Inheritance. Part 6

Simone shot me a sharp look, but her question was for Jeanie. 'He has not accepted the truth?'

'It's true, then, this story of the rape and the half-wit?' She addressed this to me.

'Something of that sort I believe. Gertrude knew, but didn't want it known.'

Jeanie remained silent for some time. We watched her.

'Ma cherie,' said Simone, 'no one spoke of this to him back in New Zealand?'

'No. I'm sure not. Granny Stella ... I asked her often about his birth parents but she always gave the same reply a tragic drowning. She adopted him from a convent. She said she never knew the parents' names.'

Jeanie suddenly grabbed a handful of her hair which fell that day smooth and dark to below her shoulders. 'I have that Chinese blood too! From a rape of a defenceless mad woman!'

I couldn't let that go. 'Gertrude was a prejudiced woman, Jeanie. She may have exaggerated the facts. She may well have distorted them.'

'You saw the birth certificate.'

'I did. It stated a young unmarried woman of unsound mind. Rape was not mentioned.'

'Oh!' She flung her arms wide. I thought of windblown flowers. 'They would not write it, but surely ...!' Then, more quietly, 'My father believes it. Yes. Somehow feels it to be true. That is why he is so lost. After the pride and hope of finding his aunt this. Stuart told him that Gertrude despised him for his bad blood. That she truly wanted Stuart to run the plantation.'

I sighed. 'That is not strictly true.'

'Not strictly? But in part? She despised father?'

How could I hope to answer her probing questions with truth? My dear Simone intervened.

'My husband is too literal. It is the lawyer in him. Gertrude is dead. Your father is the one needs your care. Let us think of him. First he finds a birth family and an inheritance for you. Now he discovers that the aunt despised him for his Chinese blood. And that he is the son of rape.'

I was cross with Simone for her bluntness. But Jeanie seemed to accept the harsh words. She nodded through her tears.

'Perhaps we should go back,' she murmured. 'Poor Dad. You are right, he was so proud.' She looked up at me. I had stood, meaning to quieten Simone's wayward tongue. 'He likes you, Hamish, admires your knowledge. Do you think you can help him? Oh!' She pushed back her chair, paced the room like a young caged thing. 'Oh, I have been enjoying it so much here the place and the people that I suppose I've ignored my father's misery!'

Simone held her close, stroked her dark hair. 'My child, he will be miserable also back home. And you are happy here. We must find a way around this. People will have a new point of gossip next week and John's parentage will be forgotten. Let us be gentle with the poor man.' She looked over at me sternly. 'Hamish will find something for him.'

I nodded. It would be good to make amends.

Simone was not finished with her planning. 'And you, my dear, must take a little care with your friends. Tongues are wagging over you and Teo Levamanaia.'

Jeanie touched a fading bruise on her cheek. A light brush from those long beautiful fingers. She sighed. 'He and Elena have been so kind.'

'Kind, yes, but care is necessary,' said Simone gently. She touched again the long black hair. It was lovely to see them together like mother and daughter. My wife had always wanted a daughter but we only made two rather difficult sons. 'You must know, ma cherie, that their mother has plans for Teo, which do not include a palagi girlfriend.'

Jeanie pulled away. 'We are just good friends! For heavens' sake you are as bad as Stuart! Is friendship not allowed then?'

Oh she was fierce, the little tiger, and blushing. More than friendship in her heart, I thought. And Teo, that wild lad, had a reputation already for his wandering eyes. Tiresa would do well to betroth him formally and secure his matai t.i.tle. I had seen it so many times before a high-born lad arriving back from school in New Zealand with his tail high and his criticisms of fa'asamoa broadcast far and wide. Then, when the mantle of a matai t.i.tle is laid upon him, suddenly he quietens, steadies, settles with a good Samoan wife and begins to express conservative views. Teo would do the same. I had laid a bet with Giles, who thought the boy would never make a leader. We shall see.

But Jeanie might be vulnerable. I did not want to see her hurt.

'Of course friendship is allowed,' I said. 'Just keep an eye out for the mother. She is protective and ambitious.'

Jeanie sighed again. 'The plantation. I don't really care about it to be honest.'

Simone snorted. 'Oho! Gertrude would have washed your mouth with soap!'

I seem to remember Jeanie growling, then or am I embellishing the memory? Did she really growl? Certainly there were times when she showed a surprising spirit. 'Stuart would do more than wash my mouth out,' she said. 'He likes the plantation and admired Gertrude. But how can I feel for that dead old lady now? Or her cacao trees? She was a monster!'

She went home then. Gave us a peculiar, defiant smile, and ran down the steps. I saw her white dress wavering across the lawn in the moonlight, disappearing through the orchids like a trail of mist.

'Jeanie could be a dangerous woman,' said Simone, watching her too. 'I am a little fearful for her, Hamish. So beautiful; so sad.'

Dangerous! Spirited, yes, but surely never dangerous. But then I could never quite fathom Simone's p.r.o.nouncements.

Elena A Stuart Roper is alive and living in Auckland. I found him in the phone book. Roper is not a common name. It could well be him. So Hamish is right, I must be careful for Jeanie's sake.

Stuart had such a temper! Once I saw him kick and kick a small dog who had almost tripped him in the market. A little white puppy. It yelped and yapped fit to attract the attention of every soul in the area. Did Stuart care? Not one fig. When an old mango seller shouted at him, he simply shook a fist at her. When I scooped up the pup from under his very toe, he would have gone at me too, if I'd been a smaller person. Those mad eyes! And with everyone watching! The man was not normal.

'Stupid cur!' he shouted, whether to me or the dog was unclear. Then he glared at the small muttering crowd and stalked away, completely unrepentant by the look of his swaggering step, one hand slapping his fat thigh as if he were still at his beating.

He had attacked a plantation worker, too, I heard: a man from our village. When our matai came to complain, Stuart said the worker was insolent and lazy but I heard John O'Dowd paid him off with a couple of sacks of bananas, which were as good as gold in those days after the hurricane. John must have felt right was on the worker's side in some way. The matter never came to the police.

The intriguing thing was that Stuart Roper could be good company when it suited him. A short time after the puppy incident, we were both at one of the myriad welcome and farewell parties that punctuate the palagi year in Apia. Someone was always leaving and some new official arriving. Two year stints were the norm. This was, I seem to remember, a welcome. The new UNESCO expert sent to set up a teak furniture-making business. Or was it the United Nations expert checking on the yaws-eradication programme? Anyway, we were both there, and Jeanie. Stewart's big face shone with goodwill (and maybe beer), his fair hair bristled in a new snappy haircut. His island print shirt suited him well-cut reasonably muted colours, crisply ironed, which is more than one could say for many of the gaudy rags worn to those dos. When I joined his little group, he hailed me warmly: no hint of a memory there, in his eyes or manner, of the mangled puppy. I remember him telling a joke which had us all laughing. His arm lay across Jeanie's shoulders; he looked at her often as he talked, as if needing her approval. She smiled back. I don't think the father was there.

Yes that's how I remember Jeanie with Stuart. A different person, as if there were two sides to her coin: one when he was about unremarkable, pleasant, reticent; the other, in his absence vibrant, curious, talkative and wonderfully sensitive to our island ways. Which is she now, I wonder?

I must see her.

PART TWO.

Invasions.

Ann.

Gore, New Zealand, 1990.

Ann Hope looks down the long drive, down past her patient donkeys waiting under the big macrocarpa, down to where a man is standing outside his car, black against the frosted gra.s.s. He is looking up towards her house. Does he have binoculars? She's afraid to move lest he detect her. She breathes slowly, but her heart won't steady. The man stamps his feet, looks away over the fields as if searching for signs, then back up at the house.

He's uncertain, thinks Ann. It gives her hope. Step by quiet step she eases away from the window then runs to ring Michael.

'Can you come over quickly? There's a man at the bottom of the drive. It's the second time I've seen him. I think he may be stalking me.'

'The b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Shall I see him off then?'

Bluff Michael would deal with him as he would a disobedient dog a flung arm, a sharp command but Ann has a better idea.

'Could you come over the back way? Make it seem as if you live here?' She tries to laugh but the sound comes out ragged, 'Then you can be as rude as you like!'

'Take it easy la.s.s. I'll be there in five minutes. I'll bring the twins shall I?'

The twins are Michael's identical huntaways, Jess and Jack, lean exuberant animals, deep voiced intimidating if you don't know them.

'Yes please.'

Ann makes herself look again. The car is still there, but the man is out of sight. For a moment she panics. Is he here at the door already? But there he is, still below, easing himself out of the car. He slams the door and begins, uncertainly, walking towards the drive. His body rocks from side to side an old man's walk. But he wouldn't be more than fifty-five, would he? Actually, she realises, fifty-nine.

He fumbles with the gate. Ann leaves him to it. Knowing that Michael is on the way has given her the energy she needs. She runs upstairs to the bedroom. In front of the mirror she feels a moment of despair. Then with a cry of exasperation at her own weakness, she pulls her hair back tightly into a bun and with shaky hasty hands ties it with a yellow scarf, leaving the ends to drape. In her daughter's bedroom she scrabbles in a drawer, finds an old bag of make-up and slashes at her face: bright lipstick, eye shadow, rouge even. Over her usual neat trousers and jersey she throws a loose woollen poncho and the heavy rope of ceramic beads Francesca made years ago at school. The effect is encouragingly stodgy. She tries on dark gla.s.ses but they are too unlikely, too obviously a disguise. Then remembers the magnifying gla.s.ses she uses for her weaving. Yes.

But there's nothing she can do about her height.

The dread returns with the knock. A tentative rap. He can't be sure. He can't be.

Ann clumps down the stairs, trying to imagine herself as someone else. I am on stage, she thinks, this is Gore Repertory, and I am a country frump answering the door in the opening scene.

The man's raincoat is unb.u.t.toned; a dirty scarf hangs to his knees. Under it she can see a sports jacket and brown jersey. You would have thought he would come in his best suit. He is bare-headed in the icy air, and, but for faded stubble above his ears, bald. Ann realises that he has come bare-headed so that she will see the scar. The hand is hidden by gloves. He has changed so much, though, in other ways. Perhaps she has also. But then, she thinks, I recognise him.

'Yes?' She makes her voice rough. Makes herself look at him. 'Are you selling religion?'

He stares at her.

'I saw your car loitering at my drive yesterday.' She wishes, too late, that she had remembered to say our drive. 'I have everything I need. Please go away.'

He holds out a photograph. 'Is this you? It is isn't it?' He's belligerent, but also unsure.

Ann won't look. 'Goodbye.'

But he shoves his foot in the door as she tries to close it. Has something she has said or done made him more confident? Ann's heart is beating so hard she can scarcely stand. This is ridiculous, she thinks, I can manage this. But knows that she can't.

His face is red. He's still puffing from the walk up the steep drive. 'Jeanie?' he says, part belligerence, part plea. 'Jeanie, isn't it?'

The dogs arrive baying, pounding around from the back, one each side of the house in a pincer movement. Clever dogs. At the same time Michael appears behind her in the hall.

'What's up here?' He whistles to the dogs who sit immediately, panting and slavering, eyes on the stranger, only wanting, it seems, that he should make a move to set them off again.

'Who are you?' says the man.

'More to the point,' says Michael, 'who are b.l.o.o.d.y you?'

The man holds out the photograph again. 'I recognised her in this photograph.' He nods at Ann.

Michael looks at the photo. Then at Ann. He grins. 'I heard about that. a.r.s.e over t.i.ts in the Hokonui.'

'Michael.'

Michael comes to attention. 'Doesn't mean she knows you.' To Ann: 'Do you?'

Ann shakes her head, keeps her voice steady and rough. 'I've never set eyes on him.'

The man draws breath sharply.

'You heard her. Now b.u.g.g.e.r off.'

'She's my wife.' His cloudy blue eyes remain fixed on her, searching. 'You see, Jeanie, I never gave up. I knew ... I knew you were here somewhere.' He rushes on before either of the others can interrupt. 'All these years I knew I would find you. That photo I saw it in our local rag. A compet.i.tion, you see for funny images. It was a sign. A special sign to me that we were meant to be together again. I never ever gave up hoping Jeanie.'

'Lord bless us,' mutters Michael. 'A nutter. Look sport, off you go before I call the police.'

The dogs seem to recognise the word. They growl in unison.

'And stay off our land. You're not welcome. Got it?'

At a gesture from Michael the dogs rise. They each bark once and look to their master for further instruction. Ann could hug them.

The man shows the palm of his one good hand, a gesture that could be pitiful though the dogs are instantly on alert. He looks from Ann to Michael and back again, frowning. 'Is he with you now? Does he know about us?'

'Oh for Christ's sake,' Michael bellows, pointing at the drive. 'Out!'

Jess and Jack set up a great, deep-throated baying and bound down the drive then back up to the transfixed man. Step by step they drive him down to the road, barking all the way, tails in the air, having a whale of a time. They are not often allowed to play like this.

Ann's legs are about to give way. 'Michael, bless you. Come and have coffee.' Though she would rather be on her own for a bit.

In the kitchen Michael frowns at her. 'What's all this get-up then? You look like a tart.'

Ann has forgotten about the make-up. The gla.s.ses and hair. She tries to laugh it off. 'That idiot thought I looked like someone he knew. I tried to make myself different. Silly really, but he got under my skin. He was snooping around the school a couple of days ago, showing the photograph, asking for my name.'

A month ago she had taken a history cla.s.s to the Hokonui Moonshine Museum, had slipped on the polished floor, lost her balance and ended up in the life-size display of a group of moonshiners, her arm around a barrel of whisky. The girls had thought it a huge joke. Some visitor must have been tempted and taken a forbidden photograph she remembered a flash.

'What a creep.' Michael spoons sugar and gulps down his coffee. 'Well that was a bit of fun, Ann. He won't be back in a hurry.' He rises, smiling at her, rubbing her back as if she were a spooked horse. 'Go and wash all that rubbish off. Shall I come over tonight, make sure you're okay?'

Ann nods, invites him for dinner. The least she can do. Before he leaves, he unties her yellow scarf then ploughs his blunt farmer's fingers through her hair, freeing it again. He bends to kiss the top of her head. She has not known him so tender.

'Take care Ann.' And he's off, the twins running ahead, down the front paddock which is now striped with green where the sun has got to the frost.

No sign of the car.

But he knows, thinks Ann. Of course he recognised me. The stupid disguise would only make him more sure. The question is will he give up? The man she once knew would not. He would hound her relentlessly, his pride wounded, but still, in some perverse and twisted way, in need of her. But surely after more than twenty years ...?

Ann groans. Yesterday when he stood there, in the same place, just standing, for over an hour, she knew. Wouldn't admit, even to herself, but she knew. That mad stubborn persistence. Will she never be free of him?

All that weekend Ann is restless. She goes about her normal ch.o.r.es, but it's as if his visit has left a stain something putrid on everything. As she hangs sheets to dry in her sunny back yard she remembers the old times. How she had ever let him into her life? What had attracted her?

He had been lying still and pale in a hospital bed in w.a.n.ganui. A badly broken leg and abrasions all down one side of his face and arm. Ann flicks at a sheet, thinking back to all those hospital beds she had made. He'd been target shooting with his mates, from the back of a moving motorbike. 'Stupid,' he'd said with a grin, 'but I hit the target! Then we hit the gravel bend. Curtains.' Ann had replied as she dressed the wounds something that made him smile.

'That's better,' she had said at his smile, and he had complained, with another grin, that it wasn't better at all that smiling hurt his face. He had been charming to her, flirting with her, but in a gentle, helpless way that touched her deeply. She loved the blue of his eyes and the way they crinkled at the edges when he smiled, privately, for her. And the few sandy freckles across the bridge of his nose. He would joke about how weak he was, how frustrated that he couldn't make a pa.s.s at her. Ann was flattered.