by Nicola Baird
It turned out very differently - Stella worked and worked and her daughter used to come up with her and instead of playing would join in all the classes. She was only about five, so her attention wandered a bit, but my word she was bright! The students, especially the girls, just loved her and were always trying to plait her hair into African styles or persuade their form teacher to read a story aloud so Ellen (that was her name) could listen. I assumed Ellen's mother had hit hard times and so was having to do this job to support herself, because she was a single mum. And as she kept so to herself, unlike the cleaner before, guessed she must have something to hide. Turns out this quiet woman is the action in town ... she used to be married to an MP and far from being hard done be, she'd run away from him. Maybe it was for good feminist reasons, like he's an idiot or just regular primal feminine intuition - good judgement. That part of the story isn't clear. But it is clear that some of the staff think she's a bad influence, and weren't very happy to have her around, until the head gave them a written warning telling everyone to quit their constant spoiling talk and just leave Stella alone.
What with all this tension, and then being busy with the half-year exams, I didn't notice she was fairly far gone pregnancy-wise until as suddenly as she'd arrived as the school cleaner she stopped coming, and instead Lodu came back. "My friend's got some problems," she announced to the staff room's eager ears. "She's being spoilt by bad magic." There was a sort of aghast oh-ah from the teachers (curiosity, not shock!) and since then there's been ceaselessly cryptic reference to black magic. If my finger hadn't been bitten by that dog (and then restored to perfect digit fitness) I'd be pretty cynical myself about this green leaf eulogising, but now can't help feeling there just might be something in it. Stella has been in and out of hospital looking for a text-book cure to her strange pre-delivery sickness. Nothing's worked claims Lodu who gives us a daily progress report. It seems Stella's family has put hope on finding a good person, with enough strong medicine to bring a custom halt to whoever's doing her in. Lodu says this sort of thing happens all the time, which is hard to believe, given all the stuff people here talk about this being a "Christian country".
Still the staff room’s chatter is just small fry compared to the scandalous deal the government has just signed with a Korean logging contract. The company has leased prime virgin forest over in Western Province for a five year period and plans to strip the area of all commercial timber. Translated this means the whole lot - so bang goes the nation's chances to turn that truly beautiful place, short listed as a World Heritage Site, into an eco-tourist Mecca. Worse than that, the Koreans will be paying the local land owners a rubbish royalty (about a can of beer) for each tree. I can't believe I used to make so much effort to recycle paper and drone on and on about saving the rainforest and then end up being employed by a government that doesn't seem to give a toss about what it does to the environment (or what it rather quaintly calls "natural resources"). There are dark rumours of behind-the-barbie deals, false passports, cash to signatories and sweet sugar "gifts" to the treasury, but maybe that's just part of the coconut wireless and should be ignored.
I suppose every nation is going to have its good folk and its bad. Just not sure which ones I’ve met. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. I’ve got to stop now – finger throbbing, and, more importantly the power’s gone off which makes it much harder to write.
CHAPTER 17: IN THE DARK
A pretty secretary, in Ministry uniform of short-sleeve shirt, scarf at the neck, and ironed skirt, explains that the Minister is running late. The girl is busy juggling two demanding phones (her husband on one, her friend on the other) which she manages to make sound like Ministry Business. Whenever the phone quietens she organises Government stamped papers into urgent, not urgent and ignore heaps.
Even if the water had been on there wouldn’t have been time to shower reasons Suzy nervously. Yes, she looks a bit unclean in these pristine, air-conditioned rooms with secretaries and under secretaries, but her classroom is ready for inspection. Every bit of wall space is now covered in bright posters or the students’ work. All the classroom needs now is an AppleMac, or 30. Thanks to aid money there’s a surprising number of computers in the offices around town, although not on this reception desk. Perhaps this meeting to get KGVI enough PCs for everyone in the class is going to stay a dream.
But the Minster had asked her in personally, hadn’t he? He’s a strange bloke – one moment ranting at her class, and the next making a late night call to apologise and ask her to make an appointment to see him.
What seems like an hour later – because it is - the Minister opens his office door, beams at Suzy and beckons her in. She stands up awkwardly to try and disguise the broken flip flop.
“Good to meet you again Mrs Trevillion…”
“Please, call me Suzy. And thank you for the introduction to Pacific Time.”
“No worries,” says the Minster for Youth, Women and Culture with a growl. The barb wasn’t missed, he’s right to worry about this woman.
“Let’s just show you around the Ministry. Here’s my desk, look right in the centre of the room. Here’s a picture of your Queen, and her representative. You know him?” He points at the faded picture of the governor, a kindly looking, bespectacled islander wearing suit and a complicated necklace of dolphin teeth.
Suzy walks over to the photo, trying to suppress the notion that she’s looking at a “noble savage”. But there he is – a Sir, a colonially educated chief, a man who has held every one of the highest ranking jobs. And he’s intelligent, good looking and on the wall. But even in that photo frame it’s the dolphin’s teeth, perhaps hunted by his grandfather’s grandfather which she can’t take her eyes off.
“We all come from the village,” says the Minister perceptively. It’s our cradle of civilisation, just like the mangroves are the nursery for fish, or Africa’s Rift Valley is the birthplace of humankind. The lovely city of Honiara is where we Solomon Islanders have to go, but our hearts always belong to the village. I find the expatriots fail to understand this. They may go to the village and fall in, what shall we say, ‘love’ with the simplicity of living where all that matters are the basics – shelter, food, water - but they seem unable to recognise the impact being a villager has on being a man.
“Or a woman?” adds Suzy out of habit.
“No, you women are better at adjusting to conditions of life,” says the Minister with ease. He’s said all this before. “You women have stolen our medal for adapting. You have the capacity and strength to raise your children anywhere. You can grow the food. You can educate the children. You even, you Suzy could do all these things here in the Solomons, or back in Blighty. But there are so many young unemployed men now in the Solomons. You know this expression ‘lieu’. Even outside my office there are young boys hanging around day after day doing nothing. They are the boys who have been pushed out of school simply because we do not have the classroom places for half of our 14 year olds. Those boys will soon become fathers. And those fathers are being corrupted by town life. It’s as if everyone here is a refugee. They talk about back home, but do not go home. Every day they yearn for the promised better life. How can they get their dream?” He stops, leans on his big desk – which is positioned in the centre of the room under a ceiling fan turning a draught, despite the air conditioning hum. The Minister loves this spot: from there he can see out of picture-book windows towards the sea and the colonial islands’ one-time capital, Tulagi. “So tell me about you, what is it that made you come and work in our happy isles?”
Now it’s Suzy filibustering. She tries a muddle of reasons: altruism, curiosity, adventure. She tries professional reasons: sharing skills, developing links, helping with maths pedagogy at the college and devising up-to-date study routines. She keeps quiet about the jealous agony that made her apply to do a two year abroad routine. That hissy fit about Dan’s late night plans (without her!) seems such a long time ago, and thank god it happened. Ho
w else would she be in a beautiful country, with a rewarding job and a home that allows her a bedside view of wild parakeets or homegrown papaya for breakfast?
“Well I must finish now,” says the Minister snapping shut his brown leather briefcase with a satisfying click. “Did you come here because you wanted something?”
Suzy remembers in a panic that she did. “I think KGVI could do with some computers. They are so much better to use than typewriters, save so much time. I feel that if you kitted up a classroom the students would benefit. And imagine the conferences Government could hold, for the Region even, during the weeks when the students holiday.”
“Oh yes Suzy, that is an outstanding idea, very like mine in fact. And it is already actioned. The Taiwanese signed the Memorandum Of Understanding last month and we’re just waiting for the right technology consultant to get them installed. Could be as early as next week. Well, mustn’t keep you. I can give you a lift part of the way in the office vehicle if you’d like?”
Embarrassed to admit that she’s popping into the Yacht Club to gossip about this very meeting Suzy politely declines.
But the Minister insists. Together they walk out of the office and towards a pair of shiny doors in the reception area. To Suzy’s amazement she sees it is a lift. Honiara is a constant surprise: one traffic light and one elevator! Her escort loosens his tie, ready for the onslaught of heat as they leave the expensively cooled building. Just by his Ministerial Mercedes a crowd of young men are waiting. He greets them with a cheery hello, but apologises for having no time tonight. “So busy, such a busy time,” he says loudly hustling her into the front seat and activating the central locking with a click. The crowd outside stare hungrily at the pair, thinking about what they would do with this car or that woman.
“There’s the evidence Suzy,” says the Minister with scorn. “All these young boys have no work at all. They hang around this building waiting to find someone who will break the rules and let them ride in the lift. It would make you laugh to see their wide eyes. Next excitement is a blue movie. Then after that they want to find a loose girl of Honiara. They’ll pay or use magic charms, or break the law if they don’t get her.” He changes the gear several times, turns to look at her despite the traffic and deliberately brushes his left hand over her thigh half in possession, half question, “I so hope you don’t facilitate any of this?”
Despite the car’s temperature control Suzy is in a sweat. It’s quite clear she needs to escape, so she asks again for him to pull over just here, close to the Yacht Club for her next appointment. To her surprise the Minister is able to switch to solicitious attention. “Come by again,” he says affectionately over the engine’s purr. “Always good to meet our hard-working British colleagues.”
***
Field Officer Ewan’s secured a table at the Yacht Club and has bought a jug of fruit cocktail that clinks ice cubes. “The lemonade was a bit flat so I’ve cheered it up with a splash of rum,” he says. “Now Suzy, I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a problem.”
Sipping the drink Suzy smiles hugging her triumph: the college will soon be better kitted up than the school she taught in back in London. Ewan’s normally a joker not a worrier so she waits to hear the disaster - expecting some small transport incident, or missing bed nets or a need to make her share the house with another volunteer (she’d like the company!).
“I need to tell you that you’re being released from your job. So sorry.”
“It’s not professional to joke about stuff like that Ewan!”
“That’s the thing Suzy, I’m not joking. This came as a great shock to me too. We all thought you were doing well there. But it’s a bit complicated. Seems that you got on the wrong side of an MP and your boss at the college couldn’t save you even if he tried.”
“You’re saying I’ve been sacked?”
Ewan nods.
“Hang on,” tries Suzy, “I’m friends with the Minister. I’ve just come from his office. He’s ordered computers for the classrooms, everything we wanted.” And then she realises that the technician must be her replacement – one on the staff roll means one off the staff at a school with as tight a budget as KG6.
Ewan tops up her drink, and then waits for the tears. None yet. “So what will you do?” he asks, dreading the moment the penny drops. Sometimes his volunteer staff are really very naive – no job, means no money, no house and an exit visa... “Well I’ve saved some money, I guess I can max out my credit card and do that dive course. Maybe see the islands properly.”
For years Suzy struggles to make sense of the way this day is turning out. The other bit she relives is now - when Ewan explains that her visa has also been expired. “You’ve got a month to pack up and play tourist, but that’s it.”
He’s nice, he really is. You can’t tell someone they’ve been sacked more kindly, or hand over a one-way ticket home more sympathetically. But she’s not ready to go.
And she’s not willing to stay in this pretty club drinking rum either.
Refusing Ewan’s offer of a taxi fare she picks up her backpack, heads for the main road and unthinkingly gets on the first bus that stops. Doesn’t care where it detours as she stares out of the scratched windows, eyes smearing with tears. She hadn’t realised how much she was loving living here; ironic seeing as now there’s a clock ticking it to a stop.
“Madam,” a young man in sports kit (well vest and shorts, he still hasn’t managed to borrow the soccer boots) pats her shoulder with concern.
He’d been looking at the way the patterns on the English lady’s home sewn shorts – bright whorls of red hibiscus flowers – matched the bus seats’ covers, almost as if she was blending into the upholstery like a dugong turned mermaid. When he sees she’s unhappy he looks away, and then looks back when he remembers he’s met her before. It’s the white Mrs from the earthquake, Lovelyn’s teacher.
“Do I know you?” she says wondering why he doesn’t remove his hand, inelegantly wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m not sure we’ve met before.”
“Why are you sad? Don’t our happy isles please you?”
“It’s so not that,” says Suzy fiercely looking away. She makes a small snake like hiss – the cue for the driver to pull up at the next stop - and when the bus clatters to a halt gets out. Who cares where she is? Who cares that it is dark?
The man on the bus does.
“Mrs, it is too dark for you to be out. It’s not safe in town. All the rascals are out now that it’s night. Let me help you like I helped you in the earthquake. You remember that don’t you. Come.” He takes her bag over his shoulder, links his arm in hers and then steers her back towards the Mbokonaera house where he knows she lives. Surprised she tells him what’s happened. How she’s been kicked out of the school she so enjoyed teaching, thanks to a misunderstanding with a minister. Surprised he listens, then tells her about home and his feelings for Honiara. They could talk all night, but before they part at the steps up to her house he holds her closer in the dark, close enough for her to smell the wood smoke and coconut that describe his life. She welcomes the hug intoxicating him with her othernesses - her sweet flowered scent, pale skin and the memory of those sad tears. They are standing too close to do anything but fall into a deep kiss.
It’s a beautiful feeling. And when their kiss stops she feels as if she’s glowing, every nerve lit by fire flies.
There’s no embarrassment as the ugly glow of the house’s security light flicks on, for Henderson’s already turned away with a soft good night. His dark skin and quiet footsteps blend with the darkness as he heads back to his family on the Labour Line.
If the Minister knew just what events his sacking of Suzy Trevillion had triggered tonight, how he would laugh. But he’s up at the Golf Club sinking whisky with an ex Evangelical preacher turned Minister of Health.
CHAPTER 18: BAD MAGIC
OVER THE NEXT days Stella's condition seems to worsen. Each is a blur of pained limbs, backache, fearfu
l dreams and sore belly. She’s so sore she can barely find the energy to talk with Henderson, Lodu or even Ellen when they take turns to sit with her. She just lies passively in one of the dark rooms, on a nest of mattresses trying not to groan. Henderson does not know what to do: Stella refuses to go back to the hospital, explaining that the idea makes her ashamed. Lodu does not know what to do: Stella seems unable to eat enough for one adult woman, let alone a mother close to delivery. Every four hours another tempting slice of water melon, or some kind of tasty soup is offered, and every time Stella refuses it, or picks listlessly at a bite-sized piece that couldn't even keep an ant satisfied. Ellen, little as she is, does not know what to do: she tries to stay quietly near her mother but sometimes the bright light outside draws her like a magnet.
It's on the day that Ellen catches a butterfly and after harnessing it's body with a length of white thread, and part steering, part hoping lets it fly into the dingy room that the self-appointed nurses guess it's bad magic that is spoiling Stella, really strong bad magic.
The butterfly looks magnificent, a whirring kaleidoscope of colour fluttering around Stella's room. It rests on Stella's forehead making her open tired eyes, disturbed by the tickle of its pollen laden feet. She stares unblinking up at the underbelly of this flutterby and then gasps. Quickly shuts her eyes whilst Lodu, who was taking a break from feeding her baby, hustles Ellen - and pet - outside. "What kind of a daughter are you to take that devil into your pregnant mother's room?" demands Lodu to a now sulky Ellen. "It's taboo to play with that kind of insect. Don't let me ever see you with a butterfly again." Ellen thinks Lodu very old-fashioned and ignores her, it's the first wilful disobedience in a lifetime that'll be crammed with people failing to boss her around. Right now Ellen knows better than to hang around when Lodu is in this strange mood and so runs off fast, letting her pet "lead" her towards the market where she is sure to find an aunty to buy something for her to snack on - some rambutans perhaps, or better still a packet of those Bongos.