Coconut Wireless

by Nicola Baird

  Before we’d finished there was an ominous clattering of thunder and lightning flashes over the distant hills. Fred's Mrs said it might mean a flash flood and we better watch out. Fred came over to the island and began a convoluted story about when he'd been a student, bathing at this spot and a flood really had happened. Plenty of people drowned I think, but his delivery wasn't that of his speedy driving style, and I soon stopped gasping at his eyewitness account of bloated bodies. He must practice these stories on the tourists. Fred's Mrs seemed to ignore him entirely - bar pushing Junior into his arms to try and warm the kid up - and then she sat down at a sandy bit of the river bank and started putting dollops of sludge and gravel into each of the pots she'd brought down to clean. As I'm convinced these aluminium pots are a guarantor of Alzheimer's disease in my university of the third age days (please, not sooner) I wasn't that thrilled to see I may also get tetanus from licking the cake mix bowl.

  Turns out that river gravel is as good at making whites white as it is a brilliant kitchen cleaner. Sarah joked that it was the local environmentally-friendly beach bleach. We knelt down, half in, half out oF the river and scrubbed together gossiping – her brother has made an unsuitable marriage, an MP has got it in for their family, the taxi needs parts from Australia - until I was startled on to my feet seeing Fred driving his precious taxi down the (fairly steep) bank and straight into the river. I couldn't believe it: another suicide it seemed to outdo his wife's earlier swimathon. Wrong again - he just parked the taxi and then started cleaning it of the dust, grime and I suppose sea spray that wrecks most of Honiara's vehicles within a couple of years.

  So, that was the river behaving just as nature meant her to: no weirs, no dams, no pollution. I wonder how long the aid people, and the locals too, will let that last?

  CHAPTER 14: SECRETS

  THE LABOUR LINE is an official squatter camp squeezed between mango and flame trees. The breeze-block dormitories could look out to sea, but the unglassed, ripped mesh of the window frames face inland towards an overcrowded strip of dust kept from spreading by another long, one-storey building built in just a day by the Americans back in the 1940s. It’s now used as a police station, but no amount of paint, of whatever colour, can transform this dingy grey building perhaps because it backs on to the Kukum highway – the only road in and out of town along which a growing number of vehicles rattle over potholes throwing up dust and litter with every touch of the accelerator. People come to this police station after small problems, a copra sack stolen, a lost document or for traffic accidents (cryptically reported as RTA in the newspapers). Watched by the bored residents of the Labour Line they wait behind an old-fashioned butcher's counter while the duty officer sorts through pile, after pile, of paper in a time-stalling bid to assign a unique incident number.

  Indeed for everyone Labour Line is a place for waiting, for frustration, for tears. A good life would not include a spell on the Labour Line with its 24 hour bubble of noise, dirt and unpleasant smells. To be an elder dying here would not be right at all.

  But at Christmas time the place has an unusual charm though – with trees of ripe mangoes, plenty red flowers on the flame trees (like decorations for little baby Jesus) and because so many of the single men go home to their villages there is also enough space to swing your broom, stretch your arms and find a place to sleep. Even this brief respite can’t stop the growing envy simmering from every resident forced to stay on the Labour Line.

  Suppose you were a frigate bird, one that unfurled your wings and flew from Auki to Tulagi just for an early evening stroll and you decided to detour over the big island, Guadalcanal. What would you see? Blue, blue water over the Coral Sea, paler blue along the passage and then slowly coming into view endless folds of uplifted hills - all long ago shaped by volcanoes, fire and the bursting energy of the inner earth - now covered with a thick tapestry of green rainforest. And then you'd see the plains of Galacana, some abandoned scrubby lands spoilt by sea water flooding after Cyclone Namu and the regimented lines of oil palms planted by Levers. You'd see a road, not yet busy, certainly dusty and you'd see it lead from a logging camp way down on the east snaking past an airfield, built on the blood of American and Japanese servicemen in the white man war, and on towards a ramshackle dot-to-dot of houses. Flying lower you'd soon reach the beautiful capital of Honiara: a place of too many people, most with no room to stretch even a baby beak. Why do people live in that squalid city when they could choose a place of beauty: a hillside, a grassy strip by a white beach, a lagoon, a mountain top? You'd shudder as you dipped your wings and bank to the left to turn - turn metres and metres above the tree, shack, trees of Kukum Labour Line, glad to be going. Glad to be free.

  "Mummy, what's that thing up there?"

  Ellen is staring at a black feathered arrow, so black it's almost blue, circling high above their heads. Stella involuntarily shudders, when a frigate bird comes inland there's bound to be trouble, some kind of storm - and she fears this one is not going to be out at sea.

  "Just a bird. But don't walkabout with your head in the air, help me carry these baskets to our new home."

  Ellen has her mother's kind nature and willingly picks up the smaller of the two bilum bags packed with their possessions. There’s just the right amount for a new start: two T-shirts each, spare lava lava, a couple of skirts and a green plastic comb. She told her girlfriends to take the sparkly clothes the MP liked her to wear when they went to the clubs together. The more sober tops and less-loved skirts acquired on lucky searches from the charity bale sent over by Vincent St Paul Ozzies or bought for her in Brisbane Duty Free the house girl will know how to redistribute.

  Stella remembers friends who have had to live in this place, and managed fine. Those girls were young and knew this was a temporary stop off for good times. She remembers happy shopping visits to the mini market tucked back from the coast road. Now she knows she has to live here she sees the area quite differently. It's horrible in daylight, criss-crossed by open drains clogged with sewage and empty plastic ice wraps.

  Wherever she looks someone seems to be staring - young boys to the right of her, a gang of nursing mothers to the left; even the ants, always busy beneath her feet appear to stop their work and look up, eyes big - staring, staring, staring. The thought of living here in this place of too many eyes makes her head spin until she flops into a small crumpled heap. In the distance she hears Henderson's voice - its meaning indistinguishable, like a radio left on an overseas channel playing in the neighbour's house.

  "She's dying, what do I do?" Panicking he puts his hands under her shoulder and tries to make her stand up again, but her legs are now rubber and she slides heavily back on to the ground. A girl in a brown uniform runs across, sent by her curious mother.

  "I'll help," says the youngster expertly feeling a very slow, faint pulse on the place where Stella's watch would be - if she wore a watch. "It looks like she fainted. We just need to let the blood circulate. Look you go behind her head and hold her comfortably. She'll be heavy, hold her strong. Now I'll put her legs up like this," and she bends Stella's knees into an expert, upside down V shape. "She'll be OK. We just need to help the blood circulate around her properly again." She’s a small girl to be using doctor talk thinks Henderson with amazement, until he remembers that's what you can learn in the Guides.

  "It's good to keep her knees up, then the blood can flow more easily to her head - that's the important part you know." And at that moment Stella groans, blinks her eyes rapidly and swims back into consciousness.

  "Where am I? What's happened?"

  "Don't worry," says the girl guide calmly to the pale lady, "you just fainted that's all. Take your time and when you feel a bit better then you can stand up."

  She turns to Henderson: "Maybe she's hungry, or worried or something, or even too hot - lots of people faint if they haven't had enough to drink. You stay here, and I'll just go and get some water from the house." She runs off leaving Henderson to soothe St
ella and her very anxious daughter. She's back almost as soon as she's gone (one advantage of living in an overcrowded address) with three cups of ice water. Henderson gulps, Ellen splashes at her cup and Stella is helped to sip. It tastes beautiful: a spring of life! the best drink in the world! (though drinking coconut is a close contender) pure! Clean! Energy-giving! Free! Wonderful, wonderful water!

  "You're all so thirsty," laughs the guide. "Look why don't you come over to the shade, up by my family's house so this mother can rest a little bit, and you can drink as much water as you need?" She dusts Stella's skirt and then helps her up, links arms and takes the nervous trio along a thin, mud track, every now and then by-passing a jumble of groaning washing lines until they stop at a ground-level concrete house. The blue door is open. Above it someone’s nailed up a plank painted up with the wish - 'God bless this small palace'. Either side of the door are blue window frames closed by well-mended mosquito netting, though this makes the inside hotter and darker. Someone has built a local style leaf kitchen just to the side of the house, blocking out the nearest drain, and the result and the whole, small area is blissfully cooled by shade trees. It's not long before dark, so most of the people living there - at least a football team - plus some neighbours and wantoks, are sitting outside storying - except for the guide's mother who is sweeping the front, baked earth yard with a long wispy broom made by her own mother from the spines of coconut palm fronds.

  "Hello, hello. Welcome to our very humble house,” says the woman propping her the broom by the door as she comes over to shake hands. “Here, you come and sit inside, rest a little." Stella gratefully sits down on the homemade bench, while little Ellen tries to fit herself into the tiny gap between her mother's knees, suddenly shy of these strangers. Henderson feels uncomfortable, but the woman gestures him to come over. "There's food on the table there, you just take what you want." Suddenly hungry, Henderson realises he hasn't eaten since, since, since before the trip to the G-Klub. That can't be right! The house is much darker than Anna's, maybe because it's not on legs, and though he looks for, then tries to turn the electric light on nothing happens. Over in the shadows is a table covered with fly barricades: squares of hand-embroidered teacloths. Underneath the cloths the table is piled with food, enough for a feast. And Henderson sure knows how to feast. By the time he's full - this after eating like a whale, mouth open throwing everything in at the same time - he takes out a big plate of chicken wings, kumara and water melon for Stella and Ellen to share. Ellen forgets her nervousness the moment she sees the chicken wings but Stella turns her nose up at food.

  "I think your wife will lose her baby if she doesn't eat more. You should let her rest more and help her get her appetite back," says the guide's mother after wisely looking Stella up and down.

  Henderson doesn't take in the full implications of what she is saying. "Yes, yes," he says hating what seems to be interference and wrongly fearing this kind woman will think he gave Stella the awful bruises around her head. He'd like Stella to put her dark glasses back on, but guesses she's had to abandon them in this half light - for safety's sake.

  "Where are you from anyway?" asks the woman.

  "Well I come from Malaita... " replies Henderson cautiously

  "Yes, yes, I can guess that. We do too."

  "OK, my home is on the weather coast side, a little place not far from Panatu village. But I've been living in Mbokonavera. Anyway there were some problems about that so we are looking for my friend Patterson's place. I know it's in the Labour Line, but I'm not sure where."

  Singing-out loudly to the rear of the room, through the walls and out to the seaside, their host breaks into her home language, which Henderson recognises as Are'Are. He only knows a few words so misses the conversation between her and the house's mobs, who are glad to be distracted by talking during the long wait for dinner. They are keen to see the visitors and start the long walk back round the Labour Line to their front door, allowing some privacy while she resumes her talk with Henderson.

  "By Patterson, do you mean that rascal boy with the coiled hair?"

  Henderson cautiously agrees that he does.

  "Well he lives in one of the civil servant blocks for single boys," she snorts contemptuously. "If you want to go there my daughter will show you the way, but, and I shouldn't say this really, I'm not sure it's the right place for you to live. It's really for young men only. I'm guessing of course, but if you want to check it out and then come back and collect your family that's OK. We people from Malaita should help each other. Different tribes, same geography."

  Henderson thinks quickly. Yes, that is a good idea. The woman hisses her girl guide daughter from playing with a baby outside, so that the pair (girl guide with baby on hip) set off into the shadows so quickly that Stella barely notices her new husband’s gone until her thoughts are interrupted by a firm handshake. For a few moments they have the house empty of mobs and men – it’s time to talk openly.

  "My name is Una. What church are you then?"

  "I'm Anglican," says Stella startled.

  "Look I'm talking too much, that's my fault - and I blame it on my Lau grannie - but that boy isn't your husband is he? I've seen you before, you're the Honourable Member for Western (West) Province's wife? And that new man of yours, what's he called, oh yes, the airport's name, Henderson, has no idea you’re pregnant has he?"

  Stella is unwilling to deny truths.

  "Listen, if you need help there are ways you know. It costs but it can be done."

  You mean ... " Stella hesitates, "you mean ways to kill this baby?"

  Una gesticulates as if kill doesn’t mean kill finish, more like sleep. But she nods here head too and adds: "I know every custom medicine there is! I wanted my daughter, that's the one who helped make you better just now, to learn the traditional ways too but she's set her heart on being a white man doctor after doing this first aid course with the girl guides. Still, that's good too. Now, dear, I don't really like to do this kind of killing medicine but sometimes it's for the greater good - when weak women are about to have babies too close together, and don't have time to regain their strength, or when," she puts this tactfully, "When there are different father's involved. To much talk talk, scandal, that sort of thing.

  She leans closer to Stella, takes her hand. "You know we heard stories, even down here, far away from your husband's house, about the way he mistreated you. You are brave to run away, his first wife was a very distant relation of mine and could do nothing right - except suffer - right up until she died. You need to think straight about what will happen when that kind, new boss of yours realises he's made an enemy of an evil and powerful man. And that he has to raise not one, but two of that Big Man's children. It will be too much for a poor man and might even be too much for a kind heart."

  "What would I have to do?"

  "Well you could drink a special tea made from bark, or sprinkle another kind of medicine on your food. Those are the ways I know, but if you can find the money you could fly to Australia and have an abortion at a private clinic there. How far gone are you?"

  "About four months I think, maybe five. But I'm not sure."

  "Oh it's easy to work out, you just count the weeks from the first day of the last period you had," says Una.

  "No, I know that about the counting. I mean, I'm not sure I want to finish this baby growing inside me. I mean isn't that killing? It must be a baby already, I can feel kicking. My susu (breasts) are ready too, waiting for the feel of that tug as my baby takes my nipple, sucks and feeds on me."

  "Well it's up to your conscience. But put it this way, in some of the big countries it is legal to have an abortion close up to the delivery date. Even so, you don't have much time to make up your mind, but these things are best decided upon before some people find out."

  At that moment Henderson comes back into the house, looking much happier.

  "Stella. We are lucky today! Patte is at home and he says we can stay with him. Quite pleased I
think to have some new visitors for a change! It's true there isn't much room, but because some of the boys have gone back home for the Christmas holiday there is a room we three can share!"

  "This is good news," says Stella carefully in front of Una. If she's sharing a room with this man then that will really make him her new husband, there won't be any going back after that. But she's made up her mind, Una helped that happen. And without further fussing, she takes Ellen's arm, gathers the baskets, shakes Una's hand, says a special goodbye to the clever girl guide - and then follows Henderson towards their new home.

  ***

  When the Minister for Youth, Women and Culture, wearing two frangipani leis, entered Suzy’s classroom she had long given up expecting him. The students were ready for their Christmas holiday and playing up, subtly. They opened books slower, took longer finding their pencils and answered sullenly, or not at all. To try and distract them from their holiday dreams of family and feasting she insisted all the desks were moved into mini mixed ability blocks.

  “This is not a classroom,” roared the MP as he tried to make sense of the workshop scene. “This is not what the overseas experts should be showing our students! What is going on in this room?”

  No one spoke. Suzy wondered if the MP disliked her, or disliked women, or overseas teachers, or simply had something wrong with him. She wished someone had warned her...

  A student half-whispered in her direction, “Shall I get the principal?” but Suzy was in no mood to be bullied by two middle-aged men.

  “It’s OK Lovelyn, I’m OK. You keep on with your studies.”

  Suzy held out her hand to the MP - wasn’t he the one she’d danced with? – in a bid to be welcoming and ignore his complaints.

  “Yes, the Form 5s are glad to see you, um, Sir. The class is working on percentages and applying it to shipped goods to calculate…” She tails off flustered by the man’s disinterest.