Inheritance (13 page)

‘Jeanie loves his fast car. I fear she loves the man a little too.’

One would hardly blame her for looking elsewhere, I suppose. But to look in Teo’s direction was extremely unwise. Teo was so noticeable. And in Samoan terms so eligible.

But of more immediate concern was John’s health. Again, Simone was the one with the information. I suggested ‘Samoa Tummy’. Most newcomers have a bout or two before their stomachs become hardened to the local bugs.

‘No nothing like that,’ Simone said. ‘He has become listless, doesn’t eat well. Has lost interest in the plantation. Even his books lie unread. Jeanie is particularly worried about that.’ Simone eyed me fiercely. ‘But surely it is this terrible news of his birth. That poor man will feel shame, Hamish. Perhaps you might speak to him? The least you could do. You were to blame, chéri, over the birth certificate.’

It’s true. I felt uncomfortable. Simone assured me that it would have been far better had I gently introduced the truth to him at an earlier stage. I’m not entirely convinced that it was my task to do this, but perhaps Simone was right. She usually is.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, eying me fiercely, ‘you might find something local to interest him. Take him to the club.’

Stuart was often away at the plantation, which had
not suffered too badly. Cacao trees are relatively low to the ground; Gertrude’s had been protected by tough hedges, and, being further inland, they had escaped the full brunt of the wind roaring in from the sea. But I don’t think John ever went out to the plantation after the conference. I admit I had not found time to talk to him either, despite Simone’s nagging. Mostly Jeanie stayed in Apia too, working with Elena on the filariasis campaign: eradicating that dreadful, disfiguring disease was Elena’s prime responsibility that year. At any rate, Jeanie was not confiding in Simone, which drove my wife mad.

‘Speak to John,’ she urged me again. ‘Let’s have them over for a drink. I’ll take Jeanie out to the garden. You need to apologise you naughty man. He might talk to you – another bookworm.’

We had our drink and our chat. But he never opened up. I’m no good at that sort of heart to heart. We discussed the hurricane damage and the thorny problem of distributing relief food – important issues – but he wasn’t really interested. I told myself that it would be insensitive to bring up the subject of his birth; that general exploration of local issues would be of more comfort to him. Weak excuses for my own social inadequacy.

I was shocked at the change in him. He’d been here only a few months and already his skin had yellowed, his face thinned. He had seemed so alive and proud the day they arrived. I wondered whether malaria had got him. But of course I was wrong. Simone, as usual, had
the truth of it. He was sick to the core with shame.

John would not stay after the meal. He pushed away from the table, his dessert untouched, and left, giving some apologetic excuse. Jeanie stayed.

‘I’m so worried about him,’ she said. ‘He’s never been this bad before.’

‘So he is prone to depression?’ Simone does not believe in discrete inquiry where health matters are concerned.

Jeanie smiled at her directness. ‘Yes, a little. But not like this. He won’t eat. He won’t look at me properly. It’s as if he suddenly disliked me.’

Simone shot me a sharp look, but her question was for Jeanie. ‘He has not accepted the truth?’

‘It’s true, then, this story of the rape and the half-wit?’ She addressed this to me.

‘Something of that sort I believe. Gertrude knew, but didn’t want it known.’

Jeanie remained silent for some time. We watched her.

‘Ma chérie,’ said Simone, ‘no one spoke of this to him back in New Zealand?’

‘No. I’m sure not. Granny Stella … I asked her often about his birth parents but she always gave the same reply – a tragic drowning. She adopted him from a convent. She said she never knew the parents’ names.’

Jeanie suddenly grabbed a handful of her hair which fell that day smooth and dark to below her shoulders. ‘I have that Chinese blood too! From a rape of a defenceless mad woman!’

I couldn’t let that go. ‘Gertrude was a prejudiced woman, Jeanie. She may have exaggerated the facts. She may well have distorted them.’

‘You saw the birth certificate.’

‘I did. It stated a young unmarried woman of unsound mind. Rape was not mentioned.’

‘Oh!’ She flung her arms wide. I thought of windblown flowers. ‘They would not write it, but surely …!’ Then, more quietly, ‘My father believes it. Yes. Somehow feels it to be true. That is why he is so lost. After the pride and hope of finding his aunt – this. Stuart told him that Gertrude despised him for his bad blood. That she truly wanted Stuart to run the plantation.’

I sighed. ‘That is not strictly true.’

‘Not strictly? But in part? She despised father?’

How could I hope to answer her probing questions with truth? My dear Simone intervened.

‘My husband is too literal. It is the lawyer in him. Gertrude is dead. Your father is the one needs your care. Let us think of him. First he finds a birth family and an inheritance for you. Now he discovers that the aunt despised him for his Chinese blood. And that he is the son of rape.’

I was cross with Simone for her bluntness. But Jeanie seemed to accept the harsh words. She nodded through her tears.

‘Perhaps we should go back,’ she murmured. ‘Poor Dad. You are right, he was so proud.’ She looked up at me. I had stood, meaning to quieten Simone’s wayward tongue. ‘He likes you, Hamish, admires your knowledge. Do you think you can help him? Oh!’ She pushed back her chair, paced the room like a young caged thing. ‘Oh, I have been enjoying it so much here – the place and the people – that I suppose I’ve ignored my father’s misery!’

Simone held her close, stroked her dark hair. ‘My
child, he will be miserable also back home. And you are happy here. We must find a way around this. People will have a new point of gossip next week and John’s parentage will be forgotten. Let us be gentle with the poor man.’ She looked over at me sternly. ‘Hamish will find something for him.’

I nodded. It would be good to make amends.

Simone was not finished with her planning. ‘And you, my dear, must take a little care with your friends. Tongues are wagging over you and Teo Levamanaia.’

Jeanie touched a fading bruise on her cheek. A light brush from those long beautiful fingers. She sighed. ‘He and Elena have been so kind.’

‘Kind, yes, but care is necessary,’ said Simone gently. She touched again the long black hair. It was lovely to see them together – like mother and daughter. My wife had always wanted a daughter but we only made two rather difficult sons. ‘You must know, ma chérie, that their mother has plans for Teo, which do not include a palagi girlfriend.’

Jeanie pulled away. ‘We are just good friends! For heavens’ sake you are as bad as Stuart! Is friendship not allowed then?’

Oh she was fierce, the little tiger, and blushing. More than friendship in her heart, I thought. And Teo, that wild lad, had a reputation already for his wandering eyes. Tiresa would do well to betroth him formally and secure his matai title. I had seen it so many times before – a high-born lad arriving back from school in New Zealand with his tail high and his criticisms of fa‘asamoa broadcast far and wide. Then, when the mantle of a matai title is laid upon him, suddenly he quietens, steadies,
settles with a good Samoan wife and begins to express conservative views. Teo would do the same. I had laid a bet with Giles, who thought the boy would never make a leader. We shall see.

But Jeanie might be vulnerable. I did not want to see her hurt.

‘Of course friendship is allowed,’ I said. ‘Just keep an eye out for the mother. She is protective and ambitious.’

Jeanie sighed again. ‘The plantation. I don’t really care about it to be honest.’

Simone snorted. ‘Oho! Gertrude would have washed your mouth with soap!’

I seem to remember Jeanie growling, then – or am I embellishing the memory? Did she really growl? Certainly there were times when she showed a surprising spirit. ‘Stuart would do more than wash my mouth out,’ she said. ‘He likes the plantation and admired Gertrude. But how can I feel for that dead old lady now? Or her cacao trees? She was a monster!’

She went home then. Gave us a peculiar, defiant smile, and ran down the steps. I saw her white dress wavering across the lawn in the moonlight, disappearing through the orchids like a trail of mist.

‘Jeanie could be a dangerous woman,’ said Simone, watching her too. ‘I am a little fearful for her, Hamish. So beautiful; so sad.’

Dangerous! Spirited, yes, but surely never dangerous. But then I could never quite fathom Simone’s pronouncements.

Elena

A
Stuart Roper is alive and living in Auckland. I found him in the phone book. Roper is not a common name. It could well be him. So Hamish is right, I must be careful for Jeanie’s sake.

Stuart had such a temper! Once I saw him kick and kick a small dog who had almost tripped him in the market. A little white puppy. It yelped and yapped fit to attract the attention of every soul in the area. Did Stuart care? Not one fig. When an old mango seller shouted at him, he simply shook a fist at her. When I scooped up the pup from under his very toe, he would have gone at me too, if I’d been a smaller person. Those mad eyes! And with everyone watching! The man was not normal.

‘Stupid cur!’ he shouted, whether to me or the dog was unclear. Then he glared at the small muttering crowd and stalked away, completely unrepentant by the look of his swaggering step, one hand slapping his fat thigh
as if he were still at his beating.

He had attacked a plantation worker, too, I heard: a man from our village. When our matai came to complain, Stuart said the worker was insolent and lazy – but I heard John O’Dowd paid him off with a couple of sacks of bananas, which were as good as gold in those days after the hurricane. John must have felt right was on the worker’s side in some way. The matter never came to the police.

The intriguing thing was that Stuart Roper could be good company when it suited him. A short time after the puppy incident, we were both at one of the myriad welcome and farewell parties that punctuate the palagi year in Apia. Someone was always leaving and some new official arriving. Two year stints were the norm. This was, I seem to remember, a welcome. The new UNESCO expert sent to set up a teak furniture-making business. Or was it the United Nations expert checking on the yaws-eradication programme? Anyway, we were both there, and Jeanie. Stewart’s big face shone with goodwill (and maybe beer), his fair hair bristled in a new snappy haircut. His island print shirt suited him – well-cut reasonably muted colours, crisply ironed, which is more than one could say for many of the gaudy rags worn to those dos. When I joined his little group, he hailed me warmly: no hint of a memory there, in his eyes or manner, of the mangled puppy. I remember him telling a joke which had us all laughing. His arm lay across Jeanie’s shoulders; he looked at her often as he talked, as if needing her approval. She smiled back. I don’t think the father was there.

Yes that’s how I remember Jeanie with Stuart. A
different person, as if there were two sides to her coin: one when he was about – unremarkable, pleasant, reticent; the other, in his absence – vibrant, curious, talkative and wonderfully sensitive to our island ways. Which is she now, I wonder?

I must see her.