Coconut Wireless

by Nicola Baird

  "I never meant it to happen like this," says Henderson. "I just wanted to go for a walkabout, see what town life was like. Get used to traffic and white man fun. See the bright lights. I never meant to fight with the MP. Look at my head, there are bruises on it still, but I really haven't ever hit him: he keeps picking on me. It really isn't my fault any of this has happened."

  Anna is quiet. What can you do with a village boy gone crazy? Why doesn't he just go home, take that woman his father's arranged and raise his own family in the village. It would suit him. He's a nice boy, he really is. He shouldn't be hanging around in town, getting spoilt, turning into a rascal.

  "There's something else too Anna." Even little Junior ceases his wriggling as if he can sense the tension, waiting for the bombshell Henderson must surely drop.

  "I'm going to get married."

  Understandably Anna misunderstands. She cries again, this time with happiness - even now she can imagine the feast, the bride, the first child. She shakes Henderson's hand, shakes it vigorously up and down, all the while wiping giant tears from the corner of her eyes with a lava lava left on the side of the hardwood sofa. Sunshine fills the room, the curtains billow in a puff of pride.

  "Congratulations! My bro, your father, will be so pleased you have seen good sense at last," in her happiness Anna misses the obvious confusion that briefly flickers across Henderson's grinning face, "Oh yes," continues Anna, "Many congratulations. This is very good news for us all. Very good news for our family."

  ***

  Dearest Dan

  So far you’ve sent me a letter and a postcard. I’ve written, what, 10 letters? You’ve made me unhappy when you were trying to do the right thing (I think). And don’t worry about what I’m saying, I’m just trying to work out what’s going on with my head and why I let you walk all over me that Saturday night you took colleague Cassie off to caviar and the Limelight. I’ve never been so wet before AND I DON’T INTEND TO BE AGAIN.

  Living here I think I’m learning that in the Solomons nothing is as it seems. Actually maybe living in the world as a grown up nothing is as it seems – there are agendas, and subtext and confusions. There’s dreams to handle, jobs to do, life to unravel and make sense of and choices. So many choices. I hear John Major is the Tories new one. Anyway the subtext of this drama queen letter is that I'm happy and settled in my beautiful house but am beginning to see less like a tourist and learn to read this surreal landscape around me. Walking down to China Town yesterday along the reddest avenue of flaming trees I noticed herds of older women (well this is what it seems like) hacking the long grass by the river. They move in packs. Their bush knives slash in unison. Only once do they stop to mop sweat from their heads, straighten their T-shirts or wipe butchered blades of grass off their skirts. Once the grass is really short a young man, always on a diesel, ride-on mower will turn up, look disappointedly at this new croquet lawn - and the exhausted women - and then phut-phut back to the Town Council depot for a tea break.

  I'm guessing I suppose, but maybe it's him (or rather those thick-tracked wheels) that run over the frogs all along the roadside. They are cane toads really, not frogs, imported to gobble up mosquitoes - misguided as cane toads don't eat mosquitoes and never did! You hear their hideously noisy mating, the "where are you going for dinner tonight?" cries from dusk until dawn but I've never seen a real, live 3-D cane toad: they are always a bloodless flattened mess on the tarmac. Each with flies as big as moths hovering around them. Anyway the toads and the women put me in mind of a Peter Greenway film, can't think which one, but know it was macabre - when I'm rushed out of my daydreams by a bunch of dogs running at me, clearly in attack mode. I'm a dog person really, but these Solo dogs I hate: venomous eyes, skinny bodies and hackles up. I anticipated this ambush, so already had a handful of stones in my skirt pockets - took aim and threw a sharp edged stone at the lead dog. Needless to say it missed, as did the next. But my third hit was on target and it's hard to say if this pebble sting, or the woman calling his name (Taxi!) made the lead dog and his cronies turn round and saunter back home. To my surprise my rescuer had just one leg. And when I shouted out thank you, couldn't resist asking what happened to her: she's too young for war crimes, too old for a wooden limb. I guessed it must be a shark attack - but no, she was injured due to a bombing incident. Or at least that's how she put it. My mind struggled back to World War Two, that was 1939-45 wasn't it? So she just couldn't have been bombed, unless she'd been really unlucky and stepped on an old, old landmine. Subsequent investigations (yes, I'm nosy!) told me she'd been fishing with dynamite (this is a brilliant technique for the lazy, as one stick produces a multitude of sizes and colours, as good as the fishmongers in Islington's Essex Road). However it's dangerous and wrecks the reef - and in her case legs as well.

  Dog alert over I continue towards the Mataniko Bridge (where I hear there was a big riot recently, set off by some graffiti - strange seeing as this is a country where barely anyone can read! Though it could be a good example of the power of words?). It's such a peaceful looking place, especially that day, just right for a swim. And as I look down, daydreaming about diving into the water, imagine my horror when I see a crocodile, not a big one, true, but a proper crocodile emerge from just that spot! I'm sure it won't be long before it gets its photo in the newspaper, caught by the fisherman that I'd seen coming up the bank oh-so-elegantly with a large block of ice of his shoulder. Such a beautiful scene, the opal ice melting down that chestnut brown back - red bandanna around his head and an arrogant eye. I fell instantly in and out of lust. All this before the first bell!

  After classes, on the dusk-lit journey home a well-meaning stranger warned me to bypass the bridge. But he gave no reason, which I objected to rather a lot (forgive my temper, I was hot and tired and a detour around a river involves a lot of extra steps to the next bridge). Quizzed, brutishly by me, the man explained that someone had just killed a snake there. Then the local hero, seeing I was interested, picked up its great black body (as thick as my arm!) and waved it like a lover's handkerchief. I felt totally sick (and strangely less safe than when the snake had been alive and I'd been dawdling on the rickety bridge eyeing up the ice man earlier in the day).

  Hurried home, shocked, and sooner than normal - ie, about 7.30pm instead of 8pm - tried to sleep. But was roused properly awake by an unfamiliar scratching in the roof. No doubts about this noise - it was clearly the dreaded hairy caterpillar I'd been warned about. I know, I know, this sounds like a conversation between Buttons and Cinderella, but these insects are notorious for a) hating people and b) giving such terrible bites that even a grown man, even a snake slaughterer, would cry for a full 24 hours. (A woman, the inference is, would cry for a great deal longer!) So decided to play the hangman and armed with a can of insect killing spray (hopefully CFC free) I set off on the caterpillar hunt. Had my bush knife to hand and in the end used both in a frantic half hour of hide and seek and blood letting. I'd heard that the pieces of caterpillar will join themselves together and set out to victimise their killer, so to be sure of safety I took the three bits of caterpillar body gingerly out of the house - balanced on a plate I'll clearly never be able to eat from again - out to the barbecue and lit a midnight fire. Well I think that's pretty scary for a day in what I took to be a wonderfully, benign country!

  Who knows what other surprises are to come - beyond the mundane marketing shocks of oranges being green for instance, tomatoes and melons yellow, bananas green (but sometimes black), green coconuts not and the best pineapples called "English"! Confused - I feel like everything I used to know has been turned upside down and given a good shaking. It won't be long before I abandon my pile of books that must be read, you know War & Peace, and other tomes and launch into the fun of reading stuff by Sidney Sheldon and co, real blockbusters.

  Hope this letter finds you well, happy etc. Hope you’ve worked out I think you’re a creep for writing back to me so rarely.

  Suzy x

  CHAP
TER 11: ROUGH JUSTICE

  "I'm gettin married in the morning,

  Ding dong the bells are gonna chime ..."

  THE RADIO STATION seems to have taken over Henderson's euphoria. Each time he closes his eyes, lies down to sleep there seems to be a meaningful song to drag him back to this world again - and in another hour it'll be solid soccer commentary. He must sleep now! Henderson puts the pillow he was lying on, over the top of his head. But it's no good. No good at all.

  “And may we send congratulations to today's newly weds around the islands: the announcer is breathless with pleasure - Happy Days to you all, to you Jennie, to you Dorothy, to you Hellen, to you Theresa and to you Julia ..."

  This time Henderson is perplexed, his sound blocking technique has removed all these women's husbands ... and then he wonders, what if Stella was married to the MP. I mean, she obviously was living with him so, that's married? No, it must have been custom. But then even if it is 'custom married' he's going to have to dodge the man and his gang for a long time. If a man can beat up a woman with his own fists how much easier it must be to order loyal minions to beat up the new partner of that woman? His thoughts are getting complicated, and painful. And it's at about that point that a wave of tiredness sweeps through Henderson, his eye lids turn to concrete, his limbs shudder and then lie still. At last the house (and the radio) lets him sleep.

  But he hadn't bargained on those dreams: from every corner come the villagers back home, to invade his rest. "You," it's the priest, pointing with his finger a wicked five feet long, "Henderson, you have failed as a member of our community. You were always too proud and now you've done wrong. And you won't admit it." Henderson realises, with horror, that he's being sentenced together with his rival. "You, Honourable Member, no one likes you Sir, not anyone." The custom priest comes forward, white-haired, frail (long dead too, if Henderson remembers rightly): "Put these two men to the court of the albino crocodile." Henderson wants to look as unmoved as the MP, but he's shivering with fear - the albino crocodile is real rough justice. Both men will have to swim across the little pool where the beast lives (and its tail must be three metres alone, and its teeth, its double row of teeth ... double that again ...). Custom says that the one who is lying will be dragged down by the white devil. The villagers push Henderson and the MP along to the pool, a place that is lined by mossy limestone walls and down which a waterfall tumbles. It should be where lovers tryst, but who would tryst by these side gates of Hell?

  Henderson sees Saskia, the girl he should have married, her matronly shape, her utterly alive shape cuddling a baby - not his, surely? A hug on a moonlit beach doesn't mean a baby, and anyway it was months ago, and she wouldn't go all the way, said he needed a condom, it's what she said, no that's not his baby! - turn away and whisper something to the old and the new priest. They laugh in unison, a hollow resonance that echoes round and round the pool. "Throw him, throw him, throw him to the crocodile judge ...." Henderson sees the MP swim across safely, triumphant on the other edge. And then it's his turn. He tries not to look as if he cares, but his heart is crying: and then he feels the slop of the cold water hitting his feet and knees, and thighs, and groin, and trunk and shoulders and head, and he sinks deeper and deeper and then - suddenly! - his toe is grabbed. It's the crocodile devil. Henderson tries to scream but nothing escapes ... He kicks out, trying to shake off the teeth and is woken up by a terrific growl. Dazed he sees that Adam's dogs have crept into the house and been playing tug chase around his sleeping body.

  "Nightmare dogs, just get out of here," Henderson says hissing at them. The dogs turn, give him such a look (he must be imagining this, pinches himself 100 per cent awake) and then clatter down the veranda stairs to continue their rough and tumble under the house.

  Henderson wonders what his dream means. Is it don't marry? Perhaps it is don't marry Stella? He's brought back to reality by a knock on the door and an old man, smoking a pipe, a real sea dog, approaches gingerly. "Anna left a fish in the ice box for me. May I take it?" Henderson nods gloomily. He wishes he'd never even tried sleeping. No, it's further back than that his problem, isn't it? He wishes he'd never gone to the club. No, he had problems in town before that, didn't he? He wishes he'd never left the village. The stranger interrupts politely: "Thank you - aren't you going to watch the big game?" And Henderson comes back to his new normality. Yes, that'll take his mind away from his worries. "Yes, yes, I am."

  "Well you better hurry then, kick off is soon," and with that the man goes out of the door, pads down the steps (noisily for a man with bare feet). Henderson heads for the bathroom, scoops some water on to his face, grits his teeth: "Wake up, wake up," he tells the thin man in the mirror. He looks again, those big brown eyes, handsome teeth despite the chipped front molar, a tiny scar on his left cheek. Yes, it's a good face if you look at it quickly. Henderson dabs shaving foam on his chin - starts making faces at himself. He smiles, turns for a left profile, then for a smouldering right. Which to use for the wedding photos? Not sure, he turns again to the left and out of the corner of his right eye notices a smoke trail weaving across the living room.

  "Who's there?" shouts Henderson. No answer.

  He goes towards the living room nervously wiping at the shaving foam, which is tickling his nose, and there sees the same old man, this time without the fish he just gave him.

  "What are you doing back again?" puzzles Henderson, putting his damp, foamy towel over the back of a chair - metaphorically marking territory.

  "It was the wrong fish." The man looks pissed off. Henderson apologies. The man leaves. The strange smell of homegrown tobacco lingers on this time, making Henderson cough.

  He turns on the electric fan in the corner of the room and then goes back to the business of shaving.

  He's soon ready. The radio announcer has given up for the day, to be replaced by the sports presenter. The hype for this game is tremendous and Henderson has about ten minutes before kick off. He's about to leave when he remembers he'd promised to take food to Stella. On the kitchen top is a covered bowl and in it large slices of tapioca pudding, made with fresh coconut milk, which has been left out by Sarah for the evening meal. Henderson takes two softer looking pieces of the golden starchy mix and exits. As he shoots down the bush path to the road into town he tears a leaf off Anna's banana tree, the one that's getting heavy with fruit now, and deftly parcels the pudding to keep off the flies and the red dust of Honiara.

  Yes, it was a just dream, nothing to compare with worrying about the Solomon boys being beaten by Australians in the Oceania Cup!

  The game is tremendous - two halves be damned! The crowd is sent into a fever pitch by the skill of the Solomon's best striker, Elliot, who looks half the size of his defender. But what a speed the boy's got: he breaks away, scores two good goals. Australia comes back, equalises. There's eight minutes to go, there's injury time - and then bang, Australia shoots a third.

  It's the final whistle, and it's all over, we're out of the cup. "No, if we score four goals against Vanuatu and Fiji beats New Caledonia, then we're still in with a chance." The sentence chases itself - subject, verb, object; subject, verb, object - over and over again around the crowd. No matter it's impossible, there's still hope while they have that Elliot, what a man, definitely star of the match. And if only Solomon Islands football officials spent a bit more on training. It's common knowledge, curse the spectators, that the officials don't even pay the premier squad members a penny (except for a uniform allowance, and what a hideous uniform it is, looks like an advert for Esso, not a national team) then maybe we'd win. The complaints run on and on, whispered and laughed at from the grandstand, around the crowd under the eucalyptus and even amongst the five youngsters who climbed a flamboyant tree to watch the match - but only when they weren't picking outraged red ants off their legs. That's something everyone does only once thinks Henderson as he weaves through the home-goers towards the hospital. Inevitably he meets up with someone he knows - the boy who first w
arned him about the MP, during that riot. He greets Henderson like a long-lost friend, shakes his hand warmly. "You all right? Bad luck that last goal, wasn't it. Elliot really played boldly today, shouldn't be surprised if one of those big countries offers to buy him, that'd give us a good start for the World Cup ..." Henderson agrees, and away goes his friend, back to the Labour Lines with a swirl of other town folk.

  The back of his shirt is tugged. Henderson had just spotted a gap in the traffic, but Lovelyn has seen him first. "Henderson, how did you get on with Matron?"

  "She was OK. Cried a bit, and then I told her I was getting married and she cried a bit more - this time happy though!"

  "Wow! Married! That’s backsliding. I thought you liked being single!" Lovelyn isn’t interested in Henderson’s decision-making, she wants the facts. "So, who are you getting married to ... not that girl back in the village?"

  "Oh no. To Stella."

  "Who's Stella?"

  Henderson grins, "Ae, you monkey, do you think I have to tell you everything just because you're my cousin-sister. No way. You be content with that, and I'll bring Stella to meet you sometime soon. I'm just going to see her now," he gestures across the road towards the hospital. Lovelyn isn't going to give up: "Is she a nurse? No, 'cos you're carrying food for her. Is she young? Yes, must be 'cos you said you liked the pretty ones. She must be a patient. How did you meet this Sheila?"

  "It's Stella."

  "All right, Stella. How did you meet Stella?"

  Henderson is dying to tell someone. And so he tells Lovelyn, and in his pleasure at recalling the most surprising day of his life with the bedside battle and that feeling of happiness he gets from hearing Stella’s voice, he completely misses Lovelyn's look of horror.

  "Oh yes, and another thing, if I don't get back early, will you tell Anna that a hardened old smoker, turned up today asking for a fish. I gave him a barracuda I found in the icebox but not long after he came back to the house with it, saying it was the wrong one. It’s back in the ice box now."