by Nicola Baird
"Oh, yes, they'll like that." Henderson's mind is in a daze - his body busy, moving here, moving there, like one of the tourists from the big cruise boats who have just half-a-day to fit in their itinerary and so must rush, rush, rush to see the old hospital caves, the National Museum, the war memorials, the Botanical Gardens. Places they pay to enter and places that most islanders take for granted, but don't ever get to see. He checks the kitchen, the motu is cooking well. He checks the barbecue, tended by Lodu's bro and some of his mates. They are clearly happy standing round the too-fierce flames, each with a stubby in hand. The bus boy has earned popularity points with his welcome gift of beer and is discussing, as he always does, the reasons why the Solomons lost the Oceania Cup match against Australia back before Christmas.
Henderson is speedily bored by the drunken talk of the men, so goes to check Stella and the baby are all right. There are so many friends in the room it's hard to see what's going on, or how she's feeling - but Ellen spots her stepfather, pushes her way through the women's skirts and takes Henderson's hand. Together they walk outside and then - to Henderson's amazement - he sees a very familiar figure, slightly lopsided gait, slightly stooped back, walk through the lengthening shadows towards him.
“My word, what are you doing here?"
"I could say the same to you son!" replies Henderson's father reaching to shake his boy's hand. "I've been all round town looking for you - I took a canoe over from Malaita, which took us about eight hours thanks to the sea being so quiet at the moment. We went via Ngella too. Amazing engine! Anyway I've got some carvings to sell to the tourists - you know Henderson, the tourists that will be on the QE2 tomorrow - so I thought I'd come early and have a chance to story with you." He bends down to put his rice sack, crammed with carvings, on the bare ground. "Who's this then?" he says in Ellen's direction.
"She's Stella's firstborn. Ellen this is my father,” he laughs at the problems of what to make his adopted daughter call the man he knows best in the world. “How about you call him your number 2 gran." The new family members stare at each other suspiciously until Henderson suggests to his father. "Come, we'll sit over here and rest a bit, story a bit. Ellen - you go and get some cordial for your gran, and see if there's any fish ready to eat yet. He's had a long journey today." The little girl runs off, pleased to be given a personal task.
"What's going on son?" asks the old man at length. "I went up to my sister's house and the place was in darkness. Adam was there, sitting under the house with those crazy dogs of his - as usual - and he said Anna was sick. When he saw me, he looked like he'd seen a ghost."
"There's been trouble here, that's true," agrees Henderson. "Did you get my note?"
"Yes. I'm very sorry to hear about Stella's problems and the loss of her baby. May it's soul rest in peace."
"Well, things seem to happen faster in town than back home," begins Henderson. "You see the baby wasn't dead - I don't know what happened, can't get my mind around it at all, but it seems Auntie Anna was being bossed around by Stella's former husband, who is an MP.” He speaks fast, hoping his father won’t interrupt. “To cut a complicated story short the baby got given to someone else, a white woman on a bus, and today that lady gave him back to us. Stella's been a different person since the baby arrived home and so she wanted to hold a celebration feast. That's what all this is about." He gestures wildly towards the growing crowd in party mood, nearly off-balancing Ellen who has returned with a plate of grilled bonito (tuna) steaks and a cool drink for the old man. So far Henderson’s father is the only one who knows his sister owed money to the MP, he’d told her back then she was a fool when she took it and look what’s happened. But he says nothing to his son.
"Well," continues Henderson, "I'll let you eat in peace, maybe you'd like to swim too - there's a standpipe over there that's good for washing, and then when you're rested you can meet Stella."
It's unspoken between father and son, but there's something they don't need to say. Henderson knows he shouldn't have spoilt his parents' plans to make him marry that local girl. His father knows he should have let Henderson be a young boy and not try to force him to conform in the old ways - it was done because he missed him so in the village. Thought marriage would give meaning to his life.
"Yes, meeting Stella’s a good idea,” says his father. “And don't let me forget to tell you how our play went at Christmas ..."
"You mean the Pilgrim's Progress with that rascal boy playing Christian?"
"Yes, it was good. My students still act out scenes from it, impromptu, on moonlit nights! And of course we raised plenty of money too."
"That's wonderful! Now excuse me whilst I welcome more guests – I’m expecting real town rascals next – but I think you’ll like my friend Patteson. And the white Mrs who had the baby for a while, she’s a teacher just like you."
There's a big moon that night, it tangles in the mango tree behind the house where Henderson stays on Labour Line; it throws silver light on a path out to sea; it transforms the ugly into delightful and it tosses a slither of happy madness on to everyone at the feast of Stella's unnamed bus baby. When the food is finished the men settle down to more drink and the women, totally unashamed in the weird daylight of night, continue their game of tag. Suzy is exhausted, and kind of exhilarated, by the events of her birthday. Here she is partying at a Solomon Islander's house and by default is now a member of their family (a former mother no less, which earns her the role of honorary aunt or godmother or even oddmother). The moon is beautiful, the people kind, the occasion happy. She's never had such a good time. Yet still she can't settle down, enjoy the eating, the playing, the good-natured joking. There's questions she wants to ask her. Like why? Why doesn't Stella plan to sue the MP in a court of law?
"I can tell you," says Lovelyn edging up to the white woman's restless side, "she can't do anything formally because no one will believe her. Some of those men, when they get more drunk, may want to go and beat him up, but it'll be the usual thing - all beer words, no action from them. I think something will happen to that MP, but even he may be surprised what it is."
“Well how do you work that out?" challenges Suzy sceptically.
"It's easy - there are two men here, Henderson and Patte, who have their reasons to dislike the Honourable Dean Solomon MP and they've got patience to work out just the right revenge. Stella can’t sue in a court because people here are good-natured, God-fearing, Melanesian. Our way is consensus and stepping over the line is permitted now and again. Even if it’s not permitted again and again. Do you see what I'm saying?"
Suzy doesn't get what Lovelyn's saying at all. But her confusion is put on hold when Lovelyn cries out: "My word, there's Matron. How does she dare turn up?" The two women edge a little closer to a heated exchange going on between Stella, Henderson and the old lady. It's clear Matron’s trying to explain something. And she probably would have told them everything - in a torrent of uncensored thoughts about debt, extortion, interest and lies - when, luckily for Matron, the nub of her story is knocked sideways by a terrific burst on a ship's horn.
"It's the QE2, it's the QE2," shouts everyone who knows. Like the others, Suzy rushes towards the Labour Line shore for the view of the main wharf. A sleek white liner dominates the pretty Pacific bay. Moon to the port of her, islands to the starboard of her and beyond her prow, the mysterious, ramshackle Honiara town.
CHAPTER 26: THAT’S MY BOY
The African Caribbean Pacific breakaway meeting – hosted here in Honiara rather than Brussels) was panning out far better than Dean Solomon had dared hope. The European donors had sent in a fat sum to fund the workshops, conferences, day trip to Tambea resort, translations and all the feasting. Each participant might have to sweat through air-conditioned meetings, and long hours of talk but the ACP states were in broad agreement about many things. Sustainable development: absolutely! Relief of poverty: couldn’t agree more! And best of all every participant was entitled to a per deum payment of 120 US d
ollars and a hotel room, and all meals and travel expenses covered. With five days of meetings, and all that travelling, most attendees were able to put plenty towards the bad days when the EU gravy train would come to a halt, or more likely they would lose their seat at some upcoming election.
The downside was today’s afternoon session hosted by him in the Ministry to discuss ways to strengthen the role of women in society. Good God he’d found enough examples of female businessmen hadn’t he? There was the Malaitan woman who set up a small co-operative making baskets for the tourist market, the extraordinary Isabel Mrs who farmed cattle under the coconuts, the Choiseul woman who turned hibiscus petals into sweet jam. Clever girls: and all very tasty looking too. And that useless woman MP (the only one to date) might drop by too if she wasn’t having another baby.
What more could he produce for the Prime Minister to prove that the Solomons – independent since 1978 - was a country where women had a fair say in society? He’d been tipped off that the ACP delegates liked a sob story of wronged woman delivered to them. He imagined he would listen like wise King Solomon (the delegates would love, this he’d crack as an aside to a clever-one “call me Lome”) then make the right pronouncement, and after the ACP delegates cheers had stopped ringing in his ears the news would fill the front page of next Friday’s Solomon Star. Something was sure to come up, especially if his secretary worked a bit harder on the case.
Little did he realise just how hard some people were working to find the right wronged woman…
“Welcome back. I trust you all enjoyed your traditional Solomon kaikai, or as you may know it in your countries’ “food”, and are ready to participate in this special session on women’s rights and problems in the Pacific,” said the Minister slightly shocked to see that the only delegates who have turned up for this particular meeting appear to be the female of the species. Where are the African suits? Probably still at the bar. He hadn’t realised how much he’d counted on them to make this potentially boring afternoon a little more lively. Even if women’s issues are a side-show in these important talks, there’s still no reason why this afternoon shouldn’t be run efficiently. The Minister makes a small cough to regain the honourable ladies’ attention, careful to give the best-looking his best profile.
“After we’ve had a short summary from our friend from Fiji, he nods at a large-breasted woman in loosely cut Mother Hubbard top seated on his right (how the missionaries would approve of her dull dress sense), and then another fascinating Melanesian tale from Vanuatu - this time he catches the eye of a skinny woman in a rather French styled white blouson - we will look at a case study from this very island, Guadalcanal.
“Thank you Dean Solomon, Minister for Youth, Women and Culture,” says the Fijian with a good-humoured edge to her voice which makes the ladies titter. “I think we all agree that the ACP states are indeed making progress representing women in decision making in most countries. It is perhaps a shame that the good citizens of our respected host nation, Solomon Islands, have yet to elect from their 1,000 beautiful islands enough lady folk to Parliament to be able to let a real woman talk out about the struggles our sisters face in these challenging social and economic times.
“Of course my own Fijian government, so bound up with the military men, makes its mistakes, but I am at least pleased to be able to inform you that our Youth ministry canvasses the opinion of youth each fortnight using a mix of TV, which of course you do not have here, school surveys and face-to-face interviews with those students who have left school but not yet joined the work force. It also gives me great pleasure to share with you the knowledge that our Culture Minister is a renowned artist, has written two important books on Fijian ceremonial traditions with the kava bowl, and our Minister for Women is myself, i dot e, a real woman….” and so she continues - to laughs and note taking - for an interminable 40 minutes.
Dean Solomon feared Mrs Fiji would never stop talking. Oh it is true that you can take woman out of the village but you can’t take the skills of a fishwife gossip out of woman. But at last she comes to a close, and then he is surprised by a break in his tight agenda. There is a knock on the door. In walks a young Solomon woman, her modest eyes downcast her dusty feet in sorry-looking flip-flops, cradling a baby in one arm and holding the hand of a small girl in the other.
Good God that’s Stella! He doesn’t like the look of this. But trapped by his chairing role, official post, and a complete loss as to what to do next there he remains wondering just what his one time useless girlfriend is going to share…
Stella sits down on a chair that has been left out, placed as if she was a Queen facing her subjects. She puts the baby to feed on her left breast, embarrassing for the Minister, though he notices no one else seems to bat the proverbial eyelid.
“I have a story I’d like to tell,” says Stella who has nothing left to lose. “This is my story, but many women here in town have the same sorrows to tell. I am ashamed to share this with so many of you, but, as we are all women – or their representatives she says suddenly brave, looking steely-eyed directly at her ex husband, then it is a story of urbanisation and modernisation that is too often true. I have come here to appeal to you for a way to resolve my problem.
“I am 19. Still young but I have two children, and no real husband in the eyes of God. When I was a scholarship student in Form 4, still as innocent as a day-old bonito fish, a Big Man took too much notice of me. Seduced me, made me pregnant, took me to his home for a play thing,” she starts to speak louder and faster, encouraged perhaps by the growing chorus of tuts of sympathy and recognition.
“But this wasn’t enough for the Big Man. I was his, forced to drop out of school for getting fatter with his child. This was his fault, but he showed his resentment by finding every sort of occasion to strike me whether we were alone at home or out in town. I had bruises that forced me to wear sunglasses indoors and out. My lip bled, my teeth were knocked out.” She opens her mouth to reveal several gaps. “No matter. He hurt me more than I can say. This is his daughter. She’s five. What hope for her? Even though you can see this baby is just a newborn, which gave me a brief rest from pregnancy and delivery and breastfeeding I’d still lost my chance of finishing school or studying at university. And he was so keen for me to lose it, or to lose me when I walked away from the beatings that he used all kinds of custom medicine to frighten me. This poor baby was stolen, pronounced dead, and yet here he is in my arms. You are too esteemed a group for me to talk about the dark side of this scarring – the panic, the pain, the fears of the future.” Stella wipes at her eyes, there is so much for her to cry about. But she forces herself to be strong so she can continue, dark eyes fixed darkly on her persecutor in a suit.
“The things I have been forced to do, if you understand me, are not the things a woman should be made to do in a Christian country. Or anywhere. But they happen too often in Melanesia.
“And then a kind man, my age, took care of me. We live in a crowded house, he has no proper job and has become the step father – paying for everything they need – and it is such a strain that no doubt he will leave me. Indeed I think he has... And what will I be then? Still a teenager: but with two fatherless children, no hope of a true or fulfilling job and a life of struggle to look forward to. I am sorry true to share my sorrows with you today, but sometimes I wonder if the Big Men and the Big Women of our young countries understand the difficulties simple people, like myself, are having to face.” Stella comes to a stuttering halt and looks down at her baby again, so contentedly sleeping now on her breast.
Even during the applause for the “brave mother” Dean Solomon is sure he can wriggle out of this. But the unexpected delay from the chairman allows the Fijian to speak, again. “Well Mr Minister of the Solomon Islands,” she says.
Seems she’s now chairing his session, devil woman. “Do you have anything to say?”
“Not at all, not at all,” says Dean Solomon soothingly. “It’s such a shock to hear how o
ur women can be so abused…” He has some ideas how to move the discussion fast-forward, just up his sleeve, but he hadn’t banked on the little girl being bold enough to look up, recognise that voice and yell out so no one in the Ministry workshop room could fail to hear her saying: “That’s Daddy! It’s my daddy.”
The uproar from the delegates, already shocked by Stella’s sad tale, could be heard many miles away, even down at the Tambea resort where economics is under APC scrutiny. A slow hand clap starts up. It’s joined by another pair of woman’s hands, and then another. Soon the room is ringing with ironic applause. This all stops the moment Stella stands, and moves calmly towards the Minister in an unscripted moment. There is absolute quiet as she hands the sleeping baby over to him. “You’re a Big Man Dean Solomon, and you’re this little boy’s father. This may be the first time you’re seeing him. So look close, he has your nose and your chin. I want you to take him - you’ll know how to bring him up right because he is your own.” The Minister clumsily pushes the baby away but clearly can’t be seen to drop him in front of this audience. He smiles with his teeth, takes the little boy in his arms.
Flash goes a camera!
“Well isn’t that a lovely ending?” says the Fijian, all smiles miming a slap, “It’s so nice to know that our favourite Minister for Youth, Women (she does have a violent way of saying that word ‘wimmin’) and Culture has first hand experience of ladies’ problems but is prepared to be a hands-on dad! It seems we need to congratulate him further for this.”
For the first time in his life the Minister is properly out of luck. Thundering “This better stay off record and that picture be destroyed!” Dean Solomon, cradling his baby son, leaves the room as the delegates burst into ladylike claps.