by Judy Nunn
‘Indeed,’ Pascal replied, ‘we were as close as any two brothers could be. We rode, we swam, we canoed together, everything was a race, as it is with boys.’ He smiled at Sam, and she felt very comfortable in his presence.
‘When we were little I often let Ronnie win because he was three years younger, but he never minded when he lost. He just accepted that I was bigger and tried harder next time.’
Pascal sipped at his coffee, happy to oblige Jason as he reminisced about the past.
‘But when we were teenagers, the competition became not only tougher, it took on a new meaning. We were both keen to shine in the area which was automatically perceived to be the other’s domain. And we did. Ronnie could handle an outrigger canoe far better than I ever could, and I beat him at polo every time.’ He gave a proud smile. ‘Mamma Jane had bought us horses,’ he explained, ‘which we kept in a paddock behind her house. She found our competitiveness very healthy. She said we symbolised the true equality we should all be fighting to achieve in the islands.’
Sam was finding the old man fascinating, but she wondered where it was all leading.
Pascal laughed delightedly. ‘I’m not sure how Mamma Jane justified her equality theory when I was the only islander boy I knew who owned a horse, but in any event, Ronnie and I played our own version of polo and had our own gymkhanas. Ronnie was always the first to raise the bar, and I was always the first to make the successful jump. Again, he never seemed to mind, he just kept raising the bar to impossible heights. But then, that was Ronnie. To Ronnie, nothing was impossible.’
‘We remained brothers throughout our lives,’ Pascal said, ‘and I still called him Ronnie even when we became men.’ Once again, he smiled to Sam. ‘I was the only one permitted to do so, apart from my mother and Mamma Jane.’
Pascal glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. There was a great deal to tell, and he decided to get to the point. There would be no chance to talk at all once the hordes arrived.
‘Jason tells me you are interested in the truth about Ron Thackeray.’
‘The truth?’ Sam asked, jarred by the sudden halt in his boyhood reminiscence.
‘About his death.’
‘Oh! Oh no …’ She flushed with embarrassment. ‘I mean … well, it’s none of my business.’ She darted a look at Jason. How on earth could he have said such a thing? She felt mortified.
‘Forgive me, I put that the wrong way,’ Pascal apologised, aware of her discomfort. ‘It is Jason’s wish that I tell you what I told him eight years ago, not long after Mamma Jane’s death.’
‘He knows that his father was murdered, Pascal, no more than that. When I am gone, tell him as much of the truth as you dare. Do not endanger yourself.’
Pascal had questioned why Jason wished to share the past with Samantha Lindsay, and Jason’s reply had been simple. ‘Because I wish to share my future with her, Pascal, and I want no secrets between us.’ To Pascal, a romantic at heart, the reason was a good one.
‘I will tell you exactly what I told Jason,’ Pascal said to her now, ‘no more and no less. Just as Jason has asked me,’ he added when Sam seemed about to protest, ‘and just as I wish.’
Jason nodded encouragingly at Sam, and she felt her discomfort ease as she sat and listened to Pascal Poilama.
‘I was very excited by the prospect of an independent, democratic government,’ he said. ‘I was a young man in my late thirties, an English teacher, educated when most islanders my age were not. I had a son and a daughter going to school; the world would be a new and wonderful place for them, I thought. Ronnie thought so too, and he inspired me from the outset, as he did many others. He warned us, however, that we islanders must take great care in the choice of our leaders.’
Even as he spoke, Pascal could hear Ron Thackeray.
‘There are already corrupt men who have accepted favours from the French and English to the disadvantage of their own people, Pascal. They will destroy you, divide you, the money will go into the pockets of the corrupt few. You must unite your people, select your political leaders with care.’
‘Members of the private sector disliked him even more than the government. Ronnie was one of the legal advisers in the drawing up of the new constitution, and a number of powerful businessmen were doing all they could to block the new law that only Efate people could own land.’
‘Marat is the ringleader, Pascal, your people must be made aware of that. Through his government contacts, he’s placed many islanders who owe him favours in positions of power. He’s negotiating a land deal, with one of them as figurehead, in order to bypass the new ownership laws.’
‘Ronnie was perceived as a troublemaker by some of those who were dictated by self-interest, but no-one expected such a drastic measure would be taken to silence him. Homicide is not a common crime in Efate, it never has been, and certainly not amongst the white population. When we heard of the car crash everyone believed that his death was accidental. I believed so myself, as did Mamma Jane. Until drunkenness was cited as the cause. Ronnie did not drink. A beer now and then, but never heavy liquor. It was a serious blunder on the side of those who organised his death, it raised questions amongst we who knew Ronnie well. Those questions were never addressed, however, and the cause of death was reported as accidental.
‘But I found out the truth one day not long after. I was paying a visit to my parents, who were at that time quite elderly.’ Pascal gave a wry smile. ‘Well, they were probably around the same age as I am now, but they seemed elderly at the time.
‘They lived in a village on the outskirts of Vila, and my father’s cousin, a powerful man and one destined for a top position in the hierarchy of the new government, was with them when I arrived. I didn’t like my father’s cousin, he was one of those who’d sold his own people down the river, an ex-policeman who lived in a big house and had a chauffeur-driven car. He rarely visited my father, they had little in common, and I was interested, so I stood beside the open door of the hut and listened. My father and my mother and my father’s cousin were talking intensely, they had no idea I was there. And then I heard the Frenchman’s name.’
‘It was Marat, Savi,’ Pako Kalsaunaka said. ‘We had nothing to do with it, I swear.’
‘Then how do you know?’ Sera hissed the question. Savi had remained silent, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, shocked by the confirmation of Ron Thackeray’s murder.
‘I heard them boasting about it. Three of them. Out at Marat’s property, full of kava, how they’d doused the car with whisky and how they’d poured more whisky down his throat after they’d broken his neck.’
A low moan emanated from Savi.
‘Just dumb workers, that’s all, he’d paid them a year’s wages each, they had no real idea what they were doing.’
‘Everyone knows what they are doing when they kill a man, Pako,’ Sera said with loathing. ‘So what do you propose to do about it?’
‘I can do nothing, you know that.’
She had thought as much. Pako, for all his newfound power, would not risk his position and the promise of a bright new future. ‘Then why did you come here? Why did you tell us?’
‘Because I want you to know the truth, that we were not involved. Those I work with had no idea of Marat’s plans.’ Pako stood. ‘I came also to warn you that you must look to Pascal. He has a big mouth, and I worry for him.’
Savi lifted his head from his hands and looked up at his cousin. It was the first time he had spoken.
‘Is that a threat, Pako?’
‘No.’ Pako realised, possibly for the first time, the huge gulf that now existed between them. He did not rejoice in the death of Ron Thackeray, and it saddened him that his cousin suspected he did. ‘But we are family, Savi, and Marat is a man to fear. Look to your son. Warn him.’
‘I kept well out of sight as my father’s cousin left the hut. And when he’d gone I confronted my father. I told him I’d overheard everything. I told him we must denounce the Fr
enchman to the authorities. I was outraged when he disagreed.’
‘We cannot, Pascal. We cannot do that.’
‘For God’s sake, Papa, this is Mamma Jane’s son! Ronnie was my brother! Marat must be brought to justice!’
Even Sera, who longed to agree with her son, could see the hopelessness of such an action. ‘And what would we tell them, Pascal? That we heard a rumour that some of Marat’s workers killed Ronnie? Even if we could persuade one of them to talk, Marat would deny everything. He would say he was not responsible for his labourers gone mad on kava. Savi is right, there is nothing we can do.’
‘Then I’ll go to the authorities on my own.’
‘You will not, Pascal.’ Savi rose from the table. ‘Educated as you are, do not forget that you are still one of us. If Marat can kill Ron Thackeray with such ease, do you think he will hesitate at killing you? You’re just another black to him.’
Pascal shook his head in resignation. ‘I loved my father. Very much. But he was a man of the past, one who had spent his whole life serving colonial masters. I remember, when I was an arrogant young man, little more than a teenager, I perceived him as weak. I was wrong, Mamma Jane told me so, and I believed her.’
‘Your father is one of the bravest men I know, you must never forget that, Pascal.’
Mamma Jane’s tone was harsh, and he was aware that he was being put in his place.
‘You mistake conformity for weakness. Your father has led a careful life. A life dedicated to his family’s welfare. It takes true courage for such a man to throw caution to the winds and risk everything.’
Mamma Jane’s eyes seemed to bore into his skull.
‘Savi did that. And he did it for me. Do you have any recall of that day, Pascal?’
A fight. His father and the Bos. Yes, Pascal could vaguely remember it. He didn’t know what it had been about, but he’d grabbed Ronnie’s hand and headed for the kitchen where they’d hidden under the table.
‘You were five years old at the time,’ Jane prompted.
‘Yes, I remember.’ That was when they’d left the plantation, he recalled. They’d come to the village and lived with his mother’s family until they’d built a hut of their own. He’d virtually forgotten until now. ‘I remember, Mamma Jane.’
‘Good.’ She signalled the end of the conversation. ‘You are one of a new breed, Pascal, and I’m proud of you, but never forget that your father is a very brave man.’
‘My father was not weak, but he was cautious by nature, and I couldn’t bring myself to trust in his judgement. To simply do nothing about Ronnie’s murder was inconceivable, so I sought advice from the only source possible. Besides, it was right that she should know the truth of what had happened. I went to Mamma Jane. She had known Ronnie’s death was no simple car accident, but she had never considered the possibility of premeditated murder. Such things didn’t happen in Vila.’
‘I warned him, Pascal. I warned him that one dark night they’d set upon him, either the locals full of kava or the colonials full of drink, and that he’d end up half bashed to death. I warned him so many times to be careful.’
‘Mamma Jane thought that some young bloods had been out to teach Ronnie a lesson, and things had got out of hand. That they’d killed him by mistake, then disguised it, clumsily, to look like an accident. She was shocked when I told her about the Frenchman.’
‘Marat,’ she whispered, the blood draining from her face.
‘He paid three of his men a year’s wages each.’
So Jean-François had revenged himself at last. After all these years, and his many attempts to ruin her, he had finally committed the ultimate act of revenge. He had murdered her son.
‘There was a land deal going through. Ronnie’s interference was endangering it.’
No, no, she thought, it was far more than that. Marat was a sour old man, in his seventies now, withering alone on his property. It was common knowledge that his son, Michel, had no interest in inheriting the plantation. Michel lived with his wealthy wife in Paris, awaiting the death of his father so that he could sell off the property. And Marat knew it. Why would he go to such lengths? Why would he take such risks? Why would he wish to accumulate more wealth for his ingrate of a son? No, Jane thought, Marat had sought personal revenge, knowing that it would be convenient for others to ignore the true circumstances of Ron Thackeray’s death.
‘What should I do, Mamma Jane? Papa says I can do nothing, that Marat will have all the answers and that the authorities won’t listen.’
‘He is right, Pascal, they won’t.’
‘Then tell me how I can avenge his death!’ Bitterness, frustration and anger gnawed at him. He’d wanted Mamma Jane to have the answers, or at least some plan of attack. Surely, with her influence, he’d thought, they could approach the authorities together, demand an investigation. ‘Tell me, Mamma Jane,’ he begged, ‘tell me. I can’t stand by and let Ronnie’s death count for nothing!’
‘I assure you, Pascal, Ronnie will not have died in vain.’
Never had he seen such a look on Mamma Jane’s face. Her eyes were hard and her voice cold as ice.
‘Marat will answer for what he has done. And he will answer to me.’
‘Mamma Jane’s advice was the same as my father’s. There was no point in going to the authorities, she said. We had no evidence but hearsay, and the Frenchman would deny it all.
‘Ah,’ Pascal rose from his chair as he heard the front door open. ‘Leia is back from her shopping.’ He left them, to reappear a moment later, laden with groceries, a pleasant-looking Melanesian woman in her sixties by his side.
‘Jason.’ Leia held out her arms and the two of them embraced.
Sam rose as Pascal introduced his wife. ‘How do you do,’ she said, and she was about to shake hands, but Leia embraced her instead.
‘Samantha, we’ve heard so much about you.’
Exactly what Pascal had said. Jason had obviously been talking about her a great deal, Sam thought. Uncharacteristic, surely, for someone who made a habit of kissing and running.
‘Are we ready to start on the lunch?’ Pascal asked, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. One of the great joys he and his wife shared was the preparation of food.
‘Not until I’ve unpacked the groceries.’ Leia took the bags from him. ‘I’ll give you a call when I’m ready,’ she said over her shoulder as she disappeared to the kitchen, leaving the three of them together.
‘Why don’t you get yourself a beer, Jason?’ Pascal suggested. ‘It’s about that time, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is, and I’d love one. How about you, Sam?’
‘Oh.’ Surely that wasn’t the end of the story, Sam thought. ‘Yes,’ she responded automatically, although she didn’t really want a beer at all. ‘Thank you.’
Jason fetched a couple of Tuskers from the bar fridge in the corner, while Pascal took two glasses from the dresser. The Poilamas didn’t drink but they always kept a healthy supply of alcohol for those visitors who did.
‘So what happened?’ Sam asked, as she accepted the beer and they all sat once again. Her earlier discomfort at being intrusive was completely forgotten. ‘What happened to the Frenchman?’
‘God moves in mysterious ways,’ Pascal said. ‘They were Mamma Jane’s very words,’ he added. ‘The Frenchman was discovered only the following day. He’d fallen from his horse, which was quite extraordinary, because despite his advancing years, he was renowned for his horsemanship.’
‘I will confront him, Pascal, and I will make him account for my son’s death. Marat fears the power that I hold in these islands.’
‘The animal was found in the morning. It had returned to the house, saddled and riderless, and the workers mounted a search. It was midday when they discovered him, he’d been riding in the plantation, as it seemed he often did. And he’d had a fall.’
Worried for her safety, he had insisted upon accompanying her, and she had agreed that he drive her to Un
dine Bay under the strict proviso that he play no part in the confrontation.
‘You must promise me, Pascal.’
He promised, knowing that if he did not, she would go to the plantation alone. At least he would be with her if there was any trouble.
They arrived in the late afternoon, but just before they turned off the coast track, she made him stop the car.
‘I will drive from here,’ she said. And, when they’d changed places, she instructed him to keep out of sight. ‘It is better if Marat believes I am alone.’
He slunk down low in the passenger seat as Mamma Jane drove the vehicle up the main drive of Chanson de Mer.
A Melanesian girl was leading a large chestnut gelding out of the stables, which stood to the right of the house. The animal was saddled and bridled, and the girl watched the car’s approach with interest as she led the horse to the hitching post and mounting block twenty metres from the front verandah.
Jane drove to the left, away from the stables and the main door of the house, and out of sight of the front windows. Marat may have already seen the car, but if not, she would prefer to surprise him. She knew that the girl was the only other person she was likely to encounter. It was common knowledge that the Frenchman kept just one house servant these days, a local village girl who lived with him in the big house and whom he demeaned in whichever way he wished. The white overseer, who virtually ran the plantation, lived with his family in a cottage which Marat had built for them a good mile away.
‘Stay hidden, Pascal,’ she said, and when she’d alighted, he slid out of the driver’s side after her, to lie on the ground beside the car.
She closed the door. ‘Do not come to my aid unless it’s absolutely essential,’ she instructed. She circled the vehicle and Pascal, his cheek pressed against the rough grass, watched from beneath the car’s undercarriage as she approached the girl.
‘Allo,’ Jane said.
The girl smiled a welcome, she’d recognised Mamma Tack instantly, everyone knew Mamma Tack. ‘Allo Mamma Tack,’ she said.
