by Judy Nunn
Sam and Alexander didn’t mind one bit. Sam thought it was amazing that Mickey, Fiona, Anthony and Ada should come to work when they had the day off, and Alexander was secretly delighted. An audience out there in the dark. He’d missed an audience.
‘You haven’t shaved, Father.’ Sarah was shocked. She’d never seen him unshaven.
‘I forgot. I awoke late this morning.’ He hadn’t shaved in the whole three days since she’d left. ‘I’ll ring for tea.’
‘No, please don’t bother.’ She didn’t want to see the servants. ‘I only came to say goodbye.’
‘I thought as much.’
She crossed to him where he stood by the mantelpiece, wondering whether he would kiss her farewell, but he didn’t. He was a tall man and it was impossible for her to make the gesture without him offering his cheek, so she proffered her hand instead.
‘Goodbye, Father.’
‘I shall not disinherit you of course, Sarah,’ he said as he shook her hand. ‘It was never my intention, I was simply testing the man.’
‘An unnecessary test, as it turned out, but thank you.’
What was it about her? he thought. There was a confidence, even a boldness that he’d never before seen, but there was something else. Then he realised. She was no longer plain. When did that happen? he wondered. And how? His mouse of a daughter. There was life in her eyes, pride in her bearing, she looked womanly and alive.
‘When do you leave?’ he asked.
‘We sail from Southampton the day after tomorrow,’ she replied.
‘You’ll marry in the New Hebrides then?’
‘We were married yesterday.’
So that was it, he thought. She’d discovered love, she’d become a woman. Of course that was it. He thought of Amelia. ‘I shall miss you,’ he said, avoiding her eyes, staring into the fireplace instead.
‘No you shan’t, Father.’ She didn’t say it unkindly, but the words sounded brutal nonetheless. ‘Why should you miss the millstone you’ve had about your neck all these years?’
He looked at her then. ‘Is that what you were?’
‘Yes.’ Suddenly, she felt an aching pity for him. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be my mother.’
‘You’re all I have left of her, Sarah.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.’ She reached up and touched his cheek, but he didn’t lower his face for her to kiss it. ‘Goodbye, Father.’
She was gone, and Clifford looked up at the portrait of his wife, tears welling in his eyes.
‘Cut!’ Simon called. ‘That’s a wrap,’ he announced to the crew. ‘Well done, Alexander. Very moving. Well done.’
The final shot had been a closeup on Clifford, and the makeup artist had been standing by with a menthol blower to induce tears, but Alexander hadn’t needed it. Sam had joined the others, watching from the sidelines as they’d changed lens for the closeup, and she’d been his inspiration. God but he loved an audience, Alexander thought.
There were cheers from the crew and embraces all round and Simon made the final announcement.
‘Party as long as you like tonight,’ he said. ‘But don’t miss the plane tomorrow. Vanuatu, here we come!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The SS Morinda bucked and rolled her way through the swell of the vast Pacific Ocean, but the elements presented little danger. She was a solid vessel, an inter-island tramp steamer that had weathered many a storm, and today’s conditions were nothing to her. The dour skipper had privately assured Jane that the vessel was in relatively safe waters. He considered it only fair, he’d said, that she and her husband should be kept informed, travelling with a child, as they were. Jane noticed, however, that he’d offered no such assurance to the other passengers – four Australians and two New Zealanders – a rough and ready bunch; he obviously enjoyed watching them sweat.
She searched the horizon, barely visible beneath heavy clouds. The skipper had said they’d see the island any moment now but, although the rain had ceased, the steamy vapour still clouded her vision. ‘You’ll be surprised how quickly the weather clears,’ he’d promised her.
Then suddenly, miraculously, he was right. The haze disappeared, the sky became blue, and there it was, like magic, in the distance dead ahead. The island of Efate. Craggy mountains rearing abruptly out of lush tropical forest, breakers rolling relentlessly upon coral shores. And somewhere not yet visible amidst this dramatic landscape was Vila, the capital of the archipelago known as the New Hebrides.
Approximately 840 miles east of Australia, the Y-shaped cluster of the archipelago was made up of four main and sixty smaller islands. Efate lay to the south and, roughly twenty-five miles long and eighteen miles wide, it was the chief, although by no means largest, of the group, Espiritu Santo and Malekula to the north being far larger. But Efate housed the capital of Vila. It was from here that the dual colonial administrations of France and Britain governed the New Hebrides. And it was the capital of Vila that was Jane and Martin Thackeray’s intended destination.
It had been a long and hazardous voyage, but one neither Jane nor Martin had questioned from the outset. Jane had had some initial concern for the baby’s welfare, but he was strong and healthy and, as Martin himself had said, ‘His father is a doctor and his mother a nurse, my love, he could hardly be in better hands.’ And Jane had agreed. Little Ronald Thackeray would grow up with the same spirit of adventure which she and Martin shared.
The Missions Committee of the Presbyterian Church of New Zealand had been in urgent need of a doctor for their New Hebrides Mission and the position had been offered to Martin six months after the baby’s birth. Unable to find a suitable candidate in New Zealand due to a wartime shortage, the Committee had sought further afield and Martin Thackeray, doubly qualified, a minister of the church and a medical doctor, had proved a perfect choice.
Martin had jumped at the chance, his wife, too, embracing the opportunity. Jane had been overjoyed at the renewal of purpose she saw in her husband. The decision to serve as a missionary doctor on the other side of the world, radical as it might be, was the obvious and final step in the restoration of Martin’s faith. He had found his cause. And a month later, Martin and Jane Thackeray, together with baby Ronald, embarked upon the voyage that would change their lives.
The majority of passenger vessels on the England to Australia run had been requisitioned by the Admiralty as troop and supply carriers, but the SS Themistocles remained in commercial service for the Aberdeen line, and the Thackeray family had boarded in Liverpool, bound for Australia via the Cape of Good Hope.
It had been a perilous journey, fraught with the dangers of war. At night they had travelled without navigational lights, and there was the ever-present threat of U-boat attacks. But thirty-seven days later, they had arrived in Sydney, where they had travelled by train to Brisbane before boarding the SS Morinda.
Now, finally, they had reached their destination, and as Jane clung to the railings she felt breathless with anticipation. Martin was below, minding the baby. They took turns, and he had selflessly insisted she go up on deck for the first view of the island. He and Ronnie would join her, he said, when they came into port and the waters were calm. Then together, all three, they would view their new home.
The Morinda neared the promontory beyond which lay Mele Bay and the small protected harbour of Vila, and Jane gazed in wonderment at the beauty that unfolded before her eyes.
Endless groves of coconut palms and vivid green rainforest stretched from the backdrop of towering mountains to the shore. Sandy beaches gleamed, blindingly white. And all was surrounded by crystal-clear water of the lightest aquamarine, broken here and there by shelves of coral reef.
Never had she seen colours of such intensity. It was as if the artist who had painted this landscape hadn’t bothered with a palette at all, but had simply dipped his brush into the paint pots, so unblended, so pure and stark were the contrasts.
Then they rounded the promontory into the broad sweep of
Mele Bay where, to starboard, tiny islands guarded the harbour entrance and where, nestled beyond, lay the township of Vila.
The main street, with its several stores and businesses that catered to the colonial and expatriate society, ran parallel to the waterfront. Jutting out over the water were a number of piers and boatsheds and, on a small promontory, an intriguing building with shuttered verandahs. Perhaps a hotel or a restaurant of some kind, Jane thought, judging by the activity she could see through the open shutters.
Neat white homes with red roofs climbed the lush hillsides that rose from the shoreline, and within the harbour itself was a tiny, perfectly shaped island upon which stood a fine house.
The overall setting was one of such romance that it might have leapt from the pages of Kipling or Maugham, Jane thought. She noted, with a sense of curiosity, that the fine house on the island was flying the Union Jack.
‘Iririki,’ a voice said behind her, apparently reading her thoughts. ‘Iririki Island, home of the British resident commissioner.’ Martin had done his homework.
‘Oh, Marty, I’m so sorry.’ She whirled about; he was standing behind her, Ronnie in his arms, and he was grinning broadly. ‘I was just about to come down and get you,’ she said, riddled with guilt.
‘No you weren’t. I’ve been watching you for the past ten minutes.’
She kissed him as she took the child. ‘I’ve been shockingly selfish,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t help myself. I was carried away. Isn’t it all so beautiful?’
‘Yes. It is.’ Martin looked at her as she kissed the wide-eyed child and pointed out the island and the British flag. ‘Very, very beautiful.’ Her fair hair was in wild disarray and her eyes glowed vivid with excitement. They hadn’t always been that colour, he thought, it must be the reflection of the ocean. He could swear they were aquamarine.
He put his arm around her and the three of them looked out at Vila as the SS Morinda slowly made her way towards the main jetty. ‘Welcome to your new home, my love,’ he said.
‘Our new home, Marty.’ She nestled her head into the crook of his arm and the child imitated her, nuzzling his little face against her neck. ‘We’re going to be so happy here.’ Then she jerked her head up sharply, startling Ronnie, who let out a brief wail. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she exclaimed as she saw the outrigger canoes that had appeared to their left. She’d been so preoccupied with Iririki Island that she hadn’t noticed the approach of the natives.
There must have been at least twenty canoes, simple dugout tree trunks with extended bamboo arms to prevent their overturning. They were flimsy, light craft but most proficiently handled, the smaller ones by two rowers, and some of the larger ones by half dozen or more men.
As the islanders drew closer, Jane felt unnerved, she had never seen people so black. Everything about them looked frightening to her, even their hair, which grew in an untamed frizz several inches from their heads. And they were gesticulating excitedly, calling out in an unintelligible language, and waving their arms and their paddles wildly in the air.
She resisted the instinctive urge to clasp Martin’s arm, but he sensed her unease nonetheless. ‘There’s no cause for concern, my love,’ he said. ‘It’s just a welcoming party, the locals are very friendly.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ she said stiffly, embarrassed at having been caught out. ‘I was informed of the fact, if you remember.’ Prior to their departure, she had been introduced to the representative of the Missions Committee and he had explained to her, briefly, the government and general customs of the New Hebrides.
Martin wasn’t offended. He was aware that she was not annoyed with him at all, but with herself for having allowed her fear to be so readable. ‘Of course they weren’t always friendly,’ he added, ‘cannibalism was rife on a number of these islands.’
She glanced sharply at him. The representative had said no such thing to her, and it was sometimes difficult to tell when Martin was joking.
‘In fact missionaries have contributed to quite a number of Melanesian feasts over the years, I believe.’
‘Stop it, Marty,’ she whispered, looking about to see if anyone else could hear, but the other passengers were leaning over the railings waving to the islanders.
‘Oh yes,’ he continued airily. ‘They’d chop up the poor chap, roast his flesh on hot stones and serve him with taros and yams. They’d even invite the neighbouring tribe in for a share, if they were on friendly terms and hadn’t eaten them first – they were a generous bunch.’
‘That’s not funny,’ she said, cuddling Ronnie close as if to protect him from such images, although the child was happily mimicking the other passengers and waving at the strange black people.
‘Perhaps not, but it’s true.’ Martin had been fully tutored on the history of the Mission, and had also read every piece of literature he could find relating to the New Hebrides. ‘Fascinating, don’t you think?’
She looked at him uncertainly, his sense of humour was so often disconcerting. But he once again put a comforting arm around her.
‘Don’t worry, my love, they don’t do it any more.’ Then he couldn’t resist the urge. ‘At least I don’t think so,’ he smiled.
Martin Thackeray and his family had been assigned a small house tucked into the side of the hill, across the clearing from the Presbyterian Church. The little path that led to its front door was shrouded with cabbage palms and tropical trees, and its verandah overlooked the harbour. Jane found it most charming. Nearby was a playing field, reminiscent of an English village green, which was known as the British ‘paddock’. It was in the ‘paddock’ that every possible form of event staged by the colonial British took place, from official ceremonies to church fetes, football games and cricket matches.
The British were, however, vastly outnumbered by the French throughout the islands in a strange form of colonial government known as a Condominium, the two nations having signed a convention in 1906 which officially married them as joint guardians of the New Hebrides.
It was an uneasy marriage, resulting from the outset in a fiercely competitive stance taken by both, even in the choice of their respective residencies. The French immediately settled upon the ideal spot directly overlooking the harbour of Vila, forcing the British to make do with an inferior outlook tucked amongst the trees half mile away. Not at all happy with the arrangement, the British resident commissioner then decided to build his house on the island of Iririki, completely upstaging his opponent.
The ground rules having been established, the constant game of one-upmanship continued over the years and, to further confuse the issue, both administrations insisted upon dual bureaucracies. There were two sets of customs on arrival in the colony, two law systems, police forces and jails, two departments of education, two health services and two coin currencies, the French franc and the British shilling. Despite logical predictions that such a costly and inefficient government would last little more than a decade at most, tenacity and sheer pig-headedness had paid off. Thirty-five years later, the New Hebrides Condominium remained well entrenched.
‘We call it Pandemonium,’ Godfrey said as he refilled Martin’s glass with the beaujolais he’d provided from his fine cellar stock. ‘Some wag coined the term around thirty years ago and it’s stuck ever since.’
Godfrey Tomlinson had introduced himself just three days after their arrival. ‘Mrs Thackeray?’ he’d enquired when Jane had answered the knock at the front door. Then, without waiting for an answer, he’d doffed his Panama hat and proffered his hand. ‘I’m Godfrey Tomlinson, how do you do?’
He was an imposing-looking man, silver-haired and grey-bearded, with piercingly intelligent blue eyes. A cream linen suit hung, somewhat crumpled but strangely elegant, on his wiry frame, and as he smiled, his face wreathed into the wrinkles born of a lifetime in the tropics. Jane judged him to be in his seventies. The quintessential South Sea Island Englishman, she thought.
‘Do forgive the intrusion, I merely wished to welcom
e you to Vila. I’ll call back at another time if I’m inconveniencing you.’
‘Not at all, Mr Tomlinson, it’s very nice of you to call, please come in.’ She’d led the way into the main room of the house. A large, airy lounge room with wooden shutters that opened out onto the small verandah overlooking the harbour. Steps, which for Ronnie’s safety Martin had barricaded with a strip of lattice, led off the side of the verandah to the clearing where, in the distance, stood the church and the house of Martin’s superior, the Reverend Arthur Smeed.
‘Most attractive,’ Godfrey said, admiring the brightness of the curtains and cushions and scatter rugs. ‘You’ve done wonders in only a few days. And this is young Ronald, I take it?’ Ronnie was happily amusing himself rattling the cane bars of his playpen in the corner.
‘Yes,’ Jane replied, wondering how he knew. But then the arrival of the missionary doctor and his family would inevitably be a source of gossip in a small town like Vila. It was disappointing to contemplate, given his old-world courtesy and impressive appearance, that Godfrey Tomlinson might simply be an interfering old busybody.
‘I’m afraid my husband isn’t here at the moment,’ she said, ‘he’s at the church in discussion with Reverend Smeed.’
Martin had been in discussion with Reverend Smeed for the past three days and next week he was to leave for Malekula. Jane had known that his work would take him to the various islands, but she hadn’t expected to be left on her own quite so soon.
‘Ah, yes of course, he’ll be a very busy man, your husband. When does he leave?’
‘At the end of next week.’ Again, she wondered how Godfrey Tomlinson knew of Reverend Smeed’s plans for her husband, but she said nothing, refusing to ask how he had acquired his knowledge.
‘So soon?’ Godfrey had suspected as much. The Reverend Arthur Smeed, representative of the Presbyterian Church of New Zealand and a dedicated man, was a hard taskmaster. If Martin Thackeray was a man of equal dedication, and having accepted the appointment he probably was, then he would no doubt find the work rewarding. But it would be hard on his young wife. Which was the reason Godfrey had called upon her. It wasn’t his custom. He knew everyone in Vila, and everyone certainly knew him, Godfrey Tomlinson was an institution throughout the islands, but he rarely visited people’s homes, and he rarely invited others to his.