Treasure Up in Smoke

by David Williams

‘Silly; you should have. All the Carib girls do it – it’s sort of traditional. You’ve probably offended her – and if you think she was offering her lovely young body into the bargain you’d be quite wrong. She’s an especially pious Catholic.’ Debby gave her companion’s arm a vice-like squeeze which he found wholly agreeable. ‘I’m Church of England.’

  ‘But not beyond redemption.’ They had been joined by Father Babington who had overheard the last remark. Debby introduced the two men.

  A black clergyman was still sufficient of a novelty for Peregrine to make him study the face carefully: he saw wisdom and authority in it – if a touch of harshness in the eyes.

  ‘I expect you’re a Protestant too, Mr Gore?’ The priest put the question in a near to patronizing tone. Peregrine nodded, though he had not given the delineation much thought since schooldays: in the Army church parade had seemed like an extension of the National Anthem. ‘Well, don’t let that stop you from coming to Mass in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, we all muck in for that.’ Debby’s choice of phrase – though enthusiastically delivered – seemed inapposite even to Peregrine. The girl rolled her shoulders as if to excuse the obliquity – an action that for Peregrine produced a marvellously exercising effect on the cleavage beneath her already revealing bodice. Nor did the movement go entirely unappreciated by Father Babington. ‘What I mean, Peregrine, is that it’s the island’s big day,’ the girl continued earnestly. ‘January Thirtieth is when they chopped off King Charles’s head and the day the first O’Hara landed – over there.’ She pointed in the direction of the harbour.

  ‘There were three years between the events, actually –’ the priest took up the story – ‘but the day is packed with significance for all the islanders. We have a Requiem Mass for St Charles the Martyr – ‘ he gave extra emphasis to the full title – ‘in the open at the foot of Mount Manitou . . .’

  ‘And simply everybody goes.’ This was Debby again. ‘Seven o’clock in the morning, and it’s a five-mile hike – unless you take the train.’ The disdain redolent in the last phrase indicated to Peregrine that to retain his manhood in the eyes of this incomparable creature he would have to walk. ‘Then we all raft down to Devil’s Falls . . .’

  ‘Well, not quite all – there aren’t enough rafts. I’m Joseph O’Hara. Good evening, Debby, Aloysius, and our new friend is . . . ?’

  ‘Peregrine Gore the banker, Uncle Joe.’ Debby let go Peregrine’s arm to give the new arrival a warm embrace.

  O’Hara was clearly past middle age but doing his best not to look it. Short and spare, he wore his curly white hair close cropped. The brown of the weatherbeaten face and hands denoted an outdoor life as well as mixed ancestry. The pale blue eyes were tranquil and kindly. The demeanour of the man was assured but far from overbearing. ‘Then welcome, Mr Gore the banker.’ There was no mockery in the tone.

  ‘Hardly that, I’m afraid, sir,’ said Peregrine with a modesty that was entirely justified. ‘I’m to help Mark Treasure when he gets here tomorrow . . .’

  ‘With our important deliberations. Has Father Babington been telling you there won’t be much business done on this island on King Charles Day?’ The nod O’Hara directed at the priest went unacknowledged.

  ‘Only the half of it, so far, Uncle Joe.’ Debby shifted her attention back to Peregrine. ‘The Treaty Ceremony at the Falls is at nine, and after that there’s no end of revelry for the rest of the day – and most of the night.’

  ‘The carnival you may enjoy, Mr Gore, I’m not so sure about the boring re-enactment of my famous forebear coming to terms with the Chief of the Carib Indians.’ O’Hara smiled softly. ‘It has meaning for us older ones, of course.’ He glanced again at Babington. ‘In recent years I’m afraid the young have tended to reserve their energies for the carnival here in the town. The Mass and the Treaty Ceremony are not so well attended.’

  ‘That’s hardly accurate,’ the priest said stonily. ‘We had over eight hundred communicants last year.’

  O’Hara nodded. ‘About one in ten of the population, among whom I regret to say I was not numbered – I’m getting too old for that early climb. I did walk to the Falls, though and I shall do it again tomorrow.’

  ‘Daddy can’t understand why you don’t take the train, Uncle Joe.’ Debby was evidently more tolerant at signs of decadence in old O’Haras than she was in young Gores.

  ‘Because, my dear Deborah, no O’Hara has ever taken the train – or for that matter, any other conveyance – to the Treaty Ceremony. I remember making the pilgrimage with my grandfather in his seventieth year – and no doubt I should have been obliged to do so five more times before he died if I hadn’t been in England. Thank you, Amos.’ The Governor’s butler was sagging close by with a silver tray laden with glasses of rum punch and other drinks, giving the impression it would be an act of charity rather than an alcoholic indulgence to relieve him of some of the load.

  All four members of the group helped themselves to fresh drinks. ‘Excuse us, Peregrine hasn’t met Mummy yet.’ Debby took advantage of the break in conversation to propel the young man in the direction of Lady Rees who was addressing rather than conversing with a dark-skinned couple. The pair were soberly and formally dressed – almost too correctly in comparison with what the other guests were wearing and for what had been advertised as an informal dinner-party. ‘Mummy, this is Peregrine Gore the banker.’

  Lady Rees, whom her daughter had interrupted, made it plain she had been cut off in mid-profundity. She treated Peregrine to an imperious but approving stare. Her existing audience looked relieved. ‘It’s a great pleasure to have you with us, Mr Gore. I’m afraid you’ll find King Charles society unexciting after what you’re used to.’

  Peregrine hoped most warmly that this would prove to be the case for the remainder of his stay. ‘Not at all, Lady Rees,’ he offered with conviction.

  ‘Oh, come, Mr Gore. When I was a debutante in . . . er . . . in London, dashing young bankers were in constant demand. I remember . . .’

  ‘And this is Mongo Joyce, the Chief Minister, and Mrs Joyce.’ Whether to make up for her mother’s failure immediately to have introduced the others or simply to stem the tide of reminiscence, Debby once more broke in without ceremony or apology. This earned her a renewed glance of disapproval which she countered with a disarming smile.

  Lady Rees recovered herself. ‘I’m so sorry. The Honourable Mr Joyce is absolutely my husband’s right hand.’ The object of this flowery description, while obviously pleased at the application of his formal title, inwardly resented the implication that his executive function made him some kind of lackey to a constitutional Governor. He resented Lady Rees even more. Her failure to introduce him at the proper moment was typical of her conduct towards him: he cared less about his wife. He found the woman overbearing and condescending, and – the biggest resentment of all – in his own phraseology, she secretly scared the hell out of him.

  ‘We’re delighted to see you here, Mr Gore,’ said the Chief Minister. He was a tall, good-looking man of predominantly Carib but some African ancestry; at thirty-four years of age he was the youngest head of government ever to hold office. He had graduated at the London School of Economics and been called to the English Bar before he was twenty-six. A protege of Joe O’Hara’s, he had latterly developed an assurance that predictably dimmed the sense of gratitude that had earlier coloured his attitude to his benefactor.

  Despite his intellectual capacity and achievements, Mongo Joyce could not rid himself of a quite illogical sense of inferiority nor the feeling that he had been beholden to others for long enough. There was a good deal of justification for both sentiments. By KCI standards his family had belonged to the under-privileged section of the community. In addition, as an intelligent social democrat he was more and more veering to the view that the distribution of power and ownership on KCI was inequitable – which it was, accepting that political and social evolution since the seventeenth century counted for anything.<
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  It would be an overstatement, however, to say that Mongo Joyce sought a greater degree of power-sharing and control much below the rank of Chief Minister.

  Mrs Joyce was easy to overlook – her husband was quite as culpable as Lady Rees in doing so frequently. Trim, if running to plumpness, she was not unattractive. Her demeanour was stoic rather than meek; it denoted tolerance, not resignation. Her marriage was sustained by the need for her ambitious husband formally to observe the more important tenets of the Catholic faith: she bore her private ignominy in the style traditional with Carib women. Teaching at the College and organizing tennis were substitute occupations; they did not compensate for the love she had lost and the children she had been denied. Mrs Joyce was a desperately unhappy woman, but nobody noticed and nobody cared.

  ‘You climbing up to Mass with us in the morning, Peregrine?’ Mongo Joyce rarely missed an opportunity to advertise both his energy and piety.

  Peregrine nodded enthusiastically. ‘And I’m coming to watch you make peace with Mr O’Hara, sir.’

  ‘Call me Mongo, please – we don’t stand on ceremony here.’ Joyce had nevertheless been gratified by the spoken deference. He gave a loud chuckle. ‘I’m not pure Carib, I’m afraid, but as Chief Minister it’s traditional I go through the ritual act of surrender to the invading Irish on behalf of all the resident natives.’ He glanced at Lady Rees. ‘It’s not so much a political ceremony, you understand, as folklore – otherwise I suppose I’d be bowing down to the Governor instead of Joe over there.’

  ‘Is there any particular significance about your doing it all at Devil’s Falls?’ Peregrine was attempting to show intelligent interest.

  ‘Oh enormous, my dear chap. We clasp hands at the very spot where Michael O’Hara and Chief Yago came to terms in 1652 – it’s just above the Falls.’ Joyce became more serious. ‘Did you know we could have hydroelectric power on this island, Peregrine? Enough spare energy to cope with any number of distilleries . . .’

  ‘Not to mention hotels, villas and other desirable developments, would you say, Mongo?’ Glen Dogwall, immaculate and unarmed, had detached himself from the group close by engaged in conversation with the Governor. He was clearly on terms of some intimacy with Joyce.

  ‘You’ve got a point, Glen. Power we could have – and any number of foreign speculators.’ The Chief Minister finished with a grin.

  Peregrine had not noticed the arrival of the Dogwalls. He had purposely avoided any further contact with them after his private demonstration in hydro-electrics. He had earlier left his part of the guest house quietly before walking up through the garden to the Governor’s residence. Now that the couple were standing beside him it was difficult to overlook the presence of Mrs Dogwall. The long, black Grecian-style dress she was wearing had its simplicity considerably enlivened by the top to toe slits at the sides. The garment was as much a credit to the wearer’s self-confidence as to its designer’s ingenuity. It had a front and a back, joined at the neck but nowhere else. The contours of the apparently otherwise bare Mrs Dogwall were thus intriguingly revealed, most particularly in profile.

  A silver rope loosely knotted at the lady’s waist tantalizingly increased rather than reduced the startling effect and possibilities the dress created – it also provided Mrs Dogwall’s sole protection against total exposure, at least at wind levels below the scale of light breezes.

  Debby looked disconcerted; her mother appeared positively affronted. Mongo Joyce and Peregrine exchanged meaningful glances.

  ‘That’s a beautiful dress you’re wearing, Mrs Dogwall.’ The quiet Mrs Joyce broke the momentary silence.

  ‘D’you like it? It’s the coolest thing I have with me.’

  ‘That’s hardly the effect it’s having on the rest of us.’

  ‘By Jove no!’ In thus enthusiastically supporting the Chief Minister’s comment it seemed wholly unfair to Peregrine that the disapproving looks of both Rees women should be directed solely at him.

  ‘I was saying to Mrs Dogwall earlier that it’s really quite impossible to keep up with fashion in this place.’ Lady Rees offered such obvious proof of her statement it was hardly necessary for her to have made it.

  ‘I know, I hate feeling half dressed,’ Debby added, looking steadily at Mrs Dogwall who was hardly dressed at all.

  On the unspoken excuse that fashion was a topic for women, Glen Dogwall drew Joyce and Peregrine aside. ‘Say, I’ve had a few words with Joe O’Hara. I hate to disappoint you, Perry, but it seems to me he’s ready with the go-ahead for the Sunfun project – at least in principle.’ Joyce’s first reaction to this statement was one of undisguised surprise – although it was difficult for Peregrine to judge whether it was the import of the message or the indiscreet way in which it had been delivered that elicited this effect.

  ‘Mr O’Hara has neither been elected nor appointed to make decisions for us. The Council will approve or disapprove any proposals affecting the island’s future.’ The stony and formal admonition was in sharp contrast to the Chief Minister’s earlier relaxed conversational style.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mongo. I’m not counting any chickens – it’s just that the man said . . .’

  Whatever it was that Dogwall meant to add was lost upon Peregrine who was caught up in the general movement towards the balustrade prompted by the activity in the bay. A substantial motor yacht had appeared around the headland to the left. It sailed directly in front of Government House, then, after passing the long stone breakwater, altered course to enter harbour. The young man turned to find Joe O’Hara at his elbow. ‘What a simply beautiful craft, sir,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Hm, beautiful but hardly simple. French built, a hundred and forty feet, triple-skin mahogany hull, two Napier-Deltic diesels, maximum speed thirty-five knots – and at one and a half million dollars the most expensive and unnecessary cargo coaster in the business.’ O’Hara had recited the statistics with no enthusiasm and had finished with a snort. ‘She belongs to my brother Paul,’ he continued, ‘who has evidently decided to honour us with an unexpected visit. I think I’ll start my pilgrimage to the Falls after dinner and spend a peaceful night there in my cabin. Paul prefers – quite perversely – to sleep ashore when he’s here, and my house, though commodious, Mr Gore, has somehow never seemed big enough to accommodate us both.’

  Peregrine had felt flattered to be the recipient of such intimacies until he noticed they had been caught by at least three others in the immediate vicinity. It was at this same moment that Angus McLush appeared on the verandah. His apologetic expression as he made for the Governor indicated he was aware of being late. Since he was attired in the same scruffy clothes that he had been wearing on the aeroplane it was clear to at least two of those present that he had not been delayed through any involvement in the pursuit of elegance – or even cleanliness.

  Peregrine and O’Hara noticed the journalist’s arrival as they turned inwards from the balustrade. The older man’s benign expression turned immediately into a dark scowl. ‘If I’d known that blackguard was going to be here I’d have gone to the Falls before dinner.’ O’Hara evidently regretted his outspokenness the moment after he had uttered. He looked up at Peregrine. ‘Forgive me, Mr Gore, for that uncharitable remark. I am too much given to thinking aloud – a common characteristic in ageing bachelors, but no more excusable for that.’

  CHAPTER VII

  Debby strode across the track to the little steam-engine with all the assurance of a wheel-tapper. It was past eleven-thirty but there was much activity at the opensided engine shed.

  ‘Meet Sir Dafydd.’

  In response to this injunction Peregrine looked about him in search of some eminent-seeming personage. Three greasy but cheerful mechanics smiled at him, but they none of them looked remotely distinguished.

  ‘It’s not a person, silly, it’s an engine – this one. Didn’t Daddy tell you about it at dinner?’

  Indeed Daddy had done so. The only detail Peregrine had be
en unable to recall was the name of the 0-4-2 saddle tank engine built at the Hughes Locomotive and Tramway Engine Works, Loughborough, in 1878. A woodburning brother to three 0-4-0 locomotives made in the same year for the Gorris Railway in mid-Wales, Sir Dafydd had been rebuilt and the trailing wheels added in 1901. Its gleaming green and black paintwork and shining brass belied its century-old origins. Archie Rees had previewed that point – at length.

  Peregrine had ample excuse for his single piece of forgetfulness. At the moment the Governor had been pronouncing the name Sir Dafydd – with a proper but disarming Welsh intonation – Mrs Dogwall had assaulted Peregrine’s knee. His surprised reaction – a loud gasp – had brought a suspicious glance from Lady Rees. Mrs Dogwall had not even been turned in his direction at the time. She had been giving every appearance of hanging on the Governor’s words while actually digging her long fingernails into Peregrine’s anatomy.

  It was this single experience that had enlivened an otherwise exceedingly dull and lengthy dinner. Every course seemed to have included bananas, and if this impression was not strictly accurate it was the somehow obscene appearance of that fruit in unexpectedly boiled form that had made Peregrine over-sensitive about the omnipresence of the West Indian staple from then onwards.

  He had quite enjoyed the roast goat – up to the point where he had assumed it was mutton.

  It had not bothered Peregrine that he had been seated, as it were, among the groundlings down the centre of the long table. O’Hara and Dogwall had been placed to the right and left of the hostess while Mrs Joyce and Mrs Dogwall had flanked the Governor. The Chief Minister had been even further below the salt than Peregrine and had presumably been expected to draw comfort from the place of honour afforded his wife – though this had provided little enough comfort to her. The lady had hardly uttered throughout the meal.

  Bored with Mrs Joyce and intimidated by the alluring Mrs Dogwall, the Governor had taken refuge in a soliloquy about railways which had lasted through five courses. Since this was a subject on which he was singularly well informed and one on which all those within earshot were miserably ignorant, Sir Archibald had encountered no difficulty in stupefying his audience and enthralling himself. Mrs Dogwall had pretended attention but Peregrine was aware her interest had lain in another direction for at least part of the time.