Pacific

by Judy Nunn

  ‘What have you done to me?’

  ‘I crushed up a pill and spiked your drink, and I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry.’ She was staring at him, horrified, but at least he was getting through. He was relieved that she wasn’t going to have a fit; she’d frightened him there for a minute. ‘Just one little e, that’s all it was. You’re having a bad trip. The thing is not to worry, it’ll wear off soon. Come on now, get up, there’s a good girl.’

  She allowed him to help her to her feet. ‘You bastard.’ Her heart was pounding. She was going to have a heart attack, she was sure. ‘I’ve never taken one of those things in my life.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s pretty obvious.’

  ‘I think I’m having a heart attack.’

  ‘No you’re not. It’s just panic, that’s all.’ Jesus, he certainly hoped it was. She was spaced out all right, he could tell. ‘You need to move around. Want to go for a walk?’

  She stared at him, saw the concern in his eyes. He was a puppy again. A frightened puppy this time, trying to make things better. How on earth could she have considered sleeping with him? ‘Bugger off, Brett, I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Not a good idea, baby,’ he spoke soothingly, trying to talk her down. ‘Better to keep moving, helps the paranoia wear off.’

  ‘I’ll look after my own paranoia, just go.’

  ‘Hey c’mon, Sam, I’m only trying to help.’

  ‘You’ve helped enough. Piss off.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He backed away. ‘Drink plenty of water, and a lot of deep breathing, you got that?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve got that, now get out, go away.’ She had to lie down, the world was spinning, she was going to fall over any minute.

  ‘Water and deep breathing, you’ll be fine baby, trust me.’

  She didn’t answer, but after she’d locked the door behind him she took his advice. She guzzled water from the bottle in the refrigerator, then lay down on the bed and concentrated on her breathing. In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, she counted, her hands on her diaphragm. She tried to practise the meditation exercises she’d learned all those years ago at drama school. But nothing worked. Panic seized her. Her heart was pounding more wildly than ever.

  Just a bad trip, she told herself, that’s what he’d said. Just one little e, he’d said that too. It was only a pill, and people popped pills all the time, didn’t they? Yes, and people died too. What the hell was in the pill? Stop it, she told herself, stop it. Just a bad trip, that’s all, just a bad trip.

  But no matter how hard she tried to reason with herself, something in her brain told her that the darkness engulfing her was death. She concentrated on the chink in the curtain. Through it, she could see the lights of the pool. As long as the lights were on she was safe. The lights were her life and she focussed on them. She didn’t dare sleep. Sleep meant blackness and blackness meant death. Stay awake, she told herself as she stared, fixated, at the chink in the curtain, whatever you do stay awake. Then she heard the last of the revellers making their farewells. Oh dear God, she thought, any moment now they’ll turn off the pool lights.

  Then silence outside. All was still and quiet. And suddenly the lights went out.

  She lay in the dark, listening to the sound of her laboured breathing and waiting for the moment of her death. Images and sounds formed in her mind: faces unrecognisable and barely human; voices, distorted and incoherent.

  Gradually they took shape to become one, and a face she knew appeared before her. It was the face of the old woman she’d met in Fareham. Maude. Maude with her silver hair and her pretty smile. But Maude wasn’t smiling now, she was stern and disapproving. She spoke, and her voice was the same as it had been that day in the park, well modulated, and refined. But this time it was not gentle. This time there was a hard, admonishing edge to her tone.

  ‘You foolish girl,’ she said. ‘You’d jeopardise everything? All that we’ve worked for, you and I?’

  The face drew closer and closer, the eyes stern, the mouth a thin hard line, and the voice grew harsher. ‘Foolish girl! Foolish!’ Closer and closer it came until Sam could see nothing but the old woman’s eyes.

  ‘You owe it to me,’ the voice said. ‘Never forget that. You owe it to me.’

  What did she owe? What? The eyes were engulfing her now. Then the two became one. They merged, the blue of the iris, the black of the pupil, one huge eye, coming closer and closer, any moment it would devour her. The voice softened a little.

  ‘Don’t be foolish and throw it all away. We’re a team, you and I. A team, don’t ever forget that. A team, dear. You and I. A team.’

  The voice echoed all around her, the blue iris disappeared, and everything became black as Sam felt herself swallowed up by the pupil of the eye.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The face of war in Europe had changed, as President Roosevelt had assured the world it would.

  ‘The Americans have arrived,’ Phoebe wrote to Jane. ‘They’ve set up a camp not far from Fareham, and when I ride my bicycle out of town (bicycles have become most popular due to the petrol rationing, and I’ve discovered I enjoy it, so very good for the figure) I see them marching all over the countryside. And when they come into Fareham they’re a frightfully friendly bunch, very generous. They dish out items that even Dora can no longer acquire through her black-market connections, chocolate and coffee and things. Several officers dined at Chisolm House the other night and they were awfully polite. And very smartly done out, I must say, I adore their uniforms. But I do so wish they wouldn’t give the children (who follow them about like puppies) chewing gum, it’s such ghastly stuff.’

  Phoebe’s response to Jane’s letter had been spontaneous.

  ‘How dare you apologise for writing,’ she’d said. ‘Oh Jane, you shouldn’t have taken me seriously when I told you not to correspond, I simply didn’t want you to feel obligated. I am thrilled that you have discovered your purpose and I expect to be kept well informed of the developments. In the meantime, I promise, my dearest friend, that I shall override my reluctance to put pen to paper and keep you well up with all the excitement of Fareham, which, apart from the bombs and the Americans, could hardly compare with the drama of the New Hebrides.’

  Phoebe was quite wrong, Jane assured her in the reply she sent post-haste, delighted to be once again in contact with her friend. The events in Fareham sounded far more dramatic than the climate that prevailed in Vila. Since the address of President Roosevelt three months previously, little had changed in the New Hebrides.

  ‘The Japanese have reached the nearby Solomon Islands,’ she wrote, ‘and we are fearful that we may be their next target. For the moment, however, life simply goes on as usual.’

  But although military activity in the Pacific had, as yet, had little direct effect on Vila, a whole new world had opened up for Jane Thackeray.

  Martin had spent the past three months principally stationed in Vila, with only several days away now and then, and Jane felt more than ever that she was truly settled, in both her marriage and her new home. She and Martin led a social existence. They had dined several times at Iririki Island with the British resident commissioner and had thrown a number of dinner parties of their own. Christmas Day had been shared with the Bales and Godfrey, and New Year’s Eve had been celebrated in style at Reid’s Hotel with a party of raucous expatriates, after which they’d watched the fireworks on the foreshore. They had become a part of the colony, both of them adjusting to the heat of the tropics and to the violent and unpredictable storms of the monsoon season. But, far more importantly, Jane had become a part of Martin’s work. They were partners in every sense of the word. The best of friends and the perfect team.

  When he visited a local community in his capacity as minister, she went with him. Sometimes they travelled by car, but more often than not they used the church’s horse and buggy. Sometimes she left Ronnie with Mary, but mostly she took the child with her, carrying him native-style in a sack-like harness tied
around her neck and waist. Martin loved her for it.

  ‘A true islander, my love,’ he’d say time and again with pride.

  The fact that they travelled as a family won the trust of the villagers, who themselves were very family-oriented. The minister and his missus and their baby were quickly accepted into the islanders’ homes, and Jane would play with their children whilst Martin held services or spoke on behalf of the Mission. Alternatively, when he was tending the sick, the old women of the village would mind Ronnie whilst Jane assisted her husband in his medical work.

  Shortly before his first birthday, Ronnie spoke his first word, and Jane was convinced he’d said it in Bislama.

  ‘How can you possibly tell?’ Martin laughed. ‘Mummy and mami sound the same.’

  ‘No, it was definitely mami,’ Jane said, refusing to budge on the issue.

  Several days later, they celebrated the birthday with a small party, inviting Godfrey and Mary. Mary had cooked a cake. It wasn’t a very good cake, sagging in the middle, but then Mary had never baked a cake before. Jane, Martin and Godfrey all vowed it was delicious, and fortunately it did taste much better than it looked. Mary, a buxom, good-natured young woman, who adored both Ronnie and the Missus, flushed with pleasure.

  Despite the fact that Ronnie had been officially christened in Edinburgh, Godfrey was declared the child’s honorary godfather, and it was obvious he took the position very seriously. It was in the middle of his humble, but lengthy speech, as he held his godchild in his arms, that Ronnie uttered his second word.

  ‘Dadi,’ he said quite clearly, and his little fingers reached out for the old man’s beard, always a source of fascination.

  Again Martin was unconvinced that the child was speaking Bislama, and again Jane was adamant that he’d said ‘dadi’ and not ‘daddy’. Godfrey didn’t care either way. The word had been directed at him, and that was all that mattered.

  In mid-April, Martin was sent to Espiritu Santo, the archipelago’s largest island, well to the north.

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be away all told,’ he said. ‘Two months, I would think, possibly three.’

  They made love the night before he left. Tenderly and considerately, as they always did. From the outset, their sexual relationship had been founded rather on an extension of their mutual love and respect than on an all-consuming passion.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said as she lay in his arms.

  ‘And I you.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘But at least I won’t worry about you this time. You’ve certainly found your niche, my love. I do believe Godfrey will be quite happy to see the back of me, though,’ he added lightly, ‘he told me that he hardly sees you any more.’ He kissed her gently once again. ‘You’ll have time on your hands to make a fuss of him whilst I’m gone. I think he’s lonely, old Godfrey.’

  But Jane had no time on her hands at all when, only two days later, early in the morning, Mary arrived with Sera Poilama.

  ‘This my friend Sera, we come from the same village.’

  The young woman Mary introduced was in her mid-twenties, just a little older than Jane, and quite beautiful. Her black hair, flattened and pulled back from her face in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, accentuated her handsome features, and beneath the cotton dress her body was lithe and graceful.

  ‘Allo, Sera.’ Jane extended her hand.

  ‘Allo, Missus Tackry.’ Sera gave a respectful bob as she shook Jane’s hand. Her voice was smooth, well modulated, and in keeping with her appearance, Jane thought. There was something inherently elegant about Sera. As it turned out, she spoke little English but was fluent in basic French.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jane said with an apologetic smile as Sera started rapidly explaining her predicament, ‘my French is not very good.’ So they conversed in Bislama instead.

  Sera’s four-year-old son was ill. At first he’d just had a cough and a runny nose, she said, and she hadn’t worried too much. But over the past three days he had become sick.

  ‘Sik, tumas,’ she said, her face stricken with worry. She was sure it was bad. Even her husband didn’t know how bad, her husband thought the sickness would pass. But she was a mother, and something in her blood told her that her son was in danger. She hoped that the Missus might come and visit him.

  What were the symptoms, Jane asked. ‘Hao nao sik?’

  ‘Hem taed, les. Hem no wantem kakae.’

  ‘Hem gat soa we oli harem long bodi?’

  Sera looked uncertain. She wanted to get the facts right for the Missus and she wasn’t sure if her son was in actual pain. Sometimes he whimpered, but mostly he was very, very tired. That was what worried her so much, he was normally such an active little boy.

  ‘Hem soa lelebet,’ she said.

  The child was lethargic and off his food but he was not suffering severe pain. Jane enquired why Sera had not brought him to see her. The village was very nearby, Mary walked into town each day.

  Sera explained that she no longer lived in the village. She was a maidservant on a coconut plantation, she said, and she and her family lived in a house on the property. Not far away from the big house, she added with some pride.

  It didn’t really answer her query, Jane thought. Having made the trip herself, why had Sera not brought her son with her? Jane sensed that Sera was avoiding the question.

  Had she been worried that her little boy was too ill to travel? she asked.

  Sera looked at Mary. It was Mary who had suggested she come and see the Missus, and she wasn’t sure whether she should speak her mind. But Mary nodded.

  ‘Masta no bilif pikinini blong mi sik.’ Sera shrugged helplessly. ‘Masta bilif hem jes taed, no wari.’

  How could Sera’s employer be so heartless? Jane thought. How could anyone tell the mother of a sick four-year-old not to worry, that her child was just tired? Whoever it was simply didn’t care whether the child lived or died.

  Sera went on to explain that the Masta would be angry if he found out she’d gone against his wishes and taken the child to a doctor. But everyone knew that the Missus visited villages everywhere. And if the Missus was simply to call upon them, then no-one would know that she had been asked to do so.

  Jane asked who Sera’s master was.

  ‘M’sieur Marat,’ Sera replied, then automatically she broke into French, ‘Je suis la bonne a Chanson de Mer, la maison de M’sieur Marat.’

  ‘Oh.’ The reply was quite within the bounds of Jane’s limited French, but Sera took the Missus’s hesitation as a lack of comprehension.

  ‘Mi haosgel, big haos blong Masta Marat,’ she said.

  But Jane barely heard her. She was wondering whether she should seek Godfrey’s help. She would visit Sera’s child, certainly, but she didn’t welcome the prospect of bumping into Jean-François Marat on her own.

  She had encountered the Frenchman on a number of occasions since their initial meeting, mostly when she’d been shopping unaccompanied in town, and each time, as he’d kissed her hand and exchanged seemingly innocent pleasantries, she had found him disturbing. Fortunately, upon their last encounter, she had been with Martin. They’d walked out of the post office together and literally bumped into the Frenchman.

  ‘Ah Dr Thackeray, I have so looked forward to our meeting.’ Jean-François had been at his most charming as he shook Martin’s hand. ‘You have been back in Vila for some time now, I’ve heard. Perhaps at long last you might persuade your lovely wife to accept my invitation. I insist that the two of you dine with me at Chanson de Mer.’

  He’d tried to arrange a date there and then as they stood in the main street but Martin, aware of Jane’s reluctance, had managed to evade the issue. He would be only too delighted, he said, but he had many church commitments and would need to check his diary first.

  They’d parted, Jean-François insisting that they contact him with a date of their preference, and at home Martin had queried Jane’s reticence. She had previously told him of her aversion to the Frenchman upon
their first meeting, and also of Godfrey’s warning, and Martin himself had sensed the arrogance beneath Marat’s charm. But it was hardly reason enough to refuse any contact with the man, he said. Vila was a small town, it was wise to avoid any unpleasantness.

  ‘M’sieur Marat will think it the most frightful snub if we don’t accept his invitation, my love.’

  ‘Perhaps we can just leave it until the next chance meeting?’ she’d suggested. She didn’t know how to express the unrest she felt in Marat’s presence, even to herself, let alone to her husband. ‘And he may have been making polite conversation, when all’s said and done. We wouldn’t wish to appear too keen.’

  ‘Yes, there is that,’ Martin had agreed. ‘But if he invites us again we shall simply have to accept.’

  Sera had noticed Jane’s hesitation. Indeed she had noticed the Missus’s reaction the moment she’d mentioned the Masta’s name. The Missus was frightened of the Masta. Sera understood. Everyone was frightened of the Masta. She looked at Mary. She shouldn’t have listened to Mary, she shouldn’t have come to see the Missus.

  The young woman’s bitter disappointment was palpable, and Jane realised that Sera had misread her momentary indecision.

  ‘Of course I shall visit your little boy,’ she assured her. ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Pascal.’ It was the first time Sera had smiled. ‘Nem blong pikinini blong mi Pascal.’

  She truly was the most beautiful-looking woman, Jane thought. ‘We’ll all go together,’ she said. ‘Mary, you’ll carry Ronnie whilst I drive the trap.’

  Mary grinned triumphantly at Sera. ‘See? I told you so,’ her eyes said. She had known that the Missus would take care of everything. The Missus never let Mary down, the Missus was Mary’s personal hero.

  Even as Jane had contemplated asking Godfrey to accompany them, she had quickly dismissed the idea, recalling the antipathy she’d sensed between the two men. Any irritation Marat might feel at her intrusion would be multiplied tenfold if the Englishman was with her.