The big stores on Beach Road were crowded. Matua had come in yesterday with its usual supplies, but today the pushing crowd was different. Not so many palagi, and many more Samoan women.
Elena, joining in the mêlée on the pavement, guided Jeanie away from the Burns Philp store, where most were heading; decided on Hedstroms. ‘I heard they have something a bit special. Let’s see.’
Jeanie had never seen Elena hurry before. Even in a medical crisis she remained calm. Today the crowd mood seemed infectious. Her friend jostled and shoved, elbowing her way to the Manchester department where a large crowd was gathered. No feeling of a queue. It was every woman for herself.
‘Keep close behind me,’ shouted Elena, ‘or you’ll be trampled to death!’
Jeanie took her point. The buyers were all twice her size, three times her weight, and intent on reaching the counter first.
‘I’ll explain later,’ Elena laughed. ‘Just get out your cheque book and sign for whatever I say.’
Jeanie had no idea why she must buy a whole bolt of white sea-island cotton and another bolt of delicate spotted muslin, also white. But she dutifully paid out the money and watched Elena also buy two bolts. Hedstroms seemed to have an endless supply. Elena hoisted three of the bolts high on her shoulder, leaving Jeanie to struggle in her wake with the final bolt of muslin.
‘White Sunday!’ Elena shouted as they bounced back up to Jeanie’s. ‘Don’t get me started on it.’
But of course Jeanie had no need to prompt her friend. As they unrolled the spotless material and cut it into three-or four-yard lengths, Elena explained. As people with money, she and Jeanie were expected to contribute to the expenses of White Sunday. Elena must supply her wider ‘aiga, and Jeanie should make a worthwhile contribution to the families who worked at the plantation.
‘They’ll do the sewing, thank goodness; we buy what they can’t afford.’
It turned out White Sunday was a special children’s day. Jeanie looked sharply at Elena. Was this some hint? Did Elena know about Ma‘atoe? But Elena was chatting on, serene as usual, directing operations, folding the cut pieces and piling them ready for distribution.
‘Every child must have a new set of clothes – white clothes – and the fancier the better. Wait till you see what our women can create from this material! Ruffles, flounces, ribbons, smart little shirts. Oh the children will look so gorgeous,’ Elena turned to Jeanie, flourishing the scissors fiercely, ‘and I will probably be the only woman in Samoa to fight the custom.’
Jeanie laughed at Elena’s frown. Surely she must be joking. ‘Doesn’t look like fighting the custom to me. Look at all this you’re supplying.’
‘That’s different,’ said Elena, wagging her head back and forth. ‘I have to help, that’s only natural; I’m a salaried woman. I would be a very bad Samoan if I didn’t contribute. Doesn’t mean I have to approve.’
Elena had a doctor’s view of the way children were cared for. This one day of the year the children had new clothes and were served by their elders at a special feast. The rest of the year, Elena said sadly, they came last in the food chain. Many of the children she doctored were malnourished. Oh they had food in their bellies, but all the protein that should be contributing to growing strong young bones and healthy children’s bodies, was served to the matai first, then other men, then the women, and lastly to the children.
‘Then they make up for it one day of the year, with White Sunday. Oh it makes me mad! We should get the Women’s Committees onto it. They are the only ones who could change it. But would they? I doubt it. White Sunday is definitely fa‘asamoa.’
‘But surely this is a missionary thing? White Sunday?’
‘Oh yes. But we take what we like from Christianity and make it our own. Haven’t you noticed?’ Elena folded the last piece of cloth, looked with satisfaction at the pile. ‘You know Tomasi who works for you?’ she said. Jeanie nodded. ‘He was arrested in the weekend for stealing two watches from Hedstroms. He has four daughters. He was going to sell the watches to buy material for their dresses. So. You must give him some of this material.’
Elena laughed suddenly. ‘But I love White Sunday. It is so beautiful and the children are so excited. You must come to our village and see.’ She smiled at her friend. ‘I’m a mixed bag, eh?’
Jeanie kept thinking that Elena might be hinting at some knowledge, though it didn’t seem so. When Jeanie asked about Teo, Elena simply shrugged. ‘Oh, Teo. He and that precious Ma‘atoe have some problems I think.’
‘Problems?’ Jeanie tried to sound disinterested.
‘You know Teo – big flirt. Now he must settle down. And my guess is his wife is a jealous sort.’ Elena shot Jeanie a sharp look. ‘He hasn’t been hanging round you?’
‘No. I’ve seen him a couple of times at the plantation.’ Jeanie felt herself flushing.
‘Well anyway, he’s got the archaeology bug again. He wants to spend a month or two up there helping at the dig. There’s no one keeping an eye at the moment. Turn your back for a month and the creepers will have covered the mound again.’
‘He’s gone up on his own?’
Again that sharp look. ‘Jeanie. That time is over.’
Jeanie frowned. ‘With me too – don’t worry Elena.’
‘Anyway, his jealous wife has gone too, to keep an eye on him. They’re living in the little fale up there.’ Elena grinned, made a little weaving dance with her hands, ‘So romantic, with the mosquitoes and the ghosts. Good for making babies.’
Jeanie turned away; fussed with the pile of material to hide her dismay. All this talk of children and babies!
Elena sensed it; came close and stroked her arm. ‘I shouldn’t talk so much. You would like a baby too I think? We must find you a good man.’
Jeanie couldn’t speak.
If it hadn’t been for the twinned worries – the unwanted baby and the unwanted return of Stuart – Jeanie would have loved White Sunday. As it was, the spectacle and excitement of it helped her forget. The church in Elena’s village was filled with proud parents and their resplendent, spotless children. One by one, the children trotted up to the front to recite a few lines from the Bible. Elena dug Jeanie in the ribs, pointing to a crouching father, prompting his tongue-tied little son as he struggled with his sentence. Sighs of relief from the whole congregation when the little fellow finally stumbled through. Others – usually the older ones – stood up proudly, strutted down to the altar amid appreciative clicking of tongues if the dress was particularly beautiful, and then reeled off several verses in clear voices. Sometimes a proud parent stood at the end of a particularly good recital to take a bow along with the child.
After the lengthy service, the children, now dressed in their second new outfits – coloured this time – sat on the ground outside in a big circle while the elders served them a great feast of pork, chicken, pisupo, fish, palusami, taro, soft white bread, cakes, mangoes and breadfruit.
Elena moaned. ‘Look at it all! Spread all this protein over a year and the children would grow healthy! As it is, the elders will have a good feast too on the leftovers. This all-or-nothing sort of thing. It makes me ashamed.’ But she was only half protesting. The children were so happy. The parents so proud.
Jeanie thought of Teo and Ma‘atoe away in the bush, struggling with what was growing inside her. It seemed so much in contrast with this happy day full of loved children. Perhaps they would come to terms with it. Perhaps that ancient place of their ancestors would help them to a wider view. Jeanie hoped that was what Teo had in mind – not simply a hiding place.
Later, over a cold drink in the shade of a fale, Elena mentioned the plantation. Were there any buyers yet?
Jeanie frowned at her friend. ‘You heard?’
Elena laughed. ‘Sweet girl, all Samoa knows it! Our family will try to buy, naturally. But you keep the Apia house, I hear?’
Jeanie sighed. What didn’t Elena hear? ‘Yes, I’ll keep the house.’
‘Perfect,’ cried Elena. ‘I have a plan for you. A job at the hospital. Permanent. You are not really a plantation sort of person. I knew that from the beginning. Come and work for me.’ She grinned widely, spreading her hands. ‘Perfect!’
Jeanie felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘Have you heard also that Stuart is coming back?’
PART FIVE
Inheritance
Hamish
Simone brought the phone into my study. These days it seems the phone can follow us wherever we go in the house. A nasty trait. Next it will follow us into the garden, the car, on holiday. I hope I don’t live to experience it.
‘Another female doing her research,’ she said. ‘I told her you had written two books, full of all your knowledge, but evidently she would like to speak to you.’
Anyone who gets past Simone is a brave researcher, so I reached for the phone.
‘From Gore, for heavens’ sake,’ Simone added. ‘She must be a very rich student. Or wasteful. Ann Hope.’
The name rang a bell. My old brain is slow to make connections. It wasn’t until she began speaking that I knew who she was. She spoke formally, playing a part, pretending she was really interested in some event or other, or matter of legal importance in the islands. I was too shocked to register the question. After a slight pause, she asked if Simone was in the room.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well I will continue with my questions and try to slip in the real one in a moment or two. You remember who I am?’
I could scarcely manage another yes. Surely she would realise that at my age I could not dissemble? Never could for that matter. Especially with Simone’s gimlet eyes fixed on me.
‘Well here goes,’ she said. I could hear a smile in her voice. The wretched woman was enjoying herself!
I asked her to wait while I found pen and paper. Simone sighed, found them for me. After a few minutes of voluble questions from Ann Hope, and noncommittal answers from me, interspersed with a bit of shaky writing, Simone lost interest and left the room, muttering that lunch would be ready in ten minutes.
‘Will that be all?’ I asked, hoping that she would take the hint. I was sick of all this silly play.
‘I’m so sorry to ring, Hamish,’ she said then, in a completely different voice. Now she sounded like the old Jeanie. ‘Could you please tell me whether you have told Elena Levamanaia anything?’
I cleared my throat, thinking. Had I?
‘You remember Elena?’
I said that of course I did, I was not yet gaga.
The woman laughed and then became serious. ‘She has been to see me. She has also met Francesca.’
‘Who?’ I had no idea who she was talking about.
‘My – the daughter.’
‘I see.’ That wretched Elena. I knew she would ferret away.
‘She said she spoke to you. You didn’t tell her anything about the … the circumstances of my daughter’s birth?’
‘I did not,’ I said, outraged to think that she might suspect me of being loose-tongued. ‘Will that be all?’
My hands were shaking. I couldn’t wait to end the conversation.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to upset you.’
Obviously she could read my feelings down the wire. How women do that I have no idea. To me a voice on the phone is impersonal. And should be so.
‘Thank you,’ she said, then added, ‘There is one other matter. Stuart – you know my …’ Her voice trailed away. ‘He thinks he has found me. I may have put him off. He hasn’t been in touch with you?’ After a moment or two she added more sharply ‘Stuart?’
It was a jolt hearing her speak of him so soon after Simone had found his photograph. I suppose I finally answered in the negative; her sigh of relief was quite clear.
‘My daughter is an artist and is well and happy. I’m very proud of her.’
Even I could hear the warning note. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Goodbye.’ A great relief to put the damn thing down.
Simone was in the room in a flash, to push some button on the phone. She said it was beeping.
‘What did you not do?’ she asked.
I had no idea what she meant.
‘You said “no I did not” in very firm tones.’
I believe I was rather sharp with Simone. The whole conversation disturbed me more than I would like to admit. I told Simone some rubbish about the woman being too insistent and that I had refused to send her the answers she sought. Simone looked at me sharply, but let the matter lie.
After lunch, however, as I dozed over the Times crossword, the matter would not lie quiet in my own mind. The thought of Stuart finding Jeanie again must be desperate for her. She sounded quite in control over the phone, but then I am no judge of women’s emotions, as Simone would be quick to point out. I longed to talk to Simone, but how could I admit that I had acted secretly – criminally – all those years ago? If matters were about to unravel in some uncontrolled way, perhaps it would become necessary, but not yet. Not yet.
Jeanie Roper came to see me in my little shared office on Beach Road. It would have been 1967. April perhaps, or May. She came unannounced as I was sorting my papers into cardboard boxes. Simone and I had finally taken the difficult decision to leave Samoa. One of our boys had moved back to New Zealand (briefly as it turned out, but we were not to know that then) and was insistent that we return to enjoy the grandchildren. He may have meant ‘babysit them’. We had always thought that a time might come to return – either to New Zealand or France – when work and perhaps health gave out. Palagi don’t usually wait to die in Samoa, and most of our friends had long gone. But it would be a wrench, nonetheless, for both of us. We dreaded the next few months tying up ends, selling or renting the house.
I was feeling particularly grumpy the day Jeanie arrived. The old files and papers reminded me of the many interesting cases I had dealt with in Apia. What on earth would I find to fill my days back in New Zealand? But Jeanie was contrite and I felt I had to spare her some time.
We sat and chatted about the plantation while my boy brought us tea and sandwiches. Jeanie had begun to take an interest in the estate, which was doing better than many others, being in cacao. Something dreadful was happening to the new banana crops since the hurricane. New plants were planted and flourishing – supposedly an improved strain – but the fruit which left on the Tofua or Matua looking healthy, collapsed on arrival in New Zealand. They became ripe one day and black the next. Officials and experts were perplexed. Meanwhile, our principal export was in crisis. Jeanie could be pleased with her healthy cacao trees, but Samoa’s economy was going downhill fast. So it was a surprise to hear Jeanie say that she wanted to sell the estate.
‘Will you put it on the market for me?’ she asked. ‘Have you time before you go?’
I was pleased to have a little work, and pretty certain that there could be a quick sale.
‘But why? Why now when you are beginning to learn the ropes and trade efficiently?’
I wanted to ask about Stuart; what he thought of the matter. I’d heard he was on the way back. Simone had told me that Jeanie would not welcome his return, but I thought that a bit harsh, after his nasty accident. Surely they’d find a way of rubbing along again. Jeanie put me straight on that matter without my asking.
‘I’ve told Stuart I want a divorce,’ she said very firmly, her pretty little face determined. I thought of that time when Simone had described her as dangerous. ‘Could you draw up some papers? Is that what happens? We sign something and it’s over?’ She laughed in a tense kind of way. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the procedure.’
To me, this was all quite sudden and strange. We hadn’t seen Jeanie for a while – she often stayed in the house up at the plantation, but recently during the rehearsals and performance of the marvellous Women’s Committee play, she stayed in Apia and we saw her almost daily. She seemed on top of the world. Settled. We were so glad.
The question of d
ivorce put the sale of the plantation in a different light. If I sold the estate and delivered the money to Jeanie, knowing that divorce was her intention, I could be accused of colluding with her to cheat Stuart out of a share. The law is pretty clear on that. Stuart could petition to block the sale. Caution on my part was advisable. Since Stuart was returning, I suggested, it might be better if they both came in and discussed the matter when he arrived.
‘Oh he won’t agree to it,’ she replied, rather grimly. ‘It’s my idea, not his. He thinks we can go on just as we used to. That’s the problem. I’ve written to him not to come back, that I don’t want to see him again, but he doesn’t believe me. I thought if we had a legal paper to present to him, he might understand that I mean business.’
I told her that divorce was a rather more prolonged and complicated matter than that. She had every right to petition for a legal separation, but she must produce grounds. Then, if they lived apart, after a certain length of time – five years in Western Samoan law – a separation could be declared legal.
‘Five years!’ she cried, looking at me as if I had presented her with a handful of cockroaches. ‘I just want it over and done with!’
I told her that if Stuart didn’t want a divorce then a ‘paper’, as she called it, couldn’t be signed. Unless she could cite grounds.
She was silent for a bit then, frowning. ‘What grounds would do?’
I recited them. Adultery, desertion, cruelty. Possibly habitual drunkenness, although since the plantation was in her name, she could not claim that he drank away the necessities of life.
‘He beat me,’ she said, then, in a small voice.
‘Well that could certainly be cited as grounds for divorce,’ I said. But I had the feeling that his beating her was not the reason. Something else.
Inheritance Page 17
