by Judy Nunn
The girl was pretty, barely out of her teens, but Jane could see the angry swelling beneath her left eye. She’d been beaten, as she probably was on a regular basis. Jane asked her name. It was Mela. They conversed in Bislama.
‘Is the Masta inside the big house?’ Jane asked.
‘Yes, but he will soon go riding in the plantation,’ Mela answered. The gelding stood patiently beside her, reins tied to the hitching post. ‘The Masta always rides at dusk. I must make the horse ready for him.’ She bent and started struggling with the girth strap, pulling on it with all her might. ‘I can never pull it tight enough to please the Masta,’ she said with a touch of desperation, ‘I do not have the strength.’
Jane put her hand to the girl’s face and Mela looked up as she felt the soft caress of her fingers. Gently, Jane traced the swelling over her cheekbone.
‘You should go home to your family in the village, Mela,’ she said.
The girl felt the quick prickle of tears. She longed to go home, but she was too frightened of the Masta. She had been proud when he had chosen her from the other village girls as his personal servant, but she hated him now. And she could not leave, she was trapped. The Masta would never allow her to go back to the village.
She quickly notched the girth strap in as firmly as she could, then straightened and faced Mamma Tack. She would tell Mamma Tack, and perhaps Mamma Tack could help her get away from the Masta, she thought hopefully. Mamma Tack was the only person who could.
But Mela froze, open-mouthed, a guilty flush suffusing her cheeks as she looked past Jane to the house. She was afraid that he might have read her very thoughts.
Jane turned. Marat was standing on the verandah twenty metres away, riding crop tucked under one arm, the silver-white of his hair a beacon in the late afternoon sunlight.
He’d been watching them for several moments. When he’d stepped out onto the verandah he’d been most surprised to discover Jane Thackeray in conversation with his servant; he’d seen no car arrive. He’d looked about and noted that the vehicle was parked far to the left, out of sight of the front door and windows. It appeared she had come alone.
‘Madame Thackeray,’ he said, his voice, still strong, still authoritative, ‘what a surprise.’ She remained a good-looking woman, he thought, yet she must be nearing sixty. No longer slender, her body had thickened, but it only lent her an added strength.
She stared challengingly at him, a power to be reckoned with, and he stared back, aware that he was a commanding figure himself, as long as he remained motionless. Once he started to walk, his lameness was painfully evident, and he didn’t wish her to see his strength so diminished.
She’d paid little heed to her appearance, he noted, her hair was grey and her face was weathered, but there was no denying Jane Thackeray was a handsome woman. He hated her for it. He hated everything about her. He would far rather have killed her than her son, if he could have got away with it.
‘To what do I owe this great honour?’ he asked.
‘I want to talk to you, Marat.’
‘Marat?’ he queried, his eyebrows raised in mockery. ‘How very uncivil of you, Jane. Whatever happened to Jean-François?’
Jane strode the twenty metres that divided them and looked up at him where he stood on the verandah.
‘I know that you killed my son!’
It came as a surprise, although he refused to be alarmed. How did she know? he wondered. Who had dared talk? It must have been one of those dumb blacks he’d hired. He’d paid them a year’s wages for their deed and their silence, and yet one of them had run to his best friend Mamma Tack. Whichever black bastard was responsible would be whipped to within an inch of his miserable life, Marat thought.
‘What a quaint notion, Jane. Wherever did you hear such a rumour?’ She obviously had no proof, or she would have gone to the authorities.
‘Several of your workers were heard boasting, full of kava, they were quite specific about the details.’
‘So that’s your proof, is it? A few blacks, mad on kava telling slanderous stories about their master?’ She could do nothing, he told himself, but her manner was confronting, and he didn’t like it.
‘Now come along, Jane,’ he tried to sound reasonable, although he would rather have taken his riding crop to her. He would have liked to slash that handsome face to a pulp. ‘You know as well as I that I am not popular with my workers. I have never tried to be. They’re lazy, all of them, it’s in their blood. They need to be ruled by a strong hand if one is to get any work out of them. And they don’t like my methods, so this slander is their way of getting back at me. Surely you can see that.’
Jane had fought to keep herself in check. She had intended to bargain with him, to blackmail him into agreeing to her terms. But the reasoning tone of his voice suddenly angered her beyond measure. ‘You killed my son, you murderous bastard! And you’ll pay for it!’
Her anger ignited his, and he dropped any pretence of civility. ‘Just how will I pay?’ he snarled. ‘Who’s going to listen to a bunch of drunken savages? Get off my property, you’re trespassing. Go back to your black friends, bitch.’
Marat turned away and started towards the front door.
Mela, standing beside the mounting block, holding the chestnut’s bridle, was worried and confused. She hadn’t understood what the Masta and Mamma Tack had said, but she knew they were angry, and the Masta was about to go inside the house. Did that mean he wasn’t riding today? Should she unsaddle the horse? Then she saw Mamma Tack race up onto the verandah and bar the Masta from the front door.
Marat’s arthritic left hip rendered him virtually crippled, and Jane was too quick for him. In several swift strides she was up the verandah steps and between him and his escape.
‘Get out of my way, woman.’ He slashed at her with his riding crop, but she dodged easily to one side and, unbalanced, he staggered and almost fell, clutching at the nearby windowsill to save himself.
‘You’re not going to escape me, you evil bastard, you’re going to answer for what you’ve done.’ Jane had never felt such rage.
Pascal had crept from the car to the side of the house and, crouching low, he peered through the railings at the far end of the verandah. He was tempted to run to Mamma Jane’s assistance. But he knew she would be angry if he did. The old man was feeble in his lameness and Mamma Jane had the situation under control.
‘You listen to me, Marat,’ she hissed. ‘I will not have my son die for no purpose. You will do as I say, or I will go to the authorities and expose you for the cold-blooded killer you are.’
‘And who’s going to listen, you stupid woman!’ he roared. God, how he wanted to kill her. ‘You have no proof!’ He had to get away from her. He tried for the door again, but again she barred his way, and he didn’t dare attempt to push her aside bodily for fear of falling. He wished he had his walking cane, but he never used his cane on the short distance from the house to the mounting block.
‘Oh, but people do listen to me, Jean-François,’ she said, the use of his Christian name vitriolic and mocking. ‘Believe me, they listen. I am Mamma Tack, remember?’
Of course he remembered. She’d said that to him once before, all those years ago. She’d flaunted the weight of her ridiculous title, and it had worked then. It wasn’t going to work this time.
‘Mamma Tack!’ he spat the name back at her. ‘Mamma Tack? You’re nothing but a whore and a nigger-lover.’
‘Better a nigger-lover than a nigger-killer, Marat!’ She screamed out the words. Her rage had turned to sheer hatred now. She’d never before experienced hatred, and she wanted to kill him with her bare hands.
‘You’ve plundered and killed and raped these people for years, and you’ll pay for it!’
He swung at her again with the riding crop. She grabbed it with both hands, and they struggled in a mad dance for possession, Marat’s superior strength eventually throwing her aside, but again he nearly fell as he did so.
Behind the verandah railings, Pascal remained poised to run to her assistance, but something stopped him. It was the hatred he was witnessing in Mamma Jane’s rage. Never had he thought to see hatred in Mamma Jane, and the power of it rendered him frozen.
Marat made his way clumsily towards the verandah steps. He had to get away from her madness, he had to get in the saddle. On the ground he was a cripple, but on horseback he was as strong as he had ever been. Keeping a firm hold on the railing, he took each step one at a time, cursing his infirmity.
Jane fought to control the insanity of her anger. She had come here with the intention to bargain, she must not let her hatred deter her from her purpose. She followed him, right by his side, worrying at him like a cattle dog would a recalcitrant bull. She must corner him, she must make him realise there was no alternative but to agree to her demands.
‘There’s a way you can save yourself, Marat,’ she said, her voice still trembling with the rage she now battled to curb. ‘I won’t go to the authorities if you do as I say.’
He was barely listening as he started on the twenty-metre walk to his horse, his lame leg swinging out to the side on each alternate step, a clumsy, comical gait, his hip aching with the effort.
‘Stop trying to block the new land ownership laws. Call off the others who are doing the same. You know that they’ll listen to you, they’ll do whatever you say.’
Mela watched their approach, terrified for Mamma Tack. She didn’t know what Mamma Tack was saying, but no-one stood up to the Masta the way Mamma Tack was doing. The Masta could kill Mamma Tack. Mela’s hands were shaking as she untied the reins from the hitching post and held onto the cheekstraps of the horse’s bridle.
‘Stop interfering with the rights of the islanders,’ Jane continued relentlessly, encouraged by Marat’s silence, convinced she was getting through to him. ‘Stop paying bribes to the officials you’ve put in power,’ she demanded. ‘And call off the others who are corrupting them too.’
But Marat wasn’t listening. He was at the mounting block now.
Mela cringed in anticipation, worried for herself as well as Mamma Tack. The Masta was about to check the girth strap.
Stupid black bitch, Marat thought, as he pulled the strap a notch tighter. He would have given her a backhander but there wasn’t time, he had to get in the saddle so that he could take command. On horseback he’d be able to deal with the demented woman who was driving him mad.
Mela held tight to the bridle whilst the Masta stepped up onto the mounting block. Obedient and well-trained as the chestnut was, if the horse made the slightest movement, the Masta got very angry.
His left hand upon the pommel of the saddle, Marat put his right hand beneath his knee and lifted his lame left leg into the stirrup, pain screaming through his hip.
‘If you promise to do this, Marat, if you promise to stop impeding the progress of the new government …’
Jane Thackeray was continuing to harangue him, but he was nearly there now.
‘… then I promise that I’ll tell no-one you murdered my son.’ It was what Ronnie would have wanted, she thought as she watched the Frenchman feebly attempt to mount his horse. Her son would not have died in vain. ‘Do we have an understanding, Marat?’ she demanded. ‘It’s your only way out, I swear it. Otherwise you’ll answer to a murder charge.’
He heaved himself up, swinging his right leg over the horse’s body with ease and, once in the saddle, the pain was gone. Mela fed him the reins and he gathered the horse in. He was beyond Jane Thackeray’s power now, no longer a cripple.
‘You don’t dictate to me, bitch! Get off my property!’ He lashed out with the riding crop, landing a stinging blow across her shoulder, frightening the chestnut, which shied to one side. He swung the crop again, missing her this time, but alarming the horse further, the animal prancing on the spot, tossing its head. ‘Get off my property right now, you nigger-lover!’
Jane’s hatred returned with a vengeance. She had thought that she’d worn him down. She’d taken his silence as defeat, admission that he would agree to her demands. She lunged for the animal’s bridle, grasping the ring of the bit firmly in her hand, balling her fingers into a fist around it, her rage once more insane.
‘You’ll answer for everything, Marat!’ she yelled. ‘You’ll answer for my son’s death, and you’ll answer for your crimes against these people.’ She was strong, and the chestnut obeyed the hand that held the ring of the bit in its mouth. It stopped prancing and tossing its head.
Marat cursed the gelding. He wished he was on the black stallion – the stallion would have trampled the bitch to death – but he didn’t dare ride the stallion these days.
‘Get away, you mad bitch!’
He ripped hard on the reins. The bit dug cruelly into the animal’s mouth and as its head jerked up Jane was nearly pulled off her feet, but she hung on.
‘You’re a cancer to these islands, and you’ll pay for it!’ she yelled.
He lashed at her again and again with the crop. Pascal raced from behind the verandah railings. Mela screamed at the sight of the Masta beating Mamma Tack.
‘No, Masta, no!’ she wailed hysterically.
‘You think you can beat me into submission the way you do her?’ Jane hung onto the bridle with all of her strength as she felt the lash of the crop across her shoulders. ‘You’ll have to kill me first, Marat, it’s the only way you’ll be free of me!’
The horse, in pain and confused, circled on the spot, dragging Jane with it, whilst Marat continued to beat at her.
‘I’ll kill you all right, bitch, you can be sure of that!’ As he slashed at her, he pulled the horse’s head still higher, the animal’s neck arched, its mouth open, its teeth bared.
The chestnut was terrified now. It screamed, a shrill whinny of fear, and then reared, hooves pawing wildly at the air. Jane felt her shoulder nearly pulled from its socket as the ring of the bit was ripped out of her hand. Then she was on the ground, Pascal beside her, dragging her away.
The horse seemed to freeze for a moment, poised on hind legs, forelegs extended, majestic in its terror, and Marat felt himself falling. As if in slow motion to start with, all he could see was sky, then everything spun crazily about him and the mounting block loomed before his eyes.
The chestnut’s hooves crashed to the ground, narrowly missing Jane as Pascal dragged her clear, and the animal shied away from them, tossing its head, its mouth ripped by the bit, its eyeballs rolling in fear.
Pascal helped her to her feet and together they inspected Marat, Jane kneeling to feel for the man’s pulse. He was dead. There was blood on the mounting block where he’d struck his head, but the wound was not the cause of his death.
‘His neck is broken,’ she said.
They were silent as their eyes met, both registering the significance. Ronnie’s neck had been broken too.
‘You must go for the police, Pascal.’ She stood. ‘I will stay here with Mela.’ She put a comforting arm around the girl whose eyes were rolling fearfully, just like the chestnut’s.
But Pascal made no move. ‘There is no need for the police. I will take Marat into the plantation, it will look like an accident, that way there will be no investigation.’ She hesitated, and again he insisted. ‘There is no need for the police, Mamma Jane. Justice has been done.’
Jane agreed that justice had indeed been served upon the Frenchman, and she felt no remorse for the part she had played in his death. But there were complications to the simplicity of Pascal’s plan.
‘Mela is a witness,’ she said.
‘Mela saw nothing.’ Pascal spoke to the girl in Bislama. ‘The Masta is dead, Mela,’ he said, and the girl nodded. The Masta certainly looked dead. With Mamma Tack’s arm about her, Mela’s fear had subsided.
‘You do not wish Mamma Tack to get into trouble, do you?’
Mela shook her head vehemently.
‘The Masta fell from his horse while he was out riding, Mela. You saw nothing.’
Mela nodded. ‘I saw nothing,’ she said, and she turned to Jane. ‘I saw nothing, Mamma Tack.’
Jane looked at Pascal for a moment, then nodded.
Pascal calmed the chestnut, speaking soothingly to it and stroking its quivering neck, and when the horse was pacified, Mela held the reins whilst he heaved the body of the Frenchman over the pommel of the saddle.
He mounted the horse and, aware that the animal’s mouth had been damaged, he barely used the reins as he rode towards the plantation. They were unnecessary anyway: the chestnut was a well-trained animal and responded excellently to the merest pressure of his knees.
Uninstructed, Mela fetched a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush and set about cleaning the blood from the mounting block. Jane watched in amazement as she scrubbed away, chatting happily.
She would go back to the village, she said, just like Mamma Tack had told her she should; she was free again now that the Masta was gone. She would find a nice young man, there were many in the village, and she would get married and have babies.
Mela was glad that Mamma Tack had killed the Masta and she was honoured to be playing her part in it all. She would boast of it to her family when she got back to the village. They would share in the secret and rejoice in the Masta’s death. And when she had babies, she would tell them the story too. She would become a hero.
It was nearly dusk when Pascal returned. Carefully, he washed the offside shoulder of the horse, which was stained with the blood that had dripped from Marat’s head wound. He would have liked to have loosened the girth belt, knowing it would cause the animal some discomfort being strapped tight throughout the night, but he dared not.
‘You must not go home to the village tonight,’ he said to Mela. ‘You must stay here until they find the horse and send out a search party for the Masta. And you must be here when they return with his body.’
‘I know what I must do,’ Mela said with a hint of irritation. She didn’t need his instruction, she was fully aware of the part she must play, and she was looking forward to it.
During the drive back to town Jane was silent. The situation had been taken out of her hands, it seemed. The islanders were her allies in crime, and she felt no guilt. They were rid of their enemy and her son’s death had been avenged.