The Love Beach (29 page)

Despite her disappointment at the relegation of her islander chieftain, Mrs Flagg was firm with well‑being that morning. She had been selected as one of the important islanders to be presented to the Queen and she had been practising her curtsey since the previous Friday. She had been working on a hat decoration which incorporated some of the tribal feathers of the St Mark's tribe and, since their vivid feathers were never less than two feet in length, she was hoping that Her Majesty would be encouraged to ask her about them.

She looked up after signing her letter ‑ she contrived to model her signature in such a way that her surname was flung out in the appropriate shape of a pennant ‑ and saw a small native boat coming through the lagoon towards her small landing jetty. It was immediately recognizable to her as a St Mark's war canoe, coming through the idle water at an urgent pace. Mrs Flagg was at once alarmed and half rose from her basketwork chair. Then she saw her own natives running towards the waterfront, dancing with apprehension. She plunged among the six natives, a head and more taller than any. She cupped her hands and made a bellowing noise across the water. An answering sound came back, a single moaning hoot, followed by a gobbling chorus from the other men in the boat.

'Something terrible has happened,' Mrs Flagg said to herself, repeating the prophecy to the natives in their own tongue. They agreed anxiously. The canoe, manned by ten natives, was now only fifty yards off shore, swinging to come into the jetty. Tribal language was bellowed across the flat water so fast that Mrs Flagg could not follow it. The natives ashore became very agitated. Two of them ran off towards their hut to collect spears, ancestral skulls, and other personal belongings.

Some of the phrases so rapidly shouted between the tribesmen began to make sense for Mrs Flagg. She held her throat like a shocked duchess. 'War?' she said to herself. 'That's what they're saying? It's war with St Peter's.' She swung on the native nearest her and questioned him. He began to gabble.

'Slowly,' pleaded Mrs Flagg. 'Slowly if you will.'

He told her slowly that his brothers in the canoe had come to say that a great war fleet from St Peter's was about to attack St Mark's with the object of stealing the St Mark's copra hulk. The St Peter's hulk had been burned out in the night.

Mrs Flagg felt herself go pale. She turned from the lagoon and ran heavily up the grass to the house swerving around the sprinkler as she ran. Mr Flagg was coming serenely through the french windows carrying a Polynesian skin shield and some poisoned arrows. He turned the points of the arrows quickly upwards, out of danger, when he saw his wife closing on him.

'Bert!' she gasped. Oh Bert, something awful.'

'Calm, calm,' he motioned. 'Let's be calm.'

She all but collided with him, held on to him. He thrust the arrows high above his head well out of harm. 'Please!' he pleaded. 'Calm.'

Mrs Flagg halted. 'Right,' she breathed. 'I'm calm.' She looked at his startled face. 'It's war,' she said. 'The St Peter's people are preparing to sail against our lads at St Mark's. Full tribal war!'

'No,' whispered Mr Flagg. 'That can't be.'

'It can be,' argued Mrs Flagg. 'It is. The St Peter's copra hulk was burned out last night and you can be certain they're mounting an attack to steal the St Mark's hulk, or to burn it, or something.' She stamped with temper. 'Oh, how I hate them! 'They're such a rotten lot of sports!'

'And Her Majesty is coming tomorrow,' said Mr Flagg, closing his eyes.

'Exactly,' moaned Mrs Flagg. 'Exactly.' She ran into the house. 'We must act,' she said. 'At
once. We
must tell the Governor.'

She made for the telephone, flopped on the couch beside it, and asked the Sexagesima operator to put her through to the Govemor. She got Cooper, the ADC. 'Good heavens, Mrs Flagg, are you sure?' he said, his head sinking lower to his desk.

'Absolutely,' she said. 'Do something Cooper, and quickly or there will be mayhem. Mayhem!'

'Mayhem,' he agreed. He went into the Governor's office. Sir William was combing out the feathers on his white officer's hat. His best shoes had just been cleaned and were sitting obediently on the carpet by his desk.

'Fine hat this, Cooper,' said the Governor before his ashen ADC could speak. 'Look at the cockade. Never had a chance to wear it before. Ha! what a day it's going to be tomorrow, eh?' He beamed up, saw Cooper and frowned. 'What's the matter man?'

Cooper swallowed. He seemed to digest some of his own face as he did so.

'Sir William,' he said. 'There's trouble.'

'Trouble?'

'Mrs Flagg, sir, she just phoned.'

'Oh her,' said the Governor turning away, relieved.

'The St Peter's natives are going to war against St Mark's sir.'

Sir William stopped as though an arrow bad caught him between the shoulders. He turned. 'Dear God! When?'

'Today sir. Any moment. Their canoes are ready to sail and the St Mark's tribe are preparing to sail out to meet them.'

'But they catn't" protested Sir William. 'The hell of them! They can't. Not today.'

'They are sir. The St Peter's copra hulk was burned out last night. Either they think it was St Mark's people who did it or they are out to get the St Mark's copra ship. Or both.'

Sir William cradled his head. The cockaded hat slipped back over his neck. 'No,' he muttered. 'No. Not now. Why do the black fools do it now.'

'They're just contrary, sir,' suggested the inane Cooper. 'Just damned contrary.'

Sir William stared from the window. The flags and bunting in the Government House garden hung exhausted in the sun. Across the harbour he could see the red, white, and blue colours lining the quay. He turned on Cooper standing pale and thin as a thermometer.

'Cooper,' he said. 'We've got to stop thern. We can't have tribal war when the Queen is about to arrive. We have to stop them.'

'Yes, sir,' acknowledged Cooper. 'How?'

'God knows,' said Sir William, dropping his old face in his hands. He stood up consciously straight, took the cockaded hat from his head, and stared into the lagoon outside his window. He revolved again.

'Get English,' he said. 'And the other people. You know, Kendrick and Livesley. All the council people. And Mrs Flagg. Must have her.'

He looked uncertain, his brow collapsed a little. 'Better tell Monsieur Martin, I suppose. We're supposed to let the French know if any emergencies arrive. Yes, tell him. And ... Yes. listen Cooper, get me that Australian bugger, you remember the objectionable one.'

'They are frequently objectionable, sir,' said Cooper. 'Mr Conway you mean.'

'That's him. He knows a lot about the St Peter's people. He's been over there a great deal recently. Too much in fact.' Sir William seemed to suddenly revive. 'Come on, Cooper, we're going to this war. And we're going to stop it.'

In the thick mid‑afternoon Conway was uneasily sleeping in his room at the Hilton, his split and bruised face lying painfully in the crook of his arm. He was sweating and there were so many flies in the room that even the geckos had been sated and did not want to gorge any more. The flies whirred in the hot enclosed air, full of their new freedom, standing proudly on Conway's bare feet, playing up and down his nose. He twitched but did not wake.

Davies woke him. Pale still from Abe's crab, he entered the room, shook Conway by the shoulder and loudly called him. Conway released a stiff eye. It seemed to take him some time to recognize Davies. 'What's going on, pal?' he asked.

'They're going to war all right,' said Davies grimly.

'Great,' grinned Conway, getting up on his elbow. 'See, son. it always goes for the brave. I'd better get over there.'

Davies looked at him nastily. 'I wouldn't,' he warned. 'They're going to war against the St Mark's natives.'

Conway's face went solid. 'You're joking,' he breathed. He jumped up. 'The bloody fools, they can't do that! What the hell are they doing that for?'

Davies shrugged, enjoying watching Conway. 'Because the St Mark's islanders are their traditional enemies, that's why. Arid when Dodson‑Smith rings his bell for them to go to war they don't go to Vietnam because they've never heard of the sodding place. They head straight across the water because that's where the usual enemies live. And what's more they've got eyes on the copra stored in the hulk on St Mark's. How are you going to work this one out?'

'Shut up and stop gloating for Christ's sake,' said Conway angrily. 'I'm in trouble.'

Davies said: 'Yes I can see that.'

'You are too, Taffy, because you're in it as well.'

'Thanks for bringing it up. Anyway, the Governor wants us both.'

Conway looked upset. 'The Governor? Wants us? What for?'

Davies said patiently: 'Well, it's like this, see. He's a bit worried about having a full scale tribal massacre on his hands when Her Majesty is sailing in tomorrow.'

'I bet he is,' agreed Conway. 'But he doesn't know anything about us, does he? He can't do, unless Abe has been opening his mouth.'

'He wants us because he knows that you've been spending a lot of time over there on St Paul's with Joseph and his mob. And he's got to hear the story about me being over there that day with the harmonium and playing hymns for them. Everybody's heard that now. So he wants us to help him.'

'Help him what?'

'Stop the bleeding war I suppose,' said Davies miserably. 'Listen, mate, since you got me into this perhaps you'd be so damned kind as to get me out. You're full of plans and schemes sometimes. You
were
last night, weren't you. Well you better think up something now, boy, because we are in the shit.'

Conway got up and began to pull on his trousers. 'What savages,' he said bitterly. 'What idiots. Fancy starting a war.'

'Without you too,' said Davies without humour. 'I can't understand it.'

'How does he propose to stop it?' Conway asked him. 'The Governor I mean.'

He pulled on a khaki shirt and pushed his hair back from his forehead. Changing his mind he went to the enamel wash basin and poured a measure of water from the jug into his hand, transferring it with tenderness to his sore face.

'I don't know how he's going to stop it. Perhaps you ought to wear your Dodson‑Smith get‑up.'

Conway came across the room to him fiercely, angrily. 'Listen to me,' he said holding Davies's shirt in a bunch in his left hand and closing his large right fist. 'I don't mind you taking the piss out of me. but you say one word, one breath, about last night to anybody and you'll never see Newport again. You won't see anywhere again. All right.'

'All right,' agreed Davies prudently. 'You can put me down now.'

Conway released him. He dried his face on the corner of his bedsheet. 'Never have any towels in here,' he said excusing himself. 'You'd think as they put a basin and water in the room they'd think to put a towel as well, wouldn't you. Have you got a towel in your room?'

'No, answered Davies.

'We ought to complain to Seamus. After all we pay enough. Right let's go and see how we can assist His Excellency. Have you still the gun I gave you last night?'

Davies nodded. 'Under my pillow,' he said. 'Do you want it?'

'Better take it,' said Conway. He had recovered his shell now. He was very composed, easy, good‑humoured. His eyes were a bit sharp, thought Davies, that was all. Davies went and recovered the pistol. He gave it to Conway who tucked it inside his shirt.

'Where have we got to go?' he asked as they went down the cool stairs.

'By the quay,' said Davies. 'He's got a sort of collection of people down there he thinks might help. I think we're going out in that pretty little pinnace of his.'

'With his Nelson sailor boys,' said Conway. 'That will be picturesque I must say. Right let's see what he's got to propose.'

'I'm not looking forward to this,' said Davies as they

walked quickly in the hard sun down the street.

Conway said: 'I'm not exactly in rhapsodies about it myself.'

It was three o'clock in the brilliant afternoon when the first of the St Paul's war canoes began to move from the lagoon. Inside the reef they had assembled, surrounding the single charred rib of the copra hulk that remained above water. It stood like a stricken tree, rooted in the sea, deprived of leaves and branches. The islanders did not look at it.

Their canoes numbered a hundred and ten including the big supply dug‑outs with their store of arrows, shields, and spears, and the four ambulance canoes which would be used to transport the wounded back to their own island. They were painted like peacocks, but each with a large wooden cross at its prow. All the warriors wore special battle crucifixes which Abe had supplied at the time of their last emergency.

Joseph of Arimathea, regal in his Bermuda shorts, held a wide shield and led a session of community hymn singing before the tribe went to battle. They were glad to go, eager to meet the traditional pagan foe. Now that Dodson‑Smith had appeared, even though he had disappeared again so briskly, they felt they were going on a blessed crusade. The ringing summons of his bell was still sounding in their faithful ears.

The Warriors were armed with the traditional island weapons, the simple poisoned spear, the bow and the arrow dipped in the same potent pot. There remained on their island some wartime dumps of firearms but these had not been used by the St Paul's natives since a series of accidents had reduced their numbers some years before.

On the beach, beneath the curving trees and with the

roofs of the village thrusting through the green behind

them, the women and children assembled bravely and stood

with their men as the canoes slid full of purpose through

the water. Joseph began each hymn, selecting them at
random from his memory of
the Church Mission Hymnal'.

No one sang with anyone else, although in their uncanny way, everyone finished together. The mutilated words and terrible tunes ' babbled across the lagoon filling the bursting afternoon with an impressive cantata. The warriors, as they sang, rested their hands on their paddles and on the weapons they carried to the sea for the battle.