Another Throw of The Dice, Page 2

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, I’d politely refuse.’ Min drew a picture of a bus in the sand with a stick and looked at Robert who just laughed enigmatically.

  ‘We’ll solve that problem by taking you to market when we do our big shop,’ said Dinah. ‘We go very early in the morning, if that suits you.’

  Min accepted the offer gratefully.

  ‘You’ll need a phone though. Have you asked for one?’

  ‘Yes - several times. I keep asking this man Iosefa, who fobs me off with some tale about a shortage of wire.’

  ‘He’ll be too busy looking after his relatives and other hangers-on,’ said Robert, and once again Min wasn’t sure whether to take him seriously. Was he trying to give her a crash course in realpolitik? She was beginning to think that the flip side of naivety was cynicism and she wanted to avoid that if possible.

  They lay quietly snoozing under the mangroves after lunch until Robert got up to head for the water. The river was still high so Min and Dinah joined him and they had a desultory conversation as they paddled aimlessly, their bodies foreshortened in the clear water. Min said she had not felt so pampered in all her life to which Dinah replied that a regular bathe hereabouts was great therapy and cost nothing.

  ‘You can certainly live cheaply in the tropics if you eat local food and wear the local garb. But occasionally I get a bit nostalgic for a blazing open fire and thick woollen jumpers.’ Robert looked comical with his old felt hat crammed on his thinning hair.

  ‘That was never my bag in Queensland,’ said Dinah, ‘so I can’t identify with Robert’s little fantasy.’

  Min smiled in recognition of a southern New Zealand winter which was too recent for her to get nostalgic about. She had done her time biking through searing frosts and biting winds which numbed the extremities and the thought made her shudder inwardly.

  When they returned to their little shady haven, the tide had turned and they would soon be able to cross the river holding their belongings at chest height.

  They walked back along the beach to where they had parked the van, stepping over the exposed coconut tree roots which, one would have thought would be hard-pressed to extract nutrients from the sand. However, these littoral stalwarts not only sustained themselves but they provided so much for the life of the islanders: sennet for binding building materials, vitamin-rich coconut milk and flesh, drinking vessels and moreover, that unique tonsured fringe around the islands which was the icon of the tourist industry. Robert explained that the characteristic lean of the palms was the result of the attraction to the light reflected off the water.

  ‘The Maori would call them “taonga,”’ said Min, but Robert asked her to translate.

  ‘Treasures, valued objects - you’ve been too long away from Aotearoa.’

  ‘It wasn’t called that when I left,’ he laughed. ‘Taonga’ he repeated roguishly.

  The villagers were returning from their second church session. The men in black lava lavas and white shirts and the women in their long white dresses and broad-brimmed hats contrasted with the deep greens, scarlets and yellows alongside the road. Min was reminded of driving among a flock of snow-white sheep on a country road where the ambling majority stopped the motor traffic in its tracks. Smiles and waves were exchanged and Robert said,

  ‘You’ve heard of the rat race - well this isn’t it.’ Min burst out laughing.

 

  Chapter 4

  Lucky left his car at the hotel on the waterfront and walked to the post office where he joined the mêlée of bodies milling around the mail counter. If it hadn’t been for the uncomfortable heat, he could have just stood and watched indefinitely the wordless exchanges soliciting countless letters and falling-apart parcels from the busy clerks. A barely perceptible lift of the eyebrows or a jerk of the head constituted the language medium except for one or two vocal disgruntled customers who received a letter marked, “Received by the post office opened in the country of origin” which he understood from his work colleagues was code for “This mail has been opened by the post office here hoping to find banknotes”.

  He had come to the post office to see if there was news from his home town Melbourne. It had been a fruitless exercise until now. Today however, he was rewarded by an official-looking envelope from Australia and as he was about to open it, he heard someone say his name. He looked up to see one of his colleagues from the hospital who had been away for some weeks at a conference.

  ‘I didn’t know you were back from - where was it again?’ He lost track of the peregrinations of the local staff.

  ‘Geneva.’ They shook hands.

  ‘And how was the old town and whatever took you there?’

  ‘A conference on population control in the developing world - which I must say was fantastic. Apart from a couple of very cold days over the border in France, when I had to buy a fur-lined coat, the sun shone every day through the haze.’

  ‘That coat’ll come in handy here.’ The irony had an edge of churlishness.

  ‘And when will you start spreading the word?’ Semese aimed a playful slap at Lucky’s shoulder.

  ‘The day I wear the coat.’ They both laughed loudly but Lucky’s hoot was shorter-lived. He fanned his face with the envelope.

  ‘Yeah - that’s about the strength of it old chap, but you’ll get an audience at the hospital - if not in the local house of God.’

  Semese looked serious for a moment and said he had learned a lot and would certainly be talking to the hospital staff. Then he asked Lucky if he was interested in taking a trip to the Big Island in the next week or two because he had to go over there and see his family who would be happy to accommodate them both. Lucky liked the idea, so Semese suggested that they meet for a drink at the Seasider the following evening to talk it over. Semese was not due back at work for several days.

  As he walked back to his car, Lucky remembered the letter and felt a small jab of anxiety. He had forgotten to leave a window open in the car and he was met by a whoosh of hot air as he opened the door.

  ‘Bloody oven,’ he muttered and wondered why he was feeling out of sorts. He had started to experience mood shifts which he had not been prone to when he was younger. His mind turned to Min who shared his sense of self-deprecation apparently, and it would be interesting to get to know her better and find out if his first impression was accurate. Passing the golf course, he saw one or two Japanese players with huge umbrellas dotted around taking advantage of flexible working hours and cheap subscription rates. It crossed his mind to take up golf one day perhaps…

  He turned into his driveway and waved to the children playing in the next door yard. Their shy smiles and the prospect of a cold beer raised his mood a notch so when he sat down to read the letter, he felt ready to face its contents. It was from his solicitor in Melbourne and a cursory glance picked out key words like ‘searching questions’ - ‘technicalities’ - ‘further discussion’ which gave him breathing space and temporary relief. He began to feel the noontime drowsiness and lay down with the book he was currently reading. Instead of plunging into George Eliot’s England he was sitting with his father on the verandah of the old house he grew up in. Through the gum trees, beyond the garden, he saw an “officer of the law” as the police were known in Ned Kelly’s day. The man was on a horse and galloping towards them but coming no nearer. His father made no comment but stood up and went inside the house, leaving Lucky at the mercy of the horseman. He called out, ‘Halt!’ but in reply, a musket was raised and before a shot rang out, he woke, his mouth dry and his heart beating somewhere near his throat. He lay very still, pressing his shoulders into the pillow to quieten it down and after several deep breaths, he allowed his mind to repeat the dream in full detail so that he could ponder on its meaning later.

  ‘Weird,’ he said drily as he licked his lips and looked at his watch. He’d been asleep for only ten minutes so he closed his eyes again and drifted into that pleasant state of semi-consciousness. I
t was stabbed by the jangle of the telephone and he had to get up because the apparatus was on the kitchen wall. It was a workmate wanting to know if he was coming to the meeting due to start in a few minutes. It had completely slipped his mind. He gulped down another beer, took a quick cold shower and was away.

  The sun had passed the seemingly everlasting mid point and a slight breeze had come up. The same number of patrons was on the golf course but perhaps it was a second round. How they could stand the noon heat was beyond him.

  The idea of a visit to the Big Island where he had never been, seemed like an attractive proposition and he wondered if Semese would mind if he recruited a couple of mates.

  A venture into the hinterland could be a bonding experience and he felt relaxed at the possibility.

  Chapter 5

  The normally undisturbed little harbour, protected by the reef and accessible only through a gap in the centre, was filled by the sleek grey hulk of a US navy frigate which had slunk in during the night. All along the beach road, marines strolled aimlessly as if estranged by their out- of-scale presence in the tiny island nation. The two watering holes on the water front could hardly cater for them all, so an overflow found its way to the back streets where the more ramshackle shops carried on thriving businesses.

  The significance of the visitation had no detectable effect on the adult town dwellers who went about their business casting the odd glance at the strangers, but little knots of giggling children followed them as welcome diversions from their usual idleness.

  The Peace Corps had accepted responsibility for the entertainment of their compatriots and had arranged a basketball match at a nearby church, to be followed by a party for all Americans in the area. Polly had explained her opposition to hobnobbing with the military to the director, who simply laughed it off as an overreaction. Jim did his best to convince her that she was tilting at windmills and so wasting her time, so why not go with the flow and have a good time.

  ‘A good time?’ Polly said vehemently. ‘This monstrous ship has no place in this little backwater and we are the Peace Corps. Is that contradiction lost on everybody but me?’

  Jim admired her ‘incorrigibly idealistic sentiments’ but pointed out that they couldn’t see the Big Picture and were simple pawns in the game of power politics.

  ‘Speak for yourself. I refuse to be a pawn and I find it depressing that

  I’m on my own.’

  Jim reluctantly agreed to boycott the convivial occasion and instead, he suggested that they take a walk along the Road of Loving Hearts and climb the hill behind the town to the grave of the poet who had spent his last years in the country. He looked for his guide book to find out more and read out some facts: the young Scot and his family had come to this country to relieve his symptoms of tuberculosis and he had won the affection of many of the local people apparently, before dying suddenly at his home at the foot of the mountain. His ardent supporters carried his coffin to the top of the mount, in accordance with his expressed wish.

  Polly was mollified by Jim’s idea and told him that she hoped he realised that her anger was not directed at him. He was her sounding board. She prepared two containers of coconut milk for the climb and they set off in mutual relief.

  It was a slow ascent along a steep path through the trees and Polly kept thinking of the robust young men who had carried the poet’s body to the summit. With only machetes to clear a track and no time to spare in the tropical heat, they were truly loving hearts and their painful devotion was still evident almost a hundred years later.

  When they reached the summit after nearly an hour they were surprised to find two sailors from the naval ship, and a young local man strumming a guitar. He was humming a tune and the smiling sailors were sitting on the grass and listening reverently. Then he began to put words to the tune and Jim saw that he was singing the words engraved in the marble of the tomb.

  “Under the wide and starry sky, dig the grave and let me lie…”

  Jim joined in and the others stood up to read the words and do the same. They sang it over and over and their voices became confident and rang out over the valley. Finally, they began to clap spontaneously and thanked the guitarist for an impromptu pleasure. He went on to explain how the poet had grown to identify with the local people’s political ideals and had won a permanent place in their history, so far from his birthplace.

  “Home is the hunter, home from the hill, and the sailor home from the sea” seemed to express his identification with his adopted land. The young musician began quietly strumming again and Jim turned to the sailors and asked them when they were going home.

  ‘In three months.’

  ‘And how did you find out about this spot?’

  ‘I read about it in an airline magazine quite a while ago and made a note to check it out when I heard that we’d be coming to the Pacific. I dragged my friend here out of the hot crowded bar on the beach front and we were lucky to meet our musical friend down at the homestead.’ The young guitarist raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  ‘And where are you two from?’

  ‘I’m from San Francisco and Jim here’s from Indiana.’

  ‘Do you get homesick?’

  ‘No - should we?’ Polly’s defensiveness asserted itself when she looked down and saw the grey monster again, clearly dwarfing its surroundings. Jim hurriedly pointed out that everything was so different and there was so much to learn that they didn’t have a chance to be homesick He went on to explain that they were Peace Corps volunteers looking for new experiences. He didn’t want to sound high-minded and Polly was glad that he struck a neutral note.

  The guitarist said goodbye and they thanked him warmly. Jim said they might see him around. The sailors wanted to follow him so after they had all shaken hands and Polly and Jim were left alone, he put his arm around her and said what a stroke of luck that had been. Wasn’t she impressed that those two Americans had chosen to get a real local experience?

  ‘No warm fuzzy will change my feelings about that ship. It has made me think about how the rest of the world must feel about US global politics. I want to try and understand things.’

  ‘Perhaps after we’ve been here a while our ideas will change. I’ve noticed that some expatriates are quite patronising towards the local culture. Tell me if I get like that.’ Jim looked directly into Polly’s eyes as he said this and then he took her chin and kissed her as if sealing a pact. She shuddered involuntarily and stroked the back of his head. Slowly they sank down on to the grass, grappling urgently as a darkening pall was descending.

  When their passion was spent, the darkness around them was complete and only the twinkling lights of the town below and the powerful lights of the frigate were visible. The warm balmy air and a desire to sleep kept them on the hilltop till daybreak when they said goodbye to the poet and promised to come again.

  Chapter 6

  Her letter to the local paper caused a few comments among the staff at the college when Min arrived after the weekend visit of the American ship. One of the more outspoken members of the staff asked her why she had got involved in what was a local issue and she said that she had thought about that and had decided that it was more than a local issue.

  ‘Are you here to spread the New Zealand disease? We are perfectly capable of making up our own minds without the help of outsiders. You are here to teach English and you should stick to that.’

  No one else spoke up and Min felt her colour rising. Perhaps she had strayed into sensitive territory before she had established her local credentials. Small countries felt vulnerable to outside interference and this she could appreciate. She thought however, that her puny offering had been overrated. She agreed that she had plenty to think about because she wanted to establish an innovative programme with very limited resources, once she had some idea of student needs and learning styles.

  When she arrived home later there was a notice pinned to her door from someone asking
for a job as a house girl. This was another custom that she had to come to terms with because she had no experience of having someone do her housework, and this amounted in her mind to employing a servant. She lay on her bed and was contemplating the events of the morning when Yushi arrived on his motorbike in a very flustered state.

  ‘Some bad person come to our house and take much things,’ he said, breathless with emotion.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today. Hiro he go to house at lunch hour and see terrible mess. Radios gone, food gone and clothers too. And money - all money gone too.’

  ‘Have you got insurance?’

  ‘What is that?’ Min explained as simply as she could and Yushi nodded.

  ‘I think volunteers must have. Computer still in house.’

  ‘Perhaps the thieves would not know how to use it or get rid of it in this small place.’

  ‘What means “get rid of”?’ Min explained and again Yushi agreed and rummaged around for his notebook where he recorded new words and expressions.

  ‘Don’t worry about English right now - just sit down and I’ll pour you a whisky.’

  He flopped on to the couch wincing slightly in doing so and took off his glasses. He put one hand over his eyes. Min felt so sorry for him that she wanted to put her arm around him as a gesture of empathy, but she was fairly sure that it would not be interpreted as such. When she handed him his glass, he looked up myopically and said,

  ‘I want to go back Japan.’

  ‘Then you’ll forget your English.’ It was a lame remark she knew, so she added quickly, ‘And what about your girlfriend?’

  ‘I speak Japanese in my house and girlfriend is just friend.’

  Min took a tiny sip of whisky and stared into her glass, stumped for further counsels. Yushi put his glasses on again and told Min that Japanese did not steal things. It was not the moment to discuss peculiar national vices so she suddenly reached out for a linguistic filler and told Yushi that the word for what had happened was “burglary”. This time he found his notebook and wrote down the word which made him smile in spite of its meaning.

  ‘And the person who enters your house to steal your things is a “burglar”.’ At this he gave a little laugh, but when she said the verb was “to burgle”, he laughed outright and said the word over and over until its sinister aspect was replaced by its sudden absurdity. Min found this very amusing too and they were soon both laughing madly. She had hit on an unexpected circuit breaker.