Geckos and Moths

PATRICIA JOHNSON

geckos and moths

geckos and moths PATRICIA JOHNSON

PANDANUS BOOKS Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies THE AUSTRALIAN NATIONAL UNIVERSITY

Cover: A food hook from the Sepik River region of Papua New Guinea. This hook is suspended in people’s houses, and string bags of food and personal possessions are hung from the hooks to protect them from rodents and other pests. © Patricia Johnson 2003 This book is copyright in all countries subscribing to the Berne convention. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Typeset in Weiss 11pt on 13.5pt and printed by Pirion, Canberra National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry Johnson, Patricia, 1943– Geckos and Moths. ISBN 1 74076 026 3 1. Port Moresby (Papua New Guinea) — Fiction. I. Title. A823.3 Editorial inquiries please contact Pandanus Books on 02 6125 3269 www.pandanusbooks.com.au Published by Pandanus Books, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, The Australian National University, Canberra ACT 0200 Australia Pandanus Books are distributed by UNIREPS, University of New South Wales, Sydney NSW 2052 Telephone 02 9664 0999 Fax 02 9664 5420 Pubisher’s Editor: Donald Denoon Production: Ian Templeman, Duncan Beard, Emily Brissenden

For Boris, Tony and Paula

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The first draft of Geckos and Moths was written more than thirty years ago in London. I had escaped there after the death of my partner Boris Cook, with whom I had lived in Port Moresby for ten months. Boris was a photographer and emergent film maker and it was while he was in the Trobriand Islands shooting footage for a documentary that he was drowned. He is buried there. In Sydney’s devastating hailstorm several years ago, my home office was inundated and many files and manuscripts were ruined. Amongst the things I salvaged, though, were the first drafts of two unpublished novels, one of which was Geckos and Moths. I re-read it for the first time in many years and, as if I had pressed OPEN FILE on the computer, the story and the setting came back with all its immediacy and I set to work on a second draft. My late agent Tony Williams (1937–2002) brought this to the attention of publisher Ian Templeman at Pandanus Books. His reader, Professor Donald Denoon, who later became my editor, liked the book and recommended that it be published, with revisions. Professor Denoon corrected historical inaccuracies, provided Pidgin translations and, even more importantly, drew my attention to passages where deeper thought on my part resulted in truer and clearer writing. These revisions turned into a totally rewritten third draft, which is what is published here.

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In Port Moresby, all those years ago, Boris and I collaborated on a children’s book called Maia Goes To School. In photographs and words, it was about a little girl who lived in Hanuabada with her family. In her preface to the book, the film critic Sylvia Lawson wrote: Boris Cook was a free spirit. He had his own way of seeing and of making others see. He would have become a very good film maker and a completely honest one. I would like to think that Boris’ example has stayed with me as some kind of legacy. As an influence and a reminder of what is important in writing or film making or any other medium we might use to communicate with others. Patricia Johnson Sydney 2003

This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

ONE

‘No, we won’t be sorry to get back,’ Barry Morton said as his wife scrabbled in peanuts. ‘Not sorry, no,’ echoed Linda. ‘We could have stayed on for another —‘ ‘— term, yes, and kept Brisbane rented out.’ ‘And in lots of ways we’ll — ‘ ‘— miss it, yes.’ ‘Be glad to be leaving the old Moresby.’ Linda’s gaze faltered. She popped a peanut into her mouth. ‘But you know,’ Barry’s smile was more like a grimace, ‘you come to a point with a place where you — ‘ ‘— do want to leave, you do.’ ‘Could stay on forever really, no trouble at all. But then you have to think in the long-term.’ Barry almost disguised a soft belch with a clearing of his throat. ‘Weigh the pros and cons,’ he said. Linda looked first to Virginia, then to Ted. Neither was giving her any more clues than Barry was. Finally, she ventured: ‘The way of life?’ ‘There’s that, of course,’ Barry crossed one jiggling foot over a jiggling knee. Linda was surer. ‘Our lovely friends?’

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‘Our lovely friends is right,’ said Barry, reaching out for Ted’s arm which was too far off to pat. ‘And the servants of course.’ Linda sparkled now that she was on a home run. ‘Gosh,’ she chuckled bravely, ‘I’m going to wonder what’s hit me when I have to do my own washing up!’ Everybody laughed except Virginia. She avoided Ted’s gaze, which she knew was on her. There was a lull. Then the peanuts came to Barry’s aid and he said through chewing: ‘But the girls will be glad to get back to Brissie.’ ‘Oh yes,’ Linda beamed, ‘Jan and Judy are thrilled we’re going home.’

Virginia sipped her wine and thought again how strange it was that she had spent so much time in Linda’s company since she had come here. How very strange. For there was something about Linda that Virginia found repulsive. Something reptilian with her dry, sandy skin and hooded eyes. Linda also liked to wear big wide collars which were starched and stood up. Ted jumped to his feet in the face of another lull. ‘A bit of a top up?’ He reached for Barry’s glass. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Barry surrendered it as though he was doing Ted a favour. ‘You’re okay for the moment,’ Ted said to his wife as he moved towards the split-cane bar which held the decanters. Virginia’s glass was almost empty. ‘And how about you, Linda? A bit more ice?’

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Linda murmured that she was fine. She put her glass on the coffee table as if to emphasize her abstinence. Barry joined Ted at the bar and Linda excused herself to go to the toot.

It was almost four years since Virginia had married Ted Rich. This had happened in Sydney in the morning and at midnight that night she had arrived in Port Moresby. She was a shocked stranger stepping off the plane into a dense, wet heat she could never have imagined. Ted was coming home. Linda Morton was the first person, besides Ted, she knew in Port Moresby. She had still been unpacking the wedding presents that were small enough to go with them on the plane and she was alone in the house and the place that were still so new to her. The radio was tuned to the ABC. Cultivated voices came from a place which already seemed so far away. Even inside, the air smelled of coconut. Then, as she glanced up and out the window, her heart jumped at the sight of a tall, grey-haired native coming up the driveway. Virginia stood behind the living room blinds and slowed her breath. He couldn’t see her. The man rang the doorbell and waited with his head down. He rang the bell again. Virginia’s mouth was dry with her own ridiculousness. Why couldn’t she open the door to the black man as she would to anyone else? The truth was, it had stunned her at the airport. She had seen so few live black faces in her life and here she was, surrounded by them. After ringing twice more, the black man put something on the front step and went away.

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The big pink envelope was addressed in careful copperplate to Mrs Virginia Rich. It turned her mouth dry, seeing it written down like that. Mrs Virginia Rich. So definite, so irrefutable. That’s who she was up here and from now on. Inside the envelope was an elaborate card addressed to ‘dear Virginia’. It was signed off with crosses for kisses ‘from your new friend Linda Morton’. Linda was inviting her to an afternoon tea party (Girls Only, it said in brackets) where, as it turned out, nobody drank tea. Or at least, not after that first cup Linda offered for form’s sake. Virginia was shy about accepting the invitation, about going alone to a gathering of strangers, but Ted told her she must. If she refused, Linda Morton would take it as a terrible snub, as anyone would up here. Also, Ted said, she would find herself relying a lot on her women friends. He was too busy to be much company and Moresby, he warned, could be a really lonely place if you neglected the social side. Ted booked a taxi for her at two that Thursday and Virginia was taken to a wide, white bungalow where Linda rushed and gushed down the front path to meet her. On the verandah another couple of women squealed and laughed their welcomes. With dread, Virginia was ushered inside to more women where she realized that she was the star attraction — the centerpiece in this gathering of girls who had long since ceased to be. For Virginia was New. The New Wife. The New Arrival. The Freshest Import from the Big Smoke to be eagerly pumped on everything from the current level of hemlines to the ‘in’ food at dinner parties. Shyness instantly overcame her. When this happened, as it nearly always did when she was with strangers, it gave her an expression others took for aloofness.

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It didn’t take the girls long to realize the new chum wasn’t giving the bright, enthusiastic responses they had hoped for so they pretty quickly turned back into themselves — old mates and comrades in a shared experience — laughing and talking about things they had laughed and talked about before. They smoked cigarettes and topped up their G and Ts. They character- assassinated a woman who hadn’t been invited and never would be. They shrieked at someone’s new story about the dumb thing her houseboy had done. The dignified native who delivered the invitation kept the ice bucket full and the ashtrays clean. Virginia was sipping slowly at her own drink — she did that in those days — when Linda came over and sat again on the armrest of her chair. ‘Goodness me,’ she said, ‘I’ve been neglecting you haven’t I?’ Virginia assured Linda that she hadn’t. ‘So what do you think about our little group? Do you mind being called Ginny, Ginny?’ Linda’s eyes wore a smooth, moist sheen. Virginia said that no one had called her Ginny since she was a little girl. Linda dabbed at her cleavage where she had spilled a bit of her drink. She’d heard someone say the new girl was a bit up herself and perhaps they had a point. ‘No, I can understand that.’ She touched Virginia’s hand in a soothing way. ‘I suppose Ginny does sound a bit — well — gin-soaked or something, doesn’t it?’ Then someone turned on a lamp and Linda frowned. Across the room, a woman called Lorrae began to wriggle in her armchair, clasping her plump knees, laughing,

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trying to unwedge her hips, saying that well, really, she ought to go, really she ought, it had been wonderful really but she’d never be able to organize the tea if she went home zonked. Linda jumped up to stop her, knowing that Lorrae’s departure would tip the exodus. ‘Don’t leave now, sweetie pie.’ Which it did. ‘Have a little roadie.’ Other women were standing too. Linda tried to take Lorrae’s glass but Lorrae laughed and insisted that no, she had to go. Her boy was hopeless and if she didn’t supervise him he still couldn’t get a meal on the table properly. Someone said that all the bush kanakas looking for jobs now were tarred with the same brush. Lorrae said it would be a whole lot easier to go back to cooking herself but she couldn’t stand over a hot stove in this heat, not to save her life she couldn’t. That night over the dinner Virginia cooked and made special with candles and wine, Ted was pleased to hear what his wife told him: that she had been a bit shy at first but then she finished up having a nice time. Which women did she like most? Virginia said Linda and Lorrae, because they were the only two names she could remember. Ted didn’t know who Lorrae was, but he knew Linda. She was the wife of Barry Morton at the Commonwealth and Barry was an okay bloke. So from there on in, the Mortons and the Riches would have dinner together every Thursday. One week they would go to the Mortons. The next week the Mortons would come to them. It was not only strange, Virginia thought, pinging her fingernail onto crystal. Right then — right at that very moment as she watched Ted and Barry go back to their chairs,

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as Linda returned from the bathroom in a rustle of starched cotton — she found it unbelievable. Linda leaned down and whispered in the scent of newlyapplied perfume: ‘You’re almost out of toilet tissue.’ ‘Am I Linda?’ Virginia drank what was almost the last drop of her wine. ‘Almost out of toilet tissue?’ Linda started to blink. Her eyes were not so much green as yellow. She said: ‘Your boy ought to look after things like that.’ She smoothed her behind and sat down. ‘Our boy does.’ ‘Goada is his name.’ Virginia started to flick, now, at her glass. Ted was watching her with a warning look. Linda bunched gingham around her. ‘Yes,’ she said. She touched at her face. ‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘Of course it is, yes,’ at a loss. Everything was expectant. Then Linda brightened and grasped at a straw she hoped was still buoyant. ‘The thought of leaving you pair, though — that really turns us off.’ She gave a little wave to her husband across the room. ‘Doesn’t it, Barry?’ Barry Morton cleared his throat and nodded violently. For himself, there wasn’t one single thing — or person — he would be sorry to leave behind in Port Moresby. He had, from the very first day he set foot on the hot bitumen of Jackson’s Airport, hated the place. But for the fact that it was a definite step up in his career at the Commonwealth, plus a sizeable salary increase with a free house and generous allowances, he would never have stuck it for so long. Barry liked Ted Rich well enough. Ted was a decent sort. But Barry didn’t like Ted’s wife. Beautiful and she knew it. The weekly dinners always left him irritated in a way he could never quite put his finger on. There was something

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so stuck-up about the woman. Better-than-you-are sort of thing. Barry knew, no matter what Linda believed, that Virginia Rich really had no time for either of them. Barry started clicking his glass too. A beat behind Virginia. ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘We’ll certainly miss you two characters.’ Nobody said anything more because nobody could think of anything more to say. The clicking stopped. First Virginia’s, then Barry’s. They became aware of their own breathing and of the small noises that make up the peculiar tropical silence. The whirr of electric fans. The staccato cluck of geckos clustered under the porch eaves. The flutter and thud of moths divebombing into the wire that barred them from the light. A car horn sounded down in the town. A spatter of laughter from somewhere carried, too, on the still night air. Virginia took in the image she knew would stay with her for life. They were joined in a circle of light shed by the giant Chinese lantern that hung in the middle of the room. They were all connected — Linda and Barry and Ted and Virginia — and they were all so far apart. Somebody’s stomach rumbled loudly. Virginia saw Ted squirm. He was trying to think of something — something to say — something to break the silence which threatened to swallow them up. Finally — it seemed with a great effort — Ted cleared his throat and asked: ‘Is that artist chap still renting your house in Brisbane?’ As if to help regain the regularity, the fridge in the kitchen started up again.

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‘We’ve given him notice,’ said Barry, ‘as to when we’re coming back.’ He sipped at his refilled Scotch. ‘And the place better be spotless or else they’ll lose their bond.’ ‘He’s got a little hippy girl living with him,’ Linda said, pinched. ‘Hardly more than a kid,’ said Barry who would never see the glint of his own growing daughters. ‘Living in sin at seventeen!’ Linda appealed to Barry. ‘Just imagine if that was Jan or Judy!’ ‘Yes,’ Barry frowned. ‘Morals in Australia have certainly taken a turn for the worse and I put it all down to the Pill.’ Linda shook her head and sighed. She was studying her wedding ring when she looked up to see what had turned things quiet again. The men were looking at Virginia. Who was standing. With her empty glass. ‘Can I get — anything — anyone — while I’m up?’ Linda drew in her breath. Her disapproval found a new focus and wafted across the room like something tangible. ‘No thank you, Virginia.’ Linda said with a meaningful look towards Ted. ‘I know when I’ve had enough.’ Virginia always moved gracefully when she had been drinking. She knew she did. Drinking also ushered in the presence of the power. She didn’t know what else to call it. It was a feeling that must always be there but which hid itself from her except when she was drinking. She had been going to put her sandals back on but then she didn’t. Instead, with a little sway, she walked barefoot over the cool yellow parquetry and through the looped wool rug. Yes, the power was back,

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lurking low in her chest. She couldn’t help a little laugh to say hello to it again. She turned at the kitchen door. The three faces shining in the Chinese light were somber. ‘No,’ she said, meaning to tell them that the laugh had nothing to do with them, was just to welcome the power. There was alarm in Ted’s eyes. So she could only laugh again and say it again. ‘No.’ She went into the kitchen. Yes, the power. Hello. Hello again. Perhaps she really had inherited her father’s disease. It was a disease. Everybody knew that nowadays.

Goada had already washed up after dinner and left everything spotless.

Feeling the power made her remember Black Beauty, the pony Mr Collins taught her to ride on. Mr Collins owned Creggan Moar, the homestead and sheep station where her mother was cook for a year. Mr Collins called the pony Trixie. When Virginia told him that from now on she would call the horse Black Beauty, Mr Collins had laughed and said: ‘You can’t call her Black Beauty, Ginny my girl.’ His face cracked into crevices like the land around him. ‘She’s brown as an army boot, that little mare!’ Virginia had tried to explain why the name Black Beauty was exciting but how Brown Beauty sounded too tame, too gentle, but couldn’t so she shrugged in exasperation and ran to her mother who was coming out of the stores shed. Mr Collins

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followed to tell her mother — Ferny he called her — that the new mob of shearers reckoned hers was the best tucker this side of the black stump.

The breakfast things were already on the table and covered with a cloth. The fruit bowl held more mangos and firmer bananas.

How she had loved to ride Black Beauty. She talked to her as she rode her through the clumps of mulga, her wrist strong and firm when the pony would have preferred her head. That feeling of satisfaction, of being the one in charge. A little girl with no say in anything. No say in where she lived or how or who with. That wonderful feeling of being in charge.

Virginia took another bottle of wine from the fridge. The kitchen tidy was lined with its new plastic bag. Even the teapot held tea-leaves for six a.m.’s boiling water. She had stopped praising Goada for his efficiency when she realized that he couldn’t handle praise any more than he could handle alcohol. Goada lived in a tin-roofed shed behind the house. Whenever Virginia thanked him for doing something well Goada would smile and giggle his thanks at the compliment. Then he would go home and turn into a bully. Virginia saw this happen a couple of times before she realized it was the praise that did it. Goada’s soft voice would rise into a shout. Mary would stand sullen and silent before his hysterical Motu. The children would scatter before he could hit them. If the praise made him

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feel like a bigger man then Goada would act, with his own, like a bigger man. He would be the boss he aspired to being. So Virginia stopped telling her houseboy how good he was. For a while, confusion in his eyes, Goada outdid himself trying to get the praise back. He took to mopping the kitchen floor three times a day before Virginia told him to stop. Instead of the praise and in the face of Ted’s objection, she started giving him ten shillings a week more in wages along with his stores of rice, tea and tinned fish. Linda was horrified when she found out. There was a going rate and that was that. Next thing you knew, Linda had squeaked, the boys would be striking for white wages and paid holidays.

She couldn’t find the bottle opener. Goada always left it in the cutlery drawer beside the knives. It wasn’t there. Then she saw its glint behind the fruit bowl. Ted. She smiled at his foolishness in trying to hide it. She opened the bottle of German Riesling and filled a third of her glass. Then she added more — and more again — until the wine was almost at the rim. She was not only graceful but careful as she went back into the living room. Ted and the Mortons were chuckling at something. Ted’s grin died when he saw her glass. ‘Did you open another bottle?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. If Ted could frown, she could smile. ‘Can’t fly on one wing,’ chuckled Barry but Linda stood and said they’d better be toddling. She stuffed her hanky back into her evening bag and gathered up her white Lurex shawl. She handed this to Barry and assumed the position of a priestess — arms crooked and outstretched — as Barry placed it on her shoulders. She smoothed its fall over the front of her skirt and

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Barry perfected the top. ‘Early start tomorrow,’ he said as he always did when they were leaving. Barry checked his watch as if he didn’t know it to the second. Virginia sat and started to sip. Linda and Barry and Ted and Virginia. Ted usually insisted on a roadie — one for the road. This time, Ted said nothing. He was looking at his lap, picking at a thread in his cream linen trousers. Virginia couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was beginning to be not young. The way the light smashed into his face. Punched bruises of tiredness under his eyes. Ted was so fallible. Something surged inside her chest but it wasn’t the power, it was regret. For her and for him. There was nothing to hold onto, nothing to grab. She was unaware that tears were dripping off her chin until she saw Linda’s silver sandals skittering towards her. ‘Oh lovey,’ Linda breathed, ‘tell me what’s wrong.’ Ted came over and stood protectively. ‘She’s just had a bit much to drink.’ A once-young man now tired and sad and whose fault was it? Probably hers. ‘No I haven’t.’ It sounded foolish. ‘I know when I’ve had enough and I haven’t had enough.’ What she said was foolish and so was she. Ted’s hand was on Linda’s arm, warding her off, but Linda was not to be moved. She let her shawl fall. ‘Oh goodness,’ she pretended, ‘I hope it was nothing we said.’ Ted started to gather glasses. ‘It was nothing you said.’ He put them back on the bar. ‘She’s had a bit of a trying week, that’s all.’ ‘No I haven’t.’ Virginia swallowed more wine. ‘No more than usual.’

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Barry picked up Linda’s shawl and once again placed it on her expectant arms. ‘I’ll come around tomorrow,’ Linda said, ‘you poor little poppet.’ Even as she was brushing the tears off her chin and her cheeks, Virginia’s voice was firm, held not a note of emotion. ‘No don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t come round, Linda, please.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘I don’t want you to come round tomorrow. I don’t ever want you to come around again.’ Ted dumped the dishes of peanuts down with a clink. ‘Now that’s enough!’ He hurried to the front door. Linda was white with the affront. ‘Well that’s alright by me!’ Barry was leading Linda off by the Oroton leash. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘before more of us say things we’ll wish we hadn’t.’ ‘She’ll be okay,’ Ted said with a get-out movement of his head he couldn’t stop. ‘She’ll be okay, I’ll be okay,’ Virginia stood but was not so sure this time. ‘We’ll all be okay, everything will, won’t it?’ She got up again to go back to the kitchen. A loop in the rug lay in wait but she was too graceful for it. At the kitchen door she heard Linda say: ‘I won’t come anywhere I’m not wanted. Even if she has had too much to drink.’ Virginia turned and called out: ‘Linda!’ Go, she wanted to yell, go on and get out and never lizard back here again. But she couldn’t yell that — couldn’t yell anything — because it was the power that had gone. Gone where? Where was the wrist that held the reins? Gone and left her unsteady with a little rock back on her heels.

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On the porch, Linda heard the cry from inside. She looked first at Barry, then at Ted and straightened up taller. ‘I won’t,’ she said loudly enough for it to carry, ‘ever come here again unless I get an apology.’ Virginia heard their voices murmur into nothing as they all went further out the front. She closed the kitchen door gently behind her. The power that could have made her slam it had gone along with all the other things she could no longer grab onto. She put her glass down and then stood at the sink and sobbed. Her tears made blobs on the stainless steel Goada buffed silver with Ajax.

TWO

Ted walked down the hill, almost into town. He stopped at the sea wall then sat there, his back to the oily water. A bloke he recognized from the pub went towards a parked car and Ted averted his face, hoping the man wouldn’t come across to talk. When he looked again, though, the man was fumbling with keys and staggering, way past the stage of seeing Ted, let alone talking to him. How ironic that Virginia was now the one with the drinking problem. When he first met her she only ever drank Pimm’s — perfumed lolly-water in tall glasses with bits of fruit stuck on the rim. That was fine by Ted. Ted had known a lot of women in his time and if there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was seeing a woman lose her dignity when she’d had too much to drink. He picked up a stone and shook his head at an unbidden memory. Something hidden for years became vivid again. Something he hoped he’d never have to remember. But now he could even smell the furniture polish. And see again the girl who’d looked a bit like Ava Gardner. He was in Sydney on a business trip and staying at the Australia Hotel. It was his last night in the town where he had grown up but where he now felt like a stranger. He was glad to be going back to Moresby in the morning but sad and unsettled

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too. Moresby was home and he loved it up there but, once again, he was going back alone to be alone. Ted didn’t feel like dinner but he did feel like drinking that night. Usually he went downstairs to the bar with its noise and smoke and mateship with men he’d never see again, but that night he climbed the stairs to the Lounge, with its smooth chairs and smooth music. He found himself wondering what everything was for and he needed a woman that night. So the good-looking man and the beautiful brunette became aware of each other at the same time. Across a crowded room, as the song crooned right at that very moment. Waiters in waistcoats changed ashtrays and plumped cushions. Ted toasted the girl in the distance and she turned her back with a smile. Two hours later, after her work-mates had gone home (it was a hens’ night out for one of them who was getting married), several rounds of Johnny Walker for him and Drambuie for her, the girl he didn’t want to remember had gone with him back to his room where one thing had led to another. But, in the middle of it all — the sweat and the friction and melted lips — the girl changed her mind and said no. At the very brink, she said no, said not yet, no, stop, no she didn’t want to. So he did try to stop but then couldn’t. Kept on and kept on till she cried out and bled and hit him with a scream. He did stop then and was horrified. The girl ran to be sick. Ted could still see the wallpaper and smell the alcohol vomit. He couldn’t believe what he had done. He looked at himself in the mirror so he didn’t have to look at her.

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Ted threw the stone as far away from him as he could. Please. Think of something else. The white-faced girl — no longer the film star — called him a pig and then fled. The hiccoughing Holden saved him from more. As Ted watched, the car jumped forward, stopping just short of the sea wall. The driver slumped over the wheel and the horn blared. Then the Holden reversed at speed, spun in a screech and took off up the hill. Ted got up and dusted the seat of his pants.

No, Virginia had never been a drinker. Ted had to concede that it was coming up here that had done it. But why? Not that she drank all the time. Or, at least Ted didn’t think she did. There was an alcoholic father somewhere in the background but whenever he’d ask, Virginia changed the subject. In Sydney when they were new to each other and he was so much in love, the couple of times he’d had more to drink than he should have she had drawn away from him in disapproval, even dislike. Ted didn’t like drinking enough to risk losing the girl he knew he had to marry. And now, here it was, the boot on the other foot. Ted would watch his wife drinking — like tonight — and feel himself grow sober. He knew what would happen, now, when she reached a certain point. She’d reached that point tonight and it could have been worse than it was. Those awful silences he’d had to jump in and stop. That look on her face, getting ready. The Mortons’ Brisbane tenant had come to his aid like a lifeline. He knew that the Mortons had the same feeling.

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That something had just been averted. The night hadn’t finished up well but it could have gone on to be worse.

All his life, Ted Rich had been a practical person, but goodnatured with it. He had a gift or an instinct for straightening things out. Until the last year or so, Ted had never encountered one problem — major or minor — which could not be broken down into solvable components. Ted could even help others out of fixes. A talk over a beer, perhaps jottings on a bit of paper, these were the ways Ted knew to solutions. But with the one big, perplexing problem that his marriage had become, Ted didn’t even know where to start. Not with their public life together as the Riches of Port Moresby. Not with their private life together now that the early ease with which he had loved her had turned to a fear of offending. Ted didn’t like the Mortons any more than Virginia did, but that wasn’t the point. Moresby wasn’t a place where you could pick and choose your acquaintances, let alone your friends. If you had to make do with the necessities up here, you certainly had to make do with the niceties. And if Linda Morton wanted to think of herself as Virginia’s best friend, when everyone except Linda could see that Virginia couldn’t stand her, well, then, so be it. It was worth it just not to get on the wrong side. A thwarted Linda Morton would be the very one to spread gossip, my word she would, if she hadn’t done so already. Ted suddenly felt so dead tired that he thought he would thumb a lift if a car came along. He started to go up the hill again. Ted couldn’t stand the idea that people would ever talk about him in tones that pretended pity. Without being

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stuck up about it, he was a man of substance in this place. No one was going to diminish him by feeling sorry for him. Ted was trudging. There was not one sound that was dominant, just the full, twittering silence that was dense as the night itself. Couldn’t stand it and wouldn’t stand it. The tail lights of the swerving car had long since disappeared.

He frowned as he walked up his driveway. The house was in darkness but the porch lights were still on, blurred by the big brown moths. The geckos were gorged. The wire screen door was closed but the front door was open. Ted was sure he’d shut it when he went outside with the Mortons. Virginia must have opened it again. How many times did he have to tell her? He turned the porch lights off then went inside as quietly as he could. He didn’t want to wake Virginia if she was asleep, or even if she was pretending to be. He didn’t want to confront her tonight — no more tension please. He held back the lock of the front door till it engaged with its other half in more of a sigh than a click. Ted took his sandals off and left them at the door. He walked across the parquetry, barefoot as Virginia had been. He could understand the feeling she’d had through the soles of her feet. This surprised him in some small, pleasant way that at least broke his mood. Nobody ever went barefoot up here except the natives with their feet tough as elephant hide. Whites didn’t. There were parasites that could enter soft, civilized skin and finish up in your liver. Ted thought, though, that perhaps he might do it more often — walk barefoot in the house without the thongs he always wore. Virginia had done it

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tonight as though it was part of what she wanted to say. Perhaps she always went barefoot when he wasn’t around. He didn’t know. Another thing to add to the list of things he didn’t know about her — a list that was growing instead of getting shorter. He didn’t turn on any lights. He picked up Linda’s glass, flat, half-full, soggy lemon, pink lipstick thick on the rim. He put it on the bar with the other things Goada would deal with in the morning. That bloody woman Linda. Ted padded towards the kitchen. He could understand why she got on Virginia’s goat. He wondered how Barry could live with her. Unless, it occurred to him for the first time, they were both as bad as one another. When he had gone outside with the Mortons, Linda dropped her high dudgeon and turned back to cooing and caring. How hard it would be, she whispered pretending to sniffle, to leave her best friend in such a bad way. Ted worried at his ear and said: ‘Nobody’s in a bad way, Linda. Getting a bit pissed from time to time isn’t being in a bad way!’ But Linda smiled knowingly. ‘It’s the anger that’s in her, dear.’ Being called dear by Linda Morton. ‘And when she’s drunk we’re the ones she turns on.’ Barry looked away and opened the car door. Linda got in and rearranged herself. ‘You always hurt the ones you love.’ Her smile, then, was wistful as she closed the door on her own profundity. She gave the nod to her chauffeur and Barry took off. Ted had his first real smile of the night to see that a good length of Linda’s white shawl was caught outside the car door.

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It bounced and sparkled like a live thing, boxing with the dirt that would ruin it.

Ted checked the bottle of wine that was put back in the fridge. She hadn’t poured any more. Good. Her glass, still half-full, was back on the sink. Tomorrow morning would be better. If they had things to talk about, it would be better in the morning. The point was, though, that even when they knew they had things to talk about, they never did. They never got to grips. Not with anything any more and it was getting worse. Ted knew, of course, that Virginia’s drinking was the trigger not the bullet. What tried to fly across the room to impinge or wound was this aggression in her, deep and dangerous as mines. Beautiful Virginia — shy Virginia — too gentle to tread on toes. Except when she was drinking. The bottle opener had been put back in the cutlery drawer. And that way she had of keeping him out. Someone like Linda, perhaps, shut Linda out by all means. But why him, why her husband? Sometimes she used her own memories as a tease, almost, amused at something only she knew about and he never would. Wasn’t it time to share memories of their own? It was as though she was a transient and always would be. Not only with this place but with him. He took a bottle of lemonade from the refrigerator. The worst thing, though, he could admit to himself as he stared down at an eruption of fizz, was the way Virginia and all

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the carry-on was making him change. When he didn’t want to. Didn’t want to change. He had been happy as he was and he wasn’t happy any more. Right there and then, Ted knew only one thing. He drank a whole glass of lemonade in one swallow. And that was, that he didn’t want to do this any more. The gas gave him a welcome burp. Didn’t want to do what? He put his glass on the sink. Ted didn’t know. He switched off the kitchen light, went into the bathroom, peed, cleaned his teeth too hard and looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. It was sad and distorted with toothbrush and foam. Ted spat and rinsed. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to do it any more. ——————— Virginia was lying half under and half on top of the sheet. In the moonlight her strong, penny-coloured hair shone burnished, spread out across the pillow. Ted turned his back and undressed down to his underpants. He threw his clothes into the corner for Goada to collect. When he turned around, Virginia was lying on her back, the sheet pulled right up and over her head as if she was a corpse. Ted sighed and went and sat on the bed. Gently, he pulled the sheet off her face. She had her eyes closed. She was lovely and he still desired her. If only the other stuff wasn’t part of the package. ‘Virginia,’ he said. Still with her eyes closed, Virginia turned on her side and put her arm outside the sheet. Ted thought about kissing it but decided against it. Her breathing was deep and calm, as though she really was asleep.

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Finally, Ted said: ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’ There was no response. ‘Please.’ He didn’t know the right words. ‘Let me in will you? Don’t shut me out.’ Virginia sat up quickly and opened her eyes. She was laughing. ‘I was thinking about the time he put my fish in the next man’s beer.’ Ted felt a chill. ‘Who did?’ ‘Dad did,’ she said, getting out of bed. Something was very wrong. ‘You won’t ever talk about your father and that’s what you tell me?’ ‘I’m not telling you about my father,’ she said, going to the wardrobe, ‘I’m telling you what I was thinking about.’ She sounded almost chirpy. ‘That’s what you asked me and that’s what I told you.’ Again, he’d blundered into some sort of trap and again, she’d pulled the rug out from under him. He changed tack but was unsure. He quelled his first instinct which was to shout at her. With a deliberate effort, he strained his voice of lumps. ‘Let’s go up to Rouna on Saturday.’ Rouna was the end of the line for the townspeople of Moresby. It was in the foothills of the mountains which towered then plunged into jungle. ‘Just us, no Mortons or anyone.’ She was totally sober, or seemed it. ‘What do you say?’ ‘Saturday’s that farewell.’ She was taking off her nightdress and putting on a housedress. ‘Where are you going?’ She had done it again — turned some sort of tables so that he felt foolish and exposed. ‘Just outside.’ She was putting on her sandals. ‘It’s stifling in here.’ And was gone.

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Ted sat where he was for long moments, staring down at nothing. What were things coming to? Where would this end? Then exhaustion nearly felled him. He got into bed and escaped into sleep. ——————— That fish her father had put in the next man’s beer. Why had she remembered that tonight and remembered it to laugh about? It was a memory to cry about and she’d done that before — even, once, in a dream. Yet tonight, with Ted, as if she was rubbing his nose in it, she’d laughed about it. Why? The white glow of the moon had turned things surreal. She sat on the back steps. There was not even a breath of breeze. She had not seen her father for almost a year when they came back to Sydney from Creggan Moar. She could still remember how love turned her breathless when she saw him standing on the platform waiting for their train to stop. As a child Virginia often wondered what she would do if her mother ever found out she loved her father more than she loved her. Virginia was first out of the train door and she ran to him, dropping her bag and not stopping, she was in his brown, strong arms and laughing up at his handsome face. Her father burrowed into her and kissed her and then she felt everything grow heavy — shoulders, stomach, legs — as she smelled the warm, sickly smell that always signaled trouble. Her father said how much she’d grown and how much he’d missed her. His blue eyes were bleary. She turned away to pull up her socks, then went back to pick up her bag. Her father tried to give her mother a hug but settled for a kiss on the cheek as she handed

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over a suitcase and said in a cold way: ‘Nothing’s changed, has it Frank?’ Margaret Fernshaw had seen the rum in her husband even before she smelt it. There were lights on in Goada’s hut and music from the transistor. Then Mary’s voice started up in rapid-fire Motu. Virginia could tell by the high, thin tone that Goada’s wife was complaining. The music was turned off. One of the children whimpered as Mary continued to scold. The place their father had for them that time they came back from Mr Collins’, was on the Central Coast. They had to catch another train. Her mother said they’d been sitting up in one train all night and she was so tired she could cry. Her father swayed a little with his hands full of bags and said: ‘She’ll be right, Margie, you’ll see.’ Her mother stopped dead in a fullstop, awkward movement. They were in front of the toilets. She grabbed Virginia by the shoulder so hard it hurt. She marched her into the Ladies and Virginia thought she was having some sort of attack as she groped her way towards an open cubicle, went inside and locked the door. She waited outside but could do or say nothing as she heard her mother howling. The big gusty sound made her think of animals in trucks on abbatoir day. She got up from the step and stood on tiptoe. What did people do together when they were together and they knew they were together till one of them died? Maybe because they wanted to be or maybe because they didn’t have a choice? The little house on the coast was a lot nicer than the places they usually lived in when they were in Sydney. Sometimes the jobs away would include work for her father as well and they would come back with more money. Then they

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could rent a flat somewhere — anywhere except King’s Cross — and her father might even get a proper job for a while. But these jobs would never last. He would go back to his painting. It was what he knew he could do and what he should be doing, he had said to her more than once. At these times they would move to rooms in dingy suburbs and she would go to a different school. Then, after a little while, her mother would start buying the Herald early on Saturdays and send off her letters with references. Margaret Fernshaw was a good cook and an excellent housekeeper. If only it could have been her own house she was keeping and her own stable family she was cooking for. Now there was just the sound of softer adult voices coming from Goada’s hut. The bare electric bulb had been turned off but the hurricane lamp still flickered. Around it flew the same sort of moths that were up at the house. On the ceiling would be the same sort of geckos lying in wait, so sure of getting what they wanted that they scarcely had to move. The Central Coast cottage belonged to a painter mate who had gone to Europe, her father said as he carried their cases up through the tall paspalum. Rent-free, as long as he looked after the garden. Her mother had glared and said it was plain he was keeping up his end of the bargain. He put the bags on the verandah and got the front door key out of his pocket. He crouched down to his daughter and turned his back on his wife. In a loud whisper he said to her and her alone that, last week, he’d sold two paintings for twenty pounds each. Mary’s shadow loomed large with an outstretched arm. Then it bent down or knelt down and Goada’s shadow stood.

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Virginia was gripped by a need to see inside. Now, at night, right then. She knew what the hut was like in daylight with the wooden boxes they sat on and the chipped enamel dishes they ate from and the rolled-up rattan sleeping mats. Rattan sleeping mats rolled up and propped in corners when they were not in use. And now? They let her enroll at the local public school even though the term was half-way through. Her lessons had been different at School of the Air but, right from the start at the Central Coast school, she came top of the class in most of the Friday tests. The other thing that made her unpopular was when she had to explain what her father did. She could still smell Maureen Someone’s peanut-butter breath coming out hard and puzzled when Virginia said no, her father didn’t paint houses, he painted pictures he sold for a lot of money. Another girl stopped mid-chew of her tomato sandwich and asked what sort of things. ‘Things other people can’t see,’ Virginia said, her heart beating hard with the pride of it and the realization of it. The girl with the tomato sandwich asked hopefully: ‘Like ghosts and things?’ A pink mush was around her lips. But Virginia couldn’t answer that. She walked away as Maureen Someone shouted out that she was stuck-up. She couldn’t explain her father to girls like these. Girls like these would never understand, any more than her mother did, why her father was wonderful. The hurricane lamp was lifted from its hook on the ceiling and its light went out. Virginia moved into a deeper shadow at the side of the house. She mustn’t do this, she had no right. Thinking one thing and doing another, she took off

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her sandals. She shouldn’t do that either. Never go outside without shoes. That’s what they all intoned. Avoiding the muddy remains of a puddle left by the afternoon rain, she laughed to herself with a secret, disobedient laugh and rejoiced in possible liver damage walking on the grass. Her mother had been crying all weekend, on and off. Her parents hadn’t argued hatefully that time but they argued sadly. It was not till years later, looking back, that Virginia realized what that weekend had all been about. She had seen her mother take a lot of money from her underwear drawer and cry as she put it in her purse. She went alone to Sydney and came home three days later, white-faced and thinner even in that short space of time. One careful step at a time took her closer to the hut. Another quiet step and she could hide behind the banana tree. On the Tuesday, she’d come home from school early. Dad was painting and wasn’t pleased. He put down his brush and said he’d leave it at that. As he turned away to get an old towel she caught a glimpse of the painting which would never be on his easel again. There was a face which looked like her mother’s and a man who looked like him, except he was a vampire. Up in a corner was an angel thing that looked a bit like her and down at the bottom was a smaller angel thing that didn’t have a face. Her father snapped at her to get away. Then, as if feeling sorry, he said he’d take her up to the jetty. Across the road from the jetty was the pub. He left her with her shilling line and threeppence worth of bait, said he wouldn’t be two ticks. She watched him go into The Bath Arms and waited for him to come out. It was getting dark when, with her last prawn, she caught a little black bream that would be big enough for tea.

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Something to stand on, that’s what she needed. There was a box in the yard but they would see her if she went for it. The fish flapped between her palms as she ran across the road to show him. The back of the hut was open with just a curtain of flat plastic strips. Her father was laughing with some men but the laugh didn’t sound right. He almost knocked her away when she tried to show him the fish. Just over there was the barbecue. She could climb up and crouch on the griddle. Her father looked down with a scowl as the man beside him went away. He said that kids weren’t allowed in the pub, but then she showed him her fish. Her heart was beating with what she was doing but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Her father took the fish and put it in the glass of beer. She was glad she had put on a dark dress. The man came back and picked up his glass and his mouth was right near the fish head. She grasped the griddle’s supporting bars and eased herself up. Her father started laughing again and she laughed along with him but her laugh didn’t sound right either. Just a little bit further and she could see right in. The man didn’t know what the laughing was for until the sharp fish’s lip hit his own lip and he spat in horror. He threw beer and fish onto the floor and called her father a no-hoper but all the time her father couldn’t stop laughing and nor could she. The man went to punch him and her father cowered in an

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awful way and she heard him say — sorry, mate, sorry, it was the kid’s idea — and then she was crying for everything, the fish that was dead and wasted, the way her father looked poor and her mother spending money on something that made her sad. ‘Yes missus?’ Goada’s flat black face shone in the moonlight. She could scream. Could she scream? If she screamed it might be better. ‘I was only —.’ Only what? All she could do was climb down. ‘Help you missus?!’ But Goada had no idea of how or what he could be helping. Mary came to the door of the hut chewing the cud of her betel nut. Virginia rubbed the grease on her palms off hard on the stomach of her dress. ‘It’s just — ‘ the sound she was making was a snigger or a snivel ‘— I saw a rat.’ Prickling all over with heat and shame. ‘I think I saw a rat.’ Goada mimed horror and peered into the mess of grey ashes still there from weeks before. ‘A rat missus?’ As though it was something terrible he had never encountered before. He ran up to the hut yelling at Mary in Motu. Mary went inside and came back with an iron bar. Goada grabbed it from her and ran back to the barbecue. ‘It’s alright, Goada, it ran — under the house.’ ‘This house or big house?’ Goada didn’t know which one to menace first. The youngest child, who was crying, came out to cling to his mother’s skirt which was one of Virginia’s old dresses. Mary was staring at her, red-stained teeth bared in a knowing smile. Virginia was the one to look away first,

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compelled and ashamed to say: ‘I did see it, Mary, a big black rat.’ Mary laughed and her big wayward breasts shook with it. She picked up the child and went back into the hut. Up at the house, Goada was on his hands and knees peering into the foundations. He shone a torch over the rubble and bottles and an old broken suitcase, still playing the role he thought had been assigned to him. ‘We might have to get some baits from the trade store.’ She was putting her sandals back on. She saw Goada watch her and think about this. What was she doing with her sandals off? But Virginia didn’t care any more. It had been a night that must be over with soon. Now she felt sick in her stomach. The effects of the wine had come back with a thumping headache and a terrible taste. The past had been even worse than the present that night. More than ever, there seemed no way out of any of it. ——————— Virginia scrubbed her hands and feet with Solvol. There was a black smear across her cheek that looked like war paint. In the bedroom, she took off her dirty dress and put it with Ted’s clothes on the floor. Goada would think about this dirty dress in the same way as he had thought about her sandals. If he didn’t know now what she was doing tonight Mary would tell him. Ted was asleep with his arms around his chest as if to protect himself. She put her nightdress back on and got into bed beside him.

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What did people do together when they were together and didn’t have a choice? If Ted woke up … She thought about smoothing back his hair but didn’t. If he woke up. It didn’t seem real any more, the time when they used to make love just because they wanted to. Perhaps that was the start of things going wrong — all the planning and the dates and the checks that had turned making love into something else. If Ted woke up she would tell him what she thought. Yes, if Ted woke up she would tell him that was what she thought. And if he took her in his arms she would tell him how sorry she was and she would mean it. Sorry they’d let something start that they didn’t know how to stop. Sorry for him, sorry for her, sorry for what they had or had not become to each other. She was so startled she jumped when Ted said in a soft whisper-mumble: ‘I might rethink this adoption business.’ His eyes were closed, his eyelids still. She leaned over him. ‘Are you awake?’ But Ted didn’t answer. He rubbed his nose and changed position. Virginia lay down and turned on her side. They were back to back with each other. He might rethink this adoption business. There was a time when Virginia had reasoned with him, tried to make him see, when all she had wanted to hear were those words. I might rethink this adoption business. But that time wasn’t now.

THREE

Lunchtimes were always crowded in the Polynesia Coffee Lounge. Most of the people who worked in town went back to their houses for lunch — a sandwich, perhaps a couple of soothing lagers and a short, damp lie-down. But there were always the people who lived in the hostels, out-of-town shoppers who would wait for Burns Philp to re-open and those who just wanted to surround themselves with other white faces. Without much competition, the Polynesia was the most popular café in Moresby. Giant mango trees shaded the plastic tables and chairs. Thick flowering vines made a thatch of the lattice and buzzed with wasps. Ants crawled on the concrete, people threw their cigarette butts into the pot plants, but the greenish light at the Polynesia was softer than the relentless white glare out in the street.

Virginia, too, almost always went home for lunch. Sometimes Ted would come home but sometimes not. Very much sometimes not in the past few months. That morning, he was just on the point of leaving when she got up at the usual time. It was just after six and Ted was already dressed and having his breakfast. Virginia said she was sorry about last night. Ted said that was okay, but really, he didn’t know what Linda Morton had ever

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done that would make Virginia be so rude to her. Virginia said that no, she didn’t know either. Ted said that she’d better watch her drinking though. He stood up from the table and wiped his mouth with his napkin. This place had proved to be a graveyard for more than one person who couldn’t hold their booze. Shame and some sort of anger flooded her. ‘It’s only wine,’ she said and felt tears come into her eyes. ‘And I didn’t have all that much.’ ‘You had enough for me to be on tenterhooks wondering what you were going to do and say next.’ He kissed her briefly and, it seemed, coldly. With a quaver in her voice which she couldn’t control she asked him if he would be home for lunch. She wanted to talk to him about what he’d said last night. ‘Do you remember what you said last night?’ She poured herself a cup of tea and turned away so that he wouldn’t see her hand shake. Ted just looked at her. ‘What I said when? I was dead to the world the minute I got into bed.’ ‘I really think we ought to talk about things,’ she said. ‘Will you come home for lunch?’ Ted said he would and was gone. Later that morning he had rung her at her office. When he started off sounding almost jocular and said that something had come up at the depot, Virginia knew what was coming next. No he couldn’t come home for lunch, he’d see her tonight. Whatever it was could wait, couldn’t it?

Virginia knew she wouldn’t be able to hold the table for much longer. The place was filling up fast. Already young men in

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their long white socks and tailored shorts — admin clerks from Konedobu — circled singly. Maybe today would be the day they’d strike up a conversation with a stranger, share a table with a new someone, or — with the best of all possible luck — a bored wife sitting alone. Port Moresby was a lonely town for young, white, single males. Mr Longhurst hadn’t come in. There was a particular kind of crankiness in his tone when Mr Longhurst had a hangover. Virginia recognized it on the phone when he’d called on the dot of nine and told her to hold the fort. She wondered what her boss would say if she told him she was dealing with her own residue of the night before. He would probably think and say the same as most people did — up here or anywhere else, for that matter. That drinking was a male game which women couldn’t and shouldn’t play. That woman from the Ladies’ Guild was coming towards her smiling. Virginia smiled back but put her handbag on the table in front of the empty chairs. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m waiting for people.’ Mrs Pheebles still prepared to halt but Virginia said sorry again so she withdrew her smile and moved on. Drat that, thought Eunice Pheebles. She had a proposition to put to Mrs Rich and just now would have been the perfect opportunity. She sat down at the table of a woman with two badly behaved children. It was school holidays in Queensland and kiddies who were boarders were up here visiting their parents. Mrs Pheebles said something pleasant but the boy kicked the table leg and whinged at his mother to come on! Eunice Pheebles picked up the sticky menu but found her gaze wandering from the lists of toasted sandwiches and

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combo jaffles back to Virginia Rich. Yes, she was certainly an attractive lass, you had to give her that, and perhaps that uppity air was even right for the project as well. But it was just such a shame that Mrs Rich wasn’t anywhere near as nice as that lovely husband of hers. Eunice Pheebles had only met Ted Rich socially, you might say, at Oala Sinaka’s party. Of course she knew who Ted was. He had his face in the paper from time to time as a respected businessman who was also prominent on the Council. Mrs Pheebles remembered a guild meeting that had turned skittish, for some reason, and the ladies had finished up voting Ted Rich the town’s most eligible bachelor. By far. The item of his marriage in Sydney and return to the Territory with his bride headed, in black print and with the one and only photo they had of him, the local paper’s social page. That party at Oala Sinaka’s — Reg had practically to drag her there. It was in the native settlement of Hohola, do you mind, in a house that was no more than three concrete rooms joined together. No one could ever accuse Eunice Pheebles of being prejudiced against the natives and Eunice herself knew she wasn’t. Her houseboy was a treasure. But, even after ten years, she couldn’t get used to the fact that she was supposed to be the same with the natives as she was with other people. Oala Sinaka might have been educated at Queensland University, he might be a member of the Council, but his people were still Stone Age people and no, she just couldn’t get used to mixing with them socially and it was no use pretending that she could. Anyway, Ted Rich had saved her from having an awful time that night. Reg had left her, as he always did, to mag with

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his Council cronies and she was sitting in an uncomfortable cane chair and couldn’t bring herself to touch the savouries, when Ted had come over to talk to her. So good looking she’d felt her heart jump a bit in her chest. The way his sun-kissed hair fell over his noble brow. And such lovely teeth he had. Now, Mrs Pheebles could not even remember what Ted Rich had talked about. She could only remember the way he smiled.

Virginia was waiting for Godfrey Warner. All that morning she had felt enervated and edgy. It was because of last night, she supposed, but it was also because there was no work she could try and lose herself in. There had been only one business call — an enquiry from a baker about a commercial bread oven. Virginia typed the message up, put it on Mr Longhurst’s desk and then went back to doing nothing. In the stuffy little room off her office where the stationery was stored, she re-read an old Vogue. An empty desk, Mr Longhurst had grated at her on her first day, gives a better impression to a prospective customer than an idle employee. Jack, the clerk, had perfected the art of looking busy. Bent over papers he would, if someone was watching, sigh, crease his face in worried concentration, click his pen twice or three times and then start to scribble hard. Virginia couldn’t, wouldn’t look at him when this pretense was going on. Wouldn’t acknowledge this play acting in case he might think she believed it. She was in the toilet when she heard the phone ring again. Jack was forbidden to answer it. As she rushed back inside to get it before it stopped, she snapped at Jack: ‘Couldn’t you be disobedient for once in your life, Jack?’ Jack merely

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raised his eyebrows — so fine they could have been plucked — and bent his head to his charade again. It was Godfrey Warner on the phone. Virginia was surprised and pleased to hear from him. He said he had to go into town and wondered if she was free for lunch. ——————— The red-haired girl from the chemist’s was coming towards her with a clerk from the Commonwealth. They were talking about ‘Cleopatra’, the film that was currently in its second week at the one and only picture show. Ignoring Virginia, as though there was not even anyone else already sitting there, the girl picked up the handbag, put it on the table, and sat down in the chair she had cleared and claimed. She blew her nose as she said that Elizabeth Taylor’s waist was so little she must be doing damage to her insides. The clerk from the Commonwealth sat down beside her, grabbed her hand with one of his and held it. With the other he signaled to the waitress, already run off her feet. Virginia put the handbag back on the last empty chair. She stirred at her glass of iced coffee, warm under a scum of half-hearted froth. The waitress had dumped it on the table mumbling that the fridge had broken down. Every time Virginia came to the Polynesia, it seemed, the waitress said the fridge had broken down. ‘I couldn’t get here sooner, sorry.’ Godfrey was perspiring, hovering by her side. In a place where the Europeans wore light clothes, mostly white, Godfrey Warner wore dark — black or navy or deep brown.

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‘That’s okay,’ Virginia smiled, as much with relief at being able to take her handbag away from the last chair. ‘Sit down.’ The girl from the chemist’s looked affronted at the prospect of this big bulk of a man squeezing in at their already inadequate table. ‘The bus didn’t come,’ said Godfrey, one of the few Europeans who ever caught a bus. ‘There’s some sort of strife at the depot.’ Virginia went cold. Image of machete and severed head. ‘Ted,’ she said. Godfrey mopped at his brow with a handkerchief and did squeeze in. The clerk from the Commonwealth signaled for the bill. ‘Pardon?’ he said, then: ‘Oh yes, Ted. It’s your husband who owns the buses, isn’t it?’ ‘Do you know what sort of strife?’ The girl from the chemist’s was standing now, glaring as Godfrey settled and expanded. ‘That’s better. No, nothing major I wouldn’t have thought.’ Just at that moment, people stopped what they were doing and saying and looked out into the street. Some sort of wild noise was going on. A bright red man was skipping. Singing out and yelling like a mad child, skipping along the street where the natives sat under the shade of the Burns Philp awning. ‘That’s the anthropologist from Sydney,’ said one of the clerks from Konedobu and another one confirmed it. If the man had a name, not many would have bothered to find out what it was. In Port Moresby, a tag like anthropologist from Sydney said it all. The man looked to be red all over because his skin had been stripped raw by sunburn. The Papuans in the

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street were convulsed with laughter as the man continued to jerk and yell. ‘Poor bugger’s gone troppo!’ Virginia and Godfrey looked up to Dawn Harkness. Under her cotton housedress Dawn’s unbridled stomach shook with laughter. Virginia’s heart sank. Dawn’s biggest little boy hung onto her hem while a second child was jigged on her hip. Dawn sat down in one of the newly-vacated chairs. Signalling to the waitress she said, still laughing: ‘It’ll get us all that way in the end.’ There were a lot of people who didn’t like Dawn Harkness, or who professed not to, even people who had never met her but talked about her as though they had. Virginia had bumped into her, literally, in the Burns Philp supermarket. It was a Saturday and afterwards they had gone to the Polynesia for coffee. Virginia realized afterwards that it was Dawn the girls had got their claws into that first day at Linda’s. For finer sensibilities Dawn Harkness was too untidy, too vulgar. Rough as bags and, in the not-so-distant past, too promiscuous. Dawn sat down and ordered a salad roll and lemonade. Now, outside, a young Papuan policeman was flexing the smooth, brown cups of his knee caps and talking gently to the anthropologist from Sydney. The man still jerked from time to time and shrieked, but less and not so loud, like a kettle coming off the boil. The policeman put his arm around the man’s shoulder and escorted him towards shade. The Papuans outside Burns Philp were still slapping their haunches and laughing out loud so that their amusement became infectious and then everyone, it seemed, under the Polynesia’s vines, was laughing or smiling at the anthropologist from Sydney. Everyone, that is, except Godfrey and Virginia.

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Dawn had dumped the baby on the concrete and Little Jim, his harness straps dangling, picked a cigarette butt out of the pot plant and put it between his lips. ‘Don’t do that,’ Dawn went to slap the child but missed and then was assessing the best way to tackle her overflowing roll. ‘Watching your figure Godfrey?’ She nodded towards the little aluminium teapot Godfrey was pouring from. ‘God knows, I ought to but I can’t.’ She opened the roll, took out two slices of tomato and ate them separately. ‘But it’s hard to diet when you’ve got a family.’ She clamped the roll together again. ‘And there’s Ray, eats like a horse and thin as a rake so there you bloody go.’ Virginia wished Dawn hadn’t intruded. She tried to send a covert what-can-you-do? look to Godfrey as Dawn held her roll aloft and nibbled at ribbons of lettuce. Godfrey returned a look which could have meant these-things-are-sent-to-try-us or it could have meant regret that he had come at all. Virginia took a bite of her sandwich and then realized she didn’t want it. ‘I wouldn’t have come to town at all except I had to get a birthday present for my sister.’ Still with her roll on the go Dawn searched in her bag for her cigarettes. ‘If I don’t catch the boat tomorrow I’ll have to airfreight it and it’ll cost a fortune. Why did I have to go and buy this great big heavy fruit bowl?’ Dawn lit up, took a deep drag and blew smoke out voluptuously. Then she rested the cigarette on the ashtray and went back to her roll. People were still clustered at the railing to see what was going on in the street. Someone said what could you expect from a bloke who went to the pub and drank lemonade. Virginia was starting to feel nauseous. Maybe the milk in the coffee was off. She watched Godfrey keep his eyes down, stay silent, as he sipped his tea. A wasp circled round the sugar bowl

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but Dawn blew smoke on it and it flew off. Or was it dizziness not nausea? Virginia realized she wasn’t hearing what Dawn was saying, was just watching Dawn’s mouth forming words, seeing not hearing her laugh come and go. ‘ … make matters worse the car conked out this morning … bet your bottom dollar. Always breaks down when Ray’s away.’ Dawn belched gently. ‘So I had to get a taxi with the kids because it’s Willy’s day off.’ The lunch hour was drawing to a close. Someone came back from the railing saying that they put the anthropologist in a taxi, show’s over. Virginia looked at her watch and Dawn realized. ‘Oh jeez,’ Dawn said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been nattering on since I got here. You two probably had things you wanted to talk about.’ ‘Oh no,’ Virginia said too quickly. ‘I kept Virginia waiting, I’m afraid.’ Godfrey took out his black Sobranies, the cause of more than one set of sniggers in Port Moresby. ‘I’ll get going then,’ said Dawn as she reached out, ‘what’s the damage?’ But Godfrey picked up the bill. ‘My shout and my pleasure,’ he said. Dawn gathered up her children and grinned. ‘Thanks, Godfrey. You must come over for dinner one night.’ Knowing as she said it that she would never make the invitation. Knowing as she said it that Ray wouldn’t have him in the house. Not Godfrey Warner with all the things they said about him. Balanced on her hip, the baby’s face had grown red and tight. Now he relaxed into a gurgle. ‘Oh-oh,’ said Dawn as the

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overpowering smell hit them all, even the woman at the next table who turned with a grimace of disgust, ‘I guess that’s our cue to get out of here.’ Laughing, she left, and Godfrey was smiling as he offered Virginia the box of Sobranies. ‘Do you? I’ve forgotten.’ ‘Not usually.’ Virginia shook her head. Godfrey was withdrawing the box when she changed her mind and said: ‘But I will today,’ then did take one of the thin black cigarettes with the gold leaf tip, ‘Mr Longhurst’s away.’ ‘Nasty man,’ said Godfrey, taking out his mother-ofpearl lighter. ‘Nasty soul of a man.’ ‘You’ve met him?’ ‘I know his houseboy.’ ‘Oh,’ was all Virginia could say. She leaned in to let Godfrey light the cigarette. ‘And no matter if he’s away, I’m sure he’ll call in to make sure you’re there when you’re supposed to be.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, surprised, ‘he always does. How did you know that?’ ‘From what I’ve heard of this Mr Longhurst, I’d say that control and force are his aphrodisiacs.’ She thought she knew what the word meant. No matter, she knew what Godfrey meant and he was right. That’s what Mr Longhurst was about. Control and force. She inhaled the sweet, scented smoke and felt better, felt soothed. What Godfrey said went along with the smoke. She couldn’t have Godfrey all the time but — ‘You’re right, he is a nasty man and he does have a nasty soul’ — she could have the smoke all the time. Maybe that was it, as simple as that, maybe smoking was the thing that could help her. She inhaled again. Worth a try.

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Anything was worth a try. Godfrey was watching her closely. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Doesn’t smoking suit me?’ Godfrey leaned forward and tapped the delicate ash off the delicate cigarette. ‘Why weren’t you amused back then?’ Was he accusing her of something? ‘Back when?’ She felt her hand start to quiver and she held her cigarette down to the ashtray too. ‘With Dawn?’ Their Sobranies were face to face across the red aluminium bowl. ‘Dawn and the baby?’ ‘No. That fellow out in the street.’ ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why weren’t you?’ Godfrey shrugged and showed just a glimpse of yellow teeth in a small smile. ‘I know perfectly well why I wasn’t amused,’ he said. ‘Why?’ ‘Because I know what madness could be like and I don’t find it funny.’ Virginia stared at him. ‘Maybe you know too.’ The shopping list she had written the other week. Tomatlo sauce. Green biscuits. She must have meant cheese. Flower. Teat. In the Burns Philp supermarket her stomach turned over as she stood looking down at the nonsense words. She inhaled again. ‘Everyone can imagine what it would be like to go mad, can’t they?’ She tried to sound light and looked at her watch. ‘Not everyone, no.’ Godfrey picked up the bill and stood. Virginia said she was sorry — and stopped. ‘Sorry about what, Virginia?’

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‘Sorry — that — .‘ Now it was her turn to shrug. ‘Just, I suppose, that Dawn joined us.’ Godfrey gave his thin smile again and said gently: ‘I think our last five minutes just made up for it, don’t you?’ Yes, it did. And yes, he knew. ‘Now off you go,’ he said and shooed her, ‘and don’t let that awful man intimidate you.’ ‘Thank you for lunch. I’m glad you still wanted to see me.’ They were at the top table with the cash register. The waitress was hurrying up from the back. ‘You’ve got my number.’ Virginia nodded. She would have liked to take Godfrey’s hand and hold it — hold on to it. She didn’t in case she could not let it go. ——————— As she knew it would be, the phone was ringing as she hurried into the office. Even in her haste to get back on time, she had stopped at the milk bar to buy a packet of cigarettes. Jack watched her slyly. Virginia answered the phone to Mr Longhurst and said she’d just been at the door, giving a donation to a nun. He asked her and then was angry when she told him that there had only been one telephone enquiry all day. She had put the message on his desk for Monday. She started to say that she hoped he would have a nice weekend, but Mr Longhurst hung up before she finished. She could see his big, saggy face the colour of chewed chewing gum as he smashed the receiver back on its cradle. She hated him, she

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thought. She must have always hated him but she only realized it because Godfrey had made her realize it. In a couple of sentences Godfrey had put a true face to the man who ruled her in this job she hated. It was a job she had taken in something of a panic when she found out, but could tell no one, that her life had become too precarious. The way of life that seemed to have been prescribed for her — staying home with nothing to do — had become too dangerous. ——————— In a town of transients, Bill Longhurst was an institution. He had lived in Moresby for almost twenty years since a visit, while he was still searching for a way to make money in Australia, had opened his eyes to the lucrative possibilities of a place where only a splinter of it was part of the twentieth century. He had started his import business with a Commonwealth loan which was virtually interest free. All the different nerve endings of the Australian administration worked together, almost in desperation, to lure Europeans into the Territory. Once there, they then tempted them with more lurks and perks in the hope that they would stay and build in a land that had thousands and thousands of years to catch up. Bill Longhurst had his first big success with the jafflemaker that could be used with electricity or without. Port Moresby, it seemed, couldn’t get enough of them at a two hundred percent mark-up. He branched out, then, into other non-necessities for a white public which spent money more as a distraction than anything else — electric pencil-sharpeners and tin-openers; automatic egg-boilers and self-heating foot

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baths. These days, most of his money came from heavy-duty industrial equipment on which his mark-up was even more outrageous than the jaffle-makers and now Bill Longhurst owned several rental properties and lived in a large house up on the hill with a swimming pool and three bathrooms. His wife Mavis was a tough-skinned, platinum-haired woman whose blue eyes were rheumy with gin and disappointment. Mr Longhurst detested the natives and wielded his authority like a whip. He didn’t tolerate women any better. ——————— She hadn’t bought any matches, damn it. She unpeeled the cellophane from the packet of Peter Jacksons and put it in her wastepaper basket. She’d smoked Peter Jacksons on the odd times she’d smoked back in Sydney. Peter Jacksons went along with Pimm’s. Not that she cared about smoking one way or the other. It was just that everyone, particularly the girls, smoked. Ted didn’t and Ted didn’t like it. He had commented, once, that he could smell the pong of tobacco in her hair. Yes, maybe that’s what it was, staring her in the face, needing to be rediscovered. Tobacco. Smoking. Your hand looking sure of itself as you talked and waved your cigarette for emphasis. Simple as that. People said that when you smoked, you tended not to drink as much. She went into Mr Longhurst’s office. He had a mulga wood smoker’s stand with matchbox attachment standing beside his desk. The stand was there but the matchbox held only dead heads. Damn it, damn it and damn it again. She would have to ask Jack for a light. She left Mr Longhurst’s office with her unlit cigarette still between her fingers.

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‘What are you doing Jack?’ Now her dislike for Jack, too, rose in her throat like bile. Look at yourself, she felt like saying. Shamming and playing a role. The stiff, prissy way he sat at his desk, the thin legs crossed in immaculate slacks, flat brown feet in plastic sandals. ‘I know you look like you’re working, but what are you actually doing Jack?’ Even Loret looked up at the scathing tone in her voice. Loret was the little dogsbody in the office. For not much more than Virginia had paid for her cigarettes, Loret came in to make the tea and run messages, clean the salt crust from the windows and the fine coral dust off the machines. Loret was child-like and small with a darting quick way of moving. He could speak only a few words of English. Loret lived on his odd jobs and sometimes Virginia asked him up to the house where — in the face of Goada’s disapproval — she gave him two shillings for pulling the weeds out of the rock garden. Jack, for less than a moment, looked up at her. His brow was phoney-furrowed and he made a staying motion with his hand as he bent again to his calculator and sheets of paper. Virginia went over to him. ‘I asked you,’ she snapped again, ‘what you are doing?’ ‘Oh yes, Mrs Rich,’ now Jack gave a wide white smile. ‘I am just doing a small amount of checking on last month’s figures.’ Jack had been educated at a mission school and he spoke good English in a stilted, over-polite way. ‘That’s all, Mrs Rich, just a small amount of checking.’ Even though Virginia had asked him more than once to call her by her first name, Jack still insisted on addressing her as Mrs Rich. His tone, now, in the mood she was in sounded like a veiled insult. ‘And you know there’s no need, don’t you

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Jack?’ Jack wasn’t only irritating her now, he was infuriating her. ‘You know perfectly well those figures have been checked twice already.’ ‘Quite so, Mrs Rich,’ Jack was scratching delicately in the tight, curly mass of his hair, ‘but if you don’t mind — if I am not disturbing you — I am doing this purely for my own satisfaction.’ His look had a hint of challenge in it. ‘A third time correct really proves it.’ His black gaze lingered on her for a moment, then he bent his head to his figures again. Her forehead felt hot. To spite him, she might just tell him to go home. ‘Jack,’ she almost spat, ‘you can go home.’ Loret had come closer to try to understand. Jack lifted his head again, gave his false smile again. ‘But first you can give me a light.’ The smile died but a sly look of triumph came into Jack’s eyes. ‘You have decided now to smoke cigarettes, have you Mrs Rich?’ ‘Yes Jack, I have.’ Awfully, her left hand had to hold the right hand with the cigarette between two fingers. ‘Presumably, I have your permission?’ Or it would have shook. Game, set and match. ‘I don’t think you need my permission, Mrs Rich,’ Jack said as smugly as though that’s what she did need. ‘I’m telling you that you can go home.’ She wanted to hit him around the head, slap at his cheeks, make him recognize, something or other. Instead, she plucked the box of matches from his hands and turned away to light up. Loret was still and watching, confusion in his eyes. ‘Are the cups all clean and put away?’ Loret nodded. ‘Then you can go home too.’ Loret’s eyes went dull. Perhaps he had misunderstood what sounded too

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good to be true. Loret looked towards Jack, who gave the slightest nod of his head. The anger in her ripped loose. ‘You don’t have to check with Jack, Loret!’ She shouted. ‘When Mr Longhurst’s not here I’m in charge and if I say you can go you can go!’ Loret kept his head down and looked at no one any more. In one swift monkey movement he grabbed his plastic airlines bag, was out the door and pattering down the stairs before anyone could change their mind or chastise him for something he didn’t understand. Jack was staring at her. She grabbed a spare ashtray and went to her desk. She ripped the cover off her typewriter and rolled in a blue aerogram. ‘Will I be disturbing you if I decide not to go home right at this moment, Mrs Rich?’ There was dislike in both their eyes, the one for the other. ‘Yes Jack, you will!’ She typed: ‘Dear Aunty Thel and Uncle Dave,’ Then she banged the carriage return hard, twice, four times, so that the starting point for the letter was already half way down the page. Jack didn’t look at her as he put his calculator back in its box and into the top drawer of his desk. From his shirt pocket he took a loose, home made cigarette, the last of four he carried to the office each day wrapped in a piece of silver paper. He retrieved the matches from where Virginia had thrown them. He was deliberately taking his time. She had no alternative but to start the letter she didn’t want to write. ‘I hope this finds you both well. Ted and I are both well and things are pretty busy up here.’ Jack was looking at her now. From under her lashes she could see him watching her from under his lashes. He lit his

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crumpled cigarette and it made her remember her own, growing ash in the ashtray. ‘Ted is still going ahead with the timber mill contract and the buses keep him more than busy’ drew the smoke in so hard it made her cough ‘so we haven’t been able to manage that visit to Sydney yet.’ Jack left the cigarette between his lips, sucking on it, as he gathered up his papers and put them in their folder. Vague Aunty Thel and old Uncle Dave. Her only living relatives after the death of her mother. ‘We are in the middle of the rainy season right now. A lot of Europeans don’t like it but I do.’ Jack put the folder in his desk drawer. There was nothing left that he could do. Virginia saw him see that there was nothing left to do and a hard, unkind look straight at him let him know that she had seen it. She puffed again and her fingers flew. ‘Yes, what you said in your last letter. I promise I’ll let you know when you can look forward to being great aunty and uncle. It might not be as far away as you think.’ Jack was at the door with his black plastic briefcase. He said he hoped she had a nice weekend and Virginia said the same to him. ——————— She locked the office door. Again, she knew that Mr Longhurst would ring on the dot of five to make sure she was still there. Well let him. Let him ring and ring and ring until his dialing finger fell off. The blue aerogram was in her handbag. She might send it but then again she might not. There was nothing in it that wasn’t a lie. She was well, he was well, they might start a family and sooner than you think. About the only thing that was true was that Ted was still going ahead with the timber mill contract. The timber mill contract would increase

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his workload even further and make sure he had to spend a lot more time away from home. She walked down the stairs and into the street. Her new ally the cigarettes were in her handbag too. The sky above was blue and flawless but in another fifteen minutes or so the rainy season would announce its afternoon presence. Before its arrival everything outside would hush and grow still. The shiny leaves of the banana trees would droop like shoulders waiting for a whiplash. The sky would turn dark and tumultuous and the first heavy drops would fall in small sizzles of steam. Then the sky would lower itself and curl in on itself and open up with the rain that seemed to come from nowhere. The straightfalling deluge turned things primeval. Even in the town there would be the metallic smell of ancient earth, the soporific scent of decaying vegetation. And while the whites would huddle and laugh under awnings and in shop doorways, the natives, with nowhere to hurry to and clothes that would not be ruined, would keep on doing what they were doing, keep on going where they were going. The drenching rain was as much a part of them as breathing. ——————— At five minutes past four there were only a few customers milling around in Burns Philp. Shop assistants were swallowing their yawns and taking up their stations behind counters. The great rubber wings hanging from the ceilings had just begun to flap again, their slow, electric rhythm gathering momentum for another three hours of trading.

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In certain moods, the department store was an escape for Virginia. She would wander through it, with no intention of buying, letting her mind run loose as she stood before the displays of beautiful impractical shoes or straw-filled crates of fine French wines. She stood, now, in the fabric department, the old wooden counter polished with age, the yellowed tape measure stuck along the counter edge of the selling side. The new English pattern books were in. She turned coloured pages of tweed suits, long coats, embroidered evening dresses. How the clothes up here depressed her. The eternal sleevelessness, forever the open sandals, feet and legs bare as if there existed no other state for them. She shook her head to an offer of assistance and moved on. ——————— What had she been expecting when she came up here? Just exactly what? She realized, not for the first time, that what she had been expecting was a dream — a fantasy. In Sydney, thinking about New Guinea, she had imagined herself in Gauguin colours, things sheer, loose and free. In her mind’s eye she had seen herself, under thatched roofs, long hair falling over fingers strumming a guitar, handsome husband Ted listening and in love. Was it her fault — or her stupidity — that the dream had nothing to do with the reality? It was probably both. That, or that she had simply not known what questions to ask. Not about anything, back then. Not known the questions that might have given some answers to help her out of what was happening now.

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——————— In the supermarket section, some flash of shirt disappearing behind the home-bottling counter made her think of Ted. She took an empty trolley. Armed herself with it. She wheeled past tins of artichokes and asparagus, palm hearts and tomatoes. She tried to remember what they were supposed to be doing that night. She could not. A pyramid of baked beans tins. What had they done the night before? The drive-in? The club? She stopped suddenly in the aisle, taking her hands so quickly from the trolley handle that it might have been hot. What?! A woman pushed past with an exasperated click of her tongue. Cooked in the traditional Boston method. Rich with the taste of country-cured bacon. Her palms were sweating. All she could think of was Jack, Ted had turned into Jack, in his terylene pants and white shirt. Jack’s black face sitting and assessing. Her. Was Ted. ‘Yes, if you don’t mind just — um — excuse me Mrs Rich.’ Another woman reached across and took a tin of baked beans in her large freckled hand. ‘And Mr Rich fine? Everything fine? Yes, that’s good.’ The woman, whose face was familiar, was a total stranger. ‘Oh yes, fine, yes everything’s fine, and yourself?’ With a haste that looked greedy Virginia was grabbing tins of baked beans and throwing them into her trolley. Panic gripped around her heart. If she didn’t diminish the pyramid the pyramid would fall and diminish her. The woman she didn’t recognize but knew she knew moved away without answering.

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She was in the liquor department before she remembered. Thank you God. It was gratitude that made her take an expensive bottle of Japanese liqueur that would probably never be drunk. The memory wasn’t good but at least it was a memory. Last night had been Linda and Barry. ——————— The rain was just about to start as Virginia left the store and went out into the street, following the boy who carried the box of things she had bought but did not need. The Burns Philp steps were a favourite meeting place and already a small crowd was milling, greeting, talking. Some of the offices finished up early on Fridays. Within the next hour the store would be so crowded it would be difficult to move. Outside the natives still sat, fanning themselves with broken bits of palm, raising their heads to the changing sky. Virginia led the way, now, against a new, stiff wind, to the back lane where her car was parked. The leaves of the mango trees outside the Baptist Mission stirred with a soft, thick rustle. She opened the back door of the car for the boy, who put the cardboard box on the back seat. She tipped him, then unlocked the door of the driver’s seat. She spread out the old towel she kept for the purpose over the vinyl seat which would still be stinging with heat. She put on cotton gloves before she could grasp the steering wheel. She started up and blinked as a first splat of rain spat at the windscreen. As she drove slowly from the lane back onto the main road, the sky let loose the deluge. And the deluge let loose her tears. Her vision swam

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with both, with waves of water, as she cried and the drumming rain swallowed the sound up. She stopped at the pedestrian crossing to let knots of laughing natives, in lap-laps and holding hands, go across the road in their element and in the wet.

FOUR

Virginia parked her car at the sea wall to wait out the rain and her own wailing, for that was what her tears had turned into. She had a flash of dark green paint peeling from a wooden door. She was making the same sound of despair as her mother had done that day, so long ago, in the railway station toilet. Other parked cars were empty, thank God. She could wail and wail and there was no one around she must hide it from, no one to tell her to pull herself together. The grey sea danced and splashed as the rain pelted into it like pebbles.

In the same way as it was impossible that Virginia could ever have married Brian Forbes, so it was inevitable that she should have married Ted Rich. She couldn’t even remember a formal proposal from Ted although somewhere, at some time, he must have made one and she must have said yes. But she couldn’t remember it happening. All that remained vivid was that Ted wanted to marry her and her mother wanted it too and Bunny thought it was the best thing since sliced bread and things just bolted to their natural conclusion. Right from the start Margaret Fernshaw knew that Ted Rich was the right one for her daughter. When Bunny Ling, Virginia’s best friend, had rung to say that there was this simply

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terrific bloke her brother knew, Mrs Fernshaw thought he sounded promising. Not yet thirty but already a businessman with overseas interests. And when he came to pick Virginia up for their first date he brought the most beautiful bunch of yellow roses and a box of Cadbury’s Special Selection. For her. The year that Brian Forbes had been on the scene had been an anxious time for Margaret Fernshaw. Brian Forbes was another one — the same sort of reckless, feckless dreamer Frank Fernshaw had been. The type was unmistakable — at least to her it was. In Brian Forbes’ case the charm was moody whereas Frank’s had been sunnier, but the spell this charm could cast was exactly the same. Mrs Fernshaw was terrified that the daughter she loved more than life itself would make the same mistake she had. The same big, life-altering mistake of falling in love with a hopeless provider. How or why the Brian Forbes saga came to an end, Mrs Fernshaw never knew and never did want to find out. All that mattered was that it was over. She found herself avoiding circumstances which could lead to explorations and explanations she didn’t want to hear. She closed her ears to the sound of crying that sometimes came from Virginia’s room long after they’d had tea together. For a while Mrs Fernshaw was on tenterhooks with the fear that the enemy might return, more virulent than ever, like some sort of contagion in her daughter’s life. That was what had happened with her. She had tried to break it off but couldn’t. She was the one who told Frank Fernshaw she couldn’t live without him. But Brian Forbes didn’t come back and, just days after Ted came into Virginia’s life, there was a postcard in the letter box. It was a badly coloured picture of two bare-breasted black

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women with bunches of bananas on their heads. The card was from Brian Forbes, with just a ‘love, Brian’ signed at the bottom. Without an envelope, the ink blobbed by water, it told that he was managing a banana exporting firm in Caracas. There was a Venezualan stamp, an old postmark date, and no return address. Margaret Fernshaw knew the prayers she’d recently taken up again were being heard. ——————— The rain was easing. Her wailing had just worn itself out and so she felt better for it. A man was running across the road. Virginia checked her image in the rear vision mirror. Her eyes were pink and her lashes wet but if the man came close enough she would ask him for a light. As long as she didn’t know him. If she knew him she would breathe on the window and fog it up and turn on the car radio and take off fast. But Virginia didn’t know the man in the sodden white clothes who ran up to his car, his big brogues splashing like flippers through the sheet of water that flooded the bitumen. She took the cigarettes out of her bag. At his car the man concentrated on nothing except getting his clump of keys to separate in the right way. She recognized him as one of the clerks from Konedobu — at least that was what she had picked him as in the Polynesia at lunchtime. ‘Excuse me.’ She wound her window down a bit. He was the one who had said not to trust anyone who went to the pub and drank lemonade. The man — he was years younger than she was — scrunched up his face in annoyance and looked around to see where the voice had come from.

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‘Over here.’ She waved her cigarette or was it her excuse? He wiped the rain out of his eyes and flicked back his longish hair. He still couldn’t see where the voice had come from. ‘Here I am.’ She tapped on the window. ‘Over here.’ Then he saw her and softened. In spite of the rain, he walked towards her slowly. She had been in the Polynesia at lunchtime when he had been by himself and restless. Afterwards, he had gone back to his office at Konedobu — a step-up with his own desk, his own chair, his own table fan — and thought that he was through with Moresby. There was too much loneliness, too much of the same people saying the same things, too much doing what everybody else did in the useless pursuit of filling in time. By afternoon tea, he had definitely decided to go back to Canberra, to get another foothold on whatever rung he could manage on the public service ladder. And fuck forever this place with its noble savages and generous allowances. But then, things had a way of changing all of a sudden. He was smiling as he bent down to the half-opened window and she was smiling up. ‘It’s a bit wet out here,’ he said. ‘My name’s Mike Davis.’ He put his hand through the window and it shook some drops of water onto her pale green blouse. He knew he was too lonely but he didn’t know what to do about it. ‘Sorry,’ he said, indicating the dark drops that now spattered her front. The few women who had been there at lunchtime had either been old, or with kids, or with blokes. She had been sitting by herself when he arrived and, until he saw that she was saving seats, he had almost asked if he could join her. He expected her to give back her name but she didn’t. She just smiled up at him again and he smiled back. Again.

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Then he couldn’t work out what she wanted or didn’t so he stood back from the window. He said with a grin, feeling reckless: ‘Your place or mine?’ Virginia opened the car door. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, she was laughing a bit. ‘I’m in a trance. I’ve,’ she was conscious of her pinkened eyes, ‘I think I’m getting the flu or something.’ She wasn’t as pretty as he had thought. Beggars can’t be choosers. He sat on the end of a frayed towel while his long brown legs with their soaking socks and shoes stuck out the door into the rain. He waited for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he said: ‘Car’s conked out then, has it?’ ‘Oh no,’ said Virginia, ‘it hasn’t.’ What did she want? This was freedom, wasn’t it? Could do what she wanted, couldn’t she? Or did she really only want a light? ‘I just wondered if you had — well — matches or something.’ She waved the cigarette again. ‘You’re getting very wet, I’m sorry.’ But when he started to pull his legs inside the car, she leaned across and turned the window right down so that the rain blew in. ‘I don’t smoke, I’m sorry.’ He still didn’t know what she wanted. ‘You were in the Polynesia at lunchtime, weren’t you?’ ‘Yes I was,’ she said, ‘you don’t smoke?’ She leant across him and this was it, he thought, what she wanted, he thought, and went to take her in his arms but she ducked down and pushed the car door open further. He smelt her shampoo and felt disappointment at the same time. ‘If I did smoke,’ he said, ‘I’d join you.’ This was her cue to say — ‘Join me anyway.’ He kept on grinning and felt foolish. She didn’t say join me anyway and she still hadn’t told him her name.

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Yes, fuck this place and everything in it. Mike Davis got out of the car and straightened up. ‘Anyway.’ He was getting poured on again. ‘I’d better get out of these duds.’ The instant image flashed through his mind. Him wet and hungry, oh so hungry. Her wet too, inside and out, wet in the car, wet in the wet. But, ‘Yes,’ was all she said. ‘You’re getting soaked.’ In spite of himself, Mike Davis was angry. Her smile, he thought, was not a smile at all, it was a smirk. She was smirking at him as if he was some dirty little boy. Yet hadn’t she just had the same thought as he had? He knew she had, he’d seen it startle her. ‘Why don’t you try the dashboard lighter?’ He hoped it sounded sarcastic enough. ‘Where?’ Every second she was growing plainer. ‘I didn’t know there was one.’ She seemed stupid and whiter and older. ‘There.’ He pointed to the button marked with a smoking cigarette and saw, at the same time, her wedding ring. ‘Doesn’t your husband smoke?’ ‘No he doesn’t.’ So he sighed and wondered why he was wasting his time. This dithery dame who had probably married for money was just as boring and shallow as everybody else. ‘Yeah.’ He said. ‘Well.’ He added with a bit of payback, he hoped. He had his keys out again, was walking towards his car. ‘There you go then.’ Inexplicably, he felt like crying. ‘It’s

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amazing what things you can find when they’re right there under your nose.’ ——————— She watched Mike Davis get into his car. He slammed his door and started up with angry revving that would surely flood his engine. He drove off fast without a wave. She felt helpless and hopeless and stupid. She threw the damp, unlit cigarette out the window. Something terrible was going to happen soon. She knew that with certainty. What could she do to cut new sense into this life that was tracing the wrong pattern? She backed out carefully to avoid a dog whose teats were swollen with milk. Perhaps she would call Konedobu on Monday and see if there was a Mike Davis working there. She would apologise. Apologise for what? For being such a coward? She thought about Bunny Ling. Maybe Bunny could help her. Bunny had a way of seeing the wood through the trees. It was Bunny who’d helped her through the sea of self-doubt that loving Brian Forbes had brought with it. Yes, Virginia thought as she started the slow drive home to a home she didn’t want to go to, maybe it was time to go to Sydney and talk to Bunny. Bunny, with the insight she preferred to disguise as daffiness. Perhaps Bunny was the one who could help her out of this morass she couldn’t even identify.

It was Bunny Ling who organized the foursome to Chequers to introduce Ted Rich to Virginia, her best friend from school.

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Bunny couldn’t believe how right the timing was. The arrival of this handsome Prince Charming, who was smitten with Virginia right from day one, made Bunny almost believe in miracles. Bunny was a small, dainty girl, bright with wit and a curtain of blonde hair which she was forever maneuvering over one eye. Bunny was always up to something — from time to time a quick affair behind the solid back of Royston Marlowe, her fiancé who, at twenty-eight, was already a junior partner in a go-ahead firm of solicitors. Bunny had an absolute weakness for Italian waiters and a talent for telling lies which amounted almost to an art. She had no qualms at all about asking other friends to cover for her, when the need arose, but she never asked Virginia. There was something so pure, honest and ingenuous about Virginia, it was almost off-putting. So of course it had to be a girl like Virginia, Bunny had often thought but had told no one, who had to fall and fall hard for someone like Brian Forbes. Neither Bunny nor Brian said anything or did anything to make it happen but happen it did, in the back seat of her car in Centennial Park. She, Virginia and Brian had been out together somewhere and Bunny said she would give Brian a lift home. This was in spite of the fact that Bunny didn’t really like Brian all that much. He was always slinging off about dumb blondes but Bunny could stick up for herself. She could give him a run for his money on Communism, too. In the red Ford that had been her twenty-first birthday present, Bunny waited for Brian outside Nugal Hall, the old block of flats where Virginia lived with her mother. After ten

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minutes of waiting she got impatient. She could see them standing at the gas meters not kissing but talking, Virginia’s head bowed, Brian nodding as though he was telling her something serious and important. Bunny tooted the horn and called out that if Brian wanted a lift he had better hurry up, quick sticks, because his free taxi was about to take off. And then they were in the park. And in the car. And then the back seat. And of all the words that panted out of both of them, there was not a one of guilt. Bunny found out, first-hand, that Brian Forbes was very, very sexy and very, very skilful. He knew what he was doing and how to do it. He touched this — did that — cosseted this place, was rough on the next. But at the same time as she bit her lip to stop from crying out, Bunny could picture a How To manual with Brian the mechanic, herself the car chassis. Bunny also felt sure she discovered another important thing about Brian Forbes as they rutted in the back seat of her birthday present and the bats in the Moreton Bay fig dropped fruit onto the roof. Bunny knew that Virginia and Brian had never made love. Virginia was convinced that there was something radically wrong with her. It was Brian who didn’t want to go all the way. Afterwards, Bunny told herself that it was akin to research, what she had done with Brian Forbes that night in Centennial Park. In any case, she felt sure she found out what made him tick. Brian needed no one but himself. He was the sole star, the only director of the drama that was himself. He wanted to be adored but to stay untouched. The more Virginia wanted him the more she couldn’t have him. Brian was buttoning up his shirt on a creamy-skinned chest that was almost hairless when Bunny asked him why he

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had never made love to Virginia. He stopped on the middle button. His hands had the long fingers of a musician, the squat thumbnails of a murderer. ‘I’m very careful about the people I choose to love,’ he said and resumed his buttoning. ‘You don’t love Virginia,’ said Bunny as she got out of the back seat of the car and walked around to the front. ‘You only love yourself.’ ‘On the other hand,’ Brian said and the tip of a tooth gleamed in a slit of a smile, ‘I’m far less fussy about the people I choose to fuck.’ She couldn’t wait to get him out of her sight. With a tinny taste in her mouth she said: ‘You’re the worst shit of all time.’ Brian laughed as he climbed over the back seat and into the front. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say about someone you’ve just had carnal relations with.’ She bumped the car up off the grass and onto the road. ‘If I told Virginia it’d get you out of her life once and for all.’ How she longed for the familiar smell of Royston’s aftershave. ‘And into yours?’ He stretched out his arm as if he owned the car and everything in it. ‘I wouldn’t have you in a fit!’ She was clenching the steering wheel hard. ‘And you’re a nasty little hypocrite aren’t you?’ ‘You don’t want Virginia you just want her to want you!’ They were almost out of the park. ‘That’s very perceptive of you.’ ‘So why don’t you just piss off and let her find somebody else!?’ He reached across and squeezed her arm and that’s what did it. He thought she was in his power because he had fucked

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her. Virginia was in his power because he didn’t fuck her and never would. If he breathed a word she would deny it. Swear it hadn’t happened on the Bible and on her mother’s life. ‘Get out!’ She pulled in hard on a corner of Oxford Street. She reached across him and flung open the door. ‘Get out now!’ He looked at her with surprise and then he did get out. With just a smile but not a word. Until he was standing on the pavement when he said back into the car: ‘And won’t you be wetting your pants in case I’m the one who tells?’

She did spend the next weeks avoiding Virginia with weak excuse after weak excuse. There was even a terrible fear that she could blurt it herself in the face of Virginia’s candid grey gaze. And then Brian Forbes was gone. He just disappeared with no more than a letter and no forwarding address. Virginia was distant and destroyed but Bunny and Mrs Fernshaw were jubilant. And then Kevin, her brother, bumped into Ted Rich in town and the match made in heaven was set to take place.

The rain had stopped but the big yellow bullfrogs were still on the lawn, glassy-eyed and mesmerized. Only their throats moved, pulsing in and out with contrapuntal croaks. As her car came up the driveway, the frogs hopped away to hide in the places where they merely existed until the rain brought them to life again.

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Goada came running out of the house as Virginia pulled up outside the garage. He was laughing. The natives tended to laugh most of the time, but they laughed even more when the rain came. ‘Hello missus.’ Still chuckling, Goada opened the back door and hauled the cardboard box off the seat. As Virginia got out of the car, though, she saw his amusement turn to puzzlement as he contemplated what was in the box. ‘You like baked beans, don’t you Goada?’ The blue that had been a bare glimmer was now taking back the sky. ‘The kids do, don’t they? And Mary?’ Steam was rising lazily from the lawn. ‘Yes missus,’ Goada said nodding, ‘oli laik bake bean.’ ‘Well you can have them,’ she said, ‘just leave me one tin.’ Goada looked doubtful, not wanting to misunderstand what could be a windfall. ‘Someone gave them to me.’ How easily they came to her these days — big fibs, little fibs, all-sizes-in-between fibs. ‘No, take them all.’ Yes, take them all. She didn’t want even one lurid label staring back at her from the cupboard to remind her of this day she wanted to be rid of. ‘Olgeta missus?’ Goada kept his Pidgin simple for her. With Ted, he rattled on like a raconteur. ‘And I’ll do the dinner tonight.’ He followed her up the steps and into the house. ‘Yes missus? Yu mekim tea?’ Things were getting better and better. In the kitchen Goada put the four — five — six tins of baked beans on the table. ‘You could clean the windows.’ The rain had coursed down the glass in an erratic track detoured by some sort of

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grease or muck. ‘But tomorrow will do, you don’t have to do it today.’ ‘Mi wokim tumor missus?’ So now Goada really had to laugh again. He unloaded the liqueur and the other things she did not want or need onto the table. The baked beans in the box were his tins now. His amusement was so big and infectious that Virginia was laughing too. ‘So you can go home till after dinner.’ Things were so fine that Goada plunged for the hat trick. ‘Missus?’ She turned from the freezer. ‘Yes?’ ‘Mi tupela i go long Kukipi?’ She stopped. She got Kukipi. Kukipi was where Goada came from. ‘Oh.’ Mi tupela. Me two fella. Goada and Mary. ‘You want to go back to Kukipi?’ ‘Okay missus?’ No. Not okay. Stories of defecting houseboys were a staple at every dinner party. You went through all the rigmarole of teaching them how to fry eggs without breaking them, how to wash shirts so that the collars and cuffs came clean, and no sooner had you spent all that time and effort on them than they left, leaving you stuck and having to go through the whole damn business again with another boy. ‘Oh Goada,’ was all she could say with a groan, ‘don’t tell me that. Please don’t tell me that.’ In a strong surge of feeling Virginia realized how much she would miss Goada if he was not there. ‘I don’t want you to leave.’ She had thought it before but now she knew it. ‘Aren’t you happy here?’

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Goada shook his head and waved his arms, desperate to correct the mistake. ‘Bai mi kam bek, missus!’ He gulped at the words as if they were a saving breath. ‘You will come back?’ But that’s what they always said, according to the pundits. Goada nodded violently. ‘Mipela go long Fonde, na mi kam bek Mande.’ Go Friday back Monday. ‘Just for the weekend? Truly just for the weekend?’ Virginia followed Goada’s gaze over to the back door. A sullen Mary stood there scratching her stomach and looking down. It was Mary’s doing. Mary hated her even more because of last night and Mary had ordered Goada to leave. She grasped Goada’s hands in her own and Goada gasped at the gesture. ‘Are you truly telling me the truth?’ Mary’s head whipped up — mouth unsmiling, a cold look in her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean — not that you’re telling a lie, Goada, it’s just that —‘ now it was Mary she was appealing to, ‘I’d really hate to lose you and I would —‘ she looked back to Goada, had to impress it on him, ‘I really would miss you a lot if you left.’ Now Goada was mystified. He stopped giggling and his voice turned gentler. She was the silly one. He told her he was going home to see his sick brother, that it was just for the weekend, that he would be back because he had a good house and a good missus, the best in Port Moresby. And she understood. Not so much the mishmash of words but she understood what Goada wanted to communicate. It made her wonder what went wrong with most of the other people in her life.

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She told Goada that of course that was alright, yes he must go home and see his sick brother and then she would be so glad to see him back because, she said, she always told her friends that she was the lucky one to have the best houseboy in Port Moresby. Mary was looking at her with — what was it? Scepticism? Mary never answered to anything that was said to her in English. It wouldn’t surprise Virginia if she understood every word. Goada was excited as he showed the box with the tins of beans to an unimpressed Mary. Mary said something sulkily as they went. She went back to the freezer and took out a frozen chicken. As she took it back to the sink she looked out the kitchen window. Goada and Mary were not even halfway down the yard but now it was Mary who carried the box and Goada’s voice which was raised in a quarrel. The chicken would be thawed through in less than half-an-hour.

FIVE

By Christ, Ted thought as he drove down the hill, the day could only get better. He felt as though he hadn’t slept at all. From the time Virginia had come back to bed he had been stark, staring awake, his roaring thoughts propping open his mind even if his eyelids were closed in protection. Closed in protection. His mind had said that. Closed in protection against his own wife? What was he going to do? It was almost cool in the early morning. A couple of native girls, holding hands, were coming up the road. As he passed them he tooted and waved and the girls giggled and collapsed into each other, hugging each other’s pretty brown shoulders. He smiled to himself but felt sad at the same time. ‘Ah, Jesus,’ he sighed then was horrified to feel tears spring to his eyes. He dashed them away and tried to think of something else but couldn’t. Only Virginia and the bloody state of things. Did the natives have these sorts of problems in their lives? He bet they didn’t. In New Guinea there was tribal hierarchy and there was family hierarchy and that was that. If you wanted to buck the system you went to war. Even amongst the town natives the most menial man was still boss of his own household. Their bloody houseboy Goada, for Christ’s sake, still ruled the roost in his tin shack. The men headed the family and the women and children deferred. Only one clown in every circus. So if you mucked around with that order of things was it any wonder it all went skewiff?

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Ted had grown up with things skewiff so he knew first hand. The most potent thing he remembered about his father was that he was not there. The most potent thing he remembered about his mother was that she was always there. Ted loved his mother, of course he did. From the time he was a little boy he would do anything for her. Later, in the nursing home where she had gone, more sick than old, his mother was the envy of the other ladies for her wonderful son. Ted was the star of Mother’s Day. While frail Mrs Rich tried to stifle her coughs her handsome son came in with a smile and a name for everyone, chrysanthemums, cards and enough chocolates to share around generously. When Mrs Rich died it was Ted the ladies in the nursing home missed most. Ted, as a child, had longed for a brother or sister — brothers and sisters — but there hadn’t been any and it was not likely that there would be after his father ran off with the flibbertigibbit. There was just him and his mother and cats in the house his father signed over as conscience money. To Ted, growing up, it seemed that all his many aunties and all his mother’s friends had men in their lives who were not worthy. Playing cards, they would sit censorious over bad hands and bad husbands. Queen and two Kings. Full house and flush. Spitting little flecks of tobacco off their tongues with a sound that was dismissal itself. Sometimes, though he tried to get her to stop, his mother insisted on scrubbing his little boy’s back in the bath. How rotten men were, went the litany with the loofah. He would cup his hands round his penis in case she discovered he had one.

Ted Rich was twenty-two when he went to New Guinea. At that time Port Moresby had more tin sheds than proper

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buildings and the jungle behind the Owen Stanley Ranges was as unexplored as any territory on earth. Ted had stood on the tar-smelling deck of the cargo carrier as it berthed in Port Moresby’s harbour. The sunset was blood-red and black people paddled their canoes. Ted felt a surge of happiness being in a place where the future wasn’t laid out before him like a shroud. Ted’s mother had died the year before. He was working in Sydney’s biggest hardware shop, owned by the father of a boy he’d gone to school with. Ted was told early on that the job was his for as long as he wanted, with six-monthly salary increases, Christmas and Good Ideas bonuses and four weeks annual holidays. Ted Rich was managerial material, no two ways about it. Ted, though, had other ideas. He wasn’t a big city boy. Nor was he a young man who liked working for someone else. Ted knew he couldn’t be challenged for long improving another man’s profits. He wanted to make his own. Ted’s mother had an English cousin who had visited them in Sydney a few years after the war. For a boy who loved the pictures, Uncle Dag — short for Dagworth after the village his ancestors ruled — had all the exciting glamour of Errol Flynn. With his brilliantined hair and thin black moustache Uncle Dag even looked like the film star. He was going up to New Guinea to find out if coffee plantations were viable. Months later his mother received a letter from her cousin to say that New Guinea was a strange and heathen land, with natives you didn’t dare trust, but he had acquired land in the Highlands and he was going to go into coffee. He also wrote that the occasional Japanese soldier still walked out

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of the jungle with hands held high, loin cloth precarious on jutting hips. New Guinea was a place where anything could happen. Ted already had money from the sale of the house but he earned more and got his passage as well when he signed on as a deck hand on The Chusan. Ted loved the three months of loading and unloading as the ship took its route round the islands. It was man’s work in men’s company and a long way away from scent, sweet sherry and the stigma of his sex. From Port Moresby Ted flew up to the Highlands in a tiny two-seater where the icy air whistled round his legs. The pilot was a young bloke like himself who said he wouldn’t go back to Australia for quids. Down below the green jungle gaped like an open mouth and a few weeks later Ted heard that the plane he had flown in — same pilot, different passenger — had gone down to disappear forever. No search party could have even made a dint. The missionaries didn’t know of such a man as Ted described and there was no mention of his name in any of the meagre district records held at the Mount Hagen outpost. Coffee-growing Europeans were now thriving in the area but Uncle Dag wasn’t amongst them. Perhaps there were more important things to be retained in local memory than just another come-and-go white man. Or else something had happened to him and nobody knew or cared. Maybe the jungle really did devour, like some mammoth Venus Flytrap. The more probable thing, though, Ted believed, was that Uncle Dag had stayed just long enough for New Guinea to live forever in his imagination and letters. Then he had fled back to something he knew, a life he could do.

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That wasn’t for Ted, though. Ted was through with the past. New Guinea was Ted’s present and he mentally signed over his future as well. He went back to Port Moresby and bought the clapped-out bus business from Dave Gillespie, whom everyone called Dizzy, and who was going home to die of cancer.

Being alone at the business he owned was calming, Ted thought, as he let himself into the tin and fibro shed that was his office. There were other interests that earned him income —shares in a mining company, a couple of rental properties — but the buses were hands-on. Soon he hoped to sign on the dotted line for the timber mill but right now the business he’d improved and expanded was Ted’s major concern. He usually got in around eight when his drivers were back in the depot after their first runs of the day. He had seven native drivers and five buses that plied routes around the town, along the waterfront, to the native compounds and right up to Rouna, which was as far as any vehicle could go. Europeans only traveled on the buses if it was absolutely necessary. This was usually if your car was in for repair or a cosmetic goingover if you wanted to sell it. The ex-pats in Moresby bought and sold cars like kids swapped sports cards. And if you did have to do without your car for a few days there would always be someone to give you a lift. Unless new parts had to be sent from Australia, most repair jobs could be done over the weekend in forty-eight hour continuous shifts.

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Ernie Whitehead and Ralph Buck were uncle and nephew, two Queenslanders who ran their motor mechanic shops in friendly rivalry. Ted always went to Ernie because Ernie had been there first. Both Whitehead’s and Buck’s employed native mechanics because, as Ernie had discovered early on, they just seemed to have a natural affinity with vehicles and engines. They could recognize problems in a motor, sometimes just by listening to it. It was the dream of every youth from Hanuabada or Hohola to own his own car, not just the sixth or quarter share their fathers and uncles could afford, but a car of his own. If it was a bomb, so much the better, because his own skills could improve it. So, to compete for something they were good at, which also fed dreams for the future, boys would work for virtually nothing. Ernie and Ralph both had incomes they could only have dreamed of back home in Rockhampton. Ted’s best bus was on the town route that finished up at Konedobu, the administrative centre. If the whites ever did have to use a bus this was the most probable one for them to travel on. There were signs in all Ted’s buses, in Motu and Pidgin, telling the natives that they must give up their seats for whites when required. Douglas Olabi — a young Papuan who could read, write and speak English much better than most — drove the best bus because he was Ted’s best driver. When he had come to ask for a job, Ted wasn’t looking for another driver but he had been impressed by Douglas’ intelligence and manner. When Douglas also demonstrated that he drove well — confidently but carefully — Ted hired him on the spot. He assigned Douglas to the best bus, getting at least one broad black nose out of joint

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though none of the other drivers said anything. Economics also decreed that one of them had to go, so Ted gave Moses Imiri his marching orders. Moses was the oldest of the drivers inherited from Dizzy. Ted didn’t feel good about sacking Moses and he was genuine when he told the old bloke, who was probably no more than forty, that he was sorry to have to let him go. But the younger drivers deserved their day too. Ted was pleased for many months with his new employee. He even got good white word back about Douglas. But then something changed. When Ted upped the fares Douglas asked for a raise. He was saving for a bride price. Mission-educated and working in town, Douglas still had to abide by traditional laws. Ted refused him the raise and pointed out that Douglas already earned more than most natives except for the few in clerical jobs. Douglas seemed to take Ted’s decision calmly enough but it was at that time that things started to go wrong. He almost had an accident in town — not reported by him, but by a clerk who took the trouble to call from Konedobu. His manner, with Ted, changed from polite and deferential to surly and silent, an attitude in the natives Ted couldn’t bear and wouldn’t put up with. The latest thing was that the gears on the best bus had to be seen to. Ernie came out and had a look and reckoned they’d been clashed maybe once too often through somebody’s carelessness. Ted questioned Douglas about this but he just shrugged, even started to walk away. Ted shouted at him to come back and demoted him on the spot. He put Douglas onto the Hohola bus and cut his wages back to what the others were getting. Ted warned him that if there was one more

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thing he cocked up he would be out on his arse. Whenever Ted advertised for a new driver he was inundated.

There was never very much Ted had to do in his office, though lately he had taken to pretending that there was. When things were running normally his working day was more of a physical one — overseeing the drivers, checking attendance and punctuality, doing the minor repairs and adjustments that weren’t big enough for Ernie to come out for. Sometimes Ted went traveling on the buses himself, to assess what changes needed to be made to timetables or stops. Ted enjoyed that. He saw the place differently from when he drove. He found himself smiling at the way the natives interacted with one another. That, too, was very different from the way they were in the presence of taubadas. He liked the closeness of the bodies, the touching between them, the grins of the kids, he even liked the coconutty, yeasty smell they gave off when they were all packed together. There were some, and not only women, who said the stench of the natives made them sick. Ted wasn’t one of them. He liked strong smells, strong tastes, strong feelings. It was just that he hadn’t discovered this about himself — in all his twenty-two years — before he was freed in New Guinea. Ted set about making a cup of tea. He kept all his books and accounts and drafted his own correspondence. Virginia typed up his letters at home under the dark blue letterhead of E. RICH ENTERPRISES with the postal address of the post office. Some letters — and these currently included correspondence to Council concerning the new town swimming pool — Ted wrote by hand.

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The business deal in the offing was the purchase of a timber mill at Rabaul. Ted was impatient for it to be finalized. It was still in the hands of Sydney solicitors with the late owner’s family holding out for more money. The thought of spending time in Rabaul getting the mill up and running again was becoming more enticing by the minute. Rabaul was also Janet territory. Janet — —? Terrible thing to admit, he admitted as he poured hot water into powdered milk, but he couldn’t remember Janet’s last name. He swilled out the teapot, put leaves in and attacked the powder lumps in his cup with a spoon. For the life of him, Ted couldn’t remember her name. The water he poured on the tea-leaves rose in a fragrant steam. Janet, who’d been the best sort of sport in the best of all ways, and he couldn’t remember her name. He got out his address book. It was old, pre-Virginia, frayed and tattered and as full of the past as any diary. There Janet was under ‘J’. Janet Hughes. His hand reached out for the phone but then he stopped himself. You couldn’t ring anyone before seven, not even up here. And if he rang in the morning her husband might be there. He would call later. It had been a long time since he had even thought of Janet. As well as her last name, he’d forgotten exactly what she looked like. Remembered her laugh, though. Virginia never seemed to laugh any more, Ted reflected as he poured the tea into his cup and the milk turned the colour of his mother’s no-nonsense stockings. Not unless it was at someone. But had Virginia ever laughed? Gentle smiles, he could remember, and pleased amusement. But a big wide happy laugh? Not really. Maybe that was her fatal flaw. As simple as

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that. The lack of a sense of humour. Janet’s laugh was highpitched and girlish. She was older than he was. Getting a bit long in the tooth now, then. Ted sat with his tea and turned the leaves of his address book. Some people in there were still in his life but others were just names belonging to forgotten faces. So many people who’d come and gone.

Terry Hamilton under ‘H’. Terry and Suzy Hamilton — him quiet and serious in a managerial position at Burns Philp — her a flirt and too pretty and lively for Terry. What had happened to them? Ted seemed to remember that they broke up and she went back to Melbourne or maybe he did and she stayed and lived with the copra dealer Terry caught her out with. So many affairs where till-death-do-us-part melted like ice in a white blast of heat. No, probably it was Suzy who’d gone back. Men mostly thrived up here and women mostly didn’t. Before the spectre of Virginia could weigh him down again Ted flipped a few pages back. ‘B’. Barry Morton and Linda. Bank Commonwealth. Bill Longhurst. Broughton Dawn. He only knew one Dawn and that was Dawn Harkness. Why would he have Dawn in his book under her single name? He flipped back to ‘H’. Ray Harkness and Dawn, 5120.

The only real blame Ted could attach to himself for the present state of affairs was his decision to resume his own life straight away after his marriage. He’d often reflected back and was prepared to admit he was wrong. They should have had a proper honeymoon in Australia — even a week on the Gold

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Coast — yes, he should have done that, not plunged her straight into his world, boots and all. Ted had fallen head over heels in love with Virginia the first time he met her. He couldn’t take his eyes off her – her long reddish hair, the pale smooth skin and the shadow of her breasts above scallops of lace. They had gone to a nightclub where Tony Bennett was singing and it seemed that he couldn’t take his eyes off Virginia either. He crooned to their table from his circle of light — she’ll look at me and smile — making love with his microphone — from which I’ll never roam who would, would you? — and Ted wasn’t jealous he was proud. Virginia was the one, he knew in that instant, the girl he had to marry. But how was he going to do it? Get her to do it? He was bowled over then by how quickly — how naturally — everything fell into place.

To tell the truth, Ted’s memory was vague on the details of his wedding. He had been in such a state of excitement and — what was it? — fear, he supposed. Fear that something was going to happen at the last minute and he was going to lose, the girl who was going to make his good life perfect. But Ted didn’t lose her. No one foreclosed at the registry office and they both signed the necessary documents and there they were, man and wife. They had lunch in a private room at the Hotel Australia with their guests. The plane coming back was half-empty but there were a couple of blokes on it he knew so they changed around in their seats and had drinks and Ted caught up on what had been happening. He had asked Virginia first, of course, asked her if she minded. She said no she didn’t mind, she had her book

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if she didn’t doze off first. Ted remembered thinking it was odd that anyone would have a book to read on their wedding night but then, he had to concede, it was an odd sort of wedding night all round. It was almost midnight when they got in. He heard her sharp intake of breath as the plane doors opened and the thick, hot air blasted in. Ted took her hand and squeezed it. He was back in the smells he loved, the heat he loved, with the woman he loved. He had to laugh with pure, plain happiness. What he said with the laugh, though, was: ‘You’ll get used to it.’ They got a taxi to his house. Any number of people would have been pleased to meet him at the airport — even at that hour — but Ted hadn’t told anyone when he was coming back let alone that he was coming back with a wife. He wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t unless it was just that he wanted to ease back in, at his own pace, to a place where privacy was the greatest luxury of all. What was the name of the houseboy he had when he was single? Couldn’t remember, didn’t matter and whatever his name he was no great shakes. What’s-his-name was all Ted needed though. He could cook basic kaikai , he did the washing and ironing okay and he kept the place more or less clean. Ted loved the house he had built. It was on one of the best sites in Moresby and it was big and open and his domain. But Ted only saw how much of his domain it was when he returned with Virginia. It was just as he had left it of course — his sports magazines stacked on the coffee table, his Playboy girls stuck up inside the wardrobe — because Ted himself didn’t know he’d be coming back married. He was also embarrassed to realize that he could smell old socks.

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‘I should have got someone to come in and air it,’ he said as he ushered Virginia in and turned on the living room light. He hurried first into the bedroom. He just hoped Whatsis had changed the sheets. He had. Ted whipped a pair of dirty underpants out from under the bed and put them in the clothes basket he never used. Virginia was white, still standing, still holding her handbag and overnight bag as if she might bolt. ‘Oh, I love you,’ he said as he went to her and took the bags. Bolt but where to? ‘I love you, Virginia, I really do.’ He put his arms around her and kissed her. His body relaxed with relief as she responded to the kiss. ‘But this was a mistake,’ he said as he smoothed her hair away and kissed her ear. ‘Wasn’t it?’ She drew away and looked at him, then put the lock of hair back across her ear. ‘What?’ His heart jumped in a small panic. ‘What’s the matter?’ Her smile was measured as she picked up her handbag. ‘Getting married was a mistake?’ ‘No!’ How could she understand so little of what he felt for her? ‘Getting married wasn’t the mistake.’ He took her in his arms again. ‘I was the mistake, I mean bringing you back here was.’ She wasn’t relinquishing her handbag and the clasp stuck into his chest. ‘I shouldn’t have brought you back to this.’ Her long grey gaze searched his eyes. She went to say something then didn’t. He took the handbag and put it on top of Muhammed Ali. ‘I just love you that’s all and we should have had a honeymoon or something.’ He felt her soften in his arms and he kissed her again. ‘And just because I don’t say things doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.’

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All that was in the fridge was four bottles of beer and pickled onions under a lush carpet of mould. Virginia was amused as she put the kettle on. She said it was alright coming back here like this because her life was going to be a new one in every way and she wanted to start it as soon as possible. Whatsis had come in from the yard armed with a stick. He was astounded to see the taubada back with a woman who was to be his sinabada. Ted was aware of Virginia’s admiring gaze as he spoke to the houseboy in rapid Pidgin. He had come in because the lights were on and he thought some raskols were robbing. After he sent the boy home,Ted remembered the ice cream in the freezer. He got it out and they laughed as they ate it and Virginia had a cup of tea and Ted had a glass of beer. Virginia said again that everything was alright as long as he loved her. They went to bed and he hurt her when they made love but Ted was over the moon with the answer to a question he had been afraid to ask. That was alright too, Virginia sighed, she didn’t mind if he loved her. He breathed in deep the vanilla smell of her breath. Oh yes he loved her, Ted whispered, in a way he had never known. How much he loved her she’d never know the tenth of. It had only been in the last year that, thinking back, Ted could not remember Virginia once ever telling him she loved him back. ——————— His hand had reached out, his finger dialed the number, before he consciously realized what he was doing. A woman’s voice answered the phone. ‘Rabaul 72, Elizabeth Walpole speaking.’

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Not Janet. ‘That’s not Janet is it?’ He almost knocked over his tea in his haste to pick up the address book, peer closer at ‘J’ for Janet, Janet Hughes, Rabaul 72. ‘It’s not Janet, no,’ said Elizabeth Walpole, plummy English with a snip in her voice. ‘This is Elizabeth Walpole here, the residence of Richard and Elizabeth Walpole, who is this speaking please?’ ‘So Mrs Hughes doesn’t work at the hospital any more?’ He had met Janet when he was on a business trip and had an infected finger. ‘I never met Mrs Hughes so I have no idea if she works at the hospital or not and please, I insist, who is this speaking?’ ‘And Phil? Phillip Hughes?’ Dredged the husband’s name up from somewhere. ‘I’m calling from Port Moresby.’ ‘Your name is?’ ‘Edward. Edward Fernshaw.’ ‘Well Mr Fernshaw, my husband and I,’ she sounded like the Queen, ‘bought this property two years ago.’ ‘From Janet?’ He felt he’d been caught with his trousers down. ‘From Mr Hughes. I believe he and his wife divorced.’ ‘Oh really?’ Said Ted. He had asked her right at the start what she would do if her husband found out. Janet said she wouldn’t do anything. Phillip could like it or lump it. He had a cupboard Mary everyone knew about. What was sauce for the gander was sauce for the goose. The only thing her husband cared about, said Janet, was staying married, making money and keeping up every appearance that being white, British and High Church entailed. ‘And you Elizabeth?’ Too late. ‘What are you doing then?’ It sounded like a proposition.

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Elizabeth Walpole hung up on the crank caller. Ted crossed out Janet’s name and number. Then he started to scribble over it. The scribbling turned so hard that the biro tip went through the paper. So Janet’s husband wouldn’t kick up a fuss. Janet’s husband obviously had. ——————— As a good-looking, young and single man, Ted had had far fewer affairs in Port Moresby than he’d had opportunities. He’d politely failed to play the games provoked by a number of good-looking wives, usually in manners that were far from uncertain. If Ted knew the husband — and he almost always did — that was his reason, and a genuine one, to move away from a dark corner at a party or a coincidence up at Rouna. Ted could put himself in the husband’s position. That was why it had been convenient with Janet. Out of town with a faceless husband. Ted turned the address book pages slowly back to ‘C’. There he was, Terry Clarkson, business hours only P.M. 627. And there she was, Megan, with eyes speckled like birds’ eggs. ——————— He had met them sharing a table at the Rouna Hotel. A jazz trio had come up from Sydney and he had gone by himself to the dinner dance. Ted didn’t dance but he did like jazz. He could have gone in a party of couples but he’d done this before and the music had been ruined by women’s chat about houseboys and babies and what was making the bananas woody.

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As far as he could see there was only one seat left in the big, old-fashioned dining room when he got up to Rouna that night. He sat down and introduced himself and Terry Clarkson did the same. Megan Clarkson also shook Ted’s hand. She was a plain, shy girl with an Irish accent which Ted said he found charming. He and Terry drank beer and Megan drank lime cordial, the chicken salad came and went almost untouched and, even when the musos were rollicking into their Dixieland, Ted was aware that Megan hardly took her eyes off him. She rang him at his office the next afternoon and said that she must see him. It was not only her tone that warned him to say no, it was the memory of Terry with his bucktoothed enthusiasm for anything and everything and, most especially, for his young wife. So Ted forgot about the Clarksons until one Friday when, as he was leaving the pub, Terry came stumbling out after him. In the car park he blurted out to Ted that if he and Megan were in love — well — this was just to say to let him know and he’d be able to deal with it. His Adam’s apple jerked up and down trying to keep in control. He told Ted he loved that girl too much not to see her happier in a place she hated. When Ted gasped at what he was saying and denied there was anything, Terry grabbed Ted’s hands and implored him. Ted didn’t know what he was imploring for. All he could say was that nothing — never anything — not a thing that wasn’t just in Megan’s imagination. Terry’s sad eyes searched Ted’s face. Then he took his hands away and let Ted get on with opening his car. He said that made it worse, then. Ted asked if he could give him a lift but Terry just shook his head as he walked back to the pub.

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The following Friday Megan died in her back-yard. The rumour went round that she had swallowed powdered glass. ——————— Ted closed his address book with a slap. He drank the last of his tea. In all these years he’d never become used to the unpleasant taste of the powdered milk dregs. Not as bad as powdered glass, though. No, there was no two ways about it Ted thought as he rinsed out his cup. There were some women who were doomed right from the start and they brought this doom on themselves. That was Megan — poor, tragic Megan. Maybe it was his mother. And now was it Virginia too? The thought made him angry more than anything. Why couldn’t she just square her shoulders and pull herself together? Pull herself out of herself? Would he reconsider this adoption business? He realized he had stopped still, was staring into nothing. There was still something about it that he baulked at in a big way. He hung his cup back on its hook. It would be nice to come home to a little kid running around. But would he ever be able to forget that the kid wasn’t his? He thought it would be easier for women. A woman could be and feel a mother even if she hadn’t given birth. With men it was different — at least for this man it was. A child he hadn’t fathered himself would always remind him — and others — that he hadn’t had it in him. ——————— Garry Keria arrived early for work. Garry was the new driver on the Konedobu bus and the promotion had even affected the

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way he walked. His chest was out further, his shoulders back firmer. Though the promotion had come with no extra money, Garry had bought himself a big silver wristwatch — not the cheaper Japanese ones the trade stores sold but a German one from Burns Philp. He was proud of the fact that the watch cost him two months’ wages. Garry had a wife, three children and old parents he supported on two pounds ten a week. Ted was giving him his time sheet when he looked up to see what Garry was looking at. Douglas Olabi was coming — careening — towards them. He was barefoot, his shorts and shirt were dirty and he was very drunk. The Hohola bus, now Douglas’ bus, was parked on the other side of the yard but Douglas tried to push past the united front Garry and Ted now made in front of the Konedobu bus. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Ted grabbed Douglas by his shirt collar, the reek of stale beer was overwhelming. ‘Drive my bus!’ Douglas’ eyes looked like they were swimming in blood and spittle hung loose on his lips. ‘Not pissed like this you’re not, you’re not driving any bus!’ With Ted turning his pirouette, Douglas twirled like a dancer and threw a punch at Garry. Peter Coribu had just arrived and ran up as the punch missed Garry and then Peter and Garry grabbed under Douglas’ armpits and held him fast. Ted restrained himself from punching but kicked him instead, hard in the shin. ‘You’re sacked, you fucker!’ He strode towards the office. ‘You bloody ape!’ The boy who had been the best driver he had. Douglas let out a loud, strangled scream and Ted turned around. Peter and Garry still held him as though they were the cross and Douglas was on it.

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‘You say you don’t want the oli pool!’ Ted stopped in his tracks. ‘You the bloody ape fuck Mr Rich!’ Garry and Peter started to pummel into Douglas. Another driver came running up yelling and kids were arriving with screams of excitement. Ted strode back. ‘Get out the lot of you!’ He ordered them away with a whipping movement. Under the punches Douglas was sagging like a sack of potatoes. ‘Let him go! Let him go!’ Ted was grabbing shirts and flinging bodies back. Peter and Garry were reluctant, dogs with bones they didn’t want to give up. ‘Do as you’re bloody told!’ But, obedient dogs, they did let go and Douglas sprawled on the ground. Ted stood over him and glared. ‘Yes I did say I don’t want the orli pool.’ The toe of Ted’s shoe was up close to his ribs. ‘And with animals like you around, do you bloody blame me?!’ He strode back to his office and called the police. Two young policemen, in crisp khaki, were out at the depot in twenty minutes. Ted signed the complaint form and hand-wrote another page. Douglas was handcuffed and taken to jail. Peter Coribu was sent to get another driver who wasn’t supposed to start until a later shift. Ted ripped the cardboard end off a beer box and printed a notice in Pidgin. WOK LONG BUSDRIVER ISTAP. SAPOS YU LAIK KAM UP. APPLY HIA. He took it outside and nailed it to a palm tree.

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Ted put Garry back on the Hohola bus for the time being and he drove the best bus himself. There was laughter and excitement from the natives when they saw this and Ted joined in the joke. A couple of Europeans were amongst the travelers and they, too, thought this turn-up for the books was funny. Not only a white man driving the natives but a white man who was also the boss. By the time Ted finished the runs to Konedobu and back the extra driver had come in. He put the tall Tolai called Gideon onto the Hohola run and put Garry back on Konedobu. All the buses went out on the road and Ted felt rattled and worse than ever. And there he was expected to come home for lunch. No, not that, not today, there was a limit. He called Virginia at her office and was careful to sound cheerful as he told her something had come up. There had been such scorn in the silent stare Douglas gave him from the police car. No, nothing of great importance, he’d tell her about it tonight. If Douglas knew about the orli pool that meant the word was out, even though the decision had been made at a closed Council meeting. Ted was utterly buggered. He needed to escape. But where? Drive up to Rouna by himself? No, not by himself. In the mood he was in right then, the futility of the place would depress him even more. He wanted a friend. Who? Not even a friend, just someone to talk to. That was the position a wife should fill. What a joke.

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Ted was not a man for crying but here they were coming on, the tears, he could feel them. Twice in one day, how bloody horrible. He wanted to feel better about himself. How was he going to do that? He locked up the office, put the folder for the time sheets into its slot on the front door and sprinted down the steps to his car.

SIX

He drove fast into town. He felt like ripping down curtains, kicking neat piles of boxes, books, anything organized, felt like scattering something to hell. All he had had to eat was the banana at breakfast and a few cups of tea but it wasn’t hunger he felt fluttering in his stomach. It was some other urgency, almost a gripe, and Ted couldn’t define what it was. He strode up the stone steps of the police station two at a time. He felt light-headed, could bound in a single leap like Superman. He could hear his heart. Everything was too much — was coming to an end — was starting a beginning — enough of this shit and on with the new. He wouldn’t bet on his answer if someone asked him which way was up. On the verandah some natives were hunkered down talking and smoking but inside the station everything was as lazy and calm as the big blue blowflies which circled the open doorway. Nobody looked up as Ted walked in shooing the flies from settling. He clacked down the button of the desk bell with a couple of urgent dings. The oldest policeman jumped up from his desk and hurried to the counter. ‘I’m — Ted Rich.’ Yes, that’s who he was. ‘I own the buses.’ ‘Yes, Mr Rich.’ The policeman grabbed some papers, his prop, tapped them into shape. ‘I am Sergeant Pious Duko. I am acting senior sergeant. How can I help you?

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This wasn’t going to make him feel better at all. ‘Douglas Olabi,’ said Ted. ‘I made a complaint about one of my drivers.’ ‘Douglas Olabi?’ Sergeant Duko leaned forward with serious intent. ‘Yes …?’ he said slowly but not too surely. Ted hit the counter in irritation. ‘Jesus Christ! Douglas Olabi was taken into custody this morning! He was drunk on the job and he tried to attack me! Your boys came out to the depot and I made out a complaint against him!’ As he spoke, Ted looked away from the desk where a door at the side was open. There in direct eye-line, staring at him as he grasped the bars of a jail cell with hands still handcuffed, was Douglas Olabi. ‘There he is there.’ Ted lifted the stile of the counter and went to go through. ‘Mr Rich, in there is for the prisoners.’ The policeman put his hand out and stayed the stile. ‘I know that. I want to talk to him.’ Ted stared at the acting head of the station until the stile was lifted and Ted went through. ‘This is not usual,’ Sergeant Duko said meekly and fell into step behind.

A faint stench hung in the prison area of six small cells. There was a lidless lavatory in a doorless broom cupboard. In the yard were more concrete cells and two tethered dogs which were half-starved and savage. When he saw Ted coming Douglas walked to the back of his cell and turned his face to the wall. ‘Douglas?’ A space of only a few feet separated them but Ted yelled it. ‘I’ve got something to say to you!’ Douglas didn’t move.

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‘I’m not going to press charges against you.’ Douglas remained as he was. ‘Come up here where I can see you,’ Ted ordered, ‘or I’ll go ahead and you’ll get a sentence.’ Sergeant Duko looked worried. Douglas turned around and came slowly towards the bars. His eyes were still blood-shot. He shivered in a way that showed he was trying to control it but couldn’t. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’ Ted’s voice was false. Even to himself he sounded like somebody else. Douglas looked down at his handcuffed hands. There was a urine stain on his dirty shorts. ‘I’m withdrawing the charges I laid against you Douglas.’ Had to make someone somehow need him for something. ‘And do you know why I’m doing that?’ Douglas, still silent, began a gentle rocking from one foot to the other. ‘I’m doing that because if I have you sent to jail. Which is what anyone else in my position would do. I’d be putting myself on your level and that’s something I don’t want to do.’ Douglas raised his head and the words had more force because they were soft. ‘Youse shit, Mr Rich.’ ‘So you want to stay in jail do you?!’ The smiling clean young man he had been so impressed by. Sergeant Duko burst out of his silence. ‘But Mr Rich saying we don’t keep you in jail!’ He couldn’t work out what had gone wrong. He said it again, more furiously, longer and louder in Motu. Then he looked back to Ted with a shrug and a look that said he had done his best. Douglas was still silent and sullen with downcast eyes.

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Ted transferred weight from one foot to the other and changed tack with it. ‘Douglas,’ he said, a reasonable man to a dim wit. ‘I don’t think you realize what I’m trying to get through to you. I can withdraw the charges I laid against you. If I want to. I can send you to jail or I can keep you out of jail. And you know as well as I do that if you’ve got a sentence behind you you won’t ever get another decent job here, not even laying roads. So do you still want to stay in jail? Answer me yes or no!’ Sergeant Duko couldn’t stand by and see this happen. ‘You just say, boy!’ Both sets of black hands gripped the bars. Like the primates they were, thought Ted. The policeman implored but Douglas spat back in angry Motu. Ted let him finish, return to his sullen silence. Then he said: ‘The other drivers think I’m a great boss.’ Now he had started it he had to get away with it. ‘You used to think I was a great boss when you first came to work for me.’ Sergeant Duko drew in his breath. He couldn’t understand Ted Rich and he couldn’t understand the prisoner either. This was a European saying he was prepared to forgive and forget. This was a black man throwing it back in his face. ‘I don’t attack you,’ Douglas muttered. ‘Oh yes you did,’ said Ted, ‘and Garry Keria and Peter Coribu were there too, not that I need their word. I just want you to say you’re sorry.’ Douglas shivered again, murmured again: ‘I don’t attack you.’ ‘Look, Douglas.’ The unequal contest was proving less easy than he had thought. ‘Just say you’re sorry.’ And maybe this was too piddling to be what he needed. ‘You just threw

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everything back in my face, Douglas.’ He’d see. ‘A good job and good pay. Even — a sort of friendship.’ Sergeant Duka shook his head in sad amazement. ‘I didn’t think of you like all the others because you seemed like you were a cut above, pretty bright.’ What Ted was saying was true. What he was doing and why he was doing it, wasn’t. ‘I wouldn’t ever take you on again, no. Once bitten twice shy.’ Ted found himself looking down at his own hands, away from Douglas’ red gaze. ‘But if I drop the charges you won’t go to jail. And you won’t go to jail if you say you’re sorry.’ The silence returned. It returned and held for long moments. Each of the three men could only hear his own breathing. Then Sergeant Duko couldn’t stand it. The Motu he let loose had the blast of a blowtorch. Douglas started to rock again. ‘I say sorry,’ he finally mumbled. ‘Say — I’m sorry Mr Rich.’ Ted had caught the fish and was reeling it in but, no, it wasn’t as big as he hoped. ‘I’m sorry Mr Rich.’ This time Douglas did look at Ted and his lip curled with dislike. Ted was going quickly. At the door he had to fling back: ‘And listen! Are you listening to this Douglas? Don’t you go hanging round the depot or any other place where I might be!’ A mental picture of his own brown shoulders working in clean blue water. ‘Because I wouldn’t give you your job back if you were the last kanaka in town!’

Sergeant Duka was searching through his over loaded in-tray when everyone in the station looked up at the sound of crowd

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laughter coming from the street. Everyone, including Ted, went onto the verandah to see what was happening. Clusters of people gathered and laughed, cars slowed and stopped and the boyish policeman who had been directing traffic was walking to the middle of the road where a white man sang out and twitched like a manic marionette. In Motu, that could have worn a steel helmet, so commanding was it, Sergeant Duka pointed a God-like finger and ordered two more policemen to go and see to the scene. Duty done, he was free to enjoy the spectacle himself and was laughing and slapping his thigh as Ted went over and told him to just tear up the complaint report — if and when he managed to find it. Sergeant Duka wiped the smile off and the seriousness on and thanked Ted as profusely as if he was the one who’d been let off-the-hook.

Ted went into the street. The show was over but the audience was reluctant to go, hoping for an encore. The sunburnt man, whom Ted didn’t know, now sagged and slumped, a doll the puppeteer had let go. The policemen were still helping him, talking to him gently, but maybe, Ted thought, this could be it, this could be the thing to make him feel needed. What better Good Samaritan act than to go to a stranger — a white man like himself — offer a helping hand and a lift home? But Ted didn’t go over and offer. He kept on walking. Had the Douglas Olabi ploy he had played on himself worked? No. The only one who had been taken in by what Ted had just done was the Sergeant. He walked up towards the Baptist Mission. There, too, natives on the verandah were still hilarious telling each other

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the story of what all of them had just seen. Why had he thought letting Douglas off-the-hook would make him feel better? The only real satisfaction had come with the sting of spite at the end. When he’d called Douglas a kanaka. When he’d shot back at Douglas a warning to stay away from places he didn’t belong. Places like the orli pool. Where none of them belonged and that was that. All he come all he go. The orli pool that wouldn’t be. Where to now? Turn right and go and say hello to Ernie? Ted’s was one of the strongest voices against an orli pool. Maybe for some it was a nice pie-in-the-sky idea but for the realists who lived here — and you couldn’t live here for long and not be a realist — one big pool for blacks and whites to swim in together would only have led to more trouble than it was worth. So what they had voted for was two separate pools. One for the indigenous people and one for the Europeans. Because the block of land was more triangular than rectangular the European pool would be just a bit bigger but not much. Ted paused at the corner of the lane Moresby Motors was in. No, he wouldn’t go and see old Ernie. A warm beer in the clamour and grease of a workshop was not what he needed either. He retraced his steps to the main street. Having two separate pools was not segregationist but separatist. And, by Christ Almighty, wasn’t this country already the most separatist place on earth? With its countless tribes and seven hundred and fifty languages? Not dialects but languages, for Christ’s sake! There were the river people and the sea people and the mountain men and the valley tribes and the only thing these New Guinea natives did have in common was

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that, in this day and age, in the twentieth century, they all still belonged to the Stone Age. Across the street was the Polynesia Coffee Lounge. Would he go over and have some lunch? No. If he did find himself talking to someone it would be someone with coffee conversation. Ted walked on up the street. Maybe what he needed would be lying in wait in the pub.

Ted wondered whether his state of mind made the public bar of the Moresby Arms look so much worse than he remembered it. He hadn’t been in for quite a while and it had never been what you might call salubrious. Now, though, in the bright light of day, it was positively grotty. The big overhead fans did nothing to disperse the smell of stale beer. Flies lit on, crawled up, the dirty green tiles. The concrete floor was wet with a whiff of disinfectant. It was nearly as bad as the Snake Bar, the dreadful dive the natives frequented and where an old perv like Godfrey Warner got his jollies. Some men still downed schooners at the end of the bar but the majority of the drinkers in the early afternoon were women. Ted went towards the bar where the barmaid — Christ, what was her name? — wiped its cracked lino surface with a grey rag. Left swirls. Doris. That was her name. Doris was so aware of Ted that she could only pretend she hadn’t seen him. Doris massaged the bar in ever-widening circles as though it was flesh she was engaged with. ‘Gooday Doris. How’s life treating you?’ If someone opened up a rival pub they’d clean up, no two ways about it. ‘Oh you know,’ said Doris, still not looking at him, ‘up and down.’

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‘Up and down like a whore’s drawers.’ He laughed it so then she had to look up and laugh along with him. ‘What can I get you?’ ‘Nothing for it but a nice cold beer.’ Yes, that might be the go for another business venture. Open up another pub. The old convent site would be perfect. ‘I’m Ted Rich, remember?’ ‘How could I ever forget?’ Doris lifted her lips in a high smile. ‘Middy or schooner? Resch’s or Tooheys?’ ‘Better off having a couple of small ones — nice and cold, nice and paced.’ Doris was quite attractive in a blowsy sort of way. ‘Then it doesn’t get warm and you don’t get bored with it before you’re finished.’ Doris laughed and turned to her taps. ‘Middy then.’ ‘Of Tooheys.’ She could have moved in front of the tap but she didn’t. She stretched her arm across so that, above her low-cut dress, her breasts quivered and squashed together. ‘You haven’t come in much lately have you?’ Tony Bennett crooned — don’t get around much … any more — and so passably well that Doris was surprised. ‘Hey.’ She grinned. ‘That’s not bad.’ She put his beer on the counter. Ted reached for it, aware that the blond hairs shining on his brown arm were attractive. ‘But I’ve decided that’s about to change.’ What would she be like, what would anyone else be like? Doris gave him a long look from under her lashes. ‘Not much since you became an old married man, in fact.’ Ted took a sip of his beer. ‘And as I say,’ he said, ‘there’s a few things might be in for a bit of a change.’

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Surprise again took over Doris’ face. One of the men at the end of the bar was calling for another round and Doris had to go. With a small closed smile, she looked back over her shoulder as she went.

So he had said it. Doris might have thought that he was just intimating something in general but Ted knew what he had said. His mind was and always had been two jumps ahead of him. Sometimes he had no idea what he was thinking about a certain subject and he would only find out when he heard the words come out of his own mouth. Maybe that’s what happened when people didn’t have other people to tell things to. ‘There’s a few things might be in for a change.’ Yes, he had said what his mind told him to and something had to be done about it. Maybe if he was lucky his mind would tell him what that something was as well. Different groups of women sat at different tables. At one was gathered some older ones who had gone — galloped — into middle age, aided and abetted no doubt by booze, sun and indolence. That would be Janet Hughes’ age group. One of the women stood, staggered and clutched at the table. Her hat fell off and everybody shrieked. Or had he said that about change just to try and get on to Doris? Get on to Doris, my God. She’d worked at the pub for years and never before had he thought of her in that way. Any more than he had of the old girls over there, guffawing with watery eyes.

Doris came back, Ted drained his glass and handed it to her without a word but with a smile. Doris took it. Without

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a word but with a smile. She flicked her wrist at the Tooheys tap more times than she needed to. Doris had pretty hands and she knew it. ‘So tell me about these momentous changes that are in the wind then.’ She put his beer back on the counter and Ted put down a ten shilling note. ‘I don’t suppose the first one was on the house?’ ‘Not on the house, no.’ Doris still smiled as she put the note in the till and got out change. ‘Not even for you Ted.’ She took her packet of cigarettes from the shelf which held a tips jar and a Zane Grey paperback. She offered the pack to Ted. ‘I can give you a free ciggie though.’ Ted shook his head. Then he shook his head again more vehemently when Doris said she supposed he hated women who smoked. No, of course not, he didn’t mind at all. Ted sipped his new beer and put the wet coins back in his shirt pocket. ‘So.’ Where would the opportunity be though? Doris behind the bar, him in front of it, they weren’t going to get on top of the grey-green lino that reminded him of his mother’s kitchen, were they? ‘You’re married aren’t you, Doris?’ Doris laughed twin funnels of smoke through her nostrils, put her cigarette in an ashtray beside the cowboy cover. ‘If you could call it that Ted.’ She lifted her arms to tuck a bleached lock back into her beehive. Ted looked at the glistening, bluish, vulnerable pits of her arms as he knew he was meant to. ‘Now you’re the one hinting at something,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Well.’ A stray ray of sunlight struck bright, unbelievable gold into her hair as Doris picked up her cigarette again. ‘Would you call it a marriage if you’d just seen one another

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a couple of times in five years Ted?’ Her stare was serious and bold, then, as she put her weight on one hip, one hand under the elbow that belonged to the hand with the cigarette. ‘And I mean — seen one another, that’s all. He’s in jail in Brisbane and I don’t answer his letters and I’d get a divorce but what for?’ ‘Well.’ Ted could only say back. ‘I don’t suppose you would. Call it a marriage I mean.’ Ted remembered Joan Crawford in some gangster picture, the way Doris held her cigarette. But Doris’ moment was ruined by another call at the end of the bar. She expelled bad-tempered breath and murmured as she went: ‘I’d be out of here on the next bloody plane if it wasn’t for the money.’ And so Ted was fed up. Just like that. Stopped the silly thoughts. Stopped wanting to be in this filthy pub. Stopped wanting to look at the poor old dames who could have been Janet. Stopped wanting to think about Douglas’ red glare and the orli pool. Above all, stopped wanting to think about what it was he had to have and where he was going to find it. The soft touch on his arm startled him. ‘Hello Ted. Remember me?’ She had been sitting with the group of younger women whose table was nearest the toilets. When he came in he had looked at them and wondered — why are you all sitting up in a stinking pub drinking and smoking? If you’ve got kids then why aren’t you with them? Why aren’t you doing the sort of things other young women did at half past two in the afternoon? ‘Hello. How are you doing?’ Had no idea of her name or who she was.

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They all looked the same or interchangeable, these thin girls in blouses and trousers. Something, as he watched their feet with painted toenails waving up and down on rubber-soled thongs, had brought to mind bright shiny fishing lures. ‘I’m Leeanne.’ Leanne said. ‘Married to Rob.’ ‘Oh Rob,’ Ted said, ‘yes I know Rob.’ ‘Rob McGuigan. He’s a patrol officer.’ He didn’t know Rob at all. ‘A kiap.’ Said Ted. ‘Yeah, I know Rob.’ ‘Up the Sepik most of the time.’ Leeanne looked sly with her little girl’s face and cunning eyes and then her cotton thigh was soft as she put her crutch into his knee, her foot on the rail, bold as brass. ‘I met you at Christmas drinks,’ she said in a quiet, measured way. ‘At Konedobu.’ She even looked like Megan with her too-fine hair and freckles. ‘I always wanted to catch-up with you but never knew how.’ Doris came back and didn’t even have to peer across the bar to see why Ted pulled back and swallowed down beer. ‘Yes Leeanne,’ she said coldly as she picked up her cigarette and took a drag that caused the ash to crumble and fall, ‘what can I get you?’ Leeanne moved her leg away and straightened up. ‘Two rum and cokes and two G and Ts.’ Doris stayed very close as she took the empty glasses from the tray Leeanne had left on the counter and went about preparing the new drinks. ‘And how’s that handsome husband of yours?’ ‘He’s okay,’ Leeanne said sulkily.

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‘Still on patrol up the Sepik?’ Leeanne just nodded. ‘There you are,’ said Doris. ‘Put them on our tab,’ said Leeanne and picked up the tray with the four new drinks. ‘Hoo roo,’ she said to Ted as she passed him. She didn’t look at him. Doris ground out her cigarette. ‘She’s a little nympho that one.’ She laughed. ‘I’m not saying she doesn’t have good taste doing a line for you, but.’ Ted swallowed the last of his beer and Doris reached out for his glass. ‘No thanks Doris.’ He was getting up from his stool. ‘I thought you were here for the duration.’ Doris was disappointed. ‘Nope.’ Not even a smile from him now, let alone the suggestive banter. ‘Middies didn’t come up to scratch?’ ‘Middies were just fine.’ Ted was going without even a wave. ‘See you round.’ ‘Like a wheel,’ said Doris and watched him go. It was that bloody Leeanne coming over that mucked things up. Doris could see what they had been leading up to. As she went down for the last orders she was thinking that maybe she could even close the bar for an hour or two, turf out the old sozzlepots and tell them she was closing for stock taking. ‘Ha!’ But even as she thought it Doris knew she would never do it. Good thought, stupid idea. Even just the flirting had been nice. God she missed sex and love and everything that went with it. God she was lonely.

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The smelly old drunks down the end called for another round. Bloody damn Leeanne! Doris lit another cigarette and yelled at them to hold their horses.

The pub might have been more of a turn-off than a turn-on but at least the overhead fans kept it cool. In the hot, steady glare of the street Ted realized that he was even sick of the heat, the heat he had always thrived in, sick of its sameness, its day-after-dayness. He hoped it was just this fuck of a day that made him so utterly fed up with everything, including the heat. He wanted to get away from it, soak in a mental cold bath. Burns Philp would re-open in an hour. He would go inside and stay cool for the couple of hours before he had to go home. Going home was something else that settled on him like a weight. Ted bought a chocolate block and walked down to Ela Beach. He went to the end the library was on, not the other end where an old pre-fab fibro place housed Longhurst Imports. Virginia could look out on the beach from her second floor office. He watched two boys shinning up palms with graceful ease. Here he was hiding again. He moved out of the way as the boys swung machetes and coconuts plopped into the sand. Yes, what he had heard himself saying to Doris about change had been right after all. And having said it out loud it had become absolutely imperative. Things had to change. Things simply and monumentally had to change. The little rocky beach was putrid. That was another point Ted raised in his adamant vote against the orli pool. If the

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natives couldn’t keep their beach clean, he argued, how would they go with one big orli swimming place? He got a round of ‘hear hears’ from the majority of Europeans but Oala Sinaka, a native member of Council, challenged him. He said that, yes, Ela Beach was a mess and that Council must allocate more money to enforcing cleanliness and safety. How, though, did Councillor Rich know it was native rubbish and not European rubbish that was fouling the place? Ted said that he had even seen turds in the water at Ela and he couldn’t imagine a white doing something like that. He, for one, wouldn’t go to an orli pool to have someone else’s shit bobbing up against him and, with the government going all out to keep on attracting Australian personnel and investment, Council must take issues like these into consideration. Ted sat down to applause and Oala Sinaka was silent. So. Ted sat down on a bench and kicked away a Passiona can. He crumpled up the chocolate wrapper and threw it as far as he could. What if he did sell up and they went back to Sydney? That would please Virginia and it might save the marriage. But did he really care about doing either? And what would he do back in Australia? Buy into some dinky Sydney business and see her eastern suburbs friends at dinner parties? That would kill him. Not kill him, perhaps, but certainly take the stuffing out of him. The poor mad bloke in the street. No. He’d rather stay here and finish up like that than go back to a place where women ruled the roost. A smell was coming from a rotting seagull. A skeletal dog went up and rolled in the stinking mess. Ted got up from

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the bench and walked on. He felt old and weary and sad for the self he had once been. He wanted to be like that again.

‘Hey. Whatchup to?’ He was wandering in the store, not even aware of thought, when he felt a hefty thump on his back, between his shoulder blades. Ted turned see Dawn Harkness. She was smiling, hot and flustered. She held a baby in arms which glistened with perspiration. The other child stood scratching a sore on the back of his hand. Ted looked around him. He was in the shoe department. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘looking for shoes.’ It had never occurred to him to go shopping for shoes. He picked up a brown brogue to make a point. ‘Never anything you want, of course.’ ‘You can say that again.’ Dawn breathed a heavy sigh. ‘I been trying to buy sandals for Little Jim. Nothing. I’ll have to get them from a catalogue.’ Ted began to walk. And Dawn to follow. Her smile was friendly, a mate, not sexy, not needy, a mate. ‘Can I drop you?’ Ted asked and right then, turning around and looking at her smile, Ted wanted Dawn Harkness whom he had known for years and never thought about, wanted her so much, Ray’s wife Dawn, so badly, that the only important thing he had to do was get her out of the store.

A pulse in his stomach was pumping as Dawn, with the kids, followed him over the road towards the police station. Ted unlocked his car and Little Jim yelled to be put in the back

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with the window open so he could stick his head out. The clouds were gathering, graying. Ted said it was a good idea to get going before the rain and Dawn agreed that it was. There was mostly silence between them as Ted drove to Dawn’s place but it was a comfortable silence, like the one between old friends who don’t need to chat. Little Jim fell asleep in the back seat and the baby was sleeping in Dawn’s arms. The rain started to splat just as they got to the house. Dawn invited him in for a cup of tea. Ted carried Little Jim as they hurried up the broken path. As she went in first through the open front door Dawn said that Ray was away on a buying trip. Willy, the houseboy, had already prepared Little Jim’s tea — mashed potatoes and peas. Dawn’s house had a corrugated iron roof and the downpour was thunderous on it. Thunderous and tumultuous and soothing. Dawn fed the cranky baby as she smoked a cigarette and Willy fed Little Jim. They talked between them. Ted sat silent, sipping his second cup. Dawn put the children to bed — she would bath them in the morning — and told Willy he could go home. The rain had stopped and dark was falling quickly. Dawn lit up her third or fourth cigarette and got a bottle of beer out of the fridge. He had been wondering whether he should go. It occurred to him, but only briefly, that maybe Dawn was not thinking what he was thinking. He was glad he had trusted his sure, sure instinct when she got out the beer and poured it into two peanut butter tumblers. Dawn removed the bowl of half-eaten vegetable mush to the sink and pushed the baby’s high chair back to the wall.

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She sat down, for the first time, with her own glass of beer. She pulled her chair around so that she faced him. The fluorescent light was harsh on her face as it was probably harsh on his. He put his hand on her knee and slid it up under her loose cotton dress. In spite of a shudder, Dawn gently took his hand away and put it back on his lap. ‘Do you remember Jimmy Higgs’ birthday party?’ she asked, then crossed her legs and propelled her chair back and away. ‘I don’t even remember Jimmy Higgs.’ The bunny mugs in another man’s kitchen was cause for guilt if ever there was. ‘It was when I lived at Treganni. I followed you into the garden. You were a bit pissed.’ But there was no guilt, just inevitability. ‘I did that in those days,’ Ted said. ‘I wasn’t the only one trying to crack on to you. All us girls were.’ ‘And your name was Dawn Broughton.’ Dawn drew in breath. ‘How did you remember that? I hardly remember it myself any more.’ ‘I’ve still got your name in my phone book.’ Now Ted moved his own chair forward, moved it towards hers. ‘Have you?’ Her eyes were startled. ‘As me not Dawn Harkness?’ Again, Ted reached out his hand. Dawn watched its slow progress. His hand made contact and was soft in its stroke. Then their chairs were together and they were kissing and his hand was clutching at her thighs.

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‘Not here,’ she said, ‘and they’ll see your car, people will, you know what they’re like.’ She stood up abruptly and smoothed down her dress. ‘Oh Ted,’ she said with some sort of agony. He knew she was thinking about Virginia. ‘And Ray.’ He said it for her as he stood up too. Dawn stared at him, very white. ‘It’s not about them.’ Ted said softly. ‘It has nothing to do with them.’ He took her in his arms. ‘It’s something that has to happen between you and me.’ ——————— Ted used the lavatory first then the telephone. He told Virginia that Council had called an unexpected meeting and that he’d tried to get out of it but couldn’t. He said not to worry about dinner or waiting up as he didn’t know how long the meeting would go on. He felt a quick surge of anger as she asked what the meeting was about. But then he forgave her as the orli pool came to his aid. Not even the papers knew about the closed meeting yet. Only Douglas Olabi. As Ted left the house he turned off the porch lights, as Dawn told him to. He waited for her in the dark car, as she also told him to. His eyes had to strain to see her as she came out of the house minutes later and got in beside him. She had put on a different dress and perfume and even in the dark, insect-humming street they were the only two people on earth. Ted drove off with as little noise as he could manage and she was the one feeling him now — his hair, his chest, his unconquerable cock.

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He parked in a squelch of mud down near the Hohola settlement. Her breath was all shudders and so was his and her perfume had turned into nicotine and tannin. They devoured each other with open mouths and that was alright, more than alright, it was wonderful. Two ways to devour, Ted thought in his haze of sensation. The other way he was through with. This way he wanted, this way was it.

Driving home slowly through the streets where things lived and died around the yellow lights, Ted felt a feeling he hadn’t felt since his youth. He had just run a race — had just won a race — and now he could relax in an ecstasy of exhaustion. Things were again as they should be. Maybe not the details, and maybe the details never would be right, but the big thing — the big pattern — was back where he could recognize it again. Could recognize himself again. The unhappy last night, the unhappy today, were now just things you got over and quickly forgot. At one point, remembering some amusing thing Dawn said, Ted began to laugh so much that he had to stop the car. He pulled up under a street light. Watching flying cockroaches batting shiny in the glare of the lamp, Ted laughed with the deep belly laugh of a man who hadn’t laughed for a long time. Yes, things were back to normal again. And Dawn? The good, reliable mate she had proved herself to be? Never would be an obvious mate, though, not in Virginia’s presence she wouldn’t. He would jump that hurdle when he came to it. Might not even have to face it if luck was on his side. They didn’t come in contact with the Harknesses a lot. From now on, there might be a reason not to come in contact with them at all.

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Ted watched a gecko attack and gobble a moth which had made the mistake of loitering. What had happened with Dawn tonight had been so necessary for Ted, had lanced the boil so effectively, that he didn’t even need to contemplate a repeat performance. Not in a hurry, at any rate. One of those things. See how it goes. He started up and drove towards home. He turned the radio on and even hummed along with a jingle. It didn’t occur to Ted that he might have felt gratitude towards Dawn. In Ted Rich’s book, gratitude and servility went together. Perhaps you used both — you had to use both — when you were an underdog. But Ted Rich wasn’t, never had been, never would be, an underdog. As he drove up the hill towards home, he realized with pleasure that the doubts of the day had all disappeared. The lights in the house were all on and even the lies he was about to tell didn’t faze him. At the top of the drive Ted turned off the radio, got out of the car and opened the garage door. He drove in and parked next to Virginia’s car. He whistled as he went up to the house. As a matter of fact, the prospect of lying excited him. Ted felt alive again. He let himself in with his key. The living room was lit but the room was empty. ‘Hon? I’m home!’ Ted called as he went towards the kitchen. ‘Something smells good.’ He was back in his own life again and if Virginia didn’t like it she could lump it.

SEVEN

BABY GOOSE WITH PEARS. A 4-pound baby goose. 1 medium onion, chopped. 3 cloves garlic, peeled. 2 tablespoons pine nuts. 1 cup raisins. 8 tiny seckel pears. 2 teaspoons of aguadiente or grappa (available in liquor stores). Available in liquor stores. Not available when you don’t have a liquor store. A baby goose. Substitute frozen chook that would defrost grey and soggy. And if the pears were as small and perfect and rosy as they were pictured, they deserved a nicer name than seckel. Virginia went on leafing through Great Dishes from around the World. The glossy hard-covered cook book had been a present from Ted last birthday and now she knew it almost by heart. It lifted her spirits at the same time it made her wistful. She could read lists of ingredients and imagine, really taste, how they would come together. On the other hand the big pictures of sheeny sauces and gleaming vegetables were the epitome of what life had to offer but not to her. Not in Port Moresby. Not as she was. QUAIL IN A NEST. What could be prettier than tiny quail placed in nests of crisply fried potatoes? Virginia closed the book with a sigh and put it back on the kitchen shelf. There was a good stock of tins in the cupboard. She could make chicken pieces cooked with tomato. Or roast chicken with petit pois and rice. Or braised chicken in

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mushroom sauce. She could make all the variations on the frozen chook theme with her eyes closed.

She had decided she would not have a glass of wine until dinner but then she opened the fridge and there was the Riesling. She poured some into a Vegemite tumbler. That made it seem less reprehensible. She decided to make the chicken with mushrooms. That was the one Ted liked best. She took another wine bottle from the cupboard behind the bar and put it in the fridge. It did not mean it had to be opened, it would just be in there getting cold. She sat at the kitchen table and sipped. The silence was soothing. Usually, she was just getting home from the office at this time and the radio would be on loudly and Goada would be doing his chores loudly. It was nice to sit this way, quietly and alone. But it was also open sesame to recollections she would prefer not to make. Yes, last night with the Mortons had been another — what could you call it? A disaster? Too strong if you considered the real meaning of the word. It wasn’t a disaster it was just a mess. An ongoing, domestic-grade mess. Why did they have to go on seeing Linda and Barry? Their very presence stirred up feelings in her that made trouble. Their utter certainty that they were right, good and admirable. Yet Ted took their side against her. She was the one at fault. She was the one throwing friendships back in faces. Wasn’t there a place in this world — perhaps in the same corner where they dined on baby goose with pears — where you didn’t have to spend time with people like Linda and Barry Morton and then have to pretend that you

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enjoyed it? And Linda could wait till hell froze over before she would get an apology.

Virginia wasn’t conscious of thinking anything as she took a few more sips of wine. Then she went to the telephone with her tumbler. Linda answered the phone herself. Usually her houseboy answered as he had been ordered to. ‘The Morton residence.’ Linda sounded rushed, on her way out somewhere. ‘Yes, hello,’ annoyed at being waylaid by something that couldn’t be as important, ‘Linda Morton speaking, who’s this please?’ ‘Hello Linda. It’s Virginia here.’ There was a little intake of breath before the ice. ‘Hello Virginia. How are you?’ But it wasn’t how-ARE-you? It was howareyou? ‘Am I interrupting something?’ There was a pause before Linda said, just as coldly: ‘I am on my way out actually. Helen Crouchman’s having a make-up party.’ A make-up party. Let’s make-up. ‘What’s a make-up party?’ There was a slight thawing into curtness. ‘We’ve paid the girl at the chemist’s to show us how to put eye make-up on.’ ‘Who’s we?’ ‘Lorrae and Rachel Horniman and a couple of the other girls.’ A further thawing into crispness. ‘We’re paying Janelle a few dollars plus the cost of the eyelashes and whatnots and we’ll all have a giggle and a glass of what-have-you.’

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‘Oh yes?’ The image of Linda’s yellow eyes, twin caterpillar headlights under false eyelashed hoods. ‘You can come if you like.’ Almost normal. ‘I didn’t ask you before because I didn’t think it was your sort of thing.’ Virginia found herself laughing into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s not my sort of thing.’ Another intake of breath and it was back to square one. ‘Okay, Virginia. Well. I’d better get going.’ ‘Wait.’ She took a swallow, not a sip. ‘I’d just like to say I’m sorry Linda.’ Silence. ‘I won’t hold you up but I am sorry.’ Linda sniffed and cleared her throat. ‘Well I’m glad to hear you say that, Virginia.’ The eye make-up could wait if the opportunity to tell Virginia a few home truths was presenting itself. ‘I have to admit I was hurt. Very hurt.’ What a prize this would be along with the sparkle shadow and the kohl pencil you needed for doe eyes. ‘I know it was the drink talking but coming from you. To me. Barry couldn’t believe it either.’ Linda was willing herself to remember the conversation word perfect. ‘Because, since you came here, I’ve gone out of my way to be a very good friend to you.’ Virginia was holding the phone away from her ear in case Linda could hear the drinking. ‘Are you still there, Virginia?’ ‘I’m still here. I don’t want to make you late.’ ‘You won’t make me late. We’ve got to get this out in the open. You know you’re drinking too much, don’t you?’ ‘Who says I am?’ Everyone says I am.

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‘We say you are. Barry and I sat up until the wee small hours just talking about you.’ ‘Over Horlicks?’ ‘You’re drinking again now, aren’t you?’ ‘Of course I’m not. I’ll let you go.’ ‘No don’t.’ Now Linda was the one with the urgency. ‘I’m only saying this for your own sake. We had an aunty in the family who was an alcoholic and she finished up taking her own life.’ ‘Poor aunty.’ ‘See? You’re doing it again.’ ‘Go off to your make-up, Linda. I’m sorry I rang.’ ‘Put the kettle on. I’m coming over.’ She didn’t have time to shout out no — to please not — no don’t — before Linda hung up. Linda was coming over to spoil her silence. Spoil her sipping. She thought of going into the bedroom, locking all the doors and just not answering. Instead, she went to the kitchen, drank the last of her wine, rinsed out the tumbler and put the kettle on. ——————— ‘Come in Linda, it’s open,’ Virginia called from the kitchen as she heard Linda’s heels cross the porch and heard her yoo hoo at the door. Virginia’s hands were coated with flour. She was dusting the chicken pieces before frying them and putting them to simmer in the tinned mushrooms. Linda was somber as she came into the kitchen but Virginia was smiling. ‘Now Linda,’ she said, ‘I can make you a cup of tea but I don’t want you to muck-up your plans because of me.’

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‘I’m not mucking-up any plans because of you,’ Linda went to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. She used the tumbler. Virginia had a panic thought that she would smell the wine on it. ‘I rang Lorrae and said I’d be a bit late. Just a bit but. What I want to say won’t take very long.’ ‘What I want to say.’ A mother, a nun, a husband. ‘Won’t take very long.’ She would still finish up in the wrong no matter how short the sentence spat out. ‘And you won’t have a cup of tea?’ Linda shook her head, sat at the table with her glass of water and sighed. ‘This aunty of mine who was the alcoholic.’ Said Linda and she could have had her hands cupped reciting to the class. ‘She was the prettiest of all the girls. By far. My mother admitted she was always jealous of her.’ ‘I’m not an alcoholic, Linda.’ The flour had clagged on her fingers like glue. ‘An alcoholic is someone who can’t get out of the gutter.’ The memory stab of the Reading Prize. The church hall. The Lavendar Gown. Her rounded vowels, Mum’s frantic waving and the shocked stares of parents as her father reeled in drunk. ‘An alcoholic is someone that drink changes, Virginia.’ Linda’s face was white and splotched. ‘And that’s you, Virginia, I hate to say it but it is, turning on me like that, me who’s your best friend?’ She had foregone all make-up, ready for the transformation. ‘I’ve put myself out for you more times than I care to remember.’ No, Virginia was right and they were wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. This place and these people were wrong. Not her.

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‘And you know why Aunty Fan was an alcoholic? Do you, Virginia, poor old Aunty Fan?’ Linda sighed and considered her fingers. ‘Aunty Fan was an alcoholic because nothing was ever good enough for her. The boys who went for her weren’t good enough. Her family wasn’t good enough. She always thought she was a cut above. All she thought about was how clever she was and how beautiful she was and then she finished up with nothing except the bottle.’ The butter spat and hissed as Virginia put the pieces of chicken into the frying pan. ‘Do you know who I had lunch with today?’ ‘Don’t try and change the subject. Everything I’m saying is for your own good.’ Virginia added water and salt and put the lid back on the pan. ‘You should go and see a doctor in Australia. You can come and stay with us when we’re back in Brisbane.’ Virginia left the room. Linda was startled. No, the woman’s behaviour was definitely not normal. Then Linda felt a bit thwarted when Virginia came back with her handbag. ‘Alright. Who did you have lunch with?’ Virginia took matches from a kitchen drawer, a saucer from a cupboard, and put them on the table precisely. Linda was uneasy again. ‘Am I supposed to guess or what?’ Then Virginia took a packet of cigarettes out of her bag, sat down and lit up. Linda’s eyes went wide. ‘You’ve taken up smoking?’ ‘Godfrey Warner.’ She inhaled then exhaled the smoke. ‘I had lunch with Godfrey Warner.’

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‘Oh Virginia,’ Linda said finally. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

Virginia first met Godfrey at Koki Market. Ted was in the Highlands for the weekend but, in any case, when she did go to Koki she went by herself. Koki Market — which Virginia liked more than any other place in Moresby — wasn’t Ted’s cup of tea. More than once, at dinner parties, when Virginia said she sometimes bought fruit and vegetables at Koki, people shrieked and wondered how she could. She would rather not have admitted that they were right, when they said that the produce was poor. Arable land was scarce in the rocky surrounds of Port Moresby and few natives bothered any more to cultivate land on the outskirts of villages. Whatever food they did grow in tiny, malnourished plots scarcely went around among their own people. But on Saturdays, people with produce came in to Koki from places other than the town’s surrounds. They came from the hills and some valleys beyond the Ranges and from villages up and down the coast. They came on foot and by boat and in clapped-out old vehicles to sell what they had, no matter how meager and for how little. At Koki the men smoked and held hands and socialized. Children screamed and laughed and played raucous games in the mud and the water. Mostly, it was the women who were the vendors. They sat on rattan mats, some chewing betel nut, pushing each other with laughter. Half-a-dozen corn cobs for sale from one woman, ten or twelve squash over there. Sometimes there was a goat for sale, less often a precious pig.

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There were branches of bananas, baskets of sweet potatoes and knobbly clumps of taro root. The people of Koki were fishermen and there were always fish for sale strung together on lines of pandanus, live mudcrabs in wet hessian bags. Ted had forbidden Virginia to buy any fish and even Goada said she mustn’t. Their guts were teeming with parasites. For most of the natives in Port Moresby, now, their fish came out of tins. Virginia had bought some mangoes and was about to leave when she saw a teenage boy arrive with a small white cat. The boy hunkered down and held the cat out in front of him and when she stopped to stroke it he shoved it at her and said something in Motu. ‘He’ll sell it to you for ten shillings, otherwise it goes in the pot.’ Virginia looked up into the perspiring face of a large, white-haired white man. ‘It goes in the pot?’ She said startled. ‘What pot?’ The boy nodded and laughed, rapid-fired again in Motu and held out his hand for the money. ‘They eat them, you know.’ Godfrey Warner pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘They don’t!’ She grabbed the cat which was now dangled by the scruff of its neck. ‘Protein is protein is protein.’ A younger, pudgy man came up and was amused. ‘As Gertrude Stein might have said.’ He removed his glasses too. ‘I’m Godfrey Warner and I live here.’ Godfrey put out his hand.

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‘I’m Malcolm Sutcliffe and I don’t, thank the Lord.’ They went over to the Koki canteen where they were the only whites and where Godfrey stopped people from getting up, wanting to give them their seats. He bought glasses of sugary cordial and Virginia made a bed for the cat with her scarf on top of the mangoes. It was Godfrey’s idea to call the cat Blanche Dubois because, said Godfrey, if anything had ever depended on the kindness of strangers, it was that cat. She took Blanche home and sponged the fleas off it. She wormed it with tablets from the chemist and fed it minced chicken and cod liver oil. It put on condition and its harsh spiky fur became silky. It would run to her when she came home from work and purred in her lap when she sat reading. Blanche escaped outside one night and never came back. Ted, on his way to the depot next day, saw the smoking remains of a campfire on the road behind the Potts’ place. There were three small skins spread on the barbed wire fence and one of them was bloodied white.

‘What am I going to do with you?’ Maybe that was what was wrong. Virginia had never been naughty in her life. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ Linda had said with a frown and a tut. Disapproval, annoyance, the exasperation of a parent towards a wilful, wicked child who made a mother’s life a misery. ‘What am I going to do with you if you persist in going your own sweet way in spite of everything I’ve done for you?’ But of course Margaret Fernshaw had never said that or anything like it to her perfect daughter Virginia. She was her mother’s bulwark, her anchor, when she still had to ask the

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meaning of some words in suitable books. Virginia could soothe her mother’s tears in a way her mother could never soothe hers. ‘I don’t know what I said that’s so funny,’ said Linda. Because Virginia was laughing as she put her cigarette in the saucer and got up to check the chicken. Linda was preparing to get huffy again. ‘What did I say that’s funny?’ ‘It’s just that you sound like my mother,’ she said. ‘And I feel as concerned for you as a mother would.’ Linda was not only mollified but pleased. ‘You need some firm hand to stop you going off the rails and if Ted can’t see what trouble you’re in, then maybe it is up to me.’

It was only at the airport that Virginia saw her mother fully realize, perhaps for the first time, what was really about to happen. They were giving last calls for departure to Port Moresby and Bunny was leading the chorus of ‘Now Is the Hour’. Mrs Fernshaw went white with shock and burst into tears. She was clutching onto Virginia and begging for promises. Promise you’ll come back every Christmas and for your birthday, promise, promise you will. And write. All the time, every day. Promise me. All the time, mum, all the time. So that Uncle Dave had to come across and intervene and soothe away his sister who was desperate to hold on. For the next four months Virginia did write, blue aerograms twice a week. Sometimes words in her mother’s letters were blobbed by the water marks of tears. Then there was no mother to write to any more. The telegram came from

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Uncle Dave. MUM KNOCKED DOWN BY A TAXI STOP PASSED AWAY STOP COME WHEN YOU CAN STOP LOVE UNCLE DAVE. Virginia, with Ted, flew back to Sydney for the funeral and Bunny’s doctor prescribed Librium. Ted wanted her to stay on without him, have a break, go somewhere with Bunny, but Virginia was afraid that if she did that she would never go back. On the Friday her mother was buried. On the Sunday they were back in Port Moresby.

Linda was talking about her own mother. She had died when Linda was fourteen leaving her to keep things going, to cook and care for nine people. Her father, without her mother, became so hopeless and helpless that he became one of her charges as well. Linda talked about this without emotion. Just a plain statement of facts of the past. For the first time ever Virginia had a glimmer of understanding as to why Linda was how she was. Linda had found out early in life what it was to be needed. And, with needing to be needed her passion, perhaps she could foresee the day when she’d find herself starved of her drug of choice. ‘It really was good of you to come over, Linda.’ Virginia felt a twinge of shame that turned into sympathy. Linda was surprised and then suspicious. ‘Anyone would for anyone, wouldn’t they?’ She said it warily. Was Virginia being sarcastic again? Then Virginia rushed to the stove. ‘Oh God.’ She lifted the lid of the pan and a smell of scorching surged up. ‘Damn that!’

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Yes, Virginia wanted to get rid of her. ‘I’ll get out of your way, then.’ But she had enough to make the rest of the afternoon even more entertaining. Virginia didn’t answer, was rattling through her cupboards. She had to leave with her note the highest. ‘But how you could seek out that terrible man in a time of crisis — ‘ ‘Enjoy your make-up session Linda, go on, off you go.’ Didn’t even raise her head from her pots and pans. ‘Having lunch with Godfrey Warner.’ She burrowed into her bag for her keys. ‘Well, it absolutely beats me, Virginia, it absolutely beats me.’ Linda got away fast in case Virginia came after her and apologized again. It would make a better story and happened to be the honest truth. There she was, dropping everything to go over and give Virginia comfort again. And there Virginia was, turning on her with insults again.

It had been a dreadful dinner party. If she had thought about it properly, she never would have consented. Looking back on it now, she wondered how she could have done it. Linda and Barry Morton. And Godfrey Warner. What fuddled but optimistic state of mind could she have been in to think that the mix — Ted thrown in for good measure — would be anything other than disastrous? When Ted had come back on the Sunday night he was not all that pleased to see that they had acquired a cat. His mother had cats. Many of them. He gave in, though. If Virginia wanted it, then she could have it. Bloody silly name,

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though. What sort of name was Blanche Du — — What? Virginia said that she didn’t know either until Warner told her that Blanche Dubois was the name of a character in a play. Virginia had, but she said she hadn’t. Ted wasn’t interested in the cat so much as he was in Godfrey Warner. Who was this bloke she had met at Koki Markets? The name of the play this Blanche character was in was A Streetcar Named Desire and that didn’t sound so hot either. Virginia squeezed Ted’s hand and told him not to worry. Godfrey was a much older man and a writer who was, so his friend said, more acclaimed overseas than he was in Australia. Virginia said she might be wrong but she thought Warner could be homosexual. Malcolm Sutcliffe had gone back to Melbourne by the time Virginia rang with the invitation to dinner. Then she made the mistake of telling Linda that Godfrey was coming to dinner. Linda said she had heard about this famous author in their midst and she couldn’t wait to meet him. No one had asked him to dinner, as far as she knew, and Linda wanted to be in on the coup. Ted had been sulky. It was one thing to have dinner with just you and your wife and someone who could be a poofter. It was another thing to invite as well a couple as conservative as the Mortons. Ted had nothing against poofters until he let his mind dwell on what they actually did. Linda and Barry arrived early, Linda flushed with excitement. There was nothing in stock at the book shop, but she had ordered copies of every one of his books and when they arrived she would get him to sign them. Books signed by living authors could turn out to be quite valuable after they were dead.

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Godfrey arrived with his bottle of wine and Linda straight away started to gush. They laboured through the prawn cocktail with Linda saying that she would have loved to be a writer but — sighing and sad — she’d had to leave school too early. Godfrey said that Australia’s education system destroyed far more writers than it nurtured. The chicken with rice and peas didn’t turn out as well as it should and Linda spoke with her mouth full about fame and fortune and how wonderful it must be to have them. Godfrey said he wasn’t at all famous if you took your measure of fame from sports identities. He also said that he couldn’t have been a writer at all if he hadn’t inherited money. Linda burbled on about false modesty. It was over the mango mousse that Godfrey went in for the kill. Linda had started on the stupidity of servants and Godfrey, in his slow, somber voice, asked Linda if she spoke to her houseboy in Motu or Pidgin. ‘Oh, I don’t have to speak their language to my servants,’ she said airily. ‘They understand what I want or they find themselves out in the street.’ ‘You have no interest in understanding the people here or their culture?’ Godfrey’s hand was delicate with his spoon poised over the pudding. ‘Not really, no.’ Linda couldn’t see something coming but everybody else could. ‘And would I be correct in assuming that you don’t approve of their homosexuality either, Linda?’ Linda could only bat her eyes.

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‘I beg your pardon!’ But now it was Barry who spoke and he didn’t beg, he demanded. ‘As in most ancient cultures,’ Godfrey dabbed at his lips before plunging again into the parfait glass. ‘Do you get that from books or from personal experience?’ The high spots of colour under his tan showed that Ted was angry. ‘Never from books,’ said Godfrey calmly. ‘But certainly from personal experience, both physical and verbal, yes.’ Nobody spoke. Then, of course, it was Linda who had to blunder. ‘You mean they sleep with each other?’ She squeaked. ‘The native men sleep with one another?!’ Her voice hit the higher registers. ‘They probably rarely sleep together but they do fuck each other, yes they do.’ Godfrey put his spoon down. ‘Do you find that difficult to accept?’ ‘I most certainly do!’ Blustered Barry. ‘But — but —‘ Linda’s hands were flummoxed. ‘They’ve all got their piccaninnies and marys!’ ‘And they’ve all got their jacks as well.’ It was Godfrey’s calm smile that did it. Virginia saw the look that passed between Barry and Ted. ‘When you say verbal and physical.’ Mr Morton from the Commonwealth speaking. ‘Does that mean you engage with the natives yourself?’ ‘I — engage — as you put it — with indigenous men of this country,’ said Godfrey, ‘as much and as fully as I can.’ He put his spoon down on his plate and pushed his dessert away.

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‘I engage with them emotionally, spiritually and physically and I feel privileged to be able to do so.’ ‘On your bike!’ Ted jumped up quickly but Godfrey was already standing with a final dab at his lips. ‘Oh that’s terrible!’ The image in Linda’s mind’s eye really was horrible. ‘I am going, yes.’ Godfrey left the table and went to the chair where the cat was sleeping. He gave it a pat and it opened its eyes and yawned. ‘Goodbye Blanche,’ he said, ‘how nice to see you looking so well.’ Godfrey picked up his billum bag. Virginia didn’t know what to say but then heard her own voice as she went to the door with him. ‘We didn’t open the wine you brought. It was a nice one. Would you like it back?’ ‘Goodbye my dear.’ Godfrey shook his head and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘That was pretty awful wasn’t it?’ He whispered it with a smile as though it was their secret. ‘Not goodbye I hope.’ ‘You have my number if you ever want to be in touch.’ Godfrey said. And left.

The second Virginia closed the door Barry ripped into high dudgeon about perverts in their midst. Ted said nothing but nodded in short, sharp agreement. He did something he never did. He started to clear the table. Then he went into the kitchen and yelled down the back for Goada. Nobody had finished but the meal was well and truly over.

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‘What an absolutely horrible disgusting man!’ Linda exploded, not quite sure if tears would make her words weaker or stronger. ‘You were the one who wanted to meet him, Linda.’ Once again, she was the one in the wrong. ‘And more fool me!’ Linda got up from the table. ‘I’m going to spread this story all over town!’ ‘Oh don’t, Linda.’ But of course Virginia knew that she would, couldn’t wait. ‘Too right we’ll spread it around.’ Barry was standing too. ‘And right up to Admin, come to that.’ He called out goodbye to Ted, who strode out of the kitchen and went straight to the front door. ‘Don’t worry Ted, no reflection on you of course.’ ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Ted, couldn’t wait to get rid of them. ‘I can only think,’ said Linda, her hand on Virginia’s arm, ‘that you had no idea what sort of — creature — you were inviting into your home.’ ‘I know I liked him,’ Virginia said. ‘And I still do, as a matter of fact.’ So that was the last straw for Ted. The Mortons left, with Linda saying that even if it meant losing her deposit, she would have the bookshop cancel her order. Ted forbade her to see Godfrey Warner again and Virginia said she would if she felt like it. Ted stared at her with something that looked like dislike and said, in a slow, measured way: ‘If you do that Virginia, I’ll really know how the land lies between us.’ She stayed up nursing the cat while Ted went to bed without another word. Goada was silent and serious as he

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started cleaning up but she told him to leave everything as it was until tomorrow. It was midnight when she followed Ted to bed. It was that night that she saw clearly the solid fence that had built up between them. And that night that she knew — could ignore it no longer — she and Ted were on different sides of it.

It was almost eight when Ted rang to say that he had to go to an impromptu Council meeting. His voice didn’t sound right, any more than it had sounded right when he had called her at the office canceling lunch. When Virginia asked what the meeting was about Ted’s response was sharp. It was hotter but calmer out on the porch. No whirring fans dipping their heads like an obsequious, unwelcome presence. Two swallows had built a mud nest under the eaves. She hadn’t been out on the porch for a while. She had hurried in and out of the house but hadn’t thought to look up. Her hand went out to turn on the light but then she withdrew it. The light would attract the moths and the geckos would start up their slaughter. Better the birds, better the dark, better the peace. She stood in the moonlight and watched the birds settle after they got used to her presence. They merged into each other like one mud-coloured ornament. Two individuals so close together that they made one. Couples were like that, Virginia thought as she sat down on one of the wrought-iron chairs. Some were for better and some for worse. Barry and Linda Morton were for worse. Uncle Dave and Aunty Thel were for

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better. Bill Longhurst and poor old Mavis were for much worse. Dawn and Ray Harkness — from the little she had seen of the affection that spilled over between them — were for better. What was she going to do when Ted came home? What did she want to do? Did she want to probe and question and catch him out telling lies? Perhaps this was how it was meant to happen. The small thing that would trigger the terrible thing. Would she challenge him and hear him say — no, he hadn’t been at a Council at all, he’d been with someone else and he wanted a divorce? Because that was what could happen if she tipped the delicate balance. She had to ask herself again if that’s what she wanted to happen and she had to answer herself no. Wasn’t that why she was trying to save something now? With the meal she had cooked, the wedding present tablecloth and the good settings on the table, wasn’t it? Before everything fell to the bottom of the abyss and who knew how far down that was? Perhaps Virginia had never experienced love for a real and present man. She thought that as she sipped her wine. How much better off she might have been if she had. Not tried to catch ephemera. Not tried to make real the romantic illusion who had pulled her strings more than anyone. She did turn the light on before she went back inside. The geckos slipped boldly out from their hiding places to wait in the light for their feast. Maybe the birds would swallow the geckos. That would be good. A new dominance in the jungle under the eaves. Inside, Virginia turned on all the lamps as well as the overhead lights. She went to go into the bedroom but then detoured to the fridge. She cared for Ted, she really did. If only

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she could pretend it was love that could make her heart grow cold whenever the possibility loomed. The possibility that, one day, Ted may not want her.

EIGHT

The framed photo of their wedding group, on top of the chest of drawers, had fallen on its face. Symbolic? Black and white, frozen in a time that was aeons ago. Would anyone else’s eye go immediately to her mother, the one figure that seemed to dominate the group? The fear in Margaret Fernshaw’s eyes showed even in the photo. There was Uncle Dave with Aunty Thel, who had always been vague and pretty with chorus girl legs that defied time. Dear old Uncle Dave whose cherubic cheeks had sagged with age into saddle bags. Uncle Dave had won the lottery — the big one — and it was he who paid for Virginia to go to Ford Fordham. This was the only school Mrs Fernshaw aspired to, where girls became ladies and had brothers and cousins destined for professions. At the same time as Virginia was enrolled in Sydney’s most expensive school, Uncle Dave also bought an older-style flat in Rose Bay. Real estate investment was beginning to be the go and Uncle Dave bought the flat outright and gave it to his sister and niece on a permanent rent-free basis. The address mattered more to Mrs Fernshaw than the fact that the twobedroom flat was in a dark brick building with a tiled street level foyer which trapped cooking smells. In Margaret Fernshaw’s correspondence she never added the flat number to the 15 Dumaresq Road address.

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Her mother was working for the Misses McColgan at Tara outside Nowra when they received the last word of her father they would ever get. Frank Fernshaw sent a letter which made it sound as if he was just taking off. And good riddance, her mother said as she made hot milk and Weetbix for the old ladies’ breakfasts. Her father said his friend — the one who owned the Central Coast house — was going oh-stroke-es again. You could interpret from the letter that Frank might go with him. He wrote that he felt it was time to find out what he had spent his whole life wondering about. For over a year they heard nothing more. Virginia had just stopped wondering out loud because this made her mother bad-tempered. Her mother said that it was a good thing that Frank was staying out of their lives for good now and he should have had the decency to do it years ago. They had been within days of leaving Tara and going back to Sydney — the two old ladies were going into a home and nieces and nephews had already started the take over — when the postman who still rode a horse brought a bulky brown envelope. It wasn’t addressed to a name but to the simple address, ‘TARA VIA NOWRA NSW SOUTH COAST. On the back of the envelope, in the same childish big print, was written LONGREACH POLICE STATION. Mrs Fernshaw opened the envelope for Miss Aida, the only one who could still see. What it contained, though, was not for the old ladies but for her. The remains of Frank Fernshaw’s old leather wallet still held a ten shilling note intact. The worms had rejected the printing ink. The letter Margaret Fernshaw had written back in reply to her husband’s was in less good shape. But the Tara

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address was legible and you could still decipher angry scraps … never could rely … doing to us Frank? … own lives and please stay … The covering letter said that the items enclosed had been found with human remains in the bush by a Black Tracker. If the recipient of the items knew the identity of the remains would said recipient please be in touch. The rest of the remains would be held at the station for a period of fourteen (14) days pending notification. Her mother never did notify and Virginia never wanted to ask what might have happened after fourteen (14) days.

With a stab of intuition which her dead, disappeared father may have sent, Virginia knew there might come a time when there was no Ted in her life. She had to see with new eyes what it was like with Ted there. She opened the wardrobe onto his clothes. The bodyless shirts were hanging neatly, light weight slacks folded one-legged over hangers. Hollow shoes, no Ted growing out of them, were lined neatly on racks to deter mildew. The suit Ted had bought for his wedding was shoved to the back of the wardrobe. It was hunch-shouldered, not put on its hanger properly. Virginia straightened the shoulders but the suit still hung hang-dog, depressed. In a jolt of memory she saw Ted again in the suit and the dismay that flooded instantly through her was as fresh and as strong as when she had first felt it. In Brisbane airport where they had to wait for their connecting plane, Ted fell asleep on the lounge while she was in the toilet.

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Coming back to see him like that — his head lolled back at an uncomfortable angle, his mouth open with a soft snore — she felt a terrible urge to run, to take it all back, to undo everything as if it was a jumper that had gone wrong. She was investing so much in this man who was defenceless himself. Even in sleep his brow was furrowed with worry. Was Ted escaping a mistake too? A mistake they had both blundered into, urged on, concluded by her mother? Virginia sat beside him again but she couldn’t look at him as he slept. She opened her book and concentrated hard on words which didn’t fit together. She felt she was intruding on the privacy of a stranger, a stranger she had just married. A man who had made a mistake.

Ted’s toothbrush was stained pink from the special toothpaste he used to correct gingivitis. She was in the bathroom. Sometimes, when certain things happened, or when certain things didn’t, Ted used the bathroom as his cave, a place to retreat to, a place to escape to. Ted never put his dirty clothes in the clothes basket — just left them on the bedroom floor for Goada to collect. Virginia lifted the wickerwork lid of the basket just the same and inhaled the smell. There was the smell of both of them — a bit of stale perfume, a bit of his pyjamas. It wasn’t unpleasant. Above all, it was a smell she was used to, a smell of her and him. Still at the back of the medicine cupboard was her last unopened packet of Ovulen. The prescription date made it almost three years old. I might reconsider this adoption business. But Virginia knew from what had happened that day — Ted’s early

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start for work (so he wouldn’t have to talk to her?) changing the plans for lunch (so he wouldn’t have to talk to her?) and now this Council meeting, probably fabricated (so he wouldn’t have to talk to her?) — that Ted wouldn’t mention again what he might just have mumbled in sleep. And, the way things were going, she wouldn’t bring it up either.

It hadn’t occurred to either of them that she wouldn’t get pregnant as soon as she stopped taking the pill. But she didn’t. Virginia spoke to the nurse who worked for Dr. Gladstone. Sister Shaw, a prickly old bird with albino eyelashes, disapproved of the Pill. She told Virginia that sometimes Mother Nature got her own back on young women who thought they were the ones controlling Her. Sometimes young women who went off the Pill found that it wasn’t just a matter of getting pregnant as soon as you felt like it. Sister Shaw said they were investigating overseas whether the Pill could actually send a woman into early menopause, make her irreversibly sterile and provoke the onset of senile dementia. It was a worried Virginia who went to Sydney and stayed with Bunny and Royston in their new house at Clifton Gardens. Bunny was pregnant with twins. Bunny’s gynaecologist in Macquarie Street said that what Sister Shaw said was tosh. He did tests and examinations and pronounced Virginia a fertile young woman with everything in full working order. Give it a go for another six months, he said, and if we’re not getting results I’d like hubby to come in and see me.

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Even at the time Virginia knew there was no hope of that. She told the specialist that her husband couldn’t afford to be away from his businesses in New Guinea. The specialist said that there wasn’t even a need for that. Even in the outpost of Port Moresby he could arrange with their GP to have a sperm sample taken, frozen and airmailed. The miracles of modern science. As Virginia knew he would be, Ted was horrified when she told him. Horrified and mortified. Jerk off in a test tube in front of Dr. Gladstone? No bloody way in the world. Virginia was armed with charts, dates and thermometers and going to bed became a serious business. From a not-too-promising beginning their love making had been bringing them together. There was still something holding her back but Ted was helping her get there. These were times when they really liked one another’s company, in the bedroom and out of it. But with the Quest, things changed, went backwards. Love making lost its momentum. They got to the stage where they were both holding back, though at different times and for different reasons. Sometimes it was Ted who would say that he just didn’t feel like it. And Virginia who would have to insist because it was a crucial day. Sometimes, to please her, Ted would acquiesce. Other times he would be shamed and apologetic because he just wasn’t up to the task. It was Virginia who brought up adoption. Ted wasn’t keen. In a place like this everyone would know. Not necessarily, said Virginia. Bunny and Royston could pull strings and she could stay in Sydney for six months and tell everyone before she left that the early pregnancy was proving difficult. Then she could come home with a new baby and no one would be any the wiser.

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She could see the idea take hold in Ted’s mind as he lay silent beside her. She waited for it to sink in before she said softly that a child would make a difference, she knew it would, a difference for her, a difference for him, the most important difference for them together. Ted turned, looking sad, and asked if he’d let her down. No, she said, and smoothed back his hair. Because, Ted said, I want to give you what you want and sometimes I wonder if I’m capable. Virginia said then that she’d heard that couples who adopted a child often went on to have one, even more, of their own. The pressure was off and they stopped trying so hard. Ted could relate to that. He turned to her and kissed her and then they made love even though it wasn’t a designated day.

The record collection was pretty sparse. She took the Four Seasons out of its cracked cardboard cover and put it on. It revolved with a scratch. The needle needed changing. She poured herself more wine and sat down to listen. Four seasons. How wonderful that would be. Spring. Green with new growth and a new beginning. Summer. Could go full bore in blue and gold and sun and sand if you knew it wouldn’t be forever. Autumn was the favourite, with a coolness that freed your mind and clothes that suited your soul as well as your body. And Winter? The longed-for season, the waiting-to-beexperienced season? In Sydney there were cold gusts around corners and sheets of sleet that stung your face. But there was never snow. Snow. The lynchpin in the winter of her imagination. Long fur coats on Russian steppes. Plates of great food that steamed up in your face. Deep beds and velvet and

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snuggling and merging. Like the swallows, two bodies one ornament against the elements. She lit the candle in the bowl of hibiscus and took it into the bedroom to put on the bedside table. She tidied the room and smoothed the bed’s cover. Yes, that was her dream of Winter, the Winter of her dreams. And maybe it was better left to dreams, could only exist in dreams. Hadn’t she done the same thing with the tropics? The way she had pictured herself in New Guinea, pictured the husband who just happened to be Ted? So maybe it was the dreams she wanted but the dreams she would have to stop. The dreams had turned on her, had become as destructive as anything else you needed too much. Rescue, Virginia recognized, might lie in reality. All she had to do — and this was the hard part, maybe the impossible part — was to recognize that reality and make it become real.

They were picnicking on the banks of a river. Her mother, her father and her. Blanche Dubois played with a wallaby in feathery flowers that smelt like aniseed. She knew she was a little girl because when she looked down at her wrist it was chubby and wore the sixpence bracelet Uncle Dave had given her one birthday. Virginia and the animals were the only ones moving in a tableau that looked like a painting. Virginia picked the yellow flowers and made them into a bunch. She touched her father on the shoulder and brought him to life. The bouquet was for her father, not her mother,

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who was still frozen in stillness. Her father smiled and took out his wallet but then, before her child’s eyes, the flowers changed colour from yellow to orange. Turned into something they weren’t. Her father’s face contorted in anger and he put his wallet back in his pocket. ‘Never trust anything orange!’ he shouted and threw the flowers away. ‘Never trust anything that Nature doesn’t trust!’

Ted’s hand on her shoulder was shaking her awake. ‘Hon?’ Virginia opened her eyes onto the orange Hibiscus she had put in a bowl. She had fallen asleep, still dressed, on top of the bed. Then she saw Ted frown at the empty wine glass that was on the bedside table. ‘Oh Gosh,’ she said, caught out, jumped up. ‘I must have dozed off.’ Ted, with a point to make, picked up the glass and went on coldly: ‘Sorry I’m late. It’s been a bugger of a day.’

The clock in the kitchen showed twenty past ten. Virginia felt fuzzy and dizzy. She must have drunk more than she thought. That wasn’t what she intended to do. She couldn’t even remember lying down. ‘I cooked the chicken with mushrooms.’ Aware she was not steady, going to the stove. ‘It’ll only take a minute.’ ‘No.’ Ted was shaking deliberate water off the wine glass he’d rinsed under the tap. ‘It’s too late to eat a meal.’ He was still frowning as he placed the glass on its rim in the draining rack. ‘I’d have nightmares for days.’

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‘Did you have lunch?’ Flicked out as quick as a gecko’s tongue. She’d have to watch herself, oh she would have to be careful. ‘Ah. Yes.’ ‘Would you like a beer darling?’ Beer — darling — two unlikely words from Virginia at any time let alone both in the same sentence. ‘Ah.’ He hesitated. He would love a beer but a beer by himself to mull over and savour the turn of events. ‘No thanks.’ The turn for the better that mended him. ‘I’ll just have a shower and crash.’ She walked to the doorway and bent to a cupboard. She was actually blocking his way. ‘How did the Council meeting go?’ What could she need from the space that held an unused mixing machine and a broken toaster? ‘Oh, so-so. Lots of huff and puff from people who just like hearing their own voices.’ ‘Please have a beer.’ Would he risk it? Meet his own challenge of dexterous lies? ‘Okay.’ The practice might come in handy. ——————— Ted was reading a magazine when Virginia brought him in a tray with a beer and some toast. The set, pretty table could be de-robed tomorrow. ‘I made you some toast and vegemite.’ She waited for him to thank her but he didn’t. She went back to the kitchen to get her cup of tea. Ted realized he was ravenous and gobbled the toast. He could have

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eaten a dozen more slices but when Virginia came back and asked him if he wanted more he said: ‘No thanks hon. That just took the edge off things.’ Hon. Honey. Ted hadn’t called her that for a long time and that was the third or fourth time in the space of minutes. She couldn’t think what he called her now. Maybe just Virginia. Maybe nothing at all. ‘Did something happen this morning at the depot?’ So that took the wind out of his sails. He was getting ready to lie about the Council meeting and here he would have to lie about Douglas Olabi. He nodded and choked as some beer went down the wrong way. ‘What happened, anything serious?’ ‘How did you know about it?’ His voice was thick with clearing it. ‘No, nothing serious. One of the drivers was drunk and I sacked him. Who told you?’ Virginia got up and went into the kitchen again. She came back with her cigarettes. She sat down and lit up. ‘Godfrey Warner,’ she said, shaking the match to death and putting it in a saucer. ‘When you couldn’t make it I had lunch with Godfrey.’ Her heart was beating in dangerous territory. ‘He was late getting in. Said there was trouble at the depot but that it couldn’t be anything serious because all the natives were laughing about it.’ Ted was staring at her. ‘That’s right,’ was all he could say. ‘But then,’ said Virginia and took another drag, ‘the natives laugh about everything don’t they? The more serious it is the more they laugh.’ ‘Since when have you taken up smoking?’ ‘Since today.’ She smiled. At Ted or at his surprise? ‘And you had lunch with Godfrey Warner?’

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‘When you stood me up.’ ‘I didn’t stand you up. Christ!’ ‘When you couldn’t make it then.’ ‘Up to my eyes in — shit and you’re complaining that I couldn’t meet you for lunch?!’ ‘I’m not complaining. I’m just telling you who I had lunch with.’ She was about to add — ‘And then Dawn Harkness joined us which was a bit of a shame.’ But she didn’t. ‘Well Virginia.’ So it was Virginia after all. ‘You know how I feel about Godfrey Warner.’ ‘Yeah, I know what you think about him.’ Funnily enough, it was tea that was making her speech more casual. ‘But that doesn’t mean I have to think the same way.’ And more open. ‘And I happen to like his company and his conversation, he’s a bit more on the ball than anyone else I come in contact with.’ Or was it the cigarette? ‘Okay. Have it your own way.’ Ted took a big swallow of beer, let the gurgle underline his point. ‘Smoke yourself to death and drink yourself to death and see whoever you like. You know how the shit hit the fan with Godfrey Warner. Christ. The Catholic priest even denounced him from the pulpit. But that doesn’t make any difference to you does it?’ ‘No,’ she said and sipped her tea. ‘Tell me what’s happening with the orli pool.’ Then Ted was the one in dangerous territory. What did she know and what didn’t she know? Dawn’s big teeth bared unbidden. Doubly dangerous territory. It took him a moment to select his strategy. Then he stood up miming a weariness he didn’t have to fake because he felt it. ‘I’m not in the mood for the orli pool.’

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Virginia had never overcome her dislike of the Pidgin phrases which larded the town’s white conversation. There was something so smug about it, superiority that couldn’t be challenged. ‘Did you vote on the orli pool tonight?’ ‘Yes!’ What had gone on at the Council meeting last Monday had been embargoed. The results of the vote on the orli pool weren’t due to be printed in the paper till next Wednesday. So what had gone on on Monday could just as well have happened tonight. It did happen tonight, didn’t it? It was easy for Ted to believe his own lie if it was for the greater good. ‘So what happened?’ She saw the rattle that had come into him. ‘Are they going ahead with the plans? When does the building start?’ The plans for the pool had been on the blocks for a year. It would cost a hundred thousand pounds and would be a tileand-concrete edifice to the town’s racial tolerance. The tin and plywood native shacks which now stood on the chosen site would be bulldozed to make way for it. Ted finished his beer and put the bottle and the tray on top of his magazines. ‘Some of the blokes have voted against it being an orli.’ ‘Did you vote against it?’ ‘Of course not.’ ‘Are you for it or against it, that’s all I’m asking.’ Ted stopped his journey towards the bedroom. He turned and sighed and lent his weight on one leg. ‘Look Virginia. Some of those who aren’t for it put forward a very interesting point.’ ‘And what’s that?’

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‘The natives themselves will be pleased if there are two separate pools.’ No matter what he said now, she knew Ted had voted against it. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘You just take Goada out there. And Mary and the piccaninnies. Can you honestly see Goada wanting to swim in the same pool we’re at?’ ‘Why wouldn’t he? We live in the — on — the same premises.’ Silly move. Ted knew it too. He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Come on Virginia. If we went away for a couple of weeks, would you let Goada and his family come in and live in the house? In our house? In your house?’ She wouldn’t, no she wouldn’t, she wished it was otherwise but no she wouldn’t. ‘All this silly bloody carry-on from people who don’t know what they’re talking about.’ ‘But things have got to start somewhere.’ She was following him to the bathroom. ‘You know what your big problem is?’ He turned and faced her. ‘The problem that’s at the bottom of everything?’ She was silent again, knew what was coming. ‘You just won’t face up to reality. Not in any way shape or form. You never have and it’s pretty bloody obvious you never will.’ His tan had blanched. ‘Now I’m not talking about the orli pool any more! Talk your bleeding hearts stuff with Godfrey Warner! He’d let the natives go anywhere including up his bum!’ Ted went quickly back into the living room. ‘And that’s it! I’m not talking about anything any more!’

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He returned carrying a magazine and the radio. ‘I’m going to have a shit and a shower and then I’m going to bed, so goodnight!’ Ted went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

In Sydney, the thing Ted warned her she would miss most in New Guinea was a social life. There wasn’t much on offer in Moresby, he said. Just one picture show where they sometimes played the same film for weeks. Occasionally musicians and comedians came up from Sydney and Brisbane and gave shows which were always booked out. The Rouna Hotel had the odd dinner dance and there was a pretty crook local drama group that put on plays from time to time. But, apart from that, Ted said, it was pretty much a case of making your own fun. People had dinner parties, which Ted wasn’t mad on, and gave barbecues, which were better. Occasionally you’d get an invite on someone’s catamaran to go out fishing or just cruising. Virginia told Ted not to worry when he brought up this aspect of what would be her new life. She told him that she had never had much of a social life to speak of. Bunny was the party girl, out every night of the week if she could be. Virginia wasn’t very good at parties, she said. She never knew how to be interested enough, relegated to the girls with their talk of wedding dress designs and the three or four suburbs they’d consent to live in after they walked down the aisle. What Virginia didn’t tell Ted was that she had discovered, with Brian Forbes, that there were far more interesting ways to spend time than in what was generally accepted as a social life.

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Brian Forbes introduced her to things in Sydney that she didn’t know existed. They went to art galleries where they ate cheese and drank red wine and Brian explained the Technicolor morse code of abstract paintings in a way that made sense. They went to free student concerts at the Conservatorium and spent hours in the Museums. In a scruffy little theatre where you could drink your coffee inside, they saw French films which turned Margaret Fernshaw’s ideas on mores and morals on their heads. With Ted, in their whirlwind romance, there were dinners in restaurants with Bunny and Royston, shows at the Tiv or Her Majesty’s and Hollywood pictures which she had once thought were the only ones. When they were alone together Ted sometimes told her bits and pieces about growing up, he talked a lot about New Guinea, which he loved, but her conversation mostly revolved around the latest show or film they’d seen.

Two weeks after she had gone back to Moresby as Ted’s wife, there was a dinner dance at the Rouna Hotel. Rouna was special for Port Moresby residents because it was — into the mountains and beside a waterfall — the coolest place by many degrees. It was also — just half an hour’s drive from the centre of town — the furthest you could go before the jungle and mountains stopped you. The hotel there was officially The Devonshire but everyone called it the Rouna. It had floor boards creaking with white ant, wilting palms in brass pots and dusty lounges with antimacassars. There was a wire enclosure of wallabies out the back and some trees festooned with orchids. A little way

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beyond the wallabies, the cliff edge dropped sheer to a gorge. Since 1928, when the hotel opened, seven people, mostly in November, had jumped off the cliff. Ted took her to lunch at Rouna on the first day he could lift his head, as he put it, from business matters. He was as delighted by her reaction to Rouna as she was by Rouna itself. She could imagine Somerset Maugham strolling the verandahs in a white suit, a cigarette holder poised. Rouna was the first piece that fitted her Sydney imaginings.

Ted asked her to wear her wedding dress for the dinner dance. There would be people there he wanted to introduce her to. So far, the women at Linda Morton’s and a couple at the pictures were the only people she had met. Ted apologized for not having time to introduce her around more but she said she didn’t mind — and she didn’t. Ted admitted, too, as he took her in his arms, that he so looked forward to coming home, now, just to be with her, that he wondered how he existed before she came into his life. The wedding dress was silk, a mauvish-blue that intensified the colour of her hair and eyes, the creaminess of her skin. Ted was brown and gold and handsome in his white shirt with tie and dark slacks. Each knew with pleasure that, together, they looked marvelous. When they walked into the hotel dining room, the table nearest the door went quiet. Virginia still recalled the vivid memory of thinking — ‘This is happiness. I am happy’ — as Ted introduced her. One woman excused herself hurriedly before Ted had a chance to say her name. He went on with the introductions and another

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woman asked if Virginia knew she had made the best catch in Port Moresby. Virginia laughed and said yes, she thought so, and Ted hugged her and kissed her hair and said he was the one who’d caught the catch. How wonderful it was to see everybody dressed up. Women in cocktail dresses instead of house dresses, men smart with ties, sometimes suits, not shorts and long socks. They sat at a table with two other couples whom Ted didn’t know so the perfunctory questions of ‘Where are you from in Australia?’ and ‘How long are you here for?’ covered the conversation. The quartet from Brisbane was, as Ted put it, no great shakes, but it was adequate to dance to. Ted said that he had two left feet but, seeing as tonight was their first social event as Mr and Mrs, he would get up. In Sydney, at the nightclub, the floor was so tiny and the place so crowded that all they did to dance was hold close together and shuffle on the spot. But on the Rouna dance floor Virginia saw that what Ted said was true. He really couldn’t dance. She didn’t know how anybody could not hear the beat. Brian Forbes. He bombasted into her memory. A bohemian dive at King’s Cross, them together in a mad jive, both bodies beating to the beat.

It was the end of a bracket when she went to the Ladies. Monsieurs it said on one toilet door. Mesdames it said on the other. She joined the end of the end-of-bracket queue. The toilet with two cubicles, a hand basin and a big gilt-framed mirror speckled with age was lit with pink lights. This was not bright enough to retouch lipstick properly but it illuminated enough to show up cockroaches as soft, scuttling shadows.

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She was standing behind a large woman, overpoweringly perfumed, and thinking about the dancing, the dancing with Brian, how they had walked all the way home to Rose Bay and her mother had been waiting up for them, slapping her rosary beads against her dressing gown and then lashing out with them at Brian. The woman in front moved up one and Virginia moved after her, level with the wall where the light switch was grimey with years of fingers. The words came softly at first over lacquered heads then what was being said up at the mirror chipped through like an ice pick. ‘… bet she’s tearing her hair out.’ ‘Janet …’ ‘… in Rabaul.’ The only sound in the room now. ‘And Janet’s not the only one. He was on with Marie Wilson for a while. I came in before and Marie was in here crying.’ Her heart was pounding. She looked up ahead to where two women, both in bouffant organza, were swiveling back lipsticks and mashing their lips together onto new colour. One lifted her hands to the strict shape of her hairdo and patted around it without touching. The other put things in a tiny purse which hung by a chain on her arm. Then they both headed down towards the back of the crowd. Virginia averted her face but the colour of her dress was distinctive. The women had changed their conversation but when they passed her their chatter stopped. Those two women had swished by, all skirts and sparkle, as Ted leaned across to kiss her.

There were three butts in the ashtray and the cigarette she was finishing would make four. She could not help smiling to

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herself. Did people become smokeaholics? Nicotineaholics? Why couldn’t she ever do things by halves? Or would the smoking take over from the drinking? Lungs or liver? Virginia was surprised at the ease with which cigarettes had come back into her life. She didn’t particularly like the taste, she never had, but she did like the act. She liked the way they were a focus. A cigarette between fingers became a hand with purpose. More so than a hand with a glass in it? Maybe so. Or maybe, together, they were invincible.

Virginia never mentioned to Ted what she had heard in the Mesdames at Rouna. Back then, so early on, she would have been terrified to. Terrified of what? Of losing Ted to someone else? Or of having to hear him say that he had loved another woman as much as he said he loved her? She had to believe that Ted’s love for her was not ordinary. It had to be bigger — overwhelming — more than the maximum. It had to be that to make up for the other. That night after the dinner dance Ted was driving home fast. Virginia felt his excitement and her own surged as well. Golden Wedding’s jungle beat in a Sydney cave came to her in a smell of smoke and she put her hand on Ted’s knee and said, perhaps unprompted for the first time, that she loved him. Ted turned his head to kiss her and she saw the yellow eyes first and screamed as Ted hit the wallaby. It was crying like a baby as it tried to jump with its pulped leg to the side of the road. Virginia was crying too and Ted’s tone was firm when he told her to leave it. She couldn’t leave it, she screamed, not like this, she couldn’t. Ted said the shock would kill it. ‘NO!!’ She had done that. Her hand on his

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knee had done that to the wallaby. It stopped at a branch it could not jump and turned to her with terrified eyes. She caught it and, before Ted could stop her, she had it in her arms and was cradling it and ordering Ted to get in the car and drive. The wallaby was dead by the time they got home. Virginia sobbed as she watched its black nails try to tighten onto something then relax onto nothing. Her dress was dark purple with the wallaby’s blood, her wedding dress ruined. Ted made her a cup of tea but she couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop sobbing. Couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. They went to bed and Ted tried to comfort her in a different way but she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, she pushed him away with animal blood still black under her nails. Ted said he understood how she felt and not to blame him. Maybe if he hadn’t been in such a hurry to get home ... Didn’t finish the sentence before Ted made a sound low in his throat and turned his shoulders away from her. What Virginia should have said to Ted was that she didn’t blame him. The person Virginia blamed was herself.

Virginia brushed her teeth and creamed her face. The fineness of her skin was going. The girl in the chemist’s said it was the heat that did that. The pores didn’t get a chance to close properly. They were always open like sluice gates to let out the perspiration. Ted gave a soft, snuffled snore as she got into bed beside him. The worried, furrowed look was on his face again. She was back in Brisbane in a flash of fluorescent. A man who has made a mistake.

NINE

A tickle on the hard part of mummy’s foot didn’t even make her wriggle. ‘Wake up mummy.’ So Little Jim had to hold mummy’s leg and dig his fingers in it and pull on it to make mummy come awake and be with him where she should be.

Dawn Harkness groaned and opened her eyes. Along with the heat, the weight of something unpleasant which would have to be remembered pressed down on her like a flat-iron. What was it? Oh shit. Not yet. Go away. ‘Wake up. Get brekky.’ Naked except for a torn and holey singlet Little Jim now crawled over his mother’s stomach, giggling for a game. He had bright red curly hair and a close network of freckles. ‘You little bugger, it’s too early.’ Dawn pushed the child off her stomach and tried to bury her head under the damp pillow. ‘Not, no it not.’ Little Jim bounced up and down on daddy’s side of the bed. ‘Me want brekky. Get my brekky.’ ‘Willy get your brekky.’ No she hadn’t, no they hadn’t, no, not, please no not. Little Jim hunkered down like a monkey. ‘Willy not here.’ He was scrabbling at the loose knot on her nightie.

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‘What do you think you’re doing, hey?!’ One tit had fallen out of her nightdress and Little Jim was gobbling at it with sharp little puppy teeth. Dawn picked him off her by the neck of his singlet. ‘Little Jim!’ She yelled again. ‘Get out of it!’ ‘Me be a bubby.’ Little Jim’s voice was even more littleboy than his normal little-boy voice. ‘Mummy love bubbies so me be a bubby too.’ He threw his arms around her neck and tried to lick her with love. She lifted him under his hot little bottom and clambered them both off the bed. Little Jim giggled and hugged her harder. Dawn wondered what in Christ’s name she was going to do about last night. No, Willy hadn’t turned up for work and the scene of the crime was just as it was. It was after seven o’clock and already the sun was strong, poking its way through the slats of the blinds. No she hadn’t. Couldn’t. Not Virginia’s husband. ‘Where the hell is Willy?’ She yelled it to no one but herself. Her stomach turned as she looked at the empty tea cups, the two glasses still with a residue of flat beer. Little Jim tried to climb up into the high chair and it tipped on him. Dawn lit her first cigarette of the day and went to the child who was now screaming out of all proportion to the small accident. ‘Now that didn’t hurt.’ Little Jim threw himself down dramatically. Dawn picked him up. ‘What’s got into you, baby boy?’ The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started. A luxurious smile lit up through the tears. ‘You say me that again mummy.’

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‘What?’ Dawn sat the child on a chair and went to the sink. ‘Say me little baby.’ Now the voice had regressed to the crib. ‘I be mummy’s baby?’ Poor little bugger. Dawn switched the electric jug on and put her cigarette in the ashtray. That was appalling too. Every butt told a story. Every butt brought a scrap of what he had said and what she had said and then what they said together to convince themselves it was not just okay but meant to be. She picked Little Jim off the chair then sat on it herself and put him on her lap. ‘Now. What’s all this about being mummy’s little baby? Lester’s mummy’s little baby.’ Little Jim’s face went dark. ‘Little Jim’s mummy’s big boy.’ She tried to jiggle him, jolly him along. The child was surprisingly strong as he wriggled off her lap. She held him by one skinny arm and saw that he had been biting his nails again. ‘Hang on, hang on.’ ‘Don’t want to be mummy’s big boy.’ The voice had returned to normal and the tears came back with a stamp. ‘Yes you do. Mummy’s big boy who helps her with — all the shopping — and Willy and — .’ ‘No!’ He yowled and punched her in the chest. ‘Don’t want to be mummy’s big boy! Daddy mummy’s big boy!’ How right he was. ‘Oh well,’ she let Little Jim go and got up to get her cigarette, ‘throw a tanty then. I don’t care.’ No. Not right. Mummy must love him more not leave him more. So he turned the tears abject and sent them out

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with hiccoughing sobs. As Dawn poured water onto her instant coffee, Little Jim clutched and clawed on the slippery night dress. ‘Little Jim!’ Dawn yelled. ‘You’ll make me have an accident!’ The baby was screaming from the other room. ‘What do you want?!’ As if last night wasn’t enough. ‘Just tell me what you want, Little Jim, and if you don’t shut up I’ll belt you!’ So he threw himself on the floor again and curled up like a bubby. ‘Aw listen.’ Dawn put her coffee down and picked the child up again. He put two fingers in his mouth and started to suck and chew them. She took his hand away from his mouth. ‘You’re biting your fingernails again. I’ll have to put that stuff on that makes them taste nasty.’ But even the threat of the nasty stuff didn’t matter if he was back in mummy’s arms. ‘Now tell me what you’re upset about.’ Mummy asked him but he couldn’t say and didn’t have to. Bubbies didn’t know words. ‘You don’t want to be mummy’s big boy?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘You just want to be mummy’s bubby?’ He nodded and Dawn let him burrow into her breast. His red curls nodded under her stroking hand. ‘But. Like I told you Little Jim. I’ve already got a bubby. And that’s Lester.’ The screaming coming from the other room was of the calibre to burst a blood vessel.

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‘What I need is a big boy to help me with things.’ Little Jim raised his dirty face on which tears had made rivulets through the freckles. ‘That daddy,’ he said. ‘Yes, but daddy’s away so you’re the only big boy I’ve got.’ Little Jim’s bright blue eyes searched her face and then he said: ‘The uvver one too.’ Time stopped as Dawn stared back. Little Jim turned his attention to the sore on his hand. ‘Don’t pick that. What other one?’ ‘The uvver man.’ Sweet good Jesus God. Still holding Little Jim under one arm, Dawn reached across and grabbed the ashtray with her cigarette in it. Lester’s screams had turned into exhausted yelps. She resettled her child on her lap. ‘That was Mr Rich,’ Dawn said. Her hand shook as the cigarette which was almost a butt went to her mouth. ‘Mr Rich is just a friend of — daddy’s. And that’s why he drove us home from town. Before we got wet with the rain. Didn’t he?’ Little Jim had a look on his face which could have been sorry for her. ‘And mummy’s a friend of the lady he’s,’ what was she saying and how could she say it? ‘married to.’ Little Jim’s eyes bored in again. Dawn felt her whole face go slack waiting for what he would say next. When he said nothing she had to put an end to it. ‘So that’s all darling.’ She stood up quickly, tipping him off her lap. ‘And you wouldn’t want to be a baby again, would you?’ Little Jim tried to scramble back. ‘Babies are terrible, more

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trouble than they’re worth.’ She hurried out of the kitchen, away from her four-year-old’s clear steady gaze. Before she did anything she would have to get dressed.

The sales assistant had told her that the next shipment for Ladies & Children’s Wear would be in the store on the seventeenth. Until then there was nothing at all in Boys Size 4 sandals. Dawn wandered on without aim. She had actually been thinking about Virginia when she saw Ted. It was in the supermarket section of Burns Philp that Dawn had contrived to meet Ted Rich’s new wife who didn’t know her. Dawn wanted to talk to her, assess her first-hand, see what — besides the obvious — had made Ted Rich marry her. She had cleverly made it seem like an accident when the forward wheel of her trolley tangled with the forward wheel of Virginia’s trolley in front of the Heinz baby food. Every trolley tells a story. Dawn’s was full of two-for-the-price-of-one lav paper and ‘Lamb Brains with Carrots’. Virginia’s, Dawn saw in a sweeping glance as Virginia looked down at locked wheels, held two bottles of wine and tins with foreign language labels. Dawn Harkness never got invited to any of the girls’ do’s. The old boilers’ do’s, more like it. Linda Morton and Eunice Pheebles and Lorrae Whittaker and their ilk wouldn’t have anything to do with ex-hostel girls, not if they could help it. Linda Morton and Eunice Pheebles and Lorrae Whittaker and their ilk had come up here as respectable married women. Their reasons for being here were husbands’ careers, husbands’ businesses. The girls at the Treganni Hostel were up here on

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their own. They had come up for the money and, most of them, for husbands. Eunice Pheebles wrote to the paper once, after The South Pacific Chronicle had published what they liked to call an investigation into the morals of the young women who lived in Treganni. There were reports of wild weekend parties. There had been more than one scandal with a married man. In the Letters to the Editor page, Mrs Eunice Pheebles compared the girls at Treganni with Australia’s female convicts. The girls at Treganni, and Dawn Broughton was one, thought the scandalous findings were a hoot. They wore their notoriety like a badge of honour. The girls at Treganni had freed themselves of the rules and restrictions the good burghers’ wives, like Eunice Pheebles, were still trammeled with.

Lester’s crying had given way to the odd hiccough. Okay, so he was still breathing. Dawn’s fingers didn’t even hurry doing up the big flat white buttons on the house dress she liked the least. Dawn didn’t want to look attractive today, not attractive in any way. Out of guilt, she wanted to look like what she was — a slob of a cow with a stomach that stuck out too far. She moved around the bedroom picking her way through a scatter of clothes. She paused to look at her wedding photo. Jimmy Higgs, the freelance photographer, had taken the photos as a wedding present. He had given Ray and Dawn his sheet of contacts for them to choose which ones he should print. Almost every frame showed Dawn with her eyes closed. Ray just looked anxious, his thin dark face creased with

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a frown. Getting a photo in which she had her eyes open and Ray had the semblance of a smile proved more difficult than you would have thought. Dawn sighed and moved on. The pink satin pants she picked up off the floor made her cheeks burn with shame.

After that supermarket meeting, having coffee at the Polynesia, Dawn discovered she liked Virginia Rich. She looked you in the eye when she talked to you which was more than most of the women round here did. Also, Dawn thought, Virginia seemed more interested in finding out about you than in talking about herself, another nice change in this place in the sun for egomaniacs. There was a ladylike quality about Virginia which Dawn found a bit intimidating at first. But then Virginia related the story of Linda Morton’s drinks and she told it with such a wry eye and a gentle poke of fun that Dawn let herself think that, while on the surface they might not be too much alike, their way of looking at things could just make them birds of a feather. She hoped they could be friends. In the four and a half years since she had married Ray, just about everyone Dawn knew had moved away. The girls she liked most at the hostel were all somewhere else now. A few, like Maggie Dunmore and Zelda Haig, had returned to Australia once the wild oats were out of their systems. For a while Dawn wrote to these girls and they wrote back but then they all realized that what they had in common was no more. They got on with their differing lives in different lands and even the exchange of Christmas cards stopped.

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Christmas times were wild old times at Treganni. The South Pacific Chronicle didn’t print the half of it. More girls stayed on at the hostel for the holidays than went back to see their families. And for good reason. Christmas was when the out-oftowners came in. Patrol officers and planters. Single white males from Popondetta and Lae and Mount Hagen. They overcrowded the Moresby Arms and the town’s one guest house. They chartered boats that dropped anchor at islands that weren’t on the map, had barbecues on deserted beaches. But most of all the out-of-towners held parties that pumped succour into souls starved of social contact. The emptier hostel — with even the normal bare-excuse-for-supervision absent on leave in Australia — was the perfect place to hold them. Quite a number of girls at Treganni finished up marrying these out-of-towners. Dawn had affairs with a few but never, not on her part or theirs, did the good times ever feel right to make permanent. Not even as permanent as permanent meant in Port Moresby. Louise Halston was one friend of Dawn’s who did. Louise married the District Officer in Rabaul and became Louise De Groot. Dawn still kept in touch with Louise and caught up whenever she came to town. But those times were few and far between and it wasn’t the same any more. What Dawn didn’t have in Port Moresby any more was a friend she could just drop in on for a chat. While Virginia had not become that sort of chum, Dawn always felt Virginia was pleased to see her when their paths did cross. That is, until yesterday. It hadn’t occurred to Dawn not to sit down at the same table as Virginia and that writer bloke. Godfrey, was it? Or Geoffrey? Anyway, didn’t matter, the one who scandalized all the old

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mother hubbards because he had it off with the native boys. But then Dawn had caught a look that passed between them as they all sat on the verandah at the Polynesia. And realized Three’s A Crowd. Afterwards, she felt embarrassed that they had probably been talking about something important before she barged in. And there she was, blathering on about everything under the sun. Dawn left the Polynesia with the kids in tow and thought she was getting as bad as the out-of-towners. You had too little contact with your own kind and when you did catch up, you got as excited and all-over-the-place as a lonely kid at a birthday party. Dawn hauled the kids up the road past the picture show. Bloody Cleopatra was still on. She’d already seen it twice. If there had been a new picture on, she’d been thinking before, she would leave Willy minding the kids tonight, get a taxi in and go to the pictures on her own. She really missed Ray when he was away. At the milk bar she bought ice blocks for her and Little Jim and they wandered on down to the beach. Little Jim played, the baby slept and Dawn smoked and read a bit of her paper back. She was filling in time before Burns Philp opened. If only she hadn’t gone shopping. If only.

The Daffy Duck curtains and the Mickey Mouse wallpaper had made the transition unscathed. The kids’ room was still the same as it was before the catastrophe. Virginia’s husband. How could she have done it? Lester was screaming again, his nappy sodden, shaking the bars of his cot in a fury. Dawn picked him up and turned him

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upside down. She took him into the bathroom where she dumped him on top of the chest of drawers and unpinned his dirty nappy. ‘One of these days,’ Dawn mumbled through safety pins, ‘I’m going to put a cork in your bum.’ She threw the nappy with perfect aim into a bucket of water standing by the bath, hauled a clean nappy out of a drawer and wiped Lester’s bottom with a wet washer. That was when the memory grabbed her and shook her and would not let go.

As she hit him on the back an instant thought flashed through Dawn’s mind. Virginia wouldn’t have done that, hit him on the back as if she was a bloke. Why did she do it? She might have done that to Ray but not to Ted Rich. Ted turned around and looked surprised. No wonder. ‘What are you up to?’ She heard again her own voice, a bit scratchy from cigarettes, not like the soft, gentle voice Virginia had. Ted mumbled something about buying shoes and she thought she told him about the new shipment coming for Ladies & Children’s Wear. And then they were walking on together and Dawn was aware that the children she loved were attached to her like two unattractive lumps. Why hadn’t she mentioned that she’d just been talking to Virginia that lunch-time?

Of course, Dawn had always fancied Ted Rich, fantasized about him even. She wasn’t the only one. He was local Pin-Up

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Number 1. Nobody had very high hopes of snaring him though. Ted was a bit of a lone wolf. He drank, sometimes, in the Moresby Arms and had been known to start up a chat with a girl from Treganni Hostel but he never asked any of them out. It was rumoured that he was on with a married nurse in Rabaul. Then there was Jimmy Higgs’ party. Jimmy was making hay while his wife was away in Brisbane. Ted arrived late and alone. They used to invite Ted to all the Treganni parties but he never turned up and Dawn and some others just assumed he was out of reach. He socialized with the Rouna crowd, a few rungs up the social ladder. Everyone was pretty pissed by the time Ted got there, beer under his arm. But then, Dawn saw as she went over to him, Ted was a bit how’s-your-father too. Jimmy introduced them, gave Ted a beer from the carton he’d brought and then went to the kitchen with the rest of the contribution. ‘Do I know you?’ Even a bit pissed he was gorgeous. ‘I wish you did,’ Dawn said with a grin. She knew she wasn’t beautiful but she also knew there was something about her — maybe it was in her smile and her eyes — that made it easy for her to get most of the men she wanted. ‘I’ve often seen you in town. Never had the good luck to run into you though.’ Ted’s look back was assessing, amused. ‘I’m Ted Rich,’ he said. ‘I know,’ said Dawn, ‘and I’m Dawn Broughton.’ She put out her hand and Ted took it and they walked out into the backyard with their drinks. ‘I’ll remember Broughton, Dawn,’ he said. ‘I used to live in Broughton Street Concord.’

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And then he kissed her. She couldn’t believe it. Here she was in Jimmy Higgs’ backyard being kissed, and hard, by the man everyone lusted after. Ted drew back and looked at her and, she thought, he’s wondering what he’s doing with me — wondering what he’s going to do with me. Then he smiled and he might have been going to kiss her again but the pissed-as-a-newt Jimmy barged up, stood between them and slurred: ‘He’s taken, I’m not.’ The spell — that was what it had felt like — was broken. And then Dawn heard herself screech: ‘Jimmy, you liar, your wife’s just in Brisbane!’ Dawn could do nothing but watch Ted wander off as Jimmy Higgs grabbed her and tried to dance. When she went back to the lounge room Ted had gone.

Dawn mashed banana and milk and muttered: ‘Where, for fuck’s sake, is Willy?’ Broughton Street was a street he’d once lived in. Lester sat in the high chair bashing his bunny mug with his spoon. She took the spoon from him and threw it into the sink. ‘Can I have some of bubby’s brekky?’ Dawn Broughton was a girl he’d once kissed and remembered enough to put her in his address book. ‘No. You’ve got your own. Now sit down and eat it.’ Little Jim started a grizzle and pushed away his cornflakes and milk. ‘Don’t want it. Want some of bubby’s.’ She began spooning the milky mush into the baby’s mouth. But how much water had flowed under the bridge since

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Jimmy Higgs’ party? Water that had washed up both Ray and Virginia? She had thought of her kids as lumps. ‘Tell me a story mummy?’ She put down the spoon and lit another cigarette. Lester’s face was gathering in a grimace ready for a howl. ‘Not now. Too much to do.’ She had known what was going to happen before they were out of the store. And if she had known, how could she let it? ‘Go on mummy. About the cocodrile that etted people up.’ Why didn’t she think about how she would be feeling now? ‘Okay. Once upon a time there was a big crocodile that was very bad and wicked.’ So aware of his beautiful brown jaw that, once he started to drive, she had to look down at the baby instead of him. ‘Where did the cocodrile live?’ ‘This great big wicked cocodrile.’ Even on the way home feeling the pulse beat between her legs. ‘Crocodile, Little Jim, crocodile.’ Oh God she was a whore. ‘The crocodile lived in a river.’ To feel it like that after talking about kids’ sandals. ‘In a river near our place?’ ‘In a river very near our place.’ Ted had everything in mind from the moment she punched him between the shoulder blades. ‘And then this great big — thing used to hide in the river didn’t he?’ Ted knew what he was doing and it was all his fault. She jumped with fright as Lester let loose with a scream and knocked the spoon out of her hand.

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So Dawn let loose with her own scream. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!!’ Ted had made it all happen when it shouldn’t have, never should have, they shouldn’t have done it NO!! She picked up the bowl of banana and hurled it at the wall. Little Jim went white under his freckles and Lester turned silent with his mouth open. ‘And it’ll never happen again!’ She was staring at Little Jim as she yelled it. Little Jim screamed out loud and ran outside to the backyard. Dawn picked the baby up fuming. She could kill Ted for what he’d made her do. She dumped Lester back in his cot and then it was the stab of truth she could have murdered. She saw her own face, she saw it, wanting to eat him alive.

Dawn stood on the front verandah waiting for him. She was smoking with hard, heavy draws and her blood pressure was up. She saw Willy at the end of the road before he saw her. He meandered along as though he had all the time in the world. Even stopped to pick a flower for his hair. Dawn stormed out into the middle of the potholes and puddles. ‘Willy!’ She yelled and didn’t care which of the nosey parker neighbours saw her or heard her. ‘Will you get a bloody move on?! It’s after eight o’clock, for Christ’s sake!’ Willy trotted up laughing. The red Hibiscus matched the red of his lap-lap. ‘What do you think you’re doing?!’

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‘Sorry, missus, sorry.’ Willy didn’t even hurry as he went towards the verandah. He wasn’t sorry at all. ‘Just because the master’s not here you think you can get away with murder!’ Dawn went up the verandah steps after her unrepentant houseboy. For the first time ever, the first time in nearly seven years, Dawn considered leaving this place that had suited her to a tee.

TEN

‘What will I wear?’ Virginia stood in front of the wardrobe looking in. She began to riffle through the hangers. How sick to death she was of every single piece of clothing she owned. Ted came in from the bathroom, a towel around his waist. His shoulders still glistened. ‘Any suggestions?’ ‘You talking to me?’ He turned his back as he put on his underpants. ‘I don’t see anyone else in the bedroom.’ She meant it to be light but it came out sounding sharp. Ted sighed and sat on the bed. ‘I can see we’re going to have a lot of fun tonight,’ he said as he rubbed in ointment for his tinea.

It had not been a good day for either of them. Virginia had been taking aspirin in the kitchen when Ted walked in and saw her. Say nothing, she thought. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove, took the tea towels from the breakfast dishes and shook cornflakes into one of the bowls. She could sense that the first thing Ted said would set the tone for the rest of the day. ‘Got a headache have you?’ The tone was cold. He got the toaster out of its cupboard and the packet of sliced bread from the fridge.

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‘It’s time for it,’ she said. He was still searching in the fridge. ‘Where’s the apricot jam?’ ‘If there’s none in the fridge we’re out of it.’ ‘Good God,’ Ted gave a mighty sigh and dumped himself down in a chair. ‘There’s marmalade in the tins cupboard.’ He took the margarine from the fridge and slammed the door. ‘Why do you buy English marmalade when you know I don’t like it?’ ‘I like it.’ ‘A bloody tin of IXL apricot. Is that too much to ask?’ Goada poked his head around the kitchen door, sized up the situation and retreated. Ted was rummaging in the tins cupboard and she was filling the teapot so the toast was neglected until it was too late. ‘Okay, that’s it.’ Ted clicked the toaster off and was going. ‘Don’t you want a cup of tea?’ He did want his cup of tea. Ted couldn’t do without his cup of tea. But he pretended it was not the tea that drew him back into the kitchen. With an angry scrape on the lino, Ted pulled out another chair. She put the tea in front of him and sat down with her own cup. Ted heaped in the usual sugars and stirred hard. She could see him going through the words, picking them over for the most effective. Finally he said: ‘You know why you’ve got a headache, don’t you?’ Virginia sipped her tea and said calmly: ‘Yes. I know why I’ve got a headache.’

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‘Then you tell me and face up to it,’ Ted said. ‘You’ve pushed your own father out of your mind because you know you’re going the same way.’ It took her breath away. The last thing she expected. ‘I haven’t pushed my father anywhere,’ was all she could say. ‘Your mother told me enough. Your father was a drunk and a dreamer who couldn’t face up to reality. Ding dong. Ring any bells?’ ‘Don’t, Ted, don’t, that’s awful.’ ‘The truth hurts sometimes.’ ‘Yes, and so do half-truths and lies and saying one thing and meaning another. Are you going to let me tell you why I’ve got a headache?’ ‘Oh come on Virginia, don’t be so silly.’ Ted thought better of the toast now that he was on the go. He put two more slices into the toaster. ‘You’ve got a headache because last night when I got home you were dead drunk on the bed!’ ‘I wasn’t dead drunk on the bed. I had a couple of glasses of wine and – ‘ ‘Let’s hear it for a bottle?!’ ‘I didn’t have a bottle. And it was waiting for you and not eating and I didn’t have any lunch.’ ‘I thought you said you had lunch with Godfrey Warner.’ ‘Yes, but nothing to eat and I must have dozed off. I wasn’t dead drunk on the bed.’ Ted sat down with his toast and scraped margarine across it. It was long moments before he said quietly: ‘Things have got to change around here Virginia.’ His crunch on the toast was meant to be the last word.

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Virginia was silent. Then she got up and put more hot water into the teapot, brought it back to the table. ‘I’m in the middle of my menstrual cycle Ted,’ she said. ‘You know I always get headaches then.’ Ted opened his mouth without mirth onto chewed toast. ‘Which brings me to something I wasn’t going to bring up but I will.’ ‘I trust you haven’t forgotten Merle Leibman’s farewell?’ Ted always sounded like a bad actor when he tried to be sarcastic. ‘The other night you said something in bed. You said you might reconsider this adoption business.’ Ted looked up from his toast. ‘When?’ His head reared back from the accusation. ‘When did I say that?’ ‘You said it in bed.’ She knew by the over-reaction that he remembered. ‘When I got in beside you.’ ‘Well.’ He was adamant. ‘I don’t remember saying it and I never would have said it.’ ‘You’ve said it before. Why wouldn’t you have said it the other night?’ Ted motioned for the teapot. Normally she would have got up and gone round and poured the tea for him. She handed the pot across. Ted looked at her then poured tea. ‘Why I wouldn’t have said it the other night is precisely why we’re having this conversation now.’ ‘I wouldn’t call this a conversation.’ ‘You call it what you want. I know I wouldn’t have said anything about — — .’ He shrugged. ‘Not in a rational way.

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I might have in my sleep.’ How well Ted could orchestrate different tacks. ‘I don’t know whether you realize it or not Virginia. But right now we’re in a bit of a mess with this marriage.’ ‘Of course I realize it. That’s why I’m trying to do something about it.’ ‘Trying to do something about it!’ He cough-laughed. ‘You could have fooled me.’ Goada poked his head around the door again and Ted greeted him like a saviour. Now Goada had Ted to tell about his sick brother and the story came out in animated Pidgin with lots of acting. Goada always worried that the missus didn’t understand what he was telling her. With the taubada Goada had no such problems. Ted listened and answered with much more interest than he would have if this conversation hadn’t just rescued him from another one. Virginia understood enough, though, to hear that Goada was telling Ted that he and Mary were going to Kukipi tomorrow. When he had told her next week. ‘No, Goada.’ Goada hardly glanced at her, let alone paused. ‘Goada,’ she had to insist with her hand patting the table. ‘You told me you were going to your village on Wednesday.’ Goada laughed hard and slapped his thigh under the lap-lap, then rattled off his explanation to Ted. Ted was effusive nodding acceptance, giving permission and Goada scurried off to clean the bathroom. ‘He told me he was going on Wednesday and he’d come back on Sunday.’ Virginia remembered Mary’s long look of dislike from the other night.

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‘You must have misunderstood him,’ said Ted. ‘It’s okay if he goes tomorrow, isn’t it?’ No it’s not okay. For some reason it wasn’t okay. ‘I’ve got a feeling he mightn’t come back,’ Virginia said. Ted was already going. ‘He’ll come back,’ said Ted. ‘He’s on too good a wicket not to.’

They hadn’t talked again since the morning. Ted had been testing new drivers and Virginia had gone to Koki Market. She thought she might see Godfrey there but she didn’t. There were hardly any Europeans at all. She bought a small rainbow fish for her lunch and when she opened it up it was perfectly clean. When the rain came she felt an urge to go through her mother’s old letters. They gave no more clues about her father, just reinforced things about her mother that she already knew.

Virginia went into the living room where Ted was sitting with a beer and reading. She had poured herself a glass of wine. He looked up, glanced first at her glass before he looked at her face. ‘Why aren’t you getting ready?’ ‘We’re terribly early Ted.’ She sat down and crossed her legs. He waited for her to say more but she didn’t. ‘Do you think —‘ he flicked his magazine and nodded towards the glass ‘ — that’s a good idea?’ ‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ She snapped then. ‘Will you stop picking on me?!’ Ted just shrugged and turned a page of his magazine.

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She got up and started to go as she said: ‘I think I’m entitled to some fortification before I face up to Merle Leibman!’ She went quickly into the bathroom and started to put on her make-up. The angry flush on her cheeks showed through the Sheer Ivory.

Merle Leibman was an American anthropologist who had to get special permission from Canberra before she was allowed, as a single white woman, to live in the native settlement of Hohola. She was a blocky dark woman with lank hair and she was writing a paper on the effects of urbanisation on the native population of Port Moresby. A Fellow from Harvard, Merle Leibman didn’t socialize with Europeans as a rule, although sometimes she would drink with the men in the Moresby Arms. She would plant one foot on the brass railing, one hand holding a schooner, the thumb of the other hooked into a back loop of her man’s jeans. The men liked to listen to her New York twang. They felt as easy with Merle as they would with a visiting sailor. Ted said that he had made something of a mate of Merle one Friday in the Moresby Arms. She invited him to visit her at Hohola. With his wife, of course. Hohola had been constructed — set up, more like it — in a gully. Perhaps the Australian architects who designed the collection of concrete blocks which formed fifty or so tworoomed houses, had visited the site in the dry season. If they had been there in the Wet they would never have given the gully the go-ahead. Between December and March the ground

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never dried out past a slush of mud. Boards were put down over potholes. If Merle didn’t socialize with Europeans, she wore her honorary native citizenship like a badge. As Godfrey said once, Merle wouldn’t like living in Hohola if it was the best place she could aspire to, as it was for her neighbours. Merle’s house was the pick of Hohola because it was next to the main water tap. The night Virginia and Ted went to dinner at Merle’s, Oala Sinaka was the other guest. Thin, grey-haired Oala had married a girl from his village before he got education through a mission scholarship. A Seventh Day Adventist pastor had rightly picked him as outstandingly clever even then, when Oala hardly spoke English. Now he worked for the government at Konedobu and he was on the Council. His wife, the same age, was an old woman now with nothing in common except children and grandchildren. She never went with him to functions. Merle served mashed taro root without salt in a big wooden bowl. She gave them pandanus leaves and told them to use their fingers. The walls of her concrete box were covered with tapa cloths and there were no doors. A bamboo curtain — tied back for the evening — hung from the front doorway. Merle’s bedding mat was rolled up in a corner. It seemed to Virginia that Merle was flirting with Oala, but for whose sake? When Oala put his hand out for the wooden spoon Merle put her own hand over it and looked significantly at Ted. Another time she put an arm around the old man’s shoulder and let it stay there. Virginia thought Oala looked embarrassed and would prefer the white arm not to be there but was too polite to say so. Merle talked about her life-

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changing experience in Hohola, how tribal spirit ancestors had appeared to give her their blessing, how she felt pain in her own childless body when she helped the women deliver their babies. Oala was the first to leave. Merle went outside with him and took the water gourd to refill it from the tap. From where she sat on the floor Virginia could see Merle standing close, telling Oala something, grasping his two hands in hers. Oala seemed to be straining backwards. In quick whispers Virginia and Ted established that they both wanted to go as soon as they could. When Merle came back, though, Ted put the onus all on Virginia and said she’d developed a headache. ‘There you go, Genevieve,’ Merle had said. ‘I’ve got some herbs from the Highlands for headaches. Would you let me brew some for you?’ Merle had a one-ring primus in the corner and a big battered aluminium saucepan in which she cooked and boiled everything. A tin bath hung from a hook on the wall. Hohola had cess pits, not sewers. Virginia was already shaking her head and standing and saying no, it was alright and the name was Virginia, when Ted leaned across the table and said: ‘Why don’t you give it a try, darling?’ Knowing the headache didn’t exist. So Virginia knelt down and sat back on her heels. Merle already had the water boiling. She took a sheaf of dried leaves that hung from the ceiling and crumbled some into a mug. ‘The Highlanders use them in ceremonies,’ she said. ‘They can also be a handy little hallucinogen if you take enough.’ ‘No, I’m really alright.’ Virginia was on her feet again. ‘I’d rather get home to the Aspro.’ Ted stood too and Merle turned the primus flame off. She came towards them with a pitying

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smile. ‘I know the right amount for a headache,’ Merle said, then yawned. ‘I wouldn’t have sent you on a trip, Virginia.’ Merle went outside with them and asked Ted what he thought of Oala Sinaka. ‘He’s on the Council,’ he said. ‘I’d say he’s the brightest of the three natives.’ Merle stepped with her bare feet off the concrete onto the ground, letting the mud squish through her toes. Then she raised her arms to the moon, threw back her head and howled. She laughed, turning to Ted and Virginia, pleased at their surprise. ‘I truly never will be the same again after living with these magic people.’ She linked her arm through Ted’s and started to walk off with him. As Virginia tried to negotiate the planks and the worst of the mud, she heard Merle say: ‘Does this sound cold-hearted, Ted? I hope not. I want to sleep with Oala Sinaka as part of my research.’ Virginia saw Ted smile and nod and was shocked. This was a man who ranted and raved about pervs and old buggers and here he was murmuring interest as Merle hugged his arm and went on. ‘Oala belongs to a crucial generation in these stone age people,’ Merle’s twang went on. ‘He would have had grandparents who never saw a white man. Can you realize the enormity of that?’ Virginia took off her sandals to keep up. ‘That generation’s a benchmark for me. Do you see what I’m getting at Ted?’ Virginia heard Ted say that he did. ‘My definition of urbanization doesn’t stop at supermarket goods versus village patch and fishing net. My definition

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of urbanization means social issues as well. And what bigger social issue is there than sex?’ Merle and Ted were at the car. Ted was nodding earnestly. Merle had her hands in her pockets and mud past her ankles. ‘Just think what a cosmic coupling it could be.’ Merle didn’t even acknowledge Virginia’s presence. ‘Sex that bridges the gap between the megalithic past and the megalopolis present.’ Merle put her hands on Ted’s shoulders and lent her Indian face forward and kissed him on both cheeks. Then she laughed, a laugh only for Ted. ‘We’re very wicked people we scientists, aren’t we?’

Virginia came out of the bathroom even angrier than when she had gone in. It had only come back to her just then what Merle had said at Hohola that night. And how Ted had reacted. How could she have forgotten? As he heard her coming back into the room Ted raised his voice and said: ‘Can we go yet?’ Then he saw her face. ‘I’m not going Ted,’ she said, ‘you can go on your own.’ ‘What’s brought this on all of a sudden?’ ‘Do you remember that night we went to Hohola and Oala Sinaka was there? At Merle Leibman’s place?’ Ted tutted with irritation. ‘Yes I remember the night. You had the shits coming home because you thought Merle was flirting with me.’ ‘Not flirting with you. Flirting with Oala Sinaka. Do you remember what she said about sleeping with him?’ Ted said nothing so that meant he did. ‘And the way you sniggered along …’

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‘I didn’t — snigger,’ so now we’re playing for real are we? ‘I don’t snigger Virginia.’ ‘So why weren’t you shocked in the same way you pretended to be shocked at Godfrey Warner?’ ‘I wasn’t shocked at Godfrey Warner, I was bloody disgusted!’ Now it was Ted who was angry. ‘And what are you trying to get at, putting Merle Leibman and that great predatory poofter in the same boat?’ ‘Did it make it different because Merle could hide behind her research?’ ‘Merle Leibman is a bloody woman for Christ’s sake!’ ‘I’ll bet Godfrey Warner’s got more insight into how the people here think than Merle Leibman could ever have.’ ‘And what would you know?’ Ted was yelling now. ‘You went to school in bits and pieces and Merle Leibman went to Harvard!’ ‘You seem to know an awful lot about her after one meeting in the pub!’ ‘Yes I do know a lot about her after one meeting in the pub. I know she’s got a lot of guts doing what she’s doing and I’d like to see how you’d go getting out on your own instead of expecting me to prop you up and put up with all the sniveling and the drinking and the feeling sorry for yourself and on that note I’m going!’ And he did. She watched him walk out the door, heard it slam closed after him. She went into the kitchen and refilled her glass.

The dense dark as he drove up to Hohola brought back Dawn. Could it have been only last night?

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He parked on the edge of the gully where the distant light from kerosene lamps cast the end of its glow. The lamps encircled Merle’s house and the coming and going figures seemed to dance in the light. Ted trod across the mud and Merle hurried up to greet him. ‘Ted!’ Merle was wearing a lap-lap like a sarong. It gave Ted a shock to see shoulders that were usually covered by a man’s shirt. ‘Great to see you. Where’s Genevieve?’ ‘She couldn’t come,’ said Ted sheepishly, not correcting, allowing himself to be led along by the hand. ‘Not to worry. Come and meet some lovely people.’ Even from the back Ted recognized the man who’d gone mad in the street. The sunburnt tonsure of skull surrounded by tufts of red hair. ‘And in Morocco,’ the skull was nodding and saying, ‘even the nomadic Berbers felt the repercussions.’ That too. The puppet in the street. Only yesterday. ‘I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine,’ said Merle. The man turned around. ‘Ted, this is the Oxford anthropologist Pearson Phillips. Ted’s one of the Aussies who lives up here.’ Merle pronounced it — Awsies. ‘Do you now?’ Pearson Phillips shook Ted’s hand. ‘And what do you do, Ted, in this treasure trove of human history?’ ‘I run the buses,’ said Ted, suddenly embarrassed, ‘amongst other things.’ ‘I do envy you, you know. I’m afraid I’m only passing through this time but I’ll be back — I’ll be back.’ Pearson Phillips wandered off, waving away imaginary hands which might have been trying to stop him. ‘Let me get you a drink.’ Merle led Ted off by his tie.

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‘I saw that bloke yesterday. He was acting very strangely.’ ‘Oh yes, poor Pearson,’ said Merle. ‘I heard about that.’ Inside, there was a makeshift bar — fruit boxes stacked together — in the middle of the room. There were bottles of beer but no ice and Merle’s tin bath was filled with a bright orange liquid. A teenage boy was barman. ‘I’m sure I can’t tempt you with the punch,’ said Merle. ‘I made it with the cordial the natives like. Too sickly sweet to be true.’ ‘Just a beer thanks,’ said Ted. The bar boy snapped off a top with a bottle opener. Ted took the full-size bottle in his hands. It was very warm. Merle led him outside — again by the tie. Why was she doing that? Was it because he appeared to be the only man wearing one? Was she giving him a message? In case she was, Ted took the tie out of her hands and took it off and said, feeling silly, ‘I don’t know why I put it on in the first place.’ ‘Let me introduce you to Gabriel Kenaki.’ Merle beckoned to a tall, young and, Ted supposed, handsome native coming towards them. ‘Gabriel is our representative.’ ‘Whose representative?’ ‘All we Hohola residents.’ She put out a magnanimous arm. ‘Gabriel, come over here and meet Ted Rich who runs the buses.’ ‘How do you do Mr Rich?’ Gabriel was red-eyed and swaying a little. ‘Gabriel is it?’ Gabriel switched his beer into the other hand and shook the hand that Ted offered. ‘Can I get you another beer, Gabi?’ Gabriel went to protest but Merle had already taken his bottle and was going

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inside for another one. He tried to go after her — ‘No okay, Missus Merle’ — but almost slipped in the mud. Ted helped Gabriel right himself and Gabriel was effusive in his thanks. Ted moved away. The beer was so warm that he really didn’t want it. No, no matter what anyone said it was wrong to give the natives alcohol. They just couldn’t handle it. But nobody had the guts to ban it because it would mean discriminating. Well, the sooner the people in this town woke up to the fact that discriminatory was not a dirty word, the better. Like the orli pool. There were some things in which to discriminate could only benefit everyone. Ted was going up the incline to put his tie in the glove box when a battered old Ute arrived and parked next to his car. Jumping down from the back were five or six natives and one large white man who didn’t jump but waited for someone to unlatch the tray and help him down. It was Godfrey Warner. Ted turned on his heel — squelched on his heel — and went back down the incline. Outside the house Merle was insisting and laughing, pressing a jar of the orange punch onto Gabriel who was laughing, too, in a helpless, exhausted sort of way. Ted moved on. Why was he here? He didn’t want to be here. A circle was being organized. Some sort of presentation was to be made. Then Ted looked up beyond the circle and thought he saw Douglas Olabi. Not the clean, well-mannered ex-employee who had been the best driver he had ever had, but —. No. Ted turned away. The native he had seen, in dirty torn singlet, was not there. No one, he had seen no one. Not Douglas Olabi. Better not be.

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There was a little squeal, a pinch on the arm and an overwhelming smell of talcum powder. Ted turned to face the giggley old girl who was the wife of Reg on the Council. ‘Ted, Mr Rich, how lovely to see you!’ Reg Pheebles was coming over with his hand outstretched. ‘Gooday Ted, you and the wife are acquainted, I hear.’ ‘Gooday Reg.’ Ted took the hand and shook it. ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Pheebles, ‘Ted rescued me at Oala Sinaka’s party when you were off with your cronies.’ ‘Is Oala here tonight?’ Did Merle have her way with her cosmic coupling? ‘Don’t see him, no,’ said Reg. ‘We thought we’d better make an appearance.’ ‘And now that I’ve got you here Ted, I want you to do me a huge favour.’ Out of the corner of his eye Ted saw Godfrey Warner approaching. He grabbed Mrs Pheebles by the elbow and sidestepped around her. ‘If I can Mrs Pheebles, what’s that?’ She felt her heart go all fluttery. He was looking straight into her eyes. ‘You’re all alone are you Ted?’ How on earth could she know? ‘I mean, Mrs Rich isn’t with you tonight?’ Merle was holding Gabriel’s hand, spearheading an entourage. ‘She — gets these headaches. With her menstrual cycle.’ ‘Oh.’ It was shocking in a nice sort of way to hear such intimate words from Ted Rich. Now Merle was organizing the circle. Black, white, man, woman. She whistled and children and dogs came running to place themselves in front like the low plants in a flower bed.

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‘Let me say what I have to say, Ted, quick. We’re organizing a fashion show. We can get some lovely frocks from Littlewoods in Brisbane and — .’ Merle raised her arms. Even Merle’s bluish pits were vulnerable. Ted put his finger to his lips but Mrs Pheebles was determined. ‘I want to ask your wife if she’d be one of the models for us.’ Gabriel, swaying, called for silence in Motu. ‘You’d have to ask her,’ Ted whispered. ‘That’s what I wondered,’ said Mrs Pheebles not softly. ‘When could I see her?’ Merle glared in their direction. Gabriel slurred for silence in Pidgin. Ted nodded to Merle, shook his head at Mrs Pheebles but she had already opened her mouth again, oblivious to everything except what was important. To shut her up, Ted said quickly: ‘She works at Longhurst Imports. Call in and see her on Monday.’ ‘Longhurst Imports, she’ll be there on Monday will she Ted? Well what I’d like you to — .’ Now Merle said loudly: ‘When everyone can be quiet. I’d like to say something.’ Merle put her hand out for Gabriel’s. When he gave it to her she took it to her lips and kissed it. ‘I’ll say what I want to say from my heart and my wonderful friend and neighbour Gabriel Kenaki can translate for me.’ The thought crossed Ted’s mind that it was strange that Merle would speak in English. ‘I’ve been with you for almost two years and it has been the most wonderful time of my life.’

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Gabriel translated into Motu and Pidgin. One woman started a soft keening sound. ‘I’ve seen your babies born. I’ve delivered some of them.’ With no more than a sliding sideways of black eyes in creamy whites, other women took their cue to join in the sorrow as Gabriel translated again. ‘I’ve been with you when you’ve buried your elders and sent them off to the spirit world.’ The wailing rounded and grew. Ted looked across the circle. Was that Douglas Olabi again? ‘But now is the time for me to go back to my own land and take with me all I have learnt from you.’ Was gone. If it was. ‘And while my body may depart my spirit will always be here. Here with you forever, you wonderful men, women and children of Hohola.’ Gabriel opened his mouth again. What came out was a thin, glistening stream of vomit. It hit the ground and Gabriel stared at it as though it had nothing to do with him. Merle didn’t see. Her head was still held proud in her circle of homage. She only turned round when the keening stopped and the translation didn’t come. Just in time to see another surge of orange punch emerging instead of words. And one, single, high-pitched giggle in the silence. Two dogs rushed forward to lick. And then there was babble and movement and the yelp of dogs being kicked away and Mrs Pheebles ran to Reg. And in the middle of it all two faces. The furious face of Merle. The abject, humiliated face of Gabriel. Then laughter, laughter,

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laughter. The shriek and whoop of kids. The giggles of women. The thigh-slapping guffaws of men. Ted had to get away. Without saying anything, without seeing anyone, without being seen. He skirted the circle of light and walked behind some huts. He felt overwhelmed by something. By shame. By sorrow? Whatever it was, it was not for himself but for them. He thought. Perhaps he was in there somewhere. But mostly it was for them. The poor bloody buggers. The poor fucking human beings. What hope did they have? No hope in hell. Ted slipped on the incline going up to his car. He fell forward and, as he righted himself, he had no alternative but to wipe off the mud on the sides of his slacks. A hand came down to help him up. It belonged to Godfrey Warner. Ted hesitated, then took it. ‘Thanks,’ he said. There was still this terrible feeling, as though he would burst into tears. So he had to regain his composure fast, in the face of Godfrey Warner. He put on a hard look but didn’t know what to say. Maybe he didn’t have to say anything. Then he heard his own voice. ‘You couldn’t stand it either.’ ‘Our very own Margaret Mead basking in choreographed glory? No. I can’t think what possessed me to come.’ He smiled. ‘Unless, of course, it’s that I can never resist a spectacle.’ The door of his car was open. ‘Did you —?’ Ted started to ask but Godfrey shook his head and went over too. And smelt the smell before he opened it wide. On the seat behind the steering wheel was a mound of human shit. Ted could only stare at it. Then turn and look at Godfrey who was

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going to a banana tree. He came back with some leaves and, without a word, started scooping the shit off the seat. With one leaf he shoved it onto the other leaf and then threw it away onto the grass. ‘Jesus Christ.’ Was the only thing Ted could murmur, the only words to come to his aid. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said again. ‘Do you have a towel or anything in the boot?’ Godfrey was calm. Ted got his keys and unlocked the boot. He came back with a plastic bag full of rags. ‘Who would —?’ Godfrey had got most of it off but a thick smear across the seat had seeped into the cracks. ‘Why would they do that to me?’ Godfrey took a big bit of sheet and started to wipe off the rest. Ted took another rag and joined him. It was long moments before Godfrey said softly: ‘You voted against the orli pool Ted. They have their ways of getting back.’

ELEVEN

Dawn was crying a little. Ray was in her thoughts and she couldn’t get him out of them. Ray and the kids. She had tried to read some of her paperback, a tattered old copy of Peyton Place she’d bought at a GoingFinish sale, but she couldn’t concentrate. She had been enjoying the book before yesterday — before last night — before everything changed to calamity. Please God, let things get back to the way they were and let no one ever, ever find out. Earlier, she had picked up the phone to call Ray. She checked his itinerary. The tenth. He would still be in Sydney staying with his sister who didn’t like her. What if Joan answered the phone? As she would. Dawn might have been able to kid and pretend with Ray but she could never kid and pretend with Joan, not even her voice could, not even two thousand miles away. Ten whole days before Ray got home. It was all Ray’s fault. If Ray hadn’t gone off on his annual buying trip, none of this would have happened. Old Ernie would have had the car fixed quickly for Ray. She would have been able to drive herself home. She probably wouldn’t even have gone to town in the first place. She never went in on a Friday. Yes, it was all Ray’s fault. He had left her alone and look what had happened. She snuffled again into a tissue. She was so miserable she would knock herself off if she only knew how. How did people commit suicide in ordinary ways up here?

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There was that Irish girl who’d topped herself a couple of years ago though no one knew why. Powdered glass, she’d swallowed. She must have been a determined suicide if ever there was. Crushing the glass. Having time to reflect that, when she swallowed it, there would be no turning back, she would cut her guts to ribbons. There had been a journalist, too, who went up to Rouna one midnight, tied his typewriter around his neck and threw himself under the waterfall. Desperate measures for desperate people. Well, Dawn considered herself desperate right then but she lacked the measures. She didn’t have any sleeping pills and even her stove was electric. Dawn’s lips quivered as she took the last drag on the latest cigarette. God only knows how many she’d smoked today. She was half-sitting up on the bed still in the ugly house dress and she didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to do anything until Ray was back and things were right again.

Dawn had to admit that there had been other times in her life when she wondered how you’d go about ending it all. Cliffhanging times when her period was late and she spent every waking moment, and sleeping ones too, with the certainty of being pregnant and by herself. There were the many, many blokes who didn’t even have to be good-looking so long as they were nice, not cruel, and she and they could have a laugh together as well as the other. But a few who were cruel had got through the net. One said that the town bike was just a prossie you didn’t have to pay and another one called her Dawn Mortein Broughton. When you’re on a good thing stick to it.

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And when you’re sick of sticking to it, dump it like a bag of old rubbish. But then Ray had happened to her and Dawn had been grateful as much as loved him. Grateful to him in a way that she had never been grateful to any other bloke and Ray was different in that way to any other bloke. He didn’t make her stomach jump with excitement but who needed that anyway? Dawn had had more than her share of that — last night oh Christ — and it was something she could definitely do without. Could do without forever and ever amen — even more after last night oh shit — and would do without and would never miss it because she had swapped it for something far more important. ——————— She was dozing off into blessed escape when a soft knock on the bedroom door startled her awake. Guilty your honour. She sprang up so suddenly that she upset the ashtray. Broken butts and grey ash spilled onto the white cotton bedspread and when she tried to brush it off it made it worse. The knocking came again, more firmly this time. ‘Go away Willy. I told you not to disturb me!’ The bedspread was ribbed and the ash stuck in the crevices. Oh, poop to that. It would have to be washed and it was so heavy when it was wet that it threw the washing machine off kilter. Again, the knocking came on the bedroom door and this time it was even more urgent. Dawn jumped off the bed in a fury. ‘Shit a brick Willy, are you deaf or what?!’ She opened the door to Ted. Dawn could only stare while her mind spoke for her. Oh no. Please God. Please no. She was still asleep. She was having

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a dream or a nightmare. Then it impinged that Ted was ashen. ‘What’s happened?’ Virginia had found out and Ted had killed her. ‘I’m sorry, Dawn,’ Ted mumbled. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you.’ Then she saw that he had mud on his clothes. ‘Did Willy let you in?’ Ted shook his head. It was after ten. Willy was long gone. ‘How did you get in?’ ‘The door was open,’ Ted said with more of a shudder than a sigh. ‘The front door was. Can I come in?’ She nodded. Dumb. He came into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. In slow motion she saw him walk towards her. He looked at her for moments before he touched her. Then he put his arms around her and cried into her chest.

At first she thought he was not breathing. Her heart hammered in her throat. Nothing moved, not a flicker of an eyelid, not a hair in a nostril. ‘Oh Ted,’ she whispered. Then he let out a great shuddering sigh and was back to breathing normally again. After Ted left last night her headache had returned worse than ever. It wasn’t the wine though the wine wouldn’t help. The headaches she got when she was about to ovulate were back. Bunny’s Macquarie Street specialist had given her a joke along with all the rest of the planning paraphernalia. When she had to take the Covemense, he told her, she should say to her husband: ‘Please tonight, dear, I’ve got a headache.’ As she took the last pill left in the old packet, she wondered what it would be like if they had managed to conceive. What would their lives

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be now if a little boy or a little girl were to toddle out of the spare room that had become a nursery? The Covemense contained a muscle relaxant sedative to help the eggs ease down the Fallopian tubes. She hadn’t even heard Ted come in. Now she walked quietly across the bedroom floor, avoiding the plank that creaked. Something was different. What was it? She looked around the room and back to the bed before she realized. There was not the usual jumble of Ted’s clothes on the floor. She went into the bathroom. The clothes he had worn the night before were in the clothes hamper. She took them out. They were smeared with mud and — something else. Something that looked and smelt like human waste. Virginia went cold all over. What had happened and where had he been? She checked his underpants. They were clean. At least they were clean. What had happened to put that look on his face? The man who had made a mistake. Ted’s shoes were on the back verandah. The leather Goada kept so polished was dull and smeared. Someone had washed the shoes with soap and water and that someone would have been Ted. There was activity down at the hut. Mary came out and dumped a broken cardboard box tied up with rope. Then she brought out an old suitcase. Their skinny dog skulked and wagged its tail. The youngest child carried out the transistor radio, which was almost as big as he was. Mary saw her coming and went inside, her expression as cold and full of dislike as ever. When Goada came out with a bulging, battered armysurplus rucksack the dog knew what was going on and started to howl.

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‘Who’s going to feed your dog?’ she asked. She put out her hand to the tan and white dog which, young as it was, was already mangy along the backbone. The dog bared its teeth with a growl. ‘I can’t feed it if it might bite me.’ Goada gave the dog a kick. It yelped but looked back at him with love. ‘Orait missus,’ Goada laughed, ‘ol I kam long mipela.’ Did that mean the dog was going with them? ‘I could give it food and water if you left it tethered and you’ll only be gone for a few days.’ Goada didn’t answer but went back inside the hut. Virginia had long ago stopped objecting to the way the natives treated animals. They kicked them, they beat them, they starved them, they ate them. Ted was not the only one who told her it was silly and sentimental to expect a better bond, better treatment, between man and beast in a place like this. That just wasn’t the way it was. They weren’t even kind to other humans lower down in the pecking order, so why would they be kind to animals? It had never got any easier, though, turning a blind eye, as she’d been told she must, when she saw a maltreated dog or an act of deliberate cruelty. A Patrol Officer Ted had invited to dinner one night told, with much amusement, how the mountain men had their own takeaway food. They took a live pig with them on exploratory expeditions. They cut slices off the living animal, eating it as they went, covering the wounds with banana leaves to stave off the flies and their maggots. When the animal got too sick and too depleted to go on any longer, they killed what was left and made camp for as long as it took to feast on the rest. That night she had roasted a pork

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loin with prunes. Neither Ted nor the visitor noticed that she served herself only vegetables.

Alex, the baby, was toddling with the transistor and almost dropped it in the mud. Virginia hurried to help him but the child screamed and held onto the precious possession and Mary came out in a flounce and scooped him up. She was wearing her grass skirt. Not the skirts made from Virginia’s old dresses and hand-me-downs from the mission. Mary was wearing her grass skirt and was going back to her village. As Mary avoided her gaze again as she went to pick up her child, Virginia stopped her with a hand on her arm. ‘I know you don’t like me Mary,’ she said. ‘I wish you did but I can’t make you, can I?’ Mary looked down at the white hand on her black arm, a despised foreign object. Virginia took her hand away. ‘Are Maia and Peter going with you?’ The girl and the boy were the older children. Mary stared until Virginia took her hand away. Then she went back into the hut. There was no more to do about the snub except smile. Why did she expect Goada’s wife to speak to her now, when she never had before? Sometimes Mary helped Goada in the house but she always went away if Virginia came in. What did Mary think of Virginia and all the white women like her? In charge of her man who, to her, was the boss? A white woman who had her own boss but was still of a chieftain status because of the colour of her skin?

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She couldn’t help looking inside the hut where Mary was telling Goada something. Virginia heard the words — Maia and Peter. Goada came out of the hut smiling. ‘No gat missus.’ He carried another box tied up with rope. ‘Maia na Peter bai istap long skul.’ Long skul. Skool. Maia and Peter they stop in school. Well. That was something. Maia and Peter went to the Baptist Mission school in town. Goada and Mary would hardly go back to Kukipi for good and leave their children behind for the missionaries to raise. Or would they? Virginia knew it was no good asking more questions. The only answers she would ever get were the ones they thought she wanted to hear. She told Goada she hoped his brother got better. And she hoped they would all come back soon. Goada laughed and tried, unsuccessfully, to repeat back to her what she had said in English. There was nothing more she could do. Just hope. And here she was, still in her nightdress, talking to her houseboy. It was something she had never done before because people had warned her against it. ——————— Ted heard the shower running so it was safe to open his eyes. He could not speak to her. He would not answer questions. What was he going to do about the rest of the day? It seemed the only option he had was to stay in bed and pretend to be asleep. Unconscious. But then she might call Dr. Gladstone and he would have to explain to a man he knew socially why he was acting like a child.

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He dreamt he had died, suffocated to death. The familiar smell of Virginia was bending over him and then he did wake up, careful not to open his eyes though. He realized he had been holding his breath. Soon Virginia would come back into the bedroom again and — then what? What could he tell her? What could he say? Not lies, no more lies, not now. To lie with success you had to be in charge of yourself and he wasn’t right then. Sleep was the only answer. Or at least the pretence of it. For the time being.

Dawn had directed him round the back way. He drove slowly, with no headlights, to the end of the street. Every light in the corner house lit up. He turned into the track on the left and the car bumped over the ruts and pot holes. Dawn was waiting for him at the back gate with a plastic bucket that reeked of Dettol before he even got out of the car. He had driven to Dawn’s sitting on the rest of the rags and had gagged once or twice on the dank human smell that wouldn’t let go of his nostrils. He parked right under the street light. Dawn was cranky as she urged him forward. Did he want the whole of Port Moresby to see him? He backed back into the denser dark and Dawn came up with her bucket and said she was sorry. She hadn’t meant to bark at him like that. Ted said nothing. In the bedroom, he had told her in one sentence what had happened and now, with that said, there seemed to be nothing to add. Ted picked up the scrubbing brush floating in the bucket of disinfectant and removed the rags from the seat.

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Dawn held Ray’s big outdoor torch. ‘Why would they do a disgusting thing like that?’ The hot water made the smell stronger, not even the Dettol could prevail. ‘They were getting back at me.’ ‘Who was getting back at you?’ He didn’t even have the impetus to scrub with a purpose. Just moments ago there had seemed no more to be said. Now, her question unleashed so much that he didn’t know where he could start answering. ‘Here.’ Dawn grabbed the scrubbing brush and gave him the torch. ‘Give us a go.’ Her hand was harder. The bristles brooked no nonsense with the cracks and crevices. ‘Who said they were getting back at you?’ ‘Godfrey Warner.’ ‘Godfrey Warner?’ Dawn stopped scrubbing. ‘I thought you couldn’t stand that bloke?’ ‘I can’t,’ said Ted at the same time wondering whether that, too, had changed. Dawn waited for him to say more but he didn’t. She had brought out a couple of old towels which hung over the back gate. She threw the scrubbing brush back into the bucket and wiped down the wet vinyl with the towels. Then she stood back and said: ‘There you are. All done. Good as new.’ Dawn turned to Ted and Ted turned to Dawn. Without speaking or touching they looked at each other for long moments. Then Dawn said softly, ‘I’d ask you in for a cup of tea but I don’t think that would be a good idea, do you?’ For the first time that night he felt he could smile. ‘No,’ said Ted. ‘I don’t think it would.’

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Dawn put out her hand to him. Wet, smelling of sick rooms, it was his mother’s hand. He took it and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, Dawn.’ ‘Think nothing of it.’ Dawn gave the grin that had earned her a reputation as a hard case. She lent forward and kissed him, deliberately missing his mouth. Then the sister picked up her bucket and rags and went inside to her sleeping children. The brother got into his car and drove home to his wife.

Virginia was dressing at the wardrobe. She didn’t take her clothes over to the bed in case she disturbed him. Ted still slept without stirring. It was past ten o’clock. Virginia couldn’t remember another occasion when he’d slept so late, so log-like. If he wasn’t awake by mid-day she would call Dr. Gladstone. Perhaps he had some sort of concussion. There was noise and laughter outside. She went out onto the verandah. A truck with half-a-dozen natives in it was parked down the end of the drive. Goada and Mary, with child, dog and mountains of luggage, were running down towards it like freed children. She called out ‘Goodbye’ but nobody looked back. Virginia went back into the house, through the kitchen and down the back. The door of the hut didn’t have a lock. She pushed it open and went inside. Was this the home of people who were coming back or not? The sleeping mats were gone but then they would be, wouldn’t they? The chipped plaster statue of the Virgin Mary was still there as was the coloured tin picture of Jesus. Things they might have left behind because they were coming back to them? Or things they might have

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left behind because they no longer mattered in the new scheme of things? The chipped enamel bowls had been left and the tin mugs and plastic plates. But these were so cheap at any trade store that they could easily be replaced, even on a houseboy’s wages. Goada’s time off was without pay. ‘Please come back, please come back.’ If he did, she would give him the money for the days he was away. She would give him double.

She went back inside. Already the house felt hollow, insubstantial. Goada was small and, a lot of the time, silent. But he was a big presence, somehow. Or was it that he was the vital one and the house that was dead? She didn’t know what to do. What would she do now? On this Sunday morning with Goada gone and Ted still asleep in a way that was sinister? She opened the refrigerator. Now, though, it was the smell of vanilla which claimed her attention first, not the new full bottle of Reisling waiting to be opened. The vanilla smell was Goada. Cleaning the refrigerator was his favourite job. She had told him a couple of times that he overdid the vanilla essence with the final wipe-out but he continued to do it. She was always buying vanilla essence. So she let it go. She had seen by his face that the combination of the novel cold and the foreign scent gave him extra pleasure for a job well done. So Virginia would be doing her own housework for a while. Well, that wouldn’t be so bad. Linda had told her of women who went into mental breakdown mode when a houseboy ran off and left her with chores she wouldn’t have thought twice about in Australia. She looked in to the bedroom first. Ted slept on. Perhaps it was he who had drunk too much?

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At Merle Leibman’s farewell. Yes, that was probably it. He had drunk more than he should and he was just sleeping it off. She carried the whole clothes hamper out into the laundry room that was off the kitchen. Even through the wicker she could smell the smell. He must have slipped in the mud. Drunk, and he’d slipped in the mud. And everyone knew that the sewage sometimes overflowed at Hohola. The South Pacific Chronicle was always writing editorials about it and demanding that the Council do something. The last piece she read said it was a scandal that the Council couldn’t find the money to put sewer pipes in at Hohola but it could easily send twenty-five athletes to the South Pacific Games. The mud on his pants was too much for a normal wash. She put the clothes in the machine and turned the knob round to SOAK. Ted drunk. It was strange to think of it. She hadn’t seen him with too much to drink for a long, long time. She supposed he couldn’t very well let it happen any more in case it weakened the point he was so determined to make about her these days. The telephone rang and she left the washing and hurried to answer in case it disturbed Ted. If it was a hangover it was best that he slept through it. She didn’t think she could face any more of the crossness and coldness of the night before. ‘Hello?’ It was Linda Morton. ‘Just a minute Linda.’ She hoped it was her somethingin-the-oven voice. She came back to the phone with a lit cigarette and an ashtray she had found at the back of the cupboard.

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Linda was a little cool at having been put on hold. Nevertheless she had a mission, a mission to find out more, and from another horse’s mouth. ‘Tell me what happened last night!’ Came straight to the point. When there were important issues at hand, Linda could always come straight to the point. ‘I don’t know.’ What did happen last night? ‘Whereabouts?’ ‘Merle. Leibman’s. Party.’ Eunice couldn’t wait to grab her after Mass. ‘Weren’t you there? With Ted?’ ‘No Linda, I didn’t go.’ Virginia inhaled. ‘I had a headache.’ ‘Oh.’ Linda made a face to herself. ‘Yes.’ She knew what Virginia’s headache meant. ‘You tell me what happened.’ ‘Just a minute.’ Linda put her hand over the phone but Virginia could still hear her yelling out to her houseboy. ‘Joseph! I asked you to clean the barbecue not the oven! Clean the barbecue with sandsoap then put a lot of vinegar on it!’ ‘Now where was I?’ ‘Putting vinegar on the barbecue.’ ‘That boy’s been with me for seven years and still things go in one ear and out the other.’ Virginia heard the cistern go in the bathroom. Ted was up. ‘Linda. I’m right in the middle of something. Tell me what happened last night, I’ll have to go.’ ‘Merle Leibman’s farewell. The native who was — well giving her away, I suppose — Eunice said it was hysterical.’ Virginia pulled the phone to the end of its cord. She could see the bathroom door. It was still closed. ‘Right in the middle of everything he spewed. Spewed over her, Merle Leibman I mean, spewed over the people in

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front, Eunice got a big dollop all down the front of her navy two-piece.’ Now she could hear the shower. ‘Are you still there Virginia?’ ‘Yes I’m still here.’ ‘Eunice said she was talking to Ted. I just assumed you were there too. But you had your — headache didn’t you?’ The bathroom door opened and Ted came out, a towel around his waist, and went quickly towards the bedroom. ‘Linda, I’ll have to go, I’m sorry. I’ll call you from work tomorrow.’ She put the phone down and stubbed out her shield against Linda. When she got to the bedroom door it was clicking shut. Closed. They never closed the bedroom door when there were just the two of them in the house. She thought of just opening the door and going in. She didn’t. Instead, she knocked lightly and called through the crack. ‘Ted? Are you okay?’ It must have been more than a minute before Ted called back: ‘I’m okay.’ ‘Are you sick? Can I get you anything?’ ‘I’m okay.’ He was not. His voice sounded like her father’s when he was fighting tears. ‘Can I come in and talk to you?’ ‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’ ‘I’m making a cup of tea. I’ll be in the kitchen.’

She was preparing a tray to take in to him when she looked up and there he was standing in the doorway. With his wet hair he looked like an old little boy and it touched her heart.

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‘I’m going out for a while,’ he told her. ‘Can’t I come with you?’ She said it softly because she knew what the answer would be. Ted shook his head. ‘Would you ask Goada to make up the bed in the spare room please?’ ‘Goada’s gone. Don’t you remember?’ ‘Oh yes.’ He frowned and sighed at a minor disaster. As she came towards him he warded her off with: ‘Don’t you worry then. I’ll make it up when I get home.’ He was going but she caught him by the back of his belt. ‘Couldn’t we try and help one another?’ He turned to her again and his face was sad. ‘Maybe we will.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘But not right now.’ And then he went. She raised her voice like any other wife. ‘Where are you going?!’ And had to go after him. He didn’t stop and didn’t answer. She stood on the verandah and watched as he drove his car out of the garage. In the driveway, he got out and returned to shut the garage door. He went back to the car and then drove off without a wave. Virginia went back inside. It was all over bar the shouting.

Ted almost took the road to Rouna but decided not to. It was Sunday. The place would be packed. There was not one person in Port Moresby Ted wanted to see right then and there were a lot that he didn’t. He didn’t want to see anybody who might have been at Hohola last night. He didn’t want to see any of the Council bods. He didn’t want to, in fact, see any white face at all.

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He drove down the road that led to the depot but stopped the car at Hanuabada. He passed these shanty villages on stilts twice a day, but it had been many years since he had stopped. The villagers of Hanuabada still lived as a tribe. Over the water, wooden platforms, somehow supported by roughhewn saplings, formed the floors of a hundred or so huts which had been cobbled together with rattan and wood, sticks, fibro, weatherboard, plastic and tin. Storms had blown the whole lot away twice in living memory. The Hanuabadans simply rebuilt. Their homes were as unlikely, but as durable as the bits-andpieces nests of some birds. The Council plan, which had already been approved, was to reposition some of this village on the edges of the water, rather than in it. Now, people could fish for their dinner through a hole in their floorboards, and they did. The catch would be cursorily cleaned and gutted and thrown straight into the pot. The sewage from the new concrete huts would go where it went now — into the water. The natives might have to save it up and tip it in but it would all end up in the same place as now. One of the Councillors had laughed and christened the project Hohola-by-the-Sea.

Ted got out of his car and walked down the incline towards the mud and the water. There were so many children. The Council had decreed that Hanuabada contravened even the most basic concepts of public hygiene. Yet the children looked to be a happy, healthy lot. They dived into the water out of the back doors of huts. The younger ones naked, the older ones wearing

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shorts, they played on the walkways, they sloshed in the mud, they swam in the sludgy green water and washed themselves off under shower taps before they went back inside. Their mothers kept watch as they did their chores in the huts. Ted walked down onto the stiff mud and a couple of older children turned to stare at him. Europeans sometimes stopped to look and take photographs but they seldom came close enough to get their shoes muddy. ‘Hey, kids.’ Led by an older girl, the children went over to him. Ted smiled and indicated the games of the others. ‘Yupela hamamas tru, eh?’ The younger children laughed and ran off but the older girl stayed. ‘I speak English,’ she said shyly. She put out her hand. ‘My name is Bona.’ ‘Hello Bona.’ Ted took the delicate little hand and shook it. ‘My name is Ted.’ ‘You are Mister Rich who have the buses for us.’ ‘Yes I am,’ said Ted. ‘And you must call me Ted.’ He started to walk along the waterfront and Bona walked with him, grave and polite as a grown-up. ‘You go to school, do you Bona?’ Ted’s had been a vociferous voice against compulsory schooling. Let the poor little buggers, had been Ted’s way of thinking, enjoy their childhoods while they could. Education was not going to bridge impossible gulfs for anyone, not for the children anymore than for their parents and grandparents before them. Bona said she went to the Baptist Mission school and she was top of the big class. The big class stopped at twelve and Bona was only ten. ‘And what will you do when you leave school?’

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Bona didn’t answer. Ted turned to walk back. Bona still walked alongside. Ted thought she had lost interest in the question. The attention span of most natives was not renowned as great. They were back at the spot where his car was parked above the incline. ‘Well Bona,’ Ted put out his hand. ‘I’d better be on my way. It’s been very nice talking to you.’ Bona didn’t take his hand. Ted saw that she was graver than ever. ‘There is a lady who will teach me,’ she said. ‘Oh?’ said Ted. ‘And what’s she going to teach you?’ ‘Everything.’ Bona’s shy lashes brushed her cheeks. ‘Because she thinks I am clever,’ she said. ‘Mrs Kelly say that one day there will be a university here and I will be old enough to go and good enough to go if I keep to study.’ Ted was silent. His eyes stung. ‘Good girl Bona,’ he said and got back into his car. ‘You keep on doing just that.’

The porch lights were on. The light from inside the house was muted by lamps. As Ted went slowly up the front steps he thought how, on this Sunday, this most public of towns had been the perfect place to hide. To hide from white faces, that is. He had parked at Ela Beach for hours. Watched the native families on their day off. Children, children and more children. Bowls of food shared in the sand. Kids up palm trees felling coconuts. Women talking and men smoking and people laughing. Orli kam together. The deluge came and the people went. The rain sluiced down the windows but he didn’t turn the wipers on. The waterwaved image was hypnotic.

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What had he been a part of because he didn’t know any better? What was being done to a people in the name of friendship and progress? What was the friendship and what was the progress? Was it friendship to pat someone on the back but still expect to be called Master? Or friendship — how he cringed at the thought — to expect to be thanked for not pressing charges that were spurious anyway? Douglas Olabi would haunt him forever.

Virginia was reading in the living room. She smiled at he came in and he smiled back. ‘I’ve made up the bed in the spare room,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ He went to the room. The single bed was made and the top cover turned down. Some of his clothes, including the freshly washed and ironed clothes he had worn last night, were hanging in the narrow wardrobe where Virginia had made optimistic attempts with nursery rhyme character transfers. Virginia came to the door. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ He hadn’t eaten all day. ‘Some eggs on toast would be nice.’ He took his pyjamas into the bathroom and when he came out showered and wearing them, his food was on the table. Ted ate the eggs and five bits of toast and some tinned fruit salad and thought as he ate — don’t spoil it, don’t ask questions, just let me be and then somehow or other we might

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get back on track. Virginia didn’t spoil it or ask any questions. She stayed in the kitchen with the radio on. He went back to the bathroom and cleaned his teeth. He felt tired, exhausted in every part of him. She was at the kitchen door when he came out and went towards the spare room. He stopped and took her in his arms. ‘Thank you for understanding,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to,’ Virginia said. ‘Both you and me.’ Ted kissed the top of her head and went to bed.

TWELVE

It was just after eight on Monday morning. Bill Longhurst lumbered down the stairs of his home, the first two-storied house in Port Moresby and considered the finest because it was built almost on top of Paga Hill. Bill was in a bad mood. A very bad mood. Bill Longhurst always believed in letting other people know, well and truly, when he was angry, irritable or just plain cranky. He did not believe in the ability of others to sense that the world was not well with him. He dramatized displeasure with a heavy furrowing of his brow, a lowering of his voice, jowls and fleshy lips, and a habit of slapping at things — a pile of letters — the desk — the potted rubber plant which thrived in a corner of the office. At home he banged doors and drawers, stormed around naked and sometimes smashed plates. On one occasion he had hit out at a servant and caused hearing loss in one ear. The doors and drawers had certainly got a going over already. Mavis tried to tell him of her awful dream. It had made her wake feeling, she said, like she’d been run over by a twoton truck. He didn’t want to hear but Mavis blatted on anyway. She dreamt that Rory, their son, opened up his pants to find his genitals turned to char. It was the way she searched for the genteel word ‘genitals’ that got his goat. Come to that, just about everything about Mavis got his goat and it had done for a long, long while.

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But he couldn’t get Mavis’ dream out of his mind as he tried to eat his breakfast. Alone at the table and fresh from the shower, the towel had dropped from his waist, not entirely accidentally. He was proud of his old fella, his dick, his penisif-you-must. Even lying slack, not called into action, it was, Bill knew, one of the best he had ever seen and Bill had seen quite a few. Bill’s right hand lifted the cup of tea to his lips. This handsome pole of flesh, the very essence of him, was quietly becoming handsomer. Mavis was gone as if she had never existed and he wished she didn’t. John the houseboy was in the kitchen. He sipped the tea and smoothed, sipped and smoothed, smoothed his handsome peacock up to gentle display, not flamboyant, just gentle but impressive, for him and him alone. Marvellous. Who was boss? Bill was boss. No, Mavis was getting impossible, like an old cat whose time has come to be put down. Even the inside corners of her eyes were always wet and grey, exactly like an old fluffy cat. His own dynamic destiny. Didn’t deserve an old cat. What he had made of himself — and that was a great deal for a kid of the Depression — had always been in his own hands. And that was why himself and his hands could always get together in celebration. His Bill-ness was getting his own way. A pity Rory couldn’t take a leaf out of the old man’s book. With an exciting will of his own. A landscape gardener of all things and living with a fella not a wife. This last thought made him clunk his cup back quickly in its saucer and go to the aid of the party. Don’t have to think about anything, nothing, there is nothing else just this. But

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then John came in with more toast. And stayed and started to pick up dishes. Bloody boong, mucking things up. He growled and glared but John stayed doing what he was doing. So Big Bill had to tame little willy down. Smooth him back the way he had come. He hooded the towel on his retreating best friend and snarled at John that the toast was cold.

The Ford’s front window was smeared. Bill Longhurst bashed his briefcase on the garage door and bellowed for John to come out. His houseboy came running, fear in his grin. ‘What’s this man?!’ He poked a crooked finger at the offending mark. Some small insect had been smashed under the windscreen wiper and its corpse had curved an arc across the glass. ‘What’s the use of having the best bloody car in Moresby if it’s not kept bloody clean man?!’ John looked in horror at his dereliction of duty. ‘Sori tumas, masta.’ ‘Sorry too bloody much. Well you missed this bloody spot, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes masta.’ ‘And tonight you’ll clean the whole thing top to bottom, inside and out, won’t you?!’ ‘Yes masta.’ He got into the gleaming black car he was so proud of and wound down the window. ‘And pull your bloody socks up man!’ He yelled as he started up. ‘Yes masta,’ said John, who wasn’t wearing shoes let alone socks.

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Bill Longhurst drove cautiously down the steep incline of the driveway and onto the road. By Christ, he hated Mondays. And the older he got the worse they got.

Jack said a prayer to Our Lady that Mr Longhurst wouldn’t be in a bad mood when he arrived. He usually was in a bad mood on Mondays but please, holy Mary mother of God, let this Monday be different. Mrs Rich was off sick. Mrs Rich had called and said she was not coming in. If there was one day of the week when Mrs Rich was really needed, it was Monday. On Monday, all the overseas mail came in to the post office and Jack picked it up at lunchtime. Sometimes, on Mondays, they all worked well past five thirty. This Monday, too, there were the things that had to be postponed from Friday because Mr Longhurst himself had been unwell. Already, without the new mail, there was a full day’s work ahead for all the staff at Longhurst Imports. Jack didn’t like to dwell on the fact that Mrs Rich was Mr Longhurst’s most important employee. She was the only one allowed to answer the phone and open the mail. Jack dreamed of the day when Mr Longhurst would realize that he didn’t need Mrs Rich at all and that he himself could fulfil every one of her office functions every bit as well as she did.

Jack heard the door to the office opening and bent his head to his desk. He had before him the same lists of figures he had gone through four times now, the last time on Friday when Mrs Rich had been rude to him. Jack was used to rude white people

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but there was something in the way Mrs Rich was rude to him that was different, more hurtful somehow. Others were rude because they didn’t know what you were or who you were and they didn’t care anyway. Mrs Rich was rude in a way that seemed to imply she did know who you were. But that you weren’t who you were. That you were pretending to be something or someone. That you were not. He waited for the gruff growl that meant ‘Good morning’ — the good mood greeting — or the heavy, liquid gurgle of phlegm which meant a bad mood. When no sound came Jack looked up to see Loret. Loret came from Misima Island in Milne Bay, a part of the world which educated Papuans like Jack regarded as primitive. Jack could not even remember how Loret came to be working there. He thought he had just wandered in one day and offered to work for a shilling a week or something like it. As Mr Longhurst only liked to spend money when he thought he was saving it as well, perhaps it was Mr Longhurst himself who had put Loret on. Loret kept the office clean, made the tea and ran minor messages, always with notes. ‘Good morning Loret,’ Jack said in the haughty tone he always used with the boy. Loret didn’t understand Motu, spoke only his Misima language, and Jack refused to use the Pidgin that was for houseboys and their marys. ‘Good morning Jack,’ Loret replied in his soft, lilting voice. Everything about Loret was gentle and child-like. Jack had taught Loret a few English phrases — ‘Good morning’ ‘Good afternoon’ ‘How do you do?’ — the first words the nuns had taught him. Loret was nineteen or twenty but he seemed even younger.

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Then, as they both watched, the door pushed open properly. Hard. And Mr Longhurst stomped in. There was no mistaking what sort of mood he was in. Loret padded quickly and soundlessly to the back of the office where he could escape to the space where he made the tea. Jack mustered a huge smile and felt one side of it quiver and collapse. ‘Good morning Mr Longhurst sir, I hope you had a most enjoyable weekend.’ Longhurst’s chest and throat gave a deep, congested rumble of phlegm as his gaze went to the desk where Virginia’s typewriter was still under its grey plastic cover. ‘Not in yet?’ Skewering Jack with his pale blue eyes — the skin hung around them in grey crepe folds. ‘No sir.’ Jack stood up, stood to attention. ‘Is she late again or what?’ Jack let out a deep sigh. ‘Mrs Rich not coming in today sir.’ It took a moment to sink in. ‘Wha-aaa-t?!’ he roared. He bent to Jack’s desk and sent a dish of paper clips flying, scattering them across the room. ‘What do you mean she’s not coming in?!’ ‘That’s all she say, sir, she don’t feel up to coming in.’ Jack scurried to pick up the clips. ‘Does that mean she’s — sick!!’ ‘I suppose it mean she sick, sir, yes she must be sick.’ He had picked up all the paper clips but pretended he hadn’t, went on picking up nothing because he didn’t want to go back to his desk. ‘By Christ,’ Longhurst lumbered forward, ‘a Monday of all bloody days.’ The rubber plant copped a swat. ‘The bloody woman’s more trouble than she’s worth!’

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Jack was nimble enough to seize the moment, in spite of the circumstances. ‘She does stay away from work quite a lot these days, doesn’t she sir?’ ‘I’d sack her tomorrow if I could get anyone else!’ Mr Longhurst was at the door of his inner sanctum. Jack moved forward and his smile was more sure of itself. ‘Well sir, I do know the workings of our particular office quite well and I —.’ The boss slammed the door in his face. But perhaps not before, Jack thought, he might have got a toe in. Jack sat down at his desk. Loret ventured into the room. Jack berated him for doing something he had not done, or for not doing something he was supposed to have done. It didn’t matter. Jack had reasserted his place of authority and dumped further down what had been dumped on him.

Sick! Bill Longhurst threw a karate hand and scattered the cuttings from the overseas trade papers which were placed neatly on his desk. He yelled for Jack to come in and pick them up. He lit a cigarette and fumed. Bloody — sick! By Christ women had a beaut alibi didn’t they? A little bit of blood every twenty-eight days and they got you coming, going and sideways. He picked at the creases of his trousers, the creases John ironed so well, unlike Mavis who couldn’t even figure out the steam vent. Women were a bloody nuisance in everything they were or did. It was a pity they just happened to be necessary for that all-important function of bringing men into the world. ‘There you are, sir.’ Jack put the re-assembled cuttings back on the boss’ desk. ‘If you were ever considering the possibility of doing without Mrs Rich’s services, sir, then I —.’

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But Longhurst waved and flapped both hands, his cigarette spiraling smoke. ‘Out, out, out! Leave me in peace for God’s sake.’ So Jack backed out bowing. He looked over the cuttings. You see? This was her work. Usually on Monday mornings she sat on the other side of the desk and he went through the cuttings and picked out the photos that caught his eye and passed them over to her for a brief run-down, with the aid of the foreign language dictionaries, on just what the manufacturers were offering. There was a cutting from a Scandinavian magazine for an electric fish smoker. He could tell that from the comprehensive illustration and a caption translation in English. That could be a goer in any other place but Moresby where the fishermen wouldn’t be able to come up with the moolah to hire it. He gave the Italian dictionary a work-over deciphering the details of a two-dozen place pizza oven with volcanic rock interior. In English there were advertisements for commercial and personal hair dryers, dishwashers, heavy-duty laundromat machines. He knew what Jack was angling for. Jack could do the job that she was doing. His typing was a little less proficient but he was excellent at figures, which was more than she was. If he did let Jack take over her job he would have to raise Jack’s wage a bit but he could still have two jobs done for half of the price of one.

It had been as a favour to Ted Rich that he took Virginia on in the first place. And by Christ, hadn’t he had his doubts? He knew Ted Rich and liked him a lot. As a matter of fact, Ted Rich reminded him of a younger version of himself. A good-

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looking, get-up-and-go sort of bloke. Whereas Rory, his one and only son, must have been outside pissing like a girl when the Good Lord was passing out those particular attributes. No, he had definitely been in two minds about her. He and Mavis went to dinner to meet her. Mavis, poor fool that she was, fawned over how lovely Virginia was. But Bill was a good judge of mares and fillies. She’d want her head, that one. Bill’s liking for Ted prevailed, though. He’d take his wife on, he said, just as long as she knew who was boss at Longhurst Imports. Ted said there’d be no trouble at all about that. If there was anything Virginia wasn’t, it was pushy. Maybe she even went too far in the other direction. So Bill sacked Anne Cheong, who was smart, and put Virginia on in her place. And now he was toying with the idea of sacking Virginia. Not just toying with it, actively considering it. The only problem with putting Jack on instead would be from a loss of status. For Longhurst Imports and for Bill himself. There were not too many private businesses in Port Moresby which had need of an office staff. The few who did all had white married women as secretaries. It would be seen as a comedown in the world if he only had a native. On the other hand, an opportunity to save money was always of interest to Bill. He picked up the telephone and clicked the cradle bar a few times before he remembered that Virginia was not there to pick up in the outside office. He heaved himself up from his desk and went to his office door. ‘Jack!’ He bellowed at Jack’s back. Jack started as though he had been shot. ‘Get that woman on the phone and tell her I want to speak to her!’

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Jack jumped up and turned before he even thought. ‘What woman, Mr Longhurst?’ ‘What woman do you think, you black fool?!’ Jack ran to Virginia’s desk and his fingers fumbled at the dial face of her telephone. ‘Mrs Rich, you want I call Mrs Rich for you sir?’ ‘Mrs Rich, of course Mrs Rich.’ He went back inside, slamming the door behind him.

Virginia let the phone ring. It would either be Linda Morton or Mr Longhurst and she wanted to speak to neither. It was hardly light when Ted had left the house. He was making his getaway even earlier than he had on Friday. She was going to get up but didn’t. To be leaving the house at a quarter to six meant that he didn’t want to talk to her any more than he had the night before. There was nothing she could do about it. She knew that. They were right in the middle of a tight-rope walk across a chasm. She knew that too. One thing either way, no matter how trivial, could make the difference between them skittering on together, closer to safety, or plunging, two separate puppets, into the abyss.

Virginia was having her own breakfast when she decided not to go into the office. The house was deathly quiet. No Goada. No radio. No Ted. Not even the whirr of the electric fans. Ted had turned them on when he got up. She had turned them off when she got up.

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No, she wouldn’t go in to that bullying old brute. Mondays were always the worst because Mr Longhurst would have had two full days of drinking too much and fighting with the wife he loved to hate. Poor, pathetic Mavis. Why didn’t she get out, run away and never come back? Why didn’t she? Because she didn’t have anywhere to run to? Or because she accepted her husband as her fate and it was more acceptable that way. Or was there was something in the abuse, something in the cruelty, that Mavis also needed? Virginia knew about that too. A flash of Brian Forbes’ creamy smile saying no came to her as she put the mango skin in the kitchen tidy. So. What was she going to do if she didn’t go to work? Stay at home and not answer the phone? Spend some time in the library with its airconditioning? The library was at one end of Ela Beach, Longhurst Imports was at the other end and Ela Beach was a very small beach. No, that wasn’t a good idea either. Jack was sometimes out and about and if he saw her at large he would tell on her out of spite. Virginia made herself another cup of tea. She would give it an hour or so and then she would call Godfrey Warner and ask if she could come over.

He put down the telephone and stared out the window. From the kitchen came the pleasant clink of Gomasa cleaning cutlery. Outside in the wild front garden a boy, his face lit with a smile, stalked a wood pigeon which was pecking, oblivious, in a bed of weeds. The boy pounced and, with a laugh of pleasure and a twist of the wrist, broke the bird’s neck and stuffed it down the front of his shirt.

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Godfrey walked to his work desk, which was also the dining room table, picked up a school exercise book and opened it. Phrases were written there, in different inks. Green was for overheard snatches of conversation, red for thumb nail character sketches and purple for thoughts that came to him. He wrote in purple: Only fools can believe they have attained happiness. Happiness can never exist as an entity. It is only in doing and in searching that moments of happiness can be found but too often they are swallowed untasted, like currants in a bun. He paused, then added in a quicker scrawl: Happiness, anyway, is one of those inadequate words like God or love. I might know what I mean by it but how do I know what you mean by it? Words could be the greatest misunderstanding ever perpetuated. Who can be sure that people seeing or tasting the same thing really are seeing or tasting the same thing? How do I know that when I eat spinach my actual taste of it is the same as anybody else’s? Another man might say he likes spinach and be tasting what I might think of more as avocado. Not very earth shattering or even original but a clue, a signpost to something he might some day go on to explore. Jotting things down like that was something he had done since childhood. The ruled pages and the cardboard cover of the cheap book were old friends. He went to the kitchen and told Gomasa, in Motu, that a woman was coming for lunch. Gomasa nodded and started to giggle. Godfrey was amused, too, as he realized he had used the wrong verb. In English, he said: ‘She is not coming to be lunch, Gomasa, she is coming to eat lunch.’ Both men chortled as Godfrey poured himself a glass of water from the fridge. Godfrey suspected that few Europeans had any idea of the subtle sense of humour he had discovered in Papuans since he had mastered Motu.

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There were other Europeans who were fluent in speaking it, proficient in understanding it, but the only times they used it were to direct, to order, for business, for work. Never for play. Godfrey had listened to a couple of young men in Koki Market once, their conversation hitting puns backwards and forwards like a tennis ball across a net. It had left him laughing, exhilarated at their verbal cleverness. He had never heard any Papuan speak English, no matter how well, when it did not come out sounding stolid, dull, and always subservient.

He had decided to go back to Melbourne, had even decided on the date and given notice on the house, when he received Malcolm’s letter. He was glad he had. Otherwise, he might never have known whether he was going back to Melbourne because it was time or whether he was going back to reclaim what was his. His new book was as good as finished. He would let it rest for a while, to prove itself like dough, then he would put on other eyes and read and correct objectively. Objectivity demanded a little more physical comfort so Godfrey had decided to go back to Toorak. He had started this novel — ’Amateur Conjurers’ — almost three years before. It was set in pre-war London and Berlin, corruption itself as much of a character as the upper class rulers of other peoples’ destinies. When he got stuck in a creative culde-sac in Melbourne, he made a snap decision to go and write in a place which was as far removed as possible from his novel’s setting. It did not take him long to see that the same system of

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masters of destiny and destiny’s pawns operated in this Stone Age land as well. Only the ruling accents were different.

Last Thursday night Godfrey had started to pack his books. The big wooden tea chest, now half-full, stood in the middle of the lounge room. Gomasa was sorry that Godfrey was going back to Australia but he took that as a sign for him to go back to his village as well. Godfrey encouraged him in this. Gomasa should go back to his village and live the way of his people. Gomasa had found out for himself that the streets of Port Moresby were not paved with gold. They were littered with Yugoslav herring tins and the plastic bags that white sliced bread came in. Gomasa was the only person Godfrey had told of his decision. He found himself in need of telling someone else — someone white, like himself, to whom Australia was a reality, not an abstract thing beyond imagining. That was why he had rung Virginia, on the off-chance that she would be free for lunch. From the first day he met her at Koki Market Godfrey thought she was someone he would like to know better. That had been hit on the head by an appalling dinner party at her place with another couple of guests who were no less appalling. He didn’t know what to make of her husband, neither that night nor the other night. That was okay. People who intrigued him but who he didn’t really know, nearly always ended up as characters in his books. He could fill them in with his own oil from the sketch strokes they gave him to work with.

Godfrey went back to the table. Page 22 of the last chapter still sat in his typewriter. There was something superstitious in

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Godfrey’s decision, there and then, to leave the chapter unfinished. Not to type THE END in Port Moresby but to leave the last of it as a lever for when he got back to Melbourne. A lever to get him back into everything, not just his work. A lever to get him back into the situation he would have to face with Malcolm. He took a scented pink jujube out of a coconut shell dish and put it in his mouth. Malcolm’s letter, back in its envelope, was in the middle of the Thesaurus. From the moment he picked it out of the letter box he knew that this letter was going to be different from the ones which came every second week or so. Even the writing on the envelope was different. It was Malcolm’s handwriting all right but different in character, more contained somehow, more prim, even lacking the flourishes that usually curled each end of the ‘W’. Even as he knifed it open he knew what the letter would say.

Godfrey took the letter out of its envelope again. Three and a bit pages neat and contained in purple ink on airmail flimsy. And full of crossings-out which, after Godfrey had deciphered them by holding the pages up to the light, he could make out to be the truth of the letter. You don’t know what it is to really be in love so you can’t. Then the new sentence that began I am wildly gloriously in love. The purple pen scribbled this out and wrote — As far as people go he is hardly in your league as a human being and I could weep, I am weeping for what I know this will do to you. Godfrey could picture Malcolm writing the letter. He had been a schoolteacher with a bent for amateur acting when Godfrey had met him ten years before. Malcolm would be

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sitting in Godfrey’s study, at Godfrey’s desk, with his purple cashmere scarf wrapped around his neck and thrown back over his shoulders. It would be cold in Melbourne so Malcolm would have the fire blazing in the Georgian marble fireplace and he would be sipping hot toddy. He would have composed himself just so to fit the stirring elegiac figure he thought he must present, to fit the writing of such a letter. I will not allow Serge to stay in the house though. Oh no? Not in the house where you took me the night we first fell in love and where you and I together are still in every corner. Pull the other one, babe! Godfrey grimaced, but only because a bit of sticky jujube had stuck above a tooth where the gum was receding. Of course Serge would stay in the house. Serge was who Malcolm was ten years ago. Serge would instantly become accustomed, as Malcolm had, to what he had never known. He would be glorying in the expensive sheets and American towels and proper heating in a Melbourne winter. Malcolm would be teaching Serge to cook gourmet meals and understand cookbook French. They would walk through gardens and Malcolm would give the botanical names of plants. Without having met him, Godfrey knew Serge down to his preference for soft voile shirts and Monsieur Balmain cologne. Godfrey chuckled as he put the letter back in the Thesaurus. The only slight drawback for poor Malcolm was that he didn’t have a penny of his own and never would have unless he went back to teaching. Could he have been so enmeshed in the euphoria of this new love that the thought had not occurred to him? Could it have seemed to Malcolm that the beautiful Victorian house was his own perfect setting for the next turn of the wheel? For while Serge had become Malcolm,

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Malcolm had become Godfrey. The older man. And in homosexual society being the older man was not a good position. Unless you had money of course. No, Godfrey was certain that Malcolm hadn’t thought such things through, was still carried aloft on the wings of love. Ho hum. He realized how much he was looking forward to seeing his King Charles spaniels. He was whistling as he started back to the kitchen. Then a thought struck him. He returned to his exercise book, took up his green pen, turned to a new page and wrote: ‘The lady is coming for lunch, not to be lunch.’ He was still laughing as he went to confer with Gomasa as to what they would eat.

THIRTEEN

Mavis served the food at lunchtime. It was John’s job to look after the cold beers. Two bottles was the lunchtime quota and they were put in the freezer for five minutes only, long enough to enhance the cold but not long enough to destroy the alcohol. Mavis didn’t eat with her husband at lunchtime. Mavis hardly ate at all. She drank cup after cup of tea by herself, in the kitchen or in her bedroom, trying to slake the early morning thirst that wouldn’t be slaked until the quinine from the tonic water at ten o’clock. With just the slightest dash of gin to take away the bitter taste. Bill was drinking his first beer from the bottle and studying the Form Guide. He marked Golden Girl and Mighty Emperor at Sandown. Mighty Emperor was a hundred-to-one long shot but he liked the ring of the name. Mavis brought in his salad and meat. ‘There you are dear.’ She was quietly making her getaway when she heard her husband bellow: ‘What’s this meat?’ He had speared a big piece of it and was waving it at her. ‘It’s the roast hogget Bill,’ she said. ‘What we had for Sunday dinner.’ ‘It’s off then!’ He held the fork in front of one large hairy nostril.

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‘It’s not off Bill,’ Mavis said with a sigh. ‘It was put away as soon as it cooled and it’s been in the fridge ever since.’ ‘Then the fridge is off!’ Bill stood up and roared. ‘I know off when I smell it woman, the fridge is off and the meat is off!’ He hadn’t finished his first bottle but he marched to the kitchen door and shouted: ‘Next bottle, chop chop, lots of work, got to get back!’ As John hurried in with another beer Bill dumped himself down in his chair and forked some lettuce up and over. ‘And there’s cucumber under that lettuce!’ John hurried in with another beer. ‘We don’t give you cucumber dear.’ Mavis’ blood pressure was up. ‘It gives you indigestion.’ Bill started to drink from the second bottle and John picked up the first. He grabbed it back. ‘Leave it man! If the only lunch I can get around here is a liquid lunch, then by God I’ll have all of it!’ Mavis looked at John and John looked at Mavis and then they both fled — John back to his kitchen and Mavis upstairs. As she hobbled up as fast as a sprained ankle would let her, she heard her mad husband complain: ‘Up to my neck in it and what does she do? Stays away bloody sick!’

Reg Pheebles thought he was nodding and agreeing at the appropriate times. He was, though, far more interested in a talk on bee-keeping on the kitchen radio. He ate the last tomato sandwich and finished his lemonade as Eunice came in with a cup of tea. ‘Okay then dear,’ Reg said as he stood up from the table. ‘I’ll be off then.’

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Eunice Pheebles put her cup and saucer down with a clink and a sigh. ‘You don’t listen to a word I say, do you Reg?’ ‘Yes I do dear. Something about your fashion show.’ Reg owned a shop in town. His unlikely combination of businesses was repairing shoes and electrical appliances. A native assistant dealt with the business at lunchtime. That was when most of his customers came in and Reg would have much preferred to have his sandwich at work. Eunice put her foot down though. Prominent people in town didn’t work through their lunch hour. ‘I said, Reg.’ Eunice started to take bobby pins out of her pin curls. ‘I have to go to town this afternoon and I’ll need you to give me a lift.’ Reg didn’t make enough for a second car. ‘Righteo. Are you ready to go then?’ ‘No, Reg, I’m not ready to go.’ Eunice was still wearing her house-dress. Another sort of husband would have told his wife to hurry up, then, because he was ready to go. Instead, and even though he had a lot of work on, he said: ‘That’s alright dear. You take your time.’ Reg Pheebles, when he was on the Council, was not a man to cross.

Godfrey was cracking eggs when the doorbell rang. ‘It’s open,’ he called. ‘In the kitchen.’ Houses for rent were scarce and expensive in Moresby. Virginia had visited Godfrey’s house before but Malcolm had been staying then. It was probably he who had made the place less awful with bowls of flowers and bright cloths thrown over dreadful armchairs. Now it looked bare and dingy. She wondered how someone as creative as Godfrey could live there without it depressing him.

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Godfrey scarcely looked up when she went into the kitchen. He was concentrating on adding oil drop by drop to mayonnaise. ‘You can buy tinned truffles in Burns Philp,’ he said with a chuckle, ‘and pate de fois gras from Strasburg. And where do I have to buy olive oil?’ ‘The same place I do.’ Virginia smiled as she put the bottle of wine she had brought on the table. In unison, they said: ‘At the chemist’s!’ ‘With his own sticker over the label. Recommended for use in constipation and ear aches.’ Godfrey handed the wine back to Virginia. ‘You put that back in your bag,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a whole case to get through before I go back to Melbourne.’ ‘You’re going back?’ Her amusement died. ‘When?’ ‘Let me get the mayonnaise out of the way,’ Godfrey said starting to whisk, ‘and then I’ll tell you.’

The day was going from bad to worse. Jack had locked up at lunchtime and headed for the Post Office. He almost stepped in front of a car and the woman driver blared her horn and swore at him. He picked up the mail, put it in his briefcase and went down to the beach to eat his sandwich. Mr Longhurst had caught him once, eating lunch at his desk, and had roared at him. He was hurrying up from the sand when he realized he’d left his briefcase behind. With the mail! His heart was thumping as he ran back to get it. When Jack got back to the office Loret was already there, waiting outside. Jack was annoyed. He had almost

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half-an-hour of his own time left and he didn’t want anyone else with him, least of all Loret. Jack liked to be alone in the office because then he could really imagine it. One day Jack would run his own office. He didn’t know what the business would be but, whatever it was, Jack would be boss. He hauled Loret up off the step and shouted that he was not to come back till two o’clock. Loret looked puzzled and stayed where he was. Jack pointed an angry finger at his watch. Didn’t Loret understand, man?! Not till two o’clock! Jack went inside and locked the door. Before he sat down with his Business Principles he took the mail into Mr Longhurst’s office. He fanned it out neatly on the desk. Then he stood and looked around. One day … yes, one day. He was about to circle the desk to sit in the seat of authority when he heard the heavy, familiar footsteps on the stairs. Jack was out of the inner sanctum, running, unlocking, flinging open the door as Mr Longhurst fumbled for his keys. ‘You come back early from lunch, sir.’ His smile was plastered wide. Mr Longhurst was sulking through to his office. He stopped at his door and growled: ‘Tell the black monkey I want some tea. Now!’ Loret would not be back for quarter of an hour. Jack would have to make the tea himself.

Jesus Christ, he felt crook. The indigestion had turned into wind pains. No cucumber in the salad my arse. No matter that he hadn’t eaten any of anything. The cucumber and the rotten meat. What was she trying to do to him?

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He looked at the couple of letters that were the mail. He picked up his letter opener. There was something about slitting open an envelope, like a gut, that always gave him a pleasurable feeling. But the first letter he opened was from his mother’s nursing home, a Warning Notice about overdue fees. A belch came up in a bad taste. And all of a sudden, in a blinding flash of certainty, he knew what Mavis was trying to do to him. She was trying to poison him. Mavis was trying to murder him. Jesus Christ, now the pain went right across the front. Mavis was trying to murder him.

Jack was waiting for the jug to boil when he noticed the broom cupboard ajar. He went to close it and saw Loret, standing straight as a soldier but his fists were clenched at his sides. His eyes were wide and staring as if he was in a trance. Jack’s stomach turned over. ‘Loret!’ Jack shook his arm. Loret was rigid. ‘What you doing in here?’ Jack yanked Loret out of the cupboard and pushed him towards the tea-making bench. ‘Mr Longhurst want his tea, you make his tea.’ Then Jack heard the scream from the office: ‘Jack! Where’s the bloody tea?!’ He pushed Loret aside and took over. ‘I bring it now, sir!’ Jack yelled. Loret was mumbling and laughing to himself. ‘You clean! You hear me?!’ Jack kicked back. Loret grabbed his duster and ran to do as he was told.

‘Come in, for Christ’s sake!’ Stop eating at home, that was the first thing he would have to do.

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‘Here you are sir,’ said Jack. The cup of tea jiggled and tinkled in its saucer. ‘Your cup of tea for you.’ ‘Who made this tea?’ He would have his lunch at the pub or the Polynesia and ask friends to invite him to their places for dinner. ‘I did, sir.’ The trouble was, you couldn’t know who was in on it. The wives of his friends were girlfriends of hers and men could be influenced by wives. ‘Why did you make it and not Loret?’ Even the pub was not safe. That big blowsy barmaid could be bribed. Who was out to get him? Who could he trust? Jack gave a big sigh for what he did not want to say but what he could not help saying. ‘Excuse me sir,’ he wanted to go but his feet were rooted to the spot, ‘I think Loret is sick in the head.’ ‘Loret who makes my tea?!’ The light bulb went on again. ‘Who makes my tea three times a day?!’ ‘But I make your tea this time, sir.’ What had he unleashed? Loret the black monkey was in on it. Mavis was in cahoots with John and John was in cahoots with Loret. ‘Loret is sick in the head?!’ He lumbered out of his office. ‘I’ll give him sick in the head!’ Loret was standing on tip toes trying to get at a cobweb. Longhurst grabbed him by the back of the shirt, spun him round on the polished lino and sent him sliding across the floor like a bowling ball. Loret hit his head on the edge of Jack’s desk. His face was a mask of terror. Mr Longhurst was scratching and rubbing his grey crew-cut hard. ‘So what do you put in my tea, you black scum?!’

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‘No sir, I make the tea, I make the tea!’ It was Jack who was screaming now. Loret crawled sideways and forward, crab-like and fast, stood up at the tea-making bench and grabbed the aluminium teapot. It spurted hot tea and Longhurst put his fists up like a boxer. Loret dropped the teapot on the floor where it spilled. Every fibre in his being begging for rescue, he went towards Jack who pushed him away. Once again Loret was a rag doll in Mr Longhurst’s arms. Longhurst had seen it from across the room. ‘Tamper with my tea, would you?’ A long, coloured caterpillar was crawling up the wall behind the rubber plant. ‘And before I call the police keep the place clean, would you?’ He frog marched Loret over to the desk. ‘Don’t you see what I see, you black idiot?!’ Loret started to chatter, his eyes beseeching. ‘On the bloody wall, man!’ Now Mr Longhurst shoved Loret’s head forward and down, as though into a bucket, then threw him against the wall. Loret moved so fast that Jack could not quite believe it. He took a piece of paper from Mrs Rich’s desk drawer, bent it into a gutter, and was back at the wall scooping the caterpillar into the paper. He was almost out the door before Mr Longhurst realized what he was going to do. Loret had rescued the caterpillar, was going downstairs with it, was going to let it and himself free. With a guttural sound deep in his throat, Longhurst lunged again at Loret and toppled him. He snatched the paper

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and the caterpillar and threw them onto the floor, stamping and grinding, grinding and stamping, again and again with his heavy shoe. Loret stared at the paper stained with what had once been the caterpillar. Then he jumped up and, still hunkered down, threw himself after the retreating Mr Longhurst and clung to his leg like a tick. Longhurst shook him off and punched and kicked Loret out of the door. He screamed at Jack that Loret was sacked and if he tried to come into the office again he was to call the police. From now on, Jack was the only one who was to make his tea. Not even Mrs Rich. Certainly not Mrs Rich. Jack, he said, was the only one he could trust. He went into his office and slammed the door. Jack sat down at his desk. If he had known how little it took to please Mr Longhurst, to gain his trust, Jack would have taken over the tea-making long ago.

Godfrey sat her on the verandah with a small glass of wine and a big palm leaf fan. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Give me another five minutes and I’ll come out and join you.’ He was going as he said: ‘Of course there’s plenty more wine in the fridge. I serve it in small glasses so it doesn’t have a chance to get warm.’ Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that for dinner parties? The palm fan was refreshing too. Godfrey said he found electric fans disturbing and unsettling. She didn’t know that she had consciously thought anything about electric fans but now that Godfrey had said it, that was exactly what she felt.

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The smell of the roasting chicken wafting out from the kitchen was making her hungry. That was a good feeling too — hunger in anticipation of something delicious that someone else had prepared. It seemed a long time since that had happened either. Godfrey returned with his own glass of wine and his fan. ‘My chickens never smell like that.’ She smiled. ‘What do you put on them?’ ‘It’s what Gomasa puts on them. In them. He’s a far better cook than I.’ ‘What? What does he put in them?’ ‘He marinates them in paw paw and wild garlic and — ‘ ‘Wild garlic? Where do you find wild garlic?’ ‘All over the place. Except in well-tended gardens.’ Godfrey laughed. ‘And there’s another herb he uses that I guess is some sort of oregano. I only have to smell it and I have an instant memory of a Greek island called Siphnos and our walking boots crushing up a mountain in the same sort of scent.’ ‘You and Malcolm?’ ‘A long time before Malcolm. An American boy called David.’ ‘A lover?’ She dared. Godfrey smiled. ‘Everyone I’m in tune with is a lover in some way.’ So Malcolm had been brought into the conversation but Godfrey took him no further. She wondered if he was changing the subject when he said: ‘See those scruffy little white flowers on long stalks?’ He pointed into the tangled undergrowth. ‘That’s the wild garlic.’

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He stood and stepped down into the garden. ‘And the leaves of that bush are a magic cure for headaches.’ ‘Oh that’s the bush is it?’ Virginia followed him into the vegetation. The sun smote the top of her head. ‘European gardens up here make me sick.’ said Godfrey. ‘Public servants coddling shastas and snapdragons and things that don’t belong.’ He picked some of the grey-green leaves and handed them to her. ‘Yet the things that do belong are wonderful. They’ve spent the last thirty odd years trying to replace them with the shoddy and the inferior. And in that broad generalization I also include the people.’

The leaves that were supposed to cure headaches had a strange un-leaf-like shape, like a duck’s foot. They were soft and hairy and when she crushed them they smelt like gin. ‘Merle Leibman said these can cause hallucinations too.’ ‘Yes they can.’ Godfrey put out his hand and helped her up onto the patio where the paving paint was lifting in curls. ‘Did your husband tell you what happened on Saturday night?’ ‘He didn’t but someone else did.’ She was amused. ‘Doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun.’ He looked at her oddly. ‘What did you hear?’ ‘That some native who was supposed to make a speech got drunk and vomited all over Merle and the people standing in front and it was a ghastly, terrible mess all round.’ Virginia’s smile died when she saw Godfrey’s expression. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘Merle Leibman is probably your nearest and dearest friend.’

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‘I can’t bear the woman,’ said Godfrey, walking through towards the kitchen. ‘Well that’s a relief,’ said Virginia, following on. ‘Neither can I.’

In the kitchen Godfrey introduced Gomasa. ‘I won’t call him my houseboy,’ said Godfrey, ‘he’s my friend and companion and he cooks for me and does the work I don’t want to do for myself. In the teacher-pupil relationship it’s me who’s the pupil and Gomasa who’s the teacher.’ Virginia shook Gomasa’s hand reflecting that it was the first time she had ever been introduced formally to any native in any white household. She didn’t like to think that she had probably never introduced Goada either. Gomasa was tall and shy with a sweet, perfect smile and the gangly gait of a schoolboy. Godfrey and Gomasa spoke and laughed in Motu together. When Gomasa went into the garden Godfrey refilled their glasses. ‘Do you like this wine?’ he asked. ‘It’s delicious.’ The wine was a pale straw colour with a greenish tinge. ‘It’s Penedes from Rioja, 1952,’ said Godfrey, pronouncing the foreign words without either fanfare or embarrassment. ‘It’s rare as hen’s teeth in Europe but the dopes in Burns Philp are practically giving it away.’ ‘I think I’ll go easy on my wine buying for the time being,’ she said with what she hoped was lightness. ‘Oh?’ He was shredding the skins off potatoes. ‘Ted thinks I drink too much as it is.’

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Gomasa came in with a handful of leaves which, Godfrey said, would make their salad. Then he added: ‘What you were told about what happened at Hohola wasn’t true, you know.’ He cut the potatoes into cubes and turned them gently in the mayonnaise. ‘Gabriel Kenaki was the one who was sick. He’s Hohola’s official representative. He didn’t vomit over everyone. We were hardly aware it was happening.’ ‘Trust Linda Morton to exaggerate. But she heard the story from someone who was there.’ Godfrey dressed the leaves that would have been other peoples’ weeds with olive oil and lemon. ‘I just wish Gabriel had spewed over everyone.’ He piled the potato salad into a wooden bowl. Gomasa was taking the perfect chicken from the oven. ‘It would have served Merle Leibman right, trying to organize her own beatification the way she did.’ Beatification meant getting ready for sainthood. ‘Her own beatification?’ She remembered that from a convent school. Godfrey carried the potato salad into the dining room and Virginia followed. ‘She organized everything within an inch of its life.’ Godfrey had cleared the table and Gomasa had set it. ‘Even the children ran in on cue like something out of The Sound of Music.’ Merle Leibman is a truly grotesque human being and the sooner she moves her fat arse back to Harvard the better.’ ‘Godfrey!’ She had to laugh. So Godfrey felt the same way about Merle Leibman as she did. Virginia’s dislike was intuitive. It was a long time since she allowed herself to trust that intuition. ‘Oh, they hate her at Hohola, they truly hate her.’ Godfrey was putting out plates.

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Gomasa carried in the chicken. It was on a flat platter with bunches of salad leaves at each end. ‘Gomasa!’ She had to exclaim. ‘That looks like something out of Vogue!’ Gomasa smiled shyly and went back to the kitchen. ‘Ted thinks Merle Leibman’s pretty terrific,’ Virginia said. Again, Godfrey gave her the odd look. Then he went into the kitchen and came back with the wine in a bucket with ice. ‘Godfrey,’ she said. ‘You keep looking at me like — I don’t know.’ The intuition was glad to be back. ‘Is there something I don’t know and you’re wondering whether you should tell me?’ He handed her wooden servers and told her to help herself. He filled their glasses and sat down. ‘You haven’t spoken to your husband since Saturday?’ ‘Not properly, no.’ Gomasa brought in iced water. ‘What happened at Merle Leibman’s?’ She dropped some potato salad onto the tablecloth. ‘What happened to Ted?’ The mud and the smell on his clothes. Godfrey and Gomasa exchanged a glance. ‘I wish this hadn’t come up right as we’re having lunch,’ said Godfrey as Gomasa went away. ‘I’d feel better about it if Ted told you.’ ‘Godfrey! What happened to Ted at Hohola?!’ After a moment he said: ‘Your husband was the main opponent of the non-segregated swimming pool. Did you know that?’ She was silent. Godfrey served her chicken and then paused. He looked sad. ‘I’m really sorry this started. Won’t you ask Ted?’

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‘Ted wouldn’t talk to me. Tell me what happened.’ ‘Very well,’ Godfrey finally sighed. ‘But only if you promise to eat.’

And she did. Without appetite now, but she ate. A shame she couldn’t appreciate what she had been looking forward to, but she ate. A slice of tasteless breast meat. A spoonful of potato salad that was now unpleasantly oily. A few leaves of greens that could have been chaff. Godfrey’s voice was flat but his imagery was graphic. The driver Ted sacked and the lies to police. The smell of the shit on the car seat had killed the scent of wild garlic and herbs. The logical payback for the shit of the argument that swung the Council vote.

In the kitchen Godfrey poured coffee for the three of them. As they sat around the table Godfrey put his cup down and ruffled Gomasa’s hair with affection. Then he produced his Sobranies. ‘And you won’t miss Gomasa?’ She asked as she shook her head to the cigarettes. ‘No,’ said Godfrey, lighting up. ‘No, I won’t miss Gomasa. And he won’t miss me when he goes back to his village.’ Gomasa smiled and Virginia wondered just how much English Gomasa understood, or whether both men were so much on the same wavelength that they read each other’s thoughts through inflections and expressions. ‘We’ve been a part of each other’s lives for the time we’ve coincided here.’ Godfrey said. ‘That means we’re part of each

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other’s lives forever.’ They both reached across the table, then, and their fingertips touched. Just their fingertips. They were a circuit which fed into and from each other. It was a more potent, more moving image than if their hands had been clasped, black and white fists entwined.

They were at the door when Godfrey asked why she hadn’t gone to work that day. ‘I just couldn’t face that bully of a man,’ Virginia said, realizing it was true, though she hadn’t consciously thought it. ‘And perhaps I had a feeling that you could help me see things clearer.’ Realising that that was true too. ‘I hope I have.’ ‘There have been things wrong in my life for so long now that I think I’ve just stopped noticing them. You help me — I don’t know — shine a light on them somehow.’ Godfrey looked at her for long moments. Then he hugged her. ‘Talk to Ted,’ he said. ‘Talk to Ted.’

Her car was parked at the side of the road. She turned and waved before she got in. Godfrey was just a dark shape behind the torn screen door. Virginia got in and drove off. She had no idea of the way but she knew where she was going. Godfrey never did say any more about Malcolm.

FOURTEEN

She had no idea of the way from Godfrey’s place to the one and only road to Rouna. She got to it by instinct, though, just put in her mind’s eye where the hotel and the waterfall were and told herself that that was where she wanted to go. She found herself driving through a thicket of lantana and down a rutted track and then she was on the road. So instinct had come back as well.

It was months since they’d been up to Rouna. The last time was for lunch one Sunday and, while Ted joined some mates for a beer, she went for a walk down past the wallabies. Her stomach knotted as she looked over the cliff. She stood where people who had decided to die had stood. What had been their last thoughts as they looked out onto nothing but the lazy vapour rising from the jungle floor? How did they know that this was the end of the line?

Virginia slowed down approaching the bend where the car ran over the wallaby. So long ago, that dinner dance at Rouna. The night she knew she was happy. Was that why she was going up

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to Rouna now? To remember that night, what she’d felt that night, before she committed murder?

A couple of boys raced each other for the gates. Winner got the prize. Keys to a car he could drive in and park. Perhaps coming up to Rouna like this was the work of her instinct again. She wondered how she had lost sight of both her instinct and her intuition. They had served her well in childhood. They had grown paler in young womanhood when she did what she did to please people, notably her mother. Perhaps they deserted her altogether when she came to Port Moresby.

THE DEVONSHIRE was etched in Art Nouveau characters and curlicues on the hotel’s stone façade. Now, swinging above the steps, hung a more modern sign. A woman’s high-heeled shoes danced with a man’s shiny black pumps. Bubbles rose out of a champagne bottle and triangular cocktail glasses issuing musical notes were scattered across. The sign said: ROUNA HOTEL. PORT MORESBY’S PREMIER NITE SPOT. Four years ago the hotel was still officially THE DEVONSHIRE and there was no such word as NITE.

There was no one on the long front verandahs, not after lunch on a Monday. She peered through a grimy window. No one. Now she felt foolish at having come.

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She was retracing her steps when a tiny man with a few strands of carefully plastered hair came hurrying out and smiling. He greeted her effusively, ushered her inside. If she would like lunch, he told her in a foreign accent, he and his chef would be most happy. ‘No thank you,’ Virginia said. ‘I just called in on the way.’ The man’s eyes flickered. On the way to where? ‘Certainly madame. A drink, then, perhaps?’ What was he? French? Belgian? What had he left behind or escaped from to finish up in this unlikely pocket of the world? ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Now that I’m here.’ She suddenly felt she must stay. ‘I’ll have a drink. That would be nice.’ The man who was almost a midget bowed from the waist and indicated an overstuffed armchair. The cuffs of his black shiny trousers were turned over and up several times. His shirt sleeves ballooned over arm bands which took up the slack. ‘And what would be my lady’s desire?’ My lady’s desire would be to understand, to be humble, to start again, to think again, to get out of herself, to see clearly. ‘Would just one glass of champagne be possible?’ Perhaps it was the waiter — the maitre d’ — the owner himself — but whoever he was he was stopped for a second. ‘A glass of champagne, madame?’ Because her order was not a beer or a G and T? ‘If I could, yes. That’s what I’d like.’ The man smiled widely on one gold tooth, two teeth missing. ‘I will open a bottle of Krug,’ he said as he bowed again. She went to protest. It was only one glass she wanted. The man wouldn’t listen. He was so happy to be serving

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someone champagne, he told her before he hurried off, that he would drink the rest of the bottle himself.

She eased back into the funny old armchair. Dust motes swam and dying flies buzzed. She knew, now, that it was some other nourishment she had been craving all along. The wine and the cigarettes were just substitutes. Godfrey Warner, earlier and for longer, could have made a difference.

The man brought the Krug. It was the full bottle. She had to say again that she only wanted a glass but he smiled as he put down the tray. ‘You made yourself clear my dear lady,’ he said and set down a beautiful cut glass flute. ‘Will you join me and have a glass yourself?’ There was something about the way his fingers danced that reminded her of a magician. The man whipped off the silver foil. ‘Thank you but no.’ He had his answer ready. ‘I will leave you with your thoughts for I believe your thoughts are what led you here.’ ‘Do you?’ She was startled. ‘Your thoughts are — en transit.’ The cork eased out with a sigh. ‘Am I not right?’ He poured the champagne into the flute. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’ He left the bottle in the cooler. His sallow face was shining. ‘There is nothing like a glass of champagne to help us find out what we are thinking,’ he said. ‘I would deem it an honour if you would accept this with my compliments.’

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He was gone and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, protest at this gift he wanted to give her. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. Blanche purred and poddled in her lap. Today was a day of some kind of culmination. That was why she was back at Rouna. Her thoughts were not only in transit, they were coming home to roost. With the same certainty she had known she was happy, she now knew that what happened today would affect her forever.

She could have waited in Reg’s shop for a little while but she preferred not to. People knew, of course, that Reg was her husband and that he owned the electrical repairs business (she didn’t mention the shoes unless prompted) but Mrs Pheebles preferred not to emphasize the association by being seen on her husband’s premises. She had done alright for herself under her own steam, thanks very much. She was president of the Ladies’ Guild, recently re-elected unopposed. Ladies whose husbands were high up in the Administration or even the manager of a bank, as in Mrs Morton’s case, were only ordinary members. There was nobody else in the library. Nobody, that is, except a couple of native girls. Mrs Pheebles paused on her way through to see what books they had out. They appeared to be textbooks on mathematics and English. She would leave it until three o’clock to beard Mrs Rich in her den and she might score a cup of afternoon tea. When Mrs Pheebles explained to the librarian what her research was for, Mrs Hammond showed her to the overseas fashion magazines. The Vogues and The Harper’s and Constanzas. Mrs Pheebles had never been to a fashion show in her life.

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The radical idea for the fund-raiser had come from Mrs Reilly, who was English by birth. Mrs Pheebles had wanted to go with the tried-and-true old faithful — a Fete with home made confectionary and cakes, a White Elephant stall and Grab the Floating Apple, which was always a hit with the kiddies and quite a good earner, considering. Mrs Reilly, though, had suggested a fashion show and the other ladies were struck with the idea. ‘Where would we get the clothes?’ Mrs Whittaker had asked. Mrs Webb said she was on the mailing list of a Ladieswear outfit in Brisbane so she was recruited to see if they had an interest in supplying a range. Mrs Reilly, who was pretty cluey, said you would probably have to guarantee a minimum audience so they would need to spend money on advertising. ‘Who would we get to model?’ asked Mrs Morton and Mrs Pheebles could tell from the way she said it that she wanted to model herself. ‘I’d do it,’ said Mrs Reilly, who was quite a thin lass. ‘So would I,’ Mary Webb laughed. ‘If you don’t mind an XOS.’ Everyone was glad she said it herself. Then Mrs Morton, who was W if she was an inch, said that she could probably get into an SW but Mrs Reilly thought they would all have to be SSW as that was the size they designed for. They were throwing about names when someone suggested Mrs Rich. Mrs Morton raised her eyes to heaven. Mrs Reilly said that Virginia Rich was a good thought and who

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would like to approach her? Mrs Morton cleared her throat and said that she would be able to, seeing as Virginia Rich thought of her as her best friend. Whether she wanted to was another matter. When Mrs Morton was asked to elaborate she said she was unable to say anything more as she had been sworn to secrecy by Virginia’s husband, Ted. Mrs Pheebles felt a little thrill just at the mention of his name. All Mrs Morton would add was that you couldn’t rule out mental problems.

Jack was worried now because he couldn’t see him. For the past hour or so he had been unable to stay away from the window. Loret had been down on the beach acting like a rabid dog. And now he had disappeared. ‘What are you doing Jack?’ Jack started so hard he cricked his neck. He thought fast and opened a drawer. ‘I’m just attending to a small matter of unfinished business Mrs Rich left behind on Friday sir,’ he said. It occurred to Jack that Mr Longhurst looked very calm. Then, astoundingly, he smiled. ‘Tell Loret I’d like my tea now.’ Jack could only stare as Mr Longhurst started to shamble back to his office. He had to hurry to catch up with him. ‘You sent Loret away, sir.’ It wasn’t Jack who was mad, was it? All that with Loret had happened, hadn’t it? ‘Did I?’ Mr Longhurst said almost dreamily. ‘Well, when he comes back then.’ Jack almost put his hand on Mr Longhurst’s arm. This new, calm, softly-spoken Mr Longhurst was far more frightening than the old one. ‘You sent him away for good, sir.’

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Mr Longhurst stared as though he didn’t understand the language Jack was using. ‘Don’t you remember sir?’ His heart was thumping hard. ‘You said to call the police if Loret came back and — and — . He been down on the beach ever since making a nuisance for white people.’ Mr Longhurst turned and his watery eyes searched Jack’s face for what seemed minutes. Then he said softly: ‘You make the tea then, Jack.’ There was a knock at the door and Mr Longhurst lumbered forward. ‘No Mr Longhurst, that Loret!’ Mr Longhurst opened the door. Mrs Pheebles stood there with a stern face. She had decided not to smile in case Mrs Rich herself opened the door. Mrs Pheebles didn’t want Mrs Rich to think she was currying favour. ‘Oh.’ She said at the sight of Bill Longhurst and his black. ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Rich. Is she in?’ Mrs Pheebles was coming in without being invited. ‘I’m Mrs Eunice Pheebles and I’m president of the Ladies’ Guild.’ Perhaps it was the sight of another one of the detested species or perhaps it was the mention of that woman’s name but whatever it was, something gave Bill Longhurst his bile back. His arm shot out barring the way and he glowered and growled: ‘What do you want to see her for?’ Mrs Pheebles was taken aback. ‘My goodness me.’ What a rude man. ‘I don’t think that’s any concern of yours.’ She had it on good authority that Bill Longhurst beat his wife and that she was a dipsomaniac.

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‘It is my concern, woman, if I pay her wages! Now you get out before I — ‘. Jack was polite but pushed more than ushered as he saw his boss pick up a ruler. Mrs Pheebles looked at the black hand on her good silk and was outraged. ‘Excuse me! I wish to speak to Mrs Rich!’ ‘Mrs Rich is away sick.’ Jack put his hand on the doorknob. ‘Where is she then?’ Standing at the top of the stairs with a black person telling her what to do. ‘She at home.’ Jack could feel the knob turning from the other side. ‘I can give for tomorrow a message missus.’ Pass on a message indeed! ‘Thank you. But that won’t be necessary. I will go and see Mrs Rich at home.’ She clumped down the stairs in a huff. Well! If that wasn’t the rudest reception Eunice Pheebles had ever had in her life, she didn’t know what was.

Virginia drove up the driveway. No Goada. No Goada hurrying out for the groceries. No Goada smiling and pleased to see her. The car was filthy. That rutted road from Godfrey’s place was full of puddles and mud had splashed up all along the body. Now that there was no Goada to wash it, she would have to do it herself. She would leave the car in the driveway and let the rain do the hosing down. She would put the rags and the duco out now so she wouldn’t be tempted to dodge the job. As she was getting the things out of the cupboard the

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telephone rang. She willed it to stop and it did. After only three rings.

‘Those were the days my friend. We thought they’d never end. We thought we’d live forever and a day.’ She had the transistor on in the bathroom. It was a habit of Ted’s that she now understood. Words and music became foreground, not background, when you were cocooned in the cool with them. Their meaning turned more significant with the gurgle of water running away forever. Virginia wrapped one towel around her body and the other into a turban. She realized how long it had been since she had seen Ted naked. He had left his bed unmade in the spare room that morning. She only glanced into the lounge room on her way through. She was at the bedroom door before she recognized what she saw. It was the thin bowed legs beneath the army shorts that she knew before she knew. Virginia heard her heart, very precisely, stop beating. She had meant to go outside again with the car cleaning things and she had left the front door open. Water from her hair was trickling down the back of her neck. Loret stood with his back to her fingering the shells on the whatnot stand. ‘Loret.’ Now her heart started again in a whoosh of blood that flooded her face and her head and her chest. Who left the front door open? You left the front door open. ‘What are you doing inside, Loret?’

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Loret turned slowly, his child’s face lit by a luminous smile. She willed her heart to behave, it was Loret, but started to shiver and couldn’t stop, shivering in the wet heat, two shaking hands clutching towels. ‘Missus,’ said Loret with a velvety sigh. ‘Gooday missus.’ ‘Yes gooday, Loret.’ Oh my God oh my God oh my God. ‘Come to do the garden? No Goada isn’t — .’ She couldn’t move. ‘Goada’s out the back.’ Why couldn’t she move run scream escape? Loret put out his hand and uncurled his fingers. There was a pale green twirl shell on his flat pink palm. He looked down at it and sighed again. She took a wet step forward. Forwards not backwards? Who would hear her if she screamed? Loret took a step forward too. He was gazing at the shell as though wonderstruck. He mumbled something in his soft young voice. She knew he was talking about the shell and its beauty but she didn’t know how she knew. ‘Master Ted is in the bedroom Loret.’ Loret took another step forward but now his face was sad, concerned, unhappy at what might happen next. ‘You can have the shell if you want it Loret.’ Not a toe would inch forward, a heel shuffle back. ‘Have it, take it, take the shell.’ His small hand held out the offering. ‘Ted!’ She turned and yelled so hard it pained her neck. ‘Master Ted where are you?!’ Voice quavering with fear and foolishness, no Master Ted that she knew of and Loret knew too there was no Master Ted.

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He slid his thin, delicate feet a step forward again. The shell was like a pointed wimple head dress women wore in the middle ages. ‘Goada’s coming back.’ The laugh, the giggle, was foolish too. ‘Goada will be back soon.’ In the kitchen there were knives she should go for in the kitchen there were knives but she couldn’t. Loret’s hand went further towards her with its offering. Minutes passed, then hours. Virginia stepped forward and took the shell. She took it and Loret took her. And was sighing with his surprising strength and his thin, childish body was a vice which clamped her until she could not breathe and the scream that she screamed sounded limp, a wimp, as though she did not mean it. But she hit him hit him and fought him fought against what there was no hope against. The towels on the floor one pink and one blue why was that? Him blacker than black on her whiter than white and she could not impinge black iron was him. She lost all trace of physical strength and hysteria hovered, turned bones to mush. ‘Please.’ The scream that was willed just a whisper. ‘Please someone help me.’ Then scrambled and crawled. ‘You’ll go to jail.’ But the weight of him caught her cheek crashed on the boards quick blood on his face fingernails but no use. And still he smiled. A shy child with an offering. Then ‘Missus,’ he sighed, just that. ‘Missus,’ and sighed himself in. Her arms strained under his chest, push him off, push him out, but then she gave up. His face, so close to her,

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changed. Dawning shock changed it, what he had done. As she watched dew drops bursting above his lip a convulsive tremble started low in her stomach. Smokey music beating — and beating — and beating at bodies. Scream at that. She must not. Will not. Happen. Will it must not happen. But then it did happen. All at once. Her cry but the wrong one. All at once. His face her pain fizzing into fragments dissolving into light. And in shatters of glitter, through the cut glass bottom of a champagne flute, she swam to the shock of Mrs Pheebles.

FIFTEEN

People were purposeful inside the tin shed of Jackson Airport. At five o’clock it was still hot but the purpose came from subdued excitement, the prospect of getting out, going anywhere overseas, having baggage weighed, filling out forms. Name, age and occupation. Residential address in the Territory. Ted was watching over her shoulder as she filled out her form. Are you leaving the Territory of Papua and New Guinea (a) On Business. (b) On Holiday. (c) Permanently. If you answer Yes to (a) or (b) When do you intend to return? Virginia’s biro ticked (b) readily enough although it was only in relation to (a) or (c) that her trip to Sydney could in any way be termed a holiday. She hesitated over the next part of the question and felt, rather than saw, Ted lift his gaze from the yellow form and look at the side of her head. When do you intend to return? She wrote — 6–8 weeks. And thought what she could have put instead, with more truth. When do you intend to return? It will depend on whether or not I am pregnant.

What happened that Monday seemed, two weeks later, not to be real. It had the quality of a dream. Or it could have happened to someone else — a story told by someone else about someone else in a noisy room when she had not been concentrating. It

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could even have been in a book she had read. A very long time ago. That the events of that day were real, real and had happened to her, was only evidenced, now, by a tiny tinge of yellow on her cheekbone under one eye. And, of course, what might already be starting the journey of life inside her womb. In her mind’s eye Virginia could see the scene Mrs Pheebles had blundered into, but then, Virginia could also do that with books. Mrs Pheebles had run, screaming, down onto the road. Loret had disappeared but Virginia was just where she was, sitting naked and dazed on the parquetry floor when Mrs Pheebles came back, still screaming and crying, with Ian Potts, a neighbour who lived further down the hill. She had flagged him down in his car. Mrs Pheebles was furious, later, that her name didn’t get into print as the heroine of this horrific story. Ian Potts, who was more shocked than he knew by the sight of Virginia without even the defence of a dress, rang Ted at the depot and said he would call the police and the doctor while Ted was on his way home. Ted had said to call the doctor and leave the police to him.

Ted was looking at her profile. It was hard to imagine that the pretty side shape of her face would not be in his vision for another two months. A fading bruise on her cheek was all that still showed. He might never look at her face this way again — not on the pillow beside him or reading a book or stirring a pot at the stove. He watched one of her hands hold the form down, the other use the biro to fill in the questions. They were older, less-cared-for hands than the pale, pampered one he had put the wedding ring on some lifetimes ago. The ring was still

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there, third finger left hand. Perhaps only symbols could always stay the same.

He had already locked up the office and was about to go down the steps when the phone started ringing. All day long Ted had been thinking about the situation at home and his final admission to himself was that it was crucial. Things just couldn’t go on as they were. How long could he sleep in the single, saggy bed in the spare room? How long could the silences continue, the stretches of no words even more hazardous than angry words or fighting words? It was Monday. There would be few patrons for dinner at Rouna on a Monday night. Ted made a firm decision that they would go up to Rouna for dinner and talk. He dithered on the top step deciding whether to go back and answer the phone. It might be news about the Rabaul deal. With a sigh of impatience he unlocked the office door again. If the night at Rouna didn’t work out he saw nothing for it but to call it quits. He picked up the phone and barked out his name. He could get on with his life up here. Virginia could go back to Sydney and get on with hers. The first thing that flashed through Ted’s mind as Ian Potts shrieked was: Douglas Olabi. The image came of Douglas drunk, red-eyed and abject, dirty in the dirt, as the others pummeled him and Ted stopped just short of kicking him. Douglas Olabi was on the war path and his crimes were getting worse. Douglas Olabi, who saw through him, while Ted saw his own death impaled on the end of a spear. Ted was glad he had the presence of mind to ask Ian Potts to leave the police to him.

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All the way home, Ted tried to imagine the scene that might be waiting for him, but could not. The real scene made him draw in his breath in horror. Virginia was sitting on the floor, her hair dripping, still naked. Ted threw himself on her, drew her up in his arms covering her. She was shivering violently. ‘What the fuck is everyone doing?!’ Ted yelled with true madness. ‘What are you doing, you?!’ The dreadful old dame on the couch had been sobbing but now she cried out that she wanted her husband. As she stood up her silly pink hat slid sideways. ‘Where’s Ian Potts?!’ Ted picked a towel up off the floor and put it around Virginia’s shoulders. Her teeth were chattering, first with shivering now with laughing. Ian Potts was locked in the bathroom. Ted pounded on the door. ‘I’m sorry Ted,’ he yelled from inside, ‘me guts have turned to water.’ Ted dressed Virginia in the first thing he took from her wardrobe. With all the questions caught in his chest all he could manage was: ‘Who was it? Douglas Olabi?’ The tight waist stuck on her head. ‘All for it,’ was what he heard in the muffle. His heart was pounding and his legs were shaking, was this how you had a heart attack? He helped her pull the material past her face. ‘Who was all for it?’ ‘No Loret,’ she said still shivering. ‘Loret was.’ Ian Potts came into the bedroom. He was shaking too and his face was white. ‘I have to go home Ted,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I have to go home.’ He grimaced with a gripe and held his stomach.

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‘No don’t!’ Ted left the zipper and grabbed Ian’s arm. ‘Tell me what you saw! Who was it you saw?’ Ian pulled his arm free. ‘I didn’t see no one.’ His eyes squeezed shut with pain. ‘The old girl in there. She run on the road. Jeez Ted, I gotta go.’ And Ian ran hobbled over his gut. ‘Tell me Virginia, tell me.’ His fingers wouldn’t function now that he’d gone back to the zipper. ‘I am,’ she whispered. ‘Loret.’ She wearily took his hand away to leave the zipper undone. ‘Someone you know?’ Ted’s voice was just as soft but it was high with incredulity. ‘He works at the office.’ She was wobbling on her bare feet, veering between the bed and the door. The rain had started. It pounded on the roof. ‘He works at your office?!’ The pounding partnered a nightmare. Nothing was real. He would wake up. Mrs Pheebles came in with a monster. ‘I’m Sister Shaw,’ said the large bulk in jungle greens. Her curved opaque goggles gave her the eyes of a fly. ‘Is this the lady who suffered the attack?’ She turned to Mrs Pheebles for verification and took off her helmet. Sister Shaw traveled by motor bike. ‘Where’s Doctor Gladstone?!’ roared Ted. ‘Doctor had to go to Cairns on an emergency family matter.’ Sister Shaw took off her goggles. A lack of pigmentation striped across her brown face like paint. She opened Dr. Gladstone’s medicine bag and took out a syringe. ‘Have the police been informed?’ She was filling the needle from a capsule. The rain on the roof was drowning out sound.

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Virginia was still wavering. Ted went to hold her again but then she said, and was very white: ‘Don’t tell the police, will you Ted?’ ‘We have to tell the police so they can find out who it was!’ ‘I know who it was,’ she whispered. ‘It was Loret from the office.’ She started to cry. ‘And I don’t want him punished.’ Then Virginia fainted. She dropped to the floor like a weighted sack. Sister Shaw went ahead and gave the sedation. They were two different physiological phenomena, she said, fainting and sedation. One was caused by a temporary cessation of oxygen. The other involved the nervous system.

The luggage was well under the limit. As Ted lifted her cases onto the weighing machine he felt a twinge of hope. Hope that Virginia really was coming back and that was the reason she was traveling light. Last night they had talked. He had talked. Sitting out on the verandah the words he hadn’t known how to form had formed and he heard himself say them. And heard Virginia listening. So often, especially lately, Ted felt like he was trying to get through a layer of padding that was thick all round, like one of those envelopes you bought to send fragile things through the post. For all the weight of what he had to confess — principally Dawn but the other things too — Virginia was calm. As his broken voice stumbled in fits and starts, Virginia had taken his hand.

Goada didn’t come back. Thursday came, then Friday, then Saturday and there was no return and no message.

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In the week that the world turned around Ted still went to the buses for a few hours each day. He was always home at lunchtime and when the rain came. Ian Potts put locks on all the windows and Ted was always opening and closing the front door himself to make sure the deadlock still worked. He even got over feeling stifled by the still air inside the quiet, closed house. One of two things Virginia was adamant about even in her dreamy Valium diffidence, was that she didn’t want the fans turned on. The other was that she wouldn’t talk to the police and she didn’t want charges laid.

Sergeant Duko came out without being asked. The whole of Port Moresby knew what had happened and to whom and that, of course, included the police. Sergeant Duko had even been to Longhurst Imports Pty. Ltd. to get the family name of the suspect. For the first time he could remember, Ted found himself giving someone else’s reason for his own action. ‘And how do you feel about your wife’s decision, Mr Rich?’ On home territory Ted should have been the one in charge. But he was the one in the supplicant’s seat as Sergeant Duko fingered the shells on the whatnot. ‘I feel like revenge, I feel like killing the bastard, of course I do.’ But it came out sounding mild. He could rant and rave to Ian Potts, screwing in the window locks, about black monkeys just down from the trees. But with Sergeant Duko, who maybe knew Ted’s own guilt, he couldn’t. Sergeant Duko put away his notebook. At the end of the month, he said, the Chief of Police would be back. Perhaps by

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then Mrs Rich would have changed her mind about pressing charges and the full force of the law could be employed. Sergeant Duko also said that Koki fishermen were notorious for giving free passage back home to black rascals escaping the white man’s law. That wasn’t the way anybody liked it, but that was the way it was. Ted didn’t know if anyone phoned when he was not there, but when he was at home the phone hardly rang at all. Everybody would know, of course, even though a report of the attack would never be published in The South Pacific Chronicle. Break-and-enters got into print. Car thefts did. But rapes, never. Admin was still crying out for private investment, new blood that came from the veins under white skin, not black. Ted had to almost physically push away the admission that not reporting a rape gave the same reason as he had put forward, thumbs up, rejecting the orli pool. A few people tried to call in. Like a recluse, Ted stayed behind the curtains, saw the visitors come up the path and then knock. And knock. And knock. And get the message and go away. One of the first callers had been Dawn. Ted didn’t let her in — couldn’t let her in. He phoned her that night. He tried to be kind, to consider Dawn’s feelings, but he had to say it was best if she didn’t call again. He heard her burst into tears then she called him an arsehole and threw down the phone. Linda Morton came of course. The first time he spoke through the window to her. She begged him to let her in. She was Virginia’s best friend, probably her only friend. Ted begged back — for her to understand, for her to let things be for the time being. Virginia would be in touch when she was well enough, he said.

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The second time Linda was with Mrs Pheebles. When Ted didn’t answer the knocking — Linda and Eunice took it in turns and conferred between shifts — Linda went to the closed window and called through something Ted didn’t understand at the time. ‘Tell Virginia,’ yelled Linda in a voice that was louder than necessary, ‘that we’re not taking notice of what anyone says!’

It was only a day later that Ted did understand. He went to Burns Philp to do some shopping, then to the chemist’s to get what Virginia had asked for. It was called Cover Up. He wrote it on his shopping list with no idea of what it was. Ted wasn’t asking Virginia any questions about anything, not just yet. Even his skin felt too tender. He didn’t think he could cope if a question yielded an answer he just couldn’t bear. Cover Up turned out to be make-up that came in a swivel stick like lipstick. Asking for it he felt as furtive as a teenager buying condoms. ‘Will that be all?’ A stand-up advertisement for Tampax was on the counter. Was it his imagination or did the girl’s eyes flick over to it as she asked him the question? Yes, he decided. It was his imagination. He shook his head and paid. But didn’t her gaze follow him out with something strange and shocked in it? Nobody else could have heard about Virginia’s headache. Or could they? It was in the pub, though, that Ted really got on to the story doing the rounds.

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Doris approached from the opposite end of the bar with not even a smile. ‘Hi, Ted.’ Not one spark of friendliness. ‘What can I get you?’ He had thought of ordering a jaffle. He must be hungry, he should be hungry, he couldn’t remember having eaten for days. But not even the word would pass his lips, let alone the jaffle itself. ‘Just a middy of Toohey’s thanks Doris.’ Doris was embarrassed. ‘Sure,’ she said and avoided looking at him. ‘How are things?’ ‘Oh, so so.’ Not — ‘And how are things with you, Ted?’. Didn’t ask because she knew. Knew his wife had been raped, brought down off her high horse, fucked and done over by a black man whose dick had been in her not Ted’s. Ted’s hand shook as he handed Doris the right money which she took without a word. He didn’t trust himself to pick up the glass which was already dribbling froth. Doris moved away, saved by a signal for service. He went to the toilet, past the group of old trouts who were well into their slosh session. He stood in front of the urinal but could feel not the hint of a piss. He hastily did up his trousers in case someone else should come in and discover this impotence too. When he went outside another old dame had arrived to join her friends. She had not even sat down before she was talking about it. ‘Did you hear about that woman up on the hill?’ Virginia’s name was murmured, mumbled, muffled with excitement.

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‘Dreadful business, dreadful.’ The woman who spoke sucked her lemon slice. ‘The worst thing is that she knew him.’ ‘No, the worst thing is she got caught at it.’ The new arrival dabbed at her hectic cheeks. ‘She’s palsy walsy with that writer fellow and they both go in for the native boys.’ Ted made sure the toilet door closed behind him without its usual slam. He had to escape before he heard more. Doris saw him come out and looked away. He left by the back door, his beer untouched on the bar.

Virginia saw Dawn come into the airport. Even from where she stood, near the last door onto the tarmac, Virginia could see Dawn pale as she looked across. Dawn had the kids with her. She sat down and averted her eyes. The eldest child started to zoom his toy plane in and out through the legs of annoyed adults and the baby started to scream. Dawn took out a paperback and pretended to read. Ted had gone to the toilet.

Jack came round when Ted was at the depot. She was up, still in her nightdress, and would go back to bed when she heard Ted return. Jack left a note for her and a present for Ted. The note was brief and poorly typed. It said that, due to her ill health, the services of Virginia Anne Rich were no longer required by Longhurst Imports Pty. Ltd. The gift for Ted was a Mozzie Zapper. Rough white paper, grease-stained from the fish and chips it had once wrapped, was sticky-taped over it. It was still

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dusty from its months in the broom cupboard. Mr Longhurst had written in pencil — to TED. All best. BILL LONGHURST.

Ted liked the Mozzie Zapper. Without even a thought that it was odd for Bill Longhurst to send him a present at a time like this, he asked Ian Potts to connect it onto the verandah. It was under the ghostly green glow of the Mozzie Zapper, late last night, that Virginia and Ted had what may have been their last talk as a couple. It seemed the natural course, to start with the immediate future and work back. Tomorrow Virginia would go to Sydney and neither of them knew for certain that she would come back. She might be pregnant as a result of the rape. For neither of them, any more, did this cataclysmic event have any sort of texture remotely resembling reality. Virginia wondered if the Valium had sedated all recall away. Ted’s senses and thoughts were now calloused. It seemed that a protective layer of emotional membrane had formed, had cushioned memory into something he could cope with. He simply did not, really did not, remember thoughts that had stabbed him at night, or cruel harpy gossip that smelt of urine. The time Virginia was to spend with Bunny would lead to crucial decisions. They both knew that. That time, though, was too far into the future. In the still, tropic dark of now, the feelings and facts that would inform those decisions were impossible to imagine. ‘Sebastian and Jeremy,’ said Virginia in answer to Ted’s question about the names of Bunny’s twins.

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He nodded and seemed to ruminate on this for long moments before he said: ‘Did you know I got paid back for the orli pool?’ The geckos had disappeared from the outside eaves since the installation of the Mozzie Zapper. Because there were no more moths or because the geckos themselves had encountered their Armageddon? ‘Yes I did,’ she said. The birds’ nest was still there though. ‘I had an affair with Dawn. Did you know about that, too?’ A buzz signalled death to an insect. ‘No I didn’t.’ There was a smell of singed cellophane. ‘If you could call it an affair.’ Ted squirmed in his chair. ‘Let’s have a glass of wine.’ He stood. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ ‘Okay.’ She went to get up but Ted touched her gently on the shoulder and she sat down again. The last drink she’d had was the champagne up at Rouna. Had the strange little man really existed, really handed her the flute as though it was a chalice, a portent, or magic? Or had the Valium invented a memory, making up for all those it had sponged away? He came back with the wine. They sipped in silence before she said: ‘Tell me what happened with Dawn.’ Here it was, it had happened. The thing she had feared. Ted had discovered he loved someone else. Ted would know now that he had never loved her. And so. It had happened. And it wasn’t very important. What she feared most was now joining them for a glass of wine.

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‘Ted. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’ What she felt for him then was friendship. Friendship or something like it. A friend who was there if he wanted to tell her. ‘I think I was just at the end of my tether.’ Ted shrugged. ‘Dawn was a friend. What I needed was a friend.’ ‘I know.’ Mike Davis was in her memory, smiling then frowning as she fumbled with her feelings and her cigarettes. The silence they sat in then was comfortable. Perhaps Ted was the friend she had needed all along and she was the one too stunted to see it. She had been brought up in the way where it always turned out that men and women were adversaries. There was always a winner and always a loser. There was always one stronger and always one weaker. It was a Bunny you told things to, shared things with, confided in. Perhaps they could have made more of a go of things if Ted had been friend first, then husband, then both.

Dawn turned round with a guilty start as Virginia said hello. The plane from Brisbane was taxiing onto the tarmac. In under an hour it would be unloaded, cleaned and refueled and on its way back to Australia. ‘It’s late!’ Dawn’s freckles stood out on her white face. ‘Hi, Virginia, what’s new?’ She warded Virginia off with her elbow, jutting it out further to cradle the baby. ‘Daddy on the big plane.’ Little Jim squinted up at Virginia, his baby teeth like chalky grains of rice. ‘Yes.’ Virginia bent to him. ‘Daddy’s coming home on the big plane and I’m going away on the big plane.’ Dawn looked agonized as she saw Ted coming.

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‘You know Mrs Rich lovey.’ The passenger ramps were being wheeled out as the plane’s engines died down. ‘Remember at the coffee shop?’ Dawn could only thrust out her right hip along with her elbow, at Ted who was getting too close. ‘She’s the lady who —‘. ‘I know,’ said Little Jim turning shy. ‘The lady of the uvver man.’ He muffled it into her skirt as Ted was upon them. Oh good Jesus Christ. She grabbed Little Jim’s head and clamped it into her knee. ‘Hello Dawn,’ said Ted as he put out his hand. ‘Ray’s getting home at last.’ The passenger ramps were almost up to the plane’s belly. ‘By Christ I miss him when he goes away.’ And then the ramps were in place and the airport doors were opening. Ray was first in the queue. Dawn ran onto the tarmac, lugging her lovely lumps. To greet Ray, the husband she loved. God would be cruel if Ray ever found out.

A small commotion was taking place at the entrance doors. Godfrey Warner was in the middle of the fuss. His large whiteness looked larger and whiter still surrounded, as he was, by a dozen or so natives. Men, women and children, some of them already crying, were saying goodbye. She wondered if Godfrey had been one of the people Ted had shielded her from. It was one of many questions she had not asked him in the last two weeks and now she would never ask, no matter what happened. She looked towards Ted as she saw him see Godfrey. Then he took her by the hand and led her forward.

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‘I told him you were leaving today,’ Ted said. ‘So he changed his booking to the same flight to be a friendly hand to hold on the way down.’ Virginia was so surprised she could not speak. Colour came up under Ted’s tan but it was kindled by shyness this time. ‘He’ll never be my bosom buddy,’ he said with a small laugh, ‘but he’s not a bad bloke.’ Now it was Virginia who squeezed Ted’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

They went over to the group. The cluster of black bodies parted to let them through and a mother pulled her child back from their path a little too roughly. ‘He’s okay,’ Ted said, ruffling the little boy’s tight curls. They moved through to the centre of the group. Godfrey turned to see them and extended his hand to Ted. ‘The people you meet at airports.’ The two men shook hands then Godfrey put his arms around Virginia and hugged her. ‘How are you my dear?’ His voice was gentle. ‘I’m — pretty okay, all things considered.’ ‘We can sit together after Brisbane,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some catching up to do.’ Gomasa came up. Virginia embraced him and introduced him to Ted. Gomasa smiled, but was brushing off tears as well. Godfrey talked to this one and that, easy and fluent in Motu. What he said made some people laugh and others cry. How diverse they were, Virginia thought, even this little group which had come out to farewell their friend. While most of the women wore Mother Hubbards or white

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women’s cast-off dresses, two wore grass skirts and mourning mud. One of the women was old, her breasts flat with age, and this was the way she would have dressed all her life. But the other naked-breasted woman was young, no more than a girl. She would have been educated at one of the missions and her normal dress would be European. For the special occasion, though, the girl bared her beautiful breasts. Vegetable-dyed grasses rustled and spilled from the girdle encircling her hips. Colourful feathers threaded through her hair and her brown skin shone marvelously through the white and the ochre. Yesterday, as she said her own goodbye to the town, it struck Virginia for the first time how the people were changing. The look of the younger ones, born into the melting pot that was Moresby, was in transition. Older people were cast forever in the typicality of where they came from — the stocky stature of the Highlander, the elegant musculature of the Islander, the blue-black of the Buka. But the new young were of a different kind, a mixed kind, a Moresby kind. The many shades of skin reflected traces of other races — Asian, Indonesian, all kinds of white. At the Baptist Mission a class of small children was sitting cross-legged on the board verandah as a young woman taught them a prayer. Bless me Jesus meek and mild. Look on me a little child. Would her own reality one day include a beaming little girl in a red checked dress? Or a little boy with skin a shade paler than the rest? Virginia waited until the class was dismissed before she asked after Goada’s children. The young teacher said that of course she knew Maia and Peter Kevani. They had been taken

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out of school. She understood their parents had gone back for good to their people in Kukipi.

The light was fading fast. A stray glint from the disappearing sun struck a schism of fire into the tail of the plane. In the airport, the voice on the intercom called for all passengers to please board and called out a couple of names, one of which was hers. Ted walked through the back doors with Virginia but then, instead of walking onto the tarmac, he pulled her around an abutment to a place that shouldn’t have been private but was. ‘I won’t go any further,’ he said, handing her cosmetics case to her. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think you can.’ It was really happening. She took his face in her hands and kissed him. ‘I love you Ted, I do love you.’ ‘And I love you.’ He put his arms around her. ‘I’d forgotten how much.’ His whole body quivered along with his voice. ‘Let’s wait and see if we get it right next time.’

Besides herself, the last passenger to board was a young Papuan in a cream safari suit. He was sprinting across the tacky black bitumen, fast and graceful in spite of a big bulging briefcase and a typewriter that wasn’t portable.

The inside of the plane was a glare of lights. She couldn’t see properly, could make no one out, was bundled breathless to her

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seat, heart pounding as a stewardess, crankier than her colleague, yanked the cosmetics case from her and shoved it above on the shelf. She would not cry, she wouldn’t, she would not. There had been too many tears shed in an absence of hope. Now, against all the odds, Virginia felt that hope was the one thing she was sure of. The young man who almost missed the plane was sitting in the middle seat of the row the stewardess stabbed her finger at. His smile up at her was white, perfect and uncompromised as she squeezed herself past the aisle seat passenger, a fat man who wheezed. ‘Christ almighty,’ the man muttered. ‘What’s this bloody place comin to?’ His chest hacked its way through a cigarette cough. ‘Sheilas and boongs holdin up the works.’ Virginia sat in her seat and looked out the window. She was holding it in with an effort, not tears now but a laugh that was hitting at the inside of her throat. Her reflection in the dark window smiled back widely, foolishly. Sheilas and boongs, boongs and sheilas. The plane was taxiing down the runway. And then she heard it, the subterranean rumble of a male giggle, a laugh that had to surface, would not be suppressed. She turned to the young man beside her and his face broke open with helpless mirth. ‘Sheilas and boongs holdin up the works,’ he whispered to her sideways, then had to cough into a pristine handkerchief. Both of them held their breaths, then both laughed out loud, nothing else to do but laugh. The fat man recrossed his legs. Everything about him —arms, elbows, legs with grubby white shorts and socks —

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was straining towards the aisle, away from the ones he was stuck with. ‘That’s what I said,’ the man said louder and with more aggression. ‘Boongs and sheilas holdin up the works.’ The plane was being sucked up into the black sky, the lights of Moresby left behind glittering, a tiny patch of fireflies that was nothing in the vastness. ‘Alex Ouenbari.’ The Papuan still grinned and his Adam’s apple jerked with the incipient giggle. He extended his hand. ‘Virginia Rich,’ she said as she took it and shook it. Alex Ouenbari’s handshake was strong. The man in the aisle seat looked askance. If only there was someone else there to comment to. They were not even upright. They were still sloping backwards with the gravity pull of the place which would give up on them any second now. The man in the aisle seat raised his hand in the air and clicked for a Scotch. The plane leveled out. The man in the aisle seat was still calling out ‘Miss! Miss!’ Alex Ouenbari leaned back with a sigh then gave a great, gutsy laugh. ‘You just can’t trust those sheilas and boongs, can you?’ Things were going to turn out okay. She remembered the gold tooth in the grin of the man who gave her champagne. ‘No,’ said Virginia to Alex Ouenbari as she laughed back. ‘You just can’t trust them at all.’