by Graeme Kent
‘And your colleagues in the SIIP feel the same?’
‘Certainly,’ Mary said. ‘We’re a democratically elected and organized group. Nothing is done without an open vote.’
‘You mean you just talk and issue leaflets, that sort of thing,’ Kella said.
‘We’re planning for the future of the islands, especially the Western Solomons,’ Mary said. She was walking with considerable difficulty now. Kella stopped.
‘You’d better go and rest,’ he said. ‘I’ll still be here tomorrow.’
The girl shook her head. ‘No, walk me round another couple of times. If I lie down, the way I feel at the moment I’ll never get up again. No one will harm you. Anyway, all the men have gone crab-hunting. At this time of the year the crabs migrate from the bush to the bay in hundreds. I remember that much about my upbringing.’
They resumed their walk. Most of the other women had disappeared into their huts. It was almost dark. A fitful moon illuminated the village between scudding clouds. Mary Gui gave a little cry and stopped again.
‘I think I overestimated my stamina,’ she admitted, putting a hand on Kella’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps I should rest after all.’
‘Show me your hut,’ said Kella. ‘I’ll help you over to it.’
‘No, that’s all right, I can manage.’ The girl cried out again and clung to the sergeant for support. Reluctantly she indicated a hut on the far side of the square. Kella helped her across and took her in through the open door. He lowered her on to a bed of straw on the ground, making sure that she was lying on her stomach. Mary groaned once and was quiet. Kella was not sure whether she was sleeping or had fainted from the pain. In either case, there was nothing that he could do. A sudden shaft of moonlight illuminated his surroundings. He saw a small wooden table and a smouldering fire in the centre of the room, kept alight for warmth, light and to keep venomous centipedes at bay. A cotton dress and undergarments were scattered on the floor. Mary’s attempt to live in two worlds was evidenced by the sight of several paperback textbooks abandoned on the floor by the fire, an empty Coca-Cola tin, and an open wooden box containing a variety of small shell custom trinkets, including a necklace and several rings and pendants. Kella looked more closely at the box. The jewellery was on a tray at the top of it. He lifted the tray. Beneath it were several wads of Australian ten-dollar notes. It looked as if there was at least a thousand dollars there. He replaced the box on the floor. Then quietly he turned and left the hut.
Outside in the village square, Kella thought at first that he was alone. Then he heard someone sidling up behind him. He turned, too late. Something very hard hit him with crushing force on the side of the head. Suddenly he was falling helplessly into a whirling black pit.
Chapter Ten
SISTER CONCHITA DREW her paintbrush along the side of the exterior of the church building and stood back to examine the results. There was no doubt that she was making progress. In fact, for the first time since her arrival, she was beginning to feel the first faint pangs of something approaching optimism. Early that morning at breakfast she had allocated jobs for the day to the other three sisters. To her surprise, the unruly trio had accepted her directions. Not willingly, she thought, and certainly not cheerfully, but to the best of her knowledge at this moment Sister Brigid was cleaning the interior of the church, Sister Johanna was in the grimy process of removing the engine from the mission jeep, while Sister Jean Francoise had agreed to plant some yams and sweet potatoes in the gardens on the hillside behind the house.
No doubt Conchita would pay for these decisions at the evening meal, when each of the elderly nuns in turn would direct barbed remarks over her head to one another about the vicissitudes of their new life and the glories of the old, half-remembered previous one. Nevertheless, for the first time since her arrival, everyone seemed to be working together, no matter how reluctantly.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye, Sister Conchita,’ said a voice from behind her.
The young nun turned to see Andy Russell standing on the coral path leading down to the rickety wharf. The tall, thin boy had been kitted out with a shirt and a white floppy hat from the wardrobe of the late Father Karl, and Sister Johanna had cut his hair.
He was looking in considerably better condition than he had done a week earlier when Conchita had brought him unconscious to the mission on the floor of her canoe.
‘Goodbye, Mr Russell,’ she said, extending a hand. ‘You could stay here longer if you want to, you know. You would be very welcome. We’ve hardly got to know you.’
The youth shook his head. ‘No, I’d better be getting back,’ he said awkwardly. ‘The government vessel from Gizo is almost here. Thank you for looking after me so well.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Conchita looked over the VSO’s shoulder. She had been so busy that morning that she had not witnessed the government launch steaming self-importantly across the lagoon towards the mission like a toy vessel against a painted backdrop. ‘Do me a favour and take better care of yourself in future.’
‘I will,’ promised the gangling youth. ‘I wouldn’t like to go through that again. I’m not cut out to be Robinson Crusoe.’
‘I should think not!’ Conchita remembered that she had not yet asked Andy the question she had started to put to almost everyone lately. ‘By the way, have you had anything to do with the group of American tourists stopping at the Munda rest-house? There are about a dozen of them.’
Andy shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘When you get back to Gizo, will you keep your ears open? If you hear anything about them, let me know.’
‘Sure thing,’ Andy said. ‘I’ll do anything you want me to, Sister Conchita. I owe you big time.’ Sister Conchita thought that there was a touch of something resembling hero worship in the boy’s eyes. She dismissed the thought as being immodest and presumptuous. ‘What do you want to know in particular about the Yanks?’
‘I’m not sure. Anything out of the ordinary.’
The boy looked puzzled but nodded. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said, transparently eager to help. The launch was tying up at the wharf. He lifted a hand in farewell and walked down the slope to the water as Sister Brigid came out of the church. Typical, thought Conchita. Brigid would not say farewell to the ingenuous VSO, but she obviously cared enough for him to want to see him before he left.
‘He’s a nice lad,’ Conchita said, trying to draw the older nun out.
‘Not bad,’ conceded Brigid. ‘He didn’t stay with us long, though, did he?’
That’s a bit cool, considering how bitterly you complained when I first brought him here, thought Conchita. However, she was growing accustomed to the Irish sister’s apparently innate refusal to display emotion, so she said nothing. She watched Andy reach the wharf in long, loping strides. He was the second guest to leave. Only a couple of days ago, after an overnight stay, Sergeant Kella, unusually preoccupied, had paddled off in his canoe across the lagoon without leaving any word as to when he might return.
‘Sisters!’ cried a tremulous voice from the direction of the mission. Sister Jean Francoise hurried round the corner of the house and across the garden area towards them. She was carrying something wrapped in a banana leaf in her hands.
‘We would never have found it if Sister Johanna hadn’t had a sore throat and wanted me to find some kava roots to ease the pain,’ she panted. ‘It grows right in the middle of the bush where no one ever goes. I asked a couple of the men to find some for me. When they came back, they brought this with them as well.’
‘Sister Jean Francoise, what are you talking about?’ asked Sister Brigid.
‘Look!’ said the French nun dramatically, dropping the leaf to reveal a war club.
Sister Conchita examined the weapon. It bore no signs of age, and the shell inlay had been polished until it glistened. ‘It must be one of the artefacts we were selling on open day,’ she said. She turned the club in her hands. The other two sisters gathered closer to examine
it. With some trepidation, Conchita turned the club until the studded head was on top. Sister Jean Francoise gasped.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing.
Embedded in the side of the club was a slight, bristling patina of blood-soaked hair and flesh. Sister Conchita felt sick.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Jean Francoise.
‘I think,’ said Sister Conchita, ‘that we have discovered the way in which Mr Blamire was really killed. The poor man was struck down with this club!’
The other two sisters gaped at her, suddenly lost and helpless.
‘Somebody’s got off the launch,’ warned Sister Brigid, raising her hands to shield her eyes from the sun.
The government vessel had taken Andy on board and had already cast off and was turning to make the return run to Gizo. A tall, slim man in khaki shorts and a white shirt was walking up from the wharf. Sister Conchita recognized the oldest and toughest of the group of tourists she had met at Munda.
‘It’s Mr Imison,’ she said. ‘He’s an American. He says he was here in the war. Sister Jean Francoise, will you kindly take this club to my office and put it in one of the desk drawers there? And don’t talk to anyone about it. We’ll discuss the matter later.’
Sister Jean Francoise nodded and ran off with the weapon, carrying it gingerly. The other two nuns waited for Imison to walk up the slope towards them. He gave Sister Conchita a wave.
‘You seem to make friends wherever you go,’ said Brigid.
‘I wouldn’t call him a friend,’ said Conchita. She was aware of the other nun looking questioningly at her, but said no more.
‘Hi,’ said Imison, drawing near. ‘We meet again.’
‘Sister Brigid,’ said Conchita, ‘this is Mr Imison.’
‘I’m really pleased to meet you,’ said Imison, shaking the nun’s hand enthusiastically. ‘In fact, I’ve come over to see you specially.’
‘Me?’ said Brigid in surprise. ‘What would you possibly be wanting with me, Mr Imison? I’m just a relic from the past.’
‘Well, I wonder if I could have a word with you in private about that?’ asked the American easily.
Compared with the last time Conchita had met him, Imison was pulling out all the stops to be pleasant, but there was still an element of menace clinging to the man like a cloak. Conchita picked up her paintbrush and turned to resume her work on the church wall. Brigid looked at her in a manner that could be construed as near-panic.
‘I’m sure Sister Conchita would like to hear what you have to say as well, Mr Imison,’ said Sister Brigid. ‘After all, she is the senior sister at the mission. I expect she will insist on being present.’
Conchita blinked at the transformation in the other nun. Where had this newly docile and eager-to-please Sister Brigid come from? She realized that the Irish sister was looking at her imploringly as she waited for a response.
‘Shall we have tea in the mission?’ Conchita asked.
Ten minutes later, the three of them were sitting in basket chairs drinking tea inside the reception room.
‘Now, Mr Imison,’ said Sister Brigid with a trepidation Conchita had not seen in her before, ‘what was it that you wanted to ask me?’
‘Actually, it’s about the war,’ Imison said.
‘Sure, and that was a long time ago. The thick end of twenty years. And I don’t like talking about it.’
Sister Brigid was becoming more like a stage Irishwoman by the minute, thought Conchita. It must be a sign of her unease.
‘You were here during the war?’ pressed the American.
‘To be sure, I was posted here from Malaita in 1942, and I’ve been at Marakosi ever since.’
‘I understand that you played a prominent part in rescuing stranded US sailors and airmen and guiding them back to safety.’
‘We had our moments,’ said a poker-faced Sister Brigid, refusing to respond to the visitor’s charm.
‘Now here’s the thing,’ said Imison, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Were you involved in the rescue of Lieutenant John Fitzgerald Kennedy and the surviving members of the crew of PT-109 in August 1943?’
Sister Brigid did not reply. Imison remained crouched forward, like a feral animal prepared to spring.
‘May I know why you’re asking the sister all these questions, Mr Imison?’ enquired Sister Conchita, coming to the elderly nun’s assistance. Brigid looked relieved.
The American made no effort to conceal the resentment in his eyes at the interjection. He gazed coldly at the younger of the two sisters.
‘Is there any reason why she shouldn’t answer my question?’ he asked.
‘There are any number of reasons, Mr Imison. One of them is that you are a guest at our mission, not a prosecuting attorney. Another is that Sister Brigid simply may not care to respond to your rather hectoring tone or generally help you with your enquiries.’
Imison gazed fixedly at Conchita. She returned his stare and did not move. After a few moments the American seemed to relax in his chair. ‘Sorry,’ he said, waving his hand apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you. Guess I just got too involved in the whole thing. You’ve got to admit, it’s a fascinating story.’
‘You still haven’t told us the reason for your interest.’
‘That I haven’t,’ admitted Imison. A smile as thin as the blade of a foil whipped across his face and then vanished. ‘It’s just that I’m covering the story for a military magazine back home. With John F. running for the presidency, there’s a lot of interest in his exploits in the Roviana Lagoon. They won him the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for heroism, you know.’
‘Sister Brigid?’ asked Conchita.
The other nun did not respond. She seemed as far removed from the activities in the quiet room as hardly to be present. It was as if she was hoping that if she did not react, the situation would melt away. Conchita turned back to their visitor.
‘Was there something in particular that you wanted to know?’ she asked.
‘Sure thing,’ replied Imison with alacrity. ‘Kennedy’s PT boat was cut in half and sunk by a Japanese destroyer in the lagoon that night. Kennedy and ten of his crew escaped and spent a week hiding from the Japs on a number of small, uninhabited islands in the lagoon. Eventually they were rescued by two natives called Biuku and Eroni, who got Kennedy and the other survivors back to safety.’
‘So what do you want to know, Mr Imison? You seem to have the whole story at your fingertips.’
‘There’s more, a whole lot more, stuff that nobody knows about, only rumours and gossip,’ Imison said eagerly. ‘I have reason to believe that there was a third native in the party that rescued Kennedy, one that nobody seems to know much about. His name was Kakaihe. I’m eager to find him and get his story, but he seems to have disappeared years ago, somewhere around 1943 in fact.’
‘But why should Sister Brigid be able to help you?’
‘She’s one of the few white people still around who were in the lagoon area in 1943. She was involved in a number of rescues of American personnel. It’s no good asking the natives. They either clam up or tell you a hatful of lies.’ The American could not hide his resentment. ‘Believe me, I’ve tried.’ He looked hopefully at the old sister. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘I have nothing to say,’ said Sister Brigid, chipping out each word.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Imison coaxingly. ‘What’s wrong with loosening up and talking about it? This is old history; it can’t hurt anyone.’
‘I have nothing to say,’ repeated Sister Brigid.
Suddenly the old Irish nun seemed almost on the verge of tears. Conchita stood up. ‘You heard the sister,’ she told Imison. ‘She doesn’t want to talk about the matter. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. You must forgive us. There is so much work to be done here at the mission.’
Reluctantly Imison got to his feet. ‘If it’s a matter of a donation to the church funds …’ he offered.
‘If you please, Mr Imiso
n; I’m afraid you’ve outstayed your welcome. Have you got transport back to the rest-house?’
‘They’re sending a canoe over for me.’
‘In that case,’ said Sister Conchita, bustling Imison briskly to the door, ‘I suggest you go for a nice walk round the island. You’ll find that it’s well marked with footpaths. Sometimes kingfishers can be found by the stream on the far coast.’
She waited until she was sure that the disgruntled American had left the premises before returning to Sister Brigid. Hastily the old nun tucked a handkerchief away in the sleeve of her habit. Conchita wondered if the apparently impregnable woman had been crying.
‘What an objectionable man,’ she said. ‘Are you all right, Sister?’
Brigid nodded. ‘I’m sorry I went to pieces just now,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘You didn’t go to pieces. You chose not to talk to an unpleasant visitor. Why should you bother with him if you don’t want to?’
‘He was talking about events that I did not wish to remember,’ Sister Brigid said.
‘Well, it’s all over now,’ said Conchita. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ said Sister Brigid. She sniffed into her sleeve. ‘Even if you are in too much of a hurry sometimes.’
‘That’s better,’ said Conchita. ‘That’s the Sister Brigid I know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Paying a compliment with one hand and taking it back with the other.’
Sister Brigid almost laughed. She was recovering her composure. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in the islands too long. It’s no climate for a white woman. It dries you up and makes you suspicious of people.’
‘Thanks a bunch,’ said Sister Conchita. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’
A contrite Sister Brigid touched her hand. ‘I didn’t mean you, Sister,’ she said. ‘You’re a fighter; you’ll get things done. We saw that as soon as you came here to Marakosi. That’s why we were frightened when you arrived. We thought we might get swept away by the new broom.’
