Coconut Wireless

by Nicola Baird

  "What are you thinking?" asks Lodu combing her friend's hair. Stella's silence confirms her suspicions. Stella is thinking nothing: all the time Lodu's known Stella, the woman's mind has been busy with thoughts. Just as she is about to leave the room, Stella begins to talk. It's a liturgy of nonsense: "I dreamt last night that he was dead. I knew he was dead because he was standing there in my dream and I've never seen him in my sleep before. His eyes were red and frightening. Then he crooked his finger at me and told me he knew where me and his unborn child were going to after the Labour Line. We were going to a furnace in hell. How can he do this to me?" Stella starts a low-pitched, idiot wailing, pulling at chunks of her hair in her distress. "How can I die? I'm just not ready to die. Please help I'm frightened." Lodu is panic stricken, but she squeezes Stella's hand as calmly as she can manage. "You won't die, everything will be all right, you'll see." Neither woman believes these brave words.

  That evening the people living in the house discuss the problem. Everyone knows someone who might be able to help dissolve the green leaf magic that is spoiling Stella, but they also know that whichever custom doctor is approached will need very strong powers - and help from the Big Man God. It is sure to be expensive - another problem now that pay day is already a fortnight away. Their debate is interrupted by Una, the woman whose daughter helped Stella when she fainted back at Christmas.

  "Evening, evening oloketa (everyone). Sorry for any intrusion," says Una looking around, knees bent in a half genuflect to show respect to the men. "I heard about your friend's problem and wondered if I could help."

  "Go on," says a voice disembodied by the dark. "She's over in that room."

  Moving quietly, with the aid of a flashlight, Una walks towards Stella's room. Inside she says a prayer and then assesses the situation. It doesn't take long before she can report back. "She's had custom medicine put on her that's for sure. I can't help, my medicine is not that strong. The person you need to help her recover is the woman they call koko (granny). You must know her, she's the old Malaita woman who runs a store up at Mbokonavera, just past the clinic. She's the only one living in town who can heal women who are this far gone and this spoilt.”

  There is a sort of gasp, then a moment of silence, and then everyone in the house begins talking at once. "She means your wantoks you know," says Lodu, once the exclamations have finished.

  Henderson stares uncomfortably at his plate of curried rice. He thinks back to his last meeting with Anna, her mistaken excitement at knowing he was to marry his father's choice - and then the ugly moment when she realised that's not what he meant, it was Stella he wanted. But, but, well, yes. Anna is a kind woman and maybe she will help if he asks her. The way Stella is at the moment there is nothing to lose.

  ***

  SUZY’S HANDOVER NOTES

  Welcome , Ewan asked me to do this as you’re taking over my house and my job. I really liked working here. I’m very sad to leave. I’m sure someone will tell you why I had to go, just don’t believe anyone who tells you it was “personal reasons”.

  The kids are really good to teach - good that is compared to some of the students I know in the UK who'd as soon as torment you as take notes. I guess the students at KG6 know they're the lucky ones, actually in school, so that's probably enough motivation for a start.

  The staff are great too, really dedicated. If we were trying to take up this post four years into the future I guess that there would be absolutely no jobs for expats (except maybe in the really isolated schools) because there are heaps of Solomon Islanders going through teacher training college, with serious excess in Maths (yeah!) and English. They’ll soon all be qualified and back teaching. So you and I are the last of that 'splendid' colonial tradition, a maths teacher in a disappearing world - a good movie title don't you think?

  Exciting as I’ve found it to be in the tropics as you can guess, the daily humdrum is just like any teaching job. School life is ruled by bells.

  There's the prayer/assembly bell, the peal at the end of the hour long lessons, the break bells, the dinner bells, the sports bells, more lesson bells and then the prep bells.

  The staff room is good to hang out in and munch the ever-popular hard Navy biscuit and cups of monosodium glutamate flavoured Magi noodles. Or you can get clever and bring along fruit and veg from the market and store it in the shared fridge (ice box). Just occasionally the room is quiet enough to do some marking - or even prepare lessons - but mostly it's a hive of gossip.

  You don’t have to worry too much about theft. So far I’ve only lost an alarm clock and my Reebok running shoes, both were left on the verandha of the house and may just have been borrowed.

  What I wish I’d been told – aside from where to shop (ask Ewan or any other volunteers and don’t forget the market or the AA store just up the road) is the strange cultural dependence on stuff turning up. I think it’s an island thing. The Pacific is rife with cargo cultists (one group over in Vanuatu even worships Prince Philip!). I think it stems from the shock of the second world war when white people (Americans) fought white people (Japanese) with all this amazing military hardware and their style food all brought over to the Solomons in huge wooden boxes (aka “cargo”).

  These boxes contained all the tins the soldiers needed - bully beef, spam etc and used to get stacked up on the shore waiting for local labourers (legend suggests they were paid if the troops were American; obligated if British colonial types and forced if Japanese) to shift them to a new site away from the tide. This is meant to explain how the Pijin word "staka", meaning a lot, entered common parlance. The words you heard all the time are "hem", "long" "fella" and "staka", and put together you can make some pretty core sentences however arranged! But then my way of speaking Pijin is a bit strange. Do have a go learning it, it’s fun. In a strange bit of inverted snobbery lots of the white volunteers will only speak it, so you may have to learn Pijin to talk to your “wantoks”.

  When the war eventually stopped, a new local battle fought by a brotherhood (in true Pacific style, using non-confrontation) started up, known variously as Maasina Ruru or Marching Rule - which the paranoid commie-hating Brits heard as "Marxist" Rule and immediately assumed the worst. It started in Malaita (my favourite of the provinces) with the bush villagers coming down to the coast, building watchtowers for the promised plimsoll-line laden ships and paying some kind of tax to local big men, rather than the British. It was very successful and spread rapidly over the islands, despite the colonial "protectors" arresting nine ring leaders. Rather Biblically another ninety-nine, or maybe nine hundred and ninety-nine, then appeared and they too were packed off to prison. Eventually the jails were so full that various demands had to be met - so in that sense Maasina Ruru was a true politicisation, a first step towards independence. Except I have this sneaking suspicion that it wasn't really about politics at all, more an understandable greed for "White Man" possessions and a clear shift away from the old traditions and towards Western materialism.

  Mind you though capitalism has its downside (sorry, not sure what your politics are!) some of the old Solomon traditions weren't so hot either - I mention this as a sensitive first born daughter. In Makira province custom decreed that all first born children must be killed. Techniques varied from drowning, to exposure to the more ugly ritual throat slashing. Yuck. I suppose this would be understandable if resources were not keeping pace with the population growth, that old Malthusian chestnut, but this was still going on at a time when the population was rapidly decreasing - the usual consequence of expat arrivals like the blackbird "slave" traders for the sugar cane fields of Queensland, missionaries, sandalwood dealers etc who brought everything from measles to the common cold to VD - killers all. It got so bad in the end that Makiran couples began adopting children, presumably unwanted, from the neighbouring island of Malaita.

  I find this story particularly disturbing as children seem to be so very loved in the Solomons, and I bet were even then. Still the 20th century hasn't
improved many kids' life has it? I guess all the normal hideous things that adults do to children: loveless power games, bullying, slapping, beating, child abuse - the whole caboodle must go on here too. It's a statistical certainty even in the Happy Isles.

  Ive been enjoying seeing life with a tourist's incredulous eyes for too long, which is lucky for you as here endeth my history lesson. I’m going to so miss this place.

  Good luck.

  PS – No I didn’t work out how to lock the door, establish who had keys to it anyway, find out who owned the motorbike under the house or how to stop the basin tap dripping.

  CHAPTER 19: IF ONLY

  IT'S THE TELEPHONE'S shrill call that signals the start of Anna's problems. That was at 8am, a time when the Mbokonavera household is usually out. Much earlier Fred transported most of the wantoks down to town, though a couple opted to hang around the AA Store. For them, change seems needless if your routine guarantees you see all the friends you want to, every day. Even chief cook Sarah, Fred's wife has gone over to a slither of land on the far hillside to weed the family's kumara patch and then bring home a pile of banana leaves for the kitchen. The telephone keeps ringing. Anna moves reluctantly towards the handset but is surprised en route by Lovelyn bursting out of her room, looking disorientated from sleep and clearly very late for school.

  "Hello, 865910," there is a pause, then Lovelyn gestures for Anna to come.

  "It's for you." Lovelyn spirits her body out of the room, hoping Anna won't realise she is already late for KGVI’s first class. Pausing for breath at the bottom of the veranda stairs she fiddles with the tap on the outside wash basin - that way she can hear the whole conversation without Anna realising.

  "He-llo?" says Anna suspiciously to the phone.

  "Is that you Anna?" It's a voice belonging to a very telephone-confident man. Anna agrees that it is her. "Are you alone?"

  Unused to this impertinent manner, Anna is tricked into answering.

  "Yes. But what kind of a question is this? Who are you?"

  "Listen. This is important - who just answered the telephone?"

  "My daughter, but she's gone outside now," says Anna reluctantly compliant after recognising the voice on the line. She feels goose bumps rise on the back of her neck and a chill wind seems to fill the house. The atmosphere is horrible.

  She knows this voice too well.

  "Anna I need you to do something for me and you owe me plenty still. True, it's a long time since we raised this issue of payback, but I know what I want."

  Anna grunts. This strangled reply is enough, and the voice continues.

  "My runaway-wife is about to give birth. She is having problems with her pregnancy and I know will come to see you for custom medicine. Use your knowledge, please, to get rid of it."

  "What are you? A monster?" bursts out Anna in disgust, well aware that he is referring to Stella. "Anyway I can't lose a child if its mother is this far gone, no magic is strong enough for that - a baby is one of God's treasures and there is a right day for it to come into the world."

  "No, Anna, that's not correct at all. You must do this, get rid of that baby." Containing its anger, the MP’s voice changes tack. "You see I don't want that woman to suffer, I love her still, even though she's been cruel to me. Think how she was used to the high life, to the most beautiful overseas clothes, perfumes for her body, a cook to make her the most choice delicacies, air-conditioned rooms and a jewelled life. But she's a woman, and a woman is born with a weak heart. It would be wrong; it would be, how shall I say it, 'unchristian' to let her have this child and then live in that squalid way on the Labour Lines. It'd kill her I think."

  "That's what you want, isn't it?" says Anna, her courage returning after absorbing that deadly voice's shocking request.

  Taken back Dean Solomon turns nasty. "Just remember Mrs that I know what you were, just a common prostitute, so don't go all moral on me. And if I hear that you haven't done what I'm thinking would be right, then I'll be round for the money you forgot to repay. Cash that is." The voice crashes the phone down, leaving Anna holding a useless purring cord. She can't think what to do - wrings her hands, paces the room, prays a disjointed prayer and finally begins to sob.

  Lovelyn decides it's a safe time to make her entrance. "Matron, are you all right?"

  "Yesi, yesi," says Anna wiping inadequately at the tears running down her cheek.

  "Who was that on the phone upsetting you?"

  Anna thinks quickly, no good involving this child as well in the feud between her and the Honourable Minister. "Lovelyn, that was someone from your school ... a teacher asking why you're always playing truant and if there were any problems at home. Your teacher ringing up like that has shamed me, and it'll shame your father as well."

  Lovelyn knows her mother is lying, but there's enough truth in the story - today's truancy part for example - to make this a very delicate moment. "Matron, I promise I do go to school when I say, and I do work hard. Its just today there is a maths test which I think I'll fail. I can't do it because I missed a lot of the course work when I was ill all the time with that malaria. So I thought I'd be "independent", like Uncle Fred is sometimes, and just take a day off. It was wrong, I shouldn't have thought like that ... I'll change into my uniform and head up that way. I don't want to bring shame on you. I really am sorry." Matron looks at her big, brown-eyed daughter and her heart melts. She has always been a sweet-natured girl, this last daughter of hers. Lovelyn was born when things were tough, remembers Anna, when the cyclone had spoilt everything, a month or so before that charlatan had gone round posing as a good man who'd lend cash to help Solomon Island business people out of trouble. And even though there were problems finding food and meeting bills Anna had never once regretted her little baby daughter's greedy demands for milk.

  No her last born had been just as precious an arrival as her firstborn - and she would guess that Stella must feel just the same way - even with such a heartless monster for a father. Still that was Stella's mistake, if she hadn't wanted to grow up so fast, and hadn't fooled around with big men she could be living the life of a normal girl - and who knows, she might have ended up living with Henderson anyway. Crazies always attract crazies: and it'd be hard to think of Henderson as anything other than crazy after the wilful way he walked off with a big man's wife. If only he hadn't done that ... this reverie provokes a fresh burst of tears. And more again, when she regrets, yet again, how the cyclone’s damage led her to foolishly plunge herself into debt with this evil man. She curses herself again for failing to use a bank. Remembers Dean’s father, also an MP, was just as bad. Anna thinks back to those early days of democracy, when he'd posed as such a big shot opposition candidate until the day he heard that only government ministers were to join the all expenses paid trip to the UK - for the signing of the independence declaration at Lancaster House. So he simply crossed the floor. Everyone thought it a big joke, a mockery of the bossy Mother of Parliaments' endless stipulations. But it also showed that family line's true colours: manipulative cunning and political expediency.

  Lovelyn looks helplessly at her mother, then remembering she's really just a child herself, throws her arms around her neck, also sobbing: "Shush Matron, shush, everything'll be all right." They are thinking of different things, but both certainly want the same result.

  "OK, OK enough now," says Anna with a big effort. "You stop crying too and then you go off to school won't you? We can say you had to go to the clinic for belly run or something like that, so then it doesn't matter if you do badly in this test." Lovelyn nods her head in a rush. Her mother's plan is good.

  And things really would have worked out: Lovelyn back in the classroom and Anna busy at home plaiting leaf baskets for the American tourists expected on the next cruise ship - if only Stella hadn't walked up the steps and into the house at exactly that moment.

  Stella looks terrible. Her hair is scruffy and beads of sweat are hugging her temples making her face look even gaunter than i
t is. Both hands are pushed deep into her lower back in a bid to massage out the deep pain that still won’t unlock her pelvis. Lovelyn rushes over, takes Stella's hand and leads her towards a chair, before heading for the ice box to find a glass of water.

  "Lovelyn, you go on to school," says Anna suddenly angry at her daughter's unfortunate involvement. "You can help me later." Lovelyn retreats dutifully, too frightened to ask Anna to write the promised note of excuse.

  "Henderson told me to come to you," explains Stella after recovering her breath from the long walk across China Town and up to Mbokonavera on swelling ankles. "He says you are the only one who can make me better. I don't mind the pain for myself, but I'm frightened for my baby. The hospital can't seem to do anything, and I know why - it's because this is bad magic spoiling me. Matron, I need your help. Can you help me ... please can you help?"

  Anna is torn between a warring couple - Stella and her one-time husband the MP. Normally her sympathies are always with the wife, but this time she is scared of the husband's power and his vindictive ways. "May God forgive me," she mutters and with that starts to fuss around this very scared woman.