Mr Peacock's Possessions

by Lydia Syson

  All along Clapperton Bay ran a wide and inviting strip of land, almost flat, and green as you liked, and this was backed by a more gentle-looking grove of trees, streaks of crimson against the dark leaves – the fiery flowers of the pohutukawa. The same trees covered the side of the mountain.

  ‘It looks like New Zealand,’ said Ma, with some satisfaction. ‘After a fashion.’

  As if in welcome, the wind dropped to a useful breeze, while the thunder of surf from the north of the island was muffled enough to be put out of mind. Coloured a deep blue of rare intensity, the waters sparkled here under a high midday sun.

  Desperate to be first on shore, the younger children set up a clamour, quickly shushed. Pa would go first – and check there was really nobody there, thought Lizzie, nervously – and then the others would be landed with all their baggage when he’d grasped the lay of the land. A jolly boat was lowered, and one of the sailors shimmied down to it. Just as Pa was about to swing his leg over the deck rail, his eye fell on Albert.

  ‘Three will be better than two if those sharks get curious,’ said Pa. ‘Down you go.’

  ‘Not fair,’ mouthed Billy. As the boat backed off, Lizzie waved tentatively, hoping to catch Pa’s eye. But he was busy rowing on one oar, looking over his shoulder with every other stroke, calculating where they’d be best to come to shore, while Albert held on tight and watched the water, rigid with tension.

  The captain had already ordered their baggage to be brought up on deck, along with the stores from the hold.

  ‘Will there be time enough to get it all ashore today?’ Ada wondered quietly to Lizzie.

  Ma didn’t like whisperers. She separated the children with a few quick orders – a last blanket to be fetched, the puppies – so much bigger now – to be muddled back into their crate. Meanwhile, the gig was lowered and loaded. Sal began to whine.

  *

  The first they knew of Pa’s return was a thud and a flash of orange. A juicy citrus had landed on deck, tossed up from the boat below, and Pa’s head soon followed. The children ran after the rolling fruit.

  ‘Save the pips.’ said Pa. He nodded at Ma, then ducked back down for more.

  Lizzie beat Billy to rescue the orange from the coil of rope where it had come to rest, and dug her nails into the thick peel, greedily inhaling the sharp sprays of oil that hit her cheek. The first mouthful of flesh was every bit as sweet and juicy as Robson had promised. She handed out a pig to each sibling and a few leftovers to a handful of crew members whose curiosity had brought them hovering.

  ‘Tip-top!’ said Deckboy Billy, as if that decided everything.

  For a short time, Albert, left on the island with orders to flag the next landing, was its only inhabitant. At the north end of the bay, where the surf was less ferocious, though the slope of the beach even steeper, he waved his arms and shouted. At last a second boat shot grittily through the foam with a decisive thrust of the oars, Ma and the children hanging on to the sides.

  Lizzie didn’t need Albert’s hand. She jumped out by herself into an advancing wave, and despite her readiness to resist, was pulled sharply backwards by its undertow. Wet to the thighs, she forced her way up onto the beach, took a few tottling steps towards the top, and stopped, feet planted. The ground lurched beneath her. She had been at sea too long. She had to root herself again. Hands on hips, she surveyed the towering cliffs, the ridge of grey sand and pebbles immediately ahead, and the trumpeting pink tangle of morning glory which sprawled and crawled towards them, outermost tendrils eagerly criss-crossing in beckoning haste. This way, this way, the plants implored. She threw back her head and laughed.

  ‘We’re here. We’re here at last. The island’s ours. We’re home!’

  ‘Lizzie!’ Ma was calling from the boat, reminding her that she couldn’t just run off and explore. Someone needed to get the baby away from the water, and the boat dragged up the beach before it could be pulled back by the waves’ strong undertow, and everything unloaded.

  Mr Peacock, arriving on the first returning gig, walked towards his wife and stood beside her. He took her arm in his and touched his hat and scanned her face.

  ‘Will it do, Mrs P?’

  How could she know? She didn’t answer at first. Nobody else would speak till she had. Lizzie held out a hand to Ma’s flailing arm, balancing her as she staggered up the steep beach, feet sliding lawlessly until they reached the knotted flowery mass at the top. Fleshy leaves, glowing emerald where the light shone through, creaking like cut cabbages under their bare feet. Ma squinted up at the rock face, took in the flat, grassy land nestling below, the swathe of blue beyond – a stretch of water – the trees. The lushness of it all. The beauty. Almost familiar, but yet not quite. She nodded.

  ‘It will, Joseph. I think it will do well, for now.’

  That was it. It was the reply he wanted.

  They all rushed back to the water’s edge to help Pa and a couple of sailors take off the first necessities: carpet bag, fiddle, camp oven, blankets. The emptied boat returned to the ship with the news that the Peacocks were here to stay, and was quickly reloaded. Crates, boxes and bags soon lay scattered among the pink flowers at the top of the sandbank. Against the vastness of the surrounding cliffs, their possessions looked insignificant. But they were hardly castaways, Lizzie reminded herself, gathering her skirts to climb up further so she could see what lay beyond.

  11

  ALL THAT FIRST UNQUIET NIGHT, MEMORIES OF HOME tide in my mind, keeping me from slumber. Times all is confusion and I feel I voyage in a strange ship yet see nothing. Times I am back at the Mission, the day of our departing, Mr Reverend sitting before me, clear enough to touch, our many-day-back talk rolling back and forth inside me.

  All was busy-busy then outside the window. The Esperanza, three days already at our island, was loading at last, after one day waiting for the sea to calm so canoes can come to her, one day with much worry that all is now too calm – perhaps the vessel could wreck itself with drifting, like the old missionary ship, the old John Williams, still not broken up, all these many years. Next day, cotton dusts hair and Jew’s ear scents the air, for the day has come for all the gifts for the Church, brought to the Mission by the Fellowship, to go on board before us. At the jetty arrowroot heaped. Our Church must pay its way, Mr Reverend always tells his wife, and in my hearing. We cannot be a burden to our London brethren. He worries in his heart about the price he’ll get for all these goods.

  And I have also glimpsed the letters he writes to London, when he is careless and leaves ’em unfolded and unsealed. (I could not help but look.) Our minister reaps great praise for wondrous changes wrought upon the Rock – nowhere else on God’s whole earth has every islander been brought from savagery to the Christian faith in so short a season. But he sorrows still, mourning a new feeling growing ever stronger on our island, that mood he calls the mercenary spirit.

  For this reason I never asked him about our payment for our work away. I would not have him think me mercenary, laying up treasures only here on earth, pining for great possessions. I do not tell him what the other palagi here said to me when we walked by the store that morning. How my family goes up in world. News quickly scampers in and out of all the houses, and Vika puts on airs even before our sailing. Such fine customers my family will be when we return, Solomona and me, says Mr Head, storekeeper, whose wife, an islander like me, wears clothes as fine as Mrs Reverend’s, with white lace collar and shiny stripes for Sundays. No Mother Hubbard dress for her, make no mistake. She is bombazine and satin. So longs my mother.

  And still Mr Reverend look at me and say:

  ‘You will certainly come back a wealthier man, Kalala.’

  Fingers raking beard with slow patience, as if to find something hiding in its wispy strands, waiting like fish in weeds.

  *

  I wake again and again and wish we had never come to this place. It seems to me that we have broken into the middle of a story and now we are part of it.


  12

  THE SKY IS PINKING NEXT MORNING WHEN I HEAR double-click of knees – Solomona lowers himself in prayer nearby. He means us to hear his murmuring words – some in our tongue, some in English. Again and again, he repeats the name Al-bert. So the boy is not back, and now he prays for him again. I roll away, and my brother’s mumbling ceases.

  ‘No sign yet?’ I say, up-sitting.

  ‘Amen,’ he finish. ‘No, not one sign that I can see.’

  We have made our little camp a small distance from the huts. Not too far, nor yet too close. My stomach growls for food but I think there will be no eating this morning. And we must delay our housebuilding.

  Soft whistles like birdsong come from Vilipate, who lies on his back sleeping still, mouth open. Luka and Iakopo waken and stretch full slow, throwing their blankets off, rubbing eyes. When they remember where they are, they sit up straight and shivery. This place is cooler than our island. Pineki stumble back from the bushes he has watered, loud-yawning and buttoning himself as he walks. His gaping jaw clamps shut and he pull down his shirt when Solomona tsks at him.

  ‘What?’ he ask, scratching his head and then his buttock.

  ‘Be full of respect. We are guests here. Our hosts are suffering a loss.’

  Pineki’s smile drifts, and he turns to tidying mats with Luka and Iakopo. It is light now and soon perhaps the naughty boy will return, and he will be beaten for his disobedience, and then we will see what our work will be and we can build our house. I hope this is so.

  ‘Maybe he is messing, not missing,’ I say. I do not want him gone much longer. We balance on a narrow ledge, between lagoon and open sea, and it uneases me, and Solomona too, I see. ‘Or maybe both.’

  ‘We will see,’ said Solomona, looking again towards the Peacock huts. ‘We will see. I have begged the Good Lord for His help, and I am sure He will see fit to answer our prayers.’

  Vilipate wake up, and stand, and straightway begin to fold his blanket, as if to tidy away himself with his belongings.

  ‘I am ready,’ he say. ‘What now?’

  ‘We must wait for orders,’ I tell him.

  I know he wants to start work. He does not desire distraction. Vilipate wants to show how strong and quick he is, at every task.

  So there we stand together, one body with many legs, looking across the grass towards the family, who huddle too. One girl comforts another, the smallest child holds the baby in her arms, and the father is pointing here, and there, and everywhere, anger in his voice. The mother stands hand on belly, with pain-pulled face.

  ‘Be careful,’ I say. ‘Remember the palagi do not like us to stare.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ say Solomona. ‘Kalala is right. It gives them discomfort. It is not polite. At times like this, they trap their thoughts inside themselves. Yet when they talk to you, remember: do not drop your eyes then!’

  ‘Ask them how many vessels come by here,’ I say to Solomona as we stand making circles in the sand with our toes to hide our uneasiness.

  He reproves me. Hardly here, and I am wanting to be home. This will not do.

  ‘Ask them yourself, if you must. You speak their tongue as well as I do, or better.’ Then Solomona regrets his impatience, and softens himself towards me. An arm on mine, eyes steady on eyes. ‘But not now. Later. When the boy is found.’

  Vilipate and Pineki give me an eye-corner look, to say they know why I never will. It has been too many months since a ship came here last. It may be many months yet before the next one passes. Just as the Esperanza cook often told us, we must play our cards till then. But first learn the game. And meanwhile, today, all thought must be with the missing Albert.

  Everyone waits, balancing between the after and the before.

  And then a wordless mourning cry cuts the air, and turns all hearts in wonderment. It is the oldest girl, the one called Ada, who is still more pained with fear than all the rest. She pull away, runs up towards the forest, but the father call her, voice loud as a cracking sail.

  ‘Come back at once, Ada!’

  Mr Peacock’s voice grows somewhat softer, like he is trying hard, hard as he can, to make it kind and gentle, yet also shouting after her for all to hear. ‘You won’t help Albert or anyone else by rushing off on your own.’

  She longs for her brother.

  ‘We will organise a search party,’ he tells her. ‘The time is right. We have left it long enough.’

  Solomona hangs back, like a fish who feeds on fragments, and circle-swims for any morsel that might float up when big killerfish have had their fill. Ada eyes him as she passes, brow suspicious, wondering what he might know. Swish, swish. Her angry, frightened arms brush against her dress as she marches.

  ‘Boys!’ Mr Peacock calls over to us. (Always boys.) It is clear he means to use us in the searching too.

  ‘Come on,’ I tell the others. ‘Come on, Solomona. Time to start work. This is where it begins.’

  Even Pineki grows full serious now, seeing all the family gathered so quiet and grim. We join them with no more ado. A map is drawn on sand. The island is divided. The parents tell us again about their Albert – mother interrupting father, Ada breaking the speech of both. Something more than child and less than man, they say. Taller than the others. This big. The girls show us with their hands flat above their heads. Blue eyes, they say, as if we could mistake him for a different fellow who is also lost. Such blue eyes … such beautiful blue eyes, like china, and such a handsome boy, his mother tells us, and her hands shape his absent face in the air before her, as if she would cup his cheeks and draw him towards her for a kiss. Too much beauty for a boy, I think she means.

  ‘Any sign of him, report back to Mrs P,’ orders the father. ‘She will stay at home with Gussie.’

  ‘And if we find him?’ asks Billy, who is to search with Queenie and Ada. Cloud-white faces all.

  ‘Light the bonfire again on the bluff if you bring him home. We will see the smoke. If not, make a noise, of course. A hullabaloo. As loud as you can.’

  Mr Peacock turn one final time towards us, staring deep into every pair of eyes, his own snake-narrow. He means to know our hearts. Can he trust us? He has no choice.

  ‘Understood? You know what you are doing, boys?’

  Together we mutter: ‘Yes, sir.’

  Solomona bows his head.

  ‘We will do all in our power to find your son and bring him home. Rest assured that wherever he may be, he remains in the loving care of our Lord.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I sincerely hope so.’

  He walk away. Our chests empty of held breath. Solomona and I start explaining to our fellows but we see at once they need few words. The sudden heartache of this family penetrates all, slowing blood flow, turning over minds with horrors. Our finding must be fast and certain. We will go in pairs. We must not separate. All times together. Beware dangers unknown.

  ‘How will we know these unknown dangers?’ ask Pineki.

  ‘Just beware,’ Solomona tells him.

  ‘Can we eat before we go?’ Luka is hungry.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And tapu places? Where are they? How will we know them?’ This is Vilipate’s question.

  Heathen superstitions, I have heard Mrs Reverend say from time to time. Mr Reverend hush her, gently. We have our own, he say. We simply give them different names.

  In English, Solomona whisper quickly to me:

  ‘Shall we ask Mr Peacock?’

  I reply in our tongue. Not to chastise but to be fair and free with our knowledge.

  ‘No. I think he is not a man with patience for tapu.’

  ‘Yes. You are right.’ Solomona puts his fingertips together and cough a little before he answer. I nod my head, gather attention.

  ‘I think you will know a tapu place when you see it. There will be a sign. Just must beware. Take care with every footstep.’

  He coughs, uncertain of his next words. But I know what they will be. Mr Reverend frowns on fornication. Since our isl
and saw the Light, this sin makes an outcast of you. It will have you expelled from the Fellowship of the Church, weeded and thrown away like a tare come up with wheat. We have learned to skip clear of fornication at every cost.

  Now Solomona whispers his reminder: ‘And never forget the strong request of Mr Reverend: watch yourself with the young ladies at all times. Do not be alone with them.’

  BEFORE

  There was nothing to show another person had ever walked this way before.

  ‘Come and see the lagoon. We have a lagoon.’

  Albert, colour returning to his cheeks, swept an arm behind him. Queenie, suddenly awed, slipped a hand into Lizzie’s. The children hung back so that Ma could lead the way, as Pa would expect.

  ‘Never waste a journey,’ she reminded. Everyone picked up as much as they could carry, Billy unsteady under the weight and bulk of the camp oven, while Sal made circuits of them all, full teats swinging, and called quietly to her puppies, which Ada carried in their crate. The sailors made ready to follow.

  Beyond the sandbanks they found a vivid meadow of shimmering blue. Mounds of billygoat weed stretched before them, flowers like fluffy pincushions. Around the edges of the lagoon – more of a swamp, in truth – the greenery grew lighter and lusher. The waters themselves were already dark and dull, for the shadow of the mountain and the cliffs behind was moving steadily across the bay. In a few hours’ time the sun would go completely, and soon after that the light. The Good Intent, her captain and her crew would also quickly vanish. Could they delay that moment, Lizzie wondered, wavering?