by Judy Nunn
Sam paused for a moment. Although she hadn’t intended to tell Nick about the ecstasy pill and the disastrous night with Brett, she had certainly anticipated discussing the difficulties they’d had with the American. But it was too complicated, she now realised. How could she explain the astonishing change in Brett’s performance today without giving Nick, who knew her so well and was also so perceptive, the reasons why? She decided on evasive action instead.
‘Some teething problems,’ she said. ‘It’s probably best if Simon fills you in.’
‘Right you are,’ he nodded. ‘Now let’s have a drink, there’s someone I want you to meet.’
She was relieved that he didn’t appear interested in pursuing the conversation, but also a little puzzled. She’d expected him to grill her further. ‘What teething problems?’ he would normally have demanded. He seemed rather distracted, she thought.
‘Not now, Nick, I have to have a shower, I’m filthy.’
‘No shower, you’re as fresh as a daisy, and I want you to meet him before the others congregate. Come on, he’s waiting at the bar.’ Arm linked firmly through hers he started marching her out of the reception area.
‘Can’t you give me twenty minutes …?’ she started to protest.
‘Nope, the gang’ll be turning up and I want you to meet him on your own, it’s important. Now listen to me, Sam …’
She allowed herself to be led. He was so intensely excited, the way he was during script discussions and workshops and play readings. What was going on? she wondered.
‘You remember I told you Mamma Black was loosely based on a real character?’ he asked.
‘Yes. You said her name was Mamma Tack, but you didn’t know who she was.’
‘Exactly, apart from the fact that she was an Englishwoman married to a missionary doctor.’ He shrugged. ‘Writer’s licence, I was inspired by the stories about her, simple as that. I didn’t research the woman herself, it was never going to be a true story, Mamma Tack was simply an inspiration.’ He’d slowed his walk to a snail’s pace as they started down the hill to the poolside bar, but he was talking at the rate of knots.
‘Well, some British journo busted us. There was a huge feature in the Times weekend supplement about the theme of Mammoth’s new big-budget production in the South Pacific. Pictures of you, pictures of Brett. That’s fine, great publicity. But there was also a detailed breakdown of Torpedo Junction’s plot. A bloke called Nigel Daly. Don’t ask me how he did it. There must be a spy in our midst and he paid them off for a look at the script or whatever …’
‘Yes, that’d be Nigel’s style,’ Sam agreed. ‘If there’s a way, he’ll find it.’
‘As it turns out he’s done us a favour,’ Nick said. They were fifty metres from the pool now, and he’d come to a standstill. ‘At least I think he has. I hope you won’t find it confusing.’
‘Find what confusing?’
‘I promise I’m not going to make any radical changes to the script,’ he assured her. ‘Simon’d kill me if I tried anyway. But it might give you an added insight. You know? You might even find it inspirational. It’s inspired me, I can tell you …’
‘Nick, what the hell are you on about?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘got carried away,’ and he started slowly from the beginning. ‘Someone responded to the Times feature and got in touch with Mammoth. He said he was related to Mamma Tack. At first I thought he was a sensation-seeker, and then, when Mammoth put him onto me and I discovered he was for real, I thought he was after money. Either rights for the story, or the threat of a libel suit, neither of which would have held water, but it would have been an unnecessary hassle.’
‘So what did he want?’ She wished he’d get to the point.
‘He wanted to help us in any way we might need,’ Nick said. ‘He’s really interested in the project. He flew out at his own expense, said he was planning a trip anyway, and he’s here right now.’ He took her arm again and started walking towards the pool.
‘It’s incredible stuff,’ he said, and again in his enthusiasm his words tripped over themselves. ‘Mamma Tack was a woman called Jane Thackeray and she died in 1994. The locals called her Missus Tack because they couldn’t pronounce the name, and it was the Americans who christened her “Mamma”. She came from the south of England and she was married to a missionary doctor called Martin. Well no surprises there,’ he admitted, ‘apart from her real name, that much I knew of Mamma Tack. But I tell you, Sam, the parallels with the script and the story of the real Jane Thackeray are uncanny. She even knew the French plantation owner whose homestead we’re filming in!’
They were nearing the pool and he lowered his voice, but his words tumbled out even faster as he told her of the similarities in the deaths of the husbands. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary? Hugh Blackston and Martin Thackeray died the same way.’
By now Sam was finding Nick’s excitement contagious and, as they arrived at the pool, she looked about expectantly. The place was deserted, with the exception of a lone man seated at a table, and Jimmy behind the bar polishing the glasses in preparation for the ‘hafmad filem bigfala grup’, the crazy movie crowd.
The man rose from the table. He was in his early thirties and most intriguing-looking. Straight-haired, fine-boned and lightly olive-skinned; European, but with perhaps a touch of island blood.
‘Jason, sorry to keep you waiting,’ Nick said, ‘this is Samantha.’
‘Hello, Samantha.’ Jason held out his hand. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you,’ he smiled. The accent was very British, and Sam thought that she had never seen eyes so piercingly blue.
‘Sam, this is Dr Jason Thackeray, Mamma Tack’s grandson.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The medical corps’ worst fears had been realised. Malaria had struck with a vengeance and both troops and islanders were falling victim to the killer disease. The mass distribution of quinine was essential, and doctors were urgently needed to treat the hospitalised patients who were fighting for their lives, far too many of them losing the battle. Martin Thackeray was called back to Vila.
‘Good heavens above, Jane, I don’t believe it!’ Martin hefted a delighted Ronnie onto his shoulders and, holding the infant’s hands, he stared in amazement at the open-shuttered boatshed on the other side of the busy street. He’d arrived that very morning and she’d said she had something to show him, mysteriously refusing any further explanation, and he hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly not this, he thought. How extraordinary …
A large wooden sign, hanging above the boathouse door, said in bold black letters ‘MAMMA TACK’S’, and an orderly queue of islanders patiently waited for the supply of quinine tablets that Mary dispensed to them as they slowly filed past.
‘My clinic,’ Jane announced.
‘Mamma Tack’s?’ he quizzed.
‘Yes. Mamma Tack. That’s me.’
‘How in the world did this happen?’ He meant the boathouse and the clinic, but she took him literally.
‘It’s a nickname the Americans came up with,’ she said, ‘and the locals have adopted it. I must say I rather like it myself.’
Wolf Baker had put the sign up as a joke, but it had been immediately accepted by locals and troops alike. The islanders loved the American term, it made Missus Tack even more special, and the servicemen derived great amusement from the idea that the pretty young Englishwoman was known as ‘Mamma’.
In the several weeks of its existence, Mamma Tack’s had proved itself far more than a clinic; it had become a significant social centre. Jane maintained the interior as her personal workplace, storeroom and dispensary, but all around the exterior, beneath the sporadic shade afforded by the elevated shutters, were chairs and camp stools and matting. Here people gathered to chat and consume the endless mugs of tea Mary made, or the cold drinks she proudly supplied from the icebox. Mary was Mamma Tack’s personal assistant and took her new career very seriously.
‘It’s wonderful, my love.’ M
artin put an arm around her, and Ronnie, seated precariously on his shoulders, momentarily lost his balance. But the child’s chubby little legs locked themselves around his father’s neck in a stranglehold; Ronnie had no intention of falling.
‘So the medical corps set this up for you,’ Martin said as he disentangled himself and repositioned the child. ‘It’s very impressive.’
‘Well, no, they didn’t really,’ she corrected him. ‘Oh they furnish whatever medical supplies and equipment I need, I can have whatever I like. But it’s the servicemen themselves who supplied the furniture and the icebox and the stove, and heaven only knows what else, all requisitioned from military stores. I doubt whether the paperwork’s in order,’ she laughed, ‘but the quartermaster obviously turns a blind eye. Every day they arrive with something new.’
It had been Wolf, together with Big Ben and a gang of cohorts, who had adopted Mamma Tack’s as their personal cause, and the boathouse had become a meeting place as much for servicemen as it had for islanders.
‘They even put in a ceiling fan,’ Jane said. ‘Come and I’ll show you.’
Martin took Ronnie from his shoulders and hugged the child firmly to his chest as they crossed the street, avoiding the jeeps and the trucks and the troops and work teams.
There were cries of ‘Allo, Mamma Tack’ from the islanders in the queue and Jane waved to them all, those she knew and those she didn’t. Mary acknowledged the Missus and the Masta with a smile, but maintained her station, handing out supplies and giving instructions as she did so.
‘But you’ll never guess the strangest thing of all, Marty,’ Jane said as she opened the door. ‘Do you know where the boathouse itself came from?’
‘Requisitioned by the military, surely,’ he said. ‘It’s been abandoned for years, I don’t even know who owns it.’
‘I own it,’ she grinned. ‘He’s given it to me. “Lock, stock and barrel”, that’s what he said.’
‘Who?’
‘Godfrey.’
‘Godfrey?’ Martin put Ronnie down as they stepped inside and the child galloped off, clumsy and fearless, falling and picking himself up, eager in his newfound mobility. ‘You mean Godfrey Tomlinson?’ Martin’s tone was one of disbelief.
‘He’s the only Godfrey we know.’
Jane had been equally astonished when Godfrey had made the offer. They’d been taking afternoon tea at Reid’s when she’d told him that the medical corps planned to set up some form of temporary clinic for her to cope with the islanders’ mass malaria treatment. ‘They want somewhere near the centre of town,’ she’d told him, ‘but I’ve no idea what they have in mind, and I don’t think they do either.’
‘I have the perfect solution.’ Godfrey had taken her by the hand and marched her out of Reid’s, forgetting to pay for the afternoon tea.
‘Godfrey,’ she said, trying to keep up as he charged down the street. Despite his age he was striding purposefully, a man with a mission. ‘Godfrey, don’t you think we should pay for the tea?’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘later, later.’
Then they came to the boatshed. Jane had passed by it often. It was in good condition, but it was always closed and she didn’t know who owned it.
‘This is your clinic,’ he said.
What a good idea, she thought. ‘Well, yes, I suppose the medical corps could find out who …’
‘It’s yours, I’m giving it to you. Lock, stock and barrel.’
It had been as simple as that. There had been no paperwork involved, but Jane had no doubt it was his to give.
‘I built it myself,’ Godfrey said, ‘as a warehouse in my trading days. I even lived in it from time to time. It’s strong and durable and will serve your purpose well.’ He’d told her nothing more. Godfrey told no-one any more than he felt was absolutely necessary about his properties or his business activities.
‘Good old Godfrey, ever the man of mystery,’ Martin said, looking about, impressed. The boatshed was bigger than it appeared from the outside. Shelves and cupboards, a stove, sink and icebox all stood around the walls, and at the far end, which had once been a slipway, was a curtained-off section with bedding on the floor.
‘My examination room,’ she explained. ‘I’ve been promised two beds, they’re arriving today.’
‘You’re a miracle, my love,’ he said, taking her in his arms, regardless of the eyes of those filing past the open windows. He held her close. It had been a whole four months. How good it was to be with her again. ‘You and your clinic, you’re an absolute miracle.’
‘I didn’t do it,’ she said. ‘Godfrey and the Americans, it’s all thanks to them.’
‘No it’s not, Jane.’ He looked at her with profound respect. ‘It’s not them at all. It’s you, my love.’
The pride in his eyes was her greatest reward. ‘It’s good to have you home, Marty,’ she said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Hey, Mamma Tack!’ The voice was a deep American baritone and they looked out into the street to the jeep that had screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust, the orderly queue of islanders scattering.
‘Big Ben!’ Jane called as she walked to the window and leaned out beneath the shutters.
‘Got ’em right here for you, Mamma Tack,’ Big Ben yelled, and Wolf jumped out from the back of the jeep where he’d been balancing the two narrow bedsteads during the chaotic drive.
‘Just like we promised, Jane,’ Wolf shouted out to her and he and Big Ben started unloading the beds, the locals gathering around to help.
Martin dodged out of their way as two islanders helped the huge black man and the young lieutenant carry the bedsteads into the boathouse.
‘We’ve got a couple of mattresses and pillows too,’ Wolf said, ‘and another crate of soft drinks. Hi, Mary.’
Mary gave the men a wave and kept on working as they dumped the beds behind the curtain.
‘And hey,’ Wolf said to Jane, as Big Ben and the islanders disappeared for the rest of the supplies. ‘I’m lining up a radio. You could do with some music around here, liven the place up.’ He clicked his fingers and did a quick-step around the boathouse. ‘A bit of big-band sound, what do you say?’
‘Wolf, I’d like you to meet my husband,’ she interrupted. As usual Wolf’s exuberance could be overpowering.
‘Oh.’ He stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t noticed the tall man standing unassumingly in the corner.
‘Darling, this is Lieutenant Wolf Baker. Wolf, my husband, Dr Martin Thackeray.’
‘Hello, Lieutenant.’ Martin held out his hand.
‘How do you do, sir.’ Wolf all but sprang to attention as they shook hands.
‘My wife’s told me of the incredible generosity of you and your men,’ Martin smiled, ‘and I must say,’ he added glancing around the boathouse, ‘the result is amazing.’
‘Anything for Mamma Tack and her clinic, sir, she’s one in a million.’
‘And this is Private Coswell,’ Jane said. Big Ben had reappeared, two thin single mattresses draped over his massive shoulders and two pillows sitting on the crate of drinks he was carrying. ‘Big Ben, this is my husband, Dr Thackeray.’
‘Private Coswell.’ Martin once again extended his hand.
Big Ben was flustered. The mattresses had wedged in the doorway and he didn’t want to drop the drinks crate. He shoved his way clumsily forward, the mattresses fell to the floor, he put the crate down with an almighty clatter, and accepted the doctor’s hand.
‘How do, sir,’ he said.
Martin and the two men exchanged pleasantries before Wolf and Big Ben had to return to duty, and Jane was amused to see Wolf Baker on his very best behaviour. She’d recently accused him of being a larrikin.
‘What the heck’s a larrikin?’ he’d asked.
‘It’s an Australian expression, used quite a bit here in the colony.’ She’d found the term most colourful when she’d first heard it herself, she remembered. ‘A larrikin is a man who behaves inappropriately. A man w
ith no taste, no manners and no sense of occasion,’ she’d said, being deliberately facetious. ‘In other words, a bit of a lout.’
‘But I have a great sense of occasion.’ He’d seemed genuinely insulted. ‘I come from Boston where good manners were born. I’ve been to Harvard. They don’t allow louts at Harvard.’ Oh dear, he’s offended, she’d thought, and she was about to explain that she’d been joking. ‘I swear to you, Jane,’ he’d said, his hand on his chest, ‘taste and good manners ooze out of my every pore.’
It was impossible to take Wolf Baker seriously, she’d decided.
And now here he was meeting Martin, and his behaviour was impeccable. Perhaps too impeccable, she thought, noting the highly respectful ‘sir’ tacked on to every second comment he made. Was it a mockery? she wondered briefly. But it wasn’t, she realised. This was Boston good manners. Wolf Baker was meeting an older man who was a doctor and her husband, and the respect and sense of occasion he was showing were utterly appropriate. He’d stopped playing the larrikin in deference to Martin Thackeray, and she liked him for it.
Wolf and Big Ben took their leave.
‘Goodbye, sir.’ Whilst Big Ben stepped out into the street, Wolf once again shook Martin’s hand. ‘It’s been an honour to meet you.’
‘The pleasure’s been mine, I assure you, Lieutenant. You must come and dine with us some time.’ The young man’s respect was flattering and his earnestness engaging but Martin wished he wouldn’t call him ‘sir’, particularly given the familiarity between Baker and his wife. He felt he was being treated like Jane’s father rather than her husband.
‘I’d love to, that’d be great, thank you very much, sir.’ Wolf grinned from Martin to Jane, delighted by the invitation. ‘I’ll see you later, Jane, we’ll be back with the radio and some fresh supplies in the next day or so.’
‘Bye, Wolf! Bye, Big Ben!’ Jane called as she and Martin stood in the street, Ronnie slung over her hip, waving to the jeep as it roared off down the main street dodging the endless traffic.
‘Seems a nice chap,’ Martin said, and Jane smiled at his typically British reserve. ‘He is, believe me,’ she replied, ‘but he can be quite exhausting at times. He was on his very best behaviour with you, my darling.’ She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘He obviously finds you impressive, and so he should.’