Pacific

by Judy Nunn

  Martin had been surprised at the easy relationship between Wolf Baker and his wife. It wasn’t like Jane to encourage such familiarity, he thought. But then perhaps it was. He had noticed a change in his wife after his four-month absence. There was an added assurance in her, a sense of independence and an authority which he was aware had evolved through her work with the military. He respected her for it and he was not critical of her friendship with Wolf Baker. But deep down he had to admit that he would have preferred it if the man were a little older. Or at least not so devilishly good-looking.

  ‘So what will we do with our afternoon, my love?’ he queried as they walked back to the cottage. Martin was to report to the newly completed Bellevue Hospital the following day where his work would commence in earnest, and Jane had left Mary in charge of the clinic so that they could spend time together.

  ‘I could take you for a drive around the island,’ she casually suggested.

  ‘You could take me for a drive?’ He stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ignoring his astonishment. ‘The Americans have built a road around the whole of Efate. Some areas are a little difficult to negotiate, but for the most part …’

  ‘Since when have you been driving?’

  ‘For ages,’ she said airily, enjoying showing off.

  ‘But, Jane, you hate driving,’ he said. ‘I had to nag you every day, remember?’ He’d insisted upon teaching her to drive for safety purposes. ‘In case of an emergency, my love,’ he’d said time and again.

  ‘Oh not any more. Reverend Smeed lends me the church’s baby Austin and off I go, free as a bird.’ In the face of Martin’s incredulity she could no longer keep up the pretence and she burst out laughing. ‘I’ve driven only the once,’ she said, ‘to Undine Bay and back.’

  ‘Undine Bay, but that’s miles.’

  ‘Yes, and I hated every minute, it was a ghastly experience. I’m really not very good,’ she admitted.

  ‘What on earth were you doing at Undine Bay?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said, handing Ronnie to him as they climbed the hill. ‘It all started when Mary brought a friend of hers to see me. Sera Poilama. Sera’s little boy was sick.’

  Back at the cottage as Jane prepared lunch she told him about Sera and Savi, and also about Jean-François Marat.

  ‘Jean-François?’ Martin queried an hour later when they’d finished eating. He’d been surprised by her constant use of the man’s Christian name. ‘And you dined alone with him?’

  ‘That’s exactly what Godfrey said,’ she replied, assuming that her husband disapproved, but determined to be honest nonetheless. ‘Godfrey considered it most unseemly of me to accept the invitation, and I believe he may have been right.’ Jane still lived with the sense of disloyalty Godfrey’s words had instilled in her, and her guilt could not be absolved until she’d admitted to the fact. ‘I’m sorry, Marty, I’m really very sorry if I behaved incorrectly.’

  ‘Good heavens, my love, why apologise?’ Martin replied. ‘You must dine with whoever you wish. I’m simply surprised, that’s all. You were so determined to avoid an invitation to Marat’s home before I left that I presumed you couldn’t stand the man.’

  The simplicity of his response touched her deeply. His trust in her was absolute. Unquestioning and unreserved.

  ‘You’re right, I didn’t like him,’ she said, ‘but he was so obliging in driving me out to see Sera and Savi, and I found him … well, entertaining, so I suppose I changed my opinion.’ How superficial she sounded. And she had been, she decided. Like Hilary Bale, she had been flattered by the man’s attentions, and she had not even been aware of it until Godfrey’s admonishment. The thought made her feel more guilty than ever. She looked at Martin for his reaction, but he just nodded, readily accepting her explanation.

  They were leaning back in their chairs sipping their cups of tea, and she rose and crossed to sit on his lap.

  ‘Whoa,’ Martin said, nearly spilling his tea. He put down the cup. ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘I love you, Marty,’ she said, her head nestled into his shoulder.

  ‘And I you, my dearest.’ He put his arms around her, stroking her hair and rocking her gently in silence. ‘What is it, Jane?’ he asked after a moment or so.

  ‘I’ve felt guilty,’ she said. ‘Godfrey made me feel as if I’d been disloyal to you.’ She lifted her head and he could see the distress in her eyes. ‘I would never be disloyal to you, Marty, you know that.’

  ‘Of course I know it, my darling, ssh.’ He cradled her to him. ‘Godfrey had no right to make you feel that way. Ssh.’

  She loved him as much as it was humanly possible to love, Jane thought, reassured and comforted as he continued to rock her gently in his arms. Marty was home, and any guilt or confusion she’d felt about the Frenchman was a thing of the past. She broke the moment and jumped to her feet.

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ she said. ‘This is your first day home, your one day off, and there’s so much to show you.’

  Martin didn’t think they were wasting time at all, he could have cuddled her all afternoon, but he agreed nevertheless, and twenty minutes later, having borrowed the Austin from Reverend Smeed, they set off on their drive. Martin was most keen to see the American bases at Mele Bay and Havannah Harbour.

  ‘Shall I drive or you?’ he asked in apparent seriousness, and Jane simply climbed into the passenger seat, placing Ronnie firmly on her lap by way of reply.

  She’d told him, in humorous detail, of her hair-raising drive to Undine Bay. ‘It wasn’t at all funny at the time,’ she’d insisted, enjoying his laughter. ‘I risked life and limb, and I swear I shall never drive again unless it’s totally unavoidable.’

  She had not, however, told him of her encounter with Marat that day. She had no wish to keep secrets from her husband, but her feelings remained too complicated to analyse, even for herself.

  Jane had left Ronnie with Mary and driven alone to the Poilamas’ house, not wishing to endanger any life other than her own, and throughout the journey she’d been thankful that she had. The constant stream of American trucks and jeeps and bulldozers and tanks dwarfed the Austin and she’d arrived at Sera’s quite unnerved by the experience.

  She’d noted the black Peugeot parked out the front of the big house as she’d turned off the coastal track, but she had her speech all prepared for Jean-François. She would simply tell him that she wished to be independent, and now that the roads were negotiable, thanks to the Americans, she would say that she enjoyed driving.

  Which was the farthest thing from the truth, she thought as she climbed shakily from the Austin.

  Pascal and Marie ran out to greet her, closely followed by Sera, who was surprised but delighted to see the Missus.

  As was to be expected, Savi was not at home. He was working with the harvesting team, Sera said. And when the Masta came home, which could be at any minute, she would have to report to the big house.

  But surely the Masta was already home, Jane remarked, indicating the Peugeot in the distance.

  ‘Masta is horseback ride,’ Sera said, very proud that they were communicating in English. She and Savi practised constantly and he made her speak English at every opportunity.

  ‘Oh I see.’

  ‘Today no English lesson,’ Sera said regretfully.

  ‘No matter,’ Jane replied, she had simply wanted to say hello. She would try to come and see them when she could. Perhaps a Sunday, when they were not working, she suggested. Daunting as she’d found the drive, she was determined to fulfil her obligation to the Poilamas, and she told herself hopefully that perhaps there would be fewer military vehicles about on a Sunday.

  Sera looked shrewdly at Jane. The Missus had come in her own car, unannounced, and Sera knew what that meant. The Missus did not want the Masta to know. Did she, too, fear the Masta? Sera had also registered Jane’s relief as she’d got out of the car. The Missus did not like driving. The Missus was brave
, but it was not right for her to risk so much for them.

  She had another idea, she said, breaking into Bislama, the conversation had become too complicated for her to continue in English. When Savi went into town, she suggested, he could bring Pascal with him.

  ‘Visitim Mamma Tack,’ Sera smiled. Although she rarely left the plantation herself, she had heard of Mamma Tack’s. Everyone had. Then perhaps, she tentatively asked, the Missus could give Savi and Pascal their English lessons?

  It was a very good suggestion, Jane agreed, but what about Sera’s lessons. ‘Yu visitim tu, Sera?’ she asked.

  Sera shook her head. She would not dare arouse the Masta’s anger by going into town, but she didn’t tell the Missus that. ‘Savi tijim mi,’ she said. Savi was a very good teacher.

  Jane sensed Sera’s true reason for choosing not to accompany her husband and child into town, but she said nothing. There was a wealth of things unspoken between the two women, all of which both recognised.

  ‘I will come and see you when I can, Sera,’ Jane said in English as they embraced.

  ‘You good friend, Missus Tack,’ Sera replied.

  Pascal and Marie begged her to stay longer, but having successfully avoided Jean-François, Jane decided to leave whilst the coast was clear. Sera understood implicitly, and didn’t insist upon preparing a meal for the Missus, as she would ordinarily have done.

  But they were too late. Sera and the children were still waving goodbye to the Austin as it turned off the rough ground and onto the main drive, when the horse and rider appeared from out of the dense plantation.

  ‘Bos come!’ Pascal was the first to notice.

  The horse, a large bay, had broken through the coconut trees at a gallop and, urged on by its rider, it increased its pace, Sera watching from a distance as it raced at break-neck speed towards the Austin.

  Marat had seen them through the trees from afar as he’d held his spirited stallion back to a walk. At first he’d been irritated by the sight of the Austin. Who was secretly visiting his workers? And how dare they, he’d thought. Then, still tiny specks too far away to identify, he’d seen the women embrace, a white woman and a black. It meant only one thing. The white woman was Jane Thackeray, and he’d allowed the eager animal to break into a canter, dodging dangerously amongst the coconut trees. Then, at the edge of the plantation, he’d given the horse its head and it had thundered out into the open space at a gallop.

  Now at full pace, he caught up with the Austin as it reached the open main gates and, aware that he cut a fine figure on horseback, he raced past and pulled the animal to a jarring halt directly in front of the car.

  Jane was startled. He’d appeared out of nowhere, she hadn’t noticed his approach. She was travelling slowly and there was no fear of collision, but she was nervous and shaken as she jammed her foot down on the brake.

  Jean-François dismounted athletically, proud of his horsemanship, and the stallion stood beside him snorting and tossing its head and pawing the ground. He waited until she’d turned off the engine before sauntering over to the driver’s window, holding the excitable animal tightly by its bridle.

  ‘Jane,’ he said, ‘a surprise visit, how delightful.’

  ‘Hello, Jean-François.’ She leaned out the open window waving a hand to disperse the dust that still swirled in the air. ‘You gave me a terrible fright, I didn’t see you coming.’

  ‘You were about to leave without calling on me?’ he queried. She would surely have presumed he was at home, he thought, the Peugeot was parked right outside the house. ‘Shame on you,’ he said with good-natured censure.

  ‘Sera told me you were out riding.’

  ‘Ah well, in that case you are forgiven. It is nearly lunchtime, you’ll join me?’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ she said, ‘I must get back to Ronnie.’

  Excuses again, he thought, the child would be in the company of the ever-reliable Mary. ‘So to what do we owe the honour of this visit? Hardly an English lesson, Savi is harvesting and Sera has a full workday ahead of her.’

  ‘Yes, it was silly of me, I know, but I just thought I’d call in and say hello on the off chance.’

  ‘What a very long way to come “on the off chance”.’ He tried to sound nonchalant but it was difficult.

  ‘An excellent opportunity for me to practise my driving skills,’ Jane said, recognising the trace of mockery as she launched into her prepared speech. ‘Now that we have negotiable roads, thanks to the Americans, I’ve decided I rather enjoy driving.’

  A lie, he thought. ‘Really?’ he smiled. ‘I find the military traffic rather unsettling myself.’

  ‘I’ll get used to it,’ she said.

  ‘Jane …’ He released the horse’s bridle, slipped his wrist through the loop of the reins and, resting his hands either side of the car window, he leaned down towards her. Beside him, the stallion, with its extra freedom of movement, danced restlessly. ‘You know that my offer is always open, I am more than happy to collect you and take you home whenever you wish.’

  ‘Yes, I appreciate that,’ she said, ‘and it’s most generous of you, but I don’t wish to be an imposition …’

  ‘You are never an imposition, I assure you.’

  ‘The fact is, I wish to be independent, Jean-François.’ She met his eyes with an honesty that she hoped he would understand. ‘It’s very important to me.’

  ‘I see.’ It was a fait accompli, he realised. There was little he could say in response to such an unequivocal statement. But he must not allow her to sever the ties.

  Jean-François Marat’s conquest of Jane Thackeray was no longer a game and no longer a challenge. It was no longer even a conquest. He was determined to possess her entirely. She was to be his, and whether it took a year, two years, he didn’t care. He was obsessed with the woman, and he knew it.

  ‘As always, Jane, I admire your spirit,’ he said, ‘but how will Savi know when to report for his lessons if you are to arrive unexpectedly? Surely we should come to some arrangement regarding your visits. I would hate to disappoint both Savi and Sera, they so look forward to their English lessons.’

  His smile was magnanimous, but Godfrey’s words returned to Jane. ‘Have you asked yourself, Jane,’ Godfrey had said, ‘why Jean-François Marat would welcome his servants learning English?’ And the old man’s tone had been scathing. ‘It is the very last thing he would want.’ There was nothing untoward in the Frenchman’s manner, but Jane was suddenly fearful that Godfrey might have been right.

  ‘I hate to disappoint them too, Jean-François,’ she said firmly, ‘but I fear the lessons will have to be deferred for a while. With the malaria programme underway I’m very busy at the clinic.’

  He sensed her reserve. Was he being too persistent? He mustn’t frighten her off. ‘Ah yes,’ he said with a light laugh of amusement, ‘Mamma Tack’s. A typically irreverent American name, in my opinion, for a facility as admirable as yours.’ He turned his attention to the stallion, gripping its bridle and calming the animal as it pulled on the reins, eager for action. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you, Jane.’

  She was relieved to be free of his scrutiny. Bent down to the car window as he had been, his face close to hers, she had found her confidence undermined.

  ‘But I’m not letting you get away altogether,’ he said jovially as he brought the horse under control and turned back to her. ‘When Dr Thackeray returns next week I insist you both accept my longstanding invitation.’

  ‘We’d be delighted,’ she agreed, resisting the instinctive impulse to ask how he knew of her husband’s imminent return. The Frenchman obviously made it his business to know everything that was going on in Vila. He would have to have made enquiries, either of the Reverend Smeed or the medical corps, in order to hear of Martin’s recall to Efate.

  She turned the ignition key, the engine started up, and, as Jean-François mounted the bay, which pranced impatiently, she leaned through the window to wave goodbye.

  �
�Shall we say a week from Saturday?’ he asked, the stallion wheeling on the spot.

  ‘I shall look forward to it,’ she called up to him, ‘and I know my husband will too.’

  Jean-François waved a farewell, and Jane watched as the horse broke directly into a canter, then only seconds later galloped full pace across the open ground.

  ‘By the way, we’re more or less committed to dine with Jean-François at Chanson de Mer this coming Saturday,’ Jane said, as she and Martin returned from their afternoon’s drive, Ronnie fast asleep in her lap.

  ‘Is it “more” or is it “less”?’ Martin smiled, aware of the answer.

  ‘Well “more”,’ she admitted. ‘I felt duty bound to accept. You told me yourself that we must,’ she said in protest as he laughed. ‘Before you went away. You did, Marty, remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember, and of course we must. I look forward to meeting the Jean-François Marat who’s no longer an enemy to the people.’ She had told him during the drive of her initial reaction to Marat’s treatment of his workers, and how naive she had felt when he’d expounded his own views on the disruption of the islanders’ lifestyles and culture. Martin wasn’t sure if he entirely agreed, but it would be interesting to spend an evening in the Frenchman’s company, he thought.

  Jean-François had gone to a great deal of trouble. The table, although laid only for three, was a work of art. A Venetian glass vase filled with hibiscus blooms sat in the centre and silver candlesticks stood at each end. The cloth was of French lace, the cutlery of the finest silver, the wine goblets of cut crystal, and the napkins damask. He was self-effacing when Jane expressed her admiration.

  ‘A legacy from Simone,’ he said, ‘she acquired so many lovely things during our trips abroad, and she always insisted upon a well-laid table.’ Which was a lie. It had been he who had demanded only the best at all times, and his taste was impeccable. ‘Where would we be without our women, eh Martin?’