Inheritance

by Jenny Pattrick

  I felt ashamed. I had always found it difficult to relate to Ma‘atoe. Though we had grown up in neighbouring villages and were both wedded to a love of Samoa, we lived, I suppose, at opposite extremes of fa‘asamoa. She believed too blindly in the rightness of the old ways, the missionary teachings; I perhaps wanted to rush change too quickly. We could have found common ground, no doubt, but I hadn’t tried very hard, and possibly neither had she. And now she was dying. Ma‘atoe had raised her children strictly but I had to admit they were turning out to be beautiful, well-grounded kids. Perhaps I resented too much her insistence that I should not introduce them to what she called my ‘palagi ways’.

  If I could help her now, I should. I told Teo so.

  He nodded rather gravely and smiled. Teo has become grave. What a contrast from the pushy, iconoclastic youth who returned with me to Samoa twenty odd years ago! He’s only forty for heaven’s sake but he speaks now like an elder, emphatically, and, when speaking English, with a strong island accent and idiom! He used to be so proud of his perfect New Zealand vowels! But he is, at least, forward thinking, and will influence the Fono in good ways I believe. Ma‘atoe has not managed to convert him completely!

  We talked for a bit. He was full of enthusiasm for the Independence celebrations a month or two earlier. Our village had a very strong group of young fautasi oarsmen this year – two of the boys Teo’s sons. Our team won for the first time. The rowers, trained under Teo’s tutelage, streaked ahead of the opposition from the first shot of the pistol. The desire to watch them win had been the reason, he said sadly, that his wife had delayed coming for tests. She had jumped up and down on the shore as the boats raced towards the reef and shot through the gap, shouting and dancing with the other women from the village. It was her duty, she said, to remain and prepare the welcome feast. The truth was that she loved watching the fautasi race. The excitement of it. And now this dreadful time away from her family and her nu‘u.

  ‘I’ll talk to the doctors,’ I said. ‘Perhaps she can come home.’

  ‘Take the job,’ Teo said again, speaking with some force. ‘We need people like you, Elena. I hate to see our young flocking to the bright lights overseas. Come back.’

  We sat on a bench under a young oak tree, its branches still bare. The rose bushes in the little plot beside us were beginning to put out tentative shoots. A small clump of spring daffodils were the only splash of colour. Elsewhere, the soil was bare. There’d been a frost. I thought of the riot of colour, the lush insistent growth tumbling over everything back in our village. Perhaps I would go back.

  But first Jeanie and Francesca.

  I took Teo’s hand. He returned the pressure, smiled and would have spoken, but I held up my plaster cast to still his words. ‘You remember Stuart Roper, Jeanie’s husband in Samoa.’ This was not a question; I knew he would remember Stuart. ‘He did this to me. Down in Dunedin. Last week.’

  Teo looked at me warily. Last time we had spoken of Jeanie, he had walked away. I was determined he would not do so again. I gripped his hand.

  ‘Listen, Teo. That Stuart is not well at all. Seriously unhinged, I would say. Remember how he stalked Jeanie back then; before she disappeared?’

  Teo nodded. All attention now.

  ‘Well he’s at it again. He’s discovered her somehow, and her daughter, Francesca.’

  ‘Francesca,’ he repeated, ‘An odd name.’ He was looking away, pretending a lack of interest, but I felt his hand stiffen under mine.

  ‘Odd, yes, for one with Samoan blood,’ I said. ‘She’s been brought up to think her dark looks are Italian.’

  ‘Samoan? Are you sure?’ he looked at me now. ‘How old is she, then?’

  ‘About the right age for you to be the father,’ I said. Then told him the story of Stuart stalking Francesca; accosting her and claiming to be her father.

  Teo exclaimed and walked away a little. I prepared to follow – he wasn’t going to wriggle out this time – but he came back to me; sat again.

  ‘He claims to be her father?’

  ‘Yes, but you see, he can’t be, Teo. Her Samoan heritage is clear to me. It would be to you too.’

  ‘Jeanie had a bit of a Chinese look.’

  ‘Not Chinese. Samoan. I see a likeness, now and then, to your own children, Teo.’

  He flinched, but I pressed on. I pointed out that if I could see it, others would in time. That Stuart was a very unstable man who thought that the child might be his; thought that Jeanie had run away, changed her name, because she didn’t want to share the child. I had been thinking about it all and could see how his mind worked. I had been away from Samoa when Jeanie disappeared but the gossip was still around when I returned. Stuart had refused to believe that she wanted a divorce; had insisted that they were still married. Francesca’s age could make him think he was the father.

  ‘I have advised Jeanie to get a DNA test,’ I said. ‘That would make the matter clear. There’s no way Stuart could be the father.’

  Teo groaned. He actually groaned – the deep anguished sound a stag makes on a still night. ‘Elena, Elena!’

  I felt bad, pressing him so hard, when he had the trouble with Ma‘atoe, but this was urgent I felt. Urgent for his daughter. And for Jeanie. ‘Just write to her,’ I urged. ‘Write to Jeanie accepting parentage. And enclose a letter for Francesca that Jeanie can show her at the right time.’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask me. Not with Ma‘atoe so ill. It would distress her too much.’ His head hung down. He wouldn’t look at me. All the pompous gravity had gone.

  I tried to tell him that Ma‘atoe didn’t need to know. Not now at least. Francesca and Jeanie were capable of keeping quiet for a while, until his wife recovered – I didn’t like to mention the alternative. I promised to explain the situation to them.

  He smiled at me sadly. ‘You’ve always been the one to find solutions, sister. I’m not sure this one will work.’

  I had a thought then. I think I knew what was bothering him. ‘That night of the palolo. You and Stuart had a fight, didn’t you? His injuries weren’t an accident?’

  Teo looked at me, his mouth twisted.

  I pressed on. ‘You’re afraid of this coming out? Of Stuart accusing you?’

  At first he wouldn’t speak. Several times he went to begin but couldn’t find the words. Finally, he faced away from me and began to speak. The words were low and I had to crane to hear. It seemed somehow all the more horrifying to hear the story, here in the grounds of the hospital, so far away for home.

  Teo told me that Stuart had discovered him and Jeanie ‘together’ as he put it on palolo night. In retaliation Stuart had sought out Ma‘atoe and tried to rape her. The wretch! Teo had found them in time and the two fought. Stuart had picked up a bush knife from one of the paopao but in the end it was Stuart who was wounded. Teo had threatened Stuart over the attempted rape. If the village found out, Stuart would likely be lynched.

  ‘Indeed,’ I agreed. ‘But why was Ma‘atoe alone? Where were the aualuma? They were to blame, surely!’

  I began, then, to see the picture. To understand the pattern of guilt and shame that had kept the fight quiet. Also to understand why it would upset Ma‘atoe to discover Teo had fathered a child that night which must have been so frightening and shaming for her.

  I laid my good hand on Teo’s shoulder. ‘Write to her at least. That might persuade her to talk to Francesca. The situation has become very messy.’

  He gave a strangled little laugh. ‘You could say that!’

  ‘Teo! This is no laughing matter. I fear for both of them. Jeanie doesn’t seem able to escape her own inventions. And Stuart is a very real danger. You must help her.’

  He sighed. ‘Give me her address. I’ll see what can be done.’ He looked at me with great seriousness – all the gravity of a matai back in his manner and voice. ‘But Ma‘atoe must not hear any word of this. Not a whisper, understand?’

  I understood.

&nb
sp; ‘And you will take the job?’

  Oho! I punched him, laughing, outraged that he should make that a condition. But he laughed and punched me back and we were brother and sister again. I said that I had told Jeanie he was a good man. That he would accept his responsibility.

  He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Elena, you are impossible! Impossible, do you know that? Come back and learn to take life a little more slowly or you’ll wear us all out!’

  It’s all very well for people to accuse me of being bossy (or mischievous, Hamish Lander would say) but some situations need to be managed and pushed along. I make no apology for interfering. None at all. It was time for the truth to come out.

  Inside the clinic, I learned that Ma‘atoe could not survive long; that the chemo would probably prolong her life a little, but that it was quite possible for her to return to Samoa with palliative care only, if that was her choice. My poor sister-in-law looked so pale and sick. Her skin, once so glowing was now grey, hanging loose where her good comfortable bulk had shrunk. But when I told her what the doctor had said, her face lit up.

  ‘Let’s go home then, Elena,’ she whispered, holding my hand. ‘Will you come with me?’

  I told her I would.

  Ann / Jeanie

  Ann sits at her desk in the little study off her bedroom. It’s her favourite place. She’s been sitting here for half an hour, she realises, without writing a word. Her best writing paper is laid out; the ink pen she favours for special notes. She can hear Fran singing along with the radio, busy in the kitchen downstairs. Carl has not come with her.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ Fran had said, waving her hands about in the Italian manner she has adopted since her trip overseas, ‘I can’t seem to settle with a boy. Is it me? Or them? I thought Carl was the one and then … tutto finito.’

  Ann had hugged her too thin daughter, there at the bus stop and assured her she had plenty of time before she need worry about settling down.

  ‘Yes, but …’ Fran had shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  Ann looks, now, west over the fields to where the first evening star has just appeared; the sky luminous above it. Sunlight still illuminates the tops, but the shadows are creeping up the slopes. It will be a cool night, despite the warm spring day. Random white shapes are still visible in the fields – Michael’s sheep still browsing on the new growth. Why is white so much more visible at dusk? And do the sheep eat deep into the night when no one watches? She looks back at the blank paper. The letter must be written. She must speak to Francesca. But it is all so hard. She should be feeling relief. Teo has offered a way out. But how can she begin to say the words?

  And which words? Ann is terrified of Francesca’s reaction. Her daughter sometimes seems fragile in a way that Ann doesn’t want to explore. No doubt it is simply teenaged angst. But Ann has feared, from time to time, that the fragility might stem from some buried memory of her unwanted birth. Could a similar shadowy memory have been at the root of her father’s depressions? Surely not. Ann has read widely – secretly – on the subject of inherited and learned characteristics. She has watched Francesca with a hidden anxiety during the early years of her life, and then relaxed to see her daughter grow up an ordinary little girl with normal fears, normal bursts of pleasure. Fran is secure in the love of her mother. Ann cannot bear to shake that security. Will not. From her first days, Francesca has been loved. Surely that is what matters? Ann remembers the little bundle left on her doorstep back in Samoa. A haggard Teo had knocked on the door early one morning. His head hung down so she couldn’t see his eyes. He spoke no word, but indicated with one hand the basket at his feet. Before she could utter a word of protest he whispered ‘Fa‘afetai lava’ in a shamed voice, keeping his head bowed, and ran away.

  The tiny baby looked out at the world with dark, unfocused eyes. She had a shock of dark hair; her skin was creamy. A lavalava made a nest for her in the basket and covered her lightly. Apart from that she was naked. Ann had lifted the basket gently. Inside the house, the baby took her proffered finger; gripped it as if life depended on that link.

  Ann had been lost in love from that moment; could not contemplate severing the precious bond. That trust. Against all reason, all common-sense, she had determined to keep the baby. Until these last few weeks it had been a decision she’d been proud of. They’ve lived a good and true life together.

  And now this letter from Teo. It sits in the drawer here, alongside one for Francesca. Ann smiles for a moment to think how Elena must have browbeaten Teo! And yet the letter seems genuine. She could ignore them both; would have but for the looming threat of Stuart. A note was waiting for Francesca when she arrived yesterday – a report from the police informing her that Stuart Roper had been released on bail, pending a court hearing. He was not considered a danger, the report stated; he had expressed regret for his mistaken behaviour and had agreed to return to Auckland.

  ‘Good riddance!’ Fran had shrugged, dismissing the matter. But before she ran upstairs to unpack, she gave her mother an odd little glance. A question in the air between them. Ann didn’t like to show her dismay. Perhaps the incident at the exhibition had persuaded Stuart to let the matter lie? Perhaps he had gone back to Auckland. If so, Ann and Francesca would be able to continue their old, comfortable life. Nothing need be said.

  Ann takes out Teo’s letter and re-reads it. It is carefully worded – he hasn’t written my name, she thinks, because he is unsure what to write.

  Talofa lava,

  Elena has persuaded me that it is my duty to take some action over your daughter. I speak honestly in saying that I did not realise that you had kept the child. I assumed you would have had her (Elena tells me she is a healthy and beautiful girl) adopted.

  I feel ashamed that I have not acknowledged her, or assisted in her upbringing. There have been reasons as you will understand and which I have explained in the letter to Francesca. Please feel free to read her letter and know my words before you hand it to her. If you decide not to give it to her, I will understand completely and will never mention the matter again.

  My wife Ma‘atoe is ill. They say she will die. I would not like this matter to come to her ears, in any way at all. She deserves a peaceful and dignified end to her too short life. I am returning to Samoa with her as soon as the doctors say she is fit to travel. Elena, I hope, will come with us.

  If you think it is a wise idea – or necessary – for me to meet with your daughter I will do this. Please believe that I would like to see her. Later it may be possible to introduce her to her half-brothers and sisters in Samoa.

  Thank you for raising her. I am sure you have been the best of mothers.

  Soifua

  Teo Levamanaia (I am titled now but I feel uncomfortable writing my new name on this document. Forgive me!)

  P.S.The name Francesca! The most impossible word for a Samoan to pronounce. I see in it your understandable rejection of everything Samoan. In the future, if you and she wish, perhaps we may add a Samoan name?

  Ann fingers the letter to Francesca, which she has read. It is all possible. All so careful. And yet she hesitates. Francesca believes in her Italian heritage. Ann is used to being Ann Hope.

  Outside it is dark now. Peaceful. Ann loves this old house on the hill out in the country. She tries to imagine living another life and can’t. She is settled and valued at the school. Francesca loves coming home to this place. It’s home to both of them. For the time being I will say nothing. If it’s possible to stay this way, surely it will be best. For both of us.

  A sharp image from Samoa invades her determination. These flashes are becoming more frequent. Elena and Stuart have unlocked her painstakingly erased past. Against the dark scene outside, she sees the brightly lit colour of sunlit water and kaleidoscopic fish – Palolo Deep. That beautiful underwater world teeming with tame fish wanting to nibble her fingers, take a little bread from her outstretched hand. She can feel again the perfection of floating there, watc
hing until her fingers and toes turned white and wrinkled, the only sound the soft in and out of breath in her snorkel. The electric blue fish sharp as the tiny flame of a blow torch; the striped yellow and black clowns, flat as a painted cut-out, slipping upright through the water to nibble at fronds waving in the coral; the shoals of silver fish, escaping a single sinister barracouta, their synchronised movement an outrageously beautiful choreography. The blue luminous tips of the branching coral. So brilliant. So beautiful.

  So unlike that other palolo, the dark night in the lagoon.

  She stands, with the letters in her hand, suddenly filled with fear. This will never go away. Damn Elena. Damn, damn, damn Stuart.

  She puts the letters back in the drawer. Below Francesca has stopped singing. The comfortable kitchen noises are silent. The meal must be ready. A morepork in the tree outside hoots. Ann leaves the letters in the drawer and goes downstairs.

  She sees Francesca sitting silent and still, her profile just visible in the lamplight, her back to the stairs. Her stomach lurches to see Stuart, sitting in shadow opposite her, facing them both. A gun in his hand. Not his old rifle, but a pistol, stubby and sinister. He raises it slowly as she cries out and stumbles down the last steps towards her daughter.

  ‘Sit there,’ he says, his voice level, almost conversational, ‘where I can see you both.’ He holds the gun steady, pointing at Francesca.

  Ann sinks slowly, slowly, into her comfortable old chair, which accepts her now as a prisoner. She looks from Stuart to her daughter and back again.

  ‘Mum …’ says Francesca.

  But he waves the gun at her and her voice dies.

  ‘I will do the talking tonight,’ he says.

  Ann sends her daughter a tight little smile of encouragement, but her heart is failing. Will it all end like this?

  Stuart has dressed smartly this time. In his shadowy corner his white shirt and blood-red tie glow. The golden light from the lamp highlights the curve of his cheek. He is freshly shaved. He could almost be handsome.