The Love Beach

by Leslie Thomas

  'Odd?' asked Conway.

  'Very. You see, you don't know. These people believe that the whole Bible story happened right there on their island. They will show you Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and Calvary, and Noah's Ark jammed on Mount Ararat. It's all there now. They won't be shaken from that. And, on top of it all, they're awaiting the arrival of a special sort of Messiah, a prophet called Dodson‑Smith who will bring to them all the luxuries of life which they do not enjoy now. Mr Conway, listen to this please. They believe that he is going to arrive by motor cycle...'

  He thrust his glare towards Conway, pleading for comprehension. 'How could you attempt to throw such children into a battle they could never understand. It's difficult enough for the rest of us.'

  Conway looked carefully at the seam along his briefcase. 'They have a cargo cult, have they? Well, the Trusteeship people didn't say anything about that.' He was feeling better, more assured again. He looked firmly at Sir William. 'Cargo cults are common enough, of course, in Borneo and New Guinea.' He grinned. 'One lot are saving their money for the arrival of a reincarnated President Kennedy.'

  Sir William said sadly: 'Well if you know about them, you obviously know how completely impractical, not to mention inhuman, any sort of upheaval would be to them. How would you expect...'

  'The Dyaks were very good in Malaya,' interrupted Conway. 'The British used to let them take the heads of the Communists, you know.'

  'A lie,' said Sir William angrily. Then, dropping his tone: 'It's almost certain to be a lie. Anyway, damn it, the Dyaks are jungle people, marvellous trackers. St Paul's is an island...'

  Conway had done his homework. 'It's a big island,' he said. 'Thirty miles long. Thick primary jungle over a large area, eighty per cent swamp and steep hill country.'

  'Vietnam,' argued Sir William, 'isn't thirty miles long. What the hell is the sense?' He paused and became quickly upright and formal. 'I want to hear all this officially before I listen to you for another instant,' he said.

  Conway shrugged. 'Sir William, I bear full authority from the Australian Government. My credentials, my letters, are all intact, and here for you to inspect. You will be get-

  ting further correspondence, more information. But I'm here to get this thing rolling, and that's what I'm going to do.'

  He handed a fold of letters across to the Governor, taking them from his plastic briefcase, about which he no longer felt ashamed. Sir William unwillingly took the papers and went towards the window where he stood stooped against the final light of the day. Conway could see the 'Bread' neon sign regularly hitting the water of the lagoon. There seemed to be a small wind loping through the garden. Sir William was several minutes. He returned to Conway and handed the letters to him.

  Sir William said: 'The games we play in this life. I don't know who thinks up such twaddle.' His voice was quiet, without his previous anger. He looked at Conway. 'They'll die,' he said. 'They'll most surely die. Then where will your precious stunt be?' Putting the papers back untidily into the briefcase Conway looked at the Governor. 'Stunt, I admit, sir, is the word,' he said. 'But because it's a stunt, a public relations campaign if you like, there is a good chance ‑ more than that, a very good chance ‑ that the St Paul's boys will never get any further than dear old Aussie. It will be a free trip for them, just a chance to look around...'

  'Australia,' said Sir William gloomily, 'would probably frighten them a good deal more than Vietnam.'

  Conway swallowed. 'Well, anyway, we're going to do it. Some way or another. If we can get about a dozen or so of them to Sydney, doll them up in uniforms, and say they are going to join the Australian forces in Vietnam, that's probably as far as we'll want to go. I'm not certain, but it's my guess.'

  'What,' asked Sir William, 'is the object of the whole business? If they are not going to the war, why take them at all?'

  'Promotion, public relations, the image, all that sort of dazzle,' said Conway. Then he added: 'But this is between you and me, Sir William. Outside this room the St Paul's natives are being recruited as trackers for Vietnam.' He got up and walked a few paces on the brown carpet. 'People these days, need something new, something to stimulate them.'

  'Not the St Paul's people,' said Sir William.

  Conway stopped and looked up sharply. 'Not them,' he said. 'The Australians I'm thinking about. Even sending soldiers to war has to be dressed up in a package these days. People don't like it. We like to let people know ‑ everybody, all the people in the world ‑ the contribution we, the Australians, are making in Vietnam. Too often we get overshadowed, forgotten, because we only have a small force out there. This will give us some good exposure.'

  'Package! Exposure! Your picture in the papers! Just for this you would injure or destroy a primitive people?' Sir William walked towards the door, dejectedly, slowly.

  'No one is going to be injured or destroyed,' said Conway.

  'Have you been to Vietnam, Mr Conway?'

  'Yes. I was invalided home. They gave me a job in Military Public Relations.'

  'Thinking up nightmares.'

  Conway did not answer. Sir William was waiting for him to go. He walked from the big room. A servant went like a shadow through the entrance hall, but no one else was about. Sir William said: 'I shall be in touch with your government and attempt to stop this nonsense.'

  Conway said: 'In the meantime I ought to make some sort of reconnoitre trip over to St Paul's. Goodnight, Sir William.'

  'Goodnight,' said Sir William. 'I hope they eat you.'

  Five

  The Assembly Building of the Apostle Islands, the official meeting place of both the Anglo‑French Condominium and the local government council, was Chungking Chinese in style, with elegant oriental curls to its many roofs, overlaid upon each other like multiple skirts. It was exquisitely festooned with golden dragons and fiery red dogs. Its exterior walls were whorled and worked with coloured patterns, its windows willow tree screens, and its front door powerful with immense posts and lintels like the entrance to a modest temple. Above the door were deeply engraved Mandarin characters.

  'This is the Dream House of Foo' translated Pollet for Davies and Conway. The Belgian had been in the outer island villages for two days selling medicines and collecting antiques, and, on returning to the South Seas Hilton, he had suggested they should go to the special assembly called by the British Governor.

  'A great big embarrassment for both the British and the French.' he continued as they walked with the crowd in the evening. 'But it's the only building, apart from maybe a warehouse, that is okay, big enough, you get it, for a meeting like this. Ah, the Condominium pretends the terrible thing isn't here. One meeting in the house of the British Governor and the next at the French Governor's place. That's how they work it. The town council ‑ well, they get together wherever they can. The British Legion club usually. This place is only used for big meetings, although maybe if a big epic film arrives on the boat and everyone is mad to see it they put it on here. Like Ben‑Hur.'

  'Who was Foo?' Davies asked.

  'An architect from Chungking,' said Pollet. 'Before the war he came here and said he would build this place very cheap, you understand, for the Condominium. He wanted to try out a new plan for a building in his home town and maybe he was not sure whether it would fall down. So he came here and he built this, like as a model. Of course the British and the French Colonial offices, tight with the money, shouted joyfully to have something for nearly nothing. They needed a meeting building and this Chinese thing is what they got.'

  Pollet giggled. 'Tonight I think you watch Sir William and M. Etienne. When they are here they pretend they are somewhere else. They do not see what is around them. It is the only matter upon which they have some accord. You see, they will stare straight ahead, pretending not to notice all those fire monsters hanging from the ceiling nor the scenes from everyday life in Chungking on the walls. Ha! They are both very ashamed.'

  Within the building the crowd was pushed together
in a thick stream and directed at a dark shuffle down a low, carved corridor and then up a gilded staircase to a balcony curved and shaped in the manner of a Peking Palace swan. Attendants pointed out places. Pollet led Davies and Conway to three seats in the second row back, clear of the view blockage caused by the thick base of the swan's neck. Around them the seats were all being taken, women wearing hats and feathers and men hot in European suits.

  'Foo forgot the air conditioning,' said Conway. 'It's going to be close as hell in here before long.'

  'Stinking,' admitted Pollet. 'Always it is like this. I saw an epic film here ‑ Quo Vadis I remember, very good too ‑and every twenty minutes they had to open all the doors and the attendants came around with huge feather fans and swept them about above the patrons' heads. Maybe they do that tonight.'

  Davies looked over into the main well of the big room. The dais at one end was clear, but the rows of seats below were all occupied. He saw Bird wearing a sweet, blue dress at the end of the third row talking to a woman with red hair.

  Pollet said: 'The girl is called Bird. That is all the name she has, so they say. Just Bird. She has a coiffure establishment in the town.'

  Davies said: 'Yes, I know her. Met her on the beach. Down by the old invasion barges.'

  Conway and Pollet looked at Davies. But he was searching farther over into the hall. 'Looking for prospective customers,' he said, still leaning. Then, in a mock shout: 'Anyone want fresh butter and fats.'

  'The woman with the rusted hair, next to your friend Bird, is called Mrs Flagg,' informed Pollet. 'Her husband is next to her ‑ the other side. A very unorthodox type of English they are. They have much interest in the natives of St Mark's, the tribesmen who wrap the penis in banana leaves.'

  'Jesus, said Davies. 'Is that what they do? Banana leaves, eh?' Conway said: 'And Mrs Flagg is interested in this er ... habit?'

  Pollet said: 'Fascinated by it.'

  'And Mr Flagg?'asked Conway.

  'He likes it too.'

  Davies leaned back and said to Pollet: 'Who else do you know?'

  'Most people,' answered the Belgian. 'I have been skitting around here many years. There is Mr Turtle. He is the man who runs the radio station. He goes for only an hour a day so he is not very busy. He is a Vigilante ‑ how do you put it ‑ he is the leader of the ratepayers. He wants to put parking meters in the middle of Sexagesima. His wife cries a lot. She is next to him. See how red‑eyed. She has been crying quite recently.'

  Pollet frowned at the tops of the people's heads just below them. 'The man perspiring in the hairy sports coat is called Mr Hassey. Thirty years ago or more he came here for two weeks to ascertain the natives, which is his expression.

  'Next to him is Mr Livesley who is so proud because he has that neon sign above his baker's shop. It is the only sign for hundreds of miles, and I think perhaps the only one in the world that says "Bread" in three lovely colours, always changing. He sent a photograph of it to the Pacific Islands Monthly.'

  The Belgian looked along the rows below him. The build‑

  ing was noisy with conversation and the shuffling of chairs. The seats were all filled by now and the late‑comers were standing around the walls completely blocking the scenes of everyday life in Chungking.

  'Ascertain some more natives for us, will you?' requested Conway.

  Pollet smiled: 'Ah yes,' he agreed. 'This is probably the meaning of Mr Hassey. Well, Mr Kendrick is there, by Mr Hassey and Mr Livesley, his friends. He has the bicycle shop. People do not know it here in the islands, but a few years ago, about five, in Sydney, he was convicted by magistrates of squeezing a lemon in a prostitute's eye at King's Cross. I was in the city myself at the time and I read it in the newspaper. A most strange man.

  'Colin Collins, the Reverend Colin Collins, an American missionary. He is down there. From a very minor religious group. He is their only missionary and they sent him here. He is a very good man as far as his church operations are concerned. Excellent. He has a Polynesian wife ‑ from Tahiti, I think, and she allows him to sleep with her and her five sisters all together in the same night. I understand that they have lashed two beds together for this purpose. But he told me one day that he prefers Japanese women.'

  The building was now uncomfortably full. There was something different about the people, Davies thought. He searched for the reason, looking about him, watching faces and eyes, listening to sentences or half sentences, hearing people laugh or cough mildly, looking at their clothes. Then he realized that they were two generations short, that something of the movement of life had not yet reached this place. They reminded him of the grown‑ups he had known. in South Wales when he was a child before the war. He wondered if living in this corner had done this to them or whether they had come to the islands because they were this sort of people anyway. Had they come here to hide away?

  One of the ornamental Chinese doors, to the right of the hall, opened with a creak like a falling tree, and a small, bald‑headed man in a voluminous kilt, strode in, followed by a line of ten other men and four women.

  'Mr Rob Roy English,' whispered Pollet. 'Chairman of the town council. And the others ‑ they are the council.'

  Davies said: 'Why the kilt?'

  Pollet shrugged: 'He is proud. Nothing helps nationalism like exile, my friend. And, so I believe, he has never recovered from having that unfortunate family name. His father tried to compensate with the Christian names, but it is not the same. I can understand that.'

  The councillors sat on the back row of chairs on the dais, Mr English pulling his kilt modestly over his small knees. The heavy sporran hung between his short legs like a horse's feeding bag. One of the Chinese lanterns caught the dirk handle in his stocking with silver light. Davies looked along the line of the council. They were mostly ill‑at‑ease. some arrayed in suits, some in open‑necked shirts and grey flannels, including one of the women in khaki drill, and one in a tropical dinner jacket with white tie.

  A man in uniform appeared at the flanking door and in marched six men in suits who took their seats three each side of the two central chairs.

  'The Condominium,' whispered Pollet. 'Three and three. Very strong enemies.'

  'Pray rise for His Excellency M. Etienne Martin, French Governor‑General!' shouted the officer at the door. Half the people rose to their feet.

  'The French,' whispered Pollet to Davies and then, turning to Conway, repeated the identification.

  'Pray rise for His Excellency Sir William Findlay‑Stayers, British Governor‑General.' The other half of the people stood up.

  'The British,' said Pollet unnecessarily.

  Everyone sat down. Davies thought Sir William gave a quick glance at the Chinese hangings and appendages above and around him, and a shudder flew across his face. The first of the six Condominium men, one of the British three, stood, and said: 'Sir William Findlay‑Stayers, the British Governor‑General, will make a statement.'

  At the other extreme of the sextet a moustached man stood: 'Sir William Findlay‑Stayers, le Gouverneur General Britannique va faire un exposé.'

  Pollet sighed: 'All the way through they will do this. Everything has to be translated or the other partner becomes offended. But almost every person in these islands speaks French and English very well.'

  Sir William stood. He bowed with obvious enjoyment to his French opposite. 'Your Excellency, Members of the Condominium, ladies and gentlemen...'he began.

  The French interpreter was immediately on his feet: 'Voire Excellence, Membres du Condominium, mesdames et messieurs. . .'

  The British Governor looked at the man sourly. '...fellow islanders...' Sir William continued.

  ,.. . concitoyens de nos iles.. ' said the interpreter.

  Sir William made a quince face. Then like a single, sour cavalryman charging a platoon, burst through his momentous message at a gallop, unpausing at the conclusion of a sentence and allowing the shallowest intake of breath at the end of a paragraph. He told them, at
250 words a minute, that Her Majesty the Oueen would be visiting the Apostle Islands in six weeks' time. He completed the statement in one minute fifty‑three seconds, whirled about to enjoy the outraged looks of the speechless French interpreter and the entire French echelon, and sat down breathlessly to wild and delighted applause from the British colony.

  M. Martin raised a shadow of an eyebrow in the direction of the interpreter who, having shrugged, stood and gave an ill‑tempered delivery of the statement in French from a prepared text handed to him by a disdainfully smiling Phillip Cooper. Again the British cheered and some of the French people clapped politely.

  Then, nothing happened. A silence swirled around the Chinese hall. No one seemed to know whether they should go away or stay. Sir William looked calmly ahead towards the carved swan, but not as far as it. The French Governor made a minute examination of the creases in his trousers and then turned attention to his shoes as though suspecting that they were odd. Eventually Mr Rob Roy English rose and moved forward, his kilt heavy about his hips, his sporran shaggily swaying.

  'Your Excellencies,' he began, glaring towards the two governors and then throwing his face dramatically back towards the audience again. 'Since no one has thought to establish a chairman for this gathering, and since it is imperative that someone says something or everyone will just go away, I would like to take the liberty of saying that something.'

  There was a scattering of understanding applause. Mr English spoke in a wide Scots accent, rasping then guttural, then winging away on a sweet syllable, before descending into another croaking note like an engine after the changing of a gear.

  'How long has he been here?' whispered Davies. Pollet shrugged: 'Twenty‑five, thirty years, I suppose. A long time anyway. He nurtures his accent, my friend, by listening to special long‑playing records he has sent from Edinburgh.'

  Both Sir William and M. Martin nodded relieved encouragement at Mr English. The kilted chairman of the council acknowledged their support. Then he said: 'We will be forming committees, of course, to make detailed plans for Her Majesty's visit. There are many things we must do...'