The Beloved (11 page)

The following day I went to Stefi's. We spent most of the time trying to build a radio. She'd found a crystal set in the garage and reckoned she could make it work.

I told her about seeing Josie and Matthew in the boi-haus.

‘You were right,' I said. ‘They were doing what the dogs were doing, sort of. Making babies, only Josie said this time they were just having fun.'

Stefi held up a thin piece of wire. ‘Look Bertie, a cat's whisker, like an aerial.'

‘Did you hear me? Josie said it was
fun
.'

‘I don't believe her.'

‘But that's what she—'

‘Shut up, Bertie! Just shut up.'

‘I won't shut up. I want to know!' I slammed down a pot of glue. People and their secrets. I was sick of them.

I left her to fiddle with the radio on her own and began to draw. Three mouths – Mama's, Josie's and Stefi's – all of them stitched shut. Above each I drew a thought-cloud. In Mama's I put an inlaid box and the flower ring, in Josie's I put Matthew's enormous penis and in Stefi's . . . in Stefi's, nothing. I didn't know what to put, so I left it blank. Stefi looked at the picture and mumbled something.

‘What?' I said.

‘Nothing.'

‘That's what I thought. That's why I left it blank.'

When Dad arrived to pick me up, there was a pile of stuff on the floor of the jeep: a man's leather jacket, leather helmet, gloves, goggles and a scarf.

‘A surprise in honour of your ninth birthday,' he said. ‘We're hitting the sack early tonight, CP. Tomorrow we start before dawn.'

O-five-thirty hours.

I stood outside the hangar at Jackson's Strip, bundled into a mountain of flying gear, watching an apricot line appear on the horizon. Dad came from the hangar with a stocky little man in overalls.

‘Brian,' said Dad, introducing us. ‘He's going to start her up.'

Dad climbed onto the wing of the aeroplane, a tiny Tiger Moth, and Brian lifted me up after him. I clambered into the front cockpit and Dad buckled me into a harness.

‘See this?' he said. ‘It's a speaking-tube so we can talk to each other. Compris?'

‘Compris.'

Dad settled in the rear cockpit. ‘Okay, Brian. Let's get this crate off the ground. Stand by.'

Brian grabbed a blade of the propeller and pulled it down. The Tiger Moth coughed and sent out a puff of smoke and Brian jumped back. He stuck up his thumb and clamped his hands over his ears as Dad guided the plane onto the runway. We sat for a moment, then began to move down the strip faster and faster until the ground suddenly dropped away and we were nosing into the sky. We climbed sharply, then evened out and circled back over the airport. At the far end of the runway an old B-17 bomber lay half out of the water in Bootless Bay, my favourite place name. Sun flashed off its skeleton, reminding me of turkey bones. It was noisy in the open cockpit but a low windshield protected me from the worst of the wind.

A few minutes later the square red roof of our house appeared and a dark figure stared up from the clothesline. Fiery poincianas, lolly-pink frangipanis and golden allamandas dotted the Six Mile landscape, painting the rain-soaked earth with more colour than seventy-two Lakeland pencils. Dad turned the plane towards Boroko and the coast. Cars trickled down Three Mile Hill, lakatois drifted in the arms of Walter Bay and Koki Market buzzed. Toy-sized people bent beneath sacks of rice and bananas, wove between mats piled high with food, gathered in knots, broke apart and gathered again. Children splashed at the water's edge, palm trees threw shadows onto the sand and beneath the turquoise water around Local Island, shadowy fish darted through coral shoals. Ahead, beneath bronze-tipped streaks of cloud, Moresby was waking up. A policeman directed traffic near Dad's office, ships lolled in the inky waters of the harbour and cranes swung backwards and forwards unloading cargo. Figures wandered along Hanuabada's rickety walkways to houses built on stilts in the sea. At the end of the harbour, Dad turned the Moth inland.

‘Okay, CP.' His voice came thin through the speaking-tube. ‘You want to fly this plane?'

Me?

‘See that stick? It's called the joystick. It's a rudder, or what you steer with. Put your hands around it – but gently – it's very sensitive.'

I reached out and closed my hands carefully around the stick.

‘When I tell you, let go straight away. Compris?'

‘Compris.'

‘Okay. Now, pull the stick towards you, just a little.'

It didn't take much pulling. The Moth nosed upwards.

‘Good girl! Now, ease it back again.'

I pushed it away and the Moth levelled out.

‘Whoo-ee, CP! You're a natural. Just hold it now, steady as she goes.'

I was flying. All by myself I was flying the plane. I looked up at the sky, and down at the earth, its mossy hills, broccoli treetops and velvet harbour, its people – working, playing, dreaming. Picture after picture after picture. Painting was the only thing better than flying.

We were home before nine o'clock, just in time for Mama's phone call from Melbourne. She was sorry she couldn't be with me for my birthday but was coming back soon and would bring something special. I told her we'd already done something special but I didn't tell her what else we had planned. After breakfast I gave Dad my walking stick.

No more props.

Hands-free, at
last
.

We went outside and he raised the stick into the air.

‘Bamahuta, stick,' he said. ‘Goodbye.' And he brought it down hard over his knee. ‘Ffffu . . . bloody hell!' He hobbled over to the retaining wall and slammed the stick into the concrete, but still it didn't break. ‘A tough stick, CP, like you. Why don't you hang on to it as a keepsake?'

‘I don't want that sort of keepsake.'

He went for his short-handled axe, chopped the stick into four pieces, dug a hole and buried them. That night he took me to dinner at the Boat Club and gave me a pearl bracelet.

‘This has been my best birthday ever,' I said, remembering last year's awful clothes and party. Dad clipped the bracelet around my wrist and the pearls glowed white against my skin. ‘It's so pretty, Dad, but aren't pearls bad luck?'

‘No, CP. Pearls are for wisdom, the greatest gift, apart from love.'

‘Even better than a good education?'

He leaned close. ‘Even better than a good education.'

Mama brought me back a camera. Not as good as seventy-two Lakeland colouring pencils but better than a frilly dress and a white boot. She'd found Tim a school in the country and he was happy because it kept a barnyard of animals and taught animal husbandry. Mama wasn't mad with Dad any more but she still slept on the verandah.

A few days after she got back I was sitting at the kitchen table, doing homework. Dad came home and slid a box in front of me. ‘Look what I got your mother.'

Inside was an emerald ring with two diamonds. ‘I never did get her an engagement ring. We couldn't afford it. Will it get me out of the doghouse, do you think?'

If it didn't, she was crazy. ‘It's beautiful, Dad. Much nicer than the other one.'

‘What other one?'

‘You know, the little ring she keeps in that box.'

‘Oh. That.'

‘Where did it come from?

‘So, she hasn't told you.' Dad sounded tired. ‘She should have. Your mother was . . . there was another chap before me. An army bloke, a doctor. He was killed in the war.'

Another . . . ? Mama with someone else before Dad? Before us? It didn't seem possible. ‘Who?'

‘Ask your mother. It's her story, not mine.'

The screen door slammed. He closed the box.

‘Ask me what?' Mama came in and dropped her camera on the table.

Dad and I said nothing. I was still struggling with the idea of Mama with another man.

‘Ask me
what
?'

‘About your . . . army doctor,' said Dad.

‘He's dead. There's nothing to tell.'

‘Dead, but not buried.' He gave Mama a tight look but she wasn't looking at him, she was staring out the window.

‘Who was he, Mama?' I said.

‘Nothing to do with you.'

‘It is to do with her,' said Dad. ‘Tell her. Tell her the whole lot. She's old enough. Your history is her history.'

‘You tell her.' Mama went to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Dad stared morosely through the fly-screen. Heat rose in ripples from the ground.

‘What was his name, Dad?'

He didn't answer, but put the box with the ring in his pocket. I went to him and slid my arms around his tummy. He kissed my head. Poor Dad. What was wrong with Mama? Wouldn't she rather have him and his beautiful ring than a mysterious dead man? Another secret. Another piece of my mother I couldn't touch. Or was it the same piece? Was it the doctor she dreamed about when she went off into her own world? What did he have that Dad didn't? What if he hadn't died . . . ?

But he did die and Mama had married Dad. She loved him.

Didn't she?

Mama put Dad's beautiful ring next to her wedding band and went back to his bed. But there was something fragile in our house that needed stepping around. I didn't want to think about it. I tried not to think about it. I just wanted things to be normal, like they used to be.

Chapter Ten

Mama stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. In her free hand she held a letter. Her eyes, behind the new diamante glasses, gobbled up the words.

‘Ted Sinclair's getting married again, Ed. We're invited to the wedding at Ihu in May.'

‘Woop-woop,' said Dad. He bought copra from Mr Sinclair's plantation at Ihu, a tiny mission outpost on the southern coast.

I began setting out plates for dinner.

‘I can do an article,' Mama said, ‘and get photos. Will you come?'

‘No.' Dad twiddled the dials on the radio. ‘I'm flat out. Konrad's still needling me for a piece of the business and I have to stay ahead of him. Anyway, what about Bertie?'

‘She'll come with me. The wedding's in the holidays so there's no conflict with school.'

Dad looked at her sharply. ‘How are you planning to get there?'

‘The usual,' said Mama. ‘Seaplane, boat, motorbike. You know.'

‘I do know, and “boat” is not the word to describe those bloody canoes. I don't want CP to go. She's too young for such a dangerous trip.'

‘She's ten, for Pete's sake. Besides, with the Breuers being away in Sydney over Christmas, she had a very quiet holiday.' She turned to me and smiled. ‘So far, you haven't done
too
badly in grade four. You deserve a little excitement. I assume you want to go?'

‘Yes, I do! I'll be all right, Dad. Honest. I can look after myself.'

Dad glared at Mama. ‘
You'd
better look after her.'

Mama glared back. ‘As if I wouldn't?'

Friday. Puttering down the Vailala River in a canoe under a blanket of heat, just Mama, me and Yonna, our native boatman. Mama sat under an old cloth hat examining the jungle through her camera. I trailed my fingers in the soupy water.

Mama leaned over and slapped my arm. ‘Get your hand out, Roberta. There are crocodiles in there and God knows what other slimy critters.'

The river was dense and dirty brown. Gnats danced over its surface and mosquitoes trilled in our ears. Smells of rotting plant life and mud-ooze wafted across the water. The swell from our boat rippled into the shallows and left a tangle of lizards, snakes and eels on the mud bank. I watched them shine and slide and slither back into the water. Yonna's head drooped. The canoe drifted towards the shore and nuzzled the mud. The motor conked out.

‘Hey you,' Mama flicked Yonna with her towel. ‘Wake up! The boat's stuck.'

‘Huh?' He jerked awake.

‘Watch where you're going.'

Yonna took a paddle and shoved it into the mud, trying to free the canoe, but the paddle got sucked in so he let it go. He snatched up the spare and pushed it against a log lying in the mud. The log sprang to life, snapping jaws and lashing tail.

‘Puk-puk!' Yonna howled.

I craned to see but Mama grabbed me and pulled me into the bottom of the canoe. ‘Get down, Bertie.'

I struggled against her. ‘No, I want to see it.'

‘For God's sake, get down!' Mama pulled me against her. I felt the pulse beating in her neck and the burning smell of her fear. There was a heavy thump on the side of the boat and the sky above me whirled.

‘Let me
go
!' I grabbed the side of the canoe and peered over, and there it was, a floating island of leathery skin, shining eyes and a vast cold smile. For a moment we stared at each other. Then the motor spluttered to life and we chugged away, leaving the puk-puk behind.

‘Don't you
ever
do that again, you foolish child. You could have been killed.'

But I wasn't killed, and Mama could have had photos of that puk-puk if she hadn't been so scared.
She
was supposed to be the adult. The jungle-belted river passed us in flickering afternoon light and Mama disappeared behind her sunglasses.

Half an hour later a jetty appeared, and a man stood there, waiting. He looked like a hunk of charcoal. Yonna tied up the canoe and the black giant leaned down and pulled my mother up by her arm.

‘Hello,' she said, ‘I'm Lily—'

‘You go long Jimmy.' He dipped his head towards a satin-skinned man sitting on a motorbike. ‘Piccaninny come long me.'

‘Our bags . . .' said Mama.

‘Bihain liklik em i kam,' said the giant. ‘Coming later.' He lifted me from the canoe and whacked his chest with a massive fist. ‘Nem bilong mi, Solomon. Kolim nem bilong yu?'

‘Bertie.'

Jimmy took off so fast Mama nearly fell off the back of his motorbike. Solomon swung me onto the seat of his bike and climbed on in front. ‘Holimpas, Bertie.' He wrapped my arms around his middle and clamped my hands together across his stomach. ‘Hold on real tight, olla time.' He kicked the bike into life and we moved off. The jungle scooped us up, its dank air clearing my head and cooling my face. I leaned into Solomon, feeling his body vibrate with the engine's throb as we wound beneath a darkening canopy of trees. The ground was rutted and slippery, forcing us to slow down to avoid roots, logs and a few snakes. But as the trail became firmer we went faster and faster, the wind streamed through my hair and the scenery blurred green. It felt like there was nothing in the world except Solomon and me and I wanted the journey to last forever.

By dusk, Jimmy and Mama were so far ahead of us we couldn't hear the sound of their motor. Solomon had slowed down to get us through a patch made slimy by Jimmy spinning his wheels. As he edged through the mud, a sound burst from the undergrowth. A beast with burning eyes and huge yellow tusks barrelled from the gloom.

‘Pik bilong bus!' Solomon shouted and gunned the engine. ‘Holimpas, Bertie.' We surged forward, fell back. Solomon twisted the throttle. I turned to look. The boar was keeping up. A ripple of fear, but also of excitement, surged through me. I pressed my cheek into Solomon's tee-shirt and hugged him, not just with my body but with all of me. Solomon would keep me safe. Grunting, he heaved the bike through the slime. We hit a firm patch and pitched forward, only to hit something so hard my head nearly knocked Solomon off the bike. Behind us the boar's hoofs pounded closer, its curved tusks and dirty slobber closing in. Solomon rocked the bike forwards and back, his muscles writhing beneath my cheek like snakes. With a mighty heave, he yanked the wheel over the root. The bike reared up and crunched down. We slid sideways and my foot touched the ground. Solomon hauled the bike back up. The wheels churned, mud sprayed, Solomon roared and whipped the bike till it screamed. The wheels gripped. We shot forward. The bike had wings.

Jungle devoured us. Solomon reached back and patted my leg, his voice coming softly in the thick jungle air. ‘Okay now, Bertie. Pik gone.'

I giggled.

Solomon giggled. He turned on the headlights and we rode together through calm, descending night.

The settlement was lit with kerosene lamps. There was a fire, chatter, brightness. Solomon cut the engine and helped me off. Knife scars, long and deep, ran down one side of his fierce, beautiful face. Our eyes met and for a moment there was no Solomon, no Bertie. Just us.

My mother sat by the fire, nursing a whisky. ‘Are you okay, Bertie?'

‘Yes.' Better than okay. Something inside me had cracked open and freed feelings I had no names for, feelings that made me bigger and stronger than I could explain.

Ted Sinclair strode out to meet us. He was dressed like Dad in his uniform of the tropics; white shorts, white shirt, white socks. He puffed on a pipe.

‘Hello, Roberta.' He smiled. ‘Did you have a nice ride?'

I nodded.

‘Did Solomon behave himself? Did you behave yourself, Solomon?' he asked with a wink, and I thought, he knows the Solomon I know.

‘Bit of a lad, our Solomon.' Ted struck a match and dipped it into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Out on parole.' He sucked two or three times until a coil of smoke appeared. ‘Murder.' He shook the match. ‘His wife's brother was playing around with Solomon's twelve-year-old sister so Solomon hacked him to pieces with a machete.'

The wedding took place on the beach at sunset the next day. Thirty white people in floaty frocks and dark suits and forty locals in red ramis and bright dresses gathered on the black sand. As the sun dipped into the sea and the waves thumped, a priest in a ruffled white collar sandwiched the hands of Ted Sinclair and his bride in holy matrimony. There was a party in the garden. White flowers – bougainvillea, hibiscus and frangipani – had been scattered among the trees and over the ground. A roof of woven palm leaves covered the reception area and trails of red and orange bougainvillea lit the white-clothed tables like small fires. There was music from the gramophone, dancing, heaps of food and drink. Everyone got stuck in, including the bride, who was dancing on the table even before the speeches had finished. Someone doused the wedding cake in brandy and set fire to it, someone else sprayed it with a soda siphon to put it out. One lady kissed another lady's husband and copped a glass of whisky in her face, but nothing dented the party spirit. My mother laughed and ate and drank her way through the night along with everyone else.

Ted Sinclair had a son, Craig, the same age as me. He liked drawing as much as I did and we spent the night sneaking pieces of brandy-soaked cake and doing sketches of adults acting silly. Over the next few days we did more pictures together: kids splashing in the sea and standing on their hands in the sand, meris weaving baskets and cooking. Although we painted the same things, our pictures were very different. Everything in Craig's were the right size and colour and in the right place. Mine were more like Aunt Tempe's. My favourite picture was of Horace, Craig's tame hornbill. He was a big bird with a hooked beak and bold colours and I painted him blue, black and yellow against a background of green and purple flowers.

‘What's that?' said my mother, appearing from nowhere, as she had a habit of doing when I was painting.

‘Horace.'

‘Really? It looks more like something he left behind to me.'

Solomon and Jimmy took Craig and me for bike rides along the beach. My mother had been furious with Ted for telling me about Solomon being a murderer but I didn't care. I knew he wouldn't hurt anybody who didn't have it coming.

When the time came to say goodbye he touched a hand to his chest, and then to mine. ‘You strong, Bertie. Like Solomon. You got Solomon heart.'

He helped me into the canoe, Yonna started the motor and we chugged away from the wharf. I watched as Solomon grew smaller and smaller, then we rounded a bend in the river, and he disappeared.