Inheritance

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘Not the sort of heir Gertrude would have in mind.’

  Giles chuckled. ‘Hence the embroidered truth. By the way, keep all that to yourself. I gather O’Dowd thinks Gertrude’s version is the real McCoy.’

  Depressing. If Giles knew, the ‘secret’ would be all over Apia in a week.

  The tablecloth flapped against my hand. The wind was rising. Outside, the huge leaves of the breadfruit trees rose and fell as if to fan their green footballs of fruit.

  ‘Is bad weather predicted?’ I asked Giles.

  ‘Nothing serious. There’s the possibility of a hurricane well to the north. Won’t come this way.’

  Nevertheless, I felt uneasy. The air smelt different. Simone looked over at me. She recognised it too. She had left her chair some time ago and was sitting comfortably cross-legged with Vaifou, her headmistress friend. Somehow Jeanie had migrated with her. I don’t remember seeing John and Stuart leave. Perhaps they were showing guests around the plantation.

  Gertrude felt the change in the air too. Her age showed when she creaked to her feet and slowly straightened her back, but her voice still carried authority.

  ‘Bad weather comes,’ she said. She walked to the record player and lifted the needle. ‘Listen!’

  We all heard it then. The cicadas had fallen silent. You get so used to their shrieking you blot it out. Now the silence seemed deafening.

  ‘Bad,’ said Gertrude. ‘Very bad. I think we had better finish here.’ She was a difficult old lady but she cared deeply about the plantation and ran it well. Her cacao trees came first, second and third with her. We were left to leave or stay as we wished while she called back a couple of the plantation workers, who were carrying baskets of food to the guests’ cars. In a quick stream of immaculate Samoan, she delivered orders to cover the drying cacao beans, tie down the screens in the indoor drying shed, stack the fragrant sacks of dry beans safely under the house. Her workers clearly respected her wishes (or feared the consequences of disobedience). The feast was forgotten in a flurry of running feet and heaving activity.

  ‘Good God,’ said Giles. ‘What a storm in a teacup! Has she lost her marbles do you think?’

  Simone, tugging at my arm to come to the car answered him. ‘She’s right, Giles, for once; she feels it. She was here for the last hurricane. Probably the one before that. She’ll know the signs. Get home before the road is blocked.’

  John came hurrying towards us. He looked happy, animated, his dark eyes bright. ‘Can you take Jeanie and me back with you? My aunt thinks it better. She believes the plantation may be isolated for a while and she would like me to keep an eye on things in town. Stuart will stay to give her a hand here.’

  ‘Perfect, perfect,’ cried Simone. I hoped the other two would mistake her pleasure at Stuart’s absence for simple hospitality. ‘Jeanie, you will sit in the back with me.’

  The best part of a sucking pig, quantities of taro and two whole chickens were already stacked in the boot. Our housegirl and John’s would be taking a feast back to their village tonight – as long as we made it home. The wind was steadily rising. Already the track was strewn with palm fronds and small branches. I could hardly see for the whirling snowstorm of kapok.

  John laid a gentle hand on my arm. ‘Would you like me to drive?’ I took no offence from his offer. He could see I was sweating, would have noticed the white knuckles. I hate driving even in good conditions – which to be fair, is absolutely never in Samoa. I stopped the car and changed seats with him, pleading poor eyesight. John drove very slowly, with great care and concentration. I don’t think he hit a single boulder.

  As we turned into the round-the-island road, a huge flame of the forest tree behind us simply keeled over with a crash, the tips of its crimson branches just brushing the car. Gertrude was right. The plantation would be cut off. We eyed the road-side trees apprehensively as we headed for Apia. In the villages everyone was running. Women were securing the matting screens which were only rarely lowered between the poles of the fale. Kerosene lamps glowed between gaps in the matting. The air was unusually dark.

  ‘Maybe it’s just a bad storm,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a hurricane,’ cried Simone. ‘Hurry John, I have my banana chips out drying!’

  Banana chips would be the least of our worries if a hurricane struck us.

  By the time we reached Apia, waves were breaking over Beach Road. Crooked spears of lightning performed an ominous fireworks display out to sea and rolls of thunder boomed thick and fast. Matua, the banana boat, had already left, probably only half loaded, but much safer to ride out the storm at sea than to risk being dashed onto the coral reef.

  One tree was down on Leifiifi Road, but John managed to skirt its thrashing branches and deliver us home safely. The air in our big garden was full of flying debris and three of our banana trees were already down. I had to drag Simone inside; she was desperate to rescue every last cashew nut and pineapple.

  Then as we finished securing the screens we jumped to hear the most enormous crash.

  ‘It’s that tree!’ screamed Simone. ‘How many times have I said it was too close? Hamish run! They may be dying!’

  I could scarcely open the door against the force of the wind. Simone was right. One of Gertrude’s huge mango trees next door had come down, crushing a corner of the roof and destroying one side of her verandah. We saw John and Jeanie run outside, look for a moment at the still-tossing branches then head straight across the lawn to us. Jeanie’s hair streamed out behind her in the wind. She was so small, I feared she might be whirled away.

  We welcomed them in and secured the door. Our house would be relatively safe as the trees were well away from the house.

  I don’t think anyone slept that night. The rain sheeted down, howling wind clattering against the shutters. Twice a shutter came loose, flapping horribly, letting the rain drive in. John and I struggled with rope to tie it back. Every now and then we heard a crash and felt the shudder as another great tree somewhere outside keeled over. Lightning and thunder cracked around us. Simone’s white hair stood almost on end. Could the air be so full of electricity? The house had weathered many storms, but this was a bad one and you always feared that this time the full force might hit us and lift the roof off.

  Jeanie surprised me in the middle of the night by remarking that she thought a hurricane would be worse than this! I asked her whatever she meant and she said she’d known storms come up from the south in New Zealand just as bad; that the trees bent and howled but stayed upright. Why, she wondered, were so many around us collapsing? She seemed so calm and interested, as if this were something to be taken lightly! Had I forgotten so much about New Zealand? Are storms there so extreme, I wondered, and feared our inevitable return. Perhaps New Zealand trees are used to the wind – are deep and firmly rooted. The great tropical trees in the islands have grown too quickly, spread widely, without, perhaps, having the need to take a strong footing in the earth. Whatever the reason, we realised that we would soon be isolated. Electricity had faltered and gone soon after the storm struck. Trees would be blocking the roads for days. And what of the crops? The bananas and coffee? What of the breadfruit and mango trees and the taro plantations under the great trees?

  I was imagining a starving population.

  That hurricane gave us the opportunity to talk with John O’Dowd and his daughter. And to grow to like them. The storm – it was a full blown hurricane, immensely destructive – blew over in twenty-four hours, but the rain continued and trees blocked our road in both directions; power and telephone wires were down. Nothing to do but sit tight in the middle of the house, deal with all the spoiling food in the fridge and freezer, not to mention the food from the feast. Simone fancied she could salt the pork, as our ancestors did, and even tried laying strips of beef on wire racks by the window, trying to make biltong. A putrid failure, thank goodness, but the salted meat lasted well. Far too well in my opinion! When our housegirl finally fought h
er way through the debris, some days later, we sent her home laden with food.

  We enjoyed our own little feast that first night, sitting together in the dark room, lit by kerosene lamps and candles, a stiff whisky for the men and a sherry for the ladies, trying to ignore the explosions and disasters outside. A memorable evening. The signs were there, I suppose, but I didn’t see them then. The daughter sat close to her father, her bright eyes watching him as if anxious about his well-being. He did most of the talking and she encouraged this, prompting him with quick questions, smiling at his answers. In some ways tiny Jeanie seemed the older; he her eager child. His pleasure, at finding a relative, at being ‘singled out’ as he put it, was obvious. Of course I was curious to know his own version of his background.

  ‘He was adopted, you see,’ said Jeanie. Again that quick careful smile towards her father. ‘And then lost his adoptive father when he was seven years old. His mother never knew the birth parents.’

  ‘No she didn’t, that’s right.’ John’s face, lit by the flickering lamplight, turned towards his daughter as he spoke. As if seeking her permission to speak. ‘My father – my adoptive father – knew. Once, before he went to the war, he took me to my parents’ grave. I remember a quiet place above the river. He told me they both died in the river. But then he and my uncle Pita – my mother’s brother – both died in the war. We moved away to another town – my mother, sister and me. I never found that grave again.’ He looked again at his daughter – for approval it seemed. ‘In truth, I suppose I never tried. Chinese heritage was not something to be proud of back then.’

  Jeanie stroked his shirtsleeve gently. ‘My father has had too many deaths in his life. His mother, Granny Stella, died some years ago, and his own wife, my mother, soon after I was born.’

  ‘Oh you poor darlings!’ cried Simone, stretching her arms wide. ‘Such tragedy! Here you must eat!’ She passed around a bowl of her dreadful dried banana chips. In Simone’s view, food is the panacea for all troubles.

  ‘No no no.’ John shook his head vigorously. Simone drew back in some consternation, but his words were directed to Jeanie. ‘We won’t dwell on past trials. Here I’ve found an aunt who wishes to make me her heir. I have something to pass on to you, Jeanie. Not only the plantation – and a house, but a family history.’ He turned towards me, his eyes shining. ‘What a gift,’ he said, ‘suddenly to be handed a family inheritance. A past. I so look forward to speaking with Gertrude about our family, about her sister, my birth mother. And what a joy it must be for my aunt, at this late time in her life, to find people of her blood to care for her and carry on her line.’

  He spoke formally – that was his way – but his cheeks were flushed, his light voice a little hectic. I recognised a certain weakness in him – a fragility of the spirit if you will. I saw it sometimes in young soldiers returning from the war. His daughter knew, I think, and feared for him.

  In the morning, while the women chatted away over some food-rescue plan in the kitchen, John questioned me about Gertrude and the plantation. He was no fool; had caught an undercurrent up at the feast.

  ‘Is there some doubt over her ownership?’ he asked. ‘She assured us that the plantation was hers to pass on.’

  ‘And do you want to take such an enterprise on?’ I asked, avoiding for the moment his question, which was absolutely to the point.

  He smiled. ‘I’m perhaps a little old to learn new tricks. But I have always wanted to farm. I will do my share. Hard work is no problem for me. And Stuart is very keen. He’s not been – happy – since he lost his job. Stuart needs to be active.’

  ‘What about Jeanie? It seems such a big step to come out here; to make a permanent move. Most of the palagi are here for a few years at most.’

  John looked towards the kitchen where the women were laughing out loud at something. ‘Jeanie loves new experiences. Not like her stay-at-home father. She will make a good life here. Or anywhere.’ He shifted his chair a little closer, lowering his voice. ‘Your wife is very kind. Maybe she will introduce Jeanie …? I would like to see her out of the house a bit. She and Stuart …’

  I waited for more, but he simply shrugged his narrow shoulders. He was quieter that morning, more withdrawn. Perhaps the humidity and the drumming rain undermined his spirit. For the third time he took out his sodden handkerchief and mopped his face.

  ‘You didn’t answer,’ he said quietly, ‘my question about the ownership of the plantation.’

  Indeed. ‘It’s a good question,’ I replied, ‘and you need to know. But it will take some time to answer.’

  In those days while we were still cut off by the aftermath of the hurricane, I showed John the notes I had already made about the possibility of a contested will. He had to know. I told him there was a good chance the High Court would find in Gertrude’s favour, but secretly I was not sure. The judge might well want to set a precedent.

  ‘Do you remember the two young Samoans who danced a welcome to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Teo and Elena?’ Jeanie smiled at some memory. ‘They were fun.’

  Simone cleared her throat loudly. ‘Too clever for their own good, those two. Teo is in trouble already. Back on the island only one month and he runs a child down with his fancy new car.’

  Actually I felt rather sorry for Teo. The local paper had roasted the boy who had been more than contrite. Accidents on the road were common, but Teo had been singled out because of his high breeding and educational achievements.

  ‘But Elena?’ Jeanie persisted. I had watched Elena charming Jeanie at the feast. Elena would have some plan afoot, you could count on that.

  ‘Too clever, too smart,’ said Simone, emphatically. I think already she felt some jealousy. Jeanie was her prized newcomer; Simone wanted to be the one to befriend her – introduce her to the palagi community.

  I brought them back to the point. ‘Their mother is the one who will contest Gertrude’s right to pass on the plantation.’

  ‘Oh!’ John looked worried. ‘Will there be un-pleasantness?’

  I laughed. ‘Good God no. Land disputes are meat and drink to Samoans. Everyone will follow the arguments with great relish. You will become celebrities. It could be years before the matter is settled, and in the meantime Gertrude will continue to run the plantation.’

  John worried at a scab on his hand. Jeanie stilled the movement gently. Her dark eyes watched him for a moment, then she turned back to me.

  ‘Gertrude wrote nothing of this. In her letter there was no question about her right.’

  ‘In her mind there is no question. The plantation is freehold land. Her husband left it to her in his will. End of story.’

  ‘Good.’ John stood. He walked across the room to where Simone was now opening the screens to let the watery sunlight in. He began to help her; his movements quick and neat. I felt that he didn’t want to hear more – that he wanted to push away any hint of bad news.

  Jeanie spoke quietly, keeping half an eye on her father, ‘So what is the other side of it?’

  I tried to make it simple. How can you expect newcomers to the islands to grasp the intricacies of Samoan titles and land tenure? Jeanie had a sharp mind, though, understanding much more quickly than her father, I think, whose attention often seemed to drift as he continued to stand, watching the scene outside.

  I told them that Gertrude’s husband, PJ Schroder, had two sisters, Maria and Theresa. Both married Samoan men of high rank. Theresa married particularly well, into one of the four ali‘i families whose titles are usually hereditary and highly respected. Her husband, like many of the older men, died in the flu epidemic, but not before she bore him a son, Samuele, who himself became a respected matai.

  ‘Matai?’ said Jeanie.

  ‘We would call it chief, a leader. A matai has control over a portion of village land and is the head of the extended family who live on the produce of that land. He (or occasionally she) dictates who in the ‘aiga – the extended family – works in what part
of the family plantations, which fale they sleep in, how much they must contribute at feast times and so on. Under our new independence, the matai votes on behalf of his family.’

  Jeanie looked at me frowning. ‘That’s hardly democratic.’

  ‘Well in a way it is. The whole family chooses the matai. Every member has a say. It’s a bit like the American form of democracy where voters choose delegates to vote on their behalf.’

  I was about to elaborate on this, but Jeanie clearly had no interest in American voting systems. She cocked an eyebrow and smiled. Not quite making fun of my obsession, but making her point all the same. What an agreeable woman she was! ‘Gertrude’s plantation?’ she prompted.

  ‘Samuele, Gertrude and PJ Schroder’s nephew, didn’t hold the highest family title, but he ranked well. His title is attached to the village which is adjacent to the Schroder plantation.’

  I explained that the matai title is not strictly hereditary. Theoretically, anyone in the family can be chosen. Samuele died while still relatively young, and there was much discussion over who should be take the title. His two children, Elena and Teo, were considered too young, and also their education was still continuing in New Zealand. In the end, the title was offered to old PJ Schroder, who up to that time, had kept to his ‘European’ status.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Jeanie. ‘European? Wasn’t he born here?’

  ‘PJ was ‘afakasi – half caste. His ‘afakasi sisters chose to marry matai and identify as Samoan. PJ chose – as was his right – to retain European status. This entitles him to certain small privileges, buying alcohol for example, and to vote for the non-matai seats in the Fono. But you see, in the last two years of his life he accepted the matai title.’

  John had come back to the table and was listening again. ‘But he died and passed the plantation on to my aunt.’ The last two words were spoken with a kind of nervous emphasis.