by Lydia Syson
The worst to watch is Mrs Peacock. Her grief floats in her wake. Every day there is more labour in her walking. Lumbered with the growing child inside her, lumbered with living, limbs barely at her bidding, she wades through each hour like one trying to remember how bones and muscles work. On the fifth morning, as we break our fast, Mrs Peacock breaks her silence on her son. She speaks of the lake. Like a fruit bat’s wings brushing the treetops, thoughts pass sluggishly across her children’s faces before they hang. What if her beautiful boy is underwater? Mr Peacock protests, says he has looked there, several times, and surely would have seen him. How hard has he looked? Hard enough, he says. But the mother is firm; she knows the drowned take time to make themselves known. She finds me out – the swimming fellow – with beseeching eyes which do not leave me until, with Solomona’s blessing, I agree to search.
We make our way there together, two by two. It’s a strange bare lakeshore of strange light stones, and the water is warm and green, soothing at first to my open eyes, used to saltier swims. The bottom falls away sharply and is quickly lost to me. I see nothing but weeds. I feel nothing. Each time I swim a little further and dive a little deeper, and each time I rise, failing, gasping more, until Solomona pulls me from the water.
‘Enough,’ he whispers urgently, holding me fast. ‘We do not want a second body gone. I need you.’
I have been under so long this time that I have barely breath to answer, but I tighten my hand on his wrist, and nod, and agree to swim no more. My brother needs me. It is enough. I need him too, never more than when his heart is here with me, in this world, seeing me as I am, not as he would have me. Stay too, Solomona, rush my thoughts. Let us both live fully our lives on earth together. We cannot always think of heaven, no matter who waits for us there.
As we return, Mrs Peacock leans on her husband, every step a breathless effort, a kind of sob. For the rest of that day, we say only what we need, only to each other, and there is no more talking palagi to islander. The work of eating and living does not stop. We fellows, still here and hungry, must be fed, and sheltered before the weather turns. Day six, we search again, from dawn, and harvest nothing. What more can we do?
At long last, Mr Peacock summons us to speak of our other work, the work we came here to do. I cannot look at Mrs Peacock then, or at the children. When they see this other work commence, they will know that our master has surrendered expectation of finding Albert living. We have crossed a threshold to another place. Life must continue on this island without the boy. Mr Peacock quiets our murmurings with flattened hands. Accepts this truth, unspoken. Bows his head in reverence. And then resumes his talk.
‘Time and tide wait for no man.’ Pronouncing each word with care, he tells us that he works as hard as he can, always, from sunrise to sunset, and so does Mrs Peacock and so do all the children, great and small, and we have seen all this, and thus we too must work. There can be no easy come, easy go South Sea nonsense here, he says.
Vilipate catches, somehow, his drift, and indignation lights his face. But Mr Peacock is quick to say he has no worries on that score. That is why he sent specially for us, not some other kanakas from some other place. He knows our island, our truly Christian island, and how different it is. Why, all the world now knows this! Sponging dry his flattery, we nod, and tell him it is so.
A stern man, it is clear, but also fair and often kind, and he may prove a decent master. We have little to compare. Judge not, that ye be not judged, I tell myself. We will look for the best place to plant the bananas before they shrivel, we tell him. He listens, heeds our thinking and advising. We say we will make for him a fence to keep the chickens from scitter-scattering, and also a small hut because they like to hide their eggs.
Yet tomorrow cannot be the day to start these labours.
‘One moment, sir,’ begs Solomona, and the time is granted.
After long talking with us, and much more head-nodding, and when he is full certain all our gang have understood every important thing, Solomona face again Mr Peacock. We wait to hear what has taken six full days to say. What he promised Mr Reverend he will say upon our landing.
‘Sir …’ says Solomona.
We wait. I push my brother forward with my thoughts. Go on. Say the words. Be bold.
‘Yes, Solomona?’ For Mr Peacock, Solomona is an easy name to remember and repeat. He uses it often, just to show he know it.
‘Sir, you must know we can do no work on Sundays. We always remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.’
‘Of course, my friend.’
Bluster, I believe, but soon I soften.
‘Tell me,’ our master says. ‘What day is it now? I am losing my way in the week a little, with all that’s passed. Anyway, it’s Mrs P who usually keeps us in line on such matters.’ He need not say more. His wife’s voice has barely sounded since our return from the lake. And she hides her heart too, her ever-sorrowing heart. The children – all but the smallest – tiptoe about both their parents.
‘It is the sixth day, today, sir,’ says Solomona, standing tall, his church face frowning. ‘But the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates.’
Mr Peacock’s flickering eyes fix on Solomona till he quails.
‘Sir?’ What can I say to strengthen my brother? Then our master quietens us both with a dark-lined palm. No explanation needed, he tells us.
‘Of course, of course, I understand. There will be no work on Sundays.’
‘And there will be prayers and thanksgiving,’ insists Solomona, more bravely.
I see Mr Peacock does not like to be told what to do. The fumbling noise in his throat could be yes, could be no. Be careful, Solomona, I say in my head, more cautious now myself. Do not push this man, at this delicate time. He is quickly vexed. I hope not one of us fellows has ever cause to kindle his anger.
But all is well.
‘As always,’ Mr Peacock agrees. ‘Prayers and thanksgiving.’
We walk further on Georgina’s Flat, the lower terrace named for his wife, already planted with grass, which here grows lush as I have never seen before. I smile at Solomona, seeing that he and I share one thought: of pastures green and quiet waters. The surf below this terrace rages, but the pasture here is pleasing. Vilipate kneels down to crumble the earth between his fingers. He smiles, for he thinks this will be easy work, easier by far than at home. The work is closer to the houses too. No walking through bush for hours to reach it. Fine metal tools to work with. All could yet be well. If it were not for the missing boy.
‘You will grow cotton here?’ he ask Mr Peacock, and I turn his words to English, and the new master’s reply back to our tongue.
‘No, no, not cotton … cotton boom’s been and gone. Didn’t you know? Too much from America back on the market now. Since the fighting ended. Is it cotton still you grow back home?’
We all nod.
‘We grow it for the Church,’ explains Solomona. ‘Copra and cotton. And also we send arrowroot. And we pick fungus for the Chinamen – Jew’s ear. We give it to Mr Reverend, and he take care of everything and send all moneys to London to pay for our missionaries and pastors and teachers.’
Mr Peacock looks at Solomona, and turns down his mouth. He hardly believes what he’s hearing, I think.
‘I’m sure he does. He’s blessed indeed. Well, coconuts don’t grow here and arrowroot I haven’t tried and Jew’s ear I’ve never seen – though I know the celestials can’t get enough of it. It’s fruit trees I’m after. All kinds. Oranges I’ve ordered – more oranges that is. And a little flock of sheep is what I’m set on.’
Oranges we see on ships, but they grow not on our island. Sheep we know of, because Mr Reverend has drawn us pictures, because the Lord is our shepherd, and we shall not want. The absence of coconut we feel in our tightening, unoiled skins.
‘First things first.’ Mr Peacock slaps palm against palm, cleaning something away. ‘Can’t have you living here like gypsies. Need to build another house for your gang, don’t we? And after that we can start to clear the upper flat and make the new terrace.’ Something else said over his shoulder, words to the wind: ‘And I suppose you’ll be wanting to build a church here too, and you won’t do that labour on Sundays neither.’
I wonder if he will also build a mourning hut. Then I remember that Mr Reverend has told me this is not the custom for palagi.
*
Eight days missing. Sucking his cheeks, Vilipate looks sideways at Mrs Peacock (slower, slower, and yet slower, all the passing hours). He whispers to me that even as she grows larger, she also seems to shrink.
*
Not too close to the Peacock dwellings, and not too far, we frown and rub our chins and move some rocks, and pace out our spot, and we look at the other huts to see how they build here. After breakfast Mr Peacock will return us to the lake, where we will cut reeds, and these will be the walls to contain us. The children must show us where to find nikau palms, he says, to weave the roof. We set off smartly, and I whisper to Solomona my fear that this may be the time Albert has chosen to rise up through the water, floating, bloated.
‘Indeed,’ he murmurs. ‘We must pray also that the Lord in His mercy will give this family a body they can bid farewell and bury as a Christian.’
‘Nobody speaks of Albert now.’
‘No, but he is there in their thinking, always. He always will be there.’
It has been weeks, maybe months, since I spoke to Solomona of his wife. I thought it was a kindness. Now I do not know.
I quell my worrying there and instead try harder to believe in this boy we have never met. This beautiful beloved boy, precious like china, whose voice has never sounded in my ears, has turned into a broken quockerwodger in my head, a puppet of a person, and I cannot pull the strings to make him dance. I work to conjure him. I open my heart to his spirit. I cannot tell what I am searching for. I feel nothing.
18
OUR HUT IS BUILT – MUCH LIKE THE OTHER FOUR, but rougher because more hasty – and we reach the end of the first day’s clearing.
‘Well, they weren’t wrong about you fellows,’ Mr Peacock tell us. The whole gang shines with sweat, chests and backs full scratched and filthy. Behind us the scrub is lying, dying, drying. Such a fire there will be here when this felled underforest is ready for the flaming. The spark is in our master’s eye. ‘Fine team of bushwhackers I’ve got myself.’
We wipe faces, and roll back the aching from our shoulders, and swing our arms free. Billy does the same, and Luka say proudly:
‘Thank you, sir.’ (Each day I teach the others some few more palagi words to make life smooth and easy.)
‘We’ll break in this island yet, make no mistake,’ says Mr Peacock. ‘We’ll slaughter this forest. Give me another year, and nobody’ll know the place. Our Garden of Eden. Tamed.’
He push back his hat and look up at the mountain rising above the flat and I see in time he means to conquer that, steep sides and all.
‘Sir,’ say Solomona. ‘Our work here is finished for this day?’
‘It is indeed. We’ll head down now and wash up and cool down and see what Mrs P has got ready for our tea tonight. You’ve certainly earned it. Shirts on, boys. Don’t let her see you like this.’
Walking back, Solomona promises Billy that he will play with us when we’ve eaten. The tide is low, and we will teach him cricket on the beach, as Mr Reverend taught us, and Sidney too. Vilipate is surprised he does not know the game – is it not an English game? he asks. Seeing some likely branches a few days ago, he fashioned an ironwood bat, wound with threads, like a short, smooth-ended katoua. Iakopo has sought out softer wood to make our kilikiki balls. A little out of hearing, Luka and Pineki talk of Billy’s father: praise long his courage, his powers of seeing and determining so far ahead, his rock-like will. Such a man, they marvel. Such a man. What could not such a man accomplish? And then we near the huts, full of hunger and thirst, and nothing is ready for the evening meal, and no one to be seen. The goats are noisy. Queenie runs, flapping her arms.
‘Go away, go away!’ She tries to shout and whisper all at once. She has become an important somebody. ‘You can’t come back here now. We’re busy.’
Mr Peacock is in laughing mood, like we’ve never seen before. He tries to swing his daughter to his shoulder to carry her back, but she fights and squirms from him.
‘No, no, Pa, please. Lizzie says it’s not right. You must all leave us be for now.’
Brave, like Lizzie, this one. Her fierce gaze strikes her father, making his sinews stiff. Anger is always quick and close with Mr Peacock. Understanding may follow later.
‘It’s time, is it? I see.’ He puts her down, speaks gently now. ‘How is she doing, your ma?’
Queenie bends her head and softens her voice. And at last I understand that the baby is coming.
‘I don’t know, Pa. Ada is with her. And Lizzie. They’re inside.’
‘Has it been long?’
‘I don’t know. Since this morning. Is that long?’
No answer. His burning is all quenched. Queenie takes his hand.
‘Come with me, Pa. Ada says we must go for a walk together. You and me and Billy. A long walk.’
Solomona tell all the fellows it is time to take ourselves away also. Vilipate smalls his mouth, head-shaking. We take the long way back, on the forest path, disappear into trees, and when we come to the other side, we take our time, washing in the hot spring on the beach, out of sight and far away from the huts. Hunger makes holes in us, but this is not a time for men, and we must have patience. Then Solomona leads us in prayers for the baby coming. They have lost one child, he says. We must beg the dear Lord that they do not lose another.
19
IT SLITHERS OUT WITH UNEXPECTED SPEED, WHITE AND veiled, eyelids pressed shut; a bloodied package of tucked-up, trussed-up limbs and slicked black hair, trailing a glistening, blue-tinted rope. The sight of this marble child in her sister’s hands freezes Lizzie’s veins. She cannot speak, cannot tell her mother what she sees. The silence terrifies. All this time, for this? Ada is too stiff, her eyes too wide, her breathing too quiet.
‘Thank God,’ sighs Ma, who cannot see, who has laboured sheep-like, on the ground, bleating only at the crowning.
‘Ada?’ says Ma, more sharply, lifting a hot and shining face from the pile of blankets in front of her. She reaches quickly between her open thighs for the uncanny parcel of flesh and bones her daughters fear to touch. In the same movement she sits back, without a word, and her fingers peck urgently at the baby’s shoulder, breaking the thin skin which encloses it. She peels the covering away from a blank, unfamiliar face which she holds a few inches from her own, and blows, sharply, on the pale skin.
Her breath seems to give life itself, and Lizzie breathes again. It opens eyes which fail to focus, quickly covered by crumpled lids. Purple thighs flop open, and the knotty, pulsing tube stuck to the baby’s belly only half hides the ungainly fruit between them. When the tiny gummy mouth opens and a thin mewling begins, Lizzie and Ada paw at each other, giggling and gasping, almost weeping. Alive! All is well! Ma smiles too, a crooked, teary smile.
‘That’s better. Now, quickly, girls, get a shawl for your baby brother.’
Ada is soon back, with covering for mother and child. She wraps them up together, and rubs the double bundle. Lizzie stands transfixed, the piece of skin which moments earlier contained her brother hanging from her hand. She knows it’s special. She knows her brother Albert was also born veiled like this. His shrivelled caul is somewhere safe. Ma knows where. The last bit of him she still has. The story always repeated was that it was his luck, that he would never drown, but Albert had not been lucky, and it hadn’t saved him.
20
TO PASS THE TIME WE TELL STORIES OF HOME AND it seems easy to forget roaring b
ellies in our hunger to be elsewhere. When the first stars shine, a lurching figure comes through the dusk. Rolling and ringing and singing, it stops and starts. A belch. Then a call to us.
‘Kanakas! Hey, you! Kanaka boys. Come over here, my kanakas!’
We have lost our names. He thinks to own us.
Like a foreman, not a pastor, Solomona raises us to our feet with a quick head-jerk. Mr Peacock stand before us, swaying. He stares most hard but his eyes wander.
‘Here. This’s for you.’ He hold out a bottle, and wipe its lip. ‘I wan’ you to toas’ my boy. My new boy. My little boy. My baby boy. My boy Joseph.’
Pineki starts forward, eager-face and pleasing, so I hold him back with a fistful of shirtcloth. Solomona speaks for us.
‘Thank you, sir. No, sir. No liquor for us, Mr Peacock.’ Quietly, in our language, he remind us: ‘Liquor is an abomination in the sight of our Lord. We have not come here to be educated in vice. Remember what Mr Reverend has preached to us. Remember the Mission ship wrecked on our reef by the drunkenness of its captain? Remember Noah.’
I remember reports of the wealth in the hold of the old John Williams, the surprise of it. The questions it provoked. The needle’s eye. I remember too the day when Mr Reverend spoke of the state of some of our boys in Apia, talking of vice and habits and disease, and started to say – then quickly stop himself – that it might be better if some of our Rock’s wanderers never returned. Forgive me, he said. Do not concern yourself unduly. The risk of degeneracy must be lower of course when a Fellowship fellow travels from a small and remote island to another which is smaller and yet more remote, he told me.