The Chocolate Promise

by Josephine Moon

‘Definitely.’

  ‘And I enjoy it. I like people,’ Cheyenne said, reaching for a sandwich from under the table and chomping into it. ‘I like networking and making new friends.’

  Christmas checked her watch. It was nearing mid-morning and The Apothecary would be starting to fill. ‘I’d better go back and see how Abigail’s getting on,’ she said. Abigail was capable and efficient, and worked under the same arrangement as Cheyenne, trading hours on the floor in the shop for massage space. But she wasn’t as cheerful as Cheyenne. Abigail Ahern Who Seemed Rather Stern had less tolerance for busy work. She was a good massage therapist and was at her best in a one-on-one situation. Crowds of people rattled her, unlike Cheyenne, who seemed to shine brighter with every new person she spoke to. Abigail was younger and was studying to be an exercise physiologist—whatever that meant, Christmas was never quite sure. So everything she did day-to-day was broken down into small chunks of time, waiting for the next phase of life to begin.

  ‘Yes, she’ll be starting to fret,’ Cheyenne said, not unkindly.

  They paused to observe Rosemary McCaw sashay like a long-necked runner duck from one side of the lawn to the other, an emerald-green waistcoat hugging her thin torso, enunciating heroically into a megaphone as she urged people to buy up plants and ornaments. Then she stopped, lowered the megaphone, fiddled in the pocket of her waistcoat, retrieved a piece of dark chocolate and popped it in her mouth. Christmas cheered, and Rosemary turned and raised a graceful hand in salute.

  Christmas was just slinging her cotton handbag across her body, preparing to return to the shop, when a tall bearded man approached the tent, two bags of plants in one hand and a sausage wrapped in bread in the other.

  ‘Hi.’ Lincoln smiled.

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  Lincoln smiled at Cheyenne too.

  ‘Lincoln, this is Cheyenne, my friend and colleague. She’s a florist.’

  ‘Hi.’ Cheyenne smiled and noticeably blushed, and Christmas felt inexplicably proprietorial towards him.

  ‘And this is Lincoln, he helped me carry in a box yesterday. He’s a botanist,’ Christmas finished.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Cheyenne said, her usual bubbliness squashed, Christmas assumed, under the total impressiveness of the man standing in front of her, tomato sauce on his fingers aside.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘I’m just leaving, actually,’ Christmas said. ‘I’ve got to get back to the shop.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Lincoln said. ‘Can I carry something? I’m good at lifting.’

  Cheyenne giggled and began to rearrange a display of lilies that didn’t need rearranging.

  Christmas smiled. ‘That’s okay, thanks. I unloaded everything this morning. But I’ve got to head back because it will be getting busy in there about now.’

  They walked together through the throng of people and Lincoln finished off his sausage. ‘Why are sausages so appealing when you’re out in the open?’ he said, licking sauce off his thumb.

  ‘I know, right? I’d never buy sausages and take them home and cook them, but it’s nearly impossible to walk past a sausage sizzle and not get one.’

  They had a few blocks to walk to get back to the shop. The street was lined with cars on both sides, and the footpath was jammed with pedestrians weighed down with boxes of plants, garden tools, or prams and dogs. They had to keep breaking their conversation to sidestep someone coming the other way, or overtake someone going too slowly.

  ‘You said you’d been in the jungle in South America,’ Christmas recalled. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Working for a company called Neptune Enterprises.’

  ‘As in the biggest producers of chocolate in the world?’ she said, her interest piqued.

  ‘Exactly. I’ve been doing research on their cacao plantations on and off for a number of years. The projects change but generally their attention always comes back to fruit production because that’s where the bottom line is. So I spend a lot of time looking at the micro level of the mechanics of pollination: stamen, pistils, pollen, genetics, traits, nutrient transfer and mycorrhizal fungi.’

  Christmas widened her eyes to suggest that she was impressed, but she didn’t actually know what fungi had to do with cacao reproduction. ‘That sounds interesting,’ she said, ‘and like a lot of hard work. What’s it like being in the jungle?’

  Lincoln took a couple of quick steps to catch up after stepping aside for an elderly woman and her dog. ‘The jungle’s intense. But my time there wasn’t as hard as some others had it. The research station sits in the Amazon Basin jungle, on the banks of the Napo River. It shares infrastructure with the adjoining ecotourism lodge—diesel generators, solar panels, septic, water filtration and stuff like that. A lot of scientists out there use it as a drop-in centre to go to when they’ve struck bad weather, their research has hit a dead end or they’re sick. I had a cabin in the station itself, basic but comfortable and even with wi-fi. But the ecology teams out there, who are often self-funded or working for universities, they trek for weeks at a time, sleeping in hammocks between trees and waking with boas on the canopy sheets, dealing with leeches and botfly larvae that burrow into the skin and have to be smoked out.’

  Christmas shuddered. ‘That’s horrible. I need far too many of life’s comforts to be doing that.’

  ‘I only had to leave the station for day trips, mostly, or occasionally an overnight stay in one of the village huts. Sometimes I’d walk for half a day or canoe to one of the nearby fincas.’

  ‘What’s a finca?’ she asked, shielding her eyes from the bright sun that had suddenly appeared again.

  ‘They’re family-owned cacao plantations, often only an acre or two,’ he explained. ‘Almost all cacao is grown this way, in small allotments. The family’s out there every day, working to trade for cash. It’s a tough life. What I do is relatively easy. I just blunder about under the trees and collect samples of pods, leaves, flowers, bark, soil. I count pods and chart weather patterns and growth rates. And sketch, you know, like in the old days! And I take photos. I catch pollinating insects and set humane traps to see what sort of arboreal animals are visiting the trees.’

  ‘Like monkeys?’

  ‘Yep. Cheeky buggers they are.’

  They were at The Apothecary now and Christmas paused at the door. It was definitely busy in there. She could see Abigail, dressed in black beneath a red and white apron, moving swiftly through the crowd, picking up plates. Christmas knew she should get in there and help but she wanted to keep talking to Lincoln.

  ‘You sound like you love it,’ she said to him.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I never know when I’m going to get another contract, but that’s okay. I’ve seen the uncertainty that the Ecuadorians live with from day to day. We’re spoilt in a country like ours.’

  There was so much she wanted to say to him then, about how she admired his bravery to just let go and follow his heart with no guaranteed reward at the end. But she needed to go. Abigail was trying to catch her eye.

  ‘I’d love to keep talking but I need to get in there,’ she said, indicating over her shoulder. ‘I don’t think I could live in the jungle, but I can make really good chocolate, thanks to people like you, I guess. And the farmers, of course. Though I almost feel guilty now, hearing about how hard they work.’

  ‘No, don’t. The trees give their fruit so it can be enjoyed. You’re helping a tree fulfil its destiny, if you like.’

  She hovered. ‘That’s a beautiful way of looking at it.’

  ‘Actually, do you have any chocolate in there from Ecuador?’ His eyes lit up.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll come in and enjoy the end result of my friends’ efforts in the jungle,’ he said. ‘And I should get Nan some more chocolate for Easter. I’m seeing her this afternoon. She thought it was the best chocolate she’d ever tasted.’

  ‘That’s a lovely compliment. Tell her I said thanks.’

  Li
ncoln followed her inside and her heart put in a quickstep.

  And if she’d let herself, she would have heard a tiny, soft voice starting to wonder what it might be like to live without rules.

  But she wasn’t listening.

  5

  On Thursday, Rubble Jones, an industrial artist with a passion for creating pieces that fused art sculpture with functional furniture, ushered Lincoln into his dilapidated BMW—a car that had to be worth a total of four dollars, in Lincoln’s estimation. Lincoln settled himself on the ripped seat and shoved the McDonald’s detritus out of the way with his foot.

  A pleasant drive through the countryside later, they found themselves in the sunny courtyard of Rosevears Tavern, looking out over the black mud sliding into the choppy, steely blue water of the West Tamar River. Across the expanse of water, green hills rose upwards, spotted with trees, houses and an elderly church down at the water’s edge.

  ‘Welcome home!’ Rubble held up a schooner of amber liquid. ‘It’s good to have you back.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So what’s next on the horizon for you, my friend?’ Rubble said, leaning his bulk back in the seat.

  ‘Not sure. I’m here to spend some time with Nan, mostly.’

  ‘How is the old girl?’ Rubble asked fondly.

  ‘She’s okay, I think. My dad’s being a bit of a tool.’

  ‘Nothing new there.’

  ‘Nope. Nothing new.’ It was a relief not to have to explain himself. Rubble had been there throughout his childhood and had seen enough of Tom’s temper tantrums, sullenness and snide remarks to understand. And he’d been on the receiving end of more than a few cutting remarks from Tom too, particularly when his weight had started fluctuating in his teenage years. ‘But I downloaded some job applications today, more research, similar fields.’

  ‘The jungle’s been good to you, then?’

  Lincoln looked out across the water, still adjusting to the cool air and open spaces of home. ‘It’s fascinating. It never sleeps.’

  ‘Like New York,’ Rubble said, taking a handful of the hot chips that had just been delivered to their table.

  Every part of Rubble’s body wobbled as he moved—he must have put on fifteen kilos since Lincoln last saw him. A sure sign he was in ‘famine’ mode. Not literally, obviously. His popping shirt buttons and the flesh gathering under his chin were testament to that. It was the famine of artistic flow. Petulant silence from The Muse, which led to eating. And more eating. Until finally, usually at the point when Rubble had begun to despair of hearing from her again, The Muse (known to Rubble as Lydia) ended her punishing sulking and began to court him once again. Then it was nonstop, rampant creative union. Rubble would work feverishly day and night, channelling her siren song, forgetting to eat, sleep and (regrettably) shower, ultimately shrinking in size until his fretting agent began leaving frozen lasagnes on his doorstep. So it was necessary, this eating phase. It gave him reserves for the frantic pace to come. He was a grizzly bear, preparing for hibernation in his creative cave. And by the size of him, that was sure to happen any minute.

  Rubble moved on to the calamari, shoving several greasy rings into his mouth. He licked his shiny fingers.

  ‘What are you working on right now?’ Lincoln asked.

  Rubble screwed up his face. ‘Nothing. I’m creatively constipated. Can’t you tell?’ He patted his girth.

  ‘Maybe you should come to the jungle with me when I next go,’ Lincoln said, suddenly realising, with a shock, that while he loved the jungle and his work, he did actually miss his family and friends quite a lot.

  At the research station he was never alone. The Neptune team was big and always changing. On his last trip he’d made friends with Ernest, a German economics analyst, and Jasmine, a young New Zealand agribusiness researcher who’d also partnered with Lincoln on a project the year before. She was analysing a plantation in Costa Rica that had been planted with a new variety of cacao developed in West Africa that grew faster than the traditional varieties in South America. Jasmine was a fast, efficient researcher, an approach that transferred easily to her pursuit of love interests, among whom Lincoln had numbered for some months before she met a cacao trader from Switzerland and swiftly and good-naturedly moved on. The researchers were fun, easygoing, and they all passed their downtime pleasantly in each other’s company. But no one knew him like Rubble, or Jen, or his mum, or his nan—especially his nan.

  Rubble considered the suggestion. ‘Huh. A trip to the jungle. How exotic. Maybe you’re onto something there.’

  They raised their glasses in collusion and Lincoln felt some of the tension of being between worlds ease just a bit.

  •

  To: Evandale Fairy Godmother

  From: Dennis Chamberlain

  Subject: Proposal

  Godmother, I want to ask my girlfriend to marry me but I’m no good at romance.

  ————

  To: Evandale Fairy Godmother

  From: Veronika Lambert

  Subject: Washing machine

  Help! I’m pregnant with our sixth child (I know . . . don’t ask!!) and my washing machine’s broken and we don’t have a dryer and I’ve got morning sickness all day long and I’m DROWNING in washing and I can’t cope anymore. We’re broke, obviously. Please, please help!

  •

  Lulu Divine shouldn’t have been in a nursing home. Not at her age. But here she was as usual, with pink lipstick and her long fair hair brushed till it shone. Must have been a benefit of never having children, Elsa thought. Her own hair had never recovered after the third baby.

  Tom. Elsa felt her lips purse at the mere thought of his name.

  Lulu tapped impatiently on the metal rims of the wheelchair, her single gold ring—worn on the middle finger of her left hand—clattering against the aluminium. Her copy of Twilight sat on her bony knees. As always, she’d been first into the room. Lulu was competitive about everything, from bingo to grabbing the salt shaker at dinner. Every book club meeting, she raced against imaginary competitors, spinning her chair from Potoroo Bungalow across the lawn and into the main building, zooming down the hallway with alarming haste to get the best position in the blue common room—the spot that commanded the view over the creek at the edge of the grounds.

  Elsa tapped her false teeth together. She found herself equally annoyed with the bossy and combative Ms Divine and envious of her brazen candour and total commitment to her ideas, be they right or wrong. To admit uncertainty or error showed weakness, and Lulu was not one for weakness. Which was exactly why Elsa knew that Lulu would hate Twilight and the fainting Bella Swan.

  Most of the residents of Green Hills had by now let go of at least some of the social niceties, and Elsa often found herself wincing at sharp words, dogmatic arguments and out-and-out insults. But with Lulu it was clear she’d always been that way.

  Maybe Lulu should write a book. It seemed to be the thing to do in the twilight years. Ha ha. She chuckled at her own joke and parked her wheelchair next to Yvonne Murphy, former state parliamentarian and now forgotten great-grandmother with Alzheimer’s.

  ‘Do share the joke, Elsa,’ Lulu snipped, her false teeth shiny in the fluorescent lights. ‘We’re all dying for a good story, some of us a bit more rapidly than others.’ She glanced down towards the intensive care rooms where two old souls had begun their journeys homeward. ‘God knows we didn’t find it in this rot.’ She triumphantly held up her copy of Twilight, commanding attention from the slowly forming circle.

  Doris Laherty arrived to Elsa’s right, having been wheeled in by Sarah, the youngest nurse in the home.

  ‘Hello, Sarah.’ Elsa smiled. ‘How is your brother going?’

  ‘Much better, thanks. The doctor says he’ll probably have some relapse effects but the worst of it should have passed.’

  Elsa tsked. The poor boy had picked up malaria on a trip to Papua New Guinea. His condition had been pretty serious there for a while. It made her queasy to t
hink of Lincoln at similar risk.

  Sarah stepped on the brakes and patted Doris lightly on the shoulder, leaving her with her head dropping to the side, her mouth open and snoring gently.

  Lulu sucked in her cheeks in disgust. ‘Old queer,’ she muttered.

  ‘What was that, dear?’ Elsa asked, leaning forward with her hand behind her ear. She wasn’t deaf. Not in the slightest.

  ‘I said I’d love a cold beer,’ Lulu said. Her eyes darted towards the window. ‘Might get them to call me a taxi later.’

  ‘You can’t go out unattended,’ Robert Graham (seventy-four, former civil servant, stroke victim, daily visit from wife) said with practised authority, though its gravity was undermined by his slurred speech. He had also lost much of his sight in the stroke, and he listened to the club’s books on audio CDs, which his wife patiently tracked down for him at great expense so he could participate in the group.

  Lulu studied Robert’s lopsided face and smiled serenely. ‘How can they stop me?’ she said. ‘This isn’t jail, or had you forgotten? I’m not a ward of the state. I’m a paying customer.’

  Yes, she was. The question of how each resident paid for their accommodation and care was always of interest to Elsa, and Lulu’s situation fascinated her the most. Lulu’s lips were tight as a drum when it came to sharing anything about herself other than her rodeo and trick-riding career. She never let slip personal information about family or the like. But she didn’t seem to have any family, at least none that came to visit. As she was in the detached bungalow next to Elsa’s, Elsa knew exactly how many dollars a day Lulu paid to stay here while she waited for her double knee replacement. Granted, it wouldn’t be forever, unlike Elsa, who wasn’t allowed a double knee and hip replacement due to her age and the potential anaesthetic complications—something that ignited a spark of jealousy towards the Lulu girl that sometimes kept Elsa tossing and turning at night. One day Lulu would walk out of here to get on with the rest of her life. But Elsa would not.

  ‘Perhaps we should get started,’ said Rita Blumberg (eighty-eight, widow, four children of varying levels of commitment, unknown number of grandchildren). Rita had been quite a successful painter, with a number of works hanging in galleries around the country. Though, as seemed so often the way with the arts, that public recognition didn’t necessarily translate to dollars earned. She was now the unfortunate recipient of Parkinson’s disease, and she shook and ticced and tremored in her seat at Lulu’s left. Rita occupied one of the two slots in the home allocated for full grant assistance to the financially disadvantaged.