Inheritance

by Jenny Pattrick

  She looked me in the eye. ‘No.’ The statement was too brisk. I didn’t quite believe her.

  ‘Tiresa and her family would contest, I imagine. The expectation has been there. Many of your husband’s relatives work on the plantation.’

  Gertrude bared her yellow old teeth. ‘Surely I have the law on my side? Let them contest.’

  She would likely win, I imagined, though Tiresa’s ‘aiga was powerful and perhaps able to exert pressure.

  It was useless to talk morality with Gertrude, but I had to attempt it. ‘Why on earth would you leave the estate to strangers who know nothing about Samoa or – surely – running a plantation, when your own Samoan relatives are right here and waiting?’

  ‘Waiting for my death? Yes. Yes they are. That Tiresa!’ Gertrude suddenly sat bolt upright, bristling like an angry old cat. ‘She would put the plantation back into traditional village hands. All she cares about now is fa‘asamoa. She has forgotten her palagi side. What about the good German blood in her veins? She’s angling for a high title for her son. Hamish, you know what will happen! There will be a big sa‘ofa‘i and generous Tiresa will return the plantation to village ownership. Speeches, fine mats presented, kava drunk, land returned and next day … Suddenly her son will become an important matai!’ Gertrude glared at me as if I were to blame. ‘And the plantation will fall into neglect.’

  I was astonished to see her old blue eyes fill with tears. The future of her plantation was so important!

  ‘I can not bear to lose it!’ she shouted. ‘I will not! You know what fa‘asamoa is like, Hamish. If the plantation goes to the Levamanaias it will fail within a year. They will pick the crop only when they need a little extra cash. They will let the trees become overgrown. They will forget to fill the orders from overseas. You know it as well as I do!’ She spat out another bean and dabbed angrily at her eyes. ‘Oh it is such a mess!’

  I sighed. She might be right. But surely … did the old lady imagine she would be watching with rage from beyond the grave?

  I changed tack. ‘But the nephew? Would he come? Would he be interested?

  Now her attitude changed from fierce to tentative. ‘I believe so. Yes, I believe he would. His circumstances are … unfortunate at present. But Hamish …’

  It turned out she hadn’t confirmed the invitation. Not until she settled the delicate matter of his birth. She tapped the document on the table.

  ‘My nephew’s birth certificate. He has not seen it. And need not I hope. We don’t want the whole of Apia chewing over this bit of gossip, Hamish. I understand his knowledge of his birth circumstances is hazy. You might say sanitised. I do not believe he knows the wretched circumstances at all.’

  ‘Then how do you …?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said impatiently, as if it were unimportant, ‘I have always known. You don’t need to know all the details. John is illegitimate. Born to my demented sister as the result of rape. I want to know whether his illegitimacy would damage my case if it came in court.’

  She eyed me rather madly; tapped the birth certificate. ‘My sister, while still a young girl, almost drowned. Lost her mind in a boating accident. She used to wander the banks of the river in a filthy state. A poor silly laughing stock. Some despicable Chow raped her out in the bush somewhere and then when she fell pregnant and his crime became obvious, the coward hanged himself. That is John O’Dowd’s true birth heritage, and now I must stoop to accept this tainted half-Chow as nephew. Oh I could spit!’

  She did spit. Then looked at me quickly. I think she realised that she had said too much. Her half smile appeared again. ‘Well we need not repeat that garbage. He was adopted by a decent white couple and brought up properly. John has a reputation as a competent and diligent worker. I checked all the details thoroughly. And his son-in-law seems handy enough. They will have to do. So what do you think?’

  I was so shocked by her fury – the vitriolic way she denounced her own nephew, her rampant racism – that I found it difficult to speak.

  ‘Hamish?’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t take any notice of an old lady. I know my views are no longer fashionable. Just tell me. Could illegitimacy – or Chow blood – be an argument against me?’

  Weakly, I answered her question. Reassured her. Illegitimacy should not affect the case if the Levamanaias contested. I should have roundly denounced her; run her off the property. I learned later to respect John. He became my friend, but I let him down, I believe, that morning.

  The only small victory I might claim in the sorry business of that inheritance was to persuade Gertrude, some weeks later, when she came in to lodge her new will, to omit the daughter and son-in-law’s names from the document. Gertrude obviously favoured the ‘untainted’ blood of the son-in-law. I persuaded her that a simple will, favouring her own nephew, might be more persuasive if it came to court. She agreed and crossed out the names. I and my secretary witnessed the change.

  As it turned out later, this was most fortuitous.

  A month after her new relatives arrived, Gertrude, perhaps satisfied that they might be up to the task of running a plantation, invited us all to a welcoming party. John and the Ropers were in Apia overseeing the loading of their cacao crop. You would have thought Gertrude might hold the party in her town house, but no. The wretched woman chose to summon us all to the plantation. The road inland was appalling. But she was making a point of course: this is my land and will stay that way.

  She rang to ask whether we might drive the guests of honour up. ‘We are all occupied preparing the feast, Hamish. Would you be so kind?’ Gertrude was a past master at laying on charm when it was needed. I agreed with some misgiving. Our new Datsun was a tough little nut, but carrying five people over those ruts would challenge even a truck. My wife was pleased of course: a chance to get to know Jeanie.

  That day, towards the horizon a deep purple line stained sea and sky. An unusual, ominous sign. For the past several days that odd colouring had come and gone. A hurricane, perhaps, heading in a different direction. Bad weather had been predicted – not a hurricane – but then forecasting was a hit and miss affair. Weather stations were too sparse, and information patchy at best. I had seen a dark stain like that only once before. The result had been devastation.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked Simone. ‘Should we close the screens?’

  She laughed at my caution. ‘It’s miles away. Who knows what direction it will take? They never hit us anyway. Look, our friends are waiting.’

  Simone and I exchanged smiles at the sight of them standing together in the drive. The men were in white tropical suits and white straw hats; very proper and correct, but Jeanie had dressed Samoan style in a flowered puletasi. Where on earth had she found it so quickly? The full-length lavalava and tightly fitting tunic top suited her small body beautifully. Simone was draped as always in a loose mumu, this one peacock blue and sea green, if I remember correctly, a spray of spider orchids tangled in the white web of her hair. She clapped her hands as if applauding a performance.

  ‘Perfect! Perfect my dear!’ The words were for Jeanie. ‘But the finishing touch …’ She picked a red hibiscus flower from the hedge and tucked it behind Jeanie’s ear. ‘There! You are now ready for your first fiafia.’

  A mischievous act. Gertrude had clung strictly to her European status. She never wore Samoan dress, always insisted on sitting on a chair, even in a traditional fale; ate at a table with a knife and fork. I have never, ever, seen Gertrude with a flower behind her ear. In the three years since independence many of the ‘afakasi women with ‘European’ status were relaxing into Samoan custom – fa‘asamoa. Not Gertrude Schroder. That old dragon would disapprove of Jeanie’s dress and Simone’s subversive hibiscus flower.

  The Schroder plantation was east of Apia and inland. We turned off the round-the-island road onto a rutted dirt track lined with tall kapok trees. Red volcanic dust rose in clouds behind us, and because we travelled so slowly, and the morning breeze always blows inland, we w
ere soon enveloped in our own cloud. I missed the turn off and had to reverse for several yards, a task I abhor. John O’Dowd offered to step out and guide me, but I feared for his crisp whites and did my best. The Schroder road is more a boulder-strewn river bed than a track. I clamped my teeth to hold back the curses as we ground and lurched our way first between an avenue of old, giant-leaved teak trees, and then through neat rows of cacao shrubs planted by Schroder’s father and now managed by Gertrude and her gang of workers. The plantation was well managed. If only she would pay the same attention to her road. At a particularly loud bang of rock on exhaust pipe, John leaned forward and spoke in my ear.

  ‘I’m afraid our extra weight is damaging your car.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I said grimly. To be honest it was not easy to force out a civil word.

  ‘You are very kind. No doubt Mrs Schroder — my aunt – will soon arrange a car for us.’

  An optimistic statement. I had no reply. All my attention was focused on getting the car up the bloody road in one piece.

  ‘Here we are my darlings!’ cried Simone. ‘Now we can all enjoy ourselves.’ She knew how out of sorts I felt.

  We parked on the grass beside several other cars belonging to Europeans from the Beach. I recognised the magistrate’s black Chevrolet, and a New Zealand High Commission vehicle. Also Elena Levamanaia’s new, bright red Mini Moke and her brother’s sports car. That was interesting. But of course Gertrude would invite the opposition when she unveiled her new-found relatives. Had their mother, Tiresa, also come I wondered? Unlikely, given the tensions.

  A large black sow followed by a group of squealing piglets ran between the cars. Obviously saved from becoming part of the feast because of her young progeny. Off to one side smoke and steam rose from the umu. Other pigs and chickens would not have been so fortunate.

  Gertrude herself was above us, waving her cane this way and that, supervising preparations from the shade of the verandah.

  ‘Hamish!’ she called. ‘Bring them up here! The feast will be down under the house later.’

  I let the guests of honour mount the steps first, curious to see how she would greet them. Had they become friends? John went first, smiling up at her, his steps brisk, hand already held out towards her. She leaned on her cane, waiting, smiling too, her smart green linen dress immaculate, a wide-brimmed white straw hat set perfectly straight, snowy hair pulled back tightly into a bun. Gertrude would not even understand the meaning of the word dishevelled.

  ‘John,’ she said loudly, (there would be people inside listening), ‘my dear nephew, come in come in.’ She gave him her hand and he shook it warmly. If Gertrude felt distaste at the Chinese ancestry she showed no sign. She turned to Jeanie and Stuart. For a moment she looked Jeanie up and down and then, still smiling, reached out and in one smooth movement plucked the flower from behind Jeanie’s ear and deposited it in a floral arrangement. Again her words were formal, spoken for the curious guests. ‘Welcome my dear relatives. Come in and meet everyone.’

  Simone’s loud snort over the flower went unheard, thank goodness. Our entrance was ignored. I held tightly onto my wife’s arm and steered her into the room.

  Inside, the air was close and heavily scented with frangipani blossoms. I longed to remove my jacket but Gertrude would not approve. Her windows were protected with glass louvered windows and insect screens. What breeze there was, here inland, could not circulate. Not that Gertrude would notice. Her blood, in Simone’s opinion, ran naturally icy. But that day her old cheeks were flushed. Holding John O’Dowd firmly by the arm, she clacked her cane on the floor tiles to gain our attention.

  ‘Welcome, willkommen, talofa lava!’ she cried.

  ‘Good heavens,’ muttered Giles Metford from the High Commission, ‘She’s positively hectic. Hope she doesn’t have a heart attack.’

  Giles, overweight, and given to drinking too much, had been at the High Commission for longer than was usual for a career man. They said his career had stalled when he showed too much interest, at some function, in a high-born young woman. Not done in Samoa. Giles compensated for his less than stellar career by trying to become the prime purveyor of gossip. His privileged position at the Commission made that a dangerous habit. We all suspected he would be ‘moved on’, but year after year he stayed, becoming seedier and more rotund. A sad, if entertaining fool.

  Another rap on the floor from Gertrude. ‘Let me introduce my dear nephew, John O’Dowd from New Zealand, his daughter, Jeanie Roper, and his son-in-law, Stuart Roper. I have formally recognised them as my heirs.’

  There was such triumph in her voice. I glanced across at the celebrated Elena Levamanaia, who caught my eye and grinned back. The brother looked less amused.

  It seemed Gertrude could not wait to share her family news. Her housegirl and houseboy had scarcely begun to distribute glasses of Pimm’s and plates of sandwiches, but Gertrude held thirsty guests to attention with the odd rap of her cane as she spoke. ‘John is the sole son of my sister. Only recently I learned that she married a Chinese merchant and bore him a son. Alas, both were tragically drowned soon after the baby’s birth. John was cared for by nuns and then adopted. Now that I have become aware of his existence, I intend to make up for my neglect.’

  Giles muttered into my ear. ‘A somewhat rosy version of events.’ A statement I would certainly follow up later. I had thought the truth about John’s birth would not be out so soon.

  Gertrude turned her brittle smile on John O’Dowd, who looked down, embarrassed, perhaps, by all this attention. ‘And now that I have found him and his lovely family, I would like you all to treat him as a Schroder. As if, my dear friends, he were my son!’ A final triumphant rap of her cane.

  In the silence that greeted this announcement, Teo Levamanaia, the cheeky boy, set up an ironic slow clap. It was a shocking act of rudeness and very un-Samoan. He stood there, handsome, in white shirt and dark lavalava, but showing ill will in every movement, his eyes challenging, his mouth down-turned. His sister quickly covered with a few words, ironic too, but more subtle. ‘Congratulations, Great Aunt Gertrude, a relative at last.’ She crossed the room and engulfed John in a bear-like embrace. Elena was a good head and shoulders taller, and built like a tank. Even Simone was in awe of her. John bore the embrace stoically, not knowing where to put his arms or his face, not quite sure if the welcome was sincere, but smiling his goodwill. Everyone watched this ritual with interest. Next, Elena advanced on Jeanie who stood close to us, watching. I’m sure none of the new relatives had the least idea of the issues their arrival stirred up. ‘Beautiful puletasi,’ murmured Elena. ‘Well done.’ Then in a louder voice, ‘Welcome cousin.’ She clapped her hands, let out a blood-curdling whoop and danced a few steps around the nonplussed O’Dowds, her outstretched hands as delicate as butterflies. Teo tossed back his head and laughed – more of a grim shout – but he joined in, all slapping chest and weaving knees, whooping and singing. He could never hold a mood for more than a few minutes. I was pleased to see he still remembered a few Samoan ways, even if he was using them to undermine Gertrude’s European-style welcome. Simone started clapping in time to the rhythm. Another minute and she would have been dancing too. Giles, chuckling like a maniac, egged her on.

  Gertrude, frowning ominously, took John’s arm firmly and led him out of the room, Stuart following like an eager dog. But Jeanie stayed. It was all immensely entertaining.

  The feast brought a certain Schroder order back into the afternoon. Gertrude’s plantation workers had laid a double row of mats on the cool concrete pad under her house. The tall pillars supporting the house were wreathed in coconut fronds and frangipani blossoms. At right angles to the mats was a table, set with a lacy white tablecloth, crystal glasses and wreaths of flowers. This was for the guests of honour and other palagi. Even high-born Samoans and the priest were seated on the floor. Under fa‘asamoa they should have ranked above Simone and me. But this was Gertrude. All those of European status were seated on chai
rs; those who followed Samoan custom sat below us. Highly embarrassing, not that the old lizard cared.

  The feast itself could not be faulted by any standards. Each of us was presented with a huge portion of food – chunks of delicious pork and chicken from the umu, a large round of taro, and rather tough beef from the plantation. On our table, and all down the row of mats, were bowls of chop suey and palusami, whole fish, trifle, cake and pineapple. We ate on large plates marked with the Schroder coat of arms; those on the floor ate with their fingers from banana leaf plates. But apart from the snub to the high-born (Elena and Teo and their mother, who had arrived late) and to the priest, Gertrude’s feast was generous and pleasant. A record player entertained with Beethoven and Chopin, the air under the house was cool, the housegirl kept the chickens and pigs at bay, and there were plenty of attendants to fan away the flies.

  ‘So what’s the truth about these relatives?’ I asked Giles, who was seated next to me. ‘Are they truly hers?’ I wanted to tease out what version he knew.

  ‘Oh yes, truly her sister’s. But definitely not her first choice. She’s been badgering the High Commission for years to help her find relatives. There was a brother who refused point-blank to have anything to do with her. Would not even acknowledge her letters. Then she approached three younger half-siblings, one a male McPhee who replied to her letter. That fellow, I forget his name, wrote to us at the High Commission saying that Gertrude had cheated him and his sisters out of their father’s inheritance fifty years ago and would I please inform her that if he heard from her again he would start criminal proceedings.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. That was a couple of years ago. Finally she unearthed this O’Dowd. I would say out of desperation, given her views on the Chinese. She must have known about him all along – she traced him, not us.’

  ‘He seems a nice enough sort.’

  ‘Yes, but not legitimate, as she implied today. I’ve seen the birth certificate. Her sister was unmarried and “of unsound mind”. The father dead before John was born. It was a Sister of Compassion who signed the certificate and the papers of adoption.’