? She was at a loss, but she realised her irritation had completely disappeared.

  ‘So who am I going to meet?’ she asked, her interest piqued.

  ‘My dad’s best friend,’ Jason replied. ‘He’s a retired school teacher, and he’s been like a father to me since I was ten. His name is Pascal Poilama.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘He
llo, Samantha, Jason’s told me all about you.’ Pascal Poilama was a good-looking man in his mid to late sixties. Strongly built, with flecks of silver in his close-cropped, steel-grey hair, he was well spoken and his handshake was firm.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Poilama.’

  ‘Pascal, please.’ He smiled, the whiteness of his teeth accentuating the deep coal-black of his skin. ‘Come in, come in, I’ve made us some coffee.’

  He ushered them into the rear living room of the small weatherboard house. Open doors led out to a porch and a large, pleasantly untidy back yard with a chicken coop and vegetable garden. A hammock was slung between two cabbage palms, and a child’s swing hung from the branches of a tree.

  ‘Leia has gone shopping, she’ll be back in about an hour, and then the troops will descend upon us for lunch.’ He referred to his son and daughter, their respective spouses and his five grandchildren. ‘They always do on a Saturday. Marie is coming today too, Jason. She insists upon meeting Samantha.’ Pascal’s sister, Marie, and her family lived in a village nearby. ‘But for the moment we have the place to ourselves. Do please sit down. How do you take your coffee?’

  They talked briefly about the film, and Pascal was most interested. ‘Jason tells me it’s about Mamma Jane,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s based upon her,’ Sam said, with a smile to Jason. ‘The writer was inspired by the stories he heard of Mamma Tack.’

  ‘I must say you look very like she did as a young woman.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  Sam was pleased. She was also intrigued that Pascal Poilama referred to Jane Thackeray as ‘Mamma Jane’.

  ‘Pascal’s parents were very close to my grandmother,’ Jason explained. ‘He and my father grew up like brothers.’ He looked expectantly at the older man; he had asked Pascal to tell Samantha about his father.