by Judy Nunn
He looked about at them. Savi playing for all he was worth, his gloriously beautiful wife, Sera, shaking her head in fond exasperation, their son Pascal thumping the floor in perfect rhythm. He looked down at their daughter Marie, who was sitting on his lap tugging at his beard. What was this destructive fascination children had with his beard? And his thoughts flew back forty years, to Mele Island. To his son and his wife and her extended family. His family, he thought. His only true family. Godfrey had little recall of the hideous childhood he’d run away from to sign up for the merchant navy, lying about his age. His life seemed to have started after he’d jumped ship to become a trader in the South Pacific. He belonged to these people more than any white person he knew, he thought. Then he looked at Jane Thackeray, her arms around Mary and Leila, singing out of tune along with the rest of them. Perhaps not more than any white person, he realised. Jane Thackeray served a purpose for them. He did not.
Godfrey Tomlinson was feeling older than ever lately. He was tired, and not very well these days. But none of that mattered tonight. Tonight he was having the time of his life. He decided to get drunk. Thank goodness Wolf Baker was a healthy drinker, he thought. Alcohol was a white man’s vice that Godfrey clung to. He’d never been able to share the islander’s love of kava. Abominable muddy muck, he thought. And it never did the trick.
Godfrey was getting drunk, Jane thought fondly as she watched him topping up Wolf’s glass of red wine. And they hadn’t even eaten yet. Leila and Sera had retired to the kitchen, Mary having been mollified for her exclusion with the duty of setting the table. Savi was entertaining the children, strumming on his guitar, quieter now.
Jane had tried to help in the setting of the table, but Mary had been adamant, so she’d retired to her chair to watch Godfrey and Wolf in animated discussion.
She was grateful to Godfrey. This dinner party had been for the sole purpose of rescuing her, she realised, and it had worked. She felt surrounded by love and friendship. She would miss Marty saying ‘a happy New Year to us both, my love’ in the morning but, for tonight, she was happy.
Leila and Sera had prepared a veritable feast in an effort to outdo each other, and the cooking competition was diplomatically declared a draw.
The children were all comfortably bedded down well before midnight, but as the hour approached, Godfrey insisted upon toasting the future generation. Then, as the impressive grandfather clock in the corner rang out the first of its throaty chimes, the countdown began and, when the final chime hung in the air, they embraced and once again, upon Godfrey’s insistence, raised their glasses.
‘To 1943!’ he boomed at the top of his voice and Jane found herself joining in the toast as loudly as the others.
Through the open doors to the balcony they could hear the whole of Vila celebrating, the military bash was in full swing. Wolf grabbed Savi’s guitar and played ‘Auld Lang Syne’ boisterously and badly. Despite the guitar lessons he’d had back home, he wasn’t the natural musician Savi was, but then Savi didn’t know ‘Auld Lang Syne’, and they had to sing it, Wolf insisted. Hell, it was New Year’s Eve.
Savi rescued his precious guitar, inspected it for damage and, relieved that there was none, instigated another singalong, waking Pascal who trotted out from the bedroom, bleary-eyed with sleep but determined to be a part of it all.
It was two o’clock in the morning when the Poilamas left, Mary with them, to return to the village. Pascal was slung over Savi’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes, exhausted, and Marie, in Sera’s arms, was sleeping as soundly as she had been for the past six hours.
‘She will wake as soon as we are home,’ Sera said with a grimace, ‘and she will make sure we are awake also.’
Leila busied herself in the kitchen when the Poilamas and Mary had gone, leaving the Masta alone with his friends. It was only correct, she thought, she had had her party. In fact she didn’t know any other masta or missus who invited their servants to parties. But then who else worked for a bos like Masta Tomlinson or Missus Tack?
Godfrey wanted to talk on throughout the rest of the night, but Jane and Wolf took their leave shortly before three. Wolf would walk Jane home, he said, on his way back to Reid’s. Godfrey, quite bleary by now, had presumed the American was returning to his base at Havannah Harbour. He’d been about to offer him a bed for the night, ‘you’re far too drunk to drive,’ he was going to say, and he’d looked forward to an all-night binge. He hadn’t had one of those for a very long time. Disappointed, he saw them to the door, weaving a little as he did so, and Jane hugged him warmly.
‘That’s the nicest New Year’s Eve I’ve ever had,’ she said.
‘Yes, it was rather good, wasn’t it.’ Godfrey shook the American’s hand. ‘Drive carefully,’ he said, only remembering that they were walking after he’d closed the door.
As he slumped on the sofa, he wondered vaguely whether Jane and the American might be having an affair. Lucky man if they were, he thought, nodding off into a fuddled sleep. What a wonderful dinner party. He couldn’t wait for Jane to come and live with him. They’d have dinner parties once a week then, he decided.
Leila smiled ruefully. She was glad the Masta had had such a good time, but she worried for his health. She took off his shoes and covered him with a blanket before she went to bed.
A month after Godfrey’s dinner party, Wolf arrived in town on his fortnightly leave and, as usual, he called in to Mamma Tack’s during the afternoon. But, even as he played with the children, he seemed a little preoccupied, Jane thought.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘I have to return to base first thing in the morning.’
She was busy examining a baby with a high temperature and didn’t enquire further, but later, when they’d farewelled Mary and Sera and the children and were walking up the hill, Ronnie on Wolf’s shoulders as always, she noticed that he was uncharacteristically quiet.
‘What is it, Wolf?’
‘We need to talk.’
They sat openly on the verandah. They often did these days, Wolf always leaving before it was dark, to cross the clearing in full view of the church and the Reverend Smeed’s house. He would then return late at night through the trees that masked the front door, Jane as meticulous as ever about avoiding gossip.
‘I’ve received a citation.’
‘Oh, Wolf, that’s wonderful. Chuck always said that you would.’ She wondered why he looked so solemn. He’d told her months ago that his CO had recommended him for a citation, and he’d been excited about it then.
He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it and unfolded the piece of paper inside.
‘For conspicuous heroism above and beyond the call of duty in aerial combat with enemy Japanese forces on September 10th, 1942, and undaunted courage and self-sacrifice between September 10th – 12th, 1942.’
She looked up and smiled, but he merely nodded for her to read on.
‘Lieutenant Baker engaged three Japanese military aircraft in aerial combat in the area of the Solomon Islands and, despite suffering the extreme physical strain attendant upon protracted fighter operations, he shot down all three enemy planes. When forced to ditch into the sea off the coast of Espiritu Santo in the New Hebrides Islands, Lieutenant Baker displayed great intrepidity by keeping his injured and unconscious fellow officer afloat until rescued by local inhabitants. Furthermore, for a period of two days, he sustained the life of his companion in the harshest of environments, and managed to escort him to safety.
‘His outstanding airmanship skills and his personal valor reflect great credit upon Lieutenant Baker’s gallant fighting spirit and upon the United States Army. For his actions, Lieutenant Charles Wolfgang Baker is awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.
FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT
President of the United States of America.’
‘Good heavens above!’ She looked up from the letter. ‘The Congressional Medal of Honour!’
He nodded
.
She was utterly mystified. ‘But, Wolf, that’s the highest award they can bestow. Why aren’t you thrilled?’
‘Oh it’s a great honour all right.’
‘Then why …?’ She shook her head, mystified.
‘They’re sending me back to the States the day after tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty common practice. They like to show off their heroes. They tour them around the country as morale boosters, you know, raising money through war bonds and all that.’
‘You’ll love it, Wolf,’ she said gently, ‘you’ll be a celebrity.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ He smiled. ‘Pretty heady stuff.’ Now came the important part. He’d wondered how to broach the subject, and she’d unwittingly given him an opening.
‘Jane, do you remember the trip to Espiritu Santo?’
‘How could I ever forget it? Artie Shaw.’
‘You said it was the most exciting time of your life.’
‘It was.’
‘Well, that’s the sort of life I could offer you.’
She was silent. Why hadn’t she seen it coming?
‘Marry me, Jane. Come to the States with me.’
‘The day after tomorrow?’ She kept her reply light.
‘Yeah, okay. Well, then meet me there as soon as you can. But marry me.’ He was suddenly eager and alive, the way she’d seen him so often, a ball of energy and vitality. ‘Marry me, Jane, and I’ll give you a life like you’ve never imagined!’ He jumped up from his chair and paced the verandah. ‘I’m going to use this, you know. It’s the best possible platform for a political career, America loves its war heroes. Hell, I’m a walk-up start. A Boston boy from a good family, good educational background, served his country, awarded the MH. I mean, what more could they want?’
Jane laughed loudly. ‘I can just see it. Charles Wolfgang Baker, President of the United States.’
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You have to aim high in this world and America loves winners. Why the hell not?’
She was instantly sober. He was serious. ‘And you can do it, Wolf, I believe you can do it.’ She was serious herself, she realised.
‘But I’d need a first lady.’ His grin was electric but humorous. Wolf wasn’t really sure if he was serious or not, but one thing he did know: he wanted to spend his life with Jane Thackeray. ‘So what do you say, Jane, you want to be First Lady?’
‘You love me, don’t you, Wolf?’
All laughter died away; they were both serious now.
‘Yes. I always have.’
‘And Marty knew it, didn’t he?’
‘Yep.’ Wolf realised what her answer would be, simply by the way she said his name.
It was Jane’s turn to wind back the clock. ‘You remember you said that I belonged here with Marty?’
Of course he did. He’d been trying to comfort her at the time, to say the right words. They were coming back to haunt him now.
‘Sure.’
‘And I do, Wolf. Not here with Marty, he’s gone, but our work isn’t. This is truly where I belong.’
And she did, she realised all of a sudden. Wolf had unwittingly given her the answer. In painting a life that she knew she could never live, he had undone all of her misgivings. The islanders were her people, her very purpose for living, and she belonged right here amongst them.
He was silent for a moment, knowing that her answer was irrevocable.
He looked out over the clearing at the church and the Reverend Smeed’s house. The light would be fading soon.
‘I guess it’s time to keep up appearances,’ he said. Then he turned to her. ‘Can I come back tonight?’
‘To hell with appearances. Stay.’
Later that night, knowing it was their last, their lovemaking took on a whole new meaning.
‘I’ll always love you, Jane,’ he said as they lay exhausted in each other’s arms. He found a great freedom in finally being able to tell her.
‘I know. And I love you too.’ Although she’d been denying it to herself for far too long, in her own way she did love Wolf Baker, she realised, and she felt no disloyalty to Marty in admitting it. ‘But not enough,’ she added as she saw the flicker of hope in his eyes. ‘Not enough to accept the life you offer me. It wouldn’t be right for either of us. I think you know that.’
He did. She belonged to the islands, and he knew it.
‘I’ve been so lucky, Wolf. I’ve been loved by two wonderful men, and that’s two more than many women can claim in a lifetime.’
‘I don’t want to lose you, Jane. And I don’t want you to forget me.’ He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at her, earnest, boyish. ‘I’ll write all the time, you promise you’ll write back?’
‘I promise.’
‘And I’ll come back to the New Hebrides some day. I will, I swear it.’
She smiled, although she didn’t believe him.
They made love again, and he left before dawn.
BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Rossi Restaurant, fondly known to all as Rossi’s, laid proud claim to the fact that it had once been Reid’s Hotel, and its walls bore the framed and faded photographs to prove it. Rossi’s and, more importantly, the promontory upon which it stood, were indeed the face of Port Vila in bygone years, all other structures along the town’s harbourside having been demolished in land reclamation and the erection of a sea wall in the 1960s.
An attractive white building with wide terraced verandahs and surrounding green lawns, Rossi’s was a gathering place for resident expatriates, and maintained an air of colonialism despite the fact that the New Hebrides, renamed Vanuatu, had been free of British and French rule for twenty-three years.
As the filming of Torpedo Junction progressed, the actors quickly gravitated to Rossi’s during the days when they were not required on set. Many of the crew, when off duty, gathered at Chantilly’s Hotel or one of the other more modern establishments in town, or they simply remained at the Crowne Plaza and partied around the pool, but the actors were attracted by the atmosphere at Rossi’s.
The local expats were welcoming enough, although it was tacitly understood that no attempt be made to take over the large central table. This was the personal domain of the New Zealanders, Aussies and Brits who lounged around daily, drinking their Tusker beer, poring over their three-day-old Australian newspapers delivered from Brisbane and sharing in a sense of elite camaraderie. Happily, the actors posed no threat, for they were far more content to sit outside on the terrace overlooking the harbour and discuss, as they always did, the no less elite business of film.
Much as Sam loved Rossi’s and the intense discussions with her fellow actors, the true Reid’s Hotel existed for her in the set at Mele Bay, alongside Mamma Black’s. Sarah Blackston now consumed her. But Sarah Blackston had become Jane Thackeray, and Mamma Black’s had become Mamma Tack’s. Samantha Lindsay was living in yesteryear, and Jason Thackeray was making the past more tangible by the day.
‘Mamma Tack’s grandson’, as Jason had been introduced, not only to Sam but to the actors and crew in general, had inspired in them all a sense of history, just as Nick Parslow had intended. The character of Sarah Blackston had a true identity now. She had become very real to them, and the grandson of the actual Mamma Tack was accepted as part of their team.
Jason found it most odd to start with. He’d been prepared to help in any way that he could regarding the history of his grandmother and her life. Indeed, he had offered his services in order to make sure that they ‘got it right’. But, after reading the script and conferring with Nick in Brisbane, he’d discovered that the film was a work of pure fiction. It didn’t bother him. He considered it flattering that his grandmother’s life had inspired a major Hollywood movie. Mamma Jane would no doubt have been amused by the notion, he thought. But, although he found the process of film-making most interesting, he couldn’t understand why he himself was considered so import
ant in the making of a film that was set in a period prior to his birth. Nick was adamant in his assurance.
‘Trust me, Jason, your mere presence is an inspiration.’
And Jason put it down to the peculiar intensity of those in the movie-making business.
As the days passed, however, even Nick was surprised by just how much of an inspiration Jason was becoming to the very core of the film. Both he and Simon Scanlon agreed that the presence of Mamma Tack’s grandson was spurring Samantha Lindsay on to even greater heights.
Jason Thackeray was an intriguing man, intelligent, with aristocratic features and a faint touch of the exotic in the suggestion of mixed blood. But upon first meeting, his eyes, a piercingly light blue in contrast with the olive tone of his skin, could be somewhat disconcerting.
Nick, having broken through the remote exterior, found Jason an engaging person, and he’d expected Sam, always at ease in forging new friendships, to make a similar breakthrough when he’d first introduced the two of them. But, initially, Sam had not had Nick’s success. She’d found Jason disinterested when she’d tackled him about his views on the script.
‘You’ve read it, how did you find it?’ she’d asked in her usual direct fashion. After introducing them at the poolside bar, Nick had shared several moments of superficial chat, and then left them alone together, hoping that Jason would have the same stimulating effect upon Sam that he’d had upon him.
‘Nick says he didn’t do any research on Mamma Tack,’ Sam said, ‘he didn’t even know her real name.’ Despite the brilliance of Nick’s script, she thought, Jason Thackeray might well be offended by the cavalier attitude to his grandmother’s life of dedication. He might view the script as shallow and typically Hollywood. She felt a personal need to assure him of her passion for the project. ‘Your grandmother was Nick’s source of inspiration. Torpedo Junction wasn’t intended to be her true story.’
‘Yes, he told me the same thing.’ Recognising her defensiveness, Jason smiled politely to put her at her ease. ‘Nick was quite amazed when he found out that he’d got so much of it right.’