A Lesser Dependency

by Peter Benson

  ‘If the spirit-seeker’s from Marianne, why does he have to live in a hut?’ said Odette.

  ‘There’s things you don’t need to know.’ Maude pricked her finger on a needle. She was sewing Georges’ trousers. He had brought them over the day before and hoped Maude would suggest he stayed in her hut. He could have the veranda. He was hardly ever at home anyway.

  He opened his mouth to ask but all he said was, ‘They got ripped. Could you sew them?’

  ‘Leave them on the rail. I’ll do them later.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Yes?’

  Georges looked around. ‘When’s Raphael home?’

  ‘That’s him.’ She pointed to a boat approaching the shore.

  ‘He left work early today.’

  ‘I know.’

  Georges pointed at the trousers. ‘I’ll pick them up…’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‌6

  In 1966, Raphael sailed to Mauritius on a copra boat, the SS Nordvaer. The passage was slow, but the crew were friendly and told stories about women with three breasts and dogs that could stone cherries.

  He had saved money in his account for two years, enough to buy all the things on the list he carried. Shirts. Material for Maude. A garden rake. A paint-brush. Rum and cane spirit for Georges. A doll for Odette and a diver’s mask for Leonard.

  A diver’s mask would be Leonard’s dream. He’d borrowed one once and the lagoon had become a place he had not dreamed existed. Swimming underwater with his eyes open, the coral reefs were transformed from the distorted shapes he’d seen from his father’s boat into another world. He found mother of pearl lying like rubbish, cone shells tumbled through his wash and he met fish like family. His own mask would give him a new freedom, and a silence like the peace a hunter inspires in jungle animals. Something deep and lasting.

  Ilois people often visited Mauritius for supplies they couldn’t buy in the Chagos. Those who went enjoyed renewing old friendships, spending time with long lost relatives or browsing through Port Louis market for cheap goods.

  Raphael stayed in Port Louis with an Ilois who had moved to Mauritius years before. Alain; working for the copra company hadn’t been his line, and when Port Louis appeared to offer opportunities, he’d left Diego Garcia. But the city confused him until it beat him. A clothes shop had been beyond his means, a fruit stall too difficult to stock, a hawker’s case was stolen. Saved money gone; he ended up offering a tin roof to visiting Ilois.

  Tin roof, slum. It was at his place that Raphael got the first idea that something was wrong. Life snarled; he listened as he was told about stranded Ilois.

  These were people Raphael knew. They’d left Diego Garcia earlier in the year and hadn’t returned as expected. People on the island had been wondering where they were. Rumours had flown but ships were always getting delayed. ‘But ships don’t get delayed,’ said Alain, ‘forever! What else do people say?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the people who haven’t gone home!’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Bet what?’

  Dogs barked in the street outside. A woman shouted. A child cried. Alain said, ‘You know they’re forced to stay here.’ He wagged a finger. ‘They can’t use their tickets…’

  ‘Can’t use them!’ Raphael laughed. ‘I’ve got one!’ He showed it. He couldn’t read but he knew what it meant. ‘I’ll use it!’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So it’ll get me home.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Raphael, and the thought of shirts, dress material and a diver’s mask blew the worries he should have had away, as he went shopping with his rupees tied to the inside of his trousers with a whipping of string.

  Rupees. In the Chagos, the money banked for the plantation workers was hardly ever handled. Ilois bartered, but Raphael wasn’t confused. He walked to the market. He was excited. There were more people there than lived on Diego Garcia. More people stood around one stall than lived in his village. He felt small, and shuffled around looking for the first thing on his list.

  Shirts. He found some, bargained and bought, and though people jostled and recognised him as an Ilois, he didn’t feel threatened. Port Louis has a warm heart, and it beats from the market, where you can buy anything and not mind what it is because you bought it there. Raphael smiled at the shirt-seller, re-tied his bundle of notes and jangled the change in his pocket.

  He bought a bottle of beer from a Chinese shop, and leant against a wall. Diego Garcia’s traffic and roads were nothing like the traffic and roads that knit Port Louis. He stood and watched buses trail in from Pamplemousses, Centre de Flacq, Mahebourg, Souillac, Curepipe and Beau Bassin. Lorries carrying stone and rubbish belched from building sites. Men hung from running-boards, hats off, shirts out, waving at friends and girls as they shopped and talked.

  The beer was cold, and came in a brown bottle. Other people stood around with their own bottles, swigging, talking about the football pools and looking at the tourists. Some of these had big lenses, small shorts and loud shirts. They passed Raphael but didn’t recognise him as British.

  Port Louis baked as the sun rose, and people rushed to finish things. Cars hissed and the road-menders shaded their brooms under torn canvas sheets. Raphael finished his beer and sweated it out all the way back to his lodgings.

  ‘Busy day?’ said Alain.

  ‘Good shirts,’ said Raphael, and showed the man what he’d bought.

  ‘How much?’

  Raphael told him.

  ‘That much?’ Alain envied his guest’s innocence but wouldn’t sneer. He had been the same once, and remembered the time.

  Raphael shrugged. ‘They’re worth it,’ he said, and put them in his bag.

  Raphael’s trust and innocence shone in Mauritius. He loved streets of lights, radios with fifty switches, shirts you didn’t have to wash and trousers that didn’t need mending. He spent a week spending money before thanking Alain and leaving for the docks. ‘The ship,’ he said, ‘will take me.’ He smiled. ‘See you next year.’ The two men shook hands.

  Raphael stood on the quay at Port Louis and listened as he was told there were no more sailings to the Chagos. He didn’t understand. It was a mistake. He had a ticket. ‘What about my wife?’ he said. He showed the man the rake he’d bought her. ‘My children? I’ve got work there. I have to go home…’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘There’s orders.’ He flashed a paper. ‘We can’t let you go back there.’

  ‘It is a mistake,’ said Raphael.

  The man shook his head.

  ‘What do I do then?’

  The man shrugged.

  Raphael promised he’d be back the next day, and with ten rupees in the world, plus a bundle of clothes, tools and a doll and a diver’s mask, he walked back to Alain’s, was told, ‘Didn’t I say so?’ and spent an unplanned night on the floor.

  When Alain asked him for rent there were only three rupees left and miles between him and home. He’d been planning to repaint his boat on his return to Diego Garcia. It needed it badly. He had bought a new brush for the job. He held it in his hand.

  ‌7

  Maude stood on the beach and strained her powers of intuition. It was a hot day. The sun steamed the ocean, the reefs boiled and something in the air smelt.

  Raphael had been gone six months. There had been no word or letter. No overseers could explain the circumstances. They shrugged and said maybe the ship needed new turbines, or maybe Raphael and a steady trickle of other missing Ilois were earning good money in Mauritius.

  ‘There’re jobs in Port Louis.’

  ‘What jobs?’

  ‘All sorts. Building jobs, dock work, factory work. He could be working in…’

  ‘But he’s only ever worked in plantations. That and fishing. He doesn’t do that sort of work.’

  ‘Then maybe he’s fishing!’

  ‘With his boat sitting there?
’ Maude pointed to his boat. It had never been idle for so long.

  ‘Well maybe…’ but the man couldn’t think. He was confused, and didn’t need Maude asking questions he couldn’t answer. He was meant to be in authority.

  ‘Maybe what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You should.’

  The overseer sniffed.

  Leonard and Odette interrupted the talk. They didn’t understand, and wanted feeding. Maude snapped, ‘Later!’ They jumped. She never snapped, raised her voice or narrowed her eyes but she began to. Raphael’s absence and the absence of his income forced her. ‘Later!’ she said again, and sat down. The overseer coughed and left.

  Georges asked to sleep on her veranda; she didn’t see why not. He gave her something for the space, and she’d smack him with a pole if he bothered her. He didn’t. He said she should just think about other things. ‘Work,’ he slurred. Working would take her mind off Raphael. One day she approached a plantation manager.

  ‘Got a job for me?’ she said. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Can you use one of these?’ He showed her a knife.

  ‘Better than you…’ she said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ve got my own.’

  ‘You can use this one.’ He was a tolerant man and didn’t mind the Ilois. They were some of the friendliest people he’d ever had to order about. East Point jail was hardly ever used. Life could be hard but it had never been murder. He gave Maude a job and gloves, and she started the next day.

  She split coconuts and scooped the flesh out. Chagos Agalega offered her a rent-free place too, but she preferred to stay in her own. She kept Raphael’s things – his rod, tackle, spare shirt – ready for him, and when she wasn’t working or cooking, stood on the shore and watched the waves run empty from Mauritius.

  When she worked, Leonard and Odette hung about. They played with others or chased dogs and rats away from the drying trays. More like birds than children; their laughter didn’t console her. But the island didn’t ring any more. The sun seemed to shine from behind clouds when there were no clouds for miles. Even Georges couldn’t cheer her up. He told jokes, offered calou and said everything would be alright, but she didn’t laugh, didn’t drink and didn’t believe him. She neglected her vegetable garden, and didn’t care when the donkey went missing.

  Since its leg had healed it had grown tame. It had lived in a paddock behind the hut. Maude knew it was planning to leave. Suddenly it was gone.

  ‘Where’s the donkey?’ Odette said.

  Maude didn’t answer. She was too busy staring. She was tired, and hadn’t tidied her hair for days. Georges lay on the beach and smoked a cigarette.

  ‘Where’s the donkey?’ Odette asked him. ‘Mother won’t say. I called him.’

  ‘Where should he be?’

  ‘In the paddock.’ She pointed. ‘He comes out sometimes, but only when someone’s watching. We used to feed him but I haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

  ‘You want to find him?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Odette.

  Leonard nodded. He picked his nose. ‘I’ll help,’ he said. ‘I know where he’d go.’

  ‘You don’t! You never helped with him anyway. You said you would, but did you?’

  ‘He’d go back with the wild ones.’

  ‘He might not. They frighten him.’

  Georges led the way. The children called, ‘Donkey! Donkey!’ but nothing answered them.

  They asked people they met but everyone shook their heads. They walked as far as Minni-Minni and searched around the graves, derelict buildings and jungle that surrounded the place before giving up, sitting down and watching the sun set over the lagoon.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Georges.

  ‘No,’ said Odette.

  ‘He’d have heard us calling,’ said Leonard. ‘He knew his name.’

  ‘He never had a name! It’s stupid, calling animals names. They don’t speak to each other.’

  ‘He’s back with the wild ones,’ said Georges.

  ‘I told you.’

  Not so many fishing boats bobbed in the lagoon as had once. The atmosphere of the place had shifted in a subtle and confusing way. Its waves didn’t rise and fall with the same spirit and the shore wasn’t dotted with so many lights. Some huts had been abandoned and cannibalised for other places in bigger hamlets. Georges, Leonard and Odette gave up their search.

  ‘We’ll go home,’ said Georges. ‘The donkey’s happier where he is, anyway. If he wants to come back he will. Come on.’ He wanted a drink.

  ‘That’s sad,’ said Odette.

  Leonard nodded.

  Maude was still sitting on the beach, twisting a knot of palm leaves with her fingers. She didn’t care where the donkey was, and didn’t answer when Georges called her name.

  ‘Maude!’

  She cooked some food. He opened a bottle. The children sat and waited, a rooster called, a neighbour arrived to tell them to be at the manager’s house in the morning.

  The manager of Chagos Agalega gave his workers the news. The British had bought the company and were closing it down. The factories would be closed soon, the plantations abandoned and all salvageable machinery shipped out. He watched faces as he explained the situation, and felt gentle puffs of tropical wind flap his trouser legs.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘They were orders. They’re closing.’

  ‘Do we keep our knives?’

  ‘Bloody knives,’ said Georges, and held up his thumb. He’d cut it badly. ‘It hurts.’

  He’d gone to visit the nurse. She had left for Mauritius and wasn’t coming back. He went to the shop to buy a bandage. They didn’t have any and didn’t know when the next lot would come in. Supply ships had stopped sailing to the Chagos.

  ‘I’m bleeding!’

  ‘Georges! I had Marcel in yesterday. You’ve seen his leg?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He needs more than a nurse. The man can’t move. Jean carried him down but I couldn’t do a thing.’

  ‘Then give me a bottle.’

  ‘Hardly any good ones left now, either. God knows.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ said the shopkeeper and went to his back room.

  Georges walked to Maude’s with the bottle. The first rain in months washed the island. Big drops forcing palms droopy, filling holes in the roads and tracks. More people cleared their shelves, deserted their homes and took ships to Mauritius. The railway tracks that had served the factories rusted, old wagons lay on their sides in deserted sidings. The plantations grew wild and women wearing nothing but vests scavenged abandoned company houses.

  ‌8

  Raphael ran out of money and had to sell his shopping. He went back to a hardware store with the rake. He showed it to a Chinaman and explained his circumstances. The Chinaman didn’t understand, but gave him some money for the tool. Half what he had paid in the first place, but it meant food.

  Shirts, paint-brush, Odette’s doll, dress material, all went the same way, until he was left with Leonard’s diver’s mask. He sat outside Alain’s shack and held it in his hands. He looked at it, played with its strap and hoped that one day his son would be able to fish all day in the Chagos.

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘This.’ He held it up. ‘Leonard’ll be wondering where it is. He’ll think I’ve let him down.’

  Alain laughed. ‘You’ve let him down!’ He spat and laughed again.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Nothing…’

  ‘No! What?’

  ‘Nothing. Really. I can’t say.’

  No one could get any sense out of people at the docks. Raphael had given up trying to get home months before. He just thought there was something wrong with the ship. It was all he could think. Other Ilois had ideas about what was happening, but no one took any notice of them. Ilois had always been loyal to the Queen and cherished goods with ‘Made in Britain’ printed on
them.

  Raphael thought about these things as he sat on a wall overlooking the docks. Ships rode at anchor and the Customs House was busy. Lorries hauled cargoes from the warehouses and grain stores. Fork-lift trucks reversed into pallets and stacks. People shouted, turned up radios and rushed around. Hooters blared, chains rattled and a clock chimed the hours.

  He put his hands over his ears. One of the worst things about Mauritius was noise. All day and every night: cars, trucks, buses, people shouting, radios. Diego Garcia had had noise but nothing like Port Louis’s. He wanted the peace at home, the only sound the slap of water against the side of his boat as a fish took the bait. The swish of a line, the rush of his heart to his mouth. Something special for Maude to cook…

  ‘Something different.’

  ‘I always catch different! What do you mean?’

  Raphael sold Leonard’s diver’s mask on a wet day in July. An unlikely wind had blown a belt of rain over Port Louis and sent everyone for cover. He’d been standing in the bus station, asking people if they wanted to buy a mask, and found himself sheltering between a wall and a tourist.

  This tourist – a man – was wearing a bright shirt and nodded at Raphael. He rubbed his arms to indicate cold. Raphael held up the mask and rubbed his stomach. The tourist pointed to his own chest. Raphael nodded. The tourist scratched his chin and looked at Raphael. He saw a small, hunched man with a straggly beard and dull eyes. His clothes were hanging off his back, his shoes were broken. His toes poked out and twitched. He held up five fingers and pointed at the mask.

  ‘Five?’ said the tourist.

  Raphael nodded.

  The tourist fished in his pocket and gave Raphael five rupees. A bargain. He took the mask. He smiled, patted Raphael on the shoulder and took a taxi to Flic en Flac.

  For a month of his life on Mauritius Raphael tried to help himself. Alain said fishermen always wanted mates, so he splashed water on his face and brushed his hair.