Inheritance (5 page)

I had learned of Gertrude’s new relatives about two months before they arrived. For some reason the old dragon trusted me, and would ask my advice – free of charge naturally – from time to time.

She called unannounced early one morning, her big Mercedes pulling up into our drive, which was unusual, given that her own house was next door. Simone and I were sitting in the garden taking our morning coffee. Our housegirl’s family had built us a little fale beside our cashew trees: coconut-palm thatch supported by a few poles. A simple construction which protected us from sun and the odd shower, but let in every breeze. A favourite spot. We loved to sit there in the mornings.

‘Oh dear,’ said Simone, ‘Look who’s coming.’

Gertrude waited for Samasoni to open the door of the car and help her out. As she limped her way across the lawn towards us, the car drove off. Simone and I exchanged a smile. Gertrude didn’t want her visit noted by the notoriously gossipy Beach community. The old lady planted her stick firmly and looked at Simone. They were old adversaries – a match for each other and both wary of the next move. They faced each other – so different in looks but both fiery. Gertrude was rather short, immaculate as usual, in pale, belted linen, leaning on a stick, but somehow managing to look upright and immobile. My Simone, at sixty-two, at least fifteen years her junior, tall and angular, her mass of white hair as wild and tangled as Gertrude’s was fiercely tamed. Simone’s brilliantly flowered mumu swung loose from her shoulders. Gertrude would have said – probably did – that Simone had gone troppo.

‘I wanted a word with you Hamish,’ said Gertrude. The peremptory words were addressed to Simone.

Simone rose. ‘Good morning Gertrude. Would you like coffee?’ She was not going to accept orders from the old lizard.

‘In private, if you please.’

‘Gertrude, my dear,’ said Simone, her tone oiled with false civility, ‘Hamish and I have no secrets as you surely will know. However, if you wish to conduct your conversation in so
rude
a manner’ — she rolled her ‘r’ in a fearsomely French manner — ‘I have no interest at all in staying to listen. Or to bring you coffee.’ As she stalked away through the trees she called back to me, ‘Hamish, give a call if you need me. I will be in the back garden.’ A warning that she would run speedily to my
defence if Gertrude showed signs of attack. Last year the old lady had used her stick to strike a stonewalling government official.

I wished Simone had stayed. Gertrude is so demanding and I am not always strong enough to put her off. Sometimes she asks for legal opinions which require a substantial amount of research.

Gertrude sat in Simone’s chair and got straight down to business. ‘Hamish,’ she said, ‘I do not want you to breathe a word of what I am going to say to a single soul. Not even your wife. Especially not your wife. Please promise.’

I sighed. She need not be so blunt. As a lawyer I was of course discreet. Gertrude loved a chance to have a dig at Simone; I imagine she saw my wife as letting the palagi side down. ‘Gertrude,’ I said, ‘I will make up my own mind what I share with Simone. You mustn’t bully me.’

Gertrude changed tack. A creaky smile appeared fleetingly among her wrinkles. ‘Your wife is a dear, but you would have to agree that she is not the most discreet …’

Oh how she maddened me, that woman! But of course I was interested, so I compromised. With some reluctance I promised to keep the information to myself if I judged it potentially damaging in a legal sense. After all, she was not offering to pay me for my advice! To be honest, others had asked me for the same pledge more than once before. Simone is not the only gossip in Apia, but perhaps one of the most inventive. Rumours spread like wildfire among the palagi population.

Gertrude nodded. She produced from her bag a cacao pod, split it open and plonked it on the table. She
picked out a glistening seed and popped it in her mouth, nodding to me to follow suit. When she had sucked off the juicy coat she spat the bean into Simone’s coffee cup and took another. Gertrude’s favourite snack. She habitually carried a pod or two with her – as if to show how industrious she was, cleaning her own beans while others wastefully ate cake or biscuits. The coating on the beans is tasty if you can be bothered. I left her to her sucking and spitting.

Next she produced a couple of documents. Slapped them on the table.

‘I have discovered a nephew.’

I felt pleased for the old lady. She lived such an isolated life. Busy, surrounded by house staff and employees, certainly, but lacking friends.

She continued, eyeing me sharply, ‘I wish to leave the plantation to him and his family.’

I couldn’t suppress a bark of laughter. This was so typical of Gertrude!

She spat another bean then tapped my hand painfully with the coffee mug. ‘Hamish, this is no laughing matter. I have spent much time and effort …’ Her voice wavered for a moment. She looked away; I wondered if she might be close to tears. ‘… much time and effort to secure a decent future for the plantation.’

Words that others might use over their children’s security. Her child was the plantation.

It turned out that she had flown to New Zealand twice in the past year, searching for a willing heir. There were other relatives, I gathered, ones she considered more suitable, but none who was prepared to come. Evidently Gertrude had always known about this John O’Dowd,
but the wretched woman had never before considered getting in touch with him. Not in over fifty years!

‘Well?’ Gertrude never wasted time on pleasantries. She probably guessed what I would say and was ready to engage in the argument.

‘Was it not your husband’s wish that after your death the plantation should go to Tiresa’s family?’ We both knew this to be the case.

Gertrude nodded. ‘It was. Yes. But that was years ago. Things have changed. And I own the plantation now.’

‘He left no written instruction?’

She looked me in the eye. ‘No.’ The statement was too brisk. I didn’t quite believe her.

‘Tiresa and her family would contest, I imagine. The expectation has been there. Many of your husband’s relatives work on the plantation.’

Gertrude bared her yellow old teeth. ‘Surely I have the law on my side? Let them contest.’

She would likely win, I imagined, though Tiresa’s ‘aiga was powerful and perhaps able to exert pressure.

It was useless to talk morality with Gertrude, but I had to attempt it. ‘Why on earth would you leave the estate to strangers who know nothing about Samoa or – surely – running a plantation, when your own Samoan relatives are right here and waiting?’

‘Waiting for my death? Yes. Yes they are. That Tiresa!’ Gertrude suddenly sat bolt upright, bristling like an angry old cat. ‘She would put the plantation back into traditional village hands. All she cares about now is fa‘asamoa. She has forgotten her palagi side. What about the good German blood in her veins? She’s angling for a high title for her son. Hamish, you know what will
happen! There will be a big sa‘ofa‘i and generous Tiresa will return the plantation to village ownership. Speeches, fine mats presented, kava drunk, land returned and next day … Suddenly her son will become an important matai!’ Gertrude glared at me as if I were to blame. ‘And the plantation will fall into neglect.’

I was astonished to see her old blue eyes fill with tears. The future of her plantation was so important!

‘I can not bear to lose it!’ she shouted. ‘I
will
not! You know what fa‘asamoa is like, Hamish. If the plantation goes to the Levamanaias it will fail within a year. They will pick the crop only when they need a little extra cash. They will let the trees become overgrown. They will forget to fill the orders from overseas. You know it as well as I do!’ She spat out another bean and dabbed angrily at her eyes. ‘Oh it is such a mess!’

I sighed. She might be right. But surely … did the old lady imagine she would be watching with rage from beyond the grave?

I changed tack. ‘But the nephew? Would he come? Would he be interested?

Now her attitude changed from fierce to tentative. ‘I believe so. Yes, I believe he would. His circumstances are … unfortunate at present. But Hamish …’

It turned out she hadn’t confirmed the invitation. Not until she settled the delicate matter of his birth. She tapped the document on the table.

‘My nephew’s birth certificate. He has not seen it. And need not I hope. We don’t want the whole of Apia chewing over this bit of gossip, Hamish. I understand his knowledge of his birth circumstances is hazy. You might say sanitised. I do not believe he knows the wretched
circumstances at all.’

‘Then how do you …?’

‘Oh,’ she said impatiently, as if it were unimportant, ‘I have always known. You don’t need to know all the details. John is illegitimate. Born to my demented sister as the result of rape. I want to know whether his illegitimacy would damage my case if it came in court.’

She eyed me rather madly; tapped the birth certificate. ‘My sister, while still a young girl, almost drowned. Lost her mind in a boating accident. She used to wander the banks of the river in a filthy state. A poor silly laughing stock. Some despicable Chow raped her out in the bush somewhere and then when she fell pregnant and his crime became obvious, the coward hanged himself.
That
is John O’Dowd’s true birth heritage, and now I must stoop to accept this tainted half-Chow as nephew. Oh I could spit!’

She did spit. Then looked at me quickly. I think she realised that she had said too much. Her half smile appeared again. ‘Well we need not repeat
that
garbage. He was adopted by a decent white couple and brought up properly. John has a reputation as a competent and diligent worker. I checked all the details thoroughly. And his son-in-law seems handy enough. They will have to do. So what do you think?’

I was so shocked by her fury – the vitriolic way she denounced her own nephew, her rampant racism – that I found it difficult to speak.

‘Hamish?’ she said sharply. ‘Don’t take any notice of an old lady. I know my views are no longer fashionable. Just tell me. Could illegitimacy – or Chow blood – be an argument against me?’

Weakly, I answered her question. Reassured her. Illegitimacy should not affect the case if the Levamanaias contested. I should have roundly denounced her; run her off the property. I learned later to respect John. He became my friend, but I let him down, I believe, that morning.

The only small victory I might claim in the sorry business of that inheritance was to persuade Gertrude, some weeks later, when she came in to lodge her new will, to omit the daughter and son-in-law’s names from the document. Gertrude obviously favoured the ‘untainted’ blood of the son-in-law. I persuaded her that a simple will, favouring her own nephew, might be more persuasive if it came to court. She agreed and crossed out the names. I and my secretary witnessed the change.

As it turned out later, this was most fortuitous.

A month after her new relatives arrived, Gertrude, perhaps satisfied that they might be up to the task of running a plantation, invited us all to a welcoming party. John and the Ropers were in Apia overseeing the loading of their cacao crop. You would have thought Gertrude might hold the party in her town house, but no. The wretched woman chose to summon us all to the plantation. The road inland was appalling. But she was making a point of course: this is my land and will stay that way.

She rang to ask whether we might drive the guests of honour up. ‘We are all occupied preparing the feast,
Hamish. Would you be so kind?’ Gertrude was a past master at laying on charm when it was needed. I agreed with some misgiving. Our new Datsun was a tough little nut, but carrying five people over those ruts would challenge even a truck. My wife was pleased of course: a chance to get to know Jeanie.

That day, towards the horizon a deep purple line stained sea and sky. An unusual, ominous sign. For the past several days that odd colouring had come and gone. A hurricane, perhaps, heading in a different direction. Bad weather had been predicted – not a hurricane – but then forecasting was a hit and miss affair. Weather stations were too sparse, and information patchy at best. I had seen a dark stain like that only once before. The result had been devastation.