Killman (33 page)

‘Well, it seems that Johnny Ha’a has, or claims that he has, a supply of pidgin songs about the war in the Solomons. Dr Maddy urgently needs these songs to complete her thesis, so Johnny is taking my place with the Alaskan state police for six months, where he can help Dr Maddy as well. They tell me he’s even got a regular singing slot on the university television station. Ha’a thinks that he’s died and gone to heaven.’ He looked at her suspiciously. ‘Are you sure you didn’t fix this for me?’

‘I can assure you, Sergeant Kella, that I haven’t spoken to any administrative officers in Honiara for many months. Anyway, you didn’t want to go on another course, did you?’

‘No, no, I’m delighted. I can get on with some real work now. It’s funny how things work out. I believe that Dr Maddy is very happy with developments on a personal level as well.’

‘In what way?’ Sister Conchita remembered how close Sergeant Ha’a and Dr Maddy had seemed in the crowd at Henderson Field. ‘Remember before you answer that you are addressing a sister in holy orders.’

‘Quite so, Sister Conchita. In that case, let’s just say that I’ve heard over the grapevine that in the cold Arctic climes Dr Maddy will shortly be helping Ha’a with his enquiries in more ways than one. It’s all right for some.’

Kella sketched a salute and wandered off to talk to a group of the headmen who had charged him with hunting down the killman at the
kibung
meeting on Sulufou what now seemed a long time ago. They greeted his arrival with approving gap-toothed smiles.

Sister Conchita picked up a stack of dirty plates and carried them through to the kitchen. She did her best not to think about the liaison between Dr Maddy and Sergeant Ha’a described by Ben Kella. The musicologist would always want someone to lean on, although she doubted if the happy-go-lucky police sergeant would prove to be much in the way of a long-term prop. Still, business bilong her.

On her way back along the corridor, she glanced through the open door of the mission lounge. The room had been restored to its former shabby comfort. On the table was a small pile of notepaper covered in writing. Intrigued, Sister Conchita walked into the lounge. She recognized the handwriting as belonging to Father Kuyper. The nun hesitated. She should not read private correspondence. Then she dismissed the idea. Father Kuyper had never done anything inadvertently in his concise and exact life. If he had left something on the lounge table, he had intended it to be read. She picked up the sheets of paper. The first one was headed:
Ruvabi Mission: Draft Outline of Report
. She sat at the table and started to read.

Ruvabi is definitely not a run-of-the-mill mission station
, began the spidery scrawl.
It is staffed by Father Pierre Meurth, the priest in charge, who has been working in the region since 1916. He is assisted by Sister Conchita, a young nun who is relatively new to the Solomons. It might be expected that, on the face of it, such a well-established institution might be run strictly on traditional lines
.
Such is far from the case
.

Both Father Pierre and Sister Conchita are fully aware of the problems inherent in a mission operating in what is still traditionally a pagan area. They accept that the faith even of the local converts is held in conjunction with many of the old-established custom beliefs of these islanders. While remaining steadfastly true to the Catholic doctrine in all its particulars, they take the existing situation into account in their dealings with the indigenous population. They treat the old ways with respect and expect their own beliefs to be regarded with the same consideration
.

Sister Conchita put down the sheet of paper and wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. After a moment or two of earnest contemplation she resumed her reading.

As a result, the mission has become a pillar of the Catholic religion in the area, but at the same time is regarded by all who come into contact with it, adherents and non-adherents alike, as a vigorous, useful and living entity ministering to the spiritual and practical lives of all in the district. Above all, Ruvabi Mission is relevant
.

Father Pierre is a wise and compassionate leader of his flock, with a wealth of practical experience. He is extremely vigorous in mind and body. It is devoutly to be hoped that he is allowed and encouraged to continue to perform his pastoral duties in the same exemplary manner as he has always done in the past, for as long as he wishes
.

Sister Conchita is inexperienced and inclined to be headstrong. She does not always pause for thought before taking action. It has to be wondered if she could more effectively curb the extent of some of her activities. Even with her undoubted energy and pronounced sense of justice she cannot expect to investigate every problem and right every wrong that swims within her line of vision. Nevertheless, she has a faith that shines like a beacon, a courage that recognizes no obstacles and a selfless sense of purpose that sometimes can, almost literally, seem to move mountains
.

Sister Conchita started sobbing a little again. When she had recovered, she blew her nose resolutely and resumed her reading.

To sum up: the team responsible for the running of Ruvabi Mission may on the face of it appear unusual, even eccentric. Neither member, it is suggested, could always work easily within the confines and discipline of a large urban church organization. However, in their present situation, at a momentous time of change for the faith and for the islands, they are probably both exactly what this unusual but highly effective mission needs. To sum up, I am minded of the saying, ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!’

(signed) Albert Kuyper

Kella put his head round the corner of the door. His scarred and battered face seemed unusually content. ‘I’m off,’ he told her. ‘I just came in to say goodbye. I should be passing the mission on my next patrol in about six weeks’ time. Will you be here?’

Carefully Sister Conchita folded the draft report and put it away in a drawer of the table. There was a tinge of colour on her tear-stained cheeks.

‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I rather think I might be!’