Inheritance (4 page)

He had come in that day to ask me to intercede with
the administration on behalf of his cousin, an outspoken matai and a leader in the Mau movement.

‘It can not be done, what you people try to do,’ he said, pounding my desk until it threatened to break. ‘My cousin is appointed matai by all his family. A New Zealand colonel can not take away that title! This is madness and will end in much unpleasant.’

An accurate prediction. Several outspoken matai had been ‘stripped’ of their titles by the administration and the title then given to a man who sided with the administration’s harsh rules. Some matai had been deported. OF Nelson himself, a wealthy and influential trader who was a leader in the Mau, had been deported. It was indeed madness.

Along with many leaders in Samoa, Schroder had felt affronted that the League of Nations had set a tiny country like New Zealand in charge of administering Samoa.

‘An insult, you see! Fiji has Great Britain. Why not us too? We are the most ancient people and should be treated with more respect! The Tama a ‘aiga naturally feel their pule is not respected.’

Schroder would make his pronouncements with a good-natured grin, but many of the high-born chiefs felt keenly the bumbling insults laid on them by our ignorant administration.

My job, as a young lawyer, was to help with problems over what were now called the Reparation Estates: former German plantations which had been liquidated and re-commissioned in the Crown’s name. Not a happy time. The New Zealand military leaders were appallingly ignorant. PJ was right there. And arrogant. Reading
reports of those years, during and following the war, I felt ashamed of my country. By the time I arrived, the tricky transition of the estates was over to a large extent, and the last of the German nationals deported. I continued with the paperwork on behalf of New Zealand, which sounds safe and simple, but was far from that. It needed all my guile and perseverance to untangle the intricacies of ownership. The big plantations had been easy, but some of the small ones had been in German hands for three generations and were deeply enmeshed in Samoan village life – or, I suspected, deliberately made to seem so. I soon developed a very healthy respect for the Samoan ability to argue a case from black to white, particularly where land was concerned. I would smile, and go along with the argument if I could get away with it. I like to imagine that a few questionable plantations remained in German hands as a result.

So PJ’s genial and ongoing advice was valuable – particularly during the Mau. He often came in to Apia on business and would stay for a drink – prohibition was an open joke, but the Beach still resented the arbitrary imposition and mourned the loss of their good German wines.

I didn’t meet PJ’s wife until later. They lived east of Apia in the Tuamasaga district and Gertrude did not come into town often, though she was talked about with a certain awe, even then. Theirs was a smallish plantation of one hundred acres, a little bit of coconut for copra and the rest in cacao, with grazing for a small herd of cattle under the coconuts. Gertrude was notorious for her fanatical promotion of cacao as the crop of the future for Samoa. Certainly, the Samoan cacao bean was
greatly prized for its dark flavour, useful in the blending of cocoa. I heard the stories from other planters who would laugh and shake their heads. Too much hard work, they said; coffee is easier, if the world market for copra dies. But Gertrude persisted with her cacao and the plantation prospered.

I had always thought of Gertrude as childless, but Simone put me right on that. In the early days, when PJ was alive, he and Gertrude often came down to the big house next door to us. Gertrude would put on rather elaborate morning tea parties for palagi women. Simone was invited, but only the once, as I remember. She came striding back from that one occasion, disturbed and angry.

‘Can you believe it?’ she cried. ‘Gertrude and PJ had three children! Three!’ Simone was pregnant with our first at that time, and apprehensive about giving birth in the islands. She had been dreadfully smitten by morning sickness and had a healthy respect for anyone who had managed to give birth at all.

‘That so-small lady had three most beautiful children,’ she told me. ‘Two boys and a girl. I saw their picture on the wall, wreathed in fresh flowers. So naturally I exclaimed and asked questions. Naturally.’

Simone sounded indignant. I feared she had overstepped the social codes in some way. But I was also surprised. PJ had never mentioned children.

I remember Simone patting her bulging stomach. She was always thin, and the babies jutted from her frame like neat, solid footballs. Being Simone, she never made any attempt to hide the bulge.

‘All I asked was some questions about the births,
and did she have them in hospital – we were all ladies together, Hamish, no need to be squeamish. But all of a sudden, silence in the room. Every person looking in some other direction. Gertrude glaring at me like I was some monster. She would speak no word to me after that.’

It turned out her three children had all died in the dreadful 1918 flu epidemic. Another woman whispered the information when Gertrude’s attention was elsewhere. Gertrude would never speak of them, and would not tolerate anyone else mentioning them.

‘But how was I to know?’ wailed Simone. ‘The photograph was displayed for all to see. Now who will invite me to morning tea?’

She was young and vulnerable then, far more emotional than most of the Apia ladies – I imagine she seemed strange to them.

‘All three dead in the space of a week,’ she cried, clutching her belly. ‘How could she bear it? Oh Hamish, have we come to a dangerous place for our babies?’

Later, Simone found out the whole story. Several of PJ’s relatives, and many plantation workers, had died as well as the babies. Gertrude had been so furious – and no doubt heartbroken, though it was hard to imagine her in that state – that she stormed down to the military headquarters and tore up her New Zealand passport in front of the authorities. She blamed their lax regulations for failing to quarantine a shipload of sick visitors. Perhaps anger and outrage were Gertrude’s only tools for releasing her feelings.

All her anger, all her accusations were entirely justified in my view. How on earth could the military have got it
all so wrong? The flu epidemic was ten years past when I arrived but still it rankled with the Samoans. The death-bringing ship had indeed been quarantined off Fiji and was not allowed into American Samoa. Why on earth was it allowed to anchor at Apia? Sheer bureaucratic inefficiency.
Taluna
offloaded sick passengers at Apia and the result was devastating. One quarter of the population died. These people had little resistance to flu or colds as it was, and the 1918 flu pandemic was no ordinary flu bug. When the worst of the epidemic was over, a deputation of the remaining chiefs and orators took a boat over to American Samoa and asked that America take over from New Zealand as administrator. What an insult! That finally persuaded the New Zealand Government to remove Colonel Logan, though it was hard to say that his successors were much better.

I broached the matter, delicately, with PJ the next time he visited me. He shook his head sadly.

‘Ioe, a sad time. My brother, he offer us a nephew to bring up, but my wife think that is a …’ he waved a large hand, trying to grab at the right word ‘… too unnatural custom. Uncivilised. So we grow old with no child.’ It was the only time I saw his big face other than cheerful.

Gertrude never offered advice or help to Simone over our babies. Never showed any interest in them. In Simone’s opinion the loss of her three children had etched a deep scar into Gertrude’s heart, a knotted lump that had never been released by a healthy bout of grief. I often thought that if those little ones had survived, perhaps motherhood and grandmotherhood might have softened her, but even into old age she remained flinty.
I was keen to watch the effect these newcomers might have on her stony old heart.

John O’Dowd and his daughter were already unpacking when we arrived. Jeanie straightened up, a pile of books in her hands, and cried out at the sight of the welcome basket. ‘Oh how beautiful! Is that all for us?’

I was struck by her size. O’Dowd was not a big man, certainly, but his daughter was tiny. Not much over five feet tall I guessed. But full of life. You would not imagine that she had just stepped off that rusting old banana boat. Simone handed her the basket with a flourish. Jeanie set down the books, took the proffered basket and laid it, pride of place, in the centre of the table.

‘Grown all by us, from our garden,’ said Simone, flinging her arm in the direction of our place. ‘Welcome my darling, you must come and visit often!’ She embraced Jeanie, kissing her robustly on each cheek. The poor girl was obviously taken aback by the onslaught, but received the embrace in good heart. Her father, I noticed, buried his head quickly in a case of books. I went over to him and offered a more modest handshake.

‘I’m Hamish Lander, welcome.’

‘John O’Dowd,’ he said. A quiet man, rather reserved, but his smile was warm. ‘This is my daughter Jeanie Roper.’ It was said with pride and love. There was no mistaking the bond.

He surprised me, I suppose. Not his age – I had expected that. Gertrude’s nephew, after all, would have to be middle-aged. But I had forgotten Gertrude’s
earlier mention of what she called ‘Chow blood’. John O’Dowd was very clearly of Chinese extraction. Not fully Chinese – his skin was too pale – but the narrow, black eyes and thick straight hair were undoubtedly oriental. I wondered if Gertrude Schroder knew how obvious his ethnicity was. When PJ died, Gertrude had laid off all her indentured Chinese labour, claiming they were incompetent. A palpably unjust accusation, and uncharacteristic. Gertrude simply didn’t like ‘Chows’, as she insisted on calling them.

John was a slim, neat man, not very tall, his hair trimmed close to his head. Though they had just arrived off the boat, he was clean-shaven. His shirt sleeves, now that he had taken off his jacket and waistcoat, were held away from his wrists by expanding braces – I was intrigued to see so old-fashioned a custom.

‘You are the nephew?’ I couldn’t help asking. ‘Of Gertrude Schroder?’

He smiled. ‘So I believe. I have never known any blood relatives before a few months ago. Her …’ he hesitated, smiling again at some private joke, ‘… visit of inspection arrived at rather a good time for our little family. My son-in-law has recently lost his position in his legal firm, and the post office which I managed has recently been closed.’

‘Gertrude will employ you then?’

‘So she says. I believe she quizzed the divisional head about my credentials and work history. A very thorough lady.’ He looked at me carefully. ‘Do you doubt her intentions?’

This man did not look the sort to run a plantation. Something bookish and methodical about him. His
manner was diffident. I noticed the books he was unpacking were to do with railways. A railway buff would have no joy in Samoa. Perhaps the son-in-law would be the one to manage the estate.

‘My son-in-law, Stuart, is upstairs resting,’ John said. No sign of disapproval or resentment in his voice or expression, but I felt it all the same. ‘Already he finds the climate trying.’

‘We all do,’ cried Simone, ‘when we arrive. Have no fear my darlings, in two weeks exactly your blood will have thinned, and you will feel at home. I guarantee!’ She stroked Jeanie’s arm gently. ‘You must learn to enjoy the siesta. Every day!’

If only Simone would take her own advice. Most days she was out in the garden at high noon, the skin on her bare legs and arms dark and desiccated like withered leaves. Even during the early afternoon downpours she would stride around singing and shouting for me to come out and join the ‘natural shower-bath’. No wonder the neighbours thought her mad.

I had just managed to steer her towards the door when Stewart Roper emerged from a back room. I was expecting the bad-tempered man we had spied on earlier, but this was someone transformed. He must have showered while the others worked: his fair hair lay flat to his head and drips still ran behind his ears. He wore a crisp white shirt and shorts, knee socks and sandals, and strode forward with hand outstretched.

‘Stuart Roper. Pleased to meet you.’ His grin was wide and infectious. A large man. He could have been a rugby forward – that sort of solid, muscled frame and short neck.

I introduced myself. He was quick to find out my past position in the administration, my present status, whether I spoke Samoan. He ignored Simone and the others; spoke only to me. When Simone started a conversation with Jeanie, he turned slightly towards his wife, a half-smiling shake of his head, and she fell silent. A genial man, but, it would seem, a bully to his wife. I had been enjoying our conversation up to that point.

Simone, ominously, walked to the door with a quick wave of her hand. Usually I have to drag her away. At the door she turned and spoke loudly. ‘Jeanie my dear, come over tomorrow and I will introduce you to some ladies. We will have tea in the garden.’

The invitation sounded, to my experienced ears, more like a declaration of war.