The Love Beach

by Leslie Thomas

  'Why do they call that beach The Love Beach?' asked Davies. 'Is it one of these ancient names?'

  Bird shrugged. 'It goes back to ... oh, the old customs of the first population found here.'

  She laughed then. 'They had some er... strange sort of rituals.' Then primly: 'Dancing and such things, you understand.'

  'And that's where they had the dancing and such things.'

  She still looked out to the sea as though seeking an arriving ship. She laughed again. Some dogs were still baying in the village behind them but apart from that and the stirring of the water and the trees there was no other sound, but her laughing. 'At school,' she said, 'we used to learn all about the history of these islands and of all the South Pacific from Captain Cook's Journals. But it was a convent, you will remember, and the nuns did not like to read some of the things and would not let us read them. We lost half of history like that. But, of course, all the girls read the sections they were not supposed to know.

  'There is a passage, a strange one, written by Captain Cook ‑ ... Young girls in groups of eight or ten, dancing a very indecent dance ... singing the most indecent songs and using the most indecent actions in the practice of which they are brought up from the earliest childhood. In doing this they keep time to a great nicety.' She turned to Davies. 'Do you like that?'

  He was laughing. 'That's very good,' he said. 'Keeping time to a great nicety!'

  'One day,' she said, 'you must watch the dancing on the beach. Then you may understand Captain Cook.'

  Davies went to his room at the South Seas Hilton, climb. ing the steaming stairs, and finding the room laden with heat despite the arrival of evening in the street. He took his paints from his suitcase. They were in an old rugby sock, oil in little tubes. The children had bought a beginner's set for him for his last Christmas at home. He liked to think he could paint, but anyone could have told him that he couldn't. He had been to Art for Pleasure classes at Newport Technical College and he had carried his brushes, his paints, and his canvases to the Southern Pacific. After all, Gauguin had sailed there unrecognized. Davies thought he would like to paint The Love Beach if all those grotesque invasion barges were not littered there. Perhaps some girls doing that dance on The Love Beach and keeping time to a nicety.

  Meeting the girl had stimulated him, not sexually really, but in some way. She had talked to him and accepted a bicycle ride alongside him and had pointed out some of the bits of the island. She was young and small and he felt more comfortable with small people. He hated to have to look up at a woman. Once he had asked a seated girl to dance at a Community Centre Social at Coogee, near Sydney, and she had looked at him quizzically from her chair as though questioning his daring. He asked again. She nodded and uncoiled from the chair, going up and up like a snake from a charmer's basket, until she hung like a threat over him. He had been trawled around for a humiliating three minutes, begging God that the musicians would stop, and finally falling from her near the exit into which he bolted as soon as the tune had ceased.

  Ten months now he had been away. He wrote to Kate twice a week, doing little sketches for David and Mag at the foot of the letters, pictures of ships and bridges on the voyage, and later a kangaroo and an aboriginal, although he had never seen either. Kate's answers would sometimes take a month, but then he might get three short letters in a week apologizing for not writing, saying the children had been sick or the weather had been cold. As soon as he got really settled, perhaps if he managed to make a really successful thing of the Apostle Group sales idea, they would come to him in Australia. That was certain. In every letter he said it. On Sundays in Sydney he had gone the rounds of the estate agents' windows to see what they were offering once he had saved enough for a deposit.

  He lay on the bed, feeling its natural dampness at his back. There was a gekko near the ceiling probing for a fly, and another petrified a few inches away, like tiny dinosaurs. They were part of the hotel service, cold running gekkos in every room, two or three little lizards to each ceiling to cat the flies, and insects, or some of them anyway. His old toffee‑coloured suitcase with its stout belt around its waist was on the stone floor in the corner, flat, with his paints and brushes spread out on its lid. It was a still, practical, provincial suitcase, and there was a railway sticker on its flank, prosaic black and dirty white, which said 'High Street, Newport'.

  That last day at home, the Monday after they had been to Barry Island on the Sunday, he had stood choked with sadness in their bedroom when he had gone to collect his case. He had looked out of the small‑paned window across the red and black tiles of the familiar roofs, to the saunter.ing smoke from the engine sheds and beyond that the winter grey‑green of the park. He looked for the final time into the wardrobe although he knew he had nothing left there. Something made him glance down and in one of Kate's shoes he saw the yellow cylinder end of a roll of film. They had taken some photographs of the children in the park in the late summer and they had not been developed. Taken suddenly with the idea he thought he would take the film with him, to Sydney, and then surprise them by sending the film back. He smiled, picked up the roll of film, and put it in his pocket.

  Four

  Because the Highways Department‑ had not been able to find resources to extend the St Peter's Island road as far as British Government House (although it went neatly past the front door of the French Residence), and because it was considered unbecoming that Sir William should have to take to foot or bicycle, the Governor always made the journey from his home to the town by launch.

  Government House was on a point of wet, green land extending into the lagoon and sheltering the harbour. A small, dignified landing stage had been constructed below the voluptuous garden and distant Whitehall had provided an equally small, dignified pinnace to take Sir William on his journeys. It was manned by a Melanesian crew who wore white bellbottoms, matelot jackets, and the squared hats of Nelson's sailors. They handled the launch very well and the British were proud of them. 'It gives the population some sense of pride in our armed forces,' Phillip Cooper, the Governor's liquid ADC, used to say.

  Conway was waiting on the town landing stage for the launch to pick him up. He was glad the storms had moved away. The rain in the Apostles was warmer than in Sydney, but he harboured an un‑Australian feeling that rain ought to be cool if not cold. For his meeting with the Governor he had put on a dark, lightweight suit, ill‑fitting, that in the humidity seemed to be gathering itself up and crawling into his armpits and into the cleft between his legs. He wriggled and flapped his arms impotently as though to shake the thing away but, after a minor retreat, it advanced again into its former bridgeheads.

  Conway had a plastic briefcase under his arm and his hair crisply parted. He had shaved twice that day. He felt altogether uncomfortable. The launch parted the flat cloth of water in the lagoon, throwing up a short, tired bow wave, pushing a chevron of ripples out to either side. The sailors from South Hibernia Island far south of the Apostles, their black faces fixed with a picturesque patriotism, turned the nose at the exact inch. Although they had never voyaged their craft anywhere else at all, not even in a different direction across the harbour or the lagoon, they knew the five hundred yard trip intimately, the helmsman touching the wheel to port immediately the fuzzy head of the petrified bosun blotted out the vivid yellow blind of the Kai Tek Chinese Fish Shop on the distant waterfront.

  They came in like some small working shuttle of a big machine, slotting into place at the jetty. The bosun saluted and the sailors bounced to attention in the pinnace. Conway was about to throw up a smart hand in acknowledgement when he remembered he was not in uniform, so the military movement became a lame raising of an apologetically crooked finger. He sat on the corded‑cushion seat, his briefcase uncomfortably upright on his knees. He felt embarrassed about anything formal, even anything as formal as a briefcase or a suit. He pulled the nosing trousers away from his crutch again like a man impatient with an inquisitive dog. The boat moved away
, the helmsman watching for the red roof of Mrs Flagg's cottage, the point where he could persuade the craft to starboard and make straight for the Governor's landing jetty.

  Phillip Cooper waited there, stiffly, conveying his chief's annoyance, he hoped, at this abrupt, unannounced, visit by an Australian on an official mission. From his seat in the launch Conway thought the young man looked like a wireworm in white.

  'Afternoon,' said Conway formally affable as the boat lost movement and touched the poles of the Governor's jetty. Observing the rigid expression on Cooper's face he was tempted to add an exaggerated Australian 'mate' to the greeting. But he desisted.

  'Good afternoon,' returned the ADC. His mouth became only a tiny hole when he spoke and his eyes raised themselves a little. Conway was sorry he had not called him ,mate', but he made up for it by pretending that he had difficulty in getting out of the launch. He extended a begging hand towards Cooper, waggling it for assistance. Involuntarily the young English official moved forward with his hand to help, then stopped, shocked and annoyed with himself and impatiently motioned one of the black sailors to help Conway from the boat.

  'Us Colonials,' grinned Conway towards the wooden Melanesian. He stood firmly on the landing stage. Cooper sniffed. In England, Conway thought, the youth obviously suffered from sinus and sore, wet nostrils. He gave Cooper's hand a hard Australian squeeze and noted the wince that jumped into the unsteady blue eyes.

  They turned up the path towards Government House. The rain had excited all the crowded plants making them throw their deepest, dampest, scents. Great clouds, hills and hummocks of tropical flowers thick and brilliant, congealed about the path. Silver stems of water ran from the higher trees.

  'Pretty little garden,' observed Conway.

  'The Governor is very busy,' sniffed Cooper. He walked very upright, staring straight ahead, moving at almost a marching pace, but, with instinct it seemed, cutting around any streams of rainwater descending from the trees.

  'I'm sure he is,' said Conway, matching the youth's marching. 'There must be a lot to keep him going around here.'

  Cooper did a quick right‑face, like a guardsman going by a saluting base. Conway smiled encouragingly. Cooper faced the front again. The Australian wondered whether there was a secret place in England, the sort of stud farm the Nazis used to have for producing their master race, where long, urine‑coloured young men were spawned and fostered for the British Colonial Service. He had to admit that Cooper had a certain power. Even over him. He was now carrying his plastic briefcase sideways up, hiding it around his backside and wishing it were leather.

  Government House came into view suddenly, wide windows, minor colonnade, spectacularly white in the repentant sun; its lawns the most startling green, the Union Jack hanging thick and limp from the summit of the flag mast set in the garden.

  Cooper glanced at the flagging standard. He sniffed and surprised Conway by saying conversationally: 'This rainy season is such a damned nuisance, you know. It really is. Soaks the flag through half a dozen times a day. It's so wet it won't flutter. And then the damned sun comes out and dries it and then it gets soaked again.' He sounded like a housewife complaining about the Monday wash. Conway glanced at him.

  'Rotten,' asserted Cooper. 'Completely rotten. We've used four Union Jacks up since the season started.'

  'Problems. problems,' blinked Conway. He could think of nothing else. They walked almost to the door. Conway thought of something. He said: 'How do the French manage about the Tricolour? That gets wet too, doesn't it?

  'That's the damned trouble,' retorted Cooper. 'They have as many flags as they need. They could wear a different one every day if they wished. We get six for the whole year. Typical, of course. Simply typical. The Governor's in his study. This way.'

  Conway followed him to the door. 'Mr Conway, Your Excellency,' he heard Cooper say, and a voice reply 'Good, good,' from within.

  The Australian was surprised at the huge emptiness of the room. Sir William, slightly stooping and sharp‑faced, walked a great brown carpet at its centre looking like a cage bird pacing its captivity. The Governor glanced up abruptly and muttered, 'Come on in,' then continued his walk. Conway ventured to the fringe of the carpet. He felt like a man standing at the edge of a field. Cooper sniffed and bowed his way out. Conway hid his plastic briefcase behind his back.

  'We're busy, Mr Conway,' said Sir William, suddenly advancing on him and thrusting out his hand like a threatening sword. 'We've got a special visitor coming to the Apostles. A very special visitor.'

  The Governor waited for Conway to ask who the visitor was, but he didn't. 'Sit down. Have something, will you?' said Sir William.

  'Thank you.'

  Sir William pulled an old‑fashioned bell‑rope. There was a profound silence. Conway strained his ears and saw that the Governor was doing the same, his hawkish head turned on its side. They caught each other's eye.

  'Never know whether the blamed thing rings the other end,' confessed Sir William. 'Sometimes it does. Sometimes not. It depends a lot on the humidity.'

  Nothing happened. They sat uncomfortably. 'Damn it, I'll get them myself. Otherwise I go blaring about the place, and it doesn't do to lose your temper in front of these people, you know. What is it?'

  'A beer, 'replied Conway.

  'Good God.'

  'Do you have beer?'

  'Yes, yes, my dear chap. Beer, of course. I give it to the dogs sometimes because every now and again the water gets contaminated. Beer! Oh yes, we have beer.'

  He found the bottle and attempted to open it, making such a panic of the operation and making several darts towards the bell‑pull, that eventually Conway stood up, took the bottle, and opened it himself.

  Sir William laughed. 'Easy!' he exclaimed. 'Just shows you there's an art in everything.' He had delivered undiluted whisky into his own glass. They sat down again, Sir William behind his desk. 'Heard a man at a reception some time ago asking for a whisky and coke. Civilization's going to pieces.'

  They raised their glasses, Sir William gazing apprehensively at the pale column held by Conway. He shrugged resignedly and they drank. 'Now,' said the Governor. 'What the hell have you come here about?'

  'St Paul's,' said Conway.

  'What about it? It's still there. Out to sea. First island on the left.'

  'The Australian Government, or more accurately, the Australian War Department. want to try something out on St Paul's.'

  Sir William looked over the top of his glass like a sniper. 'Australian War Department,' he said slowly and suspiciously. 'I don't like the sound of that.'

  ‘An experiment,' said Conway uncomfortably. He was surprised to find his self‑confidence, his exterior, evaporating before the old man. 'They want ‑ well, to be honest, we want, because I'm in this as well ‑ to get the natives over there to help in a sort of public relations exercise.'

  'Public relations?' whispered Sir William as though madness were near. 'Public relations? Good Christ, what will they think of next, my dear boy, those tribesmen on St Paul's only know one sort of relations and they've only just finished the habit of eating them. Sometimes I suspect they still do it.'

  Conway grinned with discomfort. 'I know there will be difficulties, sir. Our Trusteeship people...'

  'Trusteeship!' suddenly bellowed Sir William. 'Don't let the Australian Government send anyone here to the Apostles talking about their Trusteeship. They've done damn all for St Paul's Island since they've had it. Sent some bloody fool to look at the natives' teeth or their testicles or something about a year ago, and that's been the sum of it. So don't come here preaching...'

  'We want the natives for Vietnam,' said Conway with quick bravery.

  He thought Sir William was going to tip over the back of his big chair. The old man's eyes sagged, then his face, then his entire head. He rallied himself and leaned forward shakily on the desk.

  'Where?'

  'Vietnam,' said Conway. Then lamely: 'You know ...

&n
bsp; the war...'

  Sir William's voice became flat. Only his face showed his tremblings. 'What will they do there? Fire napalm arrows?'

  'Jungle trackers,' announced Conway. 'Auxiliaries for the Australian forces.'

  A mad laugh flew from the old man. 'Jungle trackers! 54

  Tarzan of the Apes. Mlooooooooooo ... ooooooo ...

  ooooo.' He jumped up and began to beat his breast. Just as abruptly he sat down and thrust a stony face on Conway. 'Out of your heads, all of you,'he muttered.

  Conway said: 'The British used Dyaks in Malaya.' The old man's face seemed to expand, then contract. 'Hannibal used elephants in the Alps,' he retorted. 'But that doesn't make the poor devils on St Paul's ripe for Vietnam. Mad, you're positively mad. Have you been over there? Have you seen them?'

  'Not yet,' said Conway. He felt better when Sir William shouted. 'I'm going over in a day or so.'

  Sir William leaned forward. 'They've never heard of China, let alone Vietnam. Take them away and they die. They're infants, savages.'

  Conway said: 'The Trusteeship people said that they are a Christian Community. They were the first tribe to be converted in these islands. . .'

  'They're probably more Christian than your Trusteeship idiots. I'll grant you that...' He waited, got up, and looked out of the window. The lagoon was luxurious with evening colours, purple, reds, deep blues. The palms on the shoreline were silhouettes, black feathers against the dulled sky, small lights were showing in the town and Mr Livesley's neon sign seared out the word' Bread' in three alternating colours.

  Sir William, his back still to Conway, shrugged to himself. 'Christians!' he laughed quietly. 'And so that qualifies them to fight a war.' Wearily he turned to the Australian. 'Mr Conway, these people believe that their island is the world, you know, the whole world. They believe that nothing of importance ever happens outside it, or has ever happened. They hardly acknowledge that we exist. Christians? If you like, but very odd Christians, I can tell you.'