She blew a loose hair from her eyes. `For Pete’s sake!
Captain’s not here, so what are we waiting for?’
He stood his ground. `Must ask.’
She laughed to clear the annoyance from her mind. After all, he was doing his duty, she supposed. `Okay, Watute! You get in the boat, I’ll make all the arrangements.’
He flashed her a huge grin and scampered over the rail, his toes already reaching for the dinghy’s gunwale. Now that the weight of his responsibility had been removed he was thinking only of proving his prowess to the gold-haired woman, who belonged neither to the Captain nor the rich Englishman with the sharp tongue.
Gillian climbed quickly into the semi-darkness of the cabin-flat, and noticed that Myers was sitting in a canvas chair, naked but for a grubby towel, his fat face set in grim concentration as he poli,hed his diver’s facepiece.
Gillian’s glance took in the garish confusion of Tarrou’s cabin, and settled on the coloured print of General de Gaulle over the bunks. Her heart softened, as it usually did when she was considering Tarrou. Perhaps Fraser was right. Tarrou hal his dreams, and it seemed a pity to unsettle him.
`I’m just going out for a sail with the kid,’ she said. `I’ll be back before nightfall, or so he says!’
Myers looked up with a jerk, and blushed crimson. He grabbed with frantic haste for his shirt, only half aware of what she was saying.
`Take it easy, buster! I’m just going!’ Her warm laugh floated along the passage, and Myers heard her light step overhead before be could recover from his embarrassment.
‘Gawd, what a woman!’ He stared at the empty doorway for some moments, a vacant smile slowly growing on his round face.
The dinghy had a bright red mainsail, and as Watute tugged impatiently at the sheets it flapped against the stubby mast, making a cheerful splash of colour, which clashed with the misty blue of the horizon.
Gillian settled herself comfortably in the boat, and pulled a floppy white sun-hat down over her neck. `Right, Sindbad! Let her roll!’
He grinned and bobbed his frizzy head. He did not under
stand what she said half of the time, but from her tone he knew that she, too, was glad to be away from the dullness of the schooner.
He untied the painter, and shoved off from the white hull with his foot. He ducked beneath the swinging boom, and with his foot now on the tiller and his hands busy with the rebellious sail he sent the small boat skimming away from the rolling schooner and towards the headland.
Gillian laughed as the blunt bows bit into the first of the tiny wavelets, and she felt the kiss of spray across her mouth. Already the Queensland Pearl looked smaller, like that day she had sat with Grainger in the launch. This was more like it, she decided, and even if her visit to the mission on the headland proved to be a waste of time, and Ivor Spencer retained a stony silence, or called down the wrath of heaven upon her, the sea trip was doing her good. The boisterous and lively motion of the dinghy jerked away the weariness and fretting apathy she had felt, and when Tarrou’s dark face appeared over the schooner’s fo’c’sle she merely waved with gay abandon, and did not even try to hear what he was shouting. Already he seemed to be just like a strange onlooker, with neither features nor meaning.
She frowned at the thought. Suppose she was making a fool of herself where Blair was concerned? She turned her back on the ship, and adjusted her glasses. It was all in her mind, anyway, she thought, but there was still time for something to happen. She closed her mind and tried not to think about Blair as a person. It was so very difficult to get a clear picture of any sort of future, let alone one with such momentous implications that would entail Blair carelessly giving up his wife and suddenly seeing Gillian Bligh as the only way to happiness. The ridiculous suggestion did not have the result she had intended. Instead, she was conscious that the ache was still there, and somehow she knew just how desperately important it was to change her own way of life, before it was too late.
`They follow!’ Watute pointed excitedly towards the sharks, which had left the schooner and followed respectfully behind the dinghy.
`Yeah. Well, they can wait a bit longer for their dinner!’ She saw the simple pleasure on his small face. `I hope you’re a good sailor, Sindbad!’
He puffed out his skinny chest, and tapped the short knife which poked dangerously from his belt. `You safe with me, missy!’
In an hour the schooner’s outlines were hazy and uncertain, and in two she was only a tiny white blob against the green of the opposite end of the bay.
The island looked untouched and devoid of any life and, she imagined, just as the first intrepid seamen had found it. The white beaches, both wide and narrow, looked shaded and cool beneath the nodding palms, and the lush green of the silent jungle shone invitingly. Two more lies of nature, she thought.
She tried to recognize the beach where they had first met Spencer, but against the dark-hued cliff every rock and tree looked different.
Watute showed no such uncertainty, however. With unerring ease he piloted the boat past one tall, isolated rock, which jutted from the clear water like an old tooth, its jagged edges alive with weed and tiny fish, and swung the tiller hard over, so that it skimmed into even clearer water, where the pale green sand moved up through the spray to meet them, and where the hiss and grumble of the surf echoed back from the cliffs, and made the land seem watchful and alive.
As before, a small knot of figures ran excitedly into the surf to catch the boat and guide it up the shallow beach. The keel grated, freed itself, and then came to rest as the water receded. There was a sudden silence, and Gillian stepped on to the glistening sand. Watute busied himself with the sail, his eyes watchful.
`You wait here, Watute. I’ll go and see if the old guy’s at home for visitors.’
A tiny woman, her skin criss-crossed with dark markings, grinned up at her and plucked uncertainly at Gillian’s slacks. A murmur came from the others as a grim-faced man, his
teeth bared with concentration, reached out to touch the camera case.
She looked round for a path from the beach, and saw Spencer. He was standing stockstill, his eyes fixed on the little group by the water’s edge. He lifted his arm, but before he could call out Gillian walked briskly up the beach towards him.
`So you came back. I thought I made myself plain!’ He was trembling with suppressed emotion, and the crowd fell silent around them.
He was even taller than she had remembered, and considerably older. His clothes were patched and badly washed, and the ancient topee had been carefully mended in a dozen places. Nevertheless, or perhaps because of his poverty, he looked commanding, even noble. His eyes peered down the beak of a nose, and seemed to strip her as naked as the silent villagers.
`You dared to come alone? That was rather foolish.’
Gillian hardened her heart. It would be better otherwise, she considered, but under the circumstances a little toughness on her part was obviously necessary. It was not difficult. She had dealt with too many odd characters in her career to be abashed by his hostility.
`Thanks for the welcome. I’m Gillian Bligh, and I represent the American Forecast, as you may know already. I’d like to have a little yarn with you. Okay?’ She lifted her eyebrows and waited. Sort that out, my friend, she thought.
His hooded eyes flickered, but otherwise his face revealed nothing.
`I can have you put back into that boat and sent to join your friends in the schooner.’ He moved his thin hands expressively. `Or I could tell these simple people that you are unwanted here! They would be less generous than I!’ The eyes gleamed balefully.
Gillian removed her sun-hat and loosened her hair slowly with her free hand. The movement seemed to unnerve Spencer, and she answered calmly:
`Yeah, I guess you could do all those things at that. But I should point out that I have a permit from the British Resident Commissioner to visit this place, and I also enjoy the protection of the United States Gover
nment. Neither of those parties would welcome any such action on your part.’ She pretended to study the back of her hand, but inwardly she was trembling with excitement. `In fact, Mr. Spencer, I guess it might be you who gets thrown off the island, eh?’
His mouth was working in quick, nervous movements, as if unwilling to comply with its owner’s will. When he spoke, his voice trembled. `What is it you want? Why can’t you leave me in peace?’
She smiled coolly. The ice was thawing. Not much, but all the signs were there.
`That’s more like it, my friend! Now let’s be sensible about this. All I want is to have a little talk with you; look around maybe. I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you of my visit, but I didn’t have much choice, did I?F
‘I knew you were coming.’ It was a mere whisper.
`I’ll leave my escort with the boat. Will that be okay?’
He turned to lead the way up the path, and shrugged angrily. `These people are not savages! The boat will be quite safe!’
She waved to Watute and followed his stooped shoulders up the narrow sandy track. She saw a handful of crude canoes drawn up under the palms, and a few nets drying in the branches above. Farther up the path she could see the small roofs of a cluster of huts, and the smoke from cooking-fires. The whole of the settlement seemed to have slipped over the lip of the cliff, to hang scattered amongst the vegetation which lined its crest.
She talked easily, her eyes on his back.
`We shall be leaving the island soon now, and I just wanted to tie up a few loose ends. There are so many things I want to know about this place.’ The head did not turn, and she hurried on: `About the work you are doing, for instance. People don’t realize that such places exist.’
His voice was muffled, almost preoccupied. `That is our good fortune. All we want is to be left alone. Sympathy or hypocrisy, we can do without!’
They reached the top -of the rise, and Gillian could feel the ground like hot iron through the thin soles of her sandals.
Spencer halted and stood hesitatingly by a bend in the path.
`What has that man Blair found? Is he satisfied?’ He asked the questions in the same haughty, offhand manner, but she was well trained enough to sense the tension behind his deep eyes.
She held out her cigarettes, but he shook his head with impatience. She studied his face carefully from behind her glasses as she lit one for herself.
`He found the wreck.’
`That was what he came for, surely?’
A short, vicious-eyed pig bounded out of the bush and glared at them with surprise, then with a grunt ran back into cover. She could hear it crashing through the undergrowth towards the village.
She smiled warmly. `Look,’ she began again, `let’s go and have this chat. You can get rid of me then. But honestly, there’s nothing to get steamed up about!’
He glared at her with suspicion. `This way.’
He loped off along the path, and soon they confronted a small whitewashed bungalow, its corrugated iron roof glinting in the broiling light. It had one wide window, and a brass bell hung from a beautifully carved bracket by the open door.
He waited by the door. Round the sides of the building she could see the dark watching faces and, here and there, a tiny naked child would run excitedly into the open to stare at the visitor, and then rush back to the safety of its parents.
`I built this house some time ago.’ He touched the flaking woodwork as if for the first time. `It is all I need.’ He swept off his old topee and waved towards the shadowed interior. `Have a good look. I am sure your readers will be excited to hear how I live.’
She ignored the biting sarcasm and stepped thankfully into the shade. The room was small, about twelve feet by ten, the planked floor covered by intricately woven rush mats, which only added to the air of isolation. There were several benches of finely carved wood, which she supposed to be sandalwood, and on one bare wall hung a brass crucifix.
She could feel his eyes following her as she walked slowly around the room. She stopped by a small portable organ in the far corner.
‘D’you play this?’
`The people enjoy it.’
He sounded nervous, she decided.
`How long have- you been in the islands?’
He seemed to wrench his mind back to deal with her
question. It was almost as if he was expecting a trap. `Forty years, or thereabouts.’
She stared at the tattered, well-used books, with their smell of mildew, all neatly arranged along one wall. She frowned. It was all too tidy. Something was wrong, but she still could not place it.
Another door opened into a short passage, and she could see a tiny kitchen and two more crudely partitioned rooms.
He followed her gaze. `Well, sit down, Miss Bligh. I will get you some coffee.’
He clapped his hands and called something to the kitchen. She saw a short native woman in a shapeless white overall hurry along the passage, and heard the clatter of cups. Perhaps he was living with a native. Then she looked at those deep, unwinking eyes and dismissed the idea. It could not be that, she decided.
`Tell me why you get on so well with these people,’ she asked gently. `I was told that they were rather … well, difficult.’
For a moment his guard dropped. `I can imagine! They can never understand!’
He began to pace the floor, and she imagined that he often did just that.
`These men you are with. They know nothing! That lout Fraser is like all the rest of them. He has spent all his life. here, yet he knows as little of the islands and their people as … as you do, and probably less!’ He paused, as if gathering ammunition. `He, too, has been out here all his life, yet has never thought of understanding the people he robs so efficiently!’
His eyes followed the small native woman as she carefully set the tray down on the chest by the window. She glanced at Gillian and grinned, showing the gap in her teeth.
Spencer’s hard face softened, and he spoke to her with warmth. The woman nodded and returned to the kitchen.
The coffee was good, and Gillian remarked on this fact.
`My only weakness,’ he commented shortly.
`Have you made much progress here?’ She watched him across the rim of the cup.
`Progress? It depends what you mean by that. If you mean can they make souvenirs for tourists, or exchange copra for traders’ trash, then the answer’s no!’ His eyes blazed, and he had to calm himself with visible effort. `These people are simple, untouched. Can you understand that? Over the years I have taught them to trust me.’ He was staring moodily through the window. `To them I am a friend. It has taken a long time.’
`But surely eventually they will have to fall in with the other, more civilized, islands?’
`Never!’ The word was wrung from his lips.
`The authorities assured me-‘ she began, but he waved her to silence.
`What do they know! My people owe them nothing. They have nothing to show for the white man’s influence but poverty, disease and misery!’
She could sense the violent passion which had burned away his body over the years. He looked like a man possessed of a terrible driving force which would eventually kill him.
`Before the turn of this century, Miss Bligh, there were over a million people in the islands. Now there are less than forty-eight thousand!’ His yellow teeth showed in a bitter smile. `The advantages of your civilization saw to that. Hookworm, yaws, tinea, venereal disease,’ he spat out the list with cruel relish. `These people were not prepared for such an invasion. Not content with that, the clever traders robbed, and still rob them of their hard-won fruits, and give them rubbish in exchange.’ He shook a bony finger in front of her face. `Copra is sold at fifty pounds a ton in Port Vila. Go and see what the natives get for it in the first place!’ He fell limply on to a bench, his sunken chest heaving.
`You seem to be well informed for one so isolated?’
`I hear many things. But I protect them here from i
t all.’
They sat in silence, his eyes morose on her face.
`Do the authorities know you feel like this?’
He shrugged. `Why should they care? To them I am in the same category as Hogan.’ That seemed to amuse him. `Imagine that! Any foothold in this island is better than none. But they’ll get a surprise one day.’
`How so?’ She hardly dared to breathe in case the spell should be broken.
`They will find that I have beaten them. A pure community, living in peace and harmony, and needing no one. I can protect them from the outside influences which I know are bad. It is an advantage that their more accessible compatriots have not been able to afford.’ He made an expressive motion with his long fingers, like a potter shaping something of great beauty. `In this mad world your world-they will pave the way as an example to all Christian mankind!’ The shutters suddenly fell in front of his eyes, and he fumbled nervously with his loose sleeve.
`I think you should leave now, Miss Bligh. I have nothing which would interest you.’
`You interest me a lot,’ she said calmly. `I can appreciate your devotion to these people, and what it all means to you. Believe me, there are others like you in many parts of the world, although perhaps not in quite such unique circumstances. What I don’t understand is how you got them to trust you in the first place?’
His face was watchful, and she added: `It’s almost like you had some hold over thern.’
`I think you had better go. You understand nothing.’
She smiled, but her eyes were cold. `Why did you tell Major Blair you knew nothing of the wreck?’ The words dropped like pebbles in a quiet stream. It was almost as if she had struck him. `Could it be that you saw the Mota tribesmen kill the survivors as they landed? That you kept quiet on condition that they allowed you to work in peace? It’s quite an angle.’
He staggered to his feet, his face grey with fury. `Go away! Don’t bring your filthy lies here! Get out before I have you beaten like the deceiver you are!’
She stood up. `Lay off! I don’t scare that easily, as I told you. Just think over what I said, that’s all.’
Spencer looked as if he was going to have a fit. `Lies! Corrupting, filthy lies! Can I never be left in peace!’
The Hostile Shore Page 12