Long Way Place (Cannibal Country Trilogy, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  “But, mein father …”

  “Is dead! And I’m not him.” He sat upright, pulled her to his shoulder, gently, she unresisting; sudden insight came to him, gave him a rare understanding. “Your mother was young when she died, was she?”

  “She had thirty-four years.”

  “And your father … exhausted her?”

  “Ja. Is so.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  A moment’s shock before she collapsed into him, tearfully admitting she was pleased too, she should be forgiven.

  “The only thing I would find hard to forgive is that you think I am the same. Listen! I will never cause you harm or hurt or pain – you are my wife and you are precious to me.” He meant it, too, it was said so sincerely that she believed him immediately, gave him a convulsive hug.

  Collecting herself instantly she sat back and fell into her normal stoop, shoulders hunched forward.

  “Come on now, you’re hiding, acting as if you were ashamed of yourself!”

  “Big, fat, ugly, there I am. I try not to show too much.” She was shy, murmured almost inaudibly, but she could not refuse to answer the man of the house.

  “What utter bloody nonsense! Sit up now.”

  She obeyed helplessly, nerving herself for the awful display.

  “My word! You are big, aren’t you! Lovely! Half the women in the world would envy you these; and all the men, me.”

  He ran gentle hands round, supporting, cupping underneath, restrained by a mighty effort of will. He cocked a knowing eye. “Nuns, I suppose? Telling the girls to hide them away. ‘Not nice, my dears’.”

  “Ja, is so.” She seemed a little indignant that he should know. “Good girls, they say, have small ones.”

  “They’re wrong there, you know – you should be pleased. Come on! Sit up and pull those shoulders back.”

  Experimentally, with all the air of a sacrifice going to the altar, she obeyed, could not help glancing into the small mirror at the slim body and chest carrying such proud ornaments. She gasped in surprise as his fingers writhed higher, captured her nipples, pressed instinctively back into him.

  “Shall I stop?”

  “Ja! You should not, but … Is good, if you likes.”

  She let him lower her down on the bed, hands fluttering in indecision, grasping at his shoulders, uncertain whether to push him away or pull him to her. She felt a hand trace slowly down to her waist and tug at the double bowknot there. She locked her knees fiercely, thrilled to her own warmth, relaxed, found her own fingers helping him with the knot and easing the cloth over her hips. Her thighs parted to his requesting fingers, seemingly without her mind taking any part in the decision; she sighed gently, heaved his head firmly into her shoulder

  She lay still, open, a few minutes, wondering whether there was more, if this was all of the mystery, slowly quivering, moving into his rhythm, deciding that this aspect of the married state was rather enjoyable; she squeaked and writhed delightedly as an exploring finger found the exact spot. Worriedly, she realised she was becoming extremely damp. He suddenly changed position, eased her knees up and knelt between them.

  “This is the bit that’s going to hurt a little at the start, dear.”

  “What do you do now, please?”

  “Look.”

  She craned her neck, eyes opening wide.

  “Mein Gott! What, with that, do you do?”

  He explained, concisely.

  “That usual is? Of that the good sisters nothing say.”

  “Of that, they nothing know – my Christ! It’s catching! I mean, they are wedded to the Lord, not to a man. So unless the good sisters have a bad brother, they have no reason to come across it.”

  “Ach, wicked thing to say!” She giggled. “Is usual, you tell, is always done?”

  “It is the proper way, for making babies and for fun.”

  “Ja?” She was genuinely surprised, not at all sure she approved; it certainly seemed a cumbersome way of doing things. “Is silly, but we try.”

  She raised her head, craned her neck to observe as he advanced upon her, moved experimentally to ease his passage.

  “Ow! Is far. No more can.”

  He answered with a vigorous thrust, penetrated deep, lay still a second, then commenced his strokes, bringing a slow and increasingly strong response from her.

  Afterwards he lay by her side, cooling, the sweat dripping onto the sheets, his hand proprietorially across her thighs. Rain swept across the palm trees, the rattle rushing machine-gun like towards them, the sun darkening, a sudden gust of wind blowing cold and stretching the bunched curtains almost horizontal against the ceiling, sending a pair of geckoes in panicked flight.

  “No thunder.”

  “The Wet Season is come,” she murmured very quietly, concerned with herself, the change in her, hardly noticing the outdoors. She rolled slowly onto her side, towards him, trapping his hand, holding it cross-legged.

  “Ned!”

  “My dear?”

  “Good idea, it was, not to wait. I was frightened, am not now.”

  “Good. You must never be frightened of me, or of this.” He guided her hand onto his person, let her explore. “Did I hurt you much?”

  “Little. Now I must have baby?”

  “Perhaps, but probably not for a long time yet. What is the date? November? Maybe a babe in August, maybe not for ten years.” Silently, to himself he added, ‘maybe never, because I ain’t sure I can make ‘em’.

  “Oh! Must do many times for sure?”

  “Many, many times.”

  “Is good. Can do when this bit strong gets, ja?” She prodded the organ in question with a gentle querying finger. “I think I coffee make, ja?”

  “Please.”

  She stood up and stretched, looked again in the mirror to see if she was the same, remembered Ned and modesty and grabbed hurriedly at her dress, pulled fresh underclothes from the newly filled drawer.

  “You don’t need them.”

  She was scandalised – married intimacy had its limits and no drawers was well beyond them.

  “Nein! Is not polite!”

  “Is cool.”

  That was a strong argument in the sweaty season.

  “Quicker for me, too.”

  “Ach! Wicked man! Such a thing to say!” She looked at him laughing on the bed, saw him stir, turned hurriedly to the door. “I make coffee.”

  She found she was humming a little song to herself as she set the pot on the stove; she had liked that experience, thought she would probably enjoy the next even more. A husband had some compensations, it would seem, though she wished she knew another girl – ‘woman’, she corrected herself – to talk about it. Vaguely she wondered what it would have been like with one of the young men she knew, Carl Meier from the plantation at Vunamami, for example, he had been a good friend at school, she had liked him, had kissed him once, behind the shed. She shrugged; there was little point in wondering what she would never know.

  She called Ned to table, cut a slice of tart for him as well as the coffee, smiled at the sight of him in a laplap, a single piece of cloth, cool and practical indoors. She froze as he slipped a hand under her skirt.

  “Ned! The haus-meri is in the kitchen.”

  “She’s just gone home. I saw her go.”

  She relaxed, let him play a moment, then eased away, poured his coffee, left the room, came back refreshed a few minutes later.

  “Jutta?” He was sprawled on the cane settee.

  She smiled, raised an eyebrow.

  “Stand there and take your dress off, please.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to look at you before I jump on top of you.”

  He dropped the laplap as he spoke, grinned at her. She thought a second, realised he was asking her to give to him, offering the chance to join in equally. She stepped just out of arms’ reach and lifted the hem of her dress very slowly, watched him spring erect. She had power, she could control his b
ody, persuade him to do things, perhaps, certainly make him wish to please her; she started to experiment, to discover just how she could let him dominate her whilst she ruled. Within a very few days she discovered it was very easy, and enjoyable.

  LONG WAY PLACE

  Chapter Nine

  The first Australian police officers arrived in the New Year. They were keen, enthusiastic young men, anxious to serve their country overseas in a war zone, astute enough to choose one where the fighting had finished. Ned was happy to hand over to them, to put himself back into the Reserve list and to busy himself with civilian work, in which he intended to become absolutely indispensable producing the sinews of war. He made one of his rare trips into Rabaul to clear everything with the authorities, took Jutta in the boat with him for a shopping trip, a rare holiday from the seven day a week grind of the plantation.

  Through the gap in the reef at Vunapope and out round Raluana Point and into the inner harbour, Simpsonshafen, the water calming to a millpond as they came into the enclosure of the bay. They passed close to the Beehives, black basalt rocks sticking out of the water, their height varying over the years, almost as a barometer of volcanic activity. At that time they were high, a couple of hundred feet to the tallest summit, and there was a small fishing village at the base of the largest of the bare rocks, half a dozen huts and a pair of outrigger canoes on a tiny black sand beach.

  They crossed the lagoon in an hour, the sea deep, dark, cold seeming, unattractive even where it mirrored the lush hills of the crater walls, the palms and thick bush reflected perfectly by the still waters.

  “Unmeasured, its depth is, Ned – deeper than the sailors’ longest rope.”

  “Full of sharks, too, I would imagine.”

  “Ja! Fishing here is done in traps and nets. Put a line down, plenty you catch, but you pull none up, for the sharks bite them in two, only a head left on the hook. At night the big puk-puks swim by as well.”

  Marine crocodiles, enormous beasts, mythical, according to the experts. They had not been recorded in any of the books so they could not exist, but skins twenty-seven feet long come from something other than the imagination.

  Jutta’s English was improving rapidly and she seemed contented in her lot, smiled more, laughed aloud even. Ned rested an arm on her shoulder, grinned comfortably, hoped there would be stock in the Chinese stores to supply all she wanted, all he could get. One day, when the war was over probably, he would take her down south on a real spree. She would enjoy that; she deserved it too; she had had a rough life so far, he was glad he could take care of her.

  He made his duty call upon Holmes, confirming his retirement from the police service now that the professionals had arrived, and repeated his request to apply for an engineer’s commission in the navy – the war would last a long time, it seemed, and men were needed. He knew it was the right thing to say, was essential in fact, but hoped like hell that Holmes would not take him up on it.

  “You’re right to ask, Hawkins – it’s what I’ve come to expect from you. I’ve got the handover-takeover appreciation from Reilly, your successor. You’d blush to read it, it’s so full of praise for what you’ve done – he says that he has been able to walk into a fully operational force, all of the hard work done for him. My report to the Government will contain all of that, and more – your name will be known in all the right places, Hawkins, you may be sure of that!”

  Ned perceived that this was in part an apology for the social snubs, the ostracism which he had enjoyed out at Kokopo. Never having wanted the company of the officers and gentlemen he had been quite unmoved by it all, but he thought it was only polite to acknowledge the man’s efforts. He muttered awkwardly, achieved the correct effect.

  “Right! Enough said! Now, as for leaving, if you really must, I can’t stop you, I can hardly force a fit young man to be a civilian in the time of his country’s need, but, this is your place of duty, where you can be of greatest service. There are nine plantations that were owned by German companies with managers sent out from Germany rather than owners resident on them; some of those men have been interned because they wore Reservists uniforms, a couple were killed in the fighting. The end result is that there are only three administrators, and them pretty green, so that the plantations are going downhill. What we need is an experienced and able man to keep them going – and you are the most expert we have. What I want you to do, and I don’t think I can order you, is to stay here, running your own place and acting as director or consultant – whatever you will – to the other nine, visiting each one at least once a month, more if they need it. If you go I’ve got no other skilled man, and I’ll have to give the job to a bloody German, and how can I do that?”

  Ned eventually allowed himself to be persuaded, left finally with an official position with the Administration, on a salary, so as to make it clear to the post-War public that he was not a shirker, that he was not yellow. He made a rare and final call at the Officers Mess where he had left Jutta, found her in the company of two enthusiastic young lieutenants, pink faced young men preening themselves and mashing furiously, simpering hopefully in the company of the first young white woman they had spoken to in three months.

  “Ned, are we ready to go? I must say goodbye to these boys.” She bobbed a little curtsey to them and took Ned’s arm, left them cold, deflating.

  “Geckoes, ja, Ned?”

  Pale, grey-pink skinned lizards that lived in every house, tolerated for their diet of insects, and to be seen scurrying self-importantly about the drawing room every evening. It was an apt term for new-comers.

  “What do we do now, Ned?”

  He had turned their little cart downhill, away from the road out round the bay.

  “To the stores, dear, to see what they’ve got. Shipping’s been so erratic lately there’s no telling whether they’ll have what we want, but they might have some half-way decent stuff in stock.”

  Down the hill for nearly two miles to the junction of Mango and Malaguna Avenues, recently renamed, and into Chinatown.

  The Tses and Seetos and Ngs were well established in their big stores, together with a number of lesser individuals, smaller men disparaged as ‘trade-store owners’. Their dark timber and corrugated iron go-downs, hundred foot long warehouses, were treasure caves, set out in a logical order totally impenetrable to the European educated mind. Sheets and linens sat on their shelves next to pick-axes and shovels; clocks balanced on boxes of candles; half a dozen assorted books, including a Life of Napoleon, were surrounded by bags of rice and sacks of flour. Dress lengths of cotton were at the front; identical pieces for men’s laplaps were decently to the rear; made-up blouses were quite separate. It was all eminently reasonable, but only if one was trained in that particular reason.

  “Ned, I may buy a cotton for a dress, ja?”

  She was excited, had not been inside a store in two years, had not spent money on herself for five, since last her mother had taken her out. Ned grinned and pulled out his drawstring purse, counted out fifty gold sovereigns, tucked the rest away.

  “I never had the chance to get you a proper wedding gift, love, not the way I should have. So I thought you might like to get yourself a sewing machine and thread and lace and pretty things – I don’t know, or I’d have bought them myself as a surprise for you. Buy what you want, and we’ll get things we need as well.”

  The owner, Mr Tse, was at their side, shopkeeper’s ears attuned to the soft clink of gold at twenty paces, volunteering to show, demonstrate, deliver, order, create overnight – or quicker – whatever they might want. His father was a tailor, his cousin a dressmaker of remarkable flair; his uncle in Singapore could supply wonderful things whilst his brother in Kowloon could contract for anything - their wish was his most earnest command. Ned scratched his head suspiciously – the man was over-playing his role of storybook Chinaman – but Jutta drank in every word and gave herself over to luxurious self-indulgence for the first time in her life.

  Four
hours of gleeful, serious, shopping, the cat surrounded by cream-pots, interrupted only by frail porcelain cups of green tea, bottles of beer – best Tsingtao from the famous German brewery on the China coast – dim sum and measurements, delicately done by a demure young lady. At the end Ned had spent an extra twenty pounds and was pleased to have had the opportunity, his frugality wiped out in the joy of giving to so delighted a recipient. As they left a great mound of goods was going carefully up onto the delivery wagon, free and gratis, courtesy of the store.

  Ned was surprised to have been treated so generously by Mr Tse, not realising that as a plantation owner and a senior policeman, all in one, he could have demanded a lot more. That he had not done so was noted to his credit and the word was spread through the community that it might be possible to trust the new authorities – they did not seem to be personally rapacious.

  The wagon offloaded next morning, Jutta watching with renewed delight. There was a treadle sewing-machine, cast iron and fearsomely heavy, carried upstairs by four labourers and settled exactly over one of the supporting pillars underneath the spare-room floor. They admired it together, black lacquered and picked out in gold – it was a wonderful machine, all agreed, it must be particularly important, being so beautiful. Next to it were stacked bales, it seemed, of cottons and calicos and prints and chintzes; on the shelf went precious yards of silk and a single piece of heavy, classical Chinese brocade to make up for the most formal of occasions. Kitchen and dining-room saw silver cutlery, a rose-patterned tea service and a set of six cast iron saucepans, long coveted. Shotgun shells were tucked away in the bedroom, a wooden rocking chair was sat on the verandah and places were sought for the great mass of smaller items - towelling, scented soap, tooth-brushes - a pot-pourri, a melange of need and extravagance, spices sat next to a sack of English potatoes, a dozen blocks of salt beside a bag of icing-sugar.

  The greatest single extravagance, to Jutta’s mind, had come home with them on the previous evening, a fine, lace-ruffled nightdress that she had enjoyed in the wearing, and Ned in taking it off.