Inheritance (27 page)

Stuart heard the rumours of course. By that time he’d realised that Jeanie had closed his account at the Casino and left him a thousand tala from the sale of the plantation. He raged up to our house – I’d closed the office by then and we were in the process of packing ourselves.

‘One thousand tala!’ he shouted. ‘I should get far more than that! How much did the plantation sell for?’

I wouldn’t tell him.

‘I have a right to know,’ he said. ‘I’m her husband for God’s sake.’

The wretched fellow was still in denial. I could hardly look him in the eye knowing what I now knew. ‘My client,’ I told him, ‘has lived apart from you for the best part of a year. She will soon have grounds, if she is in New Zealand, to apply for a formal separation.’ Simone, who was in the room, ready at hand if needed, said I looked rather smug to give him this news.

He changed tack then. Sat down, uninvited and buried his head in his one good hand. His clothes were dirty and his breath smelled vile. Goodness knows where he was sleeping.

‘Please help me to find her,’ he said, his voice broken. ‘I’m sure I can patch it up with her.’ He looked up at the two of us, watching, I believe, to see our reaction. ‘I know I could have been a better husband.’

‘You beat her,’ said Simone flatly. ‘She has grounds for divorce, Stuart, let alone a separation.’

‘I just want another chance,’ he said, wheedling, displaying his stump. ‘Where did she go?’

Simone picked up a vase as if she would throw it. Then turned her back on him. ‘You’ve heard the rumours,’ she said. ‘Who knows what is true?’

Now she was the smug one. I stood up, taking courage from my doughty wife. ‘Jeanie Roper is my client. Or was. You mustn’t come here for information or consideration Stuart. Your former wife is hostile to you and I must respect her wishes.’

Legal terminology is wonderful sometimes.

There was the anger again, the tightened lips, the quick step towards me. And there was Simone, in the doorway, drawn to her full height, clutching some kind of kitchen weapon and fixing him with a severe Gallic eye. Stuart muttered something and left.

Simone, at her best, can be just as wonderful as the law.

It was Giles, of course, who broke my complacent little bubble. He came over to me in the club one night, rather drunk, his face shining with sweat, holding out a glass of whisky for me.

‘Here old chap, have one on me,’ he said, slumping into the chair next to me.

The offer of a drink from Giles was rare. He must have thought I had useful information, or perhaps he needed advice. I thanked him and we sipped for a while.

Sure enough he was after gossip. ‘I heard a little bird say you were seen helping a certain lady aboard the
Matua
last month. True?’

Good God, where did the man get his information? I swear Giles must have spies all around Samoa. More than once I have wondered whether his sloppy exterior was a cover for his being some kind of intelligence gatherer for the High Commission. But surely not in Samoa!

I fixed Giles with what I hoped was a humorous stare. ‘Giles, whatever are you doing snooping around listening to ridiculous gossip?’ I tried to laugh. ‘I’m a married man, Giles.’

He was in no way deterred. I wish, sometimes, that I could prevaricate more easily.

‘The little bird says it was Jeanie Roper and that she
was decidedly pregnant. Did you help her run away, Hamish, from her legal husband?’

Giles’ bloodshot eyes looked alarmingly vindictive. I was shocked. I thought we were friends. I would have expected a little chuckle and an elbow in the ribs at worst. He sat there, sipping his whisky, eying me over the rim. Whatever could I say to defuse this dangerous, if inaccurate piece of gossip?

‘Giles,’ I said firmly, ‘whatever your nasty little bird saw is none of your business. If Jeanie Roper decided to escape from her brutal and insensitive husband, it is entirely her affair. And didn’t I hear that she was working for the clinic over on Savai‘i? For goodness sake Giles, you are overstepping the mark. Think what damage such gossip could do to Jeanie. And to me. Don’t you dare to pass on any whisper of that piece of poisonous gossip to anyone else. What’s happened to you, Giles?’ I could see my words alarmed Giles.

‘Look here,’ he blustered, ‘I mean no harm. It’s just that I heard …’

‘I’m not interested in what you heard.’

‘The thing is, Stuart owes me money. Rather a lot of money. I was helping him out until the plantation sold. If his wife has run off with the whole caboodle, where does that leave me?’

‘No doubt,’ I said coldly, ‘Stuart will receive some share of the sale. I suggest you ask him.’

I shouldn’t have said that last bit. Perhaps it gave Giles some hope of recompense if he moved quickly. The fool told Stuart his wife had left on the boat and that he believed she was pregnant. Two days later, Stuart had gone, to search, Giles told me, for his unborn
child. Appalling. So Giles’s gossip backfired on him. Stuart never repaid him. I could only pray that Simone’s clever stories had provided Jeanie with enough time to disappear.

I didn’t see Jeanie again for over twenty years. Simone and I have kept our house in Apia. We return occasionally. Under the pretext of managing our own house, I have managed Jeanie’s too and seen that the rental proceeds have been deposited in Ann Hope’s account, but I have never heard from her, not a word.

Until these last few weeks.

I have written this record hoping it to be a clear statement of events as I saw them in the nineteen-sixties. If the matter comes to light, there may be need of such a document. I do not wish this account to be made available in any way, to any person, unless Jeanie Roper (also known as Ann Hope) requests it. I do not regret my actions. In my opinion, Stuart Roper has no claim whatsoever on the child raised by Jeanie Roper, nor to any further proceeds from properties owned by my former client Jeanie Roper.

Hamish Lander, Wellington 1990

Elena

T
he exhibition put on by the final year students at Francesca’s art school in Dunedin was to me a riotous affair. On the first day at least. Not perhaps Francesca’s contribution – her display was more restrained, but some of the other creations took your breath away. So audacious. So rude. I couldn’t keep a straight face as Francesca steered me around the various displays, explaining the serious meaning behind what often seemed to me pretentious rubbish.

‘Don’t laugh,’ she protested, as my giggles broke out. ‘Michael’s right behind you.’ The artist – a weedy fellow with lank hair and torn, paint-spattered jeans was trying not to watch my reaction, to his – whatever it was. A shapeless mass of plaster of Paris, which looked for all the world like a heap of those bandages we wrapped around swollen limbs in Samoa during the filariasis campaign. I glanced at the boy to see whether he might be Samoan,
and saw him blush through his acne. Poor sensitive lad. I changed my laughter to a nod of appreciation and moved on quickly.

Francesca watched my reactions anxiously. ‘Don’t you like them?’

‘Some are lovely,’ I said, and meant it. Some of the designs on fabric were full of colour and invention. Francesca’s Pacific series was striking, though perhaps a little restrained for my taste. She would benefit from a visit to the islands and I hoped, of course, to engineer this in the future.

‘My friend Tala will buy some of this for her shop,’ I assured her.

Francesca wriggled with pleasure. She was quite a naïve young woman, I thought, not too full of pretentious art school ideas and mannerisms. Her clothes, mind you, followed the ugly student trend of the day – black stockings with the feet cut out roughly, and various layers of rags and lace draped around. At least Francesca’s layers were bright and clean. All yellow and cream, she was, apart from the legs, and a long draped scarf of her own design – an orange and white pattern of leaves. Her hair, washed and combed for the occasion, fell loose down her back. I longed to hug this lanky, angular niece. But had to restrain myself on that front, for her mother’s sake. One day, one day …

Jeanie – Ann – was driving over from Gore and would meet us for lunch at a little café Francesca had chosen. She said, laughing a little, that her mother was shy of big cities and preferred somewhere quiet. A garden setting. A back street. I thought of lively little Jeanie hiding her identity all these years. Repressing her outgoing nature. It
seemed all out of proportion. I suspected that a reclusive life had become ingrained – a habit that needed breaking. This meeting would be a start, I felt. I was as excited as Francesca that morning. The three of us together!

We broke off our tour. Francesca wanted to keep the winning installation a surprise for later. Her boyfriend Carl had won some valuable sculpture prize and Francesca was all lit up with the news.

‘Now we can afford to move in together!’ she said, her dark eyes full of happiness, ‘A real flat, not a student’s squat. And a buyer for my work! I’m just so excited! You’re a doll, Elena!’ She took my arm and we danced along to the car in the highest of good spirits.

Ann was there already, out in the garden of the café, smiling to see us so full of ourselves. Francesca ran to her mother, hugging her wildly. ‘I passed, I passed! My designs got a B plus! I got my diploma!’

Ann cried out with pleasure and held her excited daughter. ‘Wonderful, wonderful! You clever thing.’

They were such a happy pair. I hadn’t even thought to ask about pass or fail. Soon Francesca remembered me and introduced us properly. I played my part, shaking Ann’s hand, trying not to smile too broadly.

Ann nodded, still beaming, tears in her eyes. ‘Fran has talked about you,’ she said. ‘I hope she has thanked you for your support.’

Her voice, quiet and pleasant, held just the right balance of friendliness and formality. She must be very used to acting a part to do it so well. I was a little taken aback, I suppose.

‘Shall we sit?’ said my dear old friend, smiling. ‘I’ve ordered champagne to celebrate.’

The last time I had drunk champagne was with her in front of her own fireplace, at Gore, but no hint of that meeting, no flicker of complicity crossed her face. I had to match her composure, but it cost me dearly. I was bursting to sing and dance. To celebrate not only the exam result, but our being here together.

‘And Carl won the sculpture prize!’ shouted Francesca. ‘We’re rich!’

Ann frowned a little at that. ‘I thought your boyfriend was Anton?’

‘Oh Mum,’ Francesca laughed too loudly – I think the champagne was having an instant effect – ‘I told you about Carl. Anton was ages ago.’

Ann rolled her eyes at me and we both laughed. I ordered a delicious beef stew with little potatoes rolled in butter; the others ate salads. A salad on a crisp spring day seems a complete waste of time to me, but we all enjoyed ourselves. By the time the champagne was finished, Ann and Francesca were sufficiently relaxed to forget their figures and order apple pie and cream along with me. A wonderful hour or two, there in the sun, camellias and rhododendrons blooming in a riot around us. Everyone happy. Calm before the storm.

Francesca told us about a scare she’d had a couple of days back. Coming back to her flat late, she thought a man was following her. She’d turned one way and then another but the man made the same turns.

‘I wasn’t really scared,’ she said, looking anxiously at us for approval, ‘I know how to look after myself. But it sort of gets to you, you know, and you stop being sensible.’

Ann spoke rather sharply. All her lightness gone in a
flash. I could see how precious her daughter was. ‘What did he look like? Did you know him?’

‘Oh Mum,’ Francesca spread her hands – a light little shrug that I had seen Jeanie make many times in the past, ‘it was dark. Some sad old man in a raincoat. I think he was bald.’

‘Francesca, sweetheart,’ Ann spoke quickly, more terrified, I think, than her daughter, ‘you mustn’t go wandering around at night alone. Promise me.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Francesca laughed, all cheerful again. ‘I know Dunedin like the back of my hand. The centre is full of student squats. Carl lives upstairs in an empty old bank in Rattray Street. He sleeps in the bank vault can you imagine! I just ducked in there. Disappeared down the alley and slept there the night. That old man would have no idea where I went. Never saw him again.’

I praised her for her bravery and quick thinking, but Ann seemed quite thrown. She put her hand over her daughter’s and held it as if to guard her from evil.

‘Oh Mum,’ said Francesca, smiling at me, in a way apologising for her mother’s anxiety. ‘Don’t worry. I’m a big girl now.’

‘No you’re not. Not if you wander alone at night.’ She spoke too strongly. I thought it strange, and I think Francesca did too. Ann should have praised her daughter as I did.

The afternoon was a complete contrast to the morning’s light-hearted tour. It started well enough. Ann loved Francesca’s exhibit; was quite knowledgeable about
processes and dyes and full of questions. She weaves herself it seems, and had an opinion on all the fabric designs. Francesca opened like a flower to her mother’s praise, and rattled on about her plans and ideas. All Ann’s anxiety disappeared while we were in that part of the exhibition.

But then, when it seemed that Carl’s installation was in a different part of town and that we must walk a few blocks, Ann dug her toes in.

‘You two go and see it. I need to get back home.’

Francesca sighed. ‘Come on Mum, it’s not far. You’ll be amazed.’ I think she was used to her mother’s sudden mood swings; used too, to persuading her out of them.

But this time Ann would not be persuaded. She pleaded the long drive back, the hungry donkeys, her own tiredness. None of it made much sense to me. She had come especially, after all, to spend time with her daughter. I began to suspect that Ann – Jeanie – had developed some kind of anxiety syndrome, perhaps caused by all this subterfuge. She seemed to have an exaggerated perception of a need for secrecy. Her actions were not quite rational. Neither Francesca nor I could jolly her into staying.

Ann gave her daughter a quick hug, pushed a little wad of dollar notes into her hand. ‘Bring your Carl out to the house. You’ll both need a break after all your work. Come out soon.’ She turned smiling to me. ‘It’s been so nice to meet you.’ And walked off quickly to her car.

She couldn’t get away quickly enough. That’s how it seemed.

Francesca felt it too. ‘Maybe school’s getting on top
of her,’ she said. ‘She’s the one who needs a break. Carl and I’ll go out next week and pamper her.’

I had to wonder about her Carl when we arrived at his macabre installation. He’d set it in the disused cellar of the old distillery – a damp, dark place, which he had done his best to make even more sinister. Above the basement was a room designed, I suppose, to be a replica of a display of sweets. Boxes were laid out with sugary looking treats inside, but when you looked closer, the sweets were pink sugary rats dusted with icing sugar. Disgusting. Francesca was full of the hidden meaning, the skill of the execution, but I couldn’t get past the rats. They were so realistic.

Then down we went, down wet dark brick steps, to the basement. A rank mist hovered down there, very gothic. Cleverly engineered but not pleasant. I was reluctant to go further, and anyway the steps were difficult for someone of my size, but I persevered for Francesca’s sake. Suddenly she shrieked out and raced ahead of me. A body lay face down in a tank of some liquid from which rose this mist.

‘Carl, Carl!’ Francesca screamed. ‘Someone help!’ She turned an anguished face up to me. ‘Carl’s drowned.’ I hurried to help her. The basement seemed empty except for us. We both dragged at the dead weight of the body, getting thoroughly drenched in the process. Suddenly our body stirred, heaved and came grinning to life. Carl removed the breathing straw from his mouth and stood, dripping and triumphant, to face us.

‘Oh boy,’ he puffed. ‘That carbon dioxide mist is no fun to breathe.’

The stupid idiot. He could have really drowned
breathing that stuff. Francesca was in floods of tears. ‘What do you want to do that for? I thought you were …’

‘Hey hey!’ Carl grinned sheepishly. He put a long arm around her and explained the significance of shock — how it can heighten awareness. As if we didn’t know! He was rather sweet in a gangly sort of way, but definitely macabre in his tastes.

He found a rag for Francesca’s tears and helped me brush water from my coat. I’m afraid the shock tactics had dampened my enthusiasm for his message, whatever that was. The exhibition was now taking second place to my concern over the effect of carbon dioxide on a good leather coat. He led us further in to the basement where dark shapes loomed – a strange, twisted distillery. Carl pointed to a fellow in the shadows who seemed to be inspecting the innards of one of the shafts. ‘I couldn’t shock him though,’ he laughed. He just thought I was a dummy and walked on past. I nearly did suffocate that time.’

Francesca looked over at the man. She grabbed at Carl’s dripping arm and whispered, ‘Don’t look now but I think it’s the man who was following me.’

‘I wouldn’t think so,’ he replied, peering. ‘He’s been down here for ages, inspecting the works. Quite a nice old fellow, asking all about me and my work. I think he might be a critic. He wanted to photograph me against that distilling tube. Come and meet him.’ He led his reluctant girlfriend deeper into the gloom. I stayed where I was, anxious to return to daylight and normality.

I heard his words though. Soft and pleasant, but I’ve heard that blank, calm tone before. It belongs to the
clinically disturbed. No mistaking that.

‘How do you do, Francesca. I’ve been longing to meet you. Longing.’

‘I don’t think …’ she began, but he stepped close, peering into her eyes. He came too close, one hand reaching towards her face. She recoiled. Carl pulled her away, but the man turned quickly to stay close to her; spoke with quiet force.

‘Don’t be afraid. I don’t want to alarm you. I believe, you see, that I may be your father.’ He clung to her arm. I could see that it hurt from the way she dragged at it.