‘So, Pirate,’ Jim says, ‘what’s the day gonna bring, me hearty?’
Pirate gets the coffee from the tea chest and fills the kettle with water. ‘I feel like crap,’ he says. ‘Like some truck has parked in my head and one of those mangy island dogs has slept in my mouth.’
‘The old SP, the wonderful South Pacific,’ chuckles Jim. ‘No beer like it in the world.’
‘Just as well. Sure way of reducing the world’s population. The stuff is rocket fuel.’
‘Ah,’ says Jim, patting his belly, ‘and I love it!’
‘I’m thinking of going into town,’ Pirate says. ‘Once I’ve had a swim to clear this truck off my head.’
‘Good place to stock up on some food, this town,’ Jim says. ‘I’m gonna visit some friends.’
Pirate likes the idea of a day stretching ahead, one just for him. On his walk to The Bilas last night he’d seen a few places he wants to explore, and he can do with buying a new shirt and some razors. After breakfast and a swim that promises more than delivers, Pirate sits sorry-headed in the dinghy, his stomach queasy, as Jim, obviously immune to the fallout from the local beer, rows them in record time to shore. Jim walks south towards the hospital and Pirate follows the coastal road into town, leaping over muddy potholes still full from an early shower. Kids are swimming off a pier, concrete and stone rubble mostly submerged by sea.
‘Hey masta,’ a boy yells. ‘Yu masta Pirate?’
Pirate cringes at the masta, but raises his hand anyway, waves and keeps walking.
It’s hot already. His T-shirt sticks to him and he wishes he’d brought his hat. He picks a path to the left where there’s more shade from the towering palms and sprawling raintrees along the shore. As he approaches the bend that will take him past The Bilas and onto the market square, he spots an old woman sitting under a tree off to the left. Cross-legged, she swats at flies with a frond, hitting herself on each shoulder. She has an old grubby palm-leaf mat in front of her, dried and curling at the edges, and young green betelnut like he’d tried in Bougainville, white lime powder in small plastic bags knotted at the neck. Mustard, shaped like long green beans, is arranged neatly in rows. The woman stares past him, out to sea.
Off to the right, two dogs lie under the cool of a mango tree. A younger woman sits nearby, a baby tugging at her left tit, which hangs loose and mournful. Unblinking, she watches him and he looks away quickly. For one moment the whole place seems too quiet. He’s too large or something, and he fights the urge to turn around and head back to the boat. Keeping his head down, he leaves these silent, listless women and heads towards town.
Two guards armed with iron rods a metre long stand outside the Bank of the South Pacific. They watch Pirate closely, and after he’s passed, call out gut moning. He waves a hand over his shoulder but doesn’t turn around. And when he reaches the big green supermarket on the corner, it’s like he’s in a different place entirely. They’re everywhere: three-legged dogs dragging a useless limb behind them, dogs riddled with mange, dogs with gnawed nipples stretching towards the ground. People sit along the shop front under the shade of the awnings. Most chew betelnut, and spit red on the gravel road and cement pavement where he walks. They call out hello and he hears some utter Mister Jim and Pirate. A few barefoot boys and one small girl race past him, calling to each other, heading for the beach. Beat-up old cars and ute-loads of men in ripped shirts and women in colourful loose dresses, children on their laps, drive past tooting horns. And once they spot him, everyone’s eyes seem to rest on him. Pirate can’t help but smile.
Without warning, shouts splinter the air. The biggest pig he’s ever seen is galloping down the street towards him, chased by five men waving long bamboo sticks. Pirate, rooted to the spot, can’t breathe. A woman wrenches her daughter by the arm, out of the pig’s path, yelling at the men as they trundle by. The black and pink pig races past and then, unbelievably deft, turns quickly, jumps an open drain and charges off down a laneway. The men fly by, arms flailing, and people are pointing and laughing, and though he’s addled with last night’s beer and his skin seems to drip from him, Pirate loves the place already.
*
Wearing a new shirt with mi bikpela man splashed graffiti-style across the front, Pirate meets Jim for lunch at The Bilas.
‘You big important man tru!’ Jim laughs, pointing at Pirate’s shirt.
Pirate looks around the room, sees the walls lined with old pre-war photographs: a thriving Chinatown, the newly-built Bilas Hotel with its wide verandah and wrought iron lattice cornices, the majestic white colonial houses high on the ridge, their manicured gardens rolling down towards the sea. Another photo shows a man holding a rifle triumphantly, his foot stamped on a giant crocodile. Jim gives him a lengthy commentary but Pirate, chewing the last of his chips, turns his gaze to the tired masks made from coconut husks and faded local wood hanging above each window. Their eyes are haunting: white yellow cowra shells between gaps in the wood.
And then, as Pirate pushes his plate away, he sees her. She’s walking to the door of the restaurant, long dark curls beneath a large red sun hat, one tanned arm reaching for the handle, papers and a book crooked in the other. He hasn’t seen a white woman for months.
‘That’s Misis Beth,’ the waitress says, clearing the plates. ‘She works at the school.’
1975
The day of the wedding, Rose arrives at the wooden church in Hope Valley in a shining station wagon driven by Tommo. Her parents didn’t make the trip ... Too far away, they’d said, too much money, and she’s relieved it’s Tommo rushing to open her door, awkward and sweating in his smart grey suit. She steps out onto tiny purple petals from the jacaranda tree. She looks around the gravel car park. So many cars. Hope Valley, she says to herself: if there’s something going on, all these hopefuls are there in a heartbeat. And the flutter of excitement stirs her belly. And then, Harry Smithson, his shoulders ramrod straight, weeps with pride as he walks her down the aisle. Though only twenty people have been invited, the church is overflowing: the ladies from the bowls club all dressed in white before their afternoon tournament in Guildford, the girls from MacMillan’s, whole families from the sheds they’ve worked at together. Even the girls from the bank in Claytonville have driven over for a look. Rose takes small steps in her slimline gown towards Clem, his big blue eyes all worry, and she keeps looking at him, only him. Truth be told, she’d marry him in a hessian bag in some council office in the city. She couldn’t care less who’s watching. She wants the whole world to know that she, Rose Chadwick, loves this big soft clown of a hardworking man, this good man Clem in front of her.
When she finally gets to the altar and Clem takes her hand, Father Doonan’s words swirl around her head. She tries to focus as Eva reads from the Corinthians, especially the words Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends. And when they sit down on the hard wooden bench she feels Clem’s hand on her knee, and then in the small of her back when they stand. She’s grateful for the anchor; she could float off, she’s so light and happy.
‘You may kiss the bride,’ Father Doonan finally says, and there’s a collective holding of breath. Rose turns to Clem who, bashful in front of the crowd, gives her a quick kiss on the mouth.
‘Aw c’mon Clem,’ Father Doonan says. ‘Even I could do better than that!’
And Rose on tiptoes, reaches up, puts her hands around Clem’s neck and kisses him soft and slow, and the crowd claps and cheers; when she opens her eyes, Clem’s blushing red and beaming, and when they turn to face the crowd, Eva gives her a knowing wink.
They eat sausage rolls, sandwiches and mini quiches on the lawn in front of the homestead. Eva’s roses are in full bloom and the lawn, clipped close by Tom the week before, is dotted with Rose’s patchwork blankets, hay bales and wooden benches. May and Lorna from the church run food from the kitchen, placing it on trestle tables. They top up teacups and fill glasses with moselle or beer or ho
memade lemonade. Rose made the cake the day before: a simple two-tiered heart-shaped cake. She and Eva had nearly come to blows over it: Eva had wanted to make a fruit cake with marzipan and royal icing but Rose had insisted on chocolate cake with choc-orange frosting, a new recipe she’d found in the Weekly. She’d stood by the fridge, hands on hips, while Eva had opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, saying, Right then. Chocolate cake it is.
Now, Rose sees people taking a second piece, and smiles. Eva ambles up, high-heeled sandals catching in the lawn so she nearly topples over.
‘Rose, good choice, love,’ she says. ‘The cake is velvet. I’ll need the recipe.’ And she sits down on the quilt alongside her and takes off her shoes, tossing them in the flowerbed behind her. ‘Blasted things. Who’d want to wear them every day?’
Rose rubs her own bare feet.
‘Welcome to the family, love,’ Eva says. She takes Rose’s hand and turns the gold wedding band around her finger. ‘Clem’s a lucky man.’
‘Thanks, Eva.’
‘They’re good men, our husbands. They look after you. They might be all laughs and fun and utter plonkers ninety percent of the time, but underneath they’re smart and fierce.’
Rose looks at her.
‘Make no mistake, love,’ Eva says. ‘Clem’d lay down his life for you if he had to.’
Beth is crouched at the first tank, filling water bottles, when the back door of Ruth’s house opens and Delilah, carrying a jug, steps out and shouts a greeting. Beth moves out of the way as Delilah forces the water on hard, shoving the jug under the blast. The spray shoots up and they scurry back, laughing.
‘Mi sori,’ says Delilah. ‘I’m sorry, Misis Beth.’
‘How old are you, Delilah?’ Beth asks her.
‘I am fifteen.’
Up close, Beth can see the smoothness of the girl’s skin. She’s younger than she thought. Delilah always pinches and twists her thick hair into a tight band but this only makes her face appear riper, glossier.
‘You don’t go to school?’
‘No,’ says Delilah, turning off the tap. ‘Aunty, that old woman, that lapun meri, she says I stay home always and look after the house.’
‘Your English is very good. Much better than my Pidgin!’
‘I went to primary school. Then my mummy and daddy sent me here. They are poor and this Aunty, she’s old. No man, no babies, they give her me.’
Beth sees something poke out of Delilah’s bra: a cigarette like the ones at the market, thin strips of tobacco leaves the colour of sea sponge rolled in a piece of The National.
‘You’re too young and pretty to smoke, Delilah,’ Beth says slowly. And then, more sternly, ‘Can’t be good for you. Make you sick. Does Ruth know?’
‘Ha!’ spits Delilah. ‘No. That old one, she knows nothing except kaukau and fish, rice and yam. As soon as she wakes up: Get door. Make me tea. Get water. Mop floor. Iron my trousers. Stupid girl. Pull my hair. Swear at me. She lapun meri.’ Delilah stops suddenly, shocked by her own words, and looks at Beth, her big eyes worried.
‘Don’t worry, Delilah,’ Beth says gently. ‘I’m not going to tell her. Those cigarettes, those spears though, they are bad. There’s no filter. Hurt your lungs and chest.’
Delilah shrugs.
‘What do you do when Ruth is at school?’ says Beth.
A slow smile spreads across Delilah’s face. ‘Mi go long maket na town,’ she says. ‘I shop for foods.’
‘And that’s when you buy cigarettes?’
‘Uhuh,’ says Delilah, proudly. ‘And see my friends. They have jobs, at the pharmacy or selling betelnut. We tell stories and laugh. Mostly though ...’ —and she’s sad again—‘I stay here. Aunty comes home at lunch to check. One day I will be a nurse.’
Delilah bends down to pick up the jug and Beth sees the girl’s thumb, inflamed, pus oozing from the tip.
‘Delilah,’ she gasps. ‘Your thumb.’
The girl quickly tucks it in her palm.
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Im orait.’
‘Let me see,’ says Beth, moving closer.
‘Misis. Mi go nau.’ And Delilah turns sharply, grabs the jug, clomps towards the house.
*
That night in the haus win, where both women sit cross-legged by the fire, Beth asks Lena to tell her Delilah’s story.
‘Well,’ she says carefully—Lena never gossips—‘she came here a couple of years ago. To help Ruth. Ruth used to be skinny and Delilah is here doing all the work, all the cooking and Ruth is fatti fat meri now.’ Lena smiles, then: ‘I am sorry for her, susa. No life for her.’
‘And she can’t go to school? She wants to be a nurse.’
‘Bah! Not ever. Ruth wouldn’t like it.’
Beth leans back against the bamboo bench. Grace is asleep in her lap and she strokes her thin back: long white stripes over black.
‘Have you seen her thumb?’ Beth asks.
‘Bikpela pinga?’ says Lena.
‘What happened?’
‘Nogut. Some infection, I think.’
‘She wouldn’t let me see it,’ says Beth.
‘These people,’ says Lena, stoking the fire with a stick, ‘they scared of white magic.’
‘But it needs antiseptic or something.’
‘Susa,’ Lena softens, ‘there’s old ways here. Old medicines. You see she’ll have some medicine for that pinga. I saw him wrapped in noni leaves the other day.’
‘Noni leaves?’
‘Yes. Grows in the jungle and people’s gardens. Also good for malaria. Drink it like tea.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Mi no save.’ Lena shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she take something that wasn’t hers.’
Beth’s unsure of what to say. And she’s tired, too, very tired, yawning now, ready for bed. ‘Mi go long slip nau.’
And Lena, reaching for Grace and taking her from Beth, says, ‘Lukim yu long morning.’
As Beth walks to her house, feet sinking into wet grass, Lena whispers: ‘Don’t you worry, Beth. That pinga be all right.’
That morning Jim had told him about the PMVs. Public Motor Vehicles, like a local bus, old beat-up vans with locals-chooks-goats-dogs-you-name-it hanging out the sides—you can’t miss ’em, mate. He’d said they were safe enough, and Pirate prefers to travel like this. The local way. In the aisle, three dazed chooks tied at the feet with vine twist their necks one way, then the other, and although the windows are open, the air is thick with jungle heat. He caught a taxi once, a beat-up old Opel sedan, in Ghana to the Ivory Coast border, with eleven people crammed inside. He had to straddle the gear box, a baby girl on his lap, squawking and sniffling, the driver’s stale breath making him gag, his hand brushing Pirate’s crotch when he changed gears. In God We Trust was written on gold paper stuck to the steering wheel.
The PMV regularly stops along the highway and people get off, get on. At one point they wait for half an hour so—as far as Pirate can tell—the driver can chat to a friend. A big man swiping at the air with a very long bush knife. It must be close to a metre. In the end everyone clambers off the bus and stands out on the road, waiting, drinking milk from young coconuts and chomping on peanuts. A woman sits on her haunches in the dirt, baby between her legs, chewing betelnut, spitting red. ‘Want some?’
‘Sure,’ says Pirate. He’d tried the stuff with Jim in Buka.
‘First peel back the bark, the skin, put some white part in your mouth. Not seed,’ she says. ‘Next put mustard stick into powder and bite. Chewing, all the time chewing. No swallowing, only chewing. Then spit. No swallow.’
A small crowd gathers, whispering Mister Pirate and buai. He bites into the nut, the bitter stringy fibres catching between his teeth, dips the thin green mustard into the powder the woman holds out for him and brings it to his mouth, biting off the end. He works away at the bitter mess, feels it bunching up his cheeks, like he’s some out-of-place chipmunk, then r
olls it onto his tongue, hurtles a bright red spurt near the back of the PMV. The crowd cheers.
‘Gutpela Mister Pirate! Gutpela!’ The woman hits him on the back. ‘Yu rait PNG man, tru.’
He smiles and bows dramatically, and the people laugh. And like the time in Buka, it’s an instant rush. Smiling silly. Lightheaded. Giddy. Laughing. But it’s gone as soon as it comes and he feels sick, relieved when the driver toots the horn and they jostle back on board, climbing over chooks and bags bulging with kaukau and yam.
*
An hour later, the PMV stops for him outside the Glaminta Guesthouse. He follows a milky green stream to a bush hut perched near the mouth of the creek, about twenty metres from shore. Water burbles and gushes over black shining rocks on its way to the sea. There’s a break further out where waves curl as they hit the reef. Smoky blue clouds gather on the horizon. Pirate feels his shoulders go loose. He’s finally away.
‘Apinun Mister Pirate,’ a woman calls, and he turns to see a small, bony woman walking toward him. Her smile is wide. And white. She must have the cleanest teeth in the country, he thinks.
‘Apinun,’ he says.
‘My name is Annette, welcome to Glaminta Guesthouse.’
He follows her to the guesthouse along an avenue of croton stems stuck in the ground, he suspects, for his benefit. The sand paths are raked clean. The hut, Annette says, made ten years ago by her husband, is built from timber and bamboo.
‘The roof we make from sago leaves sewn together with vine,’ she says. ‘Strong. Gutpela.’
A seed from a creeper must have been swept up by the wind years ago; ferns grow over the entrance, the roof sagging with the burden. Inside, Pirate throws his backpack on a bunk, then follows Annette outside to a wooden table on the sand overlooking the sea. After the sticky closeness of the PMV, it’s a relief to be near the water.
‘You eat here. Tonight, mackerel. Is very fresh.’ She smiles. ‘With greens and rice.’
He can still taste the bitterness, the sharpness, of betelnut.
*
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