Another Throw of The Dice

by Mary Clare Morganti

  Chapter 34

  The evening meal was a simple one of taro and fish cooked in coconut cream, which was a relief for Polly who had dreaded having to eat the prevalent tinned fish. It reminded her of the food they gave Mr Mouse the family cat, back home. Before eating, a long grace was recited with bowed heads and hands joined in prayer. It was an age since Polly had said grace before meals and she remembered how in her budding adolescence, she thought it was more fitting to thank her hard-working mother than a putative deity. She had even gone so far as to devise an alternative formula to recognise her mother’s effort but it was dropped into the abyss of minor rebellion.

  Luisa, the only daughter of the family had arrived home shortly before the meal and Polly recognised her from the bank where she was a teller. She was strikingly beautiful with thick glossy hair contained in two plaits which reached to her waist. Surrounded by the strong dark looks of the family, Polly felt insipid and conscious of her freckles and pale green eyes. In her the Irish genes were dominant while some of her siblings were hispanic in appearance and would not have looked out of place in this household.

  Luisa invited her to go with her the next day to her aunt’s house where they were preparing a series of short plays for White Sunday when the children of the church performed and were the centre of attention. Polly accepted enthusiastically saying that listening to the children’s language would be good experience.

  As they walked to the aunt’s house in the morning Polly looked longingly at the irresistible lagoon where one lone person stood fully clothed, waist deep in the water. In this subsistence economy, the sea was just another source of food and not also the pleasure locus she was used to. She asked Luisa about her life in the village, hoping to get an understanding of whether she longed to have other experiences beyond its confines. Like Eturasi, she had spent time overseas and had come back to what she considered her ancestral land.

  ‘In overseas countries, we have to work at the bottom of the ladder and send the money home. The climate is much colder and we have to spend more money on clothes so I would rather stay here. Perhaps I am lucky because my father is a pastor and we have plenty of money. It might be different if we were very poor.’

  ‘Do you want to get married?’

  ‘That is a problem and I might have to leave for a while to find a husband.’ She laughed a high-pitched laugh.

  She was curious to know why Polly had come to the country when she lived in the richest country in the world, so Polly had to revert to English to explain that her country’s very self-sufficiency had made her curious about the rest of the world.

  ‘My mother came from Mexico so at least we knew something about a place outside of the United States.’

  When they arrived among the children Polly found herself chatting to them in their language and once again, some of them giggled while she noticed one or two serious little faces staring at her. (Those freckles again!) The first little drama they were preparing was the story of the Prodigal Son which Polly thought rather fitted the local scene. The little boy who returned to a riotous welcome home strutted around like a small celebrity, while a group of supporters looked genuinely outraged at the treatment meted out to the stay-at-home.

  She told Luisa that she wanted to find a shop to buy some lolly water for the children and she was directed to a tiny shed just around the bend in the road. One of the older boys who went with her to help her carry the load was shy and silent until they returned and Polly asked him to distribute the booty. Transformed by absolute authority he was a study in crowd control. After that, the children gathered around Polly and all talked at once and corrected her mistakes with disarming honesty. She was asked where her children were and looked sorry to hear that she did not have any.

  They returned to the pastor’s house for the evening prayer when Polly had her first feeling of estrangement and realised how far she had travelled from her childhood beliefs. She tried to look devout out of respect for her hosts. Jupeli and his parents had been busy preparing the church in the afternoon and Luisa showed Polly the wonderful flowers which her mother had spread around the altar area. The church was an imposing white concrete elevation which towered over the rest of the village with its curving double balustrade and pilasters painted powder blue. In front of the building was a stretch of mown grass where a volley ball net was ready to provide sport on the Sabbath for the youth of the village.

  Early in the morning Polly woke to a familiar sound and she presumed it was Jupeli outside sitting on the plastic chair rhythmically scraping a coconut for the special Sunday meal. She lay inundated by her dream in which she had conjured up a conglomerate of multi-storeyed houses without doors, with people hanging out of high windows calling to her in unintelligible languages. She made no attempt to relate the dream to her situation or interpret its meaning but it felt like returning from a distant place where there was a hint of danger. She wondered how Jim and his mother were getting on and whether Jim was missing her yet. Their present situation could not be more remote from each other and she didn’t know whether their relationship depended on propinquity. Time would tell.

  She got up when she heard the family moving around down below and wrapped herself in her lava lava to go downstairs and join the family in a cup of tea. More than anything she wanted to go for an early swim and wondered if she could ask for permission on the Lord’s Day.

  Chapter 35

  The Sunday service was a revelation both for its religious aspect and its sociological one.

  The giving of tithes and the announcement of individual family donations shocked Polly. It was no wonder that the Kolose family lived comfortably. The stout progressions of the well-known Wesleyan hymns were another big difference from the often jaunty piping of her Catholic childhood, while the music produced by those sturdy throats belting out their four- part harmonies made her hair stand on end. She thought how fortunate it was that they almost drowned out the hurdy-gurdy sound of the tinny harmonium. She so wished Jim was beside her!

  To her surprise, she found herself wallowing in sensual satisfaction with the amazing singing, the interpolations of sea sounds and the waft of the village ovens promising the ritual meal. But she knew that she was responding to the accidents of the experience while the essence of the worship eluded her. She remained very much the outsider.

  As she walked out of the church she saw Jupeli standing below the balustrade and smiling warmly at her.

  ‘Could you follow the service?’ he asked.

  ‘Parts of it - but I didn’t need to - I was so thrilled by the singing. How is it that you all have such marvellous voices?’

  ‘We start when we’re kids and it is just what we do all the time I s’pose.’ He wanted to know if there was any food which she didn’t like, because the meal was ready and he hoped she would enjoy it. Polly smiled gratefully and said she’d be fine.

  After the meal everyone retired for a short siesta before the next session at the church was to begin. Polly lay on the bed and mused about the role of religion in the lives of the people who seemed to be completely wrapped up in it. It was so integral that she wondered if anybody ever questioned its doctrinal foundation. What would happen to anyone who did so she wondered, because they would sacrifice their social well-being and be cast into outer darkness. When she had told her parents that she didn’t believe any more in the tenets of her upbringing her mother, in particular, had been very upset, but she allowed herself to be convinced by her husband that Polly had a right to her own convictions and life at home went on as before. She had found that her father enjoyed some of their discussions.

 

  She was woken by a short shower of rain which was amplified by the tin roof and she got up to shut the louvres. Outside there was a healthy- looking pig snuffling around the grass where the food had been cooked. These animals held a privileged place in the life of the village but when the time came for slaughter, it was a grisly process which many expats criticised fo
r its cruelty. The problem was that it was carried out within earshot of other people while industrialised slaughter was out of sight and earshot.

  Luisa appeared at the door of the bedroom and asked Polly if she would like something to drink before the next church service.

  ‘Do you want to go to the church again? You don’t have to you know.’

  ‘I want to hear more fantastic singing.’

  The white-clad faithful began their walk along the road with umbrellas and bibles tucked under their arms. The large white hats appeared to Polly as a badge of womanhood and the tailored black lava lavas with buckled hip belts worn by the men, recalled the Sunday Best of her mother’s day. The sun’s rays were penetrating the western windows of the church now and a somnolent warmth, untempered by the morning breeze threatened to put Polly back to sleep. Her attentiveness was undermined and when she was woken suddenly by her head falling on to her chest, she opened her eyes wide and blinked hard several times. Luisa sitting next to her, turned and smiled sympathetically.

  When at last release came from the tedium, she told Luisa that she would like to go for a walk along the beach. She felt as if she needed to gather her thoughts about the weekend experience which was nearly over. While she was sitting on a rock at the water’s edge, Jupeli came to ask her if she was feeling unhappy. She laughed and asked him why he thought that way.

  ‘You are alone.’

  ‘I like to be alone sometimes. What about you?’ He said he was never alone and he didn’t think he’d like it.

  ‘Don’t you ever go for a walk so you can enjoy the beautiful nature that is all around you?’

  ‘Only when I have to go to the next village and there is no pickup to take me.’

  Polly tried to explain that in some parts of the world it was so crowded with people that it was almost a luxury to have some time alone but here nature was dominant and the need wasn’t great perhaps. Jupeli suggested that they walk along the beach to the turn in the road where they could see the surf beach where they had met. There was time before the prayer bell summoned everyone back to the village and Polly could learn new words and expressions to describe the natural objects along the water’s edge.

  It was disturbing to find plastic flotsam encroaching at the water’s edge and Polly asked Jupeli where it might have come from. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Perhaps the container ships in the harbour.’

  As they walked silently around and over the rocks, Polly grappled with some incoherent thoughts about pristine beauty and people living a traditional lifestyle for centuries being unprepared to deal with an invasion of industrialised detritus. Plastic in its multitude of forms had long since displaced more organic materials, signalling development in the global mind. For Polly, it was so much part of her environment that it was only here and now that she was confronting its unnatural qualities. Had Jim been there instead of Jupeli, they would have discussed the topic with passion probably, but it was unlikely that she could test her ideas with Jupeli.

  As they rounded the bend and saw the surf rolling in from the gap in the reef they looked at each other in recognition of Polly’s solitary swim, but she quickly looked away and started to scrape the sand with her toe. From this vantage point she could see the danger. She sat down on a rock and stirred the pool water with her toes and Jupeli walked into the water up to his waist.

  Chapter 36

  Peter had managed to cover a lot of territory in a hired car and he and Min went into the town for an evening meal whenever the chore of concocting something did not appeal. He brought up the subject again of buying a car and taking advantage of his help in the undertaking and Min had begun to warm to the idea, regardless of any rules to the contrary.

  ‘Let’s say that my martyrdom is wearing thin and that you’ve been sent on a mission to save me from myself.’

  ‘Glad to be of service Ma’am.’

  The next afternoon, he went to the High Commission to have a look through the newspapers which were part of his daily diet at home. He was sitting in the waiting area when a voice said,

  ‘Peter Percival, I do believe.’

  He looked up and saw his old friend from his university debating days and leapt to his feet.

  ‘And what are you doing in this outpost of empire?’ They shook hands energetically.

  ‘Writing memos mostly. What are you doing - beach-combing or some vital anthropological research among the local beauties?’

  ‘You haven’t changed Rowan McInerney - still rapier-witted and the scourge of the unwary.’

  After this ritual banter they agreed to meet for a beer at the end of the afternoon and to exchange hard facts.

  Peter asked for advice about buying a car and explained how he hoped to help his friend who was initially reluctant to own what he had almost convinced her was a basic necessity.

  ‘It’s incredibly hard slog in a climate you’re not used to and she’s looking exhausted.’

  ‘I’m finishing my tour of duty in a few weeks and I was hoping to sell my car. Would she be interested?’

  Peter said it might depend on the price and Rowan pointed out that he’d be prepared to sell it duty-free as he had bought it.

  ‘You’re a decent chap after all,’ laughed Peter.

  ‘Well it would save me the hassle of flogging it off on the local market and left-hand drives aren’t much use at home after all.’

  Min was excited when Peter reported his afternoon’s activity and said that the gods had spoken.

  It had been arranged to go to Rowan McInerney’s house for a meal the following Saturday when Min could have a test drive. She wondered how she’d manage to drive on the right and Peter told her that was the least of the problems. Avoiding other drivers cutting corners and barging through intersections would be what to watch out for.

  Michael joined Min and Peter at the local hostelry one evening as planned, and he confessed to feeling unsettled in recent weeks. The prospect of the rainy season had set him thinking about a break somewhere, away from the heavy insistent heat.

  ‘The Trans-Siberian railway might be the ticket,’ said Min flippantly, but she got no reaction. Instead, Peter asked Michael if he had been to New Zealand.

  ‘Only in transit - coming here.’

  Peter said he had friends with a “crib” near the beach at the top end of the south island and it was often let out to friends. The temperature would be much cooler and at this time it was almost bound to be empty, so should he make enquiries? When he heard that the fishing was pretty good and the locals a mixed bunch, Michael agreed to take the idea further.

  Plenty of wine and the hot night air injected some honest banter into the dialogue and Michael asked Peter if he knew anything about the local phenomenon of “fa’afa’afine”. The latter laughed and said he hadn’t had time to do any on the spot research but he’d heard about these feminised men. Michael said he found the subject fascinating - but academically, he added. Min had never seen this side of Michael and she wondered how far the conversation would go.

  ‘You’re probably too much the macho Aussie male to do research in depth,’ said Peter in a burst of candour which made Min steer the conversation into more well-worn trans-Tasman banter.

  ‘Have you any preconceptions about New Zealand - apart from the sheep jokes?’

  ‘Only that it’s a stronghold of dour Presbyterian Scots who are not famous for their rambunctiousness - I’ve been told - but I’m prepared to revise that impression.’

  ‘While Oz is a stronghold of mad Irish larrikins, famous for their pursuit of hedonism,’ countered Peter.

  ‘Aha - but you’ve forgotten the influence of Holy Mother Church and her operatives who had a mandate to rein in our excesses by uttering threats of hellfire.’

  Peter said that HMC had branches in New Zealand where according to his dear friend Min (he put his arm around her shoulders affectionately), the spirit was almost extinguished and replaced by a desire for self fla
gellation, using the same methods. Michael said he had recognised a kindred spirit in Min and he looked at her with a sort of bleary fondness.

  ‘You wouldn’t be good for each other,’ Peter ventured, ‘because you’ve both been forged in the same fire.’

  ‘Oh shut up!’ said Min, wriggling her shoulders free. ‘Don’t come the big brother with your amateur psychology.’ She poured another glass of wine and took a gulp.

  ‘I’m sorry Pete - you touched a nerve, and what I’m trying to say is that

  I have to grow up in my own way and in my own time.’

  Michael emptied the last of the wine into Peter’s glass and said he’d enquire about flights to New Zealand before he asked for time off at the hospital.

  ‘If all the folk in Enzed are like you two, it’ll be a jolly time I’m thinking. I really appreciate your offer Peter. The meal’s on me, by the way.’

  As he drove them home Michael said he was feeling almost lighthearted which was a sensation he hadn’t had for a very long time.

  ‘Good bloke,’ said Peter later, ‘and no fool I’d say.’

  Min said nothing but thought to herself that the Lucky persona was less in evidence and wondered why.

  Chapter 37

  Robert had to visit the Big Island on forestry business and he wanted to go before the wet weather started in earnest. He was keen for Dinah to go with him because he also, like Polly, wanted to stay in a village instead of in the forestry complex where he had stayed every other time. Dinah had been thinking for some time of enrolling in a correspondence course in early childhood education, so she agreed to go with Robert because her hours in the library were still very flexible. She was apprehensive about sanitary arrangements which Robert countered by talking about those feisty Victorian women who, swathed in voluminous garments, rode on camels through deserts and swamps.

  ‘OK, OK - I’m not Victorian and I’m not feisty - just a pampered Australian female who likes to know where the nearest powder room is.’