Another Throw of The Dice

by Mary Clare Morganti

  ‘Just before Christmas.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go now. I must say it’s a relief to know that you’ll be here next year.’

  Min explained that her friend was hoping to be able to help and perhaps she could do the same at the college over the next week or two.

  When she got back to the house Jim was there looking unkempt and different. He had come to borrow Robert’s cut throat razor because he had only an electric one.

  ‘I like your new look,’ said Min. ‘It’s sort of venerable.’

  He was adamant that veneration was not what he was after and anyhow

  Polly hated it.

  Robert had to advise him in the primitive art of shaving in cold water and finally Jim decided to stay bearded until the power came on.

  ‘Come to think of it - what did the natives use in days gone by?’

  Min was surprised to hear Robert go into detail about shells and certain tree secretions. When she asked him later how he knew all this he said he’d made it up on the spur of the moment.

  ‘I was completely convinced you dark old horse.’

  That evening she told him what the Principal had suggested and he agreed that Min should try and change her airline ticket.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You need company if you’re going to stay and help.’

  Robert was tempted to mention martyrdom but he stopped himself in time, remembering Min’s sensitivities about that word. However she anticipated his reaction.

  ‘And I’m not being a martyr either - in case you’re about to say so.’

  The night had closed in and there was no moon so Min lit all the candles they had hoarded.

  Robert said he wanted to get something off his chest which related to the discussion they had had earlier. Min’s pulse quickened - wondering what he was about to reveal.

  ‘I’ve never told Dinah anything about my early life - partly because such things didn’t seem to interest her and deep down I thought she might not respect me. One has to choose one’s confidantes carefully.’ He glanced up at Min who frowned with a stab of anxiety. Sensitively, he was seeking reassurance and after a moment of silence said,

  ‘It’s hard to know where to begin - except…’(he stroked his face and stretched his eyes wide), ‘there was a day when I was at high school - which is like yesterday - it was a moment when things changed so much.’ He stared at the backs of his hands and then his fingernails as if they held his secrets. Min waited quietly while he found a starting point.

  ‘A new bloke came to our class - which in itself is not noteworthy - but it turned out that his mother had known my father when they were young

  - y’know - late teens. I knew that my father died in England of war wounds when I was a baby so I never knew him but I was proud because he was a sort of war hero. Well - this jerk asked me how my father was and of course I said that he’d died in the war.’ Robert sniffed and rubbed his hand over his forehead again. Min felt uncomfortable as she watched him uncover his hidden wound.

  ‘The next day this creep came up to me and said that his mother had heard a different story and he wondered how that happened. I told the sod to fuck off and I tried to ignore him but it preyed on my mind so one night I told my mother what I’d heard. She started to cry and I freaked out and yelled at her and then went to bed feeling angry and hoodwinked somehow. I didn’t speak to her for a while - maybe because I was scared of hearing a different story from the one I knew.’ He looked directly at Min. ‘Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes - I can,’ she said quietly. She added that lying to children was legitimised by some misguided idea that they couldn’t handle the truth. Robert said that he was sure that that was the reason for his anger, especially when he found out that his father had returned from the war mentally ill and had died in a psychiatric hospital not long before this episode at the school.

  ‘I realised then, that that was why I went to stay with my grandparents sometimes - because my mother went to visit my father who was in another city.’

  Min said she understood what he said about lonely pain and what a loss of trust must mean in later life. She went over and put her arm around him and he leaned his head on her shoulder. With a deep sigh he looked up and took hold of Min’s chin.

  ‘The bloody cyclone has made me soft in the head.’

  ‘No. We are all vulnerable - that’s all,’ she murmured.

  Chapter 85

  Within two weeks of the cyclone’s ravage through the small island group the Pacific neighbours had rallied to assist and worried relatives had been able to check on family members caught up in the vortex. This first stage with its casualty statistics and requests for specific help from outside agencies, moved into another stage of counting the cost to the economy of the destruction of crops. For those faced with the reconstruction of housing and the water supply along with the replanting of crops in a wasted landscape, a period of real slog began. At the same time a cloud of mourning hovered over everything.

  Eturasi was at the centre of the problems faced by the country as he tried to assemble facts and figures and instances of generosity among the people. In all his dreams of the future he could not have envisaged such a set-back but he was resolved to resist the siren call from overseas relatives - for himself at least. He and Luatasi discussed sending the girls away during the period of disruption for their educational benefit, but the older one asked to stay. One of Luatasi’s cousins had lost a child in the cyclone and this might have sharpened her loyalty to the local family.

  The newspaper office became the unofficial centre for information and practical assistance and Polly took leave from her easy-going job in the archives office to help with administration and record-keeping. Jim had gone to a village to help with clearing and replanting so Polly asked Min if she could stay with her when Robert left for the hinterland. So far he was kept busy cleaning and sorting at the office where part of the roof had gone. The other staff had to remain in their villages so he was relieved to be available for the town job.

  Min’s classes had resumed but the numbers were severely reduced. This meant that the programme had to be suspended and new work was required in the meantime. She and Robert were relaxed with each other and he had moved into a phase which they called contented fatalism. Min reflected on her relationships with her friends and rejoiced at the richness of the world as it had opened up to her during the past two years. If only Michael would get in touch. In this circumstance no news was not good news. Surely he had heard about the cyclone and would be concerned for his friends.

  One afternoon as they were sitting in the Seasider which like Gerard had managed to resume a semblance of normal service, they were joined by Semese. He said that things at the hospital were more or less back to normal and some medical students from Australia had come to help over their summer vacation. Some of the regular staff were marooned in their villages. When Min asked him if he had heard from Michael he shook his head.

  ‘I was hoping that perhaps you had. It’s a worry because the last time I spoke to him on a bad line, he sounded down. I told him how much we missed him at the hospital but he wasn’t impressed.’

  Min was unable to talk frankly about Michael’s problems with Semese, in Robert’s presence, so instead Semese asked Robert if he had solved his exit problem.

  ‘I’d hoped you had managed to get away before this calamity.’

  ‘All is forgiven and Robert is volunteering to help when he’s asked.’ Min smiled as she looked at Robert who surprised her by saying that he was going to stay on indefinitely.

  ‘All hands to the pump,’ laughed Semese mirthlessly. ‘I’ve been thinking about the grim forecasts for this part of the world if and when the seas rise. Our way of life with all our lovely coastal settlements will be history. An event like this has reminded me that we inhabit a dynamic planet where nothing is certain except uncertainty.’<
br />
  ‘Where’s your faith in God?’

  Semese frowned. ‘You know - he seems like an absentee landlord whose tenants are writhing in insecurity.’

  ‘It’s an interesting analogy if you believe in Him in first place.’

  ‘Like that bloke - that Frenchman wasn’t it? - I’m hedging my bets.’

  When Semese had gone Min said how she envied people like him who were schooled in two cultures.

  ‘I realise how much more problematic it is for Maori back home, whose culture has had a struggle to keep a firm foothold in the dominant culture.’

  ‘Living here has thrown Maori culture into relief for me,’ said Robert.

  ‘God - when you think of how they found Aotearoa (as you called it) in the first place and survived in what was an inhospitable neck of the woods. Fruit didn’t drip off the trees and coconuts fall at their feet. Fern roots couldn’t have been that appetising.’

  ‘What I’ve come to appreciate too is the brilliance of Maori art. Functionality doesn’t seem to have been the motivation to the extent that it has been here - more art for art’s sake.’

  ‘We’re beginning to sound nostalgic,’ said Robert. ‘Do you think we’ll feel the same when we get home?’

  ‘Of course. Why not?’ Min took a last swig of her beer and stood up. ‘I need some inspiration about what I’m teaching tomorrow. No more intellectualising - it’s back to hard facts, like the inflection of the third person singular!’

  ‘Mystification, jargon - just another form of power.’ Robert leaned on his folded arms. ‘I’m off back to the menial task of putting new glass in windows.’

  ‘Good. Shall I pick you up?’

  ‘Give me a couple of hours.’

  Chapter 86

  The bus was full of excited youngsters going into the mountains for what must have been the first time. Two older people who, Michael presumed were teachers, were full of information about the flora as it changed with the gradual change in altitude. Michael was sitting behind the driver on the left and every now and again the cheerful fellow looked in the rear vision mirror and smiled in a comradely way.

  During a rest stop near a takeaway bar when the coach emptied for a stretching of legs as the driver said, Michael went for a walk among the trees beside the road and he recalled the turbulent history of this now peaceful place. This was Ned Kelly country. Most Australians had a soft spot for the colonial outlaw and Michael was no exception. He recalled his recurring dream in which a mounted policeman, like a representative of righteousness, disturbed him with an unspoken accusation. Part of the Kelly story concerned the dedicated pursuit of the non-conformist Irish family by the guardians of the law.

  Back on the bus the driver began a pæan in praise of the packed lunch, prompted by the sight of pies and chips and bottles of coca-cola which came on board with the other passengers. Michael heard how his mother had packed him a lunch of vegemite and lettuce sandwiches almost every day of his school career and how his mouth watered now at the memory. Even now his wife was happy to pack him lunch so that he didn’t have to rely on dodgy food sitting around on shelves for God knows how long.

  ‘As long as I can get a nice hot cup of tea I’m as happy as Larry,’ he said to the mirror. Michael nodded and wondered - not for the first time - who Larry was. He wouldn’t have minded swapping places with that epitome of cheer.

  After the food disappeared the young students began to doze while the few adults chatted. Michael began to think about the cyclone which had been reported on the television with graphic pictures of a torn scathed land. He had seen a beachfront that was unrecognisable and he thought of his friends and colleagues trying to put things back together. He considered making a call to the hospital but in his present frame of mind he was unwilling to hear of any more misery. His self-absorption had become all-enveloping to the exclusion of compassion for others and he watched his mechanical interactions like a bored spectator. He did wonder briefly if the external turmoil would have temporarily obliterated the internal. Or it could have been the coup de grâce?

  The next morning after a night in a warm lodge near the winter snowline he ate a light breakfast and preparing to walk further up, he put on the heavy boots and warm gear which he had brought. He left his lighter clothing in the room which he reserved for another night and he talked briefly to the manager when he gave Michael a pamphlet showing the various walking tracks.

  The day was sunny with the crisp bracing air he had often fondly remembered when he was sweating in the clammy tropics. The welcome astringent feel it gave him lifted his spirits for the first time in ages and as he stepped out, he felt almost jaunty. With the majority of the population immersed in the headlong rush to Christmas few visitors had escaped the heat and frenzy of the cities so he was alone, except for two heavily- laden tourists who saluted him as they passed on their way down the hill.

  The track he chose went almost straight up to where the vegetation thinned out and the rocks jutted sturdily. Rocks had always appealed to him for their perennial witness to the story of the planet and if he had not studied medicine he might have chosen geology. It would not have led him to the place he was now…

  “Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my church and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it” was the founding slogan he had so often heard resounding from the pulpit; the image of the rock had also been a powerful anchor for his developing mind.

  The first fleck of snow gave him a thrill of surprise and he stretched out his hand to touch it. So far the only snow he had known was the warm cotton wool in the Christmas manger. He kept walking hoping to see more substantial amounts of this novelty until he was suddenly surrounded by mist which blocked out the rocks beyond. It was suddenly icy cold and it felt like a white darkness where nothing was visible beyond his outstretched hand. He sat on a flattish rock and stared into the vapour which he hoped the midday sun would soon penetrate. It was a good time to have a drink as a displacement activity while a way up might become clear. The warmth of the coffee suffused his chest, raising his temperature and lifting his spirit. He would save the rest of the warm liquid for later, so he stowed the flask in his pack and sat motionless in the padded silence.

  He felt calm and contemplative. What was the difference between the heavens (plural) and heaven (singular)? It suddenly came to him that to speak of “the heavens” was to imply a certain awe at the magnificence of the knowable. To speak of “heaven” was to posit a panacea for the groping spirit. Images of angels smiling contentedly plucking their harps on layers of cloud made him smile with one side of his mouth. Shedding these infantile images and growing up was a mixed blessing; a rational mind brought responsibilities often with little comfort.

  Being enclosed in a cocoon of whiteness reminded him of the first experience he had had under water in the world of fish. It was such a different medium that a sense of panic had begun to encroach on his thoughts. He told himself to relax so that he could manage the environment and keep his brain in charge. He remembered how this had focused his mind on the beauty and not the danger of his surroundings. He had overcome the panic then and enjoyed the challenge of what was a different world - and must do the same again and allow the infinite variety of the earth to dazzle his mind.

  Chapter 87

  The cyclone had driven a stake through the heart of the country and cut a swathe through the emotions of the people, because heartbreak in a small compact society is like a stone in a millpond. Even expatriates who had settled into the easy rhythm of the tropics, found themselves dispossessed of a way of living which had gradually taken hold, and in which the glitzy shop frontages and mass transit systems had been replaced by the intensely blue sea by day and the scintillation of stars by night. Everything had been shattered by what was in fact a brief and terrifying onslaught.

  It became a time of questioning and decision-making. For some it was a sort of awakening to a personal reality which had been on hold for want of urgency.
For the lotus-eaters it was a moment of truth. For those with family responsibilities this was a time of adjustment and endurance.

  The arduous rebuilding of the economy and fragile institutions required leadership and dedication. To bail out was an option for some, but the needs of the country ruled this out for those who like Eturasi could see a role in maintaining morale.

  The spirit of the core population derived in part from its continuity of occupation and perhaps from a collective dreamtime when the wrath of the gods had been made manifest. What was different in this time was access to help from beyond the country itself.

  A clarion call had gone out to all those family members living overseas and they had responded with sacrificial generosity. Remittances from abroad were part of the normal economy anyway but now the funds increased enormously. A new cadre of non-government officials arrived to help with repairing infrastructure on behalf of donors, while clearance of the land strewn with fallen trees like matchsticks was a priority for replanting.

  Robert and Min had reached a domestic understanding but often he did not return if he was working at a distant village. When Min’s telephone was reconnected she and her old friend from the post office were reacquainted and she heard how members of his village had been cut off for two weeks by the washed out coastal road. The telephone service did not extend to that part of the island so it was necessary to wait for machinery to be brought in to move the earth barrier and it had been an anxious wait to know if anyone had died.

  ‘My old grandfather died after the cyclone was over and it was probably shock which killed him. There was no food or water for all the time they were cut off.’

  Min expressed her sympathy and asked about the supply of replacement cables. She hoped she was not depriving anybody in greater need.

  ‘We are better off now with the extra help from donor countries,’ Mr Telefono smiled in recollection. He asked about her experience of the cyclone all on her own.

  She described the slow and ferocious destruction and the sharing of resources with Robert. Then the obvious question.

  ‘He is your husband then?’

  Min laughed and said, ‘No he’s not.’