by Judy Nunn
Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, his forgotten ribs now aching, he longed to tell her that he loved her. That he always had.
‘Now that hurt,’ he said laughingly instead.
He knew it would be wrong to tell her. Their lovemaking left him surprisingly guiltless, even thankful that he was part of a healing process, but to declare his love would be the ultimate betrayal to Martin Thackeray, and a burden to Jane.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She sat up, concerned.
Wolf grinned broadly as he stroked her cheek. ‘Honey, if that’s pain, then give me more.’
She laughed. And quickly stopped. Had she just done that? she wondered. Had she really laughed? Her laughter seemed far more disloyal to Marty than the emergence of her sexuality. Her body’s responses were somehow beyond her control, but her laughter was not. She jumped out of bed before she could start hating herself.
‘I must look after Ronnie,’ she said, ‘and Mary’ll be here soon.’
She disappeared, and Wolf knew it was time to go. He dressed slowly. He didn’t wash, wanting to keep the scent of her with him. Then he made the bed up neatly; perhaps later on she might wish to strip back the linen, but all must be in order for Mary.
When he emerged from the spare room, Ronnie was still happily content in his playpen in the lounge room and Jane was nowhere to be seen. Then he heard the sound of the shower, and wondered whether he was supposed to leave before she reappeared. He didn’t want to.
He waited, and five minutes later she emerged in a skirt and blouse, the wet curls of her freshly washed hair clinging to her face, somehow adding to her fragility.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, awkward, uncertain of himself; her departure from the spare room had been so abrupt. ‘I wasn’t sure if I should go, or …’ He shrugged. Where to from here? he wondered.
‘I’m glad you didn’t.’
She said it with ease, and Wolf’s uncertainty vanished in an instant. ‘I’m due some leave, a whole week if I want to take it.’ They both knew what he meant.
‘I need a few days on my own, Wolf.’
Fragile, young, even childlike as she looked with her wet hair, Wolf recognised a newfound resolve in her.
‘Official word will come through today, you said?’
‘I would think so,’ he replied. ‘Probably in the late afternoon. They try to inform the next of kin within twenty-four hours, if they can.’
‘I’m going to tell Mary and Godfrey straight away,’ she said. She’d made the decision as much for her own sake as theirs. The sooner she got it over and done with the better, she thought, although she dreaded the prospect. ‘And I need to be alone to …’ she didn’t falter, rather the words simply didn’t seem necessary, ‘well, to deal with all of it.’
‘Sure. I understand.’
‘But I’d like you to come back. That is, if you want to.’
‘Of course I want to.’ How simple it would be to tell her he loved her. That he’d love her for the rest of his life if she’d let him, that he’d shield her, he’d look after her … How simple, and how wrong. He was a distraction, he realised, and he must remain so. His love was of no help to her.
‘I’ll see you in three days then.’ He didn’t embrace her, much as he longed to. Instead, he kissed the damp fringe of curls that rested on her forehead. ‘You know where I am. Send word if you need me before then.’
‘Thank you,’ she said a little absently. Her mind seemed elsewhere now.
Mary’s reaction was predictable. She wailed, and Jane comforted her. They didn’t open the clinic. Jane pinned a notice on the door to the effect that Mamma Tack’s was closed as a sign of respect for those who had lost their lives aboard the Wasp. Then she visited Godfrey at his bungalow on the rise.
Godfrey’s reaction was less predictable, but then apart from his loquacity over a bottle of red, Godfrey was rarely predictable.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. He didn’t seem at all surprised by the news.
‘Yes.’
The moment he’d heard about the sinking of the Wasp, Godfrey Tomlinson had set about making his own enquiries. Through his many contacts, he was usually able to ferret out information, but this time the military had closed ranks. Until all casualties were accounted for, details were being withheld even from the next of kin, his reliable informant told him. It would be twenty-four hours before they heard anything. But, from the outset, Godfrey had expected the worst.
‘How did you find out?’ he asked.
‘Wolf Baker told me. Marty’s death was witnessed. An explosion. He was helping a wounded man, they both died instantly.’
It was just as Godfrey had feared: Martin Thackeray was not a man gifted with a natural instinct for self-preservation.
She had refused tea, and was perched rather stiffly on the edge of the rattan sofa. She looked tired and drained, but seemed very much in control, and Godfrey wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad sign.
‘Do you need company, my dear? Do you wish to talk?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. She was grateful for the offer, but she couldn’t talk any more, she couldn’t even seem to think beyond each moment as it presented itself. ‘Thank you for offering, but no.’
Godfrey respected her wishes and didn’t push any further, apart from telling her that he was available whenever she needed him. And she would, he thought as he saw her to the front door and kissed her cheek. When the shock had died down and she was confronted by the practicalities of her existence, she would certainly need him.
Mary insisted upon staying with the Missus throughout the entire day, and Jane wished wholeheartedly that she would leave. The maudlin sniffles, more audible as the morning wore on, the constant handkerchief dabbing at the brown face, the sorrowful, sideways glances from reddened, cow-like eyes, all stretched Jane’s nerves to breaking point. She wanted to hit Mary, and she longed for the distraction of Savi and his English lesson.
Savi arrived at the cottage on the dot of half past twelve with little Pascal, Savi carrying his notebook and pencil. He was learning to write English now. French and Bislama remained his principal languages of general communication, but with Missus Tack he spoke only English and he was very proud of his fluency.
Thursdays had become a weekly ritual for father and son, Savi managing to coincide his visits to Vila with a copra delivery or the purchasing of plantation supplies or the repair of equipment: there was always some legitimate reason for a trip to town. The Bos was none the wiser, and Savi had overcome his sense of guilt. In all the years of his employment with Marat, his English lessons were Savi’s only act of disobedience, but he craved to learn and they were, after all, only one hour a week out of his endlessly hardworking days.
Initially the lessons had been conducted at Mamma Tack’s, but the chaos there made concentration difficult, so Jane had suggested they meet at the cottage. She always took a break from the clinic around midday. It was good for Ronnie to be away from the Americans, she’d decided, if only for an hour or so; the servicemen spoiled him dreadfully.
Savi never arrived empty handed. Sera insisted upon supplying lunch, not only for her husband and son, but for Missus Tack.
‘Is right, Savi,’ Sera had said, ‘Missus Tack give very much time for you and Pascal. You much make sure she eat good.’
‘You must make sure,’ he had corrected her.
‘Yes. That is right.’
Jane enjoyed her weekly meetings with Savi and Pascal, and so did Ronnie. Despite the three-year age difference between the children, Ronnie and Pascal revelled in each other’s company. After twenty minutes or so, his initial interest in his lesson having waned, Pascal would turn his attention to Ronnie and the two would have a glorious time. They’d chatter away in Bislama and English and then Ronnie would energetically career around the place trying to find Pascal in his favourite game of hide and seek, the breakables having been safely put out of reach, while Jane and Savi got on with their writing lesson.
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p; Jane’s only regret was that Sera couldn’t be with them, but it was tacitly understood why. Although he never mentioned it, Jane knew that Savi himself was there without the permission of Jean-François Marat. She also knew that he lived in fear of the Bos. They all did. It would be far too risky to include Sera.
Sera was there, though, in the form of the steamed fish wrapped in palm leaves, or the fish and yam stew in the wooden bowl that Savi presented. They always talked of her, Savi telling Jane that Sera’s English was very good now, and Jane looking forward to the lunches so lovingly prepared.
Today Savi arrived with two coconuts that he’d carefully carried in the cloth sack Sera had provided. Their husks peeled back, the tops of their shells cut off to form lids, they contained finely sliced raw fish which, marinated overnight in the residue of coconut milk and the juice of fresh limes, had become soused and extremely flavoursome.
Savi was beaming as he knocked on the door of the cottage. The marinated fish was Sera’s specialty, and he was looking forward to presenting the coconuts to Missus Tack.
But it was Mary who opened the door, which surprised him; Mary was usually at Mamma Tack’s when the Missus took her lunch break.
‘Hello, Mary,’ he said.
‘Hello, Mary,’ Pascal chimed.
‘What you do here, Savi?’ Mary was outraged.
‘We have come for our English lesson,’ Savi answered, bewildered.
‘No English lesson today,’ she hissed. Then, recognising his confusion, she said a little more gently. ‘You don’t know ’bout the ship? You don’t know ’bout the Masta?’
What ship? Savi wondered. Working on the plantation, he’d heard nothing about the Wasp and the tragic events that had every tongue in Vila wagging.
‘The Masta is dead,’ Mary whispered, hoping the Missus couldn’t hear. ‘The ship blow up. You go home now, Savi. You go home.’
But Jane was suddenly beside her.
‘Hello, Missus Tack,’ Pascal called excitedly; he was always the first to greet Missus Tack when she came to the door.
‘Hello, Pascal. Come in, Savi, please.’
Pascal trotted eagerly inside to seek out Ronnie, but Savi stood shocked, looking from the Missus to Mary, who was jabbing her head to one side telling him to go, the whites of her brown eyes flashing dramatically.
‘It’s true, Savi.’ Jane ignored Mary’s frantic and none-too-subtle signals beside her. ‘My husband was killed in a battle at sea.’
‘I am very sorry, Missus Tack.’ Savi couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he was about to call Pascal; they must go home.
‘So am I. Please come inside.’ Jane turned to Mary, who was still ludicrously rolling her eyeballs. ‘Sera has prepared lunch for us, Mary.’ She took the cloth bag that Savi had been holding out so proudly, and that now hung, dejected and forgotten, at his side. ‘Will you see to this, please? Thank you,’ she added, not waiting for Mary’s reply, and Mary had no option but to take the bag and retire to the kitchen.
‘Please, Savi,’ she said, ‘please come in.’
‘I do not wish to intrude.’ Savi chose his words with care.
‘You are not intruding, Savi, you are helping. Do you wish to help me?’
‘Yes.’ Savi pictured his life without Sera. What would he do? The Missus and the Masta had loved each other, just as he and Sera did. ‘I would like very much to help you,’ he said.
Jane took a deep breath. Behind her she could hear Ronnie’s exuberant squeals at Pascal’s appearance, and she thought vaguely that she’d forgotten to put the breakables out of reach.
‘Then please come in and have your English lesson.’
Savi stepped inside and Jane knew that he would ask no questions, that he understood, and she was grateful that at least this part of the day could be conducted with some form of normalcy.
As Wolf had predicted, the official news arrived later that same afternoon. Captain Porter, Commander of the US Navy Base Hospital, appeared at the front door, an envelope in his hand, and beside him, solemn-faced and sepulchral, stood the Reverend Arthur Smeed.
Captain Porter had volunteered for the unenviable task, he and Jane having worked closely together, and the military authorities had agreed that it would be kinder for Mrs Thackeray to receive notification of her husband’s death from someone she knew. The Reverend Smeed was present not only as representative of the New Hebrides Mission, Martin’s employers, but to offer spiritual support in his capacity as minister.
‘Jane, I’m so sorry,’ the Commander said, his tone sensitive and caring, ‘but I’m afraid I have bad news.’
He was a kind man and it was sensitive of the military to send a high-ranking officer who was also a work colleague, Jane thought, but she wished to avoid both his announcement and his sympathy.
‘Yes,’ she said, and she took the envelope from him before he could get another word out. ‘Thank you.’ She knew she sounded shockingly abrupt. ‘I appreciate your visit.’ She was about to close the door.
Both men were taken aback, particularly Reverend Smeed, who had definite views on how such delicate matters should be conducted. Was there anyone present in the house who would be able to assist Jane Thackeray in her emotional need when she’d read the contents of the letter? he wondered.
He glanced behind Jane at the young islander woman in the background. Mary, the child hoisted over her hip, was comically appearing and disappearing, pretending to be busy, but actually gawking at them with wide, worried eyes.
Mary would be of no assistance at all, Arthur Smeed thought. In fact she might well be harmful to the poor woman. Knowing the islanders the way he did, she would probably wail at the news of the death of her master.
‘I think we should stay with you whilst you read the letter, Jane,’ he said, kindly enough, but unable to eradicate his characteristic officiousness. ‘It’s about Martin.’
Arthur Smeed had been the bearer of bad tidings on a number of occasions, and he invariably found spiritual counsel was most helpful to the bereaved. Particularly when, as in Jane’s case, there was no family present.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m aware of its contents, I know of my husband’s death.’ Again she regretted her brusqueness, but she felt she couldn’t stand there a minute longer. ‘Thank you both for your concern.’
The men left, the Commander curious as to how Jane Thackeray had received prior notification, but thankful to be relieved of his onerous task, and the Reverend Smeed struck by a vague feeling that Jane’s lack of emotion and need for spiritual counsel was somehow a little unseemly.
Jane told Mary to go home. Mary was rebellious at first. The Missus needed her, she said. And then Jane made it an unmistakable order. The white missus ordering the black servant. She could tell Mary was surprised and hurt, but she no longer cared. She wanted the young woman out of the house. She couldn’t open the envelope until Mary had gone home, and she needed to open the envelope.
But she didn’t open it after Mary had gone. It sat on the sideboard for the next two hours whilst she fed Ronnie, and played with him, her eyes all the while flickering to the envelope where it lay. It was only when the child was fast asleep in his cot that she opened it.
‘… The vast debt that the US military owe the Reverend Dr Thackeray for his noble sacrifice …’ The words meant little. It was the brutally efficient, standard stock phrases that leapt off the page. ‘Regret to inform’… ‘killed in action’… ‘sincerest condolences’… The words, in all their finality, branded themselves, red-hot-poker-like, in her brain. It was as if he had died all over again.
She sat in Marty’s chair, the piece of paper on her lap, her face buried in his old jacket, and she rocked back and forth, bereft anew.
The following day and the day after that became a blur for Jane. Escorted by Captain Porter, she attended the memorial service conducted aboard the destroyer in Mele Bay, where wreaths were cast upon the water and a mournful cornet played ‘The Last Post’. She accept
ed, mindlessly, the well-meaning commiseration of others with dull thanks and the response that she was fine.
Her remoteness worried Hilary and Harry Bale, and the Reverend Smeed tried to convince her that she must come to church, that prayer would help. Mary offered to move into the cottage. The Missus shouldn’t be on her own, she said. But Jane was adamant. She wanted Mary to keep away from the cottage, she wanted to be alone. She was aware that she had once again hurt the young woman’s feelings, but Mary’s doleful mourning had become unutterably depressing. She wished they would all leave her alone. Or just ignore her. Why couldn’t they do that?
The nights were even more unbearable. Sleep evaded her, and the wasteland of the double bed seemed huge. She cuddled Marty’s jacket to her, but it somehow made her feel lonelier than ever, and she knew deep down, shameful though it might be, that she longed for Wolf’s return.
On the third day, she reopened Mamma Tack’s, desperate for some form of escape, but the sympathetic looks from the servicemen who gathered there, and the respectful tempering of their customary swearing, suffocated her.
Then, in the late afternoon, Wolf arrived, just as they were about to close for the day.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’ The response was so rehearsed by now that it came out automatically.
‘Like hell,’ he said. There were dark shadows under her eyes; she’d obviously not been sleeping. ‘I have a full week’s leave, I’ve booked a room at Reid’s. What say I take you and Ronnie out for an early dinner?’
‘That would be nice.’
They spoke quite openly. There was nothing untoward that anyone could read into their conversation. But they knew they wouldn’t go out to dine that night. And they didn’t.
They didn’t leap straight into bed either, although their desire was palpable. They took their time, comfortable in each other’s company, Jane feeling the unbearable tension of the past several days gradually ease. Wolf played the obligatory game of hide and seek with Ronnie whilst she prepared a chicken salad, and as they ate they drank the wine he’d brought.