by Judy Nunn
Despite his frailty and his constant weariness, Godfrey Tomlinson had not felt such contentment for over forty years. He had a family again. He relished waking up to the sounds of Ronnie’s squeals and Mary and Leila arguing in the kitchen as to who would cook dinner that night. But above all, he relished the sight of Jane Thackeray. Little did she know, he occasionally thought with a rush of pure happiness, that she had probably extended his life by several years. He would quite willingly have given up a while back, but then she had moved into his lonely house and made it a home. He loved her immeasurably.
‘I’m going to Brisbane,’ he said one morning. It was March, 1946, not long after Ronnie’s fifth birthday; he’d made sure he was around for that. As always, it was an announcement and planned to surprise. Godfrey always liked to surprise.
‘What on earth for?’ Jane asked.
‘For a while,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Probably not all that long.’
‘I don’t think you’re well enough to travel, Godfrey. I do wish you’d come to the hospital.’
He ignored her. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow and I would like Mary to take a photograph of the three of us. I have purchased a camera specifically for the purpose. Come along, Ronnie.’ He held out his hand and the little boy grabbed it.
‘Why are you going to Brisbane, Godfrey?’ Ronnie asked as they went outside.
‘Because one needs to travel, and I’ve become very sedentary.’
‘Very what?’
‘Look it up, Ronnie, you know where the dictionary is.’ They regularly delved into the dictionary together, and they had such mature conversations that Godfrey often forgot Ronnie’s age.
Godfrey was choosy about where they stood. He wanted the light to be exactly right. Then he taught Mary how to use the camera, which took some time, as he wasn’t sure how it worked himself.
‘I shall have the photograph developed in Brisbane,’ he said. ‘And I shall send you a copy.’
The following day they stood on the jetty and waved farewell to the Morinda, all four of them, Jane, Ronnie, Mary and Leila. And Godfrey waved back to his family. He knew that he wouldn’t see them again.
He’d spoken privately to Jane the previous night. He would give her no address, and he’d appreciate it if she did not try to find out his whereabouts, he said, he would prefer it that way.
It was only then that Jane realised he was going away to die. Like an old dog, privately, on his own, and that it was the way he wished it.
‘You will send me the photograph?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, I promise I’ll send you the photograph.’
As she waved to the fragile figure on the foredeck of the Morinda, Jane waved goodbye to the man who had become both her family and her best friend.
Her eldest brother, Wilfred, had been killed in the Normandy landings and her father, Ron Miller, had died just a year ago. A stroke, her brother Dave had written, it had been mercifully quick. Dave had moved to London and was Jane’s one remaining link with her mother country, Phoebe having settled in New York with her American husband.
Jane and Phoebe continued their regular correspondence and Jane had been delighted to hear that Phoebe had given birth to a baby daughter, but she had resigned herself to the fact that it was unlikely they would see each other in the flesh again. Phoebe’s life was a social whirlwind, she loved the New York set, and Jane knew that she herself would never leave the islands.
Jane continued to gaze out at the distant Morinda, although she could no longer see Godfrey on the foredeck. How sorely she would miss him, she thought, and she wished he’d allowed her to be with him at the end.
The photograph arrived a month later, forwarded from a firm of solicitors in Brisbane. With it was a brief personal note from Godfrey, and the urn with his ashes which, he instructed, were to be scattered upon the waters around Mele Island. She would shortly be hearing further from his solicitors, he wrote, and he formally thanked her for the pleasure she had given him in the twilight years of his life. There was a touch of humour at the end, however. In a hand which was surprisingly strong he signed himself ‘Your friend, Godfrey Tomlinson, Guardian Angel’.
Godfrey had written the note shortly after his arrival in Brisbane and had left it, together with the photograph and list of instructions, with his solicitors. Everything had gone exactly as planned. He hadn’t suicided. He had simply stopped eating. He’d stayed in one of his properties outside Brisbane – he owned two – and then when he was reduced to a mere skeleton, he’d signed into a hospice and continued his refusal to eat, maintaining it was his right to do so, and his right had been respected. It had all been very simple.
Notification arrived from the solicitors barely a fortnight later. Godfrey Tomlinson owned far more than the bungalow on the hill. He had properties all over Efate, two near Brisbane, interests in any number of businesses, and various stocks and shares, all of which he had left to Jane Thackeray.
‘My grandmother was a wealthy woman,’ Jason said, ‘thanks to Godfrey Tomlinson.’
‘Her guardian angel.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he smiled. ‘The authorities and those who’d tried to close her down didn’t have a leg to stand on. Not that she was very good with money, mind you; she gave a lot of it away. But she sent my father through law school, and I went to Oxford to study medicine, so she obviously had an overall plan.’
They had eaten throughout his entire story, the soup and then their main courses, but although the food had been delicious Sam had barely tasted it. She’d been spellbound by the past. What a broader fabric there was, she thought, and she wished that the film delved deeper into the life of Jane Thackeray.
A group of tourists had arrived, choosing to sit at the jetty over the water, always a favourite spot, and other diners were starting to appear, so Jason and Sam had retired for coffee to the small pebble-stoned courtyard surrounded by trees. She’d declined dessert and sat sipping her long black whilst Jason, admitting to a sweet tooth, devoured a work of art laced with finely spun toffee.
‘Doesn’t it annoy you that this film is basically a love story when there’s so much more to tell?’ she asked.
‘Not at all. It’s a work of fiction, as Nick said.’
‘Yes, but it was inspired by your grandmother, and she led such a full life.’
‘With a lot of love in it. Are you sure you won’t try some of this? It’s delicious.’
She shook her head.
‘That’s what Mamma Jane was all about. Love.’ Sam was leaning on the table giving him her full attention and Jason pushed his dessert to one side. He’d lost interest in it now; her desire for communication was too distracting.
‘My grandmother was a strong woman. And she was tough too – she had to be. But she was so full of love. The love of her husband, her son, her grandson, the islanders. Her whole life was about love, Sam, and that’s what counts. It doesn’t matter if the script only deals with a small portion of her life. It’s the essence of the woman that’s important, and you have it. Her strength and her compassion, I saw it today.’
Sam glowed with pleasure, but her expression was comical nonetheless. ‘You sound like a film director,’ she said.
‘I’m learning,’ he grinned.
She finished her coffee. ‘What about the love affair with the American?’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, don’t you find it insulting?’
He gave a careless shrug. ‘Why should I? It’s a fictional story.’
‘Yes, but it’s inspired by your grandmother,’ she said more insistently than ever.
‘You keep harking back to that. Why?’
‘Because she’s important to me. And so is the truth.’ The piercing eyes had changed colour again, but she decided not to comment; she stared into them instead. ‘And because you showed me the photograph.’
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ He’d asked for that, he thought, he’d invited her into his world. ‘Do you want another
coffee, Sam?’ The waiter had arrived at the table. She hesitated, thinking of tomorrow’s five o’clock call, but he nodded to the man. ‘Two thanks. Long black.’
‘So,’ he said with an easy grin as the waiter disappeared, ‘you think I should be insulted by the suggestion that my grandmother had an affair with an American serviceman.’
‘No! Good God, I didn’t say that at all!’ Sam was horrified. ‘It’s a fictional work, you said so yourself, no-one’s suggesting she had an affair, I simply meant that …’
‘I think she did.’
‘What?’
‘In fact I’m sure of it.’ As her eyes widened and her jaw gaped in astonishment, he again threw back his head and gave a loud, throaty laugh.
She liked the way he did that, she thought, even as she recovered from the shock of his statement. So sudden, so uninhibited. What a mercurial man he was.
‘You’re not serious!’ He was still laughing. ‘Come on now, Jason, you’re not serious!’
His laughter stopped abruptly. ‘Oh yes, I am. Mind you, there was no fairytale ending like the film. He didn’t survive a POW camp and come back to claim her after the war, but I believe he loved her for the rest of his life.’
She interrupted. ‘How on earth could you …’ but he ignored her and simply carried on.
‘His name was Charles Wolfgang Baker, and he was a friend of my grandfather’s. He actually flew my grandfather out to the fleet, Mamma Jane told me, and he was shot down on the return flight. She called him Wolf and he was a war hero, they awarded him the Medal of Honour.’
‘She told you that they’d had an affair?’ Sam couldn’t help herself, she was aghast.
‘Oh good grief no,’ he smiled. ‘I think she only told me about him to explain the letters. They wrote to each other throughout their lives, and I collected the stamps from the envelopes that arrived from America.’
‘Why does that mean they had an affair, just because they wrote to each other? People do, you know.’ Sam felt the need to defend Jane Thackeray; Jason seemed altogether too disrespectful. ‘Well, they certainly did in those days, before faxes and emails and all that.’
‘I met him, that’s how I know.’
‘You met him?’ Sam’s early morning call was forgotten. She was prepared to listen to Jason all night.
He could see that he not only had her full attention, but that she was awaiting an explanation and, having dropped such a bombshell, he knew that he owed her one.
‘Just the once,’ he nodded. ‘I was ten, but I remember him vividly. He was an impressive man, silver-haired and very successful-looking, just the way I pictured Americans should be. I felt quite in awe of him, but I liked him. He was a senator, Mamma Jane told me, and an important one, some even considered him a possible candidate for the presidency.’
The coffee arrived. Jason was silent as he dosed his with liberal quantities of sugar, and Sam hoped he wasn’t about to leave the subject there. But he wasn’t.
‘It was early 1980, six months before the New Hebrides was officially granted its independence, momentous times. Wolf Baker came to see Mamma Jane when he heard the news about my father.’
‘So you’re Jason,’ the American held his hand out to the boy. ‘I’m Wolf Baker, your grandmother’s written me all about you.’
‘I’ve heard about you too,’ the boy said as they shook.
Jane smiled. ‘Jason saves the stamps from your letters, Wolf.’
‘Well, then I must make sure I send you some special ones the next time I write.’ Wolf was impressed by the boy’s eyes, so clear and intelligent, yet so full of pain. He leaned down, hands resting on bended knees, his face level with the boy’s. ‘I was very sorry to hear about your father, Jason.’ The boy nodded but said nothing. ‘I only knew him when he was a child, much younger than you, but I know he grew into a very fine man, just as you will one day.’
The boy blinked sharply a couple of times, determined not to cry, and Wolf, respecting the fact, talked to him as an adult, aware that it was the way the boy wished to be treated.
‘I guess it’s up to you to look after your grandmother now. And your mother.’
‘Yes.’ The boy’s eyes met his squarely. ‘We’ve talked about it, Mamma Jane and me. We’re a team, she says.’
‘Good. That’s the way it should be.’
They conversed openly in front of the boy who sat solemn-faced at the kitchen table whilst Jane made coffee. Wolf refused any lunch, saying he’d eaten, although he hadn’t.
‘I’m sorry there’s no bourbon,’ she said, ‘but at least I’m not inflicting tea upon you.’
She seemed in less pain than the boy, Wolf thought. So contained and emotionally in control.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ she smiled. ‘I never thought I would, you know.’
‘It’s a pity it has to be under such circumstances. How did it happen, Jane? You just said an accident in your letter, and I wondered why …’
‘Yes, an accident.’ She’d jumped in altogether too quickly, he thought. ‘An unnecessary, silly accident. He drove the car off the road and into a tree. Utterly senseless, but then that’s so often the way things happen, isn’t it?’
She didn’t want to talk about it, he realised, which was understandable. But her response had been too glib, as if there was something she wished to avoid telling him. He was disappointed; he would have liked to have been of some help.
‘It was kind of you to come all this way, Wolf, I certainly didn’t expect you to when I wrote the news about Ronnie …’
‘I know, but I wanted to see for myself that you were all right. I’m only sorry I couldn’t come to the funeral.’ It had been two months since Ronnie’s death.
‘How on earth did you find the time at all with your busy itinerary?’
‘It’s not so busy these days. I’m thinking of retiring.’
‘Retiring? You?’
‘I’ll be sixty-four soon, and once you’ve missed your run at the big one … well,’ he shrugged, ‘time to step aside.’
She was genuinely pleased to see him, he could tell, but he wished she would talk more openly, the way they did in their letters. Welcoming though she was, she seemed, for the moment, to be holding back.
The rear door of the kitchen opened and Wolf turned to see one of the most beautiful young women he’d ever laid eyes on. She was carrying two bags of groceries and the boy ran to take one from her.
‘Leipanga,’ Jane said, ‘this is Wolf Baker, my old friend from America, you’ve heard me speak of him. Wolf, this is Leipanga.’
Ronnie’s wife, he realised. Jane had written of her; they constantly exchanged news about their respective families. Leipanga was the product of an English father and a Polynesian mother, Jane had written, and extraordinarily beautiful. Well, it had been no exaggeration, Wolf thought as he shook the young woman’s hand.
‘I’m so sorry about your husband, Leipanga,’ he said, ‘you have my deepest sympathy.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr Baker.’
‘Wolf, please.’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes locked onto his for a second or so, as if she was challenging him in some way. Flirting even. Wolf was nonplussed. Then she turned away and started unloading the groceries onto the kitchen table.
Jane appeared not to notice, setting the coffee percolator and cups on a tray. ‘Shall we go out onto the verandah?’ she suggested.
They sat looking over the view of the harbour, and all the yesterdays came back to Wolf. He’d been visited by his yesterdays from the moment the jet had turned so sharply in preparation for landing at Bauerfield Airport that morning. A difficult approach, he’d thought at the time and he’d commented upon the fact to the pilot, who had informed him that Bauerfield Airport was renowned for its tricky approach. Wolf had thought of Harold then. Harold W. Bauer, ‘Indian Joe’, the best pilot he’d ever known.
Harold Bauer had been killed in November 1942, towards the end of the Guadalcanal campaign, an
d he should have been awarded his Medal of Honour at the same time as Wolf. In Wolf’s personal opinion, anyway. But because Harold Bauer had been reported ‘missing in action’ he’d had to wait a lot longer. Probably because a dead man wasn’t much use to the war effort, Wolf thought; he’d become very cynical lately. Harold Bauer’s MH had been awarded posthumously in 1946, and Port Vila’s international airport now bore his name. Indian Joe would rather have enjoyed the fact that pilots required a particular skill in approaching his runway, Wolf had thought with a sense of satisfaction as the jet touched down.
The yesterdays had continued to wash over him during the drive into town, past the expanse of Mele Bay, then up over the hill and the first view of Vila. Port Vila, he’d corrected himself, they called it Port Vila these days. It had all come flooding back.
But now, on this verandah with Jane, the yesterdays threatened to engulf him entirely. Thirty-seven years had dropped away. She hadn’t really changed at all, he thought, as he watched her pour the coffee. Oh she’d aged, just as he had. Her hair was grey, she didn’t dye it or highlight it like her American counterparts, and her skin was possibly more weathered than theirs, but she hadn’t changed.
‘Milk and two,’ she said, placing his coffee on the table beside him. She’d remembered.
‘You got it.’
The vitality of her body, her eyes, her smile, the sheer strength of her. She was the woman he’d farewelled before dawn in that little cottage that was no longer there. He’d visited it on his way to see her and discovered, sadly, that it was gone.
‘You must have noticed a lot of changes,’ she said as if reading his mind.
‘In the town, yes; in you, no.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, Wolf, you’re incorrigible.’
‘In what way?’ he asked innocently.
‘You don’t even know your own charm, do you? It’s your greatest gift, it always was. No wonder you’re such a good politician.’
‘I mean it, Jane, you haven’t changed. You haven’t changed at all.’