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Revised edition copyright © 2012 by Colin Falconer
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author and publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Electronic ISBN 9781621250210
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CORRIGAN’S RUN
Colin Falconer
Prologue
November 1939
‘The Japanese can never take Singapore. It's impregnable. Isn’t it?’
The District Officer was dressed in just khaki shirt and shorts; the sweat glistened at his temple and in the hollow at his throat. ‘Of course. But we have to be prepared for every eventuality.’
‘Well you can count me in, sir. I'll do anything I can.’
‘Good man. I have a document here you might like to read. It explains the sort of show we expect from our Coastwatching teams. And there's some sheets from Jane's Fighting Ships. They might come in useful for identification.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Speed is of the essence, don’t you know. You'll have to set up a camp somewhere with a view commanding the western passages so that you can report enemy movements immediately.’
‘I understand.’
‘You won't be in any danger, old boy. If the Japanese do make a move the real battlefield will be in Malaya.’
The DO turned away and stared at the metallic blue waters of White Bone Bay. There was a white froth of breakers on the reef. The palms swayed in the north-west monsoon, and swallows glided and twisted among the flame trees.
It was inconceivable that war could touch these dreamy backwaters. ‘Do you really think this will happen, sir?’
‘We all hope not, Manning. It won't be easy for the Empire to fight a war on two fronts. Not if this bother in Europe is still going at Christmas.’
‘I won't let you down, sir.’
‘I know you won’t.’ The older man looked at his watch. ‘Now then, what about a drink? Then I'll try and explain a bit more to you about this blessed radio.’
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Santa Maria, Solomon Islands, December 1941
According to Father Goode, the worst thing Corrigan ever did was impregnate his housekeeper during the Sunday service.
It was a hot morning during the monsoon of 1941. Inside the Catholic mission the faithful were dragging themselves through another verse of Father Goode's favorite hymn, ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers . . .’
Thump!
Something had fallen against the bamboo wall of the church. Father Goode looked up from the piano, his forehead creased into a frown. He continued to hammer out the chords on the keys of the tuneless piano. ‘Marching as to war ...’
Thump!
The flimsy wall creaked and swayed. Rachel Goode faltered in her leading of the hymn and her glance darted to the side. The singing had died away to a murmur as the attention of the native congregation turned to the noises coming from outside the church.
Several seemed to be anticipating a visit from the Lord Himself at any moment. ‘With the cross of Jesus, going on before . . .’
Thump, thump, thump ….
The parishioners of Santa Maria fell silent. Even Rachel Goode's voice dropped to just a murmur. Only Father Goode persevered, his hands crashing on the keys, his tuneless voice rising with his desperation.
‘Christ, the Royal Master, leads against the foe . . .’
Thump, thump, thump … THUMP!
Father Goode was determined to finish. ‘ONWARD, CHRISTIAN SOOO-OLDIERS, MARCHING AS TO WAR . . .’
BUMP, BUMP, BUMP …
He leaped to his feet and with a contemptuous glare at his congregation, strode towards the door. Whoever had dared interrupt the worship of God in his Holy House would experience the full extent of his wrath.
He blinked in the bright morning sunshine and stamped around the corner of the church. He was prepared for anything except the sight that confronted him there.
It was only the week before that he had accepted his housekeeper Mary into the fold of Christ, another dusky lamb saved from her sins. He had been immensely proud of this achievement, considering Mary's depraved history. He had washed away her sins with his own hands.
Now here she was, her skirts hitched up around her waist, her legs parted and her ankles gripped around Patrick Corrigan's bared buttocks. Father Goode clutched at the silver crucifix at his neck.
They were fornicating. On sacred ground. His cheeks flushed scarlet and his mouth worked soundlessly as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Mary's face turned towards him, her eyes closed, her pretty brown face contorted by passion. She moaned.
Father Goode began to grind his teeth. How dare she lean on God’s house and moan. ‘Jezebel! The Lord shall strike ye down!’
Mary's eyes blinked open and stared at him in undisguised terror. She pulled Corrigan's hair to alert him to the danger. Corrigan turned around and saw Father Goode. His face split into a slow grin. ‘Morning vicar,’ he said cheerfully, and the bumping continued.
*****
‘He's a totally worthless tramp and an alcoholic. His continued presence here is a disgrace to the white community. His example seriously hinders our efforts to lead these primitive people out of the darkness and into the Christian light. I consider it your responsibility - no, your bounden duty - to have him removed from this island by whatever means you deem necessary.’
Ian McLaren Manning listened to this speech with growing irritation. He did not like anyone - least of all this damned vicar - telling him what he should and should not do. It was as much as he could do to keep his voice pleasant.
They were seated on the mission veranda, while the grey sheets of rain splashed in pools around the coconut groves. Manning’s knuckles turned white on the cane arms of his chair as he gave Father Goode a chill smile. ‘Don't you think that's a little drastic, old chap?’
‘Mr Manning. Was Jesus being drastic when he threw the money changers out of the temple?’
Manning laughed, a harsh sound, like breaking glass. ‘Whatever we may think of Patrick Corrigan privately, he's hardly a criminal. He has rights, the same as everyone else. We cannot hound him off the island because we do not agree with his personal morals.’
‘Common assault is more than just a bad habit. This man is a danger to every woman in this community. Something must be done.’
Manning found an ally from an unexpected source. ‘I'm afraid I agree with Mr. Manning,’ Rachel Goode said, suddenly appearing behind them on the veranda. ‘I think you are judging Mister Corrigan far too harshly. There is good in everyone after all. You've said so yourself.’
‘God knows I have tried to help him as much as any man is able,’ Father Goode said, and subsided in the face of his niece's gentle reprimand.
‘So what happened to Mary?’ Manning asked.
‘We gave her absolution and sent her back to her village.’
‘Isn't that a bit … severe?’
‘There were other circumstances,’ Father Goode said.
‘She was going to have a baby,’ Rach
el added.
‘I see.’
‘You don't see at all,’ Father Goode said irritably. ‘If you did, you'd do something about it.’
‘I don't see that it's my fault, old boy.’
‘She claimed it was an Immaculate Conception,’ Father Goode went on. ‘However it seemed quite plain that paternity did not lie with the Divinity but with your Mister Corrigan. While we prayed for his mortal soul, he was dragging one of our flock into iniquity with him, may Christ have mercy on his soul.’
‘Amen,’ said Rachel.
They sat for a long time in silence, listening to the steady drip, drip of the rain falling from the eaves onto the wooden steps, the murmuring rumble of the monsoon as it cast rolled over the jungles and mountains to the north.
‘Father, I came here today to discuss another, more serious matter.’
‘What could be more serious than sin?’
Manning ignored the remark. ‘I have received instructions to evacuate the island, in the event of Singapore falling to the Japanese. It would be wise if you made due preparations, in the unlikely event that this proves necessary.’
‘I shall not be leaving Santa Maria, Mister Manning. My life's work is here. I cannot abandon her or her people.’
‘I think you should reconsider. God forbid, but should the Japanese get this far no one can guarantee they will respect your rights as a civilian and a man of God.’
‘There is nothing to reconsider.’
Manning nodded. ‘Very well.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘I take it you will leave, of course.’
‘No, Mister Manning, I shall stay here with my uncle to help him in his work whatever may befall. These simple people are in our charge. We cannot run away from them at the first sign of danger.’
‘Miss Goode, I strongly advise that you heed my counsel on this. By all accounts the Japanese advance across Malaya has been notable for atrocious acts of savagery. The Commissioner has advised that all women and children …’
‘No, Mister Manning. If God wishes to put us to the test, I shall not be found wanting. I will put my trust in the Lord.’
Manning turned to Father Goode. ‘Father, you cannot allow …’
‘As my niece says, we are here to do the Lord's work, Mister Manning. The fortunes of war do not concern us.’
Manning sighed and got to his feet. ‘I hope your complacency is not ill-founded, old chap. Well, this may never happen. Let’s all pray that it doesn’t.’ He stood up. ‘I'd better be getting back. Good afternoon, sir. Miss Goode.’
He put on his white topee and mackintosh and went down the steps where his bicycle leaned against a wooden post. He climbed on and pedaled slowly away through the mist of rain.
They watched him until he was out of sight. Rachel Goode turned to her uncle. ‘Are we really in danger here?’ she asked softly.
He shook his head. ‘No, of course not. Singapore will never fall. It’s so much fuss about nothing. The war can never touch us here.’
Chapter 2
Rachel Goode had become an object of speculation and fantasy for every white trader and government official who had ever visited Santa Maria since she was around seventeen years old. She was the most beautiful white woman in the entire Solomon Islands, even though she seemed to do her best to disguise it.
She habitually pulled her raven-black hair back into a hard bun at the back of her head, giving her the pinched look of an English schoolmistress. Although she was now just twenty, it made her look much older.
Whenever she ventured outside she kept her face in shadow with a veiled and wide-brimmed hat. She wore shapeless white ankle-length gowns, buttoned high at the neck.
Although she tried to conceal her natural beauty, her eyes always betrayed her; they were cool and green like the shallows of White Bone Bay, which the mission bungalow overlooked. So many men had looked into them and wondered.
But whatever passions lurked hidden behind those eyes, God and Father Goode kept them sternly in check.
She had lived in the care of Matthew Goode since she was ten years old. Both her parents drowned one hot summer's afternoon while on holiday in England's Lake District, swallowed up in silence by the peaceful waters of Lake Windermere. They had taken a rowing boat onto the lake and had simply never returned. All that remained of them was her father's tweed cap, which Rachel still kept in a drawer by the side of her bed, with a yellowing family portrait taken in her halcyon summer of 1927.
Father Goode was in Africa at the time, saving the souls of the descendants of Cetewayo. He immediately sailed back to England to take his orphaned niece into his charge; as there were no other relatives to lay claim to her, he took the task of her upbringing upon himself. Two months later he returned with her to the Natal.
It was the last time Rachel had seen England's cool, green hills; she had lived on missions in Africa or the tropics ever since.
He seldom mentioned her parents, except to suggest mildly on occasion that their demise was brought about by the wrath of God. Her father, he told her once, was a man of strong and unrestrained passions. She had no idea what he meant.
At first she had devoted herself to her uncle's care, grateful for his care at a time when the world had seemed a dark and lonely place. She became, after a time, cook, housekeeper, nurse and verger.
The dreams had begun in her teens; wild, satanic dreams that haunted her all the following day, and left behind a shadowy longing. She sometimes wondered, in the dark and guilty moments of the night, if her father's passion had not somehow been passed along to the daughter. Perhaps God's omnipotent wrath would touch her also.
But the years passed in slow and lazy cadence in the tropics; and nothing happened.
The boiling inner flood of her emotions did not raise a ripple on the surface. She went about her daily chores as she had always done. She had proved herself an excellent nurse in the small mission hospital, and she had recruited a choir of native children for the mission church. She also supervised the cook boys and the houseboys, the perfect helpmate for a celibate priest.
*****
It was late afternoon and Rachel was sitting in a wicker chair in her bedroom when the messenger arrived. A crucifix hung on the wall over the bed, and a lamp cast a soft glow over the waxed hardwood floor. A Bible lay open on Rachel's lap, and she turned the pages listlessly. Matthew had charged her with the choice of readings for the Sunday service, just before he had succumbed to his latest round of fever.
It was sticky hot. Rain poured from the eaves. There were soft moans from the other bedroom where Father Goode struggled with another bout of malaria.
Their new house girl appeared without warning in the doorway.
Rachel looked up surprised. ‘What is it, Lelei?’
‘Man he come from Mamara, missus. Luluai he got bad sick. Say Mastah he come quick.’
‘My uncle is very sick also. He cannot leave his bed.’
‘Im he say mastah no come, luluai he die finis!’
Rachel looked beyond the housegirl to the door. A native youth stood miserably on the veranda, rain forming a little pool at his feet.
‘How did he get here?’
‘Im he come longa kedi, missus.’
The kedi was the name the islanders gave to their three-man canoes. Rachel shook her head. It must have been a harrowing trip in this weather.
She rose to her feet and went to the door. She recognised the youth, his name was Wesu. His father was Kumasi, the luluai - headman - of his village.
‘Kumasi is sick?’ Rachel said to him.
Wesu nodded. ‘Me fright for him, missus. Maybe he die finis.’
‘What's wrong with him?’
‘Belly b'long him sore too mus. Him he no savvy kai-kai,’ he answered her. He has bad stomach pains. He doesn't want to eat.
Rachel sighed. ‘Very well,’ she said, and went down the passage and opened the door to her uncle's bedroom.
Father Goode lay white and gaunt in his nightshirt under t
he mosquito netting, burning up with fever. It was his twelfth bout of malaria.
‘Uncle Matthew,’ she whispered, leaning close to the bed, ‘are you awake?’
Father Goode stirred in his sleep. ‘Cast them into the pit!’
She leaned closer. ‘Uncle, I have to leave. One of the natives out at Mamara Point needs a doctor. You'll be all right here with Lelei.’
Father Goode gave a long sigh. He turned his face towards her, his eyes open but unseeing. ‘The Lord shall have his revenge on sinners,’ he said. ‘Oh, Sodom!’
Rachel tiptoed from the room, closing the door behind her. Lelei stood outside, waiting. ‘Get the Father's black bag and the bicycle. Hurry now.’
Lelei rolled her eyes. ‘You go, missus?’
‘When the Lord calls, we must answer Him.’
‘No, missus. Better you stay. Bimeby Guberment man he come in boat, you go longa him.’
‘I cannot wait for Mister Manning. He may be gone for days.’ Rachel struggled into the ankle-length white drawers that would protect her modesty on a bicycle and then squeezed her feet into her mosquito boots. ‘I will ask Mister Corrigan to take me.’
Lelei put a hand to her mouth as if Rachel had uttered a tabu curse. ‘No, Missy!’
Rachel stood up, put on a wide-brimmed straw hat and tied the ribbon. ‘Mister Corrigan has a launch. It will be much safer than travelling in the kedi in this weather.’
‘But Missy! Him no good too mus! Him debil-debil!’
‘Lelei, stop this nonsense. Now do as I say and get the bag. Hurry.’
*****
A few minutes later Lelei stood on the verandah watching the Missus cycle through the drenching rain, the native boy trotting beside her, clutching her black medical bag. She made the sign of the Cross as Father Goode had shown her and felt for the weighty assurance of the poopono gourd in her pocket.
Corrigan's Run Page 1