Return to Paradise

by James A. Michener

  Delia rose from the bed and paced the room, clutching at her own shoulders. “It’s impossible to understand—for you, that is. But please try, because I love you and Barbara very much. I’m only twenty-two. Cobber’s been away—how long? He’ll stay away God only knows how much longer. I know you don’t like Americans. They’re not English and all that. But I would crawl on my knees to get to America—with almost any one of them.”

  “Delia! You mustn’t …”

  “But I’m married and they’re going off to the islands. We see one another until they sail.”

  Anne was shaken by Delia’s hopeless confession. “You must be careful, Deel. Won’t you please come home with me?”

  “No.”

  Anne was about to deliver some kind of ultimatum when the door banged open and a tall, broad-shouldered man burst into the room shouting, “Hiya, Baby! Poppa’s back!”

  Delia, forgetting Anne, dashed across the room and leaped into his arms. “Andy! You made it!” And she kissed him on the eyes and lips.

  “Made it?” the stranger shouted. “I told the commandant he could damned well …” He saw Anne and stopped. “Who’s the queen?”

  “Oh, this is my sister. Anne, this is Andy.”

  The American dropped Delia on the bed as if she were a toy doll. He cocked his hands on his hips and studied Anne. “Deel said she had a sister, but she didn’t say the sister was a goddess. Divinely tall et cetera.”

  Delia laughed and said, “Don’t believe anything this galoot says.”

  “Galoot?” Anne asked.

  “That’s Yank for cobber.”

  The American grabbed Anne by the arm and said, “This cobber insists you have lunch with us.” Then he stopped and studied a moment. “Whaddaya think, Deel? Safe to take a Queen like this down among them wolves?”

  “I think,” said Deel, “it’s the only way we’ll get to that J.P.B. officers’ club.”

  “What do you mean?” Anne asked.

  “The J.P.B. has everything sewed up in Wellington,” Deel explained. “Maybe one of the chairborne heroes will ask you to visit their club.”

  “What’s the J.P.B?” Anne asked.

  As they picked their way through the crowded dining room Andy looked sourly at the array of handsome, polished, important-looking American officers who filled the tables and whispered, “That’s the J.P.B. Joint Purchasing Board. They buy everything that’s edible for the troops up north. They are Mister God.”

  When they were seated Delia said, “They’re the desk soldiers. Andy’s a fighting man, so they don’t like him much.”

  But this time Andy seemed quite attractive to the J.P.B. men. One after another spoke overeffusively to him and finally, as he had anticipated, a particularly suave and well-fed J.P.B. man sat casually at the table and said, “Good old Andy! When are you chaps pushing out? I don’t believe I’ve met this young lady before.”

  Andy said, “This is Miss Anne Neville, of Christchurch.”

  “Lovely city, Christchurch!” the J.P.B. man said. “Most attractive in New Zealand, I think. I stayed there when I was buying potatoes at Timara. I especially liked the square. Say! Why don’t you three have lunch with me?”

  He led them to a special J.P.B. section, where the food was better and where ration books were not needed. “Call me Bill,” he said.

  Delia came directly to the point. “I was hoping to show my sister the officers’ club.”

  “Why not?” the J.P.B. man assured them. “In fact, I’ve been working too hard lately and I was planning to take the afternoon off. How’d you like to tour the city with me?”

  Out on the street the J.P.B. man whistled and an enlisted Marine drove up with a polished Buick. Bill said the man could have the day off, he’d drive. Then, to Anne’s surprise, he held the car door open until she got in. This had never happened to her before. Ill at ease in a car with left-hand drive, she started on her tour of the city. Once she looked into the mirror and saw Delia, with tears in her eyes, staring at the American who rode beside her. They were pathetically in love and she looked straight ahead.

  “Our work is pretty grueling,” the J.P.B. man said. “Contact with the public all day long. True, we get three pounds a day to live on …”

  “You mean one man gets three pounds a day?” Anne gasped.

  “Yes. But we have to buy many more things out of that. And then the gooks try to …” He stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry, Miss Neville. I apologize for using that word. You see, I work with the dockhands sometimes …”

  At tea time he pulled the Buick up at the slick club, where it became apparent why the J.P.B. men needed so much money. There were slot machines, all kinds of drinks and expensive gifts for girls. “This is for you!” Bill said, giving Anne a carton of American cigarettes. When she refused them he said, “We get them for practically nothing. A deal we have on.”

  After tea he turned on the juke box and carefully held her chair while she rose. She could never remember having seen a New Zealander do that for a girl, and when they got back to the Prince George a bellboy arrived with a bouquet of roses, the first flowers she had ever received. The card read, “Roses for a lady who doesn’t need them. Bill.”

  At dinner, Anne, somewhat breathless, noticed the J.P.B. men carefully. They were polished men, not like the boors she had met in the store at Christchurch. They wore spotless uniforms, highly polished shoes and clean smiles. She particularly noticed that they didn’t speak in loud voices. But as Bill returned to the street to signal for the Buick, two Maoris became confused. One stopped to let Bill pass, but the other kept moving and had no choice but to bump ever so slightly into Delia.

  Instinctively, like an infuriated animal, Bill shot out his right fist and knocked the offending Maori down. “Don’t knock into white girls, you damned nigger!” he cried.

  When she got back to Christchurch Anne could not explain exactly what had happened next. “All I recall is that suddenly thirty or forty New Zealanders … Barbara, I was never so proud of New Zealanders in my life. One of them shouted, ‘You’ll not call our Maoris niggers!’ There was a terrible fight.”

  “What happened?”

  “I think my J.P.B. man would have got away. But I tripped him!”

  “Cheers! Then what?”

  “Then you’d have been surprised. Oh, Barbara.” She bit her lip and started twice to explain. Finally she sat down and said, “Suddenly I was sorry. I was so terribly, horribly sorry for Deel.”

  “For Delia?”

  “Yes. Poor little Deel. Because in the morning her Marine sailed. They had known he was going but they didn’t tell me. He had taken a big risk to get away from camp. It was to have been a perfect dance, one last night.”

  “What did he do?”

  “What could he do? He jumped into the fight and helped the other American.”

  “What happened?”

  “The military police arrested him. He was taken back to camp for discipline. Deel never saw him again.”

  Barbara sighed and poured her sister a fresh cup of tea. “I thought you were going up to Wellington to give little Deel the devil.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening any more, Barbara. Deel and her American were pathetically happy together. And I wrecked their last night. That’s all I know.”

  She also knew that she was scathingly angry about how the J.P.B. man had treated the two Maoris, and when she finished reporting to Barbara she sat down and wrote a bitter letter denouncing such behavior and sent it to the Christchurch paper. She said she hoped that for the good name of her country, every New Zealander would publicly rebuff any Americans who tried to introduce race discrimination. Her letter had a surprising result.

  Early next morning an olive-drab staff car stopped before the cottage and a young Marine lieutenant inquired for Miss Anne Neville. He doffed his cap, bowed and said, “I’ve come from Headquarters … to apologize on behalf of the Marine Corps.”

  “What for?” Anne asked. �
�Come in.”

  “Your letter. In the paper. The General was outraged. See.” He handed Anne a mimeographed notice which began, “Yesterday a New Zealand citizen complained with reason, of American behavior on a delicate and important subject.”

  The young man said, “It’s been distributed to all units, Miss Neville. It’s an order.”

  “What is?”

  He showed her: “If any further instances occur of disrespect to Maoris, severe disciplinary action will follow.”

  He coughed nervously and said, “Actually, America appreciates deeply the courtesies your country has extended us. We know our intrusion is bound to cause minor frictions. We regret that, indeed we do.”

  “Thank you,” Anne said. “Thank you very much.”

  “The General wanted to know if you wished to make a specific complaint.”

  “No. I’ve forgotten it.”

  “I’m glad, because if you named names the General would just about massacre them.”

  “I don’t want that. I wrote in anger, but it’s all over now.”

  “I’m really glad, because I can appreciate your resentment better than some. I was educated in England. New Zealand is very much like England.”

  “You were?” Anne cried. “Oh Barbara! The lieutenant says he was educated in England!”

  Barbara stopped her work with the dishes and sat with her sister. “Anne and I were educated there too,” she said. “Father always said a naval officer didn’t make enough to live on, but he’d see we went Home for schooling.”

  “I knew some splendid New Zealanders at Oxford,” the American said.

  “Were you a Rhodes Scholar?” Anne asked.

  “Yes. I live in Oklahoma and the competition wasn’t too keen there.”

  “You went to Oxford!” Anne repeated. “Barbara, let’s have some tea!”

  “Oh!” Barbara cried. “Look at the clock!”

  “Have I been keeping you?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Gracious! I’m late!”

  “Could I drive you …”

  The next two months were like an aching, lovely dream. During every free hour Anne Neville and Richard Bates were together. He spoke endlessly of his days at Oxford and she queried him about out-of-the-way towns she had visited on her lengthy visit Home. Once she said, “My memories of Home are very persistent, but I have never felt that my life would be as meaningful in England as it is here.” He laughed and said, “It’s the same with me. I prized Oxford but it was Oklahoma I really loved.”

  His effect on the cottage at Ferrymead was electric. He took most of his meals there, and the three girls were delighted to have a man to care for, and a very decent man at that. Evelyn brought him the paper. Barbara fed him too much food, and Anne ransacked the cellar for odd books he might like to see. In the evenings they often sat together, the four of them, with Mrs. Neville in her own mysterious corner, talking and having a rare time. Frequently he took Anne to some military dance or other and late one night Evelyn jumped into bed with Barbara and poked her in the ribs.

  “Babs!” the youngster cried. “You’d never believe it!”

  “Believe what?” Barbara asked sleepily.

  “Iceberg Annie! She’s out front necking her head off.”

  “Of course I believe it!” Barbara said sharply. “Now get to bed.”

  “I think it’s wonderful!” Evelyn said. “Our Annie and an American!”

  “Get out of here!” But when the child left, Barbara crept to the window. Below, in the staff car, she could see Anne in an evening dress, kissing and talking and talking and kissing. Barbara thought it was very appropriate, very warm and appropriate.

  During the next few days Evelyn turned the conversation constantly to love. What did Lieutenant Bates think of all the marriages that were taking place in New Zealand? Did Lieutenant Bates see the story about the Wellington girl who had taken one look at her husband’s home in California and hurried right back to New Zealand? Finally the American pushed his chair back from the tea table and said, “I was going to ask Barbara if it would be all right for me to marry Anne. But you seem to be the most concerned. Have I your permission?”

  “You bet!” Evelyn cried.

  Barbara, acting as mother, asked when Richard thought the marriage should take place. He said he’d have to get special permission from Admiral Halsey, but that such permission was being granted to Marines who might be sailing north.

  The next days had an autumnal beauty about them. Bates spent most of his time at the cottage, and the three sisters accepted him as a member of the family, as if he were already married. Once he asked Barbara if she would like him to bring along a Marine who might like to meet her. She said no, explaining that she did not yet feel like a woman again. “I’m sort of an ageless mother. Or a new bride. I keep thinking that my husband is going to return at any moment.” She added, “It’s very curious what war does.”

  “I know,” Bates said. “Before I met you and Anne I had fallen into the habit of calling everyone here a gook. I could never have done that in peace time.”

  “When are you going to marry the gook?” Evelyn asked.

  “Halsey hasn’t acted upon my request,” the Marine replied, “but it ought to be soon.”

  But before the wedding could take place the FirstMarDiv shipped out. They left, Anne thought, willingly and yet with a premonition of catastrophe. They were in the bars and movies on Wednesday. But by Thursday morning the ships had quietly sailed.

  Then followed days of silent waiting, breathless expectation before the radio, during which Anne was several times inspired to talk frankly with Barbara, telling her of scorching fears; but there had always been something about the Neville family that forbade the sharing of secrets, and now Anne wondered if that was not the reason for her mother’s sitting dumbly in the rocking chair. Once she came perilously close to honest talk when she said to Barbara, “There’s a lot wrong with our stiff British conventions. I’m rather glad I’m going to marry an easygoing American.”

  But when the name of the island to which Bates had gone was announced, Tarawa, she had an instant intuition that she would never marry him. When the first enormous casualties were announced—totals only, not names—a ghastly pall settled over many New Zealand families and more than a hundred excellent young women like Anne Neville, whose marriages had been delayed by the red tape of war, broke down wherever they were and went sobbing to their sisters or fathers or mothers.

  Anne said dully, “I’m going to have a baby.”

  Barbara continued washing dishes and said, “I think Dick’ll come through all right.”

  Anne said, “We both knew the ships were sailing soon. Some other island.”

  Barbara stopped her work and said, “Darling! You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

  Anne said, “I had a strange thought. I was glad that Mother wouldn’t be able to know. Everything has changed so much.”

  Barbara laughed. “You underestimate Mother. She knew what war was. One after another.”

  Anne said, “What should we do if Dick doesn’t get back?”

  Barbara said, “He will. It would be unfair if this family lost anyone else.”

  As in a hundred similar homes, Anne said, “I’ll have the baby. Right here if you’ll let me.”

  Barbara laughed again. “Let you! Whose home do you think it is?”

  Anne laughed and said, “You do all the dishes.”

  Then followed a curious barbarism of war. In anxious America the names of the dead Marines on Tarawa were rushed onto the front pages of village newspapers. There the pictures of dead heroes were displayed in a kind of public agony; and many small towns that had predicted nothing but disaster for some young no-good now proudly published his picture and nobody in the entire town gave a damn, except that it made their village important for a day.

  But in New Zealand, where the Marines were intimately a part of the population, the notice of death did not arrive, for it wa
s unprecedented to hold that any soldier could have owed allegiance to two different nations. So Anne Neville lived a desperate fear, afraid to call the American headquarters, for she was not married to her Marine.

  She received an ugly fright one morning when an American staff car pulled up at the cottage. A major in his middle thirties, pompous and plump, knocked at the door and announced himself as Major Harding. “Is Miss Anne Neville at home?”

  Anne, in whom pregnancy had started in earnest, felt faint and was unable to speak, but Barbara, standing beside her, said, “This is my sister. She’s Anne Neville.”

  With extraordinary politeness the major found two chairs. Then, sitting very straight on a third, he said, “You must take this interview very seriously. A great deal depends upon this interview.”

  “Please!” Barbara said. “What is this all about?”

  Ignoring Barbara the major stared at Anne and asked, “Your age?”

  “She’s thirty,” Barbara said.

  “Please!” the major said stiffly. “Would Miss Anne Neville please reply? Born?”

  “Ferrymead,” Barbara responded.

  The major carefully placed his pen in his notebook and said, “The record must be precise. And in your sister’s own words. Otherwise we shall be able to do nothing for her. Your father living?”

  “No,” Anne said cautiously.

  “His occupation when living?”

  “A captain!” Barbara exploded. “A captain in the Royal Navy!”

  The major wrote rapidly. “That is important! That’s going to help a great deal. Your religion?”

  “Church of England,” Anne said.

  “I guess that’s what we call Episcopalian,” the major said. “I’m Baptist, myself. You girls lived here for some time?”

  “Thirty years,” Barbara snapped.

  “Ever been in jail?”

  “No!”

  “Look, Miss Neville. I don’t like this any more than you do. Besides, I’m asking your sister. Would your minister be willing to swear that you were of good Christian reputation?”

  “Yes,” Anne said quietly.

  The major sighed and smiled at the sisters. “That’s that. Dreadful questions, but I’m going to break a confidence and say right out that you’re as good as married.”